m\ 
 
 P 
 
 S ; ^ 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
" I give you the South, gentlemen ! 
 
THE 
 
 SOUTHERNERS 
 
 A STORY OF THE CIVIL WAR 
 
 BY 
 
 CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY 
 
 AUTHOR OF "FOR LOVK OF COUNTRY," "FOR THE FREEDOM OF THE SEA, 
 
 "HOHENZOLLERN," "THE QUIBERON TOUCH," "WOVEN WITH 
 
 THE SHIP," "IN THE WASP'S NEST," ETC. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 GEORGE WRIGHT 
 
 WITH VIGNETTES BY 
 
 LOUIS D. ARATA 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 NEW YORK::::::::::::::::: 1903 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY 
 CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 All rights reserved 
 Published, March, 1903 
 
ffo 
 
 THE MEN WHO FOUGHT 
 AND THE WOMEN WHO COULD ONLY WAIT 
 
PREFACE 
 
 THERE is in my mind a picture of the days of 
 Sixty-one-Sixty-five. I close my eyes, and out of 
 the mists of the past there rises before me an old 
 white house on a hill. It is springtime. A child is 
 playing in the grass under the trees. A woman 
 watches at the gate. And a soldier comes home from 
 the wars. A soldier, sick, worn, weary; a haggard, 
 broken wreck of the brave young man who left all 
 at his country's first appeal and looked not back so 
 long as he had strength to stand. His fighting days 
 are over. And the woman meets him at the gate 
 
 They come down the long walk under the trees 
 toward the little lad, the woman proudly supporting 
 the man's faltering steps. The child, who has grown 
 to step and speech while the man has been absent, 
 shrinks away from the tired figure in the dusty faded 
 Army blue, who stretches out trembling hands to him 
 with words of affectionate appeal. The little boy does 
 not recognize the stranger until he is caught up 
 against that brave heart and hears the words, "My 
 son, my son!" 
 
 I close my eyes and see once more my Father, as I 
 saw him on that day nearly forty years ago. 
 
 vii 
 
PREFACE 
 
 And I open them again and my glance falls upon 
 a daughter of the Carolinas, my wife. Her children 
 and mine, typical of an United People, cluster about 
 us. They look at me, some out of the blue eyes of 
 the North, others from the brown ones of the South, 
 and beg for a story a world-wide, world-old appeal ! 
 
 Can I speak to them of that great war when State 
 faced State and Section met Section in our beloved 
 land? Can I show them another flag than that they 
 love that now flutters wellnigh round the world? 
 Can I tell the splendid story of men of valor and con 
 secration who differed so radically that only in the 
 shock of battle could they compose their differences? 
 Can I tell these things, on the one hand, without being 
 false to the principles for which my father fought, 
 which are my own ; and, on the other, without giving 
 offence or bitterness to those I love, who were on the 
 other side? Can I be entirely fair? Can I, can any 
 one, to-day write of the Blue and the Gray so that 
 they shall both approve? 
 
 Long ago I said to myself that some day I would 
 try, and now, gentle reader, it is for you to say if I 
 have succeeded, or if I have failed. 
 
 A word or two more. This book has been years 
 in preparation. The subject has appealed to me as 
 none other in our history. I have watched the even 
 ing camp-fires under the trees at Chickamauga, while 
 I wore the Army uniform, and have fancied I was an 
 actor in that tremendous cataclysmic battle, than which 
 
 viii 
 
PREFACE 
 
 this continent has seen none more desperate and bloody. 
 I have stood in the rain on the ramparts of Fort Mor 
 gan, and involuntarily looked toward the staff for 
 a glimpse of the Stars and Bars, flag of a cause that 
 was lost. I have sailed in the sunshine through the 
 channel where the Tecumseh sank, where the Tennessee 
 fought the fleet, where the Hartford, carrying Farra- 
 gut's flag, dashed ahead and ran down the torpedo line 
 once I wore the Navy blue and I could almost hear 
 the thunder of the guns. 
 
 Ought I to apologize in this place for appropriating 
 to Peyton the glory of another when I put him in 
 the Metacomet's cutter between the fort and the ships ? 
 Well, this was as brave an act as was ever done by 
 any United States naval officer, yet the name of the 
 man who did it, Acting-Ensign Henry C. Neilds, is 
 quite forgotten to-day. He deserves to be remembered 
 with Decatur and Gushing and Hobson, and I am glad 
 to be able to call attention to him here. He had the 
 approval and admiration of our greatest Admiral, one 
 of the world's sea-kings, who saw him do it all, and 
 perhaps that is reward enough. 
 
 CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY. 
 BROOKLYN, February, 1903. 
 
 IX 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK I 
 THE STORM BREWS 
 
 :H AFTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE DREAMER . . . . . . . 3 
 
 II. A HARD SITUATION FOR A MODEST MAN . . 14 
 
 III. THE EDUCATION OF TEMPE .... 22 
 
 IV. MARY ANNAN WILL NOT BE MADE LOVE To .31 
 V. MARY ANNAN CHANGES HER MIND . . .42 
 
 VI. WHAT HAPPENED ON THE SHELL ROAD . . 54 
 
 VII. THE WOMAN BETWEEN 61 
 
 VIII. PEYTON SALUTES THE FLAG .... 71 
 
 IX. RIVALS YET FRIENDS . . . . . .77 
 
 X. PEYTON BEGS FOR TIME TO THINK IT OVER . 84 
 XI. PROBLEMS TO BE FACED . . . * .92 
 
 BOOK II 
 THE STORM BREAKS 
 
 XII. THE INDECISION OF PEYTON . . . .99 
 
 XIII. A DINNER AND A DISCUSSION . . . . in 
 
 XIV. THE GAGE is THROWN ^ . .126 
 XV. THE Kiss THAT BETRAYED . . * . . 134 
 
 XVI. THE SIFTING OF PEYTON . . .... 141 
 
 xi 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XVII. "To THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE" . . 146 
 
 XVIII. PEYTON STICKS TO THE FLAG . . .151 
 
 XIX. DRIVEN AWAY 161 
 
 XX. A WANDERER AND A VAGABOND . . .169 
 
 XXI. THE REGIMENT MARCHES AWAY . . .178 
 
 BOOK III 
 THE STORM RAGES 
 
 XXII. FACING THE ODDS . . ... .189 
 
 XXIII. MARY ANNAN LEARNS THE TRUTH . . 196 
 
 XXIV. WITH DARROW'S BRIGADE ... .205 
 XXV. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE . . .212 
 
 XXVI. SMASHING THROUGH THE UNION LINE . 216 
 
 XXVII. "THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA" . . 222 
 
 XXVIII. "TOWARD THE SOUND OF THE CANNON" . 228 
 
 XXIX. THE LAST CHARGE . . . . . . 231 
 
 XXX. THE RELIEF THAT SHAMED . . . . 238 
 
 XXXI. THE RETURN OF THE REGIMENT . . .246 
 
 BOOK IV 
 THE THUNDERBOLT STROKE 
 
 XXXII. A GREAT CAPTAIN OF THE SEA . . .255 
 
 XXXIII. PEYTON POINTS OUT THE WAY . . .262 
 
 XXXIV. A PROMOTION DECLINED . . . .272 
 XXXV. IN THE WARDROOM OF THE HARTFORD . 277 
 
 xii 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXXVI. BETTER IN THE MORNING . , . . 291 
 
 XXXVII. THE FLEET GETS UNDER WAY . . . 303 
 
 XXXVIII. "AFTER YOU, PILOT!" . , . . . . 311 
 
 XXXIX. "DAMN THE TORPEDOES! Go AHEAD!" . 319 
 
 XL. IN THE CASEMATE OF FORT MORGAN . . 326 
 
 XLI. ON THE END OF THE WIRE .... 332 
 
 XLII. IN THE METACOMET'S CUTTER * . .341 
 
 XLI 1 1. THE LAST DASH OF THE TENNESSEE . . 349 
 
 BOOK V 
 "THE STRIFE IS O'ER" 
 
 XLIV. WITH ALL THE HONORS OF WAR . . . 369 
 
 XLV. How BOYD PEYTON CAME HOME AGAIN . 380 
 
 XLVI. SAD HOURS AT ANNANDALE .... 384 
 
 XLVII. BOYD PEYTON SEES A VISION . . . 390 
 
 XLVIII. MARY ANNAN BEGS FORGIVENESS . . . 394 
 
 XLIX. THE MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD . . . 400 
 
 L. " WHITHER THOU GOEST I WILL Go " . 406 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 " I give you the South, gentlemen " . . . Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 "Why, Boyd Peyton," she exclaimed, " . . . what a 
 
 surprise ! " . . . . . . * . .28 
 
 " Save the flag," he cried to Pleasants .... 236 
 Another figure approached him, hung over him . . 392 
 
BOOK I 
 THE STORM BREWS 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 W 
 
 THE DREAMER 
 
 INTER in the South and the morning 
 of a day. 
 
 Three years had elapsed since Boyd 
 Peyton had been in Alabama in the 
 month of December. The young 
 breeze, carrying with it the fragrance 
 of lingering fall, as it swept across his 
 face filled him with surprise, for the 
 season had been unusually pleasant and 
 mild. The air was almost balmy de 
 spite its touch of early morning cool 
 ness untempered by the new-risen sun, 
 yet there was a freshness in it which 
 reminded him of springtime in New 
 England. 
 
 Coming directly as he had by the railroad from the 
 bleak coast of Massachusetts, shivering in its ice 
 bound shores before the fierce northeasterly gales, it 
 was with quite a sense of shock that he saw the late 
 roses blooming at his feet as he leaned over the railing 
 of the long gallery, or porch, surrounding the quaint 
 old Southern house. There had been no frost yet, 
 and the delicate white petals of the lingering blossoms 
 were still untouched and perfect. 
 
 3 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 The train on which he had been a passenger had 
 been delayed yesterday and he had reached home after 
 nightfall; too late to see anything outside, at any 
 rate. Then, in the excitement of greeting his family 
 once more after a long period of separation, he had 
 given no thought to climatic conditions or to any 
 thing external to them. Stop! The statement is 
 hardly accurate, for in not one single moment, in all 
 the joyousness of meeting, in all the exuberant affec 
 tion given and received in his welcome home, had he 
 lost mental sight of Mary Annan. This morning as 
 he stared down at the garden of roses in winter his 
 heart was full of her. So conscious of her had he 
 been, in fact, so possessed with a sense of her near 
 ness to him at last, that he had scarcely slept during 
 the night. 
 
 In his restless anxiety to see her he had risen be 
 fore any of the family, who slept later this morning 
 than usual, possibly because they had remained up 
 longer the night before. As soon as he was dressed 
 he came out on the gallery, where he stood gazing 
 alternately upon the roses or staring down through 
 the long avenue of live-oaks toward the St. Francis 
 Road, which led into the town where she dwelt. He 
 could hardly wait for breakfast and a seemly hour to 
 lay a course, as he would have phrased it, a-horse- 
 back on the white highway, which would bring him 
 once more into her presence. 
 
 Presently he turned from the railing and began 
 to pace the gallery. The house was a huge, rambling, 
 old, one-story structure of wood with a high brick 
 
 4 
 
THE DREAMER 
 
 basement. Two wings projected from the main build 
 ing, and a wide porch above the basement, with many 
 Doric columns supporting its roof, followed the out 
 line around the front and sides. From one end of 
 this gallery to the other was quite a distance, yet the 
 young man, after walking half a dozen paces in one 
 direction, instinctively turned on his heel and retraced 
 his steps for the same distance back in regular swing 
 ing, quarter-deck style. 
 
 "How much one forgets," he thought as he 
 methodically paced to and fro; "'tis but seven years 
 since I left here first and but three years since I visited 
 the old place, yet it all seems so strange. Before I 
 went to the Academy I knew every stick and stone, 
 every blade of grass almost. Well, I have not for 
 gotten Mary Annan, at any rate. To be sure, she 
 does not belong to the place. Ah, but she may some 
 day. Who knows though, what will be the result of 
 this election, what these hotheads will do?" 
 
 He laughed lightly as if in answer to a comment 
 upon his thoughts, and then said aloud he had the 
 bad habit of talking to himself sometimes : 
 
 "These hotheads! I speak like a stranger in a 
 strange land. Am I a stranger? Come, this will 
 never do ! Not yet eight o'clock," he continued, pull 
 ing out his watch and glancing at it. "I wonder what 
 time this family is piped to breakfast? Well, there is 
 nothing to do but wait, I suppose. I never could 
 shake father out of his orderly ways, I remember, since 
 I was a boy." 
 
 The young man was a sailor, an officer in the United 
 
 5 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 States Navy, a passed midshipman awaiting his com 
 mission as ensign, just returned from a three years' 
 cruise in European and North African waters, subse 
 quent to his graduation after four years of study in 
 the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, Mary 
 land. He had been appointed to the Academy from 
 Alabama seven years before, and was now just turned 
 twenty-two. No one could look more unlike the 
 typical bluff sailor than he. He was tall, slender, and 
 brown-eyed, and the native darkness of his complexion, 
 which his seafaring had deepened, with his thick 
 brown hair, worn rather long, as was the fashion of 
 the time, and slightly curling at the ends, would have 
 betrayed him as a Southern man anywhere. 
 
 His appearance was gentle, his aspect dreamy. One 
 would have pronounced him a poet, an artist, a 
 musician anything rather than a man of action. 
 Without being gloomy there was a touch of gentle 
 melancholy in his appearance. The curves of his lips 
 indicated an innate sensitiveness and reserve which, 
 had he not been thrown so constantly with his fellow 
 naval officers in the society of the world's best, would 
 have amounted to shyness. There was a little timidity 
 which did not spring from fear in his address, 
 a deferential modesty, especially when in the pres 
 ence of women, or older men, that was charming, if 
 somewhat lacking in decision. Yet he carried him 
 self well. His movements were easy and graceful. 
 He held his head high, and had about him that air 
 of inborn authority peculiar to the Southern slave 
 owner and gentleman, which his naval rank and posi- 
 
 6 
 
THE DREAMER 
 
 tion had served to emphasize. Whether he looked 
 like a man of action or not, with his handsome face 
 and distinguished bearing, he would be a marked fig 
 ure anywhere. 
 
 What he might become in times of stress and danger 
 was yet to be determined; what he was at that mo 
 ment was quite evident a dreamer! Like most of 
 the dreams of youth, the object of his imaginations 
 was a woman. Just a year since, his ship, returning 
 from the Mediterranean, had wintered at Boston. 
 When he had arrived there he had rejoiced to learn in 
 letters from home that Mary Annan was attending 
 school in Cambridge. Miss Annan was a young Ala 
 bama girl whom he had known, from childhood, with 
 whom he had grown up, in fact, in the frank intimacy 
 subsisting between children of neighboring and dis 
 tantly related families all the gentle people of the 
 South seemed to be more or less related in those 
 days and of whom, with ever-increasing interest, he 
 had seen as much as he could in his brief visits home 
 while he was a midshipman at the Academy. 
 
 He had welcomed, with an eagerness only possible 
 to a Southerner and a young man, the opportunity of 
 renewing his deepening acquaintance with his child 
 hood friend and fair compatriot, and he had striven to 
 make the most of it. Every moment he could take 
 from his ship duties, or which she could steal from her 
 not too engrossing studies, during the winter, the two 
 had spent together in the quaint old Massachusetts 
 town. There was some far away connection between 
 the Peytons and the Annans, a common colonial an- 
 
 7 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 cestor in whom they found one of those Southern ties 
 that bind, although they seem so tenuous to Northern 
 minds, which gave him a kinsman's warrant and ex 
 cuse for claiming her society a fifteenth cousinship ! 
 Not close but, like Mercutio's wound, got between 
 the two houses it served ! 
 
 The school was described in the catalogue as a " fin 
 ishing school," a very popular sort of an institution in 
 those days, and not unknown to history even now. 
 So far as Mary Annan was concerned, its efforts were 
 fruitless. She did indeed graduate from it in June 
 with all the honors of the school, but she was very far 
 from being finished, and he would be a very hardy 
 prophet who should predict what the bright, beauti 
 ful, and charming Southern girl would be in the end. 
 There was latent force in her; plenty of character, 
 energy, self-will, and greater possibilities, but only 
 the larger school of life could develop her. Ease 
 might leave her no opportunity to serve. She 
 might bloom like a flower under sunny skies until she 
 faded away and came to naught; or trouble, sorrow, 
 anguish, care, might bring out the woman. On the 
 Alps, not at Capua, are made men. 
 
 There were many young girls facing pleasant pros 
 pects with smiling faces in those days, little dreaming 
 of the grim and awful realities brewing for them in 
 the swift approaching terrible years of '6i-'65. Oh, 
 blessed reticence of God that draws not aside the cur 
 tain of the veiled future, that answers not the prayer 
 of the poet-king, "Lord, let me know my end and 
 the number of my days, that I may be certified how 
 
 8 
 
THE DREAMER 
 
 long I have to live!" J Tis best for humanity some 
 times to see through the glass darkly or not at all. 
 
 A great besom of war and privation and anguish was 
 then preparing for this country. Aye, it had been 
 preparing since the Jesus "A Dutch man-of-warre 
 that sold us twenty Negars" as John Rolfe wrote had 
 landed the first cargo of African slaves at Jamestown 
 in 1619 a holy name for so ill-omened a ship. A 
 period of conflict was to ensue, in which the finishing 
 touches that only suffering could add should be put 
 upon the characters of men and women all over the 
 land. For the day on which Boyd Peyton returned 
 to the home of his ancestors and the focal point of his 
 heart's love was December 19, 1860, six weeks after 
 the election of Abraham Lincoln to the Presidency of 
 the United States. 
 
 As a sailor, an officer in the navy, on active service 
 in foreign waters, Peyton had hardly realized the well- 
 nigh inevitable consequences to the country of that 
 overwhelming declaration of popular opinion by the 
 North. He had not dreamed that the feeling of a 
 neighboring commonwealth upon the question of 
 slavery and the relation of the new President and his 
 party to it had become so intense and powerful that it 
 was about to sweep one of the most honored States 
 out of the Union and force upon other neighboring 
 States and the men of the South an alternative, diffi 
 cult for many of them to contemplate with any feel 
 ings save those of anxiety and regret. 
 
 In the early spring of the year, after the winter in 
 Boston, his ship had sailed on a cruise to the North 
 
 9 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 African coast, whence it had just returned and been 
 put out of commission the week before. Peyton had 
 escaped the great debate and discussion of the spring 
 and summer, the breaking up of the old Democratic 
 party into two or three new ones, the forcing of 
 sternly repressed and long-avoided issues to the front, 
 the strife and bitterness, the threat and the counter- 
 threat. What little Peyton knew of the situation had 
 filtered to him through incomplete sources. Being re 
 moved from personal contact, he had not realized the 
 situation at all. The matter had only been touched 
 upon last night at his welcoming, and he was yet to 
 learn the feeling of his father, his friends, his people, 
 his love, upon the subject. 
 
 One wise philosopher has said that not more than 
 one subject at a time can engage the attention of any 
 body of people. Whether that be true of the mass or 
 not need not be discussed, but when a young man 
 has his head, no, his heart rather two things usually 
 diametrically opposed in love affairs filled with the 
 image of a woman, he does not usually find room for 
 the consideration of anything else, unless the necessity 
 for considering it is somehow thrust upon him. 
 
 On this morning Peyton had given no thought to 
 the election or its consequences. At that moment, if 
 he reflected upon it at all, he cared neither what the 
 North might do nor what the South might do. He 
 thought nothing as to* what might be demanded of 
 him, or what his course of action should be in any 
 possible contingency unless it concerned Mary 
 Annan and his love for her. An observer might have 
 
 10 
 
THE DREAMER 
 
 noticed that he walked his "porch watch" with his 
 head turned toward the St. Francis Road, which led 
 to Annandale, as a sailor might keep his glance fixed 
 to windward. In this instance the weather-vane 
 which determined the direction of his gaze was his 
 heart. The heart of youth is not unlike the change 
 ful weather indicator, it must be admitted; but his 
 was different more like the needle, swinging true to 
 its pole, he would have said. 
 
 Well, the world about him might do what it would. 
 It mattered nothing to him in that bright morning of 
 hope. In an hour or two at most he would see her. 
 He would be in her presence again. He would take 
 her hand. He might not, he could not, kiss her, but 
 he would look into her eyes once more. He could 
 gaze upon her in her proper person, and see her as he 
 had imagined her in his dreams through the long 
 night-watches of the cruise. 
 
 In his letters to- his sister he had taken care that 
 news of his home-coming on a two months' leave of 
 absence should reach Mary Annan. He had so con 
 trived that the very day and hour of his arrival had 
 been made known to her. Indeed, had not the train 
 been so delayed last night he would have gone to her 
 in the evening, but it was then too late, and he had 
 been forced to content himself with anticipating this 
 meeting in the morning. In spite of the lateness of 
 the hour, however, he had directed the coachman to 
 drive past her father's house on Government street 
 on the way home. He had peered out of the carriage 
 through the darkness at the familiar old house. There 
 
 II 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 were lights in windows here and there, and with a 
 lover's yearning he had wondered in which chamber 
 she might be enshrined. 
 
 No avowal of affection had yet passed between the 
 young people. That certain timidity, that unwilling 
 ness to take the initiative, which was constitutional 
 with him and which he had not yet overcome, but 
 more especially a certain chivalry which made him 
 loath to take advantage of their frank comradeship in 
 that strange Yankee land where a premium might 
 have been put upon him, he feared, merely because he 
 happened to be a fellow Southerner, an Alabamian, 
 kept him from declaring in outspoken words his heart. 
 Nevertheless he was thoroughly sure that Mary Annan 
 knew he loved her. There is an instinctive capacity 
 in the most artless woman to read with unerring ac 
 curacy the heart of a man who loves her, especially 
 when his heart is opened before her soul's vision, as 
 Peyton's was to Mary Annan. He was sure that she 
 knew he only waited a favorable opportunity to tell her 
 of his passion. 
 
 His assurance all ended there, however. With airy 
 mockery, with youthful audacity, with deliberate yet 
 delightful elusiveness, she had met his advances. The 
 most presumptuous wish could not delude him into 
 the belief that she loved him. How could she, he had 
 often thought in dejection? He felt that she regarded 
 him as a visionary, which, indeed, he was. She had 
 rallied him many times upon his dreamy abstraction. 
 It was part of his character, too, that he should esteem 
 himself unworthy of her. It is a part of every true 
 
 12 
 
THE DREAMER 
 
 man's character to arrive at that conclusion when he 
 compares himself to the woman he loves. There was 
 a strange mingling, therefore, of foreboding and hope, 
 anxiety and assurance, in his meditations on this 
 morning. 
 
 There was no wavering in his desire and determina 
 tion, however. He was resolved to win her. He 
 would count no sacrifice too great for that end. As 
 the resolution took shape in his fertile brain, a keen 
 observer a woman who loved him, for instance 
 would have noticed a tightening of his lips, which 
 now, under the influence of some compelling internal 
 force, seemed to lose something of their sensitiveness. 
 His gracefully rounded chin protruded slightly, there 
 was an unnoticed bluntness in it, after all; the soft 
 ness in his eyes gave place to a harder expression, the 
 brows straightened and drew together in lines. His 
 face grew suddenly strong. His whole appearance 
 was that of resolution. 
 
 It was astonishing indeed that the usual outward 
 character of the man should have so suddenly given 
 place to something so totally different. Something 
 had transformed him. Something inward and spiritual 
 had got the mastery for the moment over the out 
 ward and physical. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 A HARD SITUATION FOR A MODEST MAN 
 
 WILL, I will !" he murmured, staring 
 down at the road through the live- 
 oaks. 
 
 As he spoke there was a step on the 
 porch behind him, and a deep voice 
 broke his reverie. It was as if a hand 
 had touched a bubble. The mouth re 
 laxed, the brows widened, the hands 
 let go the rail, the former expression 
 came back again. The youth, his old 
 self once more, turned to meet his 
 father. 
 
 "Dreaming again, Boyd !" said the 
 elder reprovingly. 
 
 In appearance he was nearly the 
 counterpart of his son, but with reso 
 lution added, decision acquired, and dreams long lost 
 in tempering experience. His bushy hair was snow- 
 white, although not from age, for he was just turned 
 fifty. His thick drooping mustache and tufted im 
 perial were also white. As he looked at his son he 
 presented a stern, weather-beaten, war-worn face. 
 Colonel Peyton had been a soldier. He had fought 
 with distinction in the Mexican War fourteen years* 
 
 14 
 
A HARD SITUATION 
 
 before, and it was evident that his services would 
 be valuable to whichever side he elected to give his 
 sword in the coming strife, which he, at least, real 
 ized was inevitable. Old soldiers usually develop into 
 the fat and red, or the thin and lean, kind of men. 
 Colonel Peyton was of the latter class, although his 
 temper was as quick and fierce as that of the most 
 choleric and gouty old veteran. His voice was full 
 and rich, and in pronunciation and accent betrayed 
 his Southern characteristics beyond question. Boyd's 
 voice was different. It was still Southern, but not 
 markedly so. He had lived so long in the North and 
 on the sea, and he had tried so hard to mould it in 
 stereotyped form, that it had lost most of its dis 
 tinguishing characteristics, and except when he was 
 excited it was cosmopolitan and therefore monoto 
 nous. 
 
 "Dreaming again, Boyd! It's not good for an 
 officer. I had hoped that your Naval Academy train 
 ing, your experience as an officer, might get you out of 
 that bad habit. But you are at it again, I see." 
 
 The older man frowned and shook his head hope 
 lessly toward his son. 
 
 "No, father," said the young man quickly, "not 
 dreaming when you spoke, but " 
 
 "But what, sir?" Only he pronounced it "suh." 
 
 "Resolving." 
 
 "Ha, that's better! And resolving upon what, 
 pray?" 
 
 "Resolving to take a wife, sir. If I can get her, that 
 is, sir." 
 
 15 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "A wife! A wife!" in sudden suspicion. 
 
 "A wife, sir," answered his son, firmly. 
 
 "How old are you now, sir?" asked his father, 
 having partially digested the unexpected announce 
 ment. 
 
 "Just twenty-two, sir." 
 
 "You are young to speak of marriage, lad." 
 
 "Yes, sir, I am," answered Boyd promptly it was 
 astonishing what a stimulus to action the young man 
 found in his alert father. "But it is a habit of our 
 family, sir, as I have heard. Mother was sixteen, I 
 think, when she married you, and you were no older 
 than I am yourself then, sir." 
 
 "Well, er yes, of course," said the colonel, rather 
 taken aback by this strikingly direct, if smiling, charge, 
 "I er who is the lady? I hope, Boyd, that you 
 have not fallen in love with some foreigner in Europe, 
 or " 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Nor with any Yankee girl. A man should marry 
 among his own people, especially now. I " 
 
 "Well, sir," interrupted Boyd hesitatingly, in a spirit 
 of fun, "I met her in New England, at Boston, last 
 winter, and I " 
 
 "Boyd Peyton, don't tell me that you are going to 
 marry outside of your own class!" thundered his 
 father "that you are going to ally yourself with one 
 of those Northern tradespeople with one of Lin 
 coln's " 
 
 No one could have exceeded the bitter contempt 
 with which he spoke. 
 
 16 
 
A HARD SITUATION 
 
 "Father," cried the young man hastily, seeing evi 
 dences of an explosion in the reddening face and ex 
 cited manner of his father, "it is Mary Annan." 
 
 "Why, God bless me!" returned the older man, 
 greatly relieved, grasping his son by the shoulders and 
 giving him a little shake. "Why didn't you say so? 
 Why, that girl is the pride of my life, the prettiest 
 girl in Mobile, the belle of Alabama. You young 
 dog! What do you mean by trying to fool your 
 father in this way ? My heart's been set upon it. It's 
 the best thing that could have happened. I could 
 not " 
 
 "Hold on, father! It hasn't happened yet." 
 
 "Ha, what's that?" 
 
 "Well, sir, you see I haven't said anything to her 
 as yet, and I don't know what she will do." 
 
 "Boyd Peyton, do you mean to tell me that you 
 were a whole winter with that girl, and you a sailor, sir, 
 an officer, damme, and you have not proposed to her 
 yet?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I " 
 
 "Well, by gad, sir !" exploded the older man, "when 
 I was a young man if I were in company with a. 
 charming girl like that for a week, and didn't propose 
 to her, I would consider that I was reflecting on her 
 character, by Jove! I always proposed to all the 
 girls I " 
 
 "What's that, Willis?" interrupted a sweet-voiced 
 matron, joining the group on the porch, through the 
 open door of the hall, "you always proposed to whom, 
 sir?" 
 
 17 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "Er my dear Lucy, I er " stammered the 
 colonel, in much confusion. "You see, I meant to 
 say I proposed to you the first time I saw you and 
 kept it up regularly every week until you accepted 
 me. That's all, my dear," he went on, with pardon 
 able mendacity. 
 
 "Oh, indeed, sir!" laughed the lady. "Well, what 
 are you rating Boyd for ?" 
 
 "Because he hasn't proposed to Mary Annan." 
 
 "Mary Annan !" cried the young man's mother. 
 "Does he love her?" 
 
 "Gad begging your pardon, my dear how could 
 he help it? I almost love her myself," chuckled the 
 colonel. 
 
 "Don't make any reservation on my account, 
 colonel," retorted his wife composedly, coming nearer 
 to him as she spoke, and laying her hand affectionately 
 on his shoulder. "We old women cannot compete 
 with young girls like Mary Annan, I know." 
 
 "My dear," said the colonel, taking her hand and 
 bowing low over it, while he kissed the plump white 
 fingers with charming old-fashioned deference and 
 grace a very polished gentleman, indeed, was her 
 gallant husband, she thought "Mary Annan can't 
 hold a candle to you, and no other girl can, or could, 
 that I ever saw, young or old. By Jove, Boyd, you 
 should have seen your mother when she was Mary's 
 age ! The belle of the Old Dominion, sir, and the toast 
 of Richmond, Washington, Baltimore, the White Sul 
 phur, every place! Gad, sir, I was out with three 
 
 young bucks before I " 
 
 18 
 
A HARD SITUATION 
 
 "Fie, Colonel, what an example for your son ! But 
 tell me, Boyd dear, do you love her?" 
 
 "Love Mary Annan, mother!" said the young man, 
 much abashed at the publicity given to his love-affairs, 
 yet forcing himself to speak boldly and answer her 
 question, when he was interrupted a third time. 
 
 "Why, mother !" said Miss Pinkie Peyton, his sister, 
 a young woman, just turned eighteen, as she joined the 
 group on the porch, "if you had read his letters to me 
 you would think the sun rose and set and the earth 
 began and ended in Mary Annan. Love her!" 
 
 " That's as it should be," said the colonel decisively. 
 "I used to feel that way about your mother, children." 
 
 "Used to feel that way, Colonel Peyton?" queried 
 the matron, with an emphasis, easily understood, on 
 the first word. 
 
 "I do now, indeed, and more and more every year," 
 said the colonel hastily, anxious to repair his blunder. 
 
 "Sir," said Boyd, smiling, "it only remains to take 
 Willis into our confidence now and hold a family 
 council upon the situation." 
 
 "I know all about it," nonchalantly remarked Wil 
 lis, the last member of the family to appear on the 
 scene. 
 
 Willis Peyton was small of stature, being twin 
 brother to Pink, but an alert, bright-appearing young 
 fellow with no whit of his brother's abstracted habit 
 of mind, apparently. He had overheard the latter part 
 of the conversation. 
 
 "Pink, here, can't keep anything from me, her be 
 loved twin brother, you know," he rattled on, "and 
 
 19 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 always asks my advice in affairs of the heart, her own 
 or another's. I think I have been most judicious in 
 getting your messages delivered to Miss Mary with 
 out her suspecting it, and if she ever marries you you'll 
 owe me a debt of gratitude." 
 
 "Thanks, Willis," answered Boyd dryly. "And how 
 about the lady?" 
 
 "Oh, she'll owe me nothing. Don't for the world 
 tell her I had any hand in it; I don't wish to lose her 
 regard on any account." 
 
 "Well, my son, have not you spoken to Mary?" in 
 terrupted his mother. 
 
 "No, mother, not yet." 
 
 "You have been most infernally I beg your par 
 don, my love, but it's true slow about it," said the 
 colonel decisively, "but you must do it this very day." 
 
 "I know, of course, that she must know that I 
 that but I you see, father," he went on lamely, "I 
 did not like to take advantage of her being alone in 
 Boston. I was the only one of her people there, you 
 know, and I thought it was proper to ask Judge 
 Annan " 
 
 "Ask nobody, sir, but the lady herself, sir !" snorted 
 the colonel. "Bless me! Young men of to-day 
 haven't any spirit at all !" 
 
 "Do you wish that rule to be carried out when some 
 body comes here for Pink?" asked Willis quickly. 
 
 "I reckon nobody is coming around after me at pres 
 ent, or at any time," interrupted Pink pertly, with a 
 toss of her head. 
 
 "Well, if they know a good thing when they see it, 
 
 20 
 
A HARD SITUATION 
 
 they will," responded Willis. "Don't you worry, 
 Pinkie dear, I'll look out for you and steer you 
 through the troubled waters of your love-affairs, if 
 you will trust yourself to me. You'll be all right. 
 Meanwhile " 
 
 "Meanwhile," said Boyd, "I am going down to see 
 Miss Mary as soon as breakfast is over." 
 
 "The idea of waiting until breakfast is over before 
 you go to see your sweetheart!" exclaimed the pro 
 voking Willis, with exaggerated disgust. "Breakfast 
 before love ! That's modern chivalry !" 
 
 "It isn't that, youngster," said Boyd, catching him 
 by his shoulders with a gesture strikingly like his 
 father's; "you'll know when you're older that it isn't 
 respectable to call on young ladies at such an hour." 
 
 "Oh, well, for that matter, being in love is not re 
 spectable anyway," answered Willis contemptuously. 
 
 "Boys, boys!" said their mother, half laughingly, 
 wholly in earnest, "a man is never so worthy of re 
 spect as when he is in love and remains in love. 
 That's why I have such a high esteem for your father 
 here." 
 
 "Of course, of course," said the colonel, swelling 
 visibly at the compliment, "but here's Dinah, and 
 breakfast is ready. Come on, Lucy. Love and break 
 fast I always found to harmonize admirably in my 
 case. Both charming and both necessary. Come, 
 children." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF TEMPE 
 
 M 
 
 ISS TEMPE ANNAN was a singular 
 mixture of the grave and the gay. Pos 
 sibly it would be better to say that in 
 her brief career she alternated impar 
 tially between these two extremes of 
 deportment. Sometimes her exuberant 
 spirits, entirely unrestrained, and unre- 
 strainable apparently, made her the ter 
 ror of the household, and of the neigh 
 boring households. At other times the 
 solemnity which she assumed would 
 have befitted the bench from which 
 her father administered justice. Some 
 times she shrieked and screamed with 
 elfin mischief as she ran and romped 
 and played through the old halls at Annandale, yet 
 when her mood changed she was as demure and still 
 as a little blind mouse. 
 
 This morning she was feeling deeply serious, not to 
 say melancholy, for reasons various but sufficient. In 
 the first place she was, as she would have phrased it, 
 "dressed up." She was not yet old enough to enjoy 
 at any and every time that process which she would 
 find so delightful in later years. New clothes and 
 best clothes made her miserable, especially when they 
 
 22 
 
THE EDUCATION OF TEMPE 
 
 were put on without rhyme or reason. It was not 
 Sunday. She expected to be "dressed up" then, and 
 had become resigned to it. It was not dinner-time 
 either, when such things sometimes happened, nor did 
 she know of any expected company, in whose honor 
 she should appear becomingly attired. An unac 
 countable dejection consequent upon a sense of being 
 unnecessarily "fixed up" overwhelmed her, as it has 
 wiser and older people. 
 
 She sat primly on a low stool, her plump little white- 
 stockinged legs, with crossed ankle ties on her feet, 
 stretched rigidly before her in pointed objection. Her 
 pink merino frock, trimmed with three elaborate 
 flounces each edged with pink fringe, which, under 
 proper circumstances, she loved to contemplate as a 
 thing of abstract beauty, and of which by fits and 
 starts she was inordinately proud, was partially hidden 
 by a white bib apron, which she hated. Her gown 
 was cut with low neck and short sleeves, of course, 
 but a little blue sack with pinked edges protected her 
 arms and shoulders. Beneath the hem of her skirt 
 peeped out an inch or two of highly embroidered 
 pantalettes, garments much the fashion then, but which 
 she thoroughly loathed. She was not old enough, 
 as was said before, to love the fashion irrespective of 
 what it might be. That capacity or faculty feminine 
 would probably come to her in time, as it does to 
 most of the daughters of women as well as to some of 
 the sons of men ! 
 
 The fact that she was at that moment seated in the 
 great best room also oppressed her. She was rarely 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 permitted to enter the confines of that mysterious 
 quarter, which in accordance with the current fashion 
 a custom still prevalent in the South was usually 
 kept tightly closed, and which resembled a sarcopha 
 gus more than anything else, save when some rare and 
 festive occasion demanded its opening. Tempe did 
 not yet know enough to phrase it that way, but in her 
 present state of mind she could have felt ready 
 sympathy with any royal corpse to be interred therein. 
 This morning, however, while in deference to cus 
 tom, both blinds and curtains closed the front, on 
 the side the curtains were drawn before the long 
 French windows, which opened upon the garden, and 
 the shutters were thrown back so that the cheerful sun 
 shine entered the room and served, if not to lighten 
 it wholly, at least to discover Miss Tempe's gloom. 
 
 The child might have endured all these things, how 
 ever, had it not been for an open book in the hand 
 of a young lady who sat beside her. That open book 
 meant to Miss Tempe an unlearned lesson most of 
 Tempe's lessons were unlearned. So are most of 
 everyone else's, by the way. The crisis in which she 
 found herself was an educational one; in short, she 
 was there to have her lessons heard, a thing which 
 Miss Tempe, in common with most little maidens of 
 six, and older, detested. 
 
 "Now, Tempe dear," began her companion gently, 
 when the two had settled themselves, one comfortably 
 and the other without any modification of her stub 
 born predetermined discomfort, before the wood fire 
 crackling and burning cheerfully in the open grate, 
 
 24 
 
THE EDUCATION OF TEMPE 
 
 "now Tempe, you really must say your lessons. Yes 
 terday I let you off, the day before you were ill, but you 
 must do them to-day." 
 
 "Yes, sister Mary," said Tempe meekly, while her 
 black eyes rolled around the apartment vainly seek 
 ing for help from the pictured worthies, masculine and 
 feminine, dead and gone Annans, in oval gilt frames 
 that adorned the walls, and Tempe had the blackest 
 pupils set in the whitest eyes you ever saw. When 
 she opened them widely and fixed them upon you the 
 effect was startling. Tempe spoke with a lisp, too 
 slight to indicate, but just enough to be attractive. 
 Her pronunciation was strikingly like her sister's. 
 They both had soft Southern voices, a slight blur upon 
 the vowels, ah's for r's, all too delicate and dainty to 
 yield to any attempt at phonetic presentation on the 
 printed page, without distortion, complete misrepre 
 sentation, and entire loss of the charm of it. The 
 woman's voice had that dimness of outline we see in a 
 modern photograph which is sufficiently out of focus 
 to have lost its hardness and is become indefinitely 
 charming. There are times when the sharp and pre 
 cise are abominable. 
 
 "Yes, sister Mary," the little one said submissively 
 for the second time. 
 
 "Now, where'll we begin, dear?" 
 
 "I reckon we'd better begin at the beginning." 
 
 "Very well, then. We will have our spelling lesson 
 first. Spell 'ab.' " 
 
 "A-b, ab," answered Tempe promptly. 
 
 It was the beginning and foundation of her educa- 
 
 25 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 tional efforts and the one fact of which she was ab 
 solutely confident. Good beginnings, however, do not 
 always produce good endings. After "a-c, ac," "a-d, 
 ad," and the next two or three similar illuminating 
 efforts Tempe was stumped. She rolled her eyes 
 wider, wiggled her toes nervously, and almost turned 
 herself inside out before she stopped in a mixture 
 compounded of equal parts of hopeless mental con 
 fusion and physical entanglement. With gentle pa 
 tience her sister set about the oft-repeated task of 
 unraveling her in both cases. She carefully untwisted 
 her fascinating, shapely, plump little legs, and with 
 convincing iteration and unvarying patience went over 
 the disputed words again and again, until a semblance 
 of appreciation seemed to be established in Tempe's 
 mind or was it ear? 
 
 Tempers strong point, however, was not so much 
 spelling as reading, and after half an hour's arduous 
 drill the well-worn spelling book gave place to a small 
 first reader. At her sister's instigation Tempe arose 
 and stood by her side, and both heads bent low over 
 the volume, while, with agonies unspeakable and con 
 tortions even more violent than before, the small child 
 endeavored to extract from the printed page the in 
 formation that "The cat had the rat." It was a simple 
 sentence though expressive of a profound, and to 
 the rat, a painful, zoological fact, but Tempe always 
 required a great deal of prompting, and her mental 
 processes where books were concerned, otherwise 
 not craved much stimulation. The first word ap 
 parently was a blank. 
 
 26 
 
THE EDUCATION OF TEMPE 
 
 "Now, honey," said her sister persuasively, "look 
 at it, look at it hard ! What is that first letter?" 
 
 "H," answered the child promptly, making a 
 desperate guess. 
 
 "No, it's not 'h.' It looks a little like a part of an 
 'h,' but it isn't. What do we have for supper?" 
 
 "Cake," said Tempe triumphantly. "But it isn't 
 cake, sister Mary, is it?" 
 
 "No z it isn't cake, Tempe, and you know it isn't," 
 said sister Mary severely. "It's V 'lea, you know." 
 
 "I don't have tea for supper. You said I was too 
 little to have tea for supper. I don't know how I 
 could 'member that it was tea." 
 
 "Well, it is V Now remember that. Now, what 
 is the next letter?" 
 
 "H," said Tempe, with clinging affection for her 
 first guess, which proved in this instance, to her great 
 surprise, to be correct. 
 
 "Yes; and the next?" 
 
 "E," triumphantly, being with "round O" and 
 "chooked S" the three letters she always knew at 
 sight. 
 
 "Now what does that spell 't-h-e' ?" 
 
 "These," said Tempe, making another bold and 
 reckless guess. 
 
 "No, it spells 'the/ " 
 
 " The,' I'll 'member, 'the.' " 
 
 "Now, the next word. You surely know what that 
 
 is." 
 
 Tempe carefully screwed her head one side and 
 bravely contemplated the word. Assisted by a large 
 
 27 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 and impossible picture at the top of the page, she 
 finally came to the conclusion that it was " Cat." 
 "Had," however, was Greek to her. Then came a 
 repetition of the first word. Again Tempe was 
 stumped. She gazed from book to sister in voice 
 less misery. 
 
 "Now, Tempe," urged her sister, almost ready to 
 cry herself over her little pupil's obduracy, "you had 
 that word a little while ago. Don't you remember? 
 What do we have for supper?" 
 
 "You said it wasn't cake," remarked Tempe 
 dubiously. 
 
 "I did. It was something to drink, you know." 
 
 "Milk?" queried the child anxiously. 
 
 "Tea, 't!' Don't you remember?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sister Mary, %' and that's ' the/ An' I 
 know the next word. 'Rat/ ain't it?" 
 
 "It is, but don't say 'ain't.' What should you say?" 
 
 "Peggy says 'ain't.' " 
 
 "Yes, but Peggy is only a little black girl. You 
 must say 'isn't/ Now that you have said it, say the 
 whole thing over again." 
 
 "The cat," began Tempe confidently, and then sud 
 denly stopped stock-still. She stood for a moment 
 staring past her sister's head toward the door en 
 tering into the hall. 
 
 "Yes, go on. What are you waiting for? What 
 comes next? 'The cat ' " 
 
 But Tempe remained obstinately silent. The girl 
 glanced up from the book to ascertain the cause of 
 the sudden stillness, saw the petrified stare upon her 
 
 28 
 
THE EDUCATION OF TEMPE 
 
 little sister's face, turned her head in the direction of 
 her gaze, dropped the book, and sprang to her feet 
 with an ejaculation of delighted surprise. 
 
 "Why, Boyd Peyton!" she exclaimed, utterly for 
 getful of her little sister. "How glad I am to 
 see you! Welcome to Annandale! What a sur 
 prise!" 
 
 "Didn't you know I was coming, Miss Mary? I 
 thought that Pink and Willis " 
 
 "Oh, yes, I knew it, of course, but your coming 
 upon us so suddenly, you know, startled me." 
 
 "Forgive me," he said contritely, "I would not let 
 the boy announce me. I wanted to surprise you." 
 
 "It's all right, but come right in and sit down. 
 When did you get into town? How long are you 
 going to stay? Why haven't you been to see me 
 before?" 
 
 She poured out her questions upon him in a per 
 fect torrent. 
 
 "I only got here last night, quite too late to visit 
 you then, so I rode down the first thing this morning. 
 I wanted to come the minute I got into town. The 
 fact is, I believe I thought of seeing you more than 
 I did father or mother or anybody else." 
 
 "You believe you did!" with a toss of the head 
 and a suspicious emphasis on the second word. 
 
 "I am sure of it," confidently. 
 
 "Please, ma'am, sister Mary," interrupted Tempe, 
 "may I go now?" 
 
 "Yes, dear, run and play." 
 
 "But my lessons aren't finished," persisted the child, 
 
 29 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 who suddenly developed an unexpected and very un 
 usual thirst for knowledge. 
 
 "Oh, that's all right. I'll hear them after a while. 
 Say good-morning to Mr. Peyton, and run along." 
 
 "How do you do, Miss Tempe?" said Peyton 
 gravely, as the child walked over to him and extended 
 her small brown hand. 
 
 "I am very well, sir, an' I hope you are the same." 
 
 "Thank you, I am," laughed the young man. "My, 
 how you have grown! You were such a little girl 
 when I saw you last. Now you are quite a young lady, 
 and so dressed up, too." 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Peyton, sister Mary dressed me up this 
 morning. These are my best clothes. I don't see 
 why she did it. It ain't it isn't, I mean Sunday, 
 and I'm not going to a party. An' I had my lessons 
 in the best parlor, too. Did you dress me up, sister 
 Mary, because Mr. Peyton was coming?" 
 
 Sister Mary blushed violently, and, to cover her 
 confusion, Peyton slipped a box of candy he had 
 brought with him into the hand of the child and bade 
 her run and eat it. In fact, he accompanied her to 
 the door and stood looking after her for a few mo 
 ments with thoughtful consideration before he re 
 turned to his seat. 
 
"Why, Boyd Peyton," she exclaimed, "... what a surprise!" 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 MARY ANNAN WILL NOT BE MADE LOVE TO 
 
 ARY ANNAN had recovered her com 
 posure, in some measure, at least, by 
 a violent effort, but when Peyton sat 
 down again an awful silence ensued. 
 
 "You are the same old Boyd Peyton 
 as ever, I see," she said at last to him. 
 "You have not seen me for six months, 
 and haven't said half a dozen words to 
 me, and now you are actually dream 
 ing in my presence." 
 
 "I have been dreaming about your 
 presence ever since I saw you last, 
 Miss Mary, and it is natural that I 
 should dream on while I'm here. Be 
 sides, I was wondering " 
 
 He stopped again. 
 
 "Wondering about what?" she asked somewhat im 
 patiently. 
 
 Not a bit of a dreamer, she; at least not yet. 
 
 "Wondering if the child spoke the truth." 
 
 "Children usually do, duplicity comes later." 
 
 "At what age?" 
 
 "I've not lived long enough to find out, sir," wittily 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 answered the girl, smiling at his confusion. "But you 
 were wondering about Tempe?" 
 
 "Yes, wondering whether you did dress her up for 
 whether you were whether you really " 
 
 He stopped lamely enough and looked gravely away 
 from her. She laughed merrily. 
 
 "Whether I expected you? Of course I did. I 
 knew you were coming. I expected you last night, 
 and when you didn't come I was awfully disappointed, 
 but I knew you would be here this morning. I have 
 been anticipating this moment for a long time. Hence 
 this open parlor, this blazing fire, Tempe's best dress, 
 and all the rest. Things have been made ready for 
 your reception," she went on audaciously, bowing low 
 before him with mocking reverence. "Now your first 
 question is answered, tell me how did you leave Bos 
 ton?" 
 
 "Cold, gloomy, frozen. You never saw anything 
 like it." 
 
 "Did you see Miss Metcalfe before you left?" 
 
 "Yes, I called at the school and the old lady sent 
 you her best love." 
 
 "She was a sweet old soul," said the girl. 
 
 "Yes," he assented heartily. "You remember she 
 let us go out together pretty much whenever we 
 wanted to. It was so nice of her." 
 
 "Oh, well, she looked upon you as my brother al 
 most, of course." 
 
 "But you didn't look upon me that way, did you?" 
 he asked anxiously. 
 
 "Why, no, not exactly," she answered, "you see I 
 
 32 
 
MARY WILL NOT BE MADE LOVE TO 
 
 have only one brother, and Beverly is only thirteen. 
 He is away at school, by the way. Now you are too 
 old for me to regard you as that kind of a brother." 
 
 "Oh, Miss Mary, I don't want you to regard me as 
 any kind of a brother at all. I have come a long way 
 to tell you." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Boyd, don't!" cried the girl, rising to 
 her feet again. "We had such a good time together 
 in Boston that I counted on having the same good 
 time while you were at home on this leave of absence, 
 and now you are going to spoil it all, I know you 
 are." 
 
 "Now, please don't say that," he interrupted plead 
 ingly, "I didn't think you would be so annoyed to 
 learn that I " 
 
 "But I don't care for you in that way," she con 
 tinued impulsively, then suddenly stopped in great 
 confusion, realizing that she had not been asked as yet 
 to care for anybody in any way. 
 
 "Well, Miss Mary," said Peyton, greatly abashed, 
 "I will respect your wishes, of course. I shall always 
 do so. Everything you may say is law to me." Oh, 
 the rash promises of youth and love ! "Whatever you 
 wish me to do I will do. That is, I won't say anything 
 now, but I have only a short leave of absence, you 
 know, and before I go back you must at least let me 
 tell you that I I well, I will tell you it when I tell 
 you, you see." 
 
 His words were entirely confused and lame, but the 
 girl easily comprehended. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't," she said truthfully, "I do not 
 
 33 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 believe it will be any use, but if you must, you must, 
 and we'll put aside the disagreeable subject/' with cut 
 ting but unconscious frankness, "until we we have 
 to. Do you know how old I am?" 
 
 "You will be eighteen on the third of January," he 
 answered promptly. 
 
 "Dear me!" she exclaimed, "how did you get it 
 down so pat?" 
 
 "Why I you see I oh, dear, it is so hard not 
 to say it ! I like you so much, Miss Mary I may say 
 that, surely? " deprecatingly. 
 
 "Yes, you may go that far, I think," with injudicious 
 concession. 
 
 "Well, then, I like you so much that I have tried to 
 learn all about you," triumphantly pressing his ad 
 vantage. 
 
 "From whom have you learned about me?" 
 
 "Why, from everybody who would talk to me about 
 you, or would write about you," he went on in some 
 embarrassment. 
 
 "So you have been writing about me, have you?" 
 severely. 
 
 "Miss Mary, I have been writing about you, think 
 ing about you, dreaming about you " 
 
 "Stop, Mr. Boyd !" she cried, lifting a warning hand, 
 "stop right there !" 
 
 "All right," he replied, recovering himself with diffi 
 culty. 
 
 "Now tell me about your leave of absence." 
 
 "I have two months." 
 
 "Isn't that fine !" 
 
 34 
 
MARY WILL NOT BE MADE LOVE TO 
 
 "I think it is a very short time to spend with you. 
 It doesn't seem fine to me at all." 
 
 "Have you passed your examinations?" 
 
 "Yes. Went through them with flying colors. 
 Expect to be an ensign before my leave is up." 
 
 "Good ! I congratulate you !" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Mary, and you know an ensign's pay is 
 very much more than that of a passed midshipman. 
 Most fellows marry when they get to be ensigns," he 
 continued, with insinuating meekness, looking care 
 fully away from her while he spoke. 
 
 "Very foolish indeed of them, I think," she replied 
 coldly, resolutely oblivious to the indirect suggestion. 
 "The idea ! Mere boys as they are !" 
 
 "You know I am past twenty-two," meekly. 
 
 "No, I didn't know it. You don't look it, and just 
 now you don't act it, either. You see, I haven't made 
 your life the subject of such exhaustive study as you 
 have given mine." 
 
 "No, I suppose not," he answered dejectedly. "My 
 career has been so unimportant heretofore that it 
 would not be worth while to look it up." 
 
 "And has mine been of such importance, Mr. Pey 
 ton?" 
 
 "Of the greatest to me, and it will be as long as I 
 live," he answered promptly, ready to take instant ad 
 vantage of the opening. 
 
 "Boyd Peyton," said the girl sternly, determined to 
 put an end to this if she could, "if you were ordered to 
 do a thing by your superior officer would you obey 
 him, or would you not?" 
 
 35 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "Obey him, of course," answered Peyton. 
 
 "Would you try to evade his commands, or would 
 you obey absolutely?" 
 
 "Absolutely, certainly." 
 
 "Well, then I ordered you and you promised to 
 obey me you promised not to say anything about 
 about that subject, you know, for the present, that is, 
 and you have done nothing but make love to me since 
 you came in this room. I won't have it! It must 
 stop!" 
 
 "Don't you like me to do it?" he questioned, with 
 such simplicity and directness that it almost took her 
 breath away. 
 
 "Like you to do it?" she returned, in confusion and 
 perturbation. "Well, I but you wish me to re 
 spond and I- " 
 
 "Honestly, now, Miss Mary, you said you had not 
 reached the age of duplicity. Honestly, now ! Does 
 it displease you very much to have me I won't say it, 
 of course, but you know what I mean." 
 
 "Well, no I don't exactly dislike it but, dear me, 
 how tiresome this is! Let's talk of something else! 
 You have just come from the North. How do they 
 feel about Lincoln's election?" 
 
 "Why, jubilant, of course, naturally enough, I think. 
 You see, I didn't remain in Boston a minute longer 
 than necessary. I rushed down here to " 
 
 "There you go again," severely, with upraised fin 
 ger of warning. 
 
 "To see father and mother," he continued hastily, 
 "as quick as I could. So I really know very little 
 
 36 
 
MARY WILL NOT BE MADE LOVE TO 
 
 about it. I did hear some talk, though, on the 
 train." 
 
 "What do they say? Are they going to fight?" 
 
 "Fight!" he ejaculated in astonishment. "Fight 
 whom?" 
 
 "Fight us, fight the South." 
 
 "Of course not ! Why should they fight?" with still 
 greater surprise. 
 
 "Boyd Peyton, do you mean to tell me that you 
 don't know that Lincoln is going to send his hirelings 
 down here to take away our slaves, and make citizens 
 of them, and voters, and social equals, and all that sort 
 of thing?" 
 
 "No," said the young man promptly, "I do not be 
 lieve he intends to do anything of the kind, and he 
 could not do it if he would. I have read his platform, 
 and his letter of acceptance, and some of his speeches, 
 and they do not say one word about doing such 
 things." 
 
 "Boyd Peyton," said the girl again, leaning forward 
 and looking at him intently, "do you mean that you 
 are a Republican?" 
 
 Words could hardly express the scorn and contempt 
 with which she flung that last word at him, and there 
 was a note of anxiety as well in her question. 
 
 "Certainly not," answered Peyton promptly; "I am 
 a Democrat." 
 
 "Yes, but what kind of a Democrat the Southern 
 kind or the other?" 
 
 "Why," said the young man, "since I am a South 
 erner I suppose I belong to the Southern kind." 
 
 37 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 I* yon had been here on 
 ,"" persisted the girt, "wouM yon have voted far 
 
 m. fra I l-i ? m? ll in * ?** 
 
 or xsrecnnrM^ger 
 
 answered Peyton, grattfy surprised aft her 
 vehemence, **uot being: here at that tine, and being in 
 
 the navy and cruising at sea three thousand miles from 
 die United States, instead, I Italy dad not give the 
 
 . ,-fr j* a , rt _ *\ i<'V-.-.j^ juJJu^ T *lMMkJk- " ^ _ ,. - ~ 
 
 s2D?eci roocn tnongpK. i. IMHK on genem pnncnwes 
 
 I^lk^kJJ km^ "- ^* tnm^ "** *- - * - *n ^ ^ -^t^^^. M 
 > , . - .. ; , . ;\. , . ^ '..:<.;>> . .: . : ' ^ ~ . : 
 
 v - B^^ sfm^^^* d^dh^^^l A^^^^h^^*^ ^>*. M ~X^.^^ f fc n 1 ^*^***w "W 
 
 ^, S ne Saw CKMMl SfCCep QWU nCT BWC - Ottt X 
 
 wg&OECi that ocnichasKxii, nuB^way. Iwonld 
 be convinced if anybody m^aoW show me any 
 
 gbd to tear *u Mr. Bc^dL, 
 
 :.-.: . ;.:v :. s::r;.: cr. : 
 
 %i eve- tint P 
 at least, n yonr lather voted 
 there most be same&xng to be said for hoC" Fe^ton 
 wged defeffendal^ 
 
 iff ->.> - * ^- ^* _ T .TTu, - - **- "- * *" -"*- - _!Lil -_^- 
 
 rmstaHRKsn, tnegKiwent 
 
 old not nroe inm; leastways, I 
 "*^t is tdhe same thir^,*' s 
 
 "Toman* 
 only a ^ey 
 
MARY WILL NOT BE MADE LOVE TO 
 
 as a rule are rather blind to the qualities of their chil 
 dren. But why do you think there is going to be any 
 fighting?" 
 
 "I did not say I thought there was going to be any 
 fighting, Mr, Boyd," answered the girl "In fact, I 
 don't think there will be, for the reason that 1 do not 
 believe the Yankees will fight At least, I think they 
 will be afraid to get into a fight with the South, You 
 know they say that one Southerner can whip five 
 Yankees, anyway/' 
 
 "Yes," said Boyd grimly, "I have heard that before, 
 but I do not believe it/' 
 
 "Boyd Peyton, are you turning traitor to the 
 Southr 
 
 "Certainly not I am simply stating facts, I know 
 it is not true that one Southern man can whip five 
 Yankees; at least, not in every case, because I tried it" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Well, I didn't try five Yankees at once; I tried one 
 at a time, when I first went to the Academy, and out 
 of five tries I think I got four lickings, and they were 
 good ones, too!" 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the girl scornfully, "do you 
 mean to tell me that you fought with your fists? I did 
 not think that gentlemen " 
 
 "Hold on, Miss Mary!" cried Boyd, "you wouldn't 
 have a school full of boys go at each other with swords 
 or pistols?" 
 
 " That's the Southern way," proudly. 
 
 "Yes," he returned, "but it isn't the best way. We 
 fought it out with our fists in good, honest style, and 
 
 39 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 I have not four warmer friends in the world than those 
 fellows. I respect them because they conquered me, 
 and they respect me, I think, because I knew how to 
 take a beating." 
 
 "Yes, you may have been beaten by them," cried the 
 girl passionately, resentful of his indifference to a de 
 feat of the South in his person, and comprehending his 
 slender frame in a cruel glance, as she spoke, "but if 
 some other man, Mr. Bob Darrow, for instance, had 
 been in your place he might have whipped the whole 
 five if he had condescended to fight with fists." 
 
 Peyton's face flushed a deep dull crimson. The 
 curves of his mouth tightened again. There came 
 once more that same squareness of jaw, that contrac 
 tion of the brow. He looked positively forbidding 
 for the moment, as he turned toward her. She shrank 
 back before his dark visage in sudden alarm, but he 
 recovered himself by a violent effort. 
 
 "Wasn't that just a little unkind of you, Miss 
 Mary?" he asked at last, unable to control a quiver of 
 pain in his voice, for which he hated himself. "Dar 
 row is afraid of nothing, I know, and he has the 
 physical strength at his command to carry him through 
 almost anything. You are right. I believe he would 
 have whipped them all. I am not so strong as he, 
 and frankly I do not like fighting simply for the sake 
 of fighting. But I want you to believe I did the best 
 I could, and I wasn't whipped until I had been so 
 pounded up that I could not strike another blow, and 
 I was just as quick to defend the South as he would 
 have been." 
 
 40 
 
MARY WILL NOT BE MADE LOVE TO 
 
 "Forgive me, Boyd," said Mary in deep contrition, 
 made the more severe by the manly, gentle, kindly 
 way he had taken her thoughtless but wounding words. 
 "It was most unkind of me. I am ashamed of my 
 self. I did not mean it at all. I know you are as 
 brave as a lion." 
 
 "I am not," answered Peyton truthfully, "I am not 
 brave at all. I loathe to fight. War, battle, blood 
 shed, are horrible to me. I have a terrible shrinking 
 in my soul at the thought of them." 
 
 "Yet you have done it, you would do it again?" 
 asked the girl wonderingly. 
 
 "Oh, yes, of course. A man has to; no gentleman 
 can be insulted, you know. One must do his duty. 
 As you say, Darrow is a different sort of a man. He 
 would fight because he likes it. I do not believe he 
 knows what fear is. He is no dreamer, but a man of 
 action." 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 MARY ANNAN CHANGES HER MIND 
 
 EYTON turned away from her and 
 walked toward the window. She 
 looked at him half in pity, half in ad 
 miration. She did love the type repre 
 sented by Darrow; she was too young 
 and too inexperienced to have learned 
 that in every age it is the dreamer who 
 creates the ideal and compasses it at 
 every sacrifice, who masters the world ; 
 yet for the present her thoughts were 
 Peyton's and she hesitated as to what 
 to do. She had been hard to him, and 
 she was sorry. She liked him. That 
 liking might develop into something 
 more as her character formed al 
 though she did not realize that at the 
 time or it might not, but anyway she 
 really believed she liked him better than anyone else, 
 unless it were Bob Darrow. If he lacked the other's 
 splendid physical perfections, things usually accom 
 panying SUch splendid courage as he exhibited, still 
 Peyton was a handsome fellow, especially in his uni 
 form. She knew that she had grievously wounded 
 him. However, as she had little time for deliberation, 
 
 42 
 
MARY ANNAN CHANGES HER MIND 
 
 she did the best thing that could have been done un 
 der the circumstances; with womanly intuition she did 
 nothing. Only the wisest know when to do nothing, 
 and oftentimes a woman's instinct transcends the wis 
 dom of the ages. Sheba's queen was not unfit to stand 
 beside Solomon. With gracious tact, as if the subject 
 were dismissed and forgotten, she stepped over to the 
 window by his side. 
 
 "Open it," she said quietly, catching up a light 
 shawl from the chair, "and let us go into the garden 
 together, into the sunlight." 
 
 "It is always sunlight where you are, Miss Mary," 
 he remarked, with swift gratitude, as he obeyed her 
 commands, and together they went out on the 
 porch. 
 
 "How sweet the old garden looks !" he continued, as 
 they descended the gallery and stepped on the grass, 
 which was still as green and bright as it had been in 
 midsummer in the North. A tall hedge of box 
 screened the young people from the observation of 
 passers-by on Government Street. They were alone 
 in the garden. 
 
 Annandale, romantic name which carried with it 
 reminiscent memories of the ancient Scottish home, 
 the seat of the family, stood in the midst of a square 
 of the city and the grounds surrounding it were 
 spacious and ample. Right in the centre of the lawn 
 rose a gigantic live-oak, its trunk separated a few feet 
 above the ground into huge gnarled limbs, which, with 
 many tortuous windings, extended far over the yard 
 in every direction. The writhed and twisted branches 
 
 43 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 suggested a growth of centuries, and centuries of 
 struggle at that. 
 
 "That old tree is still the same," he said. 
 
 "Yes," said the girl, "a little older but no different. 
 It does not change. Come," extending her hand, "let 
 us go to it." 
 
 "Do you remember when I was here three years 
 ago? I used to put you up in it," he said, as they 
 walked under the branches toward its trunk. 
 
 "Yes, I remember." 
 
 "Allow me. Twas this way." 
 
 He seized her by the waist by both hands she was 
 a slender young thing as yet and, before she could 
 prevent him, by a great effort he lifted her up to the 
 lowest limb and set her down upon it. Then he stood 
 trembling a little, his dark face flushed by the violence 
 of his exertion. She was heavier than he had thought, 
 yet he would rather have died than fail to place her 
 there after he had started to do it. In spite of his 
 philosophy he still smarted under her allusion to Bob 
 Barrow's superior strength. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Boyd !" exclaimed the girl, leaning her 
 back against the trunk, and settling herself comfort 
 ably on the limb. "Mr. Bob Darrow himself could 
 not have done it better. I didn't think you were so 
 strong." 
 
 "Has Darrow been lifting you up here?" he ques 
 tioned jealously. 
 
 "Of course not !" indignantly. "Nobody ever dared 
 to do such a thing before. And don't you dare do it 
 again, Mr. Peyton!" 
 
 44 
 
MARY ANNAN CHANGES HER MIND 
 
 "Mary," whispered Peyton, "don't say that. I'd 
 love to spend my strength and my life just lifting you 
 up." 
 
 "You are incorrigible," she answered. 
 
 "Yes, I am incorrigible in loving you!" 
 
 She put up her hand, but he would not be stayed. 
 She had yet to learn that there is no power on earth 
 that can keep a man who loves a woman from telling 
 that woman he loves her when he feels that the wom 
 an wants to hear him, and almost every woman 
 wants to hear! Mary Annan certainly did not love 
 Boyd Peyton. At least, not then. She liked him 
 extremely. She was actually fond of him. No one 
 could have been more welcome than he when he had 
 visited her during that long winter in Boston. Her 
 heart had gone out to him then, and perhaps if he had 
 mustered courage to put his fate to the touch during 
 that happy season, he might have found his fortune in 
 her affection. But delays are dangerous, not only in 
 proverbs. He had lost the advantage of his unique 
 position, as the only Southern man in touch with her, 
 through his scrupulous delicacy of feeling; and when 
 she returned home to find herself promptly adored by 
 half the eligible young men of Mobile and Southern 
 Alabama, Boyd Peyton had not made sufficient im 
 pression upon her heart to have attained that per 
 manent and lasting position which alone could satisfy 
 him. 
 
 Yet she was by no means disposed to dismiss him 
 out of hand. The young lady was just tasting the 
 sweets of power, the power of womanly beauty and 
 
 45 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 feminine charm, both of which she wielded in great 
 measure over the manly hearts of her adorers. She 
 was not yet surfeited with devotion, and while she re 
 mained heart whole and fancy free, she clung with 
 pretty feminine covetousness to each old, and wel 
 comed with innocent avidity, each new admirer. The 
 truth was, she did not wish to marry anyone at pres 
 ent, and she certainly loved no one. 
 
 Many Southern girls most of them possibly and 
 many Northern girls, as well, were married and had 
 children at her age, but she had no mind to make an 
 early marriage. In many respects she was not much 
 more than a child, although her position as head of 
 her widowed father's household, gave her, on occasion, 
 a degree of dignity and self-possession greater than 
 might have been expected. 
 
 If the truth be told, she was a great deal of a 
 coquette; not viciously so, but from the pure joy of 
 being loved. Indeed the graciousness of her sym 
 pathy which made her take cognizance of the various 
 degrees of the alleged sufferings confided to her by 
 aspirants for her hand, whom she neither dismissed 
 nor accepted, made her kinder than the strict canons 
 of conduct might have permitted; but it was a kind 
 ness which bred no familiarity. The careful reserve 
 in which Southern girls of her day and station were 
 trained, would have prevented that, if any of her ad 
 mirers had so far forgotten himself as to deviate from 
 those chivalrous standards of conduct which were the 
 pride of the Southern gentleman. 
 
 No one, however, stood higher in her affection than 
 
 46 
 
MARY ANNAN CHANGES HER MIND 
 
 the sailor, unless it might be Mr. Bob Darrow. In 
 some instinctive way she realized that she was not yet 
 capable of forming a sound judgment as to whom to 
 entrust the making or marring of her life, so far as 
 another could do it. Though she had been finished 
 at the "finishing school," it did not yet appear what 
 she should be. In spite of her years, and a woman de 
 veloped more rapidly and earlier in the warm sunny 
 South than in the colder North, there was about her 
 a delightful air of immaturity. Not the immaturity 
 that is callow and ignorant, but the immaturity of in 
 nocence, physical and mental. The sweet slender 
 figure was full of delicious promise. The quick agile 
 mind predicated delightful capacities and pointed 
 to realizations the more grateful because somewhat 
 delayed. 
 
 As Peyton leaned against the tree upon which she 
 sat, as close to her as he could possibly get without 
 actually touching her, and as he looked adoringly up 
 into her soft brown eyes, she found it rather pleasant, 
 after all. Her eyes were not always soft, either. 
 Sometimes they sparkled with light as the breaking 
 wave does upon the storm-tossed sea, and sometimes 
 they swam steadily with the depth of a still pool that 
 compasses upon its surface a picture of the deepest 
 heaven as they did at that moment. As the young 
 lover marked the slow rise and fall of the girlish 
 bosom, as his eyes fell upon the scarlet ribbon of her 
 mocking lips, as he watched the flush of warm color 
 in her dark cheek rich hue that the rose might have 
 envied he longed to throw the restraints of custom 
 
 47 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 to the four winds of heaven and clasp the girl in his 
 arms. It was not the first, nor would it be the last, 
 time a lover's heart rebelled against such restraints. 
 
 The gentle wind laden with the dying fragrance of 
 the fall, in riotous profanation lifted the long brown 
 curls that fell upon her shoulders oh, wanton wind ! 
 The same breeze blew aside the long full skirt she 
 wore and disclosed the dainty little feet, dangling close 
 to his side, and clad in black cloth heelless ankle ties, 
 quite like those that Tempe had worn, and to his 
 fatuous vision but slightly larger. The wind afforded 
 him ravishing glimpses of her slender ankles in their 
 white stockings, making him long to throw himself 
 upon his knees and press kisses of adoration upon her 
 shoes even. All the fire and passion of the past which 
 he had repressed so long quivered in his voice and 
 shone in his glance, as he turned his face up toward 
 her and spoke to her. The day, the hour, the place, 
 the position, all the witchery of the woman possessed 
 him. There was a mocking-bird singing somewhere 
 near them, as only they can sing in the South, and 
 his words blended with this love-song of nature. 
 
 "It's out now," he murmured; "what's the use of 
 trying to conceal it or evade it. Every look, every 
 word, every movement of mine must have betrayed me. 
 I didn't say anything to you in Boston not in words, 
 that is. You see, I was afraid, for one thing; and 
 for another, I did not want to take advantage of you. 
 I was the only friend you had, the only man, and I had 
 known you from a child. I was a Southerner, and I 
 and we," he went on softly, "we love the South. 
 
 48 ' 
 
MARY ANNAN CHANGES HER MIND 
 
 Had I been born in New England I should have loved 
 the South since it is your land. And you were so 
 young. You might have said 'Yes' then." 
 
 In spite of herself, the girl, listening in dreamy 
 abandon to his passionate pleading, nodded her head 
 softly. 
 
 "Oh," cried Peyton, conscious of her slightest mo 
 tion, "would you have said 'Yes?' " 
 
 "I might," she whispered, "then " 
 
 "And now?" he questioned eagerly. 
 
 "Oh, now it is different now. Don't ask me, 
 Boyd." 
 
 "I must! Is it because there is someone else?" 
 
 "No, there is no one. You see the little Southern 
 bird that was so lonesome up North is out of the cage 
 now and she loves she loves everybody." She spread 
 her hands abroad with a delicious gesture. "There 
 isn't anyone in particular, but all you, as well as the 
 rest. I like you, oh, very much, and if you are awfully 
 in love with me, as you say you are, I am very sorry 
 for you. I am sorry for them all." 
 
 "All?" he queried jealously. "What do you mean 
 by that?" 
 
 "Why, I mean all the men who are in love with me 
 and that I am not in love with. They all talk as you 
 do, Boyd." 
 
 "Don't!" he protested vehemently. "I cannot be 
 lieve that the ephemeral affection of the men you meet 
 can be likened to my feeling. I tell you," he con 
 tinued almost fiercely, "you do not dream how I love 
 you. We sailors are lonely folk. Do you know, do 
 
 49 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 you realize, that winter in Boston was the only one 
 I ever spent in the society of a girl, a woman? Are 
 you a woman, I wonder?" 
 
 "Am I a woman, indeed !" indignantly and with sur 
 prise. 
 
 "Yes, I know, in years, perhaps, but at heart only a 
 child." 
 
 "A child, sir! Well, perhaps! And if you knew 
 other women, may be you wouldn't care so much for 
 me." 
 
 "It would not make any difference; I'd care for no 
 one else. You are all. Ah, when I sailed away last 
 spring and left you I took with me such a memory of 
 you as completely possessed me. I did my duties, of 
 course; I had been so trained. That's a part of life, 
 to do one's duty. I lived on the ship. I mingled with 
 the others. My body was on the African coast but my 
 soul was where you were. I was absent-minded, dis 
 trait. My shipmates rallied me upon it. It was your 
 fault. I was thinking of you, dreaming of you." 
 
 Was he dreaming again, she wondered, bending to 
 look at him. No, his eyes were fixed upon her, his 
 glance burned her, yet it was fascinating. The poet 
 in him was speaking to his ideal. That was she. 
 Others had not wooed this way. She was not in love 
 but she was a woman, and she listened with a wildly 
 beating heart. He compelled her to do so, and if she 
 did not yet love the man, she loved to hear his words. 
 
 "The breeze of summer wove songs about your 
 name through the rigging," he continued, in that low 
 voice with its passionate cadence. "When the moon- 
 
 50 
 
MARY ANNAN CHANGES HER MIND 
 
 light beat upon the low-lying sands of the tropic shore 
 the mist wreathed itself into figures whose airy grace 
 suggested you to me. Not a wave that caressed the 
 keel of the ship that did not ripple with the music of 
 your laughter. I could shut my eyes and hear it 
 now." 
 
 He suited the action to the word, leaned his head 
 against the tree-trunk and was silent for a little space. 
 The bird sang no longer now and she wondered if he 
 could hear her heart beating in that silence. She 
 wished he would go on. 
 
 "I welcomed the night watches/' he said at last. 
 "They were never lonely to me. I could pace the deck 
 and think of you, you, only you, with nothing to dis 
 turb or distract me. Yes, yes, I am a dreamer, as 
 you have said, but I did not create an ideal, I found it 
 in you. Beloved, you know not what this has meant 
 to me. You do not know what it means now. I 
 said you were a child, and you are. But some day you 
 will be a woman, and then you will understand. Per 
 haps it is not altogether you now that I love, that I 
 worship, but what I see in you, what you will be." 
 
 She took no offence at his frankness, but listened, 
 drinking in every word. 
 
 "I have made you the object of my ambition, the 
 end and aim of my life. Every hope that I cherish 
 centres in you. Every desire that I entertain has you 
 for its realization. I long to do something for you, 
 to have some task set me, some great achievement 
 placed before me, that I may show you what love 
 means. I ask nothing now. I am content to stand 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 here below you and look up at you, to kiss the hem of 
 your garment." 
 
 Again he suited the action to the word, with a 
 reverence which touched her soul. 
 
 "To be near you is enough now, but some day I 
 must have more. I must have all. Until that time 
 comes and you come to me with it, I shall wait. No, 
 not patiently, not willingly, but because I must. Do 
 you understand?" 
 
 His voice had grown softer as he spoke. How 
 handsome he looked with his head thrown back, his 
 eyes confirming every word that his lips had uttered ! 
 The being of the girl thrilled in response to the feel 
 ing and passion in his love-making. She bowed to 
 that revelation of his heart. 
 
 "I understand," she murmured in answer at last; 
 "speak on. There is music to my heart in what you 
 say. I am a child. I do not know yet what love 
 means, as you know it, as you have told it. But per 
 haps I shall learn. You may teach me, and with such 
 a master may I be an apt pupil. Here is my hand 
 upon it." 
 
 He seized the slender, graceful brown hand she ex 
 tended, and with old-fashioned grace alas that the 
 custom has gone ! pressed a long kiss upon it while 
 she continued: 
 
 "There is no one else yet, and I hope " Her 
 
 voice sank to a whisper. She turned her head away. 
 A rift of sunlight drifted through the trembling foliage 
 and fell upon her hair and burnished it with color. "I 
 hope," she murmured, withdrawing her hand and lay- 
 
 52 
 
MARY ANNAN CHANGES HER MIND 
 
 ing it upon his head, "that some day it may be as you 
 wish." 
 
 "Thank God! Thank God," he exclaimed, "for 
 that blessed assurance, and may He bring all my 
 dreams to pass!" 
 
 And above them the mocking-bird burst into song 
 again. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED ON THE SHELL ROAD 
 
 H 
 
 IGH noon and high tide on the Shell 
 Road. The sunlight was flooding the 
 waters of Mobile Bay extending un 
 broken from the shore as far as eye 
 could see. Below the broad splen 
 did road on the bluffs, a lonely stretch 
 of white sand contrasted vividly with 
 the deep tropic blue of the water, 
 tossed into a thousand white capped 
 waves by the fresh breeze. The gray 
 road following the curves of the shore 
 was untenanted at the moment save by 
 three persons on horseback. 
 
 Although he was a sailor and men 
 of the sea are proverbially indifferent 
 horsemen Boyd Peyton rode with the 
 ease of a Southern cavalier long ac 
 customed to the saddle. His companion was a good 
 match for him. He had never seen Mary Annan 
 upon a horse before, at least not since he was a child 
 when he had taken little note of such things, but the 
 easy grace with which she sat her spirited and high 
 bred horse, the skill with which she managed him 
 therefore the more delighted him. 
 
 54 
 
ON THE SHELL ROAD 
 
 She wore a close-fitting riding habit of navy blue, a 
 little stiff hat to match it, with a gray veil drooping 
 behind it, and gray gauntlets. She had exchanged 
 her ankle ties for dainty little boots, and as he had 
 mounted her upon her horse he had not failed to 
 notice her small high-arched instep, the hall-mark of 
 the high-bred Southern woman, which she had to per 
 fection. The force of the breeze, accentuated by their 
 quick motion, had added a deeper color to the rich 
 ness of her brown cheek. The wind blew her hair 
 hither and thither as they galloped along. She 
 laughed aloud sometimes in the very heedless joy in 
 life. She was so young and so happy. Jerry, the 
 negro groom, in the Annan livery, who rode some 
 distance behind them, if he thought of them at all, 
 would have called them a handsome pair. 
 
 Peyton had spent the entire morning at Annan- 
 dale renewing his acquaintance with the Judge. After 
 luncheon he had begged Mary to ride with him 
 on the Shell Road, then, as now, the driving and 
 riding resort of fashionable Mobile. It was yet so 
 early in the afternoon, however, that they had the 
 road to themselves. Mary Annan was more the mis 
 tress of the situation on horseback than she had been 
 on the live-oak, and when Peyton had attempted to 
 continue the conversation in the strain of the morning, 
 she had burst away from him with a dash of speed 
 which challenged his horsemanship and which pres 
 ently settled into a long swinging gallop, side by side, 
 which carried them over the road at a great pace. 
 
 Peyton was as full of satisfaction as anything short 
 
 55 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 of her complete acceptance of him could have made 
 him. He loved her, he had told her so in spite of 
 his promise, and she had listened at last in spite of her 
 refusal, and had half responded. He was determined 
 to win her and she had given him hope. It was 
 enough to make any man happy. The added exhilara 
 tion of the rapid gallop completed his joy. All too 
 soon they drew rein at Frederic's Inn at the end of 
 the made road. 
 
 Far to the front of them the unpaved road, ab 
 ruptly degenerating into a mere bridle path, wound 
 through the woods and lost itself in the distance 
 among the trees. 
 
 "Let us alight from the horses and go out on the 
 wharf yonder," said Peyton, pointing off to the left 
 where a long wharf on piles extended far out over the 
 water. 
 
 "I think I should like it," replied the girl; "I am a 
 little tired after our rapid gallop." 
 
 He sprang down from his horse instantly, stretched 
 up his arms and lifted her lightly from the saddle so 
 soon as her permission was given; and again she 
 noticed that the strength with which he lifted her be 
 lied his slender, somewhat delicate appearance. Leav 
 ing the horses to the care of the negro he helped her 
 down the steps and they walked slowly out to the end 
 of the wharf. 
 
 "I know not which is the more beautiful," said the 
 girl, as they paused at the boat-landing. "Look at 
 the road. Is there another such on the continent? I 
 love those great live-oaks, green still although it is 
 
 56 
 
ON THE SHELL ROAD 
 
 winter, and all the vivid rich color of those huge 
 broad-leaved magnolia-trees." 
 
 She stretched out her arms to the picturesque shore 
 as if she would clasp it in loving embrace. 
 
 "Yes," answered Peyton, smiling approvingly at her 
 enthusiasm, "and what makes the oaks more beauti 
 ful is the long gray festoons of that Spanish moss 
 hanging from every limb, and the mistletoe clustered 
 around the tops. Even the white China berries and 
 the red yupons and those little bayonet palms add to 
 the charm. But beauty is upon this side, too," he 
 added, sweeping his arm seaward, jealous for his 
 chosen element. "I never expected to be a sailor." 
 
 "No," said the girl, "you should have been a poet." 
 
 The words cut him a little, but he knew that she 
 meant nothing by it. 
 
 "Yes, perhaps; but since I am a sailor, I am glad. 
 There is no touch of verdant nature on the sea, but it 
 has a freshness and a life of its own; and the waves, see 
 how they splash! In their light and airy play they 
 remind me of you." 
 
 "Does everything remind you of me, I wonder?" 
 turning to look at him. 
 
 "Everything that is beautiful," he answered 
 promptly. For the life of her she could not but be 
 pleased with such exquisite love-making, and, smil 
 ing, she showed her pleasure. "To me," he con 
 tinued, "you stand for everything that is lovely, not 
 only beauty, grace, charm, but the crown of woman 
 hood besides. You are so pure and sweet in your 
 soul, I mean. In my sight you are purity itself, 
 
 57 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 purer than the snow upon the mountain upon which 
 not even the wing of the eagle has ever cast a 
 shadow, and you are as far above me as that same 
 crest." 
 
 He was dreaming of her again and reading his 
 dreams aloud, and, as before, she listened eagerly. 
 
 "Speak to me, dearest," he said at last, as if just 
 awakened; "I love to hear you speak. 
 
 Ah, with laughing water mingle 
 The love-song of your choice ; 
 
 'Twill be but shadowed echo 
 To the music of your voice. 
 
 It enchants me. I'd rather hear it than " 
 
 "That's a perfectly lovely verse, Boyd," she inter 
 rupted. "Who wrote it ?" 
 
 "I did. 'A poor thing, but my own/ " he quoted 
 softly; "you said I was a poet. I've written reams of 
 verses about you, but they do not satisfy me; nothing 
 I could say would measure up to my standard of de 
 votion to you. I feel humble before you, unworthy 
 of you. Yet I aspire beyond merit, or desert, be 
 cause I love you." 
 
 "No, no, you exalt me too much," cried the girl. 
 "I am nothing that you say. I am not at all what you 
 think me. I am nothing but an ordinary Southern 
 girl who " 
 
 "Who is the queen of my heart forever," he inter 
 rupted, taking her hand. "No, don't draw it away," 
 he continued; "let me have this hour for my own. 
 Something tells me that I shall not have many." 
 
 58 
 
ON THE SHELL ROAD 
 
 It was useless, wrong, foolish, yet she let him retain 
 the hand for a little space, soon to be terminated. 
 
 "What's that?" she said slowly, at last, drawing away 
 her hand as her eyes turned from him and for a brief 
 space searched the shore. 
 
 "Where?" disappointment speaking in his voice. 
 
 "There ! Coming along the road toward Frederic's ! 
 A horseman ! See, he is waving to us ! Now I recog 
 nize him. I'd know that gray horse among a thou 
 sand. It's Mr. Bob Darrow. He's shouting some 
 thing. He has a message for us evidently. What can 
 it be? Some word from father, perhaps. Come, let 
 us go to meet him." 
 
 She was half glad, half sorry, for the interruption. 
 It was becoming more and more difficult to keep her 
 lover within those agreeable bounds which her mind, 
 if not her heart, indicated as properly restrained. She 
 liked to hear him, but she had an uneasy feeling that 
 things could not go on for long as they were. She 
 must respond in some way soon. And she was ready 
 neither to dismiss nor to accept him then. Like many 
 another woman, she wanted time. Gathering her 
 skirts in her hand, she ran along the wharf, tripped 
 up the stairs, and reached her own horse just as Dar 
 row reined in his gray. 
 
 He had ridden as if pursued. His horse was 
 quivering with excitement and flecked with foam. As 
 he was jerked back on his haunches by his rider's pow 
 erful hand Darrow sprang to the ground, tore his hat 
 from his head with his gauntleted hand, and cried out 
 his message. His eyes were shining, his fair face was 
 
 59 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 crimson with color. His voice trembled with the 
 heavy purport of his tidings. 
 
 "I went to your house, Miss Mary," he cried, "they 
 told me that you had come riding here. How are you, 
 Peyton? Glad to see you back. You came in the 
 nick of time, old fellow," he continued, clasping the 
 other's outstretched hand. It was the first time the 
 friends had met for years, but Darrow had time for 
 no other greeting. "I knew you would be crazy to 
 hear the news, Miss Mary," he added, turning once 
 more to the girl, "so I saddled the gray here and rode 
 like one possessed to find you and tell you." 
 
 "What is the news, Mr. Darrow?" asked the girl 
 eagerly. 
 
 "South Carolina has gone out of the Union. The 
 ordinance of secession was passed at Charleston at one 
 o'clock to-day. This is the beginning of the Southern 
 Republic," he cried exultingly. 
 
 He waved his hat in the air and made the live-oaks 
 ring with a mighty cheer, in which the shriller voice 
 of the girl triumphantly joined. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE WOMAN BETWEEN 
 
 EYTON stood looking at the pair in 
 dazed surprise. The news so start 
 ling, which his companions received 
 with such demonstrations of joy, was 
 appalling to him. He did not know 
 what to make of it. Mary Annan had 
 noticed his silence, but she made no 
 comment on it, and indeed Darrow 
 gave them no time for reflection, for 
 as he recovered himself a little he con 
 tinued his story excitedly. 
 
 "The whole town is in a ferment." 
 "Are they going to do anything?" 
 asked the girl. 
 
 "I think so. Telegrams were com 
 ing down from Montgomery in a perfect stream when 
 I left. I suppose there will be a parade or salute, or 
 something of that sort." 
 
 "Well, let us ride back at once," said the girl. "I 
 am so excited I can hardly breathe. I would not miss 
 it for anything. Isn't it splendid! Jerry," she con 
 tinued, turning to the groom, "my horse." 
 
 As the negro, who had watched the scene with un 
 moved gravity, little comprehending its ultimate 
 meaning to him and his race, led forward the horse, 
 
 61 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 both young men sprang to assist her to mount. She 
 looked from one outstretched hand to the other, and 
 turning to Peyton put her little foot in his palm. He 
 flashed a look of gratitude toward her as he lifted her 
 into the saddle; but his joy was not allowed free course, 
 for, with an instinct of kindness which is sometimes 
 mistaken for coquetry, she turned to Darrow, whose 
 face was flushed with disappointment, and said, "I 
 came with Mr. Peyton, you know," which simple re 
 mark did a great deal to dim the brightness of Pey 
 ton's satisfaction and diminish the poignancy of Dar- 
 row's regret. 
 
 Both men sprang to their saddles then, and both in 
 stinctively made for the right side of the girl, and for 
 a moment it looked as if there might be a collision; but 
 Darrow recovered himself quickly and reined in his 
 horse. 
 
 "The place of honor is yours, Boyd. You are Miss 
 Mary's escort this morning, so go ahead. Besides, 
 you are a stranger, too. I surrender the privilege." 
 
 "That's handsome of you, old fellow," returned his 
 friend, smiling, as Darrow wheeled around to the left 
 side of Mary Annan. 
 
 "If you have finished your discussion, gentlemen," 
 she said, smiling in spite of herself with pleasure at 
 the jealous little rivalry, "let us ride on. I cannot wait 
 to be there." 
 
 She shook the reins over the horse's neck, touched 
 him lightly with the whip she carried, and he broke 
 into a long, swinging gallop, an example, of course, 
 followed by the other two. They fairly raced along 
 
 62 
 
THE WOMAN BETWEEN 
 
 the road at a pace which made connected conversa 
 tion impossible. They covered the distance very 
 rapidly without break or stop until they reached the 
 outskirts of the town. As they turned into Emmanuel 
 Street, Mary Annan reined in her panting horse and 
 cantered slowly down the street. 
 
 "My!" she said, with cheerful gladness, "that was 
 a splendid dash ! I do not believe we were more than 
 half an hour doing the distance. Your gray looks 
 tired, Mr. Darrow." 
 
 "Yes," said Darrow, patting his horse, "you see he 
 has had a double run." 
 
 "What time is it?" she continued, turning to Pey 
 ton. 
 
 "About half after two, I think," he replied, as he 
 took out his watch and glanced at it. "Yes, just. 
 Five bells, a sailor would say." 
 
 "Shall we be in time?" 
 
 "Oh, I think so," answered Darrow. "Hark! 
 What's that ! It's the band !" 
 
 "Come," said the girl impatiently, urging her horse 
 into a gallop again, "let's hurry on." 
 
 "I think we can intercept them on Government 
 Street if we keep straight on," said Darrow, as he and 
 Peyton followed her example. 
 
 "What will it be, do you think?" she cried. 
 
 "Oh, a parade, or a salute, perhaps both." 
 
 In a short time they reached the junction of Em 
 manuel and Government Streets. The broad, splen 
 did road, lined with magnificent old houses embowered 
 in trees, was filled with people. Some squares away to 
 
 63 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 the left came the band of music, followed by marching 
 bodies of gayly uniformed men. The sunlight spark 
 ling on steel bayonets told the trio that they were the 
 soldiers. They were accompanied as usual by throngs 
 of people, and the street was rapidly filling up. Boys 
 and girls, black and white, capered in the street in time 
 to the music. 
 
 "What's that they are playing?" asked Peyton 
 curiously. 
 
 "It's a new song," answered Mary, " 'Listen to the 
 Mocking Bird/ it's called. I will sing it for you the 
 next time you are at the house." 
 
 "Yes, we have all enjoyed hearing you sing it, Miss 
 Mary," put in Darrow deftly, quite nullifying the 
 pleasure Peyton had taken in the promise. 
 
 Darrow was a magnificent horseman. He seemed 
 a part of his steed. No centaur could have ridden 
 more superbly. Six feet high, splendidly propor 
 tioned, he made a grand picture sitting his great 
 gray horse. No one could be in greater contrast to 
 Peyton than he. His eyes were blue, his hair sunny, 
 his complexion florid, an unusual but not impossible 
 type for a Southerner. Physically he was the incarna 
 tion of force and strength, both tempered by Southern 
 courtesy and refinement. He was the personification 
 of headlong recklessness and valor. Fear was abso 
 lutely left out of his personality. No one had ever 
 seen him blench, or quail, or tremble. Gay, joyous, 
 debonair, he was a man calculated not only to win the 
 heart of almost any woman, but awaken the admiration 
 of men as well. 
 
 64 
 
THE WOMAN BETWEEN 
 
 Yet there was something lacking about him. In 
 the hidden depths of his nature in which a man shows 
 what he is fundamentally he was not quite so ad 
 mirable. A touch of soul was wanting in him. The 
 spiritual side of his nature had suffered at the expense 
 of the material. In that particular he was also of a 
 type antipodal to Peyton, for Peyton's physical nature 
 had suffered at the expense of his spiritual. The one 
 needed sorrow and trouble and love are they 
 synonyms? to refine him; the other required work 
 and danger and disappointment and love are they 
 synonyms, too? to blunt him, as it were, and make 
 him practical and practicable in this workaday world. 
 A crisis would make or unmake each man. 
 
 Singularly enough, the girl who sat between the 
 two men, glancing from one to the other, as she 
 marked them both during the dash on the Shell Road, 
 was to furnish the element which should perfect and 
 supply the lack in the character of the two who loved 
 her so. She had spoken but little during their wild 
 riding, but her thoughts had been the more busy on 
 that account. While they, with masculine directness 
 stared at her, she, with a woman's delicate capacity 
 for concealment, was furtively inspecting them. She 
 would not have been a woman had she not admired 
 the splendid physical vigor of Darrow. He always ap 
 pealed powerfully to one side of her nature, sometimes 
 almost irresistibly so. Yet in her deeper soul there 
 was something that responded with equal, nay, greater 
 force, to the spiritual appeal made by her more refined 
 and less material companion. It must not be con- 
 
 65 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 eluded that either man entirely lacked the qualities 
 with which the other was so abundantly dowered; not 
 at all, and perhaps the difference between them seemed 
 greater when attention was called to it than it really 
 was, but the two tendencies existed. 
 
 Darrow, like Peyton, was deeply in love with Mary 
 Annan. He had paid court to many women after the 
 chivalrous practice of the deferential Southern gentle 
 man, but no one had ever stirred him to such depths 
 of feeling as this exquisite girl. His soul was trem 
 bling in the balance under her hand. A touch might 
 call it forth. His voice softened in her presence. A 
 little bit of the audacity and boldness of his splendid 
 bearing was subdued when she was near. The girl 
 made him more gentle, more tender, a nobler man. 
 Her personality laid a hand upon him which almost 
 seemed to say to his soul, "Ephphatha, Be Opened !" 
 Singular to say the same touch upon Peyton produced 
 the contrary effect. His love for Mary Annan, and 
 her character as he saw it, as he idealized it, to some 
 extent and love is not love when it fails to idealize 
 the object of affection stiffened his arm, and 
 strengthened his heart and made him resolve to do 
 more than dream of noble things for her. It brought 
 out his innate strength and virility. It armored him 
 in masculine steel. 
 
 The focal point in life for man is woman. Well 
 is she styled "the complement of man." Without her 
 he would be nothing. The distinction of sex is the 
 great physical fact upon which the world depends, and 
 in the altruism of woman is found the basis of re- 
 
 66 
 
THE WOMAN BETWEEN 
 
 ligion. The Son of Man Himself was born of a 
 woman. Short-sighted humanity sometimes describes 
 hers as the weaker sex! Here was a young, un 
 formed, undeveloped woman, scarcely more than a 
 girl as yet, and the characters of two men in touch 
 with her were being evolved by her influence, her 
 personality. 
 
 There is something of the poet in every lover. In 
 Mary Annan's presence the spiritual was bourgeon 
 ing in Darrow's heart. And there is something else, 
 which, for lack of a better term, may be described as 
 the material, in every lover's purpose. There is some 
 thing virile and active in every great passion else 
 it is not great and this was moving in Peyton's 
 mind. 
 
 The girl comprehended the case of her two lovers 
 but dimly. She partially discerned it in both instances 
 by a sort of instinct which she could neither analyze 
 nor understand. Yet there was something exhilarat 
 ing in the situation. It was only play to her as yet, 
 but the play was with edged tools and hot coals, and 
 the excitement of it was superb. When she herself 
 came to comprehend by introspection the power of 
 either passion, and came under the influence of the 
 one or the other, the play would cease to be play. It 
 would be life or death. Life to one, death to the 
 other. What for her? 
 
 As she sat between them she inclined now to the 
 right, now to the left, and knew not whither she would 
 finally tend. No one else knew it either, and as the 
 young men measured each other mentally and out- 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 wardly, they were, while equally resolute, equally un 
 determined. Not gifted with such instinct as the girl, 
 one at least not given to unconscious analysis, they 
 saw in each other only rivals. Yet each was generous 
 enough to admire in the other the quality or qualities 
 he himself lacked. 
 
 Peyton would have given anything for a measure of 
 Barrow's splendid magnetic, magnificent personality; 
 and Darrow humbly wished that some of the delicate 
 perception and fine high spirit of the other man had 
 fallen to his lot. Each was in a fair way of amend 
 ment when he recognized the goodness of his rival's 
 qualities. 
 
 The two men had been friends from boyhood. The 
 frank, impulsive nature o\ the larger man, who was 
 also the older, had fitted in with the quieter, more 
 restrained habit of the younger. They had been to 
 each other as body and soul. They made an ideal 
 combination therefore. One planned, the other ex 
 ecuted. Not altogether is the statement true again; 
 but, broadly speaking, it was Peyton's subtle mind 
 and Barrow's powerful personality that worked to 
 gether. Oftentimes Peyton's ideas were utterly im 
 practicable, equally often Barrow's insight was entirely 
 lacking, yet together they supplemented each other. 
 In a great emergency, if any had ever arisen, the com 
 bination would have been ideal and success certain. 
 There never had been a cloud upon their friendship. 
 The only thing that breaks friendships like that be 
 tween man and man is woman. They had been too 
 young, and too much separated in their later life, for 
 
 68 
 
THE WOMAN BETWEEN 
 
 that factor to have thrust itself upon their affections, 
 but now it was quite apparent that the inevitable had 
 at last arrived. 
 
 With rapid advance the little parade on the street 
 drew nearer to the party on horseback at the corner of 
 Emmanuel Street. There had been no time to as 
 semble the general military force of the several com 
 panies, so that only the Mobile Cadets, the crack or 
 ganization of the community, were in line as escort to 
 the Light Battery. Very handsome the young fel 
 lows looked in their gray uniforms faced with black, 
 with their pomponned caps, just the uniform of the 
 famous Seventh New York, by the way. They came 
 tramping gayly down the street, following the band 
 playing the stirring march which, although it was 
 written by a Northern man, was yet essentially South 
 ern in its character, and was already in great favor 
 on the nether side of Mason and Dixon's line. The 
 shrill fifes trilled the refrain almost with the mel 
 lifluous madness of the gay bird itself. The people 
 cheered frantically as the Cadets swept by followed by 
 the lumbering guns of the battery. 
 
 As Captain Sands, who commanded the battalion, 
 caught sight of Mary Annan and her two companions 
 he shouted a sudden command and instantly the guns 
 of the soldiers dropped from their shoulders into a 
 marching salute, which the girl acknowledged with a 
 graceful bend of the head and a wave of the hand, her 
 face mantling with pleasure at the honor. The com 
 pany marched under their own flag, and for the first 
 time they paraded through the streets of Mobile with- 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 out carrying the ensign of the United States. All 
 three spectators noticed the omission. 
 
 "See," cried the girl, "they have discarded the 
 United States flag." 
 
 "Yes, by heaven," said Darrow, "they have given it 
 up at last!" There was a little touch of awe in his 
 voice. "At last," he continued; "well, I am glad of 
 it, for one," he burst out impulsively. "We will have 
 a new flag of our own now." 
 
 Peyton said nothing. He only held himself very 
 straight in the saddle and looked sternly ahead. Again 
 there came upon his face that peculiar tightening 
 which gave a touch of grimness to his usual appear 
 ance. The woman alone noticed it. 
 
 The artillery had followed the example of the 
 Cadets and had discarded the United States flag also, 
 but on the flank of the battery rode two markers with 
 guidons. There had been no time to substitute any 
 others, and as the markers were necessary for the 
 evolutions of the battery they were perforce carried 
 in the parade. They were little swallow-tailed ban 
 nerets, each one, however, bearing the old familiar 
 stars and stripes. As they passed down the street 
 Peyton's right hand instinctively went to his hat. He 
 took it off and holding his arm across his breast laid 
 his hat upon his left shoulder. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 PEYTON SALUTES THE FLAG 
 
 W 
 
 HAT are you doing, Boyd?" cried 
 Mary Annan, attracted by the move 
 ment, turning to him in great surprise. 
 "Saluting the flag of the United 
 States," answered the young man 
 sternly. 
 
 "What! You don't mean " inter 
 rupted Darrow. 
 
 "I mean that I am still an officer of 
 the United States Government, and it 
 is my duty to respect the flag," said 
 Peyton decisively. 
 
 "He is right," said Darrow impul 
 sively, taking off his own hat in turn. 
 "Maybe it's the last time, but the 
 old flag is still ours. Alabama is not 
 yet out of the Union." 
 
 "Not yet," cried Mary Annan, "but it will be, and 
 I but anticipate. I shall not salute it, and I beg you 
 both not to do it either." 
 
 "As you will," said Darrow with careless compli 
 ance, covering his head again. 
 
 But Peyton, disregarding her words and the angry 
 flush on her face, although it cost him much to do so, 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 stared motionless straight ahead of him and remained 
 uncovered until the guidons had passed well by him. 
 In spite of herself the girl's heart warmed toward him. 
 That touch of sternness well became him. The un 
 usual resolution which sparkled in his eye, in spite of 
 the tremble on his lips, thrilled her, yet womanlike she 
 turned to Darrow. 
 
 "Thank you," she said, "you have done what a true 
 son of Alabama should do." 
 
 "At your command, Miss Mary," laughed Darrow 
 cheerfully, saluting her in turn. "But, you see, I 
 am not an officer of the United States." 
 
 He generously strove to say a good word for poor 
 Peyton. 
 
 "No, I am thankful you are not." 
 
 "But if I had been I should have " 
 
 "Do not say any more, Mr. Darrow. You are not, 
 and you did not, and that's enough," interrupted the 
 girl proudly. 
 
 She allowed her displeasure at Peyton's obstinacy 
 so she characterized it in her mind to appear in her 
 voice and manner. It cut him to the heart as, with 
 the keenness of appreciation peculiar to him, he re 
 alized it. But for the life of him he could not have 
 failed to salute that passing flag then; no, not even 
 for her. He did not feel happy about his action, how 
 ever, but he could think of nothing adequate to say. 
 He could not explain further than he had done, and it 
 was with something like despair that he turned to his 
 companions at last. Mary Annan was tapping her 
 boot with her whip, an angry flush upon her beautiful 
 
 72 
 
PEYTON SALUTES THE FLAG 
 
 face. Darrow was staring in great embarrassment 
 from her to Peyton, in alternation. 
 
 "Who is that?" cried Darrow, glad to break the an 
 noying pause at last. 
 
 He pointed down toward the rear of the procession, 
 which was brought up by a great concourse of men, 
 women, and children, blacks as well as whites. 
 
 "Why, I declare, it's Tempe!" exclaimed Mary 
 Annan, in vexation and dismay, pointing to where her 
 little sister, yelling like a young Indian, capered down 
 the street after the procession arm in arm with a very 
 small and very black darky girl. No one would have 
 recognized the demure little maiden of the morning. 
 "The idea of it!" continued her sister. "Will you get 
 her at once?" 
 
 Both young men moved forward. 
 
 "No, Darrow," said Peyton impulsively, "you may 
 stay with Miss Mary; I will get her. She is displeased 
 with me, not with you," he added, as he sprang from 
 his horse and ran after the crowd. 
 
 "Don't be too hard on him, Miss Mary," said Dar 
 row; "this is no fault of his. He has not yet caught 
 our point of view. I think he will be as true as steel 
 when the hour comes." 
 
 "He does not need any support in my presence, 
 Mr. Darrow," said Mary, with unkind coldness. "I 
 know he will be as true as steel, too, but I wish he 
 hadn't saluted that flag." 
 
 "I did it too, you remember," he persisted, wist 
 ful to help his friend in spite of her rebuff of his first 
 effort. 
 
 73 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "Yes, but you stopped when I said not." 
 
 "Ah, Miss Mary, you know there is nothing I 
 would not stop for you." 
 
 She wondered with dismay if he were about to con 
 tinue the story she had heard all day from the other 
 man. 
 
 Meantime Peyton forced his way through the 
 crowd with some difficulty and finally caught Tempe 
 in his arms. 
 
 "Lemme go !" she cried shrilly. "I want to go with 
 
 Peggy." 
 
 "Where do you want to go?" asked Peyton, lifting 
 her up. 
 
 "I want to go to see the soldiers shoot the Nunited 
 States." 
 
 "Even the little children," thought Peyton swiftly, 
 as he firmly carried Tempe to the rear in spite of her 
 protestations, "are filled with the idea. Good God, 
 what's going to happen? You won't see the soldiers 
 shoot the 'Nunited States/ Tempe," he said aloud, as 
 he carried her across the street. "Miss Mary wants 
 you. She told me to fetch you to her." 
 
 "Do you have to mind sister Mary, too, Mr. Pey 
 ton?" queried the child, looking up at him with inter 
 ested curiosity shining in her black eyes. 
 
 "Everybody has to mind Miss Mary," gravely. 
 
 "Yes, I s'pose so," said Tempe, resigning herself to 
 his will. "Well, you can take me over to her. I 
 s'pose you are afraid of being a goat if you don't mind 
 her." ' 
 
 "How's that? A goat !" amazedly. 
 
 74 
 
PEYTON SALUTES THE FLAG 
 
 "Yes, a goat. Sister Mary says if you are a bad 
 little girl an' don't mind, when you go to heaven you'll 
 be a little goat." 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 "Sister Mary will 'splain it when you get over to 
 her," said the small child, and as the two stepped be 
 fore her older sister, she burst out, "Didn't you say if 
 I was a bad girl, an' went to heaven I'd be a little goat, 
 sister Mary?" 
 
 "What?" cried the girl. 
 
 "An' I told Mr. Peyton if he didn't mind you he'd 
 be a little goat, too, an' he will, won't he?" 
 
 "What does the child mean?" asked Peyton. 
 
 "She refers to the parable of the sheep and the 
 goats, you know," laughed Mary, "she has it mixed a 
 little, that's all." 
 
 Alas, Tempe's theology was often mixed, in which 
 case, however, she was not worse than older and wiser 
 folk. At any rate the strained situation broke up in a 
 general laughter, which was a relief to every one. 
 Tempe had come to the rescue nobly, and as a reward 
 was mounted on the crupper of Peyton's horse, leaving 
 the disconsolate Peggy twisting on alternate legs in 
 the dusty road, and howling vociferously over the 
 separation. The three friends rode down toward the 
 wharf where the battery had unlimbered, and listened 
 to a salute of one hundred guns, which, by the direc 
 tion of Governor Moore, amid ringing bells, shrilling 
 whistles, and frantic cheering, welcomed the birth of 
 the first State of the new Confederacy. 
 
 One wiser than the other two saw in it nothing of 
 
 75 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 happy promise. He seemed to feel that each crashing 
 shot, each joyous peal, each enthusiastic cheer, was 
 another note in the death-knell of the old beloved 
 South, which in the pride of its manhood and the 
 beauty of its womanhood, as well as in the person 
 of its slaves, watched and participated in the scene. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when the jubilation was 
 over and the military marched away. 
 
 "Just three o'clock," said Mary Annan, glancing at 
 the timepiece on the old town hall; '"won't you come 
 to dinner with us to-night? You have just come from 
 the North, and father will be so glad to talk with you, 
 Mr. Peyton. You know you were always a favorite of 
 his." 
 
 "Thank you very much, Miss Mary, but I have not 
 seen my own people since morning, and this is my 
 first day home. They will be wondering what has be 
 come of me. I will be in to see your father very soon, 
 however/* 
 
 "You, then, Mr. Darrow?" 
 
 "You know how I would like it, Miss Mary, but I 
 think I will ride along with Boyd a little. I have not 
 seen him either for three years, and we have lots of 
 things to talk about. You know our friendship was 
 such a warm one." 
 
 "Yes," said Peyton, "it was indeed, and I hope 
 nothing will ever come between us." 
 
 "Nothing ever shall," said the other, looking at his 
 friend over Mary Annan's horse, and never realizing 
 what Peyton's quicker mind had taken in, that some 
 thing had already come between them, something that 
 had come to stay. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 A 
 
 RIVALS YET FRIENDS 
 
 S Peyton and Darrow cantered up the 
 road a little silence fell between them, 
 which the older man was the first to 
 break. With characteristic frankness 
 he asked his friend a direct question. 
 "Boyd," he said quietly, "are you 
 in love with Mary Annan?" 
 "I am," was the prompt reply. 
 "Is she in love with you? Forgive 
 me this question, old fellow, but we 
 have never had a secret between us 
 since we have been boys together, and 
 I don't want to begin now. And I am 
 as ready to answer as to ask questions. 
 Is she in love with you?" 
 
 "No, I think not not yet, that is." 
 In any other man Peyton would have 
 resented such interrogations, but he simply could not 
 be angry with his friend, especially in the face of such 
 open frankness. 
 
 "Boyd," said the other impulsively, "I want you to 
 know that if I can help it she never shall be." 
 
 "Why do you say that, Darrow?" asked Peyton, in 
 great surprise, yet at once divining the reason. 
 
 77 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "I love her myself," resolutely. 
 
 "And does she love you?" 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 "I repeat your words, Bob," cried Peyton, stopping 
 his horse suddenly. "If I can help it she never shall." 
 
 "Good!" said Darrow, smiling infectiously at the 
 stern face of the other man, " that is as it should be. 
 A fair field and no favor, and may the better man win ! 
 Come, Boyd, don't look so glum about it. We both 
 have an equal chance. She is promised to neither of 
 us. If anything, you have the advantage. But that's 
 all right. I mean to win her for my wife if I can, and 
 you for yours. What I wanted to say to you is this. 
 You won't let this make any difference in our friend 
 ship, will you?" 
 
 As he spoke he extended his hand to his friend 
 frankly and generously, almost pleadingly. After a 
 momentary hesitation Peyton accepted the proffered 
 clasp, and the two men shook hands warmly over this 
 strange compact, a compact utterly impossible of ful 
 filment. Both of them were too inexperienced to 
 realize that yet, and the rivalry was too new and too 
 sudden, and the lady too undetermined, to have 
 awakened the latent possibilities, nay, certainties, of 
 antagonism in the situation. 
 
 "I won't take any advantage of you," said Darrow 
 magnanimously, "and you won't take any of me, I 
 know." 
 
 "No, certainly not, and I am quite prepared to 
 concede that you are the better man of the two, 
 Bob." 
 
 78 
 
RIVALS YET FRIENDS 
 
 "I am not willing to admit that at all, but whether 
 you are the better or not I am going to do my level 
 best in an honorable way to win, Boyd." 
 
 "I shall do the same." 
 
 "All right. Now, we have settled that. Whew! 
 It's a load off my mind, I am sure. You see I want 
 Miss Mary and I want you too, Peyton. I want her 
 love and I want your friendship as well. I want 
 everybody's, and I suppose you feel much the same 
 way." 
 
 "Well, I'm not so particular about everybody's," 
 answered the more reserved Peyton, "but I want hers 
 and yours, and we will agree that whoever may win the 
 lady the other man may at least retain the friend." 
 
 "That's a bargain. Now, tell me, Peyton, I saw 
 you salute the flag, and 'twas a natural thing for you 
 to do. If I had been alone I probably would not have 
 done it, but I sort of followed your example. You 
 know I have been accustomed to follow your lead in 
 most things even to falling in love with Miss Mary; 
 for, as a matter of fact, I suppose you did it first?" 
 
 "I have loved her ever since I was born," said Pey 
 ton quietly. 
 
 "Jove !" said the other, "so have I, and as I am the 
 older I have beaten you there. But what I meant to 
 ask you was, how do you stand with reference to this 
 secession question?" 
 
 "I am not aware that I am bound to make, or give, 
 a decision yet." 
 
 "No, not immediately, perhaps, but you will be very 
 soon. The talk here is all secession. Governor 
 
 79 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 Moore is in favor of it. The election of delegates to 
 the convention takes place on the twenty-fourth. I 
 was up in Montgomery last week, and the State de 
 sires and accepts it, overwhelmingly, unless in the 
 northern tier of counties. Here it's all one way. It's 
 a foregone conclusion that Alabama will follow South 
 Carolina's lead and go out of the Union. It won't 
 be three weeks before the thing will be done." 
 
 "I can't believe it." 
 
 "It's true, nevertheless. And every son of the old 
 State will have to make a decision one way or the 
 other. Now, what are you going to do?" 
 
 "I can't tell yet. I can't believe that the con 
 tingency will arise." 
 
 "But if it does?" 
 
 "When it does 1 shall have to decide in accordance 
 with my conscience. Could I not still remain an 
 officer of the United States Navy, even if Alabama 
 does secede? I love my profession. I am thoroughly 
 satisfied with it. I do not wish to abandon it. Why 
 could I not still keep on as I am?" 
 
 "Because the United States Government will en 
 deavor to prevent secession by force." 
 
 "Is it possible?" 
 
 "It is certain. We in the South have known it ever 
 since Lincoln was elected. They will deny the right 
 of secession and attempt to enforce their refusal, and 
 as sure as there is a God above us you and every South 
 ern man will have to say whether he will fight for or 
 against the South, God bless her !" 
 
 "This is all new to me, Darrow," cried Peyton. "It 
 
 80 
 
RIVALS YET FRIENDS 
 
 comes upon me with great surprise. I never imagined 
 such a thing until to-day. You see we sailors do not 
 get in touch with popular opinion very closely, and I 
 have but recently returned from a long cruise in for 
 eign waters. Now that you say so, I begin to believe 
 that you may be right. There is a spirit of resistance 
 in the North, of compulsion, too, I think, or there 
 will be." 
 
 "I am glad of it," said the other, "I did not think 
 they had spirit to do anything. A nation of shop 
 keepers," he went on with lofty scorn, "they will cut a 
 pretty figure down here, won't they? I met a man 
 from Arkansas the other day, and he said that if Abe 
 Lincoln's soldiers set foot upon the sacred soil of 
 Arkansas they would fatten the catfish from the Red 
 River to the Gulf of Mexico with their carcasses." 
 
 Darrow laughed harshly as he told the tale. 
 
 "Ugh !" said Peyton, shrinking from the brutality of 
 the remark, "how beastly that is !" 
 
 "Yes, isn't it? I wouldn't have said it, of course. I 
 don't indorse it at all; no gentleman could. But it 
 shows the spirit of the people." 
 
 "Arkansas isn't Alabama, though." 
 
 "It's much the same thing. We'll make it inter 
 esting for the North if they'll fight." 
 
 "Darrow," said Peyton earnestly, "don't be de 
 ceived. There is as good fighting blood north of the 
 Potomac as south of it. At the Academy we had 
 cadets from every section of the country. I have 
 been well thrashed by Northern men, and I have made 
 it interesting for some others, and I want to tell you, 
 
 81 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 in victory or defeat, you will find in the North foemen 
 worthy of anybody's steel." 
 
 "I hope so," answered Darrow composedly. "Most 
 of our people expect an easy conquest. I would like 
 to win out after a struggle that would be worth while." 
 
 "I do not believe there is going to be any struggle, 
 but if there is you will know right away that you are 
 in for a hard fight." 
 
 "Well, the harder the better," cried the other, throw 
 ing his arm out in a bold, free gesture, full of menace, 
 "the harder the better. But, Peyton, surely you 
 wouldn't hesitate as to what side you would be on? 
 Why, man, see how I love you, when I tell you this. 
 Mary Annan would not look at you a moment if you 
 raised your arm against the South. We need you. 
 You have a fine headpiece on you, old fellow, and you 
 have been trained in the profession of arms. You are 
 a scientific sailor. We want you. Think of the op 
 portunities that are going to open in the new Con 
 federacy for a man of talent and fortune and family and 
 birth and with the prestige of your naval rank ! I wish 
 I had it." 
 
 "Darrow," said Peyton, turning sharply upon him, 
 "whatever my course may be I shall take it for no 
 other reason than that I think it is right." 
 
 "That's right, Boyd, and that will bring you with 
 us, I am sure." 
 
 "We shall see," said Peyton grimly, "but here we 
 are at our gate. Won't you come in and take a bite 
 with us? They will be glad to see you." 
 
 "No, thank you, old fellow, some other day. I 
 
 82 
 
RIVALS YET FRIENDS 
 
 want to get back to town. I want to be in the thick 
 of things. The town's just filled with excitement. I 
 suppose they will have another jollification to-night. 
 Jove, I love it ! I'd rather be in the middle of a fight, 
 I believe, than anywhere else on earth." 
 
 "Unless it were with Miss Mary Annan," said Pey 
 ton quickly. 
 
 "Oh, of course; yet this is treason, I know, but 
 sometimes I half think I'd rather well, I'll not say it. 
 Good-by. I'll ride out in the morning if you will 
 wait for me, and we will have a long talk about old 
 times, and new times, together." 
 
 "All right, I shall expect you. Good-by." 
 
 As Darrow wheeled his horse and cantered down 
 the road Peyton sat still in his saddle before the gate 
 and followed him with longing, wistful eyes. 
 
 "Poor old Bob," he thought, "it will break his heart 
 if I don't go with the State. What's that he said about 
 Mary Annan? She wouldn't look at me if I fought 
 against the South? Pshaw! He's the dreamer, not 
 I. I can't believe that it will be as serious as all that." 
 
 Nevertheless, in spite of his attempt at reassurance, 
 it was with a heavy heart that he rode up the avenue 
 toward the house. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 PEYTON BEGS FOR TIME TO THINK IT OVER 
 
 T 
 
 HE family were just sitting down to 
 dinner, which had been delayed some 
 what on account of the exciting events 
 of the afternoon, when Peyton entered 
 the house. There were two vacant 
 places at the table, and he noticed that 
 Willis was absent. 
 
 "Sit down just as you are, Boyd," 
 said his mother, as he paused on the 
 threshold of the dining-room; "never 
 mind about your riding clothes. Din 
 ner is just served. We did not wait 
 for you." 
 
 "We never wait for anybody," said 
 his father promptly. 
 
 "I remember well, sir, that you 
 don't," answered his son, slipping into the chair next 
 his mother. 
 
 "Old habit of the army. Punctuality the first duty 
 of a soldier, you know. I expect we shall have to ac 
 quire our military habits over again presently that is, 
 if we have forgotten them." 
 
 "Which I am sure you have not, father," said Pink. 
 "Isn't Willis back yet?" asked Peyton. 
 
 84 
 
PEYTON BEGS FOR TIME 
 
 "No, not yet, but I reckon he will be along pres 
 ently," answered the colonel. 
 
 "I saw him riding on the caisson of one of the guns 
 in the parade downtown a while ago," continued his 
 son. "I did not know that he belonged to the battery. 
 When did he join?" 
 
 "Last month," answered his mother, "just after he 
 was eighteen." 
 
 "He looks well, mother, in his soldier clothes." 
 
 "Yes, doesn't he?" cried Pink. 
 
 "You ought to think so," answered her brother, "he 
 is the living image of you, Pink." 
 
 "You have never seen me in a soldier's dress, Boyd." 
 
 "No, and I don't want to," said Boyd. 
 
 "But if you did," broke in Willis, at that moment 
 entering the room in his natty artillery uniform, "you 
 would see a winner surely! You know Pink and I 
 are just of a size. She's tall, and I'm small, that is, 
 measured by the average, and what fits me would fit 
 her. My uniform is at your service, Miss Peyton, any 
 time you wish it," he continued, dropping into a vacant 
 chair. "Whew!" he cried, wiping his brow, "it was 
 fine ! The roaring of the guns almost made me think 
 it was a real battle. That was the first time I ever 
 heard one hundred guns fired. The noise felt good, 
 the powder smelt good, and the cheering was splendid ! 
 I enjoyed the whole thing immensely. I suppose it's 
 an old story to you, Boyd." 
 
 "Well, no," answered his brother deliberately; "of 
 course I have seen a great deal of powder burned in 
 the service and have shot a good many guns, but 
 
 85 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 you know we have not had any touch of real war, and 
 I, for one, hope we never shall." 
 
 "That's right, my boy," said the colonel, "it is a 
 horrible thing. The Mexican War didn't amount to 
 much, they say, but it was enough to make me wish 
 never to see, much less participate in, another." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right, father," interrupted Willis, who 
 had been indulged by everybody until he took liberties 
 with his father which no one else ventured upon, "I 
 have no doubt you are correct, sir, as you always are, 
 but whether we wish it or not there is going to be 
 one, I am sure." 
 
 "I fear so," said his father gravely. 
 
 "Father, I cannot believe that there will be any 
 trouble," burst out Boyd. "Not that exactly, for I 
 suppose there will be trouble, but I do not believe it 
 will come to open war. Why should it? I don't see 
 that the election of Lincoln makes any material differ 
 ence to you to us in the South." 
 
 "You don't !" roared his father, shaking his leonine 
 head at his son. "Didn't he say that a republic could 
 not exist half slave and half free? What does that 
 mean?" 
 
 "Still, father, that is only a declaration, as he sees it, 
 of a principle." 
 
 "You don't endorse it?" cried the colonel. 
 
 "I am not discussing my endorsements now, sir," 
 returned his son striving to speak temperately and re 
 main cool. "I only mean that a statement of a prin 
 ciple doesn't necessarily carry with it the threat of en 
 forcement, or even a demand that it should be put 
 
 86 
 
PEYTON BEGS FOR TIME 
 
 into effect. We are confronting a theory, you 
 know." 
 
 "My lad/' returned the father more quietly, "South 
 Carolina's action has turned it into a condition. I 
 hope there will be no fighting, but I fear there will 
 be. I don't hold, as many Southern men do, that 
 the Yankees won't fight. I have seen some of them 
 fight in the Mexican campaign. I know there is good 
 stuff in them. Not that I compare them for a mo 
 ment with our Southern chivalry, but if they get waked 
 up to it they will fight." 
 
 "Indeed they will, father, and they will fight hard, 
 too." 
 
 "The harder the better," said Willis recklessly, "and 
 the sooner the better, too. Hurrah for the South, say 
 I! We'll make a new republic with the corner stone 
 that the black man is to be forever and forever a slave. 
 That's logical," he added, under his breath; fortunately 
 no one heard the last phrase. 
 
 "Well, the decision is not yet upon us, father," urged 
 Boyd. 
 
 "No, but it will be. If I know the temper of our 
 people they will be quick to follow South Carolina's 
 lead." 
 
 "Do you think so, sir?" 
 
 "I do indeed. From Virginia " 
 
 "You don't think that Virginia will secede, father?" 
 
 "What!" cried Mrs. Peyton, joining in the dis 
 cussion with great animation, "do you think my old 
 State would refrain from joining her sister States? 
 Never! I, for one, would renounce her if she did!" 
 
 87 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 The gentle Southern matron's eyes flashed fire as 
 she spoke, and the sudden manifestation of intense 
 feeling coming from his gentle mother astonished 
 the young officer more than anything that had been 
 said. 
 
 "You will find, Boyd," said his sister, noting his 
 surprised look, "that the women are as determined as 
 the men." 
 
 "More so, I really believe," said her twin brother 
 promptly. 
 
 "I believe you," Boyd assented. "Why, when I 
 picked up little Tempe Annan out of the crowd near 
 the wharf she screamed and fought me like a little wild 
 cat, saying she wanted to shoot the 'Nunited States.' ' 
 
 "Good for the child! She has the right spirit," 
 laughed Willis. 
 
 "Willis," said his father reprovingly, "I wish you 
 would look on the matter in a different light. It is a 
 very serious thing for us who have fought under the 
 United States flag to turn against it." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Willis, abashed for once in his life, 
 at his father's stern admonition. 
 
 "I suppose you will find it so, Boyd," continued the 
 colonel. "You are fresher in the service than I." 
 
 "Yes," answered the other gravely, "I think I 
 should find it very hard indeed." 
 
 "Boyd, you don't mean " cried his sister fearfully. 
 
 "I don't mean anything now, Pink," interrupted the 
 young man hastily, "it is a subject that a man would 
 have to think over." 
 
 "My son, my son," exclaimed his mother, "you 
 
 88 
 
PEYTON BEGS FOR TIME 
 
 don't mean to tell me that you would hesitate as to 
 where your duty lay?" 
 
 "Mother, is a man's duty always so plain to him that 
 he can discern it without a moment's reflection?" 
 
 "Good God, sir !" cried his father, springing to his 
 feet and putting his fist heavily down upon the table, 
 and in his excitement forgetful of the presence of any 
 one but his son a high index to the depths of his 
 feeling indeed "do you mean to tell me that a son 
 of mine can hesitate between Abe Lincoln's cause and 
 that of his own State? Why, sir " 
 
 "Father," cried Boyd desperately, turning very pale, 
 as he saw the issue being forced upon him, "don't, I 
 beg of you, speak so to me now ! I have not decided 
 anything. I swear to you my mind has never been 
 made up. This has all come upon me so suddenly. I 
 never dreamed of such a thing. It's a shock. Give 
 me time to accustom myself to it. I want to think it 
 over." 
 
 "Think it over, sir?" cried the colonel wrathfully. 
 
 "Stop, Colonel Peyton !" said his wife quickly, "the 
 boy is right. Give him time. He has not been in 
 the thick of this for months, as we have for years 
 even." 
 
 "You said yourself, sir," interrupted Willis, "that 
 it was a hard thing to turn your back against the 
 flag under which you had fought." 
 
 "I am sure Boyd will come around all right," said 
 Pink nervously. "Mary Annan will persuade him." 
 
 "Thank you, mother, Willis, Pink, all. I shall try 
 to do right, but I would not be your son, father, if I 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 did not think this over. My adherence would not be 
 worth anything if I gave it lightly. I must have time. 
 Give me a little time, father. No, don't look at me in 
 that stern and forbidding way, sir. I only ask for a 
 breathing space." 
 
 "By Jove, my son, you shall have it ! Perhaps I was 
 harsh at the moment. I really forgot the circum 
 stances a bit. We will talk it over at our leisure. The 
 whole subject shall be examined, and then I know what 
 you will do. What, Alabama call upon her sons and 
 the Peytons not in the front rank ! Never !" 
 
 "Yes, Boyd, dear, and if the Peyton part of you 
 doesn't respond I am sure that no child of my family 
 would ever be found wanting at the call of duty; you 
 are a Boyd, too, remember," urged his mother. 
 
 "I sha'n't forget it, I am sure, mother," cried Boyd, 
 turning to her gratefully. "Thank you, father. I 
 think I will go to my room now. I have some letters 
 to write, and I want a little quiet thought to myself." 
 
 "Did you see Mary Annan, my son?" asked his 
 mother. 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 "Was she is she " 
 
 "She is very kind, mother," answered Boyd, his face 
 flushing painfully. He shrank from these public dis 
 cussion of his love-affair, but there seemed to be no 
 help for it. "She doesn't love me. She doesn't love 
 anybody yet." 
 
 "She will, I am sure, when she knows you better," 
 said his mother, patting his hand tenderly. 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 90 
 
PEYTON BEGS FOR TIME 
 
 "She won't, though," interrupted Pink, "unless you 
 are on the side of the South." 
 
 "Well, that is where he will be, of course," said his 
 father. 
 
 As Peyton walked out of the room with his heart 
 heavy at the contingencies before him, and closed the 
 door, he heard Willis remark : 
 
 "What he says is all right, father, and if I know him 
 he'll never be false to his idea of duty ; but the trouble 
 is, what is his idea of duty? That's the point of the 
 argument." 
 
 Willis was unusually shrewd for a boy of his years. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 PROBLEMS TO BE FACED 
 
 EYTON went to his room with his 
 mind in a perfect turmoil. Mary An 
 nan, South Carolina's act of seces 
 sion, Darrow's blunt declaration of 
 rivalry, the United States flag, and the 
 proposed Southern Confederacy were 
 mixed together in hopeless confusion. 
 His dreaming days were over. He 
 sat down alone, to face seriously the 
 great problem of life, which came to 
 him in the contrary appeals of love 
 and duty. Alas, that these should be 
 so often, so invariably, at odds ! What 
 was he to do ? What was his duty, by 
 the way ? At present he could not say. 
 Love, duty which? He could not consider one sub 
 ject apart from the other, yet the two things appeared 
 to be entirely unrelated they generally are. 
 
 On the other hand, the perturbation of Peyton's 
 family was scarcely less intense than his own. . The 
 colonel was a man who, in the smaller matters of life, 
 was absolutely ruled by his wife. But when an 
 emergency arose he was as hard and determined as 
 iron. Fortunately for their domestic peace, he and 
 
 92 
 
PROBLEMS TO BE FACED 
 
 his wife were in entire accord on the questions agitat 
 ing the South, slavery and secession. 
 
 The mind of Mrs. Peyton had been profoundly 
 stirred by the John Brown Harper's Ferry incident 
 in Virginia, and, as was often the case, she had grown 
 as bitter and determined as her husband. She saw 
 that if Boyd elected to hold his commission the re 
 sult of his decision would be a family quarrel of in 
 tense bitterness, and she realized that if he went North 
 he would cut himself off entirely from family recogni 
 tion. She shuddered to think of the situation result 
 ing then. 
 
 Pink was as rabid a secessionist as Mary Annan. The 
 younger the woman the more violent the feeling, 
 seemed to be the rule in that day. The only one who 
 really looked at the matter with more or less indiffer 
 ence was Willis. His own course was perfectly clear 
 to him, but he had inherited a strain of cool shrewd 
 ness from some far-away ancestor, and he realized the 
 matter better even than his father. Besides, being the 
 youngest and least important of the family, he counted 
 but for little. 
 
 The possibility that his son would not at once tender 
 his services to Alabama was frightful for the old 
 colonel to contemplate. The idea of hesitation, even, 
 was sufficiently appalling to fill his mind with anxiety 
 and sorrow. As he considered the subject of Boyd's 
 probable course he came to an iron resolution in case 
 there should be any failure on the young man's part to 
 do what his father expected of him. He would wait. 
 He would give him time. He would use what skill 
 
 93 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 and forbearance he could, ply him with every argu 
 ment that occurred to him, to convince his son and 
 win him to the right course, but in the end 
 
 The colonel was a fair man according to his lights. 
 He admitted that there was some justice in his son's 
 position. It was a new thing to the young sailor, this 
 approaching crisis, although an old story by this time 
 to the colonel and his friends. He hoped and prayed 
 that it would come all right. Yes, he really prayed. 
 He was a God-fearing man, in his way, and he poured 
 his soul out in earnest petition to his Maker that his 
 son might see with his eyes and walk in his path in 
 the way he firmly and confidently believed to be not 
 merely the right but the only way, as well. In those 
 petitions his wife joined. It shows the strength of 
 their convictions, the certainty of their conclusions, 
 that neither thought to pray for light to direct them in 
 their own course in the crisis. What that should be 
 they were well assured, and neither hesitated nor 
 doubted for a moment. They would go with the 
 South and Alabama to the last vestige of their being. 
 What need to pray about that? In the sincerity of 
 their belief that was the only possible course for them, 
 for any Southern man or woman. 
 
 Mary Annan and Bob Darrow, too, had their mo 
 ments of serious thought. The girl sat alone in her 
 room after dinner that evening and considered the 
 situation. She knew not whether to admire the more 
 Darrow's ready compliance with her request not to 
 salute the flag or Peyton's unbending resolution to 
 do it. She knew not whether she liked the one bet- 
 
 94 
 
PROBLEMS TO BE FACED 
 
 ter than the other or whether she held them both 
 equally lightly. Of one thing she was very certain. 
 She would never give her heart and hand, under 
 any circumstances, or for any reason, to any man 
 who was not heart and soul for the South and 
 secession. 
 
 How handsome Bob Darrow was, her thoughts ran 
 on. What a splendid soldier he would make. The 
 South was filled with such men. Where was there an 
 other country, or nation, which could produce such? 
 Where was the army that could stand against such as 
 they? Knight and gentleman, typical of the chivalry 
 of the land she loved. No, she could never love any 
 man whose heart and soul were not with the South, 
 certainly not Peyton. 
 
 "I am afraid," she murmured at last, "that Boyd 
 Peyton won't be with us. Yet he could not refuse. 
 There is no traitor blood in him. But oh, I'm 
 afraid afraid. Well, aside from the cause I don't 
 care. The South wants only willing advocates." 
 
 Why was it then that she put her head down upon 
 her hands as she knelt by her bedside and sobbed and 
 sobbed and sobbed? Ah, strange the mystery that lies 
 within a woman's heart ! 
 
 As for Darrow he mingled in the thick of the en 
 thusiastic multitude that night. He entered with all 
 the spirit of his nature in the reckless abandon to jol 
 lity of the passing moments. But when he was alone, 
 striving to think of Mary Annan, Peyton's face with 
 that tight touch of grimness which he never remem 
 bered to have seen before, would obtrude itself. It 
 
 95 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 had been plain sailing before his return to the scene 
 of action, but now it seemed strangely different. 
 
 "I am afraid," he murmured, "that I cannot per 
 suade him. He has been so long in the North that the 
 leaven's got in him. And it is working. Yet, if he 
 goes, that will give me a free field. Oh, but I don't 
 want it that way. I want him for the South, and her 
 for me." 
 
 He was a generous, noble-hearted youth, yet in 
 spite of his assertion, his soul leaped at the thought of 
 Peyton's throwing away his chance with Mary Annan, 
 by remaining true to the United States Government. 
 
 "If he does," he said at last, "I shall have her any 
 way. Not all the States and all the men north of 
 Mason and Dixon's line can take her from me." 
 
 Like most Southerners of that day he underesti 
 mated the strength of his antagonists, personal and 
 national. He had realized this dimly in spite of his 
 doughty words, and he was not much happier than 
 the others after all. 
 
BOOK II 
 THE STORM BREAKS 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE INDECISION OF PEYTON 
 
 HE passage of that act of secession in 
 Charleston, South Carolina, marked 
 the beginning of trouble for all the 
 m. persons concerned in this story. Alas! 
 
 it marked the beginning of trouble for 
 a great many persons concerned in a 
 great many stories which shall never 
 be told. 
 
 Peyton had been entirely honest in 
 his conversation with his father. He 
 had not made up his mind, and in the 
 intervening days he tried hard to do 
 so. Making up his mind finally and 
 definitely upon any subject except 
 Mary Annan had been rather a diffi 
 cult task to him heretofore. Like many spiritual, 
 sensitive, highly organized natures he lacked initiative 
 and determination, and much preferred to have things 
 happen as they would rather than constrain them. 
 But this was a question which could not be put by. 
 
 There were long discussions between father and son 
 concerning the rights and wrongs of the situation. 
 Colonel Peyton was the extremest type of Southern 
 man. He believed that slavery was a divine institu 
 tion warranted by Biblical teaching, and sanctioned 
 
 99 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 alike by morality and expediency. Looking upon the 
 negroes as an inferior race, he would hear of no con 
 demnation of the system by which they were held. 
 In his own case his slaves were happy and contented. 
 His ownership and rule were mild and benevolent, and 
 his people adored him. This was the case with most 
 of the slave-owners he knew, and he wilfully, or per 
 haps unconsciously, blinded himself to any other feat 
 ure of it. 
 
 Aside from any consideration of the slave question, 
 his State was easily paramount to the United States 
 or any other of them in his affections, and he was un 
 able to understand how there could be any hesitation 
 on the part of his son as to his duty. He plied him 
 with every argument at his command, while, by the 
 most violent efforts, he barely succeeded in preserving 
 some measure of his self-control in the daily discus 
 sions. 
 
 At first Boyd thought to break away from these re 
 curring periods of heated debate and solace himself 
 in the society of the woman he loved. But here again 
 exactly the same state of affairs supervened. If pos 
 sible Mary Annan was more fierce and determined in 
 her sentiments than his father. She was completely 
 swept away by the situation. He found that whereas 
 she had been willing before to allow him to pour his 
 tale of affection in her listening ears, and had even 
 played at love-making herself, now she had but one 
 topic of conversation, and he was perforce compelled 
 to confine himself to the discussion of that or remain 
 silent. The girl's resolution to think of and talk of 
 
 IOQ 
 
THE INDECISION OF PEYTON 
 
 nothing else mastered his futile efforts to substitute 
 other subjects for discussion, especially as his own mind 
 was full of the same topic. 
 
 When he was with neither father nor sweetheart and 
 resorted to the society of Darrow and the young men 
 of his old-time acquaintance he found that no other 
 subject for conversation could be started and main 
 tained with them either. In truth, there was reason 
 for all this concentration of mind upon one idea, this 
 social obsession upon secession. As he entered more 
 and more into the spirit of his environment he saw 
 more and more clearly the irreconcilable nature of the 
 opinions held by North and South upon the question 
 of slavery. 
 
 The right of a State to secede from the General 
 Government had never been tested. Threats had been 
 freely indulged in from time to time in periods of 
 stress, in moments of exigency, by both Northern and 
 Southern States, John Hancock and Massachusetts 
 leading off, but they had not been seriously regarded 
 hitherto in our national history except in one in 
 stance, possibly and the action of South Carolina, 
 which was, after all, inevitable, came with the force of 
 a sudden surprise. 
 
 Such was the contagion of the idea, however, that 
 nearly every slave-owning State immediately fell in 
 line. Although they perhaps did not realize it, they 
 were all ripe for secession. South Carolina was no 
 more determined than the rest. She had merely an 
 ticipated them, that was all. The idea was communi 
 cated from man to man in one of those sudden waves 
 
 101 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 of popular emotion and feeling which abrogated all 
 distinctions, abolished all differences, and united the 
 majority of the people upon the great question. Op 
 position was drowned by a steadily increasing current 
 of vociferous popular opinion. 
 
 There were many like Judge Annan, for instance, 
 who thought secession unnecessary on account of Lin 
 coln's election; who deplored it, fought against it, 
 argued against it with all their powers, but who, it 
 was certain, would eventually accept it with all its 
 consequences, in case, or when, it should be brought 
 about. 
 
 The warlike spirit of the South evidenced itself in 
 the upspringing, in every city or village, of new mili 
 tary companies; and the young men who had seen 
 nothing of its horrors, who knew nothing of its 
 miseries by experience, were clamorous for war. The 
 Southerners affected to hold the men of the North in 
 great contempt, but deep down in their secret hearts 
 they expected that they would not be permitted to 
 establish their Southern Confederacy on the corner 
 stone of slavery without strenuous efforts being made 
 by the North to prevent it. It was known to the lead 
 ers, without doubt, that the right of secession would 
 be denied and the attempted act would be resisted. 
 War actually began when the wires flashed the news 
 across the continent and around the world that South 
 Carolina had severed the bonds that knit her to her 
 sister commonwealths in the great nation known as 
 the United States. 
 
 Entertainments of every sort were more or less 
 102 
 
THE INDECISION OF PEYTON 
 
 given up. The papers were filled with announcements 
 of the new military organizations in which the privilege 
 of enlistment was eagerly sought. Uniforms were 
 seen everywhere upon the streets, and the music of 
 fife and drum stirred the martial ardor of the citizens. 
 In the midst of all the excitement came the election of 
 deputies to the conventions which were held in Ala 
 bama and adjoining States with the avowed object 
 of following South Carolina's action in carrying the 
 several States out of the Union. Although vigorous 
 protests were made by some eminent men, like Alex 
 ander H. Stephens, of Georgia, the result in every 
 case was a foregone conclusion. 
 
 The question of slavery, which, while it was obscured 
 by the question of secession, was really the basic con 
 sideration, since it was slavery which brought about 
 the desire for secession, was almost as fiercely debated, 
 but with not nearly so much unanimity. The South 
 erners were by no means agreed on that subject. And 
 it was a pity that this diversity of opinion was not v 
 realized in the North. Here again Judge Annan', 
 differed from many of his neighbors. He, in common 
 with such men as Henry A. Wise, the governor of 
 Virginia, deplored the existence of slavery, and with 
 others had been quietly working for some time look 
 ing toward its abolition. They had come to regard 
 slavery as a curse and blot upon the fair name of the 
 South, as well as a menace to any industrial supremacy, 
 rather than a divinely ordered institution, a blessing. 
 Left to themselves, these men would have brought 
 about a gradual abolition of slavery upon equitable 
 
 103 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 grounds, which would have been acceptable to the 
 whole nation. 
 
 The moral consciousness of the South, generally 
 speaking, was entirely at rest on the question, how 
 ever. The slaveholding statesmen were as sincere and 
 as thoroughly convinced that they were right as the 
 most violent abolitionist was to the contrary, and to 
 convince them otherwise would require time, tact, and 
 patience, forces which have often before moved a 
 world. Such an industrial system as slavery could not 
 be uprooted suddenly without so seriously disturb 
 ing existing economic conditions as to produce revolu 
 tion. The efforts of the Southern abolitionists who 
 would naturally resent the term were in the present 
 excitement fruitless. They found themselves hope 
 lessly outclassed, and were compelled to sink the ques 
 tion of slavery in a choice between their State and 
 the United States. Their choice in most instances was 
 inevitable. 
 
 Attacked, therefore, by family, friends, and sweet 
 heart, Peyton actually gradually persuaded himself 
 that it was not his duty to remain in the United States 
 service. Yet in spite of every inclination one thing 
 fought against that conclusion. His duty to his coun 
 try, and a conviction that the bounds of his country 
 were wider than those of any State, that the nation 
 was greater than all of them. 
 
 During the most impressionable period of his life 
 he had been removed from the influences which had 
 moulded the characters of those about him. He had 
 been thrown much in the society of a certain Captain 
 
 104 
 
THE INDECISION OF PEYTON 
 
 David Farragut, himself a Southern man, a native of 
 the neighboring State of Tennessee, and whose child 
 hood home had been in Louisiana. The impress that 
 had been made on Peyton's developing character while 
 in this formative state by his surroundings and 
 especially by the clear-headed, common sense, sound 
 judgment and lofty patriotism of this elderly naval 
 officer, who had lived a long life in the service with 
 but little opportunity for distinction, was of the very 
 deepest quality. He knew that with Captain Farragut 
 or to give him his courtesy title, Commodore Far 
 ragut there was nothing above the United States, 
 and that loyalty to the General Government, or as he 
 expressed it, to the flag, was the paramount duty of 
 every officer and sailor. 
 
 Still the old captain was far away. The force of his 
 arguments was naturally greatly diminished by dis 
 tance and absence. Peyton wavered and slowly ap 
 proached the point of handing in his resignation. 
 Why not? He had been born in Alabama. All his 
 family, his friends, the woman he hoped to make his 
 wife, lived there. All his affections, his dreams, his 
 hopes, were centred there. If war came and he was 
 at last convinced against his will that it would come, 
 and the conviction came in the end because he was one 
 of the few Southern men who knew the quality of the 
 North, which most of his countrymen, publicly, at 
 least, derided he would be compelled to fight against 
 those he loved, and who loved him. Living in a sea 
 board town, it was quite possible that he might some 
 day be compelled to turn the guns of a warship upon 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 this very city, upon his own people, upon his own 
 home. An awful thought that, a terrible argument. 
 
 But there was another powerful incentive. The very 
 moment that he announced his determination to con 
 tinue in the United States service and his refusal to 
 resign he would be a man marked for hatred and con 
 tempt. Whereas he was now courted, flattered, and 
 loved by his friends, neighbors, and acquaintances, 
 then he would be execrated and despised. Should he 
 exchange the approval of this community of friends 
 for the careless approbation of comparative strangers? 
 Should he deliberately abandon the prospect of win 
 ning the woman he loved for his wife and she became 
 more precious to him with every illusive moment of 
 her society she vouchsafed to him in order that he 
 might continue in the United States service? 
 
 Should he follow in the footsteps of his father, 
 honor and preferment awaited him. His military and 
 naval training would be of great value to the South. 
 To the North he would be only one of a number of 
 enterprising young officers. 
 
 In short, nearly everything urged him to a decision 
 in conformity with the wishes of his people, and the 
 arguments that were brought to bear upon him were so 
 powerful that they nearly decided him nearly, but not 
 quite. Again and again it was on his lips to announce 
 that decision, yet something held him back. For the 
 life of him he could not tell exactly what it was, yet he 
 could not contemplate with equanimity a position of 
 opposition to that flag to which he had given himself 
 with the passionate devotion of his nature. Many 
 
 106 
 
THE INDECISION OF PEYTON 
 
 men as brave, as true, as devoted as he was, could do 
 that, would do it. Do it with heartaches, do it with 
 anguish, but still do it in accordance with what they felt 
 to be ahigher duty. Well, he did not reproach them, 
 but could he do it? Was there a higher duty? That 
 was the question. Like Banquo's issue, it would not 
 down. 
 
 He grew haggard and pale under the stress and 
 strain of the outward and inward debate with men, 
 conscience, and the woman. He had time for no day 
 dreams now. Under the iron pressure in the terrible 
 struggle, which tore the very depths of his being, he 
 began to lose some of the indifference, the hesi 
 tation, the timidity, which had characterized him in 
 the presence of the world. He began to stiffen and to 
 strengthen. 
 
 Watching him painfully were those who loved him, 
 his father, his mother, his brother and sister, aye, his 
 sweetheart, Mary Annan, for she too began to come 
 within the category. Although she neither knew it 
 nor admitted it, it needed but a touch apparently to re 
 veal to her and to him the depths of affection which she 
 was beginning to entertain for him. That mighty 
 struggle going on within his breast, which she dimly 
 realized from the outward manifestations of it in the 
 change in his character, brought them nearer together. 
 She watched him with perhaps the same feeling of 
 terrified interest with which women of old, otherwise 
 dainty and refined and not devoid of the gentle sym 
 pathy we love because we lack it, watched the gladi 
 ators in the ancient Roman arena. She sometimes 
 
 107 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 thought fatuously that she was the guerdon of that 
 struggle, having not yet gone deep enough in her own 
 heart or the heart of the world, to realize that she 
 was but an incident, the most compelling, the most 
 powerful, but, after all, only a circumstance in the con 
 flict raging in his personality. 
 
 To do, or not to do, and which was the duty to be 
 done, which to be left undone, for he began to see that, 
 as in every great crisis or question, there were duty 
 calls from both sides of it that was his problem. 
 Sometimes in her presence he sat in perfect silence for 
 long moments. These periods were not filled with the 
 dreams of old, and when she timidly broke them by 
 asking the subject of his thoughts he would reveal 
 the mighty turmoil by some brief incisive comment 
 which taught her, as nothing else could, the fierce 
 ness of the struggle. She prayed, as thousands of 
 others in both North and South did in those trying 
 days, that the decision might be for her and hers, and 
 awaited it with a hope which grew stronger every day. 
 
 The moral character of the young man had not 
 greatly developed hitherto, his characteristics were yet 
 more or less negative, because no strain had been 
 brought upon him, it was yet to be determined how 
 he would stand the tremendous pressure. Whether 
 his instinctive sense of loyalty to the flag under which 
 he had been educated, to which he had pledged him 
 self, which he had sworn to defend, would be strong 
 enough to enable him to counter the other pleas or 
 not, he could not tell. But he struggled on. 
 
 Bob Darrow, too, grew more unhappy. He made 
 108 
 
THE INDECISION OF PEYTON 
 
 little progress in his love-affairs, although, so far as he 
 could see, neither did Peyton. Mary Annan was kind 
 to him, too kind. She distributed her favors between 
 the two men impartially. By a tacit agreement they 
 had avoided clashing and dispute about her. Each 
 contrived as he could to see her alone, but when 
 chance brought them together there was no unseemly 
 rivalry. Indeed, the discussions were all upon the 
 one great question. Barrow's position was unequivo 
 cal. He was heart and soul for the South, but, strange 
 to say, he was almost the quietest man of the social 
 circle in which the young men moved. The leaven 
 of love and the effect of the great crisis were develop 
 ing his nature also. Where he had before given his 
 judgment with a laugh and without thought he became 
 reserved and contemplative. Deliberation appeared 
 in his manner, a little hesitancy or reluctance, which, 
 as it appeared to be accompanied by no loss of con 
 fidence in any emergency, the girl found very attrac 
 tive. Indeed, had Peyton been out of the way she 
 certainly would have fallen in love with Darrow. And 
 it might be, before she realized the situation, that 
 something would turn the scales in his favor. So they 
 were all in a state of feverish excitement, and the days 
 passed in alternations of anxiety and elation. 
 
 Even little Tempe had a hard time of it, for never in 
 her small life had she found her sister so distrait, so 
 anxious, so quick to reprove a fault, so heedless of her 
 childish ailments and complaints. Christmas came 
 and went without the usual jollity and merrymaking. 
 It was useless to cry "Peace, peace," when there was 
 
 109 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 no peace but war; futile to urge "good-will toward 
 men," when that, between the two sections, was al 
 ready a thing of the past. Matters moved rapidly in 
 Alabama, and the crisis came on the night of Janu 
 ary 3, 1 86 1. This happened to be the birthday of 
 Mary Annan. Her father, the old Judge, in celebra 
 tion of it, gave a dinner-party at his home at Annan- 
 dale, late in the afternoon, to which were bidden sev 
 eral of his oldest and most intimate friends, as well 
 as a few of the younger people, including Darrow and 
 Peyton, and his sister, Miss Pinkie. Willis, much to 
 his disgust, was forced to content himself with an 
 invitation to the dancing-party which was to follow 
 the dinner. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A DINNER AND A DISCUSSION 
 
 A 
 
 LTHOUGH dinner was served at An- 
 nandale House a little after three 
 o'clock in the afternoon in accordance 
 with the invariable Southern custom, 
 the shutters were closed, the blinds 
 were drawn beneath the heavy lambre 
 quins, and the darkened dining room 
 was lighted by numbers of wax can 
 dles in old-fashioned gilt candelabra, 
 from whose branching arms depended 
 many glass prisms, which tinkled soft 
 ly in the vibration caused by the serv 
 ing of the dinner. 
 
 The table was loaded with massive 
 plate which had come down from co 
 lonial days and even antecedent years in older coun 
 tries, and it groaned with that profusion of viands 
 which was characteristic of Southern hospitality. 
 
 At the head of the board, opposite Judge Annan, 
 the host, a huge turkey stuffed with chestnuts and 
 done to a turn, reared itself loftily upon its vantage 
 ground of a capacious silver platter which in former 
 days and older countries had often carried the lordly 
 boar's head of the Christmas tide. At the other end 
 of the table, opposite Madam Peyton, who, displacing 
 
 in 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 Mary to the girl's great relief, played hostess for the 
 occasion, on another charger stood a small fat pig, 
 roasted whole, a bright red apple within its mouth, 
 its brown and crusty sides dotted with specks of 
 clover and pepper, the tiny globules giving forth a 
 spicy aroma as appetizing as it was fragrant. Cer 
 tainly the princess among cooks was the old Southern 
 mammy semi-barbaric race bringing forth the natu 
 ral chef, last product of modern civilization! 
 
 These pieces de resistance of the menu were flanked 
 by dishes of rice so deftly cooked that each particular 
 kernel preserved its identity in the mass, bowls of 
 candied yams swimming in delicious golden syrup, and 
 other vegetables indigenous to the South. The North 
 contributed the crisp celery, while from ships in the 
 port, golden macaroni was the offering of Italy to the 
 profusion and luxuriance of the board. In tall old 
 decanters wine of rare vintage and rich bouquet stood 
 convenient at every hand. The liveried black ser 
 vants flitted about deeply attentive to the wants of the 
 guests and zealous in upholding the credit of their 
 beloved master's prodigal hospitality. 
 
 On the right hand of her father, as being the guest 
 of honor, to celebrate whose birthday the dinner was 
 given, sat his daughter. Her slender neck and 
 shoulders rose from a perfect billow of flounces of ex 
 quisite point lace, which covered the airy tulle fabric 
 of her corsage, the ivory tints of her skin making sweet 
 contrast to the sheer whiteness of her dress. She had 
 striven to control her rebellious curls, and an attempt 
 had been made to part her hair in the middle and draw 
 
 112 
 
A DINNER AND A DISCUSSION 
 
 it down smoothly around her brows and over her ears, 
 gathering it in the back in a handful of curls in which 
 she had thrust a single belated red rose. But the 
 wave that was in her hair would show itself, and the 
 thick brown locks, resisting control, rippled softly 
 across her temples. She wore no jewels, although her 
 mother's casket in the chamber above was filled with 
 beautiful gems. 
 
 Opposite Mary was her friend and companion Pinkie 
 Peyton. Next to Mary, Boyd Peyton was lucky 
 enough to find himself, and opposite him, next to his 
 sister, sat Darrow. On either side of Madam Peyton, 
 at the other end, sat the Hon. Andrew Barry Moore, 
 the governor of Alabama, and Colonel Jones Withers, 
 the mayor of Mobile. The governor, who was an old 
 friend of Judge Annan, had come especially from 
 Montgomery, the State capital, to honor his daughter. 
 The rest of the company which included Colonel Pey 
 ton, the Rev. Dr. George Bampney, the rector of 
 Grace Church; Dr. Lucien Venosste, a retired physi 
 cian, who owned large cotton plantations up the State, 
 although he lived most of his time in Mobile; Senor 
 Francisco Mendiota, a ship owner, an exporter of 
 tobacco and cotton; Mr. Owen Hudson, a leading 
 lawyer of the city and State, and various other friends 
 of consideration, together with their wives were suit 
 ably placed about the table. 
 
 The peculiar cosmopolitan character of Mobile soci 
 ety was well illustrated by the company. Bampney 
 was of English descent, Venosste of French ancestry, 
 Mendiota the son of a former Spanish governor, Hud- 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 son came of good Massachusetts stock which had 
 strayed South prior to the Revolution. Centuries of 
 colonial history with periods of differing and successive 
 national domination in the land were represented at the 
 table. The Annans, of course, sprang from Scottish 
 forebears. There were touches of Irish in many of the 
 guests, and here and there a hooked eagle-like face was 
 reminiscent of the fierce Mauvila Indian who lorded 
 it over the land before Bienville's day, one hundred 
 and sixty years before. Yet they were all blended into 
 one homogeneous family now, and upon each of them 
 were written the characteristics of the South. They 
 were gentlemen all, men of culture and education, of 
 probity and ability, of honor and station; possessed 
 of high moral sense, honored and respected in the 
 community, and governed by convictions to which 
 they adhered with passionate intensity. 
 
 Though they were gathered together in festal guise 
 and to do honor to the daughter of the house, the one 
 subject that would obtrude itself was the one para 
 mount in every heart. By universal consent, the dis 
 cussion which waxed warm and persistent as the meal 
 was dispatched, irresistibly turned upon the predomi 
 nant question of secession and its concomitant, slavery. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the governor, a large stout, well- 
 built, rubicund, blue-eyed man, "you know my senti 
 ments, of course. I telegraphed to the governor of 
 South Carolina when the ordinance was being con 
 sidered, on my own account and in my own behalf, of 
 course, Tell the Carolina convention to listen to no 
 compromise or delay.' ' 
 
 114 
 
A DINNER AND A DISCUSSION 
 
 "We indorse everything that you said, Governor," 
 said Colonel Peyton, quickly. 
 
 "The State is with you," added Senor Mendiota. 
 
 "Our cause is a righteous one, and it will prevail," 
 remarked the Rev. Dr. Bampney. 
 
 "Yes, your excellency," said the mayor, a wiry, slen 
 der, nervous man, a graduate of West Point, who was 
 to see hard and brilliant service later in the war, 
 "secession will sweep the convention on the seventh, if 
 the spirit of our Mobile people is any criterion. I 
 do not believe there will be a dozen votes cast against 
 it." 
 
 "One of that dozen will be mine," firmly interrupted 
 Judge Annan. 
 
 "What, Judge!" cried the governor, in surprise, 
 "you are not one of Abe Lincoln's men, are you?" 
 
 "No, your excellency, by no means, but I do not yet 
 see the necessity for secession. Abraham Lincoln, 
 much as I dislike the man," said the aristocratic, dis 
 tinguished gentleman, who was one of the very few in 
 the South who gave the President his full Christian 
 name, "and loth as I am to think that the President of 
 the United States is of such common stock and 
 ordinary breeding, has been legally elected in a con 
 stitutional way. I do not apprehend any interference 
 with the rights of the South from him." 
 
 "But," said Dr. Venosste, "he has stated that the 
 country cannot exist half slave and half free." 
 
 "That doesn't make it a fact, Doctor," said the 
 Judge; "Alabama exists half slave and half free." 
 
 "The subjection of the black to the white was so in- 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 tended, ordained of old," commented the venerable 
 clergyman, sipping his wine. 
 
 "As to the question of interference," here interposed 
 Mr. Hudson, "whatever the will of the President might 
 be, he is restrained by our constitutional checks from 
 any overt action." 
 
 "True, gentlemen," said the judge, "'and believe 
 me, the liberties of the South are not jeopardized by 
 his election. The action of South Carolina was hasty, 
 unnecessary, impolitic, in the last degree." 
 
 This announcement was received in dead silence. 
 There was but one heart that beat responsive to it 
 around that table, young Peyton's. The face of the 
 judge's daughter was filled with pain and shame. The 
 expression on most of the others was surprise. Colonel 
 Peyton with difficulty restrained himself from an ex 
 plosion. 
 
 "What would you advise then, Judge?" asked the 
 governor, one of the most determined advocates of 
 secession in the South. "What would you have us 
 do? Submit tamely?" 
 
 "Do nothing, sir. Pursue the even tenor of our 
 way; let any overt action, if there is to be one, come 
 from shall I say the enemy? Let the North show its 
 hand first. I, for one, should deplore the dissolution 
 of this great Union." 
 
 '"Judge," said the mayor, incisively, "you are right 
 in the last phrase. When South Carolina went out of 
 the Union it was thereby immediately dissolved." 
 
 "Tis a fact accomplished," said the clergyman. 
 
 "I fear so. Indeed, indeed, I fear so," remarked the 
 116 
 
A DINNER AND A DISCUSSION 
 
 judge, thoughtfully. "But my convictions are as I 
 stated." 
 
 "But your course, Judge?" asked Colonel Peyton. 
 
 "Colonel and gentlemen," replied Judge Annan, "I 
 trust that my patriotism is above proof. What Ala 
 bama does, I do. I am a citizen of the United States, 
 but first and foremost I am a citizen of Alabama. If 
 she goes out of the Union, which God forbid, I go with 
 her. If it breaks my heart I must go with my State." 
 
 "Oh, father," whispered his daughter, "I love you 
 for that!" 
 
 Boyd Peyton's heart sank into the depths once 
 more. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Colonel Peyton, "if my old friend 
 will permit me, I give you a health. The health of a 
 man who subordinates his private convictions, his in 
 dividual opinions, to the allegiance due to the State in 
 which he was born. God bless her, that she has pro 
 duced such sons, and may all here do likewise." 
 
 As he spoke he shot a meaning glance at his son 
 where he sat next to Mary Annan. The toast was 
 drunk with enthusiasm by everyone present except 
 young Peyton, who merely touched his lips to his glass 
 after some hesitation with a very moody countenance. 
 In the ordinary course of events, with the termination 
 of the dinner proper the ladies would have retired to 
 the drawing-room while the gentlemen lingered over 
 their wine, but the subject under discussion was of 
 such burning consequence to them all that Madam 
 Peyton, who had assumed the role of hostess for the 
 occasion, sat still and gave no signal. The conversa- 
 
 117 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 tion that passed around the table between the older 
 men had a body of feminine auditors so intensely in 
 terested that it was with difficulty that they kept silent. 
 
 "I knew, of course," said the governor, suavely, as 
 Colonel Peyton sat down, " that we could count upon 
 you, and indeed, Judge, I think you are wrong. I 
 am sure that an attempt will be made to dispossess us 
 of our slaves summarily, and to force upon us, without 
 time for preparation or resistance, the very choice 
 which we now make, or will make, shortly." 
 
 "An irreconcilable difference of economic systems 
 will inevitably produce an irrepressible conflict, which 
 will not cease until one or the other system triumphs. 
 What Lincoln said is true. The country cannot exist 
 half slave, half free. They will resist secession in the 
 North. The conflict is inevitable," said the lawyer, 
 slowly and carefully delivering his weighty words, 
 which made a profound impression upon all by their 
 'gravity and accuracy. 
 
 "I agree with the governor on the one hand," said 
 Dr. Venosste, a thoughtful old man, beloved by every 
 one in the town because of his kindly, charitable life, 
 "and I agree with my friend the judge, and Lawyer 
 Hudson, on the other. I do not regard slavery, with 
 all deference to you, reverend sir, as a divine institu 
 tion. As an economic system, it seems to me to be 
 extravagant and ill adapted to the needs of a com 
 munity like ours, although I am a slave-owner, as my 
 family have been for generations. I was born and 
 reared amid the institution of slavery; I first learned to 
 whirl the top and bounce the ball with the young 
 
 118 
 
A DINNER AND A DISCUSSION 
 
 African. Everything I own on earth is the result of 
 slave labor, the bread that feeds my wife and children 
 is produced by the labor of slaves. They live on my 
 plantations with every feeling of kindness, as between 
 master and slave. I love them, they love me. Yet, 
 frankly, I would rather see them free. I should be 
 ready to join and co-operate with any move whatso 
 ever looking to that end. To free^them myself out of 
 hand, and without general co-operation among other 
 slaveholders, would be to plunge them into poverty 
 and disaster, but it has been my hope that some means 
 might be devised whereby slave labor could be sup 
 planted by free labor and property holding in slaves 
 might cease to be in the South. So the 'irreconcilable 
 difference' Mr. Hudson speaks of might be shall I say 
 harmonized?" 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the governor, reading from a, 
 newspaper clipping which he took from his pocket, 
 "Yesterday in Montgomery, at the session of the Ala 
 bama Conference of the Methodist Church, South, it 
 was resolved that the Conference believed 'African 
 slavery as it existed in the South to be a wise, humane, 
 and righteous institution, appointed of God and cal 
 culated to promote in the highest possible degree the 
 welfare of the slave; that the election of a sectional 
 President of the United States was evidence of the 
 hostility of the majority of the people to the South, 
 and which, in fact, if not in form, dissolves the com 
 pact of Union between the States and drives the 
 aggrieved party to assert its independence;' and they 
 said further, 'Our hearts are with the South, and should 
 
 119 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 there be need we shall not be found wanting in the 
 hour of danger/ ' 
 
 "A ringing declaration that," said Dr. Bampney, 
 who was an Episcopalian, "from our Methodist 
 brethren. Pity that men of such clear insight ever 
 left the fold of the true Church." 
 
 "It's a question of property again. Almost all 
 political or even moral questions have a material basis. 
 The Northern States, in defiance of the Constitution, 
 have denied that slaves are property, have refused to 
 protect slave-owners, in despite the Fugitive Slave 
 Law, in their title to their slaves, and will refuse," said 
 the lawyer, again clearly stating the case and with his 
 fine legal mind going to the core of the problem in a 
 way that awakened everybody's admiration. 
 
 "The right to govern rests in a small minority," said 
 the aristocratic Mendiota, never having shaken off the 
 autocratic heredity of his Spanish ancestry, the most 
 persistent blood in Europe, "the duty to obey is in 
 herent in the great mass of mankind. The real civ 
 ilization of a country is in its aristocracy. We can 
 have no aristocracy in the South without slave labor, 
 and if we cannot have slaves without secession, let us 
 secede." 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the judge, passing over the re 
 marks of the last speaker as unworthy of refutation, 
 "I think Dr. Venosste is right. I have held similar 
 opinions, and yet one circumstance has convinced me 
 at least of the futility of any present hope of a peace 
 able, orderly abrogation of slavery. It has not im 
 paired my conclusions or blinded my judgment, I trust, 
 
 120 
 
A DINNER AND A DISCUSSION 
 
 but I am aware that it has done more to deter men 
 who think as Dr. Venosste and myself and there are 
 many of us from any concerted action, than anything 
 that could have been done." 
 
 "What was that, Judge?" asked Colonel Peyton. 
 
 "The conduct of the North with regard to the John 
 Brown raid." 
 
 "Yes, yes," cried the colonel, "what did the North 
 ern sympathizers think of that? Here was a blood 
 thirsty fanatic, who struck against the sovereign State 
 of Virginia, and through her against the United 
 States," he continued fiercely, with a singular perver 
 sion of the relative importance of the sovereign bodies. 
 "Here was a man who levied war upon a constitutional 
 commonwealth and upon a confederation of common 
 wealths; who seized a government arsenal, shot or im 
 prisoned unoffending citizens, and did it all with the 
 avowed purpose of exciting a servile insurrection; 
 who cherished the monstrous design of arming the 
 slaves, of letting them loose upon our wives and chil 
 dren think of it, in the presence of the grace and 
 beauty around this board, gentlemen ! of turning 
 these men into fiends with his impracticable dreams 
 of liberty and freedom, and precipitating upon the 
 country horrors unspeakable!" 
 
 "Yes," said the judge, more calmly, "you are right. 
 When he was apprehended by the gallant Lee of Vir 
 ginia " 
 
 "Gentlemen, you will hear more of that man when 
 war comes," interrupted the mayor. "I knew him at 
 West Point." 
 
 121 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "When he was apprehended and tried and convicted 
 of high treason by due process of law," continued the 
 judge, "every opportunity being afforded him for de 
 fence, before an impartial jury of his countrymen, and 
 when he was executed in a dignified and orderly man 
 ner, without execration or obloquy, in vindication of 
 the law, what then? Gentlemen, you are aware that 
 churches all over the North held services of humilia 
 tion and prayer that Brown was glorified as a saint. 
 Minute guns were fired. In the Legislature of the 
 great State of Massachusetts eight out of the nine 
 teen senators voted to adjourn at the time of the exe 
 cution. Women canonized the bloodthirsty old fanatic 
 as St. John the Just. Philanthropists pronounced him 
 most truly Christian. Northern poets, like Whittier, 
 Emerson, and Longfellow, wrote panegyrics upon him. 
 Orators, like Wendell Phillips and William Lloyd Gar 
 rison, approved his action, and counted him a martyr. 
 Why, it was proved that Christian ministers " 
 
 "I blush for them !" interrupted Dr. Bampney, 
 hotly; "I repudiate them!" 
 
 " had been party to his scheme of assassination 
 and robbery." 
 
 "Shame ! Shame !" broke from one man and another 
 as the judge's voice rose in stern denunciation. 
 
 "That opened my eyes, gentlemen, as nothing else 
 could have done," said the old man, slowly; "that 
 paralyzed all the efforts we had been quietly making 
 looking toward the manumission of the slaves." 
 
 "But, Judge, after that, can you doubt that war will 
 come?" asked the mayor, quickly. 
 
 122 
 
A DINNER AND A DISCUSSION 
 
 "I do not know what to say as to that," answered 
 the judge. "It may come in God's providence. Per 
 haps it will come. I fear so, but, frankly, I have not 
 changed my mind upon secession. The Union is ours. 
 We are a part of it. Think of the moral advantage we 
 have by claiming and retaining it ! Let those who dis 
 like our system leave us. Let us not go out." 
 
 "Judge," said the governor, "your ideas are im 
 practicable. If the war must come and I, for one, 
 am sure it will we must not wait until the fourth of 
 March. Forewarned, we must be forearmed. Rather 
 than submit for one moment to black Republican rule, 
 I would have our people fight to the last drop of 
 blood to resist this fanatical oppression. We can only 
 guarantee our safety by the strength of our arms." 
 
 "Are we sure of the success of those arms? I speak 
 not in doubt, but seek assurance from the soldiers 
 present," asked the judge quickly. 
 
 "Perfectly sure," replied Withers, confidently. 
 "Don't you think so, Colonel Peyton?" 
 
 "Not a doubt of it, sir ! The Yankees won't stand a 
 ghost of a show with the South," answered the colonel, 
 with equally confident assurance. 
 
 "And if the valor of our citizens were not enough," 
 interposed Dr. Venosste, "we have another ally." 
 
 "And that is?" asked Dr. Bampney. 
 
 "Cotton, sir ! Cotton is king. We control the cot 
 ton product of the world. England and France, 
 Europe, must be with us on that account, if no other." 
 
 "Suppose the North tries to blockade our ports, 
 Doctor?" queried Mendiota. 
 
 123 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "They could not. The task would be so gigantic 
 as to be impracticable, and the Powers would not per 
 mit it. They must have cotton; they can get it no 
 place but here." 
 
 "You are correct, Dr. Venosste," exclaimed the gov 
 ernor; "cotton is king, and we are the power behind 
 its throne. But, aside from that, the fighting power 
 of the South is vastly greater than that of the North, 
 in spite of their advantage in numbers, for here every 
 man is a soldier. I am as sure of success as I am 
 convinced of the power of a State to withdraw from 
 the Union." 
 
 "Abstractly no one can deny the right of secession. 
 The Constitution is the act of the several sovereign 
 States; it is their instrument. The instrument could 
 not be construed as binding any unwilling to ratify it, 
 nor as holding any bound who wish to be free. All 
 we wish is to be let alone, to be allowed to depart in 
 peace. Shall we be allowed neither peace in the 
 Union nor the poor boon of seeking it out of the 
 Union?" asked Hudson, incisively. 
 
 "You are right, sir," cried Colonel Peyton, "we 
 must organize conventions all over the South, set fire 
 to the Southern heart, instruct the Southern mind, 
 give courage to each other, and at the proper moment, 
 by one organized, concerted action, precipitate the 
 conflict with a first blow, which will give us an ad 
 vantage." 
 
 "No, no; if the war comes let them make it," said 
 the judge. 
 
 "And as to secession," continued the governor, "it 
 124 
 
A DINNER AND A DISCUSSION 
 
 is true, as Mr. Hudson says, the Union was made up 
 by the voluntary adhesion thereto of the different 
 commonwealths, and that any State thereof, consistent 
 with the national Constitution, may lawfully and peace 
 ably withdraw from the Union without the consent of 
 the Union or of any State. Let those who shall strive 
 to prevent it look to it at their peril ! We have rights 
 and we dare to maintain them! We will fight for 
 them with the last ounce of our treasure and the last 
 drop of our blood. Believe me, when the time comes 
 Alabama will not be found lagging in the rear. Her 
 children, gentlemen," said the governor, rising to his 
 feet, "will be found at the front. We have waited too 
 long. This very day, this very hour, a movement is 
 on foot which will be consummated before the sun 
 rises again, which will assure the world of our mean- 
 ing." 
 
 The men had risen in excitement as the governor 
 made this important announcement, and they burst 
 into wild cheering as he closed. Judge Annan and 
 Dr. Venosste alone preserved their composure. Even 
 Boyd Peyton had been carried away by the enthusiasm 
 of the moment and had risen to his feet with the rest. 
 A swift glance of approval which Mary Annan shot 
 at him more than repaid him. Darrow, who had de 
 voted himself, with the chivalry of the kind-hearted 
 gentleman, to Pinkie Peyton, intercepted the glance, 
 and his heart sank in consequence. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 B 
 
 THE GAGE IS THROWN 
 
 EFORE the cheering died away the 
 door giving entrance from the hall was 
 suddenly thrown open and a young 
 man in the uniform of a corporal of 
 the Light Cavalry burst unceremoni 
 ously into the room. Clicking his 
 heels together, he made a military sa 
 lute to the host. 
 
 "Excuse me, Judge Annan," he said, 
 "and ladies and gentlemen all, but I've 
 come for Sergeant Darrow. Orders, 
 sir; he's wanted at the armory imme 
 diately." 
 
 "Madam," said Darrow, rising to 
 his feet and bowing to Mrs. Peyton, 
 "by your leave. Judge, Miss Mary, 
 and gentlemen all, I bid you good-evening. Duty calls 
 me. Now, corporal, I am ready." 
 
 "Stop, corporal!" said the governor. "What are 
 your orders?" 
 
 "Orders to muster the troop of cavalry at the 
 armory at once for active service, sir," said the cor 
 poral, a young fellow called Hamilton Pleasants, 
 known intimately to everyone in the room. 
 
 126 
 
THE GAGE IS THROWN 
 
 "And what then?" 
 
 "I know no more than that, your excellency." 
 
 "Ah, gentlemen," said the governor, "there is the 
 ideal soldier. He obeys orders without question. 
 Well, sir, you and your company shall know, and the 
 world shall know, what your orders are before the sun 
 rises. WTiere is the armory?" 
 
 "It's down on Massachusetts Street, sir," said 
 Darrow. 
 
 "No, sir, excuse me," said the corporal, quickly, "it's 
 on Charleston Street." 
 
 "How's that?" exclaimed Colonel Peyton, in sur 
 prise. "I know no street by that name." 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the mayor, "council passed a 
 resolution this afternoon renaming all streets that were 
 previously named after Northern States, after the 
 glorious cities and commonwealths of the South. 
 Gentlemen, we will wipe out every vestige of the 
 North from our records as we obliterate the oppressors 
 from our hearts," he continued, amid laughter and 
 applause. 
 
 "Good luck and Godspeed to you, Sergeant Dar 
 row," said Mary Annan, rising and coming swiftly 
 around the table to his side and taking his hand, her 
 eyes shining with animation. "Wherever you go, and 
 whatever you do, our hearts are with you." 
 
 The young soldier wrung her slender hand and then, 
 without a word, bowed deeply, turned sharply on his 
 heel, and left the room, followed by Pleasants. 
 
 "Is this war?" queried the Rev. Dr. Bampney. 
 
 "No, sir," replied Colonel Peyton, "this is play." 
 127 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "Yes," added the governor, "but in the end it will 
 be war of the grimmest kind." 
 
 "Alas !" said the judge, "I fear so. Meanwhile, be 
 fore we go into the drawing room, where I have in 
 vited the young folks to assemble this evening for a 
 little dancing party, let us fill our glasses once more 
 and put away from us all thoughts of strife and war, 
 of politics and principles, to which I fear the ladies may 
 fancy we have given too much attention in their 
 charming presence." 
 
 "No, no," cried Mrs. Peyton, "we are as interested 
 as you are." 
 
 "Yes," said another, "we would rather have heard 
 the discussion than talk ourselves upon any other sub- 
 ject." 
 
 "Ah, well," said the judge, "let us put it all aside 
 now. Gentlemen, I give you the health of my daugh 
 ter Mary, the pride of my heart, the pride of my old 
 age. There she stands, gentlemen, just budding into 
 womanhood, with all the future before her. Drink to 
 her happiness, drink to her welfare, if you love me." 
 
 "Stop !" cried the girl. "It is my birthday, it is my 
 hour. Perhaps I may speak, though a woman. Let 
 me substitute a toast, father. I know what our good 
 friends would fain say, and what they think. They 
 give me too many evidences of their affection for it 
 to be in doubt," she went on impetuously, the words 
 rippling to her lips, the color mantling to her face, 
 her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Let no one 
 drink a toast to me, but those who love me, who wish 
 me well on this day, my birthday, drink first and only 
 
 128 
 
THE GAGE IS THROWN 
 
 to the old South, which is to be the new South x and 
 the great Confederacy about to take its place among 
 the nations. I give you the South, gentlemen!" 
 
 "The South! The South!" rang from one end of 
 the room to the other. 
 
 The girl's voice rose in sweet intensity above the 
 tumult. 
 
 "I want you to drink it with the resolution that you 
 will pour out your heart's blood in defence of it, as 
 lightly as you quaff the draught of wine." 
 
 As she spoke she lifted her glass, as all the others 
 did with one acclaim, but before touching it to her 
 lips her eyes turned to Boyd Peyton. He was pale 
 but determined. As he met her glance he unsteadily 
 seized his own glass in a trembling hand, shot one 
 meaning look toward her, lifted it and then drained 
 it! Her heart almost stopped its beating at this evi 
 dence of his final adherence. The colonel, who had 
 watched him with equal intentness, gladly exclaimed 
 under his breath, though more than one heard his 
 words : 
 
 "Thank God ! The woman has done it at last !" 
 
 With gratitude too deep to be expressed, he, too, 
 drank the toast. 
 
 The action of the young man, whose hesitation, as 
 well as his position as a naval officer, had been the 
 subject of discussion among all his friends, was noticed 
 by many others present, and as the glasses were set 
 down upon the table the men broke forth into cheers 
 again, cheers for him. 
 
 "Damme," cried the colonel, in his excitement, "if 
 129 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 this is the spirit of our women, with apologies to you 
 ladies, what may we not expect from our men?" 
 
 Mary Annan turned to Peyton in the confusion. 
 
 "Have I done well? Have I said well?" she 
 whispered. 
 
 "Almost you have persuaded me/' said Peyton, smil 
 ing up at her. 
 
 "My son, my son !" said his father, coming toward 
 him and laying his hand upon his shoulder, "Thank 
 God! Thank God!" 
 
 The quick rattling of a drum outside broke the sud 
 den silence which fell upon the company as the cheer 
 ing at last died away. 
 
 "What's that? The long roll, eh?" cried the 
 colonel, lifting his head and sniffing the air like an old 
 war horse. 
 
 "It's a drum beating the assembly," said the mayor, 
 who recognized the call from his West Point years. 
 
 "There it goes again !" cried another. 
 
 "Where is it?" asked a third. 
 
 "It comes from that direction," cried one pointing 
 toward the front of the house. 
 
 "It's at the armory of the Cadets, down on Conti 
 Street." 
 
 "They are coming this way," cried the colonel, as 
 the rattling grew louder. "Quick! Let us see 
 them !" 
 
 By common impulse the company surged toward 
 the long French windows opening upon the gallery. 
 Mary Annan was quicker than the rest, and Boyd Pey 
 ton was by her side. Their fingers fumbled at the 
 
 130 
 
THE GAGE IS THROWN 
 
 curtains and the fastenings of the blinds, and tore them 
 open. In a moment the assemblage poured out upon 
 the porch. They had sat unusually long at the table. 
 Night had fallen, the soft, deep semi-tropic night with 
 the stars blazing brilliantly overhead. The bright 
 lights from the room behind them streamed through 
 the windows revealing the gay party. As Mary Annan 
 shivered in the chill air Boyd wrapped her shawl about 
 her bare shoulders. He longed to press a kiss upon 
 them. She threw her head upward and backward, as 
 he did so, and flashed one glance from those glorious 
 brown eyes upon him which intoxicated him. He 
 would have thrown away the world for her then ! 
 
 Out on the street the troops were coming. The 
 lights from torches carried by negro boys on the flanks 
 sparkled upon the bayonets. As they drew nearer the 
 fifes joined the drums in that already popular song, 
 "Listen to the Mocking-Bird." 
 
 It shrilled through the dark and crowded streets. 
 The entrancing strains rang above the cheers and 
 shouts of the crowd. How handsome and mysterious 
 the soldiers looked in the uncertain light ! After the 
 Mobile Cadets came the German Fusileers, then the 
 Independent Rifles, then the Washington Artillery 
 men, and in the rear the Light Cavalry. 
 
 "Oh, where are they going?" cried Mary Annan to 
 the governor, who stood by her side. 
 
 The old governor hesitated a moment and looked 
 at her quizzically. 
 
 "You can tell us now, surely, sir," she urged, lay 
 ing her hand upon his arm. 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 The governor hesitated still, but finally made up 
 his mind. 
 
 "My dear Miss Mary," he said at last, with fatherly 
 kindness, raising his voice as he spoke so that the 
 whole assemblage could hear him, "we are going to 
 forestall the United States troops who were ordered 
 South on New Year's day. I have directed the cav 
 alry to seize the Mount Vernon arsenal! I have 
 ordered them to turn over the arms to the military 
 force of the State !" 
 
 "And the Cadets, and the rest?" interrupted the 
 young woman. 
 
 "They are going down to take and garrison Fort 
 Morgan !" 
 
 A deep sigh seemed to rise from the company on the 
 porch as they realized the fateful import of the gov 
 ernor's words. It was followed by a burst of applause, 
 but the drums and fifes were just opposite the railing 
 now. The captain of the battalion took in the group 
 on the gallery, but a few yards away the governor, 
 the mayor, the women. He turned sharply. A word 
 of command rang out. There was a crash and clatter 
 of arms. The light rippled over the moving bayonets 
 as the men gave the marching salute. A great roar 
 of cheers burst from the men and women surrounding 
 the soldiers, and then the troops themselves joined in 
 the acclaim. Above it all rang the shrill notes of the 
 fife playing the "Mocking-Bird," breaking into the 
 night with its passionate cadence. 
 
 Far over the railing leaned Mary Annan. Quick 
 she tore the shawl from her shoulders and shook it, 
 
 132 
 
THE GAGE IS THROWN 
 
 flaunted it toward the passing soldiers. And Bob Dar- 
 row caught her glance as he rode, and thought it a 
 greeting for him. At Mary's feet a small figure clad 
 in a white nightdress, who had at that moment ap 
 peared on the scene, clung to her, and Tempe, raising 
 her voice to win attention, called out : 
 
 "I heard the drums, sister, an' I came. Are they 
 going to shoot against the Nunited States?" 
 
 The judge, with a singular contraction at his heart, 
 caught up his youngest daughter and stilled her 
 prophecy. And the regiment swept on. 
 
 Oh, if he lived for a thousand years, time could 
 never erase from Boyd Peyton's memory the picture of 
 that radiant figure standing on the edge of the balcony, 
 that uplifted bare arm catching the shawl that he had 
 thrown upon her .shoulders, and waving it in the air 
 like a bonny blue flag, while the "Mocking-Bird " was 
 playing in the street ! 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE KISS THAT BETRAYED 
 
 T 
 
 HERE was no dancing-party that night. 
 The action of the governor in order 
 ing out the military had taken nearly 
 every available young man from the 
 city, and the few who were left were 
 in no mood for festivities of the kind 
 proposed. From a military point of 
 view the expedition to take possession 
 of the arsenal at Mount Vernon, up 
 the river, and seize Forts Morgan and 
 Gaines, down the bay, amounted to 
 nothing. That is to say, no resistance 
 was expected at any of the three places, 
 and no danger would be incurred by 
 the State troops. Indeed unless the 
 United States Government had already 
 re-enforced the forts at the mouth of the bay, from 
 the sea, there was no garrison in them. There had 
 not been time for the carrying out of the orders from 
 Washington, which would have despatched troops to 
 them, and all that the Alabamians would have to do 
 would be to sail down and secure them, which they 
 did on the morning of January 4th, easily dispossess 
 ing the garrison which consisted of one old sergeant 
 of artillery and one mule ! 
 
 134 
 
THE KISS THAT BETRAYED 
 
 But the moral effect of the expedition was tre 
 mendous. The election of deputies had plainly fore 
 shadowed the secession of Alabama, beyond perad- 
 venture, as soon as the convention should be called, 
 but no overt act had yet been committed by the State; 
 there had been no act of hostility to the United States, 
 of which Alabama still remained a part. This seizure 
 of the property and arms and fortifications of the 
 general Government by a particular State was a fla 
 grant open defiance of the authorities at Washington. 
 Unless the action of the governor were immediately 
 disavowed by the people through their representatives, 
 it meant war. The most stupid, the most careless, the 
 most indifferent, perceived the significance of the two 
 expeditions. Alabama was showing herself as bold 
 and determined as South Carolina. 
 
 There was, however, on that account, no hesitation 
 anywhere. The approval of the governor's action as 
 soon as it became known, was well-nigh universal. 
 He had shrewdly taken stock of public opinion and 
 was entirely sure of his own ground before he moved. 
 Indeed, from his point of view his action was soundly 
 politic. If there was to be war the quicker the South 
 got possession of the implements wherewith to wage 
 it, the better; and if there was to be no war, the 
 sooner the valuable auxiliary to these defensive 
 preparations which some people believed might avert 
 it, to be found in the forts and arsenals of the South 
 ern States, should be seized, the better. 
 
 A few men like Judge Annan and Dr. Venosste, 
 deplored the precipitate action, but postulating the ne- 
 
 135 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 cessity or the actuality rather of secession, even they 
 recognized the propriety of it; and knowing any pro 
 tests they were inclined to make would have been so 
 futile as to be scarcely worth utterance, they kept 
 silent. Indeed, in southern Alabama, while the people 
 were divided between out and out advocates of im 
 mediate State action, without reference to any other 
 State, and the "co-operationists," as they were called, 
 who wished to hold back the State until the movement 
 became general and co-operation and unity of action 
 be thus assured, everybody was in harmony on the 
 main question. 
 
 The governor, with the pressure of anxiety and re 
 sponsibility hard upon him, withdrew shortly after 
 the passage of the troops, and the rest followed his 
 example in taking their departure. 
 
 Peyton fortunately had time for a few words with 
 Mary Annan before he left. As the assemblage was 
 breaking up, and as his mother and sister were putting 
 on their wraps in the house, he found himself alone 
 with her on the balcony. He stood before her for a 
 moment without speaking. Mary Annan's eyes 
 shone like the stars above them. Her white figure 
 melted in the darkness about them. Perhaps it was 
 that gave her courage. She was a creature of im 
 pulse at best. She took her lover's hands in both 
 her own and, with an instinctive gesture of pas 
 sionate self-forgetfulness, pressed them against her 
 heart. 
 
 "Thank you, thank you !" she murmured, not quite 
 comprehending what she did in her excitement and 
 
 136 
 
THE KISS THAT BETRAYED 
 
 emotion, "but I knew how it would be. I knew that 
 you would be true to us at last." 
 
 "To you, dear, to you," interrupted Peyton, softly, 
 wholly under the spell of her beauty, drawing nearer 
 to her as he spoke. 
 
 How handsome he looked, she thought. Her head 
 sank beneath the almost fierce intensity of his gaze. 
 
 "Not to me," she urged, still not mistress of her 
 self; "to the South." 
 
 "You incarnated that spirit for me to-night. Oh, 
 how beautiful you were you are !" The words fairly 
 rushed from him. "How I loved you ! Tell me, tell 
 me again. Have you no kinder word for me now, 
 now that I am yours now that I belong to your 
 cause? Ah, sweet, I love you, I love you !" 
 
 She had released his hands and now stood silent be 
 fore him in sweet if helpless confusion. Emboldened 
 by her silence, by the yielding that spoke in her posi 
 tion, he stole one arm around her waist. She did not 
 withdraw. She did not resist. She stood quite still. 
 But her heart, oh, how it beat and beat ! 
 
 "Have you no answer?" he whispered, and as she 
 made no reply he bent and kissed her hair falling over 
 her blushing cheeks. "Speak !" he urged. 
 
 "Almost you persuade me," she whispered, 
 brokenly, softly. 
 
 They were his own words spoken a moment since. 
 As she lifted her face slowly to speak to him he bent 
 his head further and this time, instead of her hair, he 
 kissed her lips. She yielded herself to his burning 
 caress in a surrender as sweet as it was unexpected. 
 
 137 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "Oh, what have I done?" she cried, wildly, a mo 
 ment later, leaning back from him and burying her hot 
 face in her trembling hands. 
 
 "Made me the happiest of men, dearest love, if that 
 kiss be forgiven," Peyton answered, drawing her to 
 him, insistent to pursue his advantage and waiting the 
 longed-for admission from her lips. 
 
 He was steeped in love, forgetful of everything. 
 He knew not what he had said or done; all his thoughts 
 at that moment were upon her. He had held her in 
 his arms at last, he had kissed her. She loved him. 
 What else was there to know, or to think about, in 
 the whole wide world? 
 
 "Boyd, dear/' said his mother, and it was the first 
 time in his life that her call was not welcome to him, as 
 she came out on the porch at that very moment, 
 "we are waiting for you." 
 
 "I am coming, mother," he replied, vainly trying to 
 stifle his bitter disappointment. "I was just saying 
 good-by to Miss Mary, here," he said, stepping into 
 the light, where he was followed a minute later by the 
 girl. 
 
 She had to come forward though she shrank from 
 it; the conventions of her society required her to 
 speed her parting guests. The keen eye of the older 
 woman saw the hot blush still mantling in Mary An 
 nan's cheek, she marked the glisten of tears upon 
 the eyelashes, and drew her own inference. She was 
 very, very happy. Her son, her oldest son, the pride 
 of her life, who had been hesitating as to his course of 
 action, seemed at last to have made a decision, a de- 
 
 138 
 
THE KISS THAT BETRAYED 
 
 cision in accord with her wishes and the wishes of her 
 people ; and lo, by it, he seemed to have won the dear 
 est wish of his own heart also, if the older woman 
 could look back into the past and recognize out of 
 her own experience the signs of affection. 
 
 "My dear, my dear," said Mrs. Peyton, softly, draw 
 ing the girl to her and pressing a kiss upon her cheek, 
 "I trust you have had a happy birthday." 
 
 "Oh, yes, Mrs. Peyton," answered Mary; and then, 
 "Do women cry when they are very happy?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "They always do, my dear," replied the matron. 
 
 "I never wanted a mother so much as now," whis 
 pered the girl. 
 
 She dropped her head on the elder woman's shoul 
 der, and her slender body shook with sobs. 
 
 "Ah, my child," said Mrs. Peyton, folding her gently 
 to her breast, "no one can quite take a mother's place, 
 but you can cry here on my shoulder; for that I'll 
 serve." 
 
 "Indeed I shall not, then !" said the capricious girl, 
 with quick change of mood, raising her head, forcing 
 back her tears and forcing forward the smiles. "I 
 have had the happiest birthday, and such good news! 
 Good-night. I want to come and see you to-morrow 
 morning," she continued. "Good-night, Mr. Pey 
 ton." 
 
 The drive home of the Peyton family in the carriage 
 was a quiet one. With womanly tact Mrs. Peyton 
 had cautioned the colonel against saying anything to 
 Boyd about his resolution or about Mary Annan. 
 
 139 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 Only Willis, with his inexhaustible flow of spirits, kept 
 up the conversation, which was more of a soliloquy 
 on his part than anything else. Willis had come down 
 with the carriage expecting to join in the dance, the 
 battery not having been ordered away, and had con 
 cluded to go back with the family. 
 
 "How handsome Hamilton Pleasants looked when 
 he came in," suddenly said his sister, during one of the 
 infrequent pauses of his lively locution. There was a 
 strange note in the young girl's voice, as she made this 
 harmless remark, which no one caught except her twin 
 brother. He rattled on with his nonsense, but when 
 Pink felt him clasp her hand with one of his own and 
 pat it gently w r ith the other in the darkness, she took 
 great comfort in the action. There was much sym 
 pathy between the twins. 
 
 Meanwhile the mother and her other son sat side 
 by side in the carriage. The mother patted the son 
 softly and tenderly from time to time, her hands 
 wandered lovingly over his person; she was intensely 
 happy and relieved, but he was not. He should have 
 been. He had settled a grievous question, and he had 
 won the greatest prize in life. Uncertainty and un 
 rest should have left him, but they had not. 
 
 Before they separated for the night the old colonel 
 took his son in his arms, a most unusual action for 
 him, and pressed him to his heart. 
 
 "My lad," he said, "I am very proud of you. I 
 knew it would come right in the end." 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A 
 
 THE SIFTING OF PEYTON 
 
 H, but had things come right, after 
 all ? There are decisions which do not 
 decide. Was this one of them ? How 
 beautiful that girl had looked, the very 
 incarnation of Southern beauty, of the 
 South he loved. Loved? Yes, the 
 word was true. He loved it entirely. 
 He loved the people, their habits and 
 ways,, he loved the land, he loved 
 the water that washed the shores, the 
 mountains that lifted their crests into 
 the heavens, the palm-tree, the live- 
 oak, the magnolia, the flowers that 
 bloomed on them, the mocking-birds 
 that sang in them, the cotton fields 
 aye, he loved the slaves that tilled them. He would 
 give his life for the South cheerfully, gladly; but what 
 was he to do? There are harder things than life to 
 give. 
 
 He had sworn allegiance to the United States. 
 Certainly there was no comparison as to the station 
 of the two in his estimation. His heart cried out for 
 the State, for the South, but that something he could 
 not define possessed him so powerfully that in the still 
 
 141 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 watches of that long night it almost drove him to 
 despair. He could not give up his allegiance to the 
 United States. Yet he had, in fact, done so! 
 
 He had been carried away by the enthusiasm of the 
 men at the dinner, whom from his earliest childhood 
 he had respected and venerated, whose opinions he had 
 prized, whose approbation had been his highest re 
 ward. There was good old Dr. Bampney, holy, 
 saintly, learned priest, who had indoctrinated him in 
 the mysteries of the religion he professed; and Dr. 
 Venosste and Judge Annan, and his fiery, noble, sol 
 dierlike, distinguished old father; there was the gover 
 nor of the great State, the mayor of the city, edu 
 cated at the sister school to his, at West Point, and 
 all the others. Could they be wrong? 
 
 And there was Mary Annan. Oh, what a picture 
 she had made, standing erect and slender, with spark 
 ling eyes and heaving bosom and flushed cheeks, the 
 very incarnation of that ideal of romance and beauty 
 around which the chivalry and gallantry of the South 
 centred. She loved him at last, at last ! 
 
 The fire of passion which flamed in his own heart 
 had communicated its heat to her. This glorious, 
 radiant creature, just budding into womanhood, with 
 all the passionate possibilities of unlimited devotion 
 latent in her being, in her soul, loved him ! He had 
 kissed her. His eyes misted, his head swam, as he 
 thought of it. He had pressed his own lips upon the 
 lips that had mocked him in girlish laughter through 
 many a day and dream. He had held her for one 
 brief eternity in his arms unresisting. Almost he had 
 
 142 
 
THE SIFTING OF PEYTON 
 
 persuaded her, she had said. The mighty change that 
 he had prayed for had come over the girl. "Almost 
 persuaded" his own words! Good God, he had 
 won her by proffering an allegiance he could not 
 keep by adherence to a cause from which his soul 
 shrank ! 
 
 It was out. He could not do it. Something com 
 pelled him to be true to the uniform that he wore, to 
 the government he had sworn to protect and defend. 
 As between State and Nation, with every desire on 
 earth leading him to State, he must choose Nation. 
 He had to do it! His honor demanded it! There 
 was no other way. 
 
 Stop! How could he do it? It would break his 
 mother's heart. He had been swept away by his own 
 feelings. No one had forced him, he had been under 
 no restraint. He had given a public testimony, al 
 most a pledge, of his own free will. Could he keep it? 
 Could he break it? What would his father say if he 
 did? He had folded him in his arms a short time 
 since with rare and touching affection. He had blessed 
 him. It would break his heart too; yet there could be 
 no blessing unless his own conscience approved of his 
 own action. 
 
 And Mary Annan? The consequences of his sur 
 render and hers rose before him. He had been a cow 
 ard, a craven, a scoundrel. The kiss that he had 
 taken from her, unresisted, burned in his soul. He 
 had stolen it. Gratitude had struck at her defences. 
 The struggle that she had watched with bated breath 
 in his soul, that she had stimulated in every way that 
 
 143 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 woman could, had resulted, as she thought, in victory 
 for her, for her cause, and in the sweet abandonment 
 of the triumph she had yielded. A pilferer, he, a pur- 
 loiner, a common thief, to have stolen upon false pre 
 tence the sweetness of a woman's lips who had trusted 
 in his honor. That he loved her was no excuse. The 
 deeper condemnation there. Honor? Was not his 
 pledged? Or was it already lost? 
 
 Under the spur of this acute indictment he wished, 
 he prayed, that he might die that night, and but for 
 the precepts in which he had been trained he might 
 have put an end to a life which, in the decision forced 
 upon him, brought misery everywhere, even to him 
 self. 
 
 His father, his mother, his love ! What a dream she 
 had been as she stood in the light with the blue shawl 
 fluttering over her head like a flag as the soldiers 
 marched by playing the "Mocking-Bird !" He liked 
 her best, though, as he saw her face shining in the 
 darkness and heard her whisper, "Almost you per 
 suade me." Almost, almost she had been persuaded, 
 and by a mistake, by a falsehood ! Oh, the deep dam 
 nation of his deed! What could he do? Was not 
 now his honor as a gentleman pledged to her? There 
 had been a sacrament of love and union in that sweet 
 meeting of the lips; if he repudiated her cause it would 
 be a sacrilege. 
 
 Yes, he must keep to the letter of his bond. Satan 
 had bought him with a woman's heart, and oh, the irony 
 of the association ! The woman was as pure as a child, 
 as innocent as an angel. Sometimes a gentleman was 
 
 144 
 
THE SIFTING OF PEYTON 
 
 called upon to sacrifice even his honor to a woman; 
 perhaps this was such a call. Yes, he would do it. 
 When he had kissed her he had given away the right 
 to change. He would be a soldier of the South if it 
 killed him. Please God it might. If war came he 
 should seek death in the front rank and end it all. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 "TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE" 
 
 T 
 
 HERE came to Peyton during that 
 long, ghastly night neither sleep nor 
 dreams. He rose very early in the 
 morning before the others. After his 
 agonizing vacillations he had resolved 
 to throw conscience and everything 
 behind him and keep to the South; 
 but he could not bear their congratu 
 lations and approbation at that time. 
 He could not stand them. He called 
 for his horse, and in the gray dawn 
 galloped down through the sleeping 
 town and out upon the old Shell Road. 
 Down the white track by the heav 
 ing sea, under the moss-draped live- 
 oaks, he urged his willing horse as if by rapid motion 
 he could shake off the demon of uncertainty which 
 clutched him again. Could he never make up his 
 mind, he thought? He did not know what to do. 
 In every direction seemed destruction. Meantime he 
 could ride. He set his teeth hard and drove the spurs 
 into his horse as if the physical effort could displace 
 the mental struggle. On and on he sped, 
 
 146 
 
"TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE" 
 
 Here at last was the spot where they had stood 
 when Darrow had brought the news of the secession. 
 He passed it by like the wind. If he gave her up, 
 Darrow would win her. Of that he was certain. He 
 had not forgotten how she had wished his rival God 
 speed the night before. His recantation might turn 
 her back again. Happy Darrow ! There was no tur 
 moil in his soul. He knew his duty. He saw it 
 plainly and did it, yet the reward would be Peyton's 
 in the end. But would it? 
 
 Miles beyond the end of the Shell Road he drew 
 rein at last and stared out over the gray waters of the 
 bay, rolling cold and leaden under the lowering sky. 
 How different from the other day! The chill mel 
 ancholy of the surroundings accorded with his feelings. 
 But he was not cold. The blood ran in molten riot 
 in his veins and flushed his dark face a dull red color. 
 His gaze turned at last toward Fort Morgan, invisible, 
 of course, on account of the distance, yet he could im 
 agine it. He had been there many a time, he had 
 sailed every foot of water in that bay in his own 
 boat. He knew it as he knew the shore, and Mary 
 Annan had been with him often too. Could he 
 never get away from her? The old fort, which for 
 forty years had borne aloft the Stars and Stripes, 
 to-day was under another banner. The troops of 
 Alabama were in charge. His State, his troops 
 for he was one of them arrayed against the United 
 States! 
 
 No, by the God above him, no ! 
 
 He wheeled his horse sharply, struck his rowels 
 147 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 deep into the quivering flank in unconscious cruelty, 
 and dashed back into the town. On and on he gal 
 loped, retracing his earlier ride. The trees raced by 
 in rapid succession. Presently he reached the Shell 
 Road again, but there was no intermission to the wild 
 gallop in which he urged his horse, and every hoof- 
 beat that crashed upon the white way hammered out, 
 "Traitor!" "Scoundrel!" "Blackguard!" "Lover!" 
 and moved him not. Could he hold to this last de 
 termination? Was it in him to hold to anything at 
 last? 
 
 He reeled in his saddle sometimes, but drove his 
 horse recklessly on. Presently he entered the out 
 skirts of the town, and in a few moments he was in the 
 middle of it. He held himself straight and checked 
 the speed of the horse slightly, though he came down 
 Emmanuel Street at a rattling pace. The horse had 
 grown as reckless as he. As long as he had strength 
 he would run forward. 
 
 Peyton saw those about him as if in a haze. He 
 noticed people staring after him, lifting their hats to 
 him. When two or three were assembled by chance 
 he heard his name called loudly. As he turned the 
 corner into Dauphin Street, and galloped across the 
 square, he marked the Light Infantry Company as 
 sembling before its armory. They sent up a mighty 
 cheer as he passed them by and turned up St. Francis 
 Street. They were calling his name, too, and with 
 approval. Men waved their hats to him as he swept 
 on. What did it mean? Suddenly it flashed upon 
 him. They had heard that he had decided, and they 
 
 148 
 
"TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE" 
 
 were greeting him with joy and acclamation. Ah, 
 they little knew ! 
 
 He got out of the city presently. Now he turned 
 into the gate of his home. He must meet his mother, 
 his father, and have it over. He suddenly recalled 
 that last night on the porch Mary Annan had prom 
 ised to come and see his mother that morning. Per 
 haps she was there now. For the first time in his life 
 he shrank from meeting her. 
 
 As he cantered up the long avenue from the gate 
 to the house his pace slackened. His grip of the reins 
 relaxed and the exhausted horse dropped into a walk. 
 A few paces brought them to the steps leading to the 
 porch, where he threw himself from the saddle. The 
 horse stopped and stood with drooping head, panting 
 and gasping, his sides heaving from the terrible ride. 
 Weariness and dejection spoke in every line of his 
 body, but they were no whit more marked in the horse 
 than in the rider. A sharp call brought some of the 
 stable boys, and as the horse was led away Peyton 
 mounted the steps. His brother met him at the door. 
 With a quick glance of sympathy the boy divined 
 something of the situation. 
 
 "They are all in the drawing-room, Boyd," he 
 whispered, hurriedly. "Heavens, old fellow, you look 
 like death! Go up to your room and change your 
 muddy clothes. Mary Annan and Bob Darrow are in 
 there too. He was sent down from the arsenal to re 
 port to the governor, and came here afterward to see 
 you. The rest of them don't know you're here. 
 Where have you been? Brace up, old man, quick! 
 
 149 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 Here is a letter for you. Do get yourself in some 
 sort of trim. The Light Infantry are coming down 
 here. They will be here in half an hour. They have 
 elected you captain and are coming to notify you. 
 Hurry, hurry! I will keep the folks busy until you 
 get down." 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 PEYTON STICKS TO THE FLAG 
 
 EYTON staggered up the stairs some 
 how and went to his own room. He 
 threw himself upon his knees before 
 his bed, as he had done when a little 
 child, stretched out his hands before 
 him on the cover, and buried his face 
 between his arms. His body shook 
 with tearless sobs. He could form no 
 words of prayer, but in that attitude 
 the thoughts of his heart went up to 
 God in broken petitions. Into the 
 agony of that soul the Master looked. 
 To those unformed prayers he made 
 answer. 
 
 Long time the young man knelt 
 there growing quieter with each moment. Presently 
 he lifted his head and his glance fell upon the letter 
 which had fallen from his hands and lay before him 
 on the bed. His face was paler than before if pos 
 sible. There were haggard, ghastly lines in it, the 
 grim accompaniments of soul torture, yet likewise in 
 dications of resolution. That curious set look, that 
 tightness of the lips, that little protrusion of the chin, 
 that drawing together of the brows, had come into his 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 face once more. Probably that look they gave him 
 would never leave him again. He had passed through 
 the fire. He had been tried in the crucible and he had 
 not been broken. 
 
 He had come to a decision final and irrevocable. 
 He would do his duty and he knew now what it was 
 no matter what happened, whose heart broke, what 
 appeals would be made to him. Friends, family, love 
 they were cast into the balances in that human soul 
 and outweighed by another claim. As he rose to his 
 feet he picked up the letter. It was an official en 
 velope addressed in a familiar hand. Eagerly he tore 
 it open. There fell from it his long-expected com 
 mission as ensign in the United States Navy and orders 
 revoking his leave and directing him to report at once 
 to Washington. The moment of decision was then at 
 hand in every sense. Such an order brooked no de 
 lay. It could only be met by compliance or resigna 
 tion. With these official papers was a letter, a letter 
 in a hand he knew. Laying the others by his side he 
 sat down on the bed and perused the few lines. The 
 name signed to it was little known outside of naval 
 circles, but in a year the world would be ringing with 
 it. It was an appeal, an appeal to his conscience, to 
 his honor, to his sense of duty, from a brother officer, 
 an old man greatly his senior in rank, who had been a 
 second father to him; an appeal to his loyalty, to his 
 patriotism as an officer; and finally an inspiring ex 
 pression of confidence which was balm to his soul, 
 and the theme of the letter, the text of it, as it were, 
 was, "Stick to the flag !" 
 
 152 
 
PEYTON STICKS TO THE FLAG 
 
 "Thank God!" he said, laying the letter down. 
 "Thank God that I had decided before I broke the 
 seal!" 
 
 The music of a fife and drum came swelling up the 
 road. He ran to the window that looked toward the 
 gate. The Light Infantry was just turning into the 
 avenue and coming toward the house. The soldiers 
 were accompanied by a great multitude of people on 
 foot, on horseback, or in carriages. What had Willis 
 said? They had elected him their captain! Him! 
 He laughed, though there was little mirth in the sound 
 he made. 
 
 Well, he would meet them fairly and squarely now. 
 He would tell them frankly and boldly before father, 
 mother, friends, and sweetheart. Thank God they 
 were all there ! It could all be done in one blow. 
 They were coming nearer. He must go down and 
 meet them. 
 
 Stop ! He could not meet them in this disordered 
 dress. 
 
 He ran to his closet, drawing off his clothes as he 
 went, and then put on others that he selected as 
 quickly as possible. The troops were at the porch 
 now. He could hear the rattling of musket stocks on 
 the walk as they were brought to "order arms" and 
 then to "parade rest." The yard seemed filled with 
 people. Hastily buttoning his coat, he turned to meet 
 Willis in the door. 
 
 "Good heavens, Boyd!" said the boy, glancing at 
 him anxiously, "what did you do that for? Won't 
 you take them off? They are " 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "No," said his brother, brushing by him. "Come 
 on/' 
 
 Followed by Willis, Peyton ran down the stairs, 
 through the hall, and out on the porch. There im 
 mediately before him was drawn up the company of 
 riflemen. Surrounding them was a great concourse 
 of people. On the porch stood his father and his 
 mother and sister. The old man's face was flushed 
 with pleasure, his eyes were shining with proud and 
 happy light. Animation and satisfaction expressed 
 itself in every line of his erect figure. On one side 
 stood Bob Darrow, handsomer than ever in his becom 
 ing uniform. 
 
 There also, looking more radiant and beautiful 
 than he had dared even to dream of her, was Mary 
 Annan. The color was burning in her dark cheek; 
 her eyes, too, were ashine. Her eager glance dwelt 
 upon his face almost lovingly as he entered the 
 porch, and the next moment comprehended his cloth 
 ing with a start of surprise. Following her example, 
 they all looked at his tall, slender figure and noticed 
 with astonishment that he was clad in the full uniform 
 of an ensign in the United States Navy, even to his 
 sword, which he held lightly by the scabbard in his left 
 hand. But they had no time to comment on the 
 singularity of his action, for another sharp command 
 rang out : 
 
 "Company! Attention! Carry arms! Present 
 arms!" 
 
 The drill of the company was excellent. As the 
 men lifted the muskets from the ground and held them 
 
PEYTON STICKS TO THE FLAG 
 
 rigid in front of them, a faint smile of approval came 
 into Peyton's face. 
 
 "Colonel Peyton, ladies and gentlemen, and espe 
 cially Mr. Boyd Peyton," Johnstone, the lieutenant of 
 the company, began, with an eloquent gesture compre 
 hending everybody, "as you know, the Light Infantry 
 have been without a commander for over a month, 
 owing to the death of our late lamented captain. We 
 have been carefully deliberating since that sad event 
 as to the choice of our next commanding officer. We 
 are proud to believe, sir, that it is a high honor to 
 command a company like this, whose ranks are filled 
 with the best blood of Alabama. We believe that if 
 the company has opportunity to show its soldierly 
 qualities upon the field of battle it will prove its mettle, 
 and we have wanted not merely a commander of cour 
 age and of family, to lead us there are many in our 
 ranks who possess such qualifications but we want a 
 man of experience, a man who has been bred to the 
 profession of arms who can teach us what we lack. It 
 is needless to say that our thoughts have been upon 
 you, Mr. Peyton, ever since your return to the home 
 of your fathers last month. But, sir you will forgive 
 me, I am sure although we were morally certain, we 
 had no public assurance until last night as to your 
 feelings toward the Southern Cause. But the story 
 of your decision has been noised about by your fellow- 
 citizens to our great satisfaction, sir. The company 
 was assembled this morning and we held an election, 
 and I have the honor to inform you, sir, that you have 
 been unanimously elected to be our captain. God save 
 
 155 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 the State of Alabama and the Confederate States of 
 America that shall be!" 
 
 "Three cheers for our new captain !" said the first 
 sergeant, stepping forth from the ranks as Johnstone 
 finished his address. 
 
 But they were allowed no opportunity to give a 
 cheer or make a sound. What was said by their newly 
 elected captain froze the hurrah on their lips, almost 
 stopped the beating of their hearts. 
 
 "Stop!" instantly cried Peyton, in a clear voice 
 heard on the very outskirts of the assemblage. "You 
 are mistaken, gentlemen. In part, at least, I did in 
 some degree engage myself to the South last night." 
 
 "In some degree !" cried a girl's voice, piercing the 
 awful silence, shrill with surprise and horror. 
 
 It was Mary Annan. 
 
 "Carried away by the enthusiasm of the party," went 
 on Peyton, steadily, looking down at the surprised, 
 awe-stricken faces of the men before him, although the 
 sharp cry of the girl pierced his very soul, "moved by 
 the example of venerated friends, an honored father, 
 and influenced by " 
 
 For the life of him he could not prevent his glance 
 then from sweeping around until it rested upon the 
 face of the woman he loved, standing by the railing, 
 which she grasped with astonishing intensity, and star 
 ing at him with a horror-struck, bewildered, piteous 
 face scarcely less white than his own. The cold sweat 
 beaded upon his brow as he looked. He felt some 
 thing rising in his throat and choking him. His heart 
 struck him like a trip-hammer. Still he persisted. 
 
 156 
 
PEYTON STICKS TO THE FLAG 
 
 "For various reasons, gentlemen, which need not 
 be mentioned," he continued more slowly, moistening 
 his lips nervously, but still resolute to go on, "I I 
 forgot myself." 
 
 A deep groan burst from the lips of the colonel be 
 hind him. The old man put his hand to his head 
 and staggered as if he would have fallen. The bitter 
 ness of death was with him, and added to it the agonies 
 of shame. His son a traitor! Oh, God, could that 
 be? 
 
 "My son, my son!" cried his mother, in a voice 
 tense with emotion. "Think! Think! What is it 
 you are saying?" 
 
 Darrow stepped across the porch and stood with 
 clenched hands and threatening brow beside his life 
 long friend, the incarnation of force and menace. In 
 his soul, too, Mary Annan's bitter cry was ringing. 
 Peyton looked neither to the right nor left. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he continued, moistening his dry, 
 parched lips again and again, "I love the South. My 
 heart is with her. Here are father, mother, friends, 
 and the woman I love as well. I would give my life 
 blood for them, but I cannot give up my honor. My 
 duty constrains me. I am an officer" with a magnifi 
 cent gesture he lifted his hand to his cap and removed 
 it "of the United States." Was his strength coming 
 back to him at the sound of that beloved name? Yes, 
 yes, thank God ! He went on more firmly : "I have 
 sworn allegiance to the United States. I must be 
 faithful to my duty. Here is my commission as en 
 sign, here are my orders to report at Washington at 
 
 157 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 once. I must go ! I cannot be your captain, gentle 
 men, much as I appreciate the high honor, because I 
 must serve the United States." 
 
 "To hell with the damned traitor!" shrieked a man 
 in the outskirts of the crowd, lifting his fist in wrath, 
 and, catching his example, the yard rang with cries and 
 shouts. 
 
 "Down with him!" 
 
 "Mob him !" 
 
 "Let's ride him on a rail !" 
 
 "Curse the nigger-lover!" 
 
 "Down with the black Republican !" 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the old colonel, galvanized into 
 life by this awful display of passion, "no more of this ! 
 I beg you, no violence. This that was my son has 
 made his choice. Leave him. Leave us, I beg of 
 you. Let him go forth alone. The contempt of 
 friends, the hatred of acquaintances, repudiation by his 
 father and mother, and by those who loved him, will 
 be punishment enough." 
 
 Peyton's mother bowed her head upon her daugh 
 ter's shoulder, and her body shook with sobs. Mary 
 Annan still stared as if fascinated at the immobile face 
 of Peyton. Why, why even in that awful moment, 
 the query flashed into the girl's mind had she ever 
 called him a dreamer? 
 
 He stood looking neither to the right nor to the 
 left, staring ahead at the company of Light Infantry 
 with a face as set, as hard, as cold, as if carven out 
 of marble. 
 
 At his side stood Darrow, shudders running over his 
 
 158 
 
PEYTON STICKS TO THE FLAG 
 
 body. One touch, one spark, and he would have 
 struck down his whilom friend. Peyton realized this. 
 He was sick with horror at the thought. He shud 
 dered too. Was it fear? What was it? Was he a 
 coward indeed? By the living God he would stand 
 there upon that porch and face them all if the next 
 heartbeat were to be his last. 
 
 "We came for a captain," said the first sergeant, 
 suddenly, as the tumult and the shoutings died away, 
 "and we are going to have one. By your leave, 
 leftenant. Comrades, I nominate for our captain, 
 Sergeant Bob Darrow, of the cavalry, if he'll take it." 
 
 "Darrow! Let's have Darrow!" shouted the 
 others. 
 
 "Those who are in favor of the election of Ser 
 geant Robert Darrow will say 'Aye,' " said the lieuten 
 ant, promptly. 
 
 A great shout of approval burst from the company. 
 
 "Men," said Darrow, hoarsely and brokenly, "I ap 
 preciate the honor. After the treachery we have 
 heard here I can only do my part as a loyal son of the 
 State. I accept the office, and, please God, if the 
 battle come may we be found together in the front 
 ranks." 
 
 The old colonel's face, no less white than that of his 
 son, turned with stately calmness to the young soldier 
 standing like a demigod on the steps of the porch. 
 No wonder the physical nature of Mary Annan and of 
 many another woman rejoiced in the splendid perfec 
 tion of the young man. 
 
 "My boy," cried the colonel, seizing Darrow by the 
 159 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 hand, "you are a true son of the South. We are all 
 proud of you." 
 
 And Mary Annan fled to the new captain's side and 
 took his hand again, and would have kissed it in the 
 excitement of that moment, but he would not permit 
 her. 
 
 "I wished you Godspeed last night," she said. "I 
 do it again now, with more heart than before." 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the colonel, as the cheering died 
 away, "you will pardon me if I say I cannot ask you to 
 partake of my hospitality under the present circum 
 stances." 
 
 "We await your commands, Captain Darrow," said 
 Lieutenant Johnstone. 
 
 "March your men to the armory," said Darrow. "I 
 will be there in half an hour." 
 
 "You will understand me, friends and neighbors, I 
 am sure," said the colonel to the others, "if I now beg 
 you to leave us alone." 
 
 The group waited silent and motionless on the porch 
 until the last straggler had departed from the gate. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 DRIVEN AWAY 
 
 OW, sir," said the colonel, turning to 
 his oldest son. 
 
 "Wait, sir!" cried the girl, inter 
 rupting him and coming close to Pey 
 ton. "Do you call yourself a gentle 
 man?" she asked him, fiercely, her 
 hands twisting together nervously in a 
 writhing, anguished motion. "Last 
 night on the porch, after you decided, 
 you said words of love to me and I 
 I believed in you. Oh, hear the in 
 famy, all ! I believed in you, I trusted 
 you. You put your arm around me; 
 I did not resist. You kissed me " 
 She brushed her lips with the back of 
 her hand in ineffable scorn, as she 
 spoke, with a constantly rising voice. 
 "Almost you persuaded me to love you. I gloried in 
 you! Oh, was it a lie? Did you do it all to win a 
 woman's lips ? Are you a thief and a coward as well 
 as a traitor?" 
 
 Peyton attempted to speak, but before he could do 
 so Darrow grasped him roughly by the shoulders with 
 both hands. 
 
 161 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "Damn you, you infernal villain !" he shouted, shak 
 ing him to and fro in his powerful arms. "Did you 
 dare to do that? By God, I'll kill you where you 
 stand!" 
 
 But with a strength surprising in one so slender 
 Peyton dragged himself away. His hand went to the 
 hilt of his sword; the blade flashed in the air as he partly 
 drew it from the scabbard. 
 
 "Stop !" cried the colonel. "Put up your weapon, 
 sir ! Your friends will need it, and on this porch we 
 fight only with gentlemen." 
 
 "You are right, sir," said the young man, proudly, 
 yet wincing under his father's sneer, thrusting his 
 sword back into its scabbard; "they will need it, and 
 they shall have it." 
 
 But his resentment at once gave place to other feel 
 ings. Those before him were his all. Might he not 
 persuade them, justify himself? 
 
 "I can understand how you must feel, father all of 
 you," he said. "Miss Mary, you did persuade me last 
 night. I intended to resign then. I kissed you with 
 as loving and as true a heart as ever beat in a man's 
 breast. For that kiss I am deeply sorry, and I humbly 
 beg your pardon. Anything you can say of me can 
 not be as deep as the recollection of it. But it was 
 not in false pretence. I was yours then, and yours, 
 father, and yours, mother, and yours, Darrow. Now 
 I belong to my country." 
 
 "Thank God!" cried Mary Annan, passionately, "I 
 didn't promise you anything. It was gratitude 
 gratitude, do you hear? rather than love. I thought 
 
 162 
 
DRIVEN AWAY 
 
 possibly I might love you, but I did not. I hate you ! 
 I loathe you ! If you were in my heart I'd tear it out 
 and trample upon it to put you out of my recollec 
 tion." 
 
 She stamped upon the porch as she spoke. Then 
 she shrank nearer to Darrow, laying her hand con 
 fidently upon his strong arm as if she had found a pro 
 tector. She felt outraged, and the honest love and 
 admiration of the young soldier were grateful to her. 
 
 "Say the word, Miss Mary," said that young man, 
 instantly, "and I will kill him where he stands." 
 
 "That would be an easy solution," cried Peyton, 
 bitterly. "I would welcome it indeed, were you to 
 kill me like a gentleman." 
 
 "I would kill you like a dog!" hissed Darrow, step 
 ping forward. 
 
 But two people intervened ; one, strange to say, was 
 Mary Annan, who caught his outstretched hand with 
 a sudden fierce gesture, and the other was young Wil 
 lis, who sprang before his brother. 
 
 "I'm only a boy," he said, coolly. "I don't agree 
 with Boyd, here, but I'm a Peyton, and nobody shall 
 speak so of him, much less lay hand upon him, in my 
 presence." 
 
 "Thank you, Willis," said Peyton, slowly. "But 
 don't get into any difficulty on my account; I can take 
 care of myself. Father " 
 
 "Call me not by that name, sir!" said the old man, 
 sternly. 
 
 "Mother !" he continued, stepping toward the wom 
 an who bore him, and he noticed with added pain 
 
 163 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 that all the youth fulness and charm he had marvelled 
 at last night had gone from her face, leaving it gray 
 and broken and old. 
 
 As he stretched out his arms toward her she made a 
 step forward, but the colonel caught her by the arm 
 and swept her to his breast, saying, with cold deter 
 mination, as to a stranger : 
 
 "This lady is my wife, and is nothing to you." 
 
 "Pink!" cried Boyd, in desperation, turning to his 
 sister as a last resort. 
 
 But Pink had gone to Mary Annan, and the girls 
 were clasped in each other's arms. Pink was crying 
 bitterly, but Mary Annan, with her head high, stood 
 by Bob Darrow, with a look scarcely less resolute and 
 infinitely more bitter on her face than that on Pey 
 ton's. 
 
 "Listen, sir!" said his father. "You have made 
 your choice. You must go. I wish neither to see 
 you nor hear of you, and from henceforth you shall 
 be as one dead to us. Your name shall not be men 
 tioned in this house. If any child of mine shall have 
 the inclination I forbid him or her to hold any com 
 munication with you. Here is no longer home for 
 you. Your trunk shall be sent to the station to-night. 
 The money I have held in trust for you from your 
 grandfather's estate, amounting to some five thousand 
 dollars, will be paid over to you at the bank to-day at 
 three o'clock. I shall expect you to be there to re 
 ceive it. That is all. Now you may go. We will 
 endeavor to forget the disgrace you have put upon us, 
 and I pray God I may never see your face again." 
 
 164 
 
DRIVEN AWAY 
 
 A low groan burst from Boyd Peyton's lips. He 
 buried his face in his hands and shook like a woman. 
 
 "A horse is at your service," continued the colonel, 
 impassively, "to carry you into town. Leave him at 
 the stable, as usual." 
 
 "I will take nothing, sir," answered Peyton at last, 
 nerving himself to face the inevitable "nothing but 
 the uniform and the sword I wear. I won't ask any of 
 you to break father's command to speak to me," he 
 continued, looking at the rest through misted eyes. "I 
 will just say good-by to you all, and may God bless 
 you. I dare not ask father to bless me. You don't 
 know how terrible this has been to me, but I am a 
 Peyton, too. I have my ideas of honor, and I must 
 abide by them. Miss Mary, I am as earth beneath 
 your feet, but, believe me, I have truly loved you and 
 I shall love you to the very end." 
 
 There was a little silence. No one answered, and 
 for a moment no one moved. Finally Bob Darrow 
 slowly swung on his heel and deliberately turned his 
 back on his former friend. The affection between 
 them was gone, the friendship forever broken. Mary 
 Annan stared at him, her lip still curling. Pink averted 
 her head. The old colonel, still holding his wife in 
 his arms, looked out beyond him through the trees 
 over the head of the boy who would never gallop down 
 the long avenue again. That silence, that ghastly 
 silence, was broken only by the sobs of his sister and 
 by the thin, low moan of his mother. 
 
 "Oh, Willis !" she cried to her husband, "he is my 
 boy! Do not drive him off!" 
 
 165 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "For God's sake, sir," said the colonel, furiously, "if 
 you have a vestige of the instinct of a gentleman left 
 in you, go !" 
 
 Peyton turned away instantly, and slowly descended 
 the steps, each footfall upon the boards sounding like 
 a death-knell to those left behind. 
 
 "By heaven!" cried Willis, impetuously, as his 
 brother stepped rigidly down the path, "I can't stand 
 it, and I won't!" 
 
 He sprang down the steps and in a moment 
 reached his brother's side. 
 
 "Good-by, Boyd, old fellow," he cried, " I can't let 
 you go without a word. We don't think as you do, 
 but we know you will do your duty, and I will say 
 God bless you for father and mother and Pink and my 
 self. God bless you, and some day it will come out 
 all right." 
 
 There were tears in the boy's eyes. He put his arm 
 about his brother's neck and kissed him, and then 
 stopped on the walk and watched him proudly go on 
 and on. 
 
 They stood in silence until he turned out of the 
 gate and disappeared down the road, never looking 
 back. So Boyd Peyton left the home of his fathers. 
 
 "Willis," cried the colonel, sharply, as Boyd dis 
 appeared, "I forgive you this time, but try me no 
 more. Help me to carry your mother indoors. I 
 am afraid she has fainted. Daughter, run for some 
 restorative." 
 
DRIVEN AWAY 
 
 "Miss Mary," said Darrow, as they were left alone. 
 "Is it true?" 
 
 "Is what true?" 
 
 'That he kissed you." 
 
 "Yes. Do you hate me for it?" 
 
 "I love you." 
 
 "Would you do you wish me " 
 
 "Do you love him?" 
 
 "I hate him!" she cried, stamping her foot again. 
 
 "Did you love him last night?" 
 
 "I thought so, but now I know I never did. I 
 never shall. It is all over with. I despise him. I 
 you said you loved me. Do you want me now? Will 
 you take me?" 
 
 Her face was flushed with passion. She was beside 
 herself with rage and wounded pride. It was evident 
 that she scarcely knew what she was saying or doing, 
 as she stretched out her arms to him. It was not love, 
 but what was it? Jealousy, resentment, revenge, or 
 what? The temptation was great. If he took her at 
 Iher word he might bind her to him. A week before 
 foe would have done it he would have leaped at the 
 chance; but now he was changed. It was different. 
 Not thus would he win her. He showed his mag 
 nanimity when he spoke, and the girl, recognizing 
 it, almost loved him. 
 
 "I love you," he said. "God only knows how I 
 love you. To call you mine, to win you for my wife, 
 :is the dearest wish of my heart. But I can't take you 
 ithis way. You don't know what you are saying. It 
 would not be fair to you. I wonder if you know what 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 it costs me to say this. No, you can't know, but you 
 will later. Meantime you must know, and by this, 
 that I am yours, all of me is yours, and that the day 
 you can say to me in your sober senses what you have 
 just said will make me the happiest man on earth. 
 Good-by; thank you, and God bless you." 
 
 He bent low over her hand, kissed it fervently, and 
 left her alone. A soldier and a gentleman indeed, 
 and never nearer to his desire than in that brave re 
 nunciation. 
 
 There was a bit of paper on the floor, lying at her 
 feet. It was the last thing Peyton had touched. She 
 had observed it mechanically at the time that it had 
 fallen from his hand. It was an open letter, and he 
 had touched it. She picked it up. It was a brief note. 
 Throwing conscience to the winds she read it. The 
 name signed at the end was an unfamiliar one to her. 
 
 "Farragut! David G. Farragut! Who can he be? 
 Oh, is it he who has changed Boyd's resolution and 
 broken my heart?" 
 
 She crushed the paper in her hand. 
 
 "Oh, my God !" she cried, as she turned toward the 
 house. "Was ever woman so cruelly used as I? and, 
 shame upon me, I love him still! No, no, I hate 
 him!" 
 
 Poor Peyton, poor Darrow, poor Mary Annan ! 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 T 
 
 A WANDERER AND A VAGABOND 
 
 HE distance between the Peyton place 
 and the town was several miles. Boyd 
 Peyton was so exhausted by the scenes 
 through which he had passed that he 
 felt it would be almost impossible for 
 him to drag himself into the town. 
 His brain reeled from the tremendous 
 strain which he had just undergone. 
 The road swam before his dazed vis 
 ion. These moments alone that fol 
 lowed were harder to bear than that 
 crucial half hour on the porch. Then 
 he had the stimulus of action, the ex 
 citement of doing something. Now it 
 was just a dull plod, plod, plod, on 
 the white road toward the town. 
 
 On his way to town people passed 
 Boyd Peyton in wagons or buggies and marvelled at 
 the unusual spectacle of a young man in a naval uni 
 form, carrying a sword, walking with drooping head 
 on the public road. One or two who recognized him 
 stopped and offered him a seat. He refused these 
 kindly proffers, however, with a silent shake of his 
 head, so they were forced to pass him by. When he 
 entered the city he found that the story of the scene 
 
 169 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 had been repeated by those who had participated in it, 
 or witnessed it, and he had become a marked man. 
 
 He roused himself here, lifted his head up, sum 
 moned his strength again, and walked boldly forward. 
 People ran to the doors of stores as he came along 
 the street and stared after him, for the most part with 
 curious, although sometimes with set, hard, malignant 
 faces; and there were women not many, but some 
 who looked at him with pity. The ragamuffins of 
 the streets called after him here and there, and some 
 one threw a stone in a puddle of muddy water by which 
 he happened to pass, and spattered him. Those whom 
 he had known intimately in days gone by avoided his 
 gaze, turned aside as he approached, or else resolutely 
 gave him the cut direct by looking him full in the 
 face and giving no sign of recognition. 
 
 His was not a pleasant face to look upon then. 
 Such sternness of repression, such mortal agony, be 
 neath the outward iron of his visage, could hardly be 
 imagined. People who saw it never forgot it. He 
 walked slowly along his via dolorosa looking neither 
 to the right nor to the left, seeking no recognition, 
 paying no attention to anyone. His mind was in a 
 frightful turmoil. It was reaching back to that awful 
 scene on the porch. It was reaching out to the lonely 
 misery of the future. 
 
 He was not entirely oblivious to the surroundings 
 either, and there was forced upon him the necessity 
 for a decision about what ordinarily would have been 
 a trivial matter. Sometimes trivial matters in 
 great crises save us from going mad. The train for 
 
 170 
 
A WANDERER AND A VAGABOND 
 
 the North which he had resolved to take did not leave 
 until evening. It was not more than two o'clock now, 
 and he did not know where to go, where to stay, 
 during the intervening hours. One thing was certain. 
 He had almost reached the limit of his strength. Un 
 less he could get some resting-place he would collapse 
 in the street. 
 
 There was another duty to be done. He must go 
 to the bank. The little fortune his father had spoken 
 of was rightfully his own. It had come to him through 
 his grandfather, and he was resolved to take it. A 
 messenger from his father's place had passed him on 
 the road, and the matter was undoubtedly arranged. 
 To the bank on Royal Street, therefore, he turned his 
 steps. Old Mr. Pleasants, the cashier, whom he had 
 known from his childhood, who had always treated 
 him with affectionate cordiality, met him at the door. 
 Instead of giving him an invitation to come into the 
 private office, as usual, for a little chat while the details 
 of business were arranged, the old man, without a 
 word of greeting or recognition, sternly motioned him 
 to a seat near the window, and coldly indicated that he 
 could remain there until the necessary formalities were 
 concluded. The money, which he took in New York 
 drafts, was fairly flung at him. 
 
 He stepped out of the bank door and looked hope 
 lessly up and down the street. There was the Battle 
 House, the principal hotel of the place. Well, why 
 not go there? He resolved to do so. He noticed that 
 the men shrank from him as he entered the rotunda 
 and walked up to the desk. 
 
 171 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "I want a room until this evening, and a meal sent 
 to it," he said, picking up the pen preparatory to 
 signing his name on the register. 
 
 "Very sorry, sir," answered the clerk, curtly, not to 
 say rudely, "but we have no vacant rooms." 
 
 Peyton understood and, too proud to argue, turned 
 and walked out of the hotel. Certainly he never cal 
 culated upon this. He had not realized the intensity 
 of feeling which had been evoked by the situation, 
 and which his action seemed to have brought to a 
 head. In that whole community he seemed to be ab 
 solutely alone. The veriest wandering dog, the poor 
 est vagabond out of the streets, could win more recog 
 nition and find more kindness than he. 
 
 Mastering the trembling of his limbs by a violent 
 effort, he struck out aimlessly across the square, in 
 tending vaguely to go out on the Shell Road, any 
 where, away from the observation of the curious, which 
 galled his sensitive nature beyond control, when he 
 was accosted in kindly tones by Dr. Venosste. He 
 nearly gave way as he heard the familiar voice. Sup 
 posing his old friend was ignorant of the situation he 
 at first paid no attention to it, but the doctor caught 
 him by the arm and walked along by his side. 
 
 "Good gracious, Boyd !" he said, "you are as white 
 as death, and trembling like an aspen ! Where are you 
 going?" 
 
 "I I don't know," answered Peyton. 
 
 "Come with me." 
 
 "I don't believe you know what I have done," 
 said Peyton, resisting. 
 
 172 
 
A WANDERER AND A VAGABOND 
 
 "I know all about it, my boy," said Dr. Venosste, 
 with kindly insistence. "We don't think alike on 
 some things, but you have a right to your opinions. 
 I believe you entertain them honestly. If your honor 
 calls you to take the course you did to-day I, at least, 
 shall never blame you. Meanwhile, you must come 
 with me." 
 
 He turned the young man about, and they walked 
 rapidly down Joachim Street toward the doctor's 
 house. 
 
 "You must have something to eat and get a few 
 hours' rest. If you don't you will faint here on the 
 street." 
 
 "I must not do that, Doctor." 
 
 "No, of course not," said the doctor. "Here we 
 are at last. Now cpme in." 
 
 "Doctor, who told you about about every 
 thing?" Peyton asked as he sank exhausted in an easy 
 chair in the library. 
 
 "It is all over town, Boyd," replied the doctor, 
 frankly. "I heard it from a dozen sources." 
 
 "I suppose everybody blames me dreadfully?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Dr. Venosste, "most people do. 
 And they blame you the more because last night they 
 thought you had decided. They don't like vacilla 
 tion." 
 
 The doctor spoke kindly, but the truth of the ac 
 cusation cut the young man. He had behaved 
 shabbily. He should have decided it at once. Well, 
 what difference now? It was all over. 
 
 "They are excited by the situation," continued his 
 173 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 friend; "their passions are aroused. I fear it will be 
 some time before they will think of you differently. 
 But it makes no difference to me; I want you to know 
 that. This house is yours, so long as you choose to 
 remain in it, and I shall be honored to have you here. 
 I can respect the courage that it must have required 
 for you to take such a step. Your conscience and your 
 reasons are your own. Your friendship is mine." 
 
 "But, Dr. Venosste," said Boyd, "they will visit this 
 kindness to me upon you. You would better let me 
 go." 
 
 "No, no/* said the doctor, firmly, "I think my posi 
 tion is sufficiently secure to enable me to do what I 
 please. And whether it be or not I shall do it. Now 
 you must have something to eat," he said, as his ser 
 vant, who had been previously directed by him, en 
 tered the room with a tray containing a substantial 
 luncheon. 
 
 "No," urged the doctor, pressing it upon him, "I 
 will take no denial. Men must eat, no matter what 
 crises they may be passing through. They must eat 
 to live." 
 
 "Oh, Doctor/' said Peyton, "I don't want to live ! 
 What have I to live for?" 
 
 "My lad, live to give some value to your sacrifice. 
 Live to do your duty toward that side of this awful 
 quarrel which your honor constrains you to take. 
 Since you have done this thing, the manly part is to 
 carry it through. Have no more vacillation or hesi 
 tation. There, that's better," he said, as Peyton, 
 moved by his severe but kindly words, made some 
 
 174 
 
A WANDERER AND A VAGABOND 
 
 effort to comply with the elder man's insistent request. 
 "When the lunch is over I shall prescribe something 
 for you let me act as physician as well as friend 
 which will enable you to get a few hours' sleep. I 
 take it that you did not have much rest last night?" 
 
 "No, nor for many nights," answered Peyton, grate 
 fully. "But you must see that I am awakened, if I 
 do go to sleep, in time to catch the six o'clock train. 
 I am ordered to report at Washington at once, and be 
 sides there is nothing to keep me here now." 
 
 The doctor's potion and exhausted nature threw 
 Peyton into a deep sleep, from which he was awakened 
 by the doctor himself about five o'clock. 
 
 "Well," said the old man, "you look better, and 
 I suppose you feel better." 
 
 "I feel somewhat rested, at any rate," said Peyton. 
 "I do not suppose anything will ever make me feel 
 any better in one sense." 
 
 "Yes, yes, lots of things will. Just wait. You will 
 see," said the doctor, cheerily. "Youth and strength, 
 they are the greatest remedies and anodynes in 
 nature's pharmacopoeia. Now make yourself ready, 
 and I will drive you down to the station." 
 
 "If you please, Doctor," said the young man, reso 
 lutely, "I would rather walk, and I will go alone." 
 
 "That you shall not, for I intend to do myself the 
 honor of going with you. And Dr. Bampney, who 
 was here this afternoon to see you, will come too. He 
 says he can't let you go without a word of farewell." 
 
 "You are very good to me, Doctor," answered Pey 
 ton. " 'I was a stranger and ye took me in.' ' 
 
 175 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 'Tut, tut, boy! You will never be a stranger in 
 Mobile when I am here/' said the old man, bustling 
 out of the room. 
 
 Peyton followed him presently. As he stepped into 
 the hall old Dr. Bampney came in, his venerable face 
 aglow with feeling. 
 
 "My dear, dear Boyd," he cried, clasping his hands, 
 "you have broken our hearts by your perversity, but 
 we love you just the same. I do not know what future 
 sacrifice you may be called upon to make, or how far 
 you may be sundered from your people here, or 
 whether war may come, but don't forget," continued 
 the old man, his lip quivering, his eyes filling with 
 tears, "that some of us will love you. I know you 
 have not done this thing lightly or carelessly. I know 
 what it means to you," he said, putting his hand ten 
 derly on the young man's shoulder, "and some day it 
 will all come right. Everything will all come right. 
 You will think as we do, please God, or we will realize 
 all of us, as some of us do now, that whatever you 
 did, you did for the best, and because your honor de 
 manded it." 
 
 "Thank you, Doctor, thank you," said Peyton, 
 gratefully. "I pray so." 
 
 "Ah, Dr. Venosste," continued the clergyman, 
 "here I am, you see, and we will go down to the sta 
 tion with our young friend." 
 
 Peyton felt that he had a guard of honor as he 
 walked with these two venerable men through the 
 streets, and other people felt it too. Some few who 
 knew him spoke to him as he passed. At the station 
 
A WANDERER AND A VAGABOND 
 
 he sent no message to anyone. What was the use of 
 it? He made no explanations. What was the use of 
 that, either? He just wrung the hands of the two old 
 men before he stepped into the car and was whirled 
 away. The last glimpse he caught of them Dr. Bamp- 
 ney had his hands raised in prayer or benediction, and 
 the other older man stood uncovered by his side. 
 
 It would be a long time before Boyd Peyton came 
 back to Mobile, and when he did, it would be in a 
 different guise from that of a fugitive hounded from 
 the streets. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 I 
 
 THE REGIMENT MARCHES AWAY 
 
 T was springtime at Mobile, and spring 
 time to the South is as summer to the 
 North. Already the trees were in full 
 leaf and the flowers in full bloom. 
 The long withering heats of summer 
 were still to come. Events had moved 
 rapidly. The Southern Confederacy 
 was fully organized. Montgomery, 
 Alabama, had been the scene of its 
 birth. Fort Sumter had been fired 
 upon. There was no longer any doubt 
 that there would be war between the 
 sections. The air was full of martial 
 preparations. President Davis and 
 President Lincoln had each called for 
 troops, little dreaming either of them 
 of the monotonous repetitions of the call that would 
 be necessitated by the gigantic character of the strife 
 about to be waged. Mobile had joyously offered its 
 contingent, and to-day the first battalion of the first 
 regiment to depart was leaving for the front. The 
 march of events had made Bob Darrow a major, and 
 Corporal Pleasants, his friend, was now a second lieu 
 tenant in what had been the Light Infantry, in Bar- 
 row's battalion. The troops were ordered to leave at 
 
THE REGIMENT MARCHES AWAY 
 
 three o'clock. It was half after two now, and he was 
 still lingering in the parlor at Annandale. 
 
 Mary Annan was excuse enough to make even a 
 soldier forget his orders. She had developed strangely 
 since that night a few months ago, when she had cele 
 brated her birthday. If some of the merry audacity 
 had left her, the sweeter dignity of womanhood, ap 
 proaching if not yet come, had taken its place, and 
 there was no loss. In the infatuated soldier's eyes she 
 was more beautiful than ever. A change had come 
 over him too. Rough soldiering, hard living, and 
 high thinking had sobered him. He was a different 
 man from what he had been that day he and Peyton 
 had sat beside Mary Annan on their horses watching 
 the troops march by. The better side of his nature 
 had been aroused. It was coming to the front indeed. 
 Very handsome he looked in his new gray uniform, 
 booted and spurred and belted, his sabre clanking at 
 his side a magnificent cavalier. The girl's heart 
 went out to him pleading there with every advantage 
 that man could possess for her affection. He had 
 courted her as if her avowal upon the porch had not 
 been spoken, and she had rejoiced in the delicacy of 
 feeling which had restrained him from the faintest 
 allusion to it. But she had not yet given him her 
 answer. She had found it difficult to make up her 
 mind after all, although she honestly longed and strove 
 to love him. In these parting hours he seemed to 
 have conquered, but not without assistance from her. 
 She had resolutely put out of mind another face grown 
 strangely strong which had risen again and again be- 
 
 179 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 fore her, and at the last moment she had agreed to 
 be Darrow's wife. 
 
 "When you come back," she said, "a victor; when 
 this war, which will probably be soon concluded, is 
 over, and we have conquered, you may claim me. 
 Until then you we will wait. I promise you on my 
 word and honor, the Annan word, the honor of a 
 Southern woman, that I will be yours at that time 
 Robert." 
 
 How sweet the unfamiliar name sounded in his 
 ear. 
 
 "My dear, my dear!" he cried, "you send me away 
 with such a hope in my heart, such an incentive before 
 my eyes, as will make me a paladin of valor. And 
 you have made me selfish, too. I shall fight now not 
 so much for the South as for you." 
 
 "No," said the girl, "the land, our dear land, first 
 of all." 
 
 "Nothing, nothing," protested Darrow, vehemently, 
 "shall be first but you. And now, having won you, I 
 must go." 
 
 He stopped and looked wistfully at her. 
 
 "Take off your sword," she said, softly. "Un 
 buckle it and hand it to me. The belt, too." 
 
 Wondering, he complied with her request. 
 
 "Now stand there, still." 
 
 As she spoke she circled the belt about him and 
 clasped the buckle. His heart swelled with pride and 
 devotion as she did so. Then she drew the sword 
 from the scabbard and kissed blade and guard, and 
 then sheathed it and hooked it to the belt. 
 
 1 80 
 
THE REGIMENT MARCHES AWAY 
 
 "Now I have girded you," she said, "and you are my 
 knight, mine and the South's." 
 
 He was very close to her then. 
 
 "Mary?" he said, interrogatively, and not waiting for 
 an answer he swept her into his arms and almost 
 crushed her against his breast. 
 
 She struggled feebly, turned her head away, but 
 he caught her cheek with his hand and before she knew 
 it turned her face toward him and pressed a passionate 
 kiss upon her lips. It was the second time a young 
 man had kissed her. 
 
 Before she could cry out or make resistance, or utter 
 a word, he had released her and rushed from the room. 
 That kiss brought her to herself. It awoke the sleep 
 ing truth in her heart. It was not like the other. 
 There was agony in the thought. Must she be the 
 slave to a passion for a traitor to her country? Was 
 she to break the honest heart of the young soldier who 
 had gone from her full of hope and joy and elation? 
 She swore in her soul that she would not. She 
 would make him happy. Yet, for all that, she laid 
 her head in her hands and sobbed, and sobbed as only a 
 broken-hearted woman can. 
 
 The music in the streets called her to her senses 
 again. As she had done on that never-to-be-forgot 
 ten night, she resolutely dried her tears, opened the 
 window and stepped upon the gallery. The soldiers 
 were making a parade through the town before they 
 marched away. They were far up the street now; 
 the music came to her faintly. The band was playing 
 "Dixie," a tune that had thrilled and was to thrill half 
 
 181 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 a continent with its infectious melody, and which 
 was to be enshrined in Southern hearts until the day 
 of judgment should come. 
 
 Presently the music stopped and the cadence was 
 kept up by the rattling of the drums. They were 
 nearer now. The streets were full of people, black 
 and white, rich and poor, high and low, cheering and 
 shouting madly. It was a sunny, brilliant afternoon. 
 The lights sparkled upon the bayonets, flashed from 
 the brass buttons, gleamed on the officers' swords. 
 There was the regiment itself, some of the companies 
 already uniformed in the then unfamiliar Confederate 
 gray. And following it were the escorting companies, 
 soon to march to the front themselves in answer to 
 similar calls. The troops represented every national 
 ity that made up the composite town the Garde La 
 fayette, the German Fusileers, the Washington Light 
 Infantry, the Creole Cavalry, the Scotch Guards, the 
 Emerald Rifles, the Alabama Artillery, the Light 
 Horse Lancers, the Gulf City Guards, the Mobile 
 Cadets, the first company in the whole South to re 
 spond to President Davis's first official call for troops 
 for the Southern Confederacy, and many others. The 
 city which had known four flags, the French, the Span 
 ish, the English, and the United States, was now under 
 the fifth, the stars and bars borne by the color com 
 pany in the front of the line. 
 
 As the troops approached her the sound of the 
 cheering grew in volume until as they passed the place 
 where she stood it was a perfect roar. Yet not every 
 body was cheering. Women looked out upon the 
 
 182 
 
THE REGIMENT MARCHES AWAY 
 
 moving mass with white set faces. Mothers sobbed, 
 fathers trembled, wives yearned; hearts were breaking 
 as the soldiers passed by. They had passed by many 
 a time on one occasion or another, but this time they 
 were going to meet real war. It would be years be 
 fore any of them came back to that town. Indeed, 
 hundreds of those who stepped gayly to the music in 
 the pride of their youth, buoyant with hope, mad with 
 the eagerness of inexperience, to fight, would never 
 come back at all. The regiment would write its name 
 high upon the roll of heroic organizations; its children 
 would sleep till the eternal awakening on many bloody 
 fields from the Rappahannock to the Mississippi. 
 Peace to them ! Glory to them ! 
 
 Thoughts of this kind rose in the mind of the girl 
 and almost choked her. There at the head was little 
 Colonel Withers, with Lieutenant-Colonel Lomax, 
 and there looking straight to the front, like the soldier 
 he was, rode her lover. She stared at him so in 
 tensely that for one brief moment his face swerved 
 and he shot one look at her. The glance was so 
 fraught with passionate devotion, so permeated with 
 buoyant hope, with loving gratitude, with resolution, 
 with determination, that she shrank under it almost 
 as if her heart had been pierced by an arrow. In that 
 one brief glance she saw the soul of that man who 
 loved her as she had never before seen it, and it was 
 a good sight. And he carried away with him the 
 picture of her as she stood above him with her hands 
 clasped across her bosom, gazing at him. He would 
 carry that memory into eternity itself. 
 
 183 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 As they looked at each other the fifes and drums of 
 the regiment broke into the shrilling of the "Mocking- 
 Bird," and with that air ringing in his ear, and her 
 picture in his eye, he marched away. 
 
 Ah, ah, it would be a long day before Robert Dar- 
 row came back to Mary Annan, and he, too, would 
 come in a different guise from his departure. 
 
 As she turned to go into the house the guns of 
 the battery roared out a final salute while the young 
 soldiers, full of hope and joy, embarked on the steamer 
 for Montgomery. 
 
 "My dear child," said Judge Annan, coming into 
 the parlor and finding Mary sobbing on the sofa, with 
 little Tempe, very quiet now, kneeling by her side 
 and stroking her hand with that infinite tact which 
 sometimes very small children have, "why are you 
 crying?" 
 
 "For for everything, father. I promised Mr. 
 Bob Darrow to be his wife, when the war is over, and 
 we have conquered, with your consent, sir. I can 
 not help but think how many of them won't won't 
 come back," she sobbed. 
 
 "The war seems to get nearer to us, my child," said 
 the old man, solemnly; "this is only the beginning. 
 Alas, our poor country, our poor country!" 
 
 "Is Mr. Darrow going to shoot the Nunited States, 
 Sister Mary?" asked Tempe, softly, in an awestruck 
 voice. 
 
 Away out on the blue ocean, upon the heaving deck 
 of a mighty ship-of-war, a young officer walked his 
 
 184 
 
, THE REGIMENT MARCHES AWAY 
 
 watch looking far away to the Southland in which was 
 enshrined his heart, although his honor and duty had 
 constrained him to fight under the flag floating above 
 him, the flag of the United States. 
 
 Looking, dreaming, aye, even hoping! Oh, eternal 
 youth ! 
 
BOOK III 
 THE STORM RAGES 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 H 
 
 FACING THE ODDS 
 
 OW much had happened in two and 
 a half years! Mary Annan had not 
 dreamed that there could be crowded 
 into so short a space of time events of 
 such tremendous moment,, so disas 
 trous in their import to the Confed 
 eracy. Two years of constant fight 
 ing, of terrific battle from Virginia to 
 Louisiana, coupled with the bloody 
 repulse of Lee at Gettysburg and the 
 surrender of Vicksburg, must have 
 convinced the farsighted of the hope 
 lessness of the endeavor to form a 
 Southern Confederacy, unless the situ 
 ation could be changed by outside 
 intervention. 
 
 Yet the South still maintained its iron front, still 
 with magnificent courage faced its overwhelming foe, 
 mainly because it was not yet completely exhausted 
 in its resources. There was still a slender reserve of 
 strength which had not yet been drawn into the con 
 test, and the people would not declare their cause to be 
 a lost one until it had been tried out to the bitter end. 
 Because they were men, like their foes, of that plain, 
 sturdy, undaunted, determined American breed, they 
 
 189 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 would never give up, never abandon their efforts, until 
 they had to. 
 
 Gripped by the terrible blockade of the seaboard, 
 which clutched them by the throat, as it were; reeling 
 under the awful blows on the Mississippi, in Tennessee, 
 amid the hills of Pennsylvania, with resolution un 
 abated they still fought on. The decimated, depleted 
 battalions still looked to their weapons and held their 
 lines. Nay, more with impetuous gallantry they ac 
 tually assumed the offensive on every possible op 
 portunity. 
 
 The fiction that one Southerner could whip five 
 Yankees had long since been exploded, but 't is only 
 just to the Southerner to point out that he faithfully 
 endeavored to live up to that conviction. He found, 
 however, that true manhood is not confined by isother 
 mal lines, and that so far as this continent is concerned, 
 climate has little to do with courage. He found the 
 men of the North quick and eager to meet him on the 
 field. Two years of fighting had given the sections a 
 healthy mutual respect, which the old soldiers, at least, 
 have never lost. 
 
 With each hour of the struggle some of the bitter 
 ness of it disappeared. The personal antagonism 
 which had been so prominent was blown away by the 
 cannon. Strange as it may seem, they fought good- 
 naturedly almost good-humoredly and without 
 malevolence. They still cherished the principles for 
 which they contended ; they were still determined and 
 resolute to enforce them, but they did not hate and 
 despise each other as a whole. Every battle showed 
 
 190 
 
FACING THE ODDS 
 
 this. It was the politicians, the non-combatants, the 
 prison guards, the contractors, who held and nourished 
 the rancor. And forgive me to this class may be 
 added the women. They are the only unreconstructed 
 class to-day. For this there was a reason. 
 
 The hardest of humanity's tasks is, waiting while 
 others act. To sit passive at home while the struggle 
 is waged abroad; to watch with sinking heart for re 
 ports from the battle; to scan with deadly anxiety the 
 monotonous lists of killed and wounded, fearful for the 
 sight of a beloved name ; to be left alone, to find one's 
 self a widow in the twinkling of an eye, a mother 
 bereft ; to be hungry, ill-clad, to feel want where 
 plenty had been; to hear children clamor and have 
 nothing wherewith to satisfy them; to wait in terrified 
 apprehension for .the coming of the conquerors; to 
 summon cheerfulness from breaking heart and tremb 
 ling lip; to welcome the return of the defeated; to 
 fly before the battle in the morning; to search upon 
 the stricken field in the evening; to kneel by the bed 
 side of the dying in the hospital ah, God, this is what 
 war means for woman ! What wonder that it made 
 it makes them bitter? 
 
 The born cowards are few and far between. How 
 ever men may feel at first, they finally grow to love 
 the atmosphere of battle. The rattle of small arms, 
 the hiss of the rifle bullet, the scream of the shell, 
 the roar of the cannon, like the shrilling of the trum 
 pet, the rolling of the drum, rouse the virile man. The 
 hardships of the forced march, the long exposure, the 
 hard privation, are forgotten when the battle is joined, 
 
 191 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 and the small flag flutters from the staff in the stout 
 arm at the head of the charging column. The touch 
 of human shoulders in the resistless advance, the click 
 of steel on steel in savage onset, aye, even the last 
 desperate stand before some overwhelming foe, fill 
 the soul. 
 
 " For how can men die better 
 Than facing fearful odds, 
 For the ashes of their fathers, 
 And the temples of their gods ! " 
 
 To struggle is to live. Oh, for one hour of such life, 
 one short hour of heroic zeal, of high endeavor, of 
 splendid courage on a stricken field, whether it be in 
 the foreground of victory, or at the battle heart hold 
 ing back the human tide of conquest. It is worth a 
 cycle of inglorious ease, a century of ignoble quiet! 
 When man, with his fighting blood up, the blood that 
 has made him, feeble animal that he is, the conqueror 
 of the world, has his back against the wall, or stands 
 alone in the last ditch and strikes out for God and 
 man, for truth and right, until the end, then he rises 
 to the highest standard of his manhood, then he 
 transcends the monotony of little life. It is the lone 
 liness of the Cross that adds the last touch of sublimity 
 to the sacrifice. 
 
 Oh, that splendid phrase of the great militant Saint 
 Paul, when he says, "And having done all, to stand !" 
 To stand beaten, broken, but undaunted, resolute to 
 the end. To fall for a great and splendid cause, a 
 high and holy duty, a lofty and cherished ideal that is 
 what we love. These are the compensations for the 
 
 192 
 
FACING THE ODDS 
 
 horrors of the field. It is always the other man in our 
 anticipations who is stricken down; and if the bullet 
 finds us and snuffs us suddenly out well, thank God, 
 we did not know. If we must suffer long agonies be 
 cause of it, we will at least have had the hour of the 
 fierce savage joy which comes only to the fighter in 
 the cause he loves. 
 
 But none of this is for the women. What wonder, 
 then, that most of them were bitter? Tried in that 
 awful fire, Mary Annan had emerged from the test, 
 so far as it had been completed, another woman. The 
 old judge, stricken to the heart by the division of his 
 unhappy country, had pined and failed. When the 
 news came blowing down the wind on that July day 
 that Vicksburg had fallen and that the great artery 
 of the Mississippi beat and throbbed under the old 
 flag of the old Union; and when the dreadful story 
 of the ebbing of the mighty tide of war at Gettysburg 
 was received, when the last hope of the South went 
 down as Pickett's columns reeled back from Cemetery 
 Ridge leaving the heroic Armistead's dead body to 
 mark high water on the hills, as if in accordance with 
 his own resolution the judge folded his hands across 
 his breast and became a citizen of another country, 
 that is let us hope a heavenly one. 
 
 And Beverly Annan, a boy of sixteen, home from 
 the Virginia Military Institute, overruling his sister's 
 protests, had enlisted in the artillery, and gone down 
 to Fort Morgan with the First Alabama Battery, 
 where Colonel Peyton, now a brigadier-general, com 
 manded all the defences of the bay. 
 
 193 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "What !" cried the boy, when she expostulated with 
 him and besought him, "the South in extremity, right 
 ing for everything that men hold dear, and no Annan 
 in the field ! Yes, yes, I know I am the last of them, 
 Sister Mary, except you and little Tempe, the last of 
 the line; yet, if it must end, can it end in a better way?" 
 
 And so, laughing boylike beneath his tears, he had 
 torn himself from her and was gone. Only Tempe 
 remained, Tempe grown taller and larger and wiser, 
 but Tempe much the same ; not asking now if the sol 
 diers were going to shoot the "Nunited States." The 
 departure of troops from the city had become such an 
 ordinary occurrence now as to awaken little attention. 
 
 Willis Peyton, perhaps influenced by his brother's 
 profession, had resigned from the battery and had 
 gone into the Confederate Navy, where he had already 
 enjoyed a brilliant career on the Sumter. He was 
 now on duty with other officers at Selma, up the State, 
 where was building a great war vessel, destined to earn 
 for itself an heroic name in future naval history. Mrs. 
 Peyton and Pink lived at Annandale now. The ad 
 ditional expense of keeping up two establishments was 
 great in these straitened days. Mary Annan, alone 
 in the great house, craved the companionship of the 
 elder woman whose daughter was her dearest friend. 
 Most of the negroes of the two households had been 
 sent away with the troops or were at work on the 
 constantly increasing line of fortifications. Only a few 
 of the house servants remained at home. 
 
 Outwardly things remained much as they had been 
 before the war began. The breeze still swept across 
 
 194 
 
FACING THE ODDS 
 
 the bay, laden with the heavy summer fragrance of 
 the semi-tropic blossoms; the mocking-birds still sang 
 in the live-oaks; but within everything was different. 
 Mobile had not yet suffered for the necessaries of life, 
 but luxuries had long since gone. For instance, it had 
 been difficult, nay, impossible, for Mary Annan to 
 purchase black goods for mourning wear when her 
 father died. There was such a demand for that all 
 over the South and the North, too, for that matter 
 that had it not been for the resources of wardrobes of 
 the past she would have been without it. 
 
 These growing privations fell hardest again upon 
 the women, especially those of the aristocratic classes, 
 who had been reared in such ease and luxury, with 
 such abundance of goods and service, as we can 
 scarcely realize now. But they made no murmur, ac 
 cepted the situation without repining, rejoiced that 
 they could contribute that little to the cause they 
 loved. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 MARY ANNAN LEARNS THE TRUTH 
 
 M 
 
 ARY ANNAN had changed greatly 
 in this period. The passionate, fiery, 
 quick-tempered girl, who had reviled 
 Boyd Peyton on 'that day on the porch, 
 and then had thrown herself at Dar- 
 row's head in the next moment, was 
 gone never to return. The old fire 
 still lurked within her veins it would 
 live there as long as youth inhabited 
 her heart but much of the outward 
 impetuosity was gone. Experience had 
 opened her eyes. While her convic 
 tions were as strong as they had been, 
 she had begun to see that others might 
 think differently, that others might ar 
 rive at conclusions at variance with hers, and might 
 be compelled by honor to maintain those conclusions, 
 even though she believed them mistaken. 
 
 Without surrendering a single conviction, where she 
 had despised, she admired; where she had hated, she 
 respected; where she thought she had forgotten, she 
 remembered ; where she remembered,, she loved ! Yes, 
 she was still devoted to the South, and would cheer 
 fully have died for it. She had many a time longed 
 that she were a man to draw a sword or carry a 
 
 196 
 
MARY ANNAN LEARNS THE TRUTH 
 
 musket in defence of her country. She would not 
 have hesitated a moment between love and duty 
 she thought but she had come to realize that, while 
 duty may restrain, it is, after all, love that makes the 
 supreme appeal. And the outward and visible shape 
 which that supreme appeal took before her heart was 
 not that of Darrow, to whom she was betrothed, but 
 Peyton, whom she had rejected. She loved him ! In 
 spite of her pride, in. spite of her cause, in spite of 
 her will, in spite of everything, she loved him ! 
 
 No one in Mobile had heard from Boyd Peyton 
 since that day he had dropped out of their existence 
 years before. But she had loved him with growing 
 intensity ever since. To be sure, she had engaged 
 herself to Darrow. She had persuaded herself in his 
 presence that she could do it with safety; she had tried 
 to blind herself to the truth, and she had clung to that 
 engagement with desperate tenacity during the inter 
 vening years. But her eyes were opened, and she re 
 alized all too soon that the tie binding her to Darrow 
 was merely one of honor and respect. 
 
 It was a pity that this was so, for Darrow had shown 
 himself most admirable in the situations in which he 
 had been placed. He had developed grandly. From 
 major of his regiment he had risen to the command of 
 an Alabama brigade, and in all the desperate fighting 
 of the Army of Northern Virginia he had borne a 
 splendid and heroic part. The State rang with praise 
 of the young paladin. He had been wounded at 
 Chancellorsville, but he had remained with the army 
 and had refused a leave of absence to go home to Mo- 
 
 197 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 bile and recuperate. Darrow had neither father, 
 mother, nor relative living, but the whole South would 
 have been glad to receive him. Alabama was proud 
 of him, Mobile rejoiced to claim him. 
 
 There was something quixotic yet admirable about 
 the young man's position on the subject of home 
 coming. Mary Annan had promised herself to him 
 when the war was over, and he could come back a 
 victor, and until that time arrived he had promised to 
 leave her alone. He would do it. He would keep that 
 promise if it broke his heart. Like Uriah of old, he 
 believed his place to be in the battle-line. 
 
 Frequent letters had come to her from him as the 
 exigencies of his service permitted. Quaint, charm 
 ing letters they were, too, manly, modest, humorous in 
 a way, through them running the clash of arms, the 
 echo of moving squadrons, the roar of battle, and all 
 of them carrying to her the deep and mighty current 
 of love and the consecration of his great, devoted heart. 
 She was the master theme in all the voices the crowded 
 years played in his soul. Without her he was noth 
 ing, one of thousands as brave and strong as he; with 
 her he was a hero. The realization of that fact had 
 kept her to her engagement. He had scarcely gone 
 before she wished it broken. She hated herself for 
 this. She condemned herself for what she called her 
 weakness, not knowing that what she thought a 
 woman's weakness in her heart was yet her strength 
 after all. 
 
 Darrow was no less admirable than Peyton. True, 
 he had not been compelled to make any such sacrifice 
 
 198 
 
MARY ANNAN LEARNS THE TRUTH 
 
 as the other had, but he had done what he conceived 
 to be his duty with a direct simplicity that was admir 
 able. He was handsomer, taller, stronger in a physical 
 way, braver than the other no, not braver, no man 
 could be braver than Peyton. She wondered some 
 times if Darrow would have had the moral courage to 
 refuse her and act as Peyton had done, but that was 
 an academic question. 
 
 But what of all this? It was nothing. If Darrow 
 had been dowered with every faculty, possessed, of 
 every virtue, and if Peyton had none of these, she 
 would have loved him just the same. Her passion 
 had passed far beyond the calmly reasoning or rea 
 sonable stage; it took note only of facts, or rather of 
 the one sublime fact that she loved him. Darrow's 
 appeal had been most powerful to the physical side of 
 her nature, and that side was growing more and more 
 in abeyance in her developing life. If she could have 
 seen him it might have been different; she might have 
 realized the change in him. 
 
 Yet she was not ignorant of what he had done for, 
 and through, her; how lie had developed in love and 
 war. And she was fearful what the consequences 
 might be to him, and, if he were of value, to the South, 
 if she should take away from him the stimulus of hope. 
 Yet she had at last reached the point where she felt 
 compelled to do so. As he loved her more he ex 
 pected more from her; as she loved Peyton more she 
 gave Darrow less and less. 
 
 Her heart had turned absolutely to Peyton. Saving 
 her duty to the South, she was his. His absence, the 
 
 199 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 impossibility of their meeting, all conspired to pro 
 duce the utter abandonment with which she gave way 
 to her passion. She could not sit a single moment in 
 the solitude of her chamber without thinking of him. 
 She realized that if he ever stood again before her with 
 his arms stretched out to her no power on earth should 
 keep them apart unless her duty to the South inter 
 vened. And even that duty would have to be over 
 whelming in its appeal to stay her movement toward 
 him. 
 
 Her being went out to him more strongly when she 
 learned inadvertently that he was an officer on one 
 of the ships blockading the mouth of the bay, opposite 
 Fort Morgan. Fate had as yet given him little op 
 portunity for distinction; he was only a lieutenant, the 
 watch officer of a frigate. 
 
 She sat in her room for long hours, her face lean 
 ing on her hands, staring through the window south 
 ward where he was. His nearness, while it did not 
 make possible their meeting, had found her unable 
 to disguise her longing to see him once more. His 
 advent in the South had added the last stimulus to her 
 heart. The fire and passion which had been repressed 
 so long, burst out for him now. Sometimes with 
 nervous hands she tore at her dress across her bosom 
 as she walked restlessly to and fro in her room, at the 
 thought of him, as if the heart that beat there were 
 confined as if it could not get out, and she must re 
 lease it or die. 
 
 The overpowering of a great passion such as poets 
 have dreamed of, such as historians have written of, 
 
 200 
 
MARY ANNAN LEARNS THE TRUTH 
 
 such as, given wider fields, has moved the world, 
 was upon her. The thought of Peyton obsessed her, 
 and her heart cried out to him with every beating. 
 She trembled even at the most secret thought of his 
 name. She was never so happy as when Mrs. Peyton, 
 long since having disregarded her husband's injunc 
 tions, talked of him. The smallest detail of his life as 
 his mother told over and over again the story of it, 
 was as food to the craving of her soul. 
 
 The elder woman marked the revelation, and won 
 dered, with a painful pity for poor Darrow and a 
 mighty yearning for her eldest son, how it would all 
 end. The grim old father, too, down on the ramparts 
 of Fort Morgan, watched the fleet tossing to and 
 fro on the long swells of the Gulf of Mexico and 
 longed for a sight of the boy he had so loved, although 
 he, at least, gave no outward sign. 
 
 But Mary Annan was heedless of Mrs. Peyton's ob 
 servations. There was room in her heart for little 
 but Peyton. Had he forgotten her? Had he for 
 given her? Did he love her? Did he loathe her? 
 Was his heart still hers? Had he given it to another? 
 Had she crushed love out of him on that bitter day 
 of rejection? Did devotion surge within his veins as 
 in her own? She knew not, almost she cared not. 
 Her feelings were too deep and overwhelming to de 
 pend upon reciprocation. Love was all, the future 
 nothing. 
 
 In Mary Annan's waking hours she was afraid, afraid 
 to think how much she loved Boyd Peyton. In the 
 long nights she dreamed of him. She was his, that was 
 
 20 1 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 all; whether he claimed her or not, whether he knew 
 it or not, she was his. Ah, loving God, how she prayed 
 for him in every hour of her life ! The South and he 
 mingled in her petitions, and only that God who can 
 read the holy mystery of a loving woman's heart knew 
 which came first. 
 
 She would sit for long hours with her face in her 
 hands in that familiar position, gazing to the south 
 ward, her breath coming quick, her color ebbing and 
 flowing, her bosom heaving until she would stretch 
 out her arms piteously to the southward as if to bridge 
 the distance between them and offer him her heart. 
 Sometimes they found her so, with a strange look on 
 her face, a strange light in her eyes, a deep flush on her 
 cheek, exalted, entranced. 
 
 Her feelings grew so strong at last that she came 
 to the conclusion that she must tell Darrow. If it 
 killed him he must know. Every letter she received 
 in its trusting devotion impressed upon her that honor 
 demanded that he should be told the truth. She did 
 not love him. She never could love him. Marriage 
 with him would be no sacrament, but a sacrilege. She 
 honored him, she esteemed him; she would have given 
 worlds to have felt differently. She had honestly tried 
 to love him, but her heart had at last outleaped con 
 straint. That was the naked truth. 
 
 She could not permit herself to deceive him longer, 
 and so at last she poured out her heart to him in one 
 long, broken appeal; telling him the whole truth, 
 shaming herself, scorning herself, but asking her free 
 dom. Not in the hope of marrying Peyton, either 
 
 202 
 
MARY ANNAN LEARNS THE TRUTH 
 
 she was above the idea then and it was impossible 
 anyway but because honor and decency demanded 
 that she tell Darrow the truth, and free herself and him 
 from the bond which was certain to prove horrible to 
 both of them in the end, since love only linked them 
 half the way. It would be kinder to him after all. 
 But kind or not it had to be; if it killed him and her, 
 the word must be written. 
 
 In agony she penned the letter. There was no 
 doubt in her mind as to the sincerity of Barrow's 
 passion for her. She looked into her own heart and 
 saw what he would suffer, and she suffered for and 
 with him. The penalty, and the reward of a great 
 passion is in the sympathy it begets with the suffering 
 that always follows knowledge of the heart. She was 
 dreadfully unhappy. But for Boyd Peyton she would 
 have died. 
 
 The fateful letter had been sent to Darrow about 
 the middle of September by the hand of Hamilton 
 Pleasants, lieutenant-colonel, now if you please, com 
 manding the old Alabama regiment. He had come 
 back to recover from an attack of typhoid fever, after 
 Gettysburg, and he had become bethrothed to Pink 
 Peyton at the time. 
 
 The news had come that Longstreet's corps was 
 hurrying from Virginia to reinforce Bragg's army, 
 then facing Rosecrans and the Army of the Cumber 
 land on the mountains around Chattanooga. Though 
 he was scarcely able to endure the fatigues and de 
 mands of active campaigning, Pleasants had hurried 
 away to intercept his regiment and to take part in 
 
 203 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 the effort which was to be made to hurl the Federal 
 troops out of Tennessee. 
 
 The peculiar feeling that precedes great events was 
 in the air, and everyone waited with baited breath in 
 expectation of the great battle impending. It was 
 with sad hearts indeed that the two young women, 
 Pink and Mary, bade the young man good-by. He 
 carried the heart of one girl with him and in his pocket 
 a letter which was to strike a mortal wound deep in 
 the soul of his boyhood companion. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 E 
 
 WITH DARROW S BRIGADE 
 
 ARLY in the afternoon of September 
 19, 1863, the first of the long troop 
 trains clanked wearily into the station 
 at Ringgold, Georgia. A young man 
 in gray uniform, wearing the shoulder- 
 straps of a lieutenant-colonel stood 
 upon the platform, an expression of 
 eagerness and anxiety on his thin, 
 worn face as he gazed at the long 
 line of ramshackly cars filled with 
 gray-clad men. As the first soldier 
 stepped from the train he rushed im 
 petuously up to him with outstretched 
 arms, shouting: 
 
 "Oh, Bob, Bob, I am so glad " 
 
 The handsome face of Brigadier- 
 General Robert Darrow, commanding 
 the Alabama brigade of Hood's division of Long- 
 street's famous corps of the Army of Northern Vir 
 ginia, broke into a broad smile as Lieutenant-Colonel 
 Hamilton Pleasants recovered himself with an embar 
 rassed laugh, came to attention, saluted in the most 
 formal manner, and remarked, with military pre 
 cision : 
 
 "General, I report for duty, sir." 
 205 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "Glad to see you, Ham," returned Darrow, genially, 
 shaking the other warmly by the hand. "You ought 
 not to be here, though. You are not well yet." 
 
 "Couldn't help it," said Pleasants; "I just had to 
 come. I heard there was going to be fighting, and I 
 wanted to head the old regiment once more." 
 
 "Well, you got here in the nick of time. Your 
 regiment is on this section. Go and take command, 
 and get the men out of the cars. They are in heavy 
 marching order, and are to move forward at once." 
 
 Glad to be in active service once more, and eager to 
 see his old comrades again, Pleasants, forgetting let 
 ters, messages, and everything else, saluted and ran 
 toward the train, receiving a greeting of cheers from 
 his soldiers as they recognized him. 
 
 "Mr. Ledyard," said the young general, turning to 
 a staff officer, "you are to remain at the station and 
 as fast as the other regiments of the brigade come in 
 direct their colonels to get the men in line as quick as 
 possible. I will rest the right of the brigade over 
 there in that field. Ah, here comes someone looking 
 for us," he added, as another staff-officer came riding 
 down the road at a furious gallop, halted abruptly be 
 fore him, dismounted, and saluted. 
 
 "General Darrow?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "I'm Colonel Thompson, of General Bragg's staff." 
 
 "Glad to meet you, Colonel." 
 
 "Thank you, the pleasure's mine," said Thompson. 
 "As soon as your brigade is assembled, sir, you are to 
 march up this road to the left toward Reed's Bridge, 
 
 206 
 
WITH BARROW'S BRIGADE 
 
 over Chickamauga Creek, with all speed. General 
 Hood's compliments and orders, sir." 
 
 "Very good, sir; how far is it to the army?" 
 "It's about ten miles, I reckon, and the general 
 hopes you can get there this evening. There has been 
 heavy fighting all morning. You are needed." 
 "We'll be there." 
 
 "It's a long march," said the colonel, dubiously. 
 "That's all right; I've got a brigade of foot cavalry 
 here," laughed Darrow. 
 
 "Don't wait for anything, General," replied Thomp 
 son, laughing in turn. "Your men still have some 
 thing left in their haversacks, I suppose?" 
 
 "They have enough for another meal, I reckon." 
 "That's well. Push them forward as fast as you 
 can. Our losses have been severe, but we have forced 
 the enemy back, and the battle is to be resumed in 
 the morning." 
 
 "Has General Longstreet come?" 
 "Yes. He is with General Bragg now." 
 "Here comes the second section of my brigade," 
 said Darrow, as another long train loaded with gray- 
 coated soldiers pulled up on a siding. 
 "Good!" 
 
 "And the third will be along presently, I think." 
 "Fine ! Jove, we're glad you're here. We've had 
 a terrible time all day, but with your fresh veterans 
 we ought to sweep everything before us to-morrow." 
 "Well, sir, we will do what we can," said Darrow. 
 "My men have seen a deal of fighting, and we'll try to 
 hold our end up." 
 
 207 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "I know you will. The Army of Northern Vir 
 ginia is all right, but we think down here that we 
 don't have to take a back seat for anybody when it 
 comes to fighting." 
 
 "You are right, Colonel, you don't/' said Darrow, 
 generously. "Oh, but it's good to be down here ! I 
 am nearer home than I have been for three years." 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me that you have never 
 been back since you went to the front?" 
 
 "Never. I have stayed right in Virginia until I feel 
 fairly sick for a sight of old Alabama." 
 
 "If we beat the Yanks to-morrow you will soon be 
 on your native soil. Home!" continued Thompson, 
 thoughtfully, surveying the passing regiments. " I am 
 afraid that a great many of these fellows will never see 
 it again." 
 
 "Yes, but that's a part of a soldier's risk," said Dar 
 row, softly. 
 
 Before the troops moved off Darrow drew aside 
 from his staff and beckoned Pleasants to come to 
 him. 
 
 "We haven't had a moment alone, Ham," said the 
 young brigadier to the younger colonel, "till now; 
 but before we march off you have just come from 
 home. Did you see her?" 
 
 "I should say I did!" responded the junior officer, 
 forgetting himself and lapsing into the old familiar 
 style. "Bob, she is the sweetest and prettiest thing 
 on earth, and I don't mind telling you that I am en 
 gaged to her." 
 
 "Good heavens!" gasped Darrow, turning pale. 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 208 
 
WITH BARROW'S BRIGADE 
 
 "Oh, I mean Miss Pink Peyton, not " returned 
 the colonel, in much confusion. 
 
 "I see," greatly relieved. "I thought you meant 
 Miss Mary." 
 
 "No, of course not," said the other. 
 
 "Of course not. Naturally you would not think 
 anyone equal to Miss Peyton." 
 
 "Well, I but I have a letter for you," said Pleas- 
 ants, blushing furiously and fumbling in his jacket 
 and bringing it forth. "I forgot all about it," he 
 added, shamefacedly, letters from home being the 
 things craved by the soldiers. 
 
 Darrow seized it eagerly in his gauntleted hands. 
 For a second he made a motion as if to press it to his 
 lips, and then, recollecting that the eyes of half his 
 brigade were on him, he thrust it reluctantly in his 
 pocket. 
 
 "How did she look? Was she well?" he asked. 
 
 "Beautiful!" said Pleasants, rapturously. "Oh, you 
 mean Miss Mary? She looked very well indeed. Of 
 course she is awfully cut up about the death of her 
 father, and the war and all that, and you, too, I sup 
 pose, but otherwise she is quite well. I reckon she 
 must be very fond of you, old fellow." 
 
 "I hope so," said the general, brightening in this 
 vague assurance, "By the way, Pleasants, did you 
 hear anything of Boyd Peyton while you were in Mo 
 bile?" 
 
 "Yes, he is in the blockading fleet down off Fort 
 Morgan." 
 
 "Come to my head-quarters to-night," said the 
 209 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 general, "as soon as we have made camp, if we make 
 any camp. I want to talk to you about home and Miss 
 Mary." 
 
 "And Miss Pink/' interrupted Pleasants. 
 
 "Yes, of course, before we go into battle to-mor 
 row. It may be our last chance, you know." 
 
 By this time the platform and open space about the 
 station were filled with soldiers from the two sections 
 which had already arrived. Their uniforms were dusty 
 and worn, sometimes tattered and patched, but their 
 gun-barrels were bright, their rifles were looked to. 
 They bore themselves with the careless insouciance 
 of veterans as they fell into ranks with the prompt 
 ness of trained soldiers. Their lean, brown, leather- 
 tanned faces, their vigorous, easy movements, as well 
 as their torn and tattered battle-flags, spoke in elo 
 quent language of hard marches, long campaigns, 
 and fierce battles. 
 
 With rattle of drums and shrilling of fifes, in obedi 
 ence to the sharp staccato commands of the officers 
 rising above the confusion, they marched down the 
 dusty road and aligned themselves in companies and 
 regiments at the designated position. Mounting his 
 horse, which, with the other horses, had been unloaded 
 from the stock-cars in the front of the train, Darrow 
 rode to the head of his brigade. The last section had 
 arrived while the conversation had been going on, and, 
 all the dispositions having been promptly made, a word 
 of command put the troops in motion. 
 
 The Alabama regiment in which he had gone out 
 as a major had mustered, on its departure from Mobile, 
 
 210 
 
WITH DARROW'S BRIGADE 
 
 some eleven hundred officers and men. Now the en 
 tire force of the brigade, comprising four regiments 
 and a battery of artillery, was scarcely more than fif 
 teen hundred men. They were fifteen hundred, how 
 ever, of the very best soldiers on the face of the globe, 
 and Darrow looked back over the brown ranks tramp 
 ing vigorously along the road in his wake, with pride 
 which only those who have had under them devoted 
 bodies of men can understand. 
 
 There, at the head of the column, rode the boyish 
 Pleasants, commanding Darrow's own old regiment, 
 now numbering about three hundred men. Where 
 were the rest of them ? Their bones lay bleaching upon 
 battle-fields all over Virginia Manassas, Malvern Hill, 
 Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville; yes, and 
 far to the North some of them slept on the soil of 
 Pennsylvania, around the slopes of Gettysburg. Now 
 they were to show what Lee's veterans could do in the 
 mountains and valleys of Georgia. 
 
 His particular regiment had no right to be there 
 either. The term of their enlistment had expired. 
 Had they chosen to do so, they could have gone di 
 rectly home from Ringgold and been mustered out at 
 Mobile without further fighting. But there was not 
 a man who did not clamor for the dread opportunity 
 of Chickamauga. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE 
 
 LTHOUGH the brigade marched with 
 a long swinging step that carried them 
 forward rapidly, it was night when 
 they reached the battle-field of that 
 day and the morrow. This was a 
 series of thickly wooded rolling hills, 
 broken by short stretches of open coun 
 try, pierced by many ravines and a few 
 shallow brooks mostly gone dry, with 
 here and there a dilapidated farm 
 house. As they crossed deep, steep- 
 banked Chickamauga the brigade was 
 halted to allow the men to wash their 
 dusty faces and to fill their canteens 
 from the muddy water of the turbid 
 creek. Water was dreadfully scarce on that battle 
 field. The heavy acrid smell of powder hung over the 
 field, and where the fighting had been severest, the 
 sickly, nauseous taste of blood was in the heated air. 
 General Rosecrans had concentrated his forces be 
 tween Chickamauga Creek and Missionary Ridge, 
 a range of hills intervening between his rear and the 
 town of Chattanooga, which was the objective point 
 of the campaign. The Army of the Cumberland num 
 bering at the beginning of the first day's fighting some 
 
 212 
 
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE 
 
 fifty-five thousand men, was stretched in a north and 
 south line at the foot of the hills facing the Chicka- 
 mauga, the left wing under General Thomas, covering 
 the direct road to Chattanooga, which led through a 
 pass in the mountains, called Rossville Gap. Imme 
 diately in the rear of his position was another road, 
 the Dry Valley Road, also leading into Chattanooga 
 through McFarland's Gap in the mountains. The 
 Federal line was some five miles long. 
 
 Fronting the Union troops lay the Army of the 
 Tennessee in slightly greater numbers, under General 
 Braxton Bragg. The Confederate captain had crossed 
 the Chickamauga and had endeavored to throw his 
 right wing on the flank of his enemy, force him back 
 from Rossville Gap, and interpose his army between 
 Rosecrans and Chattanooga. The Confederates had 
 attacked the Union left with their right, in great force. 
 The Federal troops had been driven back from their 
 first position during Saturday, September iQth, al 
 though they still held command of the Rossville and 
 Dry Valley Roads, and Bragg so far had not suc 
 ceeded in his plan. He determined, however, to con 
 tinue the battle on the same lines the next morning. 
 
 Both armies had lost heavily during the hard fight 
 ing of the day. As we have seen, however, there came 
 to Bragg in the very nick of time, a re-enforcement of 
 an army corps sent by Lee from Virginia under the 
 command of that peerless soldier James Longstreet, 
 with such lieutenants as John B. Hood, and Lafayette 
 McLaws, the first brigade of which arrived on the 
 field on the evening of the 
 
 213 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 All night long the veterans of the famous corps 
 came rolling down the road and were sent to their ap 
 pointed positions. This with other re-enforcements 
 raised Bragg's total for the two days' fighting to over 
 seventy thousand troops; the bulk of them his own 
 seasoned men who had fought from Shiloh to Stone 
 River, and fit compeers for the others. The tired men 
 munched their corn-bread from their haversacks and 
 slept shelterless on the ground, where they could sleep 
 at all. Solitary guns here and there in the opposing 
 line sent shells at intervals screaming through the 
 night, keeping all but the most indurated veterans 
 nervously awake. 
 
 The woods and slopes were filled with killed and 
 wounded men; and from the wounded, moans and 
 screams, with piteous appeals for water, water, rose 
 in mournful chorus over the field. The overworked 
 exhausted surgeons and chaplains did what they could 
 for them and so the long night wore away. 
 
 There was busy planning and counselling at both 
 headquarters that night. Bragg divided his army into 
 two wings. The right wing which was to attack 
 Thomas's left and endeavor to outflank him, was put 
 under the command of Leonidas Polk, the Right 
 Reverend Bishop of Louisiana, who had been edu 
 cated at West Point and had laid down the shepherd's 
 crook to draw the warrior's sword. Under his com 
 mand was the main body of the Army of the Tennes 
 see. The left wing was committed to Longstreet with 
 his own veterans and Simon Bolivar Buckner's corps, 
 he who had shown his courage as a soldier at Fort 
 
 214 
 
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE 
 
 Donelson. The attack was appointed to begin at 
 daybreak, and each commander was directed to put 
 into it every last soldier he had in the end. 
 
 Rosecrans, a far-seeing strategist, had fully divined 
 his antagonist's purpose. Indeed the heavy attacks 
 previously thrown upon his left would have indicated 
 the plan to the most indifferent soldier. He had 
 therefore strengthened his left at the expense of his 
 right. He knew of course that he was heavily out 
 numbered, but he was confident of winning; his con 
 fidence was shared by his corps and division command 
 ers and by every soldier in the army. Rosecrans 
 was ignorant of the arrival of re-enforcements to the 
 enemy, but it would have made no difference if he had 
 known it. He had to fight where he was, and he was 
 willing and anxious to do so. 
 
 The mainstay of the Union army was General 
 George H. Thomas, who had command of the left 
 wing, situated at a place called Kelley's Field. The 
 troops under his command busied themselves during 
 the night, so far as time, darkness, and the lack of im 
 plements permitted, in throwing up a slight breast 
 work of rails in front of them. The supply trains of 
 both armies were in the rear of the various positions, 
 and the men generally breakfasted on what cold food 
 remained in their haversacks. Many of them had 
 little or nothing. 
 
 At daybreak a low mist, or fog, covered the ground 
 which prevented either army from making a move. 
 Finally toward half after nine, the mist cleared a little 
 and the attack began. 
 
 215 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 SMASHING THROUGH THE UNION LINE 
 
 A 
 
 T nine o'clock on the morning of the 
 20th of September, 1863, the tree-clad 
 hills in front of General Thomas's 
 position between Chickamauga Creek 
 and Missionary Ridge, covering the 
 road through Rossville Gap to Chat 
 tanooga, were suddenly covered with 
 men who seemed to have sprung up 
 by magic, as they rose from the hol 
 lows in which they had lain concealed. 
 The instant crackling of the rifles and 
 muskets of the heavy skirmish-line 
 thrown in advance of the battle-line 
 soon gave place to crashing volleys 
 punctured by the deeper roar of can 
 non as the Southern batteries swung front into action, 
 pouring their grape, shrapnel, and canister into their 
 enemies. It seemed to the Union soldiers that scarcely 
 a moment elapsed between the appearance and the ad 
 vance of the Confederates. With consummate cour 
 age the gray masses were moved forward in the smoke 
 and hurled upon the Federal line, and with equal cour 
 age the assault was met. The battle raged up and 
 down the Union left with terrific fierceness, and with 
 no present advantage as yet to either side. 
 
 216 
 
SMASHING THROUGH THE UNION LINE 
 
 Presently out of the smoke and dust, far to the 
 Union left, Breckinridge's division, overlapping 
 Thomas's shorter line by a long distance, swung 
 around across the Rossville Road and attacked the 
 Union line in reverse. But no better soldier, no 
 harder fighter, than the great Virginian ever handled 
 an army. Quick to take in the significance of the 
 dangerous movement, Thomas threw his reserve brig 
 ades in fierce countercharge right into the face of 
 Breckinridge, and, aided by a timely re-enforcement 
 of one of Negley's brigades although the whole di 
 vision should have been there and was not he 
 forced him back from the road and retained control 
 of it. 
 
 Again and again Polk forged a mighty battle ham 
 mer of human bodies and drove it against the Union 
 left, which shivered and vibrated under the terrific 
 blows rained upon it. The two wings charged and 
 recharged across the disputed ground. Positions 
 were taken and retaken again and again. The armies 
 were locked in a mighty, death-like grip of battle a 
 writhing, twisting embrace of furious, swaying con 
 flict. 
 
 Meanwhile the front of Thomas's command was so 
 heavily engaged that he did not dare to weaken it to 
 help his hard-pressed left flank by a withdrawal of a 
 single regiment. The absence of Negley's division, 
 or the missing two-thirds of it, which had been prom 
 ised, so seriously jeoparded his position as to render 
 it almost impossible for him to hold it in the face of 
 such continuous and desperate attacks, Messenger 
 
 217 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 after messenger came to Rosecrans asking reinforce 
 ment. 
 
 The right of the Union army had so far only been 
 engaged in a desultory way that morning. The fight 
 ing as yet had all been on the left. The neces 
 sity for moving his right wing by the left flank was im 
 perative, and the movement was at once begun by 
 the Union general. This is always a difficult evolu 
 tion in front of an enemy, and when the battle is in 
 actual course the difficulties are increased a thousand 
 fold. As the morning wore on the Confederate at 
 tack was extended from left to right with gradually 
 increasing force. Bragg divined Rosecrans's purpose, 
 and he endeavored to make him maintain his lines, 
 and so prevent detachment to the left, which he hoped 
 to overwhelm. At any rate, he determined to strike 
 the Union troops moving to reinforce Thomas on their 
 unprotected flanks, as they passed. 
 
 Still, the fighting on the Federal right was as yet 
 by no means severe, although the demonstrations of 
 the Confederates were growing stronger with every 
 moment, and their troops were being moved forward 
 on the right for a general action all along the line. By 
 half after eleven o'clock a misunderstood order, 
 which was at the same time badly expressed, with 
 drew a whole Federal division from its place in the 
 line near the centre, moved it to the left, and placed it 
 in the rear of Thomas's heavily assailed position. 
 There was a great hole opened in the Union line. John 
 B. Hood, one of the most magnificently reckless fight 
 ers in the Southern army, detected it through his skir- 
 
 218 
 
SMASHING THROUGH THE UNION LINE 
 
 mishers. The news was at once carried to Long- 
 street, and he massed his corps for an instant attack, 
 appreciating the brilliancy of the opportunity before 
 him. 
 
 With masterly tactics Longstreet threw his veterans 
 into a column of brigades at half distance, Hood lead 
 ing the column in person. With fixed bayonets and 
 at a double-quick they moved down past a little farm 
 house which from the name of its owner gave the 
 title to the Brotherton Road. The men in the open 
 flanks of the Union army on either side of this vast 
 chasm were completely exposed to the Confederate 
 avalanche, pouring into the gap in solid column, the 
 fierce rebel yell, first heard from the lips of John Sevier, 
 one hundred years before in Tennessee, ringing over 
 the field. At the same instant every battery of South 
 ern artillery opened fire. Buckner's corps hurled 
 itself upon the attenuated Union lines on the right of 
 the opening, Stewart's division on the left of it, at the 
 same time Longstreet pierced the centre. 
 
 The Federal General Davis threw his two brigades 
 heroically upon this mighty gray column. A few swift 
 volleys from the advancing Confederates shattered 
 their ranks, and when the division fell upon them with 
 the bayonet they drove them like leaves in a winter 
 storm. The Union batteries in the rear of the line sent 
 canister and grape tearing and ripping through the 
 advancing battalions ; but their blood was up, nothing 
 could stop their irresistible advance. Davis's men, 
 taken in front and rear and flying for their lives, burst 
 into the ranks of Phil Sheridan's oncoming division, 
 
 219 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 throwing them into hopeless confusion, in which con 
 dition the gray battle storm surged down upon them. 
 In spite of the heroic efforts of that commander they 
 were thrown into complete rout and swept away in 
 mad disorder. Brigadier-General Lytle, the poet-sol 
 dier, was killed in front of his brigade, vainly striving 
 to rally his shattered disorganized troops and hold 
 his lines. 
 
 While this terrible catastrophe was happening Buck- 
 ner's soldiers, advancing with equal valor, fell upon the 
 remainder of the right-centre wing of the Union army 
 and drove it before them in hopeless and inextricable 
 disorganization. Men, guns, horses, and wagons, in 
 a chaos of confusion, streamed back from the battle- 
 line, and were scattered through the woods and down 
 the Dry Valley Road toward McFarland's Gap. Some 
 of them were halted on the other side of the ridge, at 
 Rossville, but many did not stop until they reached 
 Chattanooga. 
 
 Into this flying mass the Confederate guns poured 
 shot and shell. The Union batteries were captured 
 and turned against their own men. Rosecrans, the 
 commander-in-chief, McCook, Davis, Sheridan, and 
 Crittenden, protesting, cursing, imploring, raging, be 
 seeching, were swept along with the rest in a mad, 
 tumultuous rout. The Union right wing had been 
 hammered to pieces. The Union line had been riven 
 in two, and one side of it crushed like a house of cards 
 beaten down by a hammer. And it had all happened 
 in a few moments. 
 
 Far to the left Thomas and his battalions, ignorant 
 220 
 
SMASHING THROUGH THE UNION LINE 
 
 of the disaster, still stood fighting with desperate valor. 
 Longstreet now turned his men toward that flank 
 and what was left of the Union centre, and repeated 
 with great success his attack on the right. The Union 
 troops were slammed backward like a door. Hood 
 was desperately wounded, and Longstreet led his lines 
 in person, Bushrod Johnson's brigade in advance. 
 The Union troops in the centre made a better resist 
 ance and somewhat delayed the advance. They 
 changed front under fire and clung tenaciously to their 
 new line, facing the gap and the victory-flushed foe. 
 But they too had to give way before the furious dash 
 and overwhelming onslaught of the victorious Con 
 federates, now in greatly superior force, until finally 
 there was nothing left of the Union line but the still 
 heavily assaulted left wing. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 T 
 
 "THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA" 
 
 HERE was now a lull in the battle 
 on the right. The fierce charge and 
 countercharge were intermitted. Long- 
 street was reforming his men, prepar 
 ing to sweep Thomas from the field. 
 So, too, there was a momentary re 
 spite from the attacks to which the 
 Union left had been subjected all 
 morning. The two exhausted armies 
 rested where they were for a breath 
 ing space ere they renewed the action. 
 Thomas took advantage of this respite 
 to withdraw his troops to the rear to 
 a more favorable defensive position. 
 There was a semicircular hill back of 
 Kelley's Field, called by many on account of its shape 
 The Horseshoe, and by others Snodgrass Hill, from 
 the home of a small farmer which stood on the top of 
 it. A spur of Missionary Ridge extending out to the 
 eastward, it rises about one hundred feet above the sur 
 rounding country. Its top is undulating and broken. 
 Some distance to the westward, in the rear of its crest, 
 there is a shallow ravine beyond which rise other hills, 
 one ridge in particular running east and west and com 
 manding The Horseshoe. It was thickly wooded and 
 in places very steep. As it covered both the Rossville 
 
 222 
 
"THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA" 
 
 and Dry Valley Roads, Thomas determined to re 
 establish his line there. 
 
 The troops as they retreated up the slopes were 
 thrown around the crest of the hill and preparations 
 made for another series of assaults to be expected. 
 Firing on the right had not yet been resumed, and 
 Thomas, ignorant of the disaster, having received no 
 word, fancied this to mean the Rebels had been re 
 pulsed, and had given over the attack. He confidently 
 expected reinforcements and fought on, eagerly look 
 ing for the hoped-for succor. He did not know that 
 he was left alone with his four divisions to fight the 
 whole Confederate army. 
 
 Presently a cloud of dust rising above the tree-tops 
 indicated a body of men approaching Snodgrass Hill 
 from the right. Hoping, praying, that it was Sheri 
 dan's division coming to his assistance, Thomas di 
 rected a staff-officer to ride down and make sure of 
 it. The soldier came back at full gallop and reported 
 that he did not think it was Sheridan's division, but 
 the troops of the enemy. 
 
 Surprised beyond measure and scarcely able to 
 credit the astounding tidings, Thomas yet acted in the 
 emergency with promptness. He threw one of his 
 brigades forward with instructions to feel the advan 
 cing troops, attack them immediately and stop them if 
 they were enemies. Soon the quick rattle of mus 
 ketry apprised him that the supposition of the staff- 
 ofricer was correct. He was still ignorant of the mag 
 nitude of the catastrophe, but he realized that some 
 thing terrible must have happened to permit the 
 
 223 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 enemy to approach so near his right and rear. He 
 deemed them to be in great force, too, from the rapid 
 annihilation of the brigade that he had thrown for 
 ward, which made a splendid fight before it was wiped 
 out. To meet this new danger Thomas hurriedly ex 
 tended his lines to the right and rear along the edge 
 of the hill, occupying the position at first by a single 
 Ohio regiment, and reinforcing it by stragglers from 
 different divisions, who began drifting into his lines 
 in considerable numbers from the routed right. Each 
 one brought a tale of defeat and disaster which might 
 well have appalled the stoutest heart. 
 
 It did not take Thomas many minutes to surmise 
 that he was left with a fraction of the Union troops to 
 hold Snodgrass Hill in the face of the whole Confeder 
 ate army. If he gave way, if he retreated or were 
 driven from that field, the Army of the Cumberland 
 would be irretrievably ruined, routed, smashed, bat 
 tered to pieces, destroyed. 
 
 To give way never entered his head for a moment. 
 Disposing his troops as best he could and putting 
 every last man he could gather up in position, he de 
 termined to stand where he was and hold the hill until, 
 as one of his subordinates expressed it, "they went 
 to heaven from it." 
 
 The expected attack was not long in coming. 
 Sweeping forward with resistless force, excited and 
 stimulated by their tremendous successes of the morn 
 ing, Longstreet's veterans hurled themselves upon the 
 hill. Again and again the gray deluge came rolling 
 up the slope as a mighty wave assaults a rocky shore. 
 
 224 
 
"THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA" 
 
 Again and again they were beaten back by the wall of 
 fire which ringed its crest. The continuous rattle of 
 the musketry was like the rolling of a mighty drum. 
 It was scarcely possible on either side to use artillery 
 to much advantage, and the men fought it out in hand- 
 to-hand attacks mainly, with small-arms. 
 
 Sometimes when the desperate gray ranks perilously 
 neared the crest a countercharge with fixed bayonets 
 drove them, after horrible struggles, down the hill. 
 The carnage was frightful. The slopes were soon 
 covered with dead and dying. There was no water to 
 be had, no food, no rest, no respite even. It was fight, 
 fight, fight, God ! until the brain reeled. The hill ran 
 with blood. There was a little pond on the field. 
 Divisions fought for it, wounded men and horses 
 struggled to it, buried their heads in the sickening 
 bloody water drank and died. 
 
 The heat was terrific. The dry trees and under 
 brush caught fire here and there from the rifle-blasts. 
 The smoke hung low over the hill. Men's forms ap 
 peared through it in ghastly yellow outlines. The 
 flashes of the rifles and guns pierced the murky clouds 
 with long lances of flame. 
 
 The yelling and cheering continuously rose and fell 
 as the charge and countercharge set the men against 
 each other, and throughout the chaotic tumult might 
 be heard the piteous cries of the wounded, cries of 
 anguish, cries for water, water, water! And none 
 could help them. No man could be spared from the 
 fighting lines on either side ! The men were there to 
 kill, not to save; to destroy, not to help. 
 
 225 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 The field swam redly before the eyes of the fighters. 
 Drunk with battle, they moved like men in some 
 hideous dream, striking where they fancied they saw 
 a breast holding a heart come bursting upon them out 
 of the smoke; pouring shot at short range into masses 
 of men; reeling in awful grapple to and fro, up and 
 down, on that terrible hill. War, war, war, in its 
 glory, its majesty, its awful appalling horror, was 
 there ! 
 
 There were no reserve troops which could be used 
 to strengthen the weak parts of the Union line. The 
 men stood where they were and fought it out as best 
 they could. Thomas rode from flank to centre, from 
 centre to flank, and held the place with iron resolution, 
 while Longstreet and Polk threw themselves upon it 
 with headlong valor. 
 
 As fresher troops arrived from the Confederate left, 
 where they were no longer needed since there were 
 no enemies left before them, they were extended on 
 the left of Longstreet's columns to menace Thomas's 
 right and rear. Across the ravine was that high ridge, 
 which overlooked the hill. The quick eye of Long- 
 street, after the futility of his first assaults had been 
 demonstrated, saw that this ridge was the key to the 
 position. If he could seize it and hold it with his 
 guns he could send his men through the sheltered ra 
 vine and take the thin Union line in reverse. He 
 could extend opposite either flank of it, or the centre, 
 and no soldiers that ever lived could hold that posi 
 tion then. 
 
 Thomas had been equally quick, in the varying 
 226 
 
"THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA" 
 
 phases of the battle, to detect the vital importance of 
 the ridge to the position on which he was making his 
 last stand, but he was helpless to seize it. He had not 
 a single soldier that he could put on it. His men were 
 fighting with the energy and courage of despair. His 
 attenuated lines were liable to be pierced at half a 
 dozen points at any moment. To withdraw a regi 
 ment, a company, a man, would leave a hole which 
 could only be filled by the enemy. 
 
 He began to despair at last, but there was nothing 
 that he could do but hold on as he was. He had 
 heard nothing from Rosecrans yet. He could hope 
 for no reinforcements now. If Longstreet seized that 
 ridge it would be good-by to them. Thomas knew 
 that his opponent was too good a soldier not to make 
 the attempt. Well, they had fought a good fight, 
 they had made a splendid defence. As long as men 
 lived it would never be forgotten. And they could 
 at least die on the field they had hallowed with their 
 valor. These were his final thoughts, but it was with 
 anguish unspeakable that he saw the preparations 
 being made to occupy the ridge. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 "TOWARD THE SOUND OF THE CANNON" 
 
 A 
 
 WAY off on Ringgold Road three 
 small brigades of the Union army, 
 under Major-General Gordon Granger, 
 lay on their arms around McAffee 
 Church, on that dreadful Sunday morn 
 ing. Far to the right of them from 
 the deep woods enshrouding the battle 
 field, the roar of the conflict trembled 
 up through the air. They had been 
 placed on that road to cover any pos 
 sible attack on the far left, with in 
 structions to remain there until or 
 dered away. No enemy was near 
 them, and it seemed evident that none 
 was likely to approach them. 
 As the sound of the battle grew deeper and fiercer, 
 as its thunder rolled back and forth in ever-increasing 
 detonation over the hills, the commander of the corps, 
 charing impatiently at this inaction, determined at 
 last to advance toward the fighting. Disregarding his 
 orders, on his own motion about noon he started for 
 Thomas's position. Leaving one brigade to hold the 
 road, the men marched rapidly through the heat and 
 dust toward the sound of the cannon. 
 
 Avoiding bodies of cavalry skirmishing in this direc- 
 228 
 
"TOWARD THE SOUND OF THE CANNON" 
 
 tion, by leaving the road and plunging through the 
 woods, the troops came swiftly on. As they advanced 
 they saw evidences of the disintegration of the army 
 panic-stricken fugitives, wounded soldiers, aban 
 doned wagons, broken guns, terrified men, weaponless 
 regiments, masterless horses, the shattered remains of 
 a routed army, surging toward Rossville, stopping for 
 nothing. Directing the division commander, General 
 Steedman, to come forward at the quickest possible 
 speed, Granger with his staff galloped ahead toward 
 Snodgrass Hill, which he could see through the trees, 
 blazing like a volcano, smoking like a furnace, shak 
 ing like an earthquake, roaring like a tornado. 
 
 Thomas had seen the clouds of dust raised in the 
 dry air by the approaching troops. What could that 
 mean? Who could they be? Had the Confederates 
 got to the rear of that long-assailed left flank at last? 
 Was he to be completely surrounded and annihilated 
 on that ghastly hill? His relief, therefore, when he 
 learned that the on-coming troops were the men of 
 Rosecrans's reserve corps, can scarcely be imagined. 
 The new troops as they neared the hill came forward 
 on the run. By God's providence they reached the 
 place about two o'clock just as the advance of Hind- 
 man's division of Longstreet's corps deployed on the 
 crest of the ridge and began filling the ravine back of 
 the hill. 
 
 A word or two put Granger in possession of the 
 situation. Without stopping for breath even, Steed 
 man was ordered to take the hill and drive the Con 
 federates out of the pass. If they had come a moment 
 
 229 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 later Longstreet's men would have established them 
 selves there, and that would have been an end of 
 Thomas's troops. But they had arrived at the very 
 crucial moment. Steedman was on horseback. Seiz 
 ing a regimental flag, he put himself at the head of his 
 men and gave the order to charge. Thomas and 
 Granger rode forward to superintend and observe. The 
 bullets whistled about them. Steedman was wounded, 
 his horse was shot, and he was pitched forward in 
 the melee, his two brigadiers went down, but still the 
 shouting soldiers kept on. Down the ravine and up 
 the hill they poured in an irresistible torrent. 
 
 For twenty minutes pandemonium reigned. The 
 passions of hell were let loose. At the end of that 
 time the hill was gained, the ravine cleared, and over 
 two thousand men in blue and gray lay dead and dying 
 on its slopes. They had saved the army. The battle 
 all around the circle had not been intermitted a mo 
 ment during this episode either. And now the am 
 munition of Thomas's men was almost expended. But 
 Granger's men shared theirs with their comrades, and 
 there was a slight lull in the conflict again after this re 
 pulse of the attempt to take the ridge, while both sides 
 prepared for its renewal. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 L 
 
 THE LAST CHARGE 
 
 ONGSTREET, keeping up his fire on 
 the hill, sent to Bragg for reinforce 
 ments to make another attack, and 
 was informed that every available man 
 was already in the battle-line. 
 
 Thomas's position could not be out 
 flanked. He must be driven from it 
 by direct assault or not at all. Long- 
 street had one small division. Pres 
 ton's, of Buckner's corps, in reserve 
 which had not yet been heavily en 
 gaged. At the front of it, to strength 
 en it, he put Darrow's brigade. His 
 men had waited their turn with the 
 philosophy of veterans who knew that 
 the day could not pass without their 
 being poured into that smelting furnace of death and 
 destruction. They had moved forward in the wake 
 of the grand assaulting column, and were now drawn 
 up just out of range from the hill under the trees. 
 At the head of the brigade rode Pleasants with what 
 was left of his Alabamians. 
 
 Longstreet called General Preston to him and 
 pointed out the necessity of capturing the hill. No 
 fewer than five desperate assaults between noon and 
 
 231 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 that hour, five o'clock, had already been made on that 
 hill. Each succeeding one had risen higher on the 
 slope, got nearer to the crest, than the others; and 
 their course might have been marked by the lines of 
 dead, the hill being so covered with bodies that its 
 natural surface was scarcely discernible. This was the 
 last supreme effort. If it failed there could be no more 
 assaults on that hill that day. 
 
 That instinctive feeling for a crisis, that premoni 
 tion of danger, which goes to make a great leader, led 
 Thomas to expect, and, in so far as he could, prepare 
 for this final effort. As he detected the ranks of the 
 enemy being deployed under the smoke-filled trees, 
 he rode along the lines to encourage his men for one 
 last stand. Even after stripping the cartridge-boxes 
 of the dead he found that they had scarcely an aver 
 age of three rounds of ammunition left per man. He 
 cautioned them to withhold their fire until it would 
 tell the most, and when they had exhausted their 
 cartridges, to charge the advancing troops with the 
 bayonet, to give them the cold steel. Faint, weary, 
 hungry, thirsty, oh, God, terribly thirsty, the heroic 
 men sent up a hoarse cheer as they heard his words, or 
 saw him ride calm and collected amidst the storm. 
 They drew in their belts, looked to their muskets and 
 bayonets, and determined that the end would find them 
 dead or alive, as it might chance, but in any event in 
 their places in the ranks. The wounded who were 
 able to handle a rifle joined their unhurt comrades on 
 the battle-line. 
 
 Darrow and the field-officers, after a few words to 
 232 
 
THE LAST CHARGE 
 
 their men, dismounted from their horses and without 
 further preliminaries took up the advance, Longstreet 
 and the rest looking painfully on. The troops came 
 forward in long lines. They stepped out deliberately 
 at first, keeping their dress on the flags, and then 
 more rapidly at the double-quick. 
 
 There was a grim, set look on Darrow's face as he 
 led them toward the hill. He had been stricken to the 
 heart by Mary Annan's letter, which he had read by 
 the light of a camp-fire that night, and he cared noth 
 ing whatever for any bodily mischance that might be 
 fall him. Indeed, he would have welcomed a shot to 
 strike him down. Everything had gone out of his 
 life with her words except his duty as a soldier. Pleas- 
 ants, in command of the first regiment, kept near him 
 as they advanced. Such a look of desperate deter 
 mination commingled with reckless indifference, and 
 heartbroken anguish, he had never seen on a man's 
 face. In spite of the engrossing nature of the task 
 before him he could scarcely keep his eyes from Dar- 
 row. 
 
 As the men reached the foot of the slope they burst 
 into loud yells and cheers, and dashed at it in a wild 
 run. It was so thick with bodies dead and living that 
 they were forced to trample ruthlessly upon them, 
 silent or shrieking, as they advanced. The hill was 
 slippery with blood, they found, as they struggled up 
 its steep sides. 
 
 The crest was strangely silent for the moment. 
 Could it be that the Federal troops had withdrawn? 
 They would soon find out. At command the front 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 rank fired a volley, and dropping to its knees was 
 passed by the second rank, which ran a little distance 
 farther and fired, and then by the other rank, which 
 did the same thing. So shifting and weaving back and 
 forth they climbed up and up. By this time they were 
 near the crest and still no answer came from the men 
 they hoped to sweep before them. 
 
 Ah, there it was at last. Trumpet calls rang out. 
 Flags were suddenly lifted. Now the crest was filled 
 with men. The two forces were so near each other 
 they could peer into the faces opposite. Some of 
 the men on the hill were laughing like maniacs, some 
 yelling frantically, some were silent and awe-stricken, 
 some stood with lips drawn back from the teeth as a 
 snarling dog at bay, some were indifferent, some pale, 
 some flushed, their faces engorged with blood. Back 
 of them officers on horseback rode near the edge. 
 There was Thomas himself, silent, stern, impassive, 
 determined. 
 
 The advancing troops had time but for a single 
 glance, and the hill was crested with flame again. A 
 stream of bullets poured down the slope which swept 
 them away in scores. The assaulting column returned 
 the withering fire as best they could, still wavering on. 
 Again it was repeated. Finally every other man in 
 that first brigade was shot down. The survivors 
 halted and stood there unable to go forward, too proud 
 to go back. It was such a fire as no mortal man ap 
 parently could withstand, yet such was the magnificent 
 valor of those troops that when Darrow, looking the 
 desperate hero he was, tore the colors of his old regi- 
 
 2 34 
 
THE LAST CHARGE 
 
 ment from the hand of a color-bearer and sprang to 
 the front the men with bayonets at charge leaped after 
 him. The third volley the last for many, rang out. 
 The head of the column was blown to pieces. It was 
 riddled like a sieve, torn to rags, but it came on still. 
 A bullet struck Darrow in the breast and tore through 
 his lungs. He wavered. 
 
 "Save the flag," he cried to Pleasants, who was next 
 him, and then he pitched violently forward on his face. 
 
 The blue troops on the hill were coming now. With 
 fixed bayonets they came pouring down the slope. 
 The roar of the musketry died away as the two lines 
 met and was succeeded by the ringing of steel on 
 steel and the shouts and struggles of the men. A 
 little handful of his own men rallied around Pleasants 
 and his flag. He cut down two or three who came in 
 touch with his weapon, and stoutly strove to hold his 
 ground, but to little avail. The scattering discharges 
 and the fierce onset delivered from above slowly swept 
 the scattered division down the hill. Pleasants turned, 
 gathered the flag to his breast, and followed the rem 
 nants of his men. He had stood there on that line 
 until he had been left alone. Those who had rallied 
 around him had been killed at his feet. The staff and 
 flag were spattered with blood. He could do no more. 
 They were beaten back. They had failed. Only duty 
 remained. He would save that old hallowed battle- 
 riven banner. 
 
 A scattering fire pursued the retreating Confeder 
 ates down the hill. One bullet struck Pleasants in 
 the ankle. He fell, and the flag pitched forward. 
 
 235 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 With superhuman resolution he dragged himself to his 
 feet again, picked up the flag, staggered a few painful 
 steps, dropped to his knees, and crawled down the 
 hill. A few of the troops above who had cartridges 
 left levelled their pieces at him, but the colonel in im 
 mediate command of the troops nearest him, filled with 
 admiration for Pleasants's courage, ordered his men 
 to cease firing. The attack was over. It had failed. 
 Let the crawling hero save his flag. 
 
 As the man in gray crawled, rolled, fell down the 
 hill the Union officer ran toward the prostrate form 
 of the Confederate who had led the gallant advance. 
 He was nearest of any others to the crest. He was 
 lying prone with his body slightly lifted on his left 
 arm. His set face was ghastly pale. His right hand 
 was fumbling at his breast. As the Federal officer 
 approached him by a violent effort he drew a letter 
 from his pocket, a blood-stained, crumpled letter. 
 
 "Free !" he murmured, as the Union colonel knelt 
 by him. "Tell Mary " 
 
 There was a gush of blood from his lips. He 
 dropped shudderingly down on his face. 
 
 At the foot of the hill Pleasants fainted from pain 
 and exhaustion. But the men of his regiment found 
 the flag tightly clasped in his hand. Two hundred of 
 them who had answered the roll-call of that morning 
 had been stricken down in that holocaust of death, on 
 that hill of hell. Seventy per cent, had gone in that 
 last mad, terrible assault. 
 
 There was no more fighting that night. Under 
 orders from Rosecrans, Thomas withdrew with but 
 
 236 
 
"Save the flag," he cried to Pleasants. 
 
THE LAST CHARGE 
 
 little additional loss through Rossville Gap toward 
 Chattanooga after dark. Bragg had won a great vic 
 tory, but he had paid a fearful price for it. Over 
 twenty thousand, or about thirty per cent., of his 
 troops had fallen. In Longstreet's corps alone the 
 loss had been over forty per cent., and there were doz 
 ens of regiments in both armies whose losses had ex 
 ceeded fifty per cent. 
 
 The Confederates had driven the Union army from 
 the field, a large part of it in hopeless rout. Thomas's 
 determined stand had saved the Union army from en 
 tire annihilation. Well did men style the great Vir 
 ginian thereafter 'The Rock of Chickamauga." 
 
 And nowhere upon this continent before or since 
 was there seen such desperate fighting as had ranged 
 around the horseshoe slopes of Snodgrass Hill. There 
 was little to choose between either army. Both on 
 that awful day had risen to the highest measure of the 
 stature of American manhood and valor. And six 
 teen thousand men in blue were left on the field. 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE RELIEF THAT SHAMED 
 
 O 
 
 N Monday, the 2ist of September, the 
 first report of the battle reached Mo 
 bile. A brief telegram told of the re 
 sult of the action, but gave no details. 
 The air, however, was thick with ru 
 mors of the most extravagant and ex 
 aggerated kind and as variable as they 
 were frequent. This gossiping method 
 of transmitting information from hand 
 to mouth, as it were, was prevalent in 
 those days of meagre facilities for 
 communication, and was popularly 
 known as the "grapevine telegraph." 
 
 The women of Mobile had waited 
 for too many bulletins from battle 
 fields to experience anything novel in the way of sen 
 sation on that day and the succeeding ones. There 
 were many who had scanned lists of killed, wounded, 
 and missing, in the regiments for the names of loved 
 ones, who would do so no longer. To many of them 
 had come the miserable certainty that their interest in 
 the welfare of the regiment was no longer personal. 
 But there remained still a goodly number who watched 
 for the return of the casualties in the old regiment, 
 with heart-tearing anxiety that deepened and deepened. 
 
 238 
 
THE RELIEF THAT SHAMED 
 
 However, as more and more ghastly details of the 
 horrors of that awful slaughter and carnage filtered 
 through the rumors in the brief infrequent telegrams, 
 the greater became the anxiety. What wonder that 
 women sickened and failed under the strain? With 
 added information came the certainty that the old 
 regiment had suffered severely again. Who were left? 
 Who were taken this time? Questions like these 
 quivered on every lip in the suspense. Yet there was 
 a strange feeling of pride that mingled with their 
 anxiety; abstractly they would not have had it other 
 wise, they gloried in the record of the regiment even 
 when its losses came desperately home to them in per 
 sonal bereavements. But no complete lists of killed 
 and wounded came, they never came from that army. 
 
 No private communications from anyone in the 
 regiment reached the city for some time, and it was 
 not until ten days afterward that personal details be 
 gan to appear in the despatches. Then Mary Annan 
 learned with a singular mixture of feelings in which 
 anguish and remorse largely predominated, that 
 General Darrow who had headed the last charge had 
 been shot and was among the missing. 
 
 I say a singular mixture, for if ever woman sincerely 
 mourned for a man and would have called him back 
 at any sacrifice, she was that one; if ever grief and 
 regret entered a woman's soul because of death, it had 
 entered Mary Annan's because the man to whom she 
 had engaged herself, from whom she had begged her 
 freedom, had been wiped out on that terrible field; 
 and yet in spite of herself and she loathed herself for 
 
 239 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 the thought, she would have died rather than have ad 
 mitted it openly there was a leap of strange joy in her 
 heart at the same time. 
 
 Not joy that he was killed, oh, no, but joy that, 
 he being killed, she was free. There was the selfish 
 ness as well as the magnificence of a great passion! 
 He was gone, and her heart quivered with anguish and 
 despair and torture, at the thought of it. Yet she 
 could not still that voice that whispered to her soul, 
 free, free! The word, if she had known it, which 
 Darrow had spoken, free, free! She gloried in his 
 achievement, in his character; she mourned for him, 
 she would have given all to call him back, but there 
 was this mighty fact in her conscience, his going had 
 made her free ! The last check that had estopped her 
 passion for Peyton was gone, the last barrier that inter 
 vened between them had been removed. She could 
 love him ah, she had always done that but she could 
 love him now without accusation, without restraint. 
 And she could love him with hope ! Her love began 
 to take thought for itself in the freedom of her release. 
 She began to see that possibly in some way he might 
 be given back to her again. 
 
 Yet her soul revolted from this situation. Her 
 mind raged against it. She vowed over and over again 
 in the turmoil of her thoughts that she would give 
 up everything, even her love for Peyton, her hope of 
 happiness, to call back the dead soldier; which was not 
 true or was it after all? She tried to persuade her 
 self that she had repented that she had asked her 
 freedom, and that was true but only because being 
 
 240 
 
THE RELIEF THAT SHAMED 
 
 killed there had been no need after all. She sorrowed 
 that Darrow had gone to his death with her denial of 
 her love ringing in his ear. Almost she loved him, too, 
 now that he was gone beyond recall, and could not 
 claim her. And she was sincere in all this. There 
 was a duality in her feelings, strange, confused, inex 
 plicable. She meant it when she thought these things, 
 yet deep down in her secret heart was that overwhelm 
 ing consciousness of freedom; and that sense she had 
 to take cognizance of, she had to recognize it, look 
 it in the face. 
 
 She visited upon herself for this situation all the 
 contempt that her pride of race and cause rendered in 
 evitable; and the poignant censure that her honor de 
 manded, but it was no use, and finally she knew it was 
 no use. She would rather have perished in torture a 
 thousand times than allow anyone to know of this, yet 
 she had to acknowledge it herself, the fact rose be 
 fore her. When she wept bitter tears and if she 
 really loved him that solace for woman would have 
 been denied her it was partly for the soldier who had 
 gone, partly for the loss of her self-respect involved in 
 this revelation of her feelings, partly because of the 
 hopeless love she cherished for Peyton, her enemy, 
 and her conqueror, and partly because of joy that, no 
 matter how it was brought about, she was free. 
 
 She would have arranged matters differently, if her 
 will had not been bound by her feelings. It was not 
 in accord with her code, these conclusions to which she 
 finally came, but she was to learn nay, she had 
 learned indeed that love was stronger than death, or 
 
 241 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 life, or gratitude, or country; that it could bow to noth 
 ing but duty, and honor. And she could not be sure 
 that it would bow to duty in her case, if the supreme 
 test came. At least she was sure of one desire or 
 rather determination. Though her heart might break 
 she resolved to give no sign of her feeling for Peyton 
 to anyone. 
 
 She was wearing mourning already for her father 
 and there was no other outward way in which she 
 could further testify to her grief at the loss of her 
 soldier lover. The betrothal of course had been made 
 public, and the hardest part of the situation she found 
 in the visits of condolence which were made to her by 
 her old friends. She could not be sure how far she 
 assented to these expressions of sympathy. She hated 
 herself furiously for not feeling as she ought. There 
 was no doubt as to her grief, but it was largely selfish, 
 sorrow for her own thoughts. Outwardly, however, 
 it served one purpose in that she presented such evi 
 dences of misery that when her friends noticed it with 
 loving sympathy, she felt that she was a base hypo 
 crite for not telling the truth. Yet in all this her grief 
 for Darrow was really deep and sincere too. 
 
 She had told no one about the broken engagement, 
 and she was fearful, now that he had been killed, lest 
 anyone should find it out. She prayed that Pleasants 
 might not have been able to deliver her letter. She 
 longed earnestly with a feverish activity of mind that 
 she might see him. If heaven were kind to her it 
 might be that the letter had arrived too late and Dar 
 row had gone to his death secure in her love. He 
 
 242 
 
THE RELIEF THAT SHAMED 
 
 would know now that it had been denied him, but 
 perhaps he would not care now. 
 
 Stop! Was he really dead? Had he been killed? 
 It was reported that he had been shot in front of the 
 Federal line, and was missing, but that was all. There 
 was no report of his body being found among the 
 killed. When this idea came to her she was filled with 
 a new set of distracting emotions. If he had not re 
 ceived her letter and he had not died, what then? This 
 public demonstration of sorrow and grief which others 
 thought was for him, an opinion in which she was 
 quietly acquiescing what would be the result of it, if 
 after all, he had survived his wound? Could she ever 
 give him the letter or tell him the truth, if he did come 
 back ignorant of it? Could she keep to her engage 
 ment then? Could she break it? Could she marry 
 him? What could she do? Was she indeed free or 
 bound? 
 
 And there was Peyton tossing about on the sunlit 
 sea at the mouth of the bay, so near her, yet so parted 
 from her. She could feel his presence. She had 
 doubted, but she felt now in her secret heart that he 
 loved her. Such feeling as hers could not be without 
 response. She would compel him to love her wher 
 ever he might be, whatever he might do, however 
 they were separated if she were only free. 
 
 She pictured Peyton on the deck of the ship staring 
 over the waters to where she sat for long hours alone, 
 in that cheerful Southern room, leaning her face upon 
 her hands in the old way. Alone with him, alone with 
 love. She was completely unsettled, swept away from 
 
 243 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 her moorings by the intensity of her feelings. Her 
 standards were broken. Her ideas of love, honor, 
 duty, confused. There was but one thing of which she 
 was sublimely certain, and that was that she loved Pey 
 ton, she loved him, she loved him with deepening feel 
 ing in every passing moment ! 
 
 Yes, Darrow rose before her vision in all his splen 
 did manly beauty. She saw him as she had often 
 seen him, she pictured him bursting through the 
 smoke and flame of battle, his mighty arm lifted up 
 carrying the starry Southern cross she loved so well. 
 She saw the red blood welling over his worn, tattered, 
 gray uniform when he fell. The world, her world, 
 rang with plaudits for him. If he had died he had 
 died as the heroes die, fronting the foe. If he had been 
 laid low he had been struck down as the soldier should 
 be in the thick of the conflict. If his spirit had gone it 
 had left him at the supreme moment of life, at the 
 height of the charge. 
 
 Why could she not love him? What was she that 
 she could not lift up her heart in thanksgiving that 
 God had given her the love of such a man, that she 
 had been in fact the inspiration of this magnificent 
 heroism and courage and devotion? Why, now that 
 he was gone, could she not forever wear the garments 
 of mourning instead of shrouding herself in the skirts 
 of shame because she was free? Why was it that in 
 every splendid picture the dark face of Peyton, grim, 
 stern, forbidding, the face of an enemy, rose and shat 
 tered her dreams? By and by she could see nothing 
 but Peyton, Peyton, Peyton, everywhere. She was 
 
 244 
 
THE RELIEF THAT SHAMED 
 
 no longer mistress of her heart, her will, anything. 
 That belonged to the man on the ship. There was 
 rest and peace in the abandonment. There was dignity 
 in the greatness of her passion which half took away 
 the shame. 
 
 And poor Pink Peyton, her grief was genuine and 
 unalloyed. The first tidings had said that Pleasants 
 had died by Barrow's side. The shock had crushed 
 the girl, then she had been lifted up to the seventh 
 heaven by a contradictory report, and beaten down 
 again by the rumor of a desperate wound he had re 
 ceived in carrying back the colors to the regiment. 
 These alternations were more terrible than mere sus 
 pense there was always hope to leaven that. 
 
 And then every heart was fired with excitement 
 when it was clicked over the wires that the regiment 
 all that was left of it, having been literally cut to pieces 
 its time of service having expired, was coming 
 home. Pleasants was to be brought back with the rest. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE REGIMENT 
 
 I 
 
 T was a pleasant morning in October 
 when the steamer from Montgomery 
 drew up at the wharf with the regi 
 ment on board. There was a great 
 concourse of people on the dock and 
 in the nearby streets. Two or three 
 companies of young boys and old men, 
 Home Guards, in cheap, ill-fitting uni 
 forms, were there to welcome them, 
 and there was a regiment from Gen 
 eral Maury's command at the Spanish 
 Fort at Blakely, to do them honor. 
 The rest of the crowd was made up 
 of hoary grandfathers, little children, 
 and women. The troops on the shore 
 presented arms as the debarkation of the regiment 
 began. 
 
 A regiment! Was that handful a regiment? A 
 faint attempt to raise a cheer ended in a groan. First 
 came the lieutenant in command, a mere boy, who had 
 been a private when he went forth. There were tears 
 in his eyes, he stepped unsteadily, his sword trembled 
 in his hands, his voice broke as he gave the words of 
 command. Close after him came a little squad of men 
 carrying the flag, a mere tattered, bloodstained rag, 
 
 246 
 
.. 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE REGIMENT 
 
 now, drooping down the staff in the still air. Then 
 on a litter, carried by some of the soldiers, came the 
 prostrate figure of young Pleasants, the heroic lieuten 
 ant-colonel. His foot was bandaged, and the wound 
 and exposure had brought on a relapse of his fever. 
 He had strength enough left to prop himself upon 
 his arm and turn his gaze listlessly toward the crowd. 
 
 Then came the wounded who were able to march 
 men with their heads tied up, men with their arms in 
 improvised slings, men leaning on human crutches, 
 men with bandages over their eyes, led by others; and 
 then the well men only by contrast could these hag 
 gard, broken fellows be called well perhaps one hun 
 dred of them. The whole body did not number one 
 hundred and fifty. Their patched, tattered uniforms 
 were covered with dust, they were worn and faded be 
 yond recognition. The faces of the men were gaunt 
 and weather-beaten, but the gun-barrels were bright, 
 the bayonets still sparkled in the sun. They had gone 
 forth not quite three years before some eleven hundred 
 strong, they came back one hundred and fifty weak. 
 
 A drum and fife belonging to them struck up as the 
 little company, in the midst of ghastly silence, crossed 
 the gang plank. The remains of the field music made 
 a brave effort to cheer the men, and the tune that rang 
 over the silent crowd was the old sweet one, "Listen 
 to the Mocking-Bird." The two men played a few 
 bars of it, but it was too much for them. The music 
 stopped suddenly. 
 
 The heads of the men of the regiment dropped on 
 their breasts as the memories of their first passage 
 
 247 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 down Government Street, the day they went away, so 
 young, so hopeful, and so strong, came upon them, 
 staggering over the same highway on that day. Tears 
 streamed from their eyes. They were home, all that 
 was left of them. It was good to be home again. A 
 groan burst from the crowd. The regiment pro 
 ceeded slowly a little way up the street, the people 
 swarming about it. 
 
 There, on the porch at Annandale, as they had seen 
 her as they marched away, stood Mary Annan. No, 
 not the same, for then she was gay and joyous, now 
 she was bowed with grief and arrayed in the garments 
 of mourning. With her were Madam Peyton and her 
 daughter and old Mrs. Pleasants. Hamilton's father 
 had gone to the front. The boy was to be taken there, 
 and his mother had come to meet him. They, too, 
 were in the same sombre garb, and they made a strik 
 ing group, a black blot against the white walls of the 
 old house. The women in the street were pressing 
 hard upon the soldiers now. Cries and appeals rang 
 along the street. 
 
 "Jack! Jack! Is it you?" 
 "Oh, thank God, you've come back !" 
 "Has anyone seen my son?" 
 "Oh, where is my husband?" 
 "Tell me, where did you leave my Will?" 
 And so on in a confused medley of heartbreaking 
 appeals. 
 
 The ranks were invaded now. They were broken. 
 The march was stopped. The regiment was home 
 and in the arms of the women. 
 
 248 
 
THE RETURN OF THE REGIMENT 
 
 They carried Pleasants into the hall at Annandale. 
 And lying there on the litter he told how Bob Dar- 
 row had led the charge. He was ill, faint, but he 
 must tell his story. Dr. Venosste, who had come to 
 do what he could for him, bade him speak on at last. 
 
 "I was right by his side when he fell," he said. "We 
 led the last charge, you know, Miss Mary." 
 
 He addressed the young woman, recognizing her 
 right above the others to hear the story. 
 
 "And the next day I sent a party to look for him, 
 as the field was ours." 
 
 "Did they find him?" asked the girl, "or his 
 body?" 
 
 "No, Miss Mary. There had been a fire near where 
 he fell that had swept away a good part of the forest 
 on the hill. They " 
 
 He stopped, not liking to continue the ghastly re 
 cital. 
 
 "Did they find anything?" 
 
 "There were many other bodies there. They found 
 evidences of those. His might have been among 
 them." 
 
 "But his watch that would not burn or " 
 
 "They found nothing, nothing that gave any 
 clew." " 
 
 "Was he dead when you left him?" 
 
 "I don't know, I think not; but hard hit, yes." 
 
 "How dared you leave him?" she cried, suddenly. 
 
 "I was driven off, Miss Mary. God knows I'd 
 cheerfully have died for him, or with him." 
 
 "And how dare you speak so to him, Mary Annan, 
 249 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 you cruel, selfish woman !" cried Pink, aflame. "Ham 
 ilton, what did you go back for?" 
 
 "Pink, dear," said the young man, flushing faintly, 
 "I seized the flag from Darrow's failing hand. He 
 gave it to me; he said, 'Save the flag!' A little knot 
 of our men rallied around me and stood there on that 
 slope until they were shot down. I was alone. We 
 were beaten back. I thought it better to save the 
 flag, so I turned and walked down the hill. A bullet 
 struck me " 
 
 "What then?" cried his mother, breathlessly. 
 
 "Then I crawled with the flag until I brought it 
 back." 
 
 "They didn't fire upon you?" 
 
 "Not when they saw me crawling away?" 
 
 "Forgive me," cried Mary Annan, kneeling down 
 by him and pressing a kiss on his hand. "You are a 
 hero like all the men of the South, like General Dar- 
 row was. Do you think he may have escaped?" 
 
 "It is hardly within the bounds of possibility, Miss 
 Mary. Still, I can't say. You ought to be proud of 
 him. He loved you so." 
 
 "Did you give him my letter?" whispered the girl, 
 as she knelt beside him. 
 
 "Yes," whispered the young officer, softly. 
 
 Something in the situation caused the others to 
 draw back a little as she questioned him. 
 
 "And did he was he what did he say or do?" 
 
 No one heard the answer. Pleasants would have 
 spared her if he could, but there was something in 
 her glance that compelled the truth. 
 
 250 
 
THE RETURN OF THE REGIMENT 
 
 "It broke his heart," he said, feeling for her sorrow. 
 "It struck him down as surely as the Yankee bullet 
 on that Sunday evening." 
 
 Mary Annan slipped 'down and fell upon her face, 
 hearing and seeing nothing more. 
 
BOOK IV 
 THE THUNDERBOLT STROKE 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 A GREAT CAPTAIN OF THE SEA 
 
 I 
 
 T was the afternoon of the 4th of 
 August, 1864. The place was the 
 after-cabin of the U. S. steam sloop- 
 of-war Hartford, carrying the flag of 
 Admiral David Glasgow Farragut, 
 Captain Percival Drayton command 
 ing. An elderly officer sat, with a sin 
 gle companion, at a table scanning a 
 chart spread out before him. He wore 
 the complete uniform of his rank, a 
 rear admiral, which was at that time 
 the highest in the service. He was a 
 rather small man, not stout, who still 
 preserved his waist and figure although 
 he had already entered upon his sixty- 
 third year. His broad shoulders and his well-knit 
 frame gave promise of unusual vigor for one of his 
 advanced age. In his appearance were evidences of 
 mental capacity and determination in accord with his 
 physical advantages. 
 
 As he sat there he stared intently at the chart through 
 his eye-glasses; when he removed them, a slight con 
 traction of his brows was noticeable, which turned the 
 upper curves of the eyelids into straight lines, giving 
 
 255 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 a singular eagle-like directness to his glance if an 
 eagle's eye could be kindly and rilled with humor 
 which is the completing quality of greatness. His 
 face, which was rather long, was smooth-shaven. His 
 forehead was broad and high. His nose was aquiline, 
 the upper lip long; the curves of his mouth bespoke 
 an indomitable resolution which the firm bold chin and 
 resolute jaw confirmed. He was bald on the top of 
 his head, but his black hair, already turning white 
 about the temples, which was allowed to grow long on 
 the left side, was carefully brushed over the denuded 
 spot; in seaman's parlance, "the afterguard was made 
 to do fok's'l duty." 
 
 His natural very dark complexion was intensified 
 by an exposure of many years to wind and weather, 
 largely in tropic seas. His cap lay on the table by 
 him and a whitish line across his forehead, common to 
 old sailors, showed where it had protected his brow 
 from sun and storm. In spite of his dark skin his 
 color came and went like a boy's, especially when he 
 laughed or grew excited. His eye indeed was some 
 what dim from hard usage on salt water, but his natural 
 force otherwise was not yet visibly abated. His man 
 ners were simple, genial, and unaffected, his address 
 easy and pleasant. When his rather plain face lighted 
 with a smile, it became charming. 
 
 Fifty years of naval service had given the admiral 
 the authoritative appearance of long command. There 
 was about him that indefinable stamp of power and its 
 habitual use, or enjoyment, which held the most pre 
 sumptuous at a proper distance; at the same time he 
 
 256 
 
A GREAT CAPTAIN OF THE SEA 
 
 was easily approachable, too. In his bearing there 
 was dignity without stiffness. When he knitted his 
 brows, as he frequently did on account of a slightly 
 impaired vision, and his mind turned to action, his 
 hazel eyes fairly flashed with fire and spirit. In re 
 pose there was a twinkle of humor, and good-humor, 
 in them, which yet neither invited presumption nor 
 allowed familiarity. ,' .;: 1 
 
 There was in his aspect some of that conceit neces 
 sary to greatness in action; a conceit which rose from 
 careful preparation, from thorough self-knowledge, 
 from the remembrance of past exploits and the cer 
 tainty of future successes. It was a conceit obligated by 
 achievement and, if apology be needed, condoned by 
 it. It was an assurance that never obtruded itself jar 
 ringly, as do the vices of lesser men, but one which 
 actually inspired everyone with whom the admiral 
 came in contact, with confidence and courage. This 
 serene self-confidence was the inevitable result of ade 
 quate recognition of an inherent power and ability to 
 do things, great things, on a grand scale, based upon 
 happy issues of the past; and it was a quality without 
 which, no matter what other capacities and abilities 
 may have been enjoyed and employed in individual 
 instances, there never has existed the truly great com 
 mander. 
 
 The predominant impression that an observer ac 
 customed to reading men would have gathered from 
 his appearance, was one of absolute fearlessness. This 
 native intrepidity, coupled with a habit of prompt de 
 cision, would enable him to dominate the unforeseen 
 
 257 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 emergency, whatever it might be. This cheerful 
 courage was of the kind that decides instantly in the 
 exigent moment; that takes the only proper course in 
 the crisis as it presents itself. But his decision would 
 be no more the creation of an impulse than is the 
 speech of the lawyer or the sermon of the clergyman 
 after a lifetime of practice or exhortation, an im 
 promptu. It would be the wisdom of years at the 
 touch. It would be character in action. 
 
 Wise planning and careful preparation born of long 
 practice and experience are necessarily precedent con 
 ditions of success. But after all it is the man who 
 employs the resultant of these things in that crucial 
 instant when the unforeseen happening shatters all 
 his plans and puts all his preconceived ideas to flight, 
 who grapples victory and holds it for his own. We 
 prepare consciously, or unconsciously, through long 
 lifetimes for that one flood-tide moment, and great 
 ness may be measured by the rare ability to grasp a 
 sole opportunity. Fame touches us but for a sec 
 ond, and the man who is not ready on that instant to 
 seize and hold her loses all. To be ready is half of 
 success. 
 
 This man would never lose anything in that way. 
 It is a habit of seamen to decide instinctively and 
 instantly in moments of danger; they have no time to 
 think it over; the watchword of the old sailor of the 
 wooden sailing ship was Now ! The ability to know 
 always what to do with the helm, for instance, and the 
 right use of the motive and directive power that lay 
 in canvas and cordage, without a second of hesitation 
 
 258 
 
A GREAT CAPTAIN OF THE SEA 
 
 for on the sea the demands are fearfully sudden 
 is what distinguishes the true seaman from the theo 
 retical sailor. His ship is a part of the tried mariner, 
 she moves at a volition as unconsciously exercised as 
 when he lifts his arm or turns his head. Your theo 
 retical sailor is a different man. The Englishman al 
 ways used to beat the Frenchman; that was the rea 
 son, the one was a sailor by instinct, the other by train 
 ing. The Americans usually beat the English be 
 cause they were sailors in both kinds! Instinct and 
 training, that is the most powerful combination in the 
 world ! 
 
 This man had both in full. 
 
 You could see that he was a sailor beyond perad- 
 venture, a thousand things indicated it to an observing 
 or experienced eye. He could no more disguise it 
 than he could disguise his character. Yet there were 
 none of the popularly accepted signs of his profession 
 about him; nothing of the "roll-like-a-seventy-four-in- 
 a-gale-of-wind" in his manner, nothing of the bluff, 
 burly, bull-like, blow-hardness of the so-called "Ben- 
 bow School" of sailors in his appearance. Nor was 
 he of the red-faced, irascible type, which so many an 
 cient seamen affect especially in novels. He was 
 not full of strange oaths and uncouth phrases more 
 or less technical. There were about him none of the 
 common affectations of the sea indeed no affectations 
 of any sort ! Here was a cultivated gentleman of the 
 very highest type, a most accomplished officer, a lion 
 in bravery, almost a woman in his gentleness. His 
 seamanly habit spoke in his method, in his cheery 
 
 259 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 ways, in his qualities, as much as it did in his sun 
 burned cheeks. 
 
 And to the most casual observer it was evident that 
 here was a great man, one of the few men to whom 
 that word which is usually so carelessly employed, 
 could be rightly applied. A leader, he; one whose ac 
 tions men instinctively would be glad to emulate and 
 upon whom they felt they could depend. Yet his 
 greatness was rather personal than communicative, 
 or selective, or distributive. He would do the thing 
 himself and succeed in getting others to do it because 
 they were inspired by his action to do as he did. He 
 was not so much one who had devised a plan, chosen 
 his instrument, pointed out a way, and achieved suc 
 cess through others. He did things himself, and the 
 others followed him gladly. Like Grant he trusted 
 men and was inclined to take them at their face value 
 till failure or weakness enlightened him. 
 
 He was not of course deficient in the large ability, 
 the foresight to see the vital point or to lay out the 
 campaign on a large scale, far from it; he planned 
 greatly and in his brilliant arrangements are found 
 many reasons for his success. But in every one of his 
 great battles he gained his greatest glory by his own 
 personal daring, courage, and skill, in choosing the 
 right, the noble, course in the very nick of time, when 
 a weaker man would have faltered and faltering, failed. 
 He was a subtle tactician, and the master always of 
 the strategic moment. 
 
 One other phase of his character may be mentioned. 
 He was a good man, just and upright in his dealings, 
 
 260 
 
A GREAT CAPTAIN OF THE SEA 
 
 merciful in his judgments, pleasant and agreeable in 
 his social relations, a rare husband and father. And 
 a sincere, simple-minded Christian of high and humble 
 type. Indeed his actions resulted from a singular mix 
 ture of confidence in his own judgment, the courage 
 that pervaded his soul, and an absolute trust and de 
 pendence upon that Higher Power that rules the 
 destinies of men. And seeing all these things his 
 officers and men loved him and followed gladly where 
 he would lead. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 PEYTON POINTS OUT THE WAY 
 
 ELL, Drayton," said the admiral, look 
 ing up from the chart at the officer 
 sitting near him in the cabin, "I think 
 we have done everything we can do in 
 the way of preparation, and nothing 
 now remains but to put the affair to 
 the test." 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered Drayton, a 
 tall, thin, dark, swarthy, full-bearded 
 sailor, the able commander of the 
 Hartford and Farragut's fleet-captain, 
 as brave and capable an officer as ever 
 sailed or fought a ship. "I can think 
 of nothing to add to the instructions 
 you have prepared." 
 "The ships are to go in in pairs, lashed together," 
 continued the admiral, slowly, rehearsing his orders to 
 see if anything further occurred to him, "the weaker 
 vessels on the port hand. If one ship is disabled by the 
 enemy's fire the other will be able to carry her past the 
 forts, I trust. Then the tide will be at flood in the 
 morning, and we could almost drift in were the process 
 not a little too slow. And I count upon the tide turn 
 ing the percussion caps of the torpedoes away from 
 the ships. The four monitors will go in to starboard 
 and ahead of the fleet and engage the forts at close 
 
 262 
 
PEYTON POINTS OUT THE WAY 
 
 range. The two heavier single turret ones will then 
 proceed to engage the Tennessee, while the double tur 
 ret Mississippi River monitors will lie off the fort and 
 cover our passage. We have had word that the Pen- 
 sacola and the Tecumseh will be here this afternoon 
 thank God! I was mortified to death to find the 
 army ready to begin this morning, and we not able to 
 carry out our part of the program as agreed." 
 
 "Waiting will do the soldiers no harm, sir," said 
 Drayton, "and I hardly think it would be prudent to 
 venture until all the fleet be here. The odds are heavy 
 against us as it is." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I suppose you are right. I don't fancy 
 these iron pots myself, Drayton, but in this instance 
 we must have them," replied Farragut, thoughtfully, 
 with a sailor's natural reluctance to yield to monitor 
 or iron-clad any superiority to the beautiful wooden 
 ships on which he had served, been trained, and one 
 of which now bore his flag. 
 
 The time was the transition period between wood 
 and sails, steam and iron ; and while sails were doomed 
 it was not yet quite certain that the oak timber would 
 give way to the iron beam, or the broadside frigate to 
 the turret raft. 
 
 "Yes, Admiral," assented the captain, "you see there 
 is the ram, you know, and the gunboats. After we 
 get past the forts we will have to deal with those." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "To my mind they are the most dangerous ob 
 stacles to our attempt. They'll rake the life out of us 
 in that narrow channel." 
 
 263 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "Yes, they will if they are well handled, as they are 
 sure to be. Well, we'll have to grin and bear it as 
 best we can. Once get our broadsides to bear on the 
 gunboats we'll make short work of them." 
 
 "And the Tennessee, sir?" 
 
 "We can't make any different plans as to her. Old 
 Buck is a fighter, you know. He isn't going to wait 
 for our passage; he's going to be in the thing from 
 the beginning, if I know him." 
 
 "Quite so, sir ! May I ask what you propose to do 
 with him?" 
 
 "Why, fight him, of course!" exclaimed the ad 
 miral. "Mob him ! Throw every ship upon him that 
 can get a blow in." 
 
 "The wooden ships, sir?" 
 
 "Certainly; ram him with those and hammer him to 
 pieces with the heavy guns of the monitors and our 
 own broadsides." 
 
 "It will be wood against iron, sir," remarked the 
 captain, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Yes, I know that, except for the monitors." 
 
 "The day of the wooden ship is about over. I sup 
 pose in the end iron will win," observed Drayton. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so, but not in my day; not to-mor 
 row, anyway," replied the admiral, confidently. "I 
 feel perfectly certain we can attend to the Tennessee 
 all right. We'll just work at her until we sink her by 
 sheer weight of numbers." 
 
 "Provided she doesn't sink some of us before 
 that." 
 
 "I've counted upon that, Drayton. I expect to lose 
 264 
 
PEYTON POINTS OUT THE WAY 
 
 some of my ships, probably some under the guns of 
 the fort and possibly some from the Tennessee, but 
 we shall have enough left to complete the work, never 
 fear. That's a risk that every flag-officer must run. 
 And a lost ship counts for little beside a battle 
 gained," said the admiral, philosophically. "Notwith 
 standing, I fervently pray all may pass safely." 
 
 "And as to the fire of Fort Gaines, Admiral ?" 
 
 "Too far off for any damage to us." 
 
 "And the torpedoes?" 
 
 "We'll face them, too. If we can pass through the 
 open channel near the fort we may escape from them." 
 
 "And if not?" 
 
 "I don't care that," snapping his fingers, "for them. 
 By the way, I think we'd better have Peyton in here 
 for a final look at this chart. Will you " 
 
 "Certainly, sir," said Drayton, anticipating the re 
 quest, and stepping to the door of the cabin. 
 "Orderly," he called out, "pass the word for Lieuten 
 ant Peyton to report to the admiral in his cabin." 
 
 In a few moments a young officer descended from 
 the deck, opened the door of the cabin, stepped within, 
 and saluted. 
 
 "Good-afternoon, Mr. Peyton," said the admiral, 
 genially, "sit down, sir. But, first will you tell the 
 orderly to send Freeman here?" 
 
 "Ah, Freeman," continued the old sailor, as the 
 pilot of the fleet came into the cabin, "come around 
 here, both of you, where you can see this chart. 
 These are the jottings you made on the old govern 
 ment chart, I believe, Freeman?" 
 
 265 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered the pilot, respectfully. 
 
 "You think they are right, do you?" 
 
 "As near as my memory serves, sir. It has been 
 some time since I was in Mobile Bay, admiral." 
 
 "It won't be long before you will be in once more, 
 I fancy, Freeman," interrupted the admiral. 
 
 "Yes, sir, I hope so," answered the pilot, smiling 
 broadly and pointing to the chart again. "There was 
 the channel, gentlemen, but shoals change and these 
 waters are treacherous. Still, that's the best informa 
 tion I can give you from memory." 
 
 "'No one can do better than his best," said the ad 
 miral. "Now, Mr. Peyton, I wish you would take a 
 look at these shoal lines and give us your opinion on 
 them. You were born here, I recollect, and perhaps 
 you may be able to give us some additional informa 
 tion which will be helpful. I don't mind telling you, 
 gentlemen, that, God willing, I am going in in the 
 morning." 
 
 The young officer could not repress a sudden move 
 ment which the observant admiral instantly detected. 
 
 "My boy," he said, "I feel for you. I know some 
 thing of how you must feel. When I came up the 
 Mississippi to New Orleans my own sister and many of 
 my relatives were in the city. I dreaded the idea 
 that I might be obliged to fire upon them at any mo 
 ment. I met your father in the Mexican War. I 
 know he will give us a hard fight." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the young man, proudly, "he is as 
 brave as a lion." 
 
 "I have no doubt of it," returned the admiral, 
 266 
 
PEYTON POINTS OUT THE WAY 
 
 kindly, "and it is hard to think that you must fire upon 
 his fort, but it is a thing that a great many men have 
 to do. I, myself, am a Southern man, born in Ten 
 nessee. I lived in Louisiana when I entered the ser 
 vice. My wife's people are all Virginians, too. If 
 there had been an amicable separation between the 
 sections I might have gone with the South, but when 
 war came my course was clear to me. But don't you 
 think it didn't hurt me to turn my guns against 
 my own people, my wife's people! Eh, Captain 
 Drayton?" 
 
 "Indeed it does, sir," feelingly answered Drayton, 
 who was from North Carolina. "I can well remem 
 ber my own sensations when I took the Pawnee in at 
 Fort Royal. You know my brother commanded one 
 of the forts there." 
 
 "And my brother is on the Tennessee, Admiral," 
 said Peyton. 
 
 "Is he, indeed?" said the veteran sea-captain. 
 "Well, Admiral Buchanan will give him plenty to do, 
 if I know him, and us too, and we'll try to see that 
 he has an opportunity to do all he wants. I'm just 
 aching to meet him and have things out. Strange, 
 Drayton, that the four men in this cabin should all 
 be Southerners in arms against the South." 
 
 "Not against the South as a South, Admiral, if you 
 will permit me," replied Drayton, quickly, his face 
 flushing his Southern ties were much more intense 
 than the admiral's. "But against any section which 
 seeks to disrupt the Union. Believe me, there is a 
 difference." 
 
 267 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "Yes," returned the admiral, thoughtfully, I see 
 that there is. You are right." 
 
 "It's not that I have the slightest animosity toward 
 the South, sir; on the contrary, I love her. She is in 
 my mind like a child who tries to run away from her 
 home and get lost, and we have to bring her back 
 even " 
 
 "Even if we batter her to pieces in the bringing," 
 interrupted the old officer, smiling. 
 
 "Well, of course, these things will happen. I have 
 to punish my own children sometimes," commented 
 the flag-captain. 
 
 "Well, gentlemen, I think it is pretty much over 
 now. I thought it was practically over after Vicks- 
 burg and Gettysburg, but Chickamauga gave them a 
 lift. But now I am sure of it." 
 
 "The South has only been beaten by her own sons, 
 sir," cried Peyton, suddenly. 
 
 "Well, not exactly," laughed the admiral. "We 
 four happen to be Southern men, but Grant, Sherman, 
 and Sheridan and some of the rest can't lay claim to 
 the happy title. However," lifting his glasses, "let's 
 to the chart. You know this harbor?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I have sailed over every fathom of it, I 
 believe," answered Peyton. 
 
 "What in?" 
 
 "My own sloop, sir." 
 
 "And not alone, I'll be bound," chuckled the ad 
 miral, amusedly, as he scanned the chart. 
 
 "No, sir," said Peyton, paling visibly under the 
 brown of his cheek. 
 
 268 
 
PEYTON POINTS OUT THE WAY 
 
 "With many a young girl for a shipmate, I'll war 
 rant," continued the older man, not heeding the 
 other's agitation as he scrutinized the chart. 
 
 "With one, sir. My an old friend, sir." 
 
 Peyton bit his lip to keep from trembling at the 
 recollection of the happy but vanished past. 
 
 "Forgive me, lad," said the old sailor, looking 
 quickly up at him, as he remarked his changed voice, 
 touched by the reticence with which Peyton spoke of 
 that one, a reticence which conveyed a great deal to 
 the quick apprehension of the admiral "forgive 
 me. I didn't mean to call up recollections of that 
 kind." 
 
 "There is nothing to forgive, sir," answered the 
 young officer, quietly. "I put all that out of my mind 
 when I refused to resign and came North to follow the 
 flag." 
 
 Ah, yes, Peyton had put all these things out of mind 
 perhaps, or tried to do it, but he had never succeeded 
 in putting them and Mary Annan out of his heart ! 
 
 He spoke bravely, yet in spite of his powerful effort 
 at constraint and restraint, it was impossible com 
 pletely to disguise his emotion. The admiral looked 
 thoughtfully at him. Drayton, divining the situation, 
 turned away with the fine instinct of the true gentle 
 man, and looked out of a port. The pilot stared at 
 the chart. Each man was thinking doubtless of the 
 one to whom his own heart was given, and the South, 
 the beloved South, against which all of them were in 
 arms. As the admiral gazed at Peyton the old man's 
 ready sympathy apparent in his expressive face, almost 
 
 269 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 unmanned him. He mastered his feelings, however, 
 and turned to the chart. 
 
 "The chart appears to be all right, sir, so far as I 
 can make it out," he said at last, after scrutinizing it 
 carefully. "I think there is a little more water here 
 and not quite so much there, pilot," he added, turning 
 to the officer and pointing at different places. 
 
 "You may be right, Mr. Peyton," answered the 
 pilot. 
 
 "I used to notice that right there it was pretty shoal 
 and it used to be deeper here. In its main features, 
 however, I think your lines are very accurate." 
 
 "That's good!" exclaimed the admiral. "Now as 
 to the obstructions. You have been up there two or 
 three times at night. You never saw any obstruc 
 tions close under Fort Morgan?" 
 
 "No, sir, never; at least, no evidence of them. The 
 piles come down there to starboard," pointing, "but 
 the waters are shoal there; we could not pass anyway. 
 Of course, there is a triple line of torpedoes right 
 across the channel except that space under the guns 
 of the fort to the eastward of that buoy, about two 
 hundred and fifty yards across, I take it, which seems 
 to be a clear channel. We sunk the buoys, but I 
 doubt if we have damaged the torpedoes any." 
 
 "They've left that space open for blockaders, of 
 course," said Drayton. 
 
 "Well, we'll run our own blockade in the morning 
 in spite of ships, fort, or torpedoes. You have been 
 in Fort Morgan, Peyton, I suppose, in the old days?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. Many times." 
 270 
 
PEYTON POINTS OUT THE WAY 
 
 "How is this plan of it?" thrusting another paper 
 toward him. 
 
 "That is the way it used to be, as I recall it. Of 
 course, they may have done a great deal to it since 
 then." 
 
 "And the water battery you say is right there?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. It masks the curtain that looks to the 
 northwest between these two bastions. Its guns bear 
 square across the channel." 
 
 "And the fort has a raking fire on us until we come 
 abreast of it." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Freeman," said the admrial, turning to the pilot, 
 "you know just how to take us in to-morrow morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Yes, Admiral." 
 
 "You will be in the main-top, as usual?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. That's the best place for me. I can 
 communicate with the deck by the speaking-tube along 
 the mast, and I can direct our consort the Metacomet 
 by hand." 
 
 "I shall be right beneath you," said the admiral, 
 "and in touch with you. By the way, I think it would 
 be just as well for us to take the tender and go up 
 above Sand Island and take a final look at things this 
 afternoon. Drayton, will you oblige me by seeing 
 that the necessary signals are made? I shall want you 
 and Watson to go, and you might call the command 
 ing officers of the other ships to go with us. That will 
 do, Freeman. No, wait a moment, Peyton; I want 
 to speak with you," he added, as the others left the 
 cabin. 
 
 271 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 P 
 
 A PROMOTION DECLINED 
 
 EYTON," said the admiral, thought 
 fully, "I have been thinking hard over 
 your case, and if you like I will de 
 tach you from the Hartford and send 
 you over to the Pembina, which is to 
 remain outside. You will have plenty 
 to do on her, as the squadron I leave 
 behind will engage the works south 
 of the point to make a diversion in 
 our favor." 
 
 "What, Admiral!" cried the young 
 man, "relieve me from my station 
 on the day of battle! Take me out 
 of action! Sir! Why! I" He 
 sprang to his feet, his face flushed 
 with indignation. "I don't under 
 stand you, sir !" he burst out. 
 The admiral leaned back in his chair and eyed him 
 narrowly, with a glance that seemed to pierce through 
 and through him. 
 
 "You cannot mean it, sir !" Peyton continued, hotly. 
 "It's it's saving that we know you, sir, and love 
 
 you, one would almost say it was an in " 
 
 "Hold on, my lad !" said the admiral, quietly. "Your 
 father commands that fort. Your brother is on the 
 Tennessee. The place is sacred in your memory, for I 
 
 272 
 
A PROMOTION DECLINED 
 
 take it, from what you say and from what I have heard, 
 that it is associated with one even dearer to you. 
 There is no dishonor in my proposition. I am giving 
 you a chance in one sense. In its way it is a promo 
 tion. I can give you the command of the Pembina. 
 You have shown your devotion to the cause by your 
 recent search for torpedoes and mines in the channel. 
 I don't want to compel you to do violence to your feel- 
 ings." 
 
 "Admiral Farragut," said Peyton, impetuously, for 
 getting in some part the distinction of age and rank 
 which lay between them, "my feelings have nothing 
 to do with my duty. My father did everything to 
 keep me for the South my mother, my sister, and 
 the woman I was engaged to marry, but I broke 
 away. Your own letter to me came in the nick of 
 time, sir, although I had already decided. Father in 
 his excitement and anger said things that perhaps he 
 did not mean." 
 
 "I am sure he didn't," broke in the admiral, kindly. 
 
 "But, sir, he'd rather see me dead, I am sure, a 
 thousand times, than have me accept your offer. By 
 heavens, sir, I'd rather be a lieutenant on the Hartford 
 in this action than the captain of the W 'abash or the 
 Colorado out at sea! They, my people, haven't any 
 love left for me, no affection, but if they had it would 
 wither if I did this. No, sir ! If you leave the choice 
 to me and you would not order me away, surely, 
 under such circumstances I stay with you." 
 
 "That's well said," cried the admiral, heartily. "I 
 knew how it would be. It would have broken my 
 
 273 
 
THE " SOUTHERNERS 
 
 heart, boy, if you had gone. Besides, I want you, I 
 need you, here." 
 
 "Thank you, sir." 
 
 "Freeman is our only pilot. Should anything hap 
 pen to him your services would be invaluable. I shall 
 want you on deck directly beneath me during the ac 
 tion. I will arrange with Captain Drayton that you 
 are freed from duty with your division. You can carry 
 my orders to the different parts of the ship, if I have 
 any to give, and you will be on hand to take Freeman's 
 place and pilot us in if anything happens to him." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said Peyton, greatly relieved. "I 
 shall be ready." 
 
 "And by the way," added the admiral, "I want you 
 to go with us in the tender when we reconnoitre the 
 forts this afternoon. Perhaps you can give us some 
 more information about the situation." 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir." 
 
 There was a knock on the door of the cabin at that 
 instant. 
 
 "Come in," called out the admiral. An ensign en 
 tered and saluted. 
 
 "Captain Drayton's compliments, sir, and he says the 
 Pensacola and Tecumseh have been signalled to sea 
 ward; they'll be here by seven bells, sir." 
 
 "Very good, Mr. Brownell," said Farragut, as the 
 officer saluted and vanished. "That settles it ! We'll 
 go in in the morning! Now, Mr. Peyton," he con 
 tinued, resuming his formal address, "direct the 
 officer of the deck to let me know as soon as the 
 Cowslip [the tender] is alongside and the captains 
 
 274 
 
A PROMOTION DECLINED 
 
 have assembled. Meanwhile bid him see that I am 
 not disturbed, unless matters of great importance 
 come up, until I return on deck." 
 
 As Peyton followed the ensign out the admiral was 
 left alone in his cabin. 
 
 "Poor lad," he thought resting his elbow on the 
 table and playing with his chin as was his habit, "father, 
 brother, and sweetheart, all against him ! And two of 
 them under our guns ! Yet how nobly he rose to that 
 test! The honest indignation of a born sailor! I 
 should have despised him if he had accepted my offer ! 
 Courage! The lad has plenty of it! And of the 
 rare-two-o'clock-in-the-morning kind ! Not many men 
 I've met have that kind either. I'm glad he chose 
 rightly. The place of honor's here. Now if anything 
 happens to Freeman I can trust the ship to him. 
 
 "Ah, what a dreadful thing is war ! It seems to me I 
 can remember every soul I have ever seen killed on 
 the decks of a ship from the day the Phoebe and the 
 Cherub turned the Essex into a slaughter-house up to 
 that last night in the Mississippi. I suppose to-mor 
 row many a good fellow will lose the number of his 
 mess, perhaps I may be one. Well, I have still one 
 thing to do." 
 
 He pushed the charts aside and taking a sheet of 
 note-paper from the drawer wrote rapidly in his bold 
 free hand for a short time. After he had finished he 
 sat staring down at the words he had written. Pres 
 ently with a deep flush on his bronzed cheek, looking 
 furtively around as if to make sure of the impossibility 
 of anyone seeing him, he raised the letter to his lips. 
 
 275 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 Then he folded it, put it in an envelope, which he 
 sealed and addressed to Mrs. D. G. Farragut, Hast- 
 ings-on-the-Hudson, New York. Then he sat quietly 
 in his cabin, his elbows on the table and his face 
 buried in his hands. He was thinking and praying. 
 He reminds me a little of the great Nelson on his knees 
 in the cabin of the Victory before Trafalgar; but Far 
 ragut was incomparably the finer, higher type of man. 
 This was the letter that he had written, and no 
 braver, tenderer words were ever penned by a great 
 captain on the eve of his greatest battle than these that 
 follow : 
 
 FLAG-SHIP HARTFORD, 
 Off Mobile, August 4, 1864. 
 
 MY DEAREST WIFE : I write and leave this letter 
 for you. I am going into Mobile Bay in the morning, 
 if God is my leader, as I hope He is, and in Him I 
 place my trust. If He thinks it is the proper place for 
 me to die, I am ready to submit to His will, in that as 
 in all other things. My great mortification is, that my 
 vessels, the iron-clads, were not ready to have gone in 
 yesterday. The army landed last night, and are in full 
 view of us this morning, and the Tecumseh has not yet 
 arrived from Pensacola. 
 
 God bless you and preserve you, my darling, and 
 my dear boy, if anything should happen to me, and 
 may His blessings also rest upon your dear mother, 
 and all your sisters and their children. 
 
 Your devoted and affectionate husband, who never 
 for one moment forgot his love, duty, or fidelity to 
 you, his devoted and best of wives. 
 
 D. G. FARRAGUT. 
 
 To Mrs. D. G. Farragut, 
 
 Hastings-on-the-Hudson. 
 
 276 
 
CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 IN THE WARDROOM OF THE HARTFORD 
 
 IGHT bells had struck on the flagship, 
 hammocks had been piped down, 
 watches set, and other preparations 
 made for the night. The last orders 
 had been issued to the fleet, the final 
 preparations made by the different 
 ships, and everything was ready for 
 the battle in the morning. The sea 
 was smooth; a light shower followed 
 by a gentle breeze tempered the sum 
 mer heat. The wind poured refresh 
 ingly through the dead-eyes, opened on 
 account of the calm weather, from 
 one side of the ship to the other. In 
 the wardroom of the Hartford the 
 officers of the ship not on watch were congregated 
 around a .long table running the full length of the 
 room. The insufficient light from the hanging lamp 
 was supplemented by candles flaring and guttering on 
 the table. And the same scene was being enacted 
 throughout the fleet. 
 
 At the head of the table sat Kimberly, the executive 
 officer. Near him was Watson, Farragut's gallant 
 flag lieutenant, while Peyton sat about midway down. 
 Pens, ink, and paper were strewn over the table, and 
 
 277 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 every man was busily writing, everyone but Pey 
 ton, that is. 
 
 ) The faces of all were grave and quiet. The work 
 of the coming morning was to be no child's play. 
 The odds were against the fleet; a powerful fort, lines 
 of torpedoes and mines, the most formidable iron-clad 
 afloat, the gunboats, the obstructions to the channel, 
 the uncertain water, all constituted a series of dangers 
 full of the most sinister menace. It was a military 
 maxim that one gun on shore was equal to three 
 afloat, too. A few years since only a madman would 
 have dreamed of pitting a fleet like Farragut's against 
 such defences. But Farragut had revolutionized 
 naval warfare in the Mississippi and he faced the issue 
 at Mobile with a heart confident of success although 
 without underestimating any of the dangers, dangers 
 of which all the officers and even the seamen in the 
 fleet were profoundly aware. It was morally certain 
 that not all of the ships would get through safely; it 
 was thought if they passed the fort the torpedoes 
 would account for some, and after all had been done 
 there was the Tennessee. The Merrimac, a less pow 
 erful vessel, had crushed the Congress and the Cum 
 berland like paper at Hampton Roads in '62 well, 
 they would take care of her in some way. They 
 would win out in the end. The admiral would do 
 it. They had confidence in him. But he would have 
 to pay a price for his victory. They might be the 
 price. There was good cause for gravity therefore as 
 they wrote to dear ones at home, some of them for 
 the last time. 
 
IN THE WARDROOM OF THE HARTFORD 
 
 That little feeling of depression that comes over 
 men just before action, which is to temperament what 
 dawn or dusk is to day or night, was upon them. That 
 solemn little moment betwixt and between the passive 
 and the active phases of life, when lingering thoughts 
 of quiet days mingle with the high appeals of the 
 strenuous hour, had at last arrived. 
 
 It was remarkably still in the wardroom. Scarcely 
 a sound was heard above the deep breathing of the 
 men but the steady scratching of the pens, punctuated 
 by an infrequent and suppressed sigh at intervals. 
 They were writing to their wives, their children, their 
 mothers, their sweethearts, their friends. Once in a 
 while a suspicious sniff might be heard, or one of those 
 violent blasts of the nose with which men shamefacedly 
 seek to disguise their finer emotions. Sometimes the 
 back of a hand or the tip of a finger went furtively to 
 the corner of an eye. To use a handkerchief would 
 have been a betrayal. Everybody saw or divined these 
 motions, but nobody paid any attention. 
 
 They could enter into each other's feelings, and 
 there was much sympathy in the silence. There would 
 be time on the morrow to think of little but the battle. 
 They were giving their thoughts to home now. They 
 were writing those last precious words, which, whether 
 they lived or died, would stand for so much to those 
 for whom they were destined; for they would be ex 
 pressions of the heart in the face of possible or im 
 pending death, when all that is true in a man speaks 
 forth to those he loves. 
 
 They were all writing, I have said, but Peyton. To 
 279 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 whom should he write? he thought bitterly, as he held 
 the pen idly in his fingers and stared at the white paper 
 from which the noble and beautiful face of Mary 
 Annan, embodied in the flesh almost, such was the 
 reality of his vision, seemed to smile up at him. 
 
 They were separated as widely as the East is from 
 the West; nay, why use the ancient simile why not 
 write, as far as the North was from the South? Be 
 tween them yawned a great chasm of war and carnage. 
 The blood of slain armies, the cries of women and chil 
 dren, the antagonism of four blasting years of terrible 
 conflict intervened. Yes, something more. He had 
 deceived her, had broken faith with her, gained her 
 affection ah, had he gained it, after all? under false 
 pretences. 
 
 He had been faithless to her idea of duty. But not 
 to his own. Since the day he had left Mobile with old 
 Dr. Bampney's hands uplifted toward him in benedic 
 tion, with Dr. Venosste's white head bowed at the side 
 of the clergyman, he had never faltered in that de 
 termination. He had never regretted it. He sor 
 rowed bitterly on account of his separation from all he 
 loved, the cruel judgment in which they held him, 
 the hatred and obloquy heaped upon him all that 
 broke his heart. But he was satisfied with the de 
 cision he had made in that terrible crisis which had 
 been forced upon him. His consciousness of the up 
 rightness of his course as he saw it, was profound and 
 absolute. Loving the South as he did, there was yet 
 no more loyal man on earth to the Federal Union in 
 
 280 
 
IN THE WARDROOM OF THE HARTFORD 
 
 behalf of which he had drawn his sword. He was 
 entirely satisfied that he had done right. 
 
 What he did regret, however, was that he had hesi 
 tated for a single moment. For that hesitation Mary 
 Annan, the beautiful, the elusive, the fascinating Mary 
 Annan, herself had been responsible. She was at once 
 the cause and the victim of the situation. 
 
 It had come to him in a roundabout way, while he 
 had been on the blockade during the past year, that 
 she had engaged herself to his rival and former friend, 
 Bob Darrow. He had heard nothing of the fate of 
 the latter. He knew little of what had happened in 
 Mobile during those four years. Not a direct word 
 had ever come to him from anyone who had loved him. 
 She might be dead, she might be wedded, for aught 
 he knew. Oh, rather the former than the latter, he 
 thought fiercely! If not in his arms, then in no 
 other's, for he loved her still with a passion that sur 
 passed her own. It had grown and grown. He had 
 thought himself possessed by her before, but he knew 
 that what he had felt was nothing, had been nothing, 
 to what he experienced for her now. 
 
 Ever since his ship had been off Mobile he had a 
 consciousness so elusive as to be indescribable, so un 
 real as to mock him with its vague indefiniteness, yet 
 so powerful after all that he was forced to recognize 
 it, a consciousness of her nearness of her love even ! 
 It had sustained him, uplifted him, given a little hope. 
 
 He did not believe that she was dead. Some word, 
 some warning of it, would have been dragged from 
 the unknown by the compelling character of his feel- 
 
 281 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 ings. He could not believe that she was married, 
 either. She was so much his own in his mind that 
 the thought of marriage to another was almost like 
 profanation. She must love him! The war must 
 end some time; if he survived it and she still lived he 
 might find her again, persuade her to love him; they 
 might be together once more and for life ! 
 
 She had rejected him, of course. She had heaped 
 scorn and contempt upon him. Well, from her point 
 of view he had deserved it. She had looked at him 
 on the porch as if she could have killed him. Had her 
 eyes been arrows he might have been slain, so hate- 
 envenomed had been their glance. Yet he remem 
 bered that when Darrow, inspired by her mordant 
 words, had moved forward to strike him unresisting 
 she had blindly interfered. Why that? 
 
 He sat there still with his pen idle in his hand while 
 his shipmates wrote. Should he write to her? Would 
 she care? Would she read what he had written? If 
 he were alive, no; if he were dead, yes, perhaps. Well, 
 if he survived the action matters would be as they had 
 been before, and if he fell she might some day care for 
 a letter from his hand. He would write to her, after 
 all. 
 
 He drew a sheet of paper before him, lifted the pen 
 again, and found himself facing another question. 
 What should he say to her? Should he explain, should 
 he appeal, should he justify himself? Nay, to attempt 
 these things would be useless. Thinking deeply, he 
 resolved what he would do. 
 
 He told her how he loved her in a few words that 
 282 
 
IN THE WARDROOM OF THE HARTFORD 
 
 almost seemed to burn the page. He told her that 
 while his duty and his honor had constrained him to 
 take the course he had, yet with every fibre of his 
 being, with every throb of his heart, with every emo 
 tion of his soul, he loved her ! He always would love 
 her! When she would be reading this that he was 
 writing he would be beyond her censure or approval, 
 but he could not rest in his grave, he could not be 
 happy even in a heaven, unless she knew and believed 
 that he was absolutely hers, saving his honor and duty, 
 unless she realized that he loved her absolutely and en 
 tirely and forever! 
 
 "Take," he wrote, "whatever may be your future, 
 dear, the memory of an affection such as comes to 
 few women. It can neither hurt nor harm you now. 
 And remember" he could not avoid this one sen 
 tence of exculpation "that if I had not been true to 
 my duty, if I had not followed the path where honor 
 led, the affection which I ask you not to forget 
 would have been an insult, not an honor, to any honest 
 woman. And I beg you again to forgive that one kiss 
 on the porch. I have not forgotten it. It seemed to 
 me at that moment that you almost loved me. The 
 touch of your lips has abided with me. I shall take it 
 out into eternity. The mocking-bird has never sung 
 in my ear without bringing your picture, your cheek, 
 with the color coming, the rise and fall of your bosom, 
 your eyes ashine in the darkness and looking love into 
 mine. The song reminds me of you, Mary Annan. 
 Ah, well is it named the mocking-bird! This is all. 
 I would not tire you. This is only to ask you to re- 
 
 283 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 member; but whether you do or not it is neverthe 
 less true that on the eve of a great battle, with death 
 looking me in the face, I have told you the truth only. 
 But not all of it. No words can frame, no paper hold, 
 that which is in my heart. Good-night, good-by, and 
 God bless you." 
 
 It was a brief letter, but the most indifferent woman 
 could not have read it unmoved. It breathed a passion 
 that would live, and the most heedless memory could 
 not forget it. 
 
 There was something else to be done. There were 
 others to whom his mind turned. His mother, his 
 sweet-faced, soft-voiced, young mother his heart had 
 many a time quivered at the recollection that she had 
 pleaded for him on the porch. In imagination he put 
 his head down at her knee as he had done as a little 
 boy learning to say, "Now I lay me." And so he 
 wrote to her too. There were words for Pink and 
 Willis appeals that they would think of him kindly 
 and try to understand his position. Indeed, he had 
 never forgotten Willis for the impulsive yet generous 
 action which had prevented him from leaving home 
 without a single friendly word. He loved the boy, 
 a man now, and supporting his flag on the mighty 
 Tennessee. There was his father, too. What did the 
 stern, implacable old man think of him now? 
 
 War is a great dispeller of animosities of one 
 kind. Or it may have been peculiar to this par 
 ticular war that it beat down hatreds and men saw 
 things more clearly in the mist and smoke of battle 
 than in the sunlight of peace. He wondered if, from 
 
 284 
 
IN THE WARDROOM OF THE HARTFORD 
 
 the ramparts of Fort Morgan, his father had watched 
 the ships with a thought of him, as often as he had, 
 looking at the fort from the deck of the Hartford. 
 When he had rowed cautiously up the channel to re 
 connoitre the torpedo line a few nights since he had 
 almost felt impelled to turn his boat into the wharf 
 back of the fort in the bay and run to the old man 
 and beg, if not for forgiveness, for a kindly word of 
 greeting. 
 
 And now he was about to fire upon him. He was 
 to turn the great guns of his division on the Hartford 
 full upon the fort where his father commanded. Per 
 haps he might be called upon to lead the ships up the 
 channel. And if that were not enough he, with the 
 rest of the ships in company, was to engage in mortal 
 combat with the Tennessee and his brother; a missile 
 hurled from a gun, the lock-string of which quivered in 
 his own hand, might carry death or destruction to one 
 or the other of the men he loved. 
 
 There was agony in the thought, torture, but no 
 hesitation in his mind. He could not have given 
 up his position on the Hartford for any consideration. 
 This was a fratricidal war at best, such possibilities as 
 he imagined had to be faced. It was a part of duty. 
 Ah, the grinding compulsion of that iron word ! Pey 
 ton's sailorly honor and his devotion to duty had be 
 come so intensified that he was almost quixotic upon 
 them. Indeed honor and duty were all that were left 
 him to cling to, except the affection of his new 
 friends. 
 
 He finished the letters, inclosing Mary Annan's in 
 the one addressed to his mother, begging her to read 
 
 285 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 and deliver it, and then he abandoned himself to his 
 thoughts. Most of the other men in the wardroom 
 had finished their letters by this time as well. Those 
 who had completed the task sat silent for a while, star 
 ing at the table, loath to speak. Finally Kimberly 
 broke the silence. 
 
 "Here, fellows/' he said, "this will never do ! We'll 
 go into action in a blue funk if we don't brace up. 
 Somebody start up a song. Now, dash it all, Whit 
 ing," he continued, as a young ensign started to sing 
 'Home, Sweet Home,' not that, not to-night, anyway. 
 Let us have The Bay of Biscay, O !' Give us a regu 
 lar old-timer. That's right !" he cried, as the ensign's 
 clear voice rose in the room. "Now men, all of you, 
 come in in the chorus," beating time. "Heave away ! 
 That's it!" 
 
 They were glad of the relief afforded by the song, 
 which seemed to shatter the quiet and gloom which 
 hung over them. One song started another, pres 
 ently someone told a story, and a second capped it 
 with another; the room was filled with laughter and 
 merriment for an hour. Presently the black steward 
 of the wardroom came in with a pitcher of water and 
 a rare piece of ice. 
 
 "No whiskey or liquor to-night, lads," said Kimber 
 ly, gayly. "We'll drink the sweetest toast in the purest 
 liquid. It is getting late. We have had our hour of 
 sadness and our hour of fun. I'll give you a toast 
 the Saturday night toast. Come, everybody, take a 
 glass. What, Peyton, are you going?" 
 
 "Yes, Kim/' answered Peyton, "I I think I'll go 
 286 
 
IN THE WARDROOM OF THE HARTFORD 
 
 up on deck and relieve Yates. He has a wife, you 
 know, and he can drink the toast. I don't need to." 
 
 "We'll drink it for you, old man," cried Heywood, 
 the marine officer, clapping him affectionately on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 "And my lad," said Kimberly, grasping his hand, 
 "we know the circumstances, of course. We feel for 
 you. We wish somebody else was in command of 
 that fort." 
 
 "I don't," said Peyton, sternly. "My father will 
 put up a fight that will make your hair turn gray, and 
 that's what you want. And I reckon my brother will 
 keep up his end on the Tennessee, too." 
 
 "Before we drink the toast, fellows," said Watson, 
 "let's give three cheers for the Peytons the old man 
 on the fort, the boy on the Tennessee, and our own 
 shipmate on the Hartford. Thank God, there is 
 good fighting blood in all of them." 
 
 The little room rang with cheers as Peyton sprang 
 up the companion-ladder with a heart so full that he 
 could scarcely contain himself. As Yates, happy to be 
 relieved, came tumbling down below Peyton leaning 
 over the hatchway heard Kimberly give the immortal 
 toast of the navy: 
 
 "Sweethearts and wives may the former soon be 
 the latter, and the latter always be the former." 
 
 They drank it in silence and separated for the night, 
 Some for a quiet smoke, forward, others for deep, 
 heavy sleep ; some for night-watches, others to turn in 
 anxiety in their berths until the breaking of the porten 
 tous day. 
 
 287 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 Peyton leaned over the railing and looked toward 
 the lights of Fort Morgan, with a longing and heart 
 ache that cannot be described. He had been nerving 
 himself for this situation for four years, and now that 
 it had come upon him he found himself still unpre 
 pared. His father on the fort was at that moment 
 gazing at the fleet below him and wondering when 
 they would attack. And Willis, keeping watch on the 
 superstructure of the Tennessee, thought with a strange 
 pang, a foreboding, that night, of the soon-to-be-ex 
 pected meeting of the ships. The fighting blood of 
 the Peytons was up though. There would be no 
 shrinking in any one of the three. Morning might 
 find any of them struck down, but in the line of 
 duty, at the post of honor. 
 
 Boyd Peyton could see in imagination stop ! He 
 could not continue in this strain, he would need all his 
 powers in the morning. He must be cool and self- 
 possessed then. Yet he could not get those he cared 
 for out of his thoughts. If anyone died he prayed 
 it should be he. He stood on the poop-deck leaning 
 against the Parrott rifle, still staring at the fort. A 
 step sounded on the deck beside him, breaking his 
 reverie. He turned to meet the admiral. The old 
 man walked with as jaunty a step as if he had been a 
 boy. 
 
 "Asleep or dreaming, Mr. Peyton," he asked, smil 
 ing. 
 
 "Neither, sir, just watching Fort Morgan." 
 
 "How peaceful it looks! And you were thinking 
 
 of " 
 
 288 
 
IN THE WARDROOM OF THE HARTFORD 
 
 "Of my father and brother, sir, of home and mother 
 and Mary Annan up the bay." 
 
 The night, the silence, the loneliness made the 
 young man more communicative; the admiral inspired 
 confidence and welcomed it. He had known Peyton 
 ever since the latter graduated from the Academy, and 
 the younger man loved him with unusual affection, 
 which the admiral reciprocated in full. 
 
 "Ah, that's her name, is it?" said the old sailor, 
 gently and kindly. "Well, pray God that we may 
 come through safely, and that there will be no more 
 heartaches in homes than is absolutely necessary." He 
 laid his firm, well-shaped hand upon the young officer's 
 shoulder in a kindly, sympathetic touch. "Keep a 
 bright lookout, Peyton," he said at last, "and don't 
 hesitate to call me if anything suspicious occurs. It 
 would not surprise me if Buchanan came out with the 
 ram to attack us at any moment. It would disappoint 
 me dreadfully if he did, though. I want to catch him 
 inside, now that we are ready, and finish up the whole 
 job at one blow. Where's the ensign of the watch?" 
 
 "Forward, sir." 
 
 "When I was on the Essex, I remember, as a mid 
 shipman, just turned eleven years of age, I went to 
 sleep lying on a gun-carriage in a mid-watch one night. 
 The watch-officer saw me, and instead of waking me 
 up he actually covered me over with his jacket and let 
 me sleep on!" said the admiral, reminiscently. "I 
 ought to have been court-martialed for it, but I've al 
 ways been grateful to him, and I've never forgotten his 
 reprimand, either." 
 
 289 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "No one on watch will sleep to-night, Admiral." 
 
 "No, I suppose not. There are thoughts grim 
 enough to keep them awake, now. How's the wind?" 
 
 "Little enough, sir, but what there is is from the 
 southwest." 
 
 "That is where we want it. Looks black off there, 
 too." 
 
 "Yes, sir, I think we shall get another squall of 
 rain." 
 
 "Well, rain or shine, we go in with the flood in the 
 morning. I think I shall turn in now, and as soon as 
 your watch is over do you try to get a little sleep. 
 Remember that I, that we, that the country needs the 
 best there is in you to-morrow." 
 
 The admiral wrung the hand of the young officer, 
 turned on his heel and walked quietly to his cabin. 
 But Peyton could not follow the kindly advice. When 
 he went off watch at eight bells, midnight, he could 
 not sleep for the trouble in his mind. And how much 
 greater would have been his anguish if he had realized 
 that Mary Annan sat that night in one of the case 
 mates at Fort Morgan ! 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 BETTER IN THE MORNING 
 
 A 
 
 FEW days before the battle the Ivan- 
 hoe, a blockade runner, had been 
 chased ashore under the guns of Fort 
 Morgan, where she had been destroyed 
 by some of the light-draught gun 
 boats of the fleet. While with a party 
 of men from the fort, endeavoring to 
 save some of her cargo, Beverly 
 Annan had been struck in the abdo 
 men by a piece of a shell. The wound 
 was necessarily fatal. Mary Annan 
 had been at once summoned from 
 Mobile by telegraph and had come 
 down to the fort on a tugboat with 
 Dr. Bampney and Hamilton Pleasants, 
 
 now a colonel on General Maury's 
 
 staff, Tempe was not allowed to come, 
 but had remained at Annandale under the care of 
 Mrs. Peyton and Pink. 
 
 There had been no attempt to disguise the serious 
 ness of her brother's wound, and it was with forebod 
 ings of the worst that she sat in the bow of the tug 
 boat watching the water rush away on either side as 
 they raced down the bay toward the fort. Having 
 
 291 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 heard of the accident at the last moment old Dr. 
 Bampney had insisted upon coming with her and she 
 had a wretched feeling that his services might be more 
 needed than those of a physician. Hamilton Pleas- 
 ants had also gone with Mary Annan. The two men, 
 the young man and the old one, tried to cheer her up 
 as they sped along, but with so indifferent success 
 that they finally withdrew and left her, which was in 
 accordance with her own preference. The trip had 
 been made rapidly enough, but all too slowly for the 
 woman's anguished heart. 
 
 Oh, the cruel, cruel war! It had robbed her of 
 father and of the man who loved her; it had parted 
 her from the man she loved, and now its ensanguined 
 hands were reached out to take from her the last who 
 could transmit her honored name. And he was only 
 a boy, a child. She might have been spared this, 
 surely. Her eyes blurred so with tears that she could 
 not see, yet there was a thought in all her anguish 
 she hated herself for its lodgement in her mind that 
 with every passing hour she was drawing nearer to 
 Peyton ! 
 
 As they swept past the three Confederate gunboats 
 they saw beyond them, between them and the channel, 
 the great iron-clad Tennessee rising above the gently 
 tossing water like some black volcanic rock, stern, 
 sinister, menacing, impregnable. The light smoke 
 that curled around the top of the tall stack indicated 
 that she had steam up, and the absence of the usual 
 deck gear would have told a practiced eye that she was 
 stripped for action. They passed close to her, so 
 
 292 
 
BETTER IN THE MORNING 
 
 close that Willis Peyton on the superstructure recog 
 nized Mary Annan and her escorts and lifted and waved 
 his cap, wondering the while what had brought them 
 down there. 
 
 Far to the southward beyond Fort Morgan, she 
 could see the ships of Farragut's fleet moving to and 
 fro. On one of them was her lover. The Confeder 
 ates were not ignorant of Farragut's purpose to pass 
 the forts, force the harbor and engage the Tennessee. 
 Indeed had he not done so, daring old Admiral 
 Buchanan, who commanded this mighty war monster 
 and the Confederate naval forces, had decided to go 
 outside and engage him. At any day therefore the 
 fort, the gun-boats, the ram, and the fleet, now looking 
 so peaceful, bathed in the warm sunlight of the late 
 afternoon, might be engaged in hurling shot and shell 
 upon each other with deadly purpose she realized, and 
 he might be among those who suffered. Was he to 
 be taken from her, too? 
 
 They were very near the fort now. Presently they 
 drew up at the landing, and a few minutes' toilsome 
 walking over the shifting sandy shore brought them to 
 the cavernous mouth of the sally-port. Challenged 
 there, they waited until the officer of the guard ap 
 peared and, recognizing them, conducted them into 
 the fort and thence into the brick citadel proper. 
 There General Peyton himself met them. He looked 
 much as he had before the war. A little older, a little 
 whiter, a little grimmer, that was all. 
 
 There was nothing but kindness in his face now, 
 however. He had always loved Mary Annan. She 
 
 293 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 had been almost like a daughter to him. Now that 
 her own father had gone he felt like a father to her. 
 Indeed, he had hoped that he might be in that relation 
 to her some day, before his boy turned his back upon 
 the South and broke his father's heart. Ah, many a 
 day had the old man mounted the rampart and stared 
 at the ships, thinking of that lad who had gone away. 
 General Peyton had loved Beverly Annan too, for his 
 father's and sister's sake as well as for his own, and it 
 grieved him sorely that the bright-faced, proud- 
 hearted young lad should be stricken down. 
 
 "How is he?" cried the girl, as soon as she saw the 
 general. 
 
 The old man shook his head mournfully. 
 
 "Is there no chance, no hope?" 
 
 "My dear," he said, taking her hand in both his 
 hands, "you are a soldier's sweetheart" she winced 
 at that "and you are a soldier's sister. You must 
 bear it! The poor boy, he is giving his all for the 
 South and that flag," he added, lifting his hat as he 
 looked up at the tall staff with the white-starred blue 
 St. Andrew cross stretched over its red rippling folds. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the girl, "the war is taking every 
 thing from me, everything! But where is he?" 
 
 "In the casemate out yonder," answered the general, 
 "we have fitted it up as a hospital. Colonel Pleas- 
 ants and Dr. Bampney, after you have seen him I wish 
 you would come over to my quarters. I want you to 
 stay with me until " 
 
 He stopped suddenly with a significant pause which 
 cut the girl to the heart. 
 
 294 
 
BETTER IN THE MORNING 
 
 "We have no spare room in the fort to speak of," 
 continued the old man, quickly, smiling a little, "but 
 we can fix up a shakedown for you." 
 
 "Thank you, General, anything will do for me," 
 said Pleasants ; "I am an old campaigner, you know." 
 
 "Although I am not a campaigner," said Dr. Bamp- 
 ney, "I am old enough for anything to do for me too. 
 We'll be with you presently." 
 
 The casemate was not an unpleasant place. The 
 low arches that sprang almost from the floor had been 
 freshly whitewashed. It was all neat and clean, and 
 the sunlight poured in through the open door. There 
 were half a dozen cots in it. Over in one corner lay a 
 sick soldier. The others were untenanted save for 
 the one occupied by Beverly Annan. The surgeon, 
 just then coming on his rounds, stood by the foot of 
 the bed. A tall, gaunt artilleryman sat at the head 
 fanning the patient. The boy lay with his eyes closed, 
 his head thrown back, motionless; a low moan broke 
 from his lips from time to time. He was as white as 
 death and broken with suffering. His face had 
 that thin drawn agonized look that bespoke anguish 
 past and present, and that drives loving hearts mad, 
 save that it promises rest soon in the future. 
 
 Mary Annan and the two men walked softly over 
 to the bed. Something rose in her throat and seemed 
 to choke her as she looked at her little brother. He 
 had been so bright, so handsome, so full of spirits, and 
 now it was all come to this. Of all the men in that 
 garrison her boy, her boy alone, had been stricken 
 down the lad who should have been at play at school. 
 
 295 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 Now he would never play again. The impartial touch 
 of war and death had been laid upon him. 
 
 The girl herself was almost broken. She had passed 
 through such a year, nay, such a four years, as no one 
 had ever dreamed could come upon the land. There 
 were hollows in her cheek too, and sadness in her 
 eye. Her heart was bowed down by its weight of 
 grief and anxiety, but her spirit was still undaunted. 
 Again she typified her land. Everything had gone 
 against her, and the South, but with grim, terrible, 
 unshakable resolution the South fought on. It was 
 in the last ditch now. The most heedless saw the 
 end. Yet not one thought of giving up. Amid all 
 the other cries there was none heard for quarter. 
 
 As she leaned over the cot, in spite of herself a sob 
 broke from her lips. The sufferer heard it and opened 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Sister Mary/' he whispered, stifling a low moan like 
 the brave little soldier he was, "don't cry. It doesn't 
 hurt so very much does it, Doctor? And he says 
 he says I will be better" the boy bit his lip, as a 
 paroxysm of pain shook his body, to keep from cry 
 ing out "better in the morning. Won't I, Doc 
 tor?" 
 
 "Yes, my boy," said the physician, biting his own 
 lip in turn, "I hope so. I think so. I am sure of 
 it." 
 
 "Who is that with you? I can't see very well, 
 
 Sister Mary." 
 
 "It's Colonel Pleasants and Dr. Bampney." 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the lad and what a gentleman 
 296 
 
BETTER IN THE MORNING 
 
 he was himself, the two men thought "I'm glad to 
 see you. You will excuse me for not getting 
 up? It was good of you to come down here 
 to see me. Where is father, Mary?" he said sud 
 denly, with a little bewildered stare. "I I want 
 him. Why doesn't he come too?" 
 
 The girl looked at the two men in hopeless agony. 
 The old clergyman knelt down by the boy's bedside 
 and took his hand in both his own. 
 
 "You will have your father in the morning, my 
 son," he said, softly, understanding, as they all did, the 
 doctor's meaning. 
 
 "Is that you, Dr. Bampney? Father I will see 
 him in the morning. 'Our Father' that is what 
 you taught me when I was a boy in your Sunday- 
 school." 
 
 "Yes, my lad," said the old man, " 'Our Father:' " 
 
 "Say it, Doctor." 
 
 The two voices, the old one leading, the other feebly 
 following, softly uttered the eternal prayer. Pleas- 
 ants covered his face with his hands. The sick soldier 
 in the corner lifted himself upon his elbow and listened; 
 the artilleryman rose and gave place to the woman, and 
 considerately left the casemate, and poor Mary Annan 
 knelt, too, and buried her head in the bed-clothes by 
 her brother's side. 
 
 "That's a good prayer, Doctor," said the boy, 
 after a long silence. "Oh, how this hurts me! 
 But I will be better soon. Won't I ?" 
 
 "Yes, my boy, better soon." 
 
 "I must bear it too mustn't I because I am 
 297 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 a soldier a man an Annan? bear it for the 
 honor of the South for the cause I love? Don't 
 cry, Sister Mary. It will be all right in the 
 morning." 
 
 He lifted his hand weakly and dropped it on her 
 bowed head. 
 
 "Annan," said the doctor, coming into the room, 
 "here is the general coming to see you." 
 
 "Beverly, my boy," said General Peyton, looking 
 down at him gravely and tenderly it might have been 
 his own son he looked upon "how do you feel now?" 
 
 "Much the same, sir," said the boy, making a piti 
 ful effort to salute, "it's a great honor for the 
 general to come visit a private, sir." 
 
 There was that in that casemate that levelled all 
 distinctions of rank. 
 
 "We are not general and private now, lad. You 
 are just the son of my dear old friend. I have come 
 to say good " the general hesitated a moment, 
 "good-night to you." 
 
 "I am glad it isn't good by, sir. I I don't 
 want to die now. I want to live and do more for 
 the South. If I'd only got my wound in battle 
 when I was doing something." 
 
 "Never mind, my boy," said the old man, "you are 
 wounded under your flag, in the service of your 
 country. Nothing could be more honorable." 
 
 "Thank you, sir. Oh, Doctor can't you give me 
 something so that I can get a little sleep? It 
 hurts so! And it hurts Sister Mary to see me 
 suffer." 
 
 298 
 
BETTER IN THE MORNING 
 
 "I will give you something," said the doctor, turn 
 ing away, "and perhaps you can sleep." 
 
 "Good-night, General." 
 
 The old general went to the head of the bed, hesi 
 tated a moment, stooped down and pressed his lips 
 upon the boy's brow. 
 
 "Good-night, my boy, and God bless you." 
 
 Followed by Pleasants, he walked slowly and sadly 
 through the door and stood outside the casemate lis 
 tening. 
 
 "Now, Annan," said the doctor, coming back, 
 "drink this, and then perhaps you can get a little 
 sleep." 
 
 "You will stay with me, Sister Mary? And you, 
 too, Dr. Bampney?" said the boy, as he quaffed the 
 draught. 
 
 "We will not leave you," said the clergyman, 
 quietly. 
 
 "Never again," added Mary, brokenly. 
 
 "You can't say that Sister Mary. Because 
 when I am well I must go on duty once more." 
 
 "Yes, when you are well." 
 
 "Sister Mary," said the boy, after a pause, " won't 
 you sing me something?" 
 
 With her breaking heart, she did not think she 
 could frame a note, yet what could she do but try? 
 
 "What do you wish me to sing, Beverly, dear?" 
 
 "Sing me some of the songs you used to sing." 
 
 "Which one?" 
 
 "The 'Mocking-Bird.' " 
 
 God, who had given her the voice, gave her the 
 299 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 power to use it. How she did it she could not tell. 
 Kneeling there by the bed, she sang the old song, the 
 song that brought up the days of the past; the song 
 of the man who had loved her and was gone who had 
 died on the hills of Chickamauga and the other man 
 she loved on the ship beneath the alien flag. It 
 brought back days of happiness and hours of joy, sweet 
 dreams of the past. Low and clear and sweet as the 
 notes of the bird itself the song rose in the air. Out 
 side the casemate the two officers listened. The sentry 
 on the ramparts stopped entranced. The men of the 
 garrison, led by the artilleryman, crowded nearer, lis 
 tening with beating hearts. Hats were removed from 
 heads, and heads were bowed as the music rose and 
 fell. As the last note died away the trumpet from 
 the ramparts sounded retreat call and the colors came 
 drooping gently down the staff. 
 
 Within the casemate all was silent. 
 
 "That's a good song/' said Beverly, faintly, at last. 
 "It almost makes me forget the pain. Sing more." 
 
 "A hymn this time, Beverly?" 
 
 "Yes, this time a hymn." 
 
 "What shall it be?" 
 
 " 'My faith looks up to Thee/ That's a good- 
 hymn Doctor for a soldier." 
 
 "Yes, it's a good one for anybody, Beverly." 
 
 There are harder things than fighting battles, things 
 that women have to do. To sing that hymn, to keep 
 the throat clear, and the heart down, to sing in the 
 face of death itself, with anguish gnawing at the soul 
 to lead a charge, to die on a field, were child's play 
 
 300 
 
BETTER IN THE MORNING 
 
 by it. The boy listened with closed eyes and com 
 pressed lips. The woman sang with every fibre in her 
 being vibrating with pain and grief, with despair ac 
 companying the notes, yet she never stopped nor fal 
 tered, her voice never broke. Honor and duty bade 
 her sing, and she inflexibly followed their behests. 
 
 Rich and full rose the rare contralto voice with its 
 deep note of passion. Mary Annan had never sung so 
 well before, and she would never sing so well again, 
 perhaps. The words and music of the mighty hymn 
 rolled through the casemate and out through the 
 citadel of the fort, where the officers and men, wet- 
 eyed, listened in the twilight : 
 
 " When ends life's transient dream, 
 When death's cold, sullen stream 
 
 Shall o'er me roll ; 
 Blest Saviour, then, in love, 
 Fear and distrust remove ; 
 O, bear me safe above, 
 
 A ransomed soul." 
 
 How still he lay, she thought, as she looked down 
 upon him how very still! Was it over? Had so 
 ended life's transient dream for him? Not yet, O 
 pitiful God, please not yet ! She lifted her hand to her 
 throat. No, he was speaking! 
 
 "Thank you," he murmured, rousing himself a little, 
 "I won't ask you to sing any more Sister Mary. 
 You must be tired." 
 
 "I will sing more if you want me to, brother." 
 
 "No, I'm going to sleep now," he gasped out. 
 "Do you remember how mother used to have us 
 
 301 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 kneel at her knee every night? I haven't forgot 
 ten that prayer. I always say it. We'll all say it. 
 And then I'll go to sleep and be better "in 
 the morning." 
 
 "Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the 
 Lord" 
 
 The old doctor finished the prayer alone in the 
 silence. The opiate the surgeon had given the boy had 
 at last taken effect, and the sufferer drifted out to 
 sleep. He would be better in the morning. 
 
 Ah, how many sufferers have been cheered through 
 long nights of pain by that sad, elusive hope better in 
 the morning ! 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 THE FLEET GETS UNDER WAY 
 
 IX bells in the mid-watch, sir," said the 
 marine orderly, tapping deferentially 
 at the door of the admiral's sleeping- 
 room, while to the accompaniment of 
 their shrill whistles the boatswain and 
 his mates were piping, "Up all ham 
 mocks !" 
 
 "I am awake, Orderly. What sort 
 of a morning is it?" 
 
 "It's been cloudy and squally, but it 
 bids fair to break clear now, sir." 
 "How's the wind?" 
 "Light from the sou'-west, sir." 
 "Good ! Send Mr. Watson and Mr. 
 Peyton to me; I would like to see 
 them in my cabin as soon as I am dressed. Is Cap 
 tain Dray ton up?" 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Give him my compliments and ask him to come 
 here too ; say in about three quarters of an hour, all." 
 The admiral, who had risen as the orderly departed, 
 dressed himself with deliberate care. Like most of the 
 old-fashioned fighting captains whom he resembled in 
 many respects, he prided himself on wearing full uni- 
 
 303 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 form when going into action and consequently he at 
 tired himself in his best. He buckled on his sword, 
 which had been given him by an old friend, and which 
 was his almost constant companion. He invariably 
 wore it when on duty. Just as he completed his care 
 ful preparations, which included a long and fervent 
 petition to Almighty God for the success of the 
 dangerous undertaking he was about to commence, 
 Drayton, followed by the two lieutenants, and Dr. 
 Palmer, the fleet-surgeon, came down into the dimly 
 lighted cabin. 
 
 "Good-morning, Admiral." 
 
 "Good-morning, Captain Drayton. Good-morn 
 ing, gentlemen. The tide will be at full flood in a few 
 hours and we'll carry out the program. You may 
 call all hands and get the ships lashed together, sir." 
 
 "Very good, sir." 
 
 "And, Watson, you will signal the fleet to couple 
 up and prepare for action." 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir." 
 
 "The wind is sou'westerly, so the orderly reports, 
 Drayton?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, rather light now, but gives promise of 
 growing heavier." 
 
 "It's lucky for us that the wind blows that way, 
 for it will carry the smoke over Morgan and make it 
 difficult for them to see us." 
 
 "And not obscure our view of them either, sir?" 
 
 "Certainly not. The gunner who couldn't hit a 
 mark that bulks up like Fort Morgan had better go 
 and be a haymaker !" 
 
 304 
 
THE FLEET GETS UNDER WAY 
 
 "Admiral, you won't fail to call upon me for any 
 service in case the enemy don't give the medical corps 
 work to do?" asked Dr. Palmer. 
 
 "My dear Palmer, I expect to call upon you and 
 every man for the best that is in him this day. But 
 don't fear that you won't have plenty to do in your 
 own line. We'll not get through scathless, by any 
 means, more's the pity." 
 
 "But in case we don't get through at all, sir?" asked 
 the surgeon. 
 
 "I do not contemplate such a possibility, sir. We 
 shall get through; we must, we will ! Come in," called 
 the admiral, in answer to another knock. "Ah, Mr. 
 Heginbotham, what is it?" he asked a young officer 
 who presented himself. 
 
 "Mr. Kimberly bade me report that the Metacomet 
 is coming alongside, sir." 
 
 "Quick work. What time is it? " 
 
 "About eight bells, sir," answered the youngster, 
 and at the instant the mellow couplets rang out for 
 ward. 
 
 "So it is. How's the weather now?" 
 
 "Fine, sir, and the wind is freshening," continued the 
 young man, eagerly. 
 
 "Very good, indeed, and are the other ships at 
 work?" 
 
 "All that we can see, sir." 
 
 "Very well, Mr. Heginbotham, you can go on deck, 
 
 sir." 
 
 "Admiral," said Drayton, as the ensign saluted and 
 ran up through the hatchway, "I shall go on deck and 
 
 305 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 oversee the lashing if you have nothing further for 
 me to do." 
 
 "Do so, Draytoa; I'll see you presently." 
 
 "And I'll go below to the sick bay," said Palmer. 
 
 "Very well, you'll both join me in a cup of coffee, 
 and my steward will knock up a bit of breakfast for us, 
 before we get under way. Now, Mr. Peyton, I want 
 to speak to you a few moments about the harbor. I 
 wish to get a clearer idea of the situation myself, sir. 
 In case anything happens to the pilot or you which 
 God forbid I might have to carry the Hartford in 
 myself, you know." 
 
 For some time the two officers pored over the chart 
 in the dim light, and after the admiral had thoroughly 
 mastered all its details indeed, much previous study 
 had made him thoroughly familiar with it Peyton re 
 turned to his duties on deck, whither the admiral pres 
 ently followed him. 
 
 Apparently the ship was the scene of busy confusion 
 in the darkness preceding the dawn, out of which order 
 was being rapidly evoked by the systematic efforts of 
 the officers and the zealous work of the seamen. The 
 Metacomet was close alongside and the lashings to 
 secure her to the Hartford were being rapidly and care 
 fully passed. Below in the engine and fire rooms 
 things were being steadily put in an equal state of 
 preparation. The admiral's sailing orders indicated a 
 slow passage, but the moment when all steam and full 
 speed would be sorely needed might occur at any time, 
 and the men of the engineer division were determined 
 to be in readiness for any demand or any emergency. 
 
 306 
 
THE FLEET GETS UNDER WAY 
 
 In some respects theirs were the most dangerous sta 
 tions in the ship. They would feel the first and most 
 deadly effect from a torpedo, a shell in a boiler meant 
 death to them, and the horrible death of Marsyas, at 
 that. It was desperately hot below that August morn 
 ing in the far South, and it would be hotter as the day 
 drew on and they got into action. What of that? 
 They went about their duties as cheerfully as the gay 
 est light-yard men. 
 
 Everything that skill and experience could dictate 
 had already been done to protect the more vulnerable 
 and vital parts of the Hartford and the other vessels 
 of the fleet. The boilers and engines were sheltered 
 by chains stoppered along the sides of the ships, in 
 some cases by barricades of sand in bags. The light 
 spars and top-gallant masts had been sent down. 
 Some of the ships had even struck their top-masts and 
 went in with only the lower masts standing, although 
 the Hartford and the Brooklyn both carried their top 
 masts through the action. The starboard boats had 
 been left behind or were towed on the port side, and 
 everything that ingenuity or experience suggested had 
 been done by the different captains to render their 
 ships immune to the tremendous fire to be expected 
 from formidable Fort Morgan and the Confederate 
 squadron. 
 
 The morale of the flag-ship and of the fleet in general 
 was simply superb. The men laughed and joked with 
 each other as they went about their appointed duties. 
 They were completely oblivious to any danger to them 
 selves or their ships in the approaching battle. And a 
 
 307 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 doubt of their success never entered their minds. The 
 admiral had carried them through many a scrape, and 
 he would get them through this one somehow. The 
 old Hartford and her men had been in too many 
 battles to fail now. They would get battered up a bit, 
 doubtless, but they would win out in the end, never 
 fear. The gun was not mounted, the ship did not 
 float, that could sink that Hartford with Farragut 
 aboard. 
 
 Shortly before three bells in the morning watch, or 
 half after five, the admiral, accompanied by Drayton 
 and Palmer, went below to his cabin for a light break 
 fast. As the three men stood in the dark cabin, 
 lighted by a few candles for although the sun had 
 just risen it was not yet light enough below decks 
 to see by the admiral, sipping a cup of tea, a favor 
 ite beverage of his, remarked, abruptly: 
 
 "Drayton, I am sure that I have made a serious mis 
 take in giving way to the representations of you fel 
 lows and allowing the Brooklyn to go in first. It's not 
 right. That's the place of the commander-in-chief 
 in the lead." 
 
 "Now, Admiral," said Drayton, remonstrating 
 affectionately, "you know we settled all that last night, 
 and you gave way to our unanimous judgment. The 
 Brooklynhas four chase-guns and an apparatus for pick 
 ing up torpedoes. I feel sure we are right, and I 
 beg of you not to think of changing the order now." 
 
 "Oh, very well," said the admiral, unconvinced. "I 
 don't doubt that I will get to the front somehow. 
 Meanwhile, have it your own way." 
 
 308 
 
THE FLEET GETS UNDER WAY 
 
 "We have no fear of your not getting to the front, 
 Admiral," said Drayton, smiling. "It isn't that. You 
 know the fort and the gun-boats and the ram will all 
 concentrate upon the Hartford, thinking to crush or 
 sink you and then have the rest of us at their mercy." 
 
 "And they'll make a mistake there. They may sink 
 me, but they will find a dozen captains left, each one 
 good enough to lead a fleet. Wasn't it Nelson who 
 said at Aboukir that he had the good fortune to com 
 mand a band of brothers? Well, if he hadn't said that 
 before I would say it now. I tell you what it is, Dray- 
 ton, I have been an officer of the navy for fifty years. 
 I have seen and known all the great captains of 1812, 
 and have met most of the great officers of the Old 
 World navies, and I never came in contact with a 
 better set of fellows than these of mine are. They 
 are the peers of any men who ever faced a gale or 
 fought a ship. You know I get melancholy when I 
 think of them sometimes. The age of sails is going; 
 it is almost gone. The ships of the future will be like 
 that black monster Old Buck has under him, and over 
 him. Your naval officer after a while will be an en 
 gineer, a mechanic, anything but a sailor. I am old- 
 fashioned, I suppose, but I cling to mast and yard, 
 to rope and canvas. Give me the wooden deck, the 
 wooden keel, beneath my feet! I feel lonesome and 
 uneasy with nothing but iron between me and Davy 
 Jones. This is the last effort of the wooden fleet, I 
 think. Well, we'll make it a good one." 
 
 "Signals from all the ships indicate that everything 
 is ready, sir," said Watson, coming in and saluting. 
 
 309 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "Ah, very good. I knew, of course, that they would 
 be, but it is a relief to find things are all right. There 
 is nothing I so much dread as a signal at the last mo 
 ment that some ship of my fleet, upon which I de 
 pended, has gone wrong. Are the monitors ready, 
 Watson?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, all ready." 
 
 "Well, that relieves me more. I haven't a bit of 
 faith in those iron pots. They are always breaking 
 down or doing the unexpected." 
 
 "They are good hammers, though, Admiral," said 
 Palmer. 
 
 "Yes, that they are, and I expect them to do a great 
 deal of it this morning. Well, Drayton, I suppose we 
 may as well get under way," said the admiral, quietly, 
 going on deck, whither the others followed him at 
 once. 
 
 As the shrill whistles and calls of the boatswains 
 rang through the fleet the cables were slipped to the 
 buoys, the engines started, the screws began to revolve, 
 and the ships gathered way in the water. 
 
 And this was the quiet manner in which one of the 
 greatest naval battles of modern times was begun. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 T 
 
 "AFTER YOU, PILOT!" 
 
 HE day broke brilliantly clear and fair 
 as the Brooklyn and Octorora got 
 under way at 5 .35, followed five min 
 utes later by the Hartford and the 
 Metacomet and in succession by all the 
 ships which were to attempt the 
 passage. The couples of ships were 
 about a cable's length apart at the 
 start. The fleet moved slowly for 
 the admiral's orders had been for low 
 steam and slow speed and started 
 for the bar off the main ship channel. 
 At the same time the smaller gun 
 boats headed up to the northeast with 
 the intention of engaging the fort 
 from its south side, so that if possible 
 they could keep down its fire upon the main fleet. 
 
 The national colors, the largest-sized fighting en 
 signs, flew from every masthead, except where from 
 the mizzen of the Hartford the blue flag of the ad 
 miral, with its two white stars, fluttered in the breeze. 
 The black ships came on in grim, threatening silence, 
 the only spots of color about them being the red and 
 blue of the flags, already lighting and gleaming in the 
 rising sunlight. 
 
 A few minutes after six o'clock the Brooklyn and the 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 Hartford crossed the bar and were fairly in the chan 
 nel. Volumes of black smoke pouring from the 
 smoke-stacks of the squat, ugly monitors lumbering 
 from the cove behind Sand Island, far ahead of them, 
 indicated that these formidable fighting machines were 
 ready for action. At half after six the monitors were 
 well in the channel, heading up to the fort, distant 
 from them about two miles. At 6 .43 the head of the 
 fleet came abreast Sand Island Light, three miles from 
 the fort. There was a delay here of some ten minutes, 
 to enable the fleet to close up within short supporting 
 distance, and at 6 .55 the order to advance once more 
 was given. 
 
 The vessels were ranging well up by this time in 
 a bow and quarter-line, that is, with the van ship, the 
 Brooklyn, a little off the port bow of the next in line, the 
 Hartford, with the Richmond a little on the starboard 
 quarter of the flag-ship and so on, in order that the 
 chase-guns of all the ships might bear on the fort and 
 there would be no danger of one ship firing into an 
 other. 
 
 Meanwhile, at 6.47, the actual battle had begun. 
 Two long lines of light bursting into balloons of flame- 
 shot smoke leaped from the huge muzzles of the fifteen- 
 inch guns of the Tecumseh in the lead, and the shells 
 were seen to burst over Fort Morgan. The roar of the 
 discharge, startling the stillness of the summer morn, 
 carried far down the slowly advancing line, and was 
 heard even in the holds of the ships, by the surgeons 
 in the cockpits, the gunners' mates of the powder 
 divisions, the engineers at the engines, and the men in 
 
 312 
 
"AFTER YOU, PILOT!" 
 
 the hot depths of the fire-rooms. Instantly through 
 the fleet, as if in answer to a signal, might be heard the 
 rattle of the drums calling the men to quarters, the last 
 final preparation for action. 
 
 As the welcome notes rolled about the decks the 
 eager, ready men leaped to their stations. As the 
 orders "Cast loose and provide!" "Man the star 
 board battery!" "Run in!" "Load!" rang out, the 
 sea lashings of the massive guns were cast off by the 
 willing hands, they were run in, loaded with charges 
 which the efficient powder division had broken out 
 from the magazines, and then run out and a turn taken 
 with the training tackles to secure them. The con 
 fusion, or apparent confusion, attendant upon the ulti 
 mate preparations of the ship for the deadly occasion, 
 subsided and in silence broken by a subdued word 
 here and there by the officers, by the musical calls of 
 the leadsmen in the chains calmly indicating the depth 
 of the shoaling water, and by the throbbing beat of the 
 engines as with screw or paddle wheel they were being 
 urged gently forward, the ships swept steadily in. The 
 men, like the ships, were cleared for action. Many of 
 them chose to fight stripped to the waist, naked, ex 
 cept for a pair of trousers. 
 
 The monitors, which had been rolling ahead, were 
 almost abreast the fort now. The ships, which had 
 moved faster, were close at hand. At six minutes 
 after seven o'clock the watchers on the Hartford saw 
 a puff of smoke rise from the parapet of the fort, fol 
 lowed a few minutes after by the roar of a heavy gun. 
 In another moment the fort was covered with smoke, 
 
 313 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 out of which jets of flame darted, and shell began to 
 scream down toward the ships. At the same time 
 from the lee of the fort the black Tennessee came shov 
 ing her nose athwart the channel just where the open 
 ing had been left for the passage of the blockade run 
 ners. Following her were three saucy gun-boats, the 
 Morgan, the Gaines, and the Selma. They took posi 
 tion in line across the channel in excellent position 
 for raking the ships coming up the channel toward the 
 fort. 
 
 Craven, in the Tecumseh, caught sight of the Ten 
 nessee. Disdaining the heavy fire of the fort of which 
 he was now abreast, which was concentrated upon him 
 for the time being, he loaded his fifteen-inch guns with 
 steel shot and the heaviest charge of powder then per 
 mitted, and made up his mind to grapple with the iron 
 clad. Meanwhile the other three monitors, as close to 
 it as they could get, were firing furiously upon the fort. 
 At seven minutes after seven the Brooklyn opened fire 
 with her chase-guns. Feur minutes later the Hartford 
 joined in the battle with hers, none of the broadside 
 guns as yet bearing. 
 
 The ships were well up now and coming along 
 grandly in spite of the fire from the fort, which was 
 growing sharper and more severe as the gunners got 
 the range. At twenty minutes after seven the Brook 
 rifles on the Tennessee and the rifled thirty-twos on the 
 gun-boats added their voices to the hellish clamor. 
 The line had become lengthened out a little by this 
 time, and the leading ships slowed down once more to 
 Jet the rear vessels close up again. 
 
"AFTER YOU, PILOT!" 
 
 At 7 .35 the Brooklyn was fairly abreast of the fort. 
 Her heavy broadsides now bore square upon it, and the 
 guns loaded with grape, shrapnel, and shell, the fuses 
 cut short, the range not more than three hundred 
 yards, poured in broadside after broadside in rapid 
 succession, which was returned with splendid spirit 15] 
 the garrison, especially by the water battery, masking 
 the northwest curtain between the channel bastions. 1 
 A few moments after the Hartford, now close aboard 
 the Brooklyn, also got the fort abeam under her guns, 
 and by mighty broadsides almost cleared the batteries. ' 
 
 The Confederates could not maintain their stations 
 at the barbette guns in such a rain of shot as that; they 
 were forced to seek shelter between the broadsides, 
 and their own fire abated perceptibly. But now the 
 leading ships were within easy range of the guns of the 
 Tennessee and the gun-boats dead ahead. The Union 
 fleet made a splendid target, and the fire of Buchan 
 an's gun-boats, for the most part effectively handled 
 and well delivered, was fearfully effective. Except 
 for a few light chase-guns the ships could make no 
 reply. The fire of the gun-boats was much more 
 destructive than that of the fort at this juncture. 
 
 Meanwhile at the head of the line the Tecumseh was 
 making for the Tennessee. Craven's orders, as were 
 the orders of all the other captains, had been to pass 
 to the eastward of the easternmost buoy through the 
 clear channel right under the guns of the fort. But 
 with a fine tactical apprehension of the situation on 
 the part of Admiral Buchanan, the Tennessee had 
 moved over now so that she was stationed just be- 
 
 315 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 hind the line of torpedoes. To get at her the 
 Tecumseh would have to cross the line, or by going 
 to the east of the buoy find herself in a very dangerous 
 as well as disadvantageous position. By Craven's in 
 itiative, therefore, the orders were disregarded and the 
 Tecumseh dashed straight for the Tennessee. The 
 heart of Craven was bent upon grappling with the 
 iron monster toward which he was now heading. He 
 believed that he was more than a match for her, and he 
 determined to try it. Buchanan was not less willing 
 and anxious for the test. There would be no in 
 decisive Monitor and Merrimac fight about this action. 
 
 The leading ships were now fully engaged, and the 
 roar of the battle was tremendous. The water be 
 tween the ships and the fort was whipped into foam 
 by the shot. Clouds of smoke and flame hung over 
 the scene, and the fort itself looked like a volcano in 
 eruption. 
 
 Aft on the poop-deck of the Hartford stood Dray- 
 ton, magnificent officer that he was, cool, calm, and 
 collected, watching the ship. By him was Watson, 
 the flag lieutenant, and Ensign Brownell, calmly tak 
 ing notes of the action. The admiral had gone for 
 ward and climbed up on the sheer poles of the port 
 main-rigging in order better to see the movements of 
 his ships. As the smoke of the battle settled over the 
 bay he unconsciously ascended ratline by ratline, in 
 order to rise above it and still be able to see his fleet. 
 Presently he found himself just below the futtock 
 shrouds beneath the top. There he stopped. He 
 could communicate with Freeman, the pilot, in the 
 
 316 
 
"AFTER YOU, PILOT!" 
 
 top above him, who was conning the ship through a 
 speaking-tube to the deck, and directing the move 
 ments of the Metacomet by motioning to Lieutenant- 
 Commander Jouett, her captain, who stood on the 
 starboard paddle-box not far away. Immediately be 
 neath the admiral Peyton was stationed ready to take 
 his orders, or to take Freeman's place and lead the 
 ships in in case the pilot became disabled. 
 
 Watson, following the admiral with attentive eyes, 
 noticed his extraordinary position, and, realizing that 
 even a slight wound might cause him to lose his bal 
 ance and fall to the deck, sent a quarter-master, 
 Knowles, up the rigging with a line, directing him to 
 pass it around the admiral and secure it to the shrouds, 
 so that if he were wounded he would have some sup 
 port which would prevent him from receiving a fall to 
 the deck, a dangerous distance below him, or maybe 
 going overboard. When the man explained his er 
 rand the admiral permitted him to take a couple of 
 turns with the bight of the rope around his body and 
 make the ends fast to the rigging. 
 
 The action had now become general. The garrison 
 of the fort, driven to shelter by each broadside, again 
 and again gallantly returned to their batteries and re 
 opened fire. Everything seemed to be going nicely 
 for the fleet when an event occurred which completely 
 upset the admiral's plans and daunted some of the 
 stoutest hearts in his command, for the monitor Tecum- 
 seh struck the line of torpedoes; one of them exploded 
 beneath her forefoot, the bow of the iron-clad lifted, 
 plunged forward, and she went down with her stern in 
 
 317 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 the air in a few seconds. A few men escaped from 
 the turret, and were seen struggling wildly in the 
 water. 
 
 Craven and the pilot met at the foot of the ladder 
 leading to the top of the turret, the only means of 
 escape for either of them. There was room for one 
 and but one, on that ladder. The ship was fairly drop 
 ping into the depths under their feet. What hap 
 pened? Without a moment of hesitation Craven drew 
 back, motioning the other forward. "After you, 
 Pilot," he said grandly and with exquisite politeness. 
 As the pilot sprang forward the ship sank beneath 
 them, and Craven went down with his ship. 
 
 To be a gentleman all the time and to go down with 
 his ship these are characteristics of the American 
 sailor. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 "DAMN THE TORPEDOES! GO AHEAD!" 
 
 HEN she sank the Tecumseh was close 
 aboard the Tennessee. Willis Peyton, 
 who commanded the forward gun di 
 vision on the ram was grimly waiting 
 by Admiral Buchanan's specific order 
 until the two vessels were in actual 
 contact before cutting loose with his 
 rifles. He was appalled, just before 
 the monitor reached him, to see her 
 reel, plunge, and vanish beneath the 
 sea. 
 
 In the confusion the men of the 
 Hartford got the idea that the Tecum 
 seh had sunk the Tennessee. They 
 leaped on the rail and cheered madly 
 in their exultation, and the crews of the other ships, 
 deceived also, joined in the acclaim. But the admiral 
 was not deceived. He had noted the whole disaster. 
 He saw the men in the water, too. Instantly he called 
 to Peyton: 
 
 "Take one of the boats of the Metacomet, Peyton, 
 
 and try to save those men. Give him a boat, Jouett !" 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir," replied that cool young officer, as 
 
 Peyton clambered over to the Metacomet-s deck, 
 
 gathered a boat's crew as he ran, dropped into one of 
 
 319 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 the cutters dragging along to port, pulled out around 
 the stern of the Hartford, right into the hell of battle 
 to starboard. 
 
 The loss of the Tecumseh was not the only disaster 
 of the morning, however, for the Brooklyn, which was 
 in the lead, suddenly stopped. 
 
 "What's the matter with the Brooklyn, Freeman?" 
 cried Farragut, hailing the pilot. "She must have 
 plenty of water there?" 
 
 "Plenty and to spare, Admiral." 
 
 "Why does she stop, then?" 
 
 But she did more than stop. Though that was dis 
 astrous enough, she began to back down upon the 
 Hartford and the rest of the fleet. Indeed, this action 
 of the Brooklyn was the only cloud on the glory of 
 that day. 
 
 The leading ships were right under the guns of the 
 fort now, a few hundred yards away. The fire from 
 Mobile Point was terrific. As the Brooklyn backed 
 her helm was shifted and she turned her bows straight 
 to the fort. Her broadside no longer bore, and her 
 position in a measure blanketed the other ships. The 
 men in the fort and in the water-battery, quick to 
 see the disadvantage of the fleet, sprang to their guns 
 again and, taking deliberate aim at point-blank range, 
 began to rake the hapless Brooklyn from stem to stern. 
 The splinters literally flew from her in sheets. Shot 
 after shot beat into her, shell after shell ripped through 
 her, and she could make no reply to this fearful fire. 
 If the gunners in the fort had only depressed their 
 guns she must have sunk then and there. Her decks 
 
 320 
 
"DAMN THE TORPEDOES! GO AHEAD!" 
 
 began to look like a slaughter-pen. The Hartford 
 and the Richmond also came under a fearful fire. The 
 ships were almost silent, no guns bearing, while Fort 
 Morgan roared and seethed with hell and destruction. 
 
 "What's the matter?" cried the admiral, his face 
 clouded with anxiety. "Send me an army signal 
 officer," he shouted, in a shrill voice that was heard 
 even above the commotion. 
 
 In a moment this man reported that the Brooklyn 
 was signalling by flags in the army code "Torpedoes 
 ahead." She had seen a line of empty shell boxes 
 thrown out by the Tennessee and her consorts, and 
 had mistaken them for torpedoes. This in conjunc 
 tion with the loss of the Tecumseh and the narrowness 
 of the channel through which he was expected to pass, 
 and its nearness to the fort, had caused the captain 
 first to stop and then to attempt to back his ship. He 
 was beaten. 
 
 The six leading ships were now huddled together in 
 serious danger of collision under the guns of the fort, 
 which were deliberately ripping them to pieces with 
 heavy shot. The high masts of the Hartford and the 
 Brooklyn clearly indicated their position and enabled 
 the gunners in the fort and on the Confederate squad 
 ron to find them easily in spite of the smoke. To 
 hesitate was to lose everything. It was that crucial 
 moment of the battle upon the instant decision of 
 which depended success or failure. 
 
 Admiral Farragut used to tell how at that moment 
 he breathed a brief prayer to the God in whom he 
 trusted, saying, "Shall I go on?" and the answer came 
 
 321 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 in a voice which seemed to him audible in that storm 
 of battle, "Go on." That was what he did. What he 
 said was vastly different. 
 
 When he learned that it was fear of torpedoes that 
 had backed the Brooklyn and swung her athwart the 
 channel he shouted out in those sharp tones that could 
 be heard everywhere on the ship : 
 
 "Damn the torpedoes ! Four bells, Drayton ! Full 
 speed, Jouett! Back the engines of the Metacomet 
 hard and then go ahead." 
 
 The one backing, the other going ahead, Farragut 
 swung his flag-ship across the Brooklyn's stern it was 
 impossible to cross her bows in the position she then 
 was or he would have done so and dashed at full speed 
 up the channel. He was forced to skirt the shoal 
 closely as he did so, and there were but a few feet of 
 water beneath his keel as he rushed on. 
 
 "We cannot pass to the eastward of the buoy, now, 
 sir," called out the pilot, as they cleared the Brooklyn. 
 "The monitors are right in the way in the channel." 
 
 "Straight ahead!" roared the admiral. "Right at 
 the line !" 
 
 At full speed now the Hartford, enveloped in flame 
 and smoke from her own guns, rushed for the deadly 
 torpedo line. Broadside after broadside went smash 
 ing into the fort as she swept magnificently on. Would 
 she too meet the fate of the Tecumseh? What would 
 happen? A few moments would determine, but mo 
 ments are hours in such scenes as these. 
 
 The men below on the Hartford and the Metacomet 
 heard a series of detonations as if musketry were being 
 
 322 
 
"DAMN THE TORPEDOES! GO AHEAD!" 
 
 exploded beneath the keel. The primers of the tor 
 pedoes as the mighty ship struck them snapped one 
 after another, but the salt water had rendered the 
 deadly infernal machines innocuous. That and the ad 
 miral's forethought in going in with the flood-tide, 
 which turned most of the percussion caps away from 
 the onrushing ships, saved him. 
 
 In a moment he was safe over the line. It was a 
 few minutes after eight o'clock. Grim and black be 
 fore him loomed the Tennessee and the gun-boats ahead 
 of her their position giving them immunity raking 
 the Hartford again and again. The Tennessee made 
 for the flag-ship as if to ram, but by clever manoeuver- 
 ing and her faster speed the Hartford prevented this. 
 The two vessels exchanged broadsides, however, and 
 shells from the Tennessee passed through the wooden 
 ship, while the solid shot from the Hartford rebounded 
 harmlessly from the iron sides of the Tennessee. 
 
 Shot and shell were coming in from all sides on the 
 Hartford, still within range of the fort, and so rapidly 
 were her own guns served that she looked like a ship 
 on fire. A ghastly procession of wounded men were 
 being sent to the cockpit, and the decks were covered 
 with dead men weltering in their blood. The carnage 
 was fearful. 
 
 Meanwhile, inspired by the example of the admiral, 
 the Brooklyn got her head around at last and, followed 
 by the Richmond and the Pensacola and the others, 
 rushed desperately for the torpedo line, the captains 
 thinking to go to a noble death with their admiral. 
 Owing to their anxiety and hurry the regular order 
 
 323 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 was abandoned, and the ships passed up as they could, 
 sheets of flame and smoke pouring from their broad 
 sides upon the fort. Some of the ships passed 
 perilously near the shoals in the confusion; at one time 
 the Richmond had less than a foot of water under her 
 keel 
 
 As Farragut passed out of range of the fort and 
 the Hartford got out into open water he cast loose the 
 Metacomei and turned his broadsides upon the gun 
 boats, which, being utterly unable to cope with such 
 a heavy ship, fled incontinently, pursued by Jouett at 
 full speed. As the other ships came up they followed 
 the example of the first pair, and the Confederate flo 
 tilla was hotly chased by the Union gun-boats. 
 
 Meanwhile Buchanan on the Tennessee ran down the 
 fleet. He tried to ram one ship after another, but 
 without success, while he himself was lightly rammed 
 by the Monongahela. Into each one, however, as he 
 passed her, he poured his terrible broadsides, indiffer 
 ent to the return fire from the heaviest guns they 
 carried. 
 
 The tremendous broadsides of the great ships in 
 the lead had kept down the fire of the fort, but when 
 the vessels of less gun-power came swinging by the 
 Confederates returned to their positions, punishing 
 them severely; the last one in the procession, the rear 
 ship of the fleet, was the Oneida. Except the Brooklyn 
 and the Hartford she suffered more than any other, 
 beset both by the Tennessee and the fort. A shell from 
 the fort exploded her boiler, killing or wounding every 
 man in the fire-room, leaving her helpless, while an- 
 
 324 
 
"DAMN THE TORPEDOES! GO AHEAD!" 
 
 other from the Tennessee took off the arm of her com 
 manding officer. Her consort, however, and the drift 
 ing tide, finally carried her past the fort and up to the 
 rest of the fleet. The Selma was captured by the 
 Metacomet. The Games was wrecked by shells, 
 beached and burned. The Morgan succeeded in gain 
 ing the protection of the fort, where the Tennessee 
 presently joined her. 
 
 At half after eight o'clock the Hartford anchored 
 above the middle ground, followed in succession as 
 they arrived by the other ships of the fleet. The pas 
 sage had been made, but at a heavy cost in shattered 
 ships, a lost monitor, and dead and dying men. The 
 three remaining monitors which had done noble ser 
 vice remaining close to the fort and heavily engaged 
 until the last ship passed, brought up the rear. Dur 
 ing the battle the admiral had marked Stevens com 
 manding the Winnebago, walking calmly back and 
 forth between the iron turrets of his monitor, quietly 
 directing their fire; and the whole fleet had joyed in 
 the sight of Perkins dancing excitedly up and down 
 on the top of the turret of the Chickasaw; both the 
 vessels and the officers being in easy rifle range of the 
 enemy. 
 
 "What we have done, Admiral," said Drayton, "has 
 been well done, but it counts nothing so long as the 
 Tennessee rides yonder beneath the fort." 
 
 "I know it," returned the admiral, "and as soon as 
 the men have had their breakfast I am going for 
 her." 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 IN THE CASEMATE OF FORT MORGAN 
 
 ARY ANNAN had refused to leave 
 her brother's side to take any rest, 
 and old Dr. Bampney had faithfully 
 kept her company. Together the two 
 watched through the long night. 
 Many a vigil the old clergyman had 
 kept by the bedside of the dying, not 
 often one so sad as this. The boy 
 slept heavily at first, but as the effects 
 of the opiate wore away the persistent 
 pain made him restless. Toward 
 morning he drifted into consciousness 
 again, as he had drifted into sleep the 
 night before. 
 
 It is a hard thing to look at one 
 we love suffer and be able to do noth 
 ing; to give no answer to the mute appeal which fills 
 the eye even though the lips do not frame it. No 
 where else is the utter impotency of humanity so ap 
 parent. There was nothing more to be done for 
 Beverly Annan, absolutely nothing. Medical science 
 of that day did not possess the anodynes of the present, 
 and if it had, the limited resources of the hard-pushed, 
 straitened Confederacy would have been unable to 
 supply them. The boy had to shut his teeth and 
 
 326 
 
IN THE CASEMATE OF FORT MORGAN 
 
 suffer as men have suffered since time and the world 
 began; and she had to shut her teeth and bend over 
 him and suffer even as if she had been wounded her 
 self. There was no other way. 
 
 Well, it would soon be over. Death is an appalling 
 thing to most people. Usually it is more horrible 
 to those who stand by and see another die than it is to 
 the dying. Generally there is little room for philoso 
 phy, for apprehension, for curiosity, in the articles of 
 death. The dying, almost invariably, suffer so that all 
 their conscious desires are merged in one overwhelm 
 ing wish for a respite, for a cessation of pain, a sur 
 cease of suffering, and when the respite does come 
 they are too weak to care ; but there comes a time when 
 the horror of death vanishes even for the watchers, 
 and those who love most, pray most fervently that the 
 end may come quickly and the terrible struggle give 
 place to peace. 
 
 It was morning and Beverly was no better, only he 
 was nearing the end. There was something in that. 
 The surgeon had come and gone with a despairing 
 shake of his head, 'the general had stooped over him 
 once more and had left him with tears in his eyes. 
 He was an old soldier, he had seen many people die; 
 few had affected him as did this lad. Little groups of 
 his comrades had come in, tip-toed over to the bed, 
 gazed silently and sympathetically on him, and had 
 gone out again without a word. Sometimes he recog 
 nized them, sometimes he did not. 
 
 His suffering was so keen that all his physical facul 
 ties were drawn up into it, and it was only in brief inter- 
 
 327 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 mittent periods of comparative respite that he took 
 cognizance of things about him. Sometimes he mut 
 tered incoherently, but generally what he said was suffi 
 ciently intelligible. By and by the pale grayness of 
 the dawn rose-colored the East. The light of the 
 rising sun presently leaped through the open door, 
 flooding the casemate. Dr. Bampney rose and put 
 out the lamp. After a while a beam fell across the 
 bed whereon the boy lay. It was broad daylight now, 
 and there came to him one of those rare moments of 
 comparative ease. He opened his eyes and saw the 
 light on the wall. 
 
 "Morning," he murmured; "no better." 
 There was a sudden fierce rattle of drums outside, 
 the shrilling of a trumpet. The peaceful silence of that 
 summer morning was broken by hurried commands, 
 the rush of many feet, shouts and cries; the creak of 
 tackles as the huge guns were loaded and prepared for 
 action, which filled the room with a dreadful note of 
 preparation. 
 
 "What's that call?" he whispered, hoarsely. "It's 
 the assembly!" he cried, his voice growing stronger. 
 "They must be coming up at last. They are casting 
 loose the guns ! I must go to the ramparts. Duty !" 
 He actually lifted himself on his hands and rose in 
 his bed. For a second they stared at him, horrified at 
 his appearance. Then he fell slowly back on the bed, 
 a helpless look on his face, whiter than the linen of 
 the pillows. 
 
 "I cannot!" he gasped. "Useless, O God " 
 
 Something had happened. He was dying. The 
 
 328 
 
IN THE CASEMATE OF FORT MORGAN 
 
 end was at hand. The woman seized his hand, look 
 ing at him. He did not speak. 
 
 Two sudden flashes as of vivid lightning out of the 
 clear sky of that morning dazzled the vision. They 
 seemed to come from directly overhead. They were 
 followed instantly by a detonating crash appalling in its 
 terrific volume. The two shells fired by the Tecumseh 
 had burst above the citadel. The air was filled with 
 smoke and flying iron. 
 
 "It's war," the boy cried, suddenly, his voice as full 
 and strong as if he were in health. "I must go the 
 flag " 
 
 But it was of no use; the last flicker of his vitality 
 had gone into his will. He was going on a longer 
 journey than to the rampart now. He was past all 
 speech as he lay on. his pillow. The girl dropped his 
 hand, rose and stood over him, her hands stretched 
 out to him. Only the arm of the old clergyman kept 
 her from falling across the bed. It seemed to her 
 afterward that she heard his voice coming from far 
 away, murmuring broken words of consolation and 
 prayer. Over her head and about her the guns were 
 roaring now. The rattle of the grape-shot, the scream 
 ing of the shell, the crashing detonations of the can- 
 nonnade, filled the morning with hideous sound. But 
 above all the noise in some strange way her faculties 
 were so attuned that she caught and heard that faint, 
 desperate struggle for breath on the narrow bed be 
 fore her. For five minutes, perhaps, it continued, 
 growing fainter and fainter, and then it just stopped. 
 Thank God ! 
 
 329 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 In spite of the clamor outside the room seemed 
 strangely silent. She could hear her heart beat, or was 
 it about to stop too? 
 
 " War, war !" she gasped out brokenly, at last, "and 
 I wished it! I welcomed it. With other women I 
 cheered them on. Now we are paid. Oh, my boy, 
 my boy ! My little brother, the last one ! War, war ! 
 And he is out there !" 
 
 Oh, Peyton, Peyton, what power had you over this 
 woman's heart that even at this moment she could 
 think of you! She dropped upon her knees by the 
 bed and seized the lifeless hand of her brother and laid 
 her forehead upon it, murmuring again and again, as if 
 she could not get away from the idea, "War, war !" 
 
 "Ah, my dear, war is terrible," said the old doctor, 
 tenderly smoothing her hair as it swept the cover, and 
 then drawing her gently away; "but there on the bed 
 is peace at last. Thank God for it!" 
 
 They were not allowed to cherish their grief alone, or 
 for long, however, for as Dr. Bampney spoke a body 
 of men crowded through the casemate door. The 
 casemate was in the curtain which was protected by 
 the water battery, and was probably the safest place in 
 the fort. For that reason they had turned it into a 
 hospital. The men who entered it bore on a rude 
 stretcher a frightfully injured soldier, who had been 
 terribly torn by an exploding shell. And there were 
 other wounded and dying also that followed hard upon 
 the first in that hour of battle. As she thought of that 
 afterward, they proved the salvation of the woman. 
 They gave her something to do. Her mind was reel- 
 
 330 
 
IN THE CASEMATE OF FORT MORGAN 
 
 ing under the shock, but she gave herself to the 
 wounded, and that distracted her from her grief. She 
 did not forget, no, never that; but in serving others 
 she found strength to bear her own burden. There 
 were so few who could be spared to look after the 
 wounded, and she and Dr. Bampney rendered good 
 service to the surgeon and his assistants. Under other 
 circumstances she would have shrunk appalled from 
 the horrors of the wounded there in that bloody case 
 mate of death, but she had gone through everything 
 already; her sensibilities had been quite deadened by 
 the strain upon them. She was past shock and suffer 
 ing, she thought. At any rate she found strength to 
 do what few women trained as she had been, could have 
 done, and to the demands of the situation she was en 
 abled to make adequate reply. 
 
 But when the battle was over and the strain re 
 laxed she had to take cognizance again of that small 
 boyish figure under the white sheet covering it from 
 head to foot, while she wondered dimly if Boyd Pey 
 ton, too, had been sacrificed to the insatiable war-god 
 that ruled the land. 
 
CHAPTER XLI 
 
 ON THE END OF THE WIRE 
 
 T half after six in the morning the 
 operator at head-quarters in Mobile 
 was called up to receive information 
 that the Federal fleet was at last 
 about to attempt to force an entrance 
 into the bay. The news was taken in 
 stantly to the commanding general, 
 who, knowing her intense personal 
 interest in the battle in which her 
 husband and two sons were engaged, 
 immediately dispatched an orderly to 
 Mrs. Peyton with the news. In 
 a few moments Mrs. Peyton with 
 Pink, and Tempe, who had insisted 
 upon accompanying them, came into 
 the telegraph office. 
 
 The little room was filled with men. General 
 Maury and his staff were crowded around the oper 
 ator's desk listening, with their intense emotions re 
 flected in their faces, to the messages clicked off the 
 wire. 
 
 "What is it, General Maury? Is there news?" 
 asked Mrs. Peyton, as she came into the room. 
 
 "Make way here, gentlemen," said the general, forc 
 ing his way through the crowd and coming toward the 
 
 332 
 
ON THE END OF THE WIRE 
 
 woman. "My dear Madam Peyton," he continued, 
 "the enemy are about to engage the forts and our naval 
 force in the bay." 
 
 "Has the battle begun?" 
 
 "Not yet, madam. The fleet is just coming within 
 range. The monitors are leading, and they seem to be 
 in three columns. We will get news as fast as it 
 comes in. There is a direct wire between the fort and 
 head-quarters here. Go within the railing, Mrs. Pey 
 ton, and you, Miss Pink. There are chairs there, and 
 you will have a little more room. We are so inter 
 ested that I am afraid that we might crowd you out 
 here," said the general, courteously. 
 
 Within the railing and next to the operator the two 
 women and the little girl sat down. There was a win 
 dow looking to the south near them, which was open. 
 As they settled themselves to listen, Tempe, whose ear 
 was of the keenest, suddenly called out in her shrill 
 little voice : 
 
 "Don't you hear the guns ? There !" 
 
 She pointed toward the open window as she spoke. 
 The room had been filled with noise, which imme 
 diately gave place to silence as everybody stopped talk 
 ing or moving to listen. Mrs. Peyton's heart beat 
 so that she could hear nothing. One or two officers 
 thought they could distinguish the sound, but most 
 declared themselves unable to hear anything. As the 
 child had spoken, however, the general looked up at 
 the clock on the wall. The hands marked 6 .47. 
 
 Click-click, click-click-click, click-click, click-click, 
 rattled the sounder on the table. The operator trans- 
 
 333 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 lated the message verbally as the words were spelled 
 out by the key : 
 
 "Leading monitor opens fire. Shells ex 
 plode harmlessly over fort. Garrison at 
 
 quarters ready. Pleasants acts as aid 
 
 to General Peyton." 
 
 A deep sigh broke from the lips of Madam Peyton 
 at this confirmation of the news. Tempe was right, 
 then. She had heard the two fifteen-inch guns of the 
 Tecumseh. A murmur of conversation broke out in 
 the room again, to be instantly hushed at the calling 
 of the sounder : 
 
 "Beverly Annan just died." 
 
 "My brother," wailed little Tempe, bitterly, burst 
 ing into the noisy tears of childhood. 
 
 Pink Peyton, herself almost heartbroken, for her 
 lover as well as her father and brothers was there, 
 gathered the little waif to her breast and strove to 
 soothe her agitation. She would have given worlds 
 to weep herself. 
 
 "Poor boy!" said the general, taking off his hat, 
 "poor lad ! Well, he died like " 
 
 "Click-click !" rang again from the table. 
 
 "Fort has opened fire with every 
 gun that bears. General Peyton freely 
 
 exposes himself on ramparts. Moni 
 tors close to fort. Leading monitor 
 heading toward Tennessee which with 
 gun-boats standing across channel heavily 
 
 engaged. Two of our men killed. 
 Names later. Leading ships firing shell 
 
 334 
 
ON THE END OF THE WIRE 
 
 and shrapnel point blank range. Moni 
 tor approaching Tennessee. Firing heavy 
 and continuous." 
 
 The room was filled with such excitement as has 
 rarely been contained within four walls. Distinctions 
 of rank were forgotten. Men crowded around the 
 operator seated before the trembling key, their breath 
 coming quickly, their faces red or pale according to 
 their temperament, as the story of the tremendous 
 action thirty miles away was clicked off in broken sen 
 tences from the tenuous wire. It was like holding a 
 battle by a thread. That long strip of copper put them 
 in touch with it. It was alive. In their imagination 
 they could hear and see as they waited and listened 
 eagerly for more tidings from the front. Murmurs, 
 mutterings, ejaculations, broke from the deep-breath 
 ing men. 
 
 Tempe sobbed softly in Pink Peyton's arms. Mrs. 
 Peyton sat with her two hands clasping the arms of 
 the chair, her head bent forward, her face lifted as if 
 she were waiting, and in vain, for some assurance of 
 the fate of those she loved, from the slender wire. 
 
 In the intervals between the messages the room 
 quivered and vibrated with outward manifestations of 
 the fierce pent-up emotions possessing the listening 
 people, which seemed as if they must break the walls, 
 as they burst from the hearts of the men and women 
 hanging upon the clicking key. And how they lis 
 tened all, but none as Mrs. Peyton. 
 
 Outside a great crowd speedily gathered, as the 
 news flew from house to house in the city that morn- 
 
 335 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 ing, eager to hear the bulletins as they were read to 
 them from the front window in the head-quarters 
 building. Scarcely an individual in the multitude but 
 had a personal interest in the battles; the fort and the 
 Confederate ships were largely manned by men from 
 Mobile and the vicinity. 
 
 But when the rattling of the key broke in upon those 
 in the room all other noises died away and they held 
 their breaths to listen. There were many men in that 
 room who would have given all they possessed to be 
 in the battle. Their desires as well as their charac 
 teristics were indicated in their positions, in the way 
 they listened, in the looks that came over their faces. 
 
 "Leading monitor" clicked out from the wire 
 "believed to be Tecumseh is about 
 to grapple Tennessee. She has veered to 
 
 port heading straight for the torpedo 
 
 line. Ships are about to engage." 
 There was another wait followed with feverish im 
 patience, then : 
 
 "Explosion just taken place. Can't see 
 
 on account of smoke whether moni 
 tor or the Tennessee." 
 
 O God, those awful breaks, those sinister silences, 
 filled with forebodings which drove one mad, especially 
 if one were a woman, a mother. The Tennessee was 
 Willis's ship. Merciful Providence could it have 
 been ah, the wire again : 
 
 "Monitor torpedoed. Sinks with all on 
 
 board. Tennessee safe." 
 
 "Thank God, thank God !" murmured the woman, 
 336 
 
ON THE END OF THE WIRE 
 
 in great relief, forgetful that for her thanks hundreds 
 of others, ay, mothers too, would have to suffer when 
 they heard of the loss of the Tecumseh. 
 
 Once more the wire clicked. 
 
 "Enemy's ships stopped. Swung around 
 opposite fort two hundred yards away. 
 Water battery doing fearful execution. 
 Leading ship Brooklyn being raked 
 with every shot. Ships in huddle in 
 channel. Believe they are beaten." 
 
 The room rang with cheers. Men jumped up and 
 down like mad and hugged each other like boys. Hats 
 were waved. They shouted and danced as crazy 
 people might have done. 
 
 "Silence, gentlemen, please !" cried the operator, "I 
 can't hear the message." 
 
 It was difficult to keep quiet in the face of such 
 glorious news, but they did it. 
 
 "Ships pour in tremendous fire," ran 
 the message. "Shell from Hartford second 
 ship bearing admiral's flag strikes para 
 pet near commanding officer." 
 
 Mrs. Peyton rose to her feet and stepped forward. 
 Now it was her husband. Her daughter clasped her 
 mother's hand; her lover, too, was by her father's 
 side. One of the officers stepped to the older woman 
 and assisted in supporting her. 
 
 "Wait, Madam Peyton, wait !" cried General Maury, 
 reassuringly. "I am sure he has escaped." 
 
 "General Peyton slightly wounded," clat 
 tered the impassive key, "keeps place on 
 
 337 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 rampart. Channel covered with smoke. 
 Hartford appears to be on fire. Fleet 
 
 in hopeless confusion. Our gunners 
 make fine practice on them. Rest of 
 
 fleet close up." 
 
 The woman was almost distracted. There was no 
 excitement, nothing thrilling in the scene for her. 
 First her husband, then her boy on the Tennessee, then 
 her boy on the Hartford, in that hideous net-work of 
 death and destruction, in that awful hell of war. Wher 
 ever she turned she was struck to the heart; no matter 
 who won or what happened, she lost. It seemed as 
 if her whole being was there in the very centre of it 
 all, as if every shot that was fired passed through her 
 heart. She had gone through some terrible experi 
 ences, this was the worst of all. She could bear it 
 no longer. Stop! That awful wire was clicking 
 again. 
 
 "A ship disengages itself from fight. 
 Swings around Brooklyn heads up 
 channel. Fire of gun-boats and Tennessee 
 
 concentrated on it alone. Bears ad 
 miral's blue flag. Impossible to pass 
 except over torpedo line. Hartford ap 
 proaching the line." 
 
 Another of those soul-racking breaks; was the Hart 
 ford to meet the fate of the monitor? 
 
 "Small boat flying Union flag ob 
 served pulling between ships and fort. 
 Purpose to rescue few monitor's men 
 surviving. General Peyton orders gunners 
 
 338 
 
ON THE END OF THE WIRE 
 
 not to fire on brave fellows sav 
 ing life." 
 
 What did she care for small boats or anything but 
 for that ship on which her oldest son fought, now per 
 haps right over those deadly torpedoes ! Oh, why was 
 that key silent? Didn't they know it was playing with 
 a mother's heart? The strain was killing her. Un 
 less it began again she should go mad. She was trem 
 bling and shaking like an aspen leaf in spite of her 
 effort at self-control. No one paid attention to her, 
 so eagerly were they listening. 
 
 "Hartford nearing torpedo line. Boyd 
 Peyton recognized as officer on small 
 
 boat. Can scarcely escape between 
 fort and ships." 
 
 "Boyd ! Boyd ! It can't be !" whispered the woman. 
 
 "By God!" cried one of the men, "he may be a 
 traitor to the South, but he's a brave man a hero !" 
 
 "Boat picks up few men. Turns 
 back to ship. Right in centre line 
 of firing. Not possible to escape. Ten 
 nessee running for Hartford. Hartford 
 right over the tor " 
 
 The sounder stopped calling. 
 
 Mrs. Peyton, exhausted human nature at last giv 
 ing way, sank gently to the floor in her daughter's 
 arms. 
 
 No more messages came over that wire. They 
 waited in great anxiety for a minute or two, and then 
 the operator strove to call up Fort Morgan. In vain 
 the connection was broken. A shot from the Rich- 
 
 339 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 mond had demolished the telegraph office, wounding 
 the brave operator, who had watched the fighting from 
 a vacant embrasure whence he telegraphed the news. 
 
 There was nothing to do in Mobile but wait. 
 Whether the Hartford was blown up, whether the ships 
 succeeded in passing, whether the Tennessee fulfilled 
 the expectations of her builders, they could not tell. 
 The people lingered in the streets, straining to catch 
 the sound of the cannon, and General Maury sent 
 couriers down both sides of the bay to re-establish 
 communication with the forts, and, if possible, learn 
 what had happened. 
 
CHAPTER XLII 
 
 IN THE METACOMET S CUTTER 
 
 E left Peyton in the cutter of the Meta- 
 comet. The men who had been de 
 tailed to man the boat had tumbled 
 over the side in such eagerness that 
 they almost fell to their places on the 
 thwarts. Oars were broken out at 
 once, Peyton grasped the yoke-lines in 
 his hand, the boat swept around under 
 the vigorous impetus of the stout 
 arms, passed the stern of the Meta- 
 comet, darted between the stern of the 
 Hartford and the bow of the Rich 
 mond, her next astern, ranged along 
 the starboard side of the Brooklyn, and 
 
 entered the zone of fire. 
 
 The roar of the discharge was absolutely con 
 tinuous. The air was filled with shot and shell. The 
 screaming was like the sound of a thousand tempests. 
 The water all about them was lashed to froth, beaten 
 into foam, by grape-shot, canister, shrapnel, and bits 
 of iron from exploding shell. Close as they neces 
 sarily were to the ships, the tremendous broad-sides 
 from the decks passed only a few feet above their head. 
 It was a situation to appall the stoutest heart. They 
 
 34i 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 seemed to be floating on a sea of boiling water cano 
 pied by a heaven of fire. Their position was one of 
 horrible peril. One shot striking the little boat and 
 they would be lost. Between the triple cross-fire from 
 their own ships, the fort, and the Confederate squadron, 
 it did not seem humanly possible that they could es 
 cape. Peyton had pulled about half the length of the 
 Hartford before he discovered that no flag was flying. 
 
 "Oars !" he called, instantly, and as the men stopped 
 rowing, he dropped the yoke-lines, stepped forward, 
 and picked up the boat flag from where it lay in its case 
 along the bottom of the boat, came back to the stern- 
 sheets, uncased it deliberately, shook out its folds 
 coolly, and then stepped it aft in the socket pro 
 vided. He did not do this a moment too soon. The 
 forward pivot-gun on the Hartford, of which he was 
 right abreast, had been turned on him. Seeing only 
 a boatful of men in the smoke, ignorant that it was one 
 of their own, supposing, perhaps, that it might have 
 been a torpedo-boat, the lock-string quivered in the 
 hand of the officer to speed the bolt which would have 
 blown the cutter out of the water. 
 
 '"For God's sake, sir !" cried one of the men of the 
 gun crew, recognizing the young officer as he peered 
 over the rail, "don't fire ! It's Leftenant Peyton !" 
 
 At that opportune instant the flag rippled out. How 
 the men on the Hartford cheered as they saw it and 
 noticed the sturdy oarsmen pick up the stroke and 
 shoot the boat ahead toward the place where the 
 Tecumseh had gone down. 
 
 An officer and a few men ready to give up were 
 342 
 
IN THE METACOMETS CUTTER 
 
 swimming exhaustedly in that vortex of fire, when the 
 boat swept alongside them. The cutter had gone ahead 
 of the main battle to reach the place where the 
 Tecumseh had been sunk, and as she came bursting out 
 of the heavier pall of smoke she was in full view of 
 both the fort and the ram. General Peyton caught 
 sight of the boat first. 
 
 "Look yonder!" he cried to the men of the next bar 
 bette gun to his position, pointing, "fire on that boat ! 
 Sink her!" 
 
 Colonel Pleasants, however, standing by his side, 
 had fortunately caught the boat at the same moment 
 in the field of his glass. 
 
 "By heaven, sir !" he cried, "there's your son !" 
 
 "Should I spare my own son," cried the general, 
 sternly, "more than any other man who is an enemy? 
 Fire upon him !" he cried to the hesitant gunners. 
 
 "No !" said Pleasants springing toward the gun. 
 
 Was he too late? The piece had been trained on 
 the boat and the gun-captain's arm had already 
 tautened upon the lock-string. In another moment 
 the hammer would fall and the shot be sped. The dis 
 tance was too short to miss, the aim perfect. 
 
 The old general covered his eyes with his hand. His 
 duty bade him fire, his heart would not let him look. 
 But Pleasants intervened. He threw his hand over the 
 vent of the piece, and the hammer struck the back of 
 his hand a sharp blow, numbing it with the force with 
 which it fell, but the gun was not discharged. 
 
 "General Peyton," cried the young man, still clutch 
 ing at the vent, "they are on an errand of mercy ! They 
 
 343 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 have no arms! They are picking up men from the 
 Tecumseh! For God's sake, don't fire on them!" 
 
 "Thank God!" cried the general, greatly relieved. 
 "Pass the word not to fire on that boat," he added, 
 turning to a staff-officer near, "if it can be helped! 
 Hurry, sir ! It is saving drowning men !" 
 
 Now it was the ram's turn. Willis Peyton had 
 charge of the forward division of guns on the Ten 
 nessee. As the little boat came shoving through the 
 smoke he turned one of the Brook rifles on it. She 
 was too far away for him to recognize his brother, but 
 presently he divined the errand of the boat was one 
 of mercy, and with chivalric gallantry for which, 
 when he learned the truth, he thanked God thereafter 
 he depressed the breech of the gun, and the bolt, 
 which would have sunk the cutter to a certainty, went 
 screaming down the line into the bunched-up fleet. 
 Meanwhile Boyd Peyton, unconscious of all this, went 
 coolly, if rapidly, about his work. He had no time to 
 linger, and he could not afford to think of the horrible 
 peril menacing him and his men. His mental sal 
 vation consisted in thinking of nothing but his duty 
 then. 
 
 Just as he fired Willis Peyton saw the Hartford 
 break from the mass and head toward him. Admiral 
 Buchanan, in the humped pilot-house forward, saw her 
 at the same time. The helm of the Tennessee was 
 shifted and the ram was headed straight for the flag 
 ship. Expecting every moment to see the latter 
 blown up by the torpedoes, the iron-clad slowly moved 
 forward just above them, waiting for her. When the 
 
 344 
 
IN THE METACOMETS CUTTER 
 
 Hartford passed the line of torpedoes unharmed the 
 iron-clad made for her, but the attempt of the Ten 
 nessee to ram was frustrated by the quicker movement 
 of the Hartford. With a quick prayer that it might 
 not find his brother, whom he still believed to be on 
 the ship, Willis Peyton poured the shot from his 
 division at short range into the flagship, and then at 
 tacked in succession the other ships as they came 
 swarming up the channel in the wake of the admiral. 
 
 Boyd Peyton succeeded in saving an officer, eight 
 men, and the pilot from the Tecumseh, and a few others 
 gained the beach under the fort by swimming, all that 
 were left of the one hundred and sixteen on board. 
 Carefully and deliberately scanning the water to see 
 if any others were struggling there, he finally turned 
 the prow of his boat toward the ship, and rowed over 
 toward the fleet. If that boat crew never pulled hard 
 before they did it then! The Hartford had passed 
 up long since. The Brooklyn was just heading up the 
 channel. The Richmond and the Pensacola were going 
 ahead. But the rearmost ships were almost station 
 ary. His only chance would be to get aboard one of 
 these. Sweeping around to port, he rowed down the 
 line through the fire-swept sea, with his flag flying in 
 a magnificently gallant passage of the channel. He 
 might have darted through an interval between one 
 of the pairs and rowed in comparative safety down the 
 port-side of the fleet. To do that would have 
 been to lose time, however, and might have prevented 
 him getting aboard of the ships. At any rate, with 
 cool and thrilling courage he chose deliberately to 
 
 345 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 pass between tne snips and the forts still heavily en 
 gaging. 
 
 It was one of the most heroic acts ever performed 
 by a naval officer, a deed of cool daring, requiring a 
 courage that may be fairly called superhuman. Pey 
 ton had not gone into the battle with equanimity; very 
 few men can do so. He had been nervous, agitated, 
 excited, but the first few shots had restored his calm 
 ness, and he made that fearful passage under fire as 
 coolly as if nothing had been happening. By hard 
 rowing he succeeded in gaining the deck of the Oneida, 
 the last ship of the line, a slight sloop-of-war. 
 
 Farragut's second mistake in this otherwise perfectly 
 planned and brilliantly fought battle the first being in 
 not taking the lead himself in the beginning was in 
 not putting one of the heaviest of his ships to cover the 
 rear of his line. The Oneida being without support re 
 ceived the concentrated fire of the fort and the Ten 
 nessee, which had passed completely through the fleet, 
 dealing death and destruction to it on every hand. As 
 Peyton clambered on deck Captain Mullany, glad in 
 deed for such reinforcement for his ship was suffer 
 ing severely in officers and men gave him command 
 of one of the forward divisions, and distributed his 
 men among the depleted gun-crews. 
 
 As the Oneida drew up opposite the fort she was 
 forced to pass through a terrific besom of fire. A 
 heavy shell from the fort exploded one of her boil 
 ers, killing all the men in the fire-room in the most 
 dreadful manner, scalding them to death, indeed. An 
 other shell from the ram struck the captain and tore 
 
 346 
 
IN THE METACOMETS CUTTER 
 
 off his arm he was wounded in no less than five differ 
 ent places that day. Another set fire to the ship. 
 Had it not been that the monitor Winnebago gallantly 
 interposed between the Oneida and the Tennessee the 
 wooden ship and her consort would have been torn 
 to pieces and sunk then and there. 
 
 The courage of the crew of the Oneida was beyond 
 all praise. With the captain weltering in his blood, 
 the ship on fire, the boilers exploding beneath them, 
 the men below dying in agony, they stuck to their 
 guns as coolly as if nothing were happening, deliber 
 ately firing upon the fort and the ram as long as they 
 were within range. Helpless themselves, they were 
 carried up the channel by the valiant efforts of their 
 little consort, the Galena, and the inrushing tide, as 
 Farragut had planned. 
 
 By and by they too reached the fleet and anchored. 
 Stopping for nothing, Peyton took his boat and started 
 at once for the admiral on the Hartford, swinging 
 quietly at anchor above the middle ground. The guns 
 had been secured, the decks washed clear of their 
 blood-stains, and the wounded carried below to the 
 busy surgeons doing what they could for them. On the 
 port-side of the quarter-deck lay a long line of dead 
 men. As Peyton stepped through the gangway he 
 asked the officer there where the admiral was. 
 
 "There," replied the young man, pointing to the 
 quarter-deck. 
 
 As Peyton went aft to report to him he saw him 
 standing with his feet apart, his hands clasped behind 
 his back, staring down at the bodies of the poor fellows 
 
 347 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 who had been killed in the action. Tears glistened in 
 the old man's eyes, the young man noticed, as he 
 looked at him. 
 
 The dauntless hero of one of the greatest naval 
 battles of modern times was mourning like a woman 
 over his lost men. 
 
CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 THE LAST DASH OF THE TENNESSEE 
 
 OWN under the guns of Fort Morgan 
 lay the Tennessee. She had been light 
 ly rammed by the Monongahela, and 
 every ship of the fleet had poured a 
 broad-side on her as she had attacked 
 them in succession as they came up the 
 channel, and on account of her slow 
 speed they had left her behind as they 
 passed. Admiral Buchanan deemed it 
 proper, therefore, as it certainly was, 
 to withdraw from the action until he 
 could examine his vessel unmolested 
 and ascertain if she had sustained any 
 serious damage. 
 
 He found that although she had 
 been struck possibly a hundred times by heavy pro 
 jectiles mainly from the nine-inch broadside guns of 
 the ships she had suffered no material injury save for 
 a few holes through the smoke-stack, which could 
 easily be repaired by her own force. After careful 
 inspection her officers reported her otherwise to be in 
 perfect condition. 
 
 The Tennessee was a casemated broad-side, iron-clad, 
 two hundred and nine feet long, with a beam of forty- 
 
 349 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 eight feet. She was armed with six heavy Brook 
 rifles, one-hundred-pounders each in round numbers, 
 two in each broadside, one pivoted forward and one 
 aft; her ports, of which there were ten, were so ar 
 ranged that the fore and after pivots could be fought 
 in either broadside. She was entirely a home produc 
 tion of the Confederacy. The ship was built at Selma, 
 the guns came from Richmond, the iron plating was 
 made at Mobile, from ore mined in Alabama. The 
 casemate, a sort of deck-house with slanting sides, was 
 plated with iron armor varying in thickness from four 
 to six inches. The plating was carried in an unbroken 
 slant below the water-line and then bent back inward 
 to the hull, the knuckle angle so formed being filled 
 with a solid wooden backing which was a great pro 
 tection against ramming. From the bows of the 
 Tennessee a formidable iron spur projected below the 
 water-line. No wooden ship that floated could have 
 survived a fairly delivered blow from that ram. 
 
 There were two or three fatal defects in her con 
 struction, however. Her engines were taken from an 
 old river steamer and were wofully weak and in 
 adequate; the method for closing her gun ports was 
 faulty, and the shutters working on pivots were liable 
 to jam; but the most serious error of her designers had 
 been in exposing the rudder chains by which she was 
 steered, on the open deck, without protection of any 
 sort. In spite of these things, however, she was with 
 out doubt a great improvement on the Merrimac, of 
 which she was a development, and she was the most 
 formidable vessel afloat in any sea or under any flag. 
 
 350 
 
THE LAST DASH OF THE TENNESSEE 
 
 By the time her inspection had been completed, and 
 the few minor repairs necessitated by the action had 
 been made, Farragut's fleet had reached the deep 
 water above the middle ground, a shoal extending 
 westward across the deep water, some four miles from 
 Fort Morgan. The water in Mobile Bay is very shal 
 low, but above the middle ground there is an expanse 
 extending about four miles each way which was deep 
 enough for the largest ships in the fleet. It was here 
 that Farragut had anchored his battered fleet. 
 
 It was now about 8 .45 in the morning. The decks 
 had been scrubbed down, the watches piped to break 
 fast, and the ship carpenters, riggers and machinists, 
 were busy making such temporary repairs as could 
 be effected with the appliances at hand, when the look 
 outs discovered the Tennessee standing up the channel 
 from the direction of Fort Morgan. The old admiral 
 meant business, it was quite evident. The black 
 smoke was belching from her tall stack as she came on 
 single-handed to attack the twenty-three vessels in the 
 Union fleet which had already successfully encountered 
 the gunboats, the fort, and her own prowess. 
 
 At first sight this would appear to have been a fool 
 hardy action, with so few chances of success as to 
 render it virtual suicide on the part of the Tennessee, 
 but Admiral Buchanan may be relieved of any charge 
 of recklessness. He had commanded the Merrimac 
 when she had routed the fleet in Hampton Roads. 
 He knew, or thought he knew, what could be effected 
 by an iron-clad against wooden ships. He had under 
 him the most powerful vessel that had ever been con- 
 
 351 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 structed. He had been unable to make use of his 
 greatest power of offence, the ram, in the passage 
 of the ships through the narrow channel, but now he 
 counted confidently upon using it to deadly advan 
 tage. 
 
 The ships above him were at anchor. He was be 
 tween them and the open sea. His light draught 
 would permit him to go anywhere, while they were 
 strictly confined to the contracted deep-water area. 
 He had shown himself invulnerable to their heaviest 
 guns. He might now be able to get among them 
 and work his will upon them. No sane man would 
 think of matching a wooden ship against such an iron 
 clad. It is true that there were three monitors with 
 Farragut's fleet, but they had done nothing remark 
 able heretofore and he counted himself more than a 
 match for any, or all, of them. 
 
 Again, the numbers of the enemy would give him 
 a certain immunity. There were too many of them 
 for all of them to attack him at once. Then, too, he 
 would have the advantage of having all of his force 
 concentrated under his single hand, while that of the 
 Federals was scattered. These were some of the rea 
 sons which actuated him, and there was doubtless an 
 other. He had to do something. He could remain 
 in safety under the walls of Fort Morgan for a time, 
 but there he would be subjected to attack. Farragut 
 would certainly attack him with the monitors, and 
 the fall of the fort, which afforded him temporary pro 
 tection from the investing force, was only a question 
 of time. Everything bade him engage, and the de- 
 
 35* 
 
THE LAST DASH OF THE TENNESSEE 
 
 cision to do so was entirely in consonance with his 
 character as a desperate and determined fighter, a man 
 of splendid daring and courage. So that it was not 
 without strong hopes for success that he turned the 
 prow of his vessel up the bay, set his men to quarters, 
 and made ready for his part in the most desperate naval 
 engagement ever fought in the waters of the United 
 States. Men would never forget the brazen effrontery 
 of that Confederate ship and her captain ! 
 
 But there was one thing upon which he did not 
 count, which was his undoing in the end, and that was 
 the invincible courage, the calculated recklessness, and 
 the headlong dash of Admiral Farragut. He was the 
 admiral who did the unexpected thing. And in so 
 doing he took the only possible means to meet and 
 master the danger. Any other course would have 
 ruined his fleet and might have lost him the battle. 
 In the mind of the admiral it was not a question of 
 wood against iron, but ship against ship. He had al 
 ready determined what he should do in case the 
 Tennessee attacked as she was doing that morning. In 
 pursuance of his preconcerted plan he threw his ves 
 sels, whatever they were, upon the iron-clad with 
 furious intensity and reckless disregard of the conse 
 quences to the ships. 
 
 I know of no naval action in the history of the world 
 in which both commanders were so old and so gallant. 
 Both of these ancient veterans were heroes. Youth is 
 the proverbial age of daring and achievement. Age 
 is said to be cautious, timid. The lie was given to 
 that idea that morning. Farragut and Buchanan, 
 
 353 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 both past three score, set an example of headlong, 
 desperate, risk-taking valor to the most reckless boy 
 in the squadron. 
 
 The instant the watchers on the long ships dis 
 covered the approach of the Tennessee the signal for 
 battle was flown from the Hartford. The clanking of 
 the chain cables running in through the hawse-pipes, 
 as the anchors were dragged from their oozy beds 
 by the eager men as they sprang to the capstan bars 
 with as much alacrity as if they had not already en 
 gaged in a bloody battle that morning, was succeeded 
 by the rolling of drums once more calling the depleted 
 crews to their battle stations. Down in the engine- 
 rooms, hot as an infernal region now, the exhausted 
 firemen and coal-heavers with the engineers and 
 machinists once more resumed their places. The en 
 gines were started at once, the ships gathered way, and 
 this time under full head of steam, as fast as it could 
 be made in the boilers, they opened out and made for 
 the approaching enemy. 
 
 Signals were flying from the mast-head of the 
 Hartford ordering the fleet to close in and ram the 
 enemy. In the admiral's steam barge, Loyall, named 
 for his son, a boat which he said was "the wettest devil 
 he ever sailed in," Dr. Palmer, a noble volunteer, was 
 hurrying from ship to ship repeating the signal and 
 carrying verbal orders from the admiral; while from 
 points of vantage on the flag-ship the army signal 
 officers were transmitting messages to the different 
 vessels of the fleet. The slow, unwieldy, lumbering 
 monitors were also getting under way as rapidly as 
 
 354 
 
THE LAST DASH OF THE TENNESSEE 
 
 the feverish impatience of their captains could be im 
 parted to the almost immovable vessels. 
 
 The ship nearest the Tennessee, which was now close 
 at hand, was the Monongahela, which had been 
 especially provided with an iron prow with a heavy 
 wooden backing for ramming purposes. The slight 
 collision in the channel had done no harm to either 
 vessel. Captain Strong was eager to see how the ram 
 would stand the impact of his iron prow backed by 
 two thousand tons of ship going at full speed. He 
 confidently expected to cut her down or overrun 
 her. 
 
 The Tennessee was headed straight for the Hartford. 
 Buchanan rightly judged her to be the most impor 
 tant ship, and thought if he could dispose of her his 
 terrible task would be materially lessened and a great 
 advantage gained. Confident in the strength of his 
 own ship, therefore, he disdained the approaching 
 steamer; never swerving a hair's breadth from his 
 course, he kept steadily on. He would bide the shock 
 let it be what it would. His game was the noble 
 Hartford and the great admiral. 
 
 Off on the port quarter the Monongahela under full 
 speed rushed down upon the Tennessee, the water boil 
 ing and foaming under her fore-foot. Buchanan did 
 not even shift his helm to avoid the blow. She struck 
 him fair and square on the port quarter at right angles 
 to his broad-side, a terrific blow. The two-thousand- 
 ton wooden ship was literally hurled upon him. The 
 crash was heard down on Fort Morgan. Men on 
 both ships were thrown violently to the deck by the 
 
 355 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 force of the collision. The iron cut-water of the 
 Monongahela was wrenched off and her bows stove in. 
 The Tennessee swung around to port from the thrust of 
 her enemy. 
 
 At the moment of impact the rifles in the casemate 
 of the ram poured shells into the wooden vessel, pierc 
 ing her through and through. The Monongahela 
 swung around along-side her enemy and at contact 
 range poured in a broadside of solid shot from her 
 heavy battery, including two eleven-inch guns. The 
 solid shot broke in pieces against the casemate or 
 bounded back like balls. Except for a slight list to 
 starboard, nothing happened to the Tennessee, which 
 kept steadily on toward the Hartford. 
 
 Meanwhile from the same side came the Lackawanna, 
 the fastest vessel in the Union fleet, at a speed of 
 twelve knots an hour, which was very high for those 
 days. She too was gallantly hurled upon the Ten 
 nessee, which she struck fair amidships to port. Cap 
 tain Marchand had no iron cut-water, his ship had not 
 been designed for ramming, no special provision had 
 been made to enable her to stand such a shock. He 
 did not hesitate on that account. With the admiral's 
 command to warrant him, and under the eye of his 
 great captain, he threw his ship on the enemy. 
 
 Such was the force of the blow that the bow of the 
 Lackawanna was stove in from five feet above to three 
 feet below the water-line. Owing to the slant of the 
 casemate of the iron-clad, the shattered bows of the 
 Lackawanna, her screws churning the water madly as 
 Marchand strove to force her to override the ram, 
 
 356 
 
THE LAST DASH OF THE TENNESSEE 
 
 actually rose out of the water and slid upward along 
 the slanting iron-plated sides. Again the deadly rifles 
 on the Tennessee rang out, raking the Lackawanna 
 from bow to stern. As his ship slipped off Marchand 
 swung to port and poured in another futile broadside 
 from his heavy battery at close range upon his mighty 
 and disdainful antagonist. 
 
 The monitors were closing in now, and the different 
 vessels of the fleet heading toward the ram delivered 
 broadsides or single shots as the shifting movements 
 of the vessels gave them a clear range. The Tennessee 
 was attacked by ships on both sides, and fore and aft 
 as well. All of her guns were in action at the same in 
 stant. A mass of flame and smoke and roaring guns, 
 she shook herself free and swept up the bay, and 
 straight at her came the Hartford. 
 
 Both vessels were under full steam, and every avail 
 able ounce of power was churning the screws. They 
 approached each other bows on. The prolongation of 
 their keels would have made a singularly straight line. 
 If the Tennessee struck the Hartford in that way she 
 would tear the whole bow out of her. Both vessels 
 would be telescoped, the Hartford would infallibly 
 sink, but she would overrun the Tennessee and it 
 would be impossible for the iron-clad to back away 
 before being carried down by the Hartford. 
 
 The officers of the squadron who could see through 
 the smoke the two vessels rushing at each other fairly 
 held their breath with anxiety and terror. Forward 
 on the Hartford, leaning over the bows endeavoring 
 to peer down through the smoke at his approaching 
 
 357 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 enemy, stood Drayton. Aft on the port mizzen rig 
 ging, standing on the sheer poles, clinging to the 
 forward swifter, the admiral leaned far out watching 
 ahead. The vigilant Watson had seen to it that an 
 other line had been passed about him as before, 
 remonstrating vainly with the admiral for his exposed 
 position as he did so. Going at such a speed, the two 
 ships already fearfully near, the collision would only 
 be a matter of time, and the results would be fatal 
 to both vessels unless the helm of one or the other were 
 shifted. 
 
 The flag-ship, save for the throb of the engines, 
 was entirely silent. The officers forward waited 
 for the shock, the men at the guns in the batteries 
 shifted restlessly, the gun-captains tightened the lock- 
 strings in their hands, wistful and hopeful that they 
 could get a shot in before they went down, if down 
 they must go. Everybody on the ship was of course 
 aware of the situation, even though most of them 
 could see nothing of it. McFarland, a veteran sea 
 man, who had held the helm of the Hartford in every 
 one of her tremendous battles, was at the wheel with 
 two assistants. He was coolly steering the great ship 
 with the mathematical nicety of an expert seaman. 
 
 "Quartermaster," called out the sharp voice of the 
 admiral suddenly in the death-like silence, /'keep her 
 steady as she goes. Don't swerve a hair's breadth 
 from your present course." 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir," answered the man at the wheel, as 
 with beautiful accuracy he held the heaving vessel 
 straight on her course. 
 
 358 
 
THE LAST DASH OF THE TENNESSEE 
 
 A thrill of relief and anxiety went through the ship. 
 The admiral would try it out then ! Bully for the old 
 fighter! He meant to sink the ram if he could even 
 if he went down with her. The Hartford was trembling 
 like an earthquake under the beating of her engines, 
 leaping like a hound through the troubled waters. 
 She was drawing nearer, nearer. Another moment 
 they would be in contact, there would be a struggle 
 for life in the water. Ah, what was that? 
 
 Just before reaching the Hartford the bow of the 
 Tennessee swung to starboard. At the last moment 
 Buchanan had concluded it would be wiser for him 
 not to throw away his ship merely to sink the Hartford. 
 He ported his helm suddenly, but not quickly enough 
 to avoid the collision. Instead of striking fairly bows 
 on, however, the Hartford struck the Tennessee on 
 the port-bow. A few minutes before the Manhattan 
 had delivered a bolt from her fifteen-inch gun fair on 
 the port-side of the ram's casemate. It shattered the 
 plating, broke the wooden backing, and sent a shower 
 of splinters into the protection nets, but did not pene 
 trate. As the Hartford rasped along the port broad 
 side of the ram she poured a rapid fire upon the case 
 mate from her nine-inch guns and one-hundred- 
 pounder Parrott rifled pivots, at a distance of perhaps 
 ten feet. None of her shot penetrated, although the 
 casemate was racked by the blows and some of the 
 port-shutters were jammed on their pivots, blocking 
 the guns. As the two ships ground and rasped along 
 side each other the Hartford's guns, served with pain 
 ful rapidity, roared out again. The marines and 
 
 359 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 small-arm men poured a rattling fire in at every 
 port. 
 
 So close were they as they reeled and gritted to 
 gether that from where he stood in the mizzen-rigging 
 Farragut might have leaped aboard the ram. Mean 
 while the fire of the Hartford was returned by the two 
 broadside guns of the Tennessee. Heavy shells ripped 
 through the flag-ship; one of them exploded sending 
 a mass of splinters in every direction with terrible 
 effect. One of these huge pieces of timber struck the 
 head of Lieutenant Boyd Peyton, gallantly fighting his 
 division. He was hurled senseless to the red deck of 
 the Hartford. 
 
 The Tennessee was now sore beset. The Chickasaw 
 had taken position under her stern, and with a rapidity 
 of fire astonishing, when one considers that the guns 
 were muzzle-loaders, she was pouring solid shot upon 
 the ram. The Monongahela fiercely rammed her again 
 on the starboard beam. Broadside after broadside 
 had been hurled upon the casemate from the heavy 
 nine-inch guns of the other ships now fairly surround 
 ing her. She was a very centre of fire, a focal point 
 of concentrated converging attack, in the midst of a 
 battle vortex of destruction. 
 
 Steaming slowly ahead like a huge wild boar among 
 hounds, she strove vainly to ram or shake off her 
 opponents. Although no shot had penetrated, the 
 damage had been great. The tremendous battering 
 and ramming she had received caused her to leak 
 badly. Her casemate was being so racked by the 
 mighty hammering of the heavy shot that it was only 
 
 360 
 
THE LAST DASH OF THE TENNESSEE 
 
 a question of time before the shell would penetrate, 
 explode, and end it all. Her engines and machinery, 
 bad at best, were working horribly now, and it was 
 as much as life was worth to stay in the engine-room 
 in the face of the repeated shocks of collision and gun 
 fire. All of the port-shutters had been jammed by 
 shot, rendering it impossible to fire any of her guns. 
 Still she would not give up. 
 
 Admiral Buchanan and a machinist were at one of 
 the ports endeavoring to release a jammed shutter 
 when a heavy shot from the Hartford struck the port- 
 sill, and, exploding, tore the gunner into bits. A bit of 
 iron driven in by the shell struck the leg of the admiral, 
 fracturing it, and a shower of splinters did great 
 damage. 
 
 The Hartford at the same time steamed away from 
 the ram and made a circle to starboard in order to ram 
 her again. As she completed the turn, and bore 
 down upon the Tennessee, out of the smoke en 
 shrouding the bay came the bows of the Lackawanna, 
 also endeavoring to ram a second time. At full speed 
 she bore down upon the port-quarter of the Hartford. 
 There was a terrible sound of crashing timbers heard 
 even above the roar of the guns as the two ships came 
 together. In the awful impact the Hartford was 
 hurled over nearly on her beam ends, and was cut down 
 to within two feet of the water's edge. It was thought 
 for a moment that the flag-ship was sinking. 
 
 The old admiral, with the agility of a boy, ran 
 across the deck, leaped into the mizzen chains, and 
 clambered down the sides to take in the extent of the 
 
 361 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 damage. Finding that the Hartford would still float, 
 he sprang back to the deck and repeated his former 
 order that she should ram the Tennessee again. 
 
 As the Lackawanna struck the Hartford a cry had 
 arisen all over the flag-ship which touched Farragut 
 more than perhaps anything that ever happened in his 
 career. 
 
 "Save the admiral !" "Get the admiral out of the 
 ship!" "Save the admiral !" rang out all over the 
 Hartford. 
 
 But the admiral was in no need of saving then. 
 Shattered and battered though she was, the Hartford 
 was still rapidly approaching the Tennessee, by this 
 time reduced to a mere wreck. The ram had not dis 
 charged a single gun since those she had fired into 
 the Hartford at the moment of impact. Several of 
 them had been disabled and others had been put out 
 of action by the jamming of the port-shutters. The 
 exposed rudder-chains had been shot away by the 
 Chickasaw, and the relieving tackles, with which the 
 attempt had been made to steer the ship, had met the 
 same fate. 
 
 The decks of the Tennessee were swept by a perfect 
 storm of shot from a dozen ships. No one could have 
 ventured out there to repair the rudder-chains with 
 out meeting instant death. She could no longer be 
 steered. She drifted on completely surrounded by 
 the ships, which were pouring in broadsides upon her 
 with relentless and increasing fury. Then the last 
 misfortune overtook her. A shot from the Chickasaw 
 or the Manhattan carried away her racked and battered 
 
 362 
 
THE LAST DASH OF THE TENNESSEE 
 
 smoke-stack. It broke short off just below the top 
 of the casemate, and the smoke poured into the case 
 mate, nearly suffocating the men; the temperature, 
 over one hundred degrees at best, rose to over a 
 hundred and twenty ! Minus the stack, her fires went 
 down, and she could not make enough steam to drive 
 the engines. She rolled like a helpless log in the 
 water. She could neither steam, nor steer, nor fire. 
 It was hot as hell itself in the casemate, and the 
 temperature of the fire-room was past belief. The 
 men were almost asphyxiated in the thickening black 
 smoke. The pounding of the shot on the armor never 
 stopped for a second. And that armor could no 
 longer protect her. Her men were suffocating, faint 
 ing, dying. Her admiral was wounded and helpless. 
 Several of her men had been killed outright and many 
 wounded. The Ossipee, running at full speed, was al 
 most upon her. The Hartford was bearing down once 
 more. The little Kennebec was gallantly dashing at 
 her. The monitors were closing in. They were mak 
 ing an anvil, a chopping-block, out of her. 
 
 Everything exposed had been shot away long since, 
 including the flag-staff. Farragut's tactics had pre 
 vailed. He had simply overwhelmed the ram. She 
 had not enjoyed a single opportunity to use her most 
 effective weapon the ram. She had been mobbed, 
 rammed, hammered to pieces by the wooden ships. 
 She had been racked and shattered by the monitors. 
 Captain Johnston, consulting with the wounded and 
 helpless Admiral Buchanan, finally determined upon her 
 surrender. With a heroism which was only matched 
 
 363 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 by the way he had fought against overwhelming odds, 
 until he was absolutely without means for offence or 
 defence, he fastened a white flag to a gun-rammer and 
 sprang out upon the deck or top of the casemate in the 
 midst of that awful storm of shot and shell. 
 
 One by one as the Union ships saw the black, 
 smoke-grimed, powder-stained figure waving the 
 white flag on the top of the ram they ceased their 
 fire and drew off. The Ossipee, however, had too 
 much way to stop. Though her engines were reversed 
 and her helm shifted, she struck the ram a slight blow 
 after she had surrendered. The last effort of the 
 Confederates was over. For one long hour the great 
 Tennessee had heroically fought the whole mighty 
 Union fleet and in vain. And to the admiral's wife, 
 this letter, written that same day while the excitement 
 of success was still upon him, carried the tidings. 
 
 MOBILE BAY, August 5, 1864. 
 
 The Almighty has smiled upon me once more. I 
 am in Mobile Bay. The Tennessee and Buchanan are 
 my prisoners. He has lost his leg. It was a hard 
 fight, but Buck met his fate manfully. After we passed 
 the forts, he came up in the ram to attack me. I made 
 at him, and ran him down, making all the others do 
 the same. We butted and shot at him until he sur 
 rendered. The Selma was annoying us, but I sent 
 Jouett (Metacomei) after him, who in a short time 
 brought his colors down. But, sad to say, the 
 Tecumseh was sunk by a torpedo, and poor Craven 
 with his gallant crew went to the bottom. I have 
 lost a number of fine fellows, more than ever before. 
 Lieutenant Adams was wounded. Mr. Heginbotham 
 
 3 6 4 
 
THE LAST DASH OF THE TENNESSEE 
 
 will probably lose a leg. [He afterward died.] John 
 ston, who married Miss P., commanded the Tennessee. 
 They made a gallant fight, but it was all to no purpose. 
 
 My ship is greatly cut up twenty-five killed and 
 twenty-eight wounded. I escaped, thank God, with 
 out a scratch. 
 
 God bless you, and make you as thankful for this 
 victory as I am. 
 
 D. G. FARRAGUT. 
 
 And this is the general order to the fleet which the 
 splendid old admiral published the next morning : 
 
 UNITED STATES FLAGSHIP HARTFORD, 
 MOBILE BAY, August 6, 1864. 
 
 The admiral returns thanks to the officers and 
 crews of the vessels of the fleet for their gallant con 
 duct during the fight of yesterday. 
 
 It has never been his good fortune to see men do 
 their duty with more courage and cheerfulness; for, 
 although they knew that the enemy was prepared with 
 all devilish means for our destruction, and though they 
 witnessed the almost instantaneous annihilation of our 
 gallant companions in the Tecumseh by a torpedo, and 
 the slaughter of their friends, mess-mates, and gun- 
 mates on our decks, still there were no evidences of 
 hesitation in following their commander-in-chief 
 through the line of torpedoes and obstructions, of 
 which we knew nothing, except from the exaggera 
 tions of the enemy, who had given out "That we 
 should all be blown up as certainly as we attempted 
 to enter." 
 
 For this noble and implicit confidence in their leader 
 he heartily thanks them. 
 
 D. G. FARRAGUT, 
 Rear- Admiral Commanding W. G. B. Squadron. 
 
 365 
 
BOOK V 
 "THE STRIFE IS O'ER 
 
CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 WITH ALL THE HONORS OF WAR 
 
 A 
 
 S the Hartford rounded to on the side 
 of the surrendered iron-clad Admiral 
 Farragut called for Lieutenant Peyton 
 to go aboard and receive the sur 
 render. 
 
 "Sir," said Watson, to whom he 
 had given the order, "Lieutenant Pey 
 ton was struck by a splinter from the 
 last shot of the Tennessee, and the 
 surgeon fears he cannot live an hour." 
 The glory and the joy of the great 
 victory almost vanished from the ad 
 miral's mind when this was told to 
 him, for he had loved the young man 
 as if he had been his own son. He 
 put his hand across his face for a mo 
 ment, and his lips murmured a word or two, although 
 when he took his hand away to give his orders he 
 spoke in his usual calm tone of voice, such was his 
 power of restraint. 
 
 A few moments later a black, powder-stained, dirty, 
 soiled, grimy figure clambered up the side of the Hart 
 ford with Admiral Buchanan's sword in his hand. As 
 he gave it to Farragut, with the statement that the ad 
 miral was too badly wounded to come aboard him- 
 
 369 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 self and present his sword in person, he hesitated a 
 moment and looked imploringly at him. 
 
 "What is your name, young sir?" asked the old man, 
 struck by some look of resemblance in the other's face, 
 in his bearing, in spite of his appearance. 
 
 "Peyton, sir Willis Peyton, lieutenant on the 
 Tennessee, sir. My brother he is on the Hartford, 
 sir? Is he well?" 
 
 "My poor boy," said the admiral, kindly, taking him 
 by the hand, "I am sorry to say " 
 
 "Sir sir, is he killed?" 
 
 "Grievously wounded, Mr. Peyton. Struck by a 
 splinter from the last shot fired by your ship." 
 
 "My God!" exclaimed Willis, "and I fired that gun 
 myself!" 
 
 A look of painful commiseration spread over the ad 
 miral's rugged features. As Willis reeled back, throw 
 ing his hands up to his head as he realized his part in 
 the awful tragedy, the old man put out his hand quickly 
 and caught him. 
 
 "Brace up, my lad," he said, "you are not re 
 sponsible. 'Tis only the fortune of war." 
 
 "May I we are your prisoners, sir, but " 
 
 "Go to him at once, sir. Mr. Whiting, take Mr. 
 Peyton below to see his brother." 
 
 On a cot in the cockpit, in the dim recesses of the 
 ship, his own stateroom having been crushed in and 
 demolished by the collision between the Hartford and 
 the Lackawanna, lay Boyd Peyton. He had been 
 struck over the head by a heavy timber ripped from 
 its fastenings by the explosion of the shell, and had 
 
 370 
 
WITH ALL THE HONORS OF WAR 
 
 sustained a fracture of the skull and a severe concus 
 sion of the brain, He lay perfectly still and motion 
 less, and as white as death, save for the bloody band 
 ages across his forehead. His faint breathing alone 
 told the watchers that he was alive. In the hurry of 
 the action, after a hasty inspection and a temporary 
 dressing of his wounds, thinking his case hopeless, the 
 doctors had devoted their attention to others whose 
 demands were more pressing. But these having been 
 attended to, they were now busy over Peyton. Ex 
 cept for that slow, feeble rise and fall of his bare breast 
 he looked as one already dead. 
 
 Willis was a soldier. He had fought his country's 
 battles for four years, he had seen many people 
 wounded and killed in action; death and the dying 
 were grimly familiar to him as they were to everyone 
 in those days, especially in the South. He had been 
 trained to conceal his emotions in the rough school of 
 war. He had a man's pride in such concealment; yet, 
 as he stood there, a grimy, sooted, smoke-stained figure, 
 with the soil of the battle clinging to him, staring down 
 at the white face of his brother, red-crowned in his 
 own blood, a deep groan broke from his lips. It 
 had never been his brother before, but somebody 
 else's there was a difference. The attendants, the 
 surgeon's mates, drew back respectfully; the doctor 
 from where he knelt by the cot looked up at him. 
 
 "It's Peyton's brother," said Whiting, briefly; 
 "from the Tennessee, you know." 
 
 "Will he live? Is there any chance?" asked Willis, 
 hoarsely. 
 
 371 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 The doctor stared up at him pityingly. An evasion 
 trembled on his lips. He checked it. 
 
 "You are a man, sir," he replied, shaking his head. 
 "I'll be honest with you. There is only one chance 
 in a thousand, in a million. That last shell did the 
 business. Strange ! For he actually passed the fort 
 three times in a hell of fire, once and back again in the 
 Metacomet's boat, and then up in the Oneida, and never 
 got a scratch until that last shot." 
 
 "I fired that shot !" burst from the lips of the man 
 kneeling over his brother. "I was in command of the 
 forward division of the Tennessee. O Doctor, for 
 God's sake, give me some hope! Don't let me feel 
 that I have killed my own brother! Why, Doctor," 
 he went on, incoherently, forgetful that none knew of 
 the circumstances to which he referred in his agita 
 tion, "when they all turned against him on the porch 
 because he would go North I alone had a good word 
 for him. I was only a boy, father forbade it, but I 
 I kissed him good-by kissed him, and now I have 
 killed him!" 
 
 "The fortune of war, my lad," said Dr. Palmer, lay 
 ing his hand on the young man's shoulder as the ad 
 miral had done. 
 
 Ah, how many bitter things, how many unbearable 
 things, for which we are responsible, wring from us 
 that futile confession, force us to that craven evasion, 
 and take a coward's shelter behind that easy proverbial 
 saying, "the fortune of war !" 
 
 "Damn the fortune of war!" cried Willis, hotly, 
 scarcely knowing what he said. "I am sick of hearing 
 
 372 
 
WITH ALL THE HONORS OF WAR 
 
 it! It has been flung into the ears of people bereft 
 until it has become a ghastly mockery. I want my 
 brother!" 
 
 "My lad/' said a quiet voice behind him. 
 
 Willis turned to face the old admiral, standing hat 
 in hand by the bedside of his dying officer. 
 
 "Do you realize," continued Farragut, "how many 
 thousands of people have stood beside one stricken, 
 as we are standing, and have cried for a brother, a 
 husband, a son, a father, as you are doing?" 
 
 "Yes, yes; they were not my brother, though." 
 
 "But someone's brother," returned the admiral, 
 gravely. "O friends, the misery this awful war has 
 brought upon this land!" 
 
 "Who is responsible for it?" cried Willis, fiercely. 
 
 "Nay, lad," said the old man, calmly, "that is a ques 
 tion into which I cannot enter, not with you, at any 
 rate. I know my own duty as you know yours and I 
 try to do it as you do. Pity 'tis that only war can 
 teach us that we are our brothers' keepers. Poor 
 boy," he added, looking down at the unconscious Pey 
 ton, "is there no hope for him, Dr. Palmer?" 
 
 "I see little none, sir." 
 
 "Poor boy," repeated the old admiral, tears welling 
 to his eyes, "to have given up everything and have 
 come to this! 'Greater love hath no man than 
 this,' " he quoted, softly, " 'that a man lay down his 
 life ' " 
 
 "Admiral Farragut, for God's sake, sir," burst out 
 Willis, suddenly, "let me take him home! I am a 
 prisoner, sir, but I will give you my word of honor 
 
 373 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 you must know something of the honor of the Pey- 
 tons since you knew my brother " 
 
 "I know, and it will serve." 
 
 "I will do nothing, sir, bear no arms, commit no 
 overt act, until I am exchanged, sir, if you will let me 
 take him home home to Mobile, to my mother, to 
 my sister !" 
 
 "And to Mary Annan," interrupted the old man, 
 softly. 
 
 "What! You know her, sir?" 
 
 "Nay, he told me of her, poor girl!" 
 
 "She is not in Mobile." 
 
 "Where then?" 
 
 "In Fort Morgan. She went down there last night, 
 sir." 
 
 "Great heavens, sir! For what?" 
 
 "I think to see her little brother, who is badly 
 wounded." 
 
 "Another!" said the admiral, mournfully. "Poor 
 girl, I hope nothing has happened to her." 
 
 "I pray not, sir, but who can tell? Won't you let 
 me go, sir?" 
 
 The admiral turned aside and walked forward a few 
 feet. He leaned against the bulkhead and thought 
 deeply for a moment. Some might consider it a 
 stretch of authority. Well, he would do it. 
 
 "You may have him," he said at last, "Dr. Palmer 
 consenting to the removal." 
 
 "It matters little," said the doctor, "whether he goes 
 or stays." 
 
 "We can at least bury him on in his own land, sir 
 374 
 
WITH ALL THE HONORS OF WAR 
 
 the land he loved, though he fought against it," urged 
 Willis. 
 
 "Ay, lad, that is true. Last night in my cabin we 
 talked it over. He loved the South as I, as we all do. 
 Take him, then, all that is left of him. Say to your 
 mother, with my deepest sympathy, that I have known 
 many officers in my long life on the sea, none braver, 
 none better. Tell your father when you meet him 
 how worthily his son nay, let me say it for both of 
 you how worthily both his sons upheld the ancient 
 name and the ancient honor of the Peytons." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said the young man, deeply 
 touched. "They will value those words," he added, 
 spontaneously, "from the greatest captain of the sea. 
 I will go over to the Tennessee, sir, with your per 
 mission, and make ready." 
 
 "Do so. You shall have the Loyall, my own steam- 
 barge, under a flag of truce, to take you up to the 
 city. Give my compliments, nay, my affectionate re 
 gard, to your own brave admiral. I am sorry he is 
 wounded, and tell him I am sending him my own fleet- 
 surgeon to look at him. You'll go, Palmer? And 
 Mr. Peyton, congratulate him for me for his splendid 
 fight, and ask him if there is anything I can do for 
 him or his men now. After the battle, thank God, we 
 are no longer enemies, but brethren. By Jove, 'twas 
 like Old Buck to come single-handed out against us 
 all! 'Tis the old navy spirit, the old fighting blood, 
 that made us what we are, gentlemen," he added, as he 
 turned to the ladder and followed Willis Peyton to the 
 deck. 
 
 375 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 In a few moments the young officer, having hastily 
 removed some of the evidences of battle from his 
 person and changed his soiled uniform, came on deck 
 once more. The little Loyall had swung along 
 side. Ready hands had rigged a whip on the 
 main yard-arm of the Hartford, and the cot with its 
 silent occupant lay on the deck ready to be swayed up 
 and lowered into the barge. One of the junior sur 
 geons was to accompany them to see the patient safely 
 delivered on shore. But that was not all. 
 
 The crew were lined up in the gangways, the 
 marines drawn up on the quarter-deck, the admiral 
 and his staff and other officers stood aft on the poop. 
 As Peyton was lowered into the Loyall the marines 
 presented arms, the seamen and their officers took off 
 their hats; there were flourishes of trumpets, three 
 rolls of the drums, and the shrilling of the boatswain 
 and his mates piping the side with their whistles, as if 
 it had been a flag-officer departing. As the barge 
 moved away the admiral, hat in hand, the wind blow 
 ing across his bared head, stepped to the side, looked 
 down at the two brothers, and called out in a voice 
 heard in the stillness throughout the ship: 
 
 "Good-by, sir, and may God bless you." 
 
 And in a silence more eloquent than if the love of his 
 fellows had been voiced in cheers Boyd Peyton left 
 the ship in which with his admiral he had gained an 
 immortal name. 
 
 Far down on Fort Morgan a woman stood, with a 
 little group of officers around her; a woman filled with 
 
 376 
 
WITH ALL THE HONORS OF WAR 
 
 a consuming present grief and with dread forebodings 
 of another. She stood on the grassy rampart over 
 the casemate, where under a sheet lay the still form of 
 her little brother, watching the battle between the 
 ships and the Tennessee; standing like many another 
 woman nay, like the South itself over the grave of 
 dead hopes, lost illusions, vanished dreams, watching 
 the battle going against them ! 
 
 "It's all up," said General Peyton at last, drop 
 ping his glass ; "the firing is over. The ram has sur 
 rendered. Our last hope is gone. Good God, to 
 think it has come to this ! I wonder if any hurt has 
 come to Willis." He hesitated; no one had ever 
 heard him mention the name of his eldest son since 
 that day he drove him from the porch "or to Boyd," 
 he added at last. "Good God, both my boys, both my 
 boys!" 
 
 He turned and walked slowly away. 
 
 "General Peyton," said Pleasants, venturing to 
 break his reverie, "I suppose you will want to send 
 the news of this morning's battle up to General 
 Maury, since the telegraph line has been cut or 
 broken?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the general, "the Morgan yonder," 
 pointing to the gun-boat, "is still serviceable. I shall 
 endeavor to get word to General Maury by her to 
 night. Captain Harrison thinks he can avoid the 
 fleet and get past safely by keeping close in shore. At 
 any rate he will try it." 
 
 "I shall of course wish to return to my duty in her, 
 
 sir." 
 
 377 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "By all means, Colonel. Let Dr. Bampney go too, 
 and Mary Annan as well. You may take her brother's 
 body with you also. They will want to bury him be 
 side his father, poor lad. You may possibly be capt 
 ured, but you certainly will be captured if you remain 
 here. If they land a force behind the point and bring 
 their ships around the fort nothing can prevent our 
 being battered to pieces." 
 
 "And if we are captured, General, we shall have one 
 friend among the enemy your son," continued Pleas- 
 ants, boldly, as he turned away. 
 
 "Have you no word, no message, for him, sir?" 
 asked Mary Annan, who had listened listlessly to the 
 conversation. 
 
 "What, Mary Annan!" cried the old man. "Do 
 you plead for him?" 
 
 They were alone together for the moment. 
 
 "I love him," she whispered. "Oh, my God, I love 
 him ! Can't you send him some word?" 
 
 The old general bit his lip. 
 
 "No," he said, "I cannot. I wish him no ill. I 
 pray to God that he may have been spared in battle, 
 but I cannot forget that it was he, and such as he, 
 to whom we owe our defeat. The South has been 
 beaten by her sons, ma'am." 
 
 "Some word, sir, some word. Think !" pleaded the 
 girl. "He is your own son. He followed his idea of 
 honor. He did his duty. What is right or wrong 
 each man must judge. They told me that you saw 
 him in a little boat out yonder, and that you did not 
 fire upon him." 
 
 378 
 
WITH ALL THE HONORS OF WAR 
 
 "'Twas because he was saving life," interrupted the 
 old soldier, sternly. 
 
 "Aren't you proud of his courage?" 
 
 "Yes, of course, but not of his principles." 
 
 "Won't you send just one word?" 
 
 "Not one, except that I hope he has not been hurt." 
 
 "Won't you ever forgive him?" 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 "Not when I not if if I plead with you as 
 his " 
 
 "Not if an angel in heaven pleads ; not yet. Forgive 
 me, Mary Annan; say no more. It pains me to say 
 no, yet I must." 
 
 The old general did not chop and change, he had 
 been too deeply wounded, he had thought too bitterly 
 of his son's defection for that. He had been, he was, 
 proud of him though, and some day the girl knew that 
 if they were all spared the boy would find his place 
 in his father's heart open to him once more. 
 
CHAPTER XLV 
 
 HOW BOYD PEYTON CAME HOME AGAIN 
 
 WIFTLY up the bay sped the little 
 steamer, the white flag at the fore, the 
 Stars and Stripes aft. Silently under 
 the awning sat two men by the 
 stretcher on which Boyd Peyton lay, 
 Willis and the assistant surgeon. Past 
 the guard-boats, past the obstructions, 
 up to the wharf at the foot of Govern 
 ment Street they came. Long since 
 the news had spread that a boat flying 
 the Union flag, and under a flag 
 of truce, was coming up the bay. By 
 the time the Loyall tied up at the 
 wharf a great crowd of people had as 
 sembled, mostly women and children 
 and old men. At the wharf were several officers from 
 General Maury's staff. Willis Peyton was the first 
 man to step ashore. His face was white and hag 
 gard. He could hardly nerve himself for the ordeal 
 through which he was about to pass. 
 
 "By heavens, it's Willis Peyton!" cried a voice in 
 the crowd. "You came from Fort Morgan, sir?" 
 asked Colonel Craighead, General Maury's chief of 
 staff. 
 
 "No, sir, from the Tennessee" 
 "And the battle?" 
 
 380 
 
HOW BOYD PEYTON CAME HOME AGAIN 
 
 "The Union ships passed the forts, captured the 
 Selma, sank the Gaines " 
 
 "And the Tennessee ?" 
 
 "Engaged the Union fleet, single-handed, after the 
 passage, and was captured after being battered into a 
 helpless wreck?" 
 
 "She surrendered, then?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Why are you here, Mr. Peyton?" 
 
 "I am a prisoner of war on parole, sir." 
 
 "And you came ?" 
 
 "To bring the body of my brother home " 
 
 "You mean ?" 
 
 "He was wounded on the Hartford." 
 
 "Is he dead?" 
 
 "No, sir, but soon will be. Admiral Farragut gave 
 me permission to bring him home to die." 
 
 While this little colloquy had been carried on the 
 blue-jackets on the launch, under the direction of the 
 surgeon and the ensign who commanded her, had 
 gently lifted the stretcher bearing the wounded man 
 out on the wharf. 
 
 "Friends," said Willis Peyton, facing the crowd, 
 "you hated my brother because in accordance with 
 what he thought his duty he went with the North. 
 He is dying now. Will someone help to carry him 
 up the street to his home?" 
 
 "Let the damned traitor die where he lies !" broke 
 forth a rude voice charged by some bitter heart. 
 
 "My men will carry him up under the flag, Mr. Pey 
 ton," said the ensign in command of the boat, quickly. 
 
 381 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "No, no !" burst from the crowd, as one man or an 
 other pushed forward, "we will take him ourselves. 
 Southern hands for a Southern sailor." 
 
 The mordant words of the first speaker had 
 awakened all that was good in the multitude. 
 
 "We have no love to spare for him or his cause," 
 cried one, "but we have no animosity for a dying 
 man. He has fallen in the line of his duty." 
 
 "He's of our people though he fought against us," 
 exclaimed a third. 
 
 "Right," cried another old man, "I knew him of 
 old, and a braver, truer man does not did not 
 live. And as for you, sir," he added, turning to the 
 man who had cursed and sworn, "if I hear any more 
 remarks like that from you, old as I am, I will slap 
 your mouth for you. I believe you are a damned 
 Yankee anyway. Come, we will take him home." 
 
 "Tell me of the fort, sir," said Colonel Craighead, as 
 Willis motioned to the men who had volunteered to 
 pick up the stretcher. 
 
 "It still stands and seems to have suffered but little 
 from the bombardment. But," he whispered to the 
 officer, "its fall is only a question of time." 
 
 Willis spoke a few words of thanks and a farewell to 
 the surgeon and the ensign of the Loyall, and watched 
 them for a moment as they turned the prow of the 
 boat to the southward and sped away to the fleet. 
 Then he took his place by the litter and directed the 
 bearers to go on. The crowd opened a way before 
 them as they carried it up the street. Here was the 
 body of their enemy. More than one suspected that 
 
 382 
 
HOW BOYD PEYTON CAME HOME AGAIN 
 
 he might have piloted the fleet upon them, realizing 
 his intimate knowledge of the harbor. They knew the 
 family too well to doubt that he had fought bravely 
 and well. The fact that he lay there apparently dying 
 was evidence that he had been in the thick of the 
 battle. They had mocked and scorned him and hated 
 him when he had chosen to leave them and remained 
 true to his flag. His father had cast him off, the 
 people had approved and honored the old man for 
 his action; but the animosity was gone from their 
 hearts now. Animosities vanished before that 
 stretched-out figure. Restless movements subsided. 
 The sullen murmurs and mutterings died away and a 
 deep silence supervened. Hats were pulled from 
 heads. Awe fell over the multitude. Women put 
 their hands over their eyes. 
 
 A little company of home guards, ordered there to 
 control any possible disturbance, was standing at the 
 curb. The officer in command hesitated a moment. 
 
 "By God," he said, "I'll do it!" 
 
 He faced about, uttered a command, and the com 
 pany presented arms. The colors were dipped, too, 
 the Stars and Bars were lowered to valor, to manhood, 
 to honor, to death, even though they had been ex 
 hibited upon the other side. 
 
 In silence and sorrow, with every military honor, 
 Boyd Peyton had left his ship. In silence and in sor 
 row, with every military honor also, he came back to 
 his home, the home of his childhood, the home of his 
 enemies, the home of his mother. 
 
CHAPTER XLVI 
 
 SAD HOURS AT ANNANDALE 
 
 I 
 
 T was early in the morning of the day 
 after the battle. The Morgan had 
 successfully slipped past Farragut's 
 fleet in the night, and while it was yet 
 dark had run along-side the St. 
 Francis Street wharf at Mobile. Her 
 arrival had not been reported, and no 
 one but the sentry on guard was there 
 to welcome the vessel. Mary Annan 
 had stayed on the gun-boat until day 
 break at Colonel Pleasants's earnest 
 request. The captain had given her 
 his cabin and she had lain down dur 
 ing the passage, or at least after they 
 had passed the Federal fleet, but she 
 had been unable to sleep or take any rest. 
 
 Pleasants, who had gone ashore immediately, came 
 back to the boat at sunrise with a conveyance for her 
 and Dr. Bampney, and another one for the body of her 
 brother. It was broad daylight when they drove up to 
 the doorway at Annandale. Where before there had 
 been troops of servants to welcome her or her guests, 
 now she had to wait and ring the bell of her own home 
 before the one or two faithful retainers remaining to 
 her presented themselves. 
 
 The men, with the assistance of the drivers, carried 
 384 
 
SAD HOURS AT ANNANDALE 
 
 the body of the little master of the ancient house into 
 the great parlor and left it there. After seeing every 
 thing disposed properly, Mary Annan, bidding the 
 clergyman and the officer to go into the sitting-room 
 to partake of such refreshments as the blockade per 
 mitted her housekeeper to offer them, turned to 
 ascend the stairs. She had scarcely put foot upon 
 them when the door of the landing above them opened 
 and a woman came out. It was Pink Peyton. 
 
 "Mary Annan," she cried, and the next moment, 
 discerning a tall figure behind her, she ran down the 
 stairs with a scream of rapture and relief and fell into 
 Pleasants's arms. 
 
 "Oh, thank God, thank God, you are safe!" she 
 cried; "and my father?" 
 
 Before Pleasants could answer, Mrs. Peyton fol 
 lowed her daughter. 
 
 "General Peyton?" she cried. 
 
 "Well, madam." 
 
 "His wound?" 
 
 "A trifle." 
 
 "God be praised S" ejaculated the woman, brokenly. 
 
 "The general is safe, and Willis. If only " 
 
 "And what of Boyd?" cried Mary Annan, sharply, 
 instantly suspicious of the pause. 
 
 "My poor child," said Mrs. Peyton, coming down 
 the stairs and taking the girl by the hand. 
 
 "Oh, what is it? Have you news of him?" 
 
 "He is here, sister," cried Tempe, bursting upon 
 them and clasping her sister in her arms, "he is in here 
 in your room upstairs." , 
 
 385 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "Hush ! hush !" said old Dr. Bampney, catching the 
 child in his arms, "don't you see how you alarm your 
 sister?" 
 
 Indeed, the shock of the news was almost too much 
 for the woman. She divined instantly that Boyd Pey 
 ton would never be there in Mobile, in her house, un 
 less something terrible had happened to him. Could it 
 be that he was dead? 
 
 "How came he here?" asked Mary Annan, leaning 
 back against the wall. 
 
 "Willis brought him up yesterday under a flag of 
 truce." 
 
 "Is he wounded?" 
 
 Madam Peyton bowed her head. 
 
 "Badly?" 
 
 "Oh, awfully, Sister Mary! Dr. Venosste says he 
 will soon be dead, like brother," Tempe broke out 
 again. "Did you bring poor brother back with you?" 
 she asked, her little face filled with pain. 
 
 "Is it true?" whispered the girl, disregarding her 
 little sister in her consuming anxiety. 
 
 "Yes, I fear so," answered Mrs. Peyton, taking the 
 girl in her arms. "Oh, Mary, dear, only God can save 
 him." 
 
 "Is he conscious?" 
 
 "No, he has not spoken since since he was 
 wounded." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "A fracture of the skull and concussion of the brain. 
 Dr. Venosste says that even if he recovers he 
 might be he might not his mind O God! O 
 
 386 
 
SAD HOURS AT ANNANDALE 
 
 God!" wailed the older woman and she looked old 
 indeed now "that this should come upon us! And 
 we sent him away on the porch that day ! His father 
 drove him from us, and this is how he has come back 
 to us ! If he could only know that he is home again, 
 that we love him once more, and that we forgive him ! 
 If he could only know that no matter where he goes, 
 or what he does, he is my boy, my boy !" 
 
 "We were all wrong," said the girl, brokenly. "We 
 all drove him away I, as well as the rest, and I loved 
 him, too. I love him now now that it is too late! 
 May I see him? Take me to him." 
 
 There on the bed, her own bed, he lay. They had 
 taken him to her room, that room with the window 
 looking out toward the sunny south, where she had 
 looked and watched, waited and listened, longed and 
 hoped. She stood by his side dry-eyed and desperate. 
 This was the last blow that could have fallen upon her. 
 She thought she had reached the sum of human en 
 durance long since, but she knew now that fate had 
 done its worst for her on that day and not before. 
 Father, brother, lover, all gone, and now this one too ! 
 
 The mocking-bird sang in the great live-oak outside 
 the window. He did not hear. Stretching out her 
 hands to him, she called him again and again. He did 
 not hear. The long-pent-up feelings of her bosom 
 rushed to her lips at last. With every endearment that 
 the deepest passion could dictate she appealed to him. 
 He did not hear, he did not heed. 
 
 The others stood about the bed. She did not care, 
 if indeed she were conscious of their presence, whether 
 
 387 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 they heard or did not hear the vows of her heart. But 
 presently she became aware of a haggard figure stand 
 ing next her. It was Willis Peyton. 
 
 "O Willis !" she cried, "you have nothing to re 
 proach yourself with. You kissed him good-by with 
 friendly words when we all turned against him." 
 
 "I fired the shot," said the young man, "that struck 
 him down! My brother's blood is upon my hands; 
 O God, he can't die, he can't!" he cried, in feverish 
 anxiety and agitation. 
 
 "Hush!" said the girl, "don't reproach yourself for 
 that. We are all brethren. We are afl guilty. You 
 could not know. It was not your fault, but mine, and 
 every other man's and woman's who urged seces 
 sion. Do you remember how in this very house that 
 day at dinner I we all cried for war? We were mad, 
 mad! And well have we been paid. Oh, the South, 
 and the North, and the East, and the West, what are 
 they to me? Secession, State rights, the Union? I'd 
 give them all for him ! It was that night he kissed me. 
 Oh, Boyd, Boyd, speak to me ! Look at me just once 
 just for one moment! Say that you forgive me! I 
 am guilty too. Oh, merciful God, let him live! Do 
 not take him as well! All are gone from me now. 
 Let me have one, just this one ! No, no, he cannot, 
 he shall not, die! Dr. Venosste," she said turning 
 suddenly to the old man who had just entered the 
 room, "is there no hope at all? Can't you do some 
 thing? Is there nothing " 
 
 "My dear child," said the old man, "he is in God's 
 hands. All that my human skill and knowledge can 
 
SAD HOURS AT ANNANDALE 
 
 do has been done. My colleagues who have seen him 
 have pronounced his case hopeless. For myself I 
 think there is a little chance, but well, I will tell you 
 all if he does recover the probabilities are that that 
 his mind will be affected." 
 
 "I would rather see him dead than that !" 
 
 "And I," added his mother. 
 
 "Oh, if he could only know that I love him, or if 
 I could only know that he cared before " 
 
 "You may know, dear," said the older woman, "I 
 found this letter in his jacket. It was addressed to 
 me, and this to you was inclosed in it." 
 
 "Give it to me," cried the girl taking it eagerly from 
 the hand of Madam Peyton. 
 
 "Oh," she whispered, as she tore open the envelope, 
 a little flicker of light in her sad face as she read it 
 rapidly, "I thank God for this mercy at least. He 
 loves me, he loves me ! Oh, Dr. Venosste, we will call 
 him back! He shall speak again! His eyes shall 
 open! And his mind, like his heart, will be true. 
 God could not deny it to love like ours!" 
 
CHAPTER XLVII 
 
 BOYD PEYTON SEES A VISION 
 
 HE first thing of which Boyd Peyton 
 was conscious was the song of a bird. 
 The high, clear notes seemed to beat in 
 upon his personality. They came to 
 him apparently from afar off, from a 
 great distance. They stole into his 
 consciousness, through his dull and 
 drowsy ear, with increasing vibration 
 and volume. He wondered vaguely 
 what it could be. The melody pleased 
 him. It was reminiscent of something 
 sweet in the memory. He lay with a 
 delicious sense of rest and peace, and 
 let the music permeate his tired soul. 
 
 Presently it burst upon him that the 
 sound came from the full throat of a mocking-bird. 
 A mocking-bird ! That recalled Mary Annan to him. 
 He lay quiet and still, thinking vaguely of her. There 
 was a strange indisposition to move in his mind as he 
 thought of her. Fragments of ideas, bits of recollec 
 tion, whirled about in his head. They began to as 
 semble by degrees and take shape her shape. He 
 could see her at last, beautiful, winning kind! He 
 hesitated to open his eyes, fearing lest he should dispel 
 the vision. 
 
 390 
 
BOYD PEYTON SEES A VISION 
 
 After a while the song stopped and the figure faded 
 away. He opened his eyes and looked about him. 
 He saw things dimly through a whirl of mist and mo 
 tion. He could not recognize or localize objects, but 
 he could perceive enough to know that this was not 
 his berth, or state-room, on the Hartford. He missed 
 the heaving of the ship. The place was strangely 
 motionless. Instead of the smell of tar and paint a 
 delicious fragrance filled the room, a fragrance that 
 like the mocking-bird called up the days of the past, 
 hours of youth and love, and Mary Annan. 
 
 Where was he? Ah, it was a room. There before 
 him, framed in white draperies, was an opening. Pres 
 ently he made out a green mass of foliage beyond, a 
 live-oak, stirred by the gentle breeze. He was lying 
 upon a bed, he discovered. Whose room could it be? 
 What had happened? He remembered by and by the 
 roar of the cannon, the beating throb of the mighty 
 engines, the crash of timbers, the scream of shells. 
 He had been on the Hartford. Yes, that was it, with 
 the great admiral. They were approaching the 
 Tennessee. He had the lock-string of the forward pivot 
 in his hand. He had pulled it. Then what had hap 
 pened? 
 
 He thought deeply. At last he arrived at the con 
 clusion that he had been wounded. Where had he 
 been wounded? He felt a strange inability to move 
 hand or foot, apparently, yet he seemed to feel that 
 he possessed all his members. He happened to turn 
 his eyes upward in his speculations, and the white line 
 of a bandage showed dimly across his brow above 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 them. What did that mean? A blow on the head, 
 perhaps. Yes, that was it. He had been struck on 
 the head. 
 
 What had they done to him? Where was he now? 
 In a house somewhere on the shore evidently. But 
 whose house and where? It could not be Pensacola, 
 it was not the hospital there, nor the fort. What 
 could it be? Had the admiral ah, was it Mobile? 
 Mobile and Mary Annan? What was that sound? A 
 footstep on the floor, a dark figure bent over him. 
 He heard voices. Surprise, relief, anxiety in their 
 tones. They were saying something. He strove 
 desperately to catch the meaning. It had been so 
 long since he had heard and recognized a voice. What 
 were they saying? 
 
 "His eyes are open. I believe he is conscious at 
 last. Willis, call Dr. Venosste at once." 
 
 He knew now. It was his mother's voice. And 
 that other, who had cried, 'Thank God !" as he hurried 
 from the room, was his brother. 
 
 "Mother," he whispered. 
 
 Another figure approached him, hung over him, 
 swam into the field of his vision. Eyes that he had 
 dreamed of looked love into his own, a voice that he 
 could never forget called his name. 
 
 "Mary Annan," he whispered, joyously, wonder- 
 ingly, fearfully, and then fainted away into insensibility 
 again. The shock of her presence had caused him to 
 lose consciousness once more. 
 
 As the lig-ht went out of his eyes the woman who 
 had bent over him with such rapture in her heart as an 
 
 392 
 
Another figure approached him, hung over him. 
 
BOYD PEYTON SEES A VISION 
 
 angel in heaven might have envied was paralyzed with 
 terror. Had God given him sight of her, knowledge 
 of her, recognition of her, had strength been be 
 stowed upon him to call her name, merely that he 
 should die in the recognition? 
 
 Dr. Venosste speedily reassured the two women by 
 telling them that such things often happen in concus 
 sions of the brain. Any sudden shock after conscious 
 ness had been recovered was apt to throw the patient 
 into unconsciousness again, but the recovery there 
 from would be speedy and sure unless the shock were 
 too great. 
 
 For the first time the old doctor stated that unless 
 complications ensued Peyton would get well. And 
 better still, when he learned of that flash of recogni 
 tion, he said that his mind would be clear as well. 
 Such a siege as the women had gone through with 
 him can scarcely be imagined. They had been sus 
 tained by that wonderful power which enables women 
 to bear strains and fatigues which would kill the 
 strongest man out of hand. It was not until now, 
 when the doctor had given them the first definite 
 ray of hope, that they realized what they had gone 
 through, and how utterly worn out they were. 
 
 Summer had faded away into autumn and winter 
 was fast approaching when Boyd Peyton was at last 
 pronounced out of danger. 
 
CHAPTER XLVIII 
 
 MARY ANNAN BEGS FORGIVENESS 
 
 W 
 
 EAK, feeble, almost helpless, a ghost 
 of himself, in fact, Boyd Peyton was 
 yet on the royal road to recovery. 
 After his first sight of her he had seen 
 nothing more of Mary Annan. When 
 Dr. Venosste had assured her that he 
 would get well his mother had gone 
 away, and he had not seen her either. 
 Fort Morgan had fallen after an heroic 
 defence, before the combined assaults 
 of ships and army, but its flag had not 
 come down until it had been ham 
 mered to ruins by the fierce bombard 
 ment and not a gun had been left ser 
 viceable. General Peyton had been 
 sent North as a prisoner of war and Madame Peyton 
 had accompanied him. Willis had been exchanged and 
 was now with General Maury's army defending Mo 
 bile. The care of the Annandale household had been 
 left to Pink and little Tempe, for when Boyd Peyton's 
 recovery had seemed assured Mary Annan had given 
 way under the strains and anxieties and bereavements 
 she had sustained. She had borne up heroically so 
 long as there had been any doubt and so long as there 
 had been need for her, but when assurance came that 
 
 394 
 
MARY ANNAN BEGS FORGIVENESS 
 
 her lover's life would be spared she had given way com 
 pletely. 
 
 Poor Pink, encouraged and cheered by brief visits 
 from Pleasants whenever his duties permitted him to 
 come across to Mobile, and assisted by one or two of 
 the old slaves who still remained faithful, had done 
 nobly by the sufferers. Dr. Bampney had been kind 
 ness itself, but there were many sick and there was 
 much suffering in Mobile during those last months of 
 close and final blockade, and he could only give them 
 a small portion of his time. So Pink had mainly been 
 compelled to worry along alone ! Utterly unused to 
 responsibilities of any kind, she had risen to the situa 
 tion nobly, and the two patients owed their lives to her 
 vigilant attention. 
 
 Peyton had begged so hard and so constantly to 
 see Mary Annan that Dr. Venosste had at last given 
 his permission. The girl had been miserably ill, but 
 was now somewhat better, and the old doctor hoped 
 that the interview might benefit them both. Willis 
 and Pleasants had come that afternoon to carry him 
 into her room. Peyton had insisted upon being 
 dressed in his uniform as a United States naval officer, 
 his clothing having been sent him under a flag by the 
 thoughtfulness of the old admiral, before he went 
 North on a well-earned leave of absence. He had a 
 strange fancy that if she loved him she must take him 
 in the uniform of the Union. It was in that uniform 
 that she had rejected him. It was in it that she must 
 take him back. Willis and Pleasants found him ready 
 when they came. 
 
 395 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 Willis had never ceased to be thankful that his 
 brother's life had been spared. He never would for 
 get the sensations that had come over him when he 
 had learned that he had fired that shot that had stricken 
 him down. He would have cheerfully given his own 
 life a dozen times for his brother's if there had been 
 no other way to save him. The affection between the 
 two young men was very strong indeed. Boyd had 
 never forgotten that Willis alone of his family had 
 bidden him God-speed when he went from Mobile 
 years before. And Pleasants, whom he had always 
 liked, and who was betrothed to his sister, who had 
 been good to Mary Annan, had been very kind to 
 him also. He was glad to see the young men, but he 
 could scarcely wait until they lifted him up in the 
 wicker chair to carry him into the room, that had been 
 her father's, where Mary Annan lay. 
 
 The two men set the chair down close to the side of 
 the bed. Then with a word of cheer to the sick 
 woman they turned and left the room. 
 
 "Now, remember, Boyd," said Dr. Venosste, "only 
 a few moments I will allow you, and you must not 
 say anything to agitate yourselves. Come, Miss 
 Pink," he added, turning to the faithful girl, and the 
 two went out, leaving Peyton and Mary Annan 
 alone. 
 
 Poor Mary Annan, how thin and pale and haggard 
 she looked, her white face framed in the rich brown 
 curls flowing over the pillow; how wasted from her 
 long illness, from the shocks she had undergone, from 
 the bereavements she had suffered, the heartbreaks 
 
 396 
 
MARY ANNAN BEGS FORGIVENESS 
 
 that had come upon her. How different she was 
 from the gay, lightsome, cheerful young girl of those 
 days before the awful war had come. And yet he 
 loved her more. He could not tell how or why. He 
 neither argued nor justified nor explained. He was 
 simply cognizant of the fact. His heart yearned 
 toward her. He did not say anything at first, nor did 
 she. She lay staring up at him out of her great black 
 eyes how they shone out of her pale face then with 
 such a look of utter thankfulness and gratitude in 
 her face as a sinner might show in being admit 
 ted to heaven. He bent forward in the chair and 
 with his own thin hands clasped her thinner and slen 
 derer one. 
 
 "Mary Annan," he whispered, "how ill you have 
 been!" 
 
 "I shall get well now, Boyd, since you are here with 
 me. If if you can forgive me all our troubles will 
 be over." 
 
 "Forgive you, dear!" he answered. "I have noth 
 ing to forgive. I only love you, love you, love 
 you!" 
 
 The sound of his voice and not even his physical 
 weakness could quench the passion in it was like an 
 elixir of life to her. It even brought a faint flicker of 
 color to her pale cheek. 
 
 "I know," she murmured, "I know. I have your 
 letter." 
 
 From over her heart she held it forth in a trembling 
 hand. 
 
 "Your letter written before the battle. I think I 
 397 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 had died when you were brought here had it not been 
 for this." 
 
 ''Mary Annan," he said, presently, "I am a United 
 States officer. I am the enemy of your of your gov 
 ernment. I have done my best against your cause. 
 I have given myself to the Union with all my heart. 
 I stood with Admiral Farragut on the Hartford ready 
 to lead the fleet into Mobile Bay, if I should be asked 
 or needed. This is the uniform in which I was driven 
 away. In this I have come back to you. Do you 
 love me? Will you take me? Will you go with me 
 in spite of all these things?" 
 
 There was a long silence in the room. The girl ly 
 ing there covered her face with her hand. As for Pey 
 ton, his heart almost stopped its beating. Would she 
 rise to this test? Was her love great enough for this 
 sacrifice? She had repudiated him because of these 
 things, would she take him, give herself to him in spite 
 of them, now? He leaned forward under the impulse 
 of his emotion and then slowly rose to his feet and 
 stood holding the arms of the chair tremblingly, look 
 ing down at her. 
 
 "Speak to me," he whispered, "for God's sake an 
 swer!" 
 
 "I am yours, Boyd," she murmured, taking away her 
 hand at last. "There is no North, nor South, nor 
 East, nor West now that you are here and alive. 
 Love is all to me. There are none of us left now but 
 Tempe and myself. I have only you. If you will for 
 give me and take me back. You kissed me once," 
 
 she said, "on the porch that night. Will you " 
 
 398 
 
MARY ANNAN BEGS FORGIVENESS 
 
 'Thank God ! Thank God !" he whispered. 
 
 When they found him he was kneeling by the bed 
 side, his bowed head resting upon her outstretched 
 hand, and there was such a look of peace and rest upon 
 the girl's face that they knew that she had indeed 
 passed from death into life. 
 
CHAPTER XLIX 
 
 THE MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD 
 
 H, it was springtime once more and 
 morning. They sat on the porch at 
 Annandale together. Boyd Peyton had 
 not been well enough to go North. He 
 had been so ill so long that the war had 
 ended leaving him still in Mobile, a 
 quasi prisoner of war. It was the i2th 
 of April, 1865. Richmond had fallen, 
 Lee had surrendered, the intrench- 
 ments of the Spanish Fort at Blakely 
 had been stormed. General Maury 
 had retreated, and the Federal troops 
 were entering the city. The end had 
 come. The Confederacy was no more. 
 God had decided that the Union could 
 not and should not be broken. Soldiers 
 in strange blue uniforms were filling the streets. A 
 regiment of bronzed veterans marched up Government 
 Street, fluttering above them the Stars and Stripes. 
 Their band was playing hateful tune in the people's 
 ears "J onn Brown's Body." It had been a long 
 time since that flag had been seen in Mobile, and as 
 Boyd Peyton had been the last to salute it then he was 
 the first to salute it now. As the regiment marched 
 by heading for the Shell Road, where it was expected 
 some further resistance might be made by the Confed- 
 
 400 
 
THE MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD 
 
 crates, a general officer, surrounded by a dusty and 
 weather-beaten staff of hard campaigners, drew rein 
 before Annandale House. A question to a surly 
 passer-by elicited that this was the home of Miss Mary 
 Annan. The general sprang from his horse, threw the 
 reins to an orderly, and came clanking up the walk 
 toward the house. 
 
 Boyd Peyton slowly descended the steps to meet 
 him. 
 
 "I am General Carpenter, of the Union army," said 
 the officer removing his hat, and staring at the other's 
 uniform in great surprise. 
 
 "And I am Boyd Peyton, lieutenant in the United 
 States Navy." 
 
 "What !" cried the young officer, "not Peyton of the 
 Hartford!" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Not the officer who took the Metacomet-s boat to 
 the rescue of the Tecumseh's men?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Man, I congratulate you ! The country rang with 
 your exploit, sir ! By gad, it was one of the bravest 
 deeds of the war !" 
 
 "Thank you, sir. How is Admiral Farragut?" 
 
 "What, haven't you heard? Where have you 
 been?" 
 
 "I have been desperately ill here for over nine 
 months." 
 
 "Of course, and we thought you dead. Well, the 
 admiral is well. He is vice-admiral now, and will be a 
 full admiral before Congress gets through with him." 
 
 401 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 "Good !" said Peyton, "he deserves it." 
 "And you? Haven't you heard about yourself?" 
 "I have heard nothing, General Carpenter." 
 "Well, it gives me great pleasure to tell you the 
 news, sir. You have been promoted to a full cap 
 taincy in the navy on the admiral's urgent recom 
 mendation, and a medal of honor has been awarded 
 you. Gad, the country thought you dead they said 
 in Congress it was giving honors to a dead man but 
 they'll rejoice to find you alive to claim your reward. 
 The war is over. Richmond has fallen. General Grant 
 has Lee corralled. Thank God, we'll all get home in a 
 short time now. But I am looking for a Miss Mary 
 Annan, and I am told she lives here." 
 
 "I am Mary Annan, sir," said the girl, coming to 
 the railing of the porch and looking down upon the 
 two. She had heard everything. The feeling in her 
 heart now was of mingled joy that her lover's valor and 
 courage had been so splendidly rewarded, and of sor 
 row for the final downfall of the South she still loved 
 next to him. And yet she was strangely relieved 
 that it was all over at last. 
 
 While Boyd Peyton was by no means restored to his 
 former health, Mary Annan was her old self once more. 
 A little of the youth gone, some of the gayety van 
 ished, but with the softening touches that trouble gives 
 and with the joy that love adds, to take the place 
 of what had disappeared. She stood quiet and com 
 posed, her hands resting upon the railing, her cheeks 
 filled with color, her eyes ashine, looking down at the 
 two men, 
 
 402 
 
THE MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD 
 
 "By Jove !" exclaimed the officer, staring at her in 
 bewilderment at her loveliness. "Forgive me, 
 madam," he added, with the blunt frankness of a sol 
 dier, "but I have not seen anything so beautiful since I 
 left home three years since. I have something for 
 you, ma'am." 
 
 "This is Miss Mary Annan, General Carpenter," said 
 Peyton. "Miss Annan, General Carpenter, of the 
 Union army." 
 
 A year before Mary Annan would have turned from 
 him in contempt, and indeed she did not relish his pres 
 ence now, but now she belonged to Boyd Peyton. 
 The man before her wore the same blue. She would 
 have to recognize this fact, and she might as well be 
 gin soon as late. It was part of her sacrifice, and like 
 every loving woman she took a strange pleasure in 
 the pain it caused her. 
 
 "Something for me, sir?" she said. "What can it 
 be? What is it, pray?" 
 
 "A letter, ma'am," said the officer, fumbling in his 
 breast pocket. 
 
 "From whom, sir?" 
 
 "Madam, 'tis your own," he said, producing a 
 crumpled envelope with dark brown stains spread over 
 one corner of it where a round hole marked the pas 
 sage of a bullet. 
 
 "My letter!" she cried, starting back. 
 
 "I took it from the hand of a dying officer," said 
 Carpenter, softly, "at the battle of Chickamauga. He 
 led the last assault on our troops at Snodgrass Hill. 
 They were driven back, but it was not until he was 
 
 403 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 shot down. I ran out of our line toward him. He 
 was lying on his face. He had this letter in his hand. 
 He was saying something." 
 
 "What was it?" gasped the girl. 
 
 "I only caught a word or two." 
 
 "They were ?" 
 
 " Tell Mary,' and then he said 'free/ and that was 
 all." 
 
 "Poor fellow!" said Mary Annan, softly, clasping 
 the letter and forgetting the others for the moment, 
 "poor fellow, he loved me indeed!" 
 
 "What became of the body, sir?" asked Peyton, who 
 had heard from his sister of Barrow's last charge, al 
 though he had known nothing of Mary Annan's let 
 ter. 
 
 "I buried him there on the field and marked the 
 spot so that I could identify it." 
 
 "He shall be brought back to Mobile when the war 
 is over if you will tell me where he lies." 
 
 "I will. You may command me at any time," re 
 turned the soldier. "I kept the letter. I only ex 
 amined the date and signature in order that I might 
 find where it was to be delivered, and I am glad to 
 have given it back to its writer." 
 
 "You are very good," said the girl, faintly, "and I 
 thank you for your trouble." 
 
 "No trouble at all, ma'am," said the general. "Cap 
 tain Peyton, you will be wanting to go North, doubt 
 less. There will be a transport sailing for New York 
 to-morrow noon. I can arrange for her to take you." 
 
 "Thank you, General. I shall go on her, of course." 
 404 
 
THE MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD 
 
 "Is there anything more I can do for you?" 
 "No, sir, nothing. Good-by." 
 "Good-by, sir. Good-by, madam." 
 
 "Mary Annan," said Peyton, sternly, turning 
 toward the girl where she stood with bowed head, the 
 letter crushed between her hands, tears streaming 
 down her cheeks, "what was in that letter?" 
 
 He could not keep from his voice the jealousy in 
 his heart. He did not doubt the girl's love. He 
 could not. But what had she written to this man 
 who also had loved her? There was agony in the sus 
 pense. 
 
 "Boyd," said the girl, "you have no right to ques 
 tion me in this way. You know that all my heart is 
 yours; that my love, my life, is given to you; that I am 
 about to abandon home, friends, country, everything, 
 for you. Yet I can deny you nothing. Here is the 
 letter. Take it and read it for yourself." 
 
 "No," said Peyton, touched by her words, "I will 
 not read it. Let it be your secret and his. I trust you 
 all in all." 
 
 "Nay," she cried, "now you must read it. You 
 shall, or I shall tell you of it. It was the letter in which 
 I told him I could not marry him, and in which I 
 begged him to release me, and I gave him the reason." 
 
 -That was ?" 
 
 "Because I knew that I loved you, and only you; 
 that's all." 
 
CHAPTER L 
 
 "WHITHER THOU GOEST i WILL GO" 
 
 T 
 
 HERE was a quiet little wedding in the 
 parlor at Annandale the next morning. 
 Old Dr. Bampney read the service with 
 Willis and Pleasants, who had been 
 taken prisoners and were permitted to 
 come by General Carpenter, and Wat 
 son from the blockading fleet, and the 
 general himself for witnesses; and 
 with Pink Peyton and Tempe to at 
 tend Mary Annan. There the words 
 were said which made them man and 
 wife. Pink would marry Pleasants 
 when he was released, which would be 
 only a question of a few days. Boyd 
 Peyton could not stay in Mobile ; there 
 was no welcome for him there, and there would not be 
 for many a day. Mary Annan would not be parted 
 from him again. As she had said, they were all gone 
 whom she loved but Boyd Peyton, and he would fain 
 take her with him as his wife. Leaving many mes 
 sages for his mother with Willis and a plea for his 
 father's forgiveness, which some day baby hands 
 would win, the two and little Tempe went quietly 
 away. 
 
 406 
 
"WHITHER THOU GOEST I WILL GO" 
 
 That night they stood on the deck of the transport 
 fast approaching the mouth of the bay, bound to that 
 North which appeared so cold and so unfriendly to 
 poor Mary Annan. She had given up everything to 
 follow him. Down below in one of the cabins Tempe 
 was asheep. They had taken her with them to make a 
 new home and begin a new life in what was to both 
 of them a new land. 
 
 The night had fallen when they passed by the ruined 
 and shattered walls of Fort Morgan. There Mary 
 Annan had watched her little brother die. There the 
 ships had engaged in mighty death grapple in that last 
 Homeric contest. There her lover had been stricken 
 down while she had watched the conflict from the 
 grassy ramparts. The red flag with its blue St. An 
 drew cross and its white stars had been hauled down 
 from that fort never to wave over it again. No longer 
 was that flag lifted upon a staff anywhere in the 
 land. No longer did men rally to its defence sternly 
 resolved to die rather than let it fall to the dust, 
 rather than disgrace should touch it. It was the flag 
 of a cause that was lost, but for generations its de 
 fenders and their children's children would hold it in 
 precious and tender memory, consecrated by love, hal 
 lowed by valor, made sacred by death, endeared by 
 defeat. 
 
 It was night as the vessel slipped past the fort and 
 headed for the open sea. Hand in hand the young 
 husband and wife leaned over the taffrail aft and gazed 
 back at Fort Morgan. The war was over. There was 
 peace in the land. As they looked there came across 
 
 407 
 
THE SOUTHERNERS 
 
 the dark waters the notes of a bugle playing the 
 sweetest call and the saddest that falls upon a sol 
 dier's ear : 
 
 'Taps. Lights out. Good-night. Farewell." 
 
Other Books by Dr. Brady 
 
 44 'In his titles Archdeacon Brady gives his 
 books a great deal to live up to* 'For Love 
 of Country/ 'For the Freedom of the Sea/ 
 4 The Grip of Honor ' how the words make 
 the cheek glow and the pulse leap ! An ardent 
 patriotism* according generous recognition to 
 the patriotism of the enemy, the rush of the 
 salt sea breeze* the clash of arms* and* best of 
 all* men and women that ring true to the call 
 of duty are in them all*" 
 
 New York Times Saturday Review. 
 
 THE GRIP OF HONOR 
 
 A Romance of Paul Jones and 
 the American Revolution 
 
 Illustrated^ I2mo, $1.50 
 
 " In his familiar, breezy manner the author leads 
 up to and deals with the famous victory of John Paul 
 Jones in the Bon Homme Richard over the Serapis. 
 A romantic love affair forms the body of the book, 
 and it is a thrilling story, upholding a high ideal. 
 There is not a dull page in it." Congregationalist. 
 
 " In the present regime of romances dealing with 
 the early history of the United States a regime, 
 be it said, not without some height of purpose 
 Rev. Cyrus Townsend Brady's books hold a very 
 high place indeed. 
 
Other Books by Dr. Brady 
 
 FOR THE FREEDOM OF 
 THE SEA 
 
 With 12 full-page illustrations by George Gibbs 
 
 " There is an honest manliness about his work 
 that compels admiration." The Dial. 
 
 " In every respect this is a thoroughly good 
 historical romance, in which story and history are 
 cleverly blended. Mr. Brady's style is light and 
 attractive, and many of the stirring sea adventures 
 in his book are sketched with brilliant effect. We 
 bespeak for it a hearty welcome from the story- 
 reading public. No piece of fiction better deserves 
 it." The Independent. 
 
 
 
 FOR LOVE OF COUNTRY 
 
 A Story of Land and Sea in the 
 Days of the Revolution 
 
 I2m0) $1.25 
 
 " The author has written a story which is patri 
 otic to the core, and especially fitted for the day we 
 live in. It is replete with action and incident, and 
 the lessons inculcated are of the highest." 
 
 New York Times. 
 
 " An intensely patriotic tale. ... It shows 
 a careful study of manners" and social conditions as 
 well as of military history. Battles on sea and land 
 are described with dramatic effect." The Outlook. 
 
Other Books by Dr. Brady 
 
 UNDER TOPS' LS AND TENTS 
 
 Illustrated, I2mo, $1.50 
 
 " A line flow of spirits is as apparent in his 
 latest book as in his first. . . . Essentially the 
 book is a reflection of the author's experiences as 
 a naval cadet at Annapolis, and on the school- 
 ships, and as a Chaplain in camp and at the front 
 during the war with Spain. Mr. Brady turns the 
 kaleidoscope of memory with pleasing and often 
 dramatic effect, and his stories are sweetened by 
 the suggestion of the humane and cheery person 
 ality behind them." The Dial. 
 
 "The Archdeacon's spirits never flag and he 
 carries the reader with him by sheer force of 
 vivacity." New York Herald. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF A MIS 
 SIONARY IN THE GREAT WEST 
 
 I2mo, $1.25 
 
 " As a photographic delineation of the raw 
 pioneering life, which ere long will have given place 
 to the ripened product of well-settled conditions, 
 it has a permanent historical value. As a sketch 
 of hardy men and women it is full of a dramatic 
 interest." The Outlook. 
 
 (OVIR) 
 
Other Books by Dr. Brady 
 
 u It is long since we have seen so many good 
 stories to the page as are to be found in this cheery 
 little repository of quaint clerical experiences. 
 Pathos and fun mingle in pretty even proportions." 
 
 The Dial. 
 
 a We gain from the book not only the boon of 
 hearty laughter, but the uplift that must always 
 come from contact with lives unselfishly spent for 
 humanity. The sketches of the noble men and 
 women with whom Dr. Brady worked are won 
 derfully inspiring." 
 
 New York Times Saturday Review. 
 
 
 
 IN THE WASP'S NEST: 
 
 The Story of a Sea 'Waif 
 in the "War of 1812 
 
 Illustrated by Rufus F. Zogbaum 
 $1.50 net (postage, 14 cents) 
 
 " When Cyrus Townsend Brady sets out to tell 
 a story of adventure and fighting at sea it can be 
 depended on as a breezy narrative that will stir the 
 pulses of the reader who enjoys that kind of tale. 
 If addressed particularly to boys, there is a feast in 
 prospect for all boys of healthy natures. 4 In the 
 Wasp's Nest' is a rattling good story of this kind." 
 Cleveland Plain Dealer. 
 
 Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers 
 
 153 - J 57 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
 
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 LIBRARY, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, DAVIS 
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 Brady, C.T. B5 
 
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 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
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