The sun shines kindly down upon them; may its beams brighten and bless every living soul on whom they fall.
When the veil fell upon the drama of the Civil War, it was believed that the throes of battle would never again convulse' our land. Peace was welcomed and hopes were indulged that it would be perpetual. Brothers met brothers again in the walks of social and business life, the scars of discord were healed and the rude sounds of dissension were banished.
TWO VOICES
A SOUTHERN VOLUNTEER
Yes, sir, I fought with Stonewall,
And faced the fight with Lee;
But if this here Union goes to war,
Make one more gun for me!
I didn't shrink from Sherman
As he galloped to the sea;
But if this here Union goes to war,
Make one more gun for me!
I was with 'em at Manassas—
The bully boys in gray;
I heard the thunderers roarin'
Round Stonewall Jackson's way,
And many a time this sword of mine
Has blazed the route for Lee;
But if this old nation goes to war.
Make one more sword for me!
I'm not so full o' fightin',
Nor half so full o' fun,
As I was back in the sixties
When I shouldered my old gun;
It may be that my hair is white—
Sich things, you know, must be—
But if this old Union's in for war,
Make one more gun for me!
I hain't forgot my raisin'—
Nor how, in sixty-two
Or thereabouts, with battle shouts
I charged the boys in blue;
And I say I fought with Stonewall.,
And blazed the way for Lee;
But if this old Union's in for war,
Make one more gun for me!
HIS NORTHERN BROTHER
Just make it two, old fellow!
I want to stand once more
Beneath the old flag with you,
As in the days of yore
Our fathers stood together,
And fought on land and sea
The battles fierce that made us
A nation of the free.
I whipped you down at Vicksburg,
You licked me at Bull Run;
On many a field we struggled,
When neither victory won.
You wore the gray of Southland,
I wore the Northern blue;
Like men we did our duty
When screaming bullets flew.
Four years we fought like devils,
But when the war was done,
Your hand met mine in friendly clasp
Our two hearts beat as one.
And now when danger threatens,
No North, no South, we know;
Once more we stand together
To fight the common foe.
My head, like yours, is frosty—
Old age is creeping on;
Life's sun is lower sinking,
My day will soon be gone;
But if our country's honor
Needs once again her son,
I'm ready, too, old fellow—
So get another gun.
A REMINISCENCE
THE night had fallen slowly and softly. The stars had stolen out, now dancing gaily in one corner of the heavens, and now a cluster of them marched forth in stately fashion. The air was quiet; even the leaves had quit whispering, the breeze had died away, and they nodded sleepily on their stems. Pretty Alice Whiting sat on the porch of the one-story, old style plantation house, and lazily wished the tea-table, whose disorder showed it had been attacked by hungry mouths, would vanish bodily. But it didn't, and she ruefully contemplated the prospect of clearing it up herself, with much chagrin, for such lovely nights, she declared, were not made to work in.
She had come to Memphis from the North with her husband and brother, who had "settled" in that hospitable city. Frank and Will had gone to the lodge, and she had been dreaming of her far Northern home. As she sat there her head rested against the vines which covered the porch, turning it into a perfect bower of beauty. Her dark brown hair waved and curled around a broad, full forehead; her features were far from regular, but the piquant nose and smiling mouth redeemed them, and gave a saucy charm which was more pleasing than set beauty. And as the moon rose in the sky, until her pale beams lit up the darkened porch, flooding every corner, she made as pretty a picture as one would wish to look upon. Something of this thought evidently passed through the mind of the man who had stolen noiselessly through the garden until he stood by her side, for he looked earnestly upon her as if loth to disturb her, and then longingly at the table, which had abundance, even after the appetites of the household had been appeased.
With a start she sprang to her feet. Her heart beat loud and rapid with fear, as she looked at the stranger. Visions of burglars, guerrillas and all the clan, flitted through her brain, and held her dumb, unable to utter a sound, from pure terror.
Certainly the man before her was not one to reassure her, for he was wild-eyed and dirty, and his ragged clothes had fallen away from his thin frame.
"Don't be afraid, ma'am," he said, in a voice intended to be gentle and assuring; "all I ask is a bite to eat. I'd never hurt a woman."
She drew a quick breath of relief.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
"Hungry? Look at me, ma'am. Do you see any signs of the gourmand about me?" pointing to his pinched face.
"I'll give you something to eat—for Eddie's dear sake," she added, in a faint whisper.
Bringing clean dishes, she poured out a cup of coffee, and bade him sit down and help himself.
"Can I have a wash fust?" he asked.
"Yes, and welcome." Bringing him a basin of clear cold water and a towel, she had the pleasure of seeing some of the tawny hue disappear, and he seated himself and began to eat most heartily.
It was just after the war, and the city was full of homeless men, who roamed its streets, unable to find work, and actually living on charity. Some of them had no home to go to, and others could not raise the means to take them there.
"Pears like we wus whipped bad," he said, between the mouthfuls.
She nodded an affirmative.
"I 'lowed General Forrest would help me to get back to Georgy. There's whar I belong."
"Did you ask him?" The General was a resident of Memphis at that time.
"I went to see him about it, and he couldn't do nothing—said he had no money," which was a fact, no doubt.
"I tell you, them cussed Yanks fit well. They had good pluck, after all."
"I think they proved that," she said faintly, her terror returning, for she saw he thought her a Southerner as well as himself, and she had misty visions of being strangled, the silly girl. "Oh," she thought, "will Frank never come?"
The man ate as if he had not seen food for many a day, and all the time his discourse was about the Yanks and what he'd like to do to' them. At last his hunger seemed satisfied, and rising, with his ragged, faded soldier cap in hand, he began to thank her profusely for her kindness. Something in her face arrested his attention, for he suddenly paused, and coming a step nearer to her, he said:
"I didn't like to beg, but I was nigh dead. If those Northern cusses hadn't beaten us into poverty, I'd have been home with my old mother now. I don't 'low they'd ever give a crust to a dog to keep life in his body!"
Her face flushed, and a sudden courage came to her. She answered, defiantly—
"Indeed, you do not do us justice. You do not know us."
"Know you? Ain't you one of our people, ma'am?"
"I am one of those people you despise—a Yankee," she answered, looking him steadily in the face.
"A Yankee? And you have fed me. Fed a man who has been abusing you right along, and you must hate him?"
"I do not hate you. Oh, no, I could not hate a single human being. You are one of God's children, and so am I." The scowl of doubt and distrust fled from the man's troubled face. He towered above her, tall, gaunt, but powerfully built.
"But it seems strange you'd be so willing to help me out, when you knew that I was agin your kind. Why did you do it?"
"You were hungry, and asked me for food. I have a better reason than that, even. I am but a girl, but I had a little brother younger than I, the idol of our home, who went to war, as a bugler. He was so frail and boyish that they wouldn't enlist him as an able-bodied soldier, but he would go. He was wounded and taken prisoner in the Battle of the Wilderness, carried to Andersonville, where he died. I made a solemn promise to my own heart that never, while life lasted, would a human being ask me for food in vain, even though I took the food from my own lips to give him. I will keep my word. You are welcome to all I have given you. May you never want." The man looked down at her, and in a choked voice said: "Ma'am, may I take you by the hand?"
She held out both hands toward him, and as he grasped them and reverently bent over them, a tear dropped on their whiteness, and he walked quickly away into the silence and darkness of the night.
THE LITTLE BLACK COW
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR
IT was the autumn of 1864, and the supplies for the boys in blue were being hurried forward. The Government purchased cattle in the North and West, and sent them to its soldiers, for they must be fed or they could not fight. The Southern army had not fared so well—they were destitute of nearly everything. Foraging had been kept up the troops on both sides, until the land was almost devastated. Families were suffering from hunger, for most of the able-bodied men were at the front, and only old men and pretended farmers remained to till the land. These latter belonged to the roving bands of guerrillas who pretended to work the farm lands. Want stared women and children in the face. Little ones who could not understand the dreadful fever of hate and blood that was abroad in the land looked into the faces of their elders, and asked for food.
Thomas Grant was a young fellow of nineteen who had seen some service in the Missouri militia, and was full of life and youth. His early days had been spent on a farm in Northern New York, where his reckless courage and fine horsemanship had made him a leader among his boy comrades. When he entered the Government service it was for the purpose of driving cattle to the army for its use.
The position was one of great danger. Their steps were watched by guerrillas by night and by day, and many a stray shot picked off a cattle driver or one of the soldiers who accompanied them as guards. Hurrying them over hill and dale, now in dense woods, and now over country roads, sometimes struggling and sticking in the clayey beds, it was a common event to have many of the tired animals, worn and footsore, fall down in their tracks, to be abandoned. These animals were a rich harvest for the guerrillas who hovered in their wake, like birds of prey, for they would capture the weary beasts, and convert them into food. It was the pride of a cattle driver when he could bring the bulk of his drove to the destined point, and deliver them to the quartermaster.
It was sultry, and the dust lay in heaps along the highway. The news had come that a large body of Confederate cavalry were about to attack Stevenson, Alabama, which was held by the Union forces, and the cattle were hurried out of the town as soon as the first beams of the morning sun lighted up the earth. The boom of cannon and the rattle of musketry lent wings to their going.
"The rebs are after us, and we'll lose every steer we have," the foreman said to Tom Grant, who rode beside him.
The morning breeze brought the scent of the wild flowers on its wings, and as the soldiers guarding the train marched with easy, swinging step, it seemed more like a lively walk taken for pleasure than a dangerous undertaking. The hills ahead were clothed in a beautiful green, sprinkled thickly with the white clover so dear to the bovine tongue.
"We'll get away all right, Tom," said the foreman, Jim Morrison. "But we must make quicker time than this. Our usual twelve miles a day ain't going to bring us out of the reach of the Johnnies, and before we get far they'd overtake us, and then good-bye to the steers, and to our own liberty as well."
"There's trouble ahead already," Tom replied. He was active and lithe, and ever on the alert, showing much skill in managing cattle.
"Blast that long-horned steer," Cleary, the assistant foreman, cried. "They're on the stampede. Boys, go after them, lively."
A score of drivers set spurs to their horses, while the frightened animals, with tremendous leaps, thundered across an open field, and made straightway for a gully just beyond the field. The scene was one of wild confusion. The shouts and oaths of the drivers, the trampling and crowding of the maddened creatures, as they tore over the grassy field, and the sounds of the firing behind them, in the beleaguered town, were indescribable.
John Morrison and Tom Grant spurred their horses toward the flying cattle, intending to head them off, but Tom's horse was fleet, and coming up to the leading steer, he threw the whole force of his horse's breast against the steer's neck, and vigorously plying the whip to its nose, he checked its headlong career, and drew him into a circle. At once the remainder of the drove followed their leader, and quiet was restored. The unreasoning animals, governed only by instinct, were soon started on their original course.
The lieutenant in charge of the drove complimented young Tom in the warmest terms, stating that he had accomplished more than any ten men.
The journey was finished without any further incident. They made such good time that they escaped capture at the hands of the Confederates, and on arriving at Chattanooga, Lieutenant Reed was promoted to the charge of a drove of 3,000. This honor he knew was due principally to the ability and quickness of manouver which Tom Grant had exhibited, and to show his gratitude he had the boy appointed to the superintendence of the drove, a position which many an older man coveted.
Days passed slowly by; the cattle, many of them, grew restive and footsore. Often one or two would lie down, and then it was impossible to get them up again.
"Where did that little black cow come from?" one of the men asked, pointing to a cow walking sedately along in the drove.
"I suppose she's wandered in from some farm place we've passed on the way," Tom Grant said. "But anyhow she's a godsend, for we'll have fresh milk now."
"Can you milk?" the Lieutenant asked.
"Can I? What was I brought up on a farm for, I wonder!" Tom responded.
"You're a regular encyclopaedia, Tom," the officer laughed. "But, of course, the cream comes to headquarters."
"Certainly—but what shall I raise it in, my hat?"
"We'll fix that. On second thoughts, think I'll take the cream with the milk—just whenever I can get it."
The little creature was as smooth as satin, and quite plump. To Tom's charge she fell, and he milked her each day as he promised he would, and she soon became known as "Tom's cow."' She seemed quite at home.
One hot and sultry day, when they had traveled with considerable speed, Tom's prize showed signs of exhaustion. At last she could go no farther, but lay down, hot, tired and footsore, at a cross roads.
"We'd better let her rest and then we'll come back after her," Jim Cleary said.
"That's the best thing we can do, I believe." So the animal was left where she had dropped, and the drove kept on till they found a place where they could feed and rest for the night.
As soon as it began to grow dark Tom and his companion started back to where they had left the cow. She was not there, but a woman sitting outside of quite a pretentious, two-story house, informed them that a man who lived "down the cross road a piece" had driven her to his own home.
"We'll have to get her back, Tom, for she's quite an acquisition to our larder."
It was quite dark when they reached the place to which they had been directed. It was a weather-beaten old log house, with one room down stairs to serve the family, and an attic or loft above. Rapping at the door, they heard a gruff voice bid them enter. By the dim light of a sputtering candle they saw a rough, poorly dressed man and a woman sitting at a table which had no cloth, on which was some corn bread and sorghum. The mother held a puny, sickly little girl in her arms, whose big eyes roved restlessly around, as if wondering who the strangers were. A tin cup stood by her plate, full of milk.
"Strangers, what ar' yer business?" The man's threatening countenance seemed to demand an instant reply.
"We are looking for a cow we've lost."
"Wall, what's that to me? Yer didn't expect to find it here in this cabin, did ye?"
"Not exactly in the cabin, but we heard it was down here."
"Wall, that's about so, but I found the critter lying down in the bottoms, and I concluded she was as much mine as any one's."
"That ain't so, for we own the cow; that is to say, she joined our drove of cattle we are taking to the army, and so we have the first claim on her."
The man seemed to be listening. He paused a moment, and looked furtively around, and then at the two armed men. He went on:
"I'd not have troubled it, only for the sake of my little un there. She's sick, and can't eat a thing. She'll die soon without some nourishment," and he pointed toward the child, who was the picture of starvation.
Tom's heart was tender. He saw the man had not overstated the case, and he rose to go.
"Come, Jim," he said, "You can see the child needs that milk bad—worse than we do. Mister," he said, turning to the man, "you are welcome to the cow, on one condition; and that is, that you promise on your word as a father that the little girl may have all the milk she can drink, every day."
The woman had not spoken till now, but with a glad look she started to her feet, and pressing the child into its father's arms, she said—"Jack, that's a fair bargain. And you're a fair man, sir, after all."
The man looked at Tom, then out of the window, and said—"Look here, young fellow, you've, shown you've got a heart, and I won't be beat in doing the fair thing, by any one. This neighborhood is full of fellows who wouldn't mind giving you a chance shot. The woman up at the big house has given them the word that you're here, and before you know it, there'll be a committee sent to wait upon you. Don't go back the same road you came, but strike for that piece of woods, and then cut across the fields, and you may get away. Hurry—you haven't much time before you—you know the rest."
Into their saddles the two men vaulted, after thanking the man for his caution, and away they dashed. The stars were out in full force, and the darkness of an hour before had lifted, for the moon was rising, and as they entered the woods their shade hid them from sight. They rode fast through them, and struck a corduroy road, a rarity in that part of the country, and as they left it behind them, and were going to take the field, Jim whispered—"Don't stir a step. Pull your horse into that thicket. Over there I hear them after us."
They could hear the horses galloping down the road they had just left, and by the faint light could see that there was a dozen or more men.
"A narrow escape for us," said Tom.
"We haven't escaped yet. They'll not let us get off without scouring these woods."
"Which way shall we go?"
"Why, away from this vicinity as quick as we can."
"My Kentucky thoroughbred will carry me out of danger—she can outrun anything they've got."
"But I've only got a long, lank, rangy old mule, and half-blind at that. I'm destined to be captured," ruefully answered Jim.
"No, we're not—they are turning off into the left hand road; no, there's three or four taking the other one. Some have dismounted, and are talking with the man we've just left. He's true blue; he's pointing away in another direction."
"Well, he's not so bad after all, even if he is a guerrilla."
"Why, do you believe he's one of that band?"
"Sure as preaching he belongs to the gang who are bothering the whole country round here, and all that saved us was your generosity in making him welcome to the little black cow. He's got a heart hid away somewhere, and you just touched it."
Tom's eyes opened wide. "I couldn't see that little creature starving there, and not offer them something to help her out. Why, she was nothing but skin and bones."
"We mustn't loiter here. It is a good three miles to camp, and we must make it quick, or they'll head us off before we reach the road."
Touching their animals lightly with their spurs, they dashed across the open field toward another road, and were almost ready to congratulate themselves on their escape, when they heard a yell, and looking back they saw one of the guerrillas who had sighted them and was almost standing in his stirrups in his excitement, and shouting wildly to his companions, who were coming after him at full gallop. Tom and Jim did not need any further hint, but led the way, at a rattling pace. Tom was mounted on a racer, but Jim's army mule proved that he could run, for he kept pace with the horse, almost neck and neck. Whether he dreaded capture and being set to work, or feared being converted into mule meat, we are not able to say, but he held his own.
With shouts and oaths that were heard by the two men with distinctness, the guerrillas dashed after them, while they kept on with break-neck speed, now through a gully, then over a broken fence, and sinking in the furrows of fields that had been plowed in the long ago, now past a ruined building that rose up black and forbidding in the weird moonbeams, and then the lights gleamed friendly from one that was occupied. What the end of this John Gilpin ride would have been, it is hard to say, for the guerrillas were gaining on them, but at a turn in the road a dozen blue-coats were seen coming toward them. The pursuing foe fired a few wild shots, which were returned with a will, when they wheeled about and fled across the field, and were soon in hiding in the woods.
"Tom's cow came near getting me into trouble," Jim Cleary said, when he finished telling the story to the lieutenant.
A few weeks later, when they had reached Knoxville and gone into camp, an old, feeble-looking farmer came into the lines looking for Tom Grant. His hair was grizzled, and his beard uncut, and as Tom came toward him, he was surprised to see the wrinkled brown hand extended as if to clasp that of an old friend.
"You don't seem to recognize me," the man said awkwardly. "You haven't forgotten the little sick gal and her mammy down in the country a hundred miles or so?"
"You're not the man who showed us so much kindness when you knew the guerrillas were on our track?" Tom asked.
"The very same. You see a gray wig and a butternut suit make quite a farmer outen me. I'll never forget you, stranger, nor how you saved my baby. She was the only gal we had left—we'd lost three, and when she took to that milk so, and you told me to keep the cow, why, I couldn't hold still. I'd had it in my heart to kill you both, that night. I had only to whistle and I'd have brought the whole band about your ears. The little gal—Eda, we call her—began to pick right up on that milk, and now she's as peart as any child you ever saw. My woman says to me—'Martin, go and tell that young fellow the good turn he has done us.' I've followed your trail for nearly a hundred mile to tell you that you will never be forgotten in our home, and I'll never raise a gun against a Yank again."