CHAPTER XLI.
If my pen alone, dear reader, could direct the scenes which must be presented to your view in drawing near the close of my narrative, rest assured they should be pleasant. I would tell of a grand triumphant army, marshalled for the last time beneath the Stars and Bars to hear the plaudits and farewell of their chieftain; of victorious legions marching home crowned with laurels, their very footsteps softened by the flowers fair hands are scattering before them; of every homestead, blessed with peace and plenty, greeting its hero returned from the war. I would tell of an Independent Republic, with Robert E. Lee at its head, growing into power and greatness among the nations of the earth; while, with all sectional animosity and bitterness buried beneath the blood of their children, the United and the Confederate States join hands in the noble alliance of progress and enterprise – exchanging products and commodities, aiding each other onward, yet vieing in generous rivalry. Alas! the stern reality presents a darker picture – the picture of a people, borne down by want and woe, yielding up at last their long and gallant struggle, and sitting down amid the ashes of their country to mourn their children dead for nought; a picture of two armies – small, indeed, and wasted by famine and disease, yet still stepping proudly as they remember their long record of victories – stacking their faithful arms and furling their shell-torn flags with tears of helpless bitterness; a picture of Southern roadsides filled everywhere with men in tattered gray, plodding, with blistered feet, their weary way towards homes where gaunt starvation hath so wasted the cheeks of loved ones that they will scarcely flush at their coming, and where, laying down the burden of war, they must take up the burden of fruitless labor!
Ben and I secured transportation on the cars from Durham’s to Raleigh, and set out from there to walk home.
Ah! never to be forgotten are those days after the surrender! How the Yankees jeered and cursed us for being rebels, as squad after squad galloped by us, tramping along our dusty roads! And the people, God bless them! how kind they were to us, even in their poverty! Stripped to almost utter destitution by the enemy, they were willing, like the widow of Sarepta, to share with us their only cake. As we passed each gate they would come out with a pitcher of water, a tray of corn bread and potatoes, and, if the ”bummers” had not paid their visits of mercy, a small piece of meat. Calling us into the yard, under the trees, they would press us to eat, and lament that they had not better to give. And as we eagerly ate their frugal fare, which was more delicious then than were the quails of Lucullus, and rose to thank them and pursue our way, they would put what remained in our pockets, and, asking God’s blessing on us, turn into the house to prepare their humble offering for the next hungry troop.
Thus were the gloomy feelings of our homeward journey relieved by constant kindness and attention from every house we passed, and it was not till we neared Ben’s home, and had left the public road, that I had time to feel the terrible suspense and anxiety about Carlotta and mother that had been in my heart since I left them. I dared not hope that mother was alive; yet my heart did so much shrink from knowing she was dead, that, as I came in sight of Mr. Bemby’s, my feet almost refused to go forward.
As we approached we saw no one but Horace, who was working in a little garden near the house, and we motioned to him to be quiet. We opened the door of the house softly, and heard the sound of voices out in the little back porch, and saw the edge of some one’s dress who was sitting near the door. Then we heard a chair put down from its tilted position, and Ben’s wife leaned forward and looked sideways into the passage. With a loud cry of joy she dropped a lap full of work on the floor, and ran to meet her husband. She was followed by Carlotta and Mrs. Bemby. Where was mother? Carlotta, as I pressed her to my bosom, interpreted the anxiety of my look, and said:
”God has spared mother, John. She is much improved, though still feeble. She is out in the porch. Come with me.”
I followed her out to the porch, and there, propped by pillows in a chair, pale and thin, but still alive, was mother.
I knelt by her, and we both murmured our thanksgiving to God for his mercy.
Then, when Mrs. Bemby had brought out chairs for us all, and Horace had brought a bucket of fresh cool water, how bright and happy were we all as we told of our adventures and wondered at our mutual dangers and escapes. Verily, it was worth four years of hardship to experience the joy of that morning out in Mr. Bemby’s porch.
”But tell me, Carlotta, what caused this blessed change in mother?” I said, after we had finished our salutations, drawing my little boy to me, and taking him on my knee.
”She was relieved, and commenced to grow better the very day you left. A short time after you and Mr. Ben were gone a company of Federal soldiers came up to the house, bearing with them a dead man and two wounded ones. Mrs. Bemby and I went out to them and found, I shudder to tell it, that the dead man was Frank Paning. They wanted some spades to bury him with, and some cloths to bind up the wounds of the others. They said that two spies, one of them disguised as an old woman, had killed Paning, and, meeting these, had fired on them. We knew it must have been you two. Oh, John! did you forget your promise to mother?”
I said nothing, for I did not wish to involve Ben, but he spoke up directly:
”No, Mrs. Smith, John didn’t kill him; I done it myself. We found him a rakin’ over the ashes he’d helped to make, and when he saw his friends a comin’ he tried to make us surrender, and I let him have a ball in his forred. ‘Taint worth while to be mealy-mouthed about it.”
”Well,” continued Carlotta, with a shudder at Ben’s words, ”Horace got the spades for them, and Mrs. Bemby told them to bring the men into the house, for they were both suffering very much. We did what we could to alleviate their sufferings, and when the surgeon who was with them had bandaged up their wounds, and sent them off to camp, he asked if he could reward us in any way for our kindness. I thought of mother; and though my pride revolted at the idea of asking a favor of an enemy, I begged that he would see her and give her some relief, if possible. He went in and examined her head, and saying that it was an easy matter, took out some instruments and went to work. He raised up the fractured skull, and, as mother expressed it, lifted a great weight from her brain; then mixing some medicine for her, and telling me how to bathe her head, took his leave.”
”Did you not offer to remunerate him in some way?” I asked.
”Yes, I offered him my watch, as we had no money, but he refused it with polished courtesy, and said he would only take a kiss from my little boy, as there was something about his eyes, as well as mine, that reminded him of a lady he had loved years ago.”
”Did you not learn his name?”
”Oh yes! He gave me his card, and I think I put it in this basket;” and she commenced to search in her work busily. ”Ah! here it is!” and she gave me the card:
”C. B. Sedley, M. D., New York!”
”Why, Carlotta,” I said, ”did not a young man of that name pay his addresses to you at Saratoga?”
”Oh! certainly; I remember him. How stupid of me to forget. Poor Charley! I do not blame him for not recognising the lady of satin in this old homespun.”
”I must go to Goldsboro’ to-morrow,” I said, thinking gratefully of his kindness, ”and if he is still there offer some testimonial of our gratitude.”
”It’s useless,” said Carlotta, ”he has gone on to Raleigh with the army, and I cannot let you leave me so soon.”
Mr. Bemby now came in from the field, and greeted us warmly in his uncouth way, while Mrs. B. excused herself to see about dinner. It was a plain meal, of one course, but Delmonico has never served one that was more enjoyed, or surrounded by happier hearts.
The next day I went over to Goldsboro’, and, obtaining a hundred dollars, in ”greenbacks,” the first I had ever handled, prepared to start with our little family for Wilmington the following morning, for I could not consent to impose longer on the good nature of the Bembys, and crowd them out of comfort in their little house.
The next morning, having bade them an affectionate and grateful farewell, we lifted mother carefully into the vehicle I had hired to take us to town, and were soon in the cars, mother, Carlotta, Johnnie and I, rattling down to Wilmington. We found that Miss Wiggs had been unmolested in her possession of our house, and that it was therefore ready for our reception.
Many of our former slaves now applied for positions in our household, but, as they had deserted us when most needed, I refused every one, and engaged an entire new set. About this time, also, I received a balance sheet from father’s bankers in New York, showing a large accumulated balance in our favor, and, drawing on this, we began to surround ourselves with ante-bellum comforts, and to make home feel like home.
Soon after we had gotten somewhat settled I began to make inquiries about Lulie, for I felt the deepest interest in her welfare, and had ever thought of her downfall with deepest sorrow. As I could hear nothing definite in regard to her, though it was generally believed she had gone off with a Federal officer of high rank, I determined to call on her old maiden aunt, with whom she had lived since her father’s death, which occurred early in the winter. To my surprise the old lady would neither see me nor answer any of my inquiries, but called out to me, in a shrill cracked voice, as I stood at her door, her long bony feet just visible in heelless slippers and blue stockings, at the top of her stairway:
”You needn’t come here asking me about the little silly fool, for I wouldn’t tell you anything if I knew, which I don’t. She’s gone from my sight and hearing, and I hope to the Lord you nor any one else will ever hear of her again.”
Of course I could do nothing but give up the search, though I ceased not to hope she might yet be found and saved.
And now, as the summer wore away, came to me the question of life; not how we were to live, for our income largely exceeded our expenditure, but why. The boyish dreams I had so long cherished, of distinction in the political arena, were now vanished forever; and the practice of law, for which I had studied, under the Provisional Government was little better than a system of pettifogging, that was as undignified as it was profitless.
There was absolutely nothing to do, and the very ennui of existence seemed a terrible evil. So, when Carlotta proposed that we break up here and go to her home in Cuba, I acceded to the proposal with great delight, and, mother consenting to go with us, I began immediately preparations for our departure in the Fall. I could not help feeling some touches of shame and regret in leaving our dear old State in this her darkest hour, and had it not been for the beautiful Cuban home that was awaiting us, I could not have gotten the consent of my mind to go. But I felt, as a private individual, of little benefit to the State at large, and that my first duty was to render those dearest to me happy, and this I thought would be accomplished by the change.
As executor of father’s will, I found very little trouble in settling the estate, there being no debts to pay and few to collect. The real estate in New York I determined to leave in the hands of our agent, in whom we had the utmost confidence, and who had doubly endeared himself to us by his kindness to father while he was in prison. I sold our residence and grounds in Wilmington to a blockade runner who had amassed a large fortune during the war, and was anxious to invest in town property. Early in the fall I went up to the plantation to see Mr. Bemby, and make arrangements for its disposal. Taking the surveyor over from Goldsboro’ I had four hundred acres cut off for Ben, and two hundred for Horace, making them a fee simple title to it; the remaining three thousand acres I turned over to Mr. Bemby, to use the balance of his lifetime without rent. These kind people were profuse and sincere in their regrets at our leaving, and Mr. Bemby protested that he and Ben could make enough on the farm for us all to live in the house and never go out doors where we could see a Yankee. They all followed me up to the road, and I felt, as I shook hands and drove off, that, go where I would, I could never find more faithful hearts than beat beneath their homespun clothes. Ben rode over to Goldsboro’ with me, and when we had gone some distance from the house he drew from his pocket a twenty dollar gold piece and handed it to me, saying:
”I want you to give that to the one it belongs to, if you ever see her.”
”Whose is it?” I asked in some surprise.
”Miss Luler Maylin’s,” he said, putting the coin in my hand.
”Lulie Mayland!” I exclaimed. ”Where is she; where have you seen her; I have been trying to find her ever since I came home.”
”I saw her week b’fore last, right on this road, jus’ above our house.”
”How came she there? Tell me about it for Heaven’s sake, Ben.”
”Well, you know Frank Paning is buried up there in the woods by the road, and last Wednesday was a week I thought I’d go up and sorter put a pen like ’round his grave, to keep the hogs from rootin’ ‘bout on it, ‘cause I tell you the truth, John, I ain’t never felt right ‘bout killin’ him yit. I shot a sight of Yankees during the war, but I done it on account of the Confeder’cy, and I didn’t feel like it was charged ‘ginst me in the big book up yonder; but I put that bullet in Frank Paning on my own hook, because I was mad with him, and it’s looked mighty close kin to murder ever since.”
”By no means, Ben,” I interrupted; ”he had ordered you to surrender, and his friends were close at hand.”
”Well, any how,” he continued, ”I was piling up the rails ’round the grave, and kinder askin’ its pardon to myself, when I heard a carriage ‘comin’ ‘long the road. I got up and stepped back a little for ’em to pass, for I was sorter ashamed of what I was doin’. But the carriage stopped right at the grave, and a Yankee officer got out, and then handed down a lady dressed finer ‘n the top spot in a peacock’s tail. The minnit I see her face I knowed ‘twas the same young lady that come up here wonst with Mrs. Smith and you all. ‘Soon as she got on the ground she run to the grave, and fell down on her knees, and put her head on the edge of the rail pen, and cried a long time. When she got up the man fetched some white flowers outer the carriage and she put’em on the grave; then turned to the man and said:
”’Do you think you can find the place, Curnel?’
”’Without doubt, madam,’ he said.
”’I want the granite base very broad and strong, as the column will be very heavy,’ I heard her say.
”’It shall be as you desire, madam,’ he replied.
”They was about to git back in the carriage when she saw me, and come towards me with both hands stretched out.
”’O, sir!’ she said to me, with her cheeks all wet, ‘did you think enough of his grave to take keer of it; let me reward you.’ And b’fore I could speak she put that money in my hand. I run up to the carriage as she got in, and tole her I did not want her money, but they drove off without saying any more.”
”Do you know where they went to, and did she call the officer’s name?” I asked, intensely interested in what he had related.
”No; but I went to town next day, and saw ’em going off on the train, and the man had a han’ trunk marked New York.”
”Poor Lulie!” I murmured; ”would to Heaven I could find her.”
The train was standing at the depot as we drove up, and I had to hurry to get on. Ben followed me into the car, and, taking my hand, said:
”Good bye, John, for I can’t call you Mr. Smith, like I orter. Remember one thing, no matter where you go or who you see you’ll never find anybody to think any more of you than Ben. I didn’t have much religion to start with, and the war spilled what I did have out; but if I ever do get to the good place I’d like to see you there, for it won’t seem natchurel without you.”
The train moved off and he was gone – a true, tried old heart.
There was one more duty, a sacred one, for me to perform before our departure. I must bring my father’s remains from the enemy’s land, and let them rest in the soil he had died for. I found no difficulty in identifying his grave at Elmira, owing to the clear and distinct manner in which it had been marked by Mr. P., the agent referred to; and taking up the rude prison coffin, I had it enclosed as it was, without being opened, in a large metallic case, and thus brought it home.
Mother had given up her desire to have him buried under the old cedar, as she knew his grave would be neglected when we had passed away, and the property had fallen into strangers’ hands, as it inevitably must some time in the future. So we carried his remains to the cemetery, and in the hazy autumn evening, while the sinking sun was mellowed by the purple mists, we laid him beneath the still green turf, where the yellow leaves were falling, in ”whispers to the living,” one by one upon his grave.
And now, with that solemn certainty that alone belongs to Time and Death, the day appointed for departure approached. On the evening before we were to leave, feeling that I ought to pay a farewell visit to Ned’s grave, I went down to the livery stables – our stalls were empty now – and hired a horse and buggy, and drove, with Carlotta, down to Mr. Cheyleigh’s. The old gentleman came out to meet us with his wonted cordiality, and was as cheerful as of old, but Mrs. Cheyleigh had never gotten over Ned’s death, and I could read in her wan, sad face, the tale of incurable sorrow. We talked all the while of Ned and his death; and as I told her how the men all loved him for his goodness, and the officers honored him for his bravery, I could see that, like a Spartan mother, even in her tears, she was proud of her gallant boy.
At length I arose and went out alone to his grave. It was in a grove of pines near the house, and the brown pine straw hushed my footfalls as I approached, and the wind was sighing through the boughs. The grave was enclosed by an iron railing, and over it rested a plain marble slab, on which were an inscription and some lines in gilded letters. Opening the wire-work gate, with uncovered head and softened step I went up to the slab, and, bending over it, read:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
EDWARD CHEYLEIGH,
Born April 8th, 1840,
Killed at the battle of Gettysburg, July 2d, 1863
”Tell them to bury me under the pines at home.”
I would not rest in the mouldering tomb
Of the grim churchyard, where the ivy twines,
But make my grave in the forest’s gloom,
Where the breezes wave, like a soldier’s plume,
Each dark green bough of the dear old pines,
Where the lights and shadows softly merge,
And the sun-flakes sift through the netted vines;
Where the sea winds, sad with the sob of the surge,
From the harp-leaves sweep a solemn dirge
For the dead beneath the sighing pines.
When the winter’s icy fingers sow
The mound with jewels till it shines,
And cowled in hoods of glistening snow,
Like white-veiled Sisters bending low,
Bow, sorrowing, the silent pines.
While others fought for cities proud,
For fertile plains and wealth of mines,
I breathed the sulph’rous battle cloud,
I bared my breast, and took my shroud
For the land where wave the grand old pines.
Though comrades sigh and loved ones weep
For the form shot down in the battle lines,
In my grave of blood I gladly sleep,
If the life I gave will help to keep
The Vandal’s foot from the Land of Pines.
********
The Vandal’s foot hath pressed our sod,
His heel hath crushed our sacred shrines;
And, bowing ‘neath the chastening rod,
We lift our hearts and hands to God,
And cry: ”Oh! save our Land of Pines!”