Читать книгу A Yankee Girl at Antietam - Alice Turner Curtis - Страница 3

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Roxana Delfield, wearing a dress of blue-checked gingham, stout leather shoes and white stockings, and a broad-rimmed hat of rough straw, ran down the narrow path that led from her Grandmother Miller’s farm to the highway leading to the little village of Antietam, Maryland.

The path curved about a rocky ledge, skirted a group of small cedar trees and reached a stone wall where there was an opening just wide enough for one person to squeeze through. Roxy thought it was a fortunate thing that all the people at her Grandmother Miller’s were thin enough to get through this opening, all except Dulcie, the negro cook, who declared her weight “up’ards ob two hunderd pounds.” Dulcie, however, seldom left the farm, and when she did was obliged to take the longer way by the road.

When Roxy reached the wall she climbed to its top and stood looking anxiously along the gray road that skirted a wooded hill, and in a few moments a brown horse, harnessed to a light wagon, and driven by a bareheaded girl whose red hair gleamed in the June sunshine, trotted into sight and came rapidly down the hill.

“There she comes! There’s Polly!” exclaimed Roxy scrambling down the rough wall, and hurrying across the little field to the side of the road where she stood eagerly awaiting the approach of her new friend, Polly Lawrence, and in a few minutes the brown horse stopped directly beside her, and the red-haired girl called out:

“Here we are, little Yankee girl; jump in,” and she reached down a strong brown hand to help Roxy climb into the wagon.

“This is splendid!” Roxy declared happily, as she pushed herself well back on the broad seat, and looked up admiringly at the tall girl beside her.

Polly smiled, her white teeth reminding Roxy of the string of pearl beads that her mother sometimes wore, and as she looked at her companion she realized that everything about Polly seemed to hold the light and the glimmer of sunshine. Not only did Polly’s waving hair hold golden gleams, but there were twinkling lights in her blue eyes, and her skin seemed to glow, and her teeth to shine.

“Oh, Polly! I do like to look at you!” Roxy exclaimed ardently, and at this the older girl laughed aloud, and responded:

“Well, you can say as pleasant things as any Southern girl. Nobody would think you were born in Massachusetts.”

“Why not, Polly?” Roxy questioned, leaning forward to look eagerly into her companion’s face. “Why wouldn’t anyone think I was born in Massachusetts?”

Polly continued to smile, but she answered quickly:

“I suppose because you have such good manners. But of course your mother was born in Maryland.”

“Polly Lawrence! Stop this horse! Stop this minute!” demanded Roxy, clutching at the reins and scrambling down from the wagon seat as if meaning to jump to the ground. “I don’t want to ride with you. I guess Maryland girls don’t have all the manners. I guess little girls in Newburyport wouldn’t be s’prised to have other girls polite. I guess——”

But before Roxy could say another word Polly’s arm was about her, and Polly was saying:

“Oh, Roxy! I did not mean to be rude. Truly, truly I didn’t. I only meant to praise you!”

“Stop the horse! I don’t want to go to Sharpsburg. I want to go home,” persisted Roxy. “If my mother was born in Maryland she went to school in Massachusetts, and maybe that is where she learned good manners.”

Polly’s arm released its hold on Roxy, and she brought the brown horse to a standstill.

“You can get out here, Roxy,” she said gravely. “It won’t be far for you to walk home.” And without a word Roxy jumped from the wagon and turned on her homeward way.

“I don’t care,” she told herself. “Polly Lawrence talks as if people in Massachusetts were not as good as Maryland people. She always calls me ‘Yankee’ as if I was an Indian or—or something!” and with a little sob, Roxy trudged along the road over which she had only a brief time before rode so happily; and on reaching the stone bridge she stopped and leaned against its rough parapet, gazing down at the slow-moving waters of Antietam River.

For a little while Roxy could think only of her disappointment, and of Polly’s unkindness, and wish herself back in her own home in Newburyport, where she had never even heard the word “Yankee,” and where there were streets of pleasant houses, each one with its own garden, and where little girls visited each other every day, bringing their patchwork to sew; or if it was a “special party” the little girls would bring their fine dolls dressed in silk and muslin.

Newburyport was very different from this hilly country where every farmhouse was built of gray limestone, and stood on sloping field or pasture, thought Roxy, turning her gaze to an opening in the distant mountains where range upon range of blue heights rose against the sky.

“I do wish we were home,” she whispered to herself. “I wish there wasn’t any war!” For it was in the early summer of 1862, when Northern and Southern States were in arms against each other, and when President Abraham Lincoln had fully determined to declare the freedom of negroes held in slavery. Roxy’s father was a soldier with the Northern Army in Virginia, and Mrs. Delfield had taken her little daughter and come to her old home in Maryland hoping that her husband might secure leave of absence and join them.

It was now nearly a month since Roxy had first seen Polly Lawrence, whose father’s farm adjoined the Millers’. Polly had at once made friends with the little Northern girl, and although she was nearly five years older than Roxy, she seemed to enjoy her company and had taken the little Northern girl on many a pleasant ride about the countryside, and on walks over the pasture-lands that stretched up the slopes behind the farms. It was Polly who told Roxy that the river had been named Antietam for an Indian chief, and that years before the white men had settled in this part of the country the Shawnee, Catawba and Delaware Indians, with feathered heads, painted faces, and clad in the skins of wild animals, had wandered along the banks of this placid stream and camped in the near-by valleys.

“But Polly has always called me ‘Yankee girl,’” Roxy told herself, choking back a troublesome lump that came in her throat as she remembered that she had quarrelled with Polly Lawrence; with Polly, who was nearly fifteen years old, and who knew so many wonderful stories, and who sang such beautiful songs, and who owned a horse! Oh! There never was anyone like Polly, even if she did think Maryland people better than the people of Massachusetts; and now Roxy leaned her head on the rough stones of the parapet and sobbed aloud, and was so filled with unhappiness that she did not hear the sound of horses’ hoofs or the jingle of bridle reins until two horsemen clattered onto the bridge close beside her; then she turned quickly and gazed up at them in amazement. It was Roxy’s first sight of Confederate soldiers, and as she looked at the two war-worn men, in shabby gray uniforms, mounted on fine well-cared-for horses, it was no wonder that the little girl forgot her own troubles.

So far, in the summer of 1862, the war had not pressed hard on Maryland; the state seemed chiefly a highway through which passed the Northern troops; and Polly Lawrence had seen many marching men crossing that very bridge.

The two horsemen did not at first notice Roxy. One of them drew a paper from his pocket, opened it and said:

“This is the road to Sharpsburg. I’m sure of it,” and before he could say more his companion exclaimed:

“Well, little miss! You look surprised! Have you never seen a soldier before?” and he smiled down at Roxy.

“Oh, yes, sir! But all the soldiers I have seen wore blue clothes,” Roxy answered.

“And where were these blue-clothed soldiers?” continued the man, as he swung himself from the saddle and stood beside the little girl.

“They were in Washington,” replied Roxy, “but I saw my father’s regiment when it marched down High Street in Newburyport!”

The man looked at her as if puzzled, and repeated “Newburyport?” and then glanced at his companion who now dismounted and stood near his horse’s head.

“That’s not a Maryland town, is it?” he questioned, and Roxy eagerly replied:

“Oh, no! Newburyport is in Massachusetts. That’s my home, but my mother and I are visiting Grandma Miller!”

The two men glanced at each other in evident surprise, and the man who had first noticed Roxy said thoughtfully:

“I see! A little Yankee girl!” And at this Roxy’s smile vanished.

“‘Yankee girl!’ ‘Yankee girl!’ I wish I knew why you say that?” she exclaimed, her gray eyes looking steadily at the tall, gray-clad soldier.

“Oh, only because your home is in the North! I reckon your father is proud to be called a Yankee,” he replied kindly, and at this Roxy’s face brightened.

“Oh, thank you! Polly calls me ‘Yankee girl’ and I didn’t know why. But I shan’t care now,” she said, with a friendly nod at the tall man.

“We might take a road that leads through the hills here,” suggested the second soldier, and for a few moments the two soldiers bent their heads over a small map and seemed to forget the little girl, who stood watching them wonderingly.

“Good-bye,” said the good-natured soldier as he swung himself into the saddle. “You will see more soldiers in gray clothes here before the end of your visit, or I miss my guess; eh, Richard?” and he turned to his companion.

“True enough!” responded the man; “the stars and bars will cross this bridge before many months!”

“What is ‘stars and bars’?” asked Roxy.

“The flag of the Confederate States,” answered the man, and waving their hands in farewell they rode on. As they started one of the men began to sing, and the refrain of his song, “Maryland, My Maryland,” came drifting back to the little girl who stood looking after them.

“I suppose I’d better go home now,” thought Roxy. “I guess my mother will be surprised when I tell her about the soldiers. I suppose I will have to tell her about Polly, too,” and sighing deeply Roxy went on her way toward the narrow path that led to her Grandmother Miller’s. On a farther slope the vivid green of young wheat ran up to meet the darker green of forest trees; flowering dogwood and redbud grew along the stone walls, and the purple blossom of the papaw showed here and there, and Roxy looked at these blossoms admiringly, and wondered if they would grow in her garden in Newburyport.

She was only a short distance from the highway when she noticed something moving behind a thickly growing bush of dogwood. The branches bent forward, and Roxy stopped and gazed at it, half fearing that some wild animal was sheltered there that might spring out and seize her. As she stood ready to run the branches sprang back and a boyish figure crawled out and slowly rose to his feet.

He was bareheaded, and his brown hair was long and rough. He wore gray shirt and trousers, and his shoes were so worn that they hardly covered his feet. Roxy was too surprised to move, but as the young man gazed toward her with a half-frightened, pleading look, she lost all sense of fear.

“Oh, what is the matter?” she asked. “What is it?”

“I’m starving!” came the whispered answer, and the young man sank down close to the bushes. “I can’t go another step! Were those soldiers after me?”

“No! No! I don’t believe so. Come up to my grandma’s and you can have all you want to eat,” Roxy said eagerly.

The young man shook his head. “I must not let anyone see me. You won’t tell anyone about me. Promise!” he pleaded. “Promise not to tell a human being that you have seen me; and can’t you get me something to eat? I have a safe hiding-place near here.”

Roxy gave her promise promptly, and the young man urged her to bring him food as soon as possible, cautioning her not to let anyone know that she had taken it, and telling her to leave whatever she brought under the thicket of tangled vines and bushes behind which he had hidden.

“Remember not to let any human being suspect that you have seen a stranger,” he pleaded. “I haven’t strength to keep on without food!”

“I won’t tell! Truly I won’t!” Roxy promised; “and I’ll come back as soon as I can,” and before the young man could reply she had darted off up the slope. For a moment the young man gazed after her, and then crawled back to his hiding-place.

Roxy slipped through the opening in the wall, and then stopped for a moment and looked back.

“I wonder what he is running away from?” she thought, and then remembering the thin face and the pleading voice that had told her of hunger and fear the little girl hurried on. “I’ll take him some of those cakes Dulcie made this morning, and some milk, and some eggs, and everything I can find, poor fellow,” she thought pitifully. “I know my grandma would want me to take the things if she had seen him.”

As Roxy ran across the yard Dulcie appeared in the kitchen door and called out:

“How be it you’s home so soon, missie? You ain’ been ter Sharpsburg, hab you?”

Roxy stopped and looked at Dulcie with so sober an expression that the stout negro woman became alarmed.

“Wha’s de matter?” she demanded. “You look’s if you’d seen a ghos’! Wha’s happen’ to you, missie?”

“Nothing!” Roxy replied sharply. “I thought you were taking a nap, Dulcie.”

Dulcie chuckled and nodded her turbaned head.

“Dat’s so! Dat’s w’ot I plan ter do dis minit. I’se jes’ on de way!” and with another nod she ambled down the path toward her own cabin, and Roxy entered the kitchen.