Читать книгу The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 2 - R. H. Newell - Страница 7

CHAPTER I.—F. F. VICISSITUDES.

The forces of the Southern Confederacy—so called because a majority of them were forced into the service—had just won another glorious victory over their disinclination to retreat, and were rapidly following it up, propelled by the National Army. The richest and best blood of the South was profusely running for the cause to which it was devoted, accompanied by those notable possessors in whose cases it poured in vein.

Seated at his breakfast-table in the city of Richmond, with his wife for a vis-a-vis at a board that might well have groaned for more things than one, and his daughter at his right hand, was Mr. Ordeth, a scion of one of those Virginia Families very properly designated as "First" for the reason that no other Families on earth have ever felt inclined to second them in anything.

Mr. Ordeth was a personage of fiery and chivalrous visage, from the lower circumference of which depended iron-grey whiskers, so similar in shape to the caudal appendage of a mule, that one might suppose nature to have intended the construction of an asinus domesticus when first she commenced to mould the mortal material, but, having inadvertently planted the tail at the wrong end, was satisfied to finish him off as a man. His hair was too much of a brush in its own character to agree well with an artificial brush in the objective case; he wore a robe de chambre richly illustrated with impossible flowers growing on improbable soil—let us say on holey ground; his nether continuations were spotted here and there with diminutive banners of broadcloth secession, and it was noticeable as he stretched his feet under the table that his slippers had once done duty as crochet watch-cases.

The table spread for the morning meal was peculiarly Virginiatic, being very rich in plate and poor in provender; for hoe-cake and fried Carolina potatoes were the only eatables visible, whilst the usual places of coffee-pot, bread-plate and salt-cellar were supplied with cards inscribed: "Coffee $20 per lb., in consequence of Blockade."—"Flour $24 per bbl."—"Salt $25 per lb." If any member of the Family felt inclined to wish for any of these last articles, he, or she, had but to glance at the card substitutes to lose instantaneously all appetite for said articles. There was philosophy in this idea, mon ami.

"Libby," said Mr. Ordeth, addressing his daughter, whose auburn curls and pretty face were none the less attractive because they crowned what seemed to be a troubled fountain of extremely loud calico with a dash of moonlight on top—"Libby," said he, "pass me the morning journal."

The morning journal, which had recently augmented its value as a family and commercial sheet by coming out on superior wrapping paper, was passed to her father by Libby, she having first satisfied herself, with a sigh of disappointment, that the list of deaths did not contain the name of a single one of her friends.

Woman, mon ami, does not regard death as you and I do. To her it is a sleep in which the slumberer himself becomes a dream for the rest of the world; and its announcement is to her the mere evening breeze that softly lifts another leaf in the sacred Volume of Memory, and lets the starlight, falling through a shower of tears, rest on a name henceforth to live immortal in the heart. I was told this by a young lady who wears spectacles and writes for the Boston press.

As Mr. Ordeth perused the latest news from the seat of war, his bosom heaved to such an extent that one or two of the pins confining the front of his dressing-gown to his throat gave out. "Honoria," said he, addressing his quiet little wife, who was spasmodically eating and repairing a rent in her dress simultaneously—"we have again defeated the hordes of Lincoln, and I think, my dear, that we had better get ready to leave Richmond. The Enquirer says: 'Yesterday a half a hundred of our troops were attacked near Fredericksburg by nearly forty thousand Yankees, whom they compelled to retreat after them toward this city. We took four hundred prisoners who will be demanded of the enemy immediately, and all of our men, save the messenger bringing the news, are now briskly pushing forward in the direction of Fort Lafayette.' You see, my dear, we always whip them inland. The Yankees gain all their victories on water."

Which is very true; for it is as much a fact that the national troops win their triumphs on water, as it is that the rebels do their best on whiskey.

Mrs. Ordeth made no verbal reply to her husband's exultations, but assumed that simpering expression of countenance by which ladies are accustomed to denote their amiable willingness to swallow without question whatever the speaker may say.

"Providence is evidently favorable to the South," continued the head of the Family, impressively, "and has thus far treated us in a gentlemanly manner; but should it happen, Honoria, that the Hessian vandals of Lincoln should reach this city, I myself will be the first to fire all I hold dear, rather than let it fall into the hands of the invader. Yes!" exclaimed Mr. Ordeth with enthusiasm, rising from his chair and moving excitedly toward the door of the apartment—"with my own hands would I apply the torch to you and to my child."

"O Victor," said Mrs. Ordeth, with tears springing to her eyes, "I reckon you would."

"Aside from the wrongs of the South," continued the inspired Ordeth, pushing his bowie-knife a little further round behind his back, that it might not hurt his hip—"we have Family losses to avenge. Only yesterday, my uncle was struck at Yorktown with a shell that completely tore his head from his body."

"How perfectly absurd!" ejaculated the hitherto silent Libby.

"Why it's actually ridiculous," said Mrs. Ordeth.

And so it was. The sex have a keen perception of the ludicrous.

"How I wish that our vigilants had caught that low-minded Abolition whelp, Peters," continued the Virginian, grinding his teeth; "but he disappeared so suddenly that day, that I was entirely bewildered. To think that the hound—my cousin's son as he is—should dare to demand payment of a bill from a Southern gentleman! He will find congenial souls among Lincoln's hordes, I reckon."

The speaker evidently recognized the fact that a man with a bill to collect would derive very little benefit from Southern hoards, at any rate.

A close observer might have noticed that Miss Libby's cheeks betrayed the faintest tint of virgin wine at this last speech of her father's; but as it is not my business to inquire the wine wherefore of everything, I shall say no more about that at present.

While speaking, the paternal Ordeth had placed his hand unconsciously as it were on the knob of the door; and now, with a sudden movement, he opened the door. Or rather, he simply turned the knob; for the door fairly forced itself open against him, and there unexpectedly tumbled half way into the room a somewhat venerable person from Afric's sunny fountains. From the manner in which this colored person fell across the sill, it was evident that he had been upon his knees the instant before.

The ladies uttered little shrieks and then went on with their hoe-cake; but Mr. Ordeth viewed the intruder with a glance of suspicion.

"Jocko, you black reskel!" said he, in a suppressed manner, "what are you doing here?"

The oppressed African, who, like most slaves was pious, rose to his feet with touching humility, and said he:

"Ise watchin', Mars'r, for de Angel of de Lor'."

"Oh," returned the haughty Virginian, scorning to show how deeply he was affected, "you're watchin' for that, are you?"

"Yes, Mars'r," said the attached slave; "and I hab pray dat my good Mars'r may gib up drinkin' and be one of the good angels too. Oh, Mars'r Ordeth, I hab wrastle much for you in prayer."

I know not how that slaveholder's heart was affected by this beautiful instance of his humble bondman's devotion; but I do know, mon ami, that he reached forth his right hand, seized the chattel by the collar, and was heard to carry on a blasphemous conversation with him for the space of fifteen minutes thereafter, in the hall.

CHAPTER II.—"ROBERT, ROBERT TOI QUE J'AIME."

In a room directly over the one last mentioned—a room whose only furniture was a rude bedstead, a looking-glass with a writing-table under it and a gas-bracket extending half way across it, and a lounge extemporized from three tea-boxes and a quilt—stood Mr. Bob Peters, aged twenty-three, a bachelor and a fellow man. The time was just twenty-four hours after the scene depicted in my first chapter, and as the rays of the sunny Southern sun poured through a window upon the figure of Mr. Bob Peters, they revealed an individual who was evidently unable, just then, to make a raise himself.

Robert was a tall, smooth-faced, good-natured-looking youth, wearing a coat that buttoned up to his very chin and was painfully shiney at its various angles, corners, and button-holes; a pair of inexpressibles very roomy and equally glossy about the knees; a brace of carpet slippers, and (although indoors) a hat in a "Marie Stuart" condition. That is to say, the style of hat worn thus inappropriately by Mr. Bob Peters, corresponded to a fashion in vogue with the ladies not long ago, when the latter imagined that a bonnet very much mashed down in front caused each and all of them to present a touching and life-like resemblance to the unfortunate Queen of Scots. In fact, this bonnet did really give them just about such a frightened look as they might be supposed to wear should some modern Elizabeth Tudor order them all to instant execution.

Adding to the consideration of Mr. Bob Peters' severely straitened costume the fact that he was smoking an incredibly cheap segar, it is reasonable to infer that he was rather hard-up when awake and not much troubled with soft down when asleep.

Viewing Mr. Bob Peters financially and judging him by a golden rule, one could see about him considerable that was due unto others, as each of the others was likely to be dun unto him.

"Bless my soul!" soliloquized Mr. Bob Peters, hastily turning from a long and profound contemplation of himself in the mirror and commencing to pace noiselessly up and down the room—"here's misery! Shut up in the garret of one of the First Families, with a chap thirsting for my blood at the head of the domestic circle down stairs, and the whole Confederacy ready to bolt me without salt—which is very dear here just now. Here's a situation for an unmarried man!" exclaimed Mr. Bob Peters, insanely tearing his "Marie Stuart" from his head and bitterly crunching it in his hand—"confined here as a prisoner by the young woman of my affections to save my life from her own father's sanguinary designs. Upon my soul!" groaned Mr. Bob Peters, drearily slapping his left leg, "it's enough to make me take to drinking, and I—"

"Dear Bob!"

Were you ever awakened from a horrid nightmare dream of capital punishment and sudden death, mon ami, by the soft, persuasive voice of woman calling you to a breakfast of etherial rolls and new-born eggs? If so, you can understand the feelings of Mr. Peters when these fond words roused him from his terrible reverie.

He spun blithely round on his dexter heel, absorbed the faithful Libby to his manly breast, and incontinently kissed for his lips a coating of lustrous bandoline from the head of the fashionable maiden.

"Oh bliss!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Peters, standing on one foot by way of intensifying the sensation, "my angel visits me in my dungeon, as angels visited other good men in the Scriptures."

"Oh Bob, how you do smell of smoke," said the devoted Libby.

"And thanks to your thoughtfulness for the regalias which have so lightened my lonely hours, since the day when you brought me up to this room and then told a virtuous and unsuspecting police that I had fled in the direction of the aurora borealis. By the way Libby," said Mr. Bob Peters, thoughtfully, "my segar-lighters are all out, and if you could make me a few more out of the rest of those Confederate Treasury Notes—"

"I will, I will," responded Miss Ordeth, lifting first one white shoulder and then the other, as though she would thereby work down her waist more firmly into the belt formed by Mr. Bob Peters' right arm; "but now, dear Bob, we must think of how you are to be got safely away from this house and out of the city. If my pa should find out that you have been here all this time, when he thought you were running for dear life, he would—I really believe"—said Miss Libby Ordeth, with increasing eyes, "that he would actually apply the torch to me without waiting for the Yankees!"

Mr. Bob Peters shuddered and turned pale, barely saving himself from fainting by clasping his companion more tightly and leaning heavily against her lips.

The infatuated girl did not see the face peering in through the half open door behind her, as she continued:—

"Quarter-past twelve is the hour, Bob, though I can't say on what night it shall be, yet. You must be already to start on any night, and in the meantime our meetings are, if possible, to be continued."

"You say that quarter-past twelve is the hour?" observed Mr. Peters, reflectively, patting the head against his shoulder in a somewhat paternal manner.

"Yes, dear Bob; and I wish I could be sure of pa's going to bed earlier than that; for I know it will be hard for you to go out into the street at that time of night. You are not accustomed to such late hours at home."

And, indeed, he was not; for Mr. Bob Peters' "hours" at home were apt to be considerably later, especially when he went into morning for some dear friend.

"Sweet innocence!" exclaimed the young man, much affected by this evidence of thoughtfulness in his behalf, "your kindness almost makes me forget the treatment I have experienced at the hands of your being's author."

"I think you can get off next Sunday night," continued Libby, "if brother is sergeant of the guard; for he promised to see that you got across the bridge and past the patrol. Jocko will open the street door for you when you start: and I want you to send me word, if you can, after you get to New-York, what kind of bonnets they're going to wear this summer."

"Dear girl!" murmured Bob, fondly, "I'll find out the style and mention it to one of our Generals, who will let you know by note, as soon as he arrives here."

"Dear Bob!—but I must go now. Is there anything I can send you to make you more comfortable?"

As they stood there facing each other, Mr. Bob Peters closed his right eye for an instant, and suffered the muscles of his month to relax, thereby expressing some want too deep for words.

"You shall have it," said the young girl, turning to leave the room. At the door she was met by Jocko, who entered as she passed out, for the ostensible purpose of removing the remains of the captive's recent surreptitious breakfast.

The sound of the maiden's light footsteps soon died away in the passage, like the vibrations of a high-strung instrument in a passage of music, and the two men stood alone together.

There they were—the White and the Black; the one a freeman in all save being deprived of his liberty; the other a slave in all save being unrestricted of his freedom. Who could tell what was working in the mind of each? Who should draw the line between those men, when all was dark for the white and a luckless wight was the black? Who should say that the white man was anything better than the black man, that the latter should bear the bonds of slavery—bonds as hard to bear even as Confederate bonds? Look at inanimate nature. Is it not the White of an egg that bears the yolk? Then why should the white man turn the yoke altogether over to the black man? But I must refuse to follow out this great metaphysical question any further. The weather is too warm. I will leave it to the Awful and Unfathomable German Mind, which delights to toy heavily with the elephants of Thought.

"Mars'r," said Jocko, handing a folded paper to the fugitive prisoner, "dis was gub to me for you by my chile Efrum, dat b'longs to Missus Adams; and I hope, Mas'r, dat you will read um with fear an' trem'lin, for the Lor' is very good to let you lib in your great sins, Mars'r."

How beautiful, mon ami, is that strong spirit of piety we often find developed in the uncultivated, like the rich oyster found on the barren sea-shore. Taken in connection with the children of Ham, it is as mustard to a sandwich, for moving us to occasional tears.

Mr. Bob Peters waved the faithful black from his presence, and read the note, which ran thus:

"Mr. Peters—Sir:—Though, as a daughter of the Sonny South, I cannot but regard you as a traitor to our country, the memory of past hours in my soul-life induces me to act toward you as a heart-friend. I have heard, through those faithful beings of which your friends would rob and murder us, that you are a prisoner, and will save you. Contrive to get out of the house in some way on Sunday (to-morrow) evening, at a quarter of twelve, and you will find those waiting for you who will deliver you for a time from our vengeance. It is the impulsive heart-throb of a weak woman that bids me do this—not the spirit-aspiration of the Southern daughter.

"Eve Adams."

Mr. Bob Peters lowered the hand holding the note until it rested heavily on his right knee, and gazed before him, as he sat on his couch, with a puzzled expression of countenance. He had been sitting in this way, perfectly motionless, for five minutes perhaps, when the door was gently pushed open a few inches, a dainty white hand came through the aperture, deposited a mysterious black bottle on the floor very softly, and disappeared as it came. In an instant, Mr. Peters sprang to his feet, dashed the note to the ground, seized the bottle, and immediately applied it to his lips with great enthusiasm.

His Mistress had understood that last subtle glance he gave her. With the wonderful insight of man's deeper nature peculiar to girls about eighteen years old, she had divined the one thing required to make the captive comfortable.

Oh, woman, woman! In the language of a revised poet—