Part 8 (1/2)

”How I gwine help him? G'long, you don't know what you talkin' 'bout.”

”Whar'bouts did dey come across him?” Mammy inquired.

”Right down yonder at de mill,” Jim answered, nodding his head in the direction.

”Good Lord,” exclaimed Mammy, ”dey must 'a' ketched him directly after he went away!”

This conversation was carried on in such low murmurings that even a listener at a short distance could not have distinguished what was said; the three were very intent, but did not omit occasional cautious glances in the direction of the house.

”Dat's so,” Jim replied; ”an' den dey shet him up in de mill house, and den I never seed no mo', 'cause I was skeered an' runned away.”

Then, after an uneasy pause, he added, ”I come 'long dat-a-way soon dis mornin',” and here he murmured so low into Mammy's ear that Dinah, though she stretched her neck, could not catch the word, which turned Mammy's brown face to ashen gray. She stood for a minute like one turned to stone, then staggered to her own doorstep. Sitting down, she buried her head in her ap.r.o.n, and so sat motionless for half an hour, while Jim and Dinah continued their guarded murmurings by the hencoop.

At the end of half an hour she rose, took a bunch of keys from her pocket, went into her house and, closing the door behind her, unlocked her chest. Drawing from it a little workbox, which had, in years gone by, been one of Caroline's cherished Christmas gifts, she opened it.

From beneath her Sunday pocket handkerchief, and a few other articles of special value, she produced another and smaller box which she opened, and, taking from it a gold coin, looked at it tenderly.

”Po' little fellow! G.o.d bless him! he give me this that fus' time he come home from school. I never 'spected to part with it, but ef it's de Lord's will, it may help him now.”

With these thoughts, Mammy quickly replaced the things in her chest, put the coin into her pocket, and, taking up the man's hat, which upon week days she always wore, she strode off towards the mill.

As she pa.s.sed by the piazza, she paused one moment irresolute, but murmuring to herself, ”'T ain't no use upsettin' Mistis, po' cretur, and I can do it better by myself anyhow,” she walked briskly forward, revolving in her mind her plan.

The mill house consisted of two rooms, and in the one in which Jim had reported Sedley to be confined there was a small trap-door. It had been used for regulating the working of the machinery, and led from beneath the house directly to the creek, which ran close to the walls of the house. This trap Mammy had once happened to see opened, and in that way knew of its existence, otherwise she would never have suspected it, as, from its infrequent use, it was usually covered with dust and dirt and could not be distinguished from the rest of the floor. Her plan was to endeavor to get speech with Sedley, tell him of the trap-door, and leave the rest to him. Her great fear had been that she might be refused admittance to him, and hence it was that she had thought of her gold piece, as she hoped by its potent influence to be given a few minutes alone with the prisoner.

There would be no great difficulty for Sedley to lift the trap without noise and, when it was lifted, to swing himself through to the ground, to creep until he came to the thick tangle upon the creek banks, then to swim across and escape into the shelter of the woods beyond. That would be simple enough, and Mammy, full of hopeful thoughts, was walking briskly forward, when suddenly a turn in the path brought into view a small body of Federals, all mounted, and evidently coming from the direction of the mill. They seemed in haste, and she could hear the rattle of their sabres as they cantered by.

Standing amid the broom-sedge, Mammy watched them, casting eager, anxious looks upon them, fearing, dreading to see her boy in their midst, a poor, defenseless captive. Finally, as the last horseman disappeared, she heaved a sigh of infinite relief. ”Bless de good Lord, dey ain't took de po' chile wid 'em,” and so went on her way.

At length the gray gables of the little mill house came into view, and Mammy, feeling in her pocket to a.s.sure herself that the gold piece was safe at hand, went boldly forward, telling herself that, if she spoke politely, the Yankee guard would not shoot her. So she went on until the little mill came into full view, but with no guard or any other object to inspire fear. All seemed quiet, and the place quite deserted. There were footprints about the door, and broken bushes showed the trampling of both men and horses, but now all was very quiet. The old mill house looked very peaceful, with the yellow autumnal sun s.h.i.+ning upon its moss-grown roof, with no sound to break the deep silence, save the low, continuous warbling of a solitary mockingbird which, perched upon an overhanging bough, seemed to review its past joys in low, sweet notes of retrospection.

Upon seeing that the place was quite deserted, Mammy paused, and, after looking around to satisfy herself that this was really the case, ascended the steps and, lifting the latch of the door, looked into the outer room.

”Thank G.o.d!” she murmured, upon finding it empty. ”Thank G.o.d! dey's all took deyselves off to town an' lef' him here, locked up by hisself. It raly is 'stonis.h.i.+n' to think how foolish dem creturs is; dey mout ha' knowed as someon' would ha' come an' let him loose.”

While thus thinking, she had crossed the room, and was now endeavoring to open the door, which gave admittance to the inner and larger apartment. Finding, as she had antic.i.p.ated, that this door was fastened, she first called to the prisoner within, and, when no answer was returned, she shook the door until at length the crazy old lock gave way and the door creaked slowly back upon its rusty hinges.

”Honey, whar'bouts is you?” Mammy questioned, as, pausing upon the threshold, she peered into the obscurity beyond. The windowless room was dark, and Mammy, after again calling, groped her way in, straining her eyes into the gloom, but unable to discern any object. Then, suddenly, the deep silence and the gloom smote upon her senses, and a great horror came over her. She turned to rush from the room, when her eyes, grown more accustomed to the darkness, fell upon an object which froze the lifeblood in her veins. It lay almost at her feet. She stooped and bent over it, with thick, laboring breath. Very still it lay, with set white face and wide-open, unseeing eyes.

WAR REMINISCENCES

I remember when Wheeler's cavalry pa.s.sed through town that the men, when halted, just dropped in the streets and slept, so that pa.s.sers-by were forced to step over them, but in spite of starvation and weariness the old indomitable spirit would a.s.sert itself. One of the poor fellows, while the column was pa.s.sing by Christ Church, looked up at the weatherc.o.c.k and remarked to a comrade that it was the first and only instance of Wheeler's boys seeing a chicken which they could not get at.

We were singularly fortunate in the neighborhood of Raleigh in having no lack of wholesome food, and in being able to send boxes of provisions to the army around Petersburg. We, in particular, were plentifully supplied from the plantation, a four-horse wagon being constantly engaged in hauling supplies.

One of the greatest taxes upon our resources, and the event that brought the war very closely home to us, was the advent of the cavalcade and ambulances referred to in my notes concerning My Own Early Home.

Most of the hors.e.m.e.n who had come with the ambulances returned to the front the next morning, leaving behind them six or more sick and wounded, with their surgeon and friends to look after them.

Fortunately, the office in the yard (a house with two comfortable rooms) was easily made ready and the wounded men were installed in the quarters which they kept for a month. The wound which afterwards deprived one of the wounded, a young man by the name of Nat Butler, of his arm, was by far the most serious. The attempt to save the arm came very near costing him his life. Instead of healing, the wound constantly sloughed, with great loss of blood. As the wound was between the elbow and the shoulder, the danger attending amputation increased with each sloughing, but the poor boy was deaf to all that his doctor could urge, positively refusing to have the arm amputated, and he grew weaker and weaker with every hemorrhage. Meantime several of the sick and wounded were so far cured as to be able to return to duty. Captain Butler (an older brother of Nat Butler), Dr. Thompson, Mr. Taylor, and several others whose names I have forgotten, and the bugler, named Glanton, still remained. One morning, while I was in the mealroom getting out dinner, I heard Captain Butler's voice calling loudly that young Butler was bleeding to death. I just took time to call out to my daughters, Annie and Kate, who were just starting to town, to drive as quickly as they could to Dr. Johnson's and to ask him to come. Then I ran down to the office, where I found the poor old captain frantic with terror and quite unable to do anything for the patient, who lay senseless and bleeding upon the bed. I can never forget his ghastly appearance; I never saw so bloodless a face. The mouth, partly open, showed a tongue bluish like new flannel. I went to the bedside and pressed the arm above the wound, as hard as I could, and I held it so until the arrival of Dr. Johnson. I had thus succeeded in partially arresting the hemorrhage, and possibly may have saved young Butler's life. I started to leave as soon as the doctor came, and when I arose from my knees, I realized for the first time that I was covered with blood. The amputation could no longer be deferred, and the operation took place as soon as the patient's strength permitted, which was, I think, two days after the hemorrhage.