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Page) that a marriage between Ada and his brother must, if it were
practicable, be ruinous to both of them. If this were so, would not it be better
for all parties that there should be another arrangement made? North and South
were as far divided now as the two poles. All Ada's hopes and feelings were with
the North. Could he allow her to be taken as a bride among perishing slaves and
But when the moment for his
sudden departure came he knew that it would be better that he should go without
seeing her. His brother Tom had made his way to her through cold, and wet, and
hunger, and through infinite perils of a kind sterner even than these. Her heart
now would be full of softness toward him. So Frank Reckenthorpe left the house
without seeing any one but his mother.
Of course General Tom was a hero
in the house for the few days that he remained there, and of course the step he
had taken was the very one to strengthen for him the affection of the girl whom
he had come to see.
Ada Forster and her aunt were
passionately Northern, while the feelings of the old man had gradually turned
themselves to that division in the nation to which he naturally belonged. For
months past the matter on which they were all thinking—the subject which filled
their minds morning, noon, and night—was banished from their lips because it
could not be discussed without the bitterness of hostility. But, nevertheless,
there was no word of bitterness between Tom Reckenthorpe and Ada Forster. While
these few short days lasted it was all love. Where is the woman whom one touch
of romance will not soften, though she be ever so impervious to argument? Tom
could sit up stairs with his mother and his betrothed, and tell them stories of
the gallantry of the South, of the sacrifices women were making, and of the
deeds men were doing, and they would listen and smile and caress his hand, and
all for a while would be pleasant; while the old Major did not dare to speak
before them of his Southern hopes. But down in the parlor, during the two or
three long nights which General Tom passed in Frankfort, open secession was
discussed between the two men. The old man now had given away altogether. The
Yankees, he said, were too bitter for him. "I wish I had died first; that is
all," he said. "I wish I had died first. Life is wretched now to a man who can
do nothing." His son tried to comfort him, saying that secession would certainly
be accomplished in twelve months, and that every Slave State would certainly be
included in the Southern Confederacy. But the Major shook his head. "Nothing
good can come in my time," he said; "not in my time—not in my time."
In the middle of the fourth night
General Tom took his departure. An old slave arrived with his horse a little
before midnight, and he started on his journey. "Whatever turns up, Ada," he
said, "you will be true to me."
"I will; though you are a rebel,
all the same for that."
"So was Washington."
"Washington made a nation; you
are destroying one."
"We are making another, dear;
that's all. But I won't talk secesh to you out here in the cold. Go in, and be
good to my father; and remember this, Ada, I'll be here again next
Christmas-eve, if I'm alive."
So he went, and made his journey
back to his own camp in safety. He slept at a friend's house during the
following day, and on the next night again made his way through the Northern
lines back into Virginia.
After that came a year of
fighting, and General Tom Reckenthorpe remained during that time in Virginia,
and was attached to that corps of
General Lee's army which was commanded by
Stonewall Jackson. It was not probable,
therefore, that he would be left without active employment. During the whole
year he was fighting, assisting in the wonderful raids that were made by that
man whose loss was worse to the Confederates than the loss of
Vicksburg or of
New Orleans. And General Tom gained for himself
mark, name, and glory—but it was the glory of a soldier rather than of a
general. No one looked upon him as the future commander of an army; but men said
that if there was a rapid stroke to be stricken, under orders from some more
thoughtful head, General Tom was the hand to strike it. Thus he went on making
wonderful rides by night, appearing like a warrior ghost leading warrior ghosts
in some quiet valley of the Federals, seizing supplies and cutting off cattle,
till his name came to be great in the State of Kentucky, and Ada Forster, Yankee
though she was, was proud of her rebel lover.
And Frank Reckenthorpe, the other
general, made progress also, though it was progress of a different kind. Men did
not talk of him so much as they did of Tom; but the War Office at Washington
knew that he was useful—and used him. He remained for a long time attached to
the Western army, having been removed from Kentucky to St. Louis, in Missouri,
and was there when his brother last heard of him. "I am fighting day and night,"
he once said to one who was with him from his own State, "and, as far as I can
learn, Frank is writing day and night. Upon my word, I think that I have the
best of it."
It was but a couple of days after
this, the time then being about the latter end of September, that he found
himself on horseback at the head of three regiments of cavalry near the foot of
one of those valleys which lead up into the Blue Mountain ridge of Virginia. He
was about six miles in advance of Jackson's army, and had pushed forward with
the view of intercepting certain Federal supplies which he and others had hoped
might be within his reach. He had expected that there would be fighting, but he
had hardly expected so much fighting as came that day in his way. He got no
supplies. Indeed, he got nothing but blows, and though on that day the
Confederates would not admit that they had been worsted, neither could they
claim to have done more than hold their own. But General Tom's fighting was in
that day brought to an end.
It must be understood that there
was no great battle fought on this occasion. General Reckenthorpe, with about
1500 troopers, had found himself suddenly compelled to attack about double that
number of Federal infantry. He did so once, and then a second time, but on each
occasion without breaking the lines to which he was opposed; and toward the
close of the day he found himself unhorsed, but still unwounded, with no weapon
in his hand but his pistol, immediately surrounded by about a dozen of his own
men, but so far in advance of the body of his troops as to make it almost
impossible that he should find his way back to them. As the smoke cleared away
and he could look about him, he saw that he was close to an uneven, irregular
line of Federal soldiers. But there was still a chance, and he had turned for a
rush, with his pistol ready for use in his hand, when he found himself
confronted by a Federal officer. The pistol was already raised, and his finger
was on the trigger, when he saw that the man before him was his brother.
"Your time has come," said Frank,
standing his ground very calmly. He was quite unarmed, and had been separated
from his men and ridden over; but hitherto he had not been hurt.
"Frank!" said Tom, dropping his
pistol-arm, "is that you?"
"And you are not going to do it,
then?" said Frank.
"Do what?" said Tom, whose
calmness was altogether gone. But he had forgotten that threat as soon as it had
been uttered, and did not even know to what his brother was alluding.
But Tom Reckenthorpe, in his
confusion at meeting his brother, had lost whatever chance there remained to him
of escaping. He stood for a moment or two, looking at Frank, and wondering at
the coincidence which had brought them together, before he turned to run. Then
it was too late. In the hurry and scurry of the affair all but two of his own
men had left him, and he saw that a rush of Federal soldiers was coming up
around him. Nevertheless he resolved to start for a run. "Give me a chance,
Frank," he said, and prepared to run. But as he went—or rather, before he had
left the ground on which he was standing before his brother—a shot struck him,
and he was disabled. In a minute he was as though he were stunned; then he
smiled faintly, and slowly sunk upon the ground. "It's all up, Frank," he said,
"and you are in at the death."
Frank Reckenthorpe was soon
kneeling beside his brother amidst a crowd of his own men. "Spurrell," he said,
to a young officer who was close to him, "it is my own brother." "What! General
Tom?" said Spurrell. "Not dangerously, I hope?"
By this time the wounded man had
been able, as it were, to feel himself and to ascertain the amount of the damage
done him. "It's my right leg," he said; "just on the knee. If you'll believe me,
Frank, I thought it was my heart at first. I don't think much of the wound, but
I suppose you won't let me go."
Of course they wouldn't let him
go, and, indeed, if they had been minded so to do, he could not have gone. The
wound was not fatal, as he had at first thought; but neither was it a matter of
little consequence as he afterward asserted. His fighting was over, unless he
could fight with a leg amputated between the knee and hip.
Before nightfall General Tom
found himself in his brother's quarters, a prisoner on parole, with his leg all
but condemned by the surgeon. The third day after that saw the leg amputated.
For three weeks the two brothers remained together, and after that the elder was
taken to Alexandria as a prisoner, there to wait his chance of exchange. At
first the intercourse between the two brothers was cold, guarded, and
uncomfortable; but after a while it became more kindly than it had been for many
a day. Whether it were cold or kindly, its nature, we may be sure, was such as
the younger brother made it. Tom was ready enough to forget all personal
animosity as soon as his brother would himself be willing to do so; though he
was willing enough also to quarrel—to quarrel bitterly as ever—if Frank should
give him occasion. As to that threat of the pistol, it had passed away from Tom
Reckenthorpe, as all his angry words passed from him. It was clean forgotten. It
was not simply that he had not wished to kill his brother, but that such a deed
was impossible to him. The threat had been like a curse that means nothing,
which is used by passion as its readiest weapon when passion is impotent. But
with Frank Reckenthorpe words meant what they were intended to mean. The threat
had rankled in his bosom from the time of its utterance to that moment, when a
strange coincidence had given the threatener the power of executing it. The
remembrance of it was then strong upon him, and he had expected that his brother
would have been as bad as his word. But his brother had spared him; and now,
slowly, by degrees, he began to remember that also.
"What are your plans, Tom?" he
said, as he sat one day by his brother's bed before the removal of the prisoner
"Plans," said Tom. "How should a
poor fellow like me have plans? To eat bread and water in prison at Alexandria,
"They'll let you up to Washington
on your parole, I should think. Of course I can say a word for you."
"Well, then, do say it. I'd have
done as much for you, though I don't like your Yankee politics."
"Never mind my politics now,
"I never did mind them. But at
any rate, you see I can't run away."
It should have been mentioned a
little way back in this story that the poor old Major had been gathered to his
fathers during the past year. As he had said himself, it would be better for him
that he should die. He had lived to see the glory of his country, and had
gloried in it. If further glory or even further gain were to come out of this
terrible war—as great gains to men and nations do come from contests which are
very terrible while they last—he at least would not live to see it. So when
he was left by his sons, he
turned his face to the wall and died.
"I suppose you will get home?"
said Frank, after musing a while, "and look after my mother and Ada?"
"If I can I shall, of course.
What else can I do with one leg?"
"Nothing in this war, Tom, of
course." Then there was another pause between them. "And, what will Ada do?"
"What will Ada do? Stay at home
with my mother."
"Ah, yes. But she will not remain
always as Ada Forster."
"Do you mean to ask whether I
shall marry her; because of my one leg? If she will have me, I certainly shall."
"And will she? Ought you to ask
"If I found her seamed all over
with small-pox, with her limbs broken, blind, disfigured by any misfortune which
could have visited her, I would take her as my wife all the same. If she were
penniless it would make no difference. She shall judge for herself; but I shall
expect her to act by me as I would have acted by her." Then there was another
pause. "Look here, Frank," continued General Tom; "if you mean that I am to give
her up as a reward to you for being sent home, I will have nothing to do with
"I had intended no such bargain,"
said Frank, gloomily.
"Very well; then you can do as
you please. If Ada will take me, I shall marry her as soon as she will let me.
If my being sent home depends upon that, you will know how to act now."
Nevertheless he was sent home.
There was not another word spoken between the two brothers about Ada Forster.
Whether Frank thought that he might still have a chance through want of firmness
on the part of the girl; or whether he considered that in keeping his brother
away from home he could, at least, do himself no good; or whether, again, he
resolved that he would act by his brother as a brother should act, without
reference to Ada Forster, I will not attempt to say. For a day or two after the
above conversation he was somewhat sullen, and did not talk freely with his
brother. After that he brightened up once more, and before long the two parted
on friendly terms. General Frank remained with his command, and General Tom was
sent to the hospital at Alexandria, or to such hospitalities as he might be able
to enjoy at Washington in his mutilated state, till that affair of his exchange
had been arranged.
In spite of his brother's
influence at head-quarters this could not be done in a day; nor could permission
be obtained for him to go home to Kentucky till such exchange had been effected.
In this way he was kept in terrible suspense for something over two months, and
mid-winter was upon him before the joyful news arrived that he was free to go
where he liked.
Disturbed as was the state of the
country, nevertheless railways ran from Washington to Baltimore, from Baltimore
to Pittsburg, from Pittsburg to Cincinnati, and from Cincinnati to Frankfort. So
that General Tom's journey home, though with but one leg, was made much faster,
and with less difficulty, than that last journey by which he reached the old
family house. And again he presented himself on Christmas-eve. Ada declared that
he remained purposely at Washington, so that he might make good his last promise
to the letter; but I am inclined to think that he allowed no such romantic idea
as that to detain him among the amenities of Washington.
He arrived again after dark, but
on this occasion did not come knocking at the back door. He had fought his
fight, had done his share of the battle, and now had reason to be afraid of no
one. But again it was Ada who opened the door for him. "Oh, Tom! oh, my own
one!" There never was a word of question between them as to whether that
unseemly crutch and still unhealed wound was to make any difference between
them. General Tom found before three hours were over that he lacked the courage
to suggest that he might not be acceptable to her as a lover with one leg. There
are times in which girls throw off all their coyness, and are as bold in their
loves as men. Such a time was this with Ada Forster. In the course of another
month the elder General simply sent word to the younger that they intended to be
married in May, if the war did not prevent them; and the younger General simply
sent back word that his duties at Head-quarters would prevent his being present
at the ceremony.
And they were married in May,
though the din of war was going on around them on every side. And from that time
to this the din of war is still going on, and they are in the thick of it.
ARMY OF THE POTOMAC.
OUR correspondent with this army
furnishes us with a series of illustrations of the recent operations of the
of the Potomac, which we reproduce on pages 12 and 13. They require only a few
words of explanation. The centre illustration on
page 12 shows the rebel
Germania Ford, which were abandoned on the
Meade. The illustration at the bottom of page
12 shows Warren's troops attacking and carrying Robertson's Tavern, an old
Virginia hostelry. The illustration at the top of page 12 shows the rebel line
in front of Sedgwick at Mine Run. The illustrations on
page 13 show the
positions on Mine Run. At the top is the centre of both armies, Arnold's battery
on the left; in the centre is Roe's Farm, with the Pennsylvania batteries F and
G in the fore-ground; Clark Mountain in the distance at the right; this being
the strong point in the enemy's position. The bottom cut on page 13 shows the
cutting on the railroad opposite Warren's last position on our extreme left. The
centre cut on page 13 shows the passage at Germania Ford on our return from this
expedition. The remnants of the bridge on the plank road appear in the sketch.
HUMORS OF THE DAY.
POPPING THE QUESTION.—One evenin', as I
was a sittin' by Hetty, and had worked myself up to the sticking pie, sez I, "Hetty,
if a feller was to ask you to marry him, what wud you say?" Then she laughed,
and sez she, "That would depend on who asked me." Then sez I, "Suppose it was
Ned Willis?" Sez she, "I'd tell Ned Willis, but not you." That kinder staggered
me; but I was too cute to lose the opportunity, and so sez I agen, "Suppose it
was me?" And then you orter see her pout up her lip, and sez she, "I don't take
no supposes." Well now, you see there was nothin' for me to do but touch the gun
off. So bang it went. Sez I, "Lor, Hefty, it's me. Won't you say yes?" And then
there was such a hullaballoo in my head, I don't know 'xactly what tuk place,
but I thought I heard a yes whisperin' somewhere out of the skirmish.
An old Scotch parson, who was not
only a preacher but a parson, and who on week days returned the visits which his
people made to him at the kirk on Sundays, once came to the house of a
parishioner, where his gentle knocking could not be heard for the noise within.
Upon this he lifted the latch and walked in, saying, in a majestical way. "I
should like to know who is the head of this house?" "Weel, Sir," said Sandie,
"if ye bide a wee we'll maybe be able to tell ye, for Janet and I are just
trying to settle that point."
Foote, sitting at table next to a
gentleman who had helped himself to a very large piece of bread, took it up,
intending to cut a slice from it. "Sir," said the gentleman, "that is my bread."
"I beg a thousand pardons, Sir," replied Foote; "I protest I took it for the
WE THINK THEY MAY.—May not "sweet
children" of Hebrew parentage be appropriately called little Jew-jubes?
SWEET BREAD.—Loaf sugar.
A young Cambridge student once
contended with Johnson, whom he met at Boswell's, that prosaic poetry and
poetical prose must be equally good. "No, Sir," replied the Doctor; "a man may
like brandy in his tea, though not tea in his brandy." The student was asked
afterward what the thought of Dr. Johnson, "I think," said he, "that he is the
great bear of conversation—his diction is all contradiction."
Oh!—May a large fee given to a
physician be looked upon as a medical haul?
One of the fair daughters of
Northampton was recently singing a fashionable air at a high pitch of voice,
when an Irishman, who was passing by, rushed in with a look of astonishment, and
exclaimed, "Sure, and I thought some one was being murthered!"
TOUGH QUESTION AND A LUCID ANSWER.
Question. If your mother's mother
was my mother's sister's aunt, what relation would your great-grandfather's
uncle's nephew be to my older brother's first cousin's son-in-law?
Answer. As your mother's mother
is to my elder brother's first cousin's son-in-law, so is my mother's sister's
aunt to your great-grandfather's uncle's nephew. Divide your mother's mother by
my elder brother's first cousin's son-in-law, and multiply my mother's sister's
aunt by your great-grandfather's uncle's nephew, and either add or substract—we
forget which—and you will have the answer—"in the spring."
The Baptist Chronicle says: At an
examination of girls for the rite of confirmation, in the Episcopal Church, in
answer to the question, "What is the outward and visible sign and form in
baptism?" the reply of a bright little theologian was, "The baby, Sir!"
"WOULD ANY GENTLEMAN oblige A
LADY?"—Certainly not; he would endeavor to persuade her.
A GHOST WE SHOULD LIKE
EXCESSIVELY TO SEE.—The Ghost of Crinoline.
Kansas City is a gay place, and
they have queer specimens of humanity down there. If you don't believe it, read
the following from the Journal, about a woman of doubtful loyalty, who was
recently before the Provost Marshal: "She gave as an evidence of her loyalty
that her husband had been killed in the One Hundred and Sixth Illinois Regiment.
'When did your husband go to Illinois?' 'About three years ago.' 'That was
before the war, was it not?' 'Yes.' 'Why did you not go with him?' 'Well, I
didn't like to go off so far with a man I wasn't much acquainted with.' 'You
don't mean to say that your husband was so much of a stranger that you did not
like to go with him?' 'Yes, I do. I had only been married to him about a year,
and I wasn't going to leave my folks and go off to Illinois with a man I didn't
know more about.' " What could he do but discharge her?
A thief having stolen a cup from
a tavern was pursued and a great mob was raised around him. A bystander was
asked what was the matter. "Nothing," was the reply; "only a poor fellow has
taken a cup too much."
A ONE-DROUS PUZZLE.—Why is Big
Ben an hour after noon like a startling fact?—Because it strikes one.
A Purr-VERSE CREATURE,—A stubborn
The principal of a public school
has been sending circulars to the parents, asking for a written authority to
"inflict such punishment, corporal or otherwise," as may in his judgment be
proper. The following answer proves that one of the parents, at least, was
pleased with the idea: "Dear Sir,—Your flogging cirklar is duly receaved. I
hopes, as to my sun John, you will flog him jus so often as you like. Hees a bad
boy is John. Although I've been in the habit of teaching him miself, it seems to
me he will never larn anithink—his spellin is speshally ottragusly deficient.
Wallop him well, Sur, and you will receive my hearty thanks.—Yours, Moses
Walker.—P. S. Wat accounts for John being sich a bad scoller is that he's my sun
by my wife's first husband."
People often make use of the
expression, "where last year's snow is." After mature consideration we have come
to the conclusion that its nowhere!
A SEEMING CONTRADICTION.—A
suitable name for a man of no energy and fickle mind would be Mr, Percy Veer—Mr.
The Christian Advocate says:
Meeting with a sick man the other day, we asked him what was the matter. "I've
got the miasma." "Ah, indeed! And what are you taking for it?" "Oh, nothing but
Cherry's Pictorial."—The man had the asthma and was using Cherry Pectoral; but
Mrs. Partington herself could not have hit upon happier words to tell the
disease and the remedy.
A gentleman who took the occasion
on Sabbath last to doctor some cider, so as to keep it sweet, was taken to task
by his good wife for laboring on the Sabbath. His reply was that no good
Christian ought to find fault with his work on that day, as he had been doing
his best to prevent his cider from working.
When Lord Lauderdale laughed at
one of Sheridan's jests, and promised to repeat it, Sheridan begged him to
refrain from doing so; "for," said he, a joke in your mouth is no laughing
Dr. Johnson was in company with a
very loquacious lady, of whom he took but very little notice, and in pique she
said to him, "Why, Doctor, I believe you are not very fond of the company of
ladies." "You are mistaken, Madam," he replied; "I like their delicacy, I like
their vivacity, and I like their silence."