ON the field of Appomattox General Lee was waiting the return of a courier. His handsome face was clouded by the deepening shadows of defeat. Rumours of surrender had spread like wildfire, and the ranks of his once invincible army were breaking into chaos.

Suddenly the measured tread of a brigade was heard marching into action, every movement quick with the perfect discipline, the fire, and the passion of the first days of the triumphant Confederacy.

“What brigade is that?” he sharply asked.

“Cox’s North Carolina,” an aid replied.

As the troops swept steadily past the General, his eyes filled with tears, he lifted his hat, and exclaimed, “God bless old North Carolina!”

The display of matchless discipline perhaps recalled to the great commander that awful day of Gettysburg when the Twenty-sixth North Carolina infantry had charged with 820 men rank and file and left 704 dead and wounded on the ground that night. Company F from Campbell county charged with 91 men and lost every man killed and wounded. Fourteen times their colours were shot down, and fourteen times raised again. The last time they fell from the hands of gallant Colonel Harry Burgwyn, twenty-one years old, commander of the regiment, who seized them and was holding them aloft when instantly killed.

The last act of the tragedy had closed. Johnston surrendered to Sherman at Greensboro on April 26th, 1865, and the Civil War ended,—the bloodiest, most destructive war the world ever saw. The earth had been baptized in the blood of five hundred thousand heroic soldiers, and a new map of the world had been made.

The ragged troops were straggling home from Greensboro and Appomattox along the country roads. There were no mails, telegraph lines or railroads. The men were telling the story of the surrender. White-faced women dressed in coarse homespun met them at their doors and with quivering lips heard the news.

Surrender!

A new word in the vocabulary of the South—a word so terrible in its meaning that the date of its birth was to be the landmark of time. Henceforth all events would be reckoned from this; “before the Surrender,” or “after the Surrender.”

Desolation everywhere marked the end of an era. Not a cow, a sheep, a horse, a fowl, or a sign of animal life save here and there a stray dog, to be seen. Grim chimneys marked the site of once fair homes. Hedgerows of tangled blackberry briar and bushes showed where a fence had stood before war breathed upon the land with its breath of fire and harrowed it with teeth of steel.

These tramping soldiers looked worn and dispirited. Their shoulders stooped, they were dirty and hungry. They looked worse than they felt, and they felt that the end of the world had come.

They had answered those awful commands to charge without a murmur; and then, rolled back upon a sea of blood, they charged again over the dead bodies of their comrades. When repulsed the second time and the mad cry for a third charge from some desperate commander had rung over the field, still without a word they pulled their old ragged hats down close over their eyes as though to shut out the hail of bullets, and, through level sheets of blinding flame, walked straight into the jaws of hell. This had been easy. Now their feet seemed to falter as though they were not sure of the road.

In every one of these soldier’s hearts, and over all the earth hung the shadow of the freed Negro, transformed by the exigency of war from a Chattel to be bought and sold into a possible Beast to be feared and guarded. Around this dusky figure every white man’s soul was keeping its grim vigil.

North Carolina, the typical American Democracy, had loved peace and sought in vain to stand between the mad passions of the Cavalier of the South and the Puritan fanatic of the North. She entered the war at last with a sorrowful heart but a soul clear in the sense of tragic duty. She sent more boys to the front than any other state of the Confederacy—and left more dead on the field. She made the last charge and fired the last volley for Lee’s army at Appomattox.

These were the ragged country boys who were slowly tramping homeward. The group whose fortunes we are to follow were marching toward the little village of Hambright that nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge under the shadows of King’s Mountain. They were the sons of the men who had first declared their independence of Great Britain in America and had made their country a hornet’s nest for Lord Cornwallis in the darkest days of the cause of Liberty. What tongue can tell the tragic story of their humble home coming?

In rich Northern cities could be heard the boom of guns, the scream of steam whistles, the shouts of surging hosts greeting returning regiments crowned with victory. From every flag-staff fluttered proudly the flag that our fathers had lifted in the sky—the flag that had never met defeat.

It is little wonder that in this hour of triumph the world should forget the defeated soldiers who without a dollar in their pockets were tramping to their ruined homes.

Yet Nature did not seem to know of sorrow or death. Birds were singing their love songs from the hedgerows, the fields were clothed in gorgeous robes of wild flowers beneath which forget-me-nots spread their contrasting hues of blue, while life was busy in bud and starting leaf reclothing the blood-stained earth in radiant beauty.

As the sun was setting behind the peaks of the Blue Ridge, a giant negro entered the village of Ham-bright. He walked rapidly down one of the principal streets, passed the court house square unobserved in the gathering twilight, and three blocks further along paused before a law-office that stood in the corner of a beautiful lawn filled with shrubbery and flowers.

“Dars de ole home, praise de Lawd! En now I’se erfeard ter see my Missy, en tell her Marse Charles’s daid. Hit’ll kill her! Lawd hab mussy on my po black soul! How kin I!”

He walked softly up the alley that led toward the kitchen past the “big” house, which after all was a modest cottage boarded up and down with weatherstrips nestling amid a labyrinth of climbing roses, honeysuckles, fruit bearing shrubbery and balsam trees. The negro had no difficulty in concealing his movements as he passed.

“Lordy, dars Missy watchin’ at de winder! How pale she look! En she wuz de purties’ bride in de two counties! God-der-mighty, I mus’ git somebody ter he’p me! I nebber tell her! She drap daid right ’fore my eyes, en liant me twell I die. I run fetch de Preacher, Marse John Durham, he kin tell her.”

A few moments later he was knocking at the door of the parsonage of the Baptist church.

“Nelse! At last! I knew you’d come!”

“Yassir, Marse John, I’se home. Hit’s me.”

“And your Master is dead. I was sure of it, but I never dared tell your Mistress. You came for me to help you tell her. People said you had gone over into the promised land of freedom and forgotten your people; but Nelse, I never believed it of you and I’m doubly glad to shake your hand to-night because you’ve brought a brave message from heroic lips and because you have brought a braver message in your honest black face of faith and duty and life and love.”

“Thankee Marse John, I wuz erbleeged ter come home.”

The Preacher stepped into the hall and called the servant from the kitchen.

“Aunt Mary, when your Mistress returns tell her I’ve received an urgent call and will not be at home for supper.”

“I’ll be ready in a minute, Nelse,” he said, as he disappeared into the study. When he reached his desk, he paused and looked about the room in a helpless way as though trying to find some half forgotten volume in the rows of books that lined the walls and lay in piles on his desk and tables. He knelt beside the desk and prayed. When he rose there was a soft light in his eyes that were half filled with tears.

Standing in the dim light of his study he was a striking man. He had a powerful figure of medium height, deep piercing eyes and a high intellectual forehead. His hair was black and thick. He was a man of culture, had graduated at the head of his class at Wake Forest College before the war, and was a profound student of men and books. He was now thirty-five years old and the acknowledged leader of the Baptist denomination in the state. He was eloquent, witty, and proverbially good natured. His voice in the pulpit was soft and clear, and full of a magnetic quality that gave him hypnotic power over an audience. He had the prophetic temperament and was more of poet than theologian.

The people of this village were proud of the man as a citizen and loved him passionately as their preacher. Great churches had called him, but he had never accepted. There was in his make-up an element of the missionary that gave his personality a peculiar force.

He had been the college mate of Colonel Charles Gaston whose faithful slave had come to him for help, and they had always been bosom friends. He had performed the marriage ceremony for the Colonel ten years before when he had led to the altar the beautiful daughter of the richest planter in the adjoining county. Durham’s own heart was profoundly moved by his friend’s happiness and he threw into the brief preliminary address so much of tenderness and earnest passion that the trembling bride and groom forgot their fright and were melted to tears. Thus began an association of their family life that was closer than their college days.

He closed his lips firmly for an instant, softly shut the door and was soon on the way with Nelse. On reaching the house, Nelse went directly to the kitchen, while the Preacher walking along the circular drive approached the front. His foot had scarcely touched the step when Mrs. Gaston opened the door.

“Oh, Dr. Durham, I am so glad you have come!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been depressed to-day, watching the soldiers go by. All day long the poor foot-sore fellows have been passing. I stopped some of them to ask about Colonel Gaston and I thought one of them knew something and would not tell me. I brought him in and gave him dinner, and tried to coax him, but he only looked wistfully at me, stammered and said he didn’t know. But some how I feel that he did. Come in Doctor, and say something to cheer me. If I only had your faith in God!”

“I have need of it all to-night, Madam!” he answered with bowed head.

“Then you have heard bad news?”

“I have heard news,—wonderful news of faith and love, of heroism and knightly valour, that will be a priceless heritage to you and yours. Nelse has returned—”

“God have mercy on me!”—she gasped covering her face and raising her arm as though cowering from a mortal blow.

“Here is Nelse, Madam. Hear his story. He has only told me a word or two.” Nelse had slipped quietly in the back door.

“Yassum. Missy, I’se home at las’.”

She looked at him strangely for a moment. “Nelse, I’ve dreamed and dreamed of your coming, but always with him. And now you come alone to tell me he is dead. Lord have pity! there is nothing left!” There was a far-away sound in her voice as though half dreaming.

“Yas, Missy, dey is, I jes seed him—my young Marster—dem bright eyes, de ve’y nose, de chin, de mouf! He walks des like Marse Charles, he talks like him, he de ve’y spit er him, en how he hez growed! He’ll be er man fo you knows it. En I’se got er letter fum his Pa fur him, an er letter fur you, Missy.”

At this moment Charlie entered the room, slipped past Nelse and climbed into his mother’s arms. He was a sturdy little fellow of eight years with big brown eyes and sensitive mouth.

“Yassir—Ole Grant wuz er pushin’ us dar afo’ Richmond Pear ter me lak Marse Robert been er fightin’ him ev’y day for six monts. But he des keep on pushin’ en pushin’ us. Marse Charles say ter me one night atter I been playin’ de banjer fur de boys, Come ter my tent Nelse fo turnin’ in—I wants ter see you.’ He talk so solemn like, I cut de banjer short, en go right er long wid him. He been er writin’ en done had two letters writ. He say, ‘Nelse, we gwine ter git outen dese trenches ter-morrer. It twell be my las’ charge. I feel it. Ef I falls, you take my swode, en watch en dese letters back home to your Mist’ess and young Marster, en you promise me, boy, to stan’ by em in life ez I stan’ by you.’ He know I lub him bettern any body in dis work, en dat I’d rudder be his slave dan be free if he’s daid! En I say, ‘Dat I will, Marse Charles.’

“De nex day we up en charge ole Grant. Pears ter me I nebber see so many dead Yankees on dis yearth ez we see layin’ on de groun’ whar we brake froo dem lines! But dey des kep fetchin’ up annudder army back er de one we breaks, twell bymeby, dey swing er whole millyon er Yankees right plum behin’ us, en five millyon er fresh uns come er swoopin’ down in front. Den yer otter see my Marster! He des kinder riz in de air—pear ter me like he wuz er foot taller en say to his men—’ ‘Bout face, en charge de line in de rear!’ Wall sar, we cut er hole clean froo dem Yankees en er minute, end den bout face ergin en begin ter walk backerds er fightin’ like wilecats ev’y inch. We git mos back ter de trenches, when Marse Charles drap des lak er flash! I runned up to him en dar wuz er big hole in his breas’ whar er bullet gone clean froo his heart. He nebber groan. I tuk his head up in my arms en cry en take on en call him! I pull back his close en listen at his heart. Hit wuz still. I takes de swode an de watch en de letters outen de pockets en start on—when bress God, yer cum dat whole Yankee army ten hundred millyons, en dey tromple all over us!

“Den I hear er Yankee say ter me ‘Now, my man, you’se free.’ ‘Yassir, sezzi, dats so,’ en den I see a hole ter run whar dey warn’t no Yankees, en I run spang into er millyon mo. De Yankees wuz ev’y whar. Pear ter me lak dey riz up outer de groun’. All dat day I try ter get away fum ’em. En long ’bout night dey ’rested me en fetch me up fo er Genr’l, en he say, ‘What you tryin’ ter get froo our lines fur, nigger? Doan yer know yer free now, en if you go back you’d be a slave ergin?’”

“Dats so, sah,” sezzi, “but I’se ’bleeged ter go home.”

“What fur?” sezze.

“Promise Marse Charles ter take dese letters en swode en watch back home to my Missus en young Marster, en dey waitin’ fur me—I’se ’bleeged ter go.”

“Den he tuk de letters en read er minute, en his eyes gin ter water en he choke up en say, ‘Go-long!’

“Den I skeedaddled ergin. Dey kep on ketchin’ me twell bimeby er nasty stinkin low-life slue-footed Yankee kotched me en say dat I wuz er dang’us nigger, en sont me wid er lot er our prisoners way up ter ole Jonson’s Islan’ whar I mos froze ter deaf. I stay dar twell one day er fine lady what say she from Boston cum er long, en I up en tells her all erbout Marse Charles and my Missus, en how dey all waitin’ fur me, en how bad I want ter go home, en de nex news I knowed I wuz on er train er whizzin’ down home wid my way all paid. I get wid our men at Greensboro en come right on fas’ ez my legs’d carry me.”

There was silence for a moment and then slowly Mrs. Gaston said, “May God reward you, Nelse!”

“Yassum, I’se free, Missy, but I gwine ter wuk for you en my young Marster.”

Mrs. Gaston had lived daily in a sort of trance through those four years of war, dreaming and planning for the great day when her lover would return a handsome bronzed and famous man. She had never conceived of the possibility of a world without his will and love to lean upon. The Preacher was both puzzled and alarmed by the strangely calm manner she now assumed. Before leaving the home he cautioned Aunt Eve to watch her Mistress closely and send for him if anything happened.

When the boy was asleep in the nursery adjoining her room, she quietly closed the door, took the sword of her dead lover-husband in her lap and looked long and tenderly at it. On the hilt she pressed her lips in a lingering kiss.

“Here his dear hand must have rested last!” she murmured. She sat motionless for an hour with eyes fixed without seeing. At last she rose and hung the sword beside his picture near her bed and drew from her bosom the crumpled, worn letters Nelse had brought. The first was addressed to her.

“In the Trenches Near Richmond, May 4, 1864.

“Sweet Wifie:—I have a presentiment to-night that I shall not live to see you again. I feel the shadows of defeat and ruin closing upon us. I am surer day by day that our cause is lost and surrender is a word I have never learned to speak. If I could only see you for one hour, that I might tell you all I have thought in the lone watches of the night in camp, or marching over desolate fields. Many tender things I have never said to you I have learned in these days. I write this last message to tell you how, more and more beyond the power of words to express, your love has grown upon me, until your spirit seems the breath I breathe. My heart is so full of love for you and my boy, that I can’t go into battle now without thinking how many hearts will ache and break in far away, homes because of the work I am about to do. I am sick of it all. I long to be at home again and walk with my sweet young bride among the flowers she loves so well, and hear the old mocking bird that builds each spring in those rose bushes at our window.

“If I am killed, you must live for our boy and rear him to a glorious manhood in the new nation that will be born in this agony. I love you,—I love you unto the uttermost, and beyond death I will live, if only to love you forever.

“Always in life or death your own,

“Charles.”

For two hours she held this letter open in her hands and seemed unable to move it. And then mechanically she opened the one addressed to “Charles Gaston, jr.”

“My Darling Boy:—I send you by Nelse my watch and sword. It will be all I can bequeath to you from the wreck that will follow the war. This sword was your great grandfather’s. He held it as he charged up the heights of King’s Mountain against Ferguson and helped to carve this nation out of a wilderness. It was a sorrowful day for me when I felt it my duty to draw that sword against the old flag in defence of my home and my people. You will live to see a reunited country. Hang this sword back beside the old flag of our fathers when the end has come, and always remember that it was never drawn from its scabbard by your father, or your grandfather who fought with Jackson at New Orleans, or your great grandfather in the Revolution, save in the cause of justice and right. I am not fighting to hold slaves in bondage. I am fighting for the inalienable rights of my people under the Constitution our fathers created. It may be we have outgrown this Constitution. But I calmly leave to God and history the question as to who is right in its interpretation. Whatever you do in life, first, last and always do what you believe to be right. Everything else is of little importance. With a heart full of love, Your father,

“Charles Gaston.”





This letter she must have held open for hours, for it was two o’clock in the morning when a wild peal of laughter rang from her feverish lips and brought Aunt Eve and Nelse hurrying into the room.

It took but a moment for them to discover that their Mistress was suffering from a violent delirium. They soothed her as best they could. The noise and confusion had awakened the boy. Running to the door leading into his mother’s room he found it bolted, and with his little heart fluttering in terror he pressed his ear close to the key-hole and heard her wild ravings. How strange her voice seemed! Her voice had always been so soft and low and full of soothing music. Now it was sharp and hoarse and seemed to rasp his flesh with needles. What could it all mean? Perhaps the end of the world, about which he had heard the Preacher talk on Sundays At last unable to bear the terrible suspense longer he cried through the key-hole, “Aunt Eve, what’s the matter? Open the door quick.”

“No, honey, you mustn’t come in. Yo Ma’s awful sick. You run out ter de barn, ketch de mare, en fly for de doctor while me en Nelse stay wid her. Run honey, day’s nuttin’ ter hurt yer.”

His little bare feet were soon pattering over the long stretch of the back porch toward the barn. The night was clear and sky studded with stars. There was no moon. He was a brave little fellow, but a fear greater than all the terrors of ghosts and the white sheeted dead with which Negro superstition had filled his imagination, now nerved his child’s soul. His mother was about to die! His very heart ceased to beat at the thought. He must bring the doctor and bring him quickly.

He flew to the stable not looking to the right or the left. The mare whinnied as he opened the door to get the bridle.

“It’s me Bessie. Mama’s sick. We must go for the doctor quick!”

The mare thrust her head obediently down to the child’s short arm for the bridle. She seemed to know by some instinct his quivering voice had roused that the home was in distress and her hour had come to bear a part.

In a moment he led her out through the gate, climbed on the fence, and sprang on her back.

“Now, Bess, fly for me!” he half whispered, half cried through the tears he could no longer keep back. The mare bounded forward in a swift gallop as she felt his trembling bare legs clasp her side, and the clatter of her hoofs echoed in the boy’s ears through the silent streets like the thunder of charging cavalry. How still the night! He saw shadows under the trees, shut his eyes and leaning low on the mare’s neck patted her shoulders with his hands and cried, “Faster. Bessie! Faster!” And then he tried to pray. “Lord don’t let her die! Please, dear God, and I will always be good. I am sorry I robbed the bird’s nests last summer—I’ll never do it again. Please, Lord I’m such a wee boy and I’m so lonely. I can’t lose my Mama!”—and the voice choked and became, a great sob. He looked across the square as he passed the court house in a gallop and saw a light in the window of the parsonage and felt its rays warm his soul like an answer to his prayer.

He reached the doctor’s house on the further side of the town, sprang from the mare’s back, bounded up the steps and knocked at the door. No one answered. He knocked again. How loud it rang through the hall! May be the doctor was gone! He had not thought of such a possibility before. He choked at the thought. Springing quickly from the steps to the ground he felt for a stone, bounded back and began to pound on the door with all his might.

The window was raised, and the old doctor thrust his head out calling, “What on earth’s the matter? Who is that?”

“It’s me, Charlie Gaston—my Mama’s sick—she’s awful sick, I’m afraid she’s dying—you must come quick!”

“All right, sonny, I’ll be ready in a minute.”

The boy waited and waited. It seemed to him hours, days, weeks, years! To every impatient call the doctor would answer, “In a minute, sonny, in a minute!”

At last he emerged with his lantern, to catch his horse. The doctor seemed so slow. He fumbled over the harness.

“Oh! Doctor you’re so slow! I tell you my Mama’s sick—!”

“Well, well, my boy, we’ll soon be there,” the old man kindly replied.

When the boy saw the doctor’s horse jogging quickly toward his home he turned the mare’s head aside as he reached the court house square, roused the Preacher, and between his sobs told the story of his mother’s illness. Mrs. Durham had lost her only boy two years before. Soon Charlie was sobbing in her arms.

“You poor little darling, out by yourself so late at night, were you not scared?” she asked as she kissed the tears from his eyes.

“Yessum, I was scared, but I had to go for the doctor. I want you and Dr. Durham to come as quick as you can. I’m afraid to go home. I’m afraid she’s dead, or I’ll hear her laugh that awful way I heard to-night.”

“Of course we will come, dear, right away. We will be there almost as soon as you can get to the house.”

He rode slowly along the silent street looking back now and then for the Preacher and his wife. As he was passing a small deserted house he saw to his horror a ragged man peering into the open window. Before he had time to run, the man stepped quickly up to the mare and said, “Who lived here last, little man?”

“Old Miss Spurlin,” answered the boy.

“Where is she now?”

“She’s dead.”

The man sighed, and the boy saw by his gray uniform that he was a soldier just back from the war, and he quickly added, “Folks said they had a hard time, but Preacher Durham helped them lots when they had nothing to eat.”

“So my poor old mother’s dead. I was afraid of it.” He seemed to be talking to himself. “And do you know where her gal is that lived with her?”

“She’s in a little house down in the woods below town. They say she’s a bad woman, and my Mama would never let me go near her.”

The man flinched as though struck with a knife, steadied himself for a moment with his hands on the mare’s neck and said, “You’re a brave little one to be out alone this time o’night,—what’s your name?”

“Charles Gaston.”

“Then you’re my Colonel’s boy—many a time I followed him where men were failin’ like leaves—I wish to God I was with him now in the ground! Don’t tell anybody you saw me,—them that knowed me will think I’m dead, and it’s better so.”

“Good-bye, sir,” said the child “I’m sorry for you if you’ve got no home. I’m after the doctor for my Mama,—she’s very sick. I’m afraid she’s going to die, and if you ever pray I wish you’d pray for her.”

The soldier came closer. “I wish I knew how to pray, my boy. But it seemed to me I forgot everything that was good in the war, and there’s nothin’ left but death and hell. But I’ll not forget you, good-bye!” When Charlie was in bed, he lay an hour with wide staring eyes, holding his breath now and then to catch the faintest sound from his mother’s room. All was quiet at last and he fell asleep. But he was no longer a child. The shadow of a great sorrow had enveloped his soul and clothed him with the dignity and fellowship of the mystery of pain.