Kitabı oku: «The Courier of the Ozarks», sayfa 10

The ninth day arrived and Strachan sought his chief. "Well," he growled, "the time is up tomorrow and Allsman has not been returned. He will not be. We might as well prepare for the execution."

"Is there any way out of this, Strachan?" asked McNeil, with much feeling. "I hate this."

"Going to show the white feather?" sneered Strachan.

"No, but what if I issue a proclamation that if the men who actually murdered Allsman are given up these ten men will be spared?"

"They will pay just as much attention to it as they did to your first proclamation," said Strachan. "General, if you do not carry out your proclamation there is not a Union man in the State whose life will be safe, and their blood will be on your hands. You will be cursed by every loyal citizen, and your enemies will despise you as a coward. Better, far better, you had never issued any proclamation."

McNeil felt the force of Strachan's reasoning. It would have been better if no proclamation had been made. To go back on it, and at the eleventh hour, would proclaim him weak and vacillating, and the effect might be as Strachan said.

"Go ahead, Strachan. I will not interfere," he said abruptly, and turned away.

Strachan departed highly elated, and repaired to a carpenter shop, where he ordered ten rough coffins made. The village suddenly awoke to the fact that the execution would take place. Then faces grew pale, and all jeering ceased. McNeil was besieged by applicants imploring him to stay the execution. Among these were a number of Union men. But McNeil remained obdurate; his mind was made up.

Strachan picked out ten men among the prisoners and they were told that on the morrow they must die. Why Strachan picked the ten men he did will never be known. They were not chosen by lot.

Among the ten men was a William S. Humphrey. Mrs. Humphrey had arrived in Palmyra the evening before the execution, not knowing her husband was to die. When told of his fate she was horrified, and in the early morning she sought Strachan to plead for his life, but was rudely repulsed. Then with tottering footsteps she wended her way to the headquarters of General McNeil. He received her kindly, but told her he would not interfere.

Half fainting she was borne from the room. Her little nine-year-old daughter had accompanied her as far as the door. Catching sight of the child, she cried with tears streaming down her face, "Go, child, go to General McNeil, kneel before him and with uplifted hands beg him to spare your father. Tell him what a good man he is. How he had refused to go with Porter after he had taken the oath."

The little girl obeyed. She made her way to General McNeil; she knelt before him; she raised her little hands imploringly; with the tears streaming down her face she sobbed, "Oh, General McNeil, don't have papa shot. He never will be bad any more. He promised and he will not break that promise. Don't have him shot. Think of me as your little girl pleading for your life."

She could say no more, but lay sobbing and moaning at his feet. The stern man trembled like a leaf; tears gathered in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

"Poor child! Poor child!" he murmured, as he gently raised her. Then turning to his desk he wrote an order and, handing it to an officer, said, "Take that to Colonel Strachan."

The order read:

Colonel Strachan:

If the fact can be established that Humphrey was in Palmyra when Porter was here and refused to leave, reprieve him and put no one in his place.

McNeil.

When the order was delivered to Colonel Strachan he raved like a madman. He had had ten coffins made, and though the heavens fell, they should be filled. Like Shylock, he demanded his pound of flesh.

"For God's sake!" said Captain Reed to Strachan, "if you must have the tenth victim, take a single man."

Strachan stalked to the prison and glancing over the prisoners called out, "Hiram Smith."

A young man, twenty-two years of age, stepped forward.

"Is your name Hiram Smith?" asked Strachan.

"It is," was the answer.

"You are to be shot this afternoon."

The young man drew himself up, gazed blankly at Strachan for a moment, and then without a word turned and walked across the room to where a bucket of water was standing. Taking a drink he turned around with the remark, "I can die just as easily as I took that drink of water." And this young man knew he had but two hours to live.¹³

The time came and amid the groans and sobs of the populace, the ten men were taken to the fair grounds, where seated on their coffins, they bravely faced their executioners.

The firing squad consisted of thirty soldiers, three to a man. A few hundred pale faced spectators looked on. The fatal order was given and the volley rang out.

From the spectators there burst a cry of horror. Strong men turned away, unable to look. Many of the firing squad were nervous and their aim was bad; others had shot high on purpose – they had no heart in the work. Of the ten men, only three had been killed outright. Six lay on the ground, writhing in agony; one sat on his coffin, untouched.

"Take your revolvers and finish the job," thundered Strachan.

Harry, who had witnessed the scene, fled from it in horror, as did most of the spectators. It was a scene that those who lived in Palmyra will never forget. The fair grounds was never again used as such. It was a place accursed.¹⁴

CHAPTER XV
A GIRL OF THE OZARKS

In one of the loveliest valleys in the heart of the Ozarks lived Judge Marion Chittenden. He was the youngest son of a Kentucky pioneer, one who did much in the building up of that commonwealth when it was known as "The Dark and Bloody Ground."

In his youth, Marion Chittenden – that was not his name then – was wild and wayward, and became involved in numerous brawls and personal encounters. When about twenty years of age, in a drunken brawl he shot and killed one of his best friends. Filled with horror, and knowing the consequences of his crime, he fled. Although a large reward was offered for his apprehension, all efforts to find him proved unavailing. As years passed and nothing was heard from him, his relatives breathed sighs of relief and considered him as one dead.

The fact was, he had fled beyond the Mississippi and became lost in the wilds of Missouri. Here he changed his name, and no one ever knew but that he always had been Marion Chittenden.

In the Ozarks he made his living by hunting and fishing, and for some years lived almost the life of a hermit. In one particular his crime made him a changed man; from the moment he fled he never touched another drop of liquor.

One day while hunting he came across a lovely valley. Through it ran a purling stream, its waters as clear as crystal. Around and about the valley the hills rose to a height of from five to eight hundred feet, clothed to their tops in a forest of living green.

When he first saw the valley it was from the top of one of the hills where he had trailed and shot a bear. As he stood and looked, the scene was so peaceful, so beautiful, that a longing for rest came over him. The wild and wandering life he had led for years all at once palled upon him. The memory of his childhood came like a flood. His waywardness, his crime, arose before him with startling distinctness. He was naturally a lover of the refinements of civilization, and the rough, lonely life he had led was the result of his crime, not of inclination.

Standing there, he suddenly exclaimed, "Here will I make my home; here will I forget the past; here will I begin a new life."

He descended into the valley, startling a herd of deer that bounded into the forest which clothed the hills. But they need not have been afraid – for the time being he had lost the instinct of a hunter.

He stood by the side of the little river, its clear waters showing the fish darting to and fro, as if in wanton play. A little back was a knoll crowned with noble trees. "Here," thought he, "will I build my house. Here will I begin my new life. It is beautiful. The stream is beautiful. It shall be called La Belle, and this the valley of La Belle." And the valley of La Belle it became.

He went to St. Louis and preëmpted the land, for he had no fears the rough, bearded hunter would be taken for the immaculate young dandy who had fled from Kentucky.

He built him a home; the range of thousands of acres of land was his, and his flocks grew and flourished. Time passed, and other settlers began to invade the seclusion of the Ozarks.

One day there came into the hills a man by the name of Garland. He had seen better days, but had become impoverished and fled to the Ozarks, thinking that in that wilderness he might make a home, and in a measure retrieve his fortune. His family consisted of his wife and one daughter, a young lady about twenty years of age.

Mr. Garland settled some miles from where Chittenden lived his lonely life; but in a wilderness those who live miles away are considered neighbors. Mr. Chittenden visited them, and, though charmed by the beauty of the daughter, he had no thoughts of giving up his bachelor life.

But misfortune seemed to have followed Mr. Garland. He had not been there a year before his wife died, and in a few months he followed her.

Before this Mr. Chittenden had not thought of marriage, but now the helplessness of the girl appealed to him. He proposed and was accepted. He never had cause to regret his action, for beautiful Grace Garland made a wife of whom any man might be proud.

His marriage also made a great change in Mr. Chittenden. The house was enlarged and beautified. He greatly prospered, and in time became one of the prominent men in his section of the country. He was called Judge, and sent to the Legislature, and was even pressed to run for Congress. Against this he resolutely set his face. The ghost of the past arose and frightened him. As a congressman his past might be traced.

A couple of years after his marriage a daughter was born and was named Grace, after her mother.

Mr. Chittenden continued to prosper, and in time bought a few slaves. This put him on a higher plane, for to be a slave-holder was to belong to the aristocracy, and it was a matter of pride among the Ozarks that Mr. Chittenden owned slaves.

Little Grace grew up a true child of the mountains, as wild and free as the birds. When she was about ten years of age her mother died. If it had not been for his daughter, Mr. Chittenden would have lost all interest in life. Now everything centered in her, and she became a part of his very life.

The death of his wife left him without a competent housekeeper, so one day he informed Grace he was going to St. Louis to see if he could not buy a colored woman recommended as a good housekeeper, and that if she liked she might go with him.

The girl was overjoyed, for she had never been away from her lovely valley home. The hills to her had been the boundary of the world, and often as she gazed at them she would wonder and wonder what was beyond. The birds were her friends, and they seemed to sing of things she did not know. They had wings and could fly and explore that wonderful beyond. She often wished she too had wings, so she might fly with the birds – then she would know too.

Her mother early had taught her to read, and Mr. Chittenden had gathered quite a library. Grace read every book in it with avidity, but they told her of a world she could not understand.

But now she was to go beyond the barrier; she was to see the world, and she could hardly wait for the time to start.

At last the day came and the journey was begun, first on horseback and then by a lumbering stage coach.

In due time they reached the city, and what she saw filled her with wonder and surprise. But when she woke in the morning and heard no singing of birds, but instead the din and roar of the street; and when she looked out and saw no lovely valley, no stately hills, no La Belle, its waters sparkling in the sun, but instead row upon row of great buildings, she sighed – she hardly knew why.

The next day when her father showed her around the city she said, "It's all very wonderful, papa, but it isn't like home. The houses are not as beautiful as the hills, and even the great river does not sing as sweetly, and its waters are not clear and sparkling like La Belle."

One day Mr. Chittenden told Grace there was to be an auction of slaves, and he would go and try to get one for a housekeeper. The little girl was eager to go with him, but he would not allow it. She wondered why and rebelled, but her father was obdurate and left her crying.

Grace's slightest wish was generally law to her father, and to be refused and left alone was to her a surprise. She did not realize that her father did not wish her to see the distressing scenes which often took place at an auction of slaves.

In due time Mr. Chittenden returned, accompanied by a comely mulatto woman about forty years of age. The woman's eyes were red with weeping, and now and then her bosom would heave with a great sob which she would in vain try to hold back.

"This is Tilly, Grace," said her father. "She is said to be a good housekeeper and a famous cook."

"Why do you cry?" asked Grace. "Papa is a good man; he will use you well."

"It's not that," sobbed the woman: "it's mah honey chile, mah little Effie. I'll neber see her moah." And she broke down and sobbed piteously.

Grace turned with a distressed countenance. "Did Tilly have a little girl?" she asked.

"Y-e-s," answered Mr. Chittenden, rather reluctantly.

"Why didn't you buy her too?" she asked indignantly. "What if someone should take me from you?"

Mr. Chittenden winced. "That is different, child," he answered. "As for Tilly's child, a trader from New Orleans bought her, paying an enormous price. She was nearly white, and gave promise of becoming quite a beauty. Rich people give large prices for such for maids. I could not afford to buy her. As it was, I had to pay a big price for Tilly."

Grace said no more, but from that time new thoughts entered her mind, and when alone with Tilly she tried to comfort her.

Tilly proved as good a housekeeper and cook as Mr. Chittenden could have desired, and in time seemed to have forgotten her child. But Grace knew better, for when alone with her Tilly never tired of telling her about her "honey chile," and Grace was learning what it meant to be a slave, and all unconsciously to herself she was drinking in a love of freedom.

As for Tilly, she came to worship the very ground that Grace walked on. Willingly she would have shed every drop of blood in her veins for her.

Years went by and other settlers came into the Ozarks, but they were a rough, uneducated class, and Mr. Chittenden had little in common with them. In time a Mr. Thomas Osborne settled about four miles from him. He was a northern man, well educated, and had come to the Ozarks for his health, being threatened with consumption. He had a daughter, Helen, about the age of Grace, and the two became inseparable friends.

When Grace was about fifteen years of age it was evident that she would be a very beautiful woman. She was by no means an ignorant girl, for her father had employed a private teacher for her, and she was far better acquainted with the elementary branches and with books than most girls who attend fashionable boarding schools.

But she was still a child of nature, the birds her best companions. The wind whispering through the forest told her wonderful stories. She could ride and shoot equal to any boy who roamed the Ozarks, and was the companion of her father as he looked after his flocks and herds.

The father saw she was fast budding into womanhood, and sighed, for he felt she should know something beyond the rough life of the mountains, and, although parting from her was like tearing out his own heart, he resolved to send her to a boarding school in St. Louis. His daughter must be a lady; he had not forgotten his early life.

Grace heard his decision. She had not forgotten her visit to that wonderful city five years before, and, now that she was older, thought she would like to see and know more of it.

"But how can I leave you, papa?" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing kiss after kiss upon his brow.

Mr. Chittenden clasped her to his breast. "It will not be for long, child," he said huskily, "and I would have my little girl a lady."

"Am I not a lady, now?" she asked, pouting.

"Yes, yes, Grace; but I would have you know something of the ways of society. I do not want you to be always a mountain girl. You are worthy to adorn the grandest palace in the city."

"I don't want to adorn a palace. I love the valley of La Belle," she replied. "I want to live and die here."

"You may think differently some day, child. It is only for your good I would have you go, for, Grace, you do not know how hard it is for me to part from you."

Again the girl threw her arms around him. "Don't make me go, papa," she sobbed. "I thought I wanted to go, but I don't now. I don't want to be a fine lady. I want to stay with you."

"No, Grace; it is for the best." And so it was fully decided.

The time came for her to go. The parting with Helen Osborne was a tearful one, but Tilly was inconsolable. "All de sunshine will be gone frum de house," she moaned. "When Missy Grace goes, Tilly want to die."

"Oh, no, Tilly; you want to be here to welcome me when I come back," said Grace.

Grace was taken to St. Louis and placed in one of the most fashionable schools in the city. Lola Laselle and Dorothy Hamilton were members of the same school, but as they were day pupils, Grace did not become very well acquainted with them.

Grace's gentle, unaffected ways soon made her a favorite, but there were a few of the pupils who looked down on the mountain girl as beneath them. But gentle as Grace was, there was the blood of a fiery and proud race in her veins, and she soon taught those girls she could not be snubbed with impunity. She was an apt pupil and soon became the most popular girl in the school, and the haughty ones were proud to be classed as her friends.

The rules and restrictions of the school were irksome to her, and she became the leader of a bevy of girls who delighted in having a good time, and many were the little luncheons they enjoyed together after the teachers thought all good girls were in bed.

One day Grace heard the girls discussing a book which at that time was creating a sensation.

"It's dreadful," said one of the girls. "Every copy printed ought to be destroyed, and the woman who wrote it burned at the stake."

"Have you read it?" asked one of the girls.

The first girl raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Read it!" she exclaimed. "I would as soon touch a viper as that book."

"How do you know it is bad, then?" persisted the second girl.

"Because I have heard papa say so. It's all about slavery, and makes out that the people that own slaves are the wickedest people in the world. Papa says the book will cause a war yet."

"My papa says," spoke up another, "that the South is going to secede, and when it does he says there may be war."

"Pshaw! the Yankees will not fight," exclaimed a girl from Mississippi. "Brother Ned says they are a cowardly lot, and that one Southern gentleman can whip ten of them."

The conversation now took a general turn over what would happen if war came, and it was the opinion of most of the girls that it would be just grand.

Grace listened eagerly to the conversation, but took no part. So far she had given little attention to the strife which was agitating the country. Even the conflict which had raged along the borders of Missouri and Kansas had only come as a faint echo among the Ozarks. But now she asked, "What is the name of the book you girls are talking about?"

"Uncle Tom's Cabin. It's a horrid book," replied one of the girls.

Grace said no more, but she determined to have that book; she wanted to see what made it so terrible. The first time she had leave to go downtown she made an excuse to go into a book store and purchase a copy. She concealed it in her clothes and then made a few other purchases.

"Why, Grace, what made you so long?" asked the monitor in charge of the girls when she returned.

"Couldn't get waited on before," answered Grace demurely.

That evening Grace swore her room-mate to eternal secrecy, and then showed her the book.

The girl was horrified. "What made you buy it?" she wailed. "Why, if I should take that book home I would be arrested and sent to prison."

"I am determined to see what kind of a book it is," answered Grace, doggedly. "When I see, I can burn it up if I don't like it."

"I wouldn't touch it for the whole world," exclaimed her room-mate. "Burn it up. Burn it up now, Grace. What if the girls found it out! We would be disgraced, ostracized, perhaps expelled!"

"If you don't tell, I will take care that no one else sees it," said Grace.

The next day Grace feigned a headache, and remained in her room to read the book. That evening her room-mate asked about it.

"You will never see it," replied Grace. "I looked into it and concluded you were right; it would never do for that book to be found in our room. I have destroyed it."

"Grace Chittenden," cried the girl, "I believe you pretended to have a headache so you could stay in our room and read that book! I have a mind to report you. What kind of a book was it? Tell me."

"Do you want me to corrupt you too, Mabel?" laughed Grace. "No; the book is destroyed, and that ends it. It is not the kind of a book I thought it was – not so horrid; but it makes one think. I am almost sorry I read it."

That night Grace lay awake a long time thinking of Uncle Tom and Little Eva, and more than once she sighed, "Tilly is right. Slavery is wicked – wicked!"

Grace had been in school two years when the war opened. Even the seclusion of a girl's boarding school could not help being penetrated by the fierce excitement which swept through the whole country. The streets were filled with marching troops. Many of the girls had brothers in Frost's militia. Then Camp Jackson was taken.

Grace heard the distant firing, saw the surging mob in the streets, but in the midst of the excitement her father came. He had hurried to the city to take her home – to take her to the heart of the Ozarks, where he hoped the red waves of war would never come.

Marion Chittenden was by nature fierce and combative, but the horror from which he had fled had so changed him that it was only when some great excitement moved him that his passions were aroused. He was a strong partisan of the South and believed the North wholly wrong. It was only his age and an injury that forbade protracted riding on horseback that kept him from offering his services to the State.

Mr. Chittenden's fierce denunciation of the North alarmed Grace. What would he say if he knew she was for the Union? She resolved to keep still and say nothing. She noticed a large number of rough men calling on her father, and a great number of secret consultations were held.

The first great shock came to Grace when one day her father said, "Grace, I wish you would cease visiting Helen Osborne, and by all means do not invite her here. I want no intercourse between the two families."

Grace opened her eyes in astonishment. "Why, father, what is the matter?" she asked.

"Osborne is a sneaking Yankee, an abolitionist, and the old fool can't keep his mouth shut."

"What difference should that make as far as Helen and I are concerned?" asked Grace, her eyes flashing.

Surprised at the feeling his daughter showed, Mr. Chittenden said more gently: "Grace, you do not understand, you do not realize the feeling throughout the country. To be friendly with the Osbornes would bring suspicion on me. Even your visits would be misconstrued. Do as I ask you, Grace, for my sake."

She promised, though very reluctantly. More than once she resolved to tell her father her true feelings, but shrank from the ordeal.

After that Grace did not leave the valley. Rough, uncouth men came to visit her father more frequently than ever, and she heard enough to know that the waves of war had rolled clear down to Springfield and that the whole State was becoming a vast armed camp.

One day her father seemed much perturbed, and at last rode away in company with several men. Grace noticed they were all armed. Feeling alarmed as well as lonely, she resolved to take a ride. Ordering her favorite horse saddled, she soon was galloping down the valley towards the Osbornes. Why she took that direction she hardly knew. She rode as near to the Osbornes as she thought prudent, and was about to turn back, when she saw a great cloud of smoke arising.

"It must be the Osborne house," she exclaimed, and urged her horse forward. When she came to where she could see she reined in her horse and gazed at the scene in horror. Not only was Mr. Osborne's house in flames, but his barn and outbuildings, as well as stacks of grain.

But it was not so much the fire as what else she saw that made her face pale and her breath to come in gasps. A little apart from the fire stood a group of men, and in their midst Mr. Osborne, with a rope around his neck. His wife and daughter were clinging to him, and even from where Grace was their shrieks and cries for mercy reached her ears. She took one look, then struck her horse a sharp blow and, like a whirlwind, came upon the scene. Astonished, the men stood like statues.

"You pretend to be men, I suppose," she cried, "and call this war. Cowards! Poltroons! Murderers!"

Just then she caught sight of her father in the group. "You too!" she gasped, and fell fainting from her horse.

When she came to she was in her father's arms, the men had gone, and bending over her was Helen Osborne, bathing her face. She opened her eyes and then, shuddering, closed them again. She had looked into the face of a man stricken as unto death.

"Grace, Grace," he moaned, "another such look as that will kill me. You do not understand. I was trying to save life, not take it."

A shiver went through her body, but she did not open her eyes nor answer.

"Grace, hear me. I am not what you think. O God!"

"What did you say, father?" she whispered.

"That I was trying to save Mr. Osborne, not hang him."

Once more her eyes opened, but now they looked with love into her father's face. "Thank God!" she murmured, and her arms went around his neck. The strong man wept as he clasped her to his breast and kissed her again and again.

"Take me home," she whispered weakly. "I feel, oh, so faint!"

On the invitation of Mr. Chittenden the Osbornes accompanied him. The next day he sent them out of the country.

When Grace was strong enough to hear, her father told her all. Mr. Osborne's pronounced Northern principles had made him very obnoxious to those who sympathized with the South. "It was for this reason, Grace," he said, "I forbade your visiting Helen. Even a friendly intercourse between you two would have brought suspicion on me. You cannot understand the terrible feeling towards all Yankees and those who sympathize with them. Mr. Osborne was repeatedly warned to leave the country, but he paid no attention to the warnings. Instead, he became active in giving information to the Federal authorities. Some time ago it became known that he had sent to the Federal commander at Rolla the name of every active Southern sympathizer in the country. My name was on the list as one of the leaders.

"This was too much for the boys, and they decided on summary punishment, but, knowing that I was opposed to extreme means, they tried to keep what they were to do from me. I found it out and did all in my power to save him, but a vote was taken, and it was decided he should be burned out and then hanged. It was only your timely arrival that saved him. He is well out of the country now, for which I am thankful."

Grace listened to his account in silence, then said: "I'm so glad, father, you tried to save him. I thought – oh, I can't tell what I thought, it was so dreadful."

She then seemed struggling with herself, as if she wanted to say something and dared not.

"What is it, child?" asked Mr. Chittenden gently.

Looking at him with yearning eyes, she whispered, "Do you love me?"

"What a question, Grace! Better than my life! You should know that!"

"And will you let anything come between? Will you always love me, even if I am not what you think?"

"Grace, what do you mean?" he cried, brokenly. A terrible suspicion came to him that her mind was wandering, that the shock she had received had unbalanced her reason.

"Father, I must tell you. I cannot think as you do. This war is terrible, and I believe the South is all in the wrong."

Mr. Chittenden could only gasp his astonishment, then he commenced laughing. "Is that all, Grace? I thought – well, it hardly matters what I thought. It was unworthy of me. But what makes you think the South is all wrong?"

"I do not know as I can make you understand, but, father – I hate slavery! I think I was born with a love for freedom. I have drunk it in from my childhood. This valley, the grand old hills around it, all speak of freedom. La Belle murmurs it as her waters dance and sparkle on their way to the sea. The wind in the trees sings of freedom, the birds warble it."

"Grace, you are poetic; it is only these fancies that make you think as you do."

"No, father. You know I love history, and you have some good histories in your library. I have learned how slavery came into this country, how it grew; and I also know something about what is called State Rights. I believe the South claims any State has a perfect right to withdraw from the Union at pleasure."

"Yes, the doctrine is true. We are no rebels."

"I can't believe it. To trample on the flag of our common country is rebellion. Father, I love the starry flag. I carry it next my heart." To her father's surprise, she put her hand in her bosom and drew forth a tiny flag. "I made it, father, at school. While the other girls were making Confederate flags, I made this one."