CHAPTER II.
WAITING FOR THE SHIP.
Somers was utterly unable to satisfy himself in regard to Lieutenant Pillgrim. The face was certainly familiar to him, not as a combination of remembered features, but rather as an expression. To him the eye seemed to be the whole of the man, and its gaze would haunt him, though his memory refused to identify it with any time, place, or circumstances. Though his reason compelled him to believe that he was mistaken, and that Mr. Pillgrim was actually a stranger, his consciousness of having seen, and even of having been intimate with, the gentleman, most obstinately refused to be shaken.
"Of course, gentlemen, you have no idea to what point the Chatauqua has been ordered?" said the commodore.
"I have not," replied Mr. Pillgrim.
"I have heard it said that she was going to the Gulf," added Somers.
"Very likely; there are two points where extensive naval operations are likely to be undertaken—at Mobile and at Wilmington. The rebellion has had so many hard knocks that the bottom must drop out before many months."
"I am afraid the end is farther off than most people at the North are willing to believe," said Mr. Pillgrim.
"Every thing looks hopeful. If we can contrive to batter down Fort Fisher, and open Mobile Bay, the rebels may count the months of their Confederacy on their fingers."
"I think there is greater power of resistance left in the South, than we give it the credit for."
"The rebels have fought well; what of it?" continued the commodore, who did not seem to be pleased with the style of the lieutenant's remarks.
"As fighting men, we can hardly fail to respect those who have fought so bravely as the people of the South."
"People of the South!" sneered the commodore. "Why don't you call them rebels?"
"Of course that is what I mean," answered Mr. Pillgrim, a slight flush visible on his cheek.
"If you mean it, why don't you say it? Call things by their right names. The people of the South are not all rebels. Why, confound it, Farragut is a Southerner; so is General Anderson; so are a hundred men, who have distinguished themselves in putting down treason. It's an insult to these men to talk about the people of the South as rebels."
"I agree with you, Commodore Portington, and what I said was only a form of expression."
"It's a very bad form of expression. Why, man, you are a Southerner yourself."
"I am; and I suppose that is what makes me so proud of the good fighting the people of the South—I mean the rebels—have done. We can't help respecting men who have behaved with so much gallantry."
"Can't we?" exclaimed the commodore, with a sneer so wholesome and honest, that Lieutenant Pillgrim withered under it. "I can help it. I have no respect for rebels and traitors under any circumstances."
"Nor I, as rebels and traitors," replied Pillgrim, mildly.
"As rebels and traitors! I don't like these fine-spun distinctions. If a man is a traitor, call him so, and swing him up on the fore-yard arm, where he belongs."
"You are willing to acknowledge that the rebels have fought well in this war?" added the lieutenant.
"They have fought well: I don't deny it."
"And you appreciate gallant conduct?"
"That depends on the cause. No, sir! I don't appreciate gallant conduct on the part of rebels and traitors. It is not gallant conduct; and the better they fight, the more wicked they are."
"I can hardly take your view of the case."
"Can't you? The best fighting I ever saw in my life was on the deck of a pirate ship. The black-hearted villains fought like demons. Not a man of them would yield the breadth of a hair. We had to cut them down like dogs. Is piracy respectable because these men fought well?"
"Certainly not; but the bravery of such men—"
"Nonsense! I know what you are going to say; but you can't separate the pirate from his piracy, nor the traitor from his treason," replied the commodore, warmly. "The other day I saw a little dirty urchin fighting with his mother. The young cub had run away, I suppose, and the woman was dragging him back to the house. He was not more than six years old, but he displayed a power of resistance which rather astonished me. He kicked, bit, scratched, and yelled like a young tiger. He called his mother everything but a lady. The poor woman tugged at him with all her strength, but the little rascal was almost a match for her. I wanted to take him by the nape of the neck, and shake the ugly out of him: nothing but my fixed principles of neutrality prevented me from doing so. I suppose, Mr. Pillgrim, you would have sympathized with the brat, because he fought bravely."
"Hardly," replied the lieutenant, laughing at the simile.
"But he fought like a tiger, and displayed no mean strategy in his rebellious warfare. Of course he was worthy of your admiration," sneered the commodore.
"That's hardly a fair comparison."
"The fairest in the world. The rebels have insulted their own mother—the parent that fostered, protected, and loved them. They undertook to run away from her; and when she attempts to bring them back to their duty, they kick, and scratch, and bite; and you admire them because they fight well."
"I stand convicted, Commodore Portington. I never took this view of the matter; I acknowledge that you are right," said Mr. Pillgrim.
Somers, who had been an attentive listener to the conversation, thought the lieutenant yielded very gracefully, and much more readily than could have been expected; but then the logician was a commodore, and perhaps it was prudence and politeness on his part to agree with his powerful superior.
After dinner the party took a ride to the beach and to the Glen; and after an early tea, Somers and Pillgrim, who were to be fellow-passengers to Philadelphia, where the Chatauqua was fitting out, began to demonstrate in the direction of their departure. Kate, though she had been tolerably playful during the afternoon, had, in the main, carried out her good resolution to be proper. She had not been impudent—hardly pert; and deprived of this convenient mask for whatever kindness she might have entertained towards the young ensign, she seemed to be very cold and indifferent to him. She was more thoughtful, serious, and earnest than when they had met on former occasions. He could not help asking himself what he had done to produce this marked change in her conduct.
"Good by, Miss Portington," said he, when he had taken leave of her father and mother.
"Good by, Mr. Somers. Shall I hear from you when you reach your station?" she asked, presenting her hand.
"If you desire it."
"If I desire it! Why, Mr. Somers, you forget that I am deeply interested in your success."
"Perhaps, if I do anything of which you would care to learn, the newspapers may inform you of the fact," replied Somers, with a kind of grim smile, which seemed actually to alarm poor Kate.
"I would rather hear it from you."
"I judge that you are more interested in my success than you are in me."
"Ah, Mr. Somers, you cannot separate the pirate from his piracy, pa said; nor the hero from his heroism, let me add."
"Thank you, Miss Portington."
"I cannot forget how deeply indebted we are to you, Mr. Somers."
"I wish you could."
"Why do you wish so?" demanded the astonished maiden; more astonished at his manner than his words.
"I am sorry to have you burdened with such a weight of obligation."
"I think you mean to quarrel with me, Mr. Somers. I beg you will not be so savage just as you are going away," laughed Kate, though there was a troubled expression on her fair face. "I asked you if I should hear from you, Mr. Somers."
"Certainly, if you desire."
"Why do you qualify your words? I should be just as glad to hear from you as I ever was."
"Then you shall, at every opportunity."
"Thank you, Mr. Somers. That sounds hearty and honest, as father would say."
"I do not wish you to feel an interest in me from a sense of duty. I shall not write any letters from a sense of duty, or even because I have promised to do so. I shall write to you because—because I can't help it," stammered Somers, almost overcome by the violence of his exertions.
"I thank you, Mr. Somers, and I am sure your letters will be all the more welcome from my knowledge of the fact."
"Good by," said he, gently pressing the little hand he held.
"Good by," she replied; and to his great satisfaction and delight, the pressure was returned—a kind of telegraphic signal, infinitely more expressive than all the words in the spelling-book, strung into sentences, could have been to a young man in his desperate condition.
Mr. Ensign Somers was now entirely satisfied. That gentle pressure of the hand had atoned for all her reserve and coldness, real or imaginary, and made the future bright and pleasant to look upon. Undoubtedly Mr. Somers was a silly young fellow; but there is some consolation in believing that he was just like all young men under similar circumstances.
Mr. Pillgrim followed him out of the house, and they hastened down to the wharf to take the steamer for New York. On the passage the two officers treated each other with courtesy and consideration, but there appeared to be no strong sympathy of thought or feeling between them, and they were not drawn so closely together as they might have been under similar circumstances, if there had been more of opinion and sentiment common between them.
On their arrival at Philadelphia, they found the Chatauqua was still in the hands of the workmen, and would not go into commission for a week or ten days. They reported to the commandant of the navy yard, and took up their quarters at the "Continental," where Somers found his old friend Mr. Waldron, who had been detached from the Rosalie at his own request, and ordered to the Chatauqua, in which he was to serve as executive officer. This was splendid news to Somers, for he regarded Mr. Waldron as a true and trusty friend, in whom he could with safety confide.
"Do you know Lieutenant Pillgrim?" asked Somers, after they had discussed their joint information in regard to the new ship.
"I am not personally acquainted with him, though I have heard his name mentioned. He is a Virginian, I think."
"Yes."
"If I mistake not, there were some doubts about his loyalty, though he never tendered his resignation; he has been kept in the background."
"He seems to be a loyal and true man."
"No doubt of it, or he would not have been appointed to the Chatauqua."
"He has some respect for the rebels, but no sympathy."
"I think he has frequently applied for employment, but has not obtained it until the present time. I have no doubt he is a good fellow and a good officer. He ranks next to me. But, Somers, I leave town in half an hour," continued Mr. Waldron, consulting his watch. "I am going to run home for a few days, till the ship goes into commission. I will see you here on my return."
Somers walked to the railroad station with his late commander, and parted with him as the train started. During the three succeeding days, he visited the museums, libraries, and other places of resort, interesting to a young man of his tastes. He went to the navy yard every day, and, with his usual zeal, learned what he could of the build, rig, and armament of the Chatauqua, and gathered such other information relating to his profession as would be useful to him in the future.
Lieutenant Pillgrim passed his time in a different manner. Though he was not what the world would call an intemperate or an immoral man, he spent many of his hours in bar-rooms, billiard-saloons, and places of public amusement. He several times invited Somers to "join" him at the bar, to play at billiards, and to visit the theatre, and other places of more questionable morality. The young officer was not a prude, but he never drank, did not know how to play billiards, and never visited a gambling resort. He went to the theatre two or three times; but this was the limit of his indulgence.
Mr. Pillgrim was courteous and gentlemanly; he did not press his invitations. He treated his brother officer with the utmost kindness and consideration; was always ready, and even forward, to serve him; and their relations were of the pleasantest character.
One evening, when Somers called at the office for the key of his room, after his return from the navy yard, a letter was handed to him. The writing was an unfamiliar hand, scrawling and hardly legible. It was evidently the production of an illiterate person. On reaching his room he opened it.