CHAPTER XIV.
DARK HOURS.
The rapid pace of Ernest soon brought him to the quarters of his Brigadier General, a man whose name is inseparably connected with the battle of Bull Run. After the Brigadier had heard the touching story of Mildred’s arrest and incarceration, he gave, without hesitation, the distressed young man a permit to visit Gen. A.
In less than two hours after this, Ernest was thundering along toward Gen. A.’s headquarters, which he reached about four o’clock in the evening. After the ceremony necessary to secure access to a General, he entered the little farm house to which allusion has already been made, and introduced himself. There is never much social intercourse between the higher and subordinate officers of an army. There is a great gulf between them which is rarely crossed. In visiting a high officer, it is not expected that the subaltern shall make familiar remarks about the weather or any other ordinary topic. He must come to business in medias res.
“Well, sir, what can I do for you?” asked Gen. A. in that impatient military tone which indicates that the applicant must talk fast and to the point.
“Some days ago, sir,” said Ernest, stung by his frigid reception, “you sent a young lady of this neighborhood into Washington, where she was arrested and will probably be doomed to death, if she has not already been.”
“Well?”
“Well!” exclaimed Ernest, vexed at the General’s coolness and seeming indifference, “she is my affianced.”
“Well, go on.”
“Are you not going to make some effort for her relief,” cried Ernest, warming into boldness, “or do you propose to let her perish?”
“I should like to know what I can do?” quoth Gen. A.
“I do not know what you can do,” cried Ernest in desperation, “but you ought to do something, since you are the cause of her misfortune.”
“Am I to be held responsible for all the calamities which the war may bring upon citizens and soldiers?” broke out the General. “If so, I shall resign my position at once. The young lady herself will not hold me to such responsibility. She went with a full knowledge of what she would have to encounter.”
“Suppose she did, sir, does that make it any the less necessary that efforts should be made to save her?”
“I would save her, if I could,” said the officer.
“General,” cried Ernest, overcome by his conflicting emotions, “something must be done for her relief. It seems to me that you are too indifferent about it.”
The General looked at him in surprise and with an expression of sternness, but Ernest was now deeply agitated, and he met the official coup d’ oeil without the slightest indication of servility.
“I cannot stay here in camp,” continued Ernest, “when the being who is dearer to me than life is in such imminent danger. You cannot expect me to be a good soldier under such circumstances.”
“Well, what do you want?” asked Gen. A.
“I must do something,” replied Ernest. “Can you aid me in getting into Washington?”
“If you were there, what could you do?”
“I do not know what, General, but I am willing to risk my life in the attempt to save her.”
“I cannot see,” said the General, whose feelings were beginning to soften at the sight of the young man’s distress, “what you could do if you were in the city.”
“General, I must go.”
“If you do go, you are liable to be arrested as a spy yourself.”
“I will have to take that risk. General. How did you enable her to go into the city?”
“O, that is managed easily enough.”
“Then, General, in heaven’s name, let me go,” exclaimed Ernest, “let me go. If I do not save her, I will return and devote my life to avenging her death. I will be the bravest soldier in your army.”
“Very well, sir, you can try it.”
“Thanks, General, ten thousand thanks. I shall never forget your kindness as long as I live. When can I start?”
“Whenever you please,” said Gen. A.
“Then I will go at once,” said Ernest, “I do not want to lose a moment.”
Gen. A. immediately gave Ernest the necessary directions. It is no part of our story to explain how Gen. A. enabled people to go in and out of Washington. It is sufficient to say that he did it. As we have already remarked, the real history of the war has never been written, and never will be. The most thrilling portions of it will remain in eternal obscurity. Many stirring incidents will linger for a while in individual memories, and will enliven the fire-sides of families for a few years, and then perish forever. Not many ever knew how Ernest made his way into Washington, but the next day he saw the capitol of the United States. This, however, was the least of his difficulties. How could he find Mildred? And what could he do after finding her? But he determined to make every effort in his power, trusting to chance to furnish opportunities. Fortune soon seemed to favor him. For the next day after his arrival, he was standing on a certain street, which it is not necessary to name, gazing about in a vacant way, while thoughts were revolving in his mind, connected with the object of his visit. He was opposite the hotel at which he was stopping. Accidentally, it seemed, casting his eye upward, he beheld a lady at the window of the corner room of the fourth story. She was looking down on the crowds below as they went hurrying along the street. Ernest, after a moment’s examination, recognized her. He waved his hand till, at last, he attracted her attention. Mildred gazed at him earnestly for a moment, and waved responsively in token of recognition. Ernest placed his fingers upon his mouth in a significant manner, which she understood. He stood for a brief space in profound study, but suddenly disappearing, crossed the street, and entered the hotel. He ascended to the fourth story where his own room was located. Mildred was on the same floor in the corner room. He had noticed the guard at the door, but till now, knew not who the prisoner was. Approaching the sentinel, he spoke in a tone sufficiently loud for Mildred to hear:
“Whom are you guarding?”
“It seems to be a leddy,” replied an Irishman, “but how shud I know who she be?”
“What are your instructions?” asked Ernest.
“Why, to let no one in nor out, to be shure.”
“Is the door locked?” asked Ernest.
“Faith is it, and the kay is gone.”
“Who has it?”
“The Capting, I guess.”
“What is the lady confined for?”
“Narry bit do I know.”
“Will you not let me speak to this lady through the keyhole?” asked Ernest.
“Och! what would ye be afther doin’? Do ye want me to be a traitor to my counthry?”
“No, no; I do not want you to be a traitor,” said Ernest in a low tone. “Are you a married man or not?”
“Faith no, but I expect to be, as soon as this whar is over, which I hope wont be a ghreat toime; an’ then I’ll be marrhid to one of the moust beautiful geerls in the whoul city.”
“Then listen to me, my friend. You are engaged to be married, and so am I. Now suppose your girl were confined in that room, and I should be standing guard in your place, and you should come up, and ask me to let you speak one little word to her through the keyhole, and I should refuse, what would you think of me?”
“Faith, I’d take you to be a mane rascal.”
“Well,” said Ernest eagerly, “the girl you have in that room has promised to marry me. I have not spoken to her for several months. Now, will you drive me away without letting me speak to her?”
“Och; that’s it, is it? By the houly St. Pathrick, I cud niver find it in me heart to deny a feller that small a favor. Biddy would call me a mane dog, ef I was to do as dhirty a trick as that. It’s spaking to her, is it? Well spake, but be as quick as you ken.”
“Thank you, thank you, my good friend,” said Ernest, as tremblingly he applied his mouth to the key-hole.
“Mildred? Mildred!” he called.
“O, Ernest, is it you?” she asked, drawing her chair to the door.
“Yes; are you well?”
“I am, except heart-sickness.”
“I do not know how you have stood it.” replied Ernest. “But what are your prospects?”
“O! they are dark, Ernest, so dark at times. But how came you here?”
“I came to find out about you.”
“Are you not in danger?” she asked.
“I do not know. I never thought of any personal danger. O, Mildred, you cannot imagine what I have endured. But the worst has not come.”
“Try to be brave,” she said. “There is a God who rules in the affairs of men. I have not lost faith in Him. I am in His hands, and I know He can raise up friends to aid me in the darkest hours of misfortune. I spend the most of my time in prayer, and were it not for my belief, I fear I should lose my mind. I try so hard to be reconciled to God’s will, but sometimes, when I think of my parents and sisters, it is hard to keep down the spirit of rebellion.”
“If anything worse than imprisonment happens to you,” said Ernest, “I shall be tempted to doubt the goodness and justice of God.”
“Do not talk that way,” she said, as if horrified. “I would rather die a thousand times than have one harsh thought of my God. Our times are in His hands, and He has determined when and how we shall die, and He will do right. I am distressed not so much on account of myself as of my family.”
“You have no thought for me?” asked Ernest.
“Yes, I include you with the family.”
“O, Mildred!” he exclaimed in tones of anguish, “I love you better than my own life. God knows if I could take your place, and restore you to freedom, I would willingly and cheerfully do it.”
“I believe you, Ernest, but I could not ask you to make such a sacrifice, even if it were possible. But the good Lord knows what is best. I have no fears.”
“Do you have any hope of escape?”
“I cannot say that I have any particular hope. I have no plans at all. I leave the matter in God’s hands. He has appointed the time, place and manner of my death, and I cannot die till God’s time arrives. You know in what faith my father has trained me. I will trust my God though He slay me.”
“O, Mildred, I do wish I had such a firm faith as yours. It seems to sustain you under the most fearful circumstances.”
“So it does. Sometimes,” she continued with tears of joy in her eyes, “I feel happy at the thought of so soon going to the blessed mansions which Jesus is preparing for them that love Him.”
“And, sometimes, Mildred, I hate myself for my spiritual infirmities. While you can look upon death as a blessing, I cannot but see in it a calamity—I cannot regard it as anything else—that you should be taken from me and your family in the prime of life, especially—. I cannot finish the sentence.”
“You were going to say,” replied Mildred with perfect calmness, “especially if I should die such a violent death as makes you shudder to contemplate.”
“Yes, yes,” said Ernest in an agitated manner, “it maddens me to think about it. I can never forgive Gen. A. for bringing you into this awful situation.”
“But you must do it, Ernest. God requires it at your hands.”
“O, Mildred, I cannot see the hand of a merciful providence in this misfortune,” suddenly cried Ernest. “It appears cruel.”
“You are very rebellious,” rejoined Mildred gently, “and I am sorry to see it. You will have to learn to guard your tongue and thoughts, or God will mercifully subdue your proud spirit by a worse misfortune.”
“What can be worse than this?” cried Ernest bitterly. “I would be better reconciled if I were in your place.”
“Then, perhaps, God is now causing you to pass under the chastening rod by allowing the misfortune, as you call it, to befall me. The loss of my life, at this time, may be necessary to the accomplishment of some good purpose. Suppose I should die, the separation from my loved ones will not be long. Thank God! We will all soon meet under brighter skies, where no cannon roars, no tear is shed, no sickness comes, no death invades, but where there is universal peace, joy and love.”
“O, Mildred,” exclaimed Ernest, “you are so much better than I am. You are as pure as the angels, and I am not worthy of you. I I wish I could believe this Presbyterian doctrine as you do. I can see that it is this which enables you to bear up under the darkest trials, and in the face of death.”
“I am not so good and pure as you seem to believe,” answered Mildred, “but I am glad to say I fully endorse the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church. Yet there are moments when the spirit of rebellion rises up in me. Frequently I find myself shedding tears.”
“I do not see how you can help it,” said Ernest in surprise. “Surely there is no rebellion in that.”
“I fear there is,” replied Mildred. “It seems like anticipating God’s purposes. What is the use of grieving over a misfortune that may never come? God may send deliverance in some very unexpected way. Nothing is too hard for Him.”
“O, Mildred, I feel as helpless as a child. I have worked my way into this city, and now, having found you, I can do nothing. You have had no trial, I infer.”
“No, not yet.”
“You may have to languish here for months before they reach your case. I know something about the military courts.”
“Probably you will put your own life in jeopardy by remaining here,” said Mildred. “You can be of no advantage to me and you would better return.”
“I would not be worthy of you, if I could not cheerfully risk my life for you. Have you heard nothing from Gen. A.?”
“Not a word.”
“I feel as if I never can forgive him.”
“You are very wrong,” answered Mildred mildly. “Gen. A. could never have persuaded me to undertake such a business if I had not wanted to serve my country. My life is of no more value than the lives of thousands of soldiers who fall upon every field.”
At this juncture the Irishman who had moved off several paces from the door approached and said:
“Haven’t you talked long enough?”
“Do you ever become tired of talking to your girl?” asked Ernest.
“No, i’ faith,” replied the guard. “Biddy is a rose, she is, an’ she don’t give me much chance to talk—she has such a lively tongue herself. But I’m afeerd for ye to stay here iny longer.”
“I will not impose upon you,” replied Ernest, “nor take advantage of your kindness. I am so much obliged to you.”
“I hope ye’v hed a pleasint chat with the leddy,” said the Irishman.
“Yes, but let me bid her adieu.”
“Certainly ye may, an’ I’ll move mesilf off so’s I may’nt hear your swate words. I know how ’tis with Biddy, mesilf.”
“Mildred,” said Ernest, “the sentinel will not permit us to converse longer. I must leave you and I know not when I can see you again. The next guard may not be as kind as this one.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Not far. My room is on this floor. I shall watch for any chance for saving you that may arise. God bless you. Good-by.”
“Good-by. Pray for me.”
“I need to ask your prayers,” replied Ernest. The young man turned sorrowfully away, went to his room, fell upon his knees, and cried to God in anguish of spirit. He prayed that he might have the sublime faith of Mildred. He felt humbled under a sense of his helplessness.
It seems to be natural to us to cry to the Supreme Being in the hours of distress. The most immoral men will pray to God when misfortunes come upon them. They have no faith in it, but the inner soul becomes frightened; it almost proclaims its independence of its physical environments, and expresses its wants through the reluctant organs of the body. Therefore, wicked men pray in times of danger.
