Peggy O'Neal

by Alfred Henry Lewis

“I am mighty sorry for the sprain,” said I, as I lifted Peg from the carriage.

“Are you?” quoth Peg, with an archness that would almost cloak the pain. “Now is that gallant of you, watch-dog?” Then, making a mock of my words and manner: “I am mighty glad for the sprain. Only, I could wish my mother lived farther away. I never knew how close she was till now.”

As the winter wore into spring, the talk to swell and grow was of Nullification. Calhoun's state of South Carolina had laid aside disguise, and while nothing worse than speeches, with now and then a doughty resolution, were indulged in, these showed ever of that rebellious sort that waited only to be turned into action to become sufficient treason. The General sat brooding and watching the drift; his plans of men and rifles and ships laid like a trap, and set to snap up in the jaws of them the first traitor to be afoot for that secession the Calhoun clique would claim was each state's holy right. Altogether, the days were on a strain, and hair turned white and folk went pale of the cheek with the worry of the question “How will this ferment end?”

The one query of most concern related to the General. What would he do? To what line would his resentment travel? Folk knew how he was against Secession and States Rights and Nullification, or whatever the name might be wherewith iniquitous rebellion pleased itself for the moment, but would he treat these sins of politics as stark treason? Would he fall back on courts and hangman's ropes in dealing with them?

No one might tell. The General, after he made himself plain with that Rhetz who came to spy out his resolves, would say no farther word. Ones in interest might go wrong or go right; as for the General himself, he would light no more lamps.

“Have I not told them what I will do?” cried the General. “Must I be out of my bed o' nights to tell them again? No; let these would-be treason-mongers proceed as they see their way. Besides, to hang the right man now may save the lives of later thousands.”

This was said for my ear alone; to no other would the General so much as give one look of yea or nay.

While the General would be the sphinx over Nullification, prudent rebellionists argued for a waiting strategy. There would dawn the anniversary of Jefferson's birthday; there would come that dinner at the Indian Queen; the General's conduct if not his words on that occasion must surely tell his story of decision. Should he remain away, they would know he feared to face them. Should he be present, they would try him with toasts of treason and mark his manner under fire. They would ask him for a sentiment; what he said or did in retort might give them every needed glimpse. Decidedly, it was wise to wait; Secession would keep; in the name of one's neck and a rope, proceedings might better be stayed until those toast experiments on the General were given a chance.

The General was well enough pleased with this uncertainty whereof he now found himself the hub. He guarded his words, left every man to grope out his own path for himself, and the days coursed on with the unanswered question of the General's determination in their mouths. Thus dwelt the business on that day of April from the developments whereof so much was to be hoped.

For the prior space of eight weeks or more the General had said little to me of that banquet planned of nullifiers to uncover him on those topics of perilous statecraft. Seeing his taste to be mysterious, I would say nothing to the General, whether to ask a question or give a hint of conduct, but left him to himself. I knew what he would do; and for the detail of how he would go upon its execution, I was the more willing to miss a forecast of it since I have a weakness for the unknown and am as prone as any other to save up surprise for myself. Wherefore, I would have the General make his own maps and design his own ambuscades, and leave me in blindness of them. On that April morning I owned no sure knowledge that the General would even attend the banquet, to say naught of what he might do or say if ever he once were there.