7 The Sheen of the Spears

The conversation lagged after my little triumph, and I rose presently to go home. Pembroke, Tourville, and Mason said that they would go too, and Varian suggested that he and his friends accompany us, at least part of the way.

So we threw on our cloaks and walked into the street. Finding the night pleasant, the chill of early spring being tempered by a gentle southern wind, and many stars shining, we strolled on together.

“I have such a sense of vastness here, gentlemen,” said De Courcelles, looking up at the skies, “but, I do not know whether it is that your country is so large or merely a trick that the imagination plays me because I learned in school of its great size.”

“It is the imagination only,” said Varian. “The country is about to be divided, and yet your sense of vastness is not diminished. Ah, see that signal light! and there goes another! and a third!”

Our eyes followed his pointing forefinger, and we saw far beyond the Potomac a red light shoot up, hang blazing for a moment against the sky of dusky blue, and then bursting into a spray of fire, sink and die away. It was followed by another, and then another, and then more until we counted six in all.

“Some of our Southern friends holding a little quiet conversation with each other,” said Varian. “It may mean something important, or it may be merely young militiamen seizing a chance to burn fireworks. But you see, Mr. Kingsford, what a fatal mistake you are making. The Southern armies are already gathering almost within sight of the capital, and your Northern Government is supine. Come with us! Come with the men whose courage and energy are a proof of what they will do. You are a Southerner yourself, and you should cling to your own people. The agreeable and the right go together in this case.”

I shook my head. It might be pleasanter to go with one’s own people, but I had settled that question long since. We were a little in advance of the others, and he turned to me suddenly.

“Have you ever thought,” he asked, “how your choice would affect you with Miss Maynard?”

I fancy that I looked my surprise at his use of Elinor’s name in such a conversation, but I suppressed it in a moment, though secretly wondering at his motive in asking the question, and replied:

“Miss Maynard believes as I do, despite her surroundings. We are in agreement upon that point.”

“Ah, yes, she thinks so for the present, but you do not know how easy it is to change a woman’s political opinions, and how much pressure can be brought to bear upon her. I do not mean it as a criticism, but rather as a compliment when I say that Miss Maynard is likely to be, a year from now, an enthusiastic adherent of the South. Believe me, Mr. Kingsford, you would be much wiser to seek your fortune with us.”

His manner was most ingratiating, and I do not know what reply I should have made, but at that moment Tourville interrupted. He had overtaken us and caught the latter part of Varian’s speech. His comment surprised me even more than Varian’s invitation.

“I think you are wrong, Mr. Varian,” he said positively. “If Henry believes that the South is wrong and the North is right, he ought to go with the North. Now, I know that the South is right, but you can’t convince Henry; I’ve tried it and failed.”

I was glad enough that Tourville had spoken, although he and I had had some fiery altercations on this very subject. It was always hard to tell which way his impulsive nature would swing him, but now it brought him to my side.

“I shall not argue with you, Mr. Tourville,” said Varian, with entire good nature. “Two are too strong for me, but I shall ask you to go with me to the railway station. Many Southerners start to-night on a pilgrimage, and the spectacle should be interesting.”

Then he told us that more than one hundred people were leaving on a special train for their homes in the South. I knew that many of them expected to return, but not to the capital of a united nation. His proposal was acceptable to all, our curiosity rising at once, and we changed our course,

I would have walked with De Courcelles, whom I wished to know better, but Varian held me with his conversation, seeming resolved that I should receive his whole attention that evening. However, my mind wandered from the subject as we talked. I felt that our little company was of a various character, of more than one nation, divided in regard to the coming struggle, and yet we were able to walk peacefully together. I wished that our example might serve.

We soon reached the station. It was a gloomy enough place, like all American railroad stations of the time, without the slightest ornamentation, with only the barest comforts, and not all of them; dusty brown walls, hard wooden benches, and an old stove emitting more smoke than heat, feebly attempting to warm the desolate room.

But the place was full of bustle and noise, and the dim lights showed many human faces. Men and women alike were going home, but, as I had thought, most of them were expecting to return. They talked much, and they were cheerful. It seemed never to occur to any one in that sanguine crowd that the result might he otherwise than they wished. Our own party was silent. Perhaps our discussions made us think more of the difficulties and dangers.

“You see how futile your Government is,” said Varian. “Many of these men are going away to fight you, and you know it; but you do nothing. What can you do? How can you hold a people who do not wish to be held?”

Another crowd began to gather about the station, a hostile and threatening crowd containing many roughs, men who might use violence. The emigrants, or exiles, as they called themselves, often talked rashly or with excessive heat, but both sides had abstained so far from physical force. Yet it looked as if the rule might be broken now.

A short, thick figure came out of the darkness, and the light fell upon the large head and powerful shoulders of Shaftoe.

“It’s curiosity that brought me here,” he said. “The same curiosity, I guess, that brought you.”

Some of us he knew, and I introduced him to the others.

“A fine specimen of your peasant class, I take it,” said De Courcelles aside.

“On the contrary, he belongs to our nobility, although he has no title,” I replied. I could never conceive of such a man as Shaftoe as a peasant, and, moreover, I disliked the word.

The mutterings of the crowd increased, and the departing Southerners, while taking no notice otherwise, used in their talk to each other allusions and jests that could not fail to irritate. It was unwise, but it was natural. I saw presently the senator from Texas, the man whose ironical face, as he leaned against the pillar at the inauguration, had impressed me so. He showed the same character now, regarding the crowd with indolent indifference, save now and then when he permitted himself a sarcastic smile. One of the roughs jeered at him, but he merely looked at the man contemptuously. The crowd pressed closer, and some came into the station. A policeman tried to keep them back, but he was outnumbered and shoved aside. “Traitors!” they shouted at the emigrants. The senator sneered, and moved his hand as if he were sweeping dirt away. One of the roughs laid hold of his collar, but the senator seized him instantly, and threw him against the wall. A rush was made for the offending Southerner, but Shaftoe sprang forward and hurled back the first man against the second.

“Stop!” he shouted. “These people must go away peacefully! I am a Northern man myself, as true as any of you, I hope, and you shall not disgrace us!”

“Your friend is bold and ready,” said Varian to me, “and, moreover, he is right. I shall help him.”

All of us stepped forward to the assistance of Shaftoe; and the crowd paused. The roughs looked us over, and, convinced by our numbers and strength, departed with their bruised comrade.

Then the emigration continued. The attack of the mob became a forgotten episode. The crowd resumed its light-heartedness and gaiety. Some one looking out at the capital with its lights twinkling in the dusk, quoted the words of the Numidian leaving old Rome, “venal city, about to perish!” but I remembered that it was the Numidian who came back to die in a dungeon at Rome, and Rome went on. I could not see that any of these people were troubled; they seemed to anticipate nothing but good fortune, and it struck me that the gravest moments of our lives are perhaps those that create the smallest apprehensions. It was obvious, however, that they felt they were in the right. They were firm in the belief that the North was wholly given up to a sordid commercialism, and that the grace and beauty of life remained in the South alone.

They were all aboard, the engine whistled, and away they went into the darkness, the lights of the train quickly dying.

“I do not wonder that you are silent and sad,” said Varian to me, as we walked back toward the central part of the city. “When a scene like this impresses so much a stranger, one whose interest is not personal, as it does me, I can understand the effect that it must have upon you, who have ties alike with those who remain and those who stay.”

I wondered if his sympathy were genuine, but I thanked him for it.

Elinor and Mrs. Maynard left for their home two days later under the escort of Varian, who, I was told, was to have a Confederate command in the Southwest. When I said good-bye to Elinor I could not refrain from warning her.

“Elinor,” I said, “I do not trust Mr. Varian.”

“Perhaps he does not trust you, and so you are even,” she said, looking at me with a quick smile.

“I do not seek to jest,” I replied, “but I could wish on your account that Mrs. Maynard had sought the advice and protection of any other.”

“Perhaps I am able to take care of myself,” she said, her cheeks reddening and a flash appearing in her eyes. I saw that I had made a mistake, and I talked of other things. I remember her now as she was on that last day, tall and slender and beautiful, and not like those who had gone away in the night, laughing and full of eager anticipations, but grave and sad and seeming to look ahead to events which could furnish no triumph.

Mrs. Maynard gave me a cold farewell. Varian was courteous, even showing warmth in his manner.

“We may meet soon, Mr. Kingsford,” he said, “and if we do, it is most likely that it will be on the battlefield; then I trust that the stronger will be able to show mercy.”

I noticed that the man Blanchard, his face as heavy and lowering as ever, was with him, and I liked his presence but little.

Then all my friends departed—Major Tyler, Pembroke, Mason, Tourville, and even De Courcelles, who went to New York on business for the French Government, so he said. The city was lonely when they were gone.

The war clouds thickened fast, and shots were heard.

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