31 Before the Generals

I hoped that Elinor would come again soon, but time passed and she did not, nor did I hear from her; neither did any message come from Pembroke, Tourville, or De Courcelles, and I supposed that they had been called away from Richmond by the stress of military duty, a wholly likely guess. Elinor, I presumed, was not able to obtain leave to visit me a second time, and I resigned myself as best I could to an absence of all news from those for whom I cared most. I had heard nothing, of course, from my grandmother, but I believed that she and William Penn were safe. The centre of the war in the West seemed to have shifted from the neighbourhood of her house and to the southward. I was wondering who would prove our future leaders to victory, when my North Carolina guard told me in his rough but friendly way that I had visitors again. Two men were waiting this time to see me in the same little office next to that of the commandant. Pembroke and De Courcelles, I thought likely, as I was escorted to the room, but I had never seen before the two who awaited me there. They did not rise as I entered, but the elder motioned me quickly and with authority to a chair evidently placed for me.

I took the seat and met their stern, inquiring gaze with confidence. I have said that I never saw them before, but I knew them nevertheless. I was fully aware that I was in the presence of Lee and Jackson, the two great military figures of the Confederacy. We had heard so much about them in the prison—they had been described to us so often—that I could not be mistaken. My gaze, therefore, was as curious as theirs. General Lee sat nearest to me, a large man of impressive appearance, with a great dome of a head and open features. He was dressed with the most exact neatness, in his general’s uniform of Confederate gray, with a splendid sword at his side. He was the embodiment of dignity, and seemed to be in all respects a man who knew the world and its manners. Involuntarily I made a contrast between him and Lincoln, and yet I think there was something alike in their characters, although one preferred his State to his country, a view with which I can not agree.

Stonewall Jackson was more like Lincoln in figure and general appearance, barring the Northern President’s great height. He looked bent and awkward as he sat in the chair. An old gray cloak was wrapped about the upper part of his body, and came almost to his chin. His military boots were splashed with mud. His face was almost hidden by a thick, black, and ragged beard, and the flap of his hat, which he did not take off; but a pair of eyes as fiery as a coal glittered through the black tangle and let no movement or expression of mine escape them. Such was “Fool Tom” Jackson, the eccentric professor in peace, the great Stonewall Jackson of the civil war.

“Mr. Kingsford,” said General Lee, speaking in slow and precise tones, “there is a strange tale of you which has penetrated every house in Richmond, which has even reached our army at the front, and has been a cause of gossip around our camp fires. It connects you with a young lady and one of my most valiant and trusted officers.”

I saw that his cool gray eyes were watching me intently, and I did not flinch from his gaze.

“I can imagine what it is,” I said, as he paused, seeming to wait for a reply. “The young lady is Elinor Kingsford, my wife, and the man is Philip Augustus Varian, a general in your service.”

“Quite correct,” he said. “It is understood that you charged General Varian with attempting your life, or indirectly inciting attempts upon it, for private reasons. General Varian, on the contrary, denies this, saying too that you broke your parole, and stole a young lady away from her guardian.”

“Perhaps we had better drop the charge of stealing the young lady,” suddenly said General Jackson, speaking for the first time. “If you were of his age and were in love with her, you might have stolen her too.”

I was surprised and delighted at this unexpected support from such a quarter, but General Jackson said no more. A faint smile appeared on General Lee’s face, and the look that he bent upon me softened a little.

“General Jackson is right,” he said. “That sin, if it be a sin at all, is one of the sins of youth, and we can scarcely punish it in a country like ours, where it is happening many thousand times every year. But the matter of your parole is much more serious. You are aware that we can not deny the word of such a man as General Varian, and you have not a single witness to support your claim.”

“No, but I speak the truth,” I said boldly.

“There are those in the city who believe in you,” he continued, “and more who would support you if they could for your wife’s sake. It makes the strangest case that I have ever known, and because of its peculiar features we have come here at the President’s own request to see you and speak with you. Will you tell us this entire story?”

I related all the facts, so far as I knew them, from the beginning to the end, keeping Elinor as much in the background as I could, as I did not wish to discuss my wife with anybody. They listened with the most absorbed attention, an interest that seemed to me extraordinary on the part of two great generals, weighted with the cares of a mighty civil war. However straight my story, and however great the interest that Elinor might have excited in Richmond, our fate bore little relation to the work of these two men. Yet they missed no detail; instead, they often asked me to tell over again parts of my narrative, and always those parts were about Varian. I did not dream then of what was in their minds, nor did I have any intimation of it until long afterward.

“Yours is a tale which we would not have believed,” said Stonewall Jackson, speaking for the second time, “but there is a witness.”

“A witness!” I exclaimed.

He nodded his head.

“My wife?” I asked.

“No,” said General Lee, “not your wife. It would be held generally that she is not an impartial witness. We speak of another—a man, a Southern soldier. Do you know Major Titus Tyler, of Mississippi?”

I felt a sudden sense of shame. I had scarcely thought of the good major since last I saw him, but I quickly answered in the affirmative.

“A good man and a brave one,” said General Lee; “but not of great judgment, and overfond of talking. Still, all say that he is truthful. He was severely wounded in a skirmish in the Valley of Virginia a day or two after your escape from General Varian, and has just been invalided to Richmond. And he tells a tale, Mr. Kingsford, with which you are connected—a tale that is far more extraordinary than yours, one that we are compelled to investigate.”

“May I ask what it is?” I said, in growing wonder.

“Not now,” he replied, “although you will know beyond a doubt some day. But in view of the testimony of Major Tyler we have decided to keep you here and not exchange you, at least not for the present, and you need not concern yourself about the matter of the parole. As for the young lady, we have decided, with the full concurrence of the President, to take her from her aunt and place her with Mrs. Pembroke and her daughter. We would not have a right to do it if we were opposed, but there will be no opposition. You must be content with this.”

“I am more than content,” I said with deep gratitude. Yet I felt mystified, as if Elinor’s fortunes and mine had become entangled with others. But I was grateful enough to accept with thanks this unknown factor in our behalf. Elinor with her aunt was more or less in the power of Varian, and her removal to the house of the Pembrokes was a triumph.

The two generals then bade me a courteous good day and left. I was destined to see both once again, but under far different circumstances.

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