Rensselaer Republican, Volume 17, Number 51, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 August 1885 — TOM JONES. [ARTICLE]

TOM JONES.

Tom Jones was a tall, awkward, shaggy-haired fellow of 20 years. He worked hard on the Chandler farm, in Kentucky, about fifty miles from the Ohio, near the little town cf W . His fellow-lalorers, whose greatest delight was to crack coarse jokes, spit tobacco juice, and “go a-sparking” on Sundays in “store clothes” and highheeled boots, thought Tom was “uncommon dull.” They only liked him because he was good-natured, willingly—it was thought blindly taking the hardeat, row to hce or the meanest team to drive a-field, but he never shared their Tup or joined in the loud mirth which followed Charley Meeks’ sallies of wit. He did not dance, neither did he drink whisky or “court the girls.” He spent the evenings, Sundays, and rainy days alone, reading the books which the old school-teacher lept him, but the boys thought he read only because he was two dull to tell jokes or too timid to talk to the girls. It is true they all remembered how one day Charley had made a coarse joke about Mary" Chandler’s parentage. Tom had very unexpectedly thrown cold water on the resulting merriment by declaring, in language that was no less forcible for being grammatical, that if ever again he heard Charley Meeks or any one else speak of Mary Chandler in anything hut a respectful terms, he would so chastise the offender that earth would be to him hotter than hades. But they looked upon that only as a proof of Tom’s inability to appreciate a good joke and his ignorance of tbe uses, of womankind. And Mary was a favorite, too, in that neighborhood. All loved her, and even the witty Charley would have done anything she asked, even to the extent of keeping his tongue for half an hour at a time. But no one knew exactly who she was. From her most tender childhood she had lived at John Chandler’s house, borne his name, and been treated as his daughter; but the old man had never confided to anyone the secret of her birth, and, more, he had met all queries in this regard with such stern intimation that it was nobody’s business that no One had for a lofig time made any attempt to discover the how almost dead secret. Mary was pretty. A wealth of waving hair fell like moulton gold on her shapely* shoulders, and her blue eyes, rosy lips, sparkling teeth, and delicate complexion were supplemented with a graceful form and sunny disposition that forced the admiration and won the affection of all who knew her. She was but 17, modest and retiring as she was happy and industrious, and no young fellow in a circuit of twenty miles but would gladly heve joined his lot to hers. But she encouraged no lovers. She talked to Tam perhaps mope freely than to anyone else. They had gone to school together, and no more assiduous devotion was' ever show to mortal being than Tom had given to Mary. No one, however, thought of it as a love affair. “What a jackass Tom is to be always talking ’rithmetic and what not to Mary Chandler,” the boys would say. “If she would give me a chance, I think I’d sing another tune, eh? But he ain’t got no gumption." Tom had devoted himself without reserve to Mary’s Sleasure. To know her wish was for im to gratify it. His first efforts in the Study of books had been dedicated to her. His greatest ambition was to win her approval; his life’s purpose to make her happy. Yet he had not thought of love in those school-bov days. He was only sure that Mary was the perfection of wohmnhood, and that whatever she approved was necessarily good. -Happy, adolescent passion ! Like the brightest of flowers, it adorns the spring time of oiir life; its withered petals perfume our latest memories on earth, and preserve everlasting faith in our hearts. Tom’s early love waa of that stalwart growth that outlived his boyish fancies * and took a permanent place in the aspi rations of hisj manhood. He resolved to be truly greet that he might be worthy of Mary Chandler’s affection to win position, wealth, and influence that she might be proud of him, anc

-he determined, whatever might chance, neveir to breathe a word of his great ambition until he had proven his ability. Thence grew the sober thoughtfulness that eaused his companions to call him dull; thence, too, his earnest labor to gain the education without which he could hope for nothing. Such was the situation in the summer that saw the beginning of our great national struggle for the preservation of our nation. Thon it was that an unforeseen event directed by the hand of Providence overthrew our hero’s cherished hopes and cast a lasting shadow over the prospects he had so industriously painted in sunshine. Farmer Chandler had a brother who had died many years ago, broken-hearted at the desertion of his -young wife, whoso retreat he had been unable to discover. And, dying, he had left his fortune afid his son Henry to the care of the old farmer, knowing well that beneath his coarse garb there beat a heart which knew nothing but honesty and kindness. Henry had been raised at collegdj and for three yards had been making his apprenticeship at law in the office of an old Lexington lawyer. Failing health during this summer brought him to the country and to old Chandler’s house. Henry was handsome and well dressed; he had the habit of society, was pleasant and attentive to Mary, and she, unsuspecting the nature of Tom’s interest in her, never saw her old school-fellow without torturing his heart with cruel descriptions of Henry’s superior endowments. Humanity abided in Tom’s breast, and with its strength also its little weaknesses. Tom bought himself a new suit of clothes and fine boots, which only accentuated the contrast between him and his rival. He began taking care of his finger-nails, and twice a week shaved his sunburnt visage with devoted care. Still hope lived in his heart, until one day, at tbe turning of the old poplar-shaded road down by the creek, he ventured to say to May, whom he had met and stopped for a talk: “It seems to me you are thinking a good deal too much of this city gentleman." “Why, Tom, how could I?” was the ready answer, “you know he is my cousin, and then—that’s a seoret yet—we are engaged." 7s ’

The sound of Gabriel’s trumpet would have been sweet music to Tom’s ear compared to those words. He had schooled himself to endurance as a necessary ally in tho arduous task he had undertaken, but this was too much. His heart seemed to cease beating, he grew dizzy, his frame shook like a battered walL He felt that all hope had at once deserted him; all the fanciful future, whose wealth and beauty he had treasured as his own, at once disappeared, and the future appeared to him as a desert, in whose heated sands he saw himself alone, hopeless, and overburdened, sinking down, never to rise. Wiihont the support of the rugged trunk beside which he stood, lie would have fallen. May sprang to his assistance.” “What is the matter, Tom? You are sick. Sit down till I get some water,” and she ran to the creek, using her straw hat and handkerchief to carry water to bathe her old friend’s head. But he had summoned a temporary energy. It was her happiness he wished—not his. Did he let her know the agony she had inflicted, her joy would be marred by his misery. He met her with a smile that ill became his pallid face, but it was almost without a tremor that he said: “Beallv, that’s funny—l felt—l got—dizzy, and, if it had for that old tree, I" believe I would have fallen—and just when yon were telling me your engagement, wasn’t it? Well, I sincerely hope he will make you as happy as—as you deserve.” And with that she soon went her way, ignorant of the deadly wound she had dealt. But when alone Tom Jones contemplated the dismal ruin Which had overtaken his dearest hopes, a great despair took possession of his heart. At first he could not realize it. He sought to imagine it was only a dream. Then he cried in his agony: “My God! have you no pity, no mercy, to rob me at once of all hope, all joy, all future ? Close your heaven forever before me, but g;ive me hack my Mary.” This great passion soon exhausted his -physical strength, and for a long time he sat on the root of that old beech near where he had parted with Mary, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands—stupefied, unnerved, almost insensible. „

The little creek ran softly by; beyond was the meadow hill, rich in the sunshine, with its glossy herd of fat cattle, and over the hill ran the old turnpike that, like a silver thread over emerald and gold, circled around the fertile hills of Kentucky. Suddenly an unwonted sound came rippling through the air, and to the ears of poor Tom brought gradual consciousness and snrprise. It seemed to bring the answer to the question which paralyzed his senses. “What shall I do now?” and there seemed nothing on earth that could be done, till tjhe sound of drum and fife in martial tune aroused his sleeping consciousness and brought the inspired reply: “To the war.” “Yes, to the war," he said. “I will go at once, and who what may happen?” A melancholy smile revealed- the secret, though. To the hope of happiness had succeeded, in an hour, the hope of death. * The summer days were spent, the autumn fruit gathered, and the stripped trees now mourfied in the winter’s gale. The ruling star of Gen. Grant led him on to forts Henry and Donelson. A party of skirmishers h&d been sent to scour a wood from which an ambush might he expected—in fact, toward the outer edge of a thicket a party of mounted rebels had been surprised in counsel, fired upon, some dismounted, the others put to flight and pursued down ihe fallow land beyond. Tom Jones was the officer in charge, and he, satisfied that the woods were now clear, was returning at the head of his troup to give an account of the skirmish, when it occurred to him tha* the extreme edge of the ridge whfire the cleared land began might command an extended view of the valley which he had failed to take advantage of, and commanding his men to march slowly on, he turned his horse

and galloped to the place indicated. With the aid of a field-glass he inspected the largo expanse of country before him, and was just turning bis horse’s head toward camjr when a sharp report and the wicked whistling of a ballet in close proximity to his ear awakened him to danger and to caution. A rapid and experienced look sooa revealed to him a rebel "soldier lying behind an old fallen trunk, and in the act of introducing a second cartridge into his carbine. It did not take long for Tom to make up his mind. , To whip out his saber and charge upon his enemy was the affair as an instant The next, the rebel, who had risen to elude the horseman, found himself overthrown by the shook of the animaTg. abreast and bleeding from a deep cut on the shoulder, ancl before he, could recover himselfjTbm’s sabre was in such close proximity to his heart that he involuntary threw up his hande. Tom's face had been flushed with excitement of conflict for his life, Rut now that for the first time he looked closely Ut the features of his antagonist, his own became livid with hatred, while his lips trembled and a strange fire gleamed in his eye. It whs no longer the soldier 'defending his life, but the individual man, brimful of intense passion, meditating murder. “Ah,” he cried, “I know you now. You are Henry Chandler, are you not? You left a sweetheat in Grant county, whom you expect to return to in triumph after the war. Say, is that not so?” And he looked upon the poor fellow as if he had just convited him of the most heinofts and unnatural crime imaginable. „"" “Yes, that is so.” Henry wonderingly mused, “but who are you, and what lias that to do with the present situation ?” “It has this to do—do yon hear?— that I am going to kill you right here, and there is no power on earth can save you.” As he spoke his eyes fell upon a package of papers that lay in the shrubbery near where the rebel soldier had first been espied. He sprang forvard and seized them. But Henry would not give them up without a struggle, and he made a desperate effort to wrench them • from Tom’s iron grip; but he was delicate, and, moreover, weakened by pain an< T loss of blood, while Tom, who had always been large and sinewy, drew additional strength now from the unwonted excitement under which he was laboring, so that in less time than it Should take to describe the manner of it he had overthrown the poor rebel, pinned him to the ground under his knee, and so secured his hands that further resistance was impossible.- He then hurriedly looked over the paper, and it was with a joy no less fierce than his late passionate fury that he said : “Oh, ho! we’ve been playing the spy, eh ? the number of men, line of march, and all in first-class order;- I congratulate you, Mr. Chandler. And now we can go. It is useless for me to kill you now, for to-morrow at daybreak, if I mistake not, your graceful form will adfcrn a gibbet.” •~. - ■

Tom was not worse than other men. This savage spe§ch was only the outburst of long-pent-up jealousy and hatred, and his moral faculties were so paralyzed for the time being that he would certainly have ended Henry’s earthly career had not the discovery of the compromising papers revealed to him and, to his conscience, a safer means to the same end. He fastened his horse’s halter to Henry’s manacled hands, and mounting his horse ordered the unfortunate prisoner to march. While they were slowly and silently winding their way toward camp; Tom began to review the situation and reflect calmly upon the crime he had contemplated. He thought of Mary. How would she receive the news of her lover’s death? What would she think of the man who had brought him to the cruel bar of martial law ? Finally, in a tone so much m contrast with that of his last remark that *Henry looked up in surprise, he asked how it happened that a man of Henry’s parts should be pursuaded to play the dangerous and unhonorable part of a spy. “There is no danger,” answered the prisoner with much enthusiasm, “that I would not gladly encounter in behalf of the caxise I am serving; but I am not and oould n:.ver be a spy. If yon know me you should understand that. These papers were intrusted to me by- pne of your soldiers, who for money betrayed his companions and his country. I could prove that, but I shall dio rathor than break the promise of secrecy I gare the scoundrel.” And, stopping short: “Do not think, either, that you \Vill have the pleasure of seeing me die the death of a miscreant. I am determined yon shall kill me before we reach camp,” and, suiting the action to the word, he made q violent start which broke the tetlierthat bound him to tho horse, but he wms unable to maintain his balance. He fell headlong, an d was making a desperate effort to regain his feet when Tom, who had quickly dismounted, came to his assistance. He deftly untied the now bleeding hands and said: “You can go now. Take that ravine down to the creek, and once there go right up over the ridge, where yon will probably find the detachment I have just pushed out of the woods,” and vaulting upon his horse lip was soon out of sight. Tom aeljvered the papers to his superior officer, claiming to have pursued a spy, who, fearing capture, had thrown away the compromising papers. His comrades found him more melancholy, more daring, and more reticent than ever, hut none ever suspected in what a violent battle Tom had fought and conquered. It was many a day after that, and Tom seemed to bear a charmed life, for, though he was always in the forefront of battle, and never missed an occasion to risk his lisp in the pursuit of honor, or in the defense of his fellow-soldiers, he had never received the slightest wound. The discipline of war-had given him a military mien, and melancholy had imparted a thoughtful and dignified expression to his countenance, so that one wonld hardly recognize in gallant Capt. Jones the awkward farmer boy of three years ago. The great work of the siege of Vicksburg was slowly progressing. The .tannon daily thundered over the city; daily the works crept closer and closfcr to the defense, and-almost daily, too,

! tho brave rebels sought by vigorous ! attacks to break the lino wliicb neomad inevitably would crush them. Ooe day after a desperate engagement, which had scattered tho dead and dying all over the ground separating tho iamous rifle-pits from the works of the besieged, the cries of the helpless wounded were piteous in the extreme, but the discharge of cannon still continued, and a second sortie was momentarily expected, so tlpt it was impossible without the most imminent danger to render the poor sufferers any assistance. A voice more distinct and persistent than the others had not ceased begging for water to quench his thirst or a bullet to end his suffering, and many of the boys in blue had to make a supreme effort to keep their eyes dry, in spite of their two years’ service. Presently the voice began another strain. It was evident that fever had caused the poor fellow’s mind to wander. He cried out, “Mary, they’re going to kill me at last. Never forget those bloodthirsty bluecoats. They did it, Mary. Oh, you’ll be a widow before we are married. But never forget these Yankee cut-throats; never think of taking one of' my murderers to fill my place. Water! Water! If you won’t give me some water, why don’t you have the heart to kill me?” And he continued incessantly in that strain, to the great distress of these in hearing. Some spoke of sending a merciful bullet to his relief, when a young officer who had been sitting apart with his face in his hands suddenly arose, and, walking by the speaker, he sfid: “No, no. not think of shooting a wounded man. lam going to bring him in.” “What! You don’t mean it!” the men said. “You ain’t a-going to walk out among that grape and shell to help an infernal rebel who’s been a-cursing us this hour ?” “Yes. You know the poor fellow is delirious; he is not responsible for what he is saying; and then, you know he may live to make that lady he is talking about happy—who knows?” And he walked up quickly—not hurriedly—among the falling bombs and the shell and grape. He took up the delirious soldier in his arms and carried him back to the pit. It was done in an instant. Five thousand soldiers hidden from each other’s view had witnessed the daring feat, and sent up a hearty hurrah of admiration of the hero who had just walked in the face of death to save a life. God protects tho heroic. Tom Jones had not received a scratch, and he had amply atoned for a moment of murderous intent by saving for th 9 second time his rival’s life. The future offered him no reward, and no doubt he felt that he had raised one more obstacle between himself and happiness. But the pang of hopelessness was mellowed with the consciousness of a noble deed, worthy of his deep devotion. We know not what fruit may follow the fragrant bloom nf heroic endeavors. Vicksburg fell and opened a wide gateway to the south. Gettysburg’s conflict was followed by a grateful shout of victorious patriotism. The summer waned and the departing year filled to overflowing tho hopeful hearts that were battling for the union, and soon the ever-swelling voice of victory rent a joyful peal that va3 no longer liop'e but well-assured success from the field of Appomattox. Then the heaving breasts of mothers, wives, and daughters left at home grew tremulous wirh fond anticipation. The mourners wept, and, against reason, hoped; the rejoicing sympathized with the weeping, and alt thanked God that the end of strife had come at last, r Old Chandler's household wept with uncertain joy. Paroled at Vicksburg, Henry was there; so was Aunt Betsy and Mary and old Grandpa Bedmond, the father of old Chandler's departed wife ; hut the stout farmer had not heard his country call unheedingly. Two years ago he had left for the army, gray-headed though he was, and given the farm in charge t« his sister Betsy. During the first year news came from Him at intervals, but now twelve months had passed since a word or a message had been received, and though nono had heard of his death the palpdating heart of the “home folks” beat with alternate hope and fear. Henry and Mary had agreed to wait till the' end, till their hopes were realized or their fears verified, before consnmmaiingtheirengagement. Many a time they had told- each other that their wish was vain; many a time they had set a day beyond which hope would be unreasonable. Aunt Betsy always delayed them with, “I know he will come. John ain't made of mush, and if any of ’em como home from them rebel jails I tell you he will.” Three months had passed since the boys had been mustered out, and yet no news had come from John Chandler. Some one had heard that Tom Jones had received an appointment in the regular army with the grade of Colonel, but no one had heard from him directly. At last one sunny afternoon in October, w hile Henry and Mary were gathering the winter store of apples in the orchard, a buggy came rattling np tho piko unheeded! It stopped at the gato and a tffil gentleman in black got out and tenderly helped his companion—an old, trembling, and- hoary-headed man from his seat. They came slowly up’ the walk, aiid no one saw the greedy look with which the younger man scanned the doors and windows, the flower-garden, and the lawn. They reached the porch. The old man stopped and sighed. A tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek. “I had given up all hope of seeing home again,” he said. “God bles3 you, Tom. Now I can die.” "No, indeed; not yet,” said his companion. “You have many a year to live. Best and quiet and good nursing will give you .new strength.” They entered the door. The clean, tidy room was just the same as when the old than had left it nearly thirty months before; the rag carpet was bright and clean as ever; the heavyposted bed with immaculate sheets and pillow slips stood in the same place, the tittle table still supported the great family Bible, the wide chimney-place was filled with fresh, leafy oaken boughs, tho grandfather’s picture hung over the mantel All was there as he had left it, and each was a friend whose silent greeting drew a tear from the granite heart that hid npt quaked

to look on death, and destitution, and Buffering in every shape that war and pestilence can engender. Nor was the tender spoil broken till Aunt Betsy, who had heard a noise from the kitchen, came to the door. At first she stopped and dropped an involuntary courtesy to the stately gentleman of military mien who stood beside tho old man’s bent and weeping form. Then with a sweeping start she rushed to her knees beside the old rocking chair, and, with uncertain voice, “Can this be you, John?” she said. “My poor old brother!” and don't you know your Betsy ? I told ’em you’d come back some day, but I never thought to see you so like like that; and she wept and laughed together without a thought of why. Tom, from the window, saw with deep emotion his beloved Mary coming arm in arm with the man he had hated with the insanity of murder and saved with the heroism of love. Both feelings now rose tempestuous in his bosom, and it was with an effort almost superhuman that he. said calmly: I see them coming; my time is not my own, and I most be off.” “What, you’re not going that way? Oh! I guess you’re in a hurry to got home. That’s right, but don’t fail to come over to-niglit.” “No, I’ll just stop to shake hands with father and mother. I must be off in an hour for Cincinnati. Good-by.” “You can’t mean it, Tom—why, don’t you know Mary and Henry’s been a-waiting all this time till John would come back home to get married. You must be here for the wedding, sure.” This was too much, and Tom, was about to bolt out of the house without another word, when, turning a last look at his old friend, he saw his eyes lit up with a peculiar expression of wonder and thankfulness. His head arose from his bosom, and with a voice which was almost a prayer of thanks to heaven he said: “Henry and Mary married! It was God’s hand that brought me back, Tom. That can never be. Mary is Henry’s half-sister.” A wild scream came from the bai'ek door through which Aunt Betsy had come in. There stood Mary and Henry. Her hands were on his shoulders, her head was hidden on his breast. Tom’s heart was big with wonder and hope and pity. He stood motionless, swayed by a thousand contending thoughts. Amazement seemed to have struck dumb every member of this strange group, when Henry, taking Mary by the hand and advancing into the 100 m, said: “Mary, let us not grieve, but thank God—me for a sister, you for a brother; and let me introduce you to the man who twice took me out of the jaws of death. I know he is a man worthy of all honor, and, if I mistake not the light in his eyes, he is greatly pleased to find me your brother instead of your *^ Mary looked up dazed with surprise and admiration, at her old schoolfellow. “Tom!” she said. “Mary!” came from the poor fellow’s deepest heart, freighted with such hope, such love, such intensity of happiness that Mary resigned herself to his outstretched arms.