Rensselaer Republican, Volume 21, Number 39, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 May 1889 — ON THE BORDER. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

ON THE BORDER.

A STORY FOR MEMORIAL DAY.

[Oopyrifht, 1880, by American Press Association.]

GIRL, while as marble, stood on the gallery extending across tho front of a 'southern built bouse in Tennessee. A young man barely 22 years of age, in tho uniform of a United States cavalry officer

had left a newly arrived troop standing in the road and dras riding up to the house to reconnoiter. “Have there been any southern soldiers here todayF r he called out, at the same time raising his forage cap. The girl bit her white lips to gain courage to reply. The young man’s tones were soft and pleasant, but he was a Yankee soldier; the first she had seen. Tor months she had listened to stories of depredations to be committed by the Yankee troops when they should arrive. “N-o,” she answered, with a gasp. “When did they go?” “About an hour ago." The young man smiled. She had made a misstatement within five words. He gave her time to collect her scattered MOMM.

"Where is the bridge?” he asked. “There,” she pointed down the road. “How far?" “About half a mile." “Have they burned it?” She glanced at a thin cloud of smoke floating over the trees to the south. “I see,” he said; “1 expected as much." Then turning to her again: “You seem delighted to see us. You're not at all afraid, are you?" “O n-o.” She bit her lip again to gather courage. He looked at her with a lialf amused, half curious expression, “i suppose you expect us to burn the house and the barn and the fence. But ‘Johnny’ has saved us that trouble,” he added, glancing at the line where the fence had been. “You expect to be murdered, of course.” “Of course." She was so frightened that she repeated the words after him like a parrot. The young mon laughed. He lifted his cap politely and turned away. As he rode past a group of gaping negroes, “You’re not afraid'of us, aunty.” he said to one of them. “We knows better’n to be sceayred at on* own folks.”

“Our own folks!" The youngster was amused. “Our own folks is good.” Here at least was a cordial reception. He rode back to his commanding officer and called his attention to the smoke of the burning bridge, only to hear an exclamation referring to that place where abundant kindling for ’bridgee is supposed to be stored. The troops went into camp in a field opposite the house; the lieutenant rode away to post a line of vedettes along the river bank, and an hour later returned to find the field white with canvas, and to smell the sweet odor of burning wood and boiling coffee. After partaking of his evening meal—the cavalry always live well where there is fair foraging —he proceeded to arrange his toilet with a view to paying his respects to the young girl who had an swered bis questions. A paper collar (without cravat) was made to border tho neck band of his flannel shirt; the dust was shaken from his blouse; and, booted and spurred, his reinforced trousers still tucked in his boots, he strode across the road and through the yard to the house. The girl he sought came to the door. “I thought I'd just como over," he said, pulling off his cap and smiling at her reassuringly, “to say that we don’t

propose to trouble you.** (He had unknowingly supped off a chicken removed from the barn.) “I’m Arthur Howe, lieutenant -of the —th cavalry. May I ask your name? I'm quite sure it is a pretty one." and he looked as if he would add, “if it’s like you." .', “Alice Reade.” She looked at him with a pair of serious brown eyes; wonder eyes. Women with such eyes poooetwa depth of feeling that others are astra®ger to. She led the way to the sitting room. “My mother is sick,” she said apologetically. “and my brother” —she hesitated;she feared to acknowledge her brother's whereabouts to a- Yankee—“he’s with our boys.” “Our boys." The words grated. They caused the young man to remember that ho was an enemy. And he did not relish being the enemy of one so timid and so gentle. He thought of the exile in camp away in the south; then of his own favorite sister in the north, and how it would madden him to know that she was at the mercy of a stranger. All the kindliness of his kindly nature beamed in his face and softened in his voice. - ~_. Y' “Never mind, Miss Alice; nothing shall harm you, and the war will soon beover, and we’ll all be friends again, and” — ’Ho looked at her with his winning smile and frankly extended his hand. This was the'hated Yankee; the vandal; yet not a vandal, but a picture of loveliness: a lithe graceful figure; short wavy hair, so light as to be almost white; a pair of kindly blue eyes, and above all the charming smile. Then there was a leek of gentility about him that would, have shown itself dirough the uniform of a teamster. Sho took th* extended hand, her eyes brim full of thankfulness, at th o unexpected sympathy which had come in place of the expected harshness.

“You can have a guard if you like,” he aaid when they were seated, “Of course you’ve hid all the valuables.” “Yes, in the well.” Howe smiled. “You mustn't tell any one that, Miss Alice. That won’t do at all.” | “You won’t betray us. Tm not afraid. ; I’d tell you anything.” “But," he said, taken aback by so sudden a confidence, “sofdiers may not aIF be as well disposed as I am; and there are a great many stragglers and marauders. Don’t trust any one. You’ll never get on if you hide things from us Yani kees and then tell the first Yankee you meel where you've hid them." “I m not afraid of any one now you’ve come. You won't let them hurt us. If you'll only stay," she added shyly. Howe winced. He knew very well how little power he had except over regular troops, and even then only over those of his own command; and he might Igo at any moment. He thought of the I imminent danger from the lawless of I both sides to which she would be ex- ■ posed. But lie remembered her fright i when he had met her that afternoon. and thought it best to preserve something of the confidence with which he had inspired her. “We Yankees are not such terrible fellows after all,” he said; “and war, so far at least, is quite a jolly, exciting life. After it's all over even you’ll not think it was so disagreeable.” She looked up into the friendly face of the enemy, and seemed as happy as if there had been a sudden truce, and the north and the south were lovingly mingling in a blissful peace. “I’ll probably be about the neighborhood for a while—at least I hope sound if you'll let me. I'll come in onco in a while to cheer you up, and your mother can have anything from the medical department and nobody will molest you, and” What need to mention the quickly constructed castles the hopefulness of youth built for her. Nor were they castles to her; no rocky fortress seemed so well founded as the pledges of the fair stranger who dazzled her with his manly beauty and hopeful, cheery, disposition. The evening }>assed quickly; too quickly for the new friends. Howe rose to go, long after he had heard the bugle across the road sound “lights out.” “You’ll be here a long while?” she asked, yet with a trifle of anxiety notwithstanding what he had said about his stay. 1 “O yes. I think so. That is, only the commanding general knows exactly how long. You see lam not the commanding general or the colonel, or the major, ; only a second lieutenant.” , She thought him noble, and good, and 1 beautiful enough to be the president. ; Howe extended his hand to take leave. The hands onco clasped, neither seemed ' in haste to unclasp them. Howe was : tempted to take his adieu from her red i lips; but he was too chivalrous to presume so far on so short an acquaintance, men she was so confiding, so aerenseless; he could not himself to take what she might not <hre deny liim. He dropped her hand and threw her a kiss . from the tips of his fingers as he ran down the steps. When Alice Reade went to rest that night she saw neither the walls of her bedroom,. nor. the. old four noct bed-

stead, nor tile wlute Valance, nor the trifles with which she had decorated her place of retreat. And when she shut her eyes to induce slumber it would not come. Ever present was the lithe figure, the short, light wavy hair, the entrancing smile.. But she did not know what it meant She did not know that the young cavalryman had been cutting his way with the keenest of invisible blades to her innocent heart. The next morning when she opened her eyes, she remembered the visit of the night before as a happy dream. She could scarcely believe that it was real. She wanted to reassure herself that it was. She got up and stole softly to the window to see the white tents. Cautiously drawing aside the shade she peeped through the opening. Alas, there was nothing but an empty field. For a moment Alice wondered if indeed it had not all been a dream.

A year passed. The territory about Alice Reade’s house had been fought over again and again. The Union forces had been driven back far to the north and were now slowly working their way south again. Howe had been ill of camp fever, and had spent several months far from the wild scenes of warfare, tenderly cared for by mother and sisters, and surrounded by the comforts of a luxurious home. In the meanwhile the people of the border states saw no rest from the tumult about them. Howe rejoined his regiment in Tennessee a few weeks before the forward movement of the summer of 1863. One day while advancing southward with the army he rode up to a house about which officers were standing, within sound of the booming of cannon a short distance to the front The advance was crossing a river and the enemy was disputing the passage. There that wrecked appearance about the place which invariably comes with armies. Howe dismounted and rode up to the well for some water to quench his thirst after a hot and dusty ride; then he turned and looked about him. The place seemed familiar. He wondered if he could not have been there before. Suddenly it came to him that he was standing by the very house where he had seen Alice Reade. Then he remembered that he had scarcely thought of the place or of the girl since. He was about to go in and <we if she was still there, when an advance signal rang out from a bugle and he put spurs to Ids horse and rode away. That evening Howe’s squadron went into camp some three miles from the Reade house, and the young officer rode over to make a call upon bis former friend. The army had (taseed beyond the house, which stood alone, back of the picket line, but on the extreme left, and in an exposed position. Howe rode into the yard, from which, everything had been stripped even to the little garden patch of vegetables, in those times

often the sole dependence of the family for food. Tying his horse to the railing that led up to the porch—there was not a post left in the yard—he mounted the steps and knocked at the door. He waited some time for an answer and then knocked again. “Who’s there?” said a frightened voice from within. He recognized it as Alice’s. “A friend—Arthur Howe." The bolt was withdrawn and the door thrown open. There stood Alice Reade, almost breathless- Worn with excitement during a day in which she had dreaded being with her invalid mother in the midst of a battle field, and afterwards in momentary terror of stragglers, she liad nerved herself to answer the knock at the door as she would a summons to execution. The reaction at seeing a friend, one whose image had never left her for a day, scarcely for an hour, since she had first seen him, was too much for her overstrained nerves. She grasped at the door for support. Howe caught her in his arms. . “Alice! child!” he exclaimed; “you’re frightened.” He couldn’t help it; he imprinted a kiss upon her cold lips. She did not speak. The sense of rest, freedom from terror, protection, was like an elysium into which she had suddenly Awakened from a dreadful dream. O that phe could lie in those strong arms

roreven Howe led her, almost carried her, to the room where they liad spent an evening together a year before. Tbc carpet was covered with dirt; the atmosphere was laden with stale tobacco smoke; the room was almost bare of its former simple decorations. - “And you have remembered me all this time?” he asked, sitting by her. He looked into hereyes and knew what words alone could never have made him believe. How in one short evening he could have unconsciously, unintentionally won a heart, was then and ever afterwards a mystery to him. All he knew was that it was his; why, he could not conceive. And Howe was Ktrongly drawn to her. There is something otrangbly alluring in the first consciousness of possessing a heart: and love comes quick in young days. Then Lieut. Howe was a gallant fellow, reckless and prone to follow every generous impulse, “Al : ee!- swert!" he said, “you gave me your heart and have not taken it away; though mine has been full of forgetfulness and careless selfishness, L will atone for this. You are my love; niy first, ray only love, I will never have another. \Ve will enjoy peace, when it comes, together. I will take you with me; lam rich; we will travel; we will see foreign countries; we will do nothing but go about viewing all that is beautiful in this beautiful world.” “0 Arthur, please don’t talk so; you frighten me. Peace hasn't come. It may never come for us." She clung to him as though some invisible demon of fate were lurking to separate them; — They sat perhaps an hour, the girl unconscious of all save what had been real, then a long dream, now doubly real again; the man feeling himself to lie in the presence of an unconscious innocence, a pure love, given freely, yet without hope. He was too young to reckon what this love which had met him in the midst of a hostile country, where he had expected only bloodshed, might bring him. He rejoiced in it with all the ardor of unthinking youth. “And are you going away again tomorrow morning?” she asked ruefully. “How can I tell, Alice? Igo where 1 am ordered." “Oh, how I do wish this war would endl" “It will soon bo over. This campaign will end it,” he said, reassuringly. “I fear it will never end.” Howe did not reply. He seemed suddenly to have caught the spirit of her foreboding. There is a scene of only fiva or six seconds’ duration, which when it stalksinto the chamber of Arthur Howe’s memory other recollections flee before it as from a specter. It is the one event of his life. Without it existence would be a pleasure to him; with it there is a scar upon his heart that mars the spiritual lieauty of his world. He had drawn Alice to him to say “good night.” Her cheek rested against his, and they were whispering again and again their partings. The night was still; the negroes were all quiet in the under story; the mother was sleeping in an adjoining chamber. Suddenly the pair heard the sound of horses* hoofs. Then a voice directly under the window: “Take the critter. I’ll join yon at the cross roads.” The tread of retreating hoofs told Howe that his horse was gone. Then a heavy step on the porch. Alice clung to her lover in terror. “The door! the door!” she whispered, white asashes. “It’s unbolted." The step was in the halt A gaunt figure dressed in “butternut,” a sombrero hat, an empty holster hanging from the waist, stood in the chamber door. The comer lost no time in bringing the weapon he carried in his hand to cover Lieut. Howe.

“Throw up your liands. yea Yankee!’’ Howe had kept his seat, but at the first sound without had taken the precaution to draw his revolver, and held it behind him out of sight on the lounge where he sat. Scarcely had the guerrilla spoken when there was a click and a shot almost simultaneously. The intruder was pierced through the body. Howe attempted to fire again within a few seconds. The cap snappedt his weapon missed fire. The man, though struck mortally, did not drop at once. He stood, the pallor ; of death spreading over his face. The hand holding the pistol had dropped when Howe fired. Slowly it raised again, pointing the weapon at the young man’s breast. There was a mingled bitterness and satisfaction in the eyes of one who knew that if he must die his slayer must die with him. Simultaneously both Howe and Alice sprang forward, Howe in defense, Alice with a cry, and with but one thought—to save him. With bis revolver Howe struck a blow at that of his opponent. | There was a report Alice Reade sank to the floor. The rest of what happened on that eventful night is not clear in Howe's 1 memory. He sees it through the haze of ! a dazed mental condition, as he then saw J it through the smoke which seemed to j wreathe itself about them like the folds of a serpent He remembers leaping with brutish fierceness upon the man who, before he reached him, passed from ; his vengeance. He remembers taking Alice up in his arms and laying hfiron the lounge; the mother, who had risen from a sick bed; the negroes carrying ' the lounge with Alice on it to another room; the sound of horses' hoofs, as one dashed down the road for a surgeon; all this he remembers like a confused dream, though he has tried fox years to forgetit "Live, Alice, dear,” he cried, as he bent over her, “only live till the surgeon comes. He will save you.” She looked a mournful good-by. “You must live,” she whispered. “I must go.” He bowed his head in horror. “I live? I live?” Then he raised his face and looked into her eyes. “I will follow you, if there is death to be found anywhere among the horrors of this horrible war." She asked him to wind her arms about his neck. He did so, and they were not unwound tm an bear aficc. when, de-

W hbtpnsaffigs Forte nOttoieaVs him, she passed beyond H»Jerropt at v;zr into tlw eternal peace. During ti. j rust of those four yean, while the armies of the north and of the south surged back and forth over the border states, Howe was greatly changed. He had been the' life of his regiment; a cheerful, good, nattered jester, with none of the fierceness of a trooper. From that night be «?cmed a denioa. He .would ride or fight, or both, all day, and wlien others were asleep lie would be off, no one knew where. Many a marauder of those law less times was surprised at his sudden coming. He would catch sight of a bivouac fire, however distant, and soon learned to know from its situation if it warmed guerrillas. Though ira met them at midnight or at early dawn, sleeping or awake, he was never known to bring in a prisoner.

There is a grave in Tennessee which, each year, when die day comes round for the decoration of graves of those who died in war time, is covered like the rest with flowers. Though it is the grave of a young girl, it holds one who was a sacrifice in the struggle. These flowers are placed by one who, passing the while from youth to age, makes pilgrimages there. The grave is that of Alice Reade; the pilgrim, he in place of whose life she gave her own. Has Col. Howe—now a white haired man, though not yet 60—a [feeling that he is living a life which does not belong to him? Many a fair dame has set a snare for his heart; but he is still a bachelor. Is it constancy? Who knows? Of all the events of those exciting years in which he took a part, there is one of which he never speaks. Because it to so near to his heart, it la far from his lips. F. A. Mitchel.

“YOU EXPECT TO BE MURDERED OF COURSE.”

NEITHER SEEMED IN A HASTE TO UNCLASP THEM.

ALICE READE SANK TO THE FLOOR.

THE GRAVE AND THE PILGRIM.