CHAPTER XIV
RICHMOND IN GALA DRESS
From the moment Virginia seceded from the Union it wan a foregone conclusion that Richmond would be the capital of the new Confederacy--not only because the great Virginian was the Father of the Country and his glorious old Commonwealth the mother of States and Presidents, but because her soil must be the arena of the first great battle.
On May 23, the Provisional Congress at Montgomery adjourned to meet in Richmond on July 20, and Jefferson Davis began his triumphal procession to the new Capital.
Jennie Barton, her impulsive father, the Senator, Mrs Barton, with temper serene and unruffled, and Signor Henrico Socola of the Sardinian Ministry, were in the party. Dick Welford and two boys were already in Virginia with their regiments. Tom was in New Orleans with Raphael Semmes, fitting out the little steamer _Sumter_ for a Confederate cruiser.
Senator Barton had been requested by the new President to act as his aide, and the champion of secession had accepted the honor under protest. It was not of importance commensurate with his abilities, but it was perhaps worth while for the moment until a greater field was opened.
The arrangement made Socola's association with Jennie of double importance. As the train whirled through the sunlit fields of the South he found his position by her side more and more agreeable and interesting. She was a girl of remarkable intelligence. He had observed that she was not afraid of silence. Her tongue was not forever going. In fact she seemed disinclined to talk unless she had something to say.
He glanced at her from the corners of his dark eyes with a friendly smile.
"You are serious to-day, Miss Jennie?"
"Yes. I wish I were a man!"
"You'd go to the front, of course?"
"Yes--wouldn't you?"
"For _my_ country--yes--"
He paused a moment and went on carelessly:
"Your older brother, the Judge, will fight for the Union?"
The sensitive lips trembled.
"No--thank God. He has sent my mother word that for her sake and mine he'll not fight his father and younger brothers in battle. He's going to do a braver thing than march to the front. He's going to face his neighbors in New Orleans and stand squarely by his principles."
"It will take a brave man to do that, won't it?"
"The bravest of the brave."
The train was just pulling into a sleepy Southern town, the tracks running straight down the center of its main street. A company was drawn up to salute the new President and cheering thousands had poured in from the surrounding country to do him honor. They cheered themselves hoarse and were still at it when the train slowly started northward. The company which greeted their arrival with arms presented were on board now, chatting, shouting, singing, waving their caps and handkerchiefs to tear-stained women.
The country through which the Presidential party passed had been suddenly transformed into a vast military camp, the whole population war mad.
Every woman from every window of every house in sight of the train waved a handkerchief. The flutter of those white flags never ceased.
The city of Richmond gave their distinguished visitor a noble reception. He was quartered temporarily at the Spotswood Hotel, but the City Council had purchased the handsomest mansion in town at a cost of $40,000 and offered it to him as their token of admiration of his genius.
Mr. Davis was deeply touched by this mark of esteem from Virginia, but sternly refused the gift for himself. He accepted it for the Confederate Government as the official residence of the President.
Socola found the city a mere comfortable village in comparison with New York or Boston or Philadelphia, though five times the size of Montgomery. He strolled through its streets alone, wondering in which one of the big old-fashioned mansions lived the remarkable Southern woman to whom his Government had referred him for orders. He must await the arrival of the messenger who would deliver to him in person its description. In the meantime with tireless eye he was studying the physical formation of every street and alley. He must know it, every crook and turn.
Until the advent of the troops Richmond had been one of the quietest of all the smaller cities of America. Barely forty thousand inhabitants, one third of whom were negro slaves, it could boast none of the displays or excitements of a metropolis. Its vices were few, its life orderly and its society the finest type of the genuine American our country had developed.
Rowdyism was unknown. The police department consisted of a dozen "watchmen" whose chief duty was to round up a few straggling negroes who might be found on the streets after nine o'clock at night and put them in "the Cage" until morning. "The Cage" was a ramshackled wooden building too absurd to be honored by the name of prison.
The quiet, shady streets were suddenly transformed into the throbbing, tumultuous avenues of a crowded Capital--already numbering more than one hundred thousand inhabitants.
Its pulse beat with a new and fevered life. Its atmosphere was tense with the electric rumble of the coming storm--everywhere bustle, hurry and feverish preparations for war. The Tredegar Iron Works had doubled its force of men. Day and night the red glare of the furnaces threw its sinister glow over the yellow, turbulent waters of the James. With every throb now of its red heart a cannon was born destined to slay a thousand men.
Every hill was white with the tents of soldiers, their camps stretching away into the distant fields and forests.
Every street was thronged. Couriers on blooded horses dashed to and fro bearing the messages of imperious masters. From every direction came the crash of military bands. And over all the steady, low rumble of artillery and the throbbing tramp of soldiers. In every field and wood for miles around the city could be heard the neighing of horses, the bugle call of the trooper, the shouts of gay recruits and the sharp command of drilling officers.
The rattle of the ambulance and the long, red trenches of the uncoffined dead had not come yet. They were not even dreamed in the hearts of the eager, rollicking, fun-loving children of the South.
There were as yet no dances, no social festivities. The town was soldier mad. Few men not in uniform were to be seen on the streets. A man in citizen's clothes was under suspicion as to his principles.
With each train, new companies and regiments arrived. Day and night the tramp of soldiers' feet, the throb of drum, the scream of fife, the gleam of bayonets.
Everywhere soldiers were welcomed, fêted, lionized. The finest ladies of Richmond vied with one another in serving their soldier guests. Society turned out _en masse_ to every important review.
Southern society was melted into a single pulsing thought--the fight in defense of their homes and their liberty. In the white heat of this mighty impulse the barriers of class and sex were melted.
The most delicately reared and cultured lady of society admitted without question the right of any man who wore a gray uniform to speak to her without introduction and escort her anywhere on the streets. In not a single instance was this high privilege abused by an insult, indignity or an improper word.
Socola saw but one lady who showed the slightest displeasure.
A dainty little woman of eight, delicately trained in the ways of polite society, was shocked at the familiarity of a soldier who had dared to caress her.
She turned to her elderly companion and gasped with indignation:
"Auntie! Did you ever! Any man who wears a stripe on his pantaloons now thinks he can speak to a lady!"
Socola laughed and passed on to inspect the camp of the famous Hampton Legion of South Carolina.
His heart went out in a sudden wave of admiration for these Southern people who could merge thus their souls and bodies into the cause of their country.
The Hampton Legion was recruited, armed and equipped and led by Wade Hampton. Its private soldiers were the flower of South Carolina's society. The dress parades of this regiment of gentlemen were the admiration of the town. The carriages that hung around their maneuvers were as gay and numerous as the assemblage on a fashionable race course. Each member of this famous legion went into Richmond with his trunks and body servant. They, too, were confident of a brief struggle.
A kind fate held fast the dark curtains of the future. The camp was a picnic ground, and Death was only a specter of the dim unknown.
Just as Socola strolled by the grounds, the camp spied the handsome figure of young Preston Hampton in a pair of spotless yellow kid gloves. They caught and rolled him in the dust and spoiled his gloves.
He laughed and took it good naturedly.
The hardier sons of the South held the attention of the keen, observing eyes with stronger interest. He knew what would become of those trunks and fine clothes. The thing he wished most to know was the quality and the temper of the average man in the Southern ranks.
Socola met Dick Welford suddenly face to face, smiled and bowed. Dick hesitated, returned his recognition and offered his hand.
"Mr. Welford--"
"Signor Socola."
Dick's greeting was a little awkward, but the older man put him at once at ease with his frank, friendly manners.
"A brave show your _Champ de Mars_, sir!"
"Does look like business, doesn't it?" Dick responded with pride. "Would you like to go through the camps and see our men?"
"Very much."
"Come, I'll show you."
Two hundred yards from the camp of the Hampton Legion they found the Louisiana Zouaves of Wheat's command, small, tough-looking men with gleaming black eyes.
"Frenchmen!" Dick sneered. "They'll fight though--"
"Their people in the old world have that reputation," Socola dryly remarked.
Beyond them lay a regiment of fierce, be-whiskered countrymen from the lower sections of Mississippi.
"Look out for those fellows," the young Southerner said serenely. "They're from old Jeff's home. You'll hear from them. Their fathers all fought in Mexico."
Socola nodded.
Beside the Mississippians lay a regiment of long-legged, sinewy riflemen from Arkansas.
A hundred yards further they saw the quaint coon-skin caps of John B. Gordon's company from Georgia.
Socola watched these lanky mountaineers with keen interest.
"The Raccoon Roughs," Dick explained. "First company of Georgia volunteers. They had to march over two or three States before anybody would muster them in. They're happy as June bugs now."
They passed two regiments of quiet North Carolinians. The young Northerner observed their strong, muscular bodies and earnest faces.
"And these two large regiments, Mr. Welford?" Socola asked.
"Oh," the Virginian exclaimed with a careless touch of scorn in his voice, "they're Tarheels--not much for looks, but I reckon they'll _stick_."
"I've an idea they will," was the serious reply.
Dick pointed with pride to a fine-looking regiment of Virginians.
"Good-looking soldiers," Socola observed.
"Aren't they? That's my regiment. You'll hear from them in the first battle."
"And those giants?" Socola inquired, pointing to the right at a group of tall, rude-looking fellows.
"Texas Rangers."
"I shouldn't care to meet them in a row--"
"You know what General Taylor said of them in the Mexican War?"
"No--"
"_They're anything but gentlemen or cowards._" "I agree with him," Socola laughed.
"What chance has a Yankee got against such men?" Dick asked with a wag of his big blond head.
"Let me show you what they think--"
Socola drew a leaf of _Harper's Magazine_ from his pocket and spread it before the young trooper's indignant gaze.
The cartoon showed a sickly-looking Southerner carrying his musket under an umbrella accompanied by a negro with a tray full of mint juleps.
"That's a joke, isn't it!" Dick roared. "Will you give me this paper?"
"Certainly, Monsieur!"
Dick folded the sheet, still laughing. "I'll have some fun with this in camp to-night. Come on--I want to show you just one more bunch of these sickly-looking mint-julipers--"
Again the Southerner roared.
They quickened their pace and in a few minutes were passing through the camps of the Red River men from Arkansas and Northern Louisiana.
"Aren't you sorry for these poor fellows?" Dick laughed.
"I have never seen anything like them," Socola admitted, looking on their stalwart forms with undisguised admiration. Scarcely a man was under six feet in height, with broad, massive shoulders and chests and not an ounce of superfluous flesh. Their resemblance to each other was remarkable. Nature had cast each one in the same heroic mold. The spread of giant unbroken forests spoke in their brawny arms and legs. The look of an eagle soaring over great rivers and fertile plains flashed in their fearless eyes.
"What do you think of them?" Dick asked with boyish pride.
"I'd like to send their photographs to _Harper's_--"
"For God's sake, don't do that!" Dick protested. "If you do, we'll never get a chance to see a Yankee. I want to get in sight of 'em anyhow before they run. All I ask of the Lord is to give me one whack at those little, hump-backed, bow-legged shoemakers from Boston!"
Socola smiled dryly.
"In five minutes after we meet--there won't be a shoe-string left fit to use."
The dark face flashed with a strange light from the depths of the somber eyes--only for an instant did he lose self-control. His voice was velvet when he spoke.
"Your faith is strong, M'sieur!"
"It's not faith--we know. One Southerner can whip three Yankees any day."
"But suppose it should turn out that he had to whip five or six or a dozen?"
"Don't you think these fellows could do it?"
Socola hesitated. It was a shame to pull down a faith that could remove mountains. He shrugged his slender shoulders and a pensive look stole over his face. He seemed to be talking to himself.
"Your President tells me that his soldiers will do all that pluck and muscle, endurance and dogged courage, dash and red-hot patriotism can accomplish. And yet his view is not sanguine. A sad undertone I caught in his voice. He says your war will be long and bloody--"
"Yes--I know," Dick broke in, "but nobody agrees with him. We'll show old Jeff what we can do, if he'll just give us _one_ chance--that's all we ask--just _one_ chance. Read that editorial in the Richmond _Examiner_--"
He thrust a copy of the famous yellow journal of the South into Socola's hand and pointed to a marked paragraph:
"From mountain top and valleys to the shores of the seas there is one wild shout of fierce resolve to capture Washington City at all and every human hazard!"
The North was marching southward with ropes and handcuffs with which to end in triumph their holiday excursion on July 4. The South was marching to meet them with eager pride, each man afraid the fight would be over before he could reach the front to fire a single shot. And behind each gay regiment of scornful men marched the white silent figure of Death.