AMONG THE CAMPS

BY THOMAS NELSON PAGE.

“HALT!” BANG, BANG, WENT THE GUNS IN HIS VERY FACE.

AMONG THE CAMPS

OR

YOUNG PEOPLE’S STORIES OF THE WAR

BY THOMAS NELSON PAGE

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 1891

Copyright, 1891, by CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS Press of J. J. Little & Co. Astor Place, New York

To Her:

NOTE.

My acknowledgments are due to Messrs. Harper & Brothers and to Mr. A. B. Starey, the Publishers and the Editor of HARPERS’ YOUNG PEOPLE, in which Magazine I had the pleasure of having these stories, with the accompanying illustrations, first appear.

T. N. P.

A CAPTURED SANTA CLAUS.

I.

HOLLY HILL was the place for Christmas! From Bob down to brown-eyed Evelyn, with her golden hair floating all around her, every one hung up a stocking, and the visit of Santa Claus was the event of the year.

They went to sleep on the night before Christmas—or rather they went to bed, for sleep was long far from their eyes,—with little squeakings and gurglings, like so many little white mice, and if Santa Claus had not always been so very punctual in disappearing up the chimney before daybreak, he must certainly have been caught; for by the time the chickens were crowing in the morning there would be an answering twitter through the house, and with a patter of little feet and subdued laughter small white-clad figures would steal through the dim light of dusky rooms and passages, opening doors with sudden bursts, and shouting “Christmas gift!” into darkened chambers, at still sleeping elders, then scurrying away in the gray light to rake open the hickory embers and revel in the exploration of their crowded stockings.

[2]Such was Christmas morning at Holly Hill in the old times before the war. Thus it was, that at Christmas 1863, when there were no new toys to be had for love or money, there were much disappointment and some murmurs at Holly Hill. The children had never really felt the war until then, though their father, Major Stafford, had been off, first with his company and then with his regiment, since April, 1861. Now from Mrs. Stafford down to little tot Evelyn, there was an absence of the merriment which Christmas always brought with it. Their mother had done all she could to collect such presents as were within her reach, but the youngsters were much too sharp not to know that the presents were “just fixed up”; and when they were all gathered around the fire in their mother’s chamber, Christmas morning, looking over their presents, their little faces wore an expression of pathetic disappointment.

“I don’t think much of this Christmas,” announced Ran, with characteristic gravity, looking down on his presents with an air of contempt. “A hatchet, a ball of string, and a hare-trap isn’t much.”

Mrs. Stafford smiled, but the smile soon died away into an expression of sadness.

“I too have to do without my Christmas gift,” she said. “Your father wrote me that he hoped to spend Christmas with us, and he has not come.”

“Never mind; he may come yet,” said Bob encouragingly. (Bob always was encouraging. That was why he was[3] “Old Bob.”) “An axe was just the thing I wanted, mamma,” said he, shouldering his new possession proudly.

Mrs. Stafford’s face lit up again.

“And a hatchet was what I wanted,” admitted Ran; “now I can make my own hare-traps.”

“An’ I like a broked knife,” asserted Charlie stoutly, falling valiantly into the general movement, whilst Evelyn pushed her long hair out of her eyes, and hugged her baby, declaring:

“I love my dolly, and I love Santa Tlaus, an’ I love my papa,” at which her mother took the little midget to her bosom, doll and all, and hid her face in her tangled curls.

[4]

II.

THE holiday was scarcely over when one evening Major Stafford galloped up to the gate, his black horse Ajax splashed with mud to his ear-tips.

The Major soon heard all about the little ones’ disappointment at not receiving any new presents.

“Santa Tlaus didn’ tum this Trismas, but he’s tummin’ next Trismas,” said Evelyn, looking wisely up at him, that evening, from the rug where she was vainly trying to make her doll’s head stick on her broken shoulders.

“And why did he not come this Christmas, Miss Wisdom?” laughed her father, touching her with the toe of his boot.

“Tause the Yankees wouldn’ let him,” said she gravely, holding her doll up and looking at it pensively, her head on one side.

“And why, then, should he come next year?”

“Tause God’s goin’ to make him.” She turned the mutilated baby around and examined it gravely, with her shining head set on the other side.

“There’s faith for you,” said Mrs. Stafford, as her husband asked, “How do you know this?”

[5]“Tause God told me,” answered Evelyn, still busy with her inspection.

“He did? What is Santa Claus going to bring you?”

The little mite sprang to her feet. “He’s goin’ to bring me—a—great—big—dolly—with real sure ’nough hair, and blue eyes that will go to sleep.” Her face was aglow, and she stretched her hands wide apart to give the size.

“She has dreamt it,” said the Major, in an undertone, to her mother. “There is not such a doll as that in the Southern Confederacy,” he continued.

The child caught his meaning. “Yes, he is,” she insisted, “’cause I asked him an’ he said he would; and Charlie——”

Just then that youngster himself burst into the room, a small whirlwind in petticoats. As soon as his cyclonic tendencies could be curbed, his father asked him:

“Well, what did you ask Santa Claus for, young man?”

“For a pair of breeches and a sword,” answered the boy, promptly, striking an attitude.

“Well, upon my word!” laughed his father, eying the erect little figure and the steady, clear eyes which looked proudly up at him. “I had no idea what a young Achilles we had here. You shall have them.”

The boy nodded gravely. “All right. When I get to be a man I won’t let anybody make my mamma cry.” He advanced a step, with head up, the very picture of spirit.

“Ah! you won’t?” said his father, with a gesture to prevent his wife interrupting.

[6]“Nor my little sister,” said the young warrior, patronizingly, swelling with infantile importance.

“No; he won’t let anybody make me ky,” chimed in Evelyn, promptly accepting the proffered protection.

“On my word, Ellen, the fellow has some of the old blood in him,” said Major Stafford, much pleased. “Come here, my young knight.” He drew the boy up to him. “I had rather have heard you say that than have won a brigadier’s wreath. You shall have your breeches and your sword next Christmas. Were I the king I should give you your spurs. Remember, never let any one make your mother or sister cry.”

Charlie nodded in token of his acceptance of the condition.

“All right,” he said.

[7]

III.

WHEN Major Stafford galloped away, on his return to his command, the little group at the lawn gate shouted many messages after him. The last thing he heard was Charlie’s treble, as he seated himself on the gate-post, calling to him not to forget to make Santa Claus bring him a pair of breeches and a sword, and Evelyn’s little voice reminding him of her “dolly that can go to sleep.”

Many times during the ensuing year, amid the hardships of the campaign, the privations of the march, and the dangers of battle, the Major heard those little voices calling to him. In the autumn he won the three stars of a colonel for gallantry in leading a desperate charge on a town, in a perilous raid into the heart of the enemy’s country, and holding the place; but none knew, when he dashed into the town at the head of his regiment under a hail of bullets, that his mind was full of toyshops and clothing stores, and that when he was so stoutly holding his position he was guarding a little boy’s suit, a small sword with a gilded scabbard, and a large doll with flowing ringlets and eyes that could “go to sleep.” Some of his friends during that year had charged the Major with growing miserly, and rallied him upon hoarding up his[8] pay and carrying large rolls of Confederate money about his person; and when, just before the raid, he invested his entire year’s pay in four or five ten-dollar gold pieces, they vowed he was mad.

The Major, however, always met these charges with a smile. And as soon as his position was assured in the captured town he proved his sanity.

The owner of a handsome store on the principal street, over which was a large sign, “Men’s and Boys’ Clothes,” peeping out, saw a Confederate major ride up to the door, which had been hastily fastened when the fight began, and rap on it with the handle of his sword. There was something in the rap that was imperative, and fearing violence if he failed to respond, he hastily opened the door. The officer entered, and quickly selected a little uniform suit of blue cloth with brass buttons.

“What is the price of this?”

“Ten dollars,” stammered the shopkeeper.

To his astonishment the Confederate officer put his hand in his pocket and laid a ten-dollar gold piece on the counter.

“Now show me where there is a toyshop.”

There was one only a few doors off, and there the Major selected a child’s sword handsomely ornamented, and the most beautiful doll, over whose eyes stole the whitest of rose-leaf eyelids, and which could talk and do other wonderful things. He astonished this shopkeeper also by laying down another gold piece. This left him but two or three more of[9] the proceeds of his year’s pay, and these he soon handed over a counter to a jeweller, who gave him a small package in exchange.

All during the remainder of the campaign Colonel Stafford carried a package carefully sealed, and strapped on behind his saddle. His care of it and his secrecy about it were the subjects of many jests among his friends in the brigade, and when in an engagement his horse was shot, and the Colonel, under a hot fire, stopped and calmly unbuckled his bundle, and during the rest of the fight carried it in his hand, there was a clamor that he should disclose the contents. Even an offer to sing them a song would not appease them.

The brigade officers were gathered around a camp-fire that night on the edge of the bloody field. A Federal officer, Colonel Denby, who had been slightly wounded and captured in the fight, and who now sat somewhat grim and moody before the fire, was their guest.

“Now, Stafford, open the bundle and let us into the secret,” they all said. The Colonel, without a word, rose and brought the parcel up to the fire. Kneeling down, he took out his knife and carefully ripped open the outer cover. Many a jest was levelled at him across the blazing logs as he did so.

One said the Colonel had turned peddler, and was trying to eke out a living by running the blockade on Lilliputian principles; another wagered that he had it full of Confederate bills; a third, that it was a talisman against bullets, and[10] so on. Within the outer covering were several others; but at length the last was reached. As the Colonel ripped carefully, the group gathered around and bent breathlessly over him, the light from the blazing camp-fire shining ruddily on their eager, weather-tanned faces. When the Colonel put in his hand and drew out a toy sword, there was a general exclamation, followed by a dead silence; but when he took the doll from her soft wrapping, and then unrolled and held up a pair of little trousers not much longer than a man’s hand, and just the size for a five-year-old boy, the men turned away their faces from the fire, and more than one who had boys of his own at home, put his hand up to his eyes.

One of them, a bronzed and weather-beaten officer, who had charged the Colonel with being a miser, stretched himself out on the ground, flat on his face, and sobbed aloud as Colonel Stafford gently told his story of Charlie and Evelyn. Even the grim face of Colonel Denby looked somewhat changed in the light of the fire, and he reached over for the doll and gazed at it steadily for some time.

[11-12]

COLONEL STAFFORD OPENS THE BUNDLE.

[13]

IV.

DURING the whole year the children had been looking forward to the coming of Christmas. Charlie’s outbursts of petulance and not rare fits of anger were invariably checked if any mention was made of his father’s injunction, and at length he became accustomed to curb himself by the recollection of the charge he had received. If he fell and hurt himself in his constant attempt to climb up impossible places, he would simply rub himself and say, proudly, “I don’t cry now, I am a knight, and next Christmas I am going to be a man, ’cause my papa’s goin’ to tell Santa Claus to bring me a pair of breeches and a sword.” Evelyn could not help crying when she was hurt, for she was only a little girl; but she added to her prayer of “God bless and keep my papa, and bring him safe home,” the petition, “Please, God, bless and keep Santa Tlaus, and let him come here Trismas.”

Old Bob and Ran too, as well as the younger ones, looked forward eagerly to Christmas.

But some time before Christmas the steady advance of the Union armies brought Holly Hill and the Holly Hill children far within the Federal lines, and shut out all chance of their being reached by any message or thing from their[14] father. The only Confederates the children ever saw now were the prisoners who were being passed back on their way to prison. The only news they ever received were the rumors which reached them from Federal sources. Mrs. Stafford’s heart was heavy within her, and when, a day or two before Christmas, she heard Charlie and Evelyn, as they sat before the fire, gravely talking to each other of the long-expected presents which their father had promised that Santa Claus should bring them, she could stand it no longer. She took Bob and Ran into her room, and there told them that now it was impossible for their father to come, and that they must help her entertain “the children” and console them for their disappointment. The two boys responded heartily, as true boys always will when thrown on their manliness.

For the next two days Mrs. Stafford and both the boys were busy. Mrs. Stafford, when Charlie was not present, gave her time to cutting out and making a little gray uniform suit from an old coat which her husband had worn when he first entered the army; whilst the boys employed themselves, Bob in making a pretty little sword and scabbard out of an old piece of gutter, and Ran, who had a wonderful turn, in carving a doll from a piece of hard seasoned wood.

The day before Christmas they lost a little time in following and pitying a small lot of prisoners who passed along the road by the gate. The boys were always pitying the prisoners and planning means to rescue them, for they had an idea that they suffered a terrible fate. Only one certain case[15] had come to their knowledge. A young man had one day been carried by the Holly Hill gate on his way to the headquarters of the officer in command of that portion of the lines, General Denby. He was in citizen’s clothes and was charged with being a spy. The next morning Ran, who had risen early to visit his hare-traps, rushed into his mother’s room white-faced and wide-eyed.

“Oh, mamma!” he gasped, “they have hung him, just because he had on those clothes!”

Mrs. Stafford, though she was much moved herself, endeavored to explain to the boy that this was one of the laws of war; but Ran’s mind was not able to comprehend the principles which imposed so cruel a sentence for what he deemed so harmless a fault.

This act and some other measures of severity gave General Denby a reputation of much harshness among the few old residents who yet remained at their homes in the lines, and the children used to gaze at him furtively as he would ride by, grim and stern, followed by his staff. Yet there were those who said that General Denby’s rigor was simply the result of a high standard of duty, and that at bottom he had a soft heart.

[16]

V.

THE approach of Christmas was recognized even in the Federal camps, and many a song and ringing laugh were heard around the camp-fires, and in the tents and little cabins used as winter quarters, over the boxes which were pouring in from home. The troops in the camps near General Denby’s headquarters on Christmas eve had been larking and frolicking all day like so many children, preparing for the festivities of the evening, when they proposed to have a Christmas tree and other entertainments; and the General, as he sat in the front room in the house used as his headquarters, writing official papers, had more than once during the afternoon frowned at the noise outside which had disturbed him. At length, however, late in the afternoon, he finished his work, and having dismissed his adjutant, he locked the door, and pushing aside all his business papers, took from his pocket a little letter and began to read.

As he read, the stern lines of the grim soldier’s face relaxed, and more than once a smile stole into his eyes and stirred the corners of his grizzled moustache.

The letter was scrawled in a large childish hand. It ran:

[17]

“My Dearest Grandpapa: I want to see you very much. I send you a Christmas gift. I made it myself. I hope to get a whole lot of dolls and other presents. I love you. I send you all these kisses.... You must kiss them.

“Your loving little granddaughter, “Lily.”

When he had finished reading the letter the old veteran gravely lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss on each of the little spaces so carefully drawn by the childish hand.

When he had done he took out his handkerchief and blew his nose violently as he walked up and down the room. He even muttered something about the fire smoking. Then he sat down once more at his table, and placing the little letter before him, began to write. As he wrote, the fire smoked more than ever, and the sounds of revelry outside reached him in a perfect uproar; but he no longer frowned, and when the strains of “Dixie” came in at the window, sung in a clear, rich, mellow solo, he sat back in his chair and listened:

sang the beautiful voice, full and sonorous.

When the song ended, there was an outburst of applause, and shouts apparently demanding some other song, which was refused, for the noise grew to a tumult. The General rose[18] and walked to the window. Suddenly the uproar hushed, for the voice began again, but this time it was a hymn:

Verse after verse was sung, the men pouring out of their tents and huts to listen to the music.

sang the singer to the end. When the strain died away there was dead silence.

The General finished his letter and sealed it. Carefully folding up the little one which lay before him, he replaced it in his pocket, and going to the door, summoned the orderly who was just without.

“Mail that at once,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“By the way,” as the soldier turned to leave, “who was that singing out there just now? I mean that last one, who sang ‘Dixie,’ and the hymn.”

“Only a peddler, sir, I believe.”

The General’s eyes fixed themselves on the soldier.

“Where did he come from?”

[19]“I don’t know, sir. Some of the boys had him singing.”

“Tell Major Dayle to come here immediately,” said the General, frowning.

In a moment the officer summoned entered.

He appeared somewhat embarrassed.

“Who was this peddler?” asked the commander, sternly.

“I—I don’t know—” began the other.

“You don’t know! Where did he come from?”

“From Colonel Watchly’s camp directly,” said he, relieved to shift a part of the responsibility.

“How was he dressed?”

“In citizen’s clothes.”

“What did he have?”

“A few toys and trinkets.”

“What was his name?”

“I did not hear it.”

“And you let him go!” The General stamped his foot.

“Yes, sir; I don’t think—” he began.