[NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR. - Mr. Editor: I am an ardent admirer of those nice, sickly war stories in Harper's Weekly, and for the last three months I have been at work upon one of that character, which I now forward to you for publication. It can be relied upon as true in every particular, inasmuch as the facts it contains were compiled from the official records in the War Department at Washington. The credit of this part of the labor is due to the Hon. T. G. Phelps, who has so long and ably represented this State in Congress. It is but just, also, that I should make honorable mention of the obliging publishing firms Roman & Co. and Bancroft & Co., of this city, who loaned me Jomini's Art of War, the Message of the President and Accompanying Documents, and sundry maps and military works, so necessary for reference in building a novel like this. To the accommodating Directors of the Overland Telegraph Company I take pleasure in returning my thanks for tendering me the use of their wires at the customary rates. The inspiration which enabled me in this production to soar so happily into the realms of sentiment and soft emotion, was obtained from the excellent beer manufactured at the New York Brewery, in Sutter street, between Montgomery and Kearny. And finally, to all those kind friends who have, by good deeds or encouraging words, assisted me in my labors upon this story of "Lucretia Smith's Soldier," during the past three months, and whose names are too numerous for special mention, I take this method of tendering my sincerest gratitude. M. T.]
On a balmy May morning in 1861, the little village of Bluemass,
in Massachusetts, lay wrapped in the splendor of the newly-risen sun. Reginald
de Whittaker, confidential and only clerk in the house of Bushrod &
Ferguson, general dry goods and grocery dealers and keepers of the post-office,
rose from his bunk under the counter, and shook himself. After yawning and
stretching comfortably, he sprinkled the floor and proceeded to sweep it.
He had only half finished his task, however, when he sat down on a keg of
nails and fell into a reverie. "This is my last day in this shanty,"
said he. "How it will surprise Lucretia when she hears I am going for
a soldier! How proud she will be - the little darling!" He pictured
himself in all manner of warlike situations; the hero of a thousand extraordinary
adventures; the man of rising fame; the pet of Fortune at last; and beheld
himself, finally, returning to his own home, a bronzed and scarred brigadier-general,
to cast his honors and his matured and perfect love at the feet of his Lucretia
At this point a thrill of joy and pride suffused his system - but he looked down and saw his broom, and blushed. He came toppling down from the clouds he had been soaring among, and was an obscure clerk again, on a salary of two dollars and a half a week.
At 8 o'clock that evening, with a heart palpitating with the
proud news he had brought for his beloved, Reginald sat in Mr. Smith's parlor
awaiting Lucretia's appearance. The moment she entered, he sprang to meet
her, his face lighted by the torch of love that was blazing in his head
somewhere and shining through, and ejaculated, "Mine own!" as
he opened his arms to receive her.
"Sir!" said she, and drew herself up like an offended
Poor Reginald was stricken dumb with astonishment. This chilling
demeanor, this angry rebuff, where he had expected the old, tender welcome,
banished the gladness from his heart as the cheerful brightness is swept
from the landscape when a dark cloud drifts athwart the face of the sun.
He stood bewildered a moment, with a sense of goneness on him like one who
finds himself suddenly overboard upon a midnight sea, and beholds the ship
pass into shrouding gloom, while the dreadful conviction falls upon his
soul that he has not been missed. He tried to speak, but his pallid lips
refused their office. At last he murmured:
"O Lucretia! what have I done; what is the matter; why
this cruel coldness? Don't you love your Reginald any more?"
Her lips curled in bitter scorn, and she replied, in mocking
"Don't I love my Reginald any more? No, I don't love
my Reginald any more! Go back to your pitiful junk-shop and grab your pitiful
yard-stick, and stuff cotton in your ears, so that you can't hear your country
shout to you to fall in and shoulder arms. Go!" And then, unheeding
the new light that Bashed from his eyes, she fled from the room and slammed
the door behind her.
Only a moment more! Only a single moment more, he thought, and he could have told her how he had already answered the summons and signed his name to the muster-roll, and all would have been well - his lost bride would have come back to his arms with words of praise and thanksgiving upon her lips. He made a step forward, once, to recall her, but he remembered that he was no longer an effeminate drygoods student, and his warrior soul scorned to sue for quarter. He strode from the place with martial firmness, and never looked behind him.
When Lucretia awoke next morning, the faint music of fife and the roll of a distant drum came floating upon the soft spring breeze, and as she listened the sounds grew more subdued, and finally passed out of hearing. She lay absorbed in thought for many minutes, and then she sighed and said: "Oh! if he were only with that band of fellows, how I could love him!"
In the course of the day a neighbor dropped in, and when the
conversation turned upon the soldiers, the visitor said:
"Reginald de Whittaker looked rather down-hearted, and
didn't shout when he marched along with the other boys this morning. I expect
it's owing to you, Miss Loo, though when I met him coming here yesterday
evening to tell you he'd enlisted, he thought you'd like it and be proud
of -- Mercy! what in the nation's the matter with the girl?"
Nothing, only a sudden misery had fallen like a blight upon her heart, and a deadly pallor telegraphed it to her countenance. She rose up without a word and walked with a firm step out of the room; but once within the sacred seclusion of her own chamber, her strong will gave way and she burst into a flood of passionate tears. Bitterly she upbraided herself for her foolish haste of the night before, and her harsh treatment of her lover at the very moment that he had come to anticipate the proudest wish of her heart, and to tell her that he had enrolled himself under the battle-flag, and was going forth to fight as her soldier. Alas! other maidens would have soldiers in those glorious fields, and be entitled to the sweet pain of feeling a tender solicitude for them, but she would be unrepresented. No soldier in all the vast armies would breathe her name as he breasted the crimson tide of war! She wept again - or, rather, she went on weeping where she left off a moment before. In her bitterness of spirit she almost cursed the precipitancy that had brought all this sorrow upon her young life. "Drat it!" The words were in her bosom, but she locked them there, and closed her lips against their utterance.
For weeks she nursed her grief in silence, while the roses
faded from her cheeks. And through it all she clung to the hope that some
day the old love would bloom again in Reginald's heart, and he would write
to her - but the long summer days dragged wearily along, and still no letter
came. The newspapers teemed with stories of battle and carnage, and eagerly
she read them, but always with the same result: the tears welled up and
blurred the closing lines - the name she sought was looked for in vain,
and the dull aching returned to her sinking heart. Letters to the other
girls sometimes contained brief mention of him, and presented always the
same picture of him - a morose, unsmiling, desperate man, always in the
thickest of the fight, begrimed with powder, and moving calm and unscathed
through tempests of shot and shell, as if he bore a charmed life.
But at last, in a long list of maimed and killed, poor Lucretia read these terrible words, and fell fainting to the floor: "R. D. Whittaker, private soldier, desperately wounded!"
On a couch in one of the wards of a hospital at Washington
lay a wounded soldier; his head was so profusely bandaged that his features
were not visible; but there was no mistaking the happy face of the young
girl who sat beside him - it was Lucretia Borgia Smith's. She had hunted
him out several weeks before, and since that time she had patiently watched
by him and nursed him, coming in the morning as soon as the surgeon had
finished dressing his wounds, and never leaving him until relieved at nightfall.
A ball had shattered his lower jaw, and he could not utter a syllable; through
all her weary vigils she had never once been blessed with a grateful word
from his dear lips; yet she stood to her post bravely and without a murmur,
feeling that when he did get well again she would hear that which would
more than reward her for all her devotion.
At the hour we have chosen for the opening of this chapter,
Lucretia was in a tumult of happy excitement; for the surgeon had told her
that at last her Whittaker had recovered sufficiently to admit of the removal
of the bandages from his head, and she was now waiting with feverish impatience
for the doctor to come and disclose the loved features to her view. At last
he came, and Lucretia, with beaming eyes and fluttering heart, bent over
the couch with anxious expectancy. One bandage was removed, then another
and another, and lo! the poor wounded face was revealed to the light of
"O my own dar- "
What have we here! What is the matter! Alas! it was the face
of a stranger!
Poor Lucretia! With one hand covering her upturned eyes, she
staggered back with a moan of anguish. Then a spasm of fury distorted her
countenance as she brought her fist down with a crash that made the medicine
bottles on the table dance again, and exclaimed:
"Oh! confound my cats, if I haven't gone and fooled away
three mortal weeks here, snuffing and slobbering over the wrong soldier!"
It was a sad, sad truth. The wretched but innocent and unwitting
impostor was R. D., or Richard Dilworthy Whittaker, of Wisconsin, the soldier
of dear little Eugenie Le Mulligan, of that State, and utterly unknown to
our unhappy Lucretia B. Smith.
Such is life, and the trail of the serpent is over us all. Let us draw the curtain over this melancholy history - for melancholy it must still remain, during a season at least, for the real Reginald de Whittaker has not turned up yet.