Part 5

Next morning, ere the twinkling stars had set, While officers and men were sleeping yet, A courier rode up to my command, And placed a cipher message in my hand; Then spurring well his horse of dapple grey, With parting salutation rode away. This was the import of that message stern: 'Lay waste the district. All the fences burn. Leave not a house or stable unconsumed.' My father's house among the rest was--doomed. I read that message and my anger blazed, My home to be, by my own orders, razed!

A vision rose before my swimming brain, I saw the old parental roof again, I saw my father, as in days of yore, Smoking his pipe beside the open door; I saw his gaze, with penetrating look, Fixed on the pages of some wholesome book; I saw my mother sit beside him, there, Recumbent in her old reclining chair. The vision changed,--I saw her parting tears, My father's parting curse rang in my ears; 'Go! Go!' said he, 'but nevermore return, Go, slay your neighbors, pillage, sack and burn, But never while the golden sun doth shine Be welcomed home as son and heir of mine.'

I felt but little longing to return, And less desire to pillage, sack and burn. And yet,--those cruel orders I must give, No power had I to voice the negative. In commonplace affairs of life, 'tis true, Men may elect to do, or not to do. In military operations, they Have no alternative, but to obey.

Ah! Fain, from that impending holocaust Would I have snatched them! Rather had I lost The tinselled honors and the epaulettes, And doffed my uniform without regrets, Than harm by word or deed that agèd sire; Yet I must start, who fain would quench the fire. I read and read that cipher message there, How many times, I have not to declare, But over and again I scanned the lines, And pondered well its symbols and its signs; Ironclad were they, from every standpoint viewed, Admitting not of choice or latitude; So, to the officers of my command, I gave their orders, with a trembling hand, And swift as horseflesh ever travelled, went To seek the corps commander in his tent, To crave this boon, or favor, at his hand,-- My father's house be still allowed to stand.

'Twas long before I gained an audience; I felt, but cannot picture the suspense Of that long hour's involuntary wait; Too late, my heart would beat, too late, too late! I took a seat and pulled my watch out once; 'Too late, too late,' the timepiece ticked response! I paced the ground with quick, impatient tread; 'Too late, too late, too late,' my footsteps said! 'Too late, too late, too late!' With fluttering beat My heart responded to my echoing feet.

The General, who a kindly heart possessed, No sooner heard, than granted my request; 'Twas but a moment's work to mount my steed, And spur him to his maximum of speed; The faithful creature seemed to understand And needed little urging from my hand, As down the turnpike, toward my childhood's home, He fairly flew, his bridle white with foam; His hoofbeats, as we clattered o'er the ground, Returned a dull, premonitory sound, Which seemed to echo and accentuate The burden of my heart, 'Too late! Too late!'

The fences, near the turnpike, as we passed, Were by my orders disappearing fast; The rails were piled in heaps and soon became A prey to war's red ally,--vandal flame. Houses, familiar to my childish sight, Glowed strangely with an unaccustomed light, While from adjacent barns and hay-ricks broke Incipient tongues of flame and clouds of smoke. The orders, ruthless and inflexible, Were by the soldiers executed well.

Still down the turnpike dashed my sweating horse, I plied the cruel spurs with double force, When in the distance there appeared to view The old stone manor-house my childhood knew. My spirit sank,--though I was not surprised, My worst misgivings had been realized, For from the roof and upper windows came Dense clouds of smoke and lurid sheets of flame. It had its portion in the common fate, 'Too late!' the mocking hoof-beats rang, 'Too late!'

We passed a company, on their return From executing those instructions stern; It was the company of my brigade Wherein I first was a lieutenant made; Its officers and men I knew by name; They cheered me when their captain I became; They cheered me when I left a major's tent, To be the colonel of their regiment.

They did my bidding. How could I condemn! They honored me and I respected them; And yet, these favorites of my command Had not one hour before applied the brand Which was transforming with its wand of fire My father's house into--his funeral pyre.

That they had met resistance, I could see, For wounded men, in number two or three, Were by their comrades carted in advance, While one more limped behind the ambulance. Upon a stretcher carried in their van, The soldiers bore the body of a man; He was their captain, and my bosom friend; He plied that torch,--and met a bloody end.

I plunged the spurs, but not without remorse, Into his steaming flanks and urged my horse, Which I disliked to tax beyond his strength; Such speed had he maintained, that now, at length, He was compelled to pant and hesitate; With labored effort we dashed through the gate, Or where the gate had been an hour before, For gate and fence alike, were seen no more, Save in the scattered bonfires, while at most All that remained was here and there a post.

There was a fascination in that sight Which seemed to conquer and unnerve me, quite; A sense of horror, not akin to fear, Possessed my being as we galloped near; All sorts of evil pictures filled my mind, As one who seeks, yet dreads what he may find; As we drew nearer, I remember well, With hissing crash the roof collapsed and fell; Dismounting, I the premises surveyed, And viewed the havoc and destruction made; Crushed by the disappointment, the suspense, And failure of my planned deliverance, I moved about with apprehensive tread, To seek my relatives, alive or dead; And, near a haystack's smouldering ruins found My father's body, weltering on the ground; A musket tightly clenched within his hand, Slain by the troopers of my own command; His whitened locks were streaked with crimson stains, The same red blood then coursing through my veins.

Close by his side, a form with silvered hair, Caressed his brow, with dazed, abstracted air; 'Twas she who nursed my being into life, The highest type of mother and of wife; Our glances met, yet e'er I framed to speak, She started up, then with a piercing shriek Fell back, expiring on the speechless clay Of him whose life so lately ebbed away.

* * * * *

As campfires gleamed, and heaven's orb, serene With borrowed radiance, o'erflowed the scene, Within a grave, beneath the crimson sands, I laid them both to rest with my own hands. In lieu of prayer, or solemn dirge, was heard The twittering cadence of the mockingbird, Uniting with the sentry's muffled tread, Which seemed a measured requiem for the dead, As, side by side, in death's eternal sleep, I laid them tenderly, nor paused to weep, For feelings which in tears find no relief Had dried the very fountainheads of grief. I shaped a double mound above their clay, Planted a wooden cross,--and went my way.

* * * * *

That night I tore the medals from my breast, Resigned my sword and started for the West."

VIII. THE STORY OF AN EXILE

Such was the tragic story told, And, tired from standing on his feet, This patriarch so gray and old Relit his pipe and took a seat. As one, inert and overtaxed From strenuous toil, he soon relaxed Into that dull composure, which Fatigue accords to poor and rich.

The observation could detect No levity nor disrespect, Nor through his story was there heard Remark or interruptive word, His voice and bearing as he spoke, Admitting not of jest or joke. The common feeling seemed to be Respect and deepest sympathy.

As childish incidents recurred In memory to Dad McGuire, As one who neither saw nor heard He sat, intent upon the fire; Yet watched the ever-changing blaze With that intensity of gaze Which shows the things the eyes have caught Are not the subjects of the thought, But far beyond their metes and bounds The vision rests on other grounds.

This story of a life rehearsed, Left other eyes bedimmed and blurred; Each with his silent thoughts conversed And none presumed to speak a word, Lest sympathy the tears provoke. Old Uncle Jim forgot to smoke And though he had replenished it, Still left his meerschaum pipe unlit, Till as the watchdog suddenly Wakes up with apprehensive sniff, He started from his reverie And took an unsuccessful whiff; But embers which the fire supplied Soon changed the fragrant charge inside With alternating draw and whiff, Into a meerschaum Teneriffe.

All smoked, excepting Dad McGuire, Who stirred the embers of the fire, And placed thereon what seemed to be, The remnants of a hemlock tree; 'Twas one of those ungainly stumps, Composed of twisted knots and bumps, Which every boy or even man, In chopping wood, skips if he can; 'Twas such a chunk as may be seen After the woodpile's chopped up clean; The log they split the blocks upon And leave when all the rest is gone. This chunk, which none of them could split, Though many had attempted it, By divers and ingenious ways, Was soon enveloped in a blaze, Which shed its glare into the night, As beacons radiate their light.

Reclining by his brother's side, Abstracted and preoccupied, The Russian, rubicund and hale, Was importuned to tell his tale, And slightly coughing from the smoke, Forthwith in faultless diction spoke: "My brother's story you have heard, The same should mine be, word for word, Up to that dismal dungeon grate, Which he presumed had sealed my fate. I doubt not he related well The horrors of that loathsome cell, So that description, now by me, Would fruitless repetition be. Sufficient be it to declare That brief was my detention there.

Though discontent the action was Which constituted my offence, I felt the weight of Russian laws When chained to other malcontents. Before the chains had time to rust I plodded through the mud and dust As many exiles erst had trod, Their footprints often stained with blood. With clanking chains and painful stride, With Cossack guards on either side, We marched in silence, in the reach Of sabres that discouraged speech. A sad procession, for full well Our destinations could we tell. Down country lane and village street We limped with bruised and blistered feet, In single file, as some infirm Though monstrous centipede or worm, Beset by some tormenting foe, Might move with locomotion slow, And tortured by its enemy, Propel its foul dimensions by.

Past where the Urals, bleak and high, Invade the cerulean sky With summits desolate and gray, With weary tread we wound our way. Where intertwining branches made A vernal canopy of shade, The song-birds, from their arches high Mocked at our chains, as we passed by; The only forms of earth or air, Deprived of rightful freedom there.

At night in forest depths profound, We lay upon the cheerless ground, Where on our route we chanced to be, Nor couch nor coverlet had we Between us and the turf or stones, To soothe our tired and aching bones. Our limbs emaciated grew, Ragged were we and dirty, too, As o'er the trans-Slavonian plains, We dragged our grievous weight of chains.

As passed the autumn months away Six leagues we measured every day, Six leagues our loads were daily borne, On shoulders galled and callous-worn. Each morning was our march begun, Before the advent of the sun, While every evening in the west He sank, before we paused for rest. Time and again upon the road, The weaker dropped beneath their load, And fainting from fatigue and pain, They sank, but rose not up again.

Where the Pacific's broad expanse Of sleeping waters, calm and fair, Divide the mighty continents With their pelagic barrier; Upon the Asiatic shore, Some twelve leagues from the sea or more, In course of time, our weary line Was halted at a penal mine. 'Twas there within a log stockade Constructed in a manner crude, That we our habitation made Through many months of servitude.

A mine's a mine the world around, A cheerless place wherever found, Dismal and dark beyond compare And charged with foul, unwholesome air, Which fills the lungs at every breath With germs of an untimely death. In caverns subterranean, With limbs not bound by gyve or chain, Of those who toil, few are the men Who reach the threescore years and ten. Such was the smoke-polluted mine Wherein we slaved from morn till night, Or when the sun had ceased to shine We toiled till his returning light, Then dragged each one his ball and chain Back to his bed of straw again. Day after day could there be seen The same monotonous routine; Such was the drudging life we led Till hope from every bosom fled, And each became as time rolled on A spiritless automaton.

The details of a captive's lot I fear would interest you not, So your forbearance I beseech, While, in impromptu forms of speech, I strive in simple terms to shape The narrative of my escape.

* * * * *

From out the realms of tropic heat, Invading with contagious feet, Came there a plague, one summer-tide. Up from the south with fatal stride It stalked, and poured its vials forth Upon the sparsely settled North; A wave of pestilence and fear Swept o'er the northland far and near; The frenzied peasants, in their fright, Sought safety in promiscuous flight; In consternation and alarm, To seek immunity from harm, They left the sick in their distress, And fled into the wilderness; As if, within the solitude, The Nemesis, which had pursued, Might satiate its deadly wrath, And deviate or change its path, And its malignant steps retrace Back to the southern starting-place.

The able-bodied left behind The paralyzed, the halt and blind; The well in abject terror fled, Forsook the dying, while the dead, Unburied in the summer breeze, Became a nidus of disease, Wherefrom fresh seeds of pestilence Were scattered by the elements.

Of those who felt its loathsome breath, But few escaped a speedy death; So rapid were the ravages Of that distemper or disease, That many, stricken in the night, Expired before the dawn of light; For some, who in the morning time Stood well and strong in manhood's prime, The noontide brought the fatal scourge, And evening zephyrs played the dirge; Those who survived the plague direct Oft died from hunger and neglect; The convalescents woke and found No ministering forms around, No watcher sitting by the bed, Alone were they, save for the dead; They called, but Echo's voice alone Answered the supplicating moan; They prayed, but no one heard their prayer, Then perished from the want of care.

The suffering of the stricken then, Defies descriptive word or pen; I see with memory's vision yet The beads of suppurating sweat Stand on the burning brows of those Smitten with agonizing throes; As racking tortures permeate Each swollen and distorted shape, With thirst which none may mitigate, They call for drink with mouths agape; Yet naught may succor such distress, Save coma and unconsciousness; When these the intellect benumb, The sense and feeling overcome, Within its tuneful cavern hung No longer rests the fluent tongue, But swollen by the pain and drouth, Protrudes from out the parching mouth; The burning and discolored lip Imagined moisture tries to sip; Again they vainly strive to speak Their fevered incoherencies, But vocal organs parched and weak Respond but labored gasp and wheeze.

I scent the putrefying air, And see the horror and despair Depicted on the lineaments Of every stricken countenance; I see them writhe, then suddenly, With ghastly leer convulse and die.

As stagnant waters generate A fungous and unsightly freight Of morbid scum and slimy moss, Of origin spontaneous; So latent germs, unnoticed, lurk In readiness for deadly work; When these the right conditions find, And spread infection to the wind, Chronologers, both far and near, Record an epidemic year.

Within the bounds of our stockade, The plague its foul appearance made, And soon inoculated there, Its virus to the very air, Till e'en the genial summer breeze Seemed a dispenser of disease; Then, as impartial lightnings strike The nobleman and serf alike, Within this filthy prison yard, It smote both prisoner and guard; The difference of race, of lot, Of rank was speedily forgot, As discipline succumbed to dread And officers and soldiers fled, Save such as, fallen by the way, Helpless and unattended lay, Till death brought silence and relief, From agony intense, though brief.

Within the walls of the stockade Not one unstricken person stayed, Except some convicts who remained For one good reason:--we were chained. Our dingy quarters, floor and bed, Were filled with dying and with dead; The only shelter we could claim, A fetid lazar-house became. I need not tell you how the air Was filled with accents of despair, How clamor and entreaty smote The air, from blistered tongue and throat, As burning rash and ghastly rheum Supplanted nature's ruddy bloom; How moan and outcry, curse and prayer Were mingled with each other there; Some raved in dialects unknown, Or terms provincial, while the groan, The common tongue of suffering men, Was echoed ever and again.

Some, with reluctant clutch and gasp, Saw life receding from their grasp; And some, with stoic countenance, Maintained a stern indifference, For what are death's abstruse alarms, When life is shorn of all its charms; As zealots, when they come to die, Lift their enraptured gaze on high, And clasp to the expiring breast Some crucifix or icon blest, And mutter with stertorious breath Some sacred word or shibboleth, Then sink expectant and resigned, As if in death a boon to find, Some in excruciating pain, Welcomed its foul destroying breath And sought from cruel gyve and chain Emancipation, though in death.

'Tis not my purpose to declare The horrors which befell us there, As passed the fatal hours away, Of that most memorable day. Each hour increased our dire distress, Yet found our numbers less and less, Till when the shadows overspread, The major number were the dead. But three survived that awful night, To gaze upon the morning light; And when the noonday breezes blew, That three had been reduced to two; And ere the setting of the sun I was the sole remaining one. A silence strangely mute and dumb Succeeded pandemonium.

There when my last companion died, Chained to a corpse on either side, Strange as may seem the miracle, I never felt more strong and well, Nor held my life in less esteem; In that position most extreme, By silent death surrounded, I Enjoyed a weird immunity.

'Twould serve no purpose to recite My feelings, as approaching night, With his impenetrable pall, Descended and enveloped all. I sat alone in fear and dread, Chained to the floor,--and to the dead. A gruesome and revolting sight Is horrifying in the light, But when dissembling night conceals, The breast a double terror feels. That darkness, black beyond compare, Seemed a fit mantle for despair. Few are the words when hope has failed; An awful quietude prevailed; I sat, a mute and helpless lump, And felt my heart's pulsating thump, With movement regular and strong, Propel life's crimson flood along, But made no sound until the spell Of silence was unbearable.

I spoke, but all the ears in reach Were deaf to every charm of speech; I shouted till the roof, the floor And walls resounded with the roar; I called the dead men at my side, But Echo's voice alone replied; I was alone, nor man nor brute Was there, save those so stark and mute; My voice upon my listening ear Fell, most unnatural and queer, As if with weird, uncanny sound The walls responsive voices found, And echoed back the tones at will, To mock those tongues so cold and still; Though these vociferations made My spirit none the less afraid, The silence seemed more terrible; Words fail me as I strive to tell How in my desperation, I Abandoned hope, yet could not die.

I never craved the morning light, As through that terrifying night, For gentle but erratic Sleep Withheld her respite soft and deep, As in that charnel house I lay, Till twilight ushered in the day.

When daylight had returned again I strove with the relentless chain, Twisted and tugged until at length A more than ordinary strength Possessed my arm, and at one stroke The rivets weakened, bent and broke; One master wrench and from the floor, The ring which held the chain I tore; I dragged the dead men o'er the ground Till forge and anvil I had found; There with the hammer, rasp and file I wrought with diligence the while; At some expense of time and pains, I disengaged the cruel chains, And stood once more erect and free: Thus ended my captivity.

* * * * *

A guard lay prostrate on the sand, His rifle in his lifeless hand; I wrenched it from his rigid clutch, Then played the ghoul in self-defence, For clothing and accoutrements Escaped not my despoiling touch; I breathed the air of liberty, Alone I stood, but armed and free. To mislead any watchful eyes, I donned a militant disguise, And, in the dead man's uniform, Was soon prepared for strife or storm.