Martha Finley - Elsie Dinsmore - Complete Series (28 Books in One Edition)

"I was once a guest at the Oaks for a fortnight or so, at the time of the marriage of Miss Elsie, Mr. Dinsmore's daughter, to a Mr. Travilla."

Harold's face grew a shade paler, but his tones were calm and quiet. "Indeed! and may I ask your name?"

"Harry Duncan, at your service," returned the other, with a bow and smile. "I met your three brothers there, also your sisters, Mrs. Carrington and Miss May Allison."

The color deepened slightly on Harry's cheek as he pronounced the last name. The pretty face, graceful form, charming manners, and sprightly conversation of the young lady were still fresh in his memory. Having enjoyed the hospitalities of Andersonville for but a few days, he was in better condition, as to health and clothing, than the rest of the group, who had been there for months.

"Harry Duncan!" exclaimed Harold, offering his hand, which the other took in a cordial grasp and shook heartily, "yes, I know; I have heard of you and your aunt, Miss Stanhope. I feel as if I'd found a brother."

"Thank you; suppose we consider ourselves such; a brother is what I've been hankering after ever since I can remember."

"Agreed," said Harold. "Perhaps," he added, with a melancholy smile, "we may find the fiction turned to fact some day, if you and one of my single sisters should happen to take a fancy to each other; that is, if we live to get out of this and to see home again." His tone at the last was very desponding.

"Cheer up," said Duncan, in a low, sympathizing tone, "I think we can find a way to escape; men have done so even from the Bastile—a far more difficult task, I should say."

"What's your idea?"

"To dig our way out, working at night, and covering up the traces of our work by day."

"Yes, it's the only way possible, so far as I can see," said Harold. "I have already escaped twice in that way, but only to be retaken, and this is what I gained," shaking his chain, and pointing to the heavy ball attached. "Yet, if I were rid of this, and possessed of a little more strength, I'd make a third attempt."

"I think I could rid you of that little attachment," returned Duncan; "and the tunnel once ready, help you in the race for liberty."

The others of the group were exchanging significant nods and glances.

"I think we may let Duncan into our secret," said Jones. "We're digging a well; have gone down six feet; three feet below the surface is soapstone, so soft we can cut it with our jack-knives. We mean to work our way out to-night. Will you join us?"

"With all my heart."

"Suppose we are caught in the attempt," said one.

"We can't be in much worse condition than now," observed another; "starving in this pestiferous atmosphere filled with the malaria from that swamp, and the effluvia from half-decayed corpses; men dying every day, almost every hour, from famine, disease, or violence."

"No," said Harry, "we may bring upon ourselves what Allison is enduring, or instant death; but I for one would prefer the latter to the slow torture of starvation."

"If we are ready," said Harold, in low, solemn tones. "It is appointed to men once to die, and after that the judgment."

"And what should you say was the needful preparation?" queried another, half-mockingly. "'Repent ye and believe the gospel.' 'Let the wicked forsake his way and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord and He will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.' 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.'"

Silence fell on the little group. Duncan's eyes wandered over the field, over the thousands of brave men herded together there like cattle, with none of the comforts, few of the necessaries of life—over the living, the dying, the dead; taking in the whole aggregate of suffering with one sweeping glance. His eyes filled; his whole soul was moved with compassion, while he half forgot that he himself was one of them.

How much were the consolations of God needed here! how few, comparatively, possessed them. But some there were who did, and were trying to impart them to others. Should he stay and share in this good work? Perhaps he ought; he almost thought so for a moment; but he remembered his country's need; he had enlisted for the war; he must return to active service, if he could.

Then his eye fell upon Harold. Here was a noble life to be saved; a life that would inevitably be lost to friends, relatives, country, by but a few weeks' longer sojourn in this horrible place. Duncan's determination was taken: with the help of God the morning light should find them both free and far on their way towards the Union lines.

"We'll try it, comrades, to-night," he said aloud.

"So we will," they answered with determination.

A man came staggering towards them, gesticulating wildly and swearing horrible oaths.

"He is crazed with hunger, poor fellow," remarked Harold.

Duncan was gazing steadily at the man who had now sunk panting upon the ground, exhausted by his own violence. Evidently he had once possessed more than an ordinary share of physical beauty, but vice and evil passions had set their stamp upon his features, and famine had done its ghastly work; he was but a wreck of his former self.

"Where have I seen that face?" murmured Harry, unconsciously thinking aloud.

"In the rogues' gallery, perhaps. Tom Jackson is his name, or one of his names; for he has several aliases, I'm told," remarked some one standing near.

"Yes, he's the very man!" exclaimed Harry. "I have studied his photograph and recognize him fully, in spite of famine's ravages. The wretch! he deserves all he suffers: and yet I pity him."

"What! the would-be assassin of Viamede?" and Harold started to his feet, the hot blood dyeing his thin cheeks.

"The same. You feel like lynching him on the spot; and no wonder. But refrain; they would bid you, and he is already suffering a worse fate than any you could mete out to him."

"God forgive me!" groaned Harold, dropping down again and hiding his face in his hands, "I believe there was murder in my heart."

"The story? what was it?" asked Jones. "Tell it, Duncan; anything to help us to a moment's forgetfulness."

The others joined in the request, and Duncan gave the full particulars of the several attempts Jackson had made upon the lives of Mr. Travilla and Elsie.

Allison never once lifted his face during the recital, but the rest listened with keen interest.

"The fellow richly deserves lynching," was the unanimous verdict, "but, as you say, is already suffering a far worse fate."

"And yet no worse than that of thousands of innocent men," remarked Jones bitterly. "Where's the justice of it?"

"Do you expect even-handed justice here?" inquired another.

"Perhaps he may be no worse in the sight of God, than some of the rest of us," said Harold, in low, grave tones; "we do not know what evil influences may have surrounded him from his very birth, or whether, exposed to the same, we would have turned out any better."

"I'm perishing with thirst," said Jones, "and must try pushing through that crowd about the spring."

He wandered off and the group scattered, leaving Harold and Duncan alone together.

The two had a long talk: of home, common friends and acquaintance; of the war, what this or that Federal force was probably now attempting; what future movements were likely to be made, and how the contest would end; neither doubting the final triumph of the government.

"And that triumph can't be very far off either," concluded Harry. "I think the struggle will be over before this time next year, and I hope you and I may have a hand in the winding up."

"Perhaps you may," Allison rejoined a little sadly; "but I, I fear, have struck my last blow for my native land."

"You are not strong now, but good nursing may do wonders for you," answered Harry cheerily. "Once within the Union lines, and you will feel like another man."