T46 
«©v § 
ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS. 
Copyrighted by the Rural New-Yorker. 
All rights reserved. 
chapter x. —( Continued.) 
JACK FOSTER’S WELCOME. 
His mother’s words cut Jack to the heart. 
The utter helplessness of his position flashed 
through his mind. What could these proud 
women think of him—the dishonored soldier? 
Could he tell them that all their suffering, all 
their devotion had been for nothing? He 
covered his face with his hands and groaned 
aloud—he who had marched into the rifle pits 
at Gettysburg without flinching. Lucy put 
her arms about his neck to comfort him, but 
his mother rose proudly from her seat. 
“Are you a coward?’’ She asked sternly. 
“Dare you not tell us why you are afraid to 
wear the uniform of your country? Come 
away from him Lucy, and let him answer if 
he can.” 
The girl rose reluctantly and took her place 
at Mrs. Foster’s side. She looked pityingly 
at Jack, and once she started to go back to 
him. The elder woman put her arm about 
Lucy’s waist as if to steady herself. Mrs. Foster 
looked sternly at her son though her woman’s 
heart was bleeding for him. Her gray hair 
had grown white with the terrible suffering 
of war. Her old dress hung loosely about her 
thiu form, yet she stood erect and stately as 
of old. Lucy’s under lip quivered, and she 
drew closer to Mrs, Foster. 
“Speak, sir!” Commanded the stern woman 
with a slight gesture toward her son. Jack 
felt at her words a cruel, obstinate feeling rise 
in his heart. Had he been left to tell the 
story in his own way he might have softened 
the blow; but his mother's stern words goaded 
him to desperation. Was he a coward? He 
stood up straight and soldier-like as he an¬ 
swered bluntly: 
“ I have no uniform to wear. It is all over 
with me, I reckon. I refused to shoot a Yan¬ 
kee prisoner,and I havebeeu dishonorably dis¬ 
charged from the service.” 
It was a plain statement of fact, but if Jack 
could only have seen Lucy's quivering Up. he 
would not have answered so biuutly. When 
he auswered he was looking straight iuio bis 
mother’s eyes with all the pride she had given 
him. Had he struck the women a blow with 
his hand he could not have hurt them more 
cruelly. Mrs. Foster staggered to a chair 
with all the proud scorn driven from her face. 
She lowered her head in her hands—this 
proud, Btatety woman, Her boy had brought 
dishonor upon them. Lucy’s mouth stopped 
its trembling. She drew back from Jack with 
a shudder. For a moment she looked at him 
with flashing eye>—speechless with anger. 
Then wiih one wild burst her scorn found 
words. 
“You a traitor? You refuse to shoot a 
Yankee? You bring back nothing but dis¬ 
honor to us? Oh, if I could ouly be a man to 
shame you! They stood here, in this very 
room, and insulted your own mother. These 
wolves that light only women and children, 
cursed my sick mother when she defied them. 
And you did not dare to kill them—you who 
swore to be true to me. You area coward!” 
Hhe stopped for a moment, fairly choked 
with passion. She could not see bow any¬ 
thing could possibly justify a Southern man 
in sparing a Yankee’s life. She ouly knew 
that the Northern soldiers had brought afl the 
horrors nnd desolation upon the laud. Before 
they came her life had been one long round of 
happiness. They were like wild beasts to her, 
and to think that the man to whom she had 
given her heart had refused to fight them 
nearly drove her frantic. She would listen to 
no reason now. 
Jack turned to her with tears in his eyes. 
H is mother’s sternness had not touched him 
thus. If he could only let her know why he 
did not shoot the prisoner. If she could only 
understand that it was for love of her that he 
had lowered his musket. He held out his arms 
appealingly to her. 
“My dear little girl," he began, but she 
waved him back and pointed to the door. 
“Go, you coward,” she sternly said, “never 
dare speak to me again. I will never look at 
you or speak to you again, so help me, my 
God!” 
She held her clenched fist above her as she 
spoke. Her other hand was pressed against 
her breast. She gasped and turned as pale as 
death, for she knew how well she loved this 
man. Jack knew she meant every word she 
had spoken. He offered no word of explana¬ 
tion. He turned proudly to the door with a 
great pain at his heart. He could not even 
look at Lucy, His mother rose from her chair 
and tottered toward him. The mother’s love 
is stronger than any. 
“I will go with you,’’ she said feebly, “you 
have dishonored your country, hut you are 
still my son. Let me go home my boy. Take 
me borne that 1 may die where no one can 
see my shame. I do not care to live now.” 
She threw her bonnet on her head and loan¬ 
ing on her son’s shoulder tottered out into the 
sunshine. Lucy watched them with flashing 
eyes. They passed slowly down the path and 
out at the gate. She kuew well that (hey 
would never come back, except at a word from 
her, and that she would not give. She watched 
them as they reached the gate and saw Jack's 
face as he glanced back. The anger faded 
from her eyes, and she threw herself upon 
the sofa in an agony of weeping. Her idol 
had been broken. Her knight had proved 
faithless. 
CHAPTER XI. 
As Jack and Mrs. Foster walked slowly 
down the street, they saw, ahead of them, au 
Old man standing under the trees. His loog 
white hair fell down almost to bis shoulders, 
and his great board swept his breast like a 
brush of snow. His clothes were old, yet 
carefully patched and brushed. He wore a 
wide straw hat. His head was bent forward, 
and his thiu hands were clasped behind him. 
They could not see his face, yet Jack recog¬ 
nized him at once. Jack had seen him in 
that dim picture that rose before him at the 
court-house, Angry and humiliated as Jack 
was he would gladly have turned back. He 
did not care to meet the old preacher when 
the evidences of the trutli of his prophecy 
were so abundant Those calm words seemed 
too true to him now. His mother pressed for¬ 
ward, however, and Jack reluctantly walked 
toward the old man. Their steps aroused 
the preacher from the reverie iuto which he 
had fallen. He glanced up, and then ad¬ 
vanced with a smile of surprise to take their 
hands. No wonder Mrs. Foster bad hastened 
to him for comfort. No wonder Jack bung 
bis head in shame when that calm face turned 
toward them. 
It was a beautiful face—calm and gentle ami 
dignified, set iu a frame of hair of the most 
wondrous whiteness. The eyes were clear and 
calm, yet full of a soft, dreamy expression, as 
if the}’ were looking far away from the pres¬ 
ent. The mouth was gentle, aud yet there 
were lines at the corners that indicated a 
mighty will aud a strong determination wheu 
some great occasion should demand it. There 
was one ghastly mark on the forehead, where 
a wide scar lost itself iu the snow-white hair. 
It seemed as if some brutal finger bad traced 
its protest against the gentle whiteness of the 
forehead. The pure skiu showed whiter than 
ever about the scar. 
Jack hung his head as the old preacher 
placed a thiu hand kindly on his arm. Mrs 
Foster grasped the tbin hand as if it offered 
her some great OOmfert. It is not always the 
great, powerful clasp that briugs us tbe great¬ 
est help. 
“1 must see you, Brother Hill. I must 
speak with you at once,” she gasped. “We 
are going home, but I mitst see you first. We 
have changed. 1 know, but I must talk now, 
aud you, my old friend, will tell me what I 
shall do.” 
She spoke wildly and leaned htavily on the 
arm of her son. It seemed strange that she 
should come at last to this gentle old man for 
help. For years he had spoken bravely 
against slavery, against secession, against 
everything that had led to the war. She had 
scorned him, yet now', heart-broken and help¬ 
less, she came to him for comfort. Perhaps 
some instiuet told her how bis bravo, sclf- 
saerittemg life had given him the strength she 
needed. 
The preacher spoke gently as he shook her 
hand: “Come with me and you shall toll me 
your trouble—perhaps we can make it 
lighter.” 
Ho took his place at her side, and the three 
walked on together. He guessed at something 
of the trouble as they went slowly on. Jack’s 
dogged, sullen manner, and the woman’s wild¬ 
ness and feebleness, told him something of 
what had happened. He smiled sadly as he 
thought how' this young man had laughed 
defiantly and tossed his musket iu glee as he 
marched away these* few years before. 
The preacher at last opened a gate iu front 
of a little cottage that stood back from the 
street in a mass of vines aud flowers. They 
followed him silently up the path nnd into the 
house. Jack helped his mother up the steps 
and into the study. 8he dropped Into u chair 
aud covered her face with her hands. Her 
pride, that had kept her tears back so long, 
was broken at last. The preacher with a 
gesture drew Jack from the room. They 
closed the door and went out to the front of 
the house. 
“I do not know what has happened, John,” 
the preacher said kindly. “ Perhaps I have 
no right to ask you what you have done, but 
you had better leave your mother.here with 
me. I am an old friend, and it may lie that, I 
can say something that, will bring her some 
comfort.” 
Jack held out his hand and grasped the thin 
fingers. His eyes were full, and he felt that 
groat lump rising iu his throat. Could not 
this gentle old man understand him when he 
told his story ? Could not he see w hy it was 
better to be called a traitor than to shoot 
the Yankee prisoner? Jack feltso at first, but 
the cruel sear on the white forehead seemed 
to stand out more plainly into view, and he 
drove his purpose down. 
“ I will go. I reckon,” he said simply. “ I 
have disgraced them—they think—and I will 
take my mother home. I reckon I will ride 
out to the plantation nnd make it ready for 
her. I’ll be back in a few* hours.” 
The preacher shook bands again and 
walked back to the study where the 
grief-stricken woman was awaiting him. 
Jack walked out into the street. His mule 
was still tied iu front of Lucy’s house. A ne¬ 
gro boy brought the animal for him, and 
mounting ouce more, Jack rude slowly away 
over the road he knew so well. Be was anx¬ 
ious to get away—he cared not where—that he 
might think. Sad indeed were the poor fel¬ 
low’s thoughts as he rode toward his old home. 
Gloomily he stood at last in front of the old 
house and looked over the butchered planta¬ 
tion. Be felt the letters he had read so often.uu- 
der his coat. The two sentences catnu into his 
mind. “If you will only be true, I will love you 
forever.” “ If you ever show them any mercy, 
I will never speak to you again.” He knew 
that he had been true as life itself aud yet he 
had shown mercy. 
A short time after Jack rode out of town, 
an old man came riding through the street as 
rapidly as his sorry mule could carry him. 
He leaned far over the mule’s head as if to 
try aud add to that animal’s speed. His gray 
hair flew out behind him His hat had been 
lost on the way but his mission was evidently 
of too much importance to permit him to stop 
for such trifling mishaps. He halted iu front 
of the post office, where a small crowd had 
gathered to enjoy the suushine. 
“The Yankees are coming!” He shouted. 
“Another raid! Notify the town!” 
By a vigorous application of his stick he 
pushed new life into his mule and rode on 
again to privately warn lus own pe.rsoual 
friends. Tbe crowd iu front of the post oflice, 
scattered like a flock of sheep at this danger 
call. They were mostly old men who fought 
the home battles, and told how' the real cam¬ 
paign should have been conducted. The few 
stores were hurriedly closed and the men 
hastened home to hide the few trinkets, or the 
little money that former raids had left Then 
one and all of the home guards “took to the 
woods” leaving the ladies to meet the Yanln es 
witli their more dangerous weapons of scorn 
and womanly abuse. There was little to 
choose between Grierson and Forest in the 
conduct of these raids. One took what tbe 
other left. Like Jack Spratt and bis wife 
they “licked the platter clean” without being 
hampered, as were the aforesaid distinguished 
couple by any decided preference for meat 
of a particular quality. 
When Grierson’s cavalry rode into the town 
an hour in the rear of the old messenger, they 
found a deserted village with only one man 
—the postmaster—in sight. This govern¬ 
ment official was chained to his post by a dis¬ 
abled leg which alone prevented him from 
taking a position in the front rank of the 
home guard. There was nothing of value iu 
the mail bag. Just a great heap of letters 
from the soldiers. The liluecoats let them 
go, laughing now aud then at some boasting 
sentence. The Yankees could not stay long. 
They must press on to t’.e next town. Leav¬ 
ing a small guard on the mam street, they 
scattered through the village in pursuit of 
plunder. The negroes hastened to meet 
them. Old slaves tottered out to shake hands 
with Massa Linkum’s soldiers. Boys folio wed 
them about with opened-moutbed wonder. 
Old women grinned nnd muttered in pleasure. 
The soldiers were rough, good-natured fel¬ 
lows from Michigan. There was very little 
play or “fooling” about them. Three years 
of fighting had drilled some positive ideas in¬ 
to them and made them rough and sturdy. 
They had little respect for their foes, aud the 
women who launted them were sure to get a 
rough answer. No man was harmed who 
kept quiet, and most of the men were too far 
away for a sound to reach the town. Horses 
and valuable articles that could be easily 
transported were taken w ithout ceremony. 
a short time after tbe column baited, a 
heavy ran was hoard at the door of the old 
preacher’s study. There was no response to 
to this rough notice, and the huge Cavalry 
man who had Ante*red the place, pressed the 
latch and pushed the door open. 
Ho stepped over the threshold, but some¬ 
thing on the inside made him stop. 
i To be continued.) 
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