"That Old-Time Child, Roberta" Part 3

"Bless your sweet mouf. But we've gotter die fo' long, honey, en be put erway in the cold groun' fur the wurms ter make meals of; sum of us cheaten' the grave rite now. What iz you gwiner do then, honey?"

"Then," said the child, and her face was sober indeed, "when that comes to pa.s.s I shall be very, very sorry for a long time; but I will try to make others happy, as mamma does, and may be that will comfort me a little. I will get all the little girls together, like me, that haven't got any papas and mammas, and all the little hunchback darkies like Dilsy, and all the sorrowful people like mamma, and I'll love 'em and take care of 'em until the angel comes for us, the angel that G.o.d sends."

Thus the years rolled by until the war came. Peaceful, happy years they were to Roberta on the old farm; golden years, in which the child's character grew and strengthened, with no unkindly influence to warp it, and her nature, it seemed, became more responsive all the time to the love that was lavished upon her.

Mam' Sarah told Roberta that she was going down to the tobacco fields, early Sad-day morning, July 4, '63, and Roberta coaxed her mamma to let she and Polly and Dilsy go with her. Although Federal cannon were planted along the bluff overlooking Green River, their presence occasioned no especial uneasiness, nor suspicion of impending warfare. Mrs. Marsden as well as everybody else had grown accustomed to them. Almost during the entire civil war that point was thought important on account of the bridge; army stores were constantly s.h.i.+pped South that way.

So the three children started off, merry as larks, with their trusty companion.

On either side of the turnpike road were green fields flushed with light.

The morning air stirred about them, redolent in sweet scents and attuned with the many voices of summer. They heard the drowsy hum of bees; and b.u.t.terflies were there, thick as motes in the midday sun. Roberta's observant, nature-loving eyes roved delightedly from one point to another of the sunny landscape, while she repeated gaily to Mam' Sarah a little couplet. The child's memory was stored with quaint rhymes:

"A country lane between fields of clover Rippling in suns.h.i.+ne over and over.

There the whirl of gay revelrie, b.u.t.terflies waltzing mad with glee, Honey-bees, powdered in dust of gold, Cha.s.sezing around like gay knights of old, Clad in silken doublet and hose; Lookout, lookout, if you tread on their toes."

Suddenly Polly broke away, pulled up an iron-weed growing on the road-side, and fell to whipping a large purple thistle. Her thirst grew; she left the thistle and fell to whipping the rank gra.s.s. Then was heard an angry buzz, as the a.s.saulted bees swarmed out of their defenses and literally stormed her.

They settled all over her. Head, face, bare feet and legs were attacked all at once. They stung her terribly. The death of their comrade was summarily avenged. She rent the air with her cries, and backed toward Mam'

Sarah, fighting them off as she went from different parts of her body.

Mam' Sarah covered up her retreat as well as she could, saying:

"I natchel hate ter see fo'ks in trubble, but I ain' er bit sorry fur you.

I never seed ennybody fo' that wuz allers on the war-paf. Them bees haden'

dun nuffin' ter you. They is prezak lak humans. Ef you let 'em erlone you won't hear from 'em; but fite 'em en they'll fite you back, erver time."

At the same time that Mam' Sarah and Roberta were fussing over Polly, a line of glittering points were coming up the rise near the bend of the river. A column of Confederate soldiers appeared, marching shoulder to shoulder, their arms s.h.i.+ning in the morning sun. On they came, crossing the fields with the springing step of hope and the steady step of high, dauntless courage, making directly for the works the Federals had thrown up and protected with the bodies of felled trees.

Well-nigh impregnable, those works, from their vast advantage of position, but in their line of march it was the policy of their leaders to fight every thing of like nature that came in the way, to hide, if possible, their real weakness in numbers. So they were told to take those works, and take them they would. Knowing not the hesitancy of doubt, nor the trammels of fear, what recked they of danger or of death, as they sprung to their work?

Alas! the awful death-trap that caught them, held them, while that deadly fusilade opened upon them, reddened with their warm, young blood the soil of their native State--mowed them down, ruthlessly, those hapless Kentuckians. For ruthless it ever seems, when youth and hope and glorious promise are offered in vain. At last they fell back, the living; what flesh and blood could do otherwise? Fell back, but undismayed, and fighting stubbornly inch by inch, as they bore off their wounded. O, those darlings of old Kentucky! whose light went out on that July morning nearly thirty years ago, those eager souls that G.o.d sealed with His eternal peace ere aught had ruffled them, other than the zest of a hurdle-race or quail hunt on their native bluegra.s.s; many of them scarce pa.s.sed the mile-stones of boyhood, fresh from the cla.s.sroom and tender home circle. Yet, they plunged into the awful fire of that needless sacrifice, like veterans, to whom the smoke and crash of charging squadrons is a pastime.

No braver souls than they ever perished; none more loyal to the land that gave them birth. Well may Kentucky embalm their worth in enduring tablets of bra.s.s and marble. Let her see to it that she keeps their memory green in her heart, for they loved her with a love pa.s.sing the love of woman.

When Mam' Sarah heard the firing she caught hold of Roberta's hand and started to run, calling on the others to follow. She heard voices shouting to her, in reality the voices of the negroes who had gone down to the tobacco fields, calling to her to turn back. But, in her excitement she thought they were war cries, and ran as fast as she could away from them.

"Let's go to the play-house under the hill, Mam' Sarah," said quick-witted Roberta.

That play-house was a rocky recess, once the bed of some subterranean stream, and protected from view by a sycamore's gnarled, knotted branches extending down, and hung with matted wild grape tendrils. Mam' Sarah had often gone down there and spread her linen on the gra.s.s to bleach, and she generally took the children along for company. That's how they happened to find out the rocky recess or cave, for it ran under the hill a considerable distance. They hadn't been in there long before a shadow darkened the entrance to the recess. A figure crept toward them with the muzzle of a gun pointing straight at them.

"O, don't shoot!" they cried in terror.

"I won't," responded a boyish voice, and when their tears subsided they saw it was a mere lad, wounded and bleeding.

"Are you much hurt?" asked Roberta.

"O, no; just a scratch."

His chin fell on his chest. A dry sob burst from him.

"I wish now I had been killed with the rest of 'em."

"Have you got a mother?" Roberta asked.

"Yes, I've got a mother; but what will she say when I tell her I left Bert lying yonder in that death-trap? That's what's the matter. I wanted to find Bert and take him away with me. I hunted for him all along among those trees, and I got cut off from our boys. I think I must have lost my head, for I forgot which way they went."

"Who is Bert?" asked Roberta.

"Bert was my brother, and the best boy that ever lived. Curse them!" he cried, shaking his clenched fist; "curse the Yankees. What right have they on Kentucky soil, anyhow?"

"O, don't curse them," said the child; "my papa is a Yankee."

"Is he?" He stopped short and looked at her with a kind of pity. "I am sorry for you, that's all; sorry from my heart. I'd rather be a negro trader."

"I'm sorry too," said Roberta. There was a droop about the corners of her mouth. "But don't you worry about your brother. Mam' Sarah and me will find him and do all we can for him."

"Will you?" said the hoy eagerly; "will you, really? O! that will be too kind for any thing. I can never forget it, never."

"But how am I to know him? Is he like you?"

"Yes, he is like me; we were twins; but ten million times better looking.

He looked like an angel, as he is, as he is."

Great throes convulsed his chest in his efforts to control himself.

"I don't want to be a baby, but I was never away from Bert a day in my life. Say, I can tell you how to know him. He has a picture of mother and a Testament in his pocket, with his name written on the fly-leaf, 'Albert Kurl.'"

"Well, we will find him," said Roberta.

There was a whispered consultation between the three, Mam' Sarah, Roberta and the soldier. It seemed entirely satisfactory. And then Mam' Sarah told Roberta they must hurry home on account of her mammy. "We kin c.u.m back, honey, en find him."

And come back they did. They found him and washed the blood away from the poor mangled features, straightening out the twisted limbs as well as they could. Roberta took charge of the little pocket Bible with his name written on the fly-leaf, and the picture of his mother, such a stately, beautiful lady. Albert Kurl's body was not the only one they looked for.

Mam' Sarah's tears fell like rain, as she went from one to another searching for curly-haired Mars Charley, the little boy she nursed. She would have known him, she was sure, no matter how he looked. But, thank G.o.d, he was not there. She remembered so well the morning he rode off on his prancing horse, with the bands playing Dixie.

"Charlie," called Aunt Betsy, "take this Bible with you."

"O Auntie," laughed the merry young fellow, "I can't, but I'll promise to say, 'Now I lay me down to sleep' every night."

"O, what duz make fo'ks git so mad with ech other?" said Mam' Sarah. "It will all c.u.m rite, if they'll only hol' back en trust G.o.d."

Just before tea, Roberta ran down to uncle Squire's cabin, on the hill back of the spring-house. She told him she had a secret for his ears alone, made him look under the bed, the cup-board, chairs, and every place, to be sure there were no eaves-droppers. Then she sat down on a stool and slided it along towards him. He edged his chair a little closer towards her, so by the time she began her communication their heads almost touched. It was comical to see the old man's various facial expressions while the child talked. He would squint his eyes like he was trying to sight something away ahead of him, puffed out his cheeks till they resembled an inflated bellows. Finally, slapped his thigh vigorously, blurting out, "You iz er sharp one, Lil Misus, you won' never 'go fru er thicket en pick up er 'oop-pole', he-he-he."

"Can you manage it for me, Uncle Squire?" asked the child anxiously.

"Ob cose I kin, Lil Misus, ob cose I kin. Squire's your man."

"O, you dear, good, Uncle Squire," cried the delighted child. "I feel like hugging you."

The old man twisted around in his seat and went through his facial pantomimes again, pretty much on the principle of a dog wagging his tail when he is fed.