Tom Clark and His Wife Part 7

"'Legislators, I tell you that these things are done every day! I was told it--could not believe it--and a.s.suming to be desirous of such a decree, received the above counsel, word for word, from a pract.i.tioner at the New York bar. Legislators, here is a crime worse than murder!

Will you sanction it longer? How prevent it? Summon the witnesses and performer of this marriage; or at least _prove the ident.i.ty of the woman or the man_, as the case may be--for women practice in that court also!

"'There would be far less of this sort of iniquity, if there were fewer blatant philosophy-mongers afloat on the tide of the times, inculcating their morbid, detestable, blasphemous, brothel-filling, "Harmonial"

theories, all of which directly pander to the worst vice a man can have--Meanness.

"'People insanely look for and expect perfection in others--not only without the slightest claim thereto themselves, but without the least attempt in that direction--which is a very suicidal policy to pursue.

Such soon come to be vampires, consuming themselves and destroying others--ravening tigers at their own fold's side! Sometimes one person's affection--which is akin to love--goes out toward and clings round another; but Death ever flaps his wings by the side of such, when that other fails to give it back. The unloving loved one, if such a thing be possible, is a born thief, from the cradle to the clouds; and there are a great many such robbers in the world.'

"'But how is one to love when one don't feel like it, or has attractions in another direction?' asked Betsey.

"'Where duty and honor point, there should the attraction lie! Whosoever shall render themselves lovable and lovely, can no more help being loved than smoke can help ascending through the air. Make yourself agreeable to the partner of your lot in life, and that partner can no more help loving you than mirrors can help reflecting.

"'The heart of yonder statue, which is that of the man who is destined to be a future husband of yours,' said the old man--pointing to the first figure of the previous day, which had, together with the second, re-appeared upon the scene, 'will be only half full by reason of your withholding and refusing all tender wifeliness; you will rob him and yourself of the better meat of life; your years will be gloomy ones; you will make him wretched, and be the same yourself--cheat your bodies of health, your souls of happiness and vigor! Take heed; correct the fault.

You "can't?" There's no such word. TRY!'

"Turning now to the second figure of the previous day, he observed: 'See! Tom Clark's heart is empty. All its cells are _filled with a void_--hollow as the apples of Persia's arid wastes. Have mercy, Heaven, on him whose heart throbs not with the rapturous burden of a woman's love! Pity him whose soul groweth not tender with the love-light beaming from a baby's eyes! Ah, what a world of nameless glory flashes from an infant's eyes! They are telescopes through which my soul sees Heaven--through which I watch the mazy dance of starry worlds, and behold the joys of seraphim. We Rosicrucians love babies--seed of the ages--and their mothers, too--because they are such; for we believe that after death the maids fair worst--the wives fare better; but no tongue or pen can express the rapture that awaits those who have borne sons and daughters to the world and heaven! Bachelors! Bah! I will pa.s.s by such cattle, merely remarking that their place is not to be found in heaven, or the other place. They repair in a body to Fiddler's Green--and ought to stay there, if they do not!'

"And Betsey gazed on the forlorn figure of poor Tom--who was all one-sided, crooked, lean; his hopes and joys were flown, because no one loved him, not even his wife; and who else should, if not she? And so he was wretched, like full many another whom I have seen as I journeyed down life's glades. His soul was driven back upon, and forced to eat itself, day by day, and year after year. 'And this great wrong you will do,' said the hermit; and 'This great wrong I have already done,'

thought the girl--wife--widow--wife--four in one, with that strange, anomalous inconsistency, peculiar to Dream-Life. 'I have done badly; but this I will do no more--not another second longer!'

"Bravely, royally thought and said! Better, if more gloriously done!--and that's just the difference--saying and doing. The first is common; the last is very rare. 'Better still, if truly said, and still more n.o.bly done!'--was whispered in the woman's ear, in the same low, silvery voice, she had heard the day before. Who was it that spoke these melodious words? Not the hermit in grey. Was it the invisible Hesperina, telegraphing Betsey's soul across the vast expanse of the Continent of Dream? Who shall answer me these questions?

"Said the silver-girdled hermit, as he smiled a smile of more than human gladness--more than human meaning--'It is Well.' She looked again toward the magic globe, and lo! within a moment, its disk had changed. The first two figures had disappeared; the third had once more come upon the scene--a conspicuous actor in such a terrific drama, as neither earth nor starry eyes ever saw before, may they never see again!

"The Gorgon, WAR, had glutted himself on Europe's b.l.o.o.d.y fields, and had flown across the salt sea, alighting on our sh.o.r.es. The demon landed with a howl, midway between Moultrie and Sumter. He had seized the reins of government, proclaimed himself sole Lord and King; strangled Reason in his dreadful gripe, until she lay bleeding on the gory earth, and meek-eyed Peace fled tearfully away from his grim presence, and hid herself upon a distant mountain-top, whence she could survey the shock of armies on the plains beneath, and sigh, and long for Liberty and rule.

"War and Carnage, side by side, with gory banners flying, marched from one end of the nation to the other, until their footsteps rested on the graves of eight hundred thousand men. G.o.d's precious word was disregarded, and His blessed soil dyed red with human blood--the rich, fat blood of the n.o.blest race that ever trod His earth--the blood of your brother, and of mine, O my countrymen!

"And now, the loud-lunged trumpets brayed their fierce alarums, and summoned Columbia's sons to deeds at which our grandsons shall turn pale--deeds of heroic daring such as Greece, nor Rome, nor Carthage ever dreamed of, nor storied page has chronicled: summoned them to Sumter's stony ramparts, and Potomac's gra.s.sy banks--summoned them to do, and--die. Eight hundred thousand Men! And they went--going as tornadoes go--to strike for a Nation's life--to strike the foul usurper low, and fling his carca.s.s to the dogs. They would have struck--struck hard and home; but they were stayed. _That_ was not the 'little game' of Generals and Statesmen, and of high contract-ing parties. Oh, no!

Victory would never do! 'Let us fight the foe with gloves on!' said the Minister. They fought. The foe wore gloves, also; but the palms were bra.s.s, the fingers iron, and the knuckles polished steel! But the Minister had his whim, and unborn generations will feel its consequences! Eight hundred thousand graves!

"And the Union legions went, from decreed Fate toward a consummated Destiny, in spite of Ministers, their minions, or the 'little game;' and Tom Clark went, too.

"And loud the trumpets brayed; and the heavy drums did sound; and they woke strange and fearful energies in the slumbering Nation's heart. What a magic trans.m.u.tation! Plowmen transformed to heroes, such as shall forever put Cincinnatus in the shade; day laborers, carriers of the hod, claiming--and rightfully, too--high places in the Pantheon of heroic demi-G.o.ds. Look at Fredericksburg! Forget not the Black Brigade! Bear in mind the deeds of a hundred regiments on a hundred fields--fields, too, that might, and would have finally decided the carnage and the quarrel, but for the Minister, his gloves, his 'little game,' his great whim--and lo! its consequences!

"Tom Clark, quickened into life by the subtle, flame-tipped staff in the hands of the phantom-artiste--the proprietress of the wonderful atelier and Man-factory, now stepped forth through the door of the room, and forthwith the scene expanded to such vast dimensions, that Betsey found it impossible to realize the magic mimicry, for the whole thing was too real, and on too grand a scale. She stood on the hill of the world, surveying its valleys at leisure. Tom Clark, apparently heard--deeply heard, his Country's wail of agony--for unchecked Treason was then griping her tightly by the throat. That cry called him to a field of glory, such as G.o.d's green earth never before afforded, nor His sun ever saw; nor His moon; nor His myriad, twinkling, starry eyes!

"Clark's soul was in arms, as his offended ears drank in the hoa.r.s.e, deep thunders of Treason's cannonry, pouring iron hail upon a prostrate Nation's head; and his eyes beheld the flas.h.i.+ng of the guns, as they vomited a h.e.l.l of iron and fire upon Sumter, upon Anderson, and the peerless EIGHTY-THREE! Tom Clark saw the storm, and his heart indignant swelled, at the insult to the Star-gemmed Flag of Human Rights and Liberty--an insult, long since wiped out in traitor's blood, but for the Minister, and the gloves, and the 'little game,' and the whim, whose consequences are--eight hundred thousand skeletons!

"Like a true man, Clark, inspired by a true woman--the phantom-wife, and artiste--ran, leapt, flew to arms and deathless glory. Ah, G.o.d! to arms, and fadeless glory! He had no time to grieve, or grumble; or to criticise this general, or that battle. He looked over the heads of cowards and traitors in his own camp, at the n.o.ble men in arms, and who bravely fought, and n.o.bly died, for the Country. He saw, and gloriously emulated such men as Lyon, Saxton, Hunter, Fremont--and Baker! Baker!--O Oregon! my tears fall with thine, for him! He was mine, yours--ours!

Ours, in his life; in his n.o.bleness; in his soul-arousing eloquence; in the valor, and the effulgent glory of his death--the result of another whim, and lo! the consequences!

"And now, see! Behold the smoke of yonder battle! Death rides on cannon-b.a.l.l.s, to-day! And, to-night, there will be much mourning in the land; for strong men in thousands are giving up the ghost. Weep not, O widow, for G.o.d accepts such sacrifices; mourn not, O orphans, He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, will hold thee in His keeping; thy grateful country will not let thee want for bread; and, by-and-by, it will be a proud boast of thine, 'My father died to redeem the land from treason!'

"Death rides on cannon-b.a.l.l.s, to-day, in the fight that we are seeing.

Tom Clark is a hero. See! he leads the van. G.o.d spare him! What a presence! What blows he deals for Liberty and the Union! Lo! the thundering battalions of the brave and bold, but insane, misguided, and revengeful foe, sweep down the embattled plain, their war-cry ringing out above the belching roar of artillery; and, with such might and valor do they charge, that Freedom's cohorts reel and stagger beneath the dreadful shock of arms. Another such a charge, and all is lost. But, see, there comes a man from the ranks--a common soldier--his voice rings clearly out upon the sulphur-laden air: 'Follow me!' The inspiring words and action kindle new fire in the wavering b.r.e.a.s.t.s of hundreds. They rise; they throw themselves upon the foe--they hush his battle-cry in death. He is repulsed! 'Who did that?' demands an aide-de-camp.

'Private Thomas W.,' is the response. 'Hero! greet him in my name, as Color Sergeant,' says the General; and Tom Clark is promoted on the field.

"The first day's fight is over. It is renewed next day, and, when the tired guns give over with the sun, a group of soldiers are gathered round a man. 'Who is it?' 'Who is it?' 'I thought you knew--why, it is the man who saved the Tenth Brigade--and was rewarded on the spot--Captain Thomas W.!'

"With the sunrise, came the foe! 'Pa.s.s the word along the line, there--Captain Clark is wanted at the tent of the General-in-Command!'

He goes.

"' Captain Clark, do you see yonder battery of the enemy? It must be taken, or we are lost. If I give you command of a regiment whose colonel was killed yesterday, can you take it?' 'I will try.' ... 'General, the battery on the left is ours,' says an aide-de-camp an hour afterwards.

'It is taken, and all its men are either dead or prisoners!' 'Indeed! So soon? Greet the commander in my name, and salute him as Colonel Thomas W.'

"Another day dawns on the ensanguined field--a field where privates were heroes and generals poltroons! Hard fighting is before us. Up, up the soldiers spring; and on, on to death or victory they rush. Oh, it was a splendid sight--those death-defying demi-G.o.ds, who, had they in previous battles had but a Man to lead them, would have taken fifty rebel strongholds in as many hours. But such was not the drift of the 'pretty little game.' More men must die, more ditches must be dug, and more human bones must fill them, else how can Ministers carry out their whims; how else can the enemy be fought and placated at the same time?

It isn't Const.i.tutional! besides which it hurts the prospect for the Presidency of the re-United States--which prospect would be forever marred, and the 'little game' played out, if we fought without gloves, and violated our Const.i.tutional obligations by kicking the wind out of the foe, who is trying might and main to strangle the Nation. He might hereafter say: '_You_, sir, fought without gloves on!' which wouldn't do, you know.

"'d.a.m.n that Colonel Thomas W. If the fellow keeps on at that rate, we'll surely whip somebody--badly. Curse the fellow, he don't believe in the glove business, or in the "Erring Sisters' theory,"' soliloquized somebody on a certain day. 'This'll never do! Aid, come here; go tell Colonel Clark take possession of the Valley down yonder, and hold it at all hazards till nightfall!' 'But, General, he has only seven hundred men--the foe is thirteen thousand strong!' 'So much the worse for'--he meant Clark, but said, 'the enemy--they will fight like tigers.' And the aid transmitted the order--shaking hands with the Colonel as he rode away, muttering, 'Poor fellow! His goose is cooked for a certainty! What a pity he stands in somebody's light--somebody who is jealous of even a private's fame. Ah me!' and he rode back to headquarters, wondering whose turn next it would be to face the forlorn hope--such a singular number of which this Rebellion has developed.

"But there was no flinch in Colonel Thomas W.--no flinch in his men.

They all saw the hazard; but _they_ were Men and Soldiers. _They_ knew how to obey orders, when their superiors did not. But then again, they had no hopes of success in a general election; they had no 'little game.'

"'Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do or die.'

And they done it!

"On, on, like more than Spartan heroes, on they dashed, literally, as absolutely as anything earthly can be, 'into the jaws of death--into the mouth of h.e.l.l.' I have a minnie bullet on my table that plowed a furrow through a brother's heart of mine in that same dreadful valley! Away they went--that gallant band, that gallant man; and many a bullet went cras.h.i.+ng through skulls and bones as they went; and many a soul sped its way to G.o.d ere the cohort reached the knoll in the valley. Once there, they were no longer men--they were as sublime exemplar G.o.ds. But a man fell--fell before the resistless force of a hundred horses charging with all of Treason's vehement strength, and the gallant man went down, and the thunder of iron hoofs exploded in his ear, and then the cloud pa.s.sed on.

"And Thomas Clark went down--down, as Truth, and Justice and I went down; but he rose again--so ever does Truth and Justice; and as for me, _Je renais de mes cendres_--let those beware by whom I fell.... Down to the gory soil he went; but even while the woman sat there in the grotto, gazing till her eyeb.a.l.l.s fairly ached with intensity--sat gazing with suppressed breath, so still was she--sat gazing, her blood on fire, her pulse beating three hundred to the minute, beating with a deep, fierce, tumultuous fire; sat gazing stilly, while her heart bounded and thumped within its bony citadel as if impatient of its duress, and longing to burst its tabernacle, and let the imprisoned soul go free; sat gazing, while her eyes, large grey eyes, all the while gleamed with a light that proved her capable of giving birth to heroes--even while thus she gazed on the wheeling squadrons, the charging hosts, and the great guns, as they gave forth their fiery vomit, charged with sudden deaths--the man, Tom Clark, sprung to his feet again, and, as he staunched his blood with one hand, he pointed with the other at the foe. 'Follow me!' he cried.

'See! we are reinforced! On to victory--on!' And his voice rose above the tempest, and it flew over the s.p.a.ces, and it fell upon the ears of a 'great man,' and the 'great man' wrung his hands, and he thought: 'Not dead yet! d.a.m.n the fellow! He will make us win a victory--and that'll never do! Dear me! that cursed fool will spoil my little game! Oh, for night, or a fresh division of--the enemy! I must reinforce him, though, else it'll get into that infernal _Tribune_--or into that cursed George Wilkes' paper--and that'll spoil my little game! Ho, there! Aid, go tell General Trueman to reinforce Colonel Thomas W. _My little game_!' and he arranged his epaulettes and gave his moustache an additional killing twist. In the meantime, Tom Clark had charged the enemy with bayonets with the remnant of his own force, followed by hundreds whom his example had transformed into something more sublime than fighting soldiers.

"And now occurred one of those conflicts which make or mar the fortunes of a nation: one of those terrible multi-personal combats which mark a century's history, and strike the ages dumb with awe; one of those terrific scenes in the world's great drama, that mark historic epochs, and enshrine men's names in fiery letters upon the scrolls of Fame.

"The charge and the action were short, sharp, swift, desperate; but at its close the

"'Flag of the Planet gems, With saphire-circled diadems,'

floated proudly over the scene of Treason's battle lost--a Nation's battle won!

"Day closes again; and the wounded hero in an ambulance was borne fainting--almost dying, from the field. 'Colonel Clark, can I do anything for you?' said one of the fighting generals to the stricken man--a bullet had gone through him. 'You are a n.o.ble fellow, and I speak for myself, your comrades in arms, and for our country. Can I--can they, can we, can she--do anything for you, in this sad hour of your destiny?

If so, I beg you to speak.'

"'Alas! no, my friend,' replied he, reviving, only to swoon again. A little cold water on his temples partially dissipated the coma, but not all the fog from his perceptions; for his general's words, 'Can _she_,'

considerably obfuscated his intellect, and he thought: 'He means Betsey--that's the only _she_ I know of.' And then he strengthened up for a last dying effort; strove to collect his thoughts, partly succeeded, and said: 'Nothing more, dear general. Yes. No.

I'm--dy--ing--going--home. Tell Betsey--_dear_ Betsey--I did not--find her out till--it was--too--late. Tell her that I loved--her from my--soul--at last. Tell her--that'----

"She can't stand the pressure any longer--globe or no globe, hermit or no hermit--not another minute. _You_ Bet! It's a pretty how de do, me a settin' here, and poor Tom laying there, killed a'most to death!'

shrieked the fair girl in the grotto of the hermit of the silver girdle, waked up beyond endurance by the skillful magic of the weird recluse.

And repeating the Californian, 'You _Bet_!' with vehement emphasis on the last word, she sprung to her feet, in spite of the warnings of the man who dealt in magic crystal globes in the precincts of a forest wild--upsetting table, tripod, stool and hermit, in her eagerness to reach Tom's side and give him wifely ministry.

"What luck she might have had in bridging Phantom River I know not, having omitted to remain long enough for inquiry, not having had time to thus devote; but this I do know, namely, that she nearly kicked the veritable Mr. Thomas W. Clark completely out of bed--the bed at whose foot was a window, whose upper sash was down--the identical window through which came all the 'funny things' of this most veracious history, which, of course, is all true. Betsey woke from excitement, Tom from being kicked, and both had finished their double dreams.

"'What'n thunder's up now, Bet--no, Lizzie, I mean?' said he, checking the less respectful utterance, and modulating his voice to what he doubtless intended to be a 'velvet-dulcet cadence,' but which wouldn't pa.s.s for that in Italian opera. 'Not nothing, Tommy, dear.' 'Not nothing, Lizzie?' 'Not nothing.' 'That ain't grammar, sweet.' 'I was paragorically speaking, my turkle dove! Only I've been having two very funny dreams.' 'You! _Two_ dreams? That _is_ queer!' 'You Bet!' 'What about, Lizzie?' 'Oh, all about how we didn't love each other as we ought to, husband.' 'And, dorg on my b.u.t.tons, wife, if I haven't had two just such dreams myself--all about a precipice, and a pile--Oh, wasn't it a pile, though?' 'You Bet!' 'And my dreams were all about how I ought to love you, and didn't--and then, again, I did.' 'That's a dear!' 'You Bet!' 'Let's love each other this time out, will _you_?' 'I will; will _you_?' 'You _Bet_!' 'Let's profit by our dreams. I mean to; won't you?'

'I'll _try_!' '_I'll_ try!' 'We'll both try!' 'You BET!' And they tried to forgive and forget.