Olive Leaves Part 2

Frank resided at home. He had chosen to pursue the business of agriculture, and superintended their small family estate. He had an affectionate heart, and his attentions to his declining mother, were unceasing. In her last moments he stood by her side. His spirit was deeply smitten, as he supported his weeping sister, at the bed of the dying. Pain had departed, and the meek Christian patiently awaited the coming of her Lord. She had given much council to her children, and sent tender messages to the absent one. She seemed to have done speaking. But while they were uncertain whether she yet breathed, she raised her eyes once more to her first-born, and said faintly, "My son, follow peace with all men."

These were her last words. They listened attentively, but her voice was heard no more.

Edward Ludlow was summoned to the funeral of his beloved mother. After she was committed to the dust, he remained a few days to mingle his sympathies with his brother and sister. He knew how to comfort them, out of the Scriptures, for therein was his hope, in all time of his tribulation.

Frank listened to all his admonitions, with a serious countenance, and a sorrowful heart. He loved his brother with great ardour, and to the mother for whom they mourned, he had always been dutiful. Yet she had felt painfully anxious for him to the last, because he had not made choice of religion for his guide, and secretly coveted the glory of the warrior.

After he became the head of the household, he continued to take the kindest care of his sister, who prudently managed all his affairs, until his marriage. The companion whom he chose was a most amiable young woman, whose society and friends.h.i.+p greatly cheered the heart of Eliza.

There seemed to be not a shadow over the happiness of that small and loving family.

But in little more than a year after Frank's marriage, the second war between this country and Great Britain commenced. Eliza trembled as she saw him possessing himself of all its details, and neglecting his business to gather and relate every rumour of war. Still she relied on his affection for his wife, to retain him at home. She could not understand the depth and force of the pa.s.sion that prompted him to be a soldier.

At length he rashly enlisted. It was a sad night for that affectionate family, when he informed them that he must leave them and join the army.

His young wife felt it the more deeply, because she had but recently buried a new-born babe. He comforted her as well as he could. He a.s.sured her that his regiment would not probably be stationed at any great distance, that he would come home as often as possible, and that she should constantly receive letters from him. He told her that she could not imagine how restless and miserable he had been in his mind, ever since war was declared. He could not bear to have his country insulted, and take no part in her defence. Now, he said, he should again feel a quiet conscience, because he had done his duty, that the war would undoubtedly soon be terminated, and then he should return home, and they would all be happy together. He hinted at the promotion which courage might win, but such ambition had no part in his wife's gentler nature.

He begged her not to distress him by her lamentations, but to let him go away with a strong heart, like a hero.

When his wife and sister found that there was no alternative, they endeavoured to comply with his request, and to part with him as calmly as possible. So Frank Ludlow went to be a soldier. He was twenty-five years old, a tall, handsome, and healthful young man. At the regimental trainings in his native town, he had often been told how well he looked in a military dress. This had flattered his vanity. He loved martial music, and thought he should never be tired of serving his country.

But a life in camps has many evils, of which those who dwell at home are entirely ignorant. Frank Ludlow scorned to complain of hards.h.i.+ps, and bore fatigue and privation, as well as the best. He was undoubtedly a brave man, and never seemed in higher spirits, than when preparing for battle.

When a few months had past, the novelty of his situation wore off. There were many times in which he thought of his quiet home, and his dear wife and sister, until his heart was heavy in his bosom. He longed to see them, but leave of absence could not be obtained. He felt so unhappy, that he thought he could not endure it, and, always moved more by impulse than principle, absconded to visit them.

When he returned to the regiment, it was to be disgraced for disobedience. Thus humbled before his comrades, he felt indignant and disgusted. He knew it was according to the rules of war, but he hoped that _he_ might have been excused.

Some time after, a letter from home informed him of the birth of an infant. His feelings as a father were strong, and he yearned to see it.

He attempted to obtain a furlough, but in vain. He was determined to go, and so departed without leave. On the second day of his journey, when at no great distance from the house, he was taken, and brought back as a deserter.

The punishment that followed, made him loathe war, in all its forms. He had seen it at a distance, in its garb of glory, and wors.h.i.+pped the splendour that encircles the hero. But he had not taken into view the miseries of the private soldier, nor believed that the cup of glory was for others, and the dregs of bitterness for him. The patriotism of which he had boasted, vanished like a shadow, in the hour of trial; for ambition, and not principle, had induced him to become a soldier.

His state of mind rendered him an object of compa.s.sion. The strains of martial music, which he once admired, were discordant to his ear. His daily duties became irksome to him. He shunned conversation, and thought continually of his sweet, forsaken home, of the admonitions of his departed mother, and the disappointment of all his gilded hopes.

The regiment to which he was attached, was ordered to a distant part of the country. It was an additional affliction to be so widely separated from the objects of his love. In utter desperation he again deserted.

He was greatly fatigued, when he came in sight of his home. Its green trees, and the fair fields which he so oft had tilled, smiled as an Eden upon him. But he entered, as a lost spirit. His wife and sister wept with joy, as they embraced him, and put his infant son into his arms.

Its smiles and caresses woke him to agony, for he knew he must soon take his leave of it, perhaps for ever.

He mentioned that his furlough would expire in a few days, and that he had some hopes when winter came of obtaining a subst.i.tute, and then they would be parted no more. He strove to appear cheerful, but his wife and sister saw that there was a weight upon his spirit, and a cloud on his brow, which they had never perceived before. He started at every sudden sound, for he feared that he should be sought for in his own house, and taken back to the army.

When he dared no longer remain, he tore himself away, but not, as his family supposed, to return to his duty. Disguising himself, he travelled rapidly in a different direction, resolving to conceal himself in the far west, or if necessary, to fly his country, rather than rejoin the army.

But in spite of every precaution, he was recognized by a party of soldiers, who carried him back to his regiment, having been three times a deserter. He was bound, and taken to the guard-house, where a court-martial convened, to try his offence.

It was now the summer of 1814. The morning sun shone forth brightly upon rock, and hill, and stream. But the quiet beauty of the rural landscape was vexed by the bustle and glare of a military encampment. Tent and barrack rose up among the verdure, and the shrill, spirit-stirring bugle echoed through the deep valley.

On the day of which we speak, the music seemed strangely subdued and solemn. m.u.f.fled drums, and wind instruments mournfully playing, announced the slow march of a procession. A pinioned prisoner came forth from his confinement. A coffin of rough boards was borne before him. By his side walked the chaplain, who had laboured to prepare his soul for its extremity, and went with him as a pitying and sustaining spirit, to the last verge of life.

The sentenced man wore a long white mantle, like a winding-sheet. On his head was a cap of the same colour, bordered with black. Behind him, several prisoners walked, two and two. They had been confined for various offences, and a part of their punishment was to stand by, and witness the fate of their comrade. A strong guard of soldiers, marched in order, with loaded muskets, and fixed bayonets.

Such was the sad spectacle on that cloudless morning: a man in full strength and beauty, clad in burial garments, and walking onward to his grave. The procession halted at a broad open field. A mound of earth freshly thrown up in its centre, marked the yawning and untimely grave.

Beyond it, many hundred men, drawn up in the form of a hollow square, stood in solemn silence.

The voice of the officer of the day, now and then heard, giving brief orders, or marshalling the soldiers, was low, and varied by feeling. In the line, but not yet called forth, were eight men, drawn by lot as executioners. They stood motionless, revolting from their office, but not daring to disobey.

Between the coffin and the pit, he whose moments were numbered, was directed to stand. His n.o.ble forehead, and quivering lips were alike pale. Yet in his deportment there was a struggle for fort.i.tude, like one who had resolved to meet death unmoved.

"May I speak to the soldiers?" he said. It was the voice of Frank Ludlow. Permission was given, and he spoke something of warning against desertion, and something, in deep bitterness, against the spirit of war.

But his tones were so hurried and agitated, that their import could scarcely be gathered.

The eye of the commanding officer was fixed on the watch which he held in his hand. "The time has come," he said, "Kneel upon your coffin."

The cap was drawn over the eyes of the miserable man. He murmured, with a stifled sob, "G.o.d, I thank thee, that my dear ones cannot see this."

Then from the bottom of his soul, burst forth a cry,

"O mother! mother! had I but believed"--

Ere the sentence was finished, a sword glittered in the sunbeam. It was the death-signal. Eight soldiers advanced from the ranks. There was a sharp report of arms. A shriek of piercing anguish. One convulsive leap.

And then a dead man lay between his coffin and his grave.

There was a shuddering silence. Afterwards, the whole line was directed to march by the lifeless body, that every one might for himself see the punishment of a deserter.

Suddenly, there was some confusion; and all eyes turned towards a horseman, approaching at breathless speed. Alighting, he attempted to raise the dead man, who had fallen with his face downward. Gazing earnestly upon the rigid features, he clasped the mangled and bleeding bosom to his own. Even the sternest veteran was moved, at the heart-rending cry of "_Brother! O my brother!_"

No one disturbed the bitter grief which the living poured forth in broken sentences over the dead.

"Gone to thine account! Gone to thine everlasting account! Is it indeed thy heart's blood, that trickles warmly upon me? My brother, would that I might have been with thee in thy dreary prison. Would that we might have breathed together one more prayer, that I might have seen thee look unto Jesus of Nazareth."

Rising up from the corpse, and turning to the commanding officer, he spoke through his tears, with a tremulous, yet sweet-toned voice.

"And what was the crime, for which my brother was condemned to this death? There beats no more loyal heart in the bosom of any of these men, who do the bidding of their country. His greatest fault, the source of all his misery, was the love of war. In the bright days of his boyhood, he said he would be content to die on the field of battle. See, you have taken away his life, in cold blood, among his own people, and no eye hath pitied him."

The commandant stated briefly and calmly, that desertion thrice repeated was death, that the trial of his brother had been impartial, and the sentence just. Something too, he added, about the necessity of enforcing military discipline, and the exceeding danger of remissness in a point like this.

"If he must die, why was it hidden from those whose life was bound up in his? Why were they left to learn from the idle voice of rumour, this death-blow to their happiness? If they might not have gained his pardon from an earthly tribunal, they would have been comforted by knowing that he sought that mercy from above, which hath no limit. Fearful power have ye, indeed, to kill the body, but why need you put the never-dying soul in jeopardy? There are those, to whom the moving of the lips that you have silenced, would have been most dear, though their only word had been to say farewell. There are those, to whom the glance of that eye, which you have sealed in blood, was like the clear s.h.i.+ning of the sun after rain. The wife of his bosom would have thanked you, might she but have sat with him on the floor of his prison, and his infant son would have played with his fettered hands, and lighted up his dark soul with one more smile of innocence. The sister, to whom he has been as a father, would have soothed his despairing spirit, with the hymn which in infancy, she sang nightly with him, at their blessed mother's knee. Nor would his only brother thus have mourned, might he but have poured the consolations of the Gospel, once more upon that stricken wanderer, and treasured up one tear of penitence."

A burst of grief overpowered him. The officer with kindness a.s.sured him, that it was no fault of theirs, that the family of his brother was not apprized of his situation. That he strenuously desired no tidings might be conveyed to them, saying that the sight of their sorrow would be more dreadful to him than his doom. During the brief interval between his sentence and execution, he had the devoted services of a holy man, to prepare him for the final hour.

Edward Ludlow composed himself to listen to every word. The shock of surprise, with its tempest of tears, had past. As he stood with uncovered brow, the bright locks cl.u.s.tering around his n.o.ble forehead, it was seen how strongly he resembled his fallen brother, ere care and sorrow had clouded his manly beauty. For a moment, his eyes were raised upward, and his lips moved. Pious hearts felt that he was asking strength from above, to rule his emotions, and to attain that submission, which as a teacher of religion he enforced on others.

Turning meekly towards the commanding officer, he asked for the body of the dead, that it might be borne once more to the desolate home of his birth, and buried by the side of his father and his mother. The request was granted with sympathy.

He addressed himself to the services connected with the removal of the body, as one who bows himself down to bear the will of the Almighty. And as he raised the bleeding corpse of his beloved brother in his arms, he said, "O war! war! whose tender mercies are cruel, what _enmity_ is so fearful to the soul, as _friends.h.i.+p_ with thee."

Victory.