Chapter I. News From Charleston

The Guns of Bull Run

by Joseph A. Altsheler

It would soon be Christmas and Harry Kenton, at his desk in the
Pendleton Academy, saw the snow falling heavily outside. The school
stood on the skirt of the town, and the forest came down to the edge
of the playing field. The great trees, oak and ash and elm, were
clothed in white, and they stood out a vast and glittering tracery
against the somber sky.

The desk was of the old kind, intended for two, and Harry's
comrade in it was his cousin, Dick Mason, of his own years and size.
They would graduate in June, and both were large and powerful for
their age. There was a strong family resemblance and yet a
difference. Harry's face was the more sensitive and at times the
blood leaped like quicksilver in his veins. Dick's features
indicated a quieter and more stubborn temper. They were equal
favorites with teachers and pupils.

Dick's eyes followed Harry's, and he, too, looked at the falling
snow and the white forest. Both were thinking of Christmas and the
holiday season so near at hand. It was a rich section of Kentucky,
and they were the sons of prosperous parents. The snow was fitting
at such a time, and many joyous hours would be passed before they
returned to school.

The clouds darkened and the snow fell faster. A wind rose and
drove it against the panes. The boys heard the blast roaring outside
and the comfort of the warm room was heightened by the contrast.
Harry's eyes turned reluctantly back to his Tacitus and the customs
and manners of the ancient Germans. The curriculum of the Pendleton
Academy was simple, like most others at that time. After the primary
grades it consisted chiefly of the classics and mathematics. Harry
led in the classics and Dick in the mathematics.

Bob Turner, the free colored man, who was janitor of the
academy, brought in the morning mail, a dozen letters and three or
four newspapers, gave it to Dr. Russell and withdrew on silent
feet.

The Doctor was principal of Pendleton Academy, and he always
presided over the room in which sat the larger boys, nearly fifty in
number. His desk and chair were on a low dais and he sat facing the
pupils. He was a large man, with a ruddy face, and thick hair as
white as the snow that was falling outside. He had been a teacher
fifty years, and three generations in Pendleton owed to him most of
the learning that is obtained from books. He opened his letters one
by one, and read them slowly.

Harry moved far away into the German forest with old Tacitus.
He was proud of his Latin and he did not mean to lose his place as
first in the class. The other boys also were absorbed in their
books. It was seldom that all were studious at the same time, but
this was one of the rare moments. There was no shuffling of feet,
and fifty heads were bent over their desks.

It was a full half hour before Harry looked up from his Tacitus.
His first glance was at the window. The snow was driving hard, and
the forest had become a white blur. He looked next at the Doctor and
he saw that the ruddy face had turned white. The old man was gazing
intently at an open letter in his hand. Two or three others had
fallen to the floor. He read the letter again, folded it carefully,
and put it in his pocket. Then he broke the wrapper on one of the
newspapers and rapidly read its columns. The whiteness of his face
deepened into pallor.

The slight tearing sound caused most of the boys to look up, and
they noticed the change in the principal's face. They had never seen
him look like that before. It was as if he had received some sudden
and deadly stroke. Yet he sat stiffly upright and there was no sound
in the room but the rustling of the newspaper as he turned its
pages.

Harry became conscious of some strange and subtle influence that
had crept into the very air, and his pulse began to leap. The others
felt it, too. There was a tense feeling in the room and they became
so still that the soft beat of the snow on the windows could be
heard.

Not a single eye was turned to a book now. All were intent upon
the Doctor, who still read the newspaper, his face without a trace of
color, and his strong white hands trembling. He folded the paper
presently, but still held it in his hand. As he looked up, he became
conscious of the silence in the room, and of the concentrated gaze of
fifty pairs of eyes bent upon him. A little color returned to his
cheeks, and his hands ceased to tremble. He stood up, took the
letter from his pocket, and opened it again.

Dr. Russell was a striking figure, belonging to a classic type
found at its best in the border states. A tall man, he held himself
erect, despite his years, and the color continued to flow back into
the face, which was shaped in a fine strong mold.

"Boys," he said, in a firm, full voice, although it showed
emotion, "I have received news which I must announce to you. As I
tell it, I beg that you will restrain yourselves, and make little
comment here. Its character is such that you are not likely ever to
hear anything of more importance."

No one spoke, but a thrill of excitement ran through the room.
Harry became conscious that the strange and subtle influence had
increased. The pulses in both temples were beating hard. He and Dick
leaned forward, their elbows upon the desk, their lips parted a
little in attention.

"You know," continued Dr. Russell in the full voice that
trembled slightly, "of the troubles that have arisen between the
states, North and South, troubles that the best Americans, with our
own great Henry Clay at the head, have striven to avert. You know of
the election of Lincoln, and how this beloved state of ours, seeking
peace, voted for neither Lincoln nor Breckinridge, both of whom are
its sons."

The trembling of his voice increased and he paused again. It
was obvious that he was stirred by deep emotion and it communicated
itself to the boys. Harry was conscious that the thrill, longer and
stronger than before, ran again through the room.

"I have just received a letter from an old friend in
Charleston," continued Dr. Russell in a shaking voice, "and he tells
me that on the twentieth, three days ago, the state of South Carolina
seceded from the Union. He also sends me copies of two of the
Charleston newspapers of the day following. In both of these papers
all despatches from the other states are put under the head, 'Foreign
News.' With the Abolitionists of New England pouring abuse upon all
who do not agree with them, and the hot heads of South Carolina
rushing into violence, God alone knows what will happen to this
distracted country that all of us love so well."

He turned anew to his correspondence. But Harry saw that he was
trembling all over. An excited murmur arose. The boys began to talk
about the news, and the principal, his thoughts far away, did not
call them to order.

"I suppose since South Carolina has gone out that other southern
states will do the same," said Harry to his cousin, "and that two
republics will stand where but one stood before."

"I don't know that the second result will follow the first,"
replied Dick Mason.

Harry glanced at him. He was conscious of a certain cold
tenacity in Dick's voice. He felt that a veil of antagonism had
suddenly been drawn between these two who were the sons of sisters
and who had been close comrades all their lives. His heart swelled
suddenly. As if by inspiration, he saw ahead long and terrible
years. He said no more, but gazed again at the pages of his Tacitus,
although the letters only swam before his eyes.

The great buzz subsided at last, although there was not one
among the boys who was not still thinking of the secession of South
Carolina. They had shared in the excitement of the previous year. A
few had studied the causes, but most were swayed by propinquity and
kinship, which with youth are more potent factors than logic.

The afternoon passed slowly. Dr. Russell, who always heard the
recitations of the seniors in Latin, did not call the class. Harry
was so much absorbed in other thoughts that he did not notice the
fact. Outside, the clouds still gathered and the soft beat of the
snow on the window panes never ceased. The hour of dismissal came at
last and the older boys, putting on their overcoats, went silently
out. Harry did not dream that he had passed the doors of Pendleton
Academy for the last time, as a student.

While the seniors were quiet, there was no lack of noise from
the younger lads. Snowballs flew and the ends of red comforters,
dancing in the wind, touched the white world with glowing bits of
color. Harry looked at them with a sort of pity. The magnified
emotions of youth had suddenly made him feel very old and very
responsible. When a snowball struck him under the ear he paid no
attention to it, a mark of great abstraction in him.

He and his cousin walked gravely on, and left the shouting crowd
behind them. Three or four hundred yards further, they came upon the
main street of Pendleton, a town of fifteen hundred people, important
in its section as a market, and as a financial and political center.
It had two banks as solid as stone, and it was the proud boast of its
inhabitants that, excepting Louisville and Lexington, its bar was of
unequalled talent in the state. Other towns made the same claim, but
no matter. Pendleton knew that they were wrong. Lawyers stood very
high, especially when they were fluent speakers.

It was a singular fact that the two boys, usually full of talk,
after the manner of youth, did not speak until they came to the
parting of their ways. Then Harry, the more emotional of the two,
and conscious that the veil of antagonism was still between them,
thrust out his hand suddenly and said:

"Whatever happens, Dick, you and I must not quarrel over it.
Let's pledge our word here and now that, being of the same blood and
having grown up together, we will always be friends."

The color in the cheeks of the other boy deepened. A slight
moisture appeared in his eyes. He was, on the whole, more reserved
than Harry, but he, too, was stirred. He took the outstretched hand
and gave it a strong clasp.

"Always, Harry," he replied. "We don't think alike, maybe,
about the things that are coming, but you and I can't quarrel."

He released the hand quickly, because he hated any show of
emotion, and hurried down a side street to his home. Harry walked on
into the heart of the town, as he lived farther away on the other
side. He soon had plenty of evidence that the news of South
Carolina's secession had preceded him here. There had been no such
stir in Pendleton since they heard of Buena Vista, where fifty of her
sons fought and half of them fell.

Despite the snow, the streets about the central square were full
of people. Many of the men were reading newspapers. It was fifteen
miles to the nearest railroad station, and the mail had come in at
noon, bringing the first printed accounts of South Carolina's action.
In this border state, which was a divided house from first to last,
men still guarded their speech. They had grown up together, and they
were all of blood kin, near or remote.

"What will it mean?" said Harry to old Judge Kendrick.

"War, perhaps, my son," replied the old man sadly. "The
violence of New England in speech and the violence of South Carolina
in action may start a flood. But Kentucky must keep out of it. I
shall raise my voice against the fury of both factions, and thank
God, our people have never refused to hear me."

He spoke in a somewhat rhetorical fashion, natural to time and
place, but he was in great earnest. Harry went on, and entered the
office of the Pendleton News, the little weekly newspaper which
dispensed the news, mostly personal, within a radius of fifty miles.
He knew that the News would appear on the following day, and he was
anxious to learn what Mr. Gardner, the editor, a friend of his, would
have to say in his columns.

He walked up the dusty stairway and entered the room, where the
editor sat amid piles of newspapers. Mr. Gardner was a youngish man,
high-colored and with longish hair. He was absorbed so deeply in a
copy of the Louisville Journal that he did not hear Harry's step or
notice his coming until the boy stood beside him. Then he looked up
and said dryly:

"Too many sparks make a blaze at last. If people keep on
quarreling there's bound to be a fight some time or other. I suppose
you've heard that South Carolina has seceded."

"Dr. Russell announced it at the school. Are you telling, Mr.
Gardner, what the News will have to say about it?"

"I don't mind," replied the editor, who was fond of Harry, and
who liked his alert mind. "If it comes to a breach, I'm going with
my people. It's hard to tell what's right or wrong, but my ancestors
belonged to the South and so do I."

"That's just the way I feel!" exclaimed Harry vehemently.

The editor smiled.

"But I don't intend to say so in the News tomorrow," he
continued. "I shall try to pour oil upon the waters, although I won't
be able to hide my Southern leanings. The Colonel, your father,
Harry, will not seek to conceal his."

"No," said Harry. "He will not. What was that?"

The sound of a shot came from the street. The two ran hurriedly
down the stairway. Three men were holding a fourth who struggled
with them violently. One had wrenched from his hand a pistol still
smoking at the muzzle. About twenty feet away was another man
standing between two who held him tightly, although he made no effort
to release himself.

Harry looked at the two captives. They made a striking
contrast. The one who fought was of powerful build, and dressed
roughly. His whole appearance indicated the primitive human being,
and Harry knew immediately that he was one of the mountaineers who
came long distances to trade or carouse in Pendleton.

The man who faced the mountaineer, standing quietly between
those who held him, was young and slender, though tall. His longish
black hair was brushed carefully. The natural dead whiteness of his
face was accentuated by his black mustache, which turned up at the
ends like that of a duelist. He was dressed in black broadcloth, the
long coat buttoned closely about his body, but revealing a full and
ruffled shirt bosom as white as snow. His face expressed no emotion,
but the mountaineer cursed violently.

"I can read the story at once," said the editor, shrugging his
shoulders. "I know the mountaineer. He's Bill Skelly, a rough man,
prone to reach for the trigger, especially when he's full of bad
whiskey as he is now, and the other, Arthur Travers, is no stranger
to you. Skelly is for the abolition of slavery. All the mountaineers
are. Maybe it's because they have no slaves themselves and hate the
more prosperous and more civilized lowlanders who do have them.
Harry, my boy, as you grow older you'll find that reason and logic
seldom control men's lives."

"Skelly was excited over the news from South Carolina," said
Harry, continuing the story, which he, too, had read, as an Indian
reads a trail, "and he began to drink. He met Travers and cursed the
slave- holders. Travers replied with a sneer, which the mountaineer
could not understand, except that it hurt. Skelly snatched out his
pistol and fired wildly. Travers drew his and would have fired,
although not so wildly, but friends seized him. Meanwhile, others
overpowered Skelly and Travers is not excited at all, although he
watches every movement of his enemy, while seeming to be
indifferent."

"You read truly, Harry," said Gardner. "It was a fortunate
thing for Skelly that he was overpowered. Somehow, those two men
facing each other seem, in a way, to typify conditions in this part
of the country at least."

Harry was now watching Travers, who always aroused his interest.
A lawyer, twenty-seven or eight years of age, he had little practice,
and seemed to wish little. He had a wonderful reputation for
dexterity with cards and the pistol. A native of Pendleton, he was
the son of parents from one of the Gulf States, and Harry could never
quite feel that he was one of their own Kentucky blood and breed.

"You can release me," said Travers quietly to the young men who
stood on either side of him holding his arms. "I think the time has
come to hunt bigger game than a fool there like Skelly. He is safe
from me."

He spoke with a supercilious scorn which impressed Harry, but
which he did not wholly admire. Travers seemed to him to have the
quiet deadliness of the cobra. There was something about him that
repelled. The men released him. He straightened his long black coat,
smoothed the full ruffles of his shirt and walked away, as if nothing
had happened.

Skelly ceased to struggle. The aspect of the crowd, which was
largely hostile, sobered him. Steve Allison, the town constable,
appeared and, putting his hand heavily upon the mountaineer's
shoulder, said:

"You come with me, Skelly."

But old Judge Kendrick intervened.

"Let him go, Steve," he said. "Send him back to the
mountains."

"But he tried to kill a man, Judge."

"I know, but extraordinary times demand extraordinary methods.
A great and troubled period has come into all our lives. Maybe we're
about to face some terrible crisis. Isn't that so?"

"Yes," replied the crowd.

"Then we must not hurry it or make it worse by sudden action.
If Skelly is punished, the mountaineers will say it is political. I
appeal to you, Dr. Russell, to sustain me."

The white head of the principal showed above the crowd.

"Judge Kendrick is right," he said. "Skelly must be permitted
to go. His action, in fact, was due to the strained conditions that
have long prevailed among us, and was precipitated by the alarming
message that has come today. For the sake of peace, we must let him
go."

"All right, then," said Allison, "but he goes without his
pistol."

Skelly was put upon his mountain pony, and he rode willingly
away amid the snow and the coming dusk, carrying, despite his
release, a bitter heart into the mountains, and a tale that would
inflame the jealousy with which upland regarded lowland.

The crowd dispersed. Gardner returned to his office, and Harry
went home. He lived in the best house in or about Pendleton and his
father was its wealthiest citizen. George Kenton, having inherited
much land in Kentucky, and two or three plantations further south had
added to his property by good management. A strong supporter of
slavery, actual contact with the institution on a large scale in the
Gulf States had not pleased him, and he had sold his property there,
reinvesting the money in his native and, as he believed, more solid
state. His title of colonel was real. A graduate of West Point, he
had fought bravely with Scott in all the battles in the Valley of
Mexico, but now retired and a widower, he lived in Pendleton with
Harry, his only child.

Harry approached the house slowly. He knew that his father was
a man of strong temper and he wondered how he would take the news
from Charleston. All the associations of Colonel Kenton were with
the extreme Southern wing, and his influence upon his son was
powerful.

But the Pendleton home, standing just beyond the town, gave
forth only brightness and welcome. The house itself, large and low,
built massively of red brick, stood on the crest of a gentle slope in
two acres of ground. The clipped cones of pine trees adorned the
slopes, and made parallel rows along the brick walk, leading to the
white portico that formed the entrance to the house. Light shone
from a half dozen windows.

It seemed fine and glowing to Harry. His father loved his home,
and so did he. The twilight had now darkened into night and the snow
still drove, but the house stood solid and square to wind and winter,
and the flame from its windows made broad bands of red and gold
across the snow. Harry went briskly up the walk and then stood for a
few moments in the portico, shaking the snow off his overcoat and
looking back at the town, which lay in a warm cluster in the hollow
below. Many lights twinkled there, and it occurred to Harry that
they would twinkle later than usual that night.

He opened the door, hung his hat and overcoat in the hall, and
entered the large apartment which his father and he habitually used
as a reading and sitting room. It was more than twenty feet square,
with a lofty ceiling. A home-made carpet, thick, closely woven, and
rich in colors covered the floor. Around the walls were cases
containing books, mostly in rich bindings and nearly all English
classics. American work was scarcely represented at all. The books
read most often by Colonel Kenton were the novels of Walter Scott,
whom he preferred greatly to Dickens. Scott always wrote about
gentlemen. A great fire of hickory logs blazed on the wide
hearth.

Colonel Kenton was alone in the room. He stood at the edge of
the hearth, with his back to the fire and his hands crossed behind
him. His tanned face was slightly pale, and Harry saw that he had
been subjected to great nervous excitement, which had not yet wholly
abated.

The colonel was a tall man, broad of chest, but lean and
muscular. He regarded his son attentively, and his eyes seemed to ask
a question.

"Yes," said Harry, although his father had not spoken a word.
"I've heard of it, and I've already seen one of its results."

"What is that?" asked Colonel Kenton quickly.

"As I came through town Bill Skelly, a mountaineer, shot at
Arthur Travers. It came out of hot words over the news from
Charleston. Nobody was hurt, and they've sent Skelly on his pony
toward his mountains."

Colonel Kenton's face clouded.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I fear that Travers will be much too
free with stinging remarks. It's a time when men should control
their tongues. Do you be careful with yours. You're a youth in
years, but you're a man in size, and you should be a man in thought,
too. You and I have been close together, and I have trusted you,
even when you were a little boy."

"It's so, father," replied Harry, with affection and
gratitude.

"And I'm going to trust you yet further. It may be that I shall
give you a task requiring great skill and energy."

The colonel looked closely at his son, and he gave silent
approval to the tall, well-knit form, and the alert, eager face.

"We'll have supper presently," he said, "and then we will talk
with visitors. Some you know and some you don't. One of them, who
has come far, is already in the house."

Harry's eyes showed surprise, but he knew better than to ask
questions. The colonel had carried his military training into private
life.

"He is a distant relative of ours, very distant, but a relative
still," continued Colonel Kenton. "You will meet him at supper. Be
ready in a half hour."

The dinner of city life was still called supper in the South,
and Harry hastened to his room to prepare. His heart began to throb
with excitement. Now they were to have visitors at night and a
mysterious stranger was there. He felt dimly the advance of great
events.

Harry Kenton was a normal and healthy boy, but the discussions,
the debates, and the passions sweeping over the Union throughout the
year had sifted into Pendleton also. The news today had merely
struck fire to tinder prepared already, and, infused with the spirit
of youth, he felt much excitement but no depression. Making a
careful toilet he descended to the drawing room a little before the
regular time. Although he was early, his father was there before him,
standing in his customary attitude with his back to the hearth, and
his hands clasped behind him.

"Our guest will be down in a few minutes," said Colonel Kenton.
"He comes from Charleston and his name is Raymond Louis Bertrand. I
will explain how he is related to us."

He gave a chain of cousins extending on either side from the
Kenton family and the Bertrand family until they joined in the
middle. It was a slender tie of kinship, but it sufficed in the
South. As he finished, Bertrand himself came in, and was introduced
formally to his Kentucky cousin. Harry would have taken him for a
Frenchman, and he was, in very truth, largely of French blood. His
black eyes and hair, his swarthy complexion, gleaming white teeth and
quick, volatile manner showed a descendant of France who had come
from the ancient soil by way of Hayti, and the great negro rebellion
to the coast of South Carolina. He seemed strange and foreign to
Harry, and yet he liked him.

"And this is my young cousin, the one who is likely to be so
zealous for our cause," he said, smiling at Harry with flashing black
eyes. "You are a stalwart lad. They grow bigger and stronger here
than on our warm Carolina coast."

"Raymond arrived only three hours ago," said Colonel Kenton in
explanation. "He came directly from Charleston, leaving only three
hours after the resolution in favor of secession was adopted."

"And a rough journey it was," said Bertrand vivaciously. "I was
rattled and shaken by the trains, and I made some of the connections
by horseback over the wild hills. Then it was a long ride through
the snow to your hospitable home here, my good cousin, Colonel
Kenton. But I had minute directions, and no one noticed the stranger
who came so quietly around the town, and then entered your house."

Harry said nothing but watched him intently. Bertrand spoke
with a rapid lightness and grace and an abundance of gesture, to
which he was not used in Kentucky. He ate plentifully, and, although
his manners were delicate, Harry felt to an increasing degree his
foreign aspect and spirit. He did not wonder at it when he learned
later that Bertrand, besides being chiefly of French blood, had also
been educated in Paris.

"Was there much enthusiasm in South Carolina when the state
seceded, Raymond?" asked Colonel Kenton.

"I saw the greatest joy and confidence everywhere," he replied,
the color flaming through his olive face. "The whole state is
ablaze. Charleston is the heart and soul of our new alliance. Rhett
and Yancey of Alabama, and the great orators make the souls of men
leap. Ah, sir, if you could only have been in Charleston in the
course of recent months! If you could have heard the speakers! If
you could have seen how the great and righteous Calhoun's influence
lives after him! And then the writers! That able newspaper, the
Mercury, has thundered daily for our cause. Simms, the novelist, and
Timrod and Hayne, the poets have written for it. Let the cities of
the North boast of their size and wealth, but they cannot match
Charleston in culture and spirit and vivacity!"

Harry saw that Bertrand felt and believed every word he said,
and his enthusiasm was communicated to the colonel, whose face
flushed, and to Harry, too, whose own heart was beating faster.

"It was a great deed!" exclaimed Colonel Kenton. "South
Carolina has always dared to speak her mind, but here in Kentucky
some of the cold North's blood flows in our veins and we pause to
calculate and consider. We must hasten events. Now, Raymond, we will
go into the library. Our friends will be here in a half hour. Harry,
you are to stay with us. I told you that you are to be trusted."

They left the table, and went into the great room where the fire
had been built anew and was casting a ruddy welcome through the
windows. The two men sat down before the blaze and each fell silent,
engrossed in his thoughts. Harry felt a pleased excitement. Here
was a great and mysterious affair, but he was going to have
admittance to the heart of it. He walked to the window, lifted the
curtain and looked out. A slender erect figure was already coming up
the walk, and he recognized Travers.

Travers knocked at the door and was received cordially. Colonel
Kenton introduced Bertrand, saying:

"The messenger from the South."

Travers shook hands and nodded also to signify that he
understood. Then came Culver, the state senator from the district, a
man of middle years, bulky, smooth shaven, and oratorical. He was
followed soon by Bracken, a tobacco farmer on a great scale, Judge
Kendrick, Reid and Wayne, both lawyers, and several others, all of
wealth or of influence in that region. Besides Harry, there were ten
in the room.

"I believe that we are all here now," said Colonel Kenton. "I
keep my son with us because, for reasons that I will explain later, I
shall nominate him for the task that is needed."

"We do not question your judgment, colonel," said Senator
Culver. "He is a strong and likely lad. But I suggest that we go at
once to business. Mr. Bertrand, you will inform us what further
steps are to be taken by South Carolina and her neighboring states.
South Carolina may set an example, but if the others do not follow,
she will merely be a sacrifice."

Bertrand smiled. His smile always lighted up his olive face in
a wonderful way. It was a smile, too, of supreme confidence.

"Do not fear," he said. "Alabama, Mississippi, Florida and
Louisiana are ready. We have word from them all. It is only a
matter of a few days until every state in the lower south goes out,
but we want also and we need greatly those on the border, famous
states like your Kentucky and Virginia. Do you not see how you are
threatened? With the triumph of the rail-splitter, Lincoln, the seat
of power is transferred to the North. It is not alone a question of
slavery. The balance of the Union is destroyed. The South loses
leadership. Her population is not increasing rapidly, and hereafter
she will merely hold the stirrup while the North sits in the
saddle."

A murmur arose from the men. More than one clenched his hands,
until the nails pressed into the flesh. Harry, still standing by the
window, felt the influence of the South Carolinian's words more
deeply perhaps than any other. The North appeared to him cold,
jealous, and vengeful.

"You are right about Kentucky and Virginia," said Senator
Culver. "The secession of two such strong states would strike terror
in the North. It would influence the outside world, and we would be
in a far better position for war, if it should come. Governor
Magoffin will have to call a special session of the legislature, and
I think there will be enough of us in both Senate and House to take
Kentucky out."

Bertrand's dark face glowed.

"You must do it! You must do it!" he exclaimed. "And if you do
our cause is won!"

There was a thoughtful silence, broken at last by Colonel
Kenton, who turned an inquiring eye upon Bertrand.

"I wish to ask you about the Knights of the Golden Circle," he
said. "I hear that they are making great headway in the Gulf
States."

Raymond hesitated a moment. It seemed that he, too, felt for
the first time a difference between himself and these men about him
who were so much less demonstrative than he. But he recovered his
poise quickly.

"I speak to you frankly," he replied. "When our new
confederation is formed, it is likely to expand. A hostile union
will lie across our northern border, but to the south the way is
open. There is our field. Spain grows weak and the great island of
Cuba will fall from her grasp. Mexico is torn by one civil war after
another. It is a grand country, and it would prosper mightily in
strong hands. Beyond lie the unstable states of Central America,
also awaiting good rulers."

Colonel Kenton frowned and the lawyers looked doubtful.

"I can't say that I like your prospect," the colonel said. "It
seems to me that your knights of the Golden Circle meditate a great
slave empire which will eat its way even into South America. Slavery
is not wholly popular here. Henry Clay long ago wished it to be
abolished, and his is a mighty name among us. It would be best to
say little in Kentucky of the Knights of the Golden Circle. Our
climate is a little too cold for such a project."

Bertrand bit his lip. Swift and volatile, he showed
disappointment, but, still swift and volatile, he recovered
quickly.

"I have no doubt that you are right, Colonel Kenton," he said,
in the tone of one who conforms gracefully, "and I shall be careful
when I go to Frankfort with Senator Culver to say nothing about
it."

But Harry, who watched him all the time, read tenacity and
purpose in his eyes. This man would not relinquish his great
southern dream, a dream of vast dominion, and he had a powerful
society behind him.

"What news, then, will you send to Charleston?" asked Bertrand
at length. "Will you tell her that Kentucky, the state of great
names, will stand beside her?"

"Such a message shall be carried to her," replied Colonel
Kenton, speaking for them all, "and I propose that my son Harry be
the messenger. These are troubled times, gentlemen, and full of
peril. We dare not trust to the mails, and a lad, carrying letters,
would arouse the least suspicion. He is strong and resourceful. I,
his father, should know best and I am willing to devote him to the
cause."

Harry started when he heard the words of his father, and his
heart gave a great leap of mingled surprise and joy. Such a journey,
such an enterprise, made an instant appeal to his impulsive and
daring spirit. But he did not speak, waiting upon the words of his
elders. All of them looked at him, and it seemed to Harry that they
were measuring him, both body and mind.

"I have known your boy since his birth," said Senator Culver,
"and he is all that you say. There is none stronger and better. The
choice is good."

"Good! Aye, good indeed!" said the impetuous Bertrand. "How
they will welcome him in Charleston!"

"Then, gentlemen," said Colonel Kenton, very soberly, "you are
all agreed that my son shall carry to South Carolina the message that
Kentucky will follow her out of the Union?"

"We are," they said, all together.

"I shall be glad and proud to go," said Harry, speaking for the
first time.

"I knew it without asking you," said Colonel Kenton. "I suggest
to you, friends, that he start before dawn, and that he go to Winton
instead of the nearest station. We wish to avoid observation and
suspicion. The fewer questions he has to answer, the better it will
be for all of us."

They agreed with him again, and, in order that he might be fresh
and strong for his journey, Harry was sent to his bedroom.
Everything would be made ready for him, and Colonel Kenton would call
him at the appointed hour. As he withdrew he bade them in turn good
night, and they returned his courtesy gravely.

It was one thing to go to his room, but it was another to sleep.
He undressed and sat on the edge of the bed. Only when he was alone
did he realize the tremendous change that had come into his life.
Nor into his life alone, but into the lives of all he knew, and of
millions more.

It had ceased snowing and the wind was still. The earth was
clothed in deep and quiet white, and the pines stood up, rows of
white cones, silvered by the moonlight. Nothing moved out there. No
sound came. He felt awed by the world of night, and the mysterious
future which must be full of strange and great events.

He lay down between the covers and, although sleep was long in
coming, it came at last and it was without dreams.