Chapter III. The Heart of Rebellion

The Guns of Bull Run

by Joseph A. Altsheler

Harry, with his friend Colonel Leonidas Talbot, approached
Charleston on Christmas morning. It was a most momentous day to him.
As he came nearer, the place looked greater and greater. He had
read much about it in the books in his father's house--old tales of
the Revolution and stories of its famous families--and now its name
was in the mouths of all men.

He had felt a change in his own Kentucky atmosphere at
Nashville, but it had become complete when he drew near to
Charleston. It was a different world, different alike in appearance
and in thought. The contrast made the thrill all the keener and
longer. Colonel Talbot, also, was swayed by emotion, but his was
that of one who was coming home.

"I was born here, and I passed my boyhood here," he said. "I
could not keep from loving it if I would, and I would not if I could.
Look how the cold North melts away. See the great magnolias, the
live oaks, and the masses of shrubbery! Harry, I promise you that
you shall have a good time in this Charleston of ours."

They had left the railroad some distance back, and had come in
by stage. The day was warm and pleasant. Two odors, one of flowers
and foliage, and the other of the salt sea, reached Harry. He found
both good. He felt for the thousandth time of his pocketbook and
papers to see that they were safe, and he was glad that he had come,
glad that he had been chosen for such an important errand.

The colonel asked the driver to stop the stage at a cross road,
and he pointed out to Harry a low, white house with green blinds,
standing on a knoll among magnificent live oaks.

"That is my house, Harry," he said, "and this is Christmas Day.
Come and spend it with me there."

Harry felt to the full the kindness of Colonel Leonidas Talbot,
for whom he had formed a strong affection. The colonel seemed to him
so simple, so honest and, in a way, so unworldly, that he had won his
heart almost at once. But he felt that he should decline, as his
message must be delivered as soon as he arrived in Charleston.

"I suppose you are right," said the colonel, when the boy had
explained why he could not accept. "You take your letters to the
gentlemen who are going to make the war, and then you and I and
others like us, ranging from your age to mine, will have to fight
it."

But Harry was not to be discouraged. He could not see things in
a gray light on that brilliant Christmas morning. Here was
Charleston before him and in a few hours he would be in the thick of
great events. A thrill of keen anticipation ran through all his
veins. The colonel and he stood by the roadside while the obliging
driver waited. He offered his hand, saying good-bye.

"It's only for a day," said Colonel Leonidas Talbot, as he gave
the hand a strong clasp. "I shall be in Charleston tomorrow, and I
shall certainly see you."

Harry sprang back to his place and the stage rolled joyously
into Charleston. Harry saw at once that the city was even more
crowded than Nashville had been. Its population had increased
greatly in a few weeks, and he could feel the quiver of excitement in
the air. Citizen soldiers were drilling in open places, and other
men were throwing up earthworks.

He left the stage and carried over his arm his baggage, which
still consisted only of a pair of saddle bags. He walked to an
old-fashioned hotel which Colonel Talbot had selected for him as
quiet and good, and as he went he looked at everything with a keen
and eager interest. The deep, mellow chiming of bells, from one point
and then from another, came to his ears. He knew that they were the
bells of St. Philip's and St. Michael's, and he looked up in
admiration at their lofty spires. He had often heard, in far
Kentucky, of these famous churches and their silver chimes.

It seemed to Harry that the tension and excitement of the people
in the streets were of a rather pleasant kind. They had done a great
deed, and, keyed to a high pitch by their orators and newspapers,
they did not fear the consequences. The crowd seemed foreign to him
in many aspects, Gallic rather than American, but very likeable.

He reached his hotel, a brick building behind a high iron fence,
kept by a woman of olive complexion, middle years, and pleasant
manners, Madame Josephine Delaunay. She looked at him at first with
a little doubt, because it was a time in Charleston when one must
inspect strangers, but when he mentioned Colonel Leonidas Talbot she
broke into a series of smiles.

"Ah, the good colonel!" she exclaimed. "We were children at
school together, but since he became a soldier he has gone far from
here. And has he returned to fight for his great mother, South
Carolina?"

"He has come back. He has resigned from the army, and he is
here to do South Carolina's bidding."

"It is like him," said Madame Delaunay. "Ah, that Leonidas, he
has a great soul!"

"I travelled with him from Nashville to Charleston," said Harry,
"and I learned to like and admire him."

He had established himself at once in the good graces of Madame
Delaunay and she gave him a fine room overlooking a garden, which in
season was filled with roses and oranges. Even now, pleasant
aromatic odors came to him through the open window. He had been
scarcely an hour in Charleston but he liked it already. The old city
breathed with an ease and grace to which he was unused. The best
name that he knew for it was fragrance.

He had a suit of fresh clothing in his saddle bags, and he
arrayed himself with the utmost neatness and care. He felt that he
must do so. He could not present himself in rough guise to a people
who had every right to be fastidious. He would also obtain further
clothing out of the abundant store of money, as his father had wished
him to make a good appearance and associate with the best.

He descended, and found Madame Delaunay in the garden, where she
gave him welcome, with grave courtesy. She seemed to him in manner
and bearing a woman of wealth and position, and not the keeper of an
inn, doing most of the work with her own hands. He learned later
that the two could go together in Charleston, and he learned also,
that she was the grand-daughter of a great Haytian sugar planter, who
had fled from the island, leaving everything to the followers of
Toussaint l'Ouverture, glad to reach the shores of South Carolina in
safety.

Madame Delaunay looked with admiration at the young Kentuckian,
so tall and powerful for his age. To her, Kentucky was a part of the
cold North.

"Can you tell me where I am likely to find Senator Yancey?"
asked Harry. "I have letters which I must deliver to him, and I have
heard that he is in Charleston."

"There is to be a meeting of the leaders this afternoon in St.
Anthony's Hall in Broad street. You will surely find him there, but
you must have your luncheon first. I think you must have travelled
far."

"From Kentucky," replied Harry, and then he added impulsively:
"I've come to join your people, Madame Delaunay. South Carolina has
many and powerful friends in the Upper South."

"She will need them," said Madame Delaunay, but with no tone of
apprehension. "This, however, is a city that has withstood much fire
and blood and it can withstand much more. Now I'll leave you here in
the garden. Come to luncheon at one, and you shall meet my other
guests."

Harry sat down on a little wooden bench beneath a magnolia.
Here in the garden the odor of grass and foliage was keen, and
thrillingly sweet. This was the South, the real South, and its warm
passions leaped up in his blood. Much of the talk that he had been
hearing recently from those older than he passed through his mind.
The Southern states did have a right to go if they chose, and they
were being attacked because their prominence aroused jealousy.
Slavery was a side issue, a mere pretext. If it were not convenient
to hand, some other excuse would be used. Here in Charleston, the
first home of secession, among people who were charming in manner and
kind, the feeling was very strong upon him.

He left the house after luncheon, and, following Madame
Delaunay's instructions, came very quickly to St. Andrew's hall in
Broad street, where five days before, the Legislature of South
Carolina, after adjourning from Columbia, had passed the ordinance of
secession.

Two soldiers in the Palmetto uniform were on guard, but they
quickly let him pass when he showed his letters to Senator Yancey.
Inside, a young man, a boy, in fact, not more than a year older than
himself, met him. He was slender, dark and tall, dressed precisely,
and his manner had that easy grace which, as Harry had noticed
already, seemed to be the characteristic of Charleston.

"My name is Arthur St. Clair," he said, "and I'm a sort of
improvised secretary for our leaders who are in council here."

"Mine," said Harry, "is Henry Kenton. I'm a son of Colonel
George Kenton, of Kentucky, late a colonel in the United States Army,
and I've come with important messages from him, Senator Culver and
other Southern leaders in Kentucky."

"Then you will be truly welcome. Wait a moment and I'll see if
they are ready to receive you."

He returned almost instantly, and asked Harry to go in with him.
They entered a large room, with a dais at the center of the far wall,
and a number of heavy gilt chairs covered with velvet ranged on
either side of it. Over the dais hung a large portrait of Queen
Victoria as a girl in her coronation robes. A Scotch society had
occupied this room, but the people of Charleston had always taken
part in their festivities. In those very velvet chairs the chaperons
had sat while the dancing had gone on in the hall. Then the leaders
of secession had occupied them, when they put through their measure,
and now they were sitting there again, deliberating.

A man of middle years and of quick, eager countenance arose when
young St. Clair came in with Harry.

"Mr. Yancey," said St. Clair, "this is Henry Kenton, the son of
Colonel George Kenton, who has come from Kentucky with important
letters."

Yancey gave him his hand and a welcome, and Harry looked with
intense interest at the famous Alabama orator, who, with Slidell, of
South Carolina, and Toombs of Georgia, had matched the New England
leaders in vehemence and denunciation. Mr. Slidell, an older man,
was present and so was Mr. Jamison, of Barnwell, who had presided
when secession was carried. There were more present, some prominent,
others destined to become so, and Harry was introduced to them one by
one.

He gave his letters to Yancey and retired with young St. Clair
to the other end of the room, while the leaders read what had been
written from Kentucky. Harry was learning to become a good observer,
and he watched them closely as they read. He saw a look of pleasure
come on the face of every one, and presently Yancey beckoned to
him.

"These are fine assurances," said the orator, "and they have
been brought by the worthy son of a worthy father. Colonel Kenton,
Senator Culver and others, have no doubt that Kentucky will go out
with us. Now you are a boy, but boys sometimes see and hear more than
men, and you are old enough to think; that is, to think in the real
sense. Tell us, what is your own opinion?"

Harry flushed, and paused in embarrassment.

"Go on," said Mr. Yancey, persuasively.

"I do not know much," said Harry slowly, wishing not to speak,
but feeling that he was compelled by Mr. Yancey to do so, "but as far
as I have seen, Kentucky is sorely divided. The people on the other
side are perhaps not as strong and influential as ours, but they are
more numerous."

A shade passed over the face of Yancey, but he quickly recovered
his good humor.

"You have done right to tell us the truth as you see it," he
said, "but we need Kentucky badly. We must have the state and we
will get it. Did you hear anything before you left, of one Raymond
Bertrand, a South Carolinian?"

"He was at my father's house before I came away. I think it was
his intention to go from there to Frankfort with some of our own
people, and assist in taking out the state."

Yancey smiled.

"Faithful to his errand," he said. "Raymond Bertrand is a good
lad. He has visions, perhaps, but they are great ones, and he
foresees a mighty republic for us extending far south of our present
border. But now that you have accomplished your task, what do you
mean to do, Mr. Kenton?"

"I want to stay here," replied Harry eagerly. "This is the head
and center of all things. I think my father would wish me to do so.
I'll enlist with the South Carolina troops and wait for what
happens."

"Even if what happens should be war?"

"Most of all if it should be war. Then I shall be one of those
who will be needed most."

"A right and proper spirit," said Mr. Jamison, of Barnwell.
"When we can command such enthusiasm we are unconquerable. Now,
we'll not keep you longer, Mr. Kenton. This is Christmas Day, and
one as young as you are is entitled to a share of the hilarity. Look
after him, St. Clair."

Harry went out with young St. Clair, whom he was now calling by
his first name, Arthur. He, too, was staying with Madame Delaunay,
who was a distant relative.

Harry ate Christmas dinner that evening with twenty people, many
of types new to him. It made a deep impression upon him then, and
one yet greater afterward, because he beheld the spirit of the Old
South in its inmost shrine, Charleston. It seemed to him in later
days that he had looked upon it as it passed.

They sat in a great dining-room upon a floor level with the
ground. The magnolias and live oaks and the shrubs in the garden
moved in the gentle wind. Fresh crisp air came through the windows,
opened partly, and brought with it, as Harry thought, an aroma of
flowers blooming in the farther south. He sat with young St.
Clair--the two were already old friends--and Madame Delaunay was at
the head of the table, looking more like a great lady who was
entertaining her friends than the keeper of an inn.

Madame Delaunay wore a flowing white dress that draped itself in
folds, and a lace scarf was thrown about her shoulders. Her heavy
hair, intensely black, was bound with a gold fillet, after a fashion
that has returned a half century later. A single diamond sparkled
upon her finger. She seemed to Harry foreign, handsome, and very
distinguished.

About half the people in the room were of French blood, most of
whom Harry surmised were descendants of people who had fled from
Hayti or Santo Domingo. One, Hector St. Hilaire, almost sixty, but a
major in the militia of South Carolina, soon proved that the boy's
surmise was right. Lemonade and a mild drink called claret-sanger
was served to the boys, but the real claret was served to the major,
as to the other elders, and the mellowness of Christmas pervaded his
spirit. He drank a toast to Madame Delaunay, and the others drank it
with him, standing. Madame Delaunay responded prettily, and, in a few
words, she asked protection and good fortune for this South Carolina
which they all loved, and which had been a refuge to the ancestors of
so many of them. As she sat down she looked up at the wall and
Harry's glance followed hers. It was a long dining-room, and he saw
there great portraits in massive gilt frames. They were of people
French in look, handsome, and dressed with great care and
elaboration. The men were in gay coats and knee breeches, silk
stockings and buckled shoes. Small swords were at their sides. The
women were even more gorgeous in velvet or heavy satin, with their
hair drawn high upon their heads and powdered. One had a beauty patch
upon her cheek.

Major St. Hilaire saw Harry's look as it sped along the wall.
He smiled a little sadly and then, a little cheerfully:

"Those are the ancestors of Madame Delaunay," he said, "and
some, I may mention in passing, are my own, also. Our gracious
hostess and myself are more or less distantly related--less, I
fear--but I boast of it, nevertheless, on every possible occasion.
They were great people in a great island, once the richest colony of
France, the richest colony in all the world. All those people whom
you see upon the walls were educated in Paris or other cities of
France, and they returned to a life upon the magnificent plantations
of Hayti. What has become of that brightness and glory? Gone like
snow under a summer sun. 'Tis nothing but the flower of fancy now.
The free black savage has made a wilderness of Hayti, and our enemies
in the North would make the same of South Carolina."

A murmur of applause ran around the table. Major St. Hilaire
had spoken with rhetorical effect and a certain undoubted pathos.
Every face flushed, and Harry saw the tears glistening in the eyes of
Madame Delaunay who, despite her fifty years, looked very handsome
indeed in her white dress, with the glittering gold fillet about her
great masses of hair.

The boy was stirred powerfully. His sensitive spirit responded
at once to the fervid atmosphere about him, to the color, the glow,
the intensity of a South far warmer than the one he had known. Their
passions were his passions, and having seen the black and savage
Hayti of which Major St. Hilaire had drawn such a vivid picture, he
shuddered lest South Carolina and other states, too, should fall in
the same way to destruction.

"It can never happen!" he exclaimed, carried away by impulse.
"Kentucky and Virginia and the big states of the Upper South will
stand beside her and fight with her!"

The murmur of applause ran around the table again, and Harry,
blushing, made himself as small as he could in his chair.

"Don't regret a good impulse. Mr. Kenton," said a neighbor, a
young man named James McDonald--Harry had noticed that Scotch names
seemed to be as numerous as French in South Carolina--"the words that
all of us believe to be true leaped from your heart."

Harry did not speak again, unless he was addressed directly, but
he listened closely, while the others talked of the great crisis that
was so obviously approaching. His interest did not make him neglect
the dinner, as he was a strong and hearty youth. There were sweets
for which he did not care much, many vegetables, a great turkey, and
venison for which he did care, finishing with an ice and coffee that
seemed to him very black and bitter.

It was past eight o'clock when they rose and any lingering
doubts that Harry may have felt were swept away. He was heart and
soul with the South Carolinians. Those people in the far north
seemed very cold and hard to him. They could not possibly
understand. One must be here among the South Carolinians themselves
to see and to know.

Harry went to his room, after a polite good-night to all the
others. He was not used to long and heavy dinners, and he felt the
wish to rest and take the measure of his situation. He threw back
the green blinds and opened the window a little. Once more the easy
wind brought him that odor of the far south, whether reality or fancy
he could not say. But he turned to another window and looked toward
the north. Away from the others and away from a subtle
persuasiveness that had been in the air, some of his doubts returned.
It would not all be so easy. What were they doing in the far states
beyond the Ohio?

He heard footsteps in the hail and a voice that seemed familiar.
He had left his door partly open, and, when he turned, he caught a
glimpse of a face that he knew. It was young Shepard, whom he and
Major Talbot had met in Nashville. Shepard saw Harry also, and
saluted him cheerfully.

"I've just arrived," he said, "and through letters from friends
in St. Louis, members of one of the old French families there, I've
been lucky enough to secure a room at Madame Delaunay's inn."

"Fortune has been with us both," said Harry, somewhat
doubtfully, but not knowing what else to say.

"It certainly has," said Shepard, with easy good humor. "I'll
see you again in the morning and we'll talk of what we've been
through, both of us."

He walked briskly on and Harry heard his firm step ringing on
the floor. The boy retired to his own room again and locked the door.
He had liked Shepard from the first. He had seemed to him frank and
open and no one could deny his right to come to Charleston if he
pleased. And yet Colonel Talbot, a man of a delicate and sensitive
mind, which quickly registered true impressions, had distrusted him.
He had even given Harry a vague warning, which he felt that he could
not ignore. He made up his mind that he would not see Shepard in the
morning. He would make it a point to rise so early that he could
avoid him.

His conclusion formed, he slept soundly until the first sunlight
poured in at the window that he had left open. Then, remembering
that he intended to avoid Shepard, he jumped out of bed, dressed
quickly and went down to breakfast, which he had been told he could
get as early as he pleased.

Madame Delaunay was already there, still looking smooth and
fresh in the morning air. But St. Clair was the only guest who was
as early as Harry. Both greeted him pleasantly and hoped that he had
slept well. Their courtesy, although Harry had no doubt of its
warmth, was slightly more ornate and formal than that to which he had
been used at home. He recognized here an older society, one very
ancient for the New World.

The breakfast was also different from the solid one that he
always ate at home. It consisted of fruits, eggs, bread and coffee.
There was no meat. But he fared very well, nevertheless. St. Clair,
he now learned, was a bank clerk, but after office hours he was
drilling steadily in one of the Charleston companies.

"If you enlist, come with me," he said to Harry. "I can get you
a place on the staff, and that will suit you."

Harry accepted his offer gladly, although he felt that he could
not take up his new duties for a few days. Matters of money and
other things were to be arranged.

"All right," said St. Clair. "Take your time. I don't think
there's any need to hurry."

Harry left Madame Delaunay's house immediately after breakfast,
still firm in his purpose to avoid Shepard, and went to the bank, on
which he held drafts properly attested. Not knowing what the future
held, and inspired perhaps by some counsel of caution, he drew half
of it in gold, intending to keep it about his person, risking the
chance of robbery. Then he went toward the bay, anxious to see the
sea and those famous forts, Sumter, Moultrie and the others, of which
he had heard so much.

It was a fine, crisp morning, one to make the heart of youth
leap, and he soon noticed that nearly the whole population of the
city was going with him toward the harbor. St. Clair, who had
departed for his bank, overtook him, and it was evident to Harry that
his friend was not thinking much now of banks.

"What is it, Arthur?" asked Harry.

"They stole a march on us yesterday," replied St. Clair. "See
that dark and grim mass rising up sixty feet or more near the center
of the harbor, the one with the Stars and Stripes flying so defiantly
over it? That's Fort Sumter. Yesterday, while we were enjoying our
Christmas dinner and talking of the things that we would do, Major
Anderson, who commanded the United States garrison in Fort Moultrie,
quietly moved it over to Sumter, which is far stronger. The wives
and children of the soldiers and officers have been landed in the
city with the request that we send them to their homes in the states,
which, of course, we will do. But Major Anderson, who holds the fort
in the name of the United States, refuses to give it up to South
Carolina, which claims it."

Harry felt an extraordinary thrill, a thrill that was, in many
ways, most painful. Talk was one thing, action was another. Here
stood South Carolina and the Union face to face, looking at each
other through the muzzles of cannon. Sumter had one hundred and
forty guns, most of which commanded the city, and the people of
Charleston had thrown up great earthworks, mounting many cannon.

Boy as he was, Harry was old enough to see that here were all
the elements of a great conflagration. It merely remained for
somebody to touch fire to the tow. He was not one to sentimentalize,
but the sight of the defiant flag, the most beautiful in all the
world, stirred him in every fiber. It was the flag under which both
his father and Colonel Talbot had fought.

"It has to be, Harry," said St. Clair, who was watching him
closely. "If it comes to a crisis we must fire upon it. If we don't,
the South will be enslaved and black ignorance and savagery will be
enthroned upon our necks."

"I suppose so," said Harry. "But look how the people
gather!"

The Battery and all the harbor were now lined with the men,
women and children of Charleston. Harry saw soldiers moving about
Sumter, but no demonstration of any kind occurred there. He had not
thought hitherto about the garrison of the forts in Charleston
harbor. He recognized for the first time that they might not share
the opinions of Charleston, and this name of Anderson was full of
significance for him. Major Anderson was a Kentuckian. He had heard
his father speak of him; they had served together, but it was now
evident to Harry that Anderson would not go with South Carolina.

"You'll see a small boat coming soon from Sumter," said St.
Clair. "Some of our people have gone over there to confer with Major
Anderson and demand that he give up the fort."

"I don't believe he'll do it," said Harry impulsively. Some one
touched him upon the shoulder, and turning quickly he saw Colonel
Leonidas Talbot. He shook the colonel's hand with vigor, and
introduced him to young St. Clair.

"I have just come into the city," said the colonel, "and I heard
only a few minutes ago that Major Anderson had removed his garrison
from Moultrie to Sumter."

"It is true," said St. Clair. "He is defiant. He says that he
will hold the fort for the Union."

"I had hoped that he would give up," said Colonel Talbot. "It
might help the way to a composition."

He pulled his long mustache and looked somberly at the flag.
The wind had risen a little, and it whipped about the staff. Its
fluttering motions seemed to Harry more significant than ever of
defiance. He understood the melancholy ring in Colonel Talbot's
voice. He, too, like the boy's father, had fought under that flag,
the same flag that had led him up the flame-swept slopes of Cerro
Gordo and Chapultepec.

"Here they come," exclaimed St. Clair, "and I know already the
answer that they bring!"

The small boat that he had predicted put out from Sumter and
quickly landed at the Battery. It contained three commissioners,
prominent men of Charleston who had been sent to treat with Major
Anderson, and his answer was quickly known to all the crowd. Sumter
was the property of the United States, not of South Carolina, and he
would hold it for the Union. At that moment the wind strengthened,
and the flag stood straight out over the lofty walls of Sumter.

"I knew it would be so," said Colonel Talbot, with a sigh.
"Anderson is that kind of a man. Come, boys, we will go back into
the city. I am to help in building the fortifications, and as I am
about to make a tour of inspection I will take you with me."

Harry found that, although secession was only a few days old,
the work of offense and defense was already far advanced. The
planters were pouring into Charleston, bringing their slaves with
them, and white and black labored together at the earthworks. Rich
men, who had never soiled their hands with toil before now, wielded
pick and spade by the side of their black slaves. And it was rumored
that Toutant Beauregard, a great engineer officer, now commander at
the West Point Military Academy, would speedily resign, and come
south to take command of the forces in Charleston.

Strong works were going up along the mainland. The South
Carolina forces had also seized Sullivan's Island, Morris Island, and
James Island and were mounting guns upon them all. Circling
batteries would soon threaten Sumter, and, however defiantly the flag
there might snap in the breeze, it must come down.

As they were leaving the last of the batteries Harry noticed the
broad, strong back and erect figure of a young man who stood with his
hands in his pockets. He knew by his rigid attitude that he was
looking intently at the battery and he knew, moreover, that it was
Shepard. He wished to avoid him, and he wished also that his
companion would not see him. He started to draw Colonel Talbot away,
but it was too late. Shepard turned at that moment, and the colonel
caught sight of his face.

"That man here among our batteries!" he exclaimed in a menacing
tone.

"Come away, colonel!" said Harry hastily. "We don't know
anything against him!"

But Shepard himself acted first. He came forward quickly, his
hand extended, and his eyes expressing pleasure.

"I missed you this morning, Mr. Kenton," he said. "You were too
early for me, but we meet, nevertheless, in a place of the greatest
interest. And here is Colonel Talbot, too!"

Harry took the outstretched hand--he could not keep from liking
Shepard--but Colonel Talbot, by turning slightly, avoided it without
giving the appearance of brusqueness. His courtesy, concerning which
the South Carolinians of his type were so particular, would not fail
him, and, while he avoided the hand, he promptly introduced Shepard
and St. Clair.

"I did not expect to find events so far advanced in Charleston,"
said Shepard. "With the Federal garrison concentrated in Sumter and
the batteries going up everywhere, matters begin to look
dangerous."

"I suppose that you have made a careful examination of all the
batteries," said Colonel Talbot dryly.

"Casual, not careful," returned Shepard, in his usual cheerful
tones. "It is impossible, at such a time, to keep from looking at
Sumter, the batteries and all the other preparations. We would not
be human if we didn't do it, and I've seen enough to know that the
Yankees will have a hot welcome if they undertake to interfere with
Charleston."

"You see truly," said Colonel Talbot, with some emphasis.

"A happy chance has put me at the same place as Mr. Kenton,"
continued Shepard easily. "I have letters which admitted me to the
inn of Madame Delaunay, and I met him there last night. We are
likely to see much of each other."

Colonel Leonidas Talbot raised his eyebrows. When they walked a
little further he excused himself, saying that he was going to meet a
committee of defense at St. Andrew's Hall, and Harry and Arthur,
after talking a little longer with Shepard, left him near one of the
batteries.

"I'm going to my bank," said St. Clair. "I'm already long
overdue, but it will be forgiven at such a time as this. And I must
say, Harry, that Colonel Talbot does not seem to like your
acquaintance, Mr. Shepard."

"It is true, he doesn't, although I don't know just why," said
Harry.

He saw Shepard at a distance three more times in the course of
the day, but he sedulously avoided a meeting. He noticed that
Shepard was always near the batteries and earthworks, but hundreds of
others were near them, too. He did not return to Madame Delaunay's
until evening, when it was time for dinner, where he found all the
guests gathered, with the addition of Shepard.

Madame Delaunay assigned the new man to a seat near the foot of
the table and the talk ran on much as it had done at the Christmas
dinner, Major St. Hilaire leading, which Harry surmised was his
custom. Shepard, who had been introduced to the others by Madame
Delaunay, did not have much to say, nor did the South Carolinians
warm to him as they had to Harry. A slight air of constraint
appeared and Harry was glad when the dinner was over. Then he and
St. Clair slipped away and spent the evening roaming about the city,
looking at the old historic places, the fine churches, the homes of
the wealthy and again at the earthworks and the harbor forts. The
last thing Harry saw as he turned back toward Madame Delaunay's was
that defiant flag of the Union, still waving above the dark and
looming mass of old Sumter.

He was unlocking the door to his room when Shepard came briskly
down the hall, carrying his candle in his hand.

"I want to tell you good-bye, Mr. Kenton," he said, "I thought
we were to be together here at the inn for some time, but it is not
to be so."

"What has happened?"

"It appears that my room had been engaged already by another
man, beginning tomorrow morning. I was not informed of it when I
came here, but Madame Delaunay has recalled the fact and I cannot
doubt the word of a Charleston lady. It appears also that no other
room is vacant, owing to the great number of people who have come
into the city in the last week or two. So, I go."

He did not seem at all discouraged, his tone being as cheerful
as ever, and he held out his hand. Harry liked this man, although it
seemed that others did not, and when he released the hand he said:

"Take good care of yourself, Mr. Shepard. As I see it, the
people of Charleston are not taking to you, and we do not know what
is going to happen."

"Both statements are true," said Shepard with a laugh as he
vanished down the hail. Nothing yet had been able to disturb his
poise.

Harry went into his own room, and, throwing open his front
window to let in fresh air, he heard the hum of voices. He looked
down into a piazza and he saw two figures there, a man and a woman.
They were Colonel Talbot and Madame Delaunay. He closed the blind
promptly, feeling that unconsciously he had touched upon something
hallowed, the thread of an old romance, a thread which, though
slender, was nevertheless yet strong. Nor did he doubt that the
suggestion of Colonel Leonidas Talbot had caused the speedy
withdrawal of Shepard.

Several more days passed. Harry found that he was taken into
the city's heart, and its spell was very strong upon him. He knew
that much of his welcome was due to the powerful influence of Colonel
Leonidas Talbot and to the warm friendship of Arthur St. Clair, who
apparently was related to everybody. A letter came from his father,
to whom he had written at once of his purpose, giving his approval,
and sending him more money. Colonel Kenton wrote that he would come
South himself, but he was needed in Kentucky, where a powerful
faction was opposing their plans. He said that Harry's cousin, Dick
Mason, had joined the home guards, raised in the interests of the old
Union, and was drilling zealously.

The letter made the boy very thoughtful. The news about his
cousin opened his eyes. The line of cleavage between North and South
was widening into a gulf. But his spirits rose when he enlisted in
the Palmetto Guards, and began to see active service. His quickness
and zeal caused him to be used as a messenger, and he was continually
passing back and forth among the Confederate leaders in Charleston.
He also came into contact with the Union officers in Fort Sumter.

The relations of the town and the garrison were yet on a
friendly basis. Men were allowed to come ashore and to buy fresh
meat, vegetables, and other provisions. Strict orders kept anyone
from offering violence or insult to them. Harry saw Anderson once,
but he did not give him his name, deeming it best, because of the
stand that he had taken, that no talk should pass between them.

He picked up a copy of the Mercury one morning and saw that a
steamer, the Star of the West, was on its way to Charleston from a
northern port with supplies for the garrison in Fort Sumter. He read
the brief account, threw down the paper and rushed out for his
friend, St. Clair. He knew that the coming of this vessel would fire
the Charleston heart, and he was eager to be upon the scene.