Soldiers' record, 1868-07-18

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D e v o t e d , t o t l i e I n t e r e s t s o f t l i e S o l d i e r s a n d S a i l o r s o f t l i e l a t e W a r .
TOL 1. HARTFORD, COM., JULY 18, 1868. NO 2.
Jittn.
THE CRUTCH IN THE CORNER.
"Why Billy, your room is as cold as tho hut
We had by the swamp and the river,
Where we lost our Major, and Tim, you know,
And sixty more with the fever."
"Well Tom, old fellow, it's hard enough,
But the best at times knock under !
There's nary a stick of wood in the house
But that crutch in the corner yonder.
Sorry I 'listed ? Don't ask me that, Tom.
If the flag was' again in danger,
I 'd aim a gun with this aching stump
At the foe were he brother or stranger.
But, I say, ought a wound from shot or shell
Or a pistol bullet, by thunder 1
Forever doom a poor follow to want
With that ar in tlie corner yonder.
That cruteh, old comrade, ought ever to be
A draft at sight on the nation
For honor, respect, and a friendly hand,
For clothing, and quarters and rations.
My wife? She begs at the Nugget House
Where the bigbugs live in splendor.
And brag o'er their wine of the fights that brought
Such as that in the corner yonder.
And Charlie ? He goes to some jilace up town—
Some ticket-for-soup arrangement-
All well enough for a hungry boy.
But, Tom, it's effect is estrangement.
I 'd sooner have kicked the bucket twice o'er,
By a shell or a round ten-pounder,
Than live such a life as I'm doing now.
With that ar in the corner yonder.
There's nary thing left for to pawn or sell;
And the winter has closed on labor j
This medal is all that is left me now.
With my pistols and trusty sabre;
And them, by the sunlight above us, Tom,
No power from my trust can sunder
Save the Power that releases me at last
From that ar in the corner yonder.
I can raise this arm that's left to me
To the blessed heavens above us.
And swear by the throne of the Father, there,
And the angels all, who love us.
That the hand I lost and the hand I have
Were never yet stained by plunder:
And for love of the dear old flag I now
Use that ar in the corner yonder.
Do I ask to much when I say, we boys.
Who lost for the nation's glory.
Now that the danger is past and go ne.
In comfort should tell our story f
How should we have fought when the mad shells
screamed
And shivered our ranks, I wonder.
Had wo known that our lot would have been to beg
With that ar in the corner yonder.
There's little we hear of now-a-dnys
Bui pardon and reconstruction,
While the sojer who fought and bled for both
Is left to his own destruction.
'Twould be well, I think, in these nipping times,
For these Congress fellows to ponder.
And think of us boys who use such things
As that ar in tho corner yonder."
John Mcintosh.
LADY COXJRTHOPE'S TRAP.
"There is a storm gathering yonder
over the Beacon Hill; the air is heav^y
with thunder. Surely, Kiciiard, it were
better even now to let your journey rest
until to-morrow."
The tall, bronzed knight, standing boot-ed
and spurred with his hand upon his
horse's mane, turned to look with a merry
smile in the fair, anxious face of the lady
by his side,
"And if the storm should come, do you
think, my sweet wife, that Dick Court-hopo
has never ridden through wind and
rain before, or that, for fear of a wetting,
I could bro.ik my ))lcdge to meet Philip
Orme this night in Chester? No, no.
Only let me find you watching for me here
at noon to-morrow, with those same pink
cheeks and bright eyes, and I shall reck
little whether I ride in sunshine or iu
shower, ^o now, dear one, farewell, and
may God bless you;" and springing into
the saddle, the good knight waved a last
adieu, and trotted away down the long
avenue.
His young wife's blue eyes followed his
retreating figure with a wistful gaze, until
ho halted at the great iron gates, and pas-sing
through, was hidden from her view ;
then slowly turning, she remounted the
stone stei)s that led up to the door of
Ashurst Manor-house. The gloom/ red-brick
walls seemed to frown upon her as
she entered, the stained-glass window iu
the hall threw a purple tint upon her face,
and made it almost ghastly, and the oak
floor gave back a hollow echo to her tread.
Just then, a door at the further end of the
hall was softly opened, and Marston, the
old butler, advanced toward her. Old he
was in service, for he had lived for more
than thirty years at Ashurst Manor, at
first the page and playfellow, then the
confidential servant and the friend of his
master. Sir Pichard; yet not old in years, j
for he was under fifty, his black hair was
still untouched with gray, and there Avere
few wrinkles in his hard, keen face He
stopped near Lady Courthdpe, glanced
quickly at her, hesitated a moment, and
then said in a respectful, but constrained
tone: "Surely, my lady, h'ir Richard will
not ride to Chester on such a day as this ?"
The lady looked up as though surprised
at his addressing her. "Yes," she said,
'•he has just started. He laughs at the
weather, but I"
"There will be little cause to laugh if
the storm comes, if the river is swollen,"
Marston exclaimed abruptly. "You will
see him back yet, my lady, ere night."
"Nay, he must needs be in Chester this
evening," Lady Courthope made answer,
as, stitling a sigh, she passed on to the
drawing-room.
The butler looked after her. "She
would have us believe she cares for him,
forsooth. He believes it. He has only
eyes and thoughts for her; old friends, old
times, are all forgotten now. Once he
would have told me about this Chester
journey, but now that waxen doll hears all
his plans, and hardly deigns to speak of
thera to me. But I have learned all I
cared to know—Sir Richard must be in
Chester this night."
In the long drawing-room, although it
was but four o'clock on a November after-noon,
thq huge fire had burned low, and
the heap of glowing fagots shed a weird
light on the mirrors and pictures on the
walls, while the high-backed chairs and
carved tables cast strange, uncouth shad-ows
all around, as the lady made her way
to the cushioned window-seat, and gazed
out on the stormy sky. "He rides fast;
his horse is sure-footed ; the distance is
not great," she murmured to herself.
"Why is this dread upon me, this terri-ble
foreboding of some coming evil?"
She looked back into the darkening roorn,
and started as a half-burned log fell with
a crash upon the hearth, A longing came
over her to hear again her husband's
blithe voice, to see his fond glance, to
have him there beside her; and then grad-ually
her thoughts wandered away from
this somber old mansion to another, far
away at Kensington, alive with gay young
voices, smiling faces, and where her voice,
her face had only eight months since been
the gayest and the brightest; for she had
been a cherished daughter of that house
until Sir Richard Courthope woed and
won her, and brought hec here to be the
mistress of his Cheshire liome. Tenderly
she recalled the young brothers and sis-ters,
the loving parents of her happy
maiden-days, and wondered if they yet
missed her, and might perhaps be speak-ing
of her even then; till all at once her
fancy took another turn, and she felt as
though her fond remembrances were trea-son
to the absent husband, who was far
dearer to her than any of that merry par-ty.
She would shake off this strange sad-ness
which had crept upon her. "VVith a
sudden impulse she sprang up, stirred the
glowing embers into a blaze, and sitting
down beside her harpsichord,began alow,
soft air; then her mood changed, and the
full notes of some martial tune rung out
into the room. Once she paused when
Marston entered, bearing the tall, silver
candlesticks, and as tho music died away,
she heard the beating of the rain against
the casement, and tho howling of the wind
among the trees. A minute she listened,
then her fingers touched the keys again.
"The storm has come, my lady." It was
Marston who spoke. She had thought
hi.n goue, but he was standing close be-hind
her chair. "Sir Richard can never
pass Craven Ford to-night," he went on.
"What will he do ?" and she looked
round with startled eyes.
"He may make for home, but I fear,
my lady ; and I had your leave, I would
ride out to meet him with a lantern. The
night is black as pitch, and one falsp step
by the cliff-path would be death." He
spoke low, but there was a strange eager-ness
in his tone, and in his face.
"Go, pray, go!" she exclaimed, her
voice trembling with anxiety. "and yet—
might you not send Stephen in your
stead ?" She knew not why she asked
that question, she only knew that some
vague feeling prompted it.
Marston's face darkened. "He is a
stranger to the country, while I have
lived here from my childhood. He does
not even know the road, while I have
ridden along it hundreds of times by night
and day. But be it as you will, my lady."
"Go yourself," she once more repeated;
"lose not a moment. Heaven send you
may be there before Sir Richard!"
The man turned silently to obey her
orders, but as he reached the door he
looked round, and for an instant his eye
met hers—only for an instant; but there
was something in that one glace so pe-culiar,
so sinister, that she almost shud-dered.
Ere she could recover her first
shock, ere she could speak or think,he was
gone. What did it mean ? She had long
known that he bore her no good-will, that
he regarded her as an intruder in her hus-band's
house, and that he bitterly resented
the stern rebukes, and even threats, with
which his master had visited his occasion-al
disrespect to her. She had known this
: long, but never had his dislike been writ-ten
so plainly in his face as now. Could
he be plotting harm ? Should she follow
him, and countermand his going? And
then again she smiled at her own nameless
terrors. For thirty years Marston had
; served Sir Richard faithfully—surely he
would not now be false to him. That
cliff-path might indeed be feared, but not
the old and trusted servant. So she lis-tened
till, in less than half an hour, she
heard his horse's hoofs crashing on the
i gravel road. She did not hear something
' else; she did hear his muttered words,
as he glanced up at the lighted windows
of the drawing room: "she would have
' stopped me had she dared, but she
' can not stop me now. There will be a
heavy reckoning this night for the scorn
she has made Sir Richard heap upon me,"
] and his teeth were ground with something
like a curse.
Lady Courthope, sitting thoughtfully
beside the fire, her eyes fixed upon the
leaping flames, her hands lying idle in her
lap, was left undisturbed, till nearly two
hours lacer Stephen came to tell her sup-per
waited. She asked him as she rose if
the storm still raged Avithout. "It has
! passed, my lady, and the sky is clear."
She went to the window and drew aside
the curtain. The dark clouds Avere gone,
and in their stead the moon shone bright
on wood and hill. Marston's journey
I would be needless. Sir Richard Avould be
safe noAv. She heaved a deep sigh of re-lief,
and Avith a light step Avent her Avay
' to the supper room.
The evening Avore aAvay; the great
^ clock over the stables had long since
I struck nine, and the hands Avere nearing
ten, Avhen Lady Courthope, throAving a
j cover over tho embroidery Avhich had oc-
I cupied her since supper, retired to her
own chamber for the night. It Avas a
large lolty room in the Avest Aving of tho
building, remote from tho staircase, and
at the further end of a long corridor
Avhich opened by side-doors into several
unused rooms. But the young bride had
chosen it rather than any other, for she
knew her husband had lived in it and
loA^ed it, and that long ago it had been his
mother's room. Tho high mantel-piece
Avith its curious carvings, the ceiling deco-rated
Avith strange paintings of nymphs
and cupids, the antique furniture, and the
tall canopied bedstead, gave a quaint and
somber aspect to the chamber; but to-night
the fire roared and crackled on the
hearth, and flashed upon the yellow dam-ask
draperies, and the candles burning on
the dressing table lit up every corner. As
Lady Courthope entered, her maid came
forAvard from a door on the opposite side
of the room which led into a small dress-ing-
room.
" Have you been waiting long, Hes-ter
?" the lady exclaimed, noting the
girl's weary eyes. "You look sadly
tired."
" I have but just come in, my lady.
Anne and I have been in the workroom
all the evening, and 'tis that makes my
head ache so."
Poor girl!" said her mistress pitying-ly
; "you have been more used to milking
coAvs than stooping over needle-work.
But cheer up, Hester, and it Avill seem
more easy in time. Have the others gone
to rest?"
All but. Stephen, my lady; I heard
him cross the hall just now."
"Tell him he need not keep Avatch for
Sir Richard. He is, I trust, ere now safe
in Chester. He must have forded'the
riA'er Avhile i t Avas yet passable."
"Or if the stream were sAvollen, my la-dy,
he had but to ride down to the old
stone bridge below father's house," the
girl said quietly.
"The biidge—I heard of no bridge !"
exclaimed Lady Courthope.
" 'Tis by the old priory—a matter of
three miles round maybe; but Sir Rich-ard
knows it well."
"And Marston had forgotten it," said
her mistress musingly.
"He said nothing of the ford," Hester
answered; "he only said that he Avas go-ing
to ride after Sir Richard."
"He has not come back ?" Lady Court-hope
asked abruptly.
"Oh! no, my lady; he told us that if
he did not meet Sir Richard, he should
stay at the Golden Horn till morning."
" I gave him no such leave :" and there
Avas surprise and resentment in Lady
Courthope's tone. A long silence follow-ed,
while the maid moved sofily to and
fro, assisting her mistress to undress, till,
as she brought the taffeta dressing-gOAvn
and velvet slippers, Laiy Courthope said
kindly: "That Avill dp ; I can brush my
own hair for this night. NOAV go, and
sleep of your headache."
The maid lingered a while, but at a se-cond
bidding she withdrew, thankful to be
released. Lady Courthope followed, to
secure the door; then returning, she drew
an arm chair close to the fire, and leaning
back in it began to unfasten her shining
braids of hair. With her fingers moving
dreamily among the golden tresses, as they
fell around her lovely face, she sat think-ing
of many things ; she thought of her
husband, the husband Avho seemed yet
closer .to her heart for that very difference
of age Avhich had made many marvel at the
marriage ; she thought of his tender indul-gence
toAvard her faults, of his almost
fatherly care, of his sympathy in all her
pains and pleasures, and yet of the manly
respect and trust with which^he treated
her—of the perfect confidence'^Avhich he,
tho man of forty-five, shoAved in the Avife
more than twenty years younger than
himself. And then she pictured the com-ing
years, and the time when his hair
should be Avhite, and his n o A V upright fig-ure
bent, and when she iu turn should shoAV
her love and gratitude by her uuAvearied
care—Avhon she should forestall his eA'cry
wish, and make his declining age so happy
that he should never regret his youth; antl
Avhen too—and her cheek flushed at tho
thought—young children, bearing in their
faces a mingled likeness to them both,
might perchance be about theuK making
tho house, so quiet now, ring Avith laughter
from morn to night; and as that picture
D EXPOSURE