The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 96, October 1865

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One may well suppose that this intimate association, this almost daily
companionship, this grateful interchange of thoughts and feelings that
seemed to flow in one harmonious current from a common fountain, should
have exerted a powerful influence over me. Such intercourse with one so
singularly gifted with the faculty of winning favor from all who knew
him gave birth to emotions within me such as I had never experienced. Am
I to blame for being thus affected, or in confessing that every long
October evening was doubly pleasant when it brought him down to see us?
Indeed, I had insensibly begun to expect him. There was an indescribable
something in his manner, especially when we happened to be alone, that I
thought it impossible to misunderstand. Once, when strolling round the
garden, I directed his attention to a group of charming autumn flowers.
But, instead of noticing them, he looked at me, and replied,--

"Ah, Miss Lizzie, I long since discovered that this garden contains a
sweeter flower than any of these!"

I turned away from him, abashed and silent, for I was confused and
frightened by the idea that he was alluding to me, and it was a long
time before I could venture to raise my eyes to his. I thought of what
he had said, and of the studied tenderness of voice with which he had
spoken, all through our lengthened walk, and until I rested upon my
pillow; and the strange sensations it awakened came over my spirit in
repeated dreams.

Thus forewarned, as I thought, I was not slow in afterwards detecting
fresh manifestations of a tenderer interest for me than I had supposed
it possible for him to entertain.

One evening in November, when the moon was shining with her softest
lustre through the deep haze peculiar to our Indian summer, he came as
usual to our little homestead. Somehow, I can scarcely tell why, I had
been expecting him. He had dropped something the previous evening which
had awakened in my mind the deepest feeling, and I was half sure that he
would come. I felt that there were quicker pulses dancing through my
veins, a flutter in my heart such as no previous experience had brought,
a doubt, a fear, an expectation, as well as an alarm, which no
reflection could analyze, no language could describe, all contending
within me for ascendancy. Who that has human sympathies, who that is
young as I was, diffident of herself, and comparatively alone and
friendless, will wonder that I should be thus overcome, or reproach me
for giving way to impulses which I felt it impossible to control? There
was a terror of the future, which even recollection of the happy past
was powerless to dissipate. Society, even books, became irksome, and I
went out into the garden alone, there to have uninterrupted communion
with myself.

There was an old arbor in a by-place of the garden, covered with creeper
and honeysuckle, and though rudely built, yet there was a quiet
retirement about it that I felt would be grateful to my spirit. Its
rustic fittings, its heavy old seats, its gravelled floor, had been the
scene of a thousand childish gambols with my brother and sister. Old
memories clung to it with a loving fondness. Even when the sports of
childhood gave place to graver thoughts and occupations, the cool
retirement of this rustic solitude had never failed to possess the
strongest attractions for me. The songbirds built their little nests
within the overhanging foliage, and swarms of bees gave melodious voices
to the summer air as they hovered over its honey-yielding flowers. The
past united with the present to direct my steps toward this favorite
spot I entered, and, seating myself on one of the old low branches that
encircled it, was looking up through the straggling vines that festooned
the entrance, admiring the soft haze through, which the cloudless moon
was shedding a peculiar brilliancy on all around, when I heard a step
approaching from the house.

I stopped the song which I had been humming, and listened. It is said
that there are steps which have music in them. I am sure, the cadences
of that music which the poet has so immortalized sounded distinctly in
my listening ear. It was the melody of recognition. I knew instinctively
the approaching step, and in a moment Mr. Logan stood before me.

"What!" said he, extending his hand as I rose, and pressing mine with a
warmth that was unusual, even retaining it until we were seated,--"ever
happy! There must be a perpetual sunshine in your heart!"

"Oh, no!" I replied. "Happiness is a creation of the fireside. One does
not find it in his neighbor's garden, and many times not even in his
own."

"For once, dear Lizzie, I only half agree with you," he replied, again
taking my hand, and pressing it in both of his.

I sought in vain to withdraw it, but he held it with an embarrassing
tenacity. He had never spoken such words before, never used my name
even, without the usual prefix which politeness exacts. I was glad that
the moonlight found but feeble entrance into the arbor, as the blood
mounted from my heart into my face, and I felt that I must be a
spectacle of confusion. I cannot now remember how long this
indescribable embarrassment kept possession of me, but I did summon
strength to say,--

"Your language surprises me, Mr. Logan."

"But, dear Lizzie," he rejoined, "my deportment toward you ought to
lessen that surprise, and become the apology for my words. Others may
find no happiness in their neighbor's garden, but I have discovered that
mine is concentrated in yours. You, dear Lizzie, are its fairest,
choicest flower, which I seek to transplant into my own, there to
flourish in the warmth of an affection such as I have felt for no one
but yourself. Never has woman been so loved as you. Let me add fresh
blessings to the day on which I first met you here, by claiming you as
my wife."

Oh, how can I write all this? But memory covers every incident of the
past with flowers. What I said in reply to that overwhelming declaration
has all gone from me. I may have been silent,--I think I must have
been,--under the crowd of conflicting sensations,--amazement, modesty, a
happiness unspeakable,--which came thronging over my heart I cannot
remember all, but I covered my face, and the tears came into my eyes.
Still keeping my hand, he placed his arm around me, drew me yet closer
to him,--my head fell upon his breast,--I think he must have kissed me.

If other evenings fled on hasty wings, how rapid was the flight of what
remained of this! I cannot repeat the thoughts we uttered to each other,
the confidences we exchanged, the glimpses of the happy future that
broke upon me. Joy seemed to fill my cup even to overflowing; happiness
danced before my bewildered mind; the longing of my womanly nature was
satisfied with the knowledge that my affection was returned. Out of all
the world in which he had to choose, he had preferred _me_.

That night was made restless by the very fulness of my happiness. At
breakfast the next morning, Jane questioned me on my somewhat haggard
looks, and was inquisitive to know if anything had happened. Somehow she
was unusually pertinacious; but I parried her inquiries. I was unwilling
that others, as yet, should become sharers of my joy. But when she left
upon her usual duties, I put on my best attire, with all the little
novelties in dress which we had recently been able to purchase, making
my appearance as genteel as possible. For the first time in my life I
did think that silk would be becoming, and was vexed with myself for
being without it. I was now anxious to be found agreeable. But it really
made no difference.

Presently a knock was heard at the front door; and on my mother's
opening it, Mr. Logan entered, with a young lady whom he introduced as
his sister. The room was so indifferently lighted that I could not at
first distinguish her features, but, on her throwing up her veil, I
instantly recognized in her my fellow-pupil at the sewing-school,--my
"guide, philosopher, and friend," Miss Effie Logan!

"Two years, dear Lizzie, since we met!" she exclaimed, "and what a
meeting now! You see I know it all. Henry has told me everything. I am
half as happy as yourself!"

She took me in her arms, embraced me, kissed me with passionate
tenderness, and called me "sister." What a recognition it was for me!
Her beautiful face, lighted up with a new animation, appeared more
lovely than ever. There was the same open-hearted manner of other days,
now made doubly engaging by the warmest manifestation of genuine
affection. I had never dreamed that Mr. Logan was the brother of whom
this loving girl had so often spoken to me at the sewing-school, nor
that the inexpressible happiness of calling her my sister was in store
for me. But now I could readily discover resemblances which it was no
wonder I had heretofore overlooked. If he, in sweetness of disposition,
were to prove the counterpart of herself, what more could woman ask? It
was not possible for a recognition to be more joyful than this.

My mother stood by, witnessing these incomprehensible proceedings,
silent, yet anxious as to their meaning. Effie took her into the
adjoining room,--she was far readier of speech than myself,--and there
explained to her the mystery of my new position with Mr. Logan. She told
me that my mother was overcome with surprise, for, dearly as she loved
her children, she had been strangely dull in her apprehension of what
had been so long enacting within her own domestic circle. But why should
I amplify these homely details? They are daily incidents the world over,
varied, it is true, by circumstances; for everywhere the human heart is
substantially the same mysterious fountain of emotion.

A secret of this sort, once known, even to one's mother only, travels
with miraculous rapidity, until the whole gaping neighborhood becomes
confidentially intrusted with its keeping. It seems that ours had been
more observant and suspicious than even my dear mother. But such eager
care-takers of other people's affairs exist wherever human beings may
chance to congregate. Humble life secured us no exemption.

Our pastor was one of the first to hear of the interesting event. It may
be that Mr. Logan had given him some inkling of it beforehand, for he
was early in his congratulations. Jane, as might be expected, declared
that it was no surprise to her, and was sure that my mother would not
think of having the wedding without indulging her in her long-coveted
silk. Fred took to Mr. Logan with almost as much kindliness as even
myself. Throughout the neighborhood the affair created an immense
sensation, as it was currently believed that Mr. Logan was exceedingly
rich, and that now I was likely to become a lady. While poor, I was only
a strawberry-girl; but rich, I would be a lady! Who is to account for
these false estimates of human life? Who is mighty enough to correct
them?

Nothing had ever so melted down the rude stiffness of the Tetchy family
as this wonderful revolution in my domestic prospects. They became
amusingly disposed to sociability, as well as to inquisitiveness. But I
was glad to see my mother stiffen up in proportion to their sudden
condescension, for she would have nothing to do with them.

Who, among casuists, can account for the contagious sympathy that seems
to govern the affections? I had often heard it said that one wedding
generally leads the way to another. Not a fortnight after these
important events, Jane gave a new surprise to the household by
introducing to us a lover of her own. It appeared that everything had
been arranged between them before we knew a word about it. The happy
young man in this case was a junior partner in the factory; and this, as
I had long suspected, was the great secret of her attraction there. How
my mother could have been so blind to the signs of coming events, such
as were developing around her, I could not understand. But both affairs
were real surprises to her. If we had depended on her genius as a
matchmaker, I fear that both Jane and myself would have had a very
discouraging experience!

Thus the services of our pastor were likely to be in great request, for
Jane insisted that he should officiate at her wedding, and Mr. Logan
would think of no other for his own; and for myself, I thought it best,
as this was the first time, not to let it be said that I had volunteered
to make a difficulty by being contrary on such a point! Effie offered to
be my bridesmaid, and Mr. Logan declared that Fred should be his first
groomsman. It was a hazardous venture, Fred being as much a novice at
such performances as myself,--who had never officiated even as bride!
With a little tutoring, however, he turned out a surprising success.
Lucy, no longer a little barefoot fruit-peddler, was promoted to be my
waiting-maid.

The new year came, bringing with it silks and jewels, and the double
wedding. If I write that I am married, I must add that I am still
without a sewing-machine. To me the garden has been better than the
needle.

There is a moral to be drawn from all that I have written, wherein it
may be seen that the field of my choice is wide enough for many others.
If I retire from market as a strawberry-girl, it must not be inferred
that it is because the business has been overdone.

JOHN JORDAN,

FROM THE HEAD OF BAINE.

Among the many brave men who have taken part in this war,--whose dying
embers are now being trodden out by a "poor white man,"--none, perhaps,
have done more service to the country, or won less glory for themselves,
than the "poor whites" who have acted as scouts for the Union armies.
The issue of battles, the result of campaigns, and the possession of
wide districts of country, have often depended on their sagacity, or
been determined by the information they have gathered; and yet they have
seldom been heard of in the newspapers, and may never be read of in
history.

Romantic, thrilling, and sometimes laughable adventures have attended
the operations of the scouts of both sections; but more difficulty and
danger have undoubtedly been encountered by the partisans of the North
than of the South. Operating mostly within the circle of their own
acquaintance, the latter have usually been aided and harbored by the
Southern people, who, generally friendly to Secession, have themselves
often acted as spies, and conveyed dispatches across districts occupied
by our armies, and inaccessible to any but supposed loyal citizens.

The service rendered the South by these volunteer scouts has often been
of the most important character. One stormy night, early in the war, a
young woman set out from a garrisoned town to visit a sick uncle
residing a short distance in the country. The sick uncle, mounting his
horse at midnight, rode twenty miles in the rain to Forrest's
head-quarters. The result was, the important town of Murfreesboro' and a
promising Major-General fell into the hands of the Confederates; and all
because the said Major-General permitted a pretty woman to pass his
lines on "a mission of mercy."

At another time, a Rebel citizen, professing disgust with Secession for
having the weakness to be on "its last legs," took the oath of
allegiance and assumed the Union uniform. Informing himself fully of the
disposition of our forces along the Nashville Railroad, he suddenly
disappeared, to reappear with Basil Duke and John Morgan in a midnight
raid on our slumbering outposts.

Again, a column on the march came upon a wretched woman, with a child in
her arms, seated by the dying embers of a burning homestead,--burning,
she said, because her sole and only friend, her uncle, (these ladies
seldom have any nearer kin,) "stood up stret fur the kentry." No
American soldier ever refused a "lift" to a woman in distress. This
woman was soon "lifted" into an empty saddle by the side of a
staff-officer, who, with many wise winks and knowing nods, was
discussing the intended route of the expedition with a brother
simpleton. A little farther on the woman suddenly remembered that
another uncle, who did not stand up quite so "stret fur the kentry,"
and, consequently, had a house still standing up for him, lived "plumb
up thet 'ar' hill ter the right o' the high-road." She was set down, the
column moved on, and--Streight's well planned expedition miscarried. But
no one wasted a thought on the forlorn woman and the sallow baby whose
skinny faces were so long within earshot of the wooden-headed
staff-officer.

Means quite as ingenious and quite as curious were often adopted to
conceal dispatches, when the messenger was in danger of capture by an
enemy. A boot with a hollow heel, a fragment of corn-pone too stale to
tempt a starving man, a strip of adhesive plaster over a festering
wound, or a ball of cotton-wool stuffed into the ear to keep out the
west wind, often hid a message whose discovery would cost a life, and
perhaps endanger an army. The writer has himself seen the hollow
half-eagle which bore to Burnside's beleaguered force the welcome
tidings that in thirty hours Sherman would relieve Knoxville.

The perils which even the "native" scout encountered can be estimated
only by those familiar with the vigilance that surrounds an army. The
casual meeting with an acquaintance, the slightest act inconsistent with
his assumed character, or the smallest incongruity between his speech
and that of the district to which he professed to belong, has sent many
a good man to the gallows. One of the best of Rosecrans's scouts--a
native of East Kentucky--lost his life because he would "bounce" (mount)
his nag, "pack" (carry) his gun, eat his bread "dry so," (without
butter,) and "guzzle his peck o' whiskey," in the midst of Bragg's camp,
when no such things were done there, nor in the mountains of Alabama,
whence he professed to come. Acquainted only with a narrow region, the
poor fellow did not know that every Southern district has its own
dialect, and that the travelled ear of a close observer can detect the
slightest deviation from its customary phrases. But he was not alone in
this ignorance. Almost every Northern writer who has undertaken to
describe Southern life has fallen into the same error. Even Olmstead,
who has caught the idioms wonderfully, confounds the dialects of
different regions, and makes a Northern Georgian "right smart," when he
had been only "powerful stupid" all his life.

The professional scout generally was a native of the South,--some
illiterate and simple-minded, but brave and self-devoted "poor white
man," who, if he had worn shoulder-straps, and been able to write
"interesting" dispatches, might now be known as a hero half the world
over. Some of these men, had they been born at the North, where free
schools are open to all, would have led armies, and left a name to live
after them. But they were born at the South, had their minds cramped and
their souls stunted by a system which dwarfs every noble thing; and so,
their humble mission over, they have gone down unknown and unhonored,
amid the silence and darkness of their native woods.

I hope to rescue the memory of one of these men--John Jordan, from the
head of Baine--from utter oblivion by writing this article. He is now
beyond the hearing of my words; but I would record one act in his short
career, that his pure patriotism may lead some of us to know better and
love more the much-abused and misunderstood class to which he belonged.

* * * * *

Early in the war the command of an important military expedition was
intrusted to the president of a Western college. Though a young man,
this scholar had already achieved a "character" and a history. Beginning
life a widow's son, his first sixteen years were passed between a farm,
a canal, and a black-saltern. Being an intelligent, energetic lad, his
friends formed the usual hopes of him; but when he apprenticed himself
to a canal-boat, their faith failed, and, after the fashion of Job's
friends, they comforted his mother with the assurance that her son had
taken the swift train to the Devil. But, like Job, she knew in whom she
believed, and the boy soon justified her confidence. An event shortly
occurred which changed the current of his life, gave him a purpose, and
made him a man.

One dark midnight, as the boat on which he was employed was leaving one
of those long reaches of slackwater which abound in the Ohio and
Pennsylvania Canal, he was called up to take his turn at the bow.
Tumbling out of bed, his eyes heavy with sleep, he took his stand on the
narrow platform below the bow-deck, and began uncoiling a rope to steady
the boat through a lock it was approaching. Slowly and sleepily he
unwound it, till it knotted, and caught in a narrow cleft in the edge of
the deck. He gave it a sudden pull, but it held fast; then another and a
stronger pull, and it gave way, but sent him over the bow into the
water. Down he went into the dark night and the still darker river; and
the boat glided on to bury him among the fishes. No human help was near.
God only could save him, and He only by a miracle. So the boy thought,
as he went down saying the prayer his mother had taught him.
Instinctively clutching the rope, he sunk below the surface; but then it
tightened in his grasp, and held firmly. Seizing it hand over hand, he
drew himself up on deck, and was again a live boy among the living.
Another kink had caught in another crevice, and saved him! Was it that
prayer, or the love of his praying mother, which wrought this miracle?
He did not know, but, long after the boat had passed the lock, he stood
there, in his dripping clothes, pondering the question.

Coiling the rope, he tried to throw it again into the crevice; but it
had lost the knack of kinking. Many times he tried,--six hundred, says
my informant,--and then sat down and reflected. "I have thrown this
rope," he thought, "six hundred times; I might throw it ten times as
many without its catching. Ten times six hundred are six thousand,--so,
there were six thousand chances against my life. Against such odds,
Providence only could have saved it. Providence, therefore, thinks it
worth saving; and if that's so, I won't throw it away on a canal-boat.
I'll go home, get an education, and be a man."

He acted on this resolution, and not long afterwards stood before a
little log cottage in the depths of the Ohio wilderness. It was late at
night; the stars were out, and the moon was down; but by the fire-light
that came through the window, he saw his mother kneeling before an open
book which lay on a chair in the corner. She was reading; but her eyes
were off the page, looking up to the Invisible. "Oh, turn unto me," she
said, "and have mercy upon me! give Thy strength unto Thy servant, and
save the son of Thine handmaid!" More she read, which sounded like a
prayer, but this is all that the boy remembers. He opened the door, put
his arm about her neck, and his head upon her bosom. What words he said
I do not know; but there, by her side, he gave back to God the life
which He had given. So the mother's prayer was answered. So sprang up
the seed which in toil and tears she had planted.

The boy worked, the world rolled round, and twelve years later Governor
Dennison offered him command of a regiment. He went home, opened his
mother's Bible, and pondered upon the subject. He had a wife, a child,
and a few thousand dollars. If he gave his life to the country, would
God and the few thousand dollars provide for his wife and child? He
consulted the Book about it. It seemed to answer in the affirmative; and
before morning he wrote to a friend,--"I regard my life as given to the
country. I am only anxious to make as much of it as possible before the
mortgage on it is foreclosed."

To this man, who thus went into the war with a life not his own, was
given, on the 16th of December, 1861, command of the little army which
held Kentucky to her moorings in the Union.

He knew nothing of war beyond its fundamental principles,--which are, I
believe, that a big boy can whip a little boy, and that one big boy can
whip two little boys, if he take them singly, one after the other. He
knew no more about it; yet he was called upon to solve a military
problem which has puzzled the heads of the greatest generals: namely,
how two small bodies of men, stationed widely apart, can unite in the
presence of an enemy, and beat him, when he is of twice their united
strength, and strongly posted behind intrenchments. With the help of
many "good men and true," he solved this problem; and in telling how he
solved it, I shall come naturally to speak of John Jordan, from the head
of Baine.

Humphrey Marshall with five thousand men had invaded Kentucky. Entering
it at Pound Gap, he had fortified a strong natural position near
Paintville, and, with small bands, was overrunning the whole Piedmont
region. This region, containing an area larger than the whole of
Massachusetts, was occupied by about four thousand blacks and one
hundred thousand whites,--a brave, hardy, rural population, with few
schools, scarcely any churches, and only one newspaper, but with that
sort of patriotism which grows among mountains and clings to its barren
hillsides as if they were the greenest spots in the universe. Among this
simple people Marshall was scattering firebrands. Stump-orators were
blazing away at every cross-road, lighting a fire which threatened to
sweep Kentucky from the Union. That done,--so early in the
war,--dissolution might have followed. To the Ohio canal-boy was
committed the task of extinguishing this conflagration. It was a
difficult task, one which, with the means at command, would have
appalled any man not made equal to it by early struggles with hardship
and poverty, and entire trust in the Providence that guards his country.

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