I remember well the twinge I had, when one evening early in
September De Saussure came in, the utmost glee expressed in
his eyes and manner, and announced his news thus; "They have had a battle at Springfield, and Lyon is killed."
"Who is Lyon?" I could not help asking, though it was
incautious.
"You should not ask," he said more gently as he sat down by
me; "you have no relish for these things. Even the cause of
liberty cannot sweeten them to you."
"Who is Lyon, De Saussure?" my father repeated.
"A Connecticut fellow." The tone of these words, in its utter
disdain, was inexpressible.
"Connecticut?" said my father. "Has the war got into New
England? That cannot be."
"No, sir, no, sir," said Ransom. "It is Springfield in
Missouri. You find a Yankee wherever you go in this world."
"Wilson's Creek is the place of the battle," Mr. De Saussure
went on. "Near Springfield, in Missouri. It was an
overwhelming defeat. Lyon killed, and the next in command
obliged to beat off."
"Who on our side?" asked my mother.
"Ben McCulloch and Price."
"How many engaged? Was it much of an affair?"
"We had twenty thousand or so. Of course, the others had
more."
"It doesn't take but one or two Southerners to whip a score of
those cowards," said Ransom.
"Why should not the war have got into New England, Mr.
Randolph?" my mother asked. "You said, 'That cannot be.' Why
should it not be?"
"There are a few thousand men in the way," said my father;
"and I think they are not all cowards."
"They will never stand before our rifles," said De Saussure.
"Our boys will mow them down like grass," said Ransom. "And in
New Orleans the fever will take care of them. How soon,
mother, will the fever be there?"
Mamma and Ransom compared notes upon the probable and usual
time for the yellow fever to make its appearance, when it
would wield, its scythe of destruction upon the fresh harvest
of life made ready for it, in the bands of the Northern
soldiers in Louisiana. My whole soul was in a stir of
opposition to the speakers. I had to be still, but pain
struggled to speak.
"You do not enjoy the prospect -" Hugh Marshall said, softly.
I only looked at him.
"Nor do I," said he, shaking his head. "A fair fight is one
thing. - It is a terrible state of affairs at home, Miss
Randolph."
I had the utmost difficulty to keep quiet and give no sign. I
could have answered him with a cry which would have startled
them all. What if Thorold were ordered down there? He might
be. He would go where he was ordered. That thought brought
help; for so would I! A soldier, in another warfare, I
remembered my ways were appointed, even as his; only more
wisely, more surely, and on no service that could by any means
be in vain. But yet the pain was very sharp, as I looked at
the group who were eagerly discussing war matters; my father,
my mother, my brother, and De Saussure, who in the interest of
the thing had left my side; how keen they were! So were others
keen at home, who had swords in their hands and pistols in
their belts. It would not do to think. I could but repeat to
myself, - "I am a soldier - I am a soldier - and just now my
duty is to stand and bear fire."