Books: Leah Mordecai
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Mrs. Belle Kendrick Abbott >> Leah Mordecai
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"George, you seem so abstracted; you scarcely noticed Frank Brewster
as he passed just now in the brett with Florence Dale. What's the
matter, dear?"
"I'm troubled, perplexed, pondering, my dear. Yet I did not mean to
be so abstracted. I must beg your forgiveness, as well as that of my
friends."
"Oh! never mind me, George; only tell me what troubles you."
"Nothing more than the perplexing question that has harassed me ever
since I came home, and saw beyond a doubt that we should have
war-the question that I must soon decide, whether I shall desert my
State in time of peril, or my country. In either course of acting, I
shall be branded as a traitor, or a rebel. It's a serious dilemma to
be placed in, dear Eliza, and I must act wisely, and like a man. My
heart is dreadfully divided: duty calls me to my country, and love
calls me to my home. My forebodings, too, whisper that this war will
be no trifling affair."
"Well, for my part, George, and you already know it, I am opposed to
secession. Fred Pinckney says it's on account of the Whig blood that
flows in my veins. I told him that my father, and my grandfather
before him, were uncompromising Whigs. It may be so; I don't know. I
abhor the idea of bloodshed, and as yet, I think we have had little
cause to declare war."
"You are a sage little woman, and your argument sound, but these
sentiments won't do to promulgate in the Queen City. Remember, I am
still a commissioned officer in the United States army. Be careful."
"Oh! I am not afraid of my sentiments, or of being deemed
traitorous. Only this morning, Colonel Legare asked me if I would
present the Palmetto Rifles with the new flag he had made for them.
But to return. War is war, George, and should be entered into with
caution."
"Yes; you are right. I feel at times as though I could not fight
against the flag of my country; and then, on the other hand, I would
not fight against my home and kindred. There seems but one
alternative left to me-to resign my commission in the army and not
take up arms at all," replied the young officer sadly.
"Well, cheer up. Don't grow despondent. I hope wisdom will direct
your decision; and remember, if the thought will give you any
comfort, that I have sworn to follow your footsteps and your
fortune, wheresoever they may lead, be it from craggy Maine to wild
Colorado," said the young wife with forced pleasantry.
"Bravo! what a lucky fellow I am! Surely no evil will befall me.
Your cheering words decide my choice; wisdom, you say, will direct
the decision. It shall be made. We will once more make the charming
round of this inviting boulevard, and then I'll tell you my
decision. There goes Fred Pinckney on horseback. How handsome he
looks in that uniform! He belongs to the Palmetto Rifles, I
believe."
"Yes, so he does. Fred's a gallant, handsome fellow, a little too
hot-blooded, though," replied the young wife, thoughtfully.
Once again the gay promenade was traversed, and as the sun's last
ray was faintly dying, the young wife stopped, and leaning gently on
the railing with eye turned toward the sea, she said, "Now, George,
tell me your decision." And he replied quickly, "I shall resign my
commission in the army, and cast my lot with my people and my State.
Alas! I may never see Franco again!"
"I trust you have acted wisely," replied the young wife,
thoughtfully. "But, oh, George, see Defiance. See how the dying sun
gilds the flag, the new flag that has risen above the old one that
floated there when I was here a school-girl. Somehow I love the old
flag, the Stars and Stripes-'Whig blood,' I suppose; but Defiance
always looked so grim and terrible to me, even when I was a
school-girl, in peaceful days, and now it appears a terrible monster
of horror!"
"Oh! Defiance bears you no ill-will, my darling. It's a quiet old
fort, that will protect us from our enemies. Long live the memory of
the man who surrendered it only at the mouth of cannon! But come,
let's be going. It's late; already pedestrians and vehicles are
turning homeward."
How sad, that time so far has furnished no historian or biographer
truthfully and charitably to chronicle the terrible struggle of many
noble-souled men, who sacrificed the love of country for the love of
State in that unhallowed civil war! Yet there is the truth that the
great Searcher of human hearts has His record on high; and in the
unfolding hereafter, many souls that here were branded as traitors,
will there receive the rewards of patriots. Scores who were here
despised for cowardice, will there receive the plaudits that await
the brave. Legions who have perished in ignominious cells, will
there be found crowned heroes. For who knows the yet unwritten
record of the horrible war between the States, but the heroes who
perished here and passed on beyond?
CHAPTER XXX.
SIX months rolled by-six memorable months, that sadly blasted a
nation's hopes, and overturned the plans and purposes of countless
individuals. The war-cloud had darkened and deepened, till the sky
of many a happy home was already obscured by its fearful gloom. At
the first bugle-note of conflict, a peaceful, happy people was
transformed, as if by magic, into a warlike host. The war-tide
rushed on with an impetuosity that bore all things before it.
Willing or unwilling, men must be soldiers. Cities, towns, and
villages were astir with excitement. Forgetting the ordinary
interests of life, people talked enthusiastically, madly, of war.
Months ago had the accustomed serenity of the Queen City given place
to noisy military life. Its by-ways and suburbs were dotted with
tents, the phantom homes of soldiers. Men who yesterday were
gentlemen, were to-day only vassals, whose existence was marked by
the morning r‚veille and the evening tattoo. The drilling, drilling,
drilling, still hourly went on; but not that peaceful exercise the
inhabitants had been wont to observe in Citadel Square in days
agone. Marching, guarding, countermarching, watching, were the order
of the day. Some hearts were wild with enthusiasm, others dark with
despair. Already the tide of brothers' blood had crimsoned the sod
of more than one State. Blood, blood, was flowing-crimson blood,
that might have been a libation to a nobler, holier cause.
Old Defiance, standing dark and warlike in the harbor of the Queen
City, had now a new commander. The guns, as usual, turned their
deadly mouths to the open sea, but the gunners and the commander did
not wear the uniform of the old troops once garrisoned there. George
Marshall, impelled by the love of State, and moved by the
importunities of friends, had accepted the position of commander at
Defiance, and was now Colonel instead of Captain Marshall. With
regret, with tears even, he folded away the regimentals of the old
army, and said with a sigh, as he laid them out of sight, "I shall
never need them again." Blame him, if you dare, you who have never
stood the test of such a trial. Censure him for a traitor, if you
must, you that have only dallied on the outskirts of your country's
danger. In that book on high, thank God, angels read his record
aright.
"George," said Eliza one morning to her husband, in a soft October
day, as he was about leaving her for the fort, "I am sorry you ever
took command of Defiance. I have always had a strange horror of that
monster of the sea. I hate to think of your being there."
"Well, you are foolish in that fear, my love. It's much better for
you than if I were in the field. If I were at the head of a
regiment, I should be ordered here and there, Fate only knows where,
and maybe not see you for months, perhaps years. When you become
more acquainted with the old fortress, my dear, you will cease to
regard it with such terror."
"Maybe I shall, George, but I fear not. It stands like some terrible
apparition, ever before me, waking or sleeping," she replied, half
sadly, half fearfully. "Oh! this terrible war! It has begun, but it
is not yet ended," she added with a shudder.
"You must be more hopeful; your words are not encouraging to a
soldier-husband. Come, cheer up, and go with me over to the fortress
this evening. What do you say? Go, and beard the lion in his den, as
it were."
"I shall be most happy to do so, if it will tend to dispel my
prejudice, or rather, my dread of the place. At what hour?"
"At six P. M. precisely, the Sea-Foam leaves pier number three for
the fort. I'll return in time for us to leave at that hour. Be
ready. Adieu. I must hasten!" He kissed her, and was gone.
When Eliza was once again alone in her quiet chamber, the skilful
fingers were busy with her work, and the perplexed brain was busy
with its thoughts. At length she said, half audibly, "I may be
foolish. God only knows how dreadfully I feel about this wretched
war."
At the appointed time George Marshall returned, to find his wife
awaiting him; and without delay they sought the Sea-Foam's pier. As
the young colonel walked beside his wife, so modestly yet becomingly
attired in simple white muslin, with a blue scarf round her
faultless figure, he thought her a paragon of beauty, and passed on
in silent admiration, till the pier was reached.
"What does this embarkation recall to your mind, George?" said the
young wife pleasantly, as her husband seated himself beside her on
the deck of the Sea-Foam.
"Nothing in particular, that I remember. What is it?"
"Oh, I was vain enough to suppose it might recall to you an occasion
that has ever been memorable to me," she replied archly. But I see
you have forgotten that sunny June evening, five years ago, when I
embarked, from this very pier-embarked, leaving you behind, and
thinking I should never see you again."
"Oh, forgive my want of memory and sentimentality. The war has
well-nigh crushed the latter out of my nature. I thank God though,
that we have now embarked together on the ocean of life, with no
fear of separation, and with the hope, too, that storms, if they
come, may not wreck our bark. Isn't the sea lovely? And how
delicious the breeze!"
"Yes, the flags float airily; but the fort, though seemingly so
near, is yet quite far away. How deceptive is water!" The boat sped
on toward the fortress like a feather on the breeze.
"Here we come," said the colonel, "nearer, nearer, nearer, to the
huge pile of sea-washed brick and mortar; nearer to your dreaded
enemy, my love; slower, slower, slower, to the land. Here we are!"
And the Sea-Foam safely cast her anchor once again.
CHAPTER XXXI.
EVENT crowded upon event as the first two long years of the war
glided by-years that seemed to calendar twenty-four, instead of
twelve months each. The strife hadn't yet reached its climax, but
blood was flowing fearfully. From Maine to the Gulf was one vast
beleaguered sea-coast, for at every sea-port city, grim monsters of
war stood guarding the entrance to the harbor. Already the central,
though despised Queen City, was feeling the fire of a fierce and
cruel bombardment. Refugees were flitting hither and thither about
the country, seeking peace and security, but finding none. Want and
privation were even now beginning to menace a once luxurious people,
and gloom and despair to enshroud the hopes of those who had fondly
dreamed of a successful dismemberment of the Union. Such was the
record of the years preceding the memorable seven days' fighting at
"Merry Oaks."
These battles form the half-way stone in the long period of our
civil war. It was the day after the dreadful conflict. The forces
had retired to re-gather their strength, and the wounded, dying, and
dead, were left upon the field. Early in the morning, as the heat of
the summer sun was streaming down, a horseman rode slowly and
carefully about this field of death. Here and there, lying thickly,
as they fell, were the dead of both forces, easily distinguished by
the different colors they wore, while gathered in groups, under the
grateful shade-trees, could be seen the wounded whose strength was
sufficient to drag them thither. This field was a shocking
spectacle. And as the horseman rode slowly along the desolate track,
peering curiously and sadly into the upturned faces of the dead, a
casual observer might have detected the melancholy expression on his
face, and marked the glittering tear that bedewed his eyes. For
brave, true, noble George Marshall, was never ashamed to weep over
the woes of humanity! Imperative business had called him from his
post of duty to the seat of war, just in time to be within ear-shot
of that memorable seven days' carnage. And as he rode, on that quiet
summer morning, strange, painful emotions filled his heart. Around
and about him, before and behind, lay grim and ghastly faces cold in
death-faces of soldiers who were brothers in country, and many of
them brothers in name-brothers in actual consanguinity, brothers in
destiny, brothers in everything, save love. There they were,
peaceful now, side by side, the last conflict ended, the last spark
of animosity extinguished; there, side by side-dead. No wonder
George Marshall wept. The wonder is that there ever throbbed a human
heart that could refrain from weeping over such a scene.
At length, George Marshall suddenly drew his rein, and lifting his
hand to his forehead so as to shade his eyes, gazed curiously
forward for a moment toward an object lying not very far distant.
Then, quickly alighting, he stepped cautiously toward the object of
his scrutiny. It was the dead body of a soldier. The dark blue
uniform told to which army he belonged. The stocking, turned back
from a slender ankle, fell carelessly over the heavy army shoe. The
head was half-averted, and the open eyes, though sightless, were
still bright with God's own azure.
"Creeping gently through his slender hand, as though it loved the
cold caress of death, was a wild vine whose tiny blossoms would have
shrunk at the touch of a wild bee's foot." By the side of his face
was the worn cap that had fallen from his head as he fell.
Fearfully, timidly, with an air of dread, Colonel Marshall
approached the silent figure and bent over the recumbent form.
"Great God! it is Franco! I thought I knew the poor fellow from
afar! Poor, poor boy! Poor fair-haired Franco!" he exclaimed in a
breath. Then gently turning the soiled cap, he read "Third Regiment
United States Regulars." "My old command, my old command," he
murmured. "Alas! poor Franco! I thank God we did not meet in deadly
conflict. Your true, kind heart wished no one ill, yet an unkind
fate has brought you to a mournful end, and I, for one, shall mourn
your hapless lot. Alas! poor boy, you'll never see your vine-clad
France again, and your kind mother's peasant home will ever be
darkened by your absence."
Then kneeling for a little time beside the dead boy, the
kind-hearted colonel dropped a tear and bowed his head in deep
reflection. Then, arising and looking eagerly about him, he said at
length, "There, in the end of that entrenchment, by the side of that
shattered tree, I can lay his body, in lieu of a better grave. There
it will at least be safe from the vultures and the horrible fate
that awaits the unburied dead of a defeated army."
Then tenderly and sadly he laid the young soldier away in his
peaceful grave, covering his face with his smoke-stained cap, and
folding his pulseless hands upon his bosom. At last, covering the
mound upon which his tears had fallen, with some evergreen boughs,
he patiently carved upon a rude board, that he set up to mark the
grave, the words:
"POOR FRANCO. Aged 20."
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE bombardment of the Queen City continued. With unprecedented
stubbornness did she resist the enemy's fierce demands, and stand
firm amid the death-dealing blows of shot and shell. Many of the
inhabitants had fled from their homes at the first boom of the
shelling guns, but many, too, had remained; and among the latter
number was Mr. Mordecai's family. But now the moment had arrived
when farther exposure to danger seemed to the banker a reckless
disregard of life. So they were going-going, as many others had
gone, leaving behind the palatial home, with its comforts and
luxuries, for the privations, hardships, discomforts, of a refugee
life. Articles of value were being removed to places of greater
security, some to be sold, others given to remaining friends, who
could not get away, and some left uncared for. It was the day before
the proposed departure. The house wore the aspect of a dismantled
castle. In the room formerly the library, but now well filled with
trunks, boxes, bundles, and so on, Rebecca and her faithful
attendant were busy with the packing, unpacking, and repacking of
their household goods. "Here, Barbara," said Rebecca, turning to the
woman nearest her, as she pushed aside an old worn portmanteau, "you
can take this. It's an old valise that my husband sent up from the
bank the other day, among his rubbish from there. Here, give me the
papers out of it, and I'll lookover them, while I sit here to rest a
moment. Here, pour them into my apron." Obeying this command,
Barbara emptied the contents into the large apron that the mistress
upheld to receive them, and she sat down to the examination. One by
one the papers fell from her fingers to the floor as valueless
trash, and she pushed them with her foot toward the open fire-place.
Suddenly she descried upon the floor a dark brown paper, loosely
folded, that had fallen from her lap unobserved. picking it up, she
drew from it a small book, bound in Russia leather, the size of a
man's hand. Upon the outer cover, in dim, well-worn, and
mold-covered letters was the word "Journal." "What can this be?" she
murmured curiously, holding it tightly in her hand. Slowly
unfastening the slender clasp, she read with astonishment the words
written upon the first page: "Emile Le Grande's Diary."
Amazed at what her eyes beheld, Rebecca hastily secreted the book in
her dress pocket and retired from the room. Once securely out of
sight, she eagerly began her scrutiny of the ill-fated little book
that had fallen so mysteriously into her possession. Record after
record was read with greedy eye. Soon her eye rested upon the name,
"Leah Mordecai." No vulture ever devoured its unfortunate prey with
more rapacity that did this wicked woman the contents that followed,
day after day. Her eye gleamed with delight, and her jewelled hands
trembled for joy, as she turned leaf after leaf of the unfortunate
book. At length she stopped suddenly, and exclaimed half-wildly,
"Aha! I know it now! At last the truth has come to light, the
terrible mystery is revealed," as she read the unfortunate yet idle
record of young Le Grande's, made on the night of Bertha Levy's tea-
party, the foolish record: "If I knew that she loved Mark Abrams, I
would kill him."
"You are mistaken, my bird," Rebecca continued to soliloquize; "he
did not love Leah Mordecai as fondly as you supposed, but you dared
to kill him from jealous hatred when you well knew you were
destroying the hopes and future of my child. Well, I'll see to it
that revenge comes. My young eagle, you are not so far away, but
justice can find you. Though the water of a dozen oceans rolled
between us, I think my revenge could reach you. Rest on in your
fancied security while you may, young villain; the storm is
gathering for your destruction. Rest on. Rebecca Mordecai will
never, never forget you. I will keep this secret to myself till my
plans are matured; then I will act. Now, we must fly, and then-well,
never mind what then, so I keep this treasure safe in my grasp." So
saying, she stowed the journal away in her bosom, and with a cruel
laugh, busied herself again with her preparations for departure. The
removal was made. The mansion of the banker was vacated, and the
Queen City left to the mercy of the spoiler. In all these days of
agitation and confusion, the little journal lay safe in the bosom of
its possessor. She intended to have the way clear, before unfolding
her secret and her purpose. And so it was.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
IN their quiet little sea-girt home, where the skies were bright and
blue, and the breezes balmy and soft, Emile Le Grande and his young
wife had dwelt in peace and happiness for nearly five years. Not a
line had ever come, amid all Leah's hopeless longing and vain
expectation, to assure her of her father's forgiveness and continued
love. So, weary from this continued disappointment, she had settled
down into the confident assurance, that his blessing now would never
come, and she must find happiness alone in her husband's love. Long,
long ago, Emile's parents had written, expressing kindest wishes for
their welfare, and tendering to Leah a daughter's welcome. Mrs. Le
Grande, although disappointed and chagrined that Belle Upton was not
the choice of her son's love, soon quieted down, and accepted the
alternative with astonishing and commendable resignation. So,
despite Leah's bitter disappointment, she was happy; for, aside from
Emile's love, she soon drew hope and happiness from the life of the
dark-eyed little daughter that had come to bless her home. Emile had
yielded to Leah's wishes, and, following the custom of her people,
she had called her little daughter, Sarah, in memory of her mother,
whose death she had so long and deeply mourned.
The event of this little grandchild's birth had never reached Mr.
Mordecai's ears, for he had regarded Leah as dead, ever since that
dreadful morning when he discovered that she had clandestinely
married a "Christian dog." He desired to know naught of her welfare;
he avoided knowing anything.
In the interior of the State, about two hundred miles distant from
the Queen City, was a cosy, sequestered little settlement, called
Inglewood. To this little shelter of peace and security, many
refugees had found their way, and taken temporary homes. Many Hebrew
families from the Queen City had fled thither, and among them those
of Rabbi Abrams and Mr. Mordecai.
It was some weeks after Mr. Mordecai's removal to Inglewood, when
one day Rebecca requested her husband to accompany her to the house
of the rabbi. Mr. Mordecai gladly assented. They found the rabbi, as
usual, engrossed with his books in the temporary library that was a
necessary feature of his home. Mrs. Abrams still bore on her pale,
calm face the marks of sorrow that had rested there since the
terrible and mysterious death of her son. Without delay, and by dint
of that skilful management which was characteristic of Rebecca, she
approached the dreadful subject of Mark's death. Then, after a
pause, looking straight at the rabbi, she said suddenly, with
terrible emphasis, "I know the guilty man-the one who did the
dreadful deed." The rabbi, his wife, and Mr. Mordecai looked aghast.
"What do you mean," at length spoke out the rabbi, in fearful
bewilderment.
"I mean that I know who assassinated Mark," she replied, with
flashing eye and ringing voice.
"Know who killed my son!" he ejaculated hoarsely, "for Heaven's
sake, who was it?"
"You know the dark villain, Rebecca, who did that bloody deed! By
Israel, who was it?" said her husband, almost in the same breath.
"It was Emile-Le-Grande!" she replied slowly. "He and none other."
"That's a dreadful accusation," said the rabbi; "by what authority
do you make such a statement?"
"By the authority of his own words," she replied triumphantly.
"Here, you can read the confession for yourself." She drew forth the
little journal and pointed to the records.
"There, read first: 'If I thought Mark Abrams loved her, I would
kill him."
"Great God!" gasped the rabbi, looking again at the record as though
he thought his eyes had deceived him.
"Here again, see here," said Rebecca, pointing to one other record:
"'Dead men tell no tales.' Was that not some deed of his foul doing
that he did not wish discovered?" she continued, as she turned
onward through the book.
"He shall die!" exclaimed Mr. Mordecai, quivering with rage and
astonishment, while the stricken father turned and walked sadly
across the floor, exclaiming, "Ah me! ah me! Alas! my poor boy?"
while the mother's wounded heart bled afresh.
"See here again," said Rebecca, pointing with her finger to another
record that bore upon the mystery.
"Enough! enough!" exclaimed the father, averting his head and waving
her to silence with his hand. "I have seen enough; the mystery is
plain, the truth at last revealed. O God, the dreadful truth!"
Mr. Mordecai stamped his foot, clenched his hands, and muttering
half audibly, "This villain has ruined you, has broken my heart, and
destroyed the hopes of my child; and he shall die!"
"But, poor Leah, my husband," said Rebecca, half timidly, and with a
semblance of deep feeling.
"Leah!" he angrily repeated, "dare you even, now, speak that name to
me? Would to God she were dead! Never insult me again with the
utterance of that name?"
"Forgive me, dear husband; in the excitement of this sad discovery I
forgot your commands. I'll obey you in future." And turning again to
the subject, in order to appease her husband's displeasure, she
added, "By what means can you hope to reach Emile now, dear husband?
You know he's far away, and the guns of a blockading fleet
intervene."
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