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Battle Ground, The
BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED   BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED - Chapter VII - The Silent Battle
Ellen Glasgow
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       _ Despite the cheerfulness of Betty's letters, there were times during the
       next dark years when it seemed to her that starvation must be the only end.
       The negroes had been freed by the Governor's will, but the girl could not
       turn them from their homes, and, with the exception of the few field hands
       who had followed the Union army, they still lived in their little cabins
       and drew their daily rations from the storehouse. Betty herself shared
       their rations of cornmeal and bacon, jealously guarding her small supplies
       of milk and eggs for Mrs. Ambler and the two old ladies. "It makes no
       difference what I eat," she would assure protesting Mammy Riah. "I am so
       strong, you see, and besides I really like Aunt Floretta's ashcakes."
       Spring and summer passed, with the ripened vegetables which Hosea had
       planted in the garden, and the long winter brought with it the old daily
       struggle to make the slim barrels of meal last until the next harvesting.
       It was in this year that the four women at Uplands followed the Major's
       lead and invested their united fortune in Confederate bonds. "We will rise
       or fall with the government," Mrs. Ambler had said with her gentle
       authority. "Since we have given it our best, let it take all freely."
       "Surely money is of no matter," Betty had answered, lavishly disregardful
       of worldly goods. "Do you think we might give our jewels, too? I have
       grandma's pearls hidden beneath the floor, you know."
       "If need be--let us wait, dear," replied her mother, who, grave and pallid
       as a ghost, would eat nothing that, by any chance, could be made to reach
       the army.
       "I do not want it, my child, there are so many hungrier than I," she would
       say when Betty brought her dainty little trays from the pantry.
       "But I am hungry for you, mamma--take it for my sake," the girl would beg,
       on the point of tears. "You are starving, that is it--and yet it does not
       feed the army."
       In these days it seemed to her that all the anguish of her life had centred
       in the single fear of losing her mother. At times she almost reproached
       herself with loving Dan too much, and for months she would resolutely keep
       her thoughts from following him, while she laid her impassioned service at
       her mother's feet. Day or night there was hardly a moment when she was not
       beside her, trying, by very force of love, to hold her back from the death
       to which she went with her slow and stately tread.
       For Mrs. Ambler, who had kept her strength for a year after the Governor's
       death, seemed at last to be gently withdrawing from a place in which she
       found herself a stranger. There was nothing to detain her now; she was too
       heartsick to adapt herself to many changes; loss and approaching poverty
       might be borne by one for whom the chief thing yet remained, but she had
       seen this go, and so she waited, with her pensive smile, for the moment
       when she too might follow. If Betty were not looking she would put her
       untasted food aside; but the girl soon found this out, and watched her
       every mouthful with imploring eyes.
       "Oh, mamma, do it to please me," she entreated.
       "Well, give it back, my dear," Mrs. Ambler answered, complaisant as always,
       and when Betty triumphantly declared, "You feel better now--you know you
       do, you dearest," she responded readily:--
       "Much better, darling; give me some straw to plait--I have grown to like to
       have my hands busy. Your old bonnet is almost gone, so I shall plait you
       one of this and trim it with a piece of ribbon Aunt Lydia found yesterday
       in the attic."
       "I don't mind going bareheaded, if you will only eat."
       "I was never a hearty eater. Your father used to say that I ate less than a
       robin. It was the custom for ladies to have delicate appetites in my day,
       you see; and I remember your grandma's amazement when Miss Pokey
       Mickleborough was asked at our table what piece of chicken she preferred,
       and answered quite aloud, 'Leg, if you please.' She was considered very
       indelicate by your grandma, who had never so much as tasted any part except
       the wing."
       She sat, gentle and upright, in her rosewood chair, her worn silk dress
       rustling as she crossed her feet, her beautiful hands moving rapidly with
       the straw plaiting. "I was brought up very carefully, my dear," she added,
       turning her head with its shining bands of hair a little silvered since the
       beginning of the war. "'A girl is like a flower,' your grandpa always said.
       'If a rough wind blows near her, her bloom is faded.' Things are different
       now--very different."
       "But this is war," said Betty.
       Mrs. Ambler nodded over the slender braid.
       "Yes, this is war," she added with her wistful smile, and a moment
       afterward looked up again to ask in a dazed way:--
       "What was the last battle, dear? I can't remember."
       Betty's glance sought the lawn outside where the warm May sunshine fell in
       shafts of light upon the purple lilacs.
       "They are fighting now in the Wilderness," she answered, her thoughts
       rushing to the famished army closed in the death grapple with its enemy.
       "Dan got a letter to me and he says it is like fighting in a jungle, the
       vines are so thick they can't see the other side. He has to aim by ear
       instead of sight."
       Mrs. Ambler's fingers moved quickly.
       "He has become a very fine man," she said. "Your father always liked
       him--and so did I--but at one time we were afraid that he was going to be
       too much his father's son--he looked so like him on his wild days,
       especially when he had taken wine and his colour went high."
       "But he has the Lightfoot eyes. The Major, Champe, even their Great-aunt
       Emmeline have those same gray eyes that are always laughing."
       "Jane Lightfoot had them, too," added Mrs. Ambler. "She used to say that to
       love hard went with them. 'The Lightfoot eyes are never disillusioned,' she
       once told me. I wonder if she remembered that afterwards, poor girl."
       Betty was silent for a moment.
       "It sounds cruel," she confessed, "but you know, I have sometimes thought
       that it may have been just a little bit her fault, mamma."
       Mrs. Ambler smiled. "Your grandpa used to say 'get a woman to judge a woman
       and there comes a hanging.'"
       "Oh, I don't mean that," responded Betty, blushing. "Jack Montjoy was a
       scoundrel, I suppose--but I think that even if Dan had been a scoundrel,
       instead of so big and noble--I could have made his life so much better just
       because I loved him; if love is only large enough it seems to me that all
       such things as being good and bad are swallowed up."
       "I don't know--your father was very good, and I loved him because of it. He
       was of the salt of the earth, as Mr. Blake wrote to me last year."
       "There has never been anybody like papa," said Betty, her eyes filling.
       "Not even Dan--for I can't imagine papa being anything but what he was--and
       yet I know even if Dan were as wild as the Major once believed him to be, I
       could have gone with him not the least bit afraid. I was so sure of myself
       that if he had beaten me he could not have broken my spirit. I should
       always have known that some day he would need me and be sorry."
       Tender, pensive, bred in the ancient ways, Mrs. Ambler looked up at her and
       shook her head.
       "You are very strong, my child," she answered, "and I think it makes us all
       lean too much upon you."
       Taking her hand, Betty kissed each slender finger. "I lean on you for the
       best in life, mamma," she answered, and then turned to the window. "It's
       my working time," she said, "and there is poor Hosea trying to plough
       without horses. I wonder how he'll manage it."
       "Are all the horses gone, dear?"
       "All except Prince Rupert and papa's mare. Peter keeps them hidden in the
       mountains, and I carried them the last two apples yesterday. Prince Rupert
       knew me in the distance and whinnied before Peter saw me. Now I'll send
       Aunt Lydia to you, dearest, while I see about the weaving. Mammy Riah has
       almost finished my linsey dress." She kissed her again and went out to
       where the looms were working in one of the detached wings.
       The summer went by slowly. The famished army fell back inch by inch, and at
       Uplands the battle grew more desperate with the days. Without horses it was
       impossible to plant the crops and on the open turnpike swept by bands of
       raiders as by armies, it was no less impossible to keep the little that was
       planted. Betty, standing at her window in the early mornings, would glance
       despairingly over the wasted fields and the quiet little cabins, where the
       negroes were stirring about their work. Those little cabins, forming a
       crescent against the green hill, caused her an anxiety before which her own
       daily suffering was of less account. When the time came that was fast
       approaching, and the secret places were emptied of their last supplies,
       where could those faithful people turn in their distress? The question
       stabbed her like a sword each morning before she put on her bonnet of
       plaited straw and ran out to make her first round of the farm. Behind her
       cheerful smile there was always the grim fear growing sharper every hour.
       Then on a golden summer afternoon, when the larder had been swept by a band
       of raiders, she became suddenly aware that there was nothing in the house
       for her mother's supper, and, with the army pistol in her hand, set out
       across the fields for Chericoke. As she walked over the sunny meadows, the
       shadow that was always lifted in Mrs. Ambler's presence fell heavily upon
       her face and she choked back a rising sob. What would the end be? she asked
       herself in sudden anguish, or was this the end?
       Reaching Chericoke she found Mrs. Lightfoot and Aunt Rhody drying sliced
       sweet potatoes on boards along the garden fence, where the sunflowers and
       hollyhocks flaunted in the face of want.
       "I've just gotten a new recipe for coffee, child," the old lady began in
       mild excitement. "Last year I made it entirely of sweet potatoes, but Mrs.
       Blake tells me that she mixes rye and a few roasted chestnuts. Mr.
       Lightfoot took supper with her a week ago, and he actually congratulated
       her upon still keeping her real old Mocha. Be sure to try it."
       "Indeed I shall--the very next time Hosea gets any sweet potatoes. Some
       raiders have just dug up the last with their sabres and eaten them raw."
       "Well, they'll certainly have colic," remarked Mrs. Lightfoot, with
       professional interest.
       "I hope so," said Betty, "but I've come over to beg something for mamma's
       supper--eggs, chickens, anything except bacon. She can't touch that, she'd
       starve first."
       Looking anxious, Mrs. Lightfoot appealed to Aunt Rhody, who was busily
       spreading little squares of sweet potatoes on the clean boards. "Rhody,
       can't you possibly find us some eggs?" she inquired.
       Aunt Rhody stopped her work and turned upon them all the dignity of two
       hundred pounds of flesh.
       "How de hens gwine lay w'en dey's done been eaten up?" she demanded.
       "Isn't there a single chicken left?" hopelessly persisted the old lady.
       "Who gwine lef' 'em? Ain' dose low-lifeted sodgers dat rid by yestiddy done
       stole de las' one un 'um off de nes'?"
       Mrs. Lightfoot sternly remonstrated.
       "They were our own soldiers, Rhody, and they don't steal--they merely
       take."
       "I don' see de diffunce," sniffed Aunt Rhody. "All I know is dat dey pulled
       de black hen plum off de nes' whar she wuz a-settin'. Den des now de
       Yankees come a-prancin' up en de ducks tuck ter de water en de Yankees dey
       went a-wadin' atter dem. Yes, Lawd, dey went a-wadin' wid dey shoes on."
       The old lady sighed.
       "I'm afraid there's nothing, Betty," she said, "though Congo has gone to
       town to see if he can find any fowls, and I'll send some over if he brings
       them. We had a Sherman pudding for dinner ourselves, and I know the sorghum
       in it will give the Major gout for a month. Well, well, this is war, I
       reckon, and I must say, for my part, I never expected it to be conducted
       like a flirtation behind a fan."
       "I nuver seed no use a-fittin' unless you is gwine ter fit in de yuther
       pusson's yawd," interpolated Aunt Rhody. "De way ter fit is ter keep
       a-sidlin' furder f'om yo' own hen roos' en nigher ter de hen roos' er de
       somebody dat's a-fittin' you."
       "Hold your tongue, Rhody," retorted Mrs. Lightfoot, and then drew Betty a
       little to one side. "I have some port wine, my dear," she whispered, "which
       Cupid buried under the old asparagus bed, and I'll tell him to dig up
       several bottles and take them to you. The other servants don't know of it,
       so I can't get it out till after dark. Poor Julia! how does she stand these
       terrible days?"
       Betty's lips quivered. "I have to force her to eat," she replied, "and it
       seems almost cruel--she is so tired of life."
       "I know, my dear," responded the old lady, wiping her eyes; "and we have
       our troubles, too. Champe is in prison now, and Mr. Lightfoot is very much
       upset. He says this General Grant is not like the others, that he knows
       him--and he's the kind to hang on as long as he's alive."
       "But we must win in the end," said Betty, desperately; "we have sacrificed
       so much, how can it all be lost?"
       "That's what Mr. Lightfoot says--we'll win in the end, but the end's a long
       way off. By the way, did you know that Car'line had run off after the
       Yankees? When I think how that girl had been spoiled!"
       "Oh, I wish they'd all go," returned Betty. "All except Mammy and Uncle
       Shadrach and Hosea--and even they make starvation that much nearer."
       "Well, we shan't starve yet awhile, dear; I'm in hopes that Congo will
       ransack the town. If you would only stay."
       But Betty shook her head and went back across the meadows, walking rapidly
       through the lush grass of the deserted pastures. Her mind was so filled
       with Mrs. Lightfoot's forebodings, that when, in climbing the low stone
       wall, she saw the free negro, Levi, coming toward her, she turned to him
       with a gesture that was almost an appeal for sympathy.
       "Uncle Levi, these are sad times now," she said. "I am looking for
       something for mamma's supper and I can find nothing."
       The old negro, shabbier, lonelier, poorer than ever, shambled up to the
       wall where she was standing and uncovered a split basket full of eggs.
       "I'se got a pa'cel er hens hid in de woods over yonder," he explained, "en
       I keep de eggs behin' de j'ists in my cabin. Sis Floretty she tole me dat
       de w'ite folks wuz wuss off den de niggers now, so I brung you dese."
       "Oh, Uncle Levi!" cried Betty, seizing his gnarled old hands. As she looked
       at his stricken figure a compassion as acute as pain brought the quick
       tears to her eyes. She remembered the isolation of his life, the scornful
       suspicion he had met from white and black, and the injustice that had set
       him free and sold Sarindy up the river.
       "You wuz moughty good ter me," muttered free Levi, shuffling his bare feet
       in the long grass, "en Marse Dan, he wuz moughty good ter me, too, 'fo' he
       went away on dat black night. I 'members de time w'en dat ole Rainy-day
       Jones up de big road (we all call him Rainy-day caze he looked so sour) had
       me right by de collar wid de hick'ry branch a sizzlin' in de a'r, en I des
       'lowed de een had mos' come. Yes, Lawd, I did, but I warn' countin' on
       Marse Dan. He warn' mo'n wais' high ter ole Rainy-day, but de furs' thing I
       know dar wuz ole Rainy-day on de yerth wid Marse Dan a-lashin' 'im wid de
       branch er hick'ry."
       "We shall never forget you--Dan and I," answered Betty, as she took the
       basket, "and when the time comes we will repay you."
       The old negro smiled and turned from her, and Betty, quickening her pace,
       ran on to Uplands, reaching the house a little breathless from the long
       walk.
       In the chamber upstairs she found Mrs. Ambler sitting before the window
       with her open Bible on the sill, where a spray of musk roses entered from
       the outside wall.
       "All well, mamma?" she asked in a cheerful voice.
       Mrs. Ambler started and turned slowly from the window.
       "I see a great light on the road," she murmured wonderingly.
       Crossing to where she sat, Betty leaned out above the climbing roses and
       glanced to the mountains huddled against the sky.
       "It is General Sheridan going up the valley," she said. _
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BOOK FIRST - GOLDEN YEARS
   BOOK FIRST - GOLDEN YEARS - Chapter I - "De Hine Foot er a He Frawg"
   BOOK FIRST - GOLDEN YEARS - Chapter II - At the Full of the Moon
   BOOK FIRST - GOLDEN YEARS - Chapter III - The Coming of the Boy
   BOOK FIRST - GOLDEN YEARS - Chapter IV - A House with an Open Door
   BOOK FIRST - GOLDEN YEARS - Chapter V - The School for Gentlemen
   BOOK FIRST - GOLDEN YEARS - Chapter VI - College Days
BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter I - The Major's Christmas
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter II - Betty dreams by the Fire
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter III - Dan and Betty
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter IV - Love in a Maze
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter V - The Major loses his Temper
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter VI - The Meeting in the Turnpike
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter VII - If this be Love
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter VIII - Betty's Unbelief
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter IX - The Montjoy Blood
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter X - The Road at Midnight
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter XI - At Merry Oaks Tavern
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter XII - The Night of Fear
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter XIII - Crabbed Age and Callow Youth
   BOOK SECOND - YOUNG BLOOD - Chapter XIV - The Hush before the Storm
BOOK THIRD - THE SCHOOL OF WAR
   BOOK THIRD - THE SCHOOL OF WAR - Chapter I - How Merry Gentlemen went to War
   BOOK THIRD - THE SCHOOL OF WAR - Chapter II - The Day's March
   BOOK THIRD - THE SCHOOL OF WAR - Chapter III - The Reign of the Brute
   BOOK THIRD - THE SCHOOL OF WAR - Chapter IV - After the Battle
   BOOK THIRD - THE SCHOOL OF WAR - Chapter V - The Woman's Part
   BOOK THIRD - THE SCHOOL OF WAR - Chapter VI - On the Road to Romney
   BOOK THIRD - THE SCHOOL OF WAR - Chapter VII - "I wait my Time"
   BOOK THIRD - THE SCHOOL OF WAR - Chapter VIII - The Altar of the War God
   BOOK THIRD - THE SCHOOL OF WAR - Chapter IX - The Montjoy Blood again
BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED
   BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED - Chapter I - The Ragged Army
   BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED - Chapter II - A Straggler from the Ranks
   BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED - Chapter III - The Cabin in the Woods
   BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED - Chapter IV - In the Silence of the Guns
   BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED - Chapter V - "The Place Thereof"
   BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED - Chapter VI - The Peaceful Side of War -
   BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED - Chapter VII - The Silent Battle
   BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED - Chapter VIII - The Last Stand
   BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED - Chapter IX - In the Hour of Defeat
   BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED - Chapter X - On the March again
   BOOK FOURTH - THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED - Chapter XI - The Return