A FOOL'S ERRAND & Its Sequel, Bricks Without Straw. Albion Winegar Tourgée
distance around us.
"Every body and every thing is new to us; that is, to Lily and me. Comfort's four years of soldier life made him very familiar with similar scenes; and, I doubt not, a large part of our enjoyment comes from having him to explain all these wonders to us.
"It did seem terribly lonely and desolate when we first arrived. You know Comfort had come before, and completed the purchase and made some preparations for our reception; that is, he had engaged somebody to make the preparations, and then returned for us. We had a fearful journey, — rough seas and rickety boats, a rough country, and railroads which seemed to lack all that we have considered the essentials of such structures. The rails were worn and broken, the cross-ties sunken and decayed; while every now and then we would see where some raiding party had heated the rails, and twisted them around trees, and their places had been supplied with old rusty pieces taken from some less important track. Comfort said he believed they would run the train on the 'right of way' alone pretty soon. All through the country were the marks of war, — forts and earthworks and stockades. Army-wagons, ambulances, and mules are scattered everywhere, and seem to be about all the means of transportation that are left. The poor Confederacy must have been on its last legs when it gave up.
"The last twelve hours of the trip it rained, — rained as you never saw it, as I think it never can rain except in this climate. To say that it poured, would give you but a faint idea of it. It did not beat or blow: there was not a particle of storm, or any thing like excitement or exertion about it. It only fell — steadily, quietly, and uninterruptedly. It seemed as if the dull, heavy atmosphere were shut in by an impenetrable canopy of clouds, and laden with an exhaustless amount of water, just sufficiently condensed to fall. There was no patter, but one ceaseless sound of falling water, almost like the sheet of a cascade in its weight and monotony, on the roof of the old leaky car. In the midst of this rain, at midnight, we reached the station nearest to Warrington. It is, in fact, a pretty little town two thousand or so inhabitants; but it was as dark as the catacombs, and as quiet, save for the rain falling, falling everywhere, without intermission. The conductor said there was a good hotel, if we could get to it; but there was no vehicle of any kind, and no light at the station except the conductor's lantern, and a tallow candle flickering in the little station-house.
"Comfort got our baggage off, and stored in the station-house, after a deal of trouble; and with bags and boxes on our arms, and muffled up to the chin to keep out the rain (which seemed to come through an umbrella as if it scorned such an attempt to divert it from its course), we started for the hotel under the pilotage of the conductor with his lantern. Such a walk! As Comfort helped me out of the car, he said,"It's fearfully muddy."He need not have said it. Already I was sinking, sinking, into the soft, tenacious mass. Rubbers were of no avail, nor yet the high shoes I had put on in order to be expressly prepared for whatever might await me. I began to fear quicksand; and, if you had seen my clothing the next morning, you would not have wondered. Luckily it was dark, and no one can ever more than guess what a drabbled procession we made that night.
"And then the hotel; but I spare you that! Lily cried herself to sleep, and I came very near it.
"The next morning the earth was as bright and smiling as if a deluge had not passed over it a few hours before. Comfort was all impatience to get out to Warrington, and we were as anxious to leave that horrible hotel. So he got an ambulance, and we started. He said he had no doubt our goods were already there, as they had been sent on three weeks before, and he had arranged with a party to take them out to the plantation. At least, he said, we could not be worse off than we were at that wretched hotel, in which I fully agreed with him; but he did not know what was in store for us!
"Warrington is only six miles from the station; but we were two mortal hours in getting there with our trunks and the boxes we had brought with us. Think of riding through mud almost as red as blood, as sticky as pitch, and "deeper than plummet ever told," for two hours, after an almost sleepless night and a weary journey of seven days, and you may faintly guess with what feelings I came to Warrington. As we drove up the avenue under the grand old oaks, just ripening into a staid and sober brown, interspersed with hickories which were one blaze of gold from the lowest to the topmost branch, and saw the gray squirrels (which the former owner would not allow to be killed, and no one had had time to kill since) playing about, and the great brick house standing in silent grandeur amid this mimic forest, I could have kissed the trees, the squirrels, the weather-beaten porch, the muddy earth itself, with joy. It was home, — rest. Comfort saw the tears in my eyes, the first which I had shed in it all, and said tenderly, —
"'There, there! It's almost over!' as if I had been a tired baby.
"Lily was in rapture over the beauties of the old place, as indeed she had good right to be; but I was tired. I wanted rest. We drove to the house, and found it empty, — desolate. The doors were open; the water had run across the hall: and every thing was so barren, that I could only sit down and cry. After some trouble Comfort found the man who was to have made the repairs, and brought out the goods. He said the goods had not come, and he 'llowed there wa'n't no use fixin' things till they come.
"Comfort sent the ambulance which brought us out to go back and get some provisions, a few cooking utensils, and some other absolute necessities. A colored woman was found, who came in, and, with the many willing hands which she soon summoned to her aid, made the old house (or one room of it) quite cozy. Our things have been coming by piecemeal ever since, and we are now quite comfortable.
"Comfort has bought me a riding-horse, — a beautiful blooded bay mare; and he has his old war-horse, Lollard, which he had left in this vicinity with an old man named Jehu Brown, — who, by the way, is a character, — having an impression that we might come here. So we ride a great deal. The roads are so rough that it is difficult to get about in any other way; and it is just delightful riding through the wood-paths, and the curious crooked country roads, by day or at night.
"The people here seem very kind and attentive. A good many gentlemen have called to see Comfort. They are all colonels or squires, and very agreeable, pleasant men. A few ladies have called on me, — always with their husbands though; and I think they are inclined to be less gracious in their manner, and not so cordial in their welcome, as the gentlemen. I notice that none of them have been very pressing in their invitations for us to return their courtesy. Comfort says it is not at all to be wondered at, but that we ought rather to be surprised and pleased that they came at all; and I do not know but he is right.
"Two or three countrymen came to see Comfort a few days after our arrival. They were all 'misters,' not 'colonels' and 'squires.' They said they were Union men; and it was wonderfully interesting to hear them tell, in their quaint provincialisms, what happened to them during the war.
"We rode out to see one of them afterwards, and found him a thrifty farmer, with four or five hundred acres of good land, living in a log house, with a strange mixture of plainness and plenty about him. Somehow I think I shall like this class of people better than the other, — though they are rough and plain, — they seem so very good-hearted and honest.
"We are going to have the teachers from the colored school at Verdenton here to dinner to-day to keep Thanksgiving. There are some half-dozen of them, — all Northern girls. I have not met them; but Comfort says they are very pleasant ladies. Of course they have no society except a few Northern people; and he has gone to bring them out to give them a treat as well as ourselves, I suppose.
"Yours ever, with love to all,
"METTA."
CHAPTER X
POOR TRAY
THE next letter was during the week which succeeded Christmas Day, and explains itself: —
"MY DEAR JULIA, — My last letter to you was written while I was waiting for the young ladies, who are teaching at Verdenton, to come and share our Thanksgiving dinner. That was a momentous day for us, and that dinner a most important affair. We were a little short of some things necessary for such an occasion; but