Alex St. Clair Abrams - The Trials of the Soldier\'s Wife

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Transcriber's Note:

The author states in the Appendix "The book which our
readers have just completed perusing, is filled with many
errors; too many, in fact, for any literary work to
contain."

Only the very obvious errors have been corrected.

THE TRIALS

OF

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE:

A TALE OF THE

SECOND AMERICAN REVOLUTION.

BY ALEX. ST. CLAIR ABRAMS.

ATLANTA, GEORGIA:

1864.

Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1864,

BY THE AUTHOR,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Confederate States
for the Northern District of Georgia.

DEDICATION

TO

COLONEL JOHN H. JOSSEY.

Of Macon, Georgia.

MY DEAR SIR--

Accept from me the dedication of this little work as a token of
appreciation for the kind friendship you have ever displayed towards
me. Wishing you all the happiness and prosperity that can fall to
mortal man, believe me.

Your Friend,

THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE.

The plot of this little work was first thought of by the writer in the
month of December, 1862, on hearing the story of a soldier from New
Orleans, who arrived from Camp Douglas just in time to see his wife
die at Jackson, Mississippi. Although the Press of that city made no
notice of it, the case presented itself as a fit subject for a
literary work. If the picture drawn in the following pages appears
exaggerated to our readers, they will at least recognize the moral it
contains as truthful.

Trusting that the public will overlook its many defects, the Author
yet hopes there will be found in this little book, matter of
sufficient interest to while away the idle hour of the reader.

ATLANTA, April 20th, 1864.

THE TRIALS

OF

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

CHAPTER FIRST.

THE "CRESCENT CITY"--THE HUSBAND'S DEPARTURE.

Kind reader, have you ever been to New Orleans? If not, we will
attempt to describe the metropolis of the Confederate States of
America.

New Orleans is situated on the Mississippi river, and is built in the
shape of a crescent, from which it derives the appellation of
"Crescent City." The inhabitants--that is, the educated class--are
universally considered as the most refined and aristocratic members of
society on the continent. When we say aristocratic, we do not mean a
pretension of superiority above others, but that elegance and
etiquette which distinguish the _parvenu_ of society, and the vulgar,
but wealthy class of citizens with which this country is infested. The
ladies of New Orleans are noted for their beauty and refinement, and
are certainly, as a general thing, the most accomplished class of
females in the South, except the fair reader into whose hands this
work may fall.

It was in the month of May, 1861, that our story commences. Secession
had been resorted to as the last chance left the South for a
preservation of her rights. Fort Sumter, had fallen, and from all
parts of the land troops were pouring to meet the threatened invasion
of their homes. As history will record, New Orleans was not idle in
those days of excitement. Thousands of her sons came forward at the
first call, and offered their services for the good of the common
cause, and for weeks the city was one scene of excitement from the
departure of the different companies to Virginia.

Among the thousands who replied to the first call of their country,
was Alfred Wentworth, the confidential clerk of one of the largest
commission houses in the city. He was of respectable family, and held
a high position in society, both on account of his respectability and
the elevated talent he had displayed during his career in the world.
He had been married for about five years, and two little children--one
a light-eyed girl of four summers, and the other an infant of two
years--were the small family with which heaven had blessed him.

After joining a company of infantry, and signing the muster roll,
Alfred returned home to his wife and informed her of what he had done,
expecting that she would regret it. But the patriotic heart of his
wife would not reproach him for having performed his duty; so heaving
a sigh as she looked at the child in her arms, and the little girl on
her fathers knee, a tear trickled down her flushed cheek as she bade
him God-speed. The time that elapsed between his enlistment and
departure for the seat of war, was spent by Alfred Wentworth in
providing a home for his family, so that in the event of his being
killed in battle, they should not want. Purchasing a small residence
on Prytania street, he removed his family into it and concluded his
business in time for his departure.

The morning of the twenty-second of May broke brightly over the
far-famed "Crescent City." Crowds of citizens were seen congregating
on Canal street to witness the departure of two more regiments of
Orleanians. The two regiments were drawn up in line between Camp and
Carondelet streets, and their fine uniforms, glistening muskets and
soldierly appearance created a feeling of pride among the people. They
were composed principally of Creoles and Americans, proper. The
handsome, though dark complexions of the Creoles could be seen lit up
with enthusiasm, in conversation with the dark-eyed Creole beauties of
the city, while the light-haired and fair-faced sons of the Crescent
City were seen mingling among the crowd of anxious relatives who
thronged to bid them farewell.

Apart from the mass of volunteers--who had previously stacked their
arms--Alfred Wentworth and his wife were bidding that agonizing
farewell, which only those who have parted from loved one can feel.
His little bright-eyed daughter was clasped in his arms, and every
minute he would stoop over his infant and kiss its tiny cheeks. Marks
of tears were on the eyelids of his wife, but she strove to hide them,
and smiled at every remark made by her daughter. They were alone from
the eyes of a curious crowd. Each person present had too much of his
own acquaintances to bid farewell, to notice the speechless farewell
which the soldier gave his wife. With one arm clasped around her, and
the other holding his daughter, Alfred Wentworth gazed long and
earnestly at the features of his wife and children, as if to impress
the features of those loved ones still firmer in his mind.

"Attention, battalion!" rang along the line in stentorian tones, and
the voices of the company officers calling "fall in, boys, fall in!"
were heard in the streets. Clasping his wife to his heart, and
imprinting a fond, fond kiss of love upon her cheeks, and embracing
his children, the soldier took his place in the ranks, and after the
necessary commands, the volunteers moved forward. A crowd of their
relatives followed them to the depot of the New Orleans, Jackson and
Great Northern Railroad, and remained until the cars were out of
sight. After the troops had entered, and the train was slowly moving
off, one of the soldiers jumped from the platform, and, embracing a
lady who stood near, exclaimed:

"Farewell, dearest Eva! God bless you and the children--we shall meet
again." As soon as he spoke, Alfred Wentworth sprang into the cars
again and was soon swiftly borne from the city.

Mrs. Wentworth remained standing where her husband had left her, until
the vast crowd had dispersed, and nothing could be seen of the train
but a thin wreath of smoke emerging from the tree-tops in the
distance. Calling the colored nurse, who had followed with the
children, she bade her return home, and accompanied her back to her
now lonely residence.

CHAPTER SECOND.

THE WIFE AND CHILDREN--A VISITOR

The weeks passed slowly to Mrs. Wentworth from the departure of her
husband; but her consciousness that he was performing his duty to his
country, and the letters he wrote from Virginia, cheered her spirits,
and, in a measure, made her forget his absence.

She was alone one evening with her children, who had become the sole
treasures of her heart, and on whom she lavished every attention
possible, when the ringing of the bell notified her of the presence of
a visitor. Calling the servant, she bade her admit the person at the
door. The negro left the room to do her mistress' bidding, and shortly
after, a handsome gentleman of about thirty-five years of age entered.

"Good morning, Mrs. Wentworth," he said, on entering the room. "I
trust yourself and children are in good health."

Mrs. Wentworth rose from her chair, and, slightly inclining her head,
replied: "To what circumstance am I indebted for the honor of this
visit, Mr. Awtry?"

"Nothing very particular, madam," he replied; "but hearing of your
husband's departure, I thought I should lake the liberty of paying a
visit to an old acquaintance, and of offering my services, if you
should ever need them."

"I thank you for your kindness; and should I _ever_ need your
services, you may depend upon my availing myself of your offer;
although," she added, "I do not think it likely I shall stand in need
of any assistance."

"I rejoice to hear it, my dear madam," he replied; "but I trust," he
continued, on noticing the look of surprise which covered her
features, "that you will not think my offer in the least insulting;
for I can assure you, it was only prompted by the most friendly
motives, and the recollections of past days."

Mrs. Wentworth made no reply, and he continued: "I hope that, after an
absence of five years, the memory of the past has been banished from
you. With me things have changed materially. The follies of my youth
have, I trust, been expiated, and I am a different man now to what I
was when I last saw you."

"Mr. Awtry," replied Mrs. Wentworth, "I feel rather surprised that,
after your presence in New Orleans for so many months, you should not
have thought proper to renew our acquaintance until after the
departure of my husband."

"Pardon me," he quickly answered. "I was introduced to your husband by
a mutual friend; and as he never thought proper to extend an
invitation to me, I did not think myself authorized to call here.
Learning of his departure this morning, and knowing that his
circumstances were not of so favorable a character as he could wish, I
thought you might pardon my presumption in calling on you when you
learned the motive which actuated this visit--believe me, I am
sincere; and now," he continued, "will you accept my proffered hand of
friendship, and believe that my desire is only to aid the relatives of
one of the gallant men who have gone to struggle for their rights?"

Mrs. Wentworth paused a moment before she accepted the extended hand,
while her brow appeared clouded. At length, holding out her hand to
him, she said:

"I accept your offered friendship, Mr. Awtry, in the same spirit, as I
hope, it is given; but, at the same time, trust you shall never be
troubled with any importunities from me."

"Thank you--thank you," he replied eagerly; "I shall not prove
otherwise than worthy of your friendship. These are your children?" he
continued, changing the conversation.

"Yes," she replied, with a look of pride upon her little daughter and
the sleeping infant on the sofa; "these are my little family."

Mr. Awtry took the little girl upon his knees and commenced caressing
it, and, after remaining for a few moments in unimportant
conversation, took his departure with the promise to call at some
future time.

As soon as he left Mrs. Wentworth sat down, and resting her hands on
the table, spoke to herself on the visit she had received. "What could
have induced him to pay me this visit?" she said, musingly; "it is
strange--very strange that he should choose this particular time to
renew our acquaintance! He spoke honestly, however, and may be sincere
in his offers of assistance, should I ever need anything. He is
wealthy, and can certainly aid me." She sat there musing, until the
little girl, coming up to her, twined her tiny arms round her mother's
neck, and asked if it was not time to light the gas.

"Yes, darling," said Mrs. Wentworth, kissing her fondly; "call Betsy
and let her get a light."

After the negro had lit the gas, Mrs. Wentworth said to her, "Should
that gentleman, who was here to-day, call at any time again, let me
know before you admit him."

"Yes, mistis," replied the negro with a curtsey.

CHAPTER THIRD.

MR. HORACE AWTRY.

Mr. Horace Awtry was a native of the State of New York, and was, at
the time of writing, about thirty-live years of age. He was a tall and
well-formed man, with light hair clustering in curls on a broad and
noble looking forehead; his features were well chiselled, and his
upper lip was ornamented with a mustache of the same color as his
hair. Notwithstanding his handsome features and extravagant display of
dress, there was an expression in his dark blue eyes, which, though
likely to captivate the young and innocent portion of the fair sex,
was not deemed elegant by those who are accustomed to read the
features of man. He was very wealthy, but was a perfect type of the
_roue_, although a good education and remarkable control of himself
rendered it difficult for his acquaintances to charge him with
dissipation, or any conduct unworthy of ft gentleman. As this
gentleman will occupy a somewhat conspicuous position in our tale, we
deem it necessary to go into these particulars.

Some seven years previous to her marriage, and while yet a child, Mrs.
Wentworth, with her father, the only surviving relative she had, spent
the summer at Saratoga Springs in the State of New York, and there met
Mr. Awtry, who was then a handsome and dashing young man. Struck by
her beauty, and various accomplishments, he lost no time in making her
acquaintance, and before her departure from the Springs, offered her
his hand. To his utter astonishment, the proposal was rejected, with
the statement that she was already engaged to a gentleman of New
Orleans. This refusal would have satisfied any other person, but
Horace Awtry was not a man to yield so easily; he, therefore, followed
her to New Orleans on her return, and endeavored, by every means in
his power, to supplant Alfred Wentworth in the affections of Eva
Seymour--Mrs. Wentworth's maiden name--and in the confidence of her
father. Failing in this, and having the mortification of seeing them
married, he set to work and succeeded in ruining Mr. Seymour in
business, which accounts for the moderate circumstances in which we
find Mrs. Wentworth and her husband at the commencement of this book.
Worn out by his failure in business and loss of fortune, Mr. Seymour
died shortly after his daughter's marriage, without knowing who caused
his misfortunes, and Horace Awtry returned to the North. After being
absent for several years, he came back to New Orleans some months
before the departure of Mrs. Wentworth's husband, but never called
upon her until after he had left, when she was surprised at the visit
narrated in the foregoing chapter.

This gentleman was seated in the portico of the St. Charles Hotel a
few mornings after his visit to Mrs. Wentworth, and by his movements
of impatience was evidently awaiting the arrival of some one. At last
a young man ran down the steps leading from the apartments, and he
rose hurriedly to meet him.

"You are the very man I have been waiting to see," said Horace Awtry;
"you must excuse my apparent neglect in not calling on you before."

"Certainly, my dear fellow," replied the gentleman. "I am certain your
reasons are good for not attending to your arrangement punctually--by
the way," he continued, "who the deuce was that lady I saw you
escorting to church last Sunday?"

"An acquaintance of mine that I had not seen for years, until a few
days ago chance threw me in her path and I paid her a visit."

"Ha, ha, ha," laughed his companion. "I understand; but who is she,
and her name? She is very pretty," he continued, gravely.

"Hush, Charlie!" replied Horace; "come to my room in the St. Louis
Hotel, and I will tell you all about it."

"Wait a moment, my friend, and let me get some breakfast," he replied.

"Pooh!" said Horace, "we can have breakfast at Galpin's after I have
conversed with you at my room; or," he continued, "I will order a
breakfast and champagne to be brought up to my room."

"As you like," said the other, taking a couple of cigars from his
pocket and offering one to his companion.

After lighting their cigars, the two men left the hotel, and
purchasing the New York _Herald_ and _News_ from the news-dealer
below, proceeded to the St. Louis Hotel, where Horace ordered a
breakfast and champagne for himself and guest.

Throwing himself on one of the richly-covered couches that ornamented
the apartment, Charles Bell--for that was the name of the
gentleman--requested his friend to inform him who the lady was that he
escorted to church.

"Well, my dear friend," said Horace, "as you appear so desirous to
know I will tell you. I met that lady some seven years ago at Saratoga
Springs. If she is now beautiful she was ten times so then, and I
endeavored to gain her affections. She was, however, engaged to
another young man of this city, and on my offering her my hand in
marriage, declined it on that ground. I followed her here with the
intention of supplanting her lover in her affections, but it was of no
avail; they were married, and the only satisfaction I could find was
to ruin her father, which I did, and he died shortly after without a
dollar to his name."

"So she is married?" interrupted his companion.

"Yes, and has two children," replied Horace.

"Where is her husband?"

"He left for Virginia some time ago, where I sincerely trust he will
get a bullet through his heart," was the very charitable rejoinder.

"What! do you desire to marry his widow?" asked his friend.

"No, indeed," he replied; "but you see they are not in very good
circumstances, and if he were once dead she would be compelled to work
for a living, as they have no relatives in this State, and only a few
in Baltimore. To gain my object, I should pretend that I desired to
befriend her--send the two children to some nurse, and then have her
all to myself. This," continued the villain, "is the object with which
I have called upon her"--

"And paid a visit to church for the first time in your life," said
Bell, laughing; "but," he resumed, "it is not necessary for you to
wish the husband dead--why not proceed to work at once?"

"Well, so I would, but she is so very particular, that on the
slightest suspicion she would take the alarm and communicate to her
husband the fact of my having renewed my acquaintance with her, which
would, perhaps, bring him home on furlough."

"Nonsense," replied his friend, "the secessionists need every man to
assist them in driving back McDowell, and there is no chance of any
furloughs being granted; besides which, we are on the eve of a great
battle, and for any of the men to ask for a furlough would lay him
open to the charge of cowardice."

"That may be all true," said Horace, "but I shall not venture on
anything more as yet. As far as I have gone, she believes me actuated
by no other motives than the remembrance of my former affection for
her, and, with that belief, places implicit trust in me."

The conversation was here interrupted by the appearance of two
waiters, one carrying a waiter filled with different descriptions of
food, and the other a small basket containing six bottles of
champagne. After setting them on a table, Horace inquired what the
charges were.

"Twelve dollars, sah," was the reply.

Horace took out his pocket book, and throwing the man a twenty dollar
gold piece, told him to pay for the breakfast and champagne, and
purchase cigars with the remainder.

The negroes having left, Horace Awtry and his friend proceeded to
discuss their breakfast and champagne. After eating for a few minutes
in silence, Horace suddenly said:

"Charlie, what do you think of this war?"

"My opinion is, that the South has got in a pretty bad dilemma,"
replied that gentleman.

"That is identically my impression, but for heaven's sake do not let
any one hear you say so. The people are half crazed with excitement,
and the slightest word in favor of the North may lay you at the mercy
of an infuriated mob."

"What do you intend doing, now the ports are blockaded, and no one can
leave the country?" asked his friend.

"Why, remain here and pretend all the friendship possible for the
South. Maybe I will get a contract or two, which will further the
design of covering my opinions on this contest."

"Such was my idea, but I am afraid that the secesh government will
issue their cotton bonds until all the gold is driven from the States,
and then we will have nothing but their worthless paper money,"
replied Bell.

"I have thought of that, and made up my mind to convert all the
property I have here into gold at once, which will give me between
sixty and seventy thousand dollars, and as fast as I make any of the
bonds from contracts, I will sell them for whatever gold they will
bring."

"That's a capital idea, my dear follow," said Bell, rising from his
chair and slapping Awtry on the shoulder; "I think I shall follow your
plan."

The cigars having been brought in, after a few minutes of unimportant
conversation, Charles Bell left his friend, with the arrangement to
meet at the Varieties theatre in the evening, and Horace Awtry,
divesting himself of his clothing, retired to sleep until the evening
should come.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

A POLITIC STROKE--THE TELEGRAPHIC DISPATCH.

June and half of July had sped swiftly away. The great battle, which
everybody daily expected, had been fought, and the Yankee army
ignominiously defeated. As every one of our readers are well
acquainted with this battle, I shall not go into any details; enough;
as history will tell, to know that it resulted in a glorious victory
to the Confederate army, and covered the gallant Southerners with
honor.

On the arrival of dispatches giving an account of this victory, to use
a vulgar phrase, New Orleans "ran wild." The excitement and exultation
of the people were beyond description, and during the same night that
the news was received, one scene of gayety was observed in the city.
There was one heart, however, that did not share the joy and merriment
so universal among the people. In the privacy of her dwelling, with
her two children near by, Mrs. Wentworth spent a night of prayer and
anxiety, and next morning rose from her bed with the same feeling of
anxiety to know whether her husband had escaped unhurt. At about ten
o'clock in the morning, a knock was heard at the door, and soon after
Mr. Awtry entered.

"How are you this morning, Mrs. Wentworth?" he said, taking her little
daughter in his arms and kissing her; "so we have gained a great
victory in Virginia."

"Yes," she replied; "but I do feel so anxious to know if my husband is
safe."

"Do not think for a moment otherwise," he answered; "why a soldier's
wife should not show half as much solicitude as you do."

"I am, indeed, very desirous of knowing his fate and I am sure the
fact of being a soldier's wife does not prevent my feeling a desire to
ascertain if he is unhurt, or if he is"--she paused at the thought
which seemed so horrid in her imagination, and lowering her face in
her hands, burst into tears.

"Mother, what are you crying for?" asked her little daughter, who was
sitting on Mr. Awtry's knees.

"My dear madam," said Mr. Awtry, "why do you give way to tears? If you
desire," he continued, "I will telegraph to Virginia and learn if your
husband is safe."

"Thank you--thank you!" she answered eagerly; "I shall feel deeply
obligated if you will."

"I shall go down to the telegraph office at once," he said, rising
from his seat and placing the child down; "and now, my little
darling," he continued, speaking to the child, "you must tell your ma
not to cry so much." With these words he shook Mrs. Wentworth's hand
and left the house.

The day passed wearily for Mrs. Wentworth; every hour she would open
one of the windows leading to the street and look out, as if expecting
to see Mr. Awtry with a telegraphic dispatch in his hand, and each
disappointment she met with on these visits would only add to her
intense anxiety. The shades of evening had overshadowed the earth, and
Mrs. Wentworth sat at the window of her dwelling waiting the arrival
of the news, which would either remove her fears or plunge her in
sorrow. Long hours passed, and she had almost despaired of Mr. Awtry's
coming that evening, when he walked up the street, and in a few
minutes was in the house.

"What news?" gasped Mrs. Wentworth, starting from her seat and meeting
him at the door of the apartment.

"Read it, my dear madam. I shall leave that pleasure to you," he
replied, handing her a telegraphic dispatch he held in his hand.

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