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of five hundred thousand dollars
voted by the council for the defense
of the city, to be used at the discre
tion of the Mayor, was furnished by
the banks within three hours time.
The several city companies of militia
were under arms, and hourly came news
of yet additional reinforcements from
over the State, hastening to the aid
of Baltimore. A call was issued by
the mayor for the citizens to enroll
themselves for military service, and
over 15,000 responded in time for
enrollment and partial organization
before that memorable Saturday had
passed. That night the railroad
bridges to the north of the city were
destroyed or damaged by detach
ments of police and of the Maryland
Guard, acting, it is said, under the
orders of Governor Hicks. Hicks
was in the city at the time of the
riot: he seemed for the moment to
catch the general spirit of Patriotic
ardor pervading the people, and to
be disposed to act with them against
the common foe.
With Sunday, the 21st, came more
bodies of troops from the counties.
The quiet of the springtime Sabbath
morning was also disturbed by re
ports of fresh forces of the invader
approaching from the North, so the
Churches dismissed their congrega
tions at the tidings, and their stee
ples sent forth quivering warnings of
danger. Over 2,000 Pennsylvanians,
partly armed, had been stopped at
Cockeysville, twenty miles from Bal
timore, by the burnt railroad
bridges, so the vigorous measures of
the day before had been none too
promptly taken.
At last the old State seemed thor
oughly aroused to her danger, and
bent, at all hazards, upon rolling
back at her threshold the tide of in
vasion. The hearts of such ardent
young patriots as Philip Elliott and
Bradley Johnson, too long discour
aged by the doubt and delay of those
in high authority, now beat high
with renewed hope.
But, alas! the spirit of tardiness
and deliberation, of conciliation and
negotiation, again ruled the day, at
a time when every minute was pre
cious. Baltimore, indeed, had taken
steps to insure herself against fur
ther passage by Northern troops,
and an understanding to this effect
was actually reached at a confer
ence in Washington between Mayor
Brown and President Lincoln. But
Baltimore, though its metropolis, did
not constitute the state of Maryland,
and contingents of troops from the
North, (under Butler of Massachu
setts) passed down the Bay and land
ed at Annapolis—the State’s capital
city, and no less a part of her sacred
soil to be jealously guarded from
the tread of the invader. The Gov
ernor, at this late hour, called an
extra session of the Legislature to
meet at Annapolis on the 26th, which
place of meeting was afterwards
changed, “for obvious reasons,” to
Frederick. But the Legislature, on
convening, promptly proceeded to is
sue an address disclaiming all in
tention to pass an ordinance of seces
sion, and appointed commissioners
to confer with Mr. Lincoln as to the
best means to be adopted to preserve
the peace of the State!
Meantime, Butler, at Annapolis,
continued to receive reinforcements,
and to push out so as to threaten
Baltimore. Still the Legislature de
layed and deliberated. On the night
of May 13th, Butler entered the city
with a strong force, seized and forti
fied Federal Hill—commanding the
town—and Baltimore was at the
mercy of her enemies. On that very
day the Legislature, by an over
whelming vote in both houses, pass
ed a series of resolutions expressing
sympathy with Virginia and the
Southern Confederacy, vigorously
protesting against the war of con
quest being inaugurated against
them by the government at Washing
ton, as also against its military occu
pation of their own State of Mary
land. It was also resolved that,
under existing circumstances, it was
Inexpedient to call a Sovereign Con
vention of the State at that time, or
to take any measures for the imme-
diate organization and arming of the
State militia.
Yes, it was “inexpedient,” because
eternally too late. Only prompt and
vigorous action on the part of the
State authorities early in the spring
could have overcome the obstacles
presented by the grand old common
wealth’s peculiar geographical posi
tion. Now, Maryland was a helpless
victim to this position and to her own
and Virginia’s delay, while they both
had yet hoped against hope for a
continued union with the north in
peace and honor. And thus was
brought about Maryland’s “crucifix
ion of the soul,” mournfully sung by
her exiled son, the immortal Ran
dall: for, as the graphic Johnson
truthfully expressed it, her heart was
with the new Confederacy, while her
body was bound and manacled to the
old Union. At the beginning of the
war Baltimore was said to be more
Southern in sentiment than Rich
mond itself.
This same Bradley Johnson had
returned to Frederick with his min
ute men, when he found he could be
of no further service in Baltimore.
At Frederick he remained for a
during the sessions of the Legislature
there, to watch proceedings and give
moral support to the Patriot mem
bers against the threats of the
Unionists. And to join Johnson
there went Phil Elliott, embryo
soldier now, student no longer.
On the day of his departure he
learned through Chad that Marion
Palmer and her aunt Alicia were vis
iting at the home of a friend in the
city—the same northern relative at
whose house Marion had visited dur
ing Phil s first week’s acquaintance
with her the fall before. Thither he
repaired, ere setting out for* Fred
erick.
Miss Alicia Pillsbury, frigidly civil,
came down the stairs and into the
parlor in answer to Elliott’s card.
Miss Palmer, she informed him, was
dressing, as she was going out for
the evening. If he cared to wait,
she would be in to see him a moment
before leaving.
He said he would wait. Nearly a
half hour passed, during which Phil
sat, a magazine in his hand, his un
seeing gaze fixed upon the engravings
on the wall opposite, his thoughts
well, anywhere but in that particular
room. Then he heard the rustle of
skirts on the stairs, and Marion
Palmer entered.
Yes, it was Marion Palmer—and
yet, how different from the Marlon
he had last seen on the departing
train that morning of nearly four
months ago! Miss Alicia had been
cold; that was her usual manner
toward Phil: her niece was colder
still, and seemed half disposed, Phil
noticed, to ignore his proffered hand
as she acknowledged his greeting
with a slight bow and a perfunctory
“Good evening, Mr. Elliott.”
For a few minutes the conversa
tion, sustained mainly by Elliott and
directed along indifferent lines, was
painfully forced and difficult.
Then, as was his wont to proceed
directly to the heart of things, the
young man sought an explanation of
the, to him, inexplicable change in
Marion’s demeanor and, manlike,
blundered most woefully at the very
outset.
“Miss Marion,” he said, looking
straight at the girl, as he arose and
took a step toward her, “I fear I
have offended you in some way. If
I may have appeared somewhat capri
cious, and my actions not to accord
with my words some months ago, I
can only say that I have been calling
myself a fool ever since your depart
ure for Philadelphia, for having fail
ed to ask permission to write while
you were away.”
“Really, you are very kind, Mr.
Elliott; but pray do not give your
self any further distress on that ac
count. The omission has not offend
ed me, possibly because I have not
given it the consideration you seem
to have done.” Her words and tones
stung deeply.
Phil flushed to his temples, but his
gaze never wavered: “I ask your
pardon,” he said, courteously. “That
Woman’s Work.
was a very foolish speech for me to
make. But will you overlook its ap
parent conceit and presumption, and
tell me wherein I have offended? I
may be very obtuse, but I am entirely
unconscious of fault; and yet—l
must have offended grievously, to
change you so.”
His voice was full of gentleness,
almost humility. Marion looked at
him, half incredulously.
"You must be obtuse, indeed, Mr.
Elliott,” she said, pointedly. “Do
you suppose that I can any longer re
gard you as a friend, after all you
and your townspeople have done to
the soldiers from my native State,
wounding and murdering them in
their peaceful passage of your
streets? Upon my word, after such
outrages I wonder how you dare
come here tonight, knowing what my
sentiments must surely be.”
"Ah!—l see!” It was thus that
Elliott broke the half minute’s
silence following Marion Palmer's
reply. “Os course, if that is my of
fense, Miss Palmer, it is useless to
say anything further, or to remind
you that your soldiers came here
on a mission hostile to my people.
I can only say, in explanation nf my
call this evening, that I leave tonight
for Frederick. There I may or may
not tarry before going on to Virginia,
where I shall most likely be sent.
So, since when we parted last you
told me I should bring, not send you
these, I have taken the first oppor
tunity to do so.”
Unwrapping a small package which
he produced from the stand in the
corner, he displayed a glossy pair of
raven’s wings. Marion arose to her
feet with a gesture of rejection.
Then, with a swift change of mind,
she took the shifty pinions and turn
ed on Phil a face of scorn. Secretly,
she had more than halfway hoped
toat Phil might offer some explana
tion that could at least partially
mend matters; and then to have him
act as if the offense were no offense!
“Yes, I did tell you to bring them,”
she cried, in a blaze of wrath, “when
you boasted of your famed Maryland
hospitality and chivalry, and sought
to call me friend, hoping to see me
don your much vaunted Oriole col
ors, and thus make of myself a sort
of adopted Oriole, as you would call
it.
“Massachusetts has suffered to the
utmost your Maryland friendship,"
chivalry and hospitality, and found it
marvelously lacking. I accept with
thanks, Mr. Elliott, your long delay
ed present, the fitting symbol of the
‘Nevermore’ that from this time forth
closes between us.”
“You are both unjust and unrea
sonable," said Phil. And there was
now no trace of humility in his tones.
“What hospitality do you think you
of Massachusetts would have shown
us Marylanders, had w r e come against
you on such an errand as your troops
have come? But—l realize that talk
like this is worse than futile. You
have determined to utterly condemn
me and banish me from your friend
ship, and I must respect your de
cision.”
The girl regarded him a moment
with a gaze in which anger seemed
not unmixed with sorrow.
“It is not for the dastardly action
of a rabble of your fellow Balti
moreans and Marylanders that I con
demn you,” she said. “But you, you
have been a ringleader in it all. And
you cannot claim even the pitiful
shred of an excuse that you are
bound to follow your State. Mary
land has not seceded. Yet you, with
all your former protestations of love
for the Union, have done your utter
most—in the cause of your slave
holding compatriots—to stir up and
keep alive the spirit of violence, not
to say of rebellion and treason to
the flag.
“Yes,” as Phil raised his head
proudly, “I haven’t a doubt that you
glory in it, that you are proud of
your activity in fomenting strife—
even in your personal participation,
as I suppose, in the shameful street
riot here, in which not only the peo
ple of my own State were murder
ously assailed, but my own cousin,
Guy Hancock, as I see from the
papers, was wounded and nearly lost
his life. I suppose you revel in your
share of dispensing such wonderful
and characteristic Maryland hospital
ity!”
Phil faced her unflinchingly, a
strange smile hovering on his lips.
“Miss Palmer,” he said, “I shall
certainly not attempt, at this time,,
to discuss or argue with you the
reasons why Maryland has not yet
passed an ordinance of secession.
But you are right in saying that I
have taken an active part; even, per
haps, in a modest way, have helped
to lead.
“In justice to myself and the mem
ory of my fathers,” his head lifted
higher yet, and a thrilling note of
pride ringing through his voice, “I,
could do no less. The Elliotts and
the Tildens have ever been foremost
to stand for imperilled liberty—have
ever been prompt to act and lead in
times of public stress and emergen
cy, when right and country called
them.
“Regarding Lieutenant Hancock, I
could tell you—but, no!” proudly,
“you shan hear that, if at all, from
other lips than mine. I have kept
you too long already: your aunt is
doubtless growing impatient, and I
shall detain you but a moment more.’”
He hesitated, drawing a deer>
breath, and the flush died from his
face, leaving it stern and white.
“This may really be the last time
we shall ever meet, and I must tell
you what I had come tonight pre
pared to tell you at all hazards, and
which I had hoped to be able to tell
you under far different and happier
circumstances: that during these’
weeks and months I had grown to
love you, Marion—love you with all
my heart, and, even as you said, had
hoped to induce you to wear the glo
rious Black and Orange—to wear
them as my wife and the adopted
daughter of Maryland, while never
renouncing your own mother State.
“I thank you for hearing me out.
And now—Good-night and good-bye.
Kindly take my regards to Miss Pills
bury.”
He looked long and steadily into,
her face, bowed gravely, and a mo
ment later the street door had closed:
after him as he passed out into the
night with never a backward glance.
Half an hour later a solitary
horseman, at a speed that threatened
police interference, was passing:
through the suburbs of Baltimore,
headed for the road to the west’
That morning Phil had had his own
little riding mare, Southern Lassie,
brought over on the boat from Eller
ton, and now she was carrying her
master off and away to Frederick
town and to Johnson. Very erect in,
the saddle sat this born and trained
horseman, Philip Elliott—his saddle
bags behind him, his holster buckled
at his side, his cap pulled low over
his brow, his eyes fixed straight
ahead. As he ascended a hill that
in another minute would shut out
from sight the lights of the city, he
turned in the saddle without check
ing his steed, and looked back:
“Fare you well, Baltimore, at least
for the present,” he murmured, soft
ly, but between clenched teeth, and
with cold drops standing out on his.
brow. “And, good-bye, Marion Palm
er—must I say, forever?”
At that very moment Marion Palm
er (who, upon Phil’s departure, had
excused herself to her waiting aunt
on the score of sudden indisposition,
and repaired to her room) was lying
face downward on her bed, the door
locked, the immaculate daintiness of
her new opera gown forgotten, her
frame convulsed with sobs.
And in the next morning’s mail
came a letter from Lieutenant Han
cock at Washington—a letter delay
ed in delivery and forwarded, first to
Frederick from her Philadelphia ad
dress, and thence sent on to Balti
more. With aching eyes and throb
bing head from a well nigh sleep
less night and long weeping, she
read that letter—read Guy Han
cock’s thrilling and enthusiastic ac
count of his rescue in the Baltimore
riot by Phil Elliott, to whom he de
clared he owed his life. She read
it twice; then, with swollen eyelids
but tearless eyes, she looked long
and fixedly out of her window toward
the west—toward Frederick.
CHAPTER VI.
The Red Dawn of the Day.
' F Captain Bradley Johnson was a man
of action lie was also a man of de-
1 termination and perseverance. He
I
and the party with which he worked and.
MARCH, 1910.