An Original Belle by E. P. Roe (page 9)

When had she given so much thought to a man whom she had disliked? Even in her disapproval of him, even when her soldier friends appeared at their best and she was contrasting him with them to his fatal disadvantage as she believed, thoughts of him would pursue her constantly. Now that he had shown himself the peer of each and all in manhood and courage, it seemed as if feelings, long held in check, were released and were sweeping irresistibly towards one conclusion. Merwyn was more to her than any other man in the world. He had fulfilled her ideal, and was all the more attractive because he was capable of such deep, strong passion, and yet could be so resolute and cool.

“But how can I ever undeceive him?” was her most perplexing thought. “I cannot make advances. Well, well, the future must disentangle itself.”

Now that she was beginning to understand herself, every instinct of her being led towards reserve. In a misunderstanding with her soldier friends she could easily and frankly effect a reconciliation, but she must be dumb with Merwyn, and distant in manner, to the degree that she was self-conscious.

Suddenly she became aware that it was growing late, and that her father had not returned, and for the next hour she suffered terribly from anxiety, as did many women in those days of strange vicissitudes.

At last, a little before midnight, he came, looking stern and anxious. “I will soon explain,” he said to her. “Take this woman to her room.” Then, to his aroused and sleepy agents: “You have had some rest and respite. Go to the nearest hotel and take a little more, but be up with the dawn and do your best, for to-morrow promises to be worse than to-day.”

With a few further instructions he dismissed them.

Upon reaching the library he said to his daughter: “I’ve been at a conference in which the police, military, and state authorities took part, and things look gloomy. I have also sent further despatches. My dear child, I wish you were with your mother, but I’m too weary to think any more to-night.”

“Papa, the question of my remaining has been settled. Now rest. Mr. Merwyn came and brought good news.”

“Yes, I know all about it. Why did he not stay?”

“He naturally wished to return and look after his own home.”

“True enough. I hope he found it unharmed. He has proved himself a grand, brave fellow to-day, and I only wish it was my privilege to fight at his side. It would be far easier than to carry my burden.”

“Not another perplexing thought to-night, papa.”

“Well, Marian, I must have some sleep, to be equal to to-morrow. You must obey orders and sleep also. I shall not take off my clothes, and shall be ready for any emergency; and do you also sleep in your wrapper.”

He kissed her fondly, but with heavy eyes.

CHAPTER XLVII.

A FAIR FRIEND AND FOUL FOES.

THE reader has already discovered that I have not attempted anything approaching a detailed history of the dreadful days of the riot. I merely hope to give a somewhat correct impression of the hopes, fears, and passions which swayed men’s minds and controlled or directed their action. Many of the scenes are too horrible to be described, and much else relating to the deeds and policy of recognized leaders belongs to the sober page of history. The city was in awful peril, and its destruction would have crippled the general government beyond all calculation. Unchecked lawlessness in New York would soon have spread to other centres. That cool, impartial historian, the Comte de Paris, recognized the danger in his words: “Turbulent leaders were present in the large cities of the East, which contained all the elements for a terrible insurrection. This insurrection was expected to break out in New York, despite Lee’s defeat: one may judge what it might have been had Lee achieved a victory.”

With the best intentions the administration had committed many grave errors,–none more so, perhaps, than that of ordering the draft to be inaugurated at a time when the city was stripped of its militia.

Now, however, it only remained for the police and a few hundreds of the military to cope with the result of that error,–a reckless mob of unnumbered thousands, governed by the instinct to plunder and destroy.

When the sun dawned in unclouded splendor on the morning of the 14th of July, a superficial observer, passing through the greater part of the city, would not have dreamed that it could become a battle-ground, a scene of unnumbered and untold outrages, during the day. It was hard for multitudes of citizens, acquainted with what had already taken place, to believe in the continuance of such lawlessness. In large districts there was an effort to carry on business as usual. In the early hours vehicles of every kind rattled over the stony pavement, and when at last Merwyn awoke, the sounds that came through his open windows were so natural that the events of the preceding day seemed but a distorted dream. The stern realities of the past and the future soon confronted him, however, and he rang and ordered breakfast at once.

Hastily disguising himself as he had done before, he again summoned his faithful servant. This man’s vigilance had enabled him to admit his master instantly the night before. Beyond the assurance that all was well and safe Merwyn had not then listened to a word, yielding to the imperative craving for sleep and rest. These, with youth and the vigor of a strong, unvitiated constitution, had restored him wonderfully, and he was eager to enter on the perils and duties of the new day. His valet and man-of-all-work told him that he had been at pains to give the impression that the family was away and the house partially dismantled.

“It wouldn’t pay ye,” he had said to a band of plunderers, “to bother with the loikes of this house when there’s plenty all furnished.”

With injunctions to maintain his vigilance and not to be surprised if Merwyn’s absence was prolonged, the young man hastened away, paving no heed to entreaties to remain and avoid risks.

It was still early, but the uneasy city was waking, and the streets were filling with all descriptions of people. Thousands were escaping to the country; thousands more were standing in their doors or moving about, seeking to satisfy their curiosity; while in the disaffected districts on the east and the west side the hosts of the mob were swarming forth for the renewal of the conflict, now inspired chiefly by the hope of plunder. Disquiet, anxiety, fear, anger, and recklessness characterized different faces, according to the nature of their possessors; but as a rule even the most desperate of the rioters were singularly quiet except when under the dominion of some immediate and exciting influence.

In order to save time, Merwyn had again hired a hack, and, seated with the driver, he proceeded rapidly, first towards the East River, and then, on another street, towards the Hudson. His eyes, already experienced, saw on every side the promise of another bloody day. He was stopped and threatened several times, for the rioters were growing suspicious, fully aware that detectives were among them, but he always succeeded in giving some plausible excuse. At last, returning from the west side, the driver refused to carry him any longer, and gave evidence of sympathy with the mob.

Merwyn quietly showed him the butt of a revolver, and said, “You will drive till I dismiss you.”

The man yielded sullenly, and Merwyn alighted near Mr. Vosburgh’s residence, saying to his Jehu, “Your course lies there,” pointing east,–and he rapidly turned a corner.

As Merwyn had surmised, the man wheeled his horses with the purpose of following and learning his destination. Observing this eager quest he sprung out upon him from a doorway and said, “If you try that again I’ll shoot you as I would a dog.” The fellow now took counsel of discretion.

Going round the block to make sure he was not observed, Merwyn reached the residence of Mr. Vosburgh just as that gentleman was rising from his breakfast, and received a cordial welcome.

“Why, Merwyn,” he exclaimed, “you look as fresh as a June daisy this morning.”

The young fellow had merely bowed to Marian, and now said, “I cannot wonder at your surprise, remembering the condition in which I presented myself last night.”

“Condition? I do not understand.”

Marian laughed, as she said: “Papa came in about midnight in scarcely better plight. In brief, you were both exhausted, and with good reason.”

“But you did not tell me, Marian–“

“No,” she interrupted; “nothing but a life-and-death emergency should have made me tell you anything last night.”

“Why, our little girl is becoming a soldier and a strategist. I think you had better make your report over again, Mr. Merwyn;” and he drew out a fuller account of events than had been given the evening before, also the result of the young man’s morning observations.

Marian made no effort to secure attention beyond offering Merwyn a cup of coffee.

“I have breakfasted,” he said, coldly.

“Take it, Merwyn, take it,” cried Mr. Vosburgh. “Next to courage, nothing keeps up a soldier better than coffee. According to your own view we have another hard day before us.”

Merwyn complied, and bowed his thanks.

“Now for plans,” resumed Mr. Vosburgh. “Are you going to police headquarters again?”

“Direct from here.”

“I shall be there occasionally, and if you learn anything important, leave me a note. If I am not there and you can get away, come here. Of course I only ask this as of a friend and loyal man. You can see how vitally important it is that the authorities at Washington should be informed. They can put forth vast powers, and will do so as the necessity is impressed upon them. If we can only hold our own for a day or two the city will be full of troops. Therefore remember that in aiding me you are helping the cause even more than by fighting with the best and bravest, as you did yesterday. You recognize this fact, do you not? I am not laying any constraint on you contrary to your sense of duty and inclination.”

“No, sir, you are not. I should be dull indeed did I not perceive that you are burdened with the gravest responsibilities. What is more, your knowledge guides, in a measure, the strong national hand, and I now believe we shall need its aid.”

“That’s it, that’s the point. Therefore you can see why I am eager to secure the assistance of one who has the brains to appreciate the fact so quickly and fully. Moreover, you are cool, and seem to understand the nature of this outbreak as if you had made a study of the mobs.”

“I have, and I have been preparing for this one, for I knew that it would soon give me a chance to prove that I was not a coward.”

Marian’s cheeks crimsoned.

“No more of that, if you please,” said Mr. Vosburgh, gravely. “While it is natural that you should feel strongly, you must remember that both I and my daughter have asked your pardon, and that you yourself admitted that we had cause for misjudging you. We have been prompt to make amends, and I followed you through yesterday’s fight at some risk to see that you did not fall into the hands of strangers, if wounded. I could have learned all about the fight at a safer distance. You are now showing the best qualities of a soldier. Add to them a soldier’s full and generous forgiveness when a wrong is atoned for,–an unintentional wrong at that. We trust you implicitly as a man of honor, but we also wish to work with you as a friend.”

Mr. Vosburgh spoke with dignity, and the young fellow’s face flushed under the reproof in his tone.

“I suppose I have become morbid on the subject,” he said, with some embarrassment. “I now ask your pardon, and admit that the expression was in bad taste, to say the least.”

“Yes, it was, in view of the evident fact that we now esteem and honor you as a brave man. I would not give you my hand in friendship and trust concerning matters vital to me were this not so.”

Merwyn took the proffered hand with a deep flush of pleasure.

“Having learned the bitterness of being misjudged,” said Marian, quietly, “Mr. Merwyn should be careful how he misjudges others.”

“That’s a close shot, Merwyn,” said Mr. Vosburgh, laughing.

Their guest started and bent a keen glance on the girl’s averted face, and then said, earnestly: “Miss Vosburgh, your father has spoken frankly to me and I believe him. Your words, also, are significant if they mean anything whatever. I know well what is before me to-day,–the chances of my never seeing you again. I can only misjudge you in one respect. Perhaps I can best make everything clear to your father as well as yourself by a single question. If I do my duty through these troubles, Mr. Vosburgh being the judge, can you give me some place among those friends who have already, and justly, won your esteem? I know it will require time. I have given you far more cause for offence than you have given me, but I would be glad to fight to-day with the inspiration of hope rather than that of recklessness.”

Her lip trembled as she faltered: “You would see that you have such a place already were you not equally prone to misjudge. Do you think me capable of cherishing a petty spite after you had proved yourself the peer of my other friends?”

“That I have not done, and I fear I never can. You have seen that I have been under a strong restraint which is not removed and which I cannot explain. To wear, temporarily, a policeman’s uniform is probably the best I can hope for.”

“I was thinking of men, Mr. Merwyn, not uniforms. I have nothing whatever to do with the restraint to which you refer. If my father trusts you, I can. Do not think of me so meanly as to believe I cannot give honest friendship to the man who is risking his life to aid my father. Last evening you said I had been off my guard. I must and will say, in self-defence, that if you judge me by that hour of weakness and folly you misjudge me.”

“Then we can be friends,” he said, holding out his hand, his face full of the sunshine of gladness.

“Why not?” she replied, laughing, and taking his hand,–“that is, on condition that there is no more recklessness.”

Mr. Vosburgh rose and said, with a smile: “Now that there is complete amity in the camp we will move on the enemy. I shall go with you, Merwyn, to police-headquarters;” and he hastily began his preparation.

Left alone with Marian a moment, Merwyn said, “You cannot know how your words have changed everything for me.”

“I fear the spirit of the rioters is unchanged, and that you are about to incur fearful risks.”

“I shall meet them cheerfully, for I have been under a thick cloud too long not to exult in a little light at last.”

“Ready?” said Mr. Vosburgh.

Again Merwyn took her hand and looked at her earnestly as he said, “Good-by, Heaven bless you, whatever happens to me;” and he wondered at the tears that came into her eyes.

Making their way through streets which were now becoming thronged, Mr. Vosburgh and Merwyn reached police headquarters without detention. They found matters there vastly changed for the better: the whole police force well in hand; and General Harvey Brown, a most capable officer, in command of several hundred soldiers. Moreover, citizens, in response to a call from the mayor, were being enrolled in large numbers as special policemen. Merwyn was welcomed by his old companions under the command of Inspector Carpenter, and provided with a badge which would indicate that he now belonged to the police force.

Telegrams were pouring in announcing trouble in different sections. Troops were drawn up in line on Mulberry Street, ready for instant action, and were harangued by their officers in earnest words which were heeded and obeyed, for the soldiers vied with the police in courage and discipline.

Soon after his arrival Merwyn found himself marching with a force of policemen two hundred and fifty strong, led by Carpenter and followed by a company of the military. The most threatening gatherings were reported to be in Second and Third Avenues.

The former thoroughfare, when entered, was seen to be filled as far as the eye could reach, the number of the throng being estimated at not less than ten thousand. At first this host was comparatively quiet, apparently having no definite purpose or recognized leaders. Curiosity accounted for the presence of many, the hope of plunder for that of more; but there were hundreds of ferocious-looking men who thirsted for blood and lawless power. A Catholic priest, to his honor be it said, had addressed the crowd and pleaded for peace and order; but his words, although listened to respectfully, were soon forgotten. What this section of the mob, which was now mustering in a score of localities, would have done first it is impossible to say; for as it began to be agitated with passion, ready to precipitate its brutal force on any object that caught its attention, the cry, “Cops and soldiers coming,” echoed up the avenue from block to block, a long, hoarse wave of sound.

Carpenter, with his force, marched quietly through the crowd from 21st to 32d Street, paying no heed to the hootings, yells, and vile epithets that were hurled from every side. Dirty, ragged women, with dishevelled hair and bloated faces, far exceeded the men in the use of Billingsgate; and the guardians of the law, as they passed through those long lines of demoniacal visages, scowling with hate, and heard their sulphurous invectives, saw what would be their fate if overpowered. It was a conflict having all the horrors of Indian warfare, as poor Colonel O’Brien, tortured to death through the long hot afternoon of that same day, learned in agony.

The mob in the street had not ventured on anything more offensive than jeers and curses, but when Carpenter’s command reached 32d Street it was assailed in a new and deadly manner. Rioters, well provided with stones and brick-bats, had stationed themselves on the roofs, and, deeming themselves secure, began to rain the missiles on the column below, which formed but too conspicuous a mark. This was a new and terrible danger which Merwyn had not anticipated, and he wondered how Carpenter would meet the emergency. Comrades were falling around him, and a stone grazed his shoulder which would have brained him had it struck his head.

Their leader never hesitated a moment. The command, “Halt, charge those houses, brain every devil that resists,” rang down the line.

The crowd on the sidewalk gave way before the deeply incensed and resolute officers of the law. Merwyn, with a half-dozen others, seized a heavy pole which had been cut down in order to destroy telegraphic communication, and, using it as a ram, crashed in the door of a tall tenement-house on the roof of which were a score of rioters, meantime escaping their missiles as by a miracle. Rushing in, paying no heed to protests, and clubbing those who resisted, he kept pace with the foremost. In his left hand, however, he carried his trusty revolver, for he did not propose to be assassinated by skulkers in the dark passage-ways. Seeing a man levelling a gun from a dusky corner, he fired instantly, and man and gun dropped. As the guardians of the law approached the scuttle, having fought their way thither, the ruffians stood ready to hurl down bricks, torn from the chimneys; but two or three well-aimed shots cleared the way, and the policemen were on the roof, bringing down a man with every blow. One brawny fellow rushed upon Merwyn, but received such a stroke on his temple that he fell, rolled off the roof, and struck the pavement, a crushed and shapeless mass.

The assaults upon the other houses were equally successful, but the fight was a severe one, and was maintained for nearly an hour. The mob was appalled by the fate of their friends, and looked on in sullen, impotent anger.

Having cleared the houses, the police re-formed in the street, and marched away to other turbulent districts.

Only the military were left, and had formed about a block further to the north. Beyond the feeble demonstration of the invalid corps the rioters, as yet, had had no experience with the soldiery. That policemen would use their clubs was to them a matter of course, but they scarcely believed that cannon and musketry would be employed. Moreover, they were maddened and reckless that so many of their best and bravest had been put hors de combat. The brief paralysis caused by the remorseless clubs of the police passed, and like a sluggish monster, the mob, aroused to sudden fury, pressed upon the soldiery, hurling not only the vilest epithets but every missile on which they could lay their hands. Colonel O’Brien, in command for the moment, rode through the crowd, supposing he could overawe them by his fearless bearing; but they only scoffed at him, and the attack upon his men grew more bold and reckless.

The limit of patience was passed. “Fire!” he thundered, and the howitzers poured their deadly canister point-blank into the throng. At the same time the soldiers discharged their muskets. Not only men, but women fell on every side, one with a child in her arms.

A warfare in which women stand an equal chance for death and wounds is a terrible thing, and yet this is usually an inseparable feature of mob-fighting. However, setting aside the natural and instinctive horror at injuring a woman, the depraved creatures in the streets were deserving of no more sympathy than their male abettors in every species of outrage. They did their utmost to excite and keep alive the passions of the hour. Many were armed with knives, and did not hesitate to use them, and when stronger hands broke in the doors of shops and dwellings they swarmed after,–the most greedy and unscrupulous of plunderers. If a negro man, woman, or child fell into their hands, none were more brutal than the unsexed hags of the mob.

If on this, and other occasions, they had remained in their homes they would not have suffered, nor would the men have been so ferocious in their violence. They were the first to yield to panic, however, and now their shrieks were the loudest and their efforts to escape out of the deadly range of the guns the most frantic. In a few moments the avenue was cleared, and the military marched away, leaving the dead and wounded rioters where they had fallen, as the police had done before. Instantly the friends of the sufferers gathered them up and carried them into concealment.

This feature, from the first, was one of the most marked characteristics of the outbreak. The number of rioters killed and wounded could be only guessed at approximately, for every effort was made to bury the bodies secretly, and keep the injured in seclusion until they either died or recovered. Almost before a fight was over the prostrate rioters would be spirited away by friends or relatives on the watch.

The authorities were content to have it so, for they had no place or time for the poor wretches, and the police understood that they were to strike blows that would incapacitate the recipients for further mischief.

In the same locality which had witnessed his morning fight, Colonel O’Brien, later in the day, met a fate too horrible to be described.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

DESPERATE FIGHTING.

HAVING again reached police headquarters, Merwyn rested but a short time and then joined a force of two hundred men under Inspector Dilkes, and returned to the same avenue in which he had already incurred such peril. The mob, having discovered that it must cope with the military as well as the police, became eager to obtain arms. It so happened that several thousand carbines were stored in a wire factory in Second Avenue, and the rioters had learned the fact. Therefore they swarmed thither, forced an entrance, and began to arm themselves and their comrades. A despatch to headquarters announced the attack at its commencement, and the force we have named was sent off in hot haste to wrest from the mob the means of more effective resistance. Emerging into the avenue from 21st Street, Dilkes found the thoroughfare solid with rioters, who, instead of giving way, greeted the police with bitter curses. Hesitating not a moment on account of vast inequality of numbers, the leader formed his men and charged. The mob had grown reckless with every hour, and it now closed on the police with the ferocity of a wild beast. A terrible hand-to-hand conflict ensued, and Merwyn found himself warding off and giving blows with the enemy so near that he could almost feel their hot, tainted breath on his cheek, while horrid visages inflamed with hate and fury made impressions on his mind that could not easily pass away. It was a close, desperate encounter, and the scorching July sun appeared to kindle passion on either side into tenfold intensity. While the police were disciplined men, obeying every order and doing nothing at random, they WERE men, and they would not have been human if anger and thoughts of vengeance had not nerved their arms as they struck down ruffians who would show no more mercy to the wounded or captured than would a man-eating tiger.

Since the mob would not give way, the police cut a bloody path through the throng, and forced their way like a wedge to the factory. Their orders were to capture all arms; and when a rioter was seen with a carbine or a gun of any kind, one or more of the police would rush out of the ranks and seize it, then fight their way back.

By the time they reached the factory so many of the mob had been killed or wounded, and so many of their leaders were dead or disabled, that it again yielded to panic and fled. One desperate leader, although already bruised and bleeding, had for a time inspired the mob with much of his own reckless fury, and was left almost alone by his fleeing companions. His courage, which should have been displayed in a better cause, cost him dear, for a tremendous blow sent him reeling against a fence, the sharp point of one of the iron pickets caught under his chin, and he hung there unheeded, impaled and dying. He was afterwards taken down, and beneath his soiled overalls and filthy shirt was a fair, white skin, clad in cassimere trousers, a rich waistcoat, and the finest of linen. His delicate, patrician features emphasized the mystery of his personality and action.

When all resistance in the street was overcome, there still remained the factory, thronged with armed and defiant rioters. Dilkes ordered the building to be cleared, and Merwyn took his place in the storming party. We shall not describe the scenes that followed. It was a strife that differed widely from Lane’s cavalry charge on the lawn of a Southern plantation, with the eyes of fair women watching his deeds. Merwyn was not taking part with thousands in a battle that would be historic as Strahan and Blauvelt had done at Gettysburg. Every element of romance and martial inspiration was wanting. It was merely a life-and-death encounter between a handful of policemen and a grimy, desperate band of ruffians, cornered like rats, and resolved to sell their lives dearly.

The building was cleared, and at last Merwyn, exhausted and panting, came back with his comrades and took his place in the ranks. His club was bloody, and his revolver empty. The force marched away in triumph escorting wagons loaded with all the arms they could find, and were cheered by the better-disposed spectators that remained on the scene of action.

The desperate tenacity of the mob is shown by the fact that it returned to the wire factory, found some boxes of arms that had been overlooked, filled the great five-story building and the street about it, and became so defiant that the same battle had to be fought again in the afternoon with the aid of the military.

For the sake of making a definite impression we have touched upon the conflicts taking place in one locality. But throughout this awful day there were mobs all over the city, with fighting, plundering, burning, the chasing and murdering of negroes occurring at the same time in many and widely separated sections. Telegrams for aid were pouring into headquarters from all parts of the city, large tracts of which were utterly unprotected. The police and military could be employed only in bodies sufficiently large to cope with gatherings of hundreds or thousands. Individual outrages and isolated instances of violence and plunder could not be prevented.

But law-abiding citizens were realizing their danger and awakening to a sense of their duty. Over four hundred special policemen were sworn in. Merchants and bankers in Wall Street met and resolved to close business. Millionnaires vied with their clerks and porters in patriotic readiness to face danger. Volunteer companies were formed, and men like Hon. William E. Dodge, always foremost in every good effort in behalf of the city, left their offices for military duty. While thousands of citizens escaped from the city, with their families, not knowing where they would find a refuge, and obeying only the impulse to get away from a place apparently doomed, other thousands remained, determined to protect their hearths and homes and to preserve their fair metropolis from destruction. Terrible as was the mob, and tenfold more terrible as it would have been if it had used its strength in an organized effort and with definite purpose, forces were now awakening and concentrating against it which would eventually destroy every vestige of lawlessness. With the fight on Broadway, during Monday evening, the supreme crisis had passed. After that the mob fought desperate but losing battles. Acton, with Napoleonic nerve and skill, had time to plan and organize. General Brown with his brave troops reached him on Monday night, and thereafter the two men, providentially brought and kept together, met and overcame, in cordial co-operation, every danger as it arose. Their names should never be forgotten by the citizens of New York. Acton, as chief of police, was soon feared more than any other man in the city, and he began to receive anonymous letters assuring him that he had “but one more day to live.” He tossed them contemptuously aside, and turned to the telegrams imploring assistance. In every blow struck his iron will and heavy hand were felt. For a hundred hours, through the storm, he kept his hand on the helm and never closed his eyes. He inspired confidence in the men who obeyed him, and the humblest of them became heroes.

The city was smitten with an awful paralysis. Stages and street cars had very generally ceased running; shops were closed; Broadway and other thoroughfares and centres usually so crowded were at times almost deserted; now and then a hack would whirl by with occupants that could not be classified. They might be leaders of the mob, detectives, or citizens in disguise bent on public or private business. On one occasion a millionnaire whose name is known and honored throughout the land, dressed in the mean habiliments of a laborer, drove a wagon up Broadway in which was concealed a load of arms and ammunition. In hundreds of homes fathers and sons kept watch with rifles and revolvers, while city and State authorities issued proclamations.

It was a time of strange and infinite vicissitude, yet apparently the mob steadily attained vaster and more terrible proportions, and everywhere lawlessness was on the increase, especially in the upper portions of the city.

Mr. Vosburgh, with stern and clouded brow, obtained information from all available sources, and flashed the vital points to Washington. He did not leave Marian alone very long, and as the day advanced kept one of his agents in the house during his absences. He failed to meet Merwyn at headquarters, but learned of the young man’s brave action from one of his wounded comrades.

When Mr. Vosburgh told Marian of the risks which her new friend was incurring, and the nature of the fighting in which he was engaged, she grew so pale and agitated that he saw that she was becoming conscious of herself, of the new and controlling element entering into her life.

This self-knowledge was made tenfold clearer by a brief visit from Mrs. Ghegan.

“Oh! how dared you come?” cried Marian.

“The strates are safe enough for the loikes o’ me, so oi kape out o’ the crowds,” was the reply, “but they’re no place fer ye, Miss Marian. Me brogue is a password iverywhere, an’ even the crowds is civil and dacent enough onless something wakes the divil in ’em;” and then followed a vivid account of her experiences and of the timely help Merwyn had given her.

“The docthers think me Barney’ll live, but oi thank Misther Merwyn that took him out o’ the very claws uv the bloody divils, and not their bat’s eyes. Faix, but he tops all yez frin’s, Miss Marian, tho’ ye’re so could to ‘im. All the spalpanes in the strates couldn’t make ‘im wink, yet while I was a-wailin’ over Barney he was as tender-feelin’ as a baby.”

The girl’s heart fluttered strangely at the words of her former maid, but she tried to disguise her emotion. When again left alone she strained her ears for every sound from the city, and was untiring in her watch. From noon till evening she kept a dainty lunch ready for Merwyn, but he did not come.

After the young man’s return from his second fight he was given some rest. In the afternoon, he, with others, was sent on duty to the west side, the force being carried thither in stages which Acton had impressed into the service. One driver refused to stir, saying, insolently, that he had “not been hired to carry policemen.”

“Lock that man in cell No. 4,” was Acton’s answer, while, in the same breath, he ordered a policeman to drive.

That was the superintendent’s style of arguing and despatching business.

Merwyn again saw plenty of service, for the spirit of pandemonium was present in the west side. Towards evening, however, the rioters ceased their aimless and capricious violence, and adopted in their madness the dangerous method of Parisian mobs. They began throwing up a series of barricades in Eighth Avenue. Vehicles of all kinds within reach, telegraph poles, boxes,–anything that would obstruct,–were wired together. Barricades were also erected on cross-streets, to prevent flank movements. Captain Walling, of the police, who was on duty in the precinct, appreciated the importance of abolishing this feature from street fighting as speedily as possible, and telegraphed to headquarters for a co-operating military force. He also sent to General Sanford, at the arsenal, for troops. They were promised, but never sent. General Brown, fortunately, was a man of a very different stamp from Sanford, and he promptly sent a body of regulars.

Captain Slott took command of the police detailed to co-operate with the soldiers, and, with their officers, waited impatiently and vainly for the company promised by Sanford. Meanwhile the mob was strengthening its defences with breathless energy, and the sun was sinking in the west. As the difficult and dangerous work to be done required daylight it was at last resolved to wait no longer.

As the assailants drew near the barricade, they received a volley, accompanied by stones and other missiles. The police fell back a little to the left, and the troops, advancing, returned the fire. But the rioters did not yield, and for a time the crash of musketry resounded through the avenue, giving the impression of a regular pitched battle. The accurate aim of the soldiers, however, at last decided the contest, and the rioters fled to the second barricade, followed by the troops, while the police tore away the captured obstruction.

Obtaining a musket and cartridges from a wounded soldier, Merwyn, by explaining that he was a good marksman, obtained the privilege of fighting on the left flank of the military.

The mob could not endure the steady, well-directed fire of the regulars, and one barricade after another was carried, until the rioters were left uncovered when they fled, shrieking, yelling, cursing in their impotent rage,–the police with their clubs and the soldiers with their rifles following and punishing them until the streets were clear.

Merwyn, having been on duty all day, obtained a leave of absence till the following morning, and, availing himself of his old device to save time and strength, went to a livery stable near the station-house and obtained a hack by payment of double the usual fare. Mounting the box with the driver, and avoiding crowds, he was borne rapidly towards Mr. Vosburgh’s residence. He was not only terribly exhausted, but also consumed with anxiety as to the safety of the girl who had never been absent long from his thoughts, even in moments of the fiercest conflict.

CHAPTER XLIX.

ONE FACING HUNDREDS.

THE evening was growing dusky when Merwyn dismissed his carriage and hastened to Mr. Vosburgh’s residence. Marian and her father had waited for him until their faces were clouded with anxiety by reason of his long delay. The young girl’s attempt to dine with her father was but a formal pretence.

At last she exclaimed, “Something must have happened to Mr. Merwyn!”

“Do not entertain gloomy thoughts, my dear. A hundred things besides an injury might have detained him. Keep a good dinner ready, and I think he’ll do justice to it before the evening is over.”

Even then the German servant announced his presence at the basement door, which, in view of the disguises worn, was still used as the place of ingress and egress.

Mr. Vosburgh hastened to welcome him, while Marian bustled around to complete her preparations. When he entered the dining-room he did indeed appear weary and haggard, a fair counterpart of the rioters whom he had been fighting.

“Only necessity, Miss Vosburgh, compels me to present myself in this scarecrow aspect,” he said. “I’ve had no time or chance for anything better. I can soon report to your father all that is essential, and then can go home and return later.”

“I shall be much hurt if you do so,” said Marian, reproachfully. “I kept a lunch prepared for you during the afternoon, and now have a warm dinner all ready. It will be very ungracious in you to go away and leave it.”

“But I look like a coal-heaver.”

“Oh, I’ve seen well-dressed men before. They are no novelty; but a man direct from a field of battle is quite interesting. Will you please take this chair? You are not in the least like my other friends. They obey me without questionings.”

“You must remember,” he replied, “that the relation is to me as new and strange as it is welcome. I shall need a great deal of discipline.”

“When you learn what a martinet I can be you may repent, like many another who has obtained his wish. Here we shall reverse matters. Everything is topsy-turvy now, you know, so take this coffee at the beginning of your dinner.”

“I admit that your orders differ widely from those of police captains.” Then he added, with quiet significance, “No; I shall not repent.”

“Mr. Merwyn, will you take an older man’s advice?”

“Certainly. Indeed, I am under your orders, also, for the night.”

“I’m glad to hear it, for it will be a night of deep anxiety to me. Make a very light dinner, and take more refreshment later. You are too much exhausted to dine now. You need not tell me of your morning adventures. I learned about those at headquarters.”

“I have heard about them too,” Marian added, with a look that warmed the young fellow’s soul. “I have also had a visit from Mrs. Ghegan, and her story was not so brief as yours.”

“From what section have you just come?” Mr. Vosburgh asked.

Merwyn gave a brief description of the condition of affairs on the west side, ending with an account of the fight at the barricades.

“In one respect you are like my other friends, only more so,” Marian said. “You are inclined to give me Hamlet with Hamlet left out. What part did you take at the barricades?”

He told her in a matter-of-fact way.

“Ah, yes, I understand. I am learning to read between the lines of your stories.”

“Well, Heaven be thanked,” ejaculated Mr. Vosburgh, “that you demolished the barricades! If the rioters adopt that mode of fighting us, we shall have far greater difficulty in coping with them.”

At last Mr. Vosburgh said, “Will you please come with me to my library for a few minutes?”

On reaching the apartment he closed the door, and continued, gravely: “Mr. Merwyn, I am in sore straits. You have offered to aid me. I will tell you my situation, and then you must do as you think best. I know that you have done all a man’s duty to-day and have earned the right to complete rest. You will also naturally wish to look after your own home. Nevertheless my need and your own words lead me to suggest that you stay here to-night, or at least through the greater portion of it. I fear that I have been recognized and followed,–that I have enemies on my track. I suspect the man whom I discharged from the care of my office. Yet I must go out, for I have important despatches to send, and–what is of more consequence–I must make some careful observations. The mob seems to be a mere lawless, floundering monster, bent chiefly on plunder; but the danger is that leaders are organizing its strength as a part of the rebellion. You can understand that, while I look upon the outbreak with the solicitude of a citizen whose dearest interests are at stake, I also, from habit of mind and duty, must study it as a part of the great campaign of the year. If there are organizers at work there will be signals to-night, and I can see them from a tall neighboring church-spire. Yet how can I leave my child alone? How–“

“Mr. Vosburgh,” cried Merwyn, “what honor or privilege could I ask greater than that of being your daughter’s protector during your absence? I understand you perfectly. You feel that you must do your duty at any cost to yourself. After what you have said, nothing could induce me to go away. Indeed, I would stand guard without your door, were there no place for me within.”

“There, I won’t thank you in words,” said the elder man, wringing Merwyn’s hand. “Will you do as I wish?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then lie down on the sofa in the front parlor and sleep while you can. The least disturbance in the street would waken you there. Marian will watch from an upper window and give you warning if anything occurs. It is possible that I may be set upon when returning home, but I think not, for I shall enter the house from the rear;” and he told the young man of the means of exit which he had secured in case the house was attacked. “Rather than permit my child to take any risks,” concluded the father, solemnly, “fly with her and the woman who will be her companion till I return. Beyond the fact of general danger to all homes, she does not suspect anything, nor shall I increase her anxieties by telling her of my fears. She will be vigilant on general principles. Have you arms?”

“I have fired most of my cartridges to-day.”

“Well here is a revolver and a repeating rifle that you can depend upon. Do you understand the latter weapon?”

“Yes, I have one like it.”

“I will now tell Marian of my plans, so far as it is wise for her to know them, and then, God help and protect us all! Come, I wish you to lie down at once, for every moment of rest may be needed.”

When they descended, Mr. Vosburgh said to his daughter, laughingly, “Mr. Merwyn is under orders, and can have nothing more to say to you to-night.”

The young fellow, in like vein, brought the rifle to his shoulder, presented arms to her, wheeled, and marched to his station in the darkened front parlor. Before lying down, however, he opened one blind for an outlook.

“Do you fear any special danger to-night, papa?” Marian asked, quickly.

“I have been expecting special dangers from the first,” replied her father, gently. “While I must do my duty I shall also take such precautions as I can. Merwyn will be your protector during my absence. Now take your station at your upper window and do your part.” He explained briefly what he expected of her. “In case of an attack,” he concluded, almost sternly, “you must fly before it is too late. I shall now go and prepare Mr. Erkmann for the possible emergency, and then go out through the basement door as usual, after giving our loyal German her directions.”

A few moments later he had departed, all were at their posts, and the house was quiet.

Merwyn felt the necessity of rest, for every bone in his body ached from fatigue; but he did not dream of the possibility of sleep. His heart was swelling with pride and joy that he had become, not only the friend of the girl he loved, but also her trusted protector.

But at last Nature claimed her dues, and he succumbed and slept.

Mr. Vosburgh, unmolested, climbed to his lofty height of observation. The great city lay beneath him with its myriad lights, but on Third Avenue, from 40th Street northward for a mile, there was a hiatus of darkness. There the mob had begun, and there still dwelt its evil spirit uncurbed. The rioters in that district had cut off the supply of gas, feeling, as did the French revolutionists, that “Light was not in order.”

Mr. Vosburgh watched that long stretch of gloom with the greatest anxiety. Suddenly from its mystery a rocket flamed into the sky. Three minutes elapsed and another threw far and wide its ominous light. Again there was an interval of three minutes, when a third rocket confirmed the watcher’s fears that these were signals. Four minutes passed, and then, from the vicinity of Union Square, what appeared to be a great globe of fire rose to an immense height. A few seconds later there was an answering rocket far off in the eastern districts of Brooklyn.

These were indeed portents in the sky, and Mr. Vosburgh was perplexed as to their significance. Were they orders or at least invitations, for a general uprising against all authority? Was the rebellion against the government about to become general in the great centres of population? With the gloomiest of forebodings he watched for two hours longer, but only heard the hoarse murmur of the unquiet city, which occasionally, off to the west, became so loud as to suggest the continuance of the strife of the day. At last he went to the nearest available point and sent his despatches, then stole by a circuitous route to the dwelling of Mr. Erkmann, who was watching for him.

Marian’s vigilance was sleepless. While she had been burdened throughout the day with the deepest anxieties, she had been engaged in no exhausting efforts, and the novelty of her present position and her new emotions banished the possibility of drowsiness. She felt as if she had lived years during the past two days. The city was full of dangers nameless and horrible, yet she was conscious of an exaltation of spirit and of a happiness such as she had never known.

The man whom she had despised as a coward was her protector, and she wondered at her sense of security. She almost longed for an opportunity to prove that her courage could now be equal to his, and her eyes flashed in the darkness as they glanced up and down the dusky street; again they became gentle in her commiseration of the weary man in the room below, and gratefully she thanked God that he had been spared through the awful perils of the day.

Suddenly her attention was caught by the distant tramp of many feet. She threw open a blind and listened with a beating heart. Yes, a mob was coming, nearer, nearer; they are at the corner. With a sudden outburst of discordant cries they are turning into this very street.

A moment later her hand was upon Merwyn’s shoulder. “Wake, wake,” she cried; “the mob is coming–is here.”

He was on his feet instantly with rifle in hand. Through the window he saw the dusky forms gathering about the door. The German woman stood behind Marian, crying and wringing her hands.

“Miss Vosburgh, you and the woman do as I bid,” Merwyn said, sternly. “Go to the rear of the hall, open the door, and if I say, ‘Fly,’ or if I fall, escape for your lives.”

“But what will you–“

“Obey!” he cried, with a stamp of his foot.

They were already in the hall, and did as directed.

Imagine Marian’s wonder as she saw him throw open the front door, step without, and fire instantly. Then, dropping his rifle on his arm, he began to use his revolver. She rushed to his side and saw the mob, at least three hundred strong, scattering as if swept away by a whirlwind.

Merwyn’s plan of operations had been bold, but it proved the best one. In the streets he had learned the effect of fearless, decisive action, and he had calculated correctly on the panic which so often seized the undisciplined hordes. They probably believed that his boldness was due to the fact that he had plenty of aid at hand. So long as there was a man within range he continued to fire, then became aware of Marian’s presence.

“O Miss Vosburgh,” he said, earnestly, “you should not look on sights like these;” for a leader of the mob lay motionless on the pavement beneath them.

He took her hand, which trembled, led her within, and refastened the door. Her emotion was so strong that she dared not speak.

“Why did you take such a risk?” he asked, gravely. “What would your father have said to me if one of those wretches had fired and wounded you?”

“I–I only realized one thing–that you were facing hundreds all alone,” she faltered.

“Why, Miss Marian, I was only doing my duty, and I took the safest way to perform it. I had learned from experience that the bluff game is generally the best. No doubt I gave those fellows the impression that there were a dozen armed men in the house.”

But her emotion was too strong for control, and she sobbed: “It was the bravest thing I ever heard of. Oh! I have done you SUCH wrong! Forgive me. I–I–can’t–” and she hastened up the dusky stairway, followed by her servant, who was profuse in German interjections.

“I am repaid a thousand-fold,” was Merwyn’s quiet comment. “My oath cannot blight my life now.”

Sleep had been most effectually banished from his eyes, and as he stood in the unlighted apartment, motionless and silent, looking out upon the dusky street, but a few moments passed before a man and a woman approached cautiously, lifted the slain rioter, and bore him away.

In less than half an hour Mr. Vosburgh entered his house from the rear so silently that he was almost beside Merwyn before his approach was recognized.

“What, Merwyn!” he exclaimed, with a little chiding in his tone; “is this the way you rest? You certainly haven’t stood here, ‘like Patience on a monument,’ since I left?”

“No, indeed. You are indebted to Miss Vosburgh that you have a home to come to, for I slept so soundly that the house might have been carried off bodily. The mob has been here.”

“O papa!” cried Marian, clasping her arms about his neck, “thank God you are back safe! Oh, it was all so sudden and terrible!”

“But how, how, Merwyn? What has happened?”

“Well, sir, Miss Vosburgh was a better sentinel than I, and heard the first approach of the ruffians. I was sleeping like old Rip himself. She wakened me. A shot or two appeared to create a panic, and they disappeared like a dream, as suddenly as they had come.”

“Just listen to him, papa!” cried the girl, now reassured by her father’s presence, and recovering from her nervous shock. “Why shouldn’t he sleep after such a day as he has seen? It was his duty to sleep, wasn’t it? The idea of two sentinels in a small garrison keeping awake, watching the same points!”

“I’m very glad you obtained some sleep, Merwyn, and surely you had earned it; but as yet I have a very vague impression of this mob and of the fight. I looked down the street but a few moments ago, and it seemed deserted. It is quiet now. Have you not both slept and dreamed?”

“No, papa,” said the girl, shudderingly; “there’s a dead man at the foot of our steps even now.”

“You are mistaken, Miss Vosburgh. As usual, his friends lost no time in carrying him off.”

“Well, well,” cried Mr. Vosburgh, “this is a longer story than I can listen to without something to sustain the inner man. “Riten,”–to the servant,–“some fresh coffee please. Now for the lighted dining-room,–that’s hidden from the street,–where we can look into each other’s faces. So much has happened the last two days that here in the dark I begin to feel as if it all were a nightmare. Ah! how cosey and home-like this room seems after prowling in the dangerous streets with my hand on the butt of a revolver! Come now, Marian, sit down quietly and tell the whole story. I can’t trust Merwyn at all when he is the hero of the tale.”

“You may well say that. I hope, sir,” with a look of mock severity at the young fellow, “that your other reports to papa are more accurate than the one I have heard. Can you believe it, papa? he actually threw open the front door and faced the entire mob alone.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Vosburgh, as I emptied my revolver and looked around, a lady stood beside me. I’ve seen men do heroic things to-day, but nothing braver than that.”

“But I didn’t think!” cried the girl; “I didn’t realize–” and then she paused, while her face crimsoned. Her heart had since told her why she had stepped to his side.

“But you would have thought twice, yes, a hundred times,” said Merwyn, laughing, “if you hadn’t been a soldier. Jove! how Strahan will stare when he hears of it!”

“Please, never tell him,” exclaimed the girl.

Her father now stood encircling her with his arm, and looking fondly down upon her. “Well, thank God we’re all safe yet! and, threatening as is the aspect of affairs, I believe we shall see happy days of peace and security before very long.”

“I am so glad that mamma is not in the city!” said Marian, earnestly.

“Oh that you were with her, my child!”

“I’m better contented where I am,” said the girl, with a decided little nod.

“Yes, but great God! think of what might have happened if Merwyn had not been here,–what might still have happened had he not had the nerve to take, probably, the only course which could have saved you! There, there, I can’t think of it, or I shall be utterly unnerved.”

“Don’t think of it, papa. See, I’m over the shock of it already. Now don’t you be hysterical as I was yesterday.”

He made a great effort to rally, but it was evident that the strong man was deeply agitated. They all, however, soon regained self-control and composure, and spent a genial half-hour together, Merwyn often going to the parlor, that he might scan the street. After a brief discussion of plans for the morrow they separated for the night, Merwyn resuming his bivouac in the parlor. After listening for a time he was satisfied that even mobs must rest, and, as the soldiers slept on their arms, he slumbered, his rifle in hand.

When Marian bade her father good-night he took her face in his hands and gazed earnestly down upon it. The girl understood his expression, and the color came into her fair countenance like a June dawn.

“Do you remember, darling, my words when I said, ‘I do not know how much it might cost you in the end to dismiss Mr. Merwyn finally’?”

“Yes, papa.”

“Are you not learning how much it might have cost you?”

“Yes, papa,” with drooping eyes.

He kissed her, and nothing more was said.

CHAPTER L.

ZEB.

MERWYN awoke early, and, as soon as he heard the German servant coming down-stairs, wrote a line to Mr. Vosburgh saying that he would call on his way to headquarters, and then hastened through the almost deserted streets to his own home. To his great satisfaction he found everything unchanged there. After luxuriating in a bath and a bountiful breakfast he again instructed his man to be on the watch, and to keep up a fire throughout the coming night, so that a hot meal might be had speedily at any time.

More than once the thought had crossed his mind: “Unless we make greater headway with the riot, that attack on Mr. Vosburgh’s house will be repeated. Vengeance alone would now prompt the act, and besides he is undoubtedly a marked man. There’s no telling what may happen. Our best course is to fight, fight, knock the wretches on the head. With the quelling of the mob comes safety;” and, remembering the danger that threatened Marian, he was in a savage mood.

On this occasion, he went directly to Mr. Vosburgh’s residence, resolving to take no risks out of the line of duty. His first thought now was the securing of Marian’s safety. He had learned that there was no longer any special need for personal effort on his part to gain information, since the police authorities had wires stretching to almost every part of the city. An account of the risks taken to keep up this telegraphic communication would make a strange, thrilling chapter in itself. Moreover, police detectives were busy everywhere, and Mr. Vosburgh at headquarters and with the aid of his own agents could now obtain all the knowledge essential. Therefore the young fellow’s plan was simple, and he indicated his course at once after a cordial greeting from Mr. Vosburgh and Marian.

“Hard fighting appears to me to be the way to safety,” said he. “I can scarcely believe that the rioters will endure more than another day of such punishment as they received yesterday. Indeed, I should not be surprised if to-day was comparatively quiet.”

“I agree with you,” said Mr. Vosburgh, “unless the signals I saw last night indicate a more general uprising than has yet taken place. The best elements of the city are arming and organizing. There is a deep and terrible anger rising against the mob and all its abettors and sympathizers.”

“I know it,” cried Merwyn; “I feel it myself. When I think of the danger which threatened your home and especially Miss Vosburgh, I feel an almost ungovernable desire to be at the wretches.”

“But that means greater peril for you,” faltered the young girl.

“No, it means the shortest road to safety for us all. A mob is like fire: it must be stamped out of existence as soon as possible.”

“I think Merwyn is right,” resumed Mr. Vosburgh. “Another day of successful fighting will carry us to safety, for the general government is moving rapidly in our behalf, and our militia regiments are on their way home. I’ll be ready to go to headquarters with you in a minute.”

“Oh, please do not be rash to-day. If you had fallen yesterday think what might have happened,” said Marian.

“Every blow I strike to-day, Miss Vosburgh, will be nerved by the thought that you have one enemy, one danger, the less; and I shall esteem it the greatest of privileges if I can remain here to-night again as one of your protectors.”

“I cannot tell you what a sense of security your presence gives me,” she replied. “You seem to know just what to do and how to do it.”

“Well,” he answered, with a grim laugh, “one learns fast in these times. A very stern necessity is the mother of invention.”

“Yes,” sighed the girl, “one learns fast. Now that I have seen war, it is no longer a glorious thing, but full of unspeakable horrors.”

“This is not war,” said Merwyn, a little bitterly. “I pity, while I detest, the poor wretches we knock on the head. Your friends, who have fought the elite of the South will raise their eyebrows if they hear us call this war.”

“I have but one friend who has faced a mob alone,” she replied, with a swift, shy glance.

“A friend whom that privilege made the most fortunate of men,” he replied. “Had the rioters been Southern soldiers, they would have shot me instantly, instead of running away.”

“All my friends soon learn that I am stubborn in my opinions,” was her laughing reply, as her father joined them.

Mr. Erkmann on the next street north was a sturdy, loyal man, and he permitted Mr. Vosburgh and Merwyn to pass out through his house, so that to any one who was watching the impression would be given that at least two men were in the house. Burdened with a sense of danger, Mr. Vosburgh had resolved on brief absences, believing that at headquarters and through his agents he could learn the general drift of events.

Broadway wore the aspect of an early Sunday morning in quiet times. Pedestrians were few, and the stages had ceased running. The iron shutters of the great Fifth Avenue and other hotels were securely fastened. No street cars jingled along the side avenues; shops were closed; and the paralysis of business was almost complete in its greatest centres. At police headquarters, however, the most intense activity prevailed. Here were gathered the greater part of the police force and of the military co-operating with it The neighboring African church was turned into a barrack. Acton occupied other buildings, with or without the consent of the owners.

The top floor of the police building was thronged with colored refugees, thankful indeed to have found a place of safety, but many were consumed with anxiety on account of absent ones.

The sanguine hopes for a more quiet day were not fulfilled, but the severest fighting was done by the military, and cavalry now began to take part in the conflict. On the west side, Seventh Avenue was swept again and again with grape and canister before the mob gave way. On the east side there were several battles, and in one of them, fought just before night, the troops were compelled to retreat, leaving some of their dead and wounded in the streets. General Brown sent Captain Putnam with one hundred and fifty regulars to the scene of disaster and continued violence, and a sanguinary conflict ensued between ten and eleven o’clock at night. Putnam swept the dimly lighted streets with his cannon, and when the rioters fled into the houses he opened such a terrible fire upon them as to subdue all resistance. The mob was at last learning that the authorities would neither yield nor scruple to make use of any means in the conflict.

In the great centres down town, things were comparatively quiet. The New York Times took matters into its own hands. A glare of light from the windows of its building was shed after night-fall over Printing-House Square, and editors and reporters had their rifles as readily within reach as their pens.

We shall not follow Merwyn’s adventures, for that would involve something like a repetition of scenes already described. As the day was closing, however, he took part in an affair which explained the mystery of Mammy Borden’s disappearance.

During the first day of the riot the colored woman had seen enough to realize her own danger and that of her son, and she was determined to reach him and share his fate, whatever it might be. She had no scruple in stealing away from Mr. Vosburgh’s house, for by her departure she removed a great peril from her employers and friends. She was sufficiently composed, however, to put on a heavy veil and gloves, and so reached her son in safety. Until the evening of the third day of the riot, the dwelling in which they cowered escaped the fury of the mob, although occupied by several colored families. At last the hydra-headed monster fixed one of its baleful eyes upon the spot. Just as the occupants of the house were beginning to hope, the remorseless wretches came, and the spirit of Tophet broke loose. The door was broken in with axes, and savage men streamed into the dwelling. The poor victims tried to barricade themselves in the basement, but their assailants cut the water-pipes and would have drowned them. Driven out by this danger, the hunted creatures sought to escape through the yard. As Zeb was lifting his mother over the fence the rioters came upon her and dragged her back.

“Kill me, kill me,” cried Zeb, “but spare my mother.”

They seemed to take him at his word. Two of the fiends held his arms, while another struck him senseless and apparently dead with a crowbar. Then, not accepting this heroic self-sacrifice, they began to beat the grief-frenzied mother. But retribution was at hand. The cries of the victims and the absorption of the rioters in their brutal work prevented them from hearing the swift, heavy tread of the police. A moment later Merwyn and others rushed through the hallway, and the ruffians received blows similar to the one which had apparently bereft poor Zeb of life. The rioters were either dispersed or left where they fell, a wagon was impressed, and Zeb and his mother were brought to headquarters. Merwyn had soon recognized Mrs. Borden, but she could not be comforted. Obtaining leave of absence, the young man waited until the evening grew dusky; then securing a hack from a stable near headquarters, the proprietor of which was disposed to loyalty by reason of his numerous blue-coated neighbors, he took the poor woman and the scarcely breathing man to a hospital, and left money for their needs. The curtains of the carriage had been closely drawn; but if the crowds through which they sometimes passed had guessed its occupants, they would have instantly met a tragic fate, while Merwyn’s and the driver’s chances would have been scarcely better.

CHAPTER LI.

A TRAGEDY.

MR. VOSBURGH and his daughter had passed a very anxious day, the former going out but seldom. The information obtained from the city had not been reassuring, for while the authorities had under their direction larger bodies of men, and lawlessness was not so general, the mob was still unquelled and fought with greater desperation in the disaffected centres. In the after-part of the day Mr. Vosburgh received the cheering intelligence that the Seventh Regiment would arrive that night, and that other militia organizations were on their way home. Therefore he believed that if they escaped injury until the following morning all cause for deep anxiety would pass away. As the hours elapsed and no further demonstration was made against his home, his hopes grew apace, and now, as he and his daughter waited for Merwyn before dining, he said, “I fancy that the reception given to the mob last night has curbed their disposition to molest us.”

“O papa, what keeps Mr. Merwyn?”

“Well, my dear, I know he was safe at noon.”

“Oh, oh, I do hope that this will be the last day of this fearful suspense! Isn’t it wonderful what Mr. Merwyn has done in the past few days?”

“Not so wonderful as it seems. Periods like these always develop master-spirits, or rather they give such spirits scope. How little we knew of Acton before this week! yet at the beginning he seized the mob by the throat and has not once relaxed his grasp. He has been the one sleepless man in the city, and how he endures the strain is almost beyond mortal comprehension. The man and the hour came together. The same is true of Merwyn in his sphere. He had been preparing for this, hoping that it would give him an opportunity to right himself. Fearless as the best of your friends, he combines with courage the singularly cool, resolute nature inherited from his father. He is not in the least ambitious for distinction, but is only bent on carrying out his own aims and purposes.”

“And what are they, papa?”

“Sly fox! as if you did not know. Who first came to your protection?”

“And to think how I treated him!”

“Quite naturally, under the circumstances. The mystery of his former restraint is still unexplained, but I now think it due to family reasons. Yet why he should be so reluctant to speak of them is still another mystery. He has no sympathy with the South or his mother’s views, yet why should he not say, frankly, ‘I cannot fight against my mother’s people’? When we think, however, that the sons of the same mother are often arrayed against each other in this war, such a reason as I have suggested appears entirely inadequate. All his interests are at the North, and he is thoroughly loyal; but when I intimated, last evening, that he might wish to spend the night in his own home to insure its protection, it seemed less than nothing to him compared with your safety. He has long had this powerful motive to win your regard, and yet there has been some restraint more potent.”

“But you trust him now, papa?”

“Yes.”

Thus they talked until the clock struck eight, and Marian, growing pallid with anxiety and fear, went to the darkened parlor window to watch for Merwyn, then returned and looked at her father with something like dismay on her face.

Before he could speak, she exclaimed, “Ah! there is his ring;” and she rushed toward the door, paused, came back, and said, blushingly, “Papa, you had better admit him.”

Mr. Vosburgh smilingly complied.

The young fellow appeared in almost as bad a plight as when he had come in on Monday night and gone away with bitter words on his lips. He was gaunt from fatigue and long mental strain. His first words were: “Thank God you we still all safe! I had hoped to be here long before this, but so much has happened!”

“What!” exclained Marian, “anything worse than took place yesterday?”

“No, and yes.” Then, with an appealing look; “Miss Marian, a cup of your good coffee. I feel as if a rioter could knock me down with a feather.”

She ran to the kitchen herself to see that it was of the best possible quality, and Merwyn, sinking into a chair, looked gloomily at his host and said: “We have made little if any progress. The mob grows more reckless and devilish.”

“My dear fellow,” cried Mr. Vosburgh, “the Seventh Regiment will be here to-night, and others are on the way;” and he told of the reassuring tidings he had received.

“Thank Heaven for your news! I have been growing despondent during the last few hours.”

“Take this and cheer up,” cried Marian. “The idea of your being despondent! You are only tired to death, and will have a larger appetite for fighting to-morrow, I fear, than ever.”

“No; I witnessed a scene this evening that made me sick of it all. Of course I shall do my duty to the end, but I wish that others could finish it up. More than ever I envy your friends who can fight soldiers;” and then he told them briefly of the scene witnessed in the rescue of Mammy Borden and her son.

“Oh, horrible! horrible!” exclaimed the girl. “Where are they now?”

“I took them from headquarters to a hospital. They both need the best surgical attention, though poor Zeb, I fear, is past help.”

“Merwyn,” said Mr. Vosburgh, gravely, “you incurred a fearful risk in taking those people through the streets.”

“I suppose so,” replied the young fellow, quietly; “but in a sense they were a part of your household, and the poor creatures were in such a desperate plight that–“

“Mr. Merwyn,” cried Marian, a warm flush mantling her face, “you are a true knight. You have perilled your life for the poor and humble.”

He looked at her intently a moment, and then said, quietly, “I would peril it again a thousand times for such words from YOU.”

To hide a sudden confusion she exclaimed: “Great Heavens! what differences there are in men! Those who would torture and kill these inoffensive people have human forms.”

“Men are much what women make them; and it would almost seem that women are the chief inspiration of this mob. The draft may have been its inciting cause, but it has degenerated into an insatiable thirst for violence, blood, and plunder. I saw an Irishwoman to-day who fought like a wild-cat before she would give up her stolen goods.”

The German servant Riten now began to place dinner on the table, Mr. Vosburgh remarking, “We had determined to wait for you on this occasion.”

“What am I thinking of?” cried Merwyn. “If this thing goes on I shall become uncivilized. Mr. Vosburgh, do take me somewhere that I may bathe my hands and face, and please let me exchange this horrid blouse, redolent of the riot, for almost any kind of garment. I could not sit at the table with Miss Vosburgh in my present guise.”

“Yes, papa, give him your white silk waistcoat and dress-coat,” added Marian, laughing.

“Come with me,” said Mr. Vosburgh, “and I’ll find you an outfit for the sake of your own comfort.”

“I meant to trespass on your kindness when I first came in, but mind and body seemed almost paralyzed. I feel better already, however. While we are absent may I ask if you have your weapons ready?”

“Yes, I have a revolver on my person, and my rifle is in the dining-room.”

A few moments later the gentlemen descended, Merwyn in a sack-coat that hung rather loosely on his person. Before sitting down he scanned the street, which was quiet.

“My former advice, Merwyn,” said his host; “you must make a light meal and wait until you are more rested.”

“O papa, what counsel to give a guest!”

“Counsel easily followed,” said Merwyn. “I crave little else than coffee. Indeed, your kindness, Miss Vosburgh, has so heartened me, that I am rallying fast.”

“Since everything is to be in such great moderation, perhaps I have been too prodigal of that,” was the arch reply.

“I shall be grateful for much or little.”

“Oh, no, don’t put anything on the basis of gratitude. I have too much of that to be chary of it.”

“A happy state of affairs,” said Merwyn, “since what you regard as services on my part are priceless favors to me. I can scarcely realize it, and have thought of it all day, that I only, of all your friends, can be with you now. Strahan will be green with envy, and so I suppose will the others.”

“I do not think any the less of them because it is impossible for them to be here,” said the young girl, blushing.

“Of course not. It’s only my immense good fortune. They would give their right eyes to stand in my shoes.”

“I hope I may soon hear that they are all recovering. I fear that Mr. Lane’s and Mr. Strahan’s wounds are serious; and, although Mr. Blauvelt made light of his hurt, he may find that it is no trifle.”

“It would seem that I am doomed to have no honorable scars.”

“Through no fault of yours, Mr. Merwyn. I’ve thought so much of poor mamma to-day! She must be wild with anxiety about us.”

“I think not,” said Mr. Vosburgh. “I telegraphed to her yesterday and to-day. I admit they were rather misleading messages.”

From time to time Mr. Vosburgh went to the outlook on the street, but all remained apparently quiet in their vicinity. Yet an hour of fearful peril was drawing near. A spirit of vengeance, and a desire to get rid of a most dangerous enemy, prompted another attack on Mr. Vosburgh’s home that night; and, taught by former experience, the assailants had determined to approach quietly and fight till they should accomplish their purpose. They meant to strike suddenly, swiftly, and remorselessly.

The little group in the dining-room, however, grew confident with every moment of immunity; yet they could not wholly banish their fears, and Mr. Vosburgh explained to Merwyn how he had put bars on the outside of the doors opening into the back yard, a bolt also on the door leading down-stairs to the basement.

But they dined very leisurely, undisturbed; then at Marian’s request the gentlemen lighted their cigars. Mr. Vosburgh strolled away to see that all was quiet and secure.

“I shouldn’t have believed that I could rally so greatly in so short a time,” said Merwyn, leaning back luxuriously in his chair. “Last night I was overcome with drowsiness soon after I lay down. I now feel as if I should never want to sleep again. It will be my turn to watch to-night, and you must sleep.”

“Yes, when I feel like it,” replied Marian.

“I think you bear the strain of anxiety wonderfully.”

“I am trying to retrieve myself.”

“You have retrieved yourself, Miss Vosburgh. You have become a genuine soldier. It didn’t take long to make a veteran of you.”

“So much for a good example, you see.”

“Oh, well, it’s easy enough for a man to face danger. Think how many thousands do it as a matter of course.”

“And must women be timid as a matter of course?”

“Women do not often inspire men as you do, Miss Marian. I know I am different from what I was, and I think I always shall be different.”

“I didn’t treat you fairly, Mr. Merwyn, and I’ve grieved over the past more than I can tell you.”

“And you won’t mistrust me again?”

“Never.”

“You make me very happy, and you will never know how unhappy I have been. Even before I left the country, last autumn, I envied the drummer-boys of Strahan’s regiment. I don’t wish to take advantage of your present feeling, or have you forget that I am still under a miserable restraint which I can’t explain. I must probably resume my old inactive life, while your other friends win fame and rank in serving their country. Of course I shall give money, but bah! what’s that to a girl like you? When all this hurly-burly in the streets is over, when conventional life begins again, and I seem a part of it, will you still regard me as a friend?”

His distrust touched her deeply, when she was giving him her heart’s best love, and her strong feeling caused her to falter as she said, “Do you think I can grow cold towards the man who risked his life for me?”

“That is exaggerated gratitude. Any decent man would risk his life for you. Why, you were as brave as I. I often ask myself, can you be a friend for my own sake, because of some inherent congeniality? You have done more for your other friends than they for you, and yet they are very dear to you, because you esteem them as men. I covet a like personal regard, and I hope you will teach me to win it”

“You have won it,–that is–“

“That is–? There is a mental reservation, or you are too truthful for undoubted assurance when shown that gratitude has no place in this relation.”

She averted her face from his searching eyes, and was deeply embarrassed.

“I feared it would be so,” he said, sadly. “But I do not blame you. On the contrary I honor your sincerity. Very well, I shall be heartily glad of any regard that you can give me, and shall try to be worthy of it.”

“Mr. Merwyn,” she said, impetuously, “no friend of mine receives a stronger, better, or more sincere regard than I give you for your own sake. There now, trust me as I trust you;” and she gave him her hand.

He took it in his strong grasp, but she exclaimed, instantly: “You are feverish. You are ill. I thought your eyes were unnaturally bright.”

“They should be so if it is in the power of happiness to kindle them!”

“Come now,” she cried, assuming a little brusqueness of manner which became her well; “I’ve given you my word, and that’s my bond. If you indulge in any more doubts I’ll find a way to punish you. I’ll take my ‘affidavy’ I’m just as good a friend to you as you are to me. If you doubt me, I shall doubt you.”

“I beg your pardon; no you won’t, or cannot, rather. You know well that I have my father’s unchangeable tenacity. It’s once and always with me.”

“You are speaking riddles,” she faltered, averting her face.

“Not at all. I am glad indeed that you can give me simple friendship, unforced, uncompelled by any other motive than that which actuates you in regard to the others. But you know well–your most casual glance would reveal it to you–that I, in whom you have inspired some semblance of manhood, can never dream of any other woman. When you see this truth, as you often will, you must not punish me for it. You must not try to cure me by coldness or by any other of the conventional remedies, for you cannot. When we meet, speak kindly, look kindly; and should it ever be not best or right that we should meet,–that is, often,–we shall not.”

“You are scarcely speaking as a friend,” she said, in a low voice.

“Will you punish me if I cannot help being far more?”

“No, since you cannot help it,” she replied, with a shy laugh.

A new light, a new hope, began to dawn upon him, and he was about to speak impetuously when Mr. Vosburgh appeared and said, “Merwyn, I’ve been watching two men who passed and repassed the house, and who seem to be reconnoitring.”

As Merwyn and Marian accompanied him to the parlor they heard the heavy booming of cannon off on the east side, and it was repeated again and again.

“Those are ominous sounds at this time of night,” said Mr. Vosburgh.

“That they don’t come from the rioters is a comfort,” Merwyn replied; “but it proves what I said before,–they are becoming more bold and reckless.”

“It may also show that the authorities are more stern and relentless in dealing with them.”

At last the sounds of conflict died away, the street appeared quiet and deserted, and they all returned to the dining-room.

The light enabled Merwyn to look eagerly and questioningly at Marian. She smiled, flushed, and, quickly averting her eyes, began to speak on various topics in a way that warned Merwyn to restrain all further impatience; but she inspired so strong and delicious a hope that he could scarcely control himself. He even fancied that there was at times a caressing accent in her tone when she spoke to him.

“Surely,” he thought, “if what I said were repugnant, she would give some hint of the fact; but how can it be possible that so soon–“

“Come, Marian, I think you may safely retire now,” said her father; “I hear Riten coming up.”

Even as he spoke, a front parlor window was crashed in. Merwyn and Mr. Vosburgh sprung into the hall, revolvers in hand; Riten instinctively fled back towards the stairs leading to the basement, in which she had extinguished the light, and Mr. Vosburgh told his daughter to follow the servant.

But she stood still, as if paralyzed, and saw a man rushing upon him with a long knife. Mr. Vosburgh fired, but, from agitation, ineffectually. Merwyn at the same moment had fired on another man, who fell. A fearful cry escaped from the girl’s lips as she saw that her father was apparently doomed. The gleaming knife was almost above him. Then–how it happened she could never tell, so swift was the movement–Merwyn stood before her father. The knife descended upon his breast, yet at the same instant his pistol exploded against the man’s temple, and the miscreant dropped like a log. There were sounds of other men clambering in at the window, and Mr. Vosburgh snatched Merwyn back by main force, saying to Marian, “Quick! for your life! down the stairs!”

The moment the door closed upon them all he slid the heavy bolt. Riten stood sobbing at the foot of the stairs.

“Hush!” said Mr. Vosburgh, sternly. “Each one obey me. Out through the area door instantly.”

Across this he also let down a heavy bar, and, taking his daughter’s hand, he hurried her to the fence, removed the boards, and, when all had passed through, replaced them. Mr. Erkmann, at his neighbor’s request, had left his rear basement door open, and was on the watch. He appeared almost instantly, and counselled the fugitives to remain with him.

“No,” said Mr. Vosburgh; “we will bring no more peril than we must on you. Let us out into the street at once, and then bar and bolt everything.”

“But where can you go at this time?”

“To my house,” said Merwyn, firmly. “Please do as Mr. Vosburgh asks. It will be safest for all.”

“Well, since you will have it so.”

“Hasten, hasten,” Merwyn urged.

Mr. Erkmann unlatched the door and looked out. The street was quiet and deserted, and the fugitives rushed away with whispered thanks.

“Marian, tie Riten’s apron over your head, so as to partially disguise your face,” said her father.

Fortunately they met but few people, and no crowds whatever. As they approached Merwyn’s home his steps began to grow unsteady.

“Papa,” said Marian, in agitated tones, “Mr. Merwyn is wounded; he wants your support.”

“Merciful Heaven, Merwyn! are you wounded?”

“Yes, hasten. I must reach home before giving out.”

When they gained his door he had to be almost carried up the steps, and Mr. Vosburgh rang the bell furiously.

Only a moment or two elapsed before the scared face of Thomas appeared, but as Merwyn crossed the threshold he fainted.

They carried him to his room, and then Mr. Vosburgh said, “Bring a physician and lose not a second. Say it is a case of life and death. Hold! first bring me some brandy.”

“Oh, oh!” Marian moaned, “I fear it’s death! O papa he gave his life for you.”

“No, no,” was the hoarse response; “it cannot, shall not be. It’s only a wound, and he has fainted from loss of blood. Show your nerve now. Moisten his lips with brandy. You, Riten, chafe his wrists with it, while I cut open his shirt and stanch the wound.”

A second more and a terrible gash on Merwyn’s breast was revealed. How deep it was they could not know.

Marian held out her handkerchief, and it was first used to stop the flow of blood. When it was taken away she put it in her bosom.

The old servant, Margy, now rushed in with lamentations.

“Hush!” said Mr. Vosburgh, sternly. “Chafe that other wrist with brandy.”

But the swoon was prolonged, and Marian, pallid to her lips, sighed and moaned as she did her father’s bidding.

Thomas was not very long in bringing a good physician, who had often attended the family. Marian watched his face as if she were to read there a verdict in regard to her own life, and Mr. Vosburgh evinced scarcely less solicitude.

“His pulse certainly shows great exhaustion; but I cannot yet believe that it is a desperate case. We must first tally him, and then I will examine his wound. Mr. Vosburgh, lift him up, and let me see if I cannot make him swallow a little diluted brandy.”

At last Merwyn revived somewhat, but did not seem conscious of what was passing around him. The physician made a hasty examination of the wound and said, “It is not so severe as to be fatal in itself, but I don’t like the hot, dry, feverish condition of his skin.”

“He was feverish before he received the wound,” said Marian, in a whisper. “I fear he has been going far beyond his strength.”

“I entreat you, sir, not to leave him,” said Mr. Vosburgh, “until you can give us more hope.”

“Rest assured that I shall not. I am the family physician, and I shall secure for him in the morning the best surgical aid in the city. All that can be done in these times shall be done. Hereafter there must be almost absolute quiet, especially when he begins to notice anything. He must not be moved, or be allowed to move, until I say it is safe. Perhaps if all retire, except myself and Thomas, he will be less agitated when he recovers consciousness. Margy, you make good, strong coffee, and get an early breakfast.”

They all obeyed his suggestions at once.

The servant showed Mr. Vosburgh and his daughter into a sitting-room on the same floor, and the poor girl, relieved from the necessity of self-restraint, threw herself on a lounge and sobbed and moaned as if her heart was breaking.

Wise Mr. Vosburgh did not at first restrain her, except by soothing, gentle words. He knew that this was nature’s relief, and that she would soon be the better and calmer for it.

The physician wondered at the presence of strangers in the Merwyn residence, and speedily saw how Marian felt towards his patient; but he had observed professional reticence, knowing that explanations would soon come. Meanwhile he carefully sought to rally his patient, and watched each symptom.

At last Merwyn opened his eyes and asked, feebly: “Where am I? What has happened?”

“You were injured, but are doing well,” was the prompt reply. “You know me, Dr. Henderson, and Thomas is here also. You are in your own room.”

“Yes, I see,” and he remained silent for some little time; then said, “I remember all now.”

“You must keep quiet and try not to think, Mr. Merwyn. Your life depends upon it.”

“My mind has a strong disposition to wander.”

“The more need of quiet.”

“Miss Vosburgh is here. I must see her.”

“Yes, by and by.”

“Doctor, I fear I am going to be out of my mind. I must see Miss Vosburgh. I will see her; and if you are wise you will permit me to do so. My life depends upon it more than upon your skill. Do what I ask, and I will be quiet”

“Very well, then, but the interview must be brief.”

“It must be as I say.”

Marian was summoned. Hastily drying her eyes, she tried to suppress her strong emotion.

Merwyn feebly reached out his hand to her, and she sat down beside him.

“Do not try to talk,” she whispered, taking his hand.

“Yes, I must while I am myself. Dr. Henderson, I love and honor this girl, and would make her my wife should she consent. I may be dying, but if she is willing to stay with me, it seems as if I could live through everything, fever and all. If she is willing and you do not permit her to stay, I want you to know that my blood is on your hands! Marian, are you willing to stay?”

“Yes,” she replied; and then, leaning down, she whispered: “I do love you; I have loved you ever since I understood you. Oh, live for my sake! What would life be now without you?”

“Now you shall stay.”

“See, doctor, he is quiet while I am with him,” she said, pleadingly.

“And only while you are with me. I know I should die if you were sent away.”

“She shall stay with you, Mr. Merwyn, if you obey my orders in other respects. I give you my word,” said Dr. Henderson.

“Very well. Now have patience with me.”

“Thomas,” whispered the physician, “have the strongest beef tea made, and keep it on hand.”

Mr. Vosburgh intercepted the man, and was briefly told what had taken place. “Now there is a chance for them both,” the agitated father muttered, as he restlessly paced the room. “Oh, how terribly clouded would our lives be, should he die!”

CHAPTER LII.

MOTHER AND SON.

FOR a time Merwyn did keep quiet, but he soon began to mutter brokenly and unintelligibly. Marian tried to remove her hand to aid the physician a moment, but she felt the feeble tightening of his clasp, and he cried, “No, no!”

This, for days, was the last sign he gave of intelligent comprehension of what was going on around him.

“We must humor him as far as we can in safety,” the doctor remarked, in a low whisper, and so began the battle for life.

Day was now dawning, and Thomas was despatched for a very skilful surgeon, who came and gave the help of long experience.

At last Dr. Henderson joined Mr. Vosburgh in the breakfast-room, and the latter sent a cup of coffee to his daughter by the physician, who said, when he returned: “I think it would be well for me to know something about Mr. Merwyn’s experience during the past few days. I shall understand his condition better if I know the causes which led to it.”

Mr. Vosburgh told him everything.

“Well,” said the doctor, emphatically, “we should do all within human effort to save such a young fellow.”

“I feel that I could give my life to save him,” Mr. Vosburgh added.

Hours passed, and Merwyn’s delirium became more pronounced. He released his grasp on Marian’s hand, and tossed his arms as if in the deepest trouble, his disordered mind evidently reverting to the time when life had been so dark and hopeless.

“Chained, chained,” he would mutter. “Cruel, unnatural mother, to chain her son like a slave. My oath is eating out my very heart. SHE despises me as a coward. Oh if she knew what I was facing!” and such was the burden of all his broken words.

The young girl now learned the secret which had been so long unfathomed. Vainly, with streaming eyes, she tried at first to reassure him, but the doctor told her it was of no use, the fever must take its course. Yet her hand upon his brow and cheek often seemed to have a subtle, quieting spell.

Mr. Vosburgh felt that, whatever happened, he must attend to his duties. Therefore he went to headquarters and learned that the crisis of the insurrection had passed. The Seventh Regiment was on duty, and other militia organizations were near at hand.