 Section 7 of Winsome Winnie and Other New Nonsense Novels This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Winsome Winnie and Other New Nonsense Novels by Stephen Lee Koch Section 7 The Blue and the Gray A Pre-War War Story The title is selected for its originality. A set of 75 maps will be supplied to any reader free for 75 cents. This offer is only open till it is closed. Chapter 1 The scene was a striking one. It was night. Never had the Mississippi presented a more remarkable appearance. Broad bayous, swollen beyond our powers of description, swirled to and fro in the darkness under trees garlanded with Spanish moss. All moss other than Spanish has been swept away by the angry flood of the river. Agilston Lee Cary Randolph, a young Virginian, captain of the Blankth Company of the Blankth Regiment of Someone's Brigade, even this is more than we ought to say and is hard to pronounce, attached to the Army of the Tennessee, struggled in vain with the swollen waters. At times he sank, at other times he went up. In the intervals he wondered whether it would ever be possible for him to rejoin the particular platoon of the particular regiment to which he belonged and of which his whereabouts, not having the volume of the Army record at hand, he was in ignorance. In the intervals also he reflected on his past life to a sufficient extent to give the reader a more or less workable idea as to who and to what he was. His father, the old gray-haired Virginian aristocrat, he could see him still. Take this sword, Agilston, he had said. Use it for the State, never for anything else. Don't cut string with it or open tin cans. Never sheath it till the soil of Virginia is free. Keep it bright, my boy. Oil it every now and then, and you'll find it an A1 sword. Did Agilston think, too, in his dire peril of another younger than his father and fairer? Necessarily he did. Go, Agilston, she had exclaimed, as they said farewell under the portico of his father's house where she was visiting. It is your duty, but mine lies elsewhere. I cannot forget that I am a northern girl. I must return it once to my people in Pennsylvania. Oh, egg, when will this cruel war end? So had the lovers parted. Meanwhile, while Agilston is going up and down for the third time, which is, of course, the last, suppose we leave him and return to consider the general position of the Confederacy. All right, suppose we do. Chapter 2 At this date the Confederate army of the Tennessee was extended in a line with its right resting on the Tennessee and its left resting on the Mississippi. Its rear rested on the rugged stone hills of the Chickasaba Range, while its front rested on the marshes and bayous of the Yazoo. Having thus, as far as we understand military matters, both its flanks covered and its rear protected, its position was one which we ourselves consider very comfortable. It was thus in an admirable situation for holding a review or for discussing the Constitution of the United States in reference to the right of secession. The following generals rode up and down in front of the army, namely Mr. A. P. Hill, Mr. Longstreet, and Mr. Joseph Johnston. All these three celebrated men are thus presented to our readers at one in the same time without extra charge. But who is this tall commanding figure who rides beside them, his head bent as if listening to what they are saying, he really isn't, while his eye alternately flashes with animation or softens to its natural melancholy. In fact we can only compare it to an electric light bulb with the power gone wrong. Who is it? It is Jefferson C. Davis, president, as our readers will be gratified to learn of the Confederate states. It being a fine day and altogether suitable for the purpose, General Longstreet reigned in his prancing black charger during this distressed period all the horses in both armies were charged. There was no other way to pay for them. And in a few terse words about three pages gave his views on the Constitution of the United States. Jefferson Davis, standing up in his stirrups, delivered a stirring harangue about six columns on the powers of the Supreme Court admirably calculated to rouse the soldiers to frenzy, after which General A. P. Hill offered a short address, soldier like unto the point, on the fundamental principles of international law which inflamed the army to the highest pitch. At this moment an officer approached the president, saluted and stood rigidly at attention. Davis, with that nice punctilio which marked the southern army, returned to the salute. Do you speak first, he said, or did I? Let me, said the officer. Your Excellency, he continued, a young Virginian officer has just been fished out of the Mississippi. Davis's eye flashed. Good, he said, look and see if there are any more. And then he added with a touch of melancholy, the south needs them, fish them all out, bring this one here. Eggleston Lee Kerry Randolph, still dripping from the waters of the bayou, was led by the faithful Negroes who had rescued him before the generals. Davis, who had kept every thread of the vast panorama of the war in his intricate brain, eyed him keenly and directed a few searching questions to him such as, Who are you? Where are you? What day of the week is it? How much is nine times twelve? and so forth. Satisfied with Eggleston's answers, Davis sat in thought a moment and then continued, I am anxious to send someone through the entire line of the Confederate armies in such a way that he will be present at all the great battles and end up at the battle of Gettysburg. Can you do it? Randolph looked at his chief with a flush of pride. I can. Good, resumed Davis, to accomplish this task you must carry dispatches. What they will be about I have not yet decided, but it is customary in such cases to write them so that they are calculated, if lost, to endanger the entire Confederate cause. The main thing is, can you carry them? Sir, said Eggleston, rising his hand in a military salute, I am a Randolph. Davis with soldierly dignity removed his hat. I am proud to hear it, Captain Randolph, he said. And a carry, continued our hero. Davis, with the graciousness all his own, took off his gloves. I trust you, Major Randolph, he said. And I am a Lee, added Eggleston quickly. Davis with a courtly bow unbuttoned his jacket. It is enough, he said, I trust you. You shall carry the dispatches. You are to carry them on your person, and, as of course you understand, you are to keep on losing them. You are to drop them into rivers, hide them in old trees, bury them under moss, talk about them in your sleep. In fact, sir, said Davis, with a slight gesture of impatience, it was his one fault, you must act towards them as any bearer of Confederate dispatches is expected to act. The point is, can you do it or can't you? Sir, said Randolph, saluting again with simple dignity, I come from Virginia. Pardon me, said the President, saluting with both hands, I had forgotten it. CHAPTER III. Randolph set out that night, mounted upon the fastest horse, in fact the fleetest, that the Confederate army could supply. He was attended only by a dozen faithful Negroes, all devoted to his person. Riding over the Tennessee mountains, by paths known absolutely to no one and never advertised, he crossed the Tom Bigby, the Tahoochee, and the Tallahassee, all frightfully swollen, and arrived at the headquarters of General Braxton Bragg. At this moment Bragg was extended over some seven miles of bush and dense swamp. His front rested on the marshes of the Tahoochee River, while his rear was doubled sharply back and rested on a dense growth of cactus plants. Our readers can thus form a fairly accurate idea of Bragg's position. Over against him, not more than fifty miles to the north, his indomitable opponent, Grant, lay in a frog swamp. The space between them was filled with Union and Confederate pickets, fraternizing, joking, roasting corn, and firing an occasional shot at one another. One glance at Randolph's dispatches was enough. Take them at once to General Hood, said Bragg. Where is he? asked Dagelston with military precision. Bragg waved his sword towards the east. It was characteristic of the man that even on active service he carried a short sword, while a pistol, probably loaded, protruded from his belt. But such was Bragg. Anyway, he waved his sword. Over there, beyond the Tahoochee Kaba range, he said. Do you know it? No, said Randolph, but I can find it. Do, said Bragg, and added, one thing more. On your present mission, let nothing stop you. Go forward at all costs. If you come to a river, swim it. If you come to a tree, cut it down. If you strike a fence, climb over it. But don't stop. If you are killed, never mind. Do you understand? Almost, said Eggelston. Two days later, Eggelston reached the headquarters of General Hood, and flung himself, rather than dismounted, from his jaded horse. Take me to the general, he gasped. They pointed to the log cabin in which General Hood was quartered. Eggelston flung himself, rather than stepped, through the door. Hood looked up from the table. Who was that flung himself in, he asked. Randolph reached out his hand. Dispatches, he gasped. Food, whiskey. Poor lad, said the general. You are exhausted. When did you last have food? Yesterday morning, gasped Eggelston. You're lucky, said Hood bitterly. And when did you last have a drink? Two weeks ago, answered Randolph. Great Heaven, said Hood, starting up. Is it possible? Here, quick, drink it. He reached out a bottle of whiskey. Randolph drained it to the last drop. Now, general, he said, I am at your service. Meanwhile, Hood had cast his eye over the dispatches. Major Randolph, he said, have you seen General Bragg? I have. And Generals Johnston and Smith? Yes. You have been through Mississippi and Tennessee and seen all the battles there? I have, said Randolph. Then, said Hood, there is nothing left except to send you at once to the army in Virginia under General Lee. Remount your horse at once and ride to Gettysburg. Lose no time. Chapter 4 It was at Gettysburg in Pennsylvania that Randolph found General Lee. The famous field is too well known to need description. The armies of the North and the South lay in and around the peaceful village of Gettysburg. About it the yellow cornfields basked in the summer sun. The voices of the teachers and the laughter of merry children rose in the harvest fields. But already the shadow of war was falling over the landscape. As soon as the armies arrived, the shrewder of the farmers suspected that there would be trouble. General Lee was seated gravely on his horse, looking gravely over the ground before him. Major Randolph, said the Confederate chieftain gravely, You are just in time. We are about to go into action. I need your advice. Randolph bowed. Ask me anything you like, he said. Do you like the way I have the army placed? asked Lee. Our hero directed a searching look over the field. Frankly I don't, he said. What is the matter with it? questioned Lee eagerly. I have felt there was something wrong myself. What is it? Your left, said Randolph, is too far advanced. It sticks out. By heaven, said Lee, turning to General Longstreet, The boy is right. Is there anything else? Yes, said Randolph, your right is crooked. It is all sideways. It is, it is, said Lee, striking his forehead. I had never noticed it. I'll have it straightened at once. Major Randolph, if the Confederate cause is saved, you and you alone have saved it. One thing more, said Randolph, is your artillery loaded? Major Randolph, said Lee, speaking very gravely, You have saved us again. I never thought of it. At this moment a bullet sang past Eggleston's ear. He smiled. The battle has begun, he murmured. Another bullet buzzed past his other ear. He laughed softly to himself. A shell burst close to his feet. He broke into uncontrolled laughter. This kind of thing always amused him. Then, turning grave in a moment, Put General Lee under cover, he said to those about him, spread something over him. In a few moments the battle was raging in all directions. The Confederate army was nominally controlled by General Lee, but in reality by our hero. Eggleston was everywhere. Horses were shot under him. Mules were shot around him and behind him. Shells exploded all over him. But with undaunted courage he continued to wave his sword in all directions, riding wherever the fight was hottest. The battle raged for three days. On the third day of the conflict, Randolph, his coat shot to rags, his hat pierced, his trousers practically useless, still stood at Lee's side, urging and encouraging him. Mounted on his charger, he flew to and fro in all parts of the field, moving the artillery, leading the cavalry, animating and directing the infantry. In fact, he was the whole battle. But his efforts were in vain. He turned sadly to General Lee. It is bootless, he said. What is, asks Lee. The army, said Randolph, we must withdraw it. Major Randolph, said the Confederate Chief, I yield to your superior knowledge. We must retreat. A few hours later the Confederate forces, checked but not beaten, were retiring southward towards Virginia. Eggleston, his head sunk in thought, rode in the rear. As he thus slowly neared a farmhouse, a woman, a girl, flew from it towards him with outstretched arms. Eggleston, she cried. Randolph flung himself from his horse. Leonora, he gasped, you're here in all this danger. How comes it? What brings you here? We live here, she said. This is Pa's house. This is our farm. Gettysburg is our home. Oh, Egg, it has been dreadful, the noise of the battle. We couldn't sleep for it. Pa's all upset about it. But come in, do come in, dinner's nearly ready. Eggleston gazed a moment at the retreating army. Duty and affection struggled in his heart. I will, he said. CHAPTER V CONCLUSION The strife is done, the conflict has ceased, the wounds are healed, north and south are won, east and west are even less. The civil war is over, Lee is dead, Grant is buried in New York. The Union Pacific runs from Omaha to San Francisco. There is total prohibition in the United States. The output of dressed beef last year broke all records. And Eggleston Lee Kerry Randolph survives, hail and hearty, bright and cheery, free and easy, and so forth. There is gray hair upon his temples, some not much, and his step has lost something of its elasticity, not a great deal, and his form is somewhat bowed, though not really crooked. But he still lives there in the farmstead at Gettysburg, and Leonora, now like himself, an old woman, is still at his side. You may see him any day. In fact, he is the old man who shows you over the battlefield for fifty cents, and explains how he himself fought and won the great battle. End of Section 7, Recording by Trisha G. Section 8 of Winsome Winnie and Other New Nonsense Novels This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Winsome Winnie and Other New Nonsense Novels by Stephen Leacock. Section 8, Bugham Grange A Good Old Ghost Story The evening was already falling, as the vehicle in which I was contained entered upon the long and gloomy avenue that leads to Bugham Grange. A resounding shriek echoed through the wood as I entered the avenue. I paid no attention to it at the moment, judging it to be merely one of those resounding shrieks which one might expect to hear in such a place at such a time. As my drive continued, however, I found myself wondering in spite of myself why such a shriek should have been uttered at the very moment of my approach. I am not by temperament in any degree a nervous man, and yet there was much in my surroundings to justify a certain feeling of apprehension. The Grange is situated in the loneliest part of England, the marsh country of the Fens, to which civilization has still hardly penetrated. The inhabitants, of whom there are only one-and-a-half to the square mile, live here and there among the Fens and eke out a miserable existence by frog-fishing and catching flies. They speak a dialect so broken as to be practically unintelligible while the perpetual rain which falls upon them renders speech itself almost superfluous. Here and there, where the ground rises slightly above the level of the Fens, there are dense woods tangled with parasitic creepers and filled with owls. Bats fly from wood to wood. The air on the lower ground is charged with the poisonous gases which exude from the marsh, while in the woods it is heavy with the dank odors of deadly nightshade and poison ivy. It had been raining in the afternoon, and as I drove up the avenue the mournful dripping of the rain from the dark trees accentuated the cheerlessness of the gloom. The vehicle in which I rode was a fly on three wheels, the fourth having apparently been broken and taken off, causing the fly to sag on one side and drag on its axle over the muddy ground. The fly thus moving only at a foot's pace in a way calculated to enhance the dreariness of the occasion. The driver on the box in front of me was so thickly muffled up as to be indistinguishable while the horse which drew us was so thickly coated with mist as to be practically invisible. Seldom I may say have I had a drive of so mournful a character. The avenue presently opened out upon a lawn with overgrown shrubberies and in the half-darkness I could see the outline of the Grange itself, a rambling, dilapidated building. A dim light struggled through the casement of a window in a tower room. Save for the melancholy cry of a row of owls sitting on the roof and croaking of the frogs in the moat which ran around the grounds, the place was soundless. My driver halted his horse at the hither side of the moat. I tried in vain to urge him by signs to go further. I could see by the fellow's face that he was in a paroxym of fear that nothing but the extra sixpence which I had added to his fare would have made him undertake the drive up the avenue. I had no sooner alighted than he wheeled his cababout and made off. Laughing heartily at the fellow's trepidation I have a way of laughing heartily in the dark I made my way to the door and pulled the bell handle. I could hear the muffled reverberations of the bell far within the building. Then all was silent. I bent my ear to listen but could hear nothing except, perhaps, the sound of a low moaning as of a person in pain or in great mental distress. Convinced, however, from what my friend Sir Jeremy Bugham had told me that the grange was not empty, I raised the ponderous knocker and beat with it loudly against the door. But perhaps at this point I may do well to explain to my readers before they are too frightened to listen to me how I came to be beating on the door of Bugham Grange at nightfall on a gloomy November evening. A year before I had been sitting with Sir Jeremy Bugham the present baronet on the veranda of his ranch in California. So you don't believe in the supernatural? he was saying. Not in the slightest, I answered lighting a cigar as I spoke. When I want to speak very positively I generally light a cigar as I speak. Well, at any rate Digby, said Sir Jeremy, Bugham Grange is haunted. If you want to be assured of it go down there any time and spend the night and you'll see for yourself. My dear fellow, I replied, nothing will give me greater pleasure. I shall be back in England in six weeks and I shall be delighted to put your ideas to the test. Now tell me, I added somewhat cynically, is there any particular season or day when your Grange is supposed to be specially terrible? Sir Jeremy looked at me strangely. Why do you ask that? he said. Have you heard the story of the Grange? Never heard of the place in my life, I answered cheerily. Till you mentioned it tonight, my dear fellow, I hadn't the remotest idea that you still owned property in England. The Granges shut up, said Sir Jeremy and has been for twenty years. But I keep a man there, horrid. He was Butler in my father's time and before. If you care to go, I'll write him that you're coming. And since you are taking your own fate in your hands, the fifteenth of November is the day. At that moment, Lady Bugham and Clara and the other girls came trooping out on the veranda and the whole thing passed clean out of my mind. Nor did I think of it again until I was back in London. Then by one of those strange coincidences or premonitions, call it what you will, it suddenly occurred to me one morning that it was the fifteenth of November. Whether Sir Jeremy had written to horrid or not, I do not know. But nonetheless, Nightfall found me, as I have described, knocking at the door of Bugham Grange. The sound of the knocker had scarcely ceased to echo when I heard the shuffling of feet within and the sound of chains and bolts being withdrawn. The door opened. A man stood before me holding a lighted candle which he shaded with his hand. His faded black clothes, once apparently a butler's dress, his white hair and advanced age, left me in no doubt that he was horrid of whom Sir Jeremy had spoken. Without a word he motioned me to come in, and without speech he helped me to remove my wet outer garments and then beckoned me into a great room, evidently the dining room of the Grange. I am not in any degree a nervous man by temperament as I think I remarked before, and yet there was something in the vastness of the wainscotted room lighted only by a single candle and in the silence of the empty house and still more in the appearance of my speechless attendant which gave me a feeling of distinct uneasiness. As horrid moved to and fro, I took occasion to scrutinize his face more narrowly. I have seldom seen features more calculated to inspire a nervous dread. The pallor of his face and the whiteness of his hair, the man was at least 70, and still more the peculiar furtiveness of his eyes seemed to mark him as one who lived under a great terror. He moved with a noiseless step and at times he turned his head to glance in the dark corners of the room. Sir Jeremy told me I said, speaking as loudly and as heartily as I could that he would apprise you of my coming. I was looking into his face as I spoke. In answer, horrid laid his finger across his lips and I knew that he was deaf and dumb. I am not nervous I think I said that the realization that my sole companion in the empty house was a deaf mute struck a cold chill to my heart. Horrid laid in front of me a cold meat pie, a cold goose, a cheese, and a tall flagon of cider, but my appetite was gone. I ate the goose but found that after I had finished the pie I had but little zest for the cheese which I finished without enjoyment. The cider had a sour taste and after having permitted Horrid to fill the flagon twice I found that it induced a sense of melancholy and decided to drink no more. My meal finished the butler picked up the candle and beckoned me to follow him. We passed through the empty corridors of the house a long line of pictured buggums looking down upon us as we passed their portraits in the flickering light of the taper assuming a strange and lifelike appearance mirrored from their frames to gaze upon the intruder. Horrid led me upstairs and I realized that he was taking me to the tower in the east wing in which I had observed a light. The rooms to which the butler conducted me consisted of a sitting room with an adjoining bedroom both of them fitted with antique wainscotting against which a faded tapestry fluttered. There was a candle burning on the table in the sitting room and the insufficient light only rendered the surroundings the more dismal. Horrid bent down in front of the fireplace and endeavored to light a fire there but the wood was evidently damp and the fire flickered feebly on the hearth. The butler left me and in the stillness of the house I could hear his shuffling step echo down the corridor. It may have been fancy but it seemed to me that his departure was the signal for a low moan to find the wainscot. There was a narrow cupboard door at one side of the room and for the moment I wondered whether the moaning came from within. I am not as a rule lacking in courage I am sure my reader will be decent enough to believe this yet I found myself entirely unwilling to open the cupboard door and look within. In place of doing so I seated myself in a great chair in front of the feeble fire. I sat there for some time when I happened to lift my eyes to the mantle above and saw standing upon it a letter addressed to myself. I knew the handwriting at once to be that of Sir Jeremy Bugham. I opened it and spreading it out within reach of the feeble candlelight I read as follows My dear Digby in our talk that you will remember I had no time to finish telling you about the mystery of Bugham Grange I take for granted however that you will go there and that Horrid will put you in the tower rooms which are the only ones that make any pretense of being habitable. I have therefore sent him this letter to deliver at the Grange itself. The story is this On the night of the 15th of November 50 years ago my grandfather was murdered in the room in which you are sitting by his cousin Sir Dougham Bugham He was stabbed from behind while seated at the little table at which you are probably reading this letter The two had been playing cards at the table and my grandfather's body was found lying in a litter of cards and gold sovereigns on the floor Sir Dougham Bugham insensible from drink lay beside him the fatal knife at his hand his fingers smeared with blood My grandfather though of the younger branch possessed a part of the estates that were hurt to Sir Dougham on his death Sir Dougham Bugham was tried at the assizes and was hanged On the day of his execution he was permitted by the authorities out of respect for his rank to wear a mask to the scaffold The clothes in which he was executed are hanging at full length in the little cupboard to your right and the mask is above them It is said that on every 15th of November at midnight the servants and Sir Dougham Bugham walks out into the room It has been found impossible to get servants to remain at the Grange and the place except for the presence of Horrid has been unoccupied for a generation At the time of the murder Horrid was a young man of 22 newly entered into the service of the family It is he who entered the room and discovered the crime On the day of the execution he was stricken with paralysis and has never spoken since From that time to this he has never consented to leave the Grange where he lives in isolation Wishing you a pleasant night after your tiring journey I remain very faithfully Jeremy Bugham I leave my reader to imagine my state of mind when I completed the perusal of the letter I have as little belief in the supernatural as anyone yet I must confess that there was something in the surroundings in which I now found myself which rendered me at least uncomfortable My reader may smile if he will but I assure him that it was with a very distinct feeling of uneasiness that I at length managed to rise to my feet and grasping my candle in my hand to move backward into the bedroom As I backed into it something so like a moan seemed to proceed from the closed cupboard that I accelerated my backward movement to a considerable degree I hastily blew out the candle threw myself upon the bed and drew the bed clothes over my head keeping however one eye and one ear still out and available How long I lay thus listening to every sound I cannot tell the stillness had become absolute From time to time I could dimly hear the distant cry of an owl and once far away in the building below a sound as of someone dragging a chain along a floor More than once I was certain I heard the sound of moaning behind the wainscot Meantime I realized that the hour must now be drying close upon the fatal moment of midnight My watch I could not see in the darkness but by reckoning the time that must have elapsed I knew that midnight could not be far away Then presently my ear alert to every sound could just distinguish far away across the fence the striking of a church bell in the clock tower of Bugham Village Church no doubt tolling the hour of twelve On the last stroke of twelve the cupboard door in the next room opened There is no need to ask me how I knew it I couldn't of course see it but I could hear or sense in some way the sound of it I could feel my hair all of it rising upon my head I was aware that there was a presence in the adjoining room I will not say a person, a living soul but a presence Anyone who has been in the next room to a presence will know just how I felt I could hear a sound as of someone groping on the floor and the faint rattle as of coins My hair was now perpendicular My reader can blame it or not but it was Then at this very moment from somewhere below in the building there came the sound of a prolonged and piercing cry a cry as of a soul passing in agony My reader may censure me or not but right at this moment I decided to beat it Whether I should have remained to see what was happening is a question that I will not discuss My one idea was to get out and to get out quickly The window of the tower room was some twenty five feet above the ground I sprang out through the casement in one leap and landed on the grass below I jumped over the shrubbery in one bound and cleared the moat in one jump I went down the avenue in about six strides and ran five miles along the road through the fence in three minutes This at least is an accurate transcription of my sensations It may have taken longer I never stopped until I found myself on the threshold of the bugam arms in little bugam feeding on the door for the landlord I returned to Bugam Grange on the next day in the bright sunlight of a frosty November morning in a seven cylinder motor car with six local constables and a physician It makes all the difference We carried revolvers, spades, pickaxes shotguns and a Ouija board What we found cleared up forever the mystery of the Grange We discovered Horrid the Butler on the dining room floor quite dead The physician said that he had died from heart failure There was evidence from the marks of his shoes in the dust that he had come in the night to the tower room On the table he had placed a paper which contained a full confession of his having murdered Jeremy Bugam 50 years before The circumstances of the murder had rendered it easy for him to fasten the crime upon Sir Dougam already insensible from drink A few minutes with the Ouija board enabled us to get a full corroboration from Sir Dougam He promised, moreover now that his name was cleared to go away from the premises forever My friend, the present Sir Jeremy has rehabilitated Bugam Grange The place is rebuilt The moat is drained The whole house is lit with electricity There are beautiful motor drives in all directions in the woods He has had the bats shot and the owls stuffed His daughter, Clara Bugam became my wife She is looking over my shoulder as I write What more do you want? End of section 8 Recording by Tricia G End of Winsome Winnie and Other New Nonsense Novels by Stephen Lee Cock