Border and Bastille | Page 2

should
communicate to that journal as constantly as circumstances would
permit, any interesting matter or incidents that fell in my way, in
consideration of which was voted a liberal supplement of the sinews of
war; but it was clearly understood that my movements and line of
action were to be absolutely untrammeled. I could not have entered into
any contract that in any way interfered with the primary object I had in
view. I had no intention of commencing such correspondence before I
had actually crossed the southern frontier, so that one letter from
Baltimore--afterwards quoted--was the solitary contribution I was able
to furnish.
I have said thus much, because I wish any one who may be interested
on the point to know clearly on what footing I stood at starting: for the
general public, of course, the subject cannot have the slightest interest.
Of all compositions, I suppose, a personal narrative is the most
wearying to the writer, if not to the reader; egotistical talk may be
pleasant enough, but, commit it to paper, the fault carries its own
punishment. The recurrence of that everlasting first pronoun becomes a
real stumbling-block to one at last. Yet there is no evading it, unless
you cast your story into a curt, succinct diary; to carry this off
effectively, requires a succession of incidents, more varied and
important than befell me.
A failure--absolute and complete--however brought about, is a fair

mark for mockery, if not for censure. Perhaps, however, I may hope
that some of my readers, in charity, if not in justice, will believe that I
have honestly tried to avoid over-coloring details of personal adventure,
and that no word here is set down in willful insincerity or malice,
though all are written by one whose enmity to all purely republican
institutions will endure to his life's end.

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
A Foul Start
CHAPTER II.
Congressia
CHAPTER III.
Capua
CHAPTER IV.
Friends in Council
CHAPTER V.
The Ford
CHAPTER VI.
The Ferry
CHAPTER VII.
Fallen Across the Threshold

CHAPTER VIII.
The Road to Avernus
CHAPTER IX.
Caged Birds
CHAPTER X.
Dark Days
CHAPTER XI.
Homeward Bound
CHAPTER XII.
A Popular Armament
CHAPTER XIII.
The Debatable Ground
CHAPTER XIV.
Slavery and the War

BORDER AND BASTILLE
CHAPTER I.
A FOUL START.
Looking back on an experience of many lands and seas, I cannot recall
a single scene more utterly dreary and desolate than that which awaited

us, the outward-bound, in the early morning of the 20th of last
December. The same sullen neutral tint pervaded and possessed
everything--the leaden sky--the bleak, brown shores over against
us--the dull graystone work lining the quays--the foul yellow
water--shading one into the other, till the division-lines became hard to
discern. Even where the fierce gust swept off the crests of the river
wavelets, boiling and breaking angrily, there was scant contrast of color
in the dusky spray, or murky foam.
The chafing Mersey tried in vain to make himself heard. All other
sounds--a voice, for instance, two yards from your ear--were drowned
by the trumpet of the strong northwester. All through the past night, we
listened to that note of war; we could feel the railway carriages
trembling and quivering, as if shaken by some rude giant's hand, when
they halted at any exposed station; and, this morning, the pilots shake
their wise, grizzled beads, and hint at worse weather yet in the offing.
For forty-eight hours the storm-signals had never been lowered, nor
changed, except to intimate the shifting of a point or two in the current
of the gale, and few vessels, if any, had been found rash enough to
slight "the admiral's" warning.
It had been gravely discussed, we heard afterwards, by the owners and
captain of "The Asia," whether she should venture to sea that day;
finally, the question was left to the latter to decide. There are as nice
points of honor, and as much jealous regard for professional credit in
the merchant service as in any other. Only once, since the line was
started, has a "Cunarder" been kept in port by wind or weather--this
was the commander's first trip across the Atlantic since his promotion;
you may guess which way the balance turned.
We waited on the landing-stage one long cold hour. The huge square
structure, ordinarily steady and solid as the mainland itself, was
pitching and rolling not much less "lively" than a Dutch galliot in a
sea-way; and the tug that was to take us on board parted three hawsers
before she could make fast alongside. It was hard to keep one's footing
on the shaking, slippery bridge, but in ten minutes all staggered or
tumbled, as choice or chance directed, on to the deck of the little

steamer. I was looking for a dry corner, when an