The Victim | Page 2

G. T. Beauregard, The First
Hero. Stonewall Jackson, Of the "Foot Cavalry." Robert E. Lee, The
Southern Commander. U. S. Grant, The Bull Dog Fighter. Nelson A.
Miles, A Jailer. John C. Underwood, A Reconstruction Judge.

THE VICTIM

The Prologue

THE VICTIM
PROLOGUE

I
KIDNAPPED
The hot sun of the South was sinking in red glow through the giant
tree-tops of a Mississippi forest beyond the village of Woodville. A
slender girl stood in the pathway watching a boy of seven trudge
manfully away beside his stalwart brother.
Her lips trembled and eyes filled with tears.
"Wait--wait!" she cried.
With a sudden bound she snatched him to her heart.
"Don't, Polly--you hurt!" the little fellow faltered, looking at her with a
feeling of sudden fear. "Why did you squeeze me so hard?"
"You shouldn't have done that, honey," the big brother frowned.
"I know," the sister pleaded, "but I couldn't help it."
"What are you crying about?" the boy questioned.
Again the girl's arm stole around his neck.
"What's the matter with her, Big Brother?" he asked with a brave
attempt at scorn.
The man slowly loosened the sister's arms.

"I'm just going home with you, ain't I?" the child went on, with a quiver
in his voice.
The older brother led him to a fallen log, sat down, and held his hands.
"No, Boy," he said quietly. "I'd as well tell you the truth now. I'm going
to send you to Kentucky to a wonderful school, taught by learned men
from the Old World--wise monks who know everything. You want to
go to a real school, don't you?"
"But my Mamma don't know--"
"That's just it, Boy. We can't tell her. She wouldn't let you go."
"Why?"
"Well, she's a good Baptist, and it's a long, long way to the St. Thomas
monastery."
"How far?"
"A thousand miles, through these big woods--"
The blue eyes dimmed.
"I want to see my Mamma before I go--" his voice broke.
The man shook his head.
"No, Boy; it won't do. You're her baby--"
The dark head sank with a cry.
"I want to see her!"
"Come, come, Jeff Davis, you're going to be a soldier. Remember
you're the son of a soldier who fought under General Washington and
won our freedom. You're named after Thomas Jefferson, the great
President. Your three brothers have just come home from New Orleans.

Under Old Hickory we drove the British back into their ships and sent
'em flying home to England. The son of a soldier--the brother of
soldiers--can't cry--"
"I will if I want to!"
"All right!" the man laughed--"I'll hold my hat and you can cry it full--"
He removed his hat and held it smilingly under the boy's firm little chin.
The childish lips tightened and the cheeks flushed with anger. His bare
toes began to dig holes in the soft rich earth. The appeal to his soldier
blood had struck into the pride of his heart and the insult of a hat full of
tears had hurt.
At last, he found his tongue:
"Does Pa know I'm goin'?"
"Yes. He thinks you're a very small boy to go so far, but knows it's for
the best."
"That's why he kissed me when I left?"
"Yes."
"I thought it was funny," he murmured with a half sob; "he never kissed
me before--"
"He's quiet and reserved, Boy, but he's wise and good and loves you.
He's had a hard time out here in the wilderness fighting his way with a
wife and ten children. He never had a chance to get an education and
the children didn't either. Some of us are too old now. There's time for
you. We're going to stand aside and let you pass. You're our baby
brother, and we love you."
The child's hand slowly stole into the rough one of the man.
"And I love you, Big Brother--" the little voice faltered, "and all the
others, too, and that's-why-I'm-not-goin'!"

"I'm so glad!" The girl clapped her hands and laughed.
"Polly!--"
"Well, I am, and I don't care what you say. He's too little to go so far
and you know he is--"
The man grasped her hand and whispered:
"Hush!"
The brother slipped his arm around the Boy and drew him on his knee.
He waited a moment until the hard lines at the corners of the firm
mouth had relaxed under the pressure of his caress, pushed the tangled
hair back from his forehead and looked into the fine blue-gray eyes. His
voice was tender and his speech slow.
"You must make up your mind to go, Boy. I don't want to force you. I
like to see your eyes flash when you say you won't go. You've got the
stuff in you that real men