Chapter 3: The Heart Of Rebellion

Harry, with his friend Colonel Leonidas Talbot, approached Charleston on Christmas morning. It was a most momentous day for him. As he came nearer, the place looked greater and greater. He had read much about it in the books in his father’s house--old tales of the Revolution and stories of its famous families--and now its name was in the mouths of all men.

He had felt a change in his own Kentucky atmosphere at Nashville, but it had become complete when he drew near Charleston. It was a different world, different alike in appearance and thought. The contrast made the thrill all the keener and longer. Colonel Talbot, also, was swayed by emotion, but his was that of one who was coming home.

“I was born here, and I passed my boyhood here,” he said. “I could not keep from loving it if I would, and I would not if I could. Look how the cold North melts away. See the great magnolias, the live oaks, and the masses of shrubbery! Harry, I promise you that you shall have a good time in this Charleston of ours.”

They had left the railroad some distance back and had come in by stage. The day was warm and pleasant. Two odors, one of flowers and foliage, and the other of the salt sea reached Harry. He found both good. He felt for the thousandth time his pocketbook and papers to see that they were safe, and he was glad that he had come, glad that he had been chosen for such an important errand.

The colonel asked the driver to stop the stage at a crossroad, and he pointed out to Harry a low, white house with green blinds, standing on a knoll among magnificent live oaks.

“That is my house, Harry,” he said, “and this is Christmas Day. Come and spend it with me there.”

Harry felt to the full the kindness of Colonel Leonidas Talbot, for whom he had formed a strong affection. The colonel seemed to him so simple, so honest, and, in a way, so unworldly, that he had won his heart almost at once. But he felt that he should decline, as his message must be delivered as soon as he arrived in Charleston.

“I suppose you are right,” said the colonel, when the boy had explained why he could not accept. “You take your letters to the gentlemen who are going to make the war, and then you and I and others like us, ranging from your age to mine, will have to fight it.”

But Harry was not to be discouraged. He could not see things in a gray light on that brilliant Christmas morning. Here was Charleston before him and in a few hours he would be in the thick of great events. A thrill of keen anticipation ran through all his veins. He and the colonel stood by the roadside while the obliging driver waited. He offered his hand, saying goodbye.

“It’s only for a day,” said Colonel Leonidas Talbot, as he gave the hand a strong clasp. “I shall be in Charleston tomorrow, and I shall certainly see you.”

Harry sprang back to his place and the stage rolled joyously into Charleston. Harry saw at once that the city was even more crowded than Nashville had been. Its population had increased greatly in a few weeks, and he could feel the quiver of excitement in the air. Citizen soldiers were drilling in open places, and other men were throwing up earthworks.

He left the stage and carried over his arm his baggage, which still consisted only of a pair of saddle bags. He walked to an old-fashioned hotel which Colonel Talbot had selected for him as quiet and good, and as he went he looked at everything with a keen and eager interest. The deep, mellow chiming of bells, from one point and then from another, came to his ears. He knew that they were the bells of St. Philip’s and St. Michael’s, and he looked up in admiration at their lofty spires. He had often heard, in far Kentucky, of these famous churches and their silver chimes.

It seemed to Harry that the tension and excitement of the people in the streets were of a rather pleasant kind. They had done a great deed, and, keyed to a high pitch by their orators and newspapers, they did not fear the consequences. The crowd seemed foreign to him in many aspects, Gallic rather than American, but very likable.

He reached his hotel, a brick building behind a high iron fence, kept by a woman of olive complexion, middle years, and pleasant manners, Madame Josephine Delaunay. She looked at him at first with a little doubt, because it was a time in Charleston when one must inspect strangers, but when he mentioned Colonel Leonidas Talbot she broke into a series of smiles.

“Ah, the good colonel!” she exclaimed. “We were children at school together, but since he became a soldier he has gone far from here. And has he returned to fight for his great mother, South Carolina?”

“He has come back. He has resigned from the army, and he is here to do South Carolina’s bidding.”

“It is like him,” said Madame Delaunay. “Ah, that Leonidas, he has a great soul!”

“I traveled with him from Nashville to Charleston,” said Harry, “and I learned to like and admire him.”

He had established himself at once in the good graces of Madame Delaunay and she gave him a fine room overlooking a garden, which in season was filled with roses and oranges. Even now, pleasant aromatic odors came to him through the open window. He had been scarcely an hour in Charleston but he liked it already. The old city breathed with ease and grace to which he was unused. The best name that he knew for it was fragrance.

He had a suit of fresh clothing in his saddle bags, and he arrayed himself with the utmost neatness and care. He felt that he must do so. He could not present himself in a rough guise to a people who had every right to be fastidious. He would also obtain further clothing out of the abundant store of money, as his father had wished him to make a good appearance and associate with the best.

He descended and found Madame Delaunay in the garden, where she gave him welcome, with grave courtesy. She seemed to him in the manner and bearing a woman of wealth and position, and not the keeper of an inn, doing most of the work with her own hands. He learned later that the two could go together in Charleston, and he also learned, that she was the grand-daughter of a great Haitian sugar planter, who had fled from the island, leaving everything to the followers of Toussaint L’Ouverture, glad to reach the shores of South Carolina in safety.

Madame Delaunay looked with admiration at the young Kentuckian, so tall and powerful for his age. To her, Kentucky was a part of the cold North.

“Can you tell me where I am likely to find Senator Yancey?” asked Harry. “I have letters which I must deliver to him, and I have heard that he is in Charleston.”

“There is to be a meeting of the leaders this afternoon in St. Anthony’s Hall in Broad Street. You will surely find him there, but you must have your luncheon first. I think you must have travelled far.”

“From Kentucky,” replied Harry, and then he added impulsively: “I’ve come to join your people, Madame Delaunay. South Carolina has many powerful friends in the Upper South.”

“She will need them,” said Madame Delaunay, but with no tone of apprehension. “This, however, is a city that has withstood much fire and blood and it can withstand much more. Now I’ll leave you here in the garden. Come to luncheon at one, and you shall meet my other guests.”

Harry sat down on a little wooden bench beneath a magnolia. Here in the garden the odor of grass and foliage was keen, and thrillingly sweet. This was the South, the real South, and its warm passions leaped up in his blood. Much of the talk that he had been hearing recently from those older than he passed through his mind. The Southern states did have a right to go if they chose, and they were being attacked because their prominence aroused jealousy. Slavery was a side issue, a mere pretext. If it were not convenient to hand, some other excuse would be used. Here in Charleston, the first home of secession, among people who were charming in manner and kind, the feeling was very strong upon him.

He left the house after luncheon, and, following Madame Delaunay’s instructions came very quickly to St. Andrew’s hall in Broad Street, where five days before, the Legislature of South Carolina, after adjourning from Columbia had passed the ordinance of secession.

Two soldiers in the Palmetto uniform were on guard, but they quickly let him pass when he showed his letters to Senator Yancey. Inside, a young man, a boy, in fact, not more than a year older than himself, met him. He was slender, dark, and tall, dressed precisely, and his manner had that easy grace which, as Harry had noticed already, seemed to be characteristic of Charleston.

“My name is Arthur St. Clair,” he said, “and I’m a sort of improvised secretary for our leaders who are in council here.”

“Mine,” said Harry, “is Henry Kenton. I’m a son of Colonel George Kenton, of Kentucky, late a colonel in the United States Army, and I’ve come with important messages from him, Senator Culver, and other Southern leaders in Kentucky.”

“Then you will be truly welcome. Wait a moment and I’ll see if they are ready to receive you.”

He returned almost instantly and asked Harry to go in with him. They entered a large room, with a dais at the center of the far wall, and a number of heavy gilt chairs covered with velvet ranged on either side of it. Over the dais hung a large portrait of Queen Victoria as a girl in her coronation robes. A Scotch society had occupied this room, but the people of Charleston had always taken part in their festivities. In those very velvet chairs, the chaperons had sat while the dancing had gone on in the hall. Then the leaders of secession had occupied them when they put through their measure, and now they were sitting there again, deliberating.

A man of middle years and of quick, eager countenance arose when young St. Clair came in with Harry.

“Mr. Yancey,” said St. Clair, “this is Henry Kenton, the son of Colonel George Kenton, who has come from Kentucky with important letters.”

Yancey gave him his hand and a welcome, and Harry looked with intense interest at the famous Alabama orator, who, with Slidell, of South Carolina, and Toombs of Georgia, had matched the New England leaders in vehemence and denunciation. Mr. Slidell, an older man, was present and so was Mr. Jamison, of Barnwell, who had presided when secession was carried. There were more present, some prominent, others destined to become so, and Harry was introduced to them one by one.

He gave his letters to Yancey and retired with young St. Clair to the other end of the room, while the leaders read what had been written from Kentucky. Harry was learning to become a good observer, and he watched them closely as they read. He saw a look of pleasure come on the face of everyone, and presently Yancey beckoned to him.

“These are fine assurances,” said the orator, “and they have been brought by the worthy son of a worthy father. Colonel Kenton, Senator Culver and others have no doubt that Kentucky will go out with us. Now you are a boy, but boys sometimes see and hear more than men, and you are old enough to think; that is, to think in the real sense. Tell us, what is your own opinion?”

Harry flushed and paused in embarrassment.

“Go on,” said Mr. Yancey, persuasively.

“I do not know much,” said Harry slowly, wishing not to speak, but feeling that he was compelled by Mr. Yancey to do so, “but as far as I have seen, Kentucky is sorely divided. The people on the other side are perhaps not as strong and influential as ours, but they are more numerous.”

A shade passed over the face of Yancey, but he quickly recovered his good humor.

“You have done right to tell us the truth as you see it,” he said, “but we need Kentucky badly. We must have the state and we will get it. Did you hear anything before you left, of one Raymond Bertrand, a South Carolinian?”

“He was at my father’s house before I came away. I think it was his intention to go from there to Frankfort with some of our own people, and assist in taking out the state.”

Yancey smiled.

“Faithful to his errand,” he said. “Raymond Bertrand is a good lad. He has visions, perhaps, but they are great ones, and he foresees a mighty republic for us extending far south of our present border. But now that you have accomplished your task, what do you mean to do, Mr. Kenton?”

“I want to stay here,” replied Harry eagerly. “This is the head and center of all things. I think my father would wish me to do so. I’ll enlist with the South Carolina troops and wait for what happens.”

“Even if what happens should be war?”

“Most of all if it should be war. Then I shall be one of those who will be needed most.”

“A right and proper spirit,” said Mr. Jamison, of Barnwell. “When we can command such enthusiasm we are unconquerable. Now, we’ll not keep you longer, Mr. Kenton. This is Christmas Day, and one as young as you are is entitled to a share of the hilarity. Look after him, St. Clair.”

Harry went out with young St. Clair, whom he was now calling by his first name, Arthur. He, too, was staying with Madame Delaunay, who was a distant relative.

Harry ate Christmas dinner that evening with twenty people, many of types new to him. It made a deep impression upon him then, and one yet greater afterward, because he beheld the spirit of the Old South in its inmost shrine, Charleston. It seemed to him in later days that he had looked upon it as it passed.

They sat in a great dining room on a floor level with the ground. The magnolias and live oaks and the shrubs in the garden moved in the gentle wind. Fresh crisp air came through the windows, opened partly, and brought with it, as Harry thought, an aroma of flowers blooming in the farther south. He sat with young St. Clair--the two were already old friends--and Madame Delaunay was at the head of the table, looking more like a great lady who was entertaining her friends than the keeper of an inn.

Madame Delaunay wore a flowing white dress that draped itself in folds, and a lace scarf was thrown about her shoulders. Her heavy hair, intensely black, was bound with a gold fillet, after a fashion that has returned a half-century later. A single diamond sparkled upon her finger. She seemed to Harry foreign, handsome, and very distinguished.

About half the people in the room were of French blood, most of whom Harry surmised were descendants of people who had fled from Hayti or Santo Domingo. One, Hector St. Hilaire, almost sixty, but a major in the militia of South Carolina, soon proved that the boy’s surmise was right. Lemonade and a mild drink called claret-sanger was served to the boys, but the real claret was served to the major, as to the other elders, and the mellowness of Christmas pervaded his spirit. He drank a toast to Madame Delaunay, and the others drank it with him, standing. Madame Delaunay responded prettily, and, in a few words, she asked protection and good fortune for this South Carolina which they all loved, and which had been a refuge to the ancestors of so many of them. As she sat down she looked up at the wall and Harry’s glance followed hers. It was a long dining room, and he saw their great portraits in massive gilt frames. They were of people French in look, handsome, and dressed with great care and elaboration. The men were in gay coats and knee breeches, silk stockings, and buckled shoes. Small swords were at their sides. The women were even more gorgeous in velvet or heavy satin, with their hair drawn high upon their heads and powdered. One had a beauty patch upon her cheek.

Major St. Hilaire saw Harry’s look as it sped along the wall. He smiled a little sadly and then, a little cheerfully:

“Those are the ancestors of Madame Delaunay,” he said, “and some, I may mention in passing, are my own, also. Our gracious hostess and myself are more or less distantly related--less, I fear--but I boast of it, nevertheless, on every possible occasion. They were great people on a great island, once the richest colony of France, the richest colony in all the world. All those people whom you see upon the walls were educated in Paris or other cities of France, and they returned to life upon the magnificent plantations of Hayti. What has become of that brightness and glory? Gone like snow under a summer sun. ‘Tis nothing but the flower of fancy now. The free black savage has made a wilderness of Hayti, and our enemies in the North would make the same of South Carolina.”

A murmur of applause ran around the table. Major St. Hilaire had spoken with rhetorical effect and a certain undoubted pathos. Every face flushed, and Harry saw the tears glistening in the eyes of Madame Delaunay who, despite her fifty years, looked very handsome indeed in her white dress, with the glittering gold fillet about her great masses of hair.

The boy was stirred powerfully. His sensitive spirit responded at once to the fervid atmosphere about him, to the color, the glow, the intensity of a South far warmer than the one he had known. Their passions were his passions, and having seen the black and savage Hayti of which Major St. Hilaire had drawn such a vivid picture, he shuddered lest South Carolina and other states, too, should fall in the same way to destruction.

“It can never happen!” he exclaimed, carried away by impulse. “Kentucky and Virginia and the big states of the Upper South will stand beside her and fight with her!”

The murmur of applause ran around the table again, and Harry, blushing, made himself as small as he could in his chair.

“Don’t regret a good impulse. Mr. Kenton,” said a neighbor, a young man named James McDonald--Harry had noticed that Scotch names seemed to be as numerous as French in South Carolina--”the words that all of us believe to be true leaped from your heart.”

Harry did not speak again unless he was addressed directly, but he listened closely, while the others talked of the great crisis that was so obviously approaching. His interest did not make him neglect the dinner, as he was a strong and hearty youth. There were sweets for which he did not care much, many vegetables, a great turkey, and venison for which he did care, finishing with an ice and coffee that seemed to him very black and bitter.