# The Clansman (1905)/Book 2/Chapter 4

BEN had spent a month of vain effort to secure his father's release. He had succeeded in obtaining for him a removal to more comfortable quarters, books to read, and the privilege of a daily walk under guard and parole. The doctor's genial temper, the wide range of his knowledge, the charm of his personality, and his heroism in suffering had captivated the surgeons who attended him and made friends of every jailer and guard.
Elsie was now using all her woman's wit to secure a copy of the charges against him as formulated by the Judge Advocate General, who, in defiance of civil law, still claimed control of these cases.
To the boy's sanguine temperament the whole proceeding had been a huge farce from the beginning, and at the last interview with his father he had literally laughed him into a good humour.
"Look here, Pa," he cried. "I believe you're trying to slip off and leave us in this mess. It's not fair. It's easy to die."
"Who said I was going to die?"
"I heard you were trying to crawl out that way."
"Well, it's a mistake. I'm going to live just for the fun of disappointing my enemies and to keep you com​pany. But you'd better get hold of a copy of these charges against me—if you don't want me to escape."
"It's a funny world if a man can be condemned to death without any information on the subject."
"My son, we are now in the hands of the revolutionists, army cutlers, contractors, and adventurers. The Nation will touch the lowest tide-mud of its degradation within the next few years. No man can predict the end."
"Oh, go' long!" said Ben. "You've got jail cobwebs in your eyes."
"I'm depending on you."
"I'll pull you through if you don't lie down on me and die to get out of trouble. You know you can die if you try hard enough."
"I promise you, my boy," he said with a laugh.
"Then I'll let you read this letter from home," Ben said, suddenly thrusting it before him.
The doctor's hand trembled a little as he put on his glasses and read:
My Dear Boy: I cannot tell you how much good your bright letters have done us. It's like opening the window and letting in the sunlight while fresh breezes blow through one's soul.
Margaret and I have had stirring times. I send you inclosed an order for the last dollar of money we have left. You must hoard it. Make it last until your father is safe at home. I dare not leave it here. Nothing is safe. Every piece of silver and everything that could be carried has been stolen since we returned.
Uncle Aleck betrayed the place Jake had hidden our twenty precious bales of cotton. The war is long since over, but the "Treasury Agent" declared them confiscated, and then offered to relieve us of his order if we gave him five bales, each worth three hundred dollars in gold. I agreed, and within a week ​another thief came and declared the other fifteen bales confiscated. They steal it, and the Government never gets a cent. We dared not try to sell it in open market, as every bale exposed for sale is "confiscated" at once.
No crop was planted this summer. The negroes are all drawing rations at the Freedman's Bureau.
We have turned our house into a hotel, and our table has become famous. Margaret is a treasure. She has learned to do everything. We tried to raise a crop on the farm when we came home, but the negroes stopped work. The Agent of the Bureau came to us and said he could send them back for a fee of $50. We paid it, and they worked a week. We found it easier to run a hotel. We hope to start the farm next year.
Our new minister at the Presbyterian Church is young, handsome, and eloquent—Rev. Hugh McAlpin.
Mr. Lenoir died last week—but his end was so beautiful, our tears were half joy. He talked incessantly of your father and how the country missed him. He seemed much better the day before the end came, and we took him for a little drive to Lovers' Leap. It was there, sixteen years ago, he made love to Jeannie. When we propped him up on the rustic seat, and he looked out over the cliff and the river below, I have never seen a face so transfigured with peace and joy.
"What a beautiful world it is, my dears!" he exclaimed, taking Jeannie and Marion both by the hand.
They began to cry, and he said with a smile:
"Come now—do you love me?"
And they covered his hands with kisses.
"Well, then you must promise me two things faithfully here, with Mrs. Cameron to witness!"
"That when I fall asleep, not one thread of black shall ever cloud the sunlight of our little home, that you will never wear it, and that you will show your love for me by making my flowers grow richer, that you will keep my memory green by always being as beautiful as you are to-day, and make this old world a sweeter place to live in. I wish you, Jeannie, my mate, to keep on making the young people glad. Don't let their joys be less even for a month because I have laid down to rest. Let them sing and dance——"
"Oh, Papa!" cried Marion.
"Certainly, my little serious beauty—I'll not be far away. ​I'll be near and breathe my songs into their hearts, and into yours—you both promise?"
"Yes, yes!" they both cried.
As we drove back through the woods, he smiled tenderly and said to me:
"My neighbour, Doctor Cameron, pays taxes on these woods, but I own them! Their sighing boughs, stirred by the breezes, have played for me oratorios grander than all the scores of human genius. I'll hear the Choir Invisible play them when I sleep."
He died that night suddenly. With his last breath he sighed:
"Draw the curtains and let me see again the moonlit woods!"
They are trying to carry out his wishes. I found they had nothing to eat, and that he had really died from insufficient nourishment—a polite expression meaning starvation. I've divided half our little store with them and send the rest to you. I think Marion more and more the incarnate soul of her father. I feel as if they are both my children.
My little grandchick, Hugh, is the sweetest youngster alive. He was a wee thing when you left. Mrs. Lenoir kept him when they arrested your father. He is so much like your brother Hugh I feel as if he has come to life again. You should hear him say grace, so solemnly and tenderly, we can't help crying. He made it up himself. This is what he says at every meal:
"God, please give my grandpa something good to eat in jail, keep him well, don't let the pains hurt him any more, and bring him home to me quick, for Jesus' sake. Amen."
I never knew before how the people loved the doctor, nor how dependent they were on him for help and guidance. Men, both white and coloured, come here every day to ask about him. Some of them come from far up in the mountains.
God alone knows how lonely our home and the world has seemed without him. They say that those who love and live the close sweet home-life for years grow alike in soul and body, in tastes, ways, and habits. I find it so. People have told me that your father and I are more alike than brother and sister of the same blood. In spirit I'm sure it's true. I know you love him and that you will leave nothing undone for his health and safety. Tell him that my only cure for loneliness in his absence is my fight to keep the wolf from the door, and save our home against his coming. Lovingly, your Mother.
"Do you know, my boy, that you have the heritage of royal blood? You are the child of a wonderful mother. I'm ashamed when I think of the helpless stupor under which I have given up, and then remember the deathless courage with which she has braved it all—the loss of her boys, her property, your troubles and mine. She has faced the world alone like a wounded lioness standing over her cubs. And now she turns her home into a hotel, and begins life in a strange new world without one doubt of her success. The South is yet rich even in its ruin."
"Then you'll fight and go back to her with me?"
"Yes, never fear."
"Good! You see, we're so poor now, Pa, you're lucky to be saving a board bill here. I'd 'conspire' myself and come in with you but for the fact it would hamper me a little in helping you."