Harry, with his friend Colonel Leonidas Talbot, approached Charleston
on Christmas morning. It was a most momentous day to 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 to Charleston. It was a different world, different alike in appearance and in 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 of his pocket-book 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 cross road, 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. The colonel and he stood by the roadside while the obliging driver waited. He offered his hand, saying good-bye.
"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 likeable.
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.