She clung to him as a baby so instinctively clings to a loving and protecting parent in times of danger. There was not a doubt in any heart that the woman nestled in the old gray veteran’s embrace was other than his own—his true and legitimate daughter.
The old veteran sat down, leaned back in his chair, crossed his feet, and beckoned to Pearl to sit on a stool nearby. Then he spoke, “Jeff, give me the strong box from my safe. I wish to take it home with me tonight because locked inside are many memories that we shall share this evening after dinner.”
Jeff, handing the long, slim metal box to his father, said, “Father, George will be outside anytime now. Let us not keep him waiting.”
“By all means—by all means,” replied the white-headed old dragoon. “Pearl, you and your son must stay with me as long as you wish.”
“Our things are at the hotel,” Pearl responded.
“Don’t worry. Soon as George takes us home, he will pick up your belongings and settle with the proprietor. Mr. Keener, you must stay with us while here in Chicago. Give me your key, and I will have George take care of your luggage and bill also,” answered the old veteran, holding his hand out for the key.
The old colonel was beside himself with joy and gladness. There could be no doubt about his sincerity—a heart of pure gold. It reverberated in every word, and it was etched in his face.
George, the chauffeur, was waiting when we exited the bank. The Nigger and I rode up front with the big black man. Pearl rode in the middle, between the banker and her father, in the back. My father rode on the left in the back. At last, farther north on Michigan Avenue, we turned into a driveway that was the palatial Wainwright home.
In front and on either side of the mansion was a wide, beautifully kept lawn. Shrubbery was well arranged around the building and surrounding grounds. Large trees were scattered around the spacious area. Many flowerpots with beautiful blooming flowers lined the steps and porch.
The chauffeur brought the big car to a halt at the side entrance. Slightly to the rear and right of the entrance was a beautiful, symmetric garden surrounding a brick walkway leading to a fountain, and there directly located behind the fountain stood another statue of a Union officer astride a magnificent steed. Through the falling spray from the fountain, we could see the inscription on the base, “Black Demon and Jack, the truest friends.”
After dinner, in all the style and luxury of the vainly rich, we retired to the library room. There Mrs. Wainwright asked, “I would like to take you to the theater tonight. There is a wonderful comedy playing, and I know you would love it.”
The old veteran insisted that Pearl stay so they could become better acquainted.
My father excused us by saying, “I’m not one who likes plays.”
George had delivered our baggage. Mrs. Wainwright had Pearl’s placed in a room inside the mansion. The Nigger’s, Father’s, and my luggage was sent to a guesthouse out back. After George had placed our luggage according to her instructions, he drove Mrs. Wainwright, her husband, and her daughter to the theater.
The old colonel, Pearl, Father, and I were left in the library room. The Nigger went outside to sit in the beautiful little garden. Soon the old dragoon opened the long, slim strongbox and brought forth a time-worn and faded diary.
It told, in detail, about his first enlistment as Ensign Jack Yates and his attachment to the Chicago Gray Dragoons and their assignment in Western Virginia. It related the trouble he had with certain officers and men in the detachment. It told about the fight with his own comrades over Molly Campbell at a little mountain place called the Pines. There was the account on how he had killed one and how Molly killed another, saving his life; how Molly had nursed him back to health; his great love for her; his talk with Colonel Rutherford Hayes and the sympathetic view and Sergeant William McKinley. It told about their scheduled court-martial and how he was then taken by General Lee and the Rebel army to Culpepper. It related how he stole Jackson’s plans and his affair with General Jackson.
Here the old veteran paused. His eyes filled with tears. Turning, looking at Pearl, and sobbing, he said, “I can see her again on that never-to-be forgotten morning. There at Culpepper, when Jackson had sentenced me to be shot in an hour. How wonderful—how beautiful she was then. It was as if she knew it was our last moment together. I remember our walk through the garden, our whispering and the look on her face when she conceived the plan for me to escape. Ah—I hear her words ringing in my ears yet. It was as if she knew it was our last moment together. Yet her words did not imply such premonition. No angel from heaven could have surpassed her magnificence when she said, ‘I’ll manage the guard. Spring into the saddle and be off. This is the strength of my unconquerable love for you—a strength strong enough to save you. When the war is over, come for me. I’ll be in Richmond or at the Pines. Waiting, waiting.’” He paused, choking back his emotions. He continued, “I found her at the Pines waiting, but not knowing of my return. Pearl, to have the blood of such a heroine in your veins is worth more than all the gold in the world. You are Molly made over. A little older, a little larger, but you are her.”
Pearl, crying, rose from her chair, embraced the old man, and replied, “What about the blood of a hero like you?”
There was silence. It was several moments before he continued from the diary, which now told the facts pertaining to his second enlistment—this time under his name Jack Y. Wainwright. It listed his commission as a captain and assignment to the Army of the Potomac and many brief notations on his war experiences. Also recorded were the dates and brief contents of every letter to Molly—the detailed account of the death of Lieutenant Levi Campbell, his meeting with Lee on the battlefield, his being wounded, and his meeting in Richmond when Lee returned home. The last noted entry in the diary was his return to the Pines only to find his dearly beloved wife was dead and slept in peace in the little family cemetery across the ravine from the little mountain home at the Pines.
“We have talked about many things tonight, but we have an unspoken space of sixty-seven years to fill in. We will take the rest of our lives doing this, but this old man has to retire, or I will be ill tomorrow,” he said, excusing himself. He departed from the room.
CHAPTER XXV
After the old dragoon went to bed, we sat and discussed with Pearl what a blessing it had been for her to meet her father while we awaited the Wainwrights’ return from the theater. Dad excused himself, saying, “I’m going outside to have a smoke.”
Walking out onto the porch, he saw two people sitting on a bench, by the fountain, in the garden. He strolled over and found a white woman of considerable beauty talking with the Nigger. He made small talk with both while consuming his cigarette. Finishing his smoke, he returned to the house.
Entering into the hallway, he thought he heard footsteps and then the faint creak of a door followed by a dull thud and a human groan. Passing down the pitch-dark hall, he could see a faint streak of light, evidently the moonlight that flooded the old man’s room, shimmering through the door standing slightly ajar. Fearing the old colonel had gotten out of bed and fallen, my father silently and quickly stepped down the hall. He slowly opened the door, and there the moonbeams were pouring through the latticed window, revealing the form of a person bending over the body of the old dragoon, who lay prostrate on the bed.
He saw the person lift a bar upward to deliver a blow. Instantly, before the wielder could strike, my father was upon him. A desperate struggle followed. In the scuffle, my dad slipped, and the intruder swung the weapon, which caught Dad a glancing blow up and across the side of the head. He slumped to the floor, unconscious.