Anthony Brown enlisted in a white regiment, there being no trace of color about him and no objection being made.  He claimed to have a presentiment that he would fall in battle at an early day.  Whether it was a presentiment or a mere fancy, it was his fate.  He now rests with the indistinguishable dead

Where the buzzard, flying,
Pauses at Malvern Hill.

When I learned of his death, a duty fell upon me.  He had written in one of his letters that if he did not return from the war he would like to have me tell his mother the true history of his life.  He had concealed from her his struggles in reference to color.  She knew nothing of his trials at Whitesboro or at Philadelphia.  No words had ever passed between them upon the subject.  He thought it better, if he lived, that she should never know, but if he died he wished that his history should be fully made known to her.

I made the journey on horseback over the ground I have already described.  It was a delightful autumn day when I passed through the village of Champion and went on to Mrs. Brown’s home.  She was expecting me, as I had written in advance announcing my intended visit.  I could see that she was greatly pleased to receive me.  I had been at the house two days before I ventured to introduce, in a formal manner, the subject of my mission.  Talking of old times, and leading gradually up to the subject, I frankly stated that Anthony had charged me to tell her the story of his personal history, and I exhibited his letter to her.  It was after dinner, as we were sitting in the front room reading and talking.  Mrs. Brown immediately became excited and anxious to hear.  As I disclosed the sorrow of Anthony’s life and related the particulars of his career, the effect upon her was not at all what I had expected.  She became more and more excited and distressed.  At last she called sharply to her servant-girl, Melissa, and told her to go and bring Father Michael, and to bid him come immediately.  While Melissa was gone, Mrs. Brown, with a great deal of agitation in her manner, proceeded to question me in regard to the incidents of Anthony’s career in Philadelphia, and frequently broke out with the exclamation, “Why could we not have known?”

Soon Father Michael came, and the woman assailed him at once in a harsh and accusing manner, speaking in the French language with great volubility.  He replied to her in the same tongue.  There was only here and there a word that I could understand.  It was plain, however, that there was a contest between them, and that it related to my deceased friend.

By degrees the matter was so far made plain that I understood that Anthony was not the son of Mrs. Brown, but was of the purest white blood and connected with people of rank.  Beyond this I was not permitted to know his history.  When I asked questions, Father Michael replied that it was better “not to break through the wall of the past.”  He said it was too late now to aid Anthony, but added that the trouble might have been averted if it had been known at the time.