“Camp Jackson has surrendered!”

They heard the patter of his bare feet on the pavement, and the cry repeated.

“Camp Jackson has surrendered!”

And so the war began for Virginia.  Bitter before, now was she on fire.  Close her lips as tightly as she might, the tears forced themselves to her eyes.  The ignominy of it!

How hard it is for us of this age to understand that feeling.

“I do not believe it!” she cried.  “I cannot believe it!”

The girls gathered around her, pale and frightened and anxious.  Suddenly courage returned to her, the courage which made Spartans of Southern women.  She ran to the front door.  Mr. Catherwood was on the sidewalk, talking to a breathless man.  That man was Mr. Barbo, Colonel Carvel’s book-keeper.

“Yes,” he was saying, “they—­they surrendered.  There was nothing else for them to do.  They were surrounded and overpowered.”

Mr. Catherwood uttered an oath.  But it did not shock Virginia.

“And not a shot fired?” he said.

“And not a shot fired?” Virginia repeated, mechanically.  Both men turned.  Mr. Barbo took off his hat.

“No, ma’am.”

“Oh, how could they!” exclaimed Virginia.

Her words seemed to arouse Mr. Catherwood from a kind of stupor.  He turned, and took her hand.

“Virginia, we shall make them smart for this yet, My God!” he cried, “what have I done that my son should be a traitor, in arms against his own brother fighting for his people?  To think that a Catherwood should be with the Yankees!  You, Ben,” he shouted, suddenly perceiving an object for his anger.  “What do you mean by coming out of the yard?  By G-d, I’ll have you whipped.  I’ll show you niggers whether you’re to be free or not.”

And Mr. Catherwood was a good man, who treated his servants well.  Suddenly he dropped Virginia’s hand and ran westward down the hill.  Well that she could not see beyond the second rise.

Let us go there—­to the camp.  Let us stand on the little mound at the northeast of it, on the Olive Street Road, whence Captain Lyon’s artillery commands it.  What a change from yesterday!  Davis Avenue is no longer a fashionable promenade, flashing with bright dresses.  Those quiet men in blue, who are standing beside the arms of the state troops, stacked and surrendered, are United States regulars.  They have been in Kansas, and are used to scenes of this sort.

The five Hessian regiments have surrounded the camp.  Each commander has obeyed the master mind of his chief, who has calculated the time of marching with precision.  Here, at the western gate, Colonel Blair’s regiment is in open order.  See the prisoners taking their places between the ranks, some smiling, as if to say all is not over yet; some with heads hung down, in sulky shame.  Still others, who are true to the Union, openly relieved.  But who is this officer breaking his sword to bits against the fence, rather than surrender it to a Yankee?  Listen to the crowd as they cheer him.  Listen to the epithets and vile names which they hurl at the stolid blue line of the victors, “Mudsills!” “Negro Worshippers.”