CHAPTER VII
“A letter from Marse Thomie,” said our mail carrier, Toby, as he got in speaking distance on his return from the post office.
“What makes you think so?” I said, excitedly.
“I know his hand-write, and this is it,” selecting a letter from a large package and handing it to me. The very first glimpse of the superscription assured me of his confident assertion.
The letter was addressed to our mother, and bore a United States postage stamp, and the beloved signature of her only son, Thomas J. Stokes. A thrill of gratitude and joy filled our hearts too full for utterance, as we read:
“My Dear Mother: I have learned that the soldiers of the 10th Texas Infantry will be exchanged for the United States troops very soon, perhaps to-morrow; and then, what happiness will be mine! I can scarcely wait its realization. A visit home, a mother’s embrace and kiss, the heart-felt manifestations of the love of two sisters, and the joy and glad expression of faithful servants. I may bring several friends with me, whom I know you will welcome, both for my sake and theirs – they are valiant defenders of the cause we love. Adieu, dear mother, and sisters, until I see you at home, ‘home, sweet home.’”
“Thomie is coming home!” “Thomie Stokes is coming home!” was the glad announcement of mother, sisters, and friends; and the servants took up the intelligence, and told everybody that Marse Thomie was coming home, and was going to bring some soldiers with him.
Another day dawned and love’s labor commenced in earnest. Doors were opened, and rooms ventilated: bed-clothing aired and sunned, and dusting brushes and brooms in willing hands removed every particle of that much dreaded material of which man in all his glory, or ignominy, was created. Furniture and picture frames were polished and artistically arranged. And we beheld the work of the first day, and it was good.
When another day dawned we were up with the lark, and his matin notes found responsive melody in our hearts, the sweet refrain of which was, “Thomie is coming” – the soldier son and brother. Light bread and rolls, rusks and pies, cakes, etc., etc., were baked, and sweetmeats prepared, and another day’s work was ended and pronounced satisfactory.
The third day, for a generous bonus, “Uncle Mack’s” services were secured, and a fine pig was slaughtered and prepared for the oven, and also a couple of young hens, and many other luxuries too numerous to mention.
When all was ready for the feast of thanksgiving for the return of the loved one, the waiting seemed interminable. There was pathos in every look, tone, and act of our mother – the lingering look at the calendar, the frequent glance at the clock, told that the days were counted, yea, that the hours were numbered. At length the weary waiting ended, and the joyous meeting came of mother and son, of sisters and brother, after a separation of four years of health and sickness, of joy and anguish, of hope and fear.
As we stood upon the platform of the Decatur depot, and saw him step from the train, which we had been told by telegram would bring him to us, our hearts were filled with consternation and pity, and tears unbidden coursed down our cheeks, as we looked upon the brave and gallant brother, who had now given three years of his early manhood to a cause rendered dear by inheritance and the highest principles of patriotism, and, in doing so, had himself become a physical wreck. He was lean to emaciation, and in his pale face was not a suggestion of the ruddy color he had carried away. A constant cough, which he tried in vain to repress, betrayed the deep inroads which prison life had made upon his system; and in this respect he represented his friends – in describing his appearance, we leave nothing untold about theirs. In war-worn pants and faded grey coats, they presented a spectacle never to be forgotten.
Joy and grief contended for the supremacy. We did not realize that even a brief period of good nursing and feeding would work a great change in the physical being of men just out of the prison pens of the frigid North, and wept to think that disease, apparently so deeply rooted, could not be cured, and that they were restored to us but to die. Perceiving our grief and divining the cause, our Thomie took us, our mother first, into his arms and kissed us, and said in his old-time way, “I’ll be all right soon.”
And Toby and Telitha, the house servants, came in for their share of kindly greeting.
Thomie then introduced us to Captain Lauderdale, Captain Formwalt, and Lieutenant McMurray, his Texas friends and comrades in arms. Our cordial, heart-felt welcome was appreciated by this trio of gentlemen, and to this day we receive from them messages of abiding friendship. Captain Lauderdale was one of the most perfect gentlemen I ever saw – tall, graceful, erect, and finely formed. His face, of Grecian mould, was faultless; and his hair, black as a raven’s plumage, and interspersed with grey, would have adorned the head of a king. His bearing was dignified and yet affable, and so polished and easy in manner as to invite most friendly intercourse.
Captain Formwalt was also a fine specimen of manhood – free and easy, gay and rollicking. He seemed to think his mission on earth was to bring cheerfulness and glee into every household he entered.
Lieutenant McMurray was unlike either of his friends. Apparently cold, apathetic and reserved, he repelled all advances tending to cordial relations, until well acquainted, after which he was metamorphosed into a kind and genial gentleman.
Thomie, dear Thomie, was a boy again, and while our guests were refreshing themselves preparatory to dinner, he was going all over the house, for every nook and corner was endeared by association. He opened the piano, and running his fingers over the keys with the grace and ease of his boyhood, he played accompaniments to his favorite songs, “Home Again,” and “Way Down Upon the Suwanee River,” trying to sing, but prevented by the irrepressible coughing. Then, with nervous hand, he essayed “When this Cruel War is Over.” Turning away from the piano, he went to the library and handled with tender care the books he had read in boyhood. Shakespeare, Milton, Byron and Moore possessed no interest for him now; and Blackstone and Chitty were equally ignored. The books his mother and sister read to him in his childhood were, as if by intuition, selected, and fondly conned and handled. His own name was written in them, and his tearful eyes lingered long and lovingly upon these reminders of boyhood’s happy hours. With a sigh he left the library, and espying Toby, who kept where he could see as much as possible of “Marse Thomie,” he called the boy and held an encouraging little conversation with him.
Dinner being ready, our mother led the way to the dining room. Our guests having taken the seats assigned them, Thomie took his near his mother – his boyhood’s seat at table. By request, Captain Lauderdale asked the blessing. And, oh, what a blessing he invoked upon the “dear ones, who, with loving hands, prepared this feast for the son and brother of the household, and for his friends in peace and comrades in war.” Pleasant conversation ensued, and all enjoyed the repast. But the gentlemen seemed to us to eat very little, and, in reply to our expression of disappointment, they explained the importance of limiting themselves for several days in this respect.
As there was no trunk to send for, and no valise to carry, we rightly surmised that the clothing of these good men was limited to the apparel in which they were clad, and it was decided by my mother and myself that I should go to Atlanta and get material for a suit of clothes for Thomie, and good warm underclothing for them all. Arrived at Atlanta, I was irresistibly led by that mystic power, which has often controlled for good results the acts of man, to go to Dr. Taylor’s drug store. Here I found King, our faithful negro man, as busy as a bee, labeling and packing medicine for shipment. I approached him and said:
“King, Thomie has come.”
“Marse Thomie?”
“Yes.”
“Thank