They thanked the General but decided to brave battle at home to the terrors of another flight.

The little band of twenty-five hundred Confederates struck the town like a thunderbolt and fought with desperation against the combined fleet and heavy garrison. They drove the Federals at first in panic to the water's edge and the shelter of the cannon until a Maine regiment barred the way, fighting like demons, and rallied the fleeing mob. When the smoke of battle lifted the gray army had gone with the loss of only sixty-five killed and a hundred and fifty wounded.

The worst calamity which befell Baton Rouge was the death of General Williams, the gentlemanly and considerate Federal commander.

Butler's man who took his place lacked both his soldierly training and his fine scruples as a Christian gentleman. There were no more guards placed around "Rebel" homes.

The marauder came with swift sure tread on the heels of victory.

A squad of officers and men smashed in the front door at Fairview without so much as a knock for signal. To the shivering servant who stood in the hall the leader called:

"Where are the d.a.m.ned secesh women? We know they've hid in here and we'll make them dance for hiding--"

Jennie suddenly appeared in the library door, her face white, her hand concealed in the pocket of her dress.

"There are but two women here, gentlemen," she began steadily--"my grandmother and I. The house is at your mercy--"

The man in front gave a short laugh and advanced on the girl. He stopped short in his tracks at the sight of the glitter of her eye and changed his mind.

"All right, look out for the old hen. We'll let you know when it's time to pick up the pieces."

Jennie returned to the library and slipped her arm about her grandmother's neck standing beside her chair while she set her little jaw firmly and waited for the end.

They rushed the dining-room first and split its side-board open with axes--fine old carved mahogany pieces so hardened with age, the ax blades chipped from the blows as if striking marble. The china was smashed chests were laid open with axes, and their contents of silver removed.

They rushed the parlors and stripped them of every ornament. Jennie's piano they dragged into the center of the floor, smashed its ivory keys and split its rosewood case into splinters. An officer slashed the portrait of Mrs. Barton into shreds and hurled the frame on the floor.

Every portrait on the walls shared a similar fate.

Upstairs the fun grew wild. Mrs. Barton's beautiful old mahogany armoir whose single door was a fine French mirror was shivered with a blow from a sledge hammer, emptied of every article and the shelves splintered with axes. They broke every bureau and case of drawers, scattered their contents on the floor, selecting what suited their fancy. Every rag of the boys' clothes, the old Colonel's and Senator Barton's were tied in bundles.

They entered Jennie's room, broke every mirror, tore down the rods from the bed and ripped the net into shreds. The desk was split, letters turned out and scattered over the floor. A light sewing machine was sent below for a souvenir. The heavy one was broken with an ax.

From Jennie's bureau they tore a pink flowered muslin, stuck it on a bayonet and paraded the room, the officers striking it with their swords shouting their dull insults:

"I've struck the d.a.m.ned secesh!"

"The proud little h.e.l.lion!"

"That's the time I cut her!"

One seized her bonnet, put it on, tied the ribbon under his chin and amid the shouts of his half-drunken companions, paraded the house, and wore it into the streets when he left.

When the noise had died away and the house was still at last, Jennie came forth from the little room in which she had taken refuge, leading her grandmother. Hand in hand they viewed the wreck.

The thing that hurt the girl most of all was the ruin of her desk--her letters from d.i.c.k Welford, the boys, her father and mother, the diary she had kept with the intimate secrets of her young heart--all had been opened, thumbed and thrown over the floor. The little perfumed notes she had received from her first beaux--invitations to buggy rides, concerts, and parties, and all of them beginning, "Compliments of"--had been profaned by dirty greasy fingers. Some were torn into little bits and scattered over the room, others were ground into the floor by hobnails in heavy boot heels.

Her last letter from Socola was stolen--to be turned over to the commander for inspection no doubt. And then she broke into a foolish laugh. The strain was over. What did it matter--this clutter of goods and chattels on the floor--she was young--it was the morning of life and she had met her fate!

In a sudden rush of emotion she threw her arms around her grandmother's neck and cried:

"Thank the good Lord, grandma, they didn't shoot you!"

The sweet old lady was strangely quiet, and her eyes had a queer set look. She bore the strain without a break until they entered the wreck of the stately parlor. She saw the slashed portrait of the Colonel lying on the floor and sank in a heap beside it without a word or sound.

Jennie succeeded at last in obtaining a pa.s.s to New Orleans, consigning the body to Judge Roger Barton. She stepped on board the little steamer absolutely alone. Every servant had gone to the camp of the soldiers or had entered the service of the crowd of marauders who decided to return to Fairview and occupy the house.

Jennie had gone through so much the tired spirit refused to respond to further sensations. She obeyed orders in a dumb mechanical way.

The officers at New Orleans opened her baggage and searched it without ceremony, or the slightest show of interest on her part.

They were administering the "oath" of loyalty to the United States. She would have to turn Yankee to do this last duty of love. She covered her face with her hands and prayed breathlessly for the boys and for the Confederacy while the words of the oath were mumbled by the officer--

"So help you G.o.d?"

Jennie's only answer was to close her eyes and pray harder.

"So help you G.o.d?" the officer shouted again.

The girl lifted her tear-stained face and nodded, closed her eyes again and prayed.

"Help them, O G.o.d,--my brothers Tom and Jimmie and Billy and d.i.c.k Welford--and--and the man I love--save them and their cause for Jesus'

sake--I don't know what they made me say--I only did it for poor grandpa's sake--I didn't mean it. Forgive me, dear Lord, and save my people!"

The Judge met them with a carriage and hea.r.s.e. He slipped his strong arm around the girl, drew her close and kissed the waving brown hair again and again.

"Dear little sis--you're at home now," he said softly.

A shiver ran through her figure and she sat bolt upright.

"No, Big Brother," she answered firmly, "I'm not. New Orleans is in the hands of the enemy. I'd set it on fire and wipe it from the face of the earth to-morrow if I could sweep old Ben Butler and his men into the bottomless pit with its ashes--"

She paused at the look of pain on his face.

"Except you--dear--you're my brother, always my dear Big Brother and I'll love you forever. What you think right is right--for you. You are for the Union, because you believe it's right. I honor you for being true to your convictions--"

"You can never know what it has cost me--Honey--"

She drew him down and kissed him tenderly.

"Yes, I do know--and it's all right--even if you draw your sword and meet us in battle--you're fighting for the right as G.o.d shows it to you--but I've just one favor to ask--"

"I'll do anything on earth for you I can--you know that--"

She looked at him steadily a moment in silence and spoke in hard cold tones.

"Get me out of New Orleans inside the Confederate lines--anywhere--a guerilla camp--a swamp--anywhere, you understand. I'll find my way to Richmond--"

He pressed her hand in silence and then softly answered: