PAGE 13
A Rivermouth Romance
by
The period of Mr. O’Rourke’s enlistment had come to an end. Two months slipped by, and he had neglected to brighten River-mouth with his presence. There were many things that might have detained him, difficulties in getting his prize-papers or in drawing his pay; but there was no reason why he might not have written. The days were beginning to grow long to Margaret, and vague forebodings of misfortune possessed her.
Perhaps we had better look up Mr. O’Rourke.
He had seen some rough times, during those three years, and some harder work than catching cunners at the foot of Anchor Street, or setting out crocuses in Mr. Bil-kins’s back garden. He had seen battles and shipwreck, and death in many guises; but they had taught him nothing, as the sequel will show. With his active career in the navy we shall not trouble ourselves; we take him up at a date a little prior to the close of his term of service.
Several months before, he had been transferred from the blockading squadron to a gun-boat attached to the fleet operating against the forts defending New Orleans. The forts had fallen, the fleet had passed on to the city, and Mr. O’Rourke’s ship lay off in the stream, binding up her wounds. In three days he would receive his discharge, and the papers entitling him to a handsome amount of prize-money in addition to his pay. With noble contempt for so much good fortune, Mr. O’Rourke dropped over the bows of the gun-boat one evening and managed to reach the levee. In the city he fell in with some soldiers, and, being of a convivial nature, caroused with them that night, and next day enlisted in a cavalry regiment.
Desertion in the face of the enemy–for, though the city lay under Federal guns, it was still hostile enough–involved the heaviest penalties. O’Rourke was speedily arrested with other deserters, tried by court-martial, and sentenced to death.
The intelligence burst like a shell upon the quiet household in Anchor Street, listening daily for the sound of Larry O’Rourke’s footstep on the threshold. It was a heavy load for Margaret to bear, after all those years of patient vigil. But the load was to be lightened for her. In consideration of O’Rourke’s long service, and in view of the fact that his desertion so near the expiration of his time was an absurdity, the Good President commuted his sentence to imprisonment for life, with loss of prize-money and back pay. Mr. O’Rourke was despatched North, and placed in Moyamensing Prison.
If joy could kill, Margaret would have been a dead woman the day these tidings reached Rivermouth; and Mr. Bilkins himself would have been in a critical condition, for, though he did not want O’Rourke shot or hanged, he was delighted to have him permanently shelved.
After the excitement was over, and this is always the trying time, Margaret accepted the situation philosophically.
“The pore lad’s out o’ harum’s rache, any way,” she reflected. “He can’t be git-tin’ into hot wather now, and that’s a fact. And maybe after awhiles they ‘ll let him go agin. They let out murtherers and thaves and sich like, and Larry’s done no hurt to nobody but hisself.”
Margaret was inclined to be rather severe on President Lincoln for taking away Larry’s prize-money. The impression was strong on her mind that the money went into Mr. Lincoln’s private exchequer.
“I would n’t wonder if Misthress Lincoln had a new silk gownd or two this fall,” Margaret would remark, sarcastically.
The prison rules permitted Mr. O’Rourke to receive periodical communications “from his friends outside.” Once every quarter Mr. Bilkins wrote him a letter, and in the interim Margaret kept him supplied with those doleful popular ballads, printed on broadsides, which one sees pinned up for sale on the iron railings of city churchyards, and seldom anywhere else. They seem the natural exhalations of the mould and pathos of such places, but we have a suspicion that they are written by sentimental young undertakers. Though these songs must have been a solace to Mr. O’Rourke in his captivity, he never so far forgot himself as to acknowledge their receipt. It was only through the kindly chaplain of the prison that Margaret was now and then advised of the well-being of her husband.