Don't back him up, Major."
"Pooh! pooh!" exclaimed the Major, testily. "You're like Molly, Governor,
and, bless my soul, one old woman is as much as I can manage. Why, she
wants me to let the boy starve."
The Governor sighed, but he did not protest. He liked Dan, with all his
youthful errors, and he wanted to put out a hand to hold him back from
destruction; but he feared to bring the terrible flush to the Major's face.
It was better to leave things alone, he thought, and so sighed and said
nothing.
That was an autumn of burning political conditions, and the excited slavery
debates in the North were reechoing through the Virginia mountains. The
Major, like the old war horse that he was, had already pricked up his ears,
and determined to lend his tongue or his sword, as his state might require.
That a fight could go on in the Union so long as Virginia or himself kept
out of it, seemed to him a possibility little less than preposterous.
"Didn't we fight the Revolution, sir? and didn't we fight the War of 1812?
and didn't we fight the Mexican War to boot?" he would demand. "And, bless
my soul, aren't we ready to fight all the Yankees in the universe, and to
whip them clean out of the Union, too? Why, it wouldn't take us ten days to
have them on their knees, sir."
The Governor did not laugh now; the times were too grave for that. His
clear eyes had seen whither they were drifting, and he had thrown his
influence against the tide, which, he knew, would but sweep over him in the
end.
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