“O General, General, give me this man's life. I must soon go to meet my Maker; let me take with me that I have saved a fellow-creature's life. You can do it, you can do it.”
“No, Doctor,” I said, “it is your life, and my life, and the life of every good man in this city which I must save. The question is now to be settled whether law and order or a mob shall govern.”
“Oh, no, General; a scratch of your pen will save him.”
“True, Doctor, and a scratch of that same pen would put you in his place. My officers are loyal and true, and they won't question the reason of my order. They will obey first and question it, if at all, afterwards. Having this great power I must use it judiciously. I cannot.”
The old man, his tears falling like rain, turned and left me.
The looked — for staff officer did not come to the place of execution. At the appointed time the drop fell, and as it did there was a universal hush. The bottles and pistols went out of sight, and the crowd separated as quietly as if it were from the funeral of the most distinguished citizen. And no scene approaching general disorder was ever afterwards witnessed during my time.
The fate of Mumford caused the greatest excitement throughout the whole Confederacy. Threats of retaliatory vengeance came from the governor of Louisiana, and were circulated by all the cognate rascals south of Mason and Dixon's line, including Jefferson Davis. Mumford's wife and family were declared to be the sacred trust of the people, and his children the wards of the Confederacy. Subscription papers were immediately called for, and very considerable sums were raised to support them thereafter in comfort.
The reader may be interested to know how well this was carried out. I heard and thought nothing more upon the subject, except as a passing reflection, until about the year 1869, the date not
