Three and one are one by Ambrose Beers. In the year eighteen sixty one,
Bar Lasseter, a young man of twenty two, lived with his parents
and an elderly sister near Carthage, Tennessee. The family were in somewhat humble
circumstances, subsisting by cultivation of a small and not very fertile plantation, owning
no slaves. They were not rated among the best people of their neighborhood,
but they were honest persons of good education, fairly well mannered, and as
respectable as any family could be, if uncredentialed by personal dominion over the sons
and daughters of ham. The elder Lasseter had that severity of manner that so
frequently affirms an uncompromising devotion to duty and conceals a warm and affectionate disposition.
He was of the iron of which martyrs are made, but in the heart
of the matrix had lurked a nobler metal, fusible at a milder heat,
yet never coloring nor softening the hard exterior by both heredity and environment. Something
of the man's inflexible character had touched the other members of the family. The
Lasster home, though not devoid of domestic affection was a veritable citadel of duty,
and duty ah duty is as cruel as death. When the war came,
it found in the family, as in so many others in the state,
a divided sentiment. The young man was loyal to the Union, the
others savagely hostile. This unhappy division begot an unsupportable domestic bitterness. And when
the offending son and brother left home with an avowed purpose of joining the federal
army, not a hand was laid in him, not a word of farewell
was spoken, not a good wish followed him out into the world, whither
he might meet with such spirit as he might whatever fate awaited him. Making
his way to Nashville, already occupied by the army of General Buell, he
enlisted in the first organization that he found, a Kentucky regiment of cavalry,
and in due time passed through all the stages of military evolution from raw recruit
to experienced trooper. A right good trooper he was, too, although in
his oral narrative from which this tale is made, there is no mention of
that the fact was learned from his surviving comrades. For bart Lasseter has answered
here to the sergeant whose name is Death. Two years after he had joined
it, his passed through the region. Whence he had come. The country
thereabout had suffered severely from the ravages of war, having been occupied alternately and
simultaneously by the belligerent forces, and the sanguinary struggle had occurred in the immediate
vicinity of the Lasseter homestead. But of this the young trooper was not aware.
Finding himself in camp near his home, he felt a natural longing to
see his parents and sister, hoping that in them, as in him,
the unnatural animosity of the period had been softened by time and separation. Obtaining
a leave of absence, he set foot in the late summer afternoon, and
soon after the rising of the full moon, was walking up the gravel path
leading to the dwelling in which he had been born. Soldiers in the war
aged rapidly and in youth. Two years are a long time. Bar Lasseter
felt himself an old man, and had almost expected to find the place in
ruin and desolation. Nothing apparently was changed. At the sight of each dear
and familiar object. He was profoundly affected, his heart beat audibly, his
emotions nearly suffocated him, and ache was in his throat. Unconsciously, he
quickened his pace until he almost ran his long shadow, making grotesque efforts to
keep its place beside him. The house was unlighted and the door opened.
As he approached and paused to recover control of himself, his father came out
and stood bareheaded in the moonlight. Father cried, the young man, springing
forward with outstretched hand. Father, the elder man looked him sternly in the
face, stood a moment motionless, and without a word, withdrew into the
house. Bitterly disappointed, humiliated, unexpressibly hurt, and altogether unnerved. The
soldier dropped into a rustic seat in deep dejection, supporting his head upon his
trembling hand. But he would not have it. So he was too good
a soldier to accept repulse as defeat. He rose and entered the house,
passing directly to the sitting room. It was dimly lighted by an uncurtained east
window. On a low stool by the hearth side, the only article of
furniture in place, sat his mother, staring into the fireplace, strewn with
blackened embers and cold ash. He spoke to her tenderly, interrogatively and with
hesitation, but she neither answered, nor moved, nor seemed in any way
surprised. True there had been time for her husband and to apprise her of
their guilty son's return. He moved nearer and was about to lay his hand
upon her arm, when his sister entered from an adjoining room, looked him
full in the face, past him without a sign of recognition, and left
the room by a door that was partly behind him. He had turned his
head to watch her, but when she was gone, his eyes again sought
his mother. She too had left the place. Mar Lasseter strode to the
door by which he had entered. The moonlight on the lawn was tremulous,
as if the sward were a rippling sea. The trees and their black shadows
shook as in a breeze, blended with its borders. The gravel walk seemed
unsteady and insecure to walk on. This young soldier knew the optical illusions produced
by tears. He felt them on his cheek, and he saw them sparkle
on the breast of his troopers jacket. He left the house and made his
way back to camp. The next day with no very definite intention, with
no dominant feeling that he would rightly have named, He again sought the spot.
Within a half a mile of it, he met Bushrod Albro, a
former playfellow and schoolmate, who greeted him warmly. I'm going to visit my
home, said the soldier. The other looked at him rather sharply and said
nothing I know, continued Lesser, that my folks have not changed, but
there have been changes. Albrow interrupted, Everything changes. I'll go with you,
if you don't mind, we can talk as we go, But Albro
did not talk. Instead of a home, they found only fire blackened foundations
of stone, enclosing an area of compact ash pitted by reins Lasseter's astonishment was
extreme. I could not find the right way to tell you, said Albro.
In the fight a year ago, your house was burned by a federal
shell, and my family where are they in heaven? I hope all were
killed by the shell. The end of three and one are one by Ambrose Beers