He soon
had plenty of evidence that the news of South Carolina's secession had
preceded him here. There had been no such stir in Pendleton since they
heard of Buena Vista, where fifty of her sons fought and half of them
fell.
Despite the snow, the streets about the central square were full of
people. Many of the men were reading newspapers. It was fifteen miles
to the nearest railroad station, and the mail had come in at noon,
bringing the first printed accounts of South Carolina's action. In this
border state, which was a divided house from first to last, men still
guarded their speech. They had grown up together, and they were all of
blood kin, near or remote.
"What will it mean?" said Harry to old Judge Kendrick.
"War, perhaps, my son," replied the old man sadly. "The violence of New
England in speech and the violence of South Carolina in action may start
a flood. But Kentucky must keep out of it. I shall raise my voice
against the fury of both factions, and thank God, our people have never
refused to hear me."
He spoke in a somewhat rhetorical fashion, natural to time and place,
but he was in great earnest. Harry went on, and entered the office of
the Pendleton News, the little weekly newspaper which dispensed the news,
mostly personal, within a radius of fifty miles.
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