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Updated: June 22, 2025
I was digesting this along with the remains of the troopers' dinner, when Goodell and his satellites popped over the hill that looked down on Pend d' Oreille, and, a few minutes later, came riding nonchalantly up to the mess-house. "Well, you beat us in," Goodell greeted airily. "Did you find a short cut?" "Sure thing," I responded, with what irony I could command.
Goodell, which we lately published, through what vicissitudes Mrs. Van Lennep passed after her arrival at Constantinople, which had been designated as her field of labor. It was there she died, September 27, 1844, in the twenty-third year of her age, only one year and twenty-three days from her marriage-day, and before she had fully entered upon the life to which she had consecrated herself.
One day in November, 1862, I was sitting at dinner with my lieutenants, John Goodell and Luther Bigelow, in the barracks of the Fifty-First Massachusetts, Colonel Sprague, when the following letter was put into my hands: BEAUFORT, S. C., November 5, 1862. I am organizing the First Regiment of South Carolina Volunteers, with every prospect of success.
"Are you in any pain, Goodell?" I asked. "None whatever," he answered weakly. "But I'm a goner, for all that. I have a very neat knife-thrust in the back. Also a bullet somewhere in my lungs. You see in me," he drawled, "a victim of chivalry. I've played for big stakes; I've robbed gaily, and killed a man or two in the way of fighting; all of which sits lightly on my conscience.
Goodell echoed. "He is the whole thing." I had suspected as much, but sometimes it is a surprise to have one's suspicions confirmed. I glanced at Mac and Piegan. "I was sure of it all along," Mac answered my unspoken thought. Piegan merely shrugged his shoulders. "I wanted to get that government money in the pay-wagon, that was all at first," Goodell continued.
Of course, the thought of daring to covet what she saw, had never crossed her, in her humbleness. It was quite away from her. It was something with which she had nothing to do. "But it must be beautiful to be like Miss Faith." And she thanked God, mutely, that she had this beautiful life near her, and could look on it every day. She could not marry Luther Goodell.
Mr. Goodell took a house in Pera, one of the suburbs of Constantinople, where the European ambassadors and most of the foreign Christians resided. Scarcely two months elapsed, before that populous section of the metropolis was almost wholly destroyed by fire.
In those days it came to pass that Glory found she had a "follower." Luther Goodell, who "did round" at Cross Corners, got so into the way of straying up the field path, in his nooning hours, and after chores were done at night, that Miss Henderson at last, in her plain, outright fashion, took the subject up, and questioned Glory.
Goodell lighted another cigarette and nonchalantly seated himself in the vacant chair. Then I observed for the first time that the game was for blood rather than pastime, for Goodell paid for his little pile of white beans in good, gold coin of the realm. Next to playing a little "draw" myself, I like to watch the game, and so I moved over where I could see the bets made and the hands exhibited.
Such were the poor widow, who gave "all that she had," the Macedonian Christians, whose liberality exceeded their means, and the King of the Friendly Islands already mentioned. Such was the late Mr. Goodell of Vermont, who, with a house and farm not estimated at over $1,000, contrived by labor, frugality, and self-denial, to pour his hundreds and tens of hundreds into the treasury of the Lord.
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