VITHE SUBSTITUTE
It was nine o'clock on the eve of Memorial Day, and pandemonium reigned on the platform of the little railroad station at Gettysburg. A heavy thunderstorm, which had brought down a score of fine trees on the battle-field, and had put entirely out of service the electric light plant of the town, was just over. In five minutes the evening train from Harrisburg would be due, and with it the last delegation to the convention of the Grand Army of the Republic.
A spectator might have thought it doubtful whether the arriving delegation would be able to set foot upon the crowded platform. In the dim light, representatives from the hotels and boarding-houses fought each other for places on the steps beyond which the town council had forbidden them to go. Back of them, along the pavement, their unwatched horses stood patiently, too tired to make even the slight movement which would have inextricably tangled the wheels of the omnibuses and tourist wagons. On the platform were a hundred old soldiers, some of them still hale, others crippled and disabled, and as many women, the "Ladies of the Relief Corps," come to assist in welcoming the strangers. The railroad employees elbowed the crowd good-naturedly, as their duties took them from one part of the station to another; small boys chased each other, racing up the track to catch the first glimpse of the headlight of the train; and presently all joined in a wild and joyous singing of "My Country, 'tis of Thee."
High above the turmoil, on a baggage truck which had been pushed against the wall, stood "Old Man Daggett," whistling. He was apparently unaware of the contrast between the whiteness of his beard and the abandoned gayety of his tune, which was "We won't go home until morning"; he was equally unaware or indifferent to the care with which the crowd avoided his neighborhood. But though he had been drinking, he was not drunk. He looked down upon the crowd, upon his former companions in the Grand Army post, who had long since repudiated him because of the depths to which he had fallen; he thought of the days when he had struggled with the other guides for a place at the edge of the platform, and, wretched as was his present condition, he continued to whistle.
When, presently, the small boys shouted, "There she comes!" the old man added his cheer to the rest, purely for the joy of hearing his own voice. The crowd lurched forward, the station agent ordered them back, the engine whistled, her bell rang, the old soldiers called wildly, "Hello, comrades!" "Hurrah, comrades!" and the train stopped. Then ensued a wilder pandemonium. There were multitudinous cries:—
"Here you are, the Keystone House!"
"Here you are, the Palace, the official hotel of Gettysburg!"
"The Battle Hotel, the best in the city!"
There were shouts also from the visitors.
"Hello, comrades! Hurrah! Hurrah!"
"Did you ever see such a storm?"
"Hurrah! Hurrah!"
At first it seemed impossible to bring order out of the chaos. The human particles would rush about forever, wearing themselves into nothingness by futile contact with one another. Presently, however, one of the carriages drove away and then another, and the crowd began to thin. Old Daggett watched them with cheerful interest, rejoicing when Jakie Barsinger of the Palace, or Bert Taylor of the Keystone, lost his place on the steps. By and by his eyes wandered to the other end of the dim platform. Three men stood there, watching the crowd. The sight of three prosperous visitors, unclaimed and unsolicited by the guides, seemed to rouse some latent energy in old Daggett. It was almost ten years since he had guided any one over the field. He scrambled down from the truck and approached the visitors.
"Have you gentlemen engaged rooms?" he asked. "Or a guide?"
The tallest of the three men answered. He was Ellison Brant, former Congressman, of great wealth and vast physical dimensions. His manner was genial and there was a frank cordiality in his voice which his friends admired and his enemies distrusted. His companions, both younger than himself, were two faithful henchmen, Albert Davis and Peter Hayes. They had not heard of the convention in Gettysburg, which they were visiting for the first time, and, irritated by having to travel in the same coach with the noisy veterans, they were now further annoyed by the discovery that all the hotels in the town were crowded. Brant's voice had lost entirely its cordial tone.
"Have you any rooms to recommend?"
"You can't get places at the hotels any more," answered Daggett. "But I could get you rooms."
"Where is your best hotel?"
"Right up here. We'll pass it."
"All right. Take us there first."
Brant's irritation found expression in an oath as they went up the narrow, uneven pavement. He was accustomed to obsequious porters, and his bag was heavy. It was not their guide's age which prevented Brant from giving him the burden, but the fear that he might steal off with it, down a dark alley or side street.
"There's the Keystone," said Daggett. "You can't get in there."
The hotel was brilliantly lighted, a band played in its lobby, and out to the street extended the cheerful, hurrahing crowd. General Davenant, who was to be the orator at the Memorial Day celebration, had come out on a balcony to speak to them. Brant swore again in his disgust.
"I can take you to a fine place," insisted old Daggett.
"Go on, then," said Brant. "What are you waiting for?"
A square farther on, Daggett rapped at the door of a little house. The woman who opened it, lamp in hand, seemed at first unwilling to listen.
"You can't get in here, you old rascal."
But Daggett had put his foot inside the door.
"I've got three fine boarders for you," he whispered. "You can take 'em or leave 'em. I can take them anywhere and get a quarter apiece for them."
The woman opened the door a little wider and peered out at the three men. Their appearance seemed to satisfy her.
"Come in, comrades," she invited cordially. She had not meant to take boarders during this convention, but these men looked as though they could pay well. "I have fine rooms and good board."
Daggett stepped back to allow the strangers to go into the house.
"I'll be here at eight o'clock sharp to take you over the field, gentlemen," he promised.
There was a briskness about his speech and an alertness in his step, which, coupled with the woman's gratitude, kept her from telling her guests what a reprobate old Daggett was.
By some miracle of persuasion or threat, he secured a two-seated carriage and an ancient horse for the next day's sight-seeing. A great roar of laughter went up from the drivers of the long line of carriages before the Keystone House, as he drove by.
"Where you going to get your passengers, Daggett?"
"Daggett's been to the bone-yard for a horse."
"He ain't as old as your joke," called Daggett cheerfully.
The prospect of having work to do gave him for the moment greater satisfaction than the thought of what he meant to buy with his wages, which was saying a great deal. He began to repeat to himself fragments of his old speech.
"Yonder is the Seminary cupilo objecting above the trees," he said to himself. "From that spot, ladies and gentlemen—from that spot, ladies and gentlemen—" He shook his head and went back to the beginning. "Yonder is the Seminary cupilo. From that spot—" He was a little frightened when he found that he could not remember. "But when I'm there it'll come back," he said to himself.
His three passengers were waiting for him on the steps, while from behind them peered the face of their hostess, curious to see whether old Daggett would keep his word. Brant looked at the ancient horse with disapproval.
"Is everything in this town worn out, like you and your horse?" he asked roughly.
Daggett straightened his shoulders, which had not been straightened with pride or resentment for many days.
"You can take me and my horse or you can leave us," he said.
Brant had already clambered into the carriage. Early in the morning Davis and Hayes had tried to find another guide, but had failed.
As they drove down the street, the strangers were aware that every passer-by stopped to look at them. People glanced casually at the horse and carriage, as one among a multitude which had started over the field that morning, then, at sight of the driver, their eyes widened, and sometimes they grinned. Daggett did not see—he was too much occupied in trying to remember his speech. The three men had lighted long black cigars, and were talking among themselves. The cool morning air which blew into their faces from the west seemed to restore Brant's equanimity, and he offered Daggett a cigar, which Daggett took and put into his pocket. Daggett's lips were moving, he struggled desperately to remember. Presently his eyes brightened.
"Ah!" he said softly. Then he began his speech:—
"Yonder is the Seminary cupilo objecting above the trees. From there Buford observed the enemy, from there the eagle eye of Reynolds took in the situation at a glance, from there he decided that the heights of Gettysburg was the place to fight. You will see that it is an important strategic point, an important strategic point"—his lips delighted in the long-forgotten words. "And here—"
The old horse had climbed the hill, and they were upon the Confederate battle-line of the third day's fight. Old Daggett's voice was lost for an instant in a recollection of his ancient oratorical glories. His speech had been learned from a guide-book, but there was a time when it had been part of his soul.
"Here two hundred cannons opened fire, ladies and gentlemen. From the Union side nearly a hundred guns replied, not because we had no more guns, ladies and gentlemen, but, owing to the contour of the ground, we could only get that many in position at one time. Then came the greatest artillery duel of the war—nearly three hundred cannons bleaching forth their deadly measles, shells bursting and screaming everywhere. The shrieks of the dying and wounded were mingled with the roar of the iron storm. The earth trembled for hours. It was fearful, ladies and gentlemen, fearful."
The visitors had been too deeply interested in what they were saying to hear.
"You said we were on the Confederate battle-line?" asked Brant absently.
"The Confederate battle-line," answered Daggett.
He had turned the horse's head toward Round Top, and he did not care whether they heard or not.
"Yonder in the distance is Round Top; to the left is Little Round Top. They are important strategic points. There the Unionists were attacked in force by the enemy. There—but here as we go by, notice the breech-loading guns to our right. They were rare. Most of the guns were muzzle-loaders."
Presently the visitors began to look about them. They said the field was larger than they expected; they asked whether the avenues had been there at the time of the battle; they asked whether Sherman fought at Gettysburg.
"Sherman!" said Daggett. "Here? No." He looked at them in scorn. "But here"—the old horse had stopped without a signal—"here is where Pickett's charge started."
He stepped down from the carriage into the dusty road. This story he could not tell as he sat at ease. He must have room to wave his arms, to point his whip.
"They aimed toward that clump of trees, a mile away. They marched with steady step, as though they were on dress parade. When they were half way across the Union guns began to fire. They was torn apart; the rebel comrades stepped over the dead and went on through the storm of deadly measles as though it was rain and wind. When they started they was fifteen thousand; when they got back they was eight. They was almost annihilated. You could walk from the stone wall to beyond the Emmitsburg road without treading on the ground, the bodies lay so thick. Pickett and his men had done their best."
"Well done!" cried Brant, when he was through. "Now, that'll do. We want to talk. Just tell us when we get to the next important place."
They drove on down the wide avenue. Spring had been late, and there were lingering blossoms of dogwood and Judas-tree. Here and there a scarlet tanager flashed among the leaves; rabbits looked brightly at them from the wayside, and deep in the woods resounded the limpid note of a wood-robin.
Disobedient to Brant's command, Daggett was still talking, repeating to himself all the true and false statements of his old speeches. Some, indeed, were mad absurdities.
"There's only one Confederate monument on the field," he said. "You can tell it when we get there. It says 'C. S. A.' on it—'Secesh Soldiers of America.'
"There was great fightin' round Spangler's Spring," he went on soberly. "There those that had no legs gave water to those that had no arms, and those that had no arms carried off those that had no legs."
At the summit of Little Round Top the old horse stopped again.
"You see before you the important strategic points of the second day's fight—Devil's Den, the Wheat-Field, the Valley of Death. Yonder—"
Suddenly the old man's memory seemed to fail. He whispered incoherently, then he asked them if they wanted to get out.
"No," said Brant.
"But everybody gets out here," insisted Daggett peevishly. "You can't see Devil's Den unless you do. Youmustget out."
"All right," acquiesced Brant. "Perhaps we are not getting our money's worth."
He lifted himself ponderously down, and Davis followed him.
"I'll stay here," said Hayes. "I'll see that our driver don't run off. Were you a soldier?" he asked the old man.
"Yes," answered Daggett. "I was wounded in this battle. I wasn't old enough to go, but they took me as a substitute for another man. And I never"—an insane anger flared in the old man's eyes—"I never got my bounty. He was to have paid me a thousand dollars. A thousand dollars!" He repeated it as though the sum were beyond his computation. "After I came out I was going to set up in business. But the skunk never paid me."
"What did you do afterwards?"
"Nothing," said Daggett. "I was wounded here, and I stayed here after I got well, and hauled people round. Hauled people round!" He spoke as though the work were valueless, degrading.
"Why didn't you go into business?"
"I didn't have my thousand dollars," replied Daggett petulantly. "Didn't I tell you I didn't have my thousand dollars? The skunk never paid me."
The thought of the thousand dollars of which he had been cheated seemed to paralyze the old man. He told them no more stories; he drove silently past Stannard, high on his great shaft, Meade on his noble horse, fronting the west. He did not mention Stubborn Smith or gallant Armistead. Brant, now that he had settled with his friends some legislative appointments which he controlled, was ready to listen, and was angry at the old man's silence.
"When you take us back to town, you take us to that hotel we saw last night," he ordered. "We're not going back to your lady friend."
Old Daggett laughed. Lady friend! How she would scold! He would tell her that the gentlemen thought she was his lady friend.
"And we'll have to have a better horse and driver after dinner, if we're going to see this field."
"All right," said Daggett.
His morning's work would buy him drink for a week, and beyond the week he had no interest.
He drove the ancient horse to the hotel, and his passengers got out. He waited, expecting to be sent for their baggage. The porch and pavement were as crowded as they had been the night before. The soldiers embraced each other, hawkers cried their picture postcards and their manufactured souvenirs, at the edge of the pavement a band was playing.
Brant pushed his way to the clerk's desk. The clerk remembered him at once as the triumphantly vindicated defendant in a Congressional scandal, and welcomed him obsequiously. Brant's picture had been in all the papers, and his face was not easily forgotten.
"Well, sir, did you just get in?" the clerk asked politely.
"No, I've been here all night," answered Brant. "I was told you had no rooms."
Meanwhile old Daggett had become tired of waiting. He wanted his money; the Keystone people might send for the baggage. He tied his old horse, unheeding the grins of his former companions in the army post and of the colored porters and the smiles of the fine ladies. He followed Brant into the hotel.
"Who said we hadn't rooms?" he heard the clerk say to Brant, and then he heard Brant's reply: "An old drunk."
"Old Daggett?" said the clerk.
A frown crossed Brant's handsome face.
"Daggett?" he repeated sharply. "Frederick Daggett?"
Then he looked back over his shoulder.
"Yes, Frederick Daggett," said the old man himself. "What of it?"
"Nothing," answered Brant nervously.
He pulled out his purse and began to pay the old man, aware that the crowd had turned to listen.
But the old man did not see the extended hand. He was staring at Brant's smooth face as though he saw it for the first time.
"You pay me my money," he said thickly.
"I am paying you your money," answered Brant.
The clerk looked up, meaning to order old Daggett out. Then his pen dropped from his hand as he saw Brant's face.
"You give me my thousand dollars," said Daggett. "I want my thousand dollars."
Some one in the crowd laughed. Every one in Gettysburg had heard of Daggett's thousand dollars.
"Put him out! He's crazy."
"Be still," said some one, who was watching Brant.
"I want my thousand dollars," said old Daggett, again. He looked as though, even in his age and weakness, he would spring upon Brant. "I want my thousand dollars."
Brant thrust a trembling hand into his pocket and drew out his check-book. If he had had a moment to think, if the face before him had not been so ferocious, if General Davenant, whom he knew, and who knew him, had not been looking with stern inquiry over old Daggett's shoulder, he might have laughed, or he might have pretended that he had tried to find Daggett after the war, or he might have denied that he had ever seen him. But before he thought of an expedient, it was too late. He had committed the fatal blunder of drawing out his check-book.
"Be quiet and I'll give it to you," he said, beginning to write.
Daggett almost tore the slip of blue paper from his hand.
"I won't be quiet!" he shouted, in his weak voice, hoarse from his long speech in the morning. "This is the man that got me to substitute for him and cheated me out of my thousand dollars. I won't be quiet!" He looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. Perhaps it was the ease with which Brant paid out such a vast sum that moved him, perhaps it was the uselessness of the thousand dollars, now that he was old. He tore the blue strip across and threw it on the floor. "There is your thousand dollars!"
He had never looked so wretchedly miserable as he did now. He was ragged and dusty, and the copious tears of age were running down his cheeks. His were not the only tears in the crowd. A member of his old post, which had repudiated him, seized him by the arm.
"Come with me, Daggett. We'll fix you up. We'll make it up to you, Daggett."
But Daggett jerked away.
"Get out. I'll fix myself up if there's any fixing."
He walked past Brant, not deigning to look at him, he stepped upon the fragments of paper on the floor, and shambled to the door. There he saw the faces of Jakie Barsinger and Bert Taylor and the other guides who had laughed at him, who had called him "Thousand-Dollar" Daggett, now gaping at him. Old Daggett's cheerfulness returned.
"You blame' fools couldn't earn a thousand dollars if you worked a thousand years. And I"—he waved a scornful hand over his shoulder—"I can throw a thousand dollars away."