CHAPTER III.THE DEPARTURE.
The 13th Regiment was ordered to Elmira, and the day had arrived for the departure of the volunteers. Bright was the sun, and cloudless the sky which shone on Rockland, that spring day; but cloudless sky nor warm spring sun could comfort the hearts about to part with their treasures, some forever, and some to meet again, but when, or where, or how, none could tell save Him who holds the secrets of the future.
There were mothers who had never felt a pang so keen or a pain so sore, as when with hearts too full of anguish for the dry, red eyes to weep, they watched their sons pass from the threshold of the door, and knew that when the golden sunlight, falling so brightly around them, was purple in the west, they would look in vain for that returning step, and listen in vain for tones which were the first, perhaps, to stir the deep fountains of maternal love. Fathers, too, were there, with heads bent down to hide the tears they deemed it weak to shed, as they gave the farewell blessing to their boy, praying that God might be over and around him, both when the deafening battle roar was sounding in his ear, and when in the stilly night he wrapped his blanket about him, and laid him down to rest, sometimes with the southern star shining upon him, and sometimes with the southernrain falling on his unsheltered head, for all these vicissitudes must come to a soldier on the field. Wives and sisters, too, there were, who shuddered as they thought how the dear ones to whom they said good-bye, would miss the comforts they were leaving, miss the downy pillow, the soft, warm bed made with loving hands, and the luxuries of home never prized one half so much as now, when they were to be exchanged for a life within the camp. And there were maidens, from whose cheeks the roses faded, as they gave the parting kiss, and promised to be faithful, even though the manly form the lover bore away should come back to them all maimed and crushed and crippled with the toil of war. Far better so than not to come at all. At least so Annie Graham thought, as, winding her arms around her husband’s neck, she whispered to him:
“If the body you bring back has my George’s heart within it, I shall love you just the same as I do now,” and with her fair head lying on his bosom, Annie wept piteously.
Not till then had she realized what it was to let him go. She had become somewhat accustomed to thinking of it,—accustomed to seeing him pass in and out, dressed in his stylish uniform, which made him look so handsome, and then she had hoped the regiment would not be ordered for a long, long time, never perhaps; but now that dream was over; the dreaded hour had come, and for a moment Annie felt herself too weak to meet it. Through the livelong night she had prayed, or if perchance sleep for a moment shut the swollen lids, the lips had moved in prayer that her husband might come back to her again, or failing to do so, that he might grasp, even at the eleventh hour, the Christian’s faith, and so go to the Christian’s home, where they would meet oncemore. She had given him her little Bible, all pencil-marked and worn with daily usage,—the one she read when first the spirit taught her the meaning of its great mysteries,—and George had promised he would read it every day,—had said that when he went to battle he would place it next his heart, a talisman to shield him from the bullets of the foe. And Annie, smiling through her tears, pointed him again to the only One who could stand between him and death, asking that when he was far away, he would remember what she said, and pray to the God she honored.
“It’s time, now, darling,” he said, at last, as he heard in the distance the beat of the drum.
But the clinging arms refused to leave his neck, and the quivering lips pressed so constantly to his, murmured:
“Wait a little minute more. ’Tis the last, you know.”
Again the drum-beat was heard mingled with the shrill notes of the fife; the soldiers were marching down the street, and he must go, but oh, who can tell of the love, the pain, the grief, the tears mingled with that parting,—or the agony it cost poor Annie to take her arms from off his neck, to feel him putting her away, to hear him going from the room, across the threshold, down the walk, through the gate, and know that he was gone.
As a child in peril instinctively turns to the mother who it knows has never failed to succor, so Annie turned to God, and with a moaning cry for help, sank on her knees just where George had left her. Burying her face in the lounge she prayed that He who heareth even the raven’s cry, would care for her husband, and bring him home again if that could be. So absorbed was she asnot to hear the gate’s sharp click, nor the footstep coming up the walk. Impelled by something he could not resist, George had paused just by the garden fence, and yielding to the impulse which said he must see Annie’s face once more, he stole softly to the open door, and stood gazing at her as she knelt, her hands clasped together, and her face hidden from his view, as she prayed for him.
“Will the kind Father keep my George from peril if it can be, but if,—oh, God, how can I say it?—if he must die, teach him the road to Heaven.”
That was what she said, and George, listening to her, felt as if it were an angel’s presence in which he stood. He could not disturb her. She was in safer hands than his, and he would rather leave her thus,—would rather think of her when far away, just as he saw her last, kneeling in her desolation and praying for him.
“It will help to make me a better man,” he said, and brushing aside the great tears swimming in his eyes, he left his angel Annie, and went on his way to battle.
Just off from Rockland’s main street, and in a cottage more humble than that of George Graham, the sun shone on another parting,—on Widow Simms giving up her boys, and straining every nerve to look composed, and keep back the maternal love throbbing so madly at her heart. Rigid as if cut in stone were the lines upon her forehead and around her mouth, as she bustled about, doing everything exactly as it should be done, and coming often to where Isaac sat trying to look unconcerned and whistling “Dixie” as he pulled on the soft, warm pair of socks she had sat up nights to knit him. Eli and John had some too, snugly tucked away in their bundle,but Isaac’s were different. She had ravelled her own lamb’s wool stockings for the material composing his, for Isaac’s feet were tender; there were marks of chilblains on them; they would become sore and swollen from the weary march, and his mother would not be there with soothing lint and ointment made from the blue poke-berries. Great pains had the widow taken with her breakfast that morning, preparing each son’s favorite dish and bringing out the six china cups and damask cloth, part of her grandmother’s bridal dower. It was a very tempting table, and John and Eli tried to eat, exchanging meaning smiles when they saw their mother put in Isaac’s cup the biggest lump of sugar, and the largest share of cream. They did not care,—for they too loved the fair-haired, smooth-faced boy sipping the yellow coffee he could not drink for the mysterious bunches rising so fast in his throat. The breakfast was over now. Isaac was trying on his socks, while Eli and John, knowing their mother would rather be alone when she said good-bye to her baby, prepared to start, talking quite loud, and keeping up stout courage till the last moment came, when both the tall, six-foot young men put their arms around the widow’s neck, and faltered a faint “Good-bye, mother, good-bye.”
There were no tears in the mother’s eyes, nor in the sons’, but in the breast of each there was a whirlpool of raging waters, hurting far more than if they had been suffered to overflow in torrents. Eli was the first to go, for John lingered a moment. There was something he would say, something which made him blush and stammer.
“Mother,” he began, “I saw Susan last night. We went to Squire Harding’s together; and,—and,—well, ’taint no use opposing it now,—Susan and I are one; andif I shouldn’t come back, be good to her, for my sake. Susan’s a nice girl, mother,” and on the brown, bearded cheek, there was a tear, wrung out by thoughts of only last night’s bride, Susan Ruggles, whose family the widow did not like, and had set herself against.
There was no help now, and a sudden start was all the widow’s answer. She was not angry, John knew; and satisfied with this, he joined his brother in the yard, where he was cutting his name upon the beech tree. Thrice the widow called them back, failing each time to remember what she wanted to say. “It was something, sure,” and the hard hands worked nervously, twisting up the gingham apron into a roll, smoothing it out again and working at the strings, until Eli and John passed from the yard, and left her standing there, watching them as they walked down the road. They were a grand-looking couple, she thought, as she saw how well they kept step. They were to march together to the depot, she knew, and nobody in town could turn out a finer span, but who would go with Isaac?—“Stub,” his brothers called him. She hoped it might be Judge Warner’s son,—it would be such an honor; and that brought her back to the fact that Isaac was waiting for her inside; that the hardest part of all was yet to come, the bidding him good-bye. He was not in the chair where she had left him sitting, but was standing by the window, and raising often to his eyes his cotton handkerchief. He heard his mother come in, and turning toward her, said, with a sobbing laugh:
“I wish the plaguy thing was over.”
She thought he meant the war, and answered that “it would be in a few months, perhaps.”
“I don’t mean that, I mean the telling you good-bye. Mother, oh, mother!” and the warm-hearted boy claspedhis mother to his bosom, crying like a child; “if I’ve ever been mean to you,” he said, his voice choked with tears—“if I’ve ever been mean to you, or done a hateful thing you’ll forget it when I’m gone? I never meant to be bad and the time I made that face, and called you an old fool, when I was a little boy, you don’t know how sorry I felt, nor how long I cried in the trundle-bed after you were asleep. You’ll forget it, won’t you, when I am gone, never to come back, maybe? Will you, mother, say?”
Would she? Could she remember aught against her youngest born, save that he had ever been to her the best, the dearest, most obedient child in the world? No, she could not, and so she told him, caressing his light brown hair and showering upon it the kisses which the compressed lips could no longer restrain. The fountain of love was broken, and the widow’s tears dropped like rain on the upturned face of her boy.
Suddenly there came to their ears the same drum-beat which had sounded so like a funeral knell to Annie Graham. Isaac must go, but not till one act more was done.
“Mother,” he whispered, half hesitatingly, “it will make me a better soldier if you say the Lord’s Prayer with me just as you used to do, with your hand upon my head. I’ll kneel down, if you like,” and the boy of eighteen, wearing a soldier’s dress,didkneel down, nor felt shame as the shaky hand rested once more on his bowed head, while his mother said with him the prayer learned years ago, kneeling as he knelt now.
Surely to the angels looking on there was charge given concerning that young boy,—charge to see that no murderous bullet came near him, even though they should fall round him thick and fast as summer hail. It would seem that some such thought as this intruded itself Upon the Widow Simms, for where the swelling pain hadbeen there came a gentle peace. God would care for Isaac. He would send him home in safety, and so the bitterness of that parting was more than half taken away.
Again the drum beat just as Annie heard it. Another pressure of the hand, another burning kiss, another “good-bye, mother, don’t fret too much about us,” and then the last of the widow’s boys was gone.
Turn we now to the shanty-like building down by the mill, where the mother of Harry and Bill rocked to and fro upon the unmade bed, and rent the air with her dismal howls, hoping thus to win at least one tender word from the two youths, voraciously devouring the breakfast she, like Widow Simms, had been at so much pains to prepare, watching even through her tears to see “if they wan’t going to leave her one atom of the steak she had spent her yesterday’s earnings to buy.”
No they didn’t.Harrytook the last piece, growling angrily at Bill, who, kinder hearted than his brother, suggested that “Halshouldn’t be a pig, but leave something for the old woman.”
“Leave it yourself,” was Harry’s gruff response, and turning to his mother, he told her “not to make a fool of herself, when she knew she was glad to be rid of them. At any rate, if she were not, the whole village were;” adding, by way of consolation, that “he should probably end his days in State Prison if he staid at home, and he had better be shot in a fair fight, as there was some credit in that.”
Around Harry Baker’s childhood there clustered no remembrance of prayers said at the mother’s knee, or of Bible stories told in the dusky twilight, and though reared in New England, within sight of the church spire, he had rarely been inside the house of God, and this it waswhich made the difference between that scene and the one transpiring in the house of Widow Simms. All the animal passions in Harry Baker’s case were brought to full perfection, unsubdued by any softer influence, and rising from the table, after having filled his stomach almost to bursting, he swaggered across the room, and opening his bundle began to comment upon the different articles, he having been too drunk to notice them when given to him on the previous night.
“What in thunder is this for?” he exclaimed, holding up the calico housewife, and letting buttons, scissors and thread drop upon the floor. “Plaguy pretty implements of war, these!” and he began to enumerate the articles. “Fine tooth comb, black as the ace of spades. Good enough idea that; hain’t used one since I can remember;” and he passed it through his shaggy hair, whose appearance fully verified the truth of his assertion. “Half a paper of pins. Why didn’t the stingy critters give us more? An old brass thimble, too. Here, mother, I’ll give you that to remember me by,” and he tossed it into her lap. The drawers then took his attention; the identical pair Rose Mather made, and though they were better than any he had ever worn, he laughed at them derisively. Trying them on he succeeded in making quite a long rip in one of the seams, for Rose’s stitches were none the shortest. Then, with a flourish, he kicked them off, uttering an oath as he felt a sharp scratch from the needle which Rose had broken, and failed to extricate. The woolen shirt came next, but any remarks he might have made upon that, were prevented by his catching sight of thelittle brown bookwhich lay at the bottom of the bundle.
“Hurrah, Bill, if here ain’t a Testament, with ‘Harry Baker’ inside. Rich, by George! Wonder if theys’posed I’d read it. Let us see what it says. ‘Come unto me all ye that labor.’ Mother, that meansyou, scrubbin’ and workin’, you know. Keep the pesky thing. I enlisted to lick the Southerners, not to singhimesand psalms!” and he threw the sacred book across the floor, just as the first drum-beat sounded. “That’s the signal,” he exclaimed, and hastily rolling up the shirt and drawers, he started for the door, carelessly saying, “Come Bill take your Testament and come along. Good-bye, old lady. You needn’t wear black if I’m killed. ’Twon’t pay, I guess.”
“Oh, Harry, Harry, wait. Wait, Billy boy, do wait. Give your old marm one kiss,” and the poor woman tottered toward Harry, who savagely repulsed her, saying “he wan’t going to have her slobberin’ over him.”
“You, Billy, then, you’ll let me kiss you, won’t you?” and she turned toward Bill, who hesitated a moment, for Harry was in the way.
Bill was afraid of Harry’s jeers, and so he, too, refused, while the wailing cry rose louder.
“Oh, Billy, do just once, and I’ve been so good to you! Just once, do, Billy.”
“Shan’t do it,” was Bill’s reply, as he followed Harry, who, as a farewell parting had hurled a stone at a cow across the street, set the dog on his mother’s kitten, stepped on the old cat’s tail, and then left the yard, slamming after him the rickety gate his mother had tried in vain to have him fix before he went.
Billy, however, waited. There was something more human in his nature than in his brother’s. He had not thrown his Testament away, and the sight of it in his bundle had touched a tender chord, making him half resolve to read it. Watching his brother till he wasout of sight, he went back to where his mother sat, moaning dolefully,
“Oh that I should raise sich boys!—that I should raise sich boys!”
“Mother,” he said, and Mrs. Baker’s heart fairly leaped at the sound, for there was genuine sympathy in the tone. “Mother, now that Hal has gone, I don’t mind kissin’ you, or lettin’ you kiss me, if you want to.”
The doleful moan was a perfect scream as the shrivelled arms clasped Bill, while the joyful mother kissed the rough but not ill-humored face.
“There, now, don’t screech so like an owl,” he said, releasing himself from her, and adding, as he glanced at a huge silver watch, won by gambling, “Maybe seein’ I’ve a few minutes to spare, I’ll drive a nail or so into that confounded gate, and I dun know, but while I’m about it, I’ll split you an armful of wood. I had or’to have cut up the hull on’t I s’pose, but when Hal is ’round I can’t do nothin’.”
It was strange how many little things Bill did do in these few minutes he had to spare—things which added greatly to his mother’s comfort, and saved her several shillings, beside making a soft warm spot in a heart which knew not many such. Glancing at the tall clock brought from New England, when Mrs. Baker first moved to Rockland, Bill remarked:
“The darned thing has stopped agin. I or’to have iled it, I s’pose. It would kind of been company for you, hearin’ it tick. Ivum, if I hain’t a mind to give you this old turnep,” and again he drew out the silver watch. “You’ll lay abed all day without no time. Like enough I’ll nab one from some tarnal rebel,—who knows?” and with his favorite expression, “Nuff said,” Bill laid the watch upon the table, his mother moaning all the while,
“Billy boy, Billy boy, I never sot so much store byyou before. How can I let you go? Stay, Billy, do, or else run away the first chance you git. Will you, Billy boy?”
“Not by a jug full!” was the emphatic response. “I ain’t none of that kind. I’ll be shot like a dog before I’ll run. The Baker name shall never be disgraced by my desertin’. It’s more like Hal to do that; but don’t howl so. I’m kinder puttin’ on the tender, you know, ‘cause I’m goin’ away. I should be ugly as ever if I’s to stay to hum. So stop your snivelin’,” and having driven the last nail into a broken chair, Bill gathered up his bundle, and with the single remark, “Nuff said,” darted through the open door, and was off ere his mother fairly comprehended it.
There was a great crowd out that morning to see the company off. Fathers, mothers, wives, and sisters,—those who had friends in the company and those who had none. The Mather carriage was there, and from its window Rose’s childish face looked out, now irradiated with smiles as its owner bowed to some acquaintance, and again shadowed with sympathy as the cries of some bereaved one were heard amid the throng.
Widow Simms, too, was there, drawn thither by a desire to see if Isaacdidmarch with Charlie Warner, as she hoped he would, notwithstanding that he had told her he was probably too short. She didn’t believe that,—he was taller than he looked, and inasmuch as Charlie was the most aristocratic of the company, she did hope Isaac would go with him. So there she stood waiting, not far from Mrs. Baker, who had dried her eyes, and come for a last look at her boys.
Onward the soldiers came, slowly, steadily onward, the regular tread of their feet and the measured beat of the drum making solemn music as they came, and sending a chill to many a heart; for ’twas no gala day, no Fourthof July, no old-fashioned general training, they were there to celebrate. Every drum-beat was a note of war, and they who kept time to it were going forth to battle. Onward, onward still they came, George Graham’s splendid figure towering above the rest, and eliciting more than one flattering compliment from the lookers on.
There were John and Eli, side by side,—John eagerly scanning the female forms which lined the walk for a sight of last night’s bride, and Eli looking for his mother, if perchance she should be there. She was there, and what to John was better yet, she stood with her hand onSusan’sshoulder, showing that thus early she was trying to mother her.
“That’s him,—that’s John,” and Susan’s voice faltered as she pointed him out to the widow, whose heart gave one great spasm of pain as she saw him, and then grew suddenly still with wrath and indignation; for alas, her Isaac, who was to have gone with Charlie Warner, son of Rockland’s Judge, was marching withWilliam Baker,—Bill,—who had been to the workhouse twice, to say nothing of the times he had stolen her rare-ripes and early melons! She had not looked for anything like this, and could scarcely believe her senses. Yet there they were, right before her eyes, Isaac and Bill, the former hoping his mother would not see him, and the latter trying not to see his mother, who was quite as much delighted to see him with Isaac Simms as the widow would have been had Isaac been with Charlie Warner, just in front.
Mrs. Baker had followed her sons to the hall, had heard the reasons for the captain’s decision, and she called out in a loud, exultant tone,
“Miss Simms! Miss Simms do you see your Ike with Billy? Cap’n Johnson would have put him with Charlie Warner if he hadn’t fell short two inches. Look kindernice together, don’t they? only Ike stoops a trifle, ’pears to me.”
It didn’t “’pear” so to Widow Simms, but then her eyes wore blurred so that she could not see distinctly, for, strange to say, the sharpest pang of all was the knowing that Isaac, so pure, so gentle, so girl-like, must be a companion for reckless, swearing, gambling Bill, and for a time she could not quite forgive her youngest born that he had not been just two inches taller. Blind, ignorant Widow Simms, the hour will come when, on her bended knees, she’ll thank the over-ruling hand which kept her boy from growingjust two inches taller!
Onward, still onward they moved, until they turned the corner and paused before the depot.
A little apart from the rest George Graham stood, wishing that the cars would come, and building airy-castles of what would be when he returned, covered with laurels, as he was sure to do if only opportunities were offered. He would distinguish himself, he thought, with many a brave deed, so that the papers would talk of him as a gallant hero, and when he came back to Rockland, the people would come out to meet him, a denser crowd than was assembled now. Their faces would not then be so sad, for they would come to do him honor, and in fancy he heard the stirring notes of the martial music, and saw the smile of joy steal over the weather-beaten features of the leader of the band, the man with the jammed white hat, as he fifed that welcome home. There would be carriages there, too, more than now, and maybe there would bea carriage expressly for him, and the dreamer saw the long procession moving down the street,—saw the little boys on the walk, the women at the doors, and heard the peal of the village bells. It would be grand, he thought, if he could have a crown just asthe Roman victors used to do,—it would please Annie so much to see him thus triumphant.Shewould not come up to the depot, he knew. She would rather be alone when she met him, while he, too, would prefer that all those people should not be looking on when he kissed his little wife. Just then the train appeared, and the confusion became greater as the crowd drew nearer together, and the man with the jammed white hat who was to fife George’s welcome home, redoubled his exertions, and tried his best to drown his own emotions in the harsh sounds he made. But above the fife’s shrill scream, above the bass drum’s beat, and above the engine’s hiss, was heard the sound of wailing, as one by one the Rockland volunteers stepped aboard the train.
Bill was the last to go, for as a parting act he had fired the old cannon, which almost from time immemorial had heralded to Rockland’s sleeping citizens that twelve o’clock had struck and it was Independence day. Some said it was no good omen that the worn-out gun burst in twain from the heavy charge with which Bill had seen fit to load it, but Bill cared not for omens, and with three cheers and atigerfor Uncle Sam, he jumped upon the platform just as the final all aboard was shouted.
There was a ringing of the bell, a sudden puffing of the engine, a straining of machinery, a sweeping backward of the wreaths of smoke, and then, where so lately one hundred soldiers had been, there was nothing left save an open space of frozen ground and iron rails, as cold and as empty as the hearts of those who watched until the last curling ring of vapor died amid the eastern woods, and then went sadly back to the homes left so desolate.