IT WAS not until late the next afternoon that the wagon-train finally reached Bridgeport, and the weak, wornout mules had at last a respite from straining through the mud, under the incessant nagging of the teamsters' whips and their volleyed blasphemy.
The Deacon's merciful heart had been moved by the sufferings of the poor beasts. He had done all that he could on the journey to lighten the labor of those attached to his own wagon. He had restrained as much as possible the St. Vitus Dance of the teamster's keen whip, uselessly remonstrated with him against his profanity, carried a rail to help pry the wheels out of the mudholes, and got behind and pushed going up the steep hills. At the journey's end when the exhausted brutes stood motionless, with their ears drooping and their eyes looking unutterable disgust at everything connected with the army and war, the Deacon helped the teamster take their harness off, and carry them as much corn and hay as the Forage-Master could be pursuaded to dole out to them.
The Deacon's next solicitude was to get the boys aboard a train that would start out soon. This was a sore perplexity. All was rush and bustle about the railroad yard. Trains were coming, being switched hither and yon, unloaded, and reloaded, and going, in a way that was simply bewildering to the plain farmer. Men in uniform and men in plain clothes were giving orders, and these were obeyed, and everybody seemed too busy to answer questions or give information.
"Naw; git out. Don't bother me with no questions, I tell you," impatiently said a man in citizen's clothes, who with arms outspread was signalling the switching engines. "'Tain't my business to give information to people. Got all I kin do to furnish brains for them bull-headed engineers. Go to that Quartermaster you see over there in uniform. The Government pays him for knowin' things. It don't me."
"I don't know anything about the different cars, my friend," said the Quartermaster haughtily. "That's the business of the railroad people. I simply order them to make up the trains for me, and they do the rest. There's a Yard-Master over there. Go ask him."
"Blazes and brimstone," exploded the Yard-Master; "how in the devil's name do you suppose I can tell anything about the trains going out? I'm just pestered to death by such fool questions, while the life's being worried out of me by these snoozers with sardine-labels on their shoulders, who strut around and give orders, and don't know enough about railroading to tell a baggage-check from a danger-signal. If they'd only let me alone I'd have all these trains running in and out like shuttles in a loom. But as soon's I get one arranged down comes a shoulderstrap and orders something different. Go off and ask somebody that wears brass buttons and a basswood head. Don't bother me. Get out of the way of that engine there."
In despair, the Deacon turned to a man who wore a Major's shoulder-straps.
"No," he answered; "I'm sorry to say that I cannot give you any information. I'm only in command of the guards here. I haven't anything to do with the trains. The Quartermasters run them, and they run them as they run everything they have anything to do with—like the old man and woman run their fulling mill on the Kankakee—that is, like—
"Dumb this mixin' o' military and civilian," said the irritated Deacon, "It's worse'n mixin' religion and politics, and preachin' and tavern-keepin'. Down there in camp everything was straight and systematic. Every feller what don't have nothin' in his shoulder-straps bosses all the fellers what hain't no shoulder-straps at all. The feller what has one bar in his shoulder-straps bosses all the fellers what hain't nothin in theirs, and the feller what has two bars bosses the fellers with but one; the feller with leaves gives orders to the fellers with bars; the feller with an eagle lays clear over him, and the man with a star jest makes everybody jump when he talks. Out at the depot on Bean Blossom Crick Sol Pringle has the say about everything. He knows when the trains come and when they go, and what goes into 'em. This seems to be a betwixt and between place, neither pork nor bacon, I don't like it at all, I always want things straight—either one thing or t'other—reg'ler close communion, total-immersion Babtist, or free-for-all, shoutin' Methodist."
"I think I can help you, 'Squire," said a big, goodnatured-looking civilian railroad man, who had become interested in the Deacon's troubles. "I've bin around with the Assistant Yard-Boss pickin' out a lot o' empties to hustle back to Nashville for grub. That's one o' them over there, on the furthest switch—X634. See? It's got a chalk mark on it. I'll help you carry your boys into it, and fix 'em comfortable, and you'll go back with it all right."
The Deacon turned gladly to him. The man summoned some of his friends, who speedily transferred Si and Shorty, with their belongings, cedar boughs and all, to the car, and made them as comfortable as possible, and added some little offerings of their own to contribute to the ease of the journey. They bestired themselves to find something to eat that the boys would relish, and brought out from somewhere a can of peaches and one of tomatoes, which proved very acceptable. The Deacon was overwhelmed with gratitude.
"I want every one of you to come up to my house, whenever you git a chance," he said, "and make a long visit. You shall have the very best that there is on my farm, and if you don't live well it won't be Maria Klegg's fault. She'll jest lay herself out to be good to men who's bin good to her son, and when she lays herself out to git up a dinner the Burnett House in Cincinnati takes a back seat."
Feeling entirely at ease, he climbed into the car, with a copy of the Cincinnati Gazette, which he had bought of a newsboy, lighted his pipe, put on his spectacles, and settled down to a labored, but thorough perusal of the paper, beginning at the head-lines on the upper left-hand corner, and taking in every word, advertisements and all, as systematically as he would weed a garden-bed or milk a cow. The Deacon never did anything slip-shod, especially when he had to pay 10 cents for a copy of the Cincinnati Gazette. He was going to get his full money's worth, and if it was not in the news and editorials, he would take it out of the advertisements and patent medicine testimonials. He was just going through a convincing testimonial to the manifold virtues of Spalding's Prepared Glue, when there was a bump, the sound of coupling, and his car began to move off.
"Glory, we're goin' home!" shouted the Deacon, waving his paper exultingly to the railroad men who had been so helpful. But he exulted prematurely. The engine rattled ahead sharply for a few hundred yards, and then began backing to opposite the spot where it had started from.
"That's all right," said his railroads friends encouragingly. "She's just run back on the other switch to take up a couple more cars. She'll go ahead all right presently."
"I hope it is all right," said the Deacon, a little abashed; "but I never had any use for a hoss that went back more'n he did forrard."
But this was only the first of many similar experiences, which occupied the rest of the day.
"Good gracious, do they want to wear the track and wheels and injines clean out?" grumbled the Deacon. "No wonder they're all out o' order. If I jammed my wagon back and forrard this way it wouldn't last a month. No wonder war-taxes are high, with everybody doin' all they kin to waste and destroy property. I've a great mind to write to Gen. Rosecrans or President Lincoln callin' attention to the way their hired men monkey around, and waste time, and don't accomplish nothin'."
Some time after dark, and after the Deacon's patience had become well-nigh exhausted, the railroad men came around with a lantern, and told him that at last it was settled, and the train would move out very soon. There had been conflicting orders during the day, but now the Chief Quartermaster at Nashville had ordered the train forward. Sure enough, the train pulled out presently, and went rattling up toward Shelbyville. Again the Deacon's heart bounded high, and after watching the phantom-like roadside for awhile, he grew very sleepy, and crawled in alongside of Si. He waked up at daylight, and went at once to the car-door hopefully expecting to recognize the outskirts of Nashville, or at least Murfreesboro. To his dismay, he saw the same sutler's shanty, mule-corral, pile of baled-hay, and the embalmer's sign on a tree which had been opposite them while standing on the track at Bridgeport.
Shorty swore volubly, and for once the Deacon did not check him, but was sinfully conscious in his heart of approving the profanity.
"Swearin's awful wicked and low," he said to himself. "A sensible man can get along without it ordinarily, by the grace o' God and hard tryin', though I've knowed a yoke o' dumbed steers in a stumpy field to purty nigh overcome me. But the army's no common experience, and I s'pose a man's justified in bustin' out in a time like this. Old Job was lucky that he didn't have to ride on an army railroad."
In Despair, the Deacon Turned to a Major. 77
His railroad friend again came up with some hot coffee and broiled meat, and explained that after the train had reached a station some miles out it got orders to run back and clear the track for some trains of troops from the Army of the Potomac which were being rushed through. The Deacon's heart almost sank in despair, but he took the coffee and meat, and helped the boys to it. As they were all eating they heard a voice outside which struck on the chords of their memories:
"Where is that Yard-Boss? Where is that Yard-Boss? Find him and send him to me, immediately."
"That sounds like Levi Rosenbaum," said Shorty.
Si nodded affirmatively.
The Deacon looked out,' and recognized Levi dressed in the hight of fashion. On his jetty curls sat a glossy silk hat, his clothes looked as if just taken from the tailor's shop, and they fitted him to perfection. A large diamond flashed from his scarfpin, and another gleamed in a ring on his right hand as he waved it in giving orders to the men around. Every eye was fixed on him, and when he spoke there was hastening to obey. The Yard-Boss was coming at a run.
"Why are those cotton-cars still standing there this morning, after the orders I gave you yesterday?" asked Levi, in tones of severest reprehension, as that official came up.
"Why, Mr. Rosenbaum," said that official apologetically—he was the same man who had so severely snubbed the Deacon the day before—"you see I had the train made up and all ready to start, when there came orders—"
"Whose orders?" demanded Levi. "Who dares give orders that over-ride mine? You go at once and have an engine—the best one you have—hitched on. Couple on my car, and be ready to start in 15 minutes. Fifteen minutes I give you," continued he, looking at his watch. "Tell the Train Dispatcher to clear everything into switches until we get to Murfreesboro, and have the operator at Murfreesboro lay by everything till we get to Nashville."
The Yard-Boss rushed off to execute the order.
"Great Jehosephat, what's come over Levi?" muttered Shorty. "Has he become the High-muk-a-muk of the whole army? Have they put him in Gen. Rosecrans's place?"
"Will I dare to speak to such a high-flyer?" said the Deacon, doubtfully.
Levi's eyes, flashed from one point to another, rested on the Deacon for a moment, and the latter wreathed his face with a grin of recognition. Then Levi's stern countenance relaxed with a still broader grin.
"Hello, 'Squire," he shouted joyously. "Is that you? Where are the boys?" And he rushed forward with outstretched hand.
"I've got 'em in here, badly hurt," answered the Deacon, jumping to the ground and grasping the outstretched hand in his own horny palm. "I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Rosenbaum."
"Glad ain't no name for it," said Levi. "Did you say you'd got the boys in there? Here, you men, bring me two or three of those cracker-boxes."
By the aid of the cracker-boxes Levi climbed into the car, and shook the boys' hands, and cried and talked mingled gladness and sympathy in his broken English.
"What place have you got, and what are you doin' down here, Mr. Rosenbaum," the Deacon asked in the first lull.
"O, I'm Special Agent of the Treasury in charge of the cotton business. You see, these rascals have been stealing the Treasury blind, in cotton, and they had to have an honest man down here, who was up to all their tricks, and wouldn't stand no nonsense. They sent me, and gave me orders which make me boss of the whole outfit. None of them outrank me about these trains."
"So I see," said the Deacon. "Wisht I'd had a handful of your authority yesterday."
"Here, we're wasting time," said Levi suddenly. "You're tryin' to get these boys back home. I'll see that they get as far as the Ohio River as fast as the train'll go. Here, six or eight of you men pick up these boys and carry them over to my car there. Handle them as if they were eggs, for they're my friends."
There was no lack of willing hands to execute this order. That was long before the days of private cars, even for railway magnates, but Rosenbaum had impressed a caboose for himself, which he had had fitted up with as many of the comforts of a home as were available at that era of car-building. He had a good bed with a spring mattress for himself and another for his friends, table, chairs, washroom and a fairly-equipped kitchen, stored with provisions, for he was as fond of good living as of sumptuous raiment. All this and more he was only too glad to place at the disposal of the Deacon and the boys. The Deacon himself was not more solicitous about their comfort.
The train started as Levi had ordered, and sped along on a clear track to Nashville. Cotton was needed at the North almost as much as rations were needed at the front, and a train loaded with Treasury cotton had superior rights to the track which must not be disregarded. At Nashville a friend of Levi's, a Surgeon of generally recognized skill, and whom Levi had telegraphed for, came aboard with a couple of skilled nurses, who bathed the boys, dressed their wounds, and replaced their soiled, torn clothes with new, clean ones, including fine, soft underwear from Levi's own wardrobe.
"Say, Doc," said Shorty, after this was finished and he had devoured a supper cooked under Levi's special care, "I feel so much better that I don't believe there's any need o' my goin on any further. I'll jest lay by here, and go into Convalescent Camp for a few days, and then go back to the front with a squad, and help clean up our cracker line. I'd like awfully well to have a hand in runnin' them rebels offen Lookout Mountain. They've bin too infernally impudent and sassy for any earthly use."
"Indeed you won't," said the Surgeon decisively. "You'll go straight home, and stay there until you are well. You won't be fit for duty for at least a month yet, if then. If you went out into camp now you would have a relapse, and be dead inside of a week. The country between here and Chattanooga is dotted with the graves of men who have been sent back to the front too soon."
The journey to Louisville was delightful. At Louisville Levi tried hard to get his caboose taken across the river and attached to a train on the other side, so that the boys could go clear home in it. But a Special Treasury Agent had but little of the importance north of the Ohio River that he had south of it. Still, Levi managed to get the crew of an accommodation train interested in the boys, whom he had driven across the river on a light wagon, lying on his spring mattress. They were placed in a comfortable caboose, and soon were speeding on the last stretch of the journey.
The day was bright and sunny, and the boys were propped up, so that they could look out of the windows and enjoy the scenery. That they were nearing home made Si nervous and fidgety. It seemed to him that the train only crawled, and stopped interminably at every station and crossing. The Deacon became alarmed lest this should unfavorably affect him, and resorted to various devices to divert his mind. He bought a Cincinnati Gazette, and began reading it aloud. Si was deeply interested in all the war news, particularly that relating to the situation at Chattanooga, but he would not listen to the merits of Spalding's Prepared Glue.
The day wore away towards evening.
"Ain't we most there, Pap?" Si asked querulously.
"About 25 mile away, I think," answered his father. "I disremember just how fur that last stop is from the Crick, but I think it's betwixt 25 and 30 mile."
Just then the whistle blew for a stop.
"What'n the world are they stoppin' here for?" groaned Si. "Some woman's got a dozen aigs or a pound o' butter that she wants to send to town. I s'pose we'll stop here until she finishes churnin', or gits another aig to make up a dozen. I never did see sich putterin' along."
The Deacon was deeply absorbed in an editorial on "President Lincoln's duty in this Crisis," and paid no attention. Shorty craned his long neck out of the window.
"Some gal's stopped the train to git on," he reported to Si. "She's apparently been payin' a visit to a house up there a little ways, and they've brung her down in a buggy with her trunk. She's dressed up fit to kill, and she's purtier than a peach-blossom. Jehosephat, Si, I believe she's the very same gal that you was castin' sheep's eyes at when you was home. Yes, it is."
"Annabel?" gasped Si.
"What's that?" said the Deacon, rousing to interest, but carefully putting his thumb down to mark the place where he left off.
"Shorty thinks Annabel is out there gittin' on the train."
"Eh," said the Deacon, shoving up his spectacles and taking a good look. "It certainly is. She's been down here to see the Robinses, who live out here somewhere. I'll jest go out and bring her in here."
THE Deacon had been afraid to telegraph directly to his wife that he was bringing the boys home. He knew the deadly alarm that would seize mother and daughters at the very sight of the yellow telegraph envelope directed to them. They would interpret it to mean that Si was dead, and probably in their grief fail to open the envelope and read the message. So at Jeffersonville he sent a message to Sol Pringle, the agent and operator at the station. The Deacon remembered the strain the former message had been on the young operator's intelligence, besides he himself was not used to writing messages, and so, regardless of expense, he conveyed his thoughts to Sol in this wise:
Deer Sol: put yore thinkin' cap on, and understand just whatIme sayin'. I want you to send word out to the house at oncethat Ime comin' home this evenin' on the accommodationtrain, and bringing the boys. Be keerful and doant make afool of yourself and skeer the wimmin fokes.Respectfully yores, Josiah Klegg.
Sol had plenty of time to study that dispatch out, and he not only sent word as desired, but he communicated the news to all who came to the station. The result was there was quite a crowd of friends there to greet the home-comers.
The reception of the message had thrown the household into a flurry of joyful expectancy. It was far better news than the Deacon's last letter had led them to anticipate. After a few moments of tearful ejaculation and mutual kissing over it, mother and daughters began to get everything in readiness to give the returning ones the warmest, most cheerful welcome. Abraham Lincoln was summoned in from his rail-splitting, which he had been pursuing quite leisurely during the Deacon's absence, and stirred to spasmodic energy under Maria's driving to cut an additional supply of dry wood, and carry it into every room in the house, where little Sammy Woggles, the orphan whom the Deacon and Mrs. Klegg were bringing up, built cheer-shedding fires. Mrs. Klegg had her choicest young chickens killed, and after she and Amanda had robbed every other room of whatever they thought would add to the comfort of Si's, she set herself to work preparing a supper which would outdo all her previous efforts.
Hours before the train was due Maria had Abraham Lincoln bring out the spring-wagon and hitch the horses to it. Then he had to lay in a bed of clean straw, and upon this was placed a soft feather bed, blankets and pillows. Maria decided that she would drive to the station herself.
"Never do in the world," said she, "to trust them skittish young horses, what hain't done a lick o' work since Pap went away, to that stoopid darky. They'd surely run away and break his neck, which 'd be no great loss, and save lots o' provisions, but they'd smash that new wagon and break their own necks, which are worth more'n $200 apiece."
"Maria, how can you talk so?" said the gentle Mrs. Klegg reprovingly. "It's a sin to speak so lightly o' death o' a feller-creature."
"Well, if he's a feller-creature o' mine," returned the sprightly Maria, "the Lord made a slack-twisted job of him some dark night out o' remnants, and couldn't find no gumption to put in him. He gave him an alligator's appetite instid. And ain't I tryin' to save his life? Besides, I'm nearly dead to see Si. I want to be the first to see him."
This aroused Amanda, but Maria stood on her rights as the elder sister, had her way, as she usually did, and drove away triumphantly fully two hours before train-time.
Upon her arrival at the station she quickly recognized that she was the central figure in the gathering crowd, and she would have been more than a young woman if she had not made the most of her prominence.
Other girls were there with their fathers and mothers who had brothers who had been in the three months' service, or were now in three years regiments, or who had been discharged on account of disability, or who had been in this battle or that, but none of them a brother who had distinguished himself in the terrible battle about which everybody was now talking, who had helped capture a rebel flag, who had been wounded almost to death, who had been reported dead, and who was now coming home, a still living evidence of all this. No boy who had gone from Bean Blossom Creek neighborhood had made the figure in the public eye that Si had, and Maria was not the girl to hide the light of his achievements under a bushel. She was genially fraternal with those girls who had brothers still in the service, affable to those whose brothers had been in, but were now, for any reason, out, but only distantly civil to those whose brothers had not enlisted. Of these last was Arabella Widgeon, whose father had been one of the earliest immigrants to the Wabash, and was somewhat inclined to boast of his Old Virginia family. He owned a larger farm than the Deacon's, and Arabella, who was a large, showy girl, a year or two older than Maria, had been her schoolmate, and, Maria thought, disposed to "put on airs" over her. Arabella's brother Randolph was older than Si, but had chosen to continue his studies at Indianapolis rather than engage in "a war to free the niggers." But Arabella had developed an interest in the war since she had met some engaging young gentlemen who had come through the neighborhood on recruiting duty, and was keeping up a fitful correspondence with two or three of them.
"It must be very nice, Maria," said Arabella, with a show of cordiality, but which Maria interpreted as an attempt to patronize, "to have your brother back home with you again."
"It certainly will be. Miss Widgeon," answered Maria, with strictly "company manners." "One who has never had a brother exposed to the constant dangers of army life can hardly understand how glad we all feel to have Si snatched from the very jaws of death and brung back to us."
"That's a little love-tap that'll settle several scores with Miss Frills," Maria chuckled to herself. "Partickerly the airs she put on over all us girls when she was running around to singing-school and church with that Second Lieutenant, who ain't got across the Ohio River yet, and I don't believe he intends to. Sol Pringle tells me all his letters to her are postmarked Jeffersonville."
Arabella took no seeming notice of the shot, but came back sweetly:
"I am awfully glad that your brother was not hurt so badly as at first reported. He couldn't be, and be able to come home now. These papers do magnify everything so, and make no end of fuss over little things as well as big ones, I was very much alarmed at first, for fear Si might be really badly hurt."
This was too much for Maria. Her company manners slid off like a drop of water from a cabbage leaf, and she answered hotly:
"I'd have you know. Miss Widgeon, the papers don't magnify the matter. They don't make a fuss over nothing. They don't begin to tell all the truth. None o' them can. My brother was nearer dead than any man who ever lived. Nothing but the favor of God and Klegg grit pulled him through. It'd killed a whole house full o' Randy Widgeons or that Second Lieutenant. I remember Randy Widgeon turning pale and a'most fainting when he run a fish-hook in his finger. If it ain't nothing, why don't Randy Widgeon go down there a little while, with the rest o' the boys, and do his share?"
"My brother disbelieves in the constitutionality of this war, and denies that we have any right to take away other people's slaves," said Arabella loftily. "I s'pose he's a right to his opinions."
"A poor excuse's better'n none," retorted Maria. "I noticed that he didn't turn out last Summer to keep John Morgan from stealing our people's horses, and robbing their stores and houses. S'pose he thought it unconstitutional to let a nasty rebel gorilla shoot at him. It's very convenient to have opinions to keep you from doin' things that you're afraid to do."
The dialog was approaching the volcanic stage, when a poorly-dressed, sad-faced woman, with a babe in her arms, edged through the crowd to Maria, and said timidly, for she had never been accounted by the Kleggs as in their set:
"Miss Maria, I don't s'pose you know me, but I do so want to git a chance to speak to your pap as soon as he gets here, and before all these people gits hold of him. Mebbe he's found out something about poor Jim. I can't believe that Jim was killed, and I keep hopin' that he got away somehow, and is in one o' them hospitals. Mebbe your pap knows. I know you think Jim was bad and rough, but he was mighty good to me, and he's all that I had. I'm nearly dead to hear about him, but I can't write, nor kin Jim. I've bin tryin' to make up my mind to come over to your house, and ax you to write for me."
"Of course, you can, you poor, dear woman," said Maria, her mood changing at once from fierceness to loving pity. "You shall be the first one to speak to Pap and Si after me. Why didn't you come over to see us long ago. We'd only bin too glad to see you, and do all we could for you. Yes, I know you.
"You're Polly Blagdon, and live down by the sawmill, where your husband used to work. You look tired and weak carrying that big baby. Let me hold him awhile and rest you. Sit down there on that box. I'll make Sol Pringle clear it off for you."
'arabella Curled Her Lip at Seeing Maria Take the Baby.' 87
Arabella curled her nose, at seeing Maria take the unwashed baby in her arms, to the imminent danger of her best gown, but Maria did not notice this, and was all loving attention to the baby and its mother.
It seemed an age until the whistle of the locomotive was heard. The engine had to stop to take water at the creek, several hundred yards from the station, and Maria's impatience to see Si and be the first to speak to him could not brook the delay.
"Come along, Mrs. Blagdon," she called, and with the baby still in her arms, she sped down the cinder track to the pumping station, and then along the line of freight cars until she recognized her father's face looking from the caboose, which was still beyond the bridge. She shouted joyously at him.
"Maria's out there, waitin' for us, and she's got a baby in her arms. What do you suppose she thinks we want a baby for?"
"'Spect she's been practicin' on it, so's to take care o' us, Si," said Shorty. "I believe we've been more trouble to your father than we wuz to our mothers when we wuz teethin'."
"I've bin repaid for all, more'n repaid for all," said the Deacon; "especially since I'm once more back home, and out o' the reach o' the Sheriffs o' Tennessee. I'll stay away from Chattanoogy till after the Grand Jury meets down there. If it does its dooty there'll be several bills with Josiah Klegg's name entirely too conspicuous."
"I want to be able to git out to the next covenant meetin', Pap," said Si with a grin, "and hear you confess to the brethren and sisters all that you've bin up to down at Chattanoogy."
"Well, you won't git there," said the Deacon decisively. "We don't allow nobody in there who hain't arrived at the years o' discreetion, which'll keep you out for a long time yit."
The train pulled over across the bridge, and handing the baby to its mother, Maria sprang in, to recoil in astonishment at the sight of Annabel's blushing face.
"You mean thing," said Maria, "to steal a march on me this way, when I wanted to be the first to see Si. Where in the world did you come from, and how did you find out he was comin' home on this train? Si, you didn't let her know before you did us, did you?"
She was rent by the first spasm of womanly jealousy that any other woman should come between her brother and his mother and sisters.
"Don't be cross, Maria," pleaded Annabel. "I didn't know nothin' of it. You know I've been down to see the Robinses, and intended to stay till tomorrer, but something moved me to come home today, and I just happened to take this train. I really didn't know. Yet," and the instinctive rights of her womanhood and her future relations with Si asserted themselves to her own wonderment, "I had what the preachers call an inward promptin', which I felt it my dooty to obey, and I now think it came from God. You know I ought to be with Si as soon as anybody," and she hid her face in her hands in maidenly confusion.
"Of course you ought, you dear thing," said Maria, her own womanhood overcoming her momentary pique. "It was hateful o' me to speak that way to you."
And she kissed Annabel effusively, though a little deadness still weighed at her heart over being supplanted, even by the girl she liked best in all the world after her own sister.
If the young folks had not been so engaged in their own affairs they would have seen the Deacon furtively undoing his leathern pocket-book and slipping a greenback into the weeping Mrs. Blagdon's hand, as the only consolation he was able to give her.
There were plenty of strong, willing hands to help carry Si from the caboose to the wagon. It was strange how tender and gentle those strong, rough farmers could be in handling a boy who had been stricken down in defense of his country. Annabel's face was as red as a hollyhock over the way that everybody assumed her right to be next to Si, and those who could not get a chance at helping him helped her to a seat in the wagon alongside of him, while the dethroned Maria took her place by her father, as he gathered the reins in his sure hands and started home. Maria had to expend some of the attentions she meant for Si upon Shorty, who received them with awkward confusion.
"Now, don't make no great shakes out o' me, Miss Maria," he pleaded. "I didn't do nothin' partickler, I tell you. I was only along o' Si when he snatched that rebel flag, and I got a little crack on the head, which wouldn't 've amounted to nothin', if I hadn't ketched the fever at Chattanoogy. I'm a'most well, and only come back home to please the Surgeon, who was tired seein' me around."
They found the house a blaze of light, shining kindly from the moment it came in sight, and there was a welcome in Towser's bark which touched Si's heart.
"Even the dogs bark differently up here. Shorty," he said. "It's full and honest, and don't mean no harm. You know that old Towser ain't barkin' to signal some bushwhackers that the Yankees 's comin'. It sounds like real music."
It was Mrs. Klegg's turn to receive a shock when she rushed out to greet her son, and found Annabel by his side. It went deeper to her heart than it had to Maria's; but, then, she had more philosophy, and had foreseen it longer.
After everything had been done, after she had fed them her carefully-prepared dishes, after the boys had been put to bed in the warmed room, and she knew they were sleeping the sound sleep of deep fatigue, she went to her own room to sit down and think it all over. There Maria found her, wiping away her tears, and took her in her arms, and kissed her.
"It's right. It's all right. It's God's ways," said the mother.
"A son's a son till he gets a wife;But a daughter's a daughter all her life."
WHAT days those were that followed the arrival of the boys home. In Shorty's hard, rough life he had never so much as dreamed of such immaculate housekeeping as Mrs. Klegg's. He had hardly been in speaking distance of such women as Si's mother and sisters. To see these bright, blithe, sweet-speeched women moving about the well-ordered house in busy performance of their duties was a boundless revelation to him. It opened up a world of which he had as little conception as of a fairy realm. For the first time he began to understand things that Si had told him of his home, yet it meant a hundredfold more to him than to Si, for Si had been brought up in that home. Shorty began to regard the Deacon and Si as superior beings, and to stand in such awe of Mrs. Klegg and the girls that he became as tongue-tied as a bashful school-boy in their presence. It amazed him to hear Si, when the girls would teaze him, speak to them as sharply as brothers sometimes will, and just as if they were ordinary mortals.
"Si, you orter to be more careful in talkin' to your sisters," he remonstrated when they were alone.
"You've bin among rough men so long that you don't know how to talk to real ladies."
"O, come off," said Si, petulantly. "What's a-eatin you. You don't know them girls as well as I do. Particularly Maria. She'll run right over you if you let her. She's one o' the best girls that ever breathed, but you've got to keep a tight rein on her. The feller that marries her's got to keep the whip-hand or she'll make him wish that he'd never bin born."
Shorty's heart bounded at the thought of any man having the unspeakable happiness of marrying that peerless creature, and then having the meanness not to let her do precisely as she wanted to.
Both the boys had been long enough in the field to make that plain farm home seem a luxurious palace of rest. The beds were wonders of softness and warmth, from which no unwelcome reveille or cross-grained Orderly-Sergeant aroused them with profane threats of extra duty.
Instead, after peeping cautiously through the door to see that they were awake, the girls would come in with merry greeting, bowls of warm water, and soft, white towels fragrant of the lawn. Maria would devote herself to helping Shorty get ready for breakfast, and Amanda to Si. Shorty trembled like a captured rabbit when Maria first began her ministrations. All his blood rushed to his face, and he tried to mumble something about being able to take care of himself, which that straightforward young woman paid not the slightest attention to. After his first fright was over there was a thrilling delight about the operation which electrified him.
When the boys were properly washed and combed, Mrs. Klegg, her kind, motherly face beaming with consciousness of good and acceptable service, would enter with a large tray, laden with fragrant coffee, delicious cream, golden butter, her own peerless bread and bits of daintily-broiled chicken.
"Si," said Shorty, one morning after he had finished the best breakfast he had ever known, the girls had gone away with the things, and he was leaning back thinking it all over in measureless content, "if the preachers'd preach that a feller'd go to such a place as this when he died if he was real good, how good we'd all be, and we'd be rather anxious to die. How in the world are we ever goin' to git up spunk enough to leave this and go back to the field?"
"You'll git tired o' this soon enough," said Si. "It's awful nice for a change, but I don't want it to last long. I want to be able to git up and git out. I hate awfully to have women-folks putterin' around me."
The boys could not help rapidly recovering under such favorable conditions, and soon they were able to sit up most of the day. In the evening, ensconced in the big Shaker rocking chairs, sitting on pillows, and carefully swathed in blankets, they would sit on either side of the bright fire, with the family and neighbors forming the semi-circle between, and talk over the war interminably. The neighbors all had sons and brothers in the army, either in the 200th Ind. or elsewhere, and were hungry for every detail of army news. They plied Si and Shorty with questions until the boys' heads ached. Then the Deacon would help out with his observations of camp-life.
"I'm not goin' to believe," said one good old brother, who was an exhorter in the Methodist Church, "that the army is sich a pitfall, sich a snare to the feet o' the unwary as many try to make out. There's no need of any man or boy who goes to serve his country and his God, fallin' from grace and servin' the devil. Don't you think so, too. Deacon? There's no reason why he shouldn't be jest as good a man there as he is at home. Don't you think so, too. Deacon Klegg?"
"Um—um-um," hemmed the Deacon, getting red in the face, and avoiding answering the question by a vigorous stirring of the fire, while Si slily winked at Shorty. "I impressed that on son Jed's mind when he enlisted," continued the brother. "Jed was always a good, straight up-and-down boy; never gave me or his mother a minute's uneasiness. I told him to have no more to do with cards than with smallpox; to avoid liquor as he would the bite of a rattlesnake; to take nothin' from other people that he didn't pay full value for; that swearin' was a pollution to the lips and the heart. I know that Jed hearkened to all that I said, and that it sank into his heart, and that he'll come back, if it's God's will that he shall come back, as good a boy as when he went away."
Si and Shorty did not trust themselves to look at one another before the trusting father's eyes, for Jedediah Bennett, who was one of the best soldiers in Co. Q, had developed a skill at poker that put all the other boys on their mettle; and as for foraging—well, neither Si nor Shorty ever looked for anything in a part where Jed Bennett had been.
"Deacon," persisted Mr. Bennett, "you saw a great deal o' the army. You didn't see the wickedness down there that these Copperheads 's chargin', did you? You only found men wicked that'd be wicked any place, and really good men jest as good there as at home?"
"It's jest as you say, Mr. Bennett," answered the Deacon, coughing to gain time for a diplomatic answer, and turning so that the boys could not see his face. "A wicked man's wicked anywhere, and he finds more chance for his wickedness in the army. A good man ought to be good wherever he's placed, but there are positions which are more tryin' than others. By the way, Maria, bring us some apples and hickory nuts. Bring in a basketful o' them Rome Beauties for Mr. Bennett to take home with him. You recollect them trees that I budded with Rome Beauty scions that I got up the river, don't you, Bennett? Well, they bore this year, and I've bin calculatin' to send over some for you and Mrs. Bennett. I tell you, they're beauties indeed. Big as your fist, red as a hollyhock, fragrant as a rose, and firm and juicy. I have sent for scions enough to bud half my orchard. I won't raise nothin' hereafter but Rome Beauties and Russets."
The apples and nuts were brought in, together with some of Mrs. Klegg's famous crullers and a pitcher of sweet cider, and for awhile all were engaged in discussing the delicious apples. To paraphrase Dr. Johnson, God undoubtedly could make a better fruit than a Rome Beauty apple from a young tree, growing in the right kind of soil, but undoubtedly He never did. The very smell of the apple is a mild intoxication, and its firm, juicy flesh has a delicacy of taste that the choicest vintages of the Rhine cannot surpass.
But Mr. Bennett was persistent on the subject of morality in the army. He soon refused the offer of another apple, laid his knife back on the plate, put the plate on the table, wiped his mouth and hands, and said:
"Deacon, these brothers and sisters who have come here with me to-night are, like myself, deeply interested in the moral condition of the army, where we all have sons or kinsmen. Now, can't you sit right there and tell us of your observations and experiences, as a Christian man and father, from day to day, of every day that you were down there? Tell us everything, just as it happened each day, that we may be able to judge for ourselves."
Si trembled a httle, for fear that they had his father cornered. But the Deacon was equal to the emergency.
"It's a'most too late, now, Mr. Bennett," he said, looking at the clock, "for it's a long story. You know I was down there quite a spell. We can't keep these boys out o' bed late now, and by the time we have family worship it'll be high time for them to be tucked in. Won't you read us a chapter o' the Bible and lead us in prayer, Brother Bennett?"
While Shorty was rapidly gaining health and strength, his mind was ill at ease. He had more time than ever to think of Jerusha Briggs, of Bad Ax, Wis., and his surroundings accentuated those thoughts. He began by wondering what sort of a girl she really was, compared to Si's sisters, and whether she was used to such a home as this? Was she as handsome, as fine, as high-spirited as Maria? Then his loyal soul reproached him. If she would have him he would marry her, no matter who she she was. Why should he begin now making comparisons with other girls? Then, she might be far finer than Maria. How would he himself compare with her, when he dared not even raise his eyes to Maria?
He had not written her since the Tullahoma campaign. That seemed an age away, so many things had happened in the meanwhile.
He blamed himself for his neglect, and resolved to write at once, to tell her where he was, what had happened to him, and that he was going to try to visit her before returning to the field. But difficult as writing had always been, it was incomparably more so now. He found that where he thought of Jerusha once, he was thinking of Maria a hundred times. Not that he would admit to himself there was any likeness in his thoughts about the two girls. He did not recognize that there was anything sentimental in those about Maria. She was simply some infinitely bright, superior sort of a being, whose voice was sweeter than a bird's, and whose presence seemed to brighten the room. He found himself uncomfortable when she was out of sight. The company of Si or his father was not as all-sufficient and interesting as it used to be. When Maria went out of the room they became strangely dull and almost tiresome, unless they talked of her.
Worse yet. As he grew stronger and better able to take care of himself Maria dropped the familiarity of the nurse, and began putting him on the footing of a young gentleman and a guest of the house. She came no more into the room with the basin of warm water, and got him ready for his breakfast. She toned down carefully with every improvement in his strength. First, she merely brought him the basin and towel, and then as he grew able to go about she would rap on his door and tell him to come out and get ready for breakfast. Shorty began to feel that he was losing much by getting well, and that his convalescence had been entirely too rapid.
Then he would go off and try to compose his thoughts for a letter to Jerusha Briggs, but before he knew it he would find himself in the kitchen watching, with dumb admiration, Maria knead bread, with her sleeves rolled to her shoulders, and her white, plump arms and bright face streaked with flour. There would be little conversation, for Maria would sing with a lark's voice, as she worked, some of the sweet old hymns, chording with Amanda, busy in another part of the house. Shorty did not want to talk. It was enough for him to feast his eyes and ears.
They were sitting down to supper one evening when little Sammy Woggles came in from the station.
"There's your Cincinnati Gazette," he said, handing the paper to the Deacon, "and there's a letter for Si."
"Open it and read it, Maria," said Si, to whom reading of letters meant labor, and he was yet too weak for work.
"It's postmarked Chattanooga, Tenn.," said she, scanning the envelope carefully, "and addressed to Sergeant Josiah Klegg, 200th Indiana Volunteer Infantry, Bean Blossom Creek, Ind."
"Sergeant!" ejaculated Si, Shorty and the Deacon, in the same breath. "Are you sure it's Sergeant?"
"Yes, it's Sergeant," said Maria, spelling the title out. "Who in the world do you s'pose it's from, Si?"
"It don't seem to occur to you that you could find out by openin' it," said the Deacon, sarcastically.
"Open it and see who it's from," said Si.
"The man writes a mighty nice hand," said Maria, scanning the superscription. "Just like that man that taught writing-school here last Winter. It can't be from him, can it? Didn't s'pose there was anybody in your company that could write as well as that. Look, Si, and see if you can tell whose handwritin' it is."
"O, open it, Maria," groaned Si, "and you'll likely find his name writ somewhere inside."
"Don't be so impatient. Si," said Maria, feeling around for a hair-pin with which to rip open the envelope. "You're gittin' crosser'n two sticks since you're gittin' well."
"He certainly does write a nice hand," said Maria, scanning the inclosure deliberately. "Just see how he makes his d's and s's. All his up-strokes are light, and all his down ones are heavy, just as the writing-master used to teach. And his curves are just lovely. And what a funny name he has signed. J. T. No; I. T. No; that's a J, because it comes down below the line. M-c-G-i-l-l—I can't make out the rest."
"McGillicuddy; ain't that it?" said Si eagerly. "It's from Capt. McGillicuddy. Read it, Maria."
"McGillicuddy. Well, of all the names!" said that deliberate young woman. "Do you really mean to say that any man has really such a name as that?"
"'Mandy, take that letter away from her and read it," commanded Si.
"Well, I'm goin' to read your old letter for you, if you'll just gi' me time," remonstrated Maria. "What are you in such a hurry for, old cross-patch? Le' me see: