CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XII

IN his Christmas sermon, the Village minister gave thanks that the British, in this twentieth-century crusade of liberty, had accomplished the purpose of the old Crusades and had wrested Jerusalem, the Holy City, from the Turks who had held it for nearly seven hundred years. And a few Sundays later, he charged each citizen to take, as his New Year’s resolution for the nation, the “fourteen principles of peace� formulated by the first citizen of America and of the world.

Thanksgiving and peace terms! Those were the things people were taking as matters of course, feeling sure, that now America was in the war, the victorious end would come, and that soon. But days began to darken. The spring of 1918 was a tragic, anxious time.

Germany had failed to clear the seas and win the war with submarines. Every few minutes a wooden or steel or concrete ship left the New World, bearing soldiers and food and munitions, and ninety-nine per cent of them came safe to harbor; soon there would be millions of trained and equipped doughboys in Europe. Germany’s one chance was to strike a decisive blow on theWestern Front before those fast-coming Americans were there in full force.

And Germany was ready to strike that blow. The Reds’ shameful peace at Brest-Litovsk enabled her to mass armies in the west. She had there Von Hindenburg and Ludendorff and six million soldiers. And having the inner lines, she could concentrate troops and outnumber the Allies two or three to one in every attack, although they had eight million men.

Late in March, the great German offensive began.

The first drive was on a fifty-mile front. It swept onward with terrible force, capturing vast numbers of prisoners and guns. The monster guns in the St. Gobain Forest dropped shells on a church in the heart of Paris. Late in April, that drive was checked, but the Germans had thrust forward thirty-four miles on their way to the French capital.

Before that first drive was halted, the second drive began in Flanders; its purpose was to reach the Channel ports and to cut off the British Army from the French and Americans. The British held their broken ranks and stood “with their backs to the wall.� The Germans were again checked, but they had advanced ten long, hard-fought miles.

The Village received with growing dismay the tidings from the battle front. Months ago the older men had offered themselves for war service and formed a company, and now they drilled regularly on Court-house Green. They might as well be ready, in case they were needed, said Red Mayo Osborne.

Black Mayo Osborne did not join the company. Nor did he enter the army as he had said months before he was going to do. He spent a great deal of his time wandering about the countryside, with baskets of pigeons, seemingly unconscious of the sneers at his expense—that came most frequently and openly from men who were leaving no stone of political influence unturned, to keep themselves and their sons and brothers out of the army.

One of Black Mayo’s favorite walks was toward the high bridge, eight miles from The Village, where frequent trains bearing soldiers and supplies crawled across the long, high trestle far above the river and the lowlands.

One day as he was sauntering near the bridge, he saw a man and boy who were following a by-path through the woods. Circling through a pine thicket, he came near enough to hear part of their conversation.

The man was not speaking English, but BlackMayo understood what he was saying: “Not train time. You walk the bridge and�—there Black Mayo missed some words.

“No,� the boy said curtly.

The man insisted.

“That will I not!� declared the boy, speaking in English. “Nothing to hurt, all to help!�

“Coward that you are!� the man cried in his guttural language. “You, a boy as at play, could do it without suspicion. Must I risk, not only myself, but the Cause?�

Then he discovered Black Mayo, almost at his elbow, apparently intent on the pigeons—scrawling a line and affixing it to a bird. He released it; it soared, circled, and was gone.

Mr. Smith knew that, at that nearness, Mr. Osborne must have heard his words and understood probably his purpose. With an oath he jerked out a pistol. Albert caught his arm, and before he could free it and take aim, Black Mayo said: “Look out! That pigeon carried my message home: ‘High bridge. Threatened by Smith.’�

For a minute the two men stood silent, face to face.

Smith thought quickly. To shoot down this unarmed man whom he hated—only to be arrested as a murderer—— The game was not worth the candle. He spoke with an angry laugh:“You did startle me.Ach!I was talking nonsense with my nephew. Go, with your little birds! But if�—he scowled, and his evil left eye became a mere glinting spark—“if you make harm where there is none, I will shoot you with my last act.�

Black Mayo considered a moment before he answered: “I will go home and receive my own message. But I will put another where it will be found the minute harm comes to me.�

Mr. Smith laughed and put his pistol into his pocket. “Go, save your skin,� he sneered. Then he said to his nephew: “Ach!That is the man you adore, a coward who dares not tell on me for fear of himself. It is well. The German victory is a matter now of the days.�

Was that indeed true? Every day brought new Allied losses; guns and men and miles; on the north the English were being forced back; in the south the French were being forced back.

But in that time of dire need, two new factors entered the war. One was Foch as commander-in-chief; the other was the Americans.

Instead of being many, the Allied armies became one; American Pershing, British Haig, French Pétain, Italian Diaz, Belgian Albert, served under Foch, whom all the world knew as a brilliant strategist.

So far the American troops had been in trainingand held in reserve. But late in May newspapers had two news items. One announced, in glaring headlines, that the Germans had advanced ten miles, crossed two rivers, and taken twenty-five thousand prisoners; the other said, in small type, that the Americans had advanced their lines and taken the village of Cantigny and two hundred prisoners. A big advance and a little one. Ah! but in that day at Cantigny the Americans were tried and not found wanting.

The Germans, already talking of a “hard peace,� pushed forward on their “Victory Drive� toward Paris. Hundreds of square miles were taken, and thousands of prisoners and guns. They crossed the Marne River and reached Château-Thierry, only forty miles from Paris.

Had Foch and the Americans come too late?

Ah! now they moved, swiftly and successfully, both of them. Foch had let the Germans advance so as to make flank attacks. The Americans, given the post of honor at Château-Thierry, drove back the best of the Germans and carried positions deemed impregnable. Up and down the long battle line from the Alps to the North Sea, went the tidings: “The Americans have held the Germans. They are as good as our best. A million of them are here, and there are millions ready to come.�

The Germans made their last great offensive, a desperate drive on a sixty-mile front toward Paris. They were checked. They retreated. The Allies took the offensive.

During these stirring days, The Village could not wait the leisurely roundabout course of the mail rider and accept day-old papers as “news.� Some one rode every day to Redville and brought back the morningDispatchand then the war news was read aloud in the post office.

There was a deep personal as well as patriotic interest now, for Village volunteers and drafted soldiers were overseas. All the community mourned with the Spencers when Jeff’s name was among the “missing� after Château-Thierry. They looked every day for news of him, but hope died as weeks and months passed and none came.

One September Saturday brought an overseas letter for Mrs. Mallett. Dick Osborne ran to deliver it, and then they waited for her to come as usual and share its tidings.

An hour passed and she did not come. Then she walked swiftly down The Street and passed the post office, without turning her head. Her face was pale and she was biting her lips to keep them steady.

“It’s bad news,� they whispered one to another.

“Awful!� groaned Dick, as she went straightto the pastor’s study at the back of the church. No one knocked at that door on sermon-sacred Saturday afternoon unless the need were extreme.

Mr. Harvie met her with grave, kind, questioning eyes. “My dear Mrs. Mallett——� he began.

Then she broke down and sobbed as if her heart would break.

“It’s Fayett,� she said as soon as she could speak. “He’s in hospital.�

“The Great Physician can heal our dear boy. Let us——�

“He says he’s all right; it was a flesh wound; he was starting back to the army. It—it isn’t that!�

“Not that? Then what——�

Mrs. Mallett again burst into tears.

“My dear woman, whatisit?� asked Mr. Harvie.

“Oh!� she gasped out the awful news. “They’ve got him; those terrible Catholics. Read—you read for yourself.�

She handed him the letter and sat there sobbing with her face buried in her apron.

As Mr. Harvie read Fayett’s letter, his face cleared and he set his lips to keep back a smile.

“Don’t cry, Mrs. Mallett,� he said gently.“You’ve reason to be glad and proud of your son. And I’m sure he’s just as good a Presbyterian as when he was here in the Village Sunday school. He——�

“But they’ve give him their cross; he too-ook it!� she sobbed.

“It was given not as a symbol of religion, but as a token of valor,� he explained. “Don’t you see what he says in this sentence or two?—that he went under fire from his refuge in a trench to the rescue of two wounded men in a disabled tank.�

“He had to help them out; they couldn’t get away,� she said.

“Just so; and he saved them at the risk of his own life. That is why thisCroix de Guerrewas given. Fayett is a hero.�

“Course he is. Did they think he was a coward?� she asked indignantly. “But he ain’t any better’n Jack. And Jack, my little Jack, is in this new draft.�

Jack’s eighteenth birthday was just past, and so he came in the second draft that included men between eighteen and forty-five. For the most part, this draft, like the first one, was met frankly and bravely. But if any one had observed carefully, which no one seemed to be doing, he might have found two little Village groups where sentimentseemed to drift away from the current of loyalty.

One was in the shed on The Back Way where Lincum had his cobbler’s bench. His father, Solomon Gabe, was there oftener than formerly; perhaps he was lonely now that his other son, Cæsar, had been drafted for service. The old man sat far at the back of the shed, mumbling to himself or throwing a sharp sentence into his son’s conversations with other negroes. They talked in lower tones and laughed less than usual; and when they went away, they sometimes let fall curious misstatements and misunderstandings about the war and the draft, like that of Emma’s, which the white people who heard them laughed at, tried to explain, and then forgot.

But one would have felt more disturbed at the other group that lounged on the Tavern porch on Saturday afternoons, chewing and smoking and whittling. Mr. Charles Smith was generally there, and the most ignorant and least public-spirited of the men about The Village.

“Now what do you fellows think—� Jake Andrew was saying fiercely one day. Mr. Smith nudged him, Jake turned, saw Black Mayo Osborne approaching, and concluded in an entirely different tone, “of—of the weather?�

Mr. Osborne laughed. “You fellows spend alot of energy discussing—weather and crops,� he said, speaking lightly but glancing keenly about him, “Don’t you ever talk about public affairs, this great war we are in?�

There was a little embarrassed silence. Mr. Smith’s suave voice broke it. “We are poor and hard-worker farmers, Mr. Osborne. About crops and weather we are interested to talk. We have not the gentleman’s time to amuse with pretty little doves.�

The other men snickered or guffawed. Black Mayo seemed about to speak, then turned on his heel and walked away.

“Doves! He’ll send them to war; but he ain’t so ready to give his folks,� said Jake Andrews, who had done a deal of political wirepulling to get off his drafted sons.

“Or himself,� growled Zack Gordan, a young ne’er-do-well, who had made the widowed mother who supported him an excuse for evading war service. “What business have we got in this war anyway? What harm have them Germans ever done us?�

“Now what?� inquired Mr. Smith. He darted a look of pure venom after Black Mayo. “That fellow is a queer one. Can one believe he goes, comes, comes, goes about the little birds?� He gave a scornful, incredulous laugh. “And yousay he had the years of absences? Where?� He made the question big and condemning.

Ever since the April day that Charles Smith had lain in the mud and looked up at Black Mayo Osborne’s mocking face, his heart had been full of hate. For a few weeks after the incident at the bridge, he had been cautious, perhaps a little fearful. But as time passed and Black Mayo kept silence, Mr. Smith grew contemptuously bold and missed no chance for slur and insinuation against the man he hated.

And slur and insinuation were not in vain. The community had always accepted Black Mayo’s roving habits without question, never surprised when he went away, welcoming him warmly when he turned up at home a week or a month or a year later. But now—not one of them could have said why—they were suspicious of those unknown weeks and months and years.

“And no one can question him or seek to know his goings, forheis an a-ris-to-crat.� Mr. Smith’s voice was silky.

Jake Andrews uttered an oath. “’Ristocrat! I’m sick and tired of this old ’ristocrat business. He ain’t no more’n any other man, for all his being a Mayo and a Osborne. I’m a law officer, and so’s my Cousin Bill at Redville. I’m going to look into things. Seems to me——�

“Easy, friend!� Mr. Smith chuckled and pulled at his fingers, making his knuckles snap in a way he had when he was pleased. “Those girls come.�

The girls were Anne and Patsy. Mrs. Osborne had asked them to carry a basket of food to Louviny, Lincum’s wife. He had said she had a “misery in her back� and was “mightly porely,� so she could not come to help about Mrs. Osborne’s house-cleaning.

Anne and Patsy gave casual glances and greetings to the group on the porch.

“Isn’t that Mr. Smith horrid?� said Patsy. “I despise a man like that—with a mouth that runs up on one cheek when he grins.�

“And I despise a man that’s so hateful about Cousin Mayo—laughing about his pigeons and saying things about his not being in the army.�

“Cousin Mayo used to speak so often of going; now he never says anything about it. He looks awfully worried.�

“Dear Cousin Mayo!� Anne said affectionately. “He’s in this draft, and he may have to go. I don’t want him not to go, but, oh, how we’d miss him! Even when you don’t see him, you feel The Village is a happier place to live in because he’s here. It’s a kind of adventure to meet him on the road.�

“Yes,� said Patsy, “he sets your mind traveling to all sorts of lovely, unexpected places.�

“Don’t his doves make you feel excited?� said Anne. “Oh, I hope some of his birds were with our boys fighting at St.-Mihiel. There must have been! For Cousin Will read in the paper that they had three thousand carrier pigeons.�

Chattering thus, the girls beguiled their way to Lincum’s cabin, on the edge of the old Tolliver place. They took a short cut across a field, and then as they came close to the cabin they heard loud voices and laughter that was more spiteful than merry. They paused at the old rail fence. There was a tangle of blackberry vines and sassafras bushes between them and the house.

“That’ll be a grand day for us.�

They could not see the speaker, but they recognized her voice. She was Betty Bess, a “trifling� negro girl whom Cæsar had been “going with� before he was drafted.

“You’re right, honey,� agreed Louviny. She was bustling about, with no sign of the “misery� that her husband said was keeping her bedrid. She threw aside the broom and sat down in a splint-bottomed chair. “I’ve been like old Bet mule in de treadmill—go, go, go, an’ nuver git nowhar. But now I’m gwine in de promised land. I’m gwine to eat turkey an’ cake. An’I’m gwine to have six silk dresses an’ a rockin’-cheer. An’ Monday mornin’ I’m gwine to put on my blue silk dress an’ set my cheer on de porch an’ rock—an’ rock—an’ rock!�

She swayed back and forth as she spoke and her voice was shrill and jubilant.

“An’ Chewsday mornin’ I’m gwine to put on my purple silk dress, an’ Wednesday my green silk dress, an’ Thursday I’ll dress in red, an’ Friday in yaller, an’ Sat’day I’ll put on my pink silk dress. An’ Sunday,� she concluded triumphantly, “I’m gwine to lay out all six my silk dresses an’ look ’em up an’ down an’ take my ch’ice.�

Patsy laughed. “Did you ever hear such foolishness?� she asked.

“What’s that? Who’s out thar?� queried Betty Bess, sharply.

“I reckon you hearn dat old dominecky hen a-squawkin’,� said Louviny, bringing her chair down with a thump.

Patsy, followed by Anne, came out of the thicket and went to the door.

“Howdy, Aunt Louviny,� said Patsy. “Lincum said you were mighty bad off with a misery in your back, and so mother asked us to come to see you. But we ought to have waited till you had on one of your six silk dresses.�

She laughed, but the woman looked confused—frightened, Anne would have said, if that had not been too absurd a thought.

“Wh-what—what you mean, Miss Patsy?� Louviny stammered. “What—what is you talkin’ ’bout?�

“About what I heard you say,� responded Patsy.

“You—you ain’t hear me say nothin’—nothin’ much,� Louviny said defensively.

“Oh! yes, I did. I heard you say you were tired working like a mule in a treadmill, and you are going to have six silk dresses and a rocking-chair,� said Patsy, laughing.

Louviny, still confused, looked relieved. “Shuh, Miss Patsy! You mustn’t mind my foolishness. I was just talkin’ ’bout what I would do, if I had all them things.�

“Lincum said you were ‘mighty porely,’� said Anne. “And so we brought you some soup and rolls.�

“But you don’t deserve them,� said Patsy; “for you aren’t sick.�

“Lawsy, honey! I’ve been havin’ sech a misery in my back I couldn’t lay still, neithermore move,� whined Louviny. “Uh, it was turrible, turrible! I got a little easement just now, an’ I crope out o’ bed to clean up de house.�

“Here are the soup and rolls,� Patsy said shortly, and she turned away.

“Wasn’t it queer the way Louviny was talking?� Anne said presently. “It sounds so—so impertinent.�

“Um, h’m,� agreed Patsy. “She’s a trifling thing, and made up that excuse about being sick, to keep from working for mother.�

“She’s a silly thing!� laughed Anne. “Where’d she expect to get six silk dresses? Oh, Patsy! Let’s go by Larkland and help Cousin Mayo feed the pigeons.�

This was evidently their day for appearing where they were not expected or wanted. As they went up the walk, they saw, through the open front door, two men in the hall—Cousin Mayo and a stranger, a tall, fair, youngish man. They had only a glimpse of him, however, for Cousin Mayo opened the parlor door, ushered him in, and shut the door. Then Mr. Osborne came forward to greet the girls, went with them into the sitting room, and looked about for Cousin Polly. He did not mention the guest shut up in the parlor, and the girls—for the first time at Larkland—felt themselves in the way. They soon started home, wondering who the stranger was.

“Oh, I know; I’m sure I know,� Anne exclaimed.“It’s Kuno Kleist, Cousin Mayo’s German friend. Fair and light-haired; he’s a real German.�

“But what would he be doing here?� asked Patsy.

Anne’s imagination was equal to the occasion. “You know he’s a Socialist, and he doesn’t like war. Cousin Mayo has brought him here to hide, to keep the kaiser from making him be a soldier, and he doesn’t want any one to know he’s here.�

“He might have told us. We’d never let any one know,� said Patsy.

“Never!� Anne agreed emphatically.

The girls took the path by Happy Acres. If they had gone by the mill, they would have met Dick, who had chosen this afternoon for one of his visits to the mine that were now rare because of failing interest and because this year he was heart and hand with the others in war gardening. But there was nothing to do in the garden now, and this was too good an outdoors day not to go adventuring. His hopes and spirits rose with the crisp, brilliant weather. He had found some silver; he might find a great deal. He had as good tools as the old blacksmith. How grand it would be to find a big lump of solid silver! He would buy a Liberty Bond and give a lot ofmoney to the Red Cross. How all the other boys would envy him! And the girls would know he was “some boy!�

He scurried along the Old Plank Road until he reached Mine Creek, where the path turned off to the Old Sterling Mine. Suddenly he stopped stock-still, listening intently. Yes, there were voices; and coming nearer. A dozen steps away was the tumbled-down cabin, the old blacksmith shop. He crept into the rubbish pile—it was little more—to wait till the people passed by. But they did not pass. They stopped at the creek. Dick, peeping between the logs, could see them plainly; they were two negro men, Solomon Gabe and his son Lincum.

Old Solomon Gabe, with wild, wandering eyes, was rocking back and forth, mumbling to himself.

Lincum had a furtive, excited look. He was trying to fix his father’s attention. “I told him you knowed dat old place. Hey?� he said. “You c’n tell him all ’bout it, can’t you? Hey? He axed me to come wid him last night, but I wa’n’t gwine to project on dis road in de dark, not atter seem’ dat ha’nt so nigh here; up on dat hillside. Um-mm! It was graveyard white; higher’n de trees; wid gre’t big green eyes!�

For the first time the old man seemed to regardwhat his son was saying. He chanted over his last words: “Green eyes; gre’t green eyes; ghos’ white! Not on de hillside. Right here. I seed it.�

So it was Solomon Gabe Dick had run upon that night he was playing “ha’nt!� He had been so startled by the sudden appearance and the old man’s face was so distorted by terror that he had not recognized him. Of course it was Solomon Gabe!

The old negro was still speaking. “I seed it dat fust night I come to meet dat man. Right here. Down it went—clank-clankin’ like gallows chains—in de groun’; right whar yore foot is.�

Lincum moved hastily. “I don’t like dis-here place,� he said. “An’ I don’t like dat white man. If de white folks ’round here finds out——Thar he is!�

A man was coming down the road. It was Mr. Smith.

“Come!� he said quickly. “Let’s get where we are to go. Some one might come and see us.�

“Don’t nobody travel dis-here road but we-all colored folks an’ dat venturesome Dick Osborne,� said Lincum. “An’ don’t nobody pester ’round de place I tol’ you ’bout.�

“Where is it?� Mr. Smith asked impatiently.

“Up de hill a little piece,� replied Lincum.“Daddy knows all ’bout it. But his mind’s mighty roamin’ to-day. Looks like he’s done tricked folks so much he’s gittin’ tricked hi’self.�

“Nonsense!� said Mr. Smith, sharply. “Here! Come, old coon! If you want that gallon bucket of money to open, you must do what I say.�

Mumbling to himself, “Money! money! money!� the old man took the lead and went up the path toward the Old Sterling Mine.

Dick came from his hiding place and crept through the woods. The men were standing by the mine, talking earnestly in low tones.

Had these negroes brought Mr. Smith here to seek its treasure? Gallon buckets of money! That was queer talk. He would go to Larkland and tell Cousin Mayo what he had heard.

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