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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/18318-8.txt b/18318-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..961f86e --- /dev/null +++ b/18318-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5884 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Crittenden, by John Fox, Jr. + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Crittenden + A Kentucky Story of Love and War + +Author: John Fox, Jr. + +Release Date: May 5, 2006 [EBook #18318] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CRITTENDEN *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team +at http://www.pgdp.net" + + + + + +[Illustration: John Fox, Jr.] + + +CRITTENDEN + +A KENTUCKY STORY OF + +LOVE AND WAR + + +BY + +JOHN FOX, JR. + + +ILLUSTRATED BY + +F. GRAHAM COOTES + + * * * * * + +NEW YORK + +CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS + +1911 + + * * * * * + +COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY + +CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS + + * * * * * + + +To + +THE MASTER OF + +BALLYHOO + + * * * * * + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + +John Fox, Jr. (from a photograph) Frontispiece + + FACING PAGE + +"Go on!" said Judith 76 + +"Nothin', Ole Cap'n--jes doin' nothin'--jes lookin' for you" 132 + + + * * * * * + + + + +CRITTENDEN + + + + +I + + +Day breaking on the edge of the Bluegrass and birds singing the dawn in. +Ten minutes swiftly along the sunrise and the world is changed: from +nervous exaltation of atmosphere to an air of balm and peace; from grim +hills to the rolling sweep of green slopes; from a high mist of thin +verdure to low wind-shaken banners of young leaves; from giant poplar to +white ash and sugar-tree; from log-cabin to homesteads of brick and +stone; from wood-thrush to meadow-lark; rhododendron to bluegrass; from +mountain to lowland, Crittenden was passing home. + +He had been in the backwoods for more than a month, ostensibly to fish +and look at coal lands, but, really, to get away for a while, as his +custom was, from his worse self to the better self that he was when he +was in the mountains--alone. As usual, he had gone in with bitterness +and, as usual, he had set his face homeward with but half a heart for +the old fight against fate and himself that seemed destined always to +end in defeat. At dusk, he heard the word of the outer world from the +lips of an old mountaineer at the foot of the Cumberland--the first +heard, except from his mother, for full thirty days--and the word +was--war. He smiled incredulously at the old fellow, but, unconsciously, +he pushed his horse on a little faster up the mountain, pushed him, as +the moon rose, aslant the breast of a mighty hill and, winding at a +gallop about the last downward turn of the snaky path, went at full +speed alongside the big gray wall that, above him, rose sheer a thousand +feet and, straight ahead, broke wildly and crumbled into historic +Cumberland Gap. From a little knoll he saw the railway station in the +shadow of the wall, and, on one prong of a switch, his train panting +lazily; and, with a laugh, he pulled his horse down to a walk and then +to a dead stop--his face grave again and uplifted. Where his eyes rested +and plain in the moonlight was a rocky path winding upward--the old +Wilderness Trail that the Kentucky pioneers had worn with moccasined +feet more than a century before. He had seen it a hundred times +before--moved always; but it thrilled him now, and he rode on slowly, +looking up at it. His forefathers had helped blaze that trail. On one +side of that wall they had fought savage and Briton for a home and a +country, and on the other side they had done it again. Later, they had +fought the Mexican and in time they came to fight each other, for and +against the nation they had done so much to upbuild. It was even true +that a Crittenden had already given his life for the very cause that was +so tardily thrilling the nation now. Thus it had always been with his +people straight down the bloody national highway from Yorktown to +Appomattox, and if there was war, he thought proudly, as he swung from +his horse--thus it would now be with him. + +If there was war? He had lain awake in his berth a long while, looking +out the window and wondering. He had been born among the bleeding +memories of one war. The tales of his nursery had been tales of war. And +though there had been talk of war through the land for weeks before he +left home, it had no more seemed possible that in his lifetime could +come another war than that he should live to see any other myth of his +childhood come true. + +Now, it was daybreak on the edge of the Bluegrass, and, like a dark +truth from a white light, three tall letters leaped from the paper in +his hand--War! There was a token in the very dawn, a sword-like flame +flashing upward. The man in the White House had called for willing +hands by the thousands to wield it, and the Kentucky Legion, that had +fought in Mexico, had split in twain to fight for the North and for the +South, and had come shoulder to shoulder when the breach was closed--the +Legion of his own loved State--was the first body of volunteers to reach +for the hilt. Regulars were gathering from the four winds to an old +Southern battlefield. Already the Legion was on its way to camp in the +Bluegrass. His town was making ready to welcome it, and among the names +of the speakers who were to voice the welcome, he saw his own--Clay +Crittenden. + + + + +II + + +The train slackened speed and stopped. There was his +horse--Raincrow--and his buggy waiting for him when he stepped from the +platform; and, as he went forward with his fishing tackle, a +livery-stable boy sprang out of the buggy and went to the horse's head. + +"Bob lef' yo' hoss in town las' night, Mistuh Crittenden," he said. +"Miss Rachel said yestiddy she jes knowed you was comin' home this +mornin'." + +Crittenden smiled--it was one of his mother's premonitions; she seemed +always to know when he was coming home. + +"Come get these things," he said, and went on with his paper. + +"Yessuh!" + +Things had gone swiftly while he was in the hills. Old ex-Confederates +were answering the call from the Capitol. One of his father's old +comrades--little Jerry Carter--was to be made a major-general. Among the +regulars mobilizing at Chickamauga was the regiment to which Rivers, a +friend of his boyhood, belonged. There, three days later, his State was +going to dedicate two monuments to her sons who had fallen on the old +battlefield, where his father, fighting with one wing of the Legion for +the Lost Cause, and his father's young brother, fighting with the other +against it, had fought face to face; where his uncle met death on the +field and his father got the wound that brought death to him years after +the war. And then he saw something that for a moment quite blotted the +war from his brain and made him close the paper quickly. Judith had come +home--Judith was to unveil those statues--Judith Page. + +The town was asleep, except for the rattle of milk-carts, the banging of +shutters, and the hum of a street-car, and Crittenden moved through +empty streets to the broad smooth turnpike on the south, where Raincrow +shook his head, settled his haunches, and broke into the swinging trot +peculiar to his breed--for home. + +Spring in the Bluegrass! The earth spiritual as it never is except under +new-fallen snow--in the first shy green. The leaves, a floating mist of +green, so buoyant that, if loosed, they must, it seemed, have floated +upward--never to know the blight of frost or the droop of age. The air, +rich with the smell of new earth and sprouting grass, the long, low +skies newly washed and, through radiant distances, clouds light as +thistledown and white as snow. And the birds! Wrens in the hedges, +sparrows by the wayside and on fence-rails, starlings poised over +meadows brilliant with glistening dew, larks in the pastures--all +singing as they sang at the first dawn, and the mood of nature that +perfect blending of earth and heaven that is given her children but +rarely to know. It was good to be alive at the breaking of such a +day--good to be young and strong, and eager and unafraid, when the +nation called for its young men and red Mars was the morning star. The +blood of dead fighters began to leap again in his veins. His nostrils +dilated and his chin was raised proudly--a racial chord touched within +him that had been dumb a long while. And that was all it was--the blood +of his fathers; for it was honor and not love that bound him to his own +flag. He was his mother's son, and the unspoken bitterness that lurked +in her heart lurked, likewise, on her account, in his. + +On the top of a low hill, a wind from the dawn struck him, and the paper +in the bottom of the buggy began to snap against the dashboard. He +reached down to keep it from being whisked into the road, and he saw +again that Judith Page had come home. When he sat up again, his face was +quite changed. His head fell a little forward, his shoulders drooped +slightly and, for a moment, his buoyancy was gone. The corners of the +mouth showed a settled melancholy where before was sunny humour. The +eyes, which were dreamy, kindly, gray, looked backward in a morbid glow +of concentration; and over the rather reckless cast of his features, lay +at once the shadow of suffering and the light of a great tenderness. +Slowly, a little hardness came into his eyes and a little bitterness +about his mouth. His upper lip curved in upon his teeth with +self-scorn--for he had had little cause to be pleased with himself while +Judith was gone, and his eyes showed now how proud was the scorn--and he +shook himself sharply and sat upright. He had forgotten again. That part +of his life belonged to the past and, like the past, was gone, and was +not to come back again. The present had life and hope now, and the +purpose born that day from five blank years was like the sudden birth of +a flower in a desert. + +The sun had burst from the horizon now and was shining through the tops +of the trees in the lovely woodland into which Crittenden turned, and +through which a road of brown creek-sand ran to the pasture beyond and +through that to the long avenue of locusts, up which the noble portico +of his old homestead, Canewood, was visible among cedars and firs and +old forest trees. His mother was not up yet--the shutters of her window +were still closed--but the servants were astir and busy. He could see +men and plough-horses on their way to the fields; and, that far away, he +could hear the sound of old Ephraim's axe at the woodpile, the noises +around the barn and cowpens, and old Aunt Keziah singing a hymn in the +kitchen, the old wailing cry of the mother-slave. + + "Oh I wonder whur my baby's done gone, + Oh Lawd! + An' I git on my knees an' pray." + +The song stopped, a negro boy sprang out the kitchen-door and ran for +the stiles--a tall, strong, and very black boy with a dancing eye, white +teeth, and a look of welcome that was little short of dumb idolatry. + +"Howdy, Bob." + +"Howdy, Ole Cap'n." Crittenden had been "Ole Captain" with the +servants--since the death of "Ole Master," his father--to distinguish +him from "Young Captain," who was his brother, Basil. Master and servant +shook hands and Bob's teeth flashed. + +"What's the matter, Bob?" + +Bob climbed into the buggy. + +"You gwine to de wah." + +Crittenden laughed. + +"How do you know, Bob?" + +"Oh, I know--I know. I seed it when you was drivin' up to de stiles, an' +lemme tell you, Ole Cap'n." The horse started for the barn suddenly and +Bob took a wide circuit in order to catch the eye of a brown milkmaid in +the cowpens, who sniffed the air scornfully, to show that she did not +see him, and buried the waves of her black hair into the silken sides of +a young Jersey. + +"Yes," he said, shaking his head and making threats to himself, "an' +Bob's gwine wid him." + +As Crittenden climbed the stiles, old Keziah filled the kitchen-door. + +"Time you gittin' back, suh," she cried with mock severity. "I been +studyin' 'bout you. Little mo' an' I'd 'a' been comin' fer you myself. +Yes--suh." + +And she gave a loud laugh that rang through the yard and ended in a +soft, queer little whoop that was musical. Crittenden smiled but, +instead of answering, raised his hand warningly and, as he approached +the portico, he stepped from the gravel-walk to the thick turf and began +to tiptoe. At the foot of the low flight of stone steps he +stopped--smiling. + +The big double front door was wide open, and straight through the big, +wide hallway and at the entrance of the dining-room, a sword--a long +cavalry sabre--hung with a jaunty gray cap on the wall. Under them stood +a boy with his hands clasped behind him and his chin upraised. The lad +could see the bullet-hole through the top, and he knew that on the visor +was a faded stain of his father's blood. As a child, he had been told +never to touch the cap or sword and, until this moment, he had not +wanted to take them down since he was a child; and even now the habit of +obedience held him back for a while, as he stood looking up at them. +Outside, a light wind rustled the leaves of the rose-bush at his +mother's window, swept through the open door, and made the curtain at +his elbow swell gently. As the heavy fold fell back to its place and +swung out again, it caught the hilt of the sword and made the metal +point of the scabbard clank softly against the wall. The boy breathed +sharply, remembered that he was grown, and reverently reached upward. +There was the stain where the blood had run down from the furrowed wound +that had caused his father's death, long after the war and just before +the boy was born. The hilt was tarnished, and when he caught it and +pulled, the blade came out a little way and stuck fast. Some one stepped +on the porch outside and he turned quickly, as he might have turned had +some one caught him unsheathing the weapon when a child. + +"Hold on there, little brother." + +Crittenden stopped in the doorway, smiling affectionately, and the boy +thrust the blade back to the hilt. + +"Why, Clay," he cried, and, as he ran forward, "Are you going?" he +asked, eagerly. + +"I'm the first-born, you know," added Crittenden, still smiling, and the +lad stretched the sabre out to him, repeating eagerly, "Are you going?" + +The older brother did not answer, but turned, without taking the weapon, +and walked to the door and back again. + +"Are you?" + +"Me? Oh, I have to go," said the boy solemnly and with great dignity, as +though the matter were quite beyond the pale of discussion. + +"You do?" + +"Yes; the Legion is going." + +"Only the members who volunteer--nobody has to go." + +"Don't they?" said the lad, indignantly. "Well, if I had a son who +belonged to a military organization in time of peace"--the lad spoke +glibly--"and refused to go with it to war--well, I'd rather see him dead +first." + +"Who said that?" asked the other, and the lad coloured. + +"Why, Judge Page said it; that's who. And you just ought to hear Miss +Judith!" + +Again the other walked to the door and back again. Then he took the +scabbard and drew the blade to its point as easily as though it had been +oiled, thrust it back, and hung it with the cap in its place on the +wall. + +"Perhaps neither of us will need it," he said. "We'll both be +privates--that is, if I go--and I tell you what we'll do. We'll let the +better man win the sword, and the better man shall have it after the +war. What do you say?" + +"Say?" cried the boy, and he gave the other a hug and both started for +the porch. As they passed the door of his mother's room, the lad put one +finger on his lips; but the mother had heard and, inside, a woman in +black, who had been standing before a mirror with her hands to her +throat, let them fall suddenly until they were clasped for an instant +across her breast. But she gave no sign that she had heard, at breakfast +an hour later, even when the boy cleared his throat, and after many +futile efforts to bring the matter up, signalled across the table to his +brother for help. + +"Mother, Basil there wants to go to war. He says if he had a son who +belonged to a military organization in time of peace and refused to go +with it in time of war, that he'd rather see him dead." + +The mother's lip quivered when she answered, but so imperceptibly that +only the older son saw it. + +"That is what his father would have said," she said, quietly, and +Crittenden knew she had already fought out the battle with +herself--alone. For a moment the boy was stunned with his good +fortune--"it was too easy"--and with a whoop he sprang from his place +and caught his mother around the neck, while Uncle Ben, the black +butler, shook his head and hurried into the kitchen for corn-bread and +to tell the news. + +"Oh, I tell you it's great fun to _have_ to go to war! Mother," added +the boy, with quick mischief, "Clay wants to go, too." + +Crittenden braced himself and looked up with one quick glance sidewise +at his mother's face. It had not changed a line. + +"I heard all you said in the hallway. If a son of mine thinks it his +duty to go, I shall never say one word to dissuade him--if he thinks it +is his duty," she added, so solemnly that silence fell upon the three, +and with a smothered, "Good Lawd," at the door, Ben hurried again into +the kitchen. + +"Both them boys was a-goin' off to git killed an' ole Miss Rachel not +sayin' one wud to keep 'em back--not a wud." + +After breakfast the boy hurried out and, as Crittenden rose, the +mother, who pretended to be arranging silver at the old sideboard, spoke +with her back to him. + +"Think it over, son. I can't see that you should go, but if you think +you ought, I shall have nothing to say. Have you made up your mind?" + +Crittenden hesitated. + +"Not quite." + +"Think it over very carefully, then--please--for my sake." Her voice +trembled, and, with a pang, Crittenden thought of the suffering she had +known from one war. Basil's way was clear, and he could never ask the +boy to give up to him because he was the elder. Was it fair to his brave +mother for him to go, too--was it right? + +"Yes mother," he said, soberly. + + + + +III + + +The Legion came next morning and pitched camp in a woodland of oak and +sugar trees, where was to be voiced a patriotic welcome by a great +editor, a great orator, and young Crittenden. + +Before noon, company streets were laid out and lined with tents and, +when the first buggies and rockaways began to roll in from the country, +every boy-soldier was brushed and burnished to defy the stare of +inspection and to quite dazzle the eye of masculine envy or feminine +admiration. + +In the centre of the woodland was a big auditorium, where the speaking +was to take place. After the orators were done, there was to be a +regimental review in the bluegrass pasture in front of historic Ashland. +It was at the Colonel's tent, where Crittenden went to pay his respects, +that he found Judith Page, and he stopped for a moment under an oak, +taking in the gay party of women and officers who sat and stood about +the entrance. In the centre of the group stood a lieutenant in the blue +of a regular and with the crossed sabres of the cavalryman on his +neck-band and the number of his regiment. The girl was talking to the +gallant old Colonel with her back to Crittenden, but he would have known +her had he seen but an arm, a shoulder, the poise of her head, a single +gesture--although he had not seen her for years. The figure was the +same--a little fuller, perhaps, but graceful, round, and slender, as was +the throat. The hair was a trifle darker, he thought, but brown still, +and as rich with gold as autumn sunlight. The profile was in outline +now--it was more cleanly cut than ever. The face was a little older, but +still remarkably girlish in spite of its maturer strength; and as she +turned to answer his look, he kept on unconsciously reaffirming to his +memory the broad brow and deep clear eyes, even while his hand was +reaching for the brim of his hat. She showed only gracious surprise at +seeing him and, to his wonder, he was as calm and cool as though he were +welcoming back home any good friend who had been away a long time. He +could now see that the lieutenant belonged to the Tenth United States +Cavalry; he knew that the Tenth was a colored regiment; he understood a +certain stiffness that he felt rather than saw in the courtesy that was +so carefully shown him by the Southern volunteers who were about him; +and he turned away to avoid meeting him. For the same reason, he +fancied, Judith turned, too. The mere idea of negro soldiers was not +only repugnant to him, but he did not believe in negro regiments. These +would be the men who could and would organize and drill the blacks in +the South; who, in other words, would make possible, hasten, and prolong +the race war that sometimes struck him as inevitable. As he turned, he +saw a tall, fine-looking negro, fifty yards away, in the uniform of a +sergeant of cavalry and surrounded by a crowd of gaping darkies whom he +was haranguing earnestly. Lieutenant and sergeant were evidently on an +enlisting tour. + +Just then, a radiant little creature looked up into Crittenden's face, +calling him by name and holding out both hands--Phyllis, Basil's little +sweetheart. With her was a tall, keen-featured fellow, whom she +introduced as a war correspondent and a Northerner. + +"A sort of war correspondent," corrected Grafton, with a swift look of +interest at Crittenden, but turning his eyes at once back to Phyllis. +She was a new and diverting type to the Northern man and her name was +fitting and pleased him. A company passed just then, and a smothered +exclamation from Phyllis turned attention to it. On the end of the line, +with his chin in, his shoulders squared and his eyes straight forward, +was Crittenden's warrior-brother, Basil. Only his face coloured to show +that he knew where he was and who was looking at him, but not so much as +a glance of his eye did he send toward the tent. Judith turned to +Crittenden quickly: + +"Your little brother is going to the war?" The question was thoughtless +and significant, for it betrayed to him what was going on in her mind, +and she knew it and coloured, as he paled a little. + +"My little brother is going to the war," he repeated, looking at her. +Judith smiled and went on bravely: + +"And you?" + +Crittenden, too, smiled. + +"I may consider it my duty to stay at home." + +The girl looked rather surprised--instead of showing the subdued sarcasm +that he was looking for--and, in truth, she was. His evasive and +careless answer showed an indifference to her wish and opinion in the +matter that would once have been very unusual. Straightway there was a +tug at her heart-strings that also was unusual. + +The people were gathering into the open-air auditorium now and, from all +over the camp, the crowd began to move that way. All knew the word of +the orator's mouth and the word of the editor--they had heard the one +and seen the other on his printed page many times; and it was for this +reason, perhaps, that Crittenden's fresh fire thrilled and swayed the +crowd as it did. + +When he rose, he saw his mother almost under him and, not far behind +her, Judith with her father, Judge Page. The lieutenant of regulars was +standing on the edge of the crowd, and to his right was Grafton, also +standing, with his hat under his arm--idly curious. But it was to his +mother that he spoke and, steadfastly, he saw her strong, gentle face +even when he was looking far over her head, and he knew that she knew +that he was arguing the point then and there between them. + +It was, he said, the first war of its kind in history. It marked an +epoch in the growth of national character since the world began. As an +American, he believed that no finger of medićvalism should so much as +touch this hemisphere. The Cubans had earned their freedom long since, +and the cries of starving women and children for the bread which fathers +and brothers asked but the right to earn must cease. To put out of mind +the Americans blown to death at Havana--if such a thing were +possible--he yet believed with all his heart in the war. He did not +think there would be much of a fight--the regular army could doubtless +take good care of the Spaniard--but if everybody acted on that +presumption, there would be no answer to the call for volunteers. He was +proud to think that the Legion of his own State, that in itself stood +for the reunion of the North and the South, had been the first to spring +to arms. And he was proud to think that not even they were the first +Kentuckians to fight for Cuban liberty. He was proud that, before the +Civil War even, a Kentuckian of his own name and blood had led a band of +one hundred and fifty brave men of his own State against Spanish tyranny +in Cuba, and a Crittenden, with fifty of his followers, were captured +and shot in platoons of six. + +"A Kentuckian kneels only to woman and his God," this Crittenden had +said proudly when ordered to kneel blindfolded and with his face to the +wall, "and always dies facing his enemy." And so those Kentuckians had +died nearly half a century before, and he knew that the young +Kentuckians before him would as bravely die, if need be, in the same +cause now; and when they came face to face with the Spaniard they would +remember the shattered battle-ship in the Havana harbour, and something +more--they would remember Crittenden. And then the speaker closed with +the words of a certain proud old Confederate soldier to his son: + +"No matter who was right and who was wrong in the Civil War, the matter +is settled now by the sword. The Constitution left the question open, +but it is written there now in letters of blood. We have given our word +that they shall stand; and remember it is the word of gentlemen and +binding on their sons. There have been those in the North who have +doubted that word; there have been those in the South who have given +cause for doubt; and this may be true for a long time. But if ever the +time comes to test that word, do you be the first to prove it. You will +fight for your flag--mine now as well as yours--just as sincerely as I +fought against it." And these words, said Crittenden in a trembling +voice, the brave gentleman spoke again on his death-bed; and now, as he +looked around on the fearless young faces about him, he had no need to +fear that they were spoken in vain. + +And so the time was come for the South to prove its loyalty--not to +itself nor to the North, but to the world. + +Under him he saw his mother's eyes fill with tears, for these words of +her son were the dying words of her lion-hearted husband. And Judith had +sat motionless, watching him with peculiar intensity and flushing a +little, perhaps at the memory of her jesting taunt, while Grafton had +stood still--his eyes fixed, his face earnest--missing not a word. He +was waiting for Crittenden, and he held his hand out when the latter +emerged from the crowd, with the curious embarrassment that assails the +newspaper man when he finds himself betrayed into unusual feeling. + +"I say," he said; "that was good, _good_!" + +The officer who, too, had stood still as a statue, seemed to be moving +toward him, and again Crittenden turned away--to look for his mother. +She had gone home at once--she could not face him now in that crowd--and +as he was turning to his own buggy, he saw Judith and from habit started +toward her, but, changing his mind, he raised his hat and kept on his +way, while the memory of the girl's face kept pace with him. + +She was looking at him with a curious wistfulness that was quite beyond +him to interpret--a wistfulness that was in the sudden smile of welcome +when she saw him start toward her and in the startled flush of surprise +when he stopped; then, with the tail of his eye, he saw the quick +paleness that followed as the girl's sensitive nostrils quivered once +and her spirited face settled quickly into a proud calm. And then he +saw her smile--a strange little smile that may have been at herself or +at him--and he wondered about it all and was tempted to go back, but +kept on doggedly, wondering at her and at himself with a miserable grim +satisfaction that he was at last over and above it all. She had told him +to conquer his boyish love for her and, as her will had always been law +to him, he had made it, at last, a law in this. The touch of the +loadstone that never in his life had failed, had failed now, and now, +for once in his life, desire and duty were one. + +He found his mother at her seat by her open window, the unopened buds of +her favourite roses hanging motionless in the still air outside, but +giving their fresh green faint fragrance to the whole room within; and +he remembered the quiet sunset scene every night for many nights to +come. Every line in her patient face had been traced there by a sorrow +of the old war, and his voice trembled: + +"Mother," he said, as he bent down and kissed her, "I'm going." + +Her head dropped quickly to the work in her lap, but she said nothing, +and he went quickly out again. + + + + +IV + + +It was growing dusk outside. Chickens were going to roost with a great +chattering in some locust-trees in one corner of the yard. An aged +darkey was swinging an axe at the woodpile and two little pickaninnies +were gathering a basket of chips. Already the air was filled with the +twilight sounds of the farm--the lowing of cattle, the bleating of +calves at the cowpens, the bleat of sheep from the woods, and the nicker +of horses in the barn. Through it all, Crittenden could hear the nervous +thud of Raincrow's hoofs announcing rain--for that was the way the horse +got his name, being as black as a crow and, as Bob claimed, always +knowing when falling weather was at hand and speaking his prophecy by +stamping in his stall. He could hear Basil noisily making his way to the +barn. As he walked through the garden toward the old family graveyard, +he could still hear the boy, and a prescient tithe of the pain, that he +felt would strike him in full some day, smote him so sharply now that he +stopped a moment to listen, with one hand quickly raised to his +forehead. Basil was whistling--whistling joyously. Foreboding touched +the boy like the brush of a bird's wing, and death and sorrow were as +remote as infinity to him. At the barn-door the lad called sharply: + +"Bob!" + +"Suh!" answered a muffled voice, and Bob emerged, gray with oatdust. + +"I want my buggy to-night." Bob grinned. + +"Sidebar?" + +"Yes." + +"New whip--new harness--little buggy mare--reckon?" + +"I want 'em all." + +Bob laughed loudly. "Oh, I know. You gwine to see Miss Phyllis dis +night, sho--yes, Lawd!" Bob dodged a kick from the toe of the boy's +boot--a playful kick that was not meant to land--and went into the barn +and came out again. + +"Yes, an' I know somewhur else you gwine--you gwine to de war. Oh, I +know; yes, suh. Dere's a white man in town tryin' to git niggers to +'list wid him, an' he's got a nigger sojer what say he's a officer +hisself; yes, mon, a corpril. An' dis nigger's jes a-gwine through town +drawin' niggers right _an'_ left. He talk to me, but I jes laugh at him, +an' say I gwine wid Ole Cap'n ur Young Cap'n, I don't keer which. An' +lemme tell you, Young Capn', ef you ur Ole Cap'n doan lemme go wid you, +I'se gwine wid dat nigger corpril an' dat white man what 'long to a +nigger regiment, an' I know you don't want me to bring no sech disgrace +on de fambly dat way--no, suh. He axe what you de cap'n of," Bob went +on, aiming at two birds with one stone now, "an' I say you de cap'n of +ever'body an' ever'ting dat come 'long--dat's what I say-an' he be cap'n +of you wid all yo' unyform and sich, I say, if you jest come out to de +fahm--yes, mon, dat he will sho." + +The boy laughed and Bob reiterated: + +"Oh, I'se gwine--I'se gwine wid you--" Then he stopped short. The +turbaned figure of Aunt Keziah loomed from behind the woodpile. + +"What dat I heah 'bout you gwine to de wah, nigger, what dat I heah?" + +Bob laughed--but it was a laugh of propitiation. + +"Law, mammy. I was jes projeckin' wid Young Cap'n." + +"Fool nigger, doan know what wah is--doan lemme heah you talk no more +'bout gwine to de wah ur I gwine to w'ar you out wid a hickory--dat's +whut I'll do--now you min'." She turned on Basil then; but Basil had +retreated, and his laugh rang from the darkening yard. She cried after +him: + +"An' doan lemme heah you puttin' dis fool nigger up to gittin' hisself +killed by dem Cubians neither; no suh!" She was deadly serious now. "I +done spanked you heap o' times, an' 'tain't so long ago, an' you ain' +too big yit; no, suh." The old woman's wrath was rising higher, and Bob +darted into the barn before she could turn back again to him, and a +moment later darted his head, like a woodpecker, out again to see if she +were gone, and grinned silently after her as she rolled angrily toward +the house, scolding both Bob and Basil to herself loudly. + +A song rose from the cowpens just then. Full, clear, and quivering, it +seemed suddenly to still everything else into silence. In a flash, Bob's +grin settled into a look of sullen dejection, and, with his ear cocked +and drinking in the song, and with his eye on the corner of the barn, he +waited. From the cowpens was coming a sturdy negro girl with a bucket of +foaming milk in each hand and a third balanced on her head, singing with +all the strength of her lungs. In a moment she passed the corner. + +"Molly--say, Molly." + +The song stopped short. + +"Say, honey, wait a minute--jes a minute, won't ye?" The milkmaid kept +straight ahead, and Bob's honeyed words soured suddenly. + +"Go on, gal, think yo'self mighty fine, don't ye? Nem' min'!" + +Molly's nostrils swelled to their full width, and, at the top of her +voice, she began again. + +"Go on, nigger, but you jes wait." + +Molly sang on: + + "Take up yo' cross, oh, sinner-man." + +Before he knew it, Bob gave the response with great unction: + + "Yes, Lawd." + +Then he stopped short. + +"I reckon I got to break dat gal's head some day. Yessuh; she knows whut +my cross is," and then he started slowly after her, shaking his head +and, as his wont was, talking to himself. + +He was still talking to himself when Basil came out to the stiles after +supper to get into his buggy. + +"Young Cap'n, dat gal Molly mighty nigh pesterin' de life out o' me. I +done tol' her I'se gwine to de wah." + +"What did she say?" + +"De fool nigger--she jes laughed--she jes laughed." + +The boy, too, laughed, as he gathered the reins and the mare sprang +forward. + +"We'll see--we'll see." + +And Bob with a triumphant snort turned toward Molly's cabin. + +The locust-trees were quiet now and the barn was still except for the +occasional stamp of a horse in his stall or the squeak of a pig that was +pushed out of his warm place by a stronger brother. The night noises +were strong and clear--the cricket in the grass, the croaking frogs from +the pool, the whir of a night-hawk's wings along the edge of the yard, +the persistent wail of a whip-poor-will sitting lengthwise of a willow +limb over the meadow-branch, the occasional sleepy caw of crows from +their roost in the woods beyond, the bark of a house-dog at a +neighbour's home across the fields, and, further still, the fine high +yell of a fox-hunter and the faint answering yelp of a hound. + +And inside, in the mother's room, the curtain was rising on a tragedy +that was tearing open the wounds of that other war--the tragedy upon +which a bloody curtain had fallen more than thirty years before. The +mother listened quietly, as had her mother before her, while the son +spoke quietly, for time and again he had gone over the ground to +himself, ending ever with the same unalterable resolve. + +There had been a Crittenden in every war of the nation--down to the two +Crittendens who slept side by side in the old graveyard below the +garden. + +And the Crittenden--of whom he had spoken that morning--the gallant +Crittenden who led his Kentuckians to death in Cuba, in 1851, was his +father's elder brother. And again he repeated the dying old +Confederate's deathless words with which he had thrilled the Legion that +morning--words heard by her own ears as well as his. What else was left +him to do--when he knew what those three brothers, if they were alive, +would have him do? + +And there were other untold reasons, hid in the core of his own heart, +faced only when he was alone, and faced again, that night, after he had +left his mother and was in his own room and looking out at the moonlight +and the big weeping willow that drooped over the one white tomb under +which the two brothers, who had been enemies in the battle, slept side +by side thus in peace. So far he had followed in their footsteps, since +the one part that he was fitted to play was the _rôle_ they and their +ancestors had played beyond the time when the first American among them, +failing to rescue his king from Carisbrooke Castle, set sail for +Virginia on the very day Charles lost his royal head. But for the Civil +War, Crittenden would have played that _rôle_ worthily and without +question to the end. With the close of the war, however, his birthright +was gone--even before he was born--and yet, as he grew to manhood, he +had gone on in the serene and lofty way of his father--there was +nothing else he could do--playing the gentleman still, though with each +year the audience grew more restless and the other and lesser actors in +the drama of Southern reconstruction more and more resented the +particular claims of the star. At last, came with a shock the +realization that with the passing of the war his occupation had forever +gone. And all at once, out on his ancestral farm that had carried its +name Canewood down from pioneer days; that had never been owned by a +white man who was not a Crittenden; that was isolated, and had its +slaves and the children of those slaves still as servants; that still +clung rigidly to old traditions--social, agricultural, and +patriarchal--out there Crittenden found himself one day alone. His +friends--even the boy, his brother--had caught the modern trend of +things quicker than he, and most of them had gone to work--some to law, +some as clerks, railroad men, merchants, civil engineers; some to mining +and speculating in the State's own rich mountains. Of course, he had +studied law--his type of Southerner always studies law--and he tried the +practice of it. He had too much self-confidence, perhaps, based on his +own brilliant record as a college orator, and he never got over the +humiliation of losing his first case, being handled like putty by a +small, black-eyed youth of his own age, who had come from nowhere and +had passed up through a philanthropical old judge's office to the +dignity, by and by, of a license of his own. Losing the suit, through +some absurd little technical mistake, Crittenden not only declined a +fee, but paid the judgment against his client out of his own pocket and +went home with a wound to his foolish, sensitive pride for which there +was no quick cure. A little later, he went to the mountains, when those +wonderful hills first began to give up their wealth to the world; but +the pace was too swift, competition was too undignified and greedy, and +business was won on too low a plane. After a year or two of rough life, +which helped him more than he knew, until long afterward, he went home. +Politics he had not yet tried, and politics he was now persuaded to try. +He made a brilliant canvass, but another element than oratory had crept +in as a new factor in political success. His opponent, Wharton, the +wretched little lawyer who had bested him once before, bested him now, +and the weight of the last straw fell crushingly. It was no use. The +little touch of magic that makes success seemed to have been denied him +at birth, and, therefore, deterioration began to set in--the +deterioration that comes from idleness, from energy that gets the wrong +vent, from strong passions that a definite purpose would have kept +under control--and the worse elements of a nature that, at the bottom, +was true and fine, slowly began to take possession of him as weeds will +take possession of an abandoned field. + +But even then nobody took him as seriously as he took himself. So that +while he fell just short, in his own eyes, of everything that was worth +while; of doing something and being something worth while; believing +something that made the next world worth while; or gaining the love of a +woman that would have made this life worth while--in the eyes of his own +people he was merely sowing his wild oats after the fashion of his race, +and would settle down, after the same fashion, by and by--that was the +indulgent summary of his career thus far. He had been a brilliant +student in the old university and, in a desultory way, he was yet. He +had worried his professor of metaphysics by puzzling questions and keen +argument until that philosopher was glad to mark him highest in his +class and let him go. He surprised the old lawyers when it came to a +discussion of the pure theory of law, and, on the one occasion when his +mother's pastor came to see him, he disturbed that good man no little, +and closed his lips against further censure of him in pulpit or in +private. So that all that was said against him by the pious was that he +did not go to church as he should; and by the thoughtful, that he was +making a shameful waste of the talents that the Almighty had showered so +freely down upon him. And so without suffering greatly in public +estimation, in spite of the fact that the ideals of Southern life were +changing fast, he passed into the old-young period that is the critical +time in the lives of men like him--when he thought he had drunk his cup +to the dregs; had run the gamut of human experience; that nothing was +left to his future but the dull repetition of his past. Only those who +knew him best had not given up hope of him, nor had he really given up +hope of himself as fully as he thought. The truth was, he never fell +far, nor for long, and he always rose with the old purpose the same, +even if it stirred him each time with less and less enthusiasm--and +always with the beacon-light of one star shining from his past, even +though each time it shone a little more dimly. For usually, of course, +there is the hand of a woman on the lever that prizes such a man's life +upward, and when Judith Page's clasp loosened on Crittenden, the castle +that the lightest touch of her finger raised in his imagination--that +he, doubtless, would have reared for her and for him, in fact, fell in +quite hopeless ruins, and no similar shape was ever framed for him above +its ashes. + +It was the simplest and oldest of stories between the two--a story that +began, doubtless, with the beginning, and will never end as long as two +men and one woman, or two women and one man are left on earth--the story +of the love of one who loves another. Only, to the sufferers the tragedy +is always as fresh as a knife-cut, and forever new. + +Judith cared for nobody. Crittenden laughed and pleaded, stormed, +sulked, and upbraided, and was devoted and indifferent for years--like +the wilful, passionate youngster that he was--until Judith did love +another--what other, Crittenden never knew. And then he really believed +that he must, as she had told him so often, conquer his love for her. +And he did, at a fearful cost to the best that was in him--foolishly, +but consciously, deliberately. When the reaction came, he tried to +reëstablish his relations to a world that held no Judith Page. Her +absence gave him help, and he had done very well, in spite of an +occasional relapse. It was a relapse that had sent him to the mountains, +six weeks before, and he had emerged with a clear eye, a clear head, +steady nerves, and with the one thing that he had always lacked, waiting +for him--a purpose. It was little wonder, then, that the first ruddy +flash across a sky that had been sunny with peace for thirty years and +more thrilled him like an electric charge from the very clouds. The +next best thing to a noble life was a death that was noble, and that was +possible to any man in war. One war had taken away--another might give +back again; and his chance was come at last. + +It was midnight now, and far across the fields came the swift faint beat +of a horse's hoofs on the turnpike. A moment later he could hear the hum +of wheels--it was his little brother coming home; nobody had a horse +that could go like that, and nobody else would drive that way if he had. +Since the death of their father, thirteen years after the war, he had +been father to the boy, and time and again he had wondered now why he +could not have been like that youngster. Life was an open book to the +boy--to be read as he ran. He took it as he took his daily bread, +without thought, without question. If left alone, he and the little girl +whom he had gone that night to see would marry, settle down, and go hand +in hand into old age without questioning love, life, or happiness. And +that was as it should be; and would to Heaven he had been born to tread +the self-same way. There was a day when he was near it; when he turned +the same fresh, frank face fearlessly to the world, when his nature was +as unspoiled and as clean, his hopes as high, and his faith as +child-like; and once when he ran across a passage in Stevenson in which +that gentle student spoke of his earlier and better self as his "little +brother" whom he loved and longed for and sought persistently, but who +dropped farther and farther behind at times, until, in moments of +darkness, he sometimes feared that he might lose him forever--Crittenden +had clung to the phrase, and he had let his fancy lead him to regard +this boy as his early and better self--better far than he had ever +been--his little brother, in a double sense, who drew from him, besides +the love of brother for brother and father for son, a tenderness that +was almost maternal. + +The pike-gate slammed now and the swift rush of wheels over the +bluegrass turf followed; the barn-gate cracked sharply on the night air +and Crittenden heard him singing, in the boyish, untrained tenor that is +so common in the South, one of the old-fashioned love-songs that are +still sung with perfect sincerity and without shame by his people: + + "You'll never find another love like mine, + "You'll never find a heart that's half so true." + +And then the voice was muffled suddenly. A little while later he entered +the yard-gate and stopped in the moonlight and, from his window, +Crittenden looked down and watched him. The boy was going through the +manual of arms with his buggy-whip, at the command of an imaginary +officer, whom, erect and martial, he was apparently looking straight in +the eye. Plainly he was a private now. Suddenly he sprang forward and +saluted; he was volunteering for some dangerous duty; and then he walked +on toward the house. Again he stopped. Apparently he had been promoted +now for gallant conduct, for he waved his whip and called out with low, +sharp sternness; + +"Steady, now! Ready; fire!" And then swinging his hat over his head: + +"Double-quick--charge!" After the charge, he sat down for a moment on +the stiles, looking up at the moon, and then came on toward the house, +singing again: + + "You'll never find a man in all this world + Who'll love you half so well as I love you." + +And inside, the mother, too, was listening; and she heard the elder +brother call the boy into his room and the door close, and she as well +knew the theme of their talk as though she could hear all they said. Her +sons--even the elder one--did not realize what war was; the boy looked +upon it as a frolic. That was the way her two brothers had regarded the +old war. They went with the South, of course, as did her father and her +sweetheart. And her sweetheart was the only one who came back, and him +she married the third month after the surrender, when he was so sick and +wounded that he could hardly stand. Now she must give up all that was +left for the North, that had taken nearly all she had. + +Was it all to come again--the same long days of sorrow, loneliness, the +anxious waiting, waiting, waiting to hear that this one was dead, and +that this one was wounded or sick to death--would either come back +unharmed? She knew now what her own mother must have suffered, and what +it must have cost her to tell her sons what she had told hers that +night. Ah, God, was it all to come again? + + + + +V + + +Some days later a bugle blast started Crittenden from a soldier's cot, +when the flaps of his tent were yellow with the rising sun. Peeping +between them, he saw that only one tent was open. Rivers, as +acting-quartermaster, had been up long ago and gone. That blast was +meant for the private at the foot of the hill, and Crittenden went back +to his cot and slept on. + +The day before he had swept out of the hills again--out through a +blossoming storm of dogwood--but this time southward bound. +Incidentally, he would see unveiled these statues that Kentucky was +going to dedicate to her Federal and Confederate dead. He would find his +father's old comrade--little Jerry Carter--and secure a commission, if +possible. Meanwhile, he would drill with Rivers's regiment, as a soldier +of the line. + +At sunset he swept into the glory of a Southern spring and the hallowed +haze of an old battlefield where certain gallant Americans once fought +certain other gallant Americans fiercely forward and back over some six +thousand acres of creek-bottom and wooded hills, and where Uncle Sam was +pitching tents for his war-children--children, too--some of them--of +those old enemies, but ready to fight together now, and as near shoulder +to shoulder as the modern line of battle will allow. + +Rivers, bronzed, quick-tempered, and of superb physique, met him at the +station. + +"You'll come right out to camp with me." + +The town was thronged. There were gray slouched hats everywhere with +little brass crosses pinned to them--tiny rifles, sabres, +cannon--crosses that were not symbols of religion, unless this was a +time when the Master's coming meant the sword. Under them were soldiers +with big pistols and belts of big, gleaming cartridges--soldiers, white +and black, everywhere--swaggering, ogling, and loud of voice, but all +good-natured, orderly. + +Inside the hotel the lobby was full of officers in uniform, scanning the +yellow bulletin-boards, writing letters, chatting in groups; gray +veterans of horse, foot, and artillery; company officers in from Western +service--quiet young men with bronzed faces and keen eyes, like +Rivers's--renewing old friendships and swapping experiences on the +plains; subalterns down to the last graduating class from West Point +with slim waists, fresh faces, and nothing to swap yet but memories of +the old school on the Hudson. In there he saw Grafton again and +Lieutenant Sharpe, of the Tenth Colored Cavalry, whom he had seen in the +Bluegrass, and Rivers introduced him. He was surprised that Rivers, +though a Southerner, had so little feeling on the question of negro +soldiers; that many officers in the negro regiments were Southern; that +Southerners were preferred because they understood the black man, and, +for that reason, could better handle him. Sharpe presented both to his +father, Colonel Sharpe, of the infantry, who was taking credit to +himself, that, for the first time in his life, he allowed his band to +play "Dixie" in camp after the Southerners in Congress had risen up and +voted millions for the national defence. Colonel Sharpe spoke with some +bitterness and Crittenden wondered. He never dreamed that there was any +bitterness on the other side--why? How could a victor feel bitterness +for a fallen foe? It was the one word he heard or was to hear about the +old war from Federal or ex-Confederate. Indeed, he mistook a short, +stout, careless appointee, Major Billings, with his negro servant, his +Southern mustache and goatee and his pompous ways, for a genuine +Southerner, and the Major, though from Vermont, seemed pleased. + +But it was to the soldier outside that Crittenden's heart had been +drawn, for it was his first stirring sight of the regular of his own +land, and the soldier in him answered at once with a thrill. Waiting for +Rivers, he stood in the door of the hotel, watching the strong men pass, +and by and by he saw three coming down the street, arm in arm. On the +edge of the light, the middle one, a low, thick-set, black-browed +fellow, pushed his comrades away, fell drunkenly, and slipped loosely to +the street, while the two stood above him in disgust. One of them was a +mere boy and the other was a giant, with a lean face, so like Lincoln's +that Crittenden started when the boy called impatiently: + +"Pick him up, Abe." + +The tall soldier stooped, and with one hand lifted the drunken man as +lightly as though he had been a sack of wool, and the two caught him +under the arms again. As they came on, both suddenly let go; the middle +one straightened sharply, and all three saluted. Crittenden heard +Rivers's voice at his ear: + +"Report for this, Reynolds." + +And the drunken soldier turned and rather sullenly saluted again. + +"You'll come right out to camp with me," repeated Rivers. + +And now out at the camp, next morning, a dozen trumpets were ringing +out an emphatic complaint into Crittenden's sleeping ears: + + "I can't git 'em up, + I can't git 'em up, + I can't git 'em up in the mornin', + I can't git 'em up, + I can't git 'em up, + I can't git 'em up at all. + The corporal's worse than the sergeant, + The sergeant's worse than the lieutenant, + And the captain is worst of all." + +This is as high up, apparently, as the private dares to go, unless he +considers the somnolent iniquity of the Colonel quite beyond the range +of the bugle. But the pathetic appeal was too much for Crittenden, and +he got up, stepping into a fragrant foot-bath of cold dew and out to a +dapple gray wash-basin that sat on three wooden stakes just outside. +Sousing his head, he sniffed in the chill air and, looking below him, +took in, with pure mathematical delight, the working unit of the army as +it came to life. The very camp was the symbol of order and system: a low +hill, rising from a tiny stream below him in a series of natural +terraces to the fringe of low pines behind him, and on these terraces +officers and men sitting, according to rank; the white tepees of the +privates and their tethered horses--camped in column of +troops--stretching up the hill toward him; on the first terrace above +and flanking the columns, the old-fashioned army tents of company +officer and subaltern and the guidons in line--each captain with his +lieutenants at the head of each company street; behind them and on the +next terrace, the majors three--each facing the centre of his squadron. +And highest on top of the hill, and facing the centre of the regiment, +the slate-coloured tent of the Colonel, commanding every foot of the +camp. + +"Yes," said a voice behind him, "and you'll find it just that way +throughout the army." + +Crittenden turned in surprise, and the ubiquitous Grafton went on as +though the little trick of thought-reading were too unimportant for +notice. + +"Let's go down and take a look at things. This is my last day," Grafton +went on, "and I'm out early. I go to Tampa to-morrow." + +All the day before, as he travelled, Crittenden had seen the station +thronged with eager countrymen--that must have been the way it was in +the old war, he thought--and swarmed the thicker the farther he went +south. And now, as the two started down the hill, he could see in the +dusty road that ran through the old battlefield Southern interest and +sympathy taking visible shape. For a hundred miles around, the human +swarm had risen from the earth and was moving toward him on wagon, +bicycle, horseback, foot; in omnibus, carriage, cart; in barges on +wheels, with projecting additions, and other land-craft beyond +classification or description. And the people--the American Southerners; +rich whites, whites well-to-do, poor white trash; good country folks, +valley farmers; mountaineers--darkies, and the motley feminine horde +that the soldier draws the world over--all moving along the road as far +as he could see, and interspersed here and there in the long, low cloud +of dust with a clanking troop of horse or a red rumbling battery--all +coming to see the soldiers--the soldiers! + +And the darkies! How they flocked and stared at their soldier-brethren +with pathetic worship, dumb admiration, and, here and there, with a look +of contemptuous resentment that was most curious. And how those dusky +sons of Mars were drinking deep into their broad nostrils the incense +wafted to them from hedge and highway. + +For a moment Grafton stopped still, looking. + +"Great!" + +Below the Majors' terrace stood an old sergeant, with a gray mustache +and a kind, blue eye. Each horse had his nose in a mouth-bag and was +contentedly munching corn, while a trooper affectionately curried him +from tip of ear to tip of tail. + +"Horse ever first and man ever afterward is the trooper's law," said +Grafton. + +"I suppose you've got the best colonel in the army," he added to the +soldier and with a wink at Crittenden. + +"Yes, sir," said the guileless old Sergeant, quickly, and with perfect +seriousness. "We have, sir, and I'm not sayin' a wor-rd against the +rest, sir." + +The Sergeant's voice was as kind as his face, and Grafton soon learned +that he was called "the Governor" throughout the regiment--that he was a +Kentuckian and a sharpshooter. He had seen twenty-seven years of +service, and his ambition had been to become a sergeant of ordnance. He +passed his examination finally, but he was then a little too old. That +almost broke the Sergeant's heart, but the hope of a fight, now, was +fast healing it. + +"I'm from Kentucky, too," said Crittenden. The old soldier turned +quickly. + +"I knew you were, sir." + +This was too much for Grafton. "Now-how-on-earth--" and then he checked +himself--it was not his business. + +"You're a Crittenden." + +"That's right," laughed the Kentuckian. The Sergeant turned. A soldier +came up and asked some trifling question, with a searching look, Grafton +observed, at Crittenden. Everyone looked at that man twice, thought +Grafton, and he looked again himself. It was his manner, his bearing, +the way his head was set on his shoulders, the plastic force of his +striking face. But Crittenden saw only that the Sergeant answered the +soldier as though he were talking to a superior. He had been watching +the men closely--they might be his comrades some day--and, already, had +noticed, with increasing surprise, the character of the men whom he saw +as common soldiers--young, quiet, and above the average countryman in +address and intelligence--and this man's face surprised him still more, +as did his bearing. His face was dark, his eye was dark and penetrating +and passionate; his mouth was reckless and weak, his build was graceful, +and his voice was low and even--the voice of a gentleman; he was the +refined type of the Western gentleman-desperado, as Crittenden had +imagined it from fiction and hearsay. As the soldier turned away, the +old Sergeant saved him the question he was about to ask. + +"He used to be an officer." + +"Who--how's that?" asked Grafton, scenting "a story." + +The old Sergeant checked himself at once, and added cautiously: + +"He was a lieutenant in this regiment and he resigned. He just got back +to-day, and he has enlisted as a private rather than risk not getting to +Cuba at all. But, of course, he'll get his commission back again." The +Sergeant's manner fooled neither Grafton nor Crittenden; both respected +the old Sergeant's unwillingness to gossip about a man who had been his +superior, and Grafton asked no more questions. + +There was no idleness in that camp. Each man was busy within and without +the conical-walled tents in which the troopers lie like the spokes of a +wheel, with heads out like a covey of partridges. Before one tent sat +the tall soldier--Abe--and the boy, his comrade, whom Crittenden had +seen the night before. + +"Where's Reynolds?" asked Crittenden, smiling. + +"Guard-house," said the Sergeant, shaking his head. + +Not a scrap of waste matter was to be seen anywhere--not a piece of +paper--not the faintest odour was perceptible; the camp was as clean as +a Dutch kitchen. + +"And this is a camp of cavalry, mind you," said Grafton. "Ten minutes +after they have broken camp, you won't be able to tell that there has +been a man or horse on the ground, except for the fact that it will be +packed down hard in places. And I bet you that in a month they won't +have three men in the hospital." The old Sergeant nearly blushed with +pleasure. + +"An' I've got the best captain, too, sir," he said, as they turned away, +and Grafton laughed. + +"That's the way you'll find it all through the army. Each colonel and +each captain is always the best to the soldier, and, by the way," he +went on, "do you happen to know about this little United States regular +army?" + +"Not much." + +"I thought so. Germany knows a good deal--England, France, Prussia, +Russia--everybody knows but the American and the Spaniard. Just look at +these men. They're young, strong, intelligent--bully, good Americans. +It's an army of picked men--picked for heart, body, and brain. Almost +each man is an athlete. It is the finest body of men on God Almighty's +earth to-day, and everybody on earth but the American and the Spaniard +knows it. And how this nation has treated them. Think of that miserable +Congress--" Grafton waved his hands in impotent rage and ceased--Rivers +was calling them from the top of the hill. + +So all morning Crittenden watched the regimental unit at work. He took a +sabre lesson from the old Sergeant. He visited camps of infantry and +artillery and, late that afternoon, he sat on a little wooded hill, +where stood four draped, ghost-like statues--watching these units paint +pictures on a bigger canvas below him, of the army at work as a whole. + +Every green interspace below was thickly dotted with tents and rising +spirals of faint smoke; every little plain was filled with soldiers, at +drill. Behind him wheeled cannon and caisson and men and horses, +splashed with prophetic drops of red, wheeling at a gallop, halting, +unlimbering, loading, and firing imaginary shells at imaginary +Spaniards--limbering and off with a flash of metal, wheel-spoke and +crimson trappings at a gallop again; in the plain below were regiments +of infantry, deploying in skirmish-line, advancing by rushes; beyond +them sharpshooters were at target practice, and little bands of recruits +and awkward squads were everywhere. In front, rose cloud after cloud of +dust, and, under them, surged cloud after cloud of troopers at mounted +drill, all making ready for the soldier's work--to kill with mercy and +die without complaint. What a picture--what a picture! And what a rich +earnest of the sleeping might of the nation behind it all. Just under +him was going an "escort of the standard," which he could plainly see. +Across the long drill-ground the regiment--it was Rivers's +regiment--stood, a solid mass of silent, living statues, and it was a +brave sight that came now--that flash of sabres along the long length of +the drill-field, like one leaping horizontal flame. It was a regimental +acknowledgment of the honour of presentation to the standard, and +Crittenden raised his hat gravely in recognition of the same honour, +little dreaming that he was soon to follow that standard up a certain +Cuban hill. + +What a picture! + +There the nation was concentrating its power. Behind him that nation was +patching up its one great quarrel, and now a gray phantom stalked out of +the past to the music of drum and fife, and Crittenden turned sharply to +see a little body of men, in queer uniforms, marching through a camp of +regulars toward him. They were old boys, and they went rather slowly, +but they stepped jauntily and, in their natty old-fashioned caps and old +gray jackets pointed into a V-shape behind, they looked jaunty in spite +of their years. Not a soldier but paused to look at these men in gray, +who marched thus proudly through such a stronghold of blue, and were not +ashamed. Not a man joked or laughed or smiled, for all knew that they +were old Confederates in butter-nut, and once fighting-men indeed. All +knew that these men had fought battles that made scouts and Indian +skirmishes and city riots and, perhaps, any battles in store for them +with Spain but play by contrast for the tin soldier, upon whom the +regular smiles with such mild contempt; that this thin column had seen +twice the full muster of the seven thousand strong encamped there melt +away upon that very battlefield in a single day. And so the little +remnant of gray marched through an atmosphere of profound respect, and +on through a mist of memories to the rocky little point where the +Federal Virginian Thomas--"The Rock of Chickamauga"--stood against +seventeen fierce assaults of hill-swarming demons in butter-nut, whose +desperate valour has hardly a parallel on earth, unless it then and +there found its counterpart in the desperate courage of the brothers in +name and race whose lives they sought that day. They were bound to a +patriotic love-feast with their old enemies in blue--these men in +gray--to hold it on the hill around the four bronze statues that +Crittenden's State was putting up to her sons who fought on one or the +other side on that one battlefield, and Crittenden felt a clutch at his +heart and his eyes filled when the tattered old flag of the stars and +bars trembled toward him. Under its folds rode the spirit of gallant +fraternity--a little, old man with a grizzled beard and with stars on +his shoulders, his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle, his eyes +lifted dreamily upward--they called him the "bee-hunter," from that +habit of his in the old war--his father's old comrade, little Jerry +Carter. That was the man Crittenden had come South to see. Behind came a +carriage, in which sat a woman in widow's weeds and a tall girl in gray. +He did not need to look again to see that it was Judith, and, +motionless, he stood where he was throughout the ceremony, until he saw +the girl lift her hand and the veil fall away from the bronze symbols of +the soldier that was in her fathers and in his--stood resolutely still +until the gray figure disappeared and the veterans, blue and gray +intermingled, marched away. The little General was the last to leave, +and he rode slowly, as if overcome with memories. Crittenden took off +his hat and, while he hesitated, hardly knowing whether to make himself +known or not, the little man caught sight of him and stopped short. + +"Why--why, bless my soul, aren't you Tom Crittenden's son?" + +"Yes, sir," said Crittenden. + +"I knew it. Bless me, I was thinking of him just that moment--naturally +enough--and you startled me. I thought it was Tom himself." He grasped +the Kentuckian's hand warmly. + +"Yes," he said, studying his face. "You look just as he did when we +courted and camped and fought together." The tone of his voice moved +Crittenden deeply. "And you are going to the war--good--good! Your +father would be with me right now if he were alive. Come to see me right +away. I may go to Tampa any day." And, as he rode away, he stopped +again. + +"Of course you have a commission in the Legion." + +"No, sir. I didn't ask for one. I was afraid the Legion might not get to +Cuba." The General smiled. + +"Well, come to see me"--he smiled again--"we'll see--we'll see!" and he +rode on with his hands still folded on the pommel of his saddle and his +eyes still lifted, dreamily, upward. + +It was guard-mount and sunset when Crittenden, with a leaping heart, +reached Rivers's camp. The band was just marching out with a corps of +trumpeters, when a crash of martial music came across the hollow from +the camp on the next low hill, followed by cheers, which ran along the +road and were swollen into a mighty shouting when taken up by the camp +at the foot of the hill. Through the smoke and faint haze of the early +evening, moved a column of infantry into sight, headed by a band. + + "Tramp, tramp, tramp, + The boys are marching!" + +Along the brow of the hill, and but faintly seen through the smoky haze, +came the pendulum-like swing of rank after rank of sturdy legs, with +guidons fluttering along the columns and big, ghostly army wagons +rumbling behind. Up started the band at the foot of the hill with a +rousing march, and up started every band along the line, and through +madly cheering soldiers swung the regiment on its way to Tampa--magic +word, hope of every chafing soldier left behind--Tampa, the point of +embarkation for the little island where waited death or glory. + +Rivers was deeply dejected. + +"Don't you join any regiment yet," he said to Crittenden; "you may get +hung up here all summer till the war is over. If you want to get into +the fun for sure--wait. Go to Tampa and wait. You might come here, or go +there, and drill and watch for your chance." Which was the conclusion +Crittenden had already reached for himself. + +The sun sank rapidly now. Dusk fell swiftly, and the pines began their +nightly dirge for the many dead who died under them five and thirty +years ago. They had a new and ominous chant now to Crittenden--a chant +of premonition for the strong men about him who were soon to follow +them. Camp-fires began to glow out of the darkness far and near over +the old battlefield. + +Around a little fire on top of the hill, and in front of the Colonel's +tent, sat the Colonel, with kind Irish face, Irish eye, and Irish wit of +tongue. Near him the old Indian-fighter, Chaffee, with strong brow, deep +eyes, long jaw, firm mouth, strong chin--the long, lean face of a +thirteenth century monk who was quick to doff cowl for helmet. While +they told war-stories, Crittenden sat in silence with the majors three, +and Willings, the surgeon (whom he was to know better in Cuba), and +listened. Every now and then a horse would loom from the darkness, and a +visiting officer would swing into the light, and everybody would say: + +"How!" + +There is no humour in that monosyllable of good cheer throughout the +United States Army, and with Indian-like solemnity they said it, tin cup +in hand: + +"How!" + +Once it was Lawton, tall, bronzed, commanding, taciturn--but fluent when +he did speak--or Kent, or Sumner, or little Jerry Carter himself. And +once, a soldier stepped into the circle of firelight, his heels clicking +sharply together; and Crittenden thought an uneasy movement ran around +the group, and that the younger men looked furtively up as though to +take their cue from the Colonel. It was the soldier who had been an +officer once. The Colonel showed not a hint of consciousness, nor did +the impassive soldier to anybody but Crittenden, and with him it may +have been imagination that made him think that once, when the soldier +let his eye flash quite around the group, he flushed slightly when he +met Crittenden's gaze. Rivers shrugged his shoulders when Crittenden +asked about him later. + +"Black sheep, ... well-educated, brave, well-born most likely, came up +from the ranks, ... won a commission as sergeant fighting Indians, but +always in trouble--gambling, fighting, and so forth. Somebody in +Washington got him a lieutenancy, and while the commission was on its +way to him out West he got into a bar-room brawl. He resigned then, and +left the army. He was gentleman enough to do that. Now he's back. The +type is common in the army, and they often come back. I expect he has +decency enough to want to get killed. If he has, maybe he'll come out a +captain yet." + +By and by came "tattoo," and finally far away a trumpet sounded "taps"; +then another and another and another still. At last, when all were +through, "taps" rose once more out of the darkness to the left. This +last trumpeter had waited--he knew his theme and knew his power. The +rest had simply given the command: + +"Lights out!" + +Lights out of the soldier's camp, they said. Lights out of the soldier's +life, said this one, sadly; and out of Crittenden's life just now +something that once was dearer than life itself. + +"Love, good-night." + +Such the trumpet meant to one poet, and such it meant to many another +than Crittenden, doubtless, when he stretched himself on his +cot--thinking of Judith there that afternoon, and seeing her hand lift +to pull away the veil from the statues again. So it had always been with +him. One touch of her hand and the veil that hid his better self parted, +and that self stepped forth victorious. It had been thickening, fold on +fold, a long while now; and now, he thought sternly, the rending must be +done, and should be done with his own hands. And then he would go back +to thinking of her as he saw her last in the Bluegrass. And he wondered +what that last look and smile of hers could mean. Later, he moved in his +sleep--dreaming of that brave column marching for Tampa--with his mind's +eye on the flag at the head of the regiment, and a thrill about his +heart that waked him. And he remembered that it was the first time he +had ever had any sensation about the flag of his own land. But it had +come to him--awake and asleep--and it was genuine. + + + + +VI + + +It was mid-May now, and the leaves were full and their points were +drooping toward the earth. The woods were musical with the cries of +blackbirds as Crittenden drove toward the pike-gate, and the meadow was +sweet with the love-calls of larks. The sun was fast nearing the zenith, +and air and earth were lusty with life. Already the lane, lined with +locust-trees, brambles, wild rose-bushes, and young elders, was fragrant +with the promise of unborn flowers, and the turnpike, when he neared +town, was soft with the dust of many a hoof and wheel that had passed +over it toward the haze of smoke which rose over the first recruiting +camp in the State for the Spanish war. There was a big crowd in the +lovely woodland over which hung the haze, and the music of horn and drum +came forth to Crittenden's ears even that far away, and Raincrow raised +head and tail and quickened his pace proudly. + +For a week he had drilled at Chickamauga. He had done the work of a +plain soldier, and he liked it--liked his temporary comrades, who were +frankly men to men with him, in spite of his friendship with their +superiors on top of the hill. To the big soldier, Abe Long, the wag of +the regiment, he had been drawn with genuine affection. He liked Abe's +bunkie, the boy Sanders, who was from Maine, while Abe was a +Westerner--the lineal descendant in frame, cast of mind, and character +of the border backwoodsman of the Revolution. Reynolds was a bully, and +Crittenden all but had trouble with him; for he bullied the boy Sanders +when Abe was not around, and bullied the "rookies." Abe seemed to have +little use for him, but as he had saved the big soldier's life once in +an Indian fight, Abe stuck to him, in consequence, loyally. But +Blackford, the man who had been an officer once, had interested him +most; perhaps, because Blackford showed peculiar friendliness for him at +once. From Washington, Crittenden had heard not a word; nor from General +Carter, who had left Chickamauga before he could see him again. If, +within two days more, no word came, Crittenden had made up his mind to +go to Tampa, where the little General was, and where Rivers's regiment +had been ordered, and drill again and, as Rivers advised, await his +chance. + +The camp was like some great picnic or political barbecue, with the +smoking trenches, the burgoo, and the central feast of beef and mutton +left out. Everywhere country folks were gathering up fragments of lunch +on the thick grass, or strolling past the tents of the soldiers, or +stopping before the Colonel's pavilion to look upon the martial young +gentlemen who composed his staff, their beautiful horses, and the +Colonel's beautiful guests from the river city--the big town of the +State. Everywhere were young soldiers in twos and threes keeping step, +to be sure, but with eyes anywhere but to the front; groups lying on the +ground, chewing blades of bluegrass, watching pretty girls pass, and +lounging lazily; groups to one side, but by no means out of sight, +throwing dice or playing "craps"--the game dear to the darkey's heart. +On the outskirts were guards to gently challenge the visitor, but not +very stern sentinels were they. As Crittenden drove in, he saw one +pacing a shady beat with a girl on his arm. And later, as he stood by +his buggy, looking around with an amused sense of the playful contrast +it all was to what he had seen at Chickamauga, he saw another sentinel +brought to a sudden halt by a surprised exclamation from a girl, who was +being shown through the camp by a strutting lieutenant. The sentinel was +Basil and Phyllis was the girl. + +"Why, isn't that Basil?" she asked in an amazed tone--amazed because +Basil did not speak to her, but grinned silently. + +"Why, it is Basil; why--why," and she turned helplessly from private to +officer and back again. "Can't you speak to me, Basil?" + +Basil grinned again sheepishly. + +"Yes," he said, answering her, but looking straight at his superior, "I +can if the Lieutenant there will let me." Phyllis was indignant. + +"Let you!" she said, witheringly; and she turned on the hapless tyrant +at her side. + +"Now, don't you go putting on airs, just because you happen to have been +in the Legion a little longer than _some_ people. Of course, I'm going +to speak to my friends. I don't care where they are or what they happen +to be at the time, or who happens to think himself over them." + +And she walked up to the helpless sentinel with her hand outstretched, +while the equally helpless Lieutenant got very red indeed, and Basil +shifted his gun to a very unmilitary position and held out his hand. + +"Let me see your gun, Basil," she added, and the boy obediently handed +it over to her, while the little Lieutenant turned redder still. + +"You go to the guard-house for that, Crittenden," he said, quietly. +"Don't you know you oughtn't to give up your gun to anybody except your +commanding officer?" + +"Does he, indeed?" said the girl, just as quietly. "Well, I'll see the +Colonel." And Basil saluted soberly, knowing there was no guard-house +for him that night. + +"Anyhow," she added, "I'm the commanding officer here." And then the +gallant lieutenant saluted too. + +"You are, indeed," he said; and Phyllis turned to give Basil a parting +smile. + +Crittenden followed them to the Colonel's tent, which had a raised floor +and the good cheer of cigar-boxes, and of something under his cot that +looked like a champagne-basket; and he smiled to think of Chaffee's +Spartan-like outfit at Chickamauga. Every now and then a soldier would +come up with a complaint, and the Colonel would attend to him +personally. + +It was plain that the old ex-Confederate was the father of the regiment, +and was beloved as such; and Crittenden was again struck with the +contrast it all was to what he had just seen, knowing well, however, +that the chief difference was in the spirit in which regular and +volunteer approached the matter in hand. With one, it was a business +pure and simple, to which he was trained. With the other, it was a lark +at first, but business it soon would be, and a dashing business at that. +There was the same crowd before the tent--Judith, who greeted him with +gracious frankness, but with a humorous light in her eye that set him +again to wondering; and Phyllis and Phyllis's mother, Mrs. Stanton, who +no sooner saw Crittenden than she furtively looked at Judith with a +solicitude that was maternal and significant. + +There can be no better hot-bed of sentiment than the mood of man and +woman when the man is going to war; and if Mrs. Stanton had not shaken +that nugget of wisdom from her memories of the old war, she would have +known it anyhow, for she was blessed with a perennial sympathy for the +heart-troubles of the young, and she was as quick to apply a remedy to +the children of other people as she was to her own, whom, by the way, +she cured, one by one, as they grew old enough to love and suffer, and +learn through suffering what it was to be happy. And how other mothers +wondered how it was all done! In truth, her method--if she had a +conscious method--was as mysterious and as sure as is the way of nature; +and one could no more catch her nursing a budding passion here and there +than one could catch nature making the bluegrass grow. Everybody saw the +result; nobody saw just how it was done. That afternoon an instance was +at hand. Judith wanted to go home, and Mrs. Stanton, who had brought her +to camp, wanted to go to town. Phyllis, too, wanted to go home, and her +wicked little brother, Walter, who had brought her, climbed into +Basil's brake before her eyes, and, making a face at her, disappeared in +a cloud of dust. Of course, neither of the brothers nor the two girls +knew what was going on, but, a few minutes later, there was Basil +pleading with Mrs. Stanton to let him take Phyllis home, and there was +Crittenden politely asking the privilege of taking Judith into his +buggy. The girl looked embarrassed, but when Mrs. Stanton made a +gracious feint of giving up her trip to town, Judith even more +graciously declined to allow her, and, with a smile to Crittenden, as +though he were a conscious partner in her effort to save Mrs. Stanton +trouble, gave him her hand and was helped into the smart trap, with its +top pressed flat, its narrow seat and a high-headed, high-reined, +half-thoroughbred restive between the slender shafts; and a moment +later, smiled a good-by to the placid lady, who, with a sigh that was +half an envious memory, half the throb of a big, kind heart, turned to +her own carriage, assuring herself that it really was imperative for her +to drive to town, if for no other reason than to see that her +mischievous boy got out of town with the younger Crittenden's brake. + +Judith and Crittenden were out of the push of cart, carriage, wagon, and +street-car now, and out of the smoke and dust of the town, and +Crittenden pulled his horse down to a slow trot. The air was clear and +fragrant and restful. So far, the two had spoken scarcely a dozen words. +Crittenden was embarrassed--he hardly knew why--and Judith saw it, and +there was a suppressed smile at the corners of her mouth which +Crittenden did not see. + +"It's too bad." + +Crittenden turned suddenly. + +"It's a great pleasure." + +"For which you have Mrs. Stanton to thank. You would have got it for +yourself five--dear me; is it possible?--five years ago." + +"Seven years ago," corrected Crittenden, grimly. "I was more +self-indulgent seven years ago than I am now." + +"And the temptation was greater then." + +The smile at her mouth twitched her lips faintly, and still Crittenden +did not see; he was too serious, and he kept silent. + +The clock-like stroke of the horse's high-lifted feet came sharply out +on the hard road. The cushioned springs under them creaked softly now +and then, and the hum of the slender, glittering spokes was noiseless +and drowsy. + +"You haven't changed much," said Judith, "except for the better." + +"You haven't changed at all. You couldn't--for better or worse." + +Judith smiled dreamily and her eyes were looking backward--very far +backward. Suddenly they were shot with mischief. + +"Why, you really don't seem to--" she hesitated--"to like me any more." + +"I really don't--" Crittenden, too, hesitated--"don't like you any +more--not as I did." + +"You wrote me that." + +"Yes." + +The girl gave a low laugh. How often he had played this harmless little +part. But there was a cool self-possession about him that she had never +seen before. She had come home, prepared to be very nice to him, and she +was finding it easy. + +"And you never answered," said Crittenden. + +"No; and I don't know why." + +The birds were coming from shade and picket--for midday had been +warm--into the fields and along the hedges, and were fluttering from one +fence-rail to another ahead of them and piping from the bushes by the +wayside and the top of young weeds. + +"You wrote that you were--'getting over it.' In the usual way?" + +Crittenden glanced covertly at Judith's face. A mood in her like this +always made him uneasy. + +"Not in the usual way; I don't think it's usual. I hope not." + +"How, then?" + +"Oh, pride, absence--deterioration and other things." + +"Why, then?" + +Judith's head was leaning backward, her eyes were closed, but her face +seemed perfectly serious. + +"You told me to get over it." + +"Did I?" + +Crittenden did not deign to answer this, and Judith was silent a long +while. Then her eyes opened; but they were looking backward again, and +she might have been talking to herself. + +"I'm wondering," she said, "whether any woman ever really meant that +when she said it to a man whom she--" Crittenden turned quickly--"whom +she liked," added Judith as though she had not seen his movement. "She +may think it her duty to say it; she may say it because it is her duty; +but in her heart, I suppose, she wants him to keep on loving her just +the same--if she likes him--" Judith paused--"even more than a very +little. That's very selfish, but I'm afraid it's true." + +And Judith sighed helplessly. + +"I think you made it little enough that time," laughed Crittenden. "Are +you still afraid of giving me too much hope?" + +"I am afraid of nothing--now." + +"Thank you. You were ever too much concerned about me." + +"I was. Other men may have found the fires of my conscience smouldering +sometimes, but they were always ablaze whenever you came near. I liked +you better than the rest--better than all----" + +Crittenden's heart gave a faint throb and he finished the sentence for +her. + +"But one." + +"But one." + +And that one had been unworthy, and Judith had sent him adrift. She had +always been frank with Crittenden. That much he knew and no more--not +even the man's name; but how he had wondered who and where and what +manner of man he was! And how he had longed to see him! + +They were passing over a little bridge in a hollow where a cool current +of air struck them and the freshened odour of moistening green things in +the creek-bed--the first breath of the night that was still below the +cloudy horizon. + +"Deterioration," said Judith, almost sharply. "What did you mean by +that?" + +Crittenden hesitated, and she added: + +"Go on; we are no longer children." + +"Oh, it was nothing, or everything, just as you look at it. I made a +discovery soon after you went away. I found that when I fell short of +the standard you"--Crittenden spoke slowly--"had set for me, I got at +least mental relief. I _couldn't_ think of you until--until I had +recovered myself again." + +"So you----" + +"I used the discovery." + +"That was weak." + +"It was deliberate." + +"Then it was criminal." + +"Both, if you wish; but credit me with at least the strength to confess +and the grace to be ashamed. But I'm beginning all over again now--by +myself." + +He was flipping at one shaft with the cracker of his whip and not +looking at her, and Judith kept silent; but she was watching his face. + +"It's time," he went on, with slow humour. "So far, I've just missed +being what I should have been; doing what I should have done--by a +hair's breadth. I did pretty well in college, but thereafter, when +things begin to count! Law? I never got over the humiliation of my first +ridiculous failure. Business? I made a fortune in six weeks, lost it in +a month, and was lucky to get out without having to mortgage a farm. +Politics? Wharton won by a dozen votes. I just missed being what my +brother is now--I missed winning you--everything! Think of it! I am +five feet eleven and three-quarters, when I should have been full six +feet. I am the first Crittenden to fall under the line in a century. I +have been told"--he smiled--"that I have missed being handsome. There +again I believe I overthrow family tradition. My youth is going--to no +purpose, so far--and it looks as though I were going to miss life +hereafter as well as here, since, along with everything else, I have +just about missed faith." + +He was quite sincere and unsparing, but had Judith been ten years older, +she would have laughed outright. As it was, she grew sober and +sympathetic and, like a woman, began to wonder, for the millionth time, +perhaps, how far she had been to blame. + +"The comfort I have is that I have been, and still am, honest with +myself. I haven't done what I ought not and then tried to persuade +myself that it was right. I always knew it was wrong, and I did it +anyhow. And the hope I have is that, like the man in Browning's poem, I +believe I always try to get up again, no matter how often I stumble. I +sha'n't give up hope until I am willing to lie still. And I guess, after +all--" he lifted his head suddenly--"I haven't missed being a man." + +"And a gentleman," added Judith gently. + +"According to the old standard--no." Crittenden paused. + +The sound of buggy wheels and a fast-trotting horse rose behind them. +Raincrow lifted his head and quickened his pace, but Crittenden pulled +him in as Basil and Phyllis swept by. The two youngsters were in high +spirits, and the boy shook his whip back and the girl her +handkerchief--both crying something which neither Judith nor Crittenden +could understand. Far behind was the sound of another horse's hoofs, and +Crittenden, glancing back, saw his political enemy--Wharton--a girl by +his side, and coming at full speed. At once he instinctively gave half +the road, and Raincrow, knowing what that meant, shot out his feet and +Crittenden tightened the reins, not to check, but to steady him. The +head of the horse behind he could just see, but he went on talking +quietly. + +"I love that boy," pointing with his whip ahead. "Do you remember that +passage I once read you in Stevenson about his 'little brother'?" + +Judith nodded. + +The horse behind was creeping up now, and his open nostrils were visible +past the light hair blowing about Judith's neck. Crittenden spoke one +quiet word to his own horse, and Judith saw the leaders of his wrist +begin to stand out as Raincrow settled into the long reach that had +sent his sire a winner under many a string. + +"Well, I know what he meant--that boy never will. And that is as a man +should be. The hope of the race isn't in this buggy--it has gone on +before with Phyllis and Basil." + +Once the buggy wheels ran within an inch of a rather steep bank, and +straight ahead was a short line of broken limestone so common on +bluegrass turnpikes, but Judith had the Southern girl's trust and +courage, and seemed to notice the reckless drive as little as did +Crittenden, who made the wheels straddle the stones, when the variation +of an inch or two would have lamed his horse and overturned them. + +"Yes, they are as frank as birds in their love-making, and they will +marry with as little question as birds do when they nest. They will have +a house full of children--I have heard her mother say that was her +ambition and the ambition she had for her children; and they will live a +sane, wholesome, useful, happy life." + +The buggy behind had made a little spurt, and the horses were almost +neck and neck. Wharton looked ugly, and the black-eyed girl with fluffy +black hair was looking behind Judith's head at Crittenden and was +smiling. Not once had Judith turned her head, even to see who they were. +Crittenden hardly knew whether she was conscious of the race, but they +were approaching her gate now and he found out. + +"Shall I turn in?" he asked. + +"Go on," said Judith. + +There was a long, low hill before them, and up that Crittenden let +Raincrow have his full speed for the first time. The panting nostrils of +the other horse fell behind--out of sight--out of hearing. + +"And if he doesn't get back from the war, she will mourn for him +sincerely for a year or two and then----" + +"Marry someone else." + +"Why not?" + +That was what she had so often told him to do, and now he spoke as +though it were quite possible--even for him; and she was both glad and a +little resentful. + +At the top of the hill they turned. The enemy was trotting leisurely up +the slope, having given up the race earlier than they knew. Judith's +face was flushed. + +"I don't think you are so very old," she said. + +[Illustration: "Go on!" said Judith.] + +Crittenden laughed, and took off his hat very politely when they met the +buggy, but Wharton looked surly. The girl with the black hair looked +sharply at Judith, and then again at Crittenden, and smiled. She must +have cared little for her companion, Judith thought, or something for +Crittenden, and yet she knew that most women smiled at Crittenden, even +when they did not know him very well. Still she asked: "And the other +things--you meant other women?" + +"Yes, and no." + +"Why no?" + +"Because I have deceived nobody--not even myself--and Heaven knows I +tried that hard enough." + +"That was one?" she added, smiling. + +"I thought you knew me better than to ask such a question." + +Again Judith smiled--scanning him closely. + +"No, you aren't so very old--nor world-weary, after all." + +"No?" + +"No. And you have strong hands--and wrists. And your eyes are--" she +seemed almost embarrassed--"are the eyes of a good man, in spite of what +you say about yourself; and I would trust them. And it was very fine in +you to talk as you did when we were tearing up that hill a moment ago." + +Crittenden turned with a start of surprise. + +"Oh," he said, with unaffected carelessness. "You didn't seem to be very +nervous." + +"I trusted you." + +Crittenden had stopped to pull the self-opening gate, and he drove +almost at a slow walk through the pasture toward Judith's home. The sun +was reddening through the trees now. The whole earth was moist and +fragrant, and the larks were singing their last songs for that happy +day. Judith was quite serious now. + +"Do you know, I was glad to hear you say that you had got over your old +feeling for me. I feel so relieved. I have always felt so responsible +for your happiness, but I don't now, and it is _such_ a relief. Now you +will go ahead and marry some lovely girl and you will be happy and I +shall be happier--seeing it and knowing it." + +Crittenden shook his head. + +"No," he said, "something seems to have gone out of me, never to come +back." + +There was nobody in sight to open the yard gate, and Crittenden drove to +the stiles, where he helped Judith out and climbed back into his buggy. + +Judith turned in surprise. "Aren't you coming in?" + +"I'm afraid I haven't time." + +"Oh, yes, you have." + +A negro boy was running from the kitchen. + +"Hitch Mr. Crittenden's horse," she said, and Crittenden climbed out +obediently and followed her to the porch, but she did not sit down +outside. She went on into the parlour and threw open the window to let +the last sunlight in, and sat by it looking at the west. + +For a moment Crittenden watched her. He never realized before how much +simple physical beauty she had, nor did he realize the significance of +the fact that never until now had he observed it. She had been a spirit +before; now she was a woman as well. But he did note that if he could +have learned only from Judith, he would never have known that he even +had wrists or eyes until that day; and yet he was curiously unstirred by +the subtle change in her. He was busied with his own memories. + +"And I know it can never come back," he said, and he went on thinking as +he looked at her. "I wonder if you can know what it is to have somebody +such a part of your life that you never hear a noble strain of music, +never read a noble line of poetry, never catch a high mood from nature, +nor from your own best thoughts--that you do not imagine her by your +side to share your pleasure in it all; that you make no effort to better +yourself or help others; that you do nothing of which she could approve, +that you are not thinking of her--that really she is not the inspiration +of it all. That doesn't come but once. Think of having somebody so +linked with your life, with what is highest and best in you, that, when +the hour of temptation comes and overcomes, you are not able to think of +her through very shame. I wonder if _he_ loved you that way. I wonder if +you know what such love is." + +"It never comes but once," he said, in a low tone, that made Judith turn +suddenly. Her eyes looked as if they were not far from tears. + +A tiny star showed in the pink glow over the west-- + + "Starlight, star bright!" + +"Think of it. For ten years I never saw the first star without making +the same wish for you and me. Why," he went on, and stopped suddenly +with a little shame at making the confession even to himself, and at the +same time with an impersonal wonder that such a thing could be, "I used +to pray for you always--when I said my prayers--actually. And sometimes +even now, when I'm pretty hopeless and helpless and moved by some +memory, the old prayer comes back unconsciously and I find myself +repeating your name." + +For the moment he spoke as though not only that old love, but she who +had caused it, were dead, and the tone of his voice made her shiver. + +And the suffering he used to get--the suffering from trifles--the +foolish suffering from silly trifles! + +He turned now, for he heard Judith walking toward him. She was looking +him straight in the eyes and was smiling strangely. + +"I'm going to make you love me as you used to love me." + +Her lips were left half parted from the whisper, and he could have +stooped and kissed her--something that never in his life had he done--he +knew that--but the old reverence came back from the past to forbid him, +and he merely looked down into her eyes, flushing a little. + +"Yes," she said, gently. "And I think you are just tall enough." + +In a flash her mood changed, and she drew his head down until she could +just touch his forehead with her lips. It was a sweet bit of +motherliness--no more--and Crittenden understood and was grateful. + +"Go home now," she said. + + + + +VII + + +At Tampa--the pomp and circumstance of war. + +A gigantic hotel, brilliant with lights, music, flowers, women; halls +and corridors filled with bustling officers, uniformed from empty straps +to stars; volunteer and regular--easily distinguished by the ease of one +and the new and conscious erectness of the other; adjutants, millionaire +aids, civilian inspectors; gorgeous attachés--English, German, Swedish, +Russian, Prussian, Japanese--each wondrous to the dazzled republican +eye; Cubans with cigarettes, Cubans--little and big, war-like, with the +tail of the dark eye ever womanward, brave with machétes; on the divans +Cuban senoritas--refugees at Tampa--dark-eyed, of course, languid of +manner, to be sure, and with the eloquent fan, ever present, +omnipotent--shutting and closing, shutting and closing, like the wings +of a gigantic butterfly; adventurers, adventuresses; artists, +photographers; correspondents by the score--female correspondents; story +writers, novelists, real war correspondents, and real +draughtsmen--artists, indeed; and a host of lesser men with spurs yet +to win--all crowding the hotel day and night, night and day. + +And outside, to the sea--camped in fine white sand dust, under thick +stars and a hot sun--soldiers, soldiers everywhere, lounging through the +streets and the railway stations, overrunning the suburbs; +drilling--horseback and on foot--through clouds of sand; drilling at +skirmish over burnt sedge-grass and stunted and charred pine woods; +riding horses into the sea, and plunging in themselves like truant +schoolboys. In the bay a fleet of waiting transports, and all over dock, +camp, town, and hotel an atmosphere of fierce unrest and of eager +longing to fill those wooden hulks, rising and falling with such +maddening patience on the tide, and to be away. All the time, meanwhile, +soldiers coming in--more and more soldiers--in freight-box, day-coach, +and palace-car. + +That night, in the hotel, Grafton and Crittenden watched the crowd from +a divan of red plush, Grafton chatting incessantly. Around them moved +and sat the women of the "House of the Hundred Thousand"--officers' +wives and daughters and sisters and sweethearts and army +widows--claiming rank and giving it more or less consciously, according +to the rank of the man whom they represented. The big man with the +monocle and the suit of towering white from foot to crown was the +English naval attaché. He stalked through the hotel as though he had the +British Empire at his back. + +"And he has, too," said Grafton. "You ought to see him go down the steps +to the café. The door is too low for him. Other tall people bend +forward--he always rears back." + +And the picturesque little fellow with the helmet was the English +military attaché. Crittenden had seen him at Chickamauga, and Grafton +said they would hear of him in Cuba. The Prussian was handsome, and a +Count. The big, boyish blond was a Russian, and a Prince, as was the +quiet, modest, little Japanese--a mighty warrior in his own country. And +the Swede, the polite, the exquisite! + +"He wears a mustache guard. I offered him a cigar. He saluted: 'Thank +you,' he said. 'Nevare I schmoke.'" + +"They are the pets of the expedition," Grafton went on, "they and that +war-like group of correspondents over there. They'll go down on the +flag-ship, while we nobodies will herd together on one boat. But we'll +all be on the same footing when we get there." + +Just then a big man, who was sitting on the next divan twisting his +mustache and talking chiefly with his hands, rolled up and called +Grafton. + +"Huh!" he said. + +"Huh!" mimicked Grafton. + +"You don't know much about the army." + +"Six weeks ago I couldn't tell a doughboy officer from a cavalryman by +the stripe down his legs." + +The big man smiled with infinite pity and tolerance. + +"Therefore," said Grafton, "I shall not pass judgment, deliver expert +military opinions, and decide how the campaign ought to be +conducted--well, maybe for some days yet." + +"You've got to. You must have a policy--a Policy. I'll give you one." + +And he began--favoring monosyllables, dashes, exclamation points, pauses +for pantomime, Indian sign language, and heys, huhs, and humphs that +were intended to fill out sentences and round up elaborate argument. + +"There is a lot any damn fool can say, of course, hey? But you mustn't +say it, huh? Give 'em hell afterward." (Pantomime.) "That's right, ain't +it? Understand? Regular army all right." (Sign language.) "These damn +fools outside--volunteers, politicians, hey? Had best army in the world +at the close of the old war, see? Best equipped, you understand, huh? +Congress" (violent Indian sign language) "wanted to squash it--to +squash it--that's right, you understand, huh? Cut it down--cut it down, +see? Illustrate: Wanted 18,000 mules for this push, got 2,000, see? Same +principle all through; see? That's right! No good to say anything +now--people think you complain of the regular army, huh? Mustn't say +anything now--give 'em hell afterward--understand?" (More sign +language.) "Hell afterward. All right now, got your policy, go ahead." + +Grafton nodded basely, and without a smile: + +"Thanks, old man--thanks. It's very lucid." + +A little later Crittenden saw the stout civilian, Major Billings, fairly +puffing with pride, excitement, and a fine uniform of khaki, whom he had +met at Chickamauga; and Willings, the surgeon; and Chaffee, now a +brigadier; and Lawton, soon to command a division; and, finally, little +Jerry Carter, quiet, unassuming, dreamy, slight, old, but active, and +tough as hickory. The little general greeted Crittenden like a son. + +"I was sorry not to see you again at Chickamauga, but I started here +next day. I have just written you that there was a place on my staff for +you or your brother--or for any son of your father and my friend. I'll +write to Washington for you to-night, and you can report for duty +whenever you please." + +The little man made the astounding proposition as calmly as though he +were asking the Kentuckian to a lunch of bacon and hardtack, and +Crittenden flushed with gratitude and his heart leaped--his going was +sure now. Before he could stammer out his thanks, the general was gone. +Just then Rivers, who, to his great joy, had got at least that far, sat +down by him. He was much depressed. His regiment was going, but two +companies would be left behind. His colonel talked about sending him +back to Kentucky to bring down some horses, and he was afraid to go. + +"To think of being in the army as long as I have been, just for this +fight. And to think of being left here in this hell-hole all summer, and +missing all the fun in Cuba, not to speak of the glory and the game. We +haven't had a war for so long that glory will come easy now, and anybody +who does anything will be promoted. But it's missing the fight--the +fight--that worries me," and Rivers shook his head from side to side +dejectedly. "If my company goes, I'm all right; but if it doesn't, there +is no chance for me if I go away. I shall lose my last chance of +slipping in somewhere. I swear I'd rather go as a private than not at +all." + +This idea gave Crittenden a start, and made him on the sudden very +thoughtful. + +"Can you get me in as a private at the last minute?" he asked presently. + +"Yes," said Rivers, quickly, "and I'll telegraph you in plenty of time, +so that you can get back." + +Crittenden smiled, for Rivers's plan was plain, but he was thinking of a +plan of his own. + +Meanwhile, he drilled as a private each day. He was ignorant of the +Krag-Jorgensen, and at Chickamauga he had made such a laughable +exhibition of himself that the old Sergeant took him off alone one day, +and when they came back the Sergeant was observed to be smiling broadly. +At the first target practice thereafter, Crittenden stood among the +first men of the company, and the captain took mental note of him as a +sharpshooter to be remembered when they got to Cuba. With the drill he +had little trouble--being a natural-born horseman--so one day, when a +trooper was ill, he was allowed to take the sick soldier's place and +drill with the regiment. That day his trouble with Reynolds came. All +the soldiers were free and easy of speech and rather reckless with +epithets, and, knowing how little was meant, Crittenden merely +remonstrated with the bully and smilingly asked him to desist. + +"Suppose I don't?" + +Crittenden smiled again and answered nothing, and Reynolds mistook his +silence for timidity. At right wheel, a little later, Crittenden +squeezed the bully's leg, and Reynolds cursed him. He might have passed +that with a last warning, but, as they wheeled again, he saw Reynolds +kick Sanders so violently that the boy's eyes filled with tears. He went +straight for the soldier as soon as the drill was over. + +"Put up your guard." + +"Aw, go to----" + +The word was checked at his lips by Crittenden's fist. In a rage, +Reynolds threw his hand behind him, as though he would pull his +revolver, but his wrist was caught by sinewy fingers from behind. It was +Blackford, smiling into his purple face. + +"Hold on!" he said, "save that for a Spaniard." + +At once, as a matter of course, the men led the way behind the tents, +and made a ring--Blackford, without a word, acting as Crittenden's +second. Reynolds was the champion bruiser of the regiment and a boxer of +no mean skill, and Blackford looked anxious. + +"Worry him, and he'll lose his head. Don't try to do him up too +quickly." + +Reynolds was coarse, disdainful, and triumphant, but he did not look +quite so confident when Crittenden stripped and showed a white body, +closely jointed at shoulder and elbow and at knee and thigh, and +closely knit with steel-like tendons. The long muscles of his back +slipped like eels under his white skin. Blackford looked relieved. + +"Do you know the game?" + +"A little." + +"Worry him and wait till he loses his head--remember, now." + +"All right," said Crittenden, cheerfully, and turned and faced Reynolds, +smiling. + +"Gawd," said Abe Long. "He's one o' the fellows that laugh when they're +fightin'. They're worse than the cryin' sort--a sight worse." + +The prophecy in the soldier's tone soon came true. The smile never left +Crittenden's face, even when it was so bruised up that smiling was +difficult; but the onlookers knew that the spirit of the smile was still +there. Blackford himself was smiling now. Crittenden struck but for one +place at first--Reynolds's nose, which was naturally large and red, +because he could reach it every time he led out. The nose swelled and +still reddened, and Reynolds's small black eyes narrowed and flamed with +a wicked light. He fought with his skill at first, but those maddening +taps on his nose made him lose his head altogether in the sixth round, +and he senselessly rushed at Crittenden with lowered head, like a sheep. +Crittenden took him sidewise on his jaw as he came, and stepped aside. +Reynolds pitched to the ground heavily, and Crittenden bent over him. + +"You let that boy alone," he said, in a low voice, and then aloud and +calmly: + +"I don't like this, but it's in deference to your customs. I don't call +names, and I allow nobody to call me names; and if I have another +fight," Reynolds was listening now, "it won't be with my fists." + +"Well, Mister Man from Kentucky," said Abe, "I'd a damn sight ruther +you'd use a club on me than them fists; but there's others of us who +don't call names, and ain't called names; and some of us ain't easy +skeered, neither." + +"I wasn't threatening," said Crittenden, quickly, "but I have heard a +good deal of that sort of thing flying around, and I don't want to get +into this sort of a thing again." He looked steadily at the soldier, but +the eye of Abraham Long quailed not at all. Instead, a smile broke over +his face. + +"I got a drink waitin' fer you," he said; and Crittenden laughed. + +"Git up an' shake hands, Jim," said Abe, sternly, to Crittenden's +opponent, "an' let's have a drink." Reynolds got up slowly. + +"You gimme a damn good lickin,'" he said to Crittenden. "Shake!" + +Crittenden shook, and seconds and principals started for Long's tent. + +"Boys," he said to the others, "I'm sorry fer ye. I ain't got but four +drinks--and--" the old Sergeant was approaching; "and one more fer the +Governor." + +Rivers smiled broadly when he saw Crittenden at noon. + +"The 'Governor' told me," he said, "you couldn't do anything in this +regiment that would do you more good with officers and men. That fellow +has caused us more trouble than any other ten men in the regiment, and +you are the first man yet to get the best of him. If the men could elect +you, you'd be a lieutenant before to-morrow night." + +Crittenden laughed. + +"It was disgusting, but I didn't see any other way out of it." + +Tattoo was sounded. + +"Are you sure you can get me into the army at any time?" + +"Easy--as a private." + +"What regiment?" + +"Rough Riders or Regulars." + +"All right, then, I'll go to Kentucky for you." + +"No, old man. I was selfish enough to think it, but I'm not selfish +enough to do it. I won't have it." + +"But I want to go back. If I can get in at the last moment I should go +back anyhow to-night." + +"Really?" + +"Really. Just see that you let me know in time." + +Rivers grasped his hand. + +"I'll do that." + +Next morning rumours were flying. In a week, at least, they would sail. +And still regiments rolled in, and that afternoon Crittenden saw the +regiment come in for which Grafton had been waiting--a picturesque body +of fighting men and, perhaps, the most typical American regiment formed +since Jackson fought at New Orleans. At the head of it rode two men--one +with a quiet mesmeric power that bred perfect trust at sight, the other +with a kindling power of enthusiasm, and a passionate energy, mental, +physical, emotional, that was tireless; each a man among men, and both +together an ideal leader for the thousand Americans at their heels. +Behind them rode the Rough Riders--dusty, travel-stained troopers, +gathered from every State, every walk of labour and leisure, every +social grade in the Union--day labourer and millionaire, clerk and +clubman, college boys and athletes, Southern revenue officers and +Northern policemen; but most of them Westerners--Texan rangers, +sheriffs, and desperadoes--the men-hunters and the men-hunted; Indians; +followers of all political faiths, all creeds--Catholics, Protestants, +Jews; but cowboys for the most part; dare-devils, to be sure, but +good-natured, good-hearted, picturesque, fearless. And Americans--all! + +As the last troopers filed past, Crittenden followed them with his eyes, +and he saw a little way off Blackford standing with folded arms on the +edge of a cloud of dust and looking after them too, with his face set as +though he were buried deep in a thousand memories. He started when +Crittenden spoke to him, and the dark fire of his eyes flashed. + +"That's where I belong," he said, with a wave of his hand after the +retreating column. "I don't know one of them, and I know them all. I've +gone to college with some; I've hunted, fished, camped, drank, and +gambled with the others. I belong with them; and I'm going with them if +I can; I'm trying to get an exchange now." + +"Well, luck to you, and good-by," said Crittenden, holding out his hand. +"I'm going home to-night." + +"But you're coming back?" + +"Yes." + +Blackford hesitated. + +"Are you going to join this outfit?"--meaning his own regiment. + +"I don't know; this or the Rough Riders." + +"Well," Blackford seemed embarrassed, and his manner was almost +respectful, "if we go together, what do you say to our going as +'bunkies'?" + +"Sure!" + +"Thank you." + +The two men grasped hands. + +"I hope you will come back." + +"I'm sure to come back. Good-by." + +"Good-by, sir." + +The unconscious "sir" startled Crittenden. It was merely habit, of +course, and the fact that Crittenden was not yet enlisted, but there was +an unintended significance in the soldier's tone that made him wince. +Blackford turned sharply away, flushing. + + + + +VIII + + +Back in the Bluegrass, the earth was flashing with dew, and the air was +brilliant with a steady light that on its way from the sun was broken by +hardly a cloud. The woodland was alive with bird-wing and bird-song and, +under them, with the flash of metal and the joy of breaking camp. The +town was a mighty pedestal for flag-staffs. Everywhere flags were shaken +out. Main Street, at a distance, looked like a long lane of flowers in a +great garden--all blowing in a wind. Under them, crowds were +gathered--country people, negroes, and townfolk--while the town band +stood waiting at the gate of the park. The Legion was making ready to +leave for Chickamauga, and the town had made ready to speed its going. + +Out of the shady woodland, and into the bright sunlight, the young +soldiers came--to the music of stirring horn and drum--legs swinging +rhythmically, chins well set in, eyes to the front--wheeling into the +main street in perfect form--their guns a moving forest of glinting +steel--colonel and staff superbly mounted--every heart beating proudly +against every blue blouse, and sworn to give up its blood for the flag +waving over them--the flag the fathers of many had so bitterly fought +five and thirty years before. Down the street went the flash and glitter +and steady tramp of the solid columns, through waving flags and +handkerchiefs and mad cheers--cheers that arose before them, swelled +away on either side and sank out of hearing behind them as they +marched--through faces bravely smiling, when the eyes were full of +tears; faces tense with love, anxiety, fear; faces sad with bitter +memories of the old war. On the end of the first rank was the boy Basil, +file-leader of his squad, swinging proudly, his handsome face serious +and fixed, his eyes turning to right nor left--seeing not his mother, +proud, white, tearless; nor Crittenden, with a lump of love in his +throat; nor even little Phyllis--her pride in her boy-soldier swept +suddenly out of her aching heart, her eyes brimming, and her +handkerchief at her mouth to keep bravely back the sob that surged at +her lips. The station at last, and then cheers and kisses and sobs, and +tears and cheers again, and a waving of hands and flags and +handkerchiefs--a column of smoke puffing on and on toward the +horizon--the vanishing perspective of a rear platform filled with jolly, +reckless, waving, yelling soldiers, and the tragedy of the parting was +over. + +How every detail of earth and sky was seared deep into the memory of the +women left behind that afternoon--as each drove slowly homeward: for God +help the women in days of war! The very peace of heaven lay upon the +earth. It sank from the low, moveless clouds in the windless sky to the +sunlit trees in the windless woods, as still as the long shadows under +them. It lay over the still seas of bluegrass--dappled in woodland, +sunlit in open pasture--resting on low hills like a soft cloud of +bluish-gray, clinging closely to every line of every peaceful slope. +Stillness everywhere. Still cattle browsing in the distance; sheep +asleep in the far shade of a cliff, shadowing the still stream; even the +song of birds distant, faint, restful. Peace everywhere, but little +peace in the heart of the mother to whose lips was raised once more the +self-same cup that she had drained so long ago. Peace everywhere but for +Phyllis climbing the stairs to her own room and flinging herself upon +her bed in a racking passion of tears. God help the women in the days of +war! Peace from the dome of heaven to the heart of the earth, but a +gnawing unrest for Judith, who walked very slowly down the gravelled +walk and to the stiles, and sat looking over the quiet fields. Only in +her eyes was the light not wholly of sadness, but a proud light of +sacrifice and high resolve. Crittenden was coming that night. He was +going for good now; he was coming to tell her good-by; and he must not +go--to his death, maybe--without knowing what she had to tell him. It +was not much--it was very little, in return for his life-long +devotion--that she should at least tell him how she had wholly outgrown +her girlish infatuation--she knew now that it was nothing else--for the +one man who had stood in her life before him, and that now there was no +other--lover or friend--for whom she had the genuine affection that she +would always have for him. She would tell him frankly--she was a grown +woman now--because she thought she owed that much to him--because, under +the circumstances, she thought it was her duty; and he would not +misunderstand her, even if he really did not have quite the old feeling +for her. Then, recalling what he had said on the drive, she laughed +softly. It was preposterous. She understood all that. He had acted that +little part so many times in by-gone years! And she had always pretended +to take him seriously, for she would have given him mortal offence had +she not; and she was pretending to take him seriously now. And, anyhow, +what could he misunderstand? There was nothing to misunderstand. + +And so, during her drive home, she had thought all the way of him and +of herself since both were children--of his love and his long +faithfulness, and of her--her--what? Yes--she had been something of a +coquette--she had--she _had_; but men had bothered and worried her, and, +usually, she couldn't help acting as she had. She was so sorry for them +all that she had really tried to like them all. She had succeeded but +once--and even that was a mistake. But she remembered one thing: through +it all--far back as it all was--she had never trifled with Crittenden. +Before him she had dropped foil and mask and stood frankly face to face +always. There was something in him that had always forced that. And he +had loved her through it all, and he had suffered--how much, it had +really never occurred to her until she thought of a sudden that he must +have been hurt as had she--hurt more; for what had been only infatuation +with her had been genuine passion in him; and the months of her +unhappiness scarcely matched the years of his. There was none other in +her life now but him, and, somehow, she was beginning to feel there +never would be. If there were only any way that she could make amends. + +Never had she thought with such tenderness of him. How strong and brave +he was; how high-minded and faithful. And he was good, in spite of all +that foolish talk about himself. And all her life he had loved her, and +he had suffered. She could see that he was still unhappy. If, then, +there was no other, and was to be no other, and if, when he came back +from the war--why not? + +Why not? + +She felt a sudden warmth in her cheeks, her lips parted, and as she +turned from the sunset her eyes had all its deep tender light. + +Dusk was falling, and already Raincrow and Crittenden were jogging along +toward her at that hour--the last trip for either for many a day--the +last for either in life, maybe--for Raincrow, too, like his master, was +going to war--while Bob, at home, forbidden by his young captain to +follow him to Chickamauga, trailed after Crittenden about the place with +the appealing look of a dog--enraged now and then by the taunts of the +sharp-tongued Molly, who had the little confidence in the courage of her +fellows that marks her race. + +Judith was waiting for him on the porch, and Crittenden saw her from +afar. + +She was dressed for the evening in pure white--delicate, filmy--showing +her round white throat and round white wrists. Her eyes were soft and +welcoming and full of light; her manner was playful to the point of +coquetry; and in sharp contrast, now and then, her face was intense +with thought. A faint, pink light was still diffused from the afterglow, +and she took him down into her mother's garden, which was old-fashioned +and had grass-walks running down through it--bordered with pink beds and +hedges of rose-bushes. And they passed under a shadowed grape-arbour and +past a dead locust-tree, which a vine had made into a green tower of +waving tendrils, and from which came the fragrant breath of wild grape, +and back again to the gate, where Judith reached down for an +old-fashioned pink and pinned it in his button-hole, talking with low, +friendly affection meanwhile, and turning backward the leaves of the +past rapidly. + +Did he remember this--and that--and that? Memories--memories--memories. +Was there anything she had let go unforgotten? And then, as they +approached the porch in answer to a summons to supper, brought out by a +little negro girl, she said: + +"You haven't told me what regiment you are going with." + +"I don't know." + +Judith's eyes brightened. "I'm so glad you have a commission." + +"I have no commission." + +Judith looked puzzled. "Why, your mother----" + +"Yes, but I gave it to Basil." And he explained in detail. He had asked +General Carter to give the commission to Basil, and the General had said +he would gladly. And that morning the Colonel of the Legion had promised +to recommend Basil for the exchange. This was one reason why he had come +back to the Bluegrass. Judith's face was growing more thoughtful while +he spoke, and a proud light was rising in her eyes. + +"And you are going as----" + +"As a private." + +"With the Rough Riders?" + +"As a regular--a plain, common soldier, with plain, common soldiers. I +am trying to be an American now--not a Southerner. I've been drilling at +Tampa and Chickamauga with the regulars." + +"You are much interested?" + +"More than in anything for years." + +She had seen this, and she resented it, foolishly, she knew, and without +reason--but, still, she resented it. + +"Think of it," Crittenden went on. "It is the first time in my life, +almost, I have known what it was to wish to do something--to have a +purpose--that was not inspired by you." It was an unconscious and rather +ungracious declaration of independence--it was unnecessary--and Judith +was surprised, chilled--hurt. + +"When do you go?" + +Crittenden pulled a telegram from his pocket. + +"To-morrow morning. I got this just as I was leaving town." + +"To-morrow!" + +"It means life or death to me--this telegram. And if it doesn't mean +life, I don't care for the other. I shall come out with a commission +or--not at all. If dead, I shall be a hero--if alive," he smiled, "I +don't know what I'll be, but think of me as a hero, dead or alive, with +my past and my present. I can feel a change already, a sort of growing +pain, at the very thought." + +"When do you go to Cuba?" + +"Within four days." + +"Four days! And you can talk as you do, when you are going to war to +live the life of a common soldier--to die of fever, to be killed, +maybe," her lip shook and she stopped, but she went on thickly, "and be +thrown into an unknown grave or lie unburied in a jungle." She spoke +with such sudden passion that Crittenden was startled. + +"Listen!" + +Judge Page appeared in the doorway, welcoming Crittenden with old-time +grace and courtesy. Through supper, Judith was silent and thoughtful +and, when she did talk, it was with a perceptible effort. There was a +light in her eyes that he would have understood once--that would have +put his heart on fire. And once he met a look that he was wholly at loss +to understand. After supper, she disappeared while the two men smoked on +the porch. The moon was rising when she came out again. The breath of +honeysuckles was heavy on the air, and from garden and fields floated +innumerable odours of flower and clover blossom and moist grasses. +Crittenden lived often through that scene afterward--Judith on the +highest step of the porch, the light from the hallway on her dress and +her tightly folded hands; her face back in shadow, from which her eyes +glowed with a fire in them that he had never seen before. + +Judge Page rose soon to go indoors. He did not believe there was going +to be much of a war, and his manner was almost cheery when he bade the +young man good-by. + +"Good luck to you," he said. "If the chance comes, you will give a good +account of yourself. I never knew a man of your name who didn't." + +"Thank you, sir." + +There was a long silence. + +"Basil will hardly have time to get his commission, and get to Tampa." + +"No. But he can come after us." + +She turned suddenly upon him. + +"Yes--something has happened to you. I didn't know what you meant that +day we drove home, but I do now. I feel it, but I don't understand." + +Crittenden flushed, but made no answer. + +"You could not have spoken to me in the old days as you do now. Your +instinct would have held you back. And something has happened to me." +Then she began talking to him as frankly and simply as a child to a +child. It was foolish and selfish, but it had hurt her when he told her +that he no longer had his old feeling for her. It was selfish and cruel, +but it was true, however selfish and cruel it seemed, and was--but she +had felt hurt. Perhaps that was vanity, which was not to her credit--but +that, too, she could not help. It had hurt her every time he had said +anything from which she could infer that her influence over him was less +than it once was--although, as a rule, she did not like to have +influence over people. Maybe he wounded her as his friend in this way, +and perhaps there was a little vanity in this, too--but a curious change +was taking place in their relations. Once he was always trying to please +her, and in those days she would have made him suffer if he had spoken +to her then as he had lately--but he would not have spoken that way +then. And now she wondered why she was not angry instead of being hurt. +And she wondered why she did not like him less. Somehow, it seemed +quite fair that she should be the one to suffer now, and she was glad to +take her share--she had caused him and others so much pain. + +"_He_"--not even now did she mention his name--"wrote to me again, not +long ago, asking to see me again. It was impossible. And it was the +thought of you that made me know how impossible it was--_you_." The girl +laughed, almost hardly, but she was thinking of herself when she +did--not of him. + +The time and circumstance that make woman the thing apart in a man's +life must come sooner or later to all women, and women must yield; she +knew that, but she had never thought they could come to her--but they +had come, and she, too, must give way. + +"It is all very strange," she said, as though she were talking to +herself, and she rose and walked into the warm, fragrant night, and down +the path to the stiles, Crittenden silently following. The night was +breathless and the moonlit woods had the still beauty of a dream; and +Judith went on speaking of herself as she had never done--of the man +whose name she had never mentioned, and whose name Crittenden had never +asked. Until that night, he had not known even whether the man were +still alive or dead. She had thought that was love--until lately she +had never questioned but that when that was gone from her heart, all was +gone that would ever be possible for her to know. That was why she had +told Crittenden to conquer his love for her. And now she was beginning +to doubt and to wonder--ever since she came back and heard him at the +old auditorium--and why and whence the change now? That puzzled her. One +thing was curious--through it all, as far back as she could remember, +her feeling for him had never changed, except lately. Perhaps it was an +unconscious response in her to the nobler change that in spite of his +new hardness her instinct told her was at work in him. + +She was leaning on the fence now, her elbow on the top plank, her hand +under her chin, and her face uplifted--the moon lighting her hair, her +face, and eyes, and her voice the voice of one slowly threading the +mazes of a half-forgotten dream. Crittenden's own face grew tense as he +watched her. There was a tone in her voice that he had hungered for all +his life; that he had never heard but in his imaginings and in his +dreams; that he had heard sounding in the ears of another and sounding +at the same time the death-knell of the one hope that until now had made +effort worth while. All evening she had played about his spirit as a +wistful, changeful light will play over the fields when the moon is +bright and clouds run swiftly. She turned on him like a flame now. + +"Until lately," she was saying, and she was not saying at all what she +meant to say; but here lately a change was taking place; something had +come into her feeling for him that was new and strange--she could not +understand--perhaps it had always been there; perhaps she was merely +becoming conscious of it. And when she thought, as she had been thinking +all day, of his long years of devotion--how badly she had requited +them--it seemed that the least she could do was to tell him that he was +now first in her life of all men--that much she could say; and perhaps +he had always been, she did not know; perhaps, now that the half-gods +were gone, it was at last the coming of the--the--She was deeply +agitated now; her voice was trembling; she faltered, and she turned +suddenly, sharply, and with a little catch in her breath, her lips and +eyes opening slowly--her first consciousness, perhaps, a wonder at his +strange silence--and dazed by her own feeling and flushing painfully, +she looked at him for the first time since she began to talk, and she +saw him staring fixedly at her with a half-agonized look, as though he +were speechlessly trying to stop her, his face white, bitter, shamed, +helpless, Not a word more dropped from her lips--not a sound. She +moved; it seemed that she was about to fall, and Crittenden started +toward her, but she drew herself erect, and, as she turned--lifting her +head proudly--the moonlight showed that her throat was drawn--nothing +more. Motionless and speechless, Crittenden watched her white shape move +slowly and quietly up the walk and grow dim; heard her light, even step +on the gravel, up the steps, across the porch, and through the doorway. +Not once did she look around. + + * * * * * + +He was in his room now and at his window, his face hard as stone when +his heart was parching for tears. It was true, then. He was the brute he +feared he was. He had killed his life, and he had killed his +love--beyond even her power to recall. His soul, too, must be dead, and +it were just as well that his body die. And, still bitter, still shamed +and hopeless, he stretched out his arms to the South with a fierce +longing for the quick fate--no matter what--that was waiting for him +there. + + + + +IX + + +By and by bulletins began to come in to the mother at Canewood from her +boy at Tampa. There was little psychology in Basil's bulletin: + + "I got here all right. My commission hasn't come, and I've joined + the Rough Riders, for fear it won't get here in time. The Colonel + was very kind to me--called me Mister. + + "I've got a lieutenant's uniform of khaki, but I'm keeping it out + of sight. I may have no use for it. I've got two left spurs, and + I'm writing in the Waldorf-Astoria. I like these Northern fellows; + they are gentlemen and plucky--I can see that. Very few of them + swear. I wish I knew where brother is. The Colonel calls everybody + Mister--even the Indians. + + "Word comes to-night that we are to be off to the front. Please + send me a piece of cotton to clean my gun. And please be easy about + me--do be easy. And if you insist on giving me a title, don't call + me Private--call me _Trooper_. + + "Yes, we are going; the thing is serious. We are all packed up now; + have rolled up camping outfit and are ready to start. + + "Baggage on the transport now, and we sail this afternoon. Am sorry + to leave all of you, and I have a tear in my eye now that I can't + keep back. It isn't a summer picnic, and I don't feel like shouting + when I think of home; but I'm always lucky, and I'll come out all + right. I'm afraid I sha'n't see brother at all. I tried to look + cheerful for my picture (enclosed). Good-by. + + "Some delay; actually on board and steam up. + + "Waiting--waiting--waiting. It's bad enough to go to Cuba in boats + like these, but to lie around for days is trying. No one goes + ashore, and I can hear nothing of brother. I wonder why the General + didn't give him that commission instead of me. There is a curious + sort of fellow here, who says he knows brother. His name is + Blackford, and he is very kind to me. He used to be a regular, and + he says he thinks brother took his place in the --th and is a + regular now himself--a private; I don't understand. There is mighty + little Rough Riding about this. + + "P. S.--My bunkie is from Boston--Bob Sumner. His father _commanded + a negro regiment in a fight once against my father_; think of it! + + "Hurrah! we're off." + +It was a tropical holiday--that sail down to Cuba--a strange, huge +pleasure-trip of steamships, sailing in a lordly column of three; at +night, sailing always, it seemed, in a harbour of brilliant lights under +multitudinous stars and over thickly sown beds of tiny phosphorescent +stars that were blown about like flowers in a wind-storm by the frothing +wake of the ships; by day, through a brilliant sunlit sea, a cool +breeze--so cool that only at noon was the heat tropical--and over smooth +water, blue as sapphire. Music night and morning, on each ship, and +music coming across the little waves at any hour from the ships about. +Porpoises frisking at the bows and chasing each other in a circle around +bow and stern as though the transports sat motionless; schools of +flying-fish with filmy, rainbow wings rising from one wave and +shimmering through the sunlight to the foamy crest of another--sometimes +hundreds of yards away. Beautiful clear sunsets of rose, gold-green, and +crimson, with one big, pure radiant star ever like a censor over them; +every night the stars more deeply and thickly sown and growing ever +softer and more brilliant as the boats neared the tropics; every day +dawn rich with beauty and richer for the dewy memories of the dawns that +were left behind. + +Now and then a little torpedo-boat would cut like a knife-blade through +the water on messenger service; or a gunboat would drop lightly down the +hill of the sea, along the top of which it patrolled so vigilantly; and +ever on the horizon hung a battle-ship that looked like a great gray +floating cathedral. But nobody was looking for a fight--nobody thought +the Spaniard would fight--and so these were only symbols of war; and +even they seemed merely playing the game. + +It was as Grafton said. Far ahead went the flag-ship with the huge +Commander-in-Chief and his staff, the gorgeous attachés, and the artists +and correspondents, with valets, orderlies, stenographers, and +secretaries. Somewhere, far to the rear, one ship was filled with +newspaper men from stem to stern. But wily Grafton was with Lawton and +Chaffee, the only correspondent aboard their transport. On the second +day, as he sat on the poop-deck, a negro boy came up to him, grinning +uneasily: + +"I seed you back in ole Kentuck, suh." + +"You did? Well, I don't remember seeing you. What do you want?" + +"Captain say he gwine to throw me overboard." + +"What for?" + +"I ain't got no business here, suh." + +"Then what are you here for?" + +"Lookin' fer Ole Cap'n, suh." + +"Ole Cap'n who?" said Grafton, mimicking. + +"Cap'n Crittenden, suh." + +"Well, if you are his servant, I suppose they won't throw you overboard. +What's your name?" + +"Bob, suh--Bob Crittenden." + + +"Crittenden," repeated Grafton, smiling. "Oh, yes, I know him; I should +say so! So he's a Captain?" + +"Yes, suh," said Bob, not quite sure whether he was lying or not. + +Grafton spoke to an officer, and was allowed to take Bob for his own +servant, though the officer said he did not remember any captain of that +name in the --th. To the newspaper man, Bob was a godsend; for humour +was scarce on board, and "jollying" Bob was a welcome diversion. He +learned many things of Crittenden and the Crittendens, and what great +people they had always been and still were; but at a certain point Bob +was evasive or dumb--and the correspondent respected the servant's +delicacy about family affairs and went no further along that line--he +had no curiosity, and was questioning idly and for fun, but treated Bob +kindly and, in return, the fat of the ship, through Bob's keen eye and +quick hand, was his, thereafter, from day to day. + +Grafton was not storing up much material for use; but he would have been +much surprised if he could have looked straight across to the deck of +the ship running parallel to his and have seen the dignified young +statesman whom he had heard speak at the recruiting camp in Kentucky; +who made him think of Henry Clay; whom he had seen whisking a beautiful +girl from the camp in the smartest turn-out he had seen South--had seen +him now as Private Crittenden, with his fast friend, Abe Long, and +passing in his company because of his bearing under a soubriquet donated +by his late enemy, Reynolds, as "Old Hamlet of Kentuck." And Crittenden +would have been surprised had he known that the active darky whom he saw +carrying coffee and shoes to a certain stateroom was none other than Bob +waiting on Grafton. And that the Rough Rider whom he saw scribbling on a +pad in the rigging of the _Yucatan_ was none other than Basil writing +one of his bulletins home. + +It was hard for him to believe that he really was going to war, even +now, when the long sail was near an end and the ships were running +fearlessly along the big, grim coast-mountains of Cuba, with bands +playing and colors to the breeze; hard to realize that he was not to +land in peace and safety and, in peace and safety, go back as he came; +that a little further down those gashed mountains, showing ever clearer +through the mist, were men with whom the quiet officers and men around +him would soon be in a death-grapple. The thought stirred him, and he +looked around at the big, strong fellows--intelligent, orderly, +obedient, good-natured, and patient; patient, restless, and sick as they +were from the dreadful hencoop life they had led for so many +days--patient beyond words. He had risen early that morning. The rose +light over the eastern water was whitening, and all over the deck his +comrades lay asleep, their faces gray in the coming dawn and their +attitudes suggesting ghastly premonitions--premonitions that would come +true fast enough for some of the poor fellows--perhaps for him. Stepping +between and over the prostrate bodies, he made his way forward and +leaned over the prow, with his hat in his hand and his hair blowing back +from his forehead. + +Already his face had suffered a change. For more than three long weeks +he had been merely a plain man among plain men. At once when he became +Private Crittenden, No. 63, Company C, --th United States Regular +Cavalry, at Tampa, he was shorn of his former estate as completely as +though in the process he had been wholly merged into some other man. The +officers, at whose table he had once sat, answered his salute precisely +as they answered any soldier's. He had seen Rivers but seldom--but once +only on the old footing, and that was on the night he went on board, +when Rivers came to tell him good-by and to bitterly bemoan the luck +that, as was his fear from the beginning, had put him among the +ill-starred ones chosen to stay behind at Tampa and take care of the +horses; as hostlers, he said, with deep disgust, adding hungrily: + +"I wish I were in your place." + +With the men, Crittenden was popular, for he did his work thoroughly, +asked no favors, shirked no duties. There were several officers' sons +among them working for commissions, and, naturally, he drifted to them, +and he found them all good fellows. Of Blackford, he was rather wary, +after Rivers's short history of him, but as he was friendly, unselfish, +had a high sense of personal honour, and a peculiar reverence for women, +Crittenden asked no further questions, and was sorry, when he came back +to Tampa, to find him gone with the Rough Riders. With Reynolds, he was +particularly popular, and he never knew that the story of the Tampa +fight had gone to all the line officers of the regiment, and that nearly +every one of them knew him by sight and knew his history. Only once from +an officer, however, and steadily always from the old Sergeant, could he +feel that he was regarded in a different light from the humblest soldier +in the ranks--which is just what he would have asked. The Colonel had +cast an envious eye on Raincrow at Tampa, and, straightway, he had taken +the liberty of getting the Sergeant to take the horse to the Colonel's +tent with the request that he use him throughout the campaign. The horse +came back with the Colonel's thanks; but, when the order came that the +cavalry was to go unmounted, the Colonel sent word that he would take +the horse now, as the soldier could not use him. So Raincrow was aboard +the ship, and the old Colonel, coming down to look at the horse one day, +found Crittenden feeding him, and thanked him and asked him how he was +getting along; and, while there was a smile about his humorous mouth, +there was a kindly look in his blue eyes that pleased Crittenden +mightily. As for the old Sergeant, he could never forget that the +soldier was a Crittenden--one of his revered Crittendens. And, while he +was particularly stern with him in the presence of his comrades, for +fear that he might be betrayed into showing partiality--he was always +drifting around to give him a word of advice and to shake his head over +the step that Crittenden had taken. + +That step had made him good in body and soul. It made him lean and +tanned; it sharpened and strengthened his profile; it cleared his eye +and settled his lips even more firmly. Tobacco and liquor were scarce, +and from disuse he got a new sensation of mental clearness and physical +cleanliness that was comforting and invigorating, and helped bring back +the freshness of his boyhood. + +For the first time in many years, his days were full of work and, +asleep, awake, or at work, his hours were clock-like and steadied him +into machine-like regularity. It was work of his hands, to be sure, and +not even high work of that kind, but still it was work. And the measure +of the self-respect that this fact alone brought him was worth it all. +Already, his mind was taking character from his body. He was distinctly +less morbid and he found himself thinking during those long days of the +sail of what he should do after the war was over. His desire to get +killed was gone, and it was slowly being forced on him that he had been +priggish, pompous, self-absorbed, hair-splitting, lazy, +good-for-nothing, when there was no need for him to be other than what +he meant to be when he got back. And as for Judith, he felt the +bitterness of gall for himself when he thought of her, and he never +allowed himself to think of her except to absolve her, as he knew she +would not absolve herself, and to curse himself heartily and bitterly. +He understood now. It was just her thought of his faithfulness, her +feeling of responsibility for him--the thought that she had not been as +kind to him as she might have been (and she had always been kinder than +he deserved)--all this had loosed her tears and her self-control, and +had thrown her into a mood of reckless self-sacrifice. And when she +looked up into his face that night of the parting, he felt her looking +into his soul and seeing his shame that he had lost his love because he +had lost himself, and she was quite right to turn from him, as she did, +without another word. Already, however, he was healthy enough to believe +that he was not quite so hopeless as she must think him--not as hopeless +as he had thought himself. Life, now, with even a soldier's work, was +far from being as worthless as life with a gentleman's idleness had +been. He was honest enough to take no credit for the clean change in his +life--no other life was possible; but he was learning the practical +value and mental comfort of straight living as he had never learned +them before. And he was not so prone to metaphysics and morbid +self-examination as he once was, and he shook off a mood of that kind +when it came--impatiently--as he shook it off now. He was a soldier now, +and his province was action and no more thought than his superiors +allowed him. And, standing thus, at sunrise, on the plunging bow of the +ship, with his eager, sensitive face splitting the swift wind--he might +have stood to any thoughtful American who knew his character and his +history as a national hope and a national danger. The nation, measured +by its swift leap into maturity, its striking power to keep going at the +same swift pace, was about his age. South, North, and West it had lived, +or was living, his life. It had his faults and his virtues; like him, it +was high-spirited, high-minded, alert, active, manly, generous, and with +it, as with him, the bad was circumstantial, trivial, incipient; the +good was bred in the Saxon bone and lasting as rock--if the surface evil +were only checked in time and held down. Like him, it needed, like a +Titan, to get back, now and then, to the earth to renew its strength. +And the war would send the nation to the earth as it would send him, if +he but lived it through. + +There was little perceptible change in the American officer and +soldier, now that the work was about actually to begin. A little more +soberness was apparent. Everyone was still simple, natural, +matter-of-fact. But that night, doubtless, each man dreamed his dream. +The West Point stripling saw in his empty shoulder-straps a single bar, +as the man above him saw two tiny bars where he had been so proud of +one. The Captain led a battalion, the Major charged at the head of a +thousand strong; the Colonel plucked a star, and the Brigadier heard the +tramp of hosts behind him. And who knows how many bold spirits leaped at +once that night from acorns to stars; and if there was not more than one +who saw himself the war-god of the anxious nation behind--saw, maybe, +even the doors of the White House swing open at the conquering sound of +his coming feet. And, through the dreams of all, waved aimlessly the +mighty wand of the blind master--Fate--giving death to a passion for +glory here; disappointment bitter as death to a noble ambition there; +and there giving unsought fame where was indifference to death; and +then, to lend substance to the phantom of just deserts, giving a mortal +here and there the exact fulfilment of his dream. + +Two toasts were drunk that night--one by the men who were to lead the +Rough Riders of the West. + +"May the war last till each man meets death, wears a wound, or wins +himself better spurs." + +And, in the hold of the same ship, another in whiskey from a tin cup +between two comrades: + +"Bunkie," said Blackford, to a dare-devil like himself, "welcome to the +Spanish bullet that knocks for entrance here"--tapping his heart. Basil +struck the cup from his hand, and Blackford swore, laughed, and put his +arm around the boy. + + + + +X + + +Already now, the first little fight was going on, and Grafton, the last +newspaper man ashore, was making for the front--with Bob close at his +heels. It was hot, very hot, but the road was a good, hard path of clean +sand, and now and then a breeze stirred, or a light, cool rain twinkled +in the air. On each side lay marsh, swamp, pool, and tropical +jungle--and, to Grafton's Northern imagination, strange diseases lurked +like monsters everywhere. Every strange, hot odour made him uneasy and, +at times, he found himself turning his head and holding his breath, as +he always did when he passed a pest-house in his childhood. About him +were strange plants, strange flowers, strange trees, the music of +strange birds, with nothing to see that was familiar except sky, +mountain, running water, and sand; nothing home-like to hear but the +twitter of swallows and the whistle of quail. + +That path was no road for a hard-drinking man to travel and, now and +then, Grafton shrank back, with a startled laugh, from the hideous +things crawling across the road and rustling into the cactus--spiders +with snail-houses over them; lizards with green bodies and yellow legs, +and green legs and yellow bodies; hairy tarantulas, scorpions, and +hideous mottled land-crabs, standing three inches from the sand, and +watching him with hideous little eyes as they shuffled sidewise into the +bushes. Moreover, he was following the trail of an army by the +uncheerful signs in its wake--the _débris_ of the last night's +camp--empty cans, bits of hardtack, crackers, bad odours, and, by and +by, odds and ends that the soldiers discarded as the sun got warm and +their packs heavy--drawers, undershirts, coats, blankets, knapsacks, an +occasional gauntlet or legging, bits of fat bacon, canned meats, +hardtack--and a swarm of buzzards in the path, in the trees, and +wheeling in the air--and smiling Cubans picking up everything they could +eat or wear. + +An hour later, he met a soldier, who told him there had been a fight. +Still, an hour later, rumours came thick, but so conflicting and wild +that Grafton began to hope there had been no fight at all. Proof met +him, then, in the road--a white man, on foot, with his arm in a bloody +sling. Then, on a litter, a negro trooper with a shattered leg; then +another with a bullet through his throat; and another wounded man, and +another. On horseback rode a Sergeant with a bandage around his +brow--Grafton could see him smiling broadly fifty yards ahead--and the +furrow of a Mauser bullet across his temple, and just under his skin. + +"Still nutty," said Grafton to himself. + +Further on was a camp of insurgents--little, thin, brown fellows, +ragged, dirty, shoeless--each with a sugar-loaf straw hat, a Remington +rifle of the pattern of 1882, or a brand new Krag-Jorgensen donated by +Uncle Sam, and the inevitable and ever ready machéte swinging in a case +of embossed leather on the left hip. Very young they were, and very old; +and wiry, quick-eyed, intelligent, for the most part and, in +countenance, vivacious and rather gentle. There was a little creek next, +and, climbing the bank of the other side, Grafton stopped short, with a +start, in the road. To the right and on a sloping bank lay eight gray +shapes, muffled from head to foot, and Grafton would have known that all +of them were in their last sleep, but one, who lay with his left knee +bent and upright, his left elbow thrust from his blanket, and his hand +on his heart. He slept like a child. + +Beyond was the camp of the regulars who had taken part in the fight. On +one side stood a Colonel, who himself had aimed a Hotchkiss gun in the +last battle--covered with grime and sweat, and with the passion of +battle not quite gone from his eyes; and across the road soldiers were +digging one long grave. Grafton pushed on a little further, and on the +top of the ridge and on the grassy sunlit knoll was the camp of the +Riders, just beyond the rifle-pits from which they had driven the +Spaniards. Under a tree to the right lay another row of muffled shapes, +and at once Grafton walked with the Colonel to the hospital, a quarter +of a mile away. The path, thickly shaded and dappled with sunshine, ran +along the ridge through the battlefield, and it was as pretty, peaceful, +and romantic as a lovers' walk in a garden. Here and there, the tall +grass along the path was pressed flat where a wounded man had lain. In +one place, the grass was matted and dark red; nearby was a blood-stained +hat marked with the initials "E. L." Here was the spot where the first +victim of the fight fell. A passing soldier, who reluctantly gave his +name as Blackford, bared his left arm and showed the newspaper man three +places between his wrist and elbow where the skin had been merely +blistered by three separate bullets as he lay fighting unseen enemies. +Further on, lay a dead Spaniard, with covered face. + +"There's one," said the Colonel, with a careless gesture. A huge buzzard +flapped from the tree over the dead man as they passed beneath. Beyond +was the open-air hospital, where two more rigid human figures, and where +the wounded lay--white, quiet, uncomplaining. + +And there a surgeon told him how the wounded had lain there during the +fight singing: + + "My Country, 'tis of thee!" + +And Grafton beat his hands together, while his throat was full and his +eyes were full of tears. To think what he had missed--to think what he +had missed! + +He knew that national interest would centre in this regiment of Rough +Riders; for every State in the Union had a son in its ranks, and the +sons represented every social element in the national life. Never was +there a more representative body of men, nor a body of more varied +elements standing all on one and the same basis of American manhood. He +recalled how, at Tampa, he had stood with the Colonel while the regiment +filed past, the Colonel, meanwhile, telling him about the men--the +strong men, who made strong stories for Wister and strong pictures for +Remington. And the Colonel had pointed with especial pride and affection +to two boy troopers, who marched at the head of his column--a Puritan +from Massachusetts and a Cavalier through Virginia blood from Kentucky; +one the son of a Confederate General, the other the son of a Union +General--both beardless "bunkies," brothers in arms, and fast becoming +brothers at heart--Robert Sumner and Basil Crittenden. The Colonel waved +his hand toward the wild Westerners who followed them. + +"It's odd to think it--but those two boys are the fathers of the +regiment." + +And now that Grafton looked around and thought of it again--they were. +The fathers of the regiment had planted Plymouth and Jamestown; had +wrenched life and liberty and civilization from the granite of New +England, the fastnesses of the Cumberland, and the wildernesses of the +rich valleys beyond; while the sires of these very Westerners had gone +on with the same trinity through the barren wastes of plains. And, now, +having conquered the New World, Puritan and Cavalier, and the children +of both were come together again on the same old mission of freedom, but +this time the freedom of others; carrying the fruits of their own +struggle back to the old land from which they came, with the sword in +one hand, if there was need, but with the torch of liberty in the +other--held high, and, as God's finger pointed, lighting the way. + +To think what he had missed! + +As Grafton walked slowly back, an officer was calling the roll of his +company under the quiet, sunny hill, and he stopped to listen. Now and +then there was no answer, and he went on--thrilled and saddened. The +play was ended--this was war. + +Outside the camp the road was full of half-angry, bitterly disappointed +infantry--Chaffee's men. When he reached the camp of the cavalry at the +foot of the hill again, a soldier called his name as he passed--a grimy +soldier--and Grafton stopped in his tracks. + +"Well, by God!" + +It was Crittenden, who smiled when he saw Grafton's bewildered face. +Then the Kentuckian, too, stared in utter amazement at a black face +grinning over Grafton's shoulder. + +"Bob!" he said, sharply. + +"Yessuh," said Bob humbly. + +"Whar are you doing here?" + +"Nothin', Ole Cap'n--jes doin' nothin'," said Bob, with the _naďveté_ of +a child. "Jes lookin' for you." + +"Is that your negro?" A sarcastic Lieutenant was asking the question. + +"He's my servant, sir." + +"Well, we don't allow soldiers to take their valets to the field." + +"My servant at home, sir, I meant. He came of his own accord." + +[Illustration: "Nothin', Ole Cap'n--jes doin' nothin'--jes lookin' for +you."] + +"Go find Basil," Crittenden said to Bob, "and if you can't find him," he +added in a lower tone, "and want anything, come back here to me." + +"Yessuh," said Bob, loath to go, but, seeing the Lieutenant scowling, he +moved on down the road. + +"I thought you were a Captain," said Grafton. Crittenden laughed. + +"Not exactly." + +"Forward," shouted the Lieutenant, "march!" + +Grafton looked Crittenden over. + +"Well, I swear," he said heartily, and, as Crittenden moved forward, +Grafton stood looking after him. "A regular--I do be damned!" + +That night Basil wrote home. He had not fired his musket a single time. +He saw nothing to shoot at, and he saw no use shooting until he did have +something to shoot at. It was terrible to see men dead and wounded, but +the fight itself was stupid--blundering through a jungle, bullets +zipping about, and the Spaniards too far away and invisible. He wanted +to be closer. + +"General Carter has sent for me to take my place on his staff. I don't +want to go, but the Colonel says I ought. I don't believe I would, if +the General hadn't been father's friend and if my 'bunkie' weren't +wounded. He's all right, but he'll have to go back. I'd like to have +his wound, but I'd hate to have to go back. The Colonel says he's sorry +to lose me. He meant to make me a corporal, he says. I don't know what +for--but Hooray! + +"Brother was not in the fight, I suppose. Don't worry about me--please +don't worry. + +"P. S.--I have often wondered what it would be like to be on the eve of +a battle. It's no different from anything else." + +Abe Long and Crittenden were bunkies now. Abe's comrade, the boy +Sanders, had been wounded and sent to the rear. Reynolds, too, was shot +through the shoulder, and, despite his protests, was ordered back to the +coast. + +"Oh, I'll be on hand for the next scrap," he said. + +Abe and Crittenden had been side by side in the fight. It was no +surprise to Crittenden that any man was brave. By his code, a man would +be better dead than alive a coward. He believed cowardice exceptional +and the brave man the rule, but he was not prepared for Abe's coolness +and his humour. Never did the Westerner's voice change, and never did +the grim half-smile leave his eyes or his mouth. Once during the fight +he took off his hat. + +"How's my hair parted?" he asked, quietly. + +A Mauser bullet had mowed a path through Abe's thick, upright hair, +scraping the skin for three inches, and leaving a trail of tiny, red +drops. Crittenden turned to look and laugh, and a bullet cut through the +open flap of his shirt, just over his heart. He pointed to it. + +"See the good turn you did me." + +While the two were cooking supper, the old Sergeant came up. + +"If you don't obey orders next time," he said to Crittenden, sternly, +for Abe was present, "I'll report you to the Captain." Crittenden had +declined to take shelter during the fight--it was a racial inheritance +that both the North and the South learned to correct in the old war. + +"That's right, Governor," said Abe. + +"The Colonel himself wanted to know what damn fool that was standing out +in the road. He meant you." + +"All right, Sergeant," Crittenden said. + +When he came in from guard duty, late that night, he learned that Basil +was safe. He lay down with a grateful heart, and his thoughts, like the +thoughts of every man in that tropical forest, took flight for home. +Life was getting very simple now for him--death, too, and duty. Already +he was beginning to wonder at his old self and, with a shock, it came to +him that there were but three women in the world to him--Phyllis and his +mother--and Judith. He thought of the night of the parting, and it +flashed for the first time upon him that Judith might have taken the +shame that he felt reddening his face as shame for her, and not for +himself: and a pain shot through him so keen that he groaned aloud. + +Above him was a clear sky, a quarter moon, an enveloping mist of stars, +and the very peace of heaven. But there was little sleep--and that +battle-haunted--for any: and for him none at all. + + * * * * * + +And none at all during that night of agony for Judith, nor Phyllis, nor +the mother at Canewood, though there was a reaction of joy, next +morning, when the name of neither Crittenden was among the wounded or +the dead. + +Nothing had been heard, so far, of the elder brother but, as they sat in +the porch, a negro boy brought the town paper, and Mrs. Crittenden found +a paragraph about a soldier springing into the sea in full uniform at +Siboney to rescue a drowning comrade, who had fallen into the surf while +trying to land, and had been sunk to the bottom by his arms and +ammunition. And the rescuer's name was Crittenden. The writer went on to +tell who he was, and how he had given up his commission to a younger +brother and had gone as a private in the regular army--how he had been +offered another after he reached Cuba, and had declined that, +too--having entered with his comrades, he would stay with them to the +end. Whereat the mother's face burned with a proud fire, as did +Phyllis's, when Mrs. Crittenden read on about this Crittenden's young +brother, who, while waiting for his commission, had gone as a Rough +Rider, and who, after gallant conduct during the first fight, had taken +his place on General Carter's staff. Phyllis clapped her hands, softly, +with a long sigh of pride--and relief. + +"I can eat strawberries, now." And she blushed again. Phyllis had been +living on bacon and corn-bread, she confessed shamefacedly, because +Trooper Basil was living on bacon and hardtack--little dreaming that the +food she forced upon herself in this sacrificial way was being swallowed +by that hearty youngster with a relish that he would not have known at +home for fried chicken and hot rolls. + +"Yes," laughed Mrs. Crittenden. "You can eat strawberries now. You can +balance them against his cocoanuts." + +Phyllis picked up the paper then, with a cry of surprise--the name +signed to the article was Grafton, whom she had seen at the recruiting +camp. And then she read the last paragraph that the mother had not read +aloud, and she turned sharply away and stooped to a pink-bed, as though +she would pick one, and the mother saw her shoulders shaking with silent +sobs, and she took the child in her arms. + +There was to be a decisive fight in a few days--the attack on +Santiago--that was what Phyllis had read. The Spaniard had a good +muster-roll of regulars and aid from Cervera's fleet; was well armed, +and had plenty of time to intrench and otherwise prepare himself for a +bloody fight in the last ditch. + +So that, each day there was a relief to the night agony, which, every +morning, began straightway with the thought that the fight might be +going on at that very hour. Not once did Judith come near. She had been +ill, to be sure, but one day Mrs. Crittenden met her on the way to town +and stopped her in the road; but the girl had spoken so strangely that +the mother drove on, at loss to understand and much hurt. Next day she +learned that Judith, despite her ill health and her father's protests, +had gone to nurse the sick and the wounded--what Phyllis plead in vain +to do. The following day a letter came from Mrs. Crittenden's elder son. +He was well, and the mother must not worry about either him or Basil. He +did not think there would be much fighting and, anyhow, the great risk +was from disease, and he feared very little from that. Basil would be +much safer as an aid on a General's staff. He would get plenty to eat, +would be less exposed to weather, have no long marches--as he would be +mounted--and no guard duty at all hours of day and night. And, moreover, +he would probably be less constantly exposed to bullets. So she must not +worry about him. Not one word was there about Judith--not even to ask +how she was, which was strange. He had said nothing about the girl when +he told his mother good-by; and when she broached the subject, he +answered sadly: + +"Don't, mother; I can't say a word--not a word." + +In his letter he had outlined Basil's advantages, not one of which was +his--and sitting on the porch of the old homestead at sunset of the last +rich day in June, the mother was following her eldest born through the +transport life, the fiery marches, the night watches on lonely outposts, +the hard food, the drenching rains, steaming heat, laden with the breath +of terrible disease, not realizing how little he minded it all and how +much good it was doing him. She did know, however, that it had been but +play thus far to what must follow. Perhaps, even now, she thought, the +deadly work was beginning, while she sat in the shrine of peace--even +now. + +And it was. Almost at that hour the troops were breaking camp and +moving forward along the one narrow jungle-road--choked with wagon, +pack-mule, and soldier--through a haze of dust, and, turning to the +right at the first crossing beyond corps head-quarters--under +Chaffee--for Caney. Now and then a piece of artillery, with its flashes +of crimson, would pass through the advancing columns amid the waving of +hats and a great cheering to take position against the stone fort at +Caney or at El Poso, to be trained on the block-house at San Juan. And +through the sunset and the dusk the columns marched, and, after night +fell, the dark, silent masses of slouch hats, shoulders, and gun-muzzles +kept on marching past the smoke and flare of the deserted camp-fires +that lighted thicket and grassy plot along the trail. And after the +flames had died down to cinders--in the same black terrible silence, the +hosts were marching still. + +That night a last good-by to all womankind, but wife, mother, sister, +sweetheart. The world was to be a man's world next day, and the man a +coarse, dirty, sweaty, swearing, good-natured, grimly humorous, cruel, +kindly soldier, feverish for a fight and as primitive in passion as a +cave-dweller fighting his kind for food. The great little fight was at +hand. + + + + +XI + + +Before dawn again--everything in war begins at dawn--and the thickets +around a certain little gray stone fort alive with slouch hat, blue +blouse, and Krag-Jorgensen, slipping through the brush, building no +fires, and talking in low tones for fear the timorous enemy would see, +or hear, and run before the American sharpshooter could get a chance to +try his marksmanship; wondering, eight hours later, if the timorous +enemy were ever going to run. Eastward and on a high knoll stripped of +bushes, four 3.2 guns unlimbered and thrown into position against that +fort and a certain little red-roofed town to the left of it. This was +Caney. + +Eastward still, three miles across an uneven expanse of green, jungle +and jungle-road alive with men, bivouacing fearlessly around and under +four more 3.2 guns planted on another high-stripped knoll--El Poso--and +trained on a little pagoda-like block-house, which sat like a Christmas +toy on top of a green little, steep little hill from the base of which +curved an orchard-like valley back to sweeping curve of the jungle. This +was San Juan. + +Nature loves sudden effects in the tropics. While Chaffee fretted in +valley-shadows around Caney and Lawton strode like a yellow lion past +the guns on the hill and, eastward, gunner on the other hill at El Poso +and soldier in the jungle below listened westward, a red light ran like +a flame over the east, the tops of the mountains shot suddenly upward +and it was day--flashing day, with dripping dew and birds singing and a +freshness of light and air that gave way suddenly when the sun quickly +pushed an arc of fire over the green shoulder of a hill and smote the +soldiers over and under the low trees like rays from an open furnace. + +It smote Reynolds as he sat by the creek under the guns before San Juan, +idly watching water bubble into three canteens, and it opened his lips +for an oath that he was too lazy to speak; it smote Abe Long cooking +coffee on the bank some ten yards away, and made him raise from the fire +and draw first one long forearm and then the other across his +heat-wrinkled brow; but, unheeded, it smote Crittenden--who stood near, +leaning against a palm-tree--full in his uplifted face. Perhaps that was +the last sunrise on earth for him. He was watching it in Cuba, but his +spirit was hovering around home. He could feel the air from the woods in +front of Canewood; could hear the darkies going to work and Aunt Keziah +singing in the kitchen. He could see his mother's shutter open, could +see her a moment later, smiling at him from her door. And Judith--where +was she, and what was she doing? Could she be thinking of him? The sound +of his own name coming down through the hot air made him start, and, +looking up toward the Rough Riders, who were gathered about a little +stuccoed farm-house just behind the guns on the hill, he saw Blackford +waving at him. At the same moment hoofs beat the dirt-road behind +him--familiar hoof-beats--and he turned to see Basil and Raincrow--for +Crittenden's Colonel was sick with fever and Basil had Raincrow now--on +their way with a message to Chaffee at Caney. Crittenden saluted +gravely, as did Basil, though the boy turned in his saddle, and with an +affectionate smile waved back at him. + +Crittenden's lips moved. + +"God bless him." + + * * * * * + +"Fire!" + +Over on the hill, before Caney, a man with a lanyard gave a quick jerk. +There was a cap explosion at the butt of the gun and a bulging white +cloud from the muzzle; the trail bounced from its shallow trench, the +wheels whirled back twice on the rebound, and the shell was hissing +through the air as iron hisses when a blacksmith thrusts it red-hot into +cold water. Basil could hear that awful hiss so plainly that he seemed +to be following the shell with his naked eye; he could hear it above the +reverberating roar of the gun up and down the coast-mountain; hear it +until, six seconds later, a puff of smoke answered beyond the Spanish +column where the shell burst. Then in eight seconds--for the shell +travelled that much faster than sound--the muffled report of its +bursting struck his ears, and all that was left of the first shot that +started the great little fight was the thick, sunlit smoke sweeping away +from the muzzle of the gun and the little mist-cloud of the shell rising +slowly upward beyond the stone fort, which seemed not to know any harm +was possible or near. + + * * * * * + +Again Crittenden, leaning against the palm, heard his name called. Again +it was Blackford who was opening his mouth to shout some message +when--Ah! The shout died on Blackford's lips, and every man on the hill +and in the woods, at that instant, stayed his foot and his hand--even a +man standing with a gray horse against the blue wall--he, too, stopped +to listen. It really sounded too dull and muffled for a shell; but, a +few seconds later, there was a roar against the big walls of living +green behind Caney. + +The first shot! + +"Ready!" + +Even with the cry at El Poso came another sullen, low boom and another +aggressive roar from Caney: then a great crackling in the air, as though +thousands of schoolboys were letting off fire-crackers, pack after pack. + +"Fire!" + +Every ear heard, every eye saw the sudden white mist at a gun-muzzle and +followed that first shell screaming toward the little Christmas toy +sitting in the sun on that distant little hill. And yet it was nothing. +Another and yet another mass of shrapnel went screaming, and still there +was no response, no sign. It was nothing--nothing at all. Was the +Spaniard asleep? + +Crittenden could see attaché, correspondent, aid, staff-officer, +non-combatant, sight-seer crowding close about the guns--so close that +the gunners could hardly work. He could almost hear them saying, one to +another: + +"Why, is this war--really war? Why, this isn't so bad." + +Twanged just then a bow-string in the direction of San Juan hill, and +the twang seemed to be getting louder and to be coming toward the little +blue farm-house. No cannon was in sight; there was no smoke visible, and +many, with an upward look, wondered what the queer sound could be. +Suddenly there was a screeching, crackling answer in the air; the +atmosphere was rent apart as by a lightning stroke directly overhead. +The man and the horse by the blue wall dropped noiselessly to the earth. +A Rough Rider paled and limped down the hill and Blackford shook his +hand--a piece of shrapnel had fallen harmlessly on his wrist. On the +hill--Crittenden laughed as he looked--on the hill, nobody +ran--everybody tumbled. Besides the men at the guns, only two others +were left--civilians. + +"You're a fool," said one. + +"You're another." + +"What'd you stay here for?" + +"Because you did. What'd you stay for?" + +"Because _you_ did." + +Then they went down together--rapidly--and just in time. Another shell +shrieked. Two artillerymen and two sergeants dropped dead at their guns, +and a corporal fell, mortally wounded. A third burst in a group of +Cubans. Several of them flew out, killed or wounded, into the air; the +rest ran shrieking for the woods. Below, those woods began to move. +Under those shells started the impatient soldiers down that narrow lane +through the jungle, and with Reynolds and Abe Long on the "point" was +Crittenden, his Krag-Jorgensen across his breast--thrilled, for all the +world, as though he were on a hunt for big game. + + * * * * * + +And all the time the sound of ripping cloth was rolling over from Caney, +the far-away rumble of wagons over cobble-stones, or softened stage hail +and stage thunder around the block-house, stone fort, and town. At first +it was a desultory fire, like the popping of a bunch of fire-crackers +that have to be relighted several times, and Basil and Grafton, +galloping toward it, could hear the hiss of bullets that far away. But, +now and then, the fire was as steady as a Gatling-gun. Behind them the +artillery had turned on the stone fort, and Grafton saw one shot tear a +hole through the wall, then another, and another. He could see Spaniards +darting from the fort and taking refuge in the encircling stone-cut +trenches; and then nothing else--for their powder was smokeless--except +the straw hats of the little devils in blue, who blazed away from their +trenches around the fort and minded the shells bursting over and around +them as little as though they had been bursting snowballs. If the boy +ahead noted anything, Grafton could not tell. Basil turned his head +neither to right nor left, and at the foot of the muddy hill, the black +horse that he rode, without touch of spur, seemed suddenly to leave the +earth and pass on out of sight with the swift silence of a shadow. At +the foot of a hill walked the first wounded man--a Colonel limping +between two soldiers. The Colonel looked up smiling--he had a terrible +wound in the groin. + +"Well," he called cheerily, "I'm the first victim." + +Grafton wondered. Was it possible that men were going to behave on a +battlefield just as they did anywhere else--just as naturally--taking +wounds and death and horror as a matter of course? Beyond were more +wounded--the wounded who were able to help themselves. Soon he saw them +lying by the roadside, here and there a dead one; by and by, he struck a +battalion marching to storm a block-house. He got down, hitched his +horse a few yards from the road and joined it. He was wondering how it +would feel to be under fire, when just as they were crossing another +road, with a whir and whistle and buzz, a cloud of swift insects buzzed +over his head. Unconsciously imitating the soldiers near him, he bent +low and walked rapidly. Right and left of him sounded two or three low, +horrible crunching noises, and right and left of him two or three blue +shapes sank limply down on their faces. A sudden sickness seized him, +nauseating him like a fetid odour--the crunching noise was the sound of +a bullet crashing into a living human skull as the men bent forward. +One man, he remembered afterward, dropped with the quick grunt of an +animal--he was killed outright; another gave a gasping cry, "Oh, +God"--there was a moment of suffering consciousness for him; a third +hopped aside into the bushes--cursing angrily. Still another, as he +passed, looked up from the earth at him with a curious smile, as though +he were half ashamed of something. + +"I've got it, partner," he said, "I reckon I've got it, sure." And +Grafton saw a drop of blood and the tiny mouth of a wound in his gullet, +where the flaps of his collar fell apart. He couldn't realize how he +felt--he was not interested any longer in how he felt. The instinct of +life was at work, and the instinct of self-defence. When the others +dropped, he dropped gladly; when they rose, he rose automatically. A +piece of brush, a bush, the low branch of a tree, a weed seemed to him +protection, and he saw others possessed with the same absurd idea. Once +the unworthy thought crossed his mind, when he was lying behind a squad +of soldiers and a little lower than they, that his chance was at least +better than theirs. And once, and only once--with a bitter sting of +shame--he caught himself dropping back a little, so that the same squad +should be between him and the enemy: and forthwith he stepped out into +the road, abreast with the foremost, cursing himself for a coward, and +thereafter took a savage delight in reckless exposure whenever it was +possible. And he soon saw that his position was a queer one, and an +unenviable one, as far as a cool test of nerve was the point at issue. +The officers, he saw, had their men to look after--orders to obey--their +minds were occupied. The soldiers were busy getting a shot at the +enemy--their minds, too, were occupied. It was his peculiar province to +stand up and be shot at without the satisfaction of shooting +back--studying his sensations, meanwhile, which were not particularly +pleasant, and studying the grewsome horrors about him. And it struck +him, too, that this was a ghastly business, and an unjustifiable, and +that if it pleased God to see him through he would never go to another +war except as a soldier. One consideration interested him and was +satisfactory. Nobody was shooting at him--nobody was shooting at anybody +in particular. If he were killed, or when anybody was killed, it was +merely accident, and it was thus pleasant to reflect that he was in as +much danger as anybody. + +The firing was pretty hot now, and the wounded were too many to be +handled. A hospital man called out sharply: + +"Give a hand here." Grafton gave a hand to help a poor fellow back to +the field hospital, in a little hollow, and when he reached the road +again that black horse and his boy rider were coming back like shadows, +through a rain of bullets, along the edge of the woods. Once the horse +plunged sidewise and shook his head angrily--a Mauser had stung him in +the neck--but the lad, pale and his eyes like stars, lifted him in a +flying leap over a barbed-wire fence and swung him into the road again. + +"Damn!" said Grafton, simply. + +Then rose a loud cheer from the battery on the hill, and, looking west, +he saw the war-balloon hung high above the trees and moving toward +Santiago. The advance had begun over there; there was the main +attack--the big battle. It was interesting and horrible enough where he +was, but Caney was not Santiago; and Grafton, too, mounted his horse and +galloped after Basil. + + * * * * * + +At head-quarters began the central lane of death that led toward San +Juan, and Basil picked his way through it at a slow walk--his excitement +gone for the moment and his heart breaking at the sight of the terrible +procession on its way to the rear. Men with arms in slings; men with +trousers torn away at the knee, and bandaged legs; men with brow, face, +mouth, or throat swathed; men with no shirts, but a broad swathe around +the chest or stomach--each bandage grotesquely pictured with human +figures printed to show how the wound should be bound, on whatever part +of the body the bullet entered. Men staggering along unaided, or between +two comrades, or borne on litters, some white and quiet, some groaning +and blood-stained, some conscious, some dying, some using a rifle for a +support, or a stick thrust through the side of a tomato-can. Rolls, +haversacks, blouses, hardtack, bibles, strewn by the wayside, where the +soldiers had thrown them before they went into action. It was curious, +but nearly all of the wounded were dazed and drunken in appearance, +except at the brows, which were tightly drawn with pain. There was one +man, with short, thick, upright red hair, stumbling from one side of the +road to the other, with no wound apparent, and muttering: + +"Oh, I don't know what happened to me. I don't know what happened to +me." + +Another, hopping across the creek on one leg--the other bare and +wounded--and using his gun, muzzle down, as a vaulting-pole. Another, +with his arm in the sling, pointing out the way. + +"Take this road," he said. "I don't know where that one goes, but I know +this one. I went up this one, and brought back a _souvenir_," he added, +cheerily, shaking a bloody arm. + +And everywhere men were cautioning him to beware of the guerillas, who +were in the trees, adding horror to the scene--shooting wounded men on +litters, hospital men, doctors. Once, there was almost the horror of a +panic in the crowded road. Soldiers answered the guerilla fire from the +road; men came running back; bullets spattered around. + +Ahead, the road was congested with soldiers. Beyond them was anchored +the balloon, over the Bloody Ford--drawing the Spanish fire to the +troops huddled beneath it. There was the death-trap. + +And, climbing from an ambulance to mount his horse, a little, bent old +man, weak and trembling from fever, but with his gentle blue eyes +glinting fire--Basil's hero--ex-Confederate Jerry Carter. + +"Give the Yanks hell, boys," he shouted. + + * * * * * + +It had been a slow, toilsome march up that narrow lane of death, and, so +far, Crittenden had merely been sprinkled with Mauser and shrapnel. His +regiment had begun to deploy to the left, down the bed of a stream. The +negro cavalry and the Rough Riders were deploying to the right. Now +broke the storm. Imagine sheet after sheet of hailstones, coated with +polished steel, and swerved when close to the earth at a sharp angle to +the line of descent, and sweeping the air horizontally with an awful +hiss--swifter in flight than a peal of thunder from sky to earth, and +hardly less swift than the lightning flash that caused it. + +"T-t-seu-u-u-h! T-t-seu-oo! T-t-seu-oo!"--they went like cloud after +cloud of lightning-winged insects, and passing, by God's mercy and the +Spaniard's bad marksmanship--passing high. Between two crashes, came a +sudden sputter, and some singing thing began to play up and down through +the trees, and to right and left, in a steady hum. It was a machine gun +playing for the range--like a mighty hose pipe, watering earth and trees +with a steady, spreading jet of hot lead. It was like some strange, huge +monster, unseeing and unseen, who knows where his prey is hidden and is +searching for it blindly--by feeling or by sense of smell--coming ever +nearer, showering the leaves down, patting into the soft earth ahead, +swishing to right and to left, and at last playing in a steady stream +about the prostrate soldiers. + +"Swish-ee! Swish-ee! Swishee!" + +"Whew!" said Abe Long. + +"God!" said Reynolds. + +Ah, ye scornful veterans of the great war. In ten minutes the Spaniard +let fly with his Mauser more bullets than did you fighting hard for two +long hours, and that one machine gun loosed more death stings in an hour +than did a regiment of you in two. And they were coming from +intrenchments on an all but vertical hill, from piles of unlimited +ammunition, and from soldiers who should have been as placid as the +earth under them for all the demoralization that hostile artillery fire +was causing them. + +And not all of them passed high. After that sweep of glistening steel +rain along the edge of the woods rose the cry here, there, everywhere: + +"Hospital man! hospital man!" + +And here and there, in the steady pelt of bullets, went the quiet, brave +fellows with red crosses on their sleeves; across the creek, Crittenden +could see a tall, young doctor, bare-headed in the sun, stretching out +limp figures on the sand under the bank--could see him and his +assistants stripping off blouse and trousers and shirt, and wrapping and +binding, and newly wounded being ever brought in. + +And behind forged soldiers forward, a tall aide at the ford urging them +across and stopping a panic among volunteers. + +"Come back, you cowards--come back! Push 'em back, boys!" + +A horse was crossing the stream. There was a hissing shriek in the air, +a geyser spouting from the creek, the remnants of a horse thrown upward, +and five men tossed in a swirl like straw: and, a moment later, a boy +feebly paddling towards the shore--while the water ran past him red with +blood. And, through it all, looking backward, Crittenden saw little +Carter coming on horseback, calm of face, calm of manner, with his hands +folded over his saddle, and his eyes looking upward--little Carter who +had started out in an ambulance that morning with a temperature of one +hundred and four, and, meeting wounded soldiers, gave up his wagon to +them, mounted his horse, and rode into battle--to come out normal at +dusk. And behind him--erect, proud, face aflame, eyes burning, but +hardly less cool--rode Basil. Crittenden's eyes filled with love and +pride for the boy. + +"God bless him--God save him!" + + * * * * * + +A lull came--one of the curious lulls that come periodically in battle +for the reason that after any violent effort men must have a breathing +spell--and the mist of bullets swept on to the right like a swift +passing shower of rain. + +There was a splash in the creek behind Crittenden, and someone fell on +his face behind the low bank with a fervent: + +"Thank God, I've got this far!" It was Grafton. + +"That nigger of yours is coming on somewhere back there," he added, and +presently he rose and calmly peered over the bank and at the line of +yellow dirt on the crest of the hill. A bullet spat in the ground close +by. + +"That hit you?" he asked, without altering the tone of his +voice--without even lowering his glasses. + +Reynolds, on his right, had ducked quickly. Crittenden looked up in +surprise. The South had no monopoly of nerve--nor, in that campaign, the +soldier. + +"Well, by God," said Reynolds, irritably--the bullet had gone through +his sleeve. "This ain't no time to joke." + +Grafton's face was still calm--he was still looking. Presently he turned +and beckoned to somebody in the rear. + +"There he is, now." + +Looking behind, Crittenden had to laugh. There was Bob, in a +cavalryman's hat, with a Krag-Jorgensen in his hand, and an ammunition +belt buckled around him. + +As he started toward Grafton, a Lieutenant halted him. + +"Why aren't you with your regiment?" he demanded sharply. + +"I ain't got no regiment. I'se looking fer Ole Captain." + +"Get back into your regiment," said the officer, with an oath, and +pointing behind to the Tenth Coloured Cavalry coming up. + +"Huh!" he said, looking after the officer a moment, and then he came on +to the edge of the creek. + +"Go to the rear, Bob," shouted Crittenden, sharply, and the next moment +Bob was crashing through the bushes to the edge of the creek. + +"Foh Gawd, Ole Cap'n, I sutn'ly is glad to fine you. I wish you'd jes +show me how to wuk this gun. I'se gwine to fight right side o' you--you +heah me." + +"Go back, Bob," said Crittenden, firmly. + +"Silence in the ranks," roared a Lieutenant. Bob hesitated. Just then a +company of the Tenth Cavalry filed down the road as they were deployed +to the right. Crittenden's file of soldiers could see that the last man +was a short, fat darky--evidently a recruit--and he was swinging along +as jauntily as in a cake-walk. As he wheeled pompously, he dropped his +gun, leaped into the air with a yell of amazed rage and pain, catching +at the seat of his trousers with both hands. A bullet had gone through +both buttocks. + +"Gawd, Ole Cap'n, did you see dat nigger?" + +A roar of laughter went down the bed of the creek. + +"Go back!" repeated Crittenden, threateningly, "and stop calling me Old +Captain." Bob looked after the file of coloured troops, and then at +Crittenden. + +"All right, Ole Cap'n; I tol' you in ole Kentuck that I gwine to fight +wid the niggers ef you don't lemme fight wid you. I don't like +disgracin' the family dis way, but 'tain't my fault, an' s'pose you git +shot--" the slap of the flat side of a sword across Bob's back made him +jump. + +"What are you doing here?" thundered an angry officer." Get into +line--get into line." + +"I ain't no sojer." + +"Get into line," and Bob ran after the disappearing file, shaking his +head helplessly. + +The crash started again, and the hum of bees and the soft snap of the +leaves when bullets clipped them like blows with a rattan cane, and the +rattling sputter of the machine guns, and once more came that long, long +wait that tries the soldier's heart, nerve, and brain. + +"Why was not something done--why?" + +And again rose the cry for the hospital men, and again the limp figures +were brought in from the jungle, and he could see the tall doctor with +the bare head helping the men who had been dressed with a first-aid +bandage to the protecting bank of the creek farther up, to make room for +the fresh victims. And as he stood up once, Crittenden saw him throw his +hand quickly up to his temple and sink to the blood-stained sand. The +assistant, who bent over him, looked up quickly and shook his head to +another, who was binding a wounded leg and looking anxiously to know the +fatal truth. + +"I've got it," said a soldier to Crittenden's left; joyously, he said +it, for the bullet had merely gone through his right shoulder. He could +fight no more, he had a wound and he could wear a scar to his grave. + +"So have I," said another, with a groan. And then next him there was a +sudden, soft thud: + +"T-h-u-p!" It was the sound of a bullet going into thick flesh, and the +soldier sprang to his feet--the impulse seemed uncontrollable for the +wounded to spring to their feet--and dropped with a groan--dead. +Crittenden straightened him out sadly--putting his hat over his face and +drawing his arms to his sides. Above, he saw with sudden nausea, +buzzards circling--little cared they whether the dead were American or +Spaniard, as long as there were eyes to pluck and lips to tear away, and +then straightway, tragedy merged into comedy as swiftly as on a stage. +Out of the woods across the way emerged a detail of negro troopers--sent +to clear the woods behind of sharpshooters--and last came Bob. The +detail, passing along the creek on the other bank from them, scattered, +and with Bob next the creek. Bob shook his gun aloft. + +"I can wuk her now!" + +Another lull came, and from the thicket arose the cry of a thin, high, +foreign voice: + +"Americano--Americano!" + +"Whut regiment you b'long to?" the voice was a negro's and was Bob's, +and Grafton and Crittenden listened keenly. Bob had evidently got a +sharpshooter up a tree, and caught him loading his gun. + +"Tenth Cav'rly--Tenth!" was the answer. Bob laughed long and loud. + +"Well, you jus the man I been lookin' fer--the fust white man I ever +seed whut 'longed to a nigger regiment. Come down, honey." There was the +sharp, clean crack of a Krag-Jorgensen, and a yell of savage triumph. + +"That nigger's a bird," said Grafton. + +Something serious was going to be done now--the intuition of it ran down +the line in that mysterious fashion by which information passes down a +line of waiting men. The line rose, advanced, and dropped again. +Companies deployed to the left and behind--fighting their way through +the chaparral as a swimmer buffets his way through choppy waves. Every +man saw now that the brigade was trying to form in line of battle for a +charge on that curving, smokeless flame of fire that ran to and fro +around the top of the hill--blazing fiercely and steadily here and +there. For half an hour the officers struggled to form the scattering +men. Forward a little way; slipping from one bush and tree to another; +through the thickets and bayonet grass; now creeping; now a dash through +an open spot; now flat on the stomach, until Crittenden saw a wire fence +stretching ahead. Followed another wait. And then a squad of negro +troopers crossed the road, going to the right, and diagonally. The +bullets rained about them, and they scuttled swiftly into the brush. The +hindmost one dropped; the rest kept on, unseeing; but Crittenden saw a +Lieutenant--it was Sharpe, whom he had met at home and at +Chickamauga--look back at the soldier, who was trying to raise himself +on his elbow--while the bullets seemed literally to be mowing down the +tall grass about him. Then Crittenden heard a familiar grunt behind him, +and the next minute Bob's figure sprang out into the open--making for +the wounded man by the sympathy of race. As he stooped, to Crittenden's +horror, Bob pitched to the ground--threshing around like an animal that +has received a blow on the head. Without a thought, without +consciousness of his own motive or his act, Crittenden sprang to his +feet and dashed for Bob. Within ten feet of the boy, his toe caught in a +root and he fell headlong. As he scrambled to his feet, he saw Sharpe +making for him--thinking that he had been shot down--and, as he turned, +with Bob in his arms, half a dozen men, including Grafton and his own +Lieutenant, were retreating back into cover--all under the same impulse +and with the same motive having started for him, too. Behind a tree, +Crittenden laid Bob down, still turning his head from side to side +helplessly. There was a trail of blood across his temple, and, wiping it +away, he saw that the bullet had merely scraped along the skull without +penetrating it. In a moment, Bob groaned, opened his eyes, sat up, +looked around with rolling eyes, grunted once or twice, straightened +out, and reached for his gun, shaking his head. + +"Gimme drink, Ole Cap'n, please, suh." + +Crittenden handed him his canteen, and Bob drank and rose unsteadily to +his feet. + +"Dat ain't nuttin'," he said, contemptuously, feeling along the wound. +"'Tain't nigh as bad as mule kick. 'Tain't nuttin', 't all." And then he +almost fell. + +"Go back, Bob." + +"All right, Ole Cap'n, I reckon I'll jus' lay down heah little while," +he said, stretching out behind the tree. + +And Grafton reached over for Crittenden's hand. He was getting some new +and startling ideas about the difference in the feeling toward the negro +of the man who once owned him body and soul and of the man who freed him +body and soul. And in the next few minutes he studied Crittenden as he +had done before--taking in detail the long hair, lean face strongly +chiselled, fearless eye, modest demeanour--marking the intellectual look +of the face--it was the face of a student--a gentleman--gently born. +And, there in the heat of the fight, he fell to marvelling over the +nation that had such a man to send into the field as a common soldier. + +Again they moved forward. Crittenden's Lieutenant dropped--wounded. + +"Go on," he cried, "damn it, go on!" + +Grafton helped to carry him back, stepping out into the open for him, +and Crittenden saw a bullet lick up the wet earth between the +correspondent's feet. + +Forward again! It was a call for volunteers to advance and cut the +wires. Crittenden was the first to spring to his feet, and Abe Long and +Reynolds sprang after him. Forward they slipped on their bellies, and +the men behind saw one brown, knotty hand after another reach up from +the grass and clip, clip, clip through the thickly braided wires. + +Forward again! The men slipped like eels through and under the wires, +and lay in the long grass behind. The time was come. + +"FORWARD!" + +Crittenden never knew before the thrill that blast sent through him, and +never in his life did he know it again. + +It was the call of America to the American, white and black: and race +and colour forgotten, the American answered with the grit of the Saxon, +the Celt's pure love of a fight, and all the dash of the passionate +Gaul. + +As Crittenden leaped to his feet, he saw Reynolds leap, too, and then +there was a hissing hell of white smoke and crackling iron at his +feet--and Reynolds disappeared. + +It was a marvel afterward but, at that moment, Crittenden hardly noted +that the poor fellow was blown into a hundred fragments. He was in the +front line now. A Brigadier, with his hat in his hand and his white hair +shining in the sun, run diagonally across in front of his line of +battle, and, with a wild cheer, the run of death began. + +God, how the bullets hissed and the shells shrieked; and, God, how +slow--slow--slow was the run! Crittenden's legs were of lead, and +leaden were the legs of the men with him--running with guns trailing the +earth or caught tightly across the breast and creeping unconsciously. He +saw nothing but the men in front of him, the men who were dropping +behind him, and the yellow line above, and the haven at the bottom of +the hill. Now and then he could see a little, dirty, blue figure leap +into view on the hill and disappear. Two men only were ahead of him when +he reached the foot of the hill--Sharpe and a tall Cuban close at his +side with machéte drawn--the one Cuban hero of that fierce charge. But +he could hear laboured panting behind him, and he knew that others were +coming on. God, how steep and high that hill was! He was gasping for +breath now, and he was side by side with Cuban and Lieutenant--gasping, +too. To right and left--faint cheers. To the right, a machine gun +playing like hail on the yellow dirt. To his left a shell, bursting in +front of a climbing, struggling group, and the soldiers tumbling +backward and rolling ten feet down the hill. A lull in the firing--the +Spaniards were running--and then the top--the top! Sharpe sprang over +the trench, calling out to save the wounded. A crouching Spaniard raised +his pistol, and Sharpe fell. With one leap, Crittenden reached him with +the butt of his gun and, with savage exultation, he heard the skull of +the Spaniard crash. + + * * * * * + +Straight in front, the Spaniards were running like rabbits through the +brush. To the left, Kent was charging far around and out of sight. To +the right, Rough Riders and negroes were driving Spaniards down one hill +and up the next. The negroes were as wild as at a camp meeting or a +voodoo dance. One big Sergeant strode along brandishing in each hand a +piece of his carbine that had been shot in two by a Mauser bullet, and +shouting at the top of his voice, contemptuously: + +"Heah, somebody, gimme a gun! gimme a gun, I tell ye," still striding +ahead and looking never behind him. "You don't know how to fight. Gimme +a gun!" To the negro's left, a young Lieutenant was going up the hill +with naked sword in one hand and a kodak in the other--taking pictures +as he ran. A bare-headed boy, running between him and a gigantic negro +trooper, toppled suddenly and fell, and another negro stopped in the +charge, and, with a groan, bent over him and went no farther. + +And all the time that machine gun was playing on the trenches like a +hard rain in summer dust. Whenever a Spaniard would leap from the +trench, he fell headlong. That pitiless fire kept in the trenches the +Spaniards who were found there--wretched, pathetic, half-starved little +creatures--and some terrible deeds were done in the lust of slaughter. +One gaunt fellow thrust a clasp-knife into the buttock of a shamming +Spaniard, and, when he sprang to his feet, blew the back of his head +off. Some of the Riders chased the enemy over the hill and lay down in +the shade. One of them pulled out of a dead Spaniard's pocket +cigarettes, cigars, and a lady's slipper of white satin; with a grunt he +put the slipper back. Below the trenches, two boyish prisoners sat under +a tree, crying as though they were broken-hearted, and a big trooper +walked up and patted them both kindly on the head. + +"Don't cry, boys; it's all right--all right," he said, helplessly. + + * * * * * + +Over at the block-house, Crittenden stopped firing suddenly, and, +turning to his men, shouted: + +"Get back over the hill boys, they're going to start in again." As they +ran back, a Lieutenant-Colonel met them. + +"Are you in command?" + +Crittenden saluted. + +"No, sir," he said. + +"Yes, sir," said the old Sergeant at his side. "He was. He brought these +men up the hill." + +"The hell he did. Where are your officers?" + +The old Sergeant motioned toward the valley below, and Crittenden opened +his lips to explain, but just then the sudden impression came to him +that some one had struck him from behind with the butt of a musket, and +he tried to wheel around--his face amazed and wondering. Then he +dropped. He wondered, too, why he couldn't get around, and then he +wondered how it was that he happened to be falling to the earth. +Darkness came then, and through it ran one bitter thought--he had been +shot in the back. He did think of his mother and of Judith--but it was a +fleeting vision of both, and his main thought was a dull wonder whether +there would be anybody to explain how it was that his wound was not in +front. And then, as he felt himself lifted, it flashed that he would at +least be found on top of the hill, and beyond the Spaniard's trench, and +he saw Blackford's face above him. Then he was dropped heavily to the +ground again and Blackford pitched across his body. There was one +glimpse of Abe Long's anxious face above him, another vision of Judith, +and then quiet, painless darkness. + + * * * * * + +It was fiercer firing now than ever. The Spaniards were in the second +line of trenches and were making a sortie. Under the hill sat Grafton +and another correspondent while the storm of bullets swept over them. +Grafton was without glasses--a Mauser had furrowed the skin on the +bridge of his nose, breaking his spectacle-frame so that one glass +dropped on one side of his nose and the other on the other. The other +man had several narrow squeaks, as he called them, and, even as they +sat, a bullet cut a leaf over his head and it dropped between the pages +of his note-book. He closed the book and looked up. + +"Thanks," he said. "That's just what I want--I'll keep that." + +"I observe," said Grafton, "that the way one of these infernal bullets +sounds depends entirely on where you happen to be when you hear it. When +a sharpshooter has picked you out and is plugging at you, they are +intelligent and vindictive. Coming through that bottom, they were for +all the world like a lot of nasty little insects. And listen to 'em +now." The other man listened. "Hear 'em as they pass over and go out of +hearing. That is for all the world like the last long note of a meadow +lark's song when you hear him afar off and at sunset. But I notice that +simile didn't occur to me until I got under the lee of this hill." He +looked around. "This hill will be famous, I suppose. Let's go up +higher." They went up higher, passing a crowd of skulkers, or men in +reserve--Grafton could not tell which--and as they went by a soldier +said: + +"Well, if I didn't have to be here, I be damned if I wouldn't like to +see anybody get me here. What them fellers come fer, I can't see." + +The firing was still hot when the two men got up to the danger line, and +there they lay down. A wounded man lay at Grafton's elbow. Once his +throat rattled and Grafton turned curiously. + +"That's the death-rattle," he said to himself, and he had never heard a +death-rattle before. The poor fellow's throat rattled again, and again +Grafton turned. + +"I never knew before," he said to himself, "that a dying man's throat +rattled but once." Then it flashed on him with horror that he should +have so little feeling, and he knew it at once as the curious +callousness that comes quickly to toughen the heart for the sights of +war. A man killed in battle was not an ordinary dead man at all--he +stirred no sensation at all--no more than a dead animal. Already he had +heard officers remarking calmly to one another, and apparently without +feeling: + +"Well, So and So was killed to-day." And he looked back to the +disembarkation, when the army was simply in a hurry. Two negro troopers +were drowned trying to get off on the little pier. They were fished up; +a rope was tied about the neck of each, and they were lashed to the pier +and left to be beaten against the wooden pillars by the waves for four +hours before four comrades came and took them out and buried them. Such +was the dreadful callousness that sweeps through the human heart when +war begins, and he was under its influence himself, and long afterward +he remembered with shame his idle and half-scientific and useless +curiosity about the wounded man at his elbow. As he turned his head, the +soldier gave a long, deep, peaceful sigh, as though he had gone to +sleep. With pity now Grafton turned to him--and he had gone to sleep, +but it was his last sleep. + +"Look," said the other man. Grafton looked upward. Along the trenches, +and under a hot fire, moved little Jerry Carter, with figure bent, hands +clasped behind him--with the manner, for all the world, of a deacon in a +country graveyard looking for inscriptions on tombstones. + +Now and then a bullet would have a hoarse sound--that meant that it had +ricochetted. At intervals of three or four minutes a huge, old-fashioned +projectile would labour through the air, visible all the time, and crash +harmlessly into the woods. The Americans called it the "long yellow +feller," and sometimes a negro trooper would turn and with a yell shoot +at it as it passed over. A little way off, a squad of the Tenth Cavalry +was digging a trench--close to the top of the hill. Now and then one +would duck--particularly the one on the end. He had his tongue in the +corner of his mouth, was twirling his pick over his shoulder like a +railroad hand, and grunting with every stroke. Grafton could hear him. + +"Foh Gawd (huh!) never thought (huh!) I'd git to love (huh!) a pick +befoh!" Grafton broke into a laugh. + +"You see the charge?" + +"Part of it." + +"That tall fellow with the blue handkerchief around his throat, +bare-headed, long hair?" + +"Well--" the other man stopped for a moment. His eye had caught sight of +a figure on the ground--on the top of the trench, and with the profile +of his face between him and the afterglow, and his tone changed--"there +he is!" + +Grafton pressed closer. "What, that the fellow?" There was the +handkerchief, the head was bare, the hair long and dark. The man's eyes +were closed, but he was breathing. Below them at that moment they heard +the surgeon say: + +"Up there." And two hospital men, with a litter, came toward them and +took up the body. As they passed, Grafton recoiled. + +"Good God!" It was Crittenden. + +And, sitting on the edge of the trench, with Sharpe lying with his face +on his arm a few feet away, and the tall Cuban outstretched beside him, +and the dead Spaniards, Americans, and Cubans about them, Grafton told +the story of Crittenden. And at the end the other man gave a low whistle +and smote the back of one hand into the palm of the other softly. + +Dusk fell quickly. The full moon rose. The stars came out, and under +them, at the foot of the big mountains, a red fire burned sharply out in +the mist rising over captured Caney, from which tireless Chaffee was +already starting his worn-out soldiers on an all-night march by the rear +and to the trenches at San Juan. And along the stormed hill-side +camp-fires were glowing out where the lucky soldiers who had rations to +cook were cheerily frying bacon and hardtack. Grafton moved down to +watch one squad and, as he stood on the edge of the firelight, wondering +at the cheery talk and joking laughter, somebody behind him said +sharply: + +"Watch out, there," and he turned to find himself on the edge of a grave +which a detail was digging not ten yards away from the fire--digging for +a dead comrade. Never had he seen a more peaceful moonlit night than the +night that closed over the battlefield. It was hard for him to realize +that the day had not been a terrible dream, and yet, as the moon rose, +its rich light, he knew, was stealing into the guerilla-haunted jungles, +stealing through guava-bush and mango-tree, down through clumps of +Spanish bayonet, on stiff figures that would rise no more; on white, set +faces with the peace of painless death upon them or the agony of silent +torture, fought out under fierce heat and in the silence of the jungle +alone. + +Looking toward Caney he could even see the hill from which he had +witnessed the flight of the first shell that had been the storm centre +of the hurricane of death that had swept all through the white, +cloudless day. It burst harmlessly--that shell--and meant no more than a +signal to fire to the soldiers closing in on Caney, the Cubans lurking +around a block-house at a safe artillery distance in the woods and to +the impatient battery before San Juan. Retrospectively now, it meant the +death-knell of brave men, the quick cry and long groaning of the +wounded, the pained breathing of sick and fever-stricken, the quickened +heart-beats of the waiting and anxious at home--the low sobbing of the +women to whom fatal news came. It meant Cervera's gallant dash, Sampson +and Schley's great victory, the fall of Santiago; freedom for Cuba, a +quieter sleep for the _Maine_ dead, and peace with Spain. Once more, as +he rose, he looked at the dark woods, the dead-haunted jungles which the +moon was draping with a more than mortal beauty, and he knew that in +them, as in the long grass of the orchard-like valley below him, comrade +was looking for dead comrade. And among the searchers was the faithful +Bob, looking for his Old Captain, Crittenden, his honest heart nigh to +bursting, for already he had found Raincrow torn with a shell and he had +borne a body back to the horror-haunted little hospital under the creek +bank at the Bloody Ford--a body from which the head hung over his +shoulder--limp, with a bullet-hole through the neck--the body of his +Young Captain, Basil. + + + + +XII + + +Grafton sat, sobered and saddened, where he was awhile. The moon swung +upward white and peaceful, toward mild-eyed stars. Crickets chirped in +the grass around him, and nature's low night-music started in the wood +and the valley below, as though the earth had never known the hell of +fire and human passion that had rocked it through that day. Was there so +much difference between the creatures of the earth and the creatures of +his own proud estate? Had they not both been on the same brute level +that day? And, save for the wounded and the men who had comrades wounded +and dead, were not the unharmed as careless, almost as indifferent as +cricket and tree-toad to the tragedies of their sphere? Had there been +any inner change in any man who had fought that day that was not for the +worse? Would he himself get normal again, he wondered? Was there one +sensitive soul who fully realized the horror of that day? If so, he +would better have been at home. The one fact that stood above every +thought that had come to him that day was the utter, the startling +insignificance of death. Could that mean much more than a startlingly +sudden lowering of the estimate put upon human life? Across the hollow +behind him and from a tall palm over the Spanish trenches, rose, loud +and clear, the night-song of a mocking-bird. Over there the little men +in blue were toiling, toiling, toiling at their trenches; and along the +crest of the hill the big men in blue were toiling, toiling, toiling at +theirs. All through the night anxious eyes would be strained for +Chaffee, and at dawn the slaughter would begin again. Wherever he +looked, he could see with his mind's eye stark faces in the long grass +of the valley and the Spanish-bayonet clumps in the woods. All day he +had seen them there--dying of thirst, bleeding to death--alone. As he +went down the hill, lights were moving along the creek bed. A row of +muffled dead lay along the bed of the creek. Yet they were still +bringing in dead and wounded--a dead officer with his will and a letter +to his wife clasped in his hand. He had lived long enough to write them. +Hollow-eyed surgeons were moving here and there. Up the bank of the +creek, a voice rose: + +"Come on, boys"--appealingly--"you're not going back on me. Come on, you +cursed cowards! Good! Good! I take it back, boys. _Now_ we've got 'em!" + +Another voice: "Kill me, somebody--kill me. For God's sake, kill me. +Won't somebody give me a pistol? God--God...." + +Once Grafton started into a tent. On the first cot lay a handsome boy, +with a white, frank face and a bullet hole through his neck, and he +recognized the dashing little fellow whom he had seen splashing through +the Bloody Ford at a gallop, dropping from his horse at a barbed-wire +fence, and dashing on afoot with the Rough Riders. The face bore a +strong likeness to the face he had seen on the hill--of the Kentuckian, +Crittenden--the Kentucky regular, as Grafton always mentally +characterized him--and he wondered if the boy were not the brother of +whom he had heard. The lad was still alive--but how could he live with +that wound in his throat? Grafton's eyes filled with tears: it was +horror--horror--all horror. + +Here and there along the shadowed road lay a lifeless mule or horse or a +dead man. It was curious, but a man killed in battle was not like an +ordinary dead man--he was no more than he was--a lump of clay. It was +more curious still that one's pity seemed less acute for man than for +horse: it was the man's choice to take the risk--the horse had no +choice. + +Here and there by the roadside was a grave. Comrades had halted there +long enough to save a comrade from the birds of prey. Every now and +then he would meet a pack-train loaded with ammunition and ration boxes; +or a wagon drawn by six mules and driven by a swearing, fearless, +tireless teamster. The forest was ringing with the noise of wheels, the +creaking of harness, the shouts of teamsters and the guards with them +and the officer in charge--all on the way to the working beavers on top +of the conquered hill. + +Going the other way were the poor wounded, on foot, in little groups of +slowly moving twos and threes, and in jolting, springless army +wagons--on their way of torture to more torture in the rear. His heart +bled for them. And the way those men took their suffering! Sometimes the +jolting wagons were too much for human endurance, and soldiers would +pray for the driver, when he stopped, not to start again. In one +ambulance that he overtook, a man groaned. "Grit your teeth," said +another, an old Irish sergeant, sternly--"Grit your teeth; there's +others that's hurt worse'n you." The Sergeant lifted his head, and a +bandage showed that he was shot through the face, and Grafton heard not +another sound. But it was the slightly hurt--the men shot in the leg or +arm--who made the most noise. He had seen three men brought into the +hospital from San Juan. The surgeon took the one who was groaning. He +had a mere scratch on one leg. Another was dressed, and while the third +sat silently on a stool, still another was attended, and another, before +the surgeon turned to the man who was so patiently awaiting his turn. + +"Where are you hurt?" + +The man pointed to his left side. + +"Through?" + +"Yes, sir." + +That day he had seen a soldier stagger out from the firing-line with +half his face shot away and go staggering to the rear without aid. On +the way he met a mounted staff officer, and he raised his hand to his +hatless, bleeding forehead, in a stern salute and, without a gesture for +aid, staggered on. The officer's eyes filled with tears. + +"Lieutenant," said a trooper, just after the charge on the trenches, "I +think I'm wounded." + +"Can you get to the rear without help?" + +"I think I can, sir," and he started. After twenty paces he pitched +forward--dead. His wound was through the heart. + +At the divisional hospital were more lights, tents, surgeons, stripped +figures on the tables under the lights; rows of figures in darkness +outside the tents; and rows of muffled shapes behind; the smell of +anćsthetics and cleansing fluids; heavy breathing, heavy groaning, and +an occasional curse on the night air. + +Beyond him was a stretch of moonlit road and coming toward him was a +soldier, his arm in a sling, and staggering weakly from side to side. +With a start of pure gladness he saw that it was Crittenden, and he +advanced with his hand outstretched. + +"Are you badly hurt?" + +"Oh, no," said Crittenden, pointing to his hand and arm, but not +mentioning the bullet through his chest. + +"Oh, but I'm glad. I thought you were gone sure when I saw you laid out +on the hill." + +"Oh, I am all right," he said, and his manner was as courteous as though +he had been in a drawing-room; but, in spite of his nonchalance, Grafton +saw him stagger when he moved off. + +"I say, you oughtn't to be walking," he called. "Let me help you," but +Crittenden waved him off. + +"Oh, I'm all right," he repeated, and then he stopped. "Do you know +where the hospital is?" + +"God!" said Grafton softly, and he ran back and put his arm around the +soldier--Crittenden laughing weakly: + +"I missed it somehow." + +"Yes, it's back here," said Grafton gently, and he saw now that the +soldier's eyes were dazed and that he breathed heavily and leaned on +him, laughing and apologizing now and then with a curious shame at his +weakness. As they turned from the road at the hospital entrance, +Crittenden dropped to the ground. + +"Thank you, but I'm afraid I'll have to rest a little while now. I'm all +right now--don't bother--don't--bother. I'm all right. I feel kind o' +sleepy--somehow--very kind--thank--" and he closed his eyes. A surgeon +was passing and Grafton called him. + +"He's all right," said the surgeon, with a swift look, adding shortly, +"but he must take his turn." + +Grafton passed on--sick. On along the muddy road--through more +pack-trains, wagons, shouts, creakings, cursings. On through the +beautiful moonlight night and through the beautiful tropical forest, +under tall cocoanut and taller palm; on past the one long grave of the +Rough Riders--along the battle-line of the first little fight--through +the ghastly, many-coloured masses of hideous land-crabs shuffling +sidewise into the cactus and shuffling on with an unearthly rustling of +dead twig and fallen leaf: along the crest of the foothills and down to +the little town of Siboney, lighted, bustling with preparation for the +wounded in the tents; bustling at the beach with the unloading of +rations, the transports moving here and there far out on the moonlighted +sea. Down there were straggler, wounded soldier, teamster, mule-packer, +refugee Cuban, correspondent, nurse, doctor, surgeon--the flotsam and +jetsam of the battle of the day. + + * * * * * + +The moon rose. + +"Water! water! water!" + +Crittenden could not move. He could see the lights in the tents; the +half-naked figures stretched on tables; and doctors with bloody arms +about them--cutting and bandaging--one with his hands inside a man's +stomach, working and kneading the bowels as though they were dough. Now +and then four negro troopers would appear with something in a blanket, +would walk around the tent where there was a long trench, and, standing +at the head of this, two would lift up their ends of the blanket and the +other two would let go, and a shapeless shape would drop into the +trench. Up and down near by strolled two young Lieutenants, smoking +cigarettes--calmly, carelessly. He could see all this, but that was all +right; that was all right! Everything was all right except that long, +black shape in the shadow near him gasping: + +"Water! water! water!" + +He could not stand that hoarse, rasping whisper much longer. His canteen +he had clung to--the regular had taught him that--and he tried again to +move. A thousand needles shot through him--every one, it seemed, passing +through a nerve-centre and back the same path again. He heard his own +teeth crunch as he had often heard the teeth of a drunken man crunch, +and then he became unconscious. When he came to, the man was still +muttering; but this time it was a woman's name, and Crittenden lay +still. Good God! + +"Judith--Judith--Judith!" each time more faintly still. There were other +Judiths in the world, but the voice--he knew the voice--somewhere he had +heard it. The moon was coming; it had crossed the other man's feet and +was creeping up his twisted body. It would reach his face in time, and, +if he could keep from fainting again, he would see. + +"Water! water! water!" + +Why did not some one answer? Crittenden called and called and called; +but he could little more than whisper. The man would die and be thrown +into that trench; or _he_ might, and never know! He raised himself on +one elbow again and dragged his quivering body after it; he clinched his +teeth; he could hear them crunching again; he was near him now; he would +not faint; and then the blood gushed from his mouth and he felt the +darkness coming again, and again he heard: + +"Judith--Judith!" + +Then there were footsteps near him and a voice--a careless voice: + +"He's gone." + +He felt himself caught, and turned over; a hand was put to his heart for +a moment and the same voice: + +"Bring in that other man; no use fooling with this one." + +When the light came back to him again, he turned his head feebly. The +shape was still there, but the moonlight had risen to the dead man's +breast and glittered on the edge of something that was clinched in his +right hand. It was a miniature, and Crittenden stared at +it--unwinking--stared and stared while it slowly came into the strong, +white light. It looked like the face of Judith. It wasn't, of course, +but he dragged himself slowly, slowly closer. It was Judith--Judith as +he had known her years ago. He must see now; he _must_ see _now_, and he +dragged himself on and up until his eyes bent over the dead man's face. +He fell back then, and painfully edged himself away, shuddering. + +"Blackford! Judith! Blackford!" + +He was face to face with the man he had longed so many years to see; he +was face to face at last with him--dead. + +As he lay there, his mood changed and softened and a curious pity filled +him through and through. And presently he reached out with his left hand +and closed the dead man's eyes and drew his right arm to his side, and +with his left foot he straightened the dead man's right leg. The face +was in clear view presently--the handsome, dare-devil face--strangely +shorn of its evil lines now by the master-sculptor of the spirit--Death. +Peace was come to the face now; peace to the turbulent spirit; peace to +the man whose heart was pure and whose blood was tainted; who had lived +ever in the light of a baleful star. He had loved, and he had been +faithful to the end; and such a fate might have been his--as justly--God +knew. + +Footsteps approached again and Crittenden turned his head. + +"Why, he isn't dead!" + +It was Willings, the surgeon he had known at Chickamauga, and Crittenden +called him by name. + +"No, I'm not dead--I'm not going to die." + +Willings gave an exclamation of surprise. + +"Well, there's grit for you," said the other surgeon. "We'll take him +next." + +"Straighten _him_ out there, won't you?" said Crittenden, gently, as +the two men stooped for him. + +"Don't put him in there, please," nodding toward the trench behind the +tents; "and mark his grave, won't you, Doctor? He's my bunkie." + +"All right," said Willings, kindly. + +"And Doctor, give me _that_--what he has in his hand, please. I know +her." + + * * * * * + +A tent at Siboney in the fever-camp overlooking the sea. + +"Judith! Judith! Judith!" + +The doctor pointed to the sick man's name. + +"Answer him?" + +But the nurse would not call his name. + +"Yes, dear," she said, gently; and she put one hand on his forehead and +the other on the hand that was clinched on his breast. Slowly his hand +loosened and clasped hers tight, and Crittenden passed, by and by, into +sleep. The doctor looked at him closely. + +He had just made the rounds of the tents outside, and he was marvelling. +There were men who had fought bravely, who had stood wounds and the +surgeon's knife without a murmur; who, weakened and demoralized by fever +now, were weak and puling of spirit, and sly and thievish; who would +steal the food of the very comrades for whom a little while before they +had risked their lives--men who in a fortnight had fallen from a high +plane of life to the pitiful level of brutes. Only here and there was an +exception. This man, Crittenden, was one. When sane, he was gentle, +uncomplaining, considerate. Delirious, there was never a plaint in his +voice; never a word passed his lips that his own mother might not hear; +and when his lips closed, an undaunted spirit kept them firm. + +"Aren't you tired?" + +The nurse shook her head. + +"Then you had better stay where you are; his case is pretty serious. +I'll do your work for you." + +The nurse nodded and smiled. She was tired and worn to death, but she +sat as she was till dawn came over the sea, for the sake of the girl, +whose fresh young face she saw above the sick man's heart. And she knew +from the face that the other woman would have watched just that way for +her. + + + + +XIII + + +The thunder of big guns, Cervera's doom, and truce at the trenches. A +trying week of hot sun, cool nights, tropical rains, and fevers. Then a +harmless little bombardment one Sunday afternoon--that befitted the day; +another week of heat and cold and wet and sickness. After that, the +surrender--and the fierce little war was over. + +Meantime, sick and wounded were homeward bound, and of the Crittendens +Bob was the first to reach Canewood. He came in one morning, hungry and +footsore, but with a swagger of importance that he had well earned. + +He had left his Young Captain Basil at Old Point Comfort, he said, where +the boy, not having had enough of war, had slipped aboard a transport +and gone off with the Kentucky Legion for Porto Rico--the unhappy Legion +that had fumed all summer at Chickamauga--and had hoisted sail for Porto +Rico, without daring to look backward for fear it should be wigwagged +back to land from Washington. + +Was Basil well? + +"Yas'm. Young Cap'n didn' min' dat little bullet right through his neck +no mo'n a fly-bite. Nothin' gwine to keep dat boy back." + +They had let him out of the hospital, or, rather, he had gotten out by +dressing himself when his doctor was not there. An attendant tried to +stop him. + +"An' Young Cap'n he jes drew hisself up mighty gran' an' says: 'I'm +going to join my regiment,' he says. 'It sails to-morrow.' But Ole Cap'n +done killed," Bob reckoned; "killed on top of the hill where they druv +the Spaniards out of the ditches whar they wus shootin' from." + +Mrs. Crittenden smiled. + +"No, Bob, he's coming home now," and Bob's eyes streamed. "You've been a +good boy, Bob. Come here;" and she led him into the hallway and told him +to wait, while she went to the door of her room and called some one. + +Molly came out embarrassed, twisting a corner of her apron and putting +it in her mouth while she walked forward and awkwardly shook hands. + +"I think Molly has got something to say to you, Bob. You can go, Molly," +she added, smiling. + +The two walked toward the cabin, the negroes crowding about Bob and +shaking him by the hand and asking a thousand absurd questions; and +Bob, while he was affable, was lordly as well, and one or two of Bob's +possible rivals were seen to sniff, as did other young field hands, +though Bob's mammy was, for the first time in her life, grinning openly +with pride in her "chile," and she waved the curious away and took the +two in her own cabin, reappearing presently and walking toward the +kitchen. + +Bob and Molly sat down on opposite sides of the fireplace, Bob +triumphant at last, and Molly watching him furtively. + +"I believe you has somethin' to say to me, Miss Johnson," said Bob, +loftily. + +"Well, I sut'nly is glad to welcome you home ag'in, Mistuh Crittenden," +said Molly. + +"Is you?" + +Bob was quite independent now, and Molly began to weaken slightly. + +"An' is dat all you got to say?" + +"Ole Miss said I must tell you that I was mighty--mean--to--you--when +you went--to--de wah, an' that--I'm sorry." + +"Well, _is_ you sorry?" + +Molly was silent. + +"Quit yo' foolin', gal; quit yo' foolin'." + +In a moment Bob was by her side, and with his arm around her; and Molly +rose to her feet with an ineffectual effort to unclasp his hands. + +"Quit yo' foolin'!" + +Bob's strong arms began to tighten, and the girl in a moment turned and +gave way into his arms, and with her head on his shoulder, began to cry. +But Bob knew what sort of tears they were, and he was as gentle as +though his skin had been as white as was his heart. + + * * * * * + +And Crittenden was coming home--Colour-Sergeant Crittenden, who had got +out of the hospital and back to the trenches just in time to receive +flag and chevrons on the very day of the surrender--only to fall ill of +the fever and go back to the hospital that same day. There was Tampa +once more--the great hotel, the streets, silent and deserted, except for +the occasional officer that rode or marched through the deep dust of the +town, and the other soldiers, regulars and volunteers, who had suffered +the disappointment, the heat, sickness, and hardship of war with little +credit from the nation at large, and no reward, such even as a like +fidelity in any path of peace would have brought them. + +Half out of his head, weak and feverish, Crittenden climbed into the +dusty train and was whirled through the dusty town, out through dry +marshes and dusty woods and dusty, cheerless, dead-flowered fields, but +with an exhilaration that made his temple throb like a woman's. + +Up through the blistered, sandy, piney lowlands; through Chickamauga +again, full of volunteers who, too, had suffered and risked all the ills +of the war without one thrill of compensation; and on again, until he +was once more on the edge of the Bluegrass, with birds singing the sun +down; and again the world for him was changed--from nervous exaltation +to an air of balm and peace; from grim hills to the rolling sweep of +low, brown slopes; from giant-poplar to broad oak and sugar-tree; from +log-cabin to homestead of brick and stone. And so, from mountain of Cuba +and mountain of his own land, Crittenden once more passed home. It had +been green spring for the earth when he left, but autumn in his heart. +Now autumn lay over the earth, but in his heart was spring. + +As he glanced out of the window, he could see a great crowd about the +station. A brass band was standing in front of the station-door--some +holiday excursion was on foot, he thought. As he stepped on the +platform, a great cheer was raised and a dozen men swept toward him, +friends, personal and political, but when they saw him pale, thin, +lean-faced, feverish, dull-eyed, the cheers stopped and two powerful +fellows took him by the arms and half carried him to the station-door, +where were waiting his mother--and little Phyllis. + +When they came out again to the carriage, the band started "Johnny Comes +Marching Home Again," and Crittenden asked feebly: + +"What does all this mean?" + +Phyllis laughed through her tears. + +"That's for you." + +Crittenden's brow wrinkled in a pathetic effort to collect his thoughts; +but he gave it up and looked at his mother with an unspoken question on +his lips. His mother smiled merely, and Crittenden wondered why; but +somehow he was not particularly curious--he was not particularly +concerned about anything. In fact, he was getting weaker, and the +excitement at the station was bringing on the fever again. Half the time +his eyes were closed, and when he opened them on the swiftly passing +autumn fields, his gaze was listless. Once he muttered several times, as +though he were out of his head; and when they drove into the yard, his +face was turning blue at the lips and his teeth began to chatter. Close +behind came the doctor's buggy. + +Crittenden climbed out slowly and slowly mounted the stiles. On the top +step he sat down, looking at the old homestead and the barn and the +stubble wheat-fields beyond, and at the servants coming from the +quarters to welcome him, while his mother stood watching and fondly +humouring him. + +"Uncle Ephraim," he said to a respectful old white-haired man, "where's +my buggy?" + +"Right where you left it, suh." + +"Well, hitch up--" Raincrow, he was about to say, and then he remembered +that Raincrow was dead. "Have you got anything to drive?" + +"Yessuh; we got Mr. Basil's little mare." + +"Hitch her up to my buggy, then, right away. I want you to drive me." + +The old darky looked puzzled, but Mrs. Crittenden, still with the idea +of humouring him, nodded for him to obey, and the old man turned toward +the stable. + +"Yessuh--right away, suh." + +"Where's Basil, mother?" + +Phyllis turned her face quickly. + +"He'll be here soon," said his mother, with a smile. + +The doctor looked at his flushed face. + +"Come on, my boy," he said, firmly. "You must get out of the sun." + +Crittenden shook his head. + +"Mother, have I ever done anything that you asked me not to do?" + +"No, my son." + +"Please don't make me begin now," he said, gently. "Is--is she at home?" + +"Yes; but she is not very well. She has been ill a long while," she +added, but she did not tell him that Judith had been nursing at Tampa, +and that she had been sent home, stricken with fever. + +The doctor had been counting his pulse, and now, with a grave look, +pulled a thermometer from his pocket; but Crittenden waved him away. + +"Not yet, Doctor; not yet," he said, and stopped a moment to control his +voice before he went on. + +"I know what's the matter better than you do. I'm going to have the +fever again; but I've got something to do before I go to bed, or I'll +never get up again. I have come up from Tampa just this way, and I can +go on like this for two more hours; and I'm going." + +The doctor started to speak, but Mrs. Crittenden shook her head at him, +and Phyllis's face, too, was pleading for him. + +"Mother, I'll be back in two hours, and then I'll do just what you and +the doctor say; but not now." + + * * * * * + +Judith sat bare-headed on the porch with a white shawl drawn closely +about her neck and about her half-bare arms. Behind her, on the floor of +the porch, was, where she had thrown it, a paper in which there was a +column about the home-coming of Crittenden--plain Sergeant Crittenden. +And there was a long editorial comment, full of national spirit, and a +plain statement to the effect that the next vacant seat in Congress was +his without the asking. + +The pike-gate slammed--her father was getting home from town. The buggy +coming over the turf made her think what a change a few months had +brought to Crittenden and to her; of the ride home with him the previous +spring; and what she rarely allowed herself, she thought of the night of +their parting and the warm colour came to her cheeks. He had never sent +her a line, of course. The matter would never be mentioned--it couldn't +be. It struck her while she was listening to the coming of the feet on +the turf that they were much swifter than her father's steady-going old +buggy horse. The click was different; and when the buggy, instead of +turning toward the stable, came straight for the stiles, her heart +quickened and she raised her head. She heard acutely the creak of the +springs as some one stepped to the ground, and then, without waiting to +tie his horse, stepped slowly over the stiles. Unconsciously she rose to +her feet, not knowing what to think--to do. And then she saw that the +man wore a slouch hat, that his coat was off, and that a huge pistol was +buckled around him, and she turned for the door in alarm. + +"Judith!" + +The voice was weak, and she did not know it; but in a moment the light +from the lamp in the hallway fell upon a bare-headed, gaunt-featured man +in the uniform of a common soldier. + +"Judith!" + +This time the voice broke a little, and for a moment Judith stood +speechless--still--unable to believe that the wreck before her was +Crittenden. His face and eyes were on fire--the fire of fever--she could +not know that; and he was trembling and looked hardly able to stand. + +"I've come, Judith," he said. "I haven't known what to do, and I've come +to tell you--to--ask----" + +He was searching her face anxiously, and he stopped suddenly and passed +one hand across, his eyes, as though he were trying to recall something. +The girl had drawn herself slowly upward until the honeysuckle above her +head touched her hair, and her face, that had been so full of aching +pity for him that in another moment she must have gone and put her arms +about him, took on a sudden, hard quiet; and the long anguish of the +summer came out suddenly in her trembling lip and the whiteness of her +face. + +"To ask for forgiveness," he might have said; but his instinct swerved +him; and-- + +"For mercy, Judith," he would have said, but the look of her face +stopped the words in an unheard whisper; and he stooped slowly, feeling +carefully for a step, and letting himself weakly down in a way that +almost unnerved her again; but he had begun to talk now, quietly and +evenly, and without looking up at her. + +"I'm not going to stay long. I'm not going to worry you. I'll go away in +just a moment; but I had to come; I had to come. I've been a little +sick, and I believe I've not quite got over the fever yet; but I +couldn't go through it again without seeing you. I know that, and +that's--why--I've--come. It isn't the fever. Oh, no; I'm not sick at +all. I'm very well, thank you----" + +He was getting incoherent, and he knew it, and stopped a moment. + +"It's you, Judith----" + +He stopped again, and with a painful effort went on slowly--slowly and +quietly, and the girl, without a word, stood still, looking down at him. + +"I--used--to--think--that--I--loved--you. I--used--to--think I +was--a--man. I didn't know what love was, and I didn't know what it was +to be a man. I know both now, thank God, and learning each has helped me +to learn the other. If I killed all your feeling for me, I deserve the +loss; but you must have known, Judith, that I was not myself that +night. You did know. Your instinct told you the truth; you--knew--I +loved--you--then--and that's why--that's why--you--God bless +you--said--what--you--did. To think that I should ever dare to open my +lips again! but I can't help it; I can't help it. I was crazy, +Judith--crazy--and I am now; but it didn't go and then come back. It +never went at all, as I found out, going down to Cuba--and yes, it did +come back; but it was a thousand times higher and better love than it +had ever been, for everything came back and I was a better man. I have +seen nothing but your face all the time--nothing--nothing, all the time +I've been gone; and I couldn't rest or sleep--I couldn't even die, +Judith, until I had come to tell you that I never knew a man could love +a woman as--I--love--you--Judith. I----" + +He rose very slowly, turned, and as he passed from the light, his +weakness got the better of him for the first time, because of his wounds +and sickness, and his voice broke in a half sob--the sob that is so +terrible to a woman's ears; and she saw him clinch his arms fiercely +around his breast to stifle it. + + * * * * * + +It was the old story that night--the story of the summer's heat and +horror and suffering--heard and seen, and keenly felt in his delirium: +the dusty, grimy days of drill on the hot sands of Tampa; the long, +long, hot wait on the transport in the harbour; the stuffy, ill-smelling +breath of the hold, when the wind was wrong; the march along the coast +and the grewsome life over and around him--buzzard and strange bird in +the air, and crab and snail and lizard and scorpion and hairy tarantula +scuttling through the tropical green rushes along the path. And the +hunger and thirst and heat and dirt and rolling sweat of the last day's +march and every detail of the day's fight; the stench of dead horse and +dead man; the shriek of shell and rattle of musketry and yell of +officer; the slow rush through the long grass, and the climb up the +hill. And always, he was tramping, tramping, tramping through long, +green, thick grass. Sometimes a kaleidoscope series of pictures would go +jumbling through his brain, as though some imp were unrolling the scroll +of his brain backward, forward, and sidewise; a whirling cloud of sand, +a driving sheet of visible bullets; a hose-pipe that shot streams of +melted steel; a forest of smokestacks; the flash of trailing +phosphorescent foam; a clear sky, full of stars--the mountains clear and +radiant through sunlit vapours; camp-fires shooting flames into the +darkness, and men and guns moving past them. Through it all he could +feel his legs moving and his feet tramping, tramping, tramping through +long green grass. Sometimes he was tramping toward the figure of a +woman, whose face looked like Judith's; and tramp as he could, he could +never get close enough through that grass to know whether it was Judith +or not. But usually it was a hill that he was tramping toward, and then +his foothold was good; and while he went slowly he got forward and he +reached the hill, and he climbed it to a queer-looking little +block-house on top, from which queer-looking little blue men were +running. And now and then one would drop and not get up again. And by +and by came his time to drop. Then he would begin all over again, or he +would go back to the coast, which he preferred to do, in spite of his +aching wound, and the long wait in the hospital and the place where poor +Reynolds was tossed into the air and into fragments by a shell; in spite +of the long walk back to Siboney, the graves of the Rough Riders and the +scuttling land-crabs; and the heat and the smells. Then he would march +back again to the trenches in his dream, as he had done in Cuba when he +got out of the hospital. There was the hill up which he had charged. It +looked like the abode of cave-dwellers--so burrowed was it with +bomb-proofs. He could hear the shouts of welcome as his comrades, and +men who had never spoken to him before, crowded about him. + +How often he lived through that last proud little drama of his soldier +life! There was his Captain wounded, and there was the old Sergeant--the +"Governor"--with chevrons and a flag. + +"You're a Sergeant, Crittenden," said the Captain. + +He, Crittenden, in blood and sympathy the spirit of secession--bearer +now of the Stars and Stripes! How his heart thumped, and how his head +reeled when he caught the staff and looked dumbly up to the folds; and +in spite of all his self-control, the tears came, as they came again and +again in his delirium. + +Right at that moment there was a great bustle in camp. And still holding +that flag, Crittenden marched with his company up to the trenches. There +was the army drawn up at parade, in a great ten-mile half-circle and +facing Santiago. There were the red roofs of the town, and the +batteries, which were to thunder word when the red and yellow flag of +defeat went down and the victorious Stars and Stripes rose up. There +were little men in straw hats and blue clothes coming from Santiago, and +swinging hammocks and tethering horses in an open field, while more +little men in Panama hats were advancing on the American trenches, +saluting courteously. And there were American officers jumping across +the trenches to meet them, and while they were shaking hands, on the +very stroke of twelve, there came thunder--the thunder of two-score and +one salutes. And the cheers--the cheers! From the right rose those +cheers, gathering volume as they came, swinging through the centre far +to the left, and swinging through the centre back again, until they +broke in a wild storm against the big, green hills. A storm that ran +down the foothills to the rear, was mingled with the surf at Siboney and +swung by the rocking transports out to sea. Under the sea, too, it sang, +along the cables, to ring on through the white corridors of the great +capitol and spread like a hurricane throughout all the waiting land at +home! Then he could hear bands playing--playing the "Star-Spangled +Banner"--and the soldiers cheering and cheering again. Suddenly there +was quiet; the bands were playing hymns--old, old hymns that the soldier +had heard with bowed head at his mother's knee, or in some little old +country church at home--and what hardships, privations, wounds, death of +comrades had rarely done, those old hymns did now--they brought tears. +Then some thoughtful soldier pulled a box of hardtack across the +trenches and the little Spanish soldiers fell upon it like schoolboys +and scrambled like pickaninnies for a penny. + +Thus it was that day all around the shining circle of sheathed bayonets, +silent carbines, and dumb cannon-mouths at the American trenches around +Santiago, where the fighting was done. + +And on a little knoll not far away stood Sergeant Crittenden, swaying on +his feet--colour-sergeant to the folds of the ever-victorious, +ever-beloved Old Glory waving over him, with a strange new wave of +feeling surging through him. For then and there, Crittenden, Southerner, +died straightway and through a travail of wounds, suffering, sickness, +devotion, and love for that flag--Crittenden, American, was born. And +just at that proud moment, he would feel once more the dizziness seize +him. The world would turn dark, and again he would sink slowly. + +And again, when all this was over, the sick man would go back to the +long grass and tramp it once more until his legs ached and his brain +swam. And when it was the hill that he could see, he was quiet and got +rest for a while; and when it was the figure of Judith--he knew now that +it _was_ Judith--he would call aloud for her, just as he did in the +hospital at Siboney. And always the tramp through the long grass would +begin again-- + +Tramp--tramp--tramp. + +He was very tired, but there was the long grass ahead of him, and he +must get through it somehow. + +Tramp--tramp--tramp. + + * * * * * + + + + +XIV + + +Autumn came and the Legion was coming home--Basil was coming home. And +Phyllis was for one hour haughty and unforgiving over what she called +his shameful neglect and, for another, in a fever of unrest to see him. +No, she was not going to meet him. She would wait for him at her own +home, and he could come to her there with the honours of war on his brow +and plead on bended knee to be forgiven. At least that was the picture +that she sometimes surprised in her own mind, though she did not want +Basil kneeling to anybody--not even to her. + +The town made ready, and the spirit of welcome for the home-coming was +oddly like the spirit of God-speed that had followed them six months +before; only there were more smiling faces, more and madder cheers, and +as many tears, but this time they were tears of joy. For many a mother +and daughter who did not weep when father and brother went away, wept +now, that they were coming home again. They had run the risk of fever +and sickness, the real terrors of war. God knew they had done their +best to get to the front, and the people knew what account they would +have given of themselves had they gotten their chance at war. They had +had all the hardship--the long, long hardship without the one moment of +recompense that was the soldier's reward and his sole opportunity for +death or glory. So the people gave them all the deserved honour that +they would have given had they stormed San Juan or the stone fort at +Caney. The change that even in that short time was wrought in the +regiment, everybody saw; but only the old ex-Confederates and Federals +on the street knew the steady, veteran-like swing of the march and felt +the solid unity of form and spirit that those few months had brought to +the tanned youths who marched now like soldiers indeed. And next the +Colonel rode the hero of the regiment, who _had_ got to Cuba, who _had_ +stormed the hill, and who had met a Spanish bullet face to face and come +off conqueror--Basil, sitting his horse as only the Southerner, born to +the saddle, can. How they cheered him, and how the gallant, generous old +Colonel nodded and bowed as though to say: + +"That's right; that's right. Give it to him! give it to him!" + +Phyllis--her mother and Basil's mother being present--shook hands merely +with Basil when she saw him first at the old woodland, and Basil +blushed like a girl. They fell behind as the older people walked toward +the auditorium, and Basil managed to get hold of her hand, but she +pulled it away rather haughtily. She was looking at him very +reproachfully, a moment later, when her eyes became suddenly fixed to +the neck of his blouse, and filled with tears. She began to cry softly. + +"Why, Phyllis." + +Phyllis was giving way, and, thereupon, with her own mother and Basil's +mother looking on, and to Basil's blushing consternation, she darted for +his neck-band and kissed him on the throat. The throat flushed, and in +the flush a tiny white spot showed--the mouth of a tiny wound where a +Mauser bullet had hissed straight through. + +Then the old auditorium again, and Crittenden, who had welcomed the +Legion to camp at Ashland, was out of bed, against the doctor's advice, +to welcome it to home and fireside. And when he faced the crowd--if they +cheered Basil, what did they do now? He was startled by the roar that +broke against the roof. As he stood there, still pale, erect, modest, +two pairs of eyes saw what no other eyes saw, two minds were thinking +what none others were--the mother and Judith Page. Others saw him as the +soldier, the generous brother, the returned hero. These two looked +deeper and saw the new man who had been forged from dross by the fire of +battle and fever and the fire of love. There was much humility in the +face, a new fire in the eyes, a nobler bearing--and his bearing had +always been proud--a nobler sincerity, a nobler purpose. + +He spoke not a word of himself--not a word of the sickness through which +he had passed. It was of the long patience and the patriotism of the +American soldier, the hardship of camp life, the body-wearing travail of +the march in tropical heat. And then he paid his tribute to the regular. +There was no danger of the volunteer failing to get credit for what he +had done, but the regular--there was no one to speak for him in camp, on +the transports, on the march, in tropical heat, and on the battlefield. +He had seen the regular hungry, wet, sick, but fighting still; and he +had seen him wounded, dying, dead, and never had he known anything but +perfect kindness from one to the other; perfect courtesy to outsider; +perfect devotion to officer, and never a word of complaint--never one +word of complaint. + +"Sometimes I think that the regular who has gone will not open his lips +if the God of Battles tells him that not yet has he earned eternal +peace." + +As for the war itself, it had placed the nation high among the seats of +the Mighty. It had increased our national pride, through unity, a +thousand fold. It would show to the world and to ourselves that the +heroic mould in which the sires of the nation were cast is still casting +the sons of to-day; that we need not fear degeneracy nor dissolution for +another hundred years--smiling as he said this, as though the dreams of +Greece and Rome were to become realities here. It had put to rest for a +time the troublous social problems of the day; it had brought together +every social element in our national life--coal-heaver and millionaire, +student and cowboy, plain man and gentleman, regular and volunteer--had +brought them face to face and taught each for the other tolerance, +understanding, sympathy, high regard; and had wheeled all into a solid +front against a common foe. It had thus not only brought shoulder to +shoulder the brothers of the North and South, but those brothers +shoulder to shoulder with our brothers across the sea. In the interest +of humanity, it had freed twelve million people of an alien race and +another land, and it had given us a better hope for the alien race in +our own. + +And who knew but that, up where France's great statue stood at the +wide-thrown portals of the Great City of the land, it had not given to +the mighty torch that nightly streams the light of Liberty across the +waters from the New World to the Old--who knew that it had not given to +that light a steady, ever-onward-reaching glow that some day should +illumine the earth? + + * * * * * + +The Cuban fever does not loosen its clutch easily. + +Crittenden went to bed that day and lay there delirious and in serious +danger for more than a fortnight. But at the end a reward came for all +the ills of his past and all that could ever come. + +His long fight was over, and that afternoon he lay by his window, which +was open to the rich, autumn sunlight that sifted through the woods and +over the pasture till it lay in golden sheens across the fence and the +yard and rested on his window-sill, rich enough almost to grasp with his +hand, should he reach out for it. There was a little colour in his +face--he had eaten one good meal that day, and his long fight with the +fever was won. He did not know that in his delirium he had spoken of +Judith--Judith--Judith--and this day and that had given out fragments +from which his mother could piece out the story of his love; that, at +the crisis, when his mother was about to go to the girl, Judith had come +of her own accord to his bedside. He did not know her, but he grew +quiet at once when the girl put her hand on his forehead. + +Now Crittenden was looking out on the sward, green with the curious +autumn-spring that comes in that Bluegrass land: a second spring that +came every year to nature, and was coming this year to him. And in his +mood for field and sky was the old, dreamy mistiness of pure +delight--spiritual--that he had not known for many years. It was the +spirit of his youth come back--that distant youth when the world was +without a shadow; when his own soul had no tarnish of evil; when passion +was unconscious and pure; when his boyish reverence was the only feeling +he knew toward every woman. And lying thus, as the sun sank and the +shadows stole slowly across the warm bands of sunlight, and the +meadow-lark called good-night from the meadows, whence the cows were +coming homeward and the sheep were still browsing--out of the quiet and +peace and stillness and purity and sweetness of it all came his last +vision--the vision of a boy with a fresh, open face and no shadow across +the mirror of his clear eyes. It looked like Basil, but it was "the +little brother" of himself coming back at last--coming with a glad, +welcoming smile. The little man was running swiftly across the fields +toward him. He had floated lightly over the fence, and was making +straight across the yard for his window; and there he rose and floated +in, and with a boy's trustfulness put his small, chubby hand in the big +brother's, and Crittenden felt the little fellow's cheek close to his as +he slept on, his lashes wet with tears. + +The mother opened the door; a tall figure slipped gently in; the door +was closed softly after it again, and Judith was alone; for Crittenden +still lay with his eyes closed, and the girl's face whitened with pity +and flamed slowly as she slowly slipped forward and stood looking down +at him. As she knelt down beside him, something that she held in her +hand clanked softly against the bed and Crittenden opened his eyes. + +"Mother!" + +There was no answer. Judith had buried her face in her hands. A sob +reached his ears and he turned quickly. + +"Judith," he said; "Judith," he repeated, with a quick breath. "Why, my +God, you! Why--you--you've come to see me! you, after all--you!" + +He raised himself slowly, and as he bent over her, he saw his father's +sword, caught tightly in her white hands--the old sword that was between +him and Basil to win and wear--and he knew the meaning of it all, and +he had to steady himself to keep back his own tears. + +"Judith!" + +His voice choked; he could get no further, and he folded his arms about +her head and buried his face in her hair. + + + + +XV + + +The gray walls of Indian summer tumbled at the horizon and let the glory +of many fires shine out among the leaves. Once or twice the breath of +winter smote the earth white at dawn. Christmas was coming, and God was +good that Christmas. + +Peace came to Crittenden during the long, dream-like days--and +happiness; and high resolve had deepened. + +Day by day, Judith opened to him some new phase of loveliness, and he +wondered how he could have ever thought that he knew her; that he loved +her, as he loved her now. He had given her the locket and had told her +the story of that night at the hospital. She had shown no surprise, and +but very little emotion; moreover, she was silent. And Crittenden, too, +was silent, and, as always, asked no questions. It was her secret; she +did not wish him to know, and his trust was unfaltering. Besides, he had +his secrets as well. He meant to tell her all some day, and she meant to +tell him; but the hours were so full of sweet companionship that both +forbore to throw the semblance of a shadow on the sunny days they spent +together. + +It was at the stiles one night that Judith handed Crittenden back the +locket that had come from the stiffened hand of the Rough Rider, +Blackford, along with a letter, stained, soiled, unstamped, addressed to +herself, marked on the envelope "Soldier's letter," and countersigned by +his Captain. + +"I heard him say at Chickamauga that he was from Kentucky," ran the +letter, "and that his name was Crittenden. I saw your name on a piece of +paper that blew out of his tent one day. I guessed what was between you +two, and I asked him to be my 'bunkie;' but as you never told him my +name, I never told him who I was. I went with the Rough Riders, but we +have been camped near each other. To-morrow comes the big fight. Our +regiments will doubtless advance together. I shall watch out for him as +long as I am alive. I shall be shot. It is no premonition--no fear, no +belief. I know it. I still have the locket you gave me. If I could, I +would give it to him; but he would know who I am, and it seems your wish +that he should not know. I should like to see you once more, but I +should not like you to see me. I am too much changed; I can see it in my +own face. Good-night. Good-by." + +There was no name signed. The initials were J. P., and Crittenden looked +up inquiringly. + +"His name was not Blackford; it was Page--Jack Page. He was my cousin," +she went on, gently. "That is why I never told you. It all happened +while you were at college. While you were here, he was usually out West; +and people thought we were merely cousins, and that I was weaning him +from his unhappy ways. I was young and foolish, but I had--you know the +rest." + +The tears gathered in her eyes. + +"God pity him!" + +Crittenden turned from her and walked to and fro, and Judith rose and +walked up to him, looking him in the eyes. + +"No, dear," she said; "I am sorry for him now--sorry, so sorry! I wish I +could have helped him more. That is all. It has all gone--long ago. It +never was. I did not know until I left you here at the stiles that +night." + +Crittenden looked inquiringly into her eyes before he stooped to kiss +her. She answered his look. + +"Yes," she said simply; "when I sent him away." + +Crittenden's conscience smote him sharply. What right had he to ask such +a question--even with a look? + +"Come, dear," he said; "I want to tell you all--now." + +But Judith stopped him with a gesture. + +"Is there anything that may cross your life hereafter--or mine?" + +"No, thank God; no!" + +Judith put her finger on his lips. + +"I don't want to know." + + * * * * * + +And God was good that Christmas. + +The day was snapping cold, and just a fortnight before Christmas eve. +There had been a heavy storm of wind and sleet the night before, and the +negroes of Canewood, headed by Bob and Uncle Ephraim, were searching the +woods for the biggest fallen oak they could find. The frozen grass was +strewn with wrenched limbs, and here and there was an ash or a +sugar-tree splintered and prostrate, but wily Uncle Ephraim was looking +for a yule-log that would burn slowly and burn long; for as long as the +log burned, just that long lasted the holiday of every darky on the +place. So the search was careful, and lasted till a yell rose from Bob +under a cliff by the side of the creek--a yell of triumph that sent the +negroes in a rush toward him. Bob stood on the torn and twisted roots of +a great oak that wind and ice had tugged from its creek-washed roots and +stretched parallel with the water--every tooth showing delight in his +find. With the cries and laughter of children, two boys sprang upon the +tree with axes, but Bob waved them back. + +"Go back an' git dat cross-cut saw!" he said. + +Bob, as ex-warrior, took precedence even of his elders now. + +"Fool niggers don't seem to know dar'll be mo' wood to burn if we don't +waste de chips!" + +The wisdom of this was clear, and, in a few minutes, the long-toothed +saw was singing through the tough bark of the old monarch--a darky at +each end of it, the tip of his tongue in the corner of his mouth, the +muscles of each powerful arm playing like cords of elastic steel under +its black skin--the sawyers, each time with a mighty grunt, drew the +shining, whistling blade to and fro to the handle. Presently they began +to sing--improvising: + + Pull him t'roo! (grunt) + Yes, man. + Pull him t'roo--huh! + Saw him to de heart. + + Gwine to have Christmas. + Yes, man! + Gwine to have Christmas. + Yes, man! + + Gwine to have Christmas + Long as he can bu'n. + + Burn long, log! + Yes, log! + Burn long, log! + Yes, log, + Heah me, log, burn long! + + Gib dis nigger Christmas. + Yes, Lawd, long Christmas! + Gib dis nigger Christmas. + O log, burn long! + +And the saw sang with them in perfect time, spitting out the black, +moist dust joyously--sang with them and without a breath for rest; for +as two pair of arms tired, another fresh pair of sinewy hands grasped +the handles. In an hour the whistle of the saw began to rise in key +higher and higher, and as the men slowed up carefully, it gave a little +high squeak of triumph, and with a "kerchunk" dropped to the ground. +With more cries and laughter, two men rushed for fence-rails to be used +as levers. + +There was a chorus now: + + Soak him in de water, + Up, now! + Soak him in de water, + Up, now! + O Lawd, soak long! + +There was a tightening of big, black biceps, a swelling of powerful +thighs, a straightening of mighty backs; the severed heart creaked and +groaned, rose slightly, turned and rolled with a great splash into the +black, winter water. Another delighted chorus: + +"Dyar now!" + +"Hol' on," said Bob; and he drove a spike into the end of the log, tied +one end of a rope to the spike, and the other to a pliant young hickory, +talking meanwhile: + +"Gwine to rain, an' maybe ole Mister Log try to slip away like a thief +in de dark. Don't git away from Bob; no suh. You be heah now Christmas +eve--sho'!" + +"Gord!" said a little negro with bandy legs. "Soak dat log till +Christmas an' I reckon he'll burn mo'n two weeks." + +God was good that Christmas--good to the nation, for He brought to it +victory and peace, and made it one and indivisible in feeling, as it +already was in fact; good to the State, for it had sprung loyally to the +defence of the country, and had won all the honour that was in the +effort to be won, and man nor soldier can do more; good to the mother, +for the whole land rang with praises of her sons, and her own people +swore that to one should be given once more the seat of his fathers in +the capitol; but best to her when the bishop came to ordain, and, on +his knees at the chancel and waiting for the good old man's hands, was +the best beloved of her children and her first-born--Clay Crittenden. To +her a divine purpose seemed apparent, to bring her back the best of the +old past and all she prayed for the future. + +As Christmas day drew near, gray clouds marshalled and loosed white +messengers of peace and good-will to the frozen earth until the land was +robed in a thick, soft, shining mantle of pure white--the first +spiritualization of the earth for the birth of spring. It was the +mother's wish that her two sons should marry on the same day and on that +day, and Judith and Phyllis yielded. So early that afternoon, she saw +together Judith, as pure and radiant as a snow-hung willow in the +sunshine, and her son, with the light in his face for which she had +prayed so many years--saw them standing together and clasp hands +forever. They took a short wedding trip, and that straight across the +crystal fields, where little Phyllis stood with Basil in +uniform--straight and tall and with new lines, too, but deepened merely, +about his handsome mouth and chin--waiting to have their lives made one. +And, meanwhile, Bob and Molly too were making ready; for if there be a +better hot-bed of sentiment than the mood of man and woman when the man +is going to war it is the mood of man and woman when the man has come +home from war; and with cries and grunts and great laughter and singing, +the negroes were pulling the yule-log from its long bath and across the +snowy fields; and when, at dusk, the mother brought her two sons and her +two daughters and the Pages and Stantons to her own roof, the big log, +hidden by sticks of pine and hickory, was sputtering Christmas cheer +with a blaze and crackle that warmed body and heart and home. That night +the friends came from afar and near; and that night Bob, the faithful, +valiant Bob, in a dress-suit that was his own and new, and Mrs. +Crittenden's own gift, led the saucy Molly, robed as no other dusky +bride at Canewood was ever arrayed, into the dining-room, while the +servants crowded the doors and hallway and the white folk climbed the +stairs to give them room. And after a few solemn moments, Bob caught the +girl in his arms and smacked her lips loudly: + +"Now, gal, I reckon I got yer!" he cried; and whites and blacks broke +into jolly laughter, and the music of fiddles rose in the kitchen, where +there was a feast for Bob's and Molly's friends. Rose, too, the music of +fiddles under the stairway in the hall, and Mrs. Crittenden and Judge +Page, and Crittenden and Mrs. Stanton, and Judith and Basil, and none +other than Grafton and radiant little Phyllis led the way for the +opening quadrille. It was an old-fashioned Christmas the mother wanted, +and an old-fashioned Christmas, with the dance and merriment and the +graces of the old days, that the mother had. Over the portrait of the +eldest Crittenden, who slept in Cuba, hung the flag of the single star +that would never bend its colours again to Spain. Above the blazing log +and over the fine, strong face of the brave father, who had fought to +dissolve the Union, hung the Stars and Bars--proudly. And over the brave +brother, who looked down from the north wall, hung proudly the Stars and +Stripes for which he had given his young life. + +Then came toasts after the good old fashion--graceful toasts--to the +hostess and the brides, to the American soldier, regular and volunteer. +And at the end, Crittenden, regular, raised his glass and there was a +hush. + +It was good, he said, to go back to the past; good to revive and hold +fast to the ideals that time had proven best for humanity; good to go +back to the earth, like the Titans, for fresh strength; good for the +man, the State, the nation. And it was best for the man to go back to +the ideals that had dawned at his mother's knee; for there was the +fountain-head of the nation's faith in its God, man's faith in his +nation--man's faith in his fellow and faith in himself. And he drank to +one who represented his own early ideals better than he should ever +realize them for himself. Then he raised his glass, smiling, but deeply +moved: + +"My little brother." + +He turned to Basil when he spoke and back again to Judith, who, of all +present, knew all that he meant, and he saw her eyes shine with the +sudden light of tears. + +At last came the creak of wheels on the snow outside, the cries of +servants, the good-bys and good-wishes and congratulations from one and +all to one and all; the mother's kiss to Basil and Phyllis, who were +under their mother's wing; the last calls from the doorway; the light of +lanterns across the fields; the slam of the pike-gate--and, over the +earth, white silence. The mother kissed Judith and kissed her son. + +"My children!" + +Then, as was her custom always, she said simply: + +"Be sure to bolt the front door, my son." + +And, as he had done for years, Crittenden slipped the fastenings of the +big hall-door, paused a moment, and looked out. Around the corner of the +still house swept the sounds of merriment from the quarters. The moon +had risen on the snowy fields and white-cowled trees and draped hedges +and on the slender white shaft under the bent willow over his father's +and his uncle's grave--the brothers who had fought face to face and were +sleeping side by side in peace, each the blameless gentleman who had +reverenced his conscience as his king, and, without regret for his way +on earth, had set his foot, without fear, on the long way into the +hereafter. For one moment his mind swept back over the short, fierce +struggle of the summer. + +As they had done, so he had tried to do; and as they had lived, so he, +with God's help, would live henceforth to the end. For a moment he +thought of the flag hanging motionless in the dim drawing-room behind +him--the flag of the great land that was stretching out its powerful +hand to the weak and oppressed of the earth. And then with a last look +to the willow and the shaft beneath, his lips moved noiselessly: + +"They will sleep better to-night." + +Judith was standing in the drawing-room on his hearth, looking into his +fire and dreaming. Ah, God, to think that it should come to pass at +last! + +He entered so softly that she did not hear him. There was no sound but +the drowsy tick of the great clock in the hall and the low song of the +fire. + +"Sweetheart!" + +She looked up quickly, the dream gone from her face, and in its place +the light of love and perfect trust, and she stood still, her arms +hanging at her sides--waiting. + +"Sweetheart!" + +God was good that Christmas. + + +THE END + + * * * * * + +Transcriber's Notes: + +1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards. + +2. Contemporary spelling has been retained, with these corrections: + p. 64 "gretty" to "pretty" ("watching pretty girls"). + p. 64 "pacing ing" to "pacing" ("pacing a steady beat"). + p. 117 "Critdenden" to "Crittenden" ("Private Crittenden"). + p. 162 "chapparal" to "chaparral" ("through the chaparral"). + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Crittenden, by John Fox, Jr. + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CRITTENDEN *** + +***** This file should be named 18318-8.txt or 18318-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/3/1/18318/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team +at http://www.pgdp.net" + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Crittenden + A Kentucky Story of Love and War + +Author: John Fox, Jr. + +Release Date: May 5, 2006 [EBook #18318] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CRITTENDEN *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team +at http://www.pgdp.net" + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<table width="450" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Title Page" border="1"> + <col style="width:80%;" /> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <p style="margin-top: 5em"></p> + <span style="font-size: 230%">CRITTENDEN</span><br /> + <br /> + <span style="font-size: 120%">A KENTUCKY STORY OF</span><br /> + <span style="font-size: 120%">LOVE AND WAR</span><br /> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + <span style="font-size: 90%">BY</span><br /> + <span style="font-size: 120%;">JOHN FOX, JR.</span> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + <span style="font-size: 70%">ILLUSTRATED BY</span><br /> + <span style="font-size: 90%">F. GRAHAM COOTES</span><br /> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + <span style="font-size: 90%">NEW YORK</span><br /> + <span style="font-size: 90%">CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS</span><br /> + <span style="font-size: 80%">1911</span><br /><br /><br /> + </td> + </tr> +</table> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<p style="text-align: center; font-size: 85%; font-variant: small-caps"> +Copyright, 1900, by<br /> +CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS<br /> +</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<p style="text-align: center; font-size: 100%"> +To<br /> +THE MASTER OF<br /> +BALLYHOO</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div class='figcenter' style='width: 400px; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="image-fp" id="image-fp"></a> +<img src='images/illus-fpc.jpg' width='400' alt='John Fox, Jr.' title='' /><br /> +<span class='caption'><ins title="Transcriber's Note: originally before title page">John Fox, Jr.</ins></span> +</div> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<h2><a name="ILLUSTRATIONS" id="ILLUSTRATIONS"></a>Illustrations</h2> +<table width="75%" cellpadding="2" summary="Illustrations"> +<col style="width:80%;" /> +<col style="width:20%;" /> +<tr> + <td align="left">John Fox, Jr. (from a photograph)</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#image-fp">Frontispiece</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td align="left"> </td> + <td align="right"><span style="font-size: 70%">FACING PAGE</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td align="left">"Go on!" said Judith.</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#image-077">77</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td align="left">"Nothin', Ole Cap'n—jes doin' nothin'—jes lookin' for you."</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#image-132">132</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>Contents</h2> +<table width="75%" cellpadding="2" summary="Contents"> +<col style="width:50%;" /> +<col style="width:28%;" /> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter I</td><td align="right"><a href="#I">1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter II</td><td align="right"><a href="#II">5</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter III</td><td align="right"><a href="#III">16</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter IV</td><td align="right"><a href="#IV">25</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter V</td><td align="right"><a href="#V">41</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter VI</td><td align="right"><a href="#VI">62</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter VII</td><td align="right"><a href="#VII">83</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter VIII</td><td align="right"><a href="#VIII">97</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter IX</td><td align="right"><a href="#IX">112</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter X</td><td align="right"><a href="#X">126</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter XI</td><td align="right"><a href="#XI">141</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter XII</td><td align="right"><a href="#XII">177</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter XIII</td><td align="right"><a href="#XIII">190</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter XIV</td><td align="right"><a href="#XIV">208</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Chapter XV</td><td align="right"><a href="#XV">217</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span> +<a name="CRITTENDEN" id="CRITTENDEN"></a> +<p style="text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; font-size: 160%">CRITTENDEN</p> +</div> + +<h3><a name="I" id="I"></a>I</h3> +<p>Day breaking on the edge of the Bluegrass and birds singing the dawn in. +Ten minutes swiftly along the sunrise and the world is changed: from +nervous exaltation of atmosphere to an air of balm and peace; from grim +hills to the rolling sweep of green slopes; from a high mist of thin +verdure to low wind-shaken banners of young leaves; from giant poplar to +white ash and sugar-tree; from log-cabin to homesteads of brick and +stone; from wood-thrush to meadow-lark; rhododendron to bluegrass; from +mountain to lowland, Crittenden was passing home.</p> + +<p>He had been in the backwoods for more than a month, ostensibly to fish +and look at coal lands, but, really, to get away for a while, as his +custom was, from his worse self to the better self that he was when he +was in the mountains—alone. As usual, he had gone in with bitterness +and, as usual, he had set his face homeward<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span> with but half a heart for +the old fight against fate and himself that seemed destined always to +end in defeat. At dusk, he heard the word of the outer world from the +lips of an old mountaineer at the foot of the Cumberland—the first +heard, except from his mother, for full thirty days—and the word +was—war. He smiled incredulously at the old fellow, but, unconsciously, +he pushed his horse on a little faster up the mountain, pushed him, as +the moon rose, aslant the breast of a mighty hill and, winding at a +gallop about the last downward turn of the snaky path, went at full +speed alongside the big gray wall that, above him, rose sheer a thousand +feet and, straight ahead, broke wildly and crumbled into historic +Cumberland Gap. From a little knoll he saw the railway station in the +shadow of the wall, and, on one prong of a switch, his train panting +lazily; and, with a laugh, he pulled his horse down to a walk and then +to a dead stop—his face grave again and uplifted. Where his eyes rested +and plain in the moonlight was a rocky path winding upward—the old +Wilderness Trail that the Kentucky pioneers had worn with moccasined +feet more than a century before. He had seen it a hundred times +before—moved always; but it thrilled him now, and he rode on slowly, +looking up at it. His forefathers had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> helped blaze that trail. On one +side of that wall they had fought savage and Briton for a home and a +country, and on the other side they had done it again. Later, they had +fought the Mexican and in time they came to fight each other, for and +against the nation they had done so much to upbuild. It was even true +that a Crittenden had already given his life for the very cause that was +so tardily thrilling the nation now. Thus it had always been with his +people straight down the bloody national highway from Yorktown to +Appomattox, and if there was war, he thought proudly, as he swung from +his horse—thus it would now be with him.</p> + +<p>If there was war? He had lain awake in his berth a long while, looking +out the window and wondering. He had been born among the bleeding +memories of one war. The tales of his nursery had been tales of war. And +though there had been talk of war through the land for weeks before he +left home, it had no more seemed possible that in his lifetime could +come another war than that he should live to see any other myth of his +childhood come true.</p> + +<p>Now, it was daybreak on the edge of the Bluegrass, and, like a dark +truth from a white light, three tall letters leaped from the paper in +his hand—War! There was a token in the very dawn, a sword-like flame +flashing upward. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> man in the White House had called for willing +hands by the thousands to wield it, and the Kentucky Legion, that had +fought in Mexico, had split in twain to fight for the North and for the +South, and had come shoulder to shoulder when the breach was closed—the +Legion of his own loved State—was the first body of volunteers to reach +for the hilt. Regulars were gathering from the four winds to an old +Southern battlefield. Already the Legion was on its way to camp in the +Bluegrass. His town was making ready to welcome it, and among the names +of the speakers who were to voice the welcome, he saw his own—Clay +Crittenden.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> +<h3><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h3> +</div> + +<p>The train slackened speed and stopped. There was his +horse—Raincrow—and his buggy waiting for him when he stepped from the +platform; and, as he went forward with his fishing tackle, a +livery-stable boy sprang out of the buggy and went to the horse's head.</p> + +<p>"Bob lef' yo' hoss in town las' night, Mistuh Crittenden," he said. +"Miss Rachel said yestiddy she jes knowed you was comin' home this +mornin'."</p> + +<p>Crittenden smiled—it was one of his mother's premonitions; she seemed +always to know when he was coming home.</p> + +<p>"Come get these things," he said, and went on with his paper.</p> + +<p>"Yessuh!"</p> + +<p>Things had gone swiftly while he was in the hills. Old ex-Confederates +were answering the call from the Capitol. One of his father's old +comrades—little Jerry Carter—was to be made a major-general. Among the +regulars mobilizing at Chickamauga was the regiment to which Rivers, a +friend of his boyhood, belonged. There,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> three days later, his State was +going to dedicate two monuments to her sons who had fallen on the old +battlefield, where his father, fighting with one wing of the Legion for +the Lost Cause, and his father's young brother, fighting with the other +against it, had fought face to face; where his uncle met death on the +field and his father got the wound that brought death to him years after +the war. And then he saw something that for a moment quite blotted the +war from his brain and made him close the paper quickly. Judith had come +home—Judith was to unveil those statues—Judith Page.</p> + +<p>The town was asleep, except for the rattle of milk-carts, the banging of +shutters, and the hum of a street-car, and Crittenden moved through +empty streets to the broad smooth turnpike on the south, where Raincrow +shook his head, settled his haunches, and broke into the swinging trot +peculiar to his breed—for home.</p> + +<p>Spring in the Bluegrass! The earth spiritual as it never is except under +new-fallen snow—in the first shy green. The leaves, a floating mist of +green, so buoyant that, if loosed, they must, it seemed, have floated +upward—never to know the blight of frost or the droop of age. The air, +rich with the smell of new earth and sprouting grass, the long, low +skies newly washed and, through radiant distances, clouds light as +thistledown<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> and white as snow. And the birds! Wrens in the hedges, +sparrows by the wayside and on fence-rails, starlings poised over +meadows brilliant with glistening dew, larks in the pastures—all +singing as they sang at the first dawn, and the mood of nature that +perfect blending of earth and heaven that is given her children but +rarely to know. It was good to be alive at the breaking of such a +day—good to be young and strong, and eager and unafraid, when the +nation called for its young men and red Mars was the morning star. The +blood of dead fighters began to leap again in his veins. His nostrils +dilated and his chin was raised proudly—a racial chord touched within +him that had been dumb a long while. And that was all it was—the blood +of his fathers; for it was honor and not love that bound him to his own +flag. He was his mother's son, and the unspoken bitterness that lurked +in her heart lurked, likewise, on her account, in his.</p> + +<p>On the top of a low hill, a wind from the dawn struck him, and the paper +in the bottom of the buggy began to snap against the dashboard. He +reached down to keep it from being whisked into the road, and he saw +again that Judith Page had come home. When he sat up again, his face was +quite changed. His head fell a little forward, his shoulders drooped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> +slightly and, for a moment, his buoyancy was gone. The corners of the +mouth showed a settled melancholy where before was sunny humour. The +eyes, which were dreamy, kindly, gray, looked backward in a morbid glow +of concentration; and over the rather reckless cast of his features, lay +at once the shadow of suffering and the light of a great tenderness. +Slowly, a little hardness came into his eyes and a little bitterness +about his mouth. His upper lip curved in upon his teeth with +self-scorn—for he had had little cause to be pleased with himself while +Judith was gone, and his eyes showed now how proud was the scorn—and he +shook himself sharply and sat upright. He had forgotten again. That part +of his life belonged to the past and, like the past, was gone, and was +not to come back again. The present had life and hope now, and the +purpose born that day from five blank years was like the sudden birth of +a flower in a desert.</p> + +<p>The sun had burst from the horizon now and was shining through the tops +of the trees in the lovely woodland into which Crittenden turned, and +through which a road of brown creek-sand ran to the pasture beyond and +through that to the long avenue of locusts, up which the noble portico +of his old homestead, Canewood, was visible among cedars and firs and +old forest<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> trees. His mother was not up yet—the shutters of her window +were still closed—but the servants were astir and busy. He could see +men and plough-horses on their way to the fields; and, that far away, he +could hear the sound of old Ephraim's axe at the woodpile, the noises +around the barn and cowpens, and old Aunt Keziah singing a hymn in the +kitchen, the old wailing cry of the mother-slave.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em;"> +"Oh I wonder whur my baby's done gone,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh Lawd!</span><br /> +An' I git on my knees an' pray." +</p> + +<p>The song stopped, a negro boy sprang out the kitchen-door and ran for +the stiles—a tall, strong, and very black boy with a dancing eye, white +teeth, and a look of welcome that was little short of dumb idolatry.</p> + +<p>"Howdy, Bob."</p> + +<p>"Howdy, Ole Cap'n." Crittenden had been "Ole Captain" with the +servants—since the death of "Ole Master," his father—to distinguish +him from "Young Captain," who was his brother, Basil. Master and servant +shook hands and Bob's teeth flashed.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter, Bob?"</p> + +<p>Bob climbed into the buggy.</p> + +<p>"You gwine to de wah."</p> + +<p>Crittenden laughed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How do you know, Bob?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know—I know. I seed it when you was drivin' up to de stiles, an' +lemme tell you, Ole Cap'n." The horse started for the barn suddenly and +Bob took a wide circuit in order to catch the eye of a brown milkmaid in +the cowpens, who sniffed the air scornfully, to show that she did not +see him, and buried the waves of her black hair into the silken sides of +a young Jersey.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, shaking his head and making threats to himself, "an' +Bob's gwine wid him."</p> + +<p>As Crittenden climbed the stiles, old Keziah filled the kitchen-door.</p> + +<p>"Time you gittin' back, suh," she cried with mock severity. "I been +studyin' 'bout you. Little mo' an' I'd 'a' been comin' fer you myself. +Yes—suh."</p> + +<p>And she gave a loud laugh that rang through the yard and ended in a +soft, queer little whoop that was musical. Crittenden smiled but, +instead of answering, raised his hand warningly and, as he approached +the portico, he stepped from the gravel-walk to the thick turf and began +to tiptoe. At the foot of the low flight of stone steps he +stopped—smiling.</p> + +<p>The big double front door was wide open, and straight through the big, +wide hallway and at the entrance of the dining-room, a sword—a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> long +cavalry sabre—hung with a jaunty gray cap on the wall. Under them stood +a boy with his hands clasped behind him and his chin upraised. The lad +could see the bullet-hole through the top, and he knew that on the visor +was a faded stain of his father's blood. As a child, he had been told +never to touch the cap or sword and, until this moment, he had not +wanted to take them down since he was a child; and even now the habit of +obedience held him back for a while, as he stood looking up at them. +Outside, a light wind rustled the leaves of the rose-bush at his +mother's window, swept through the open door, and made the curtain at +his elbow swell gently. As the heavy fold fell back to its place and +swung out again, it caught the hilt of the sword and made the metal +point of the scabbard clank softly against the wall. The boy breathed +sharply, remembered that he was grown, and reverently reached upward. +There was the stain where the blood had run down from the furrowed wound +that had caused his father's death, long after the war and just before +the boy was born. The hilt was tarnished, and when he caught it and +pulled, the blade came out a little way and stuck fast. Some one stepped +on the porch outside and he turned quickly, as he might have turned had +some one caught him unsheathing the weapon when a child.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Hold on there, little brother."</p> + +<p>Crittenden stopped in the doorway, smiling affectionately, and the boy +thrust the blade back to the hilt.</p> + +<p>"Why, Clay," he cried, and, as he ran forward, "Are you going?" he +asked, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"I'm the first-born, you know," added Crittenden, still smiling, and the +lad stretched the sabre out to him, repeating eagerly, "Are you going?"</p> + +<p>The older brother did not answer, but turned, without taking the weapon, +and walked to the door and back again.</p> + +<p>"Are you?"</p> + +<p>"Me? Oh, I have to go," said the boy solemnly and with great dignity, as +though the matter were quite beyond the pale of discussion.</p> + +<p>"You do?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; the Legion is going."</p> + +<p>"Only the members who volunteer—nobody has to go."</p> + +<p>"Don't they?" said the lad, indignantly. "Well, if I had a son who +belonged to a military organization in time of peace"—the lad spoke +glibly—"and refused to go with it to war—well, I'd rather see him dead +first."</p> + +<p>"Who said that?" asked the other, and the lad coloured.</p> + +<p>"Why, Judge Page said it; that's who. And you just ought to hear Miss +Judith!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p> + +<p>Again the other walked to the door and back again. Then he took the +scabbard and drew the blade to its point as easily as though it had been +oiled, thrust it back, and hung it with the cap in its place on the +wall.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps neither of us will need it," he said. "We'll both be +privates—that is, if I go—and I tell you what we'll do. We'll let the +better man win the sword, and the better man shall have it after the +war. What do you say?"</p> + +<p>"Say?" cried the boy, and he gave the other a hug and both started for +the porch. As they passed the door of his mother's room, the lad put one +finger on his lips; but the mother had heard and, inside, a woman in +black, who had been standing before a mirror with her hands to her +throat, let them fall suddenly until they were clasped for an instant +across her breast. But she gave no sign that she had heard, at breakfast +an hour later, even when the boy cleared his throat, and after many +futile efforts to bring the matter up, signalled across the table to his +brother for help.</p> + +<p>"Mother, Basil there wants to go to war. He says if he had a son who +belonged to a military organization in time of peace and refused to go +with it in time of war, that he'd rather see him dead."</p> + +<p>The mother's lip quivered when she answered,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> but so imperceptibly that +only the older son saw it.</p> + +<p>"That is what his father would have said," she said, quietly, and +Crittenden knew she had already fought out the battle with +herself—alone. For a moment the boy was stunned with his good +fortune—"it was too easy"—and with a whoop he sprang from his place +and caught his mother around the neck, while Uncle Ben, the black +butler, shook his head and hurried into the kitchen for corn-bread and +to tell the news.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I tell you it's great fun to <i>have</i> to go to war! Mother," added +the boy, with quick mischief, "Clay wants to go, too."</p> + +<p>Crittenden braced himself and looked up with one quick glance sidewise +at his mother's face. It had not changed a line.</p> + +<p>"I heard all you said in the hallway. If a son of mine thinks it his +duty to go, I shall never say one word to dissuade him—if he thinks it +is his duty," she added, so solemnly that silence fell upon the three, +and with a smothered, "Good Lawd," at the door, Ben hurried again into +the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"Both them boys was a-goin' off to git killed an' ole Miss Rachel not +sayin' one wud to keep 'em back—not a wud."</p> + +<p>After breakfast the boy hurried out and, as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> Crittenden rose, the +mother, who pretended to be arranging silver at the old sideboard, spoke +with her back to him.</p> + +<p>"Think it over, son. I can't see that you should go, but if you think +you ought, I shall have nothing to say. Have you made up your mind?"</p> + +<p>Crittenden hesitated.</p> + +<p>"Not quite."</p> + +<p>"Think it over very carefully, then—please—for my sake." Her voice +trembled, and, with a pang, Crittenden thought of the suffering she had +known from one war. Basil's way was clear, and he could never ask the +boy to give up to him because he was the elder. Was it fair to his brave +mother for him to go, too—was it right?</p> + +<p>"Yes mother," he said, soberly.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> +<h3><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h3> +</div> + +<p>The Legion came next morning and pitched camp in a woodland of oak and +sugar trees, where was to be voiced a patriotic welcome by a great +editor, a great orator, and young Crittenden.</p> + +<p>Before noon, company streets were laid out and lined with tents and, +when the first buggies and rockaways began to roll in from the country, +every boy-soldier was brushed and burnished to defy the stare of +inspection and to quite dazzle the eye of masculine envy or feminine +admiration.</p> + +<p>In the centre of the woodland was a big auditorium, where the speaking +was to take place. After the orators were done, there was to be a +regimental review in the bluegrass pasture in front of historic Ashland. +It was at the Colonel's tent, where Crittenden went to pay his respects, +that he found Judith Page, and he stopped for a moment under an oak, +taking in the gay party of women and officers who sat and stood about +the entrance. In the centre of the group stood a lieutenant in the blue +of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> regular and with the crossed sabres of the cavalryman on his +neck-band and the number of his regiment. The girl was talking to the +gallant old Colonel with her back to Crittenden, but he would have known +her had he seen but an arm, a shoulder, the poise of her head, a single +gesture—although he had not seen her for years. The figure was the +same—a little fuller, perhaps, but graceful, round, and slender, as was +the throat. The hair was a trifle darker, he thought, but brown still, +and as rich with gold as autumn sunlight. The profile was in outline +now—it was more cleanly cut than ever. The face was a little older, but +still remarkably girlish in spite of its maturer strength; and as she +turned to answer his look, he kept on unconsciously reaffirming to his +memory the broad brow and deep clear eyes, even while his hand was +reaching for the brim of his hat. She showed only gracious surprise at +seeing him and, to his wonder, he was as calm and cool as though he were +welcoming back home any good friend who had been away a long time. He +could now see that the lieutenant belonged to the Tenth United States +Cavalry; he knew that the Tenth was a colored regiment; he understood a +certain stiffness that he felt rather than saw in the courtesy that was +so carefully shown him by the Southern volunteers who were about<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> him; +and he turned away to avoid meeting him. For the same reason, he +fancied, Judith turned, too. The mere idea of negro soldiers was not +only repugnant to him, but he did not believe in negro regiments. These +would be the men who could and would organize and drill the blacks in +the South; who, in other words, would make possible, hasten, and prolong +the race war that sometimes struck him as inevitable. As he turned, he +saw a tall, fine-looking negro, fifty yards away, in the uniform of a +sergeant of cavalry and surrounded by a crowd of gaping darkies whom he +was haranguing earnestly. Lieutenant and sergeant were evidently on an +enlisting tour.</p> + +<p>Just then, a radiant little creature looked up into Crittenden's face, +calling him by name and holding out both hands—Phyllis, Basil's little +sweetheart. With her was a tall, keen-featured fellow, whom she +introduced as a war correspondent and a Northerner.</p> + +<p>"A sort of war correspondent," corrected Grafton, with a swift look of +interest at Crittenden, but turning his eyes at once back to Phyllis. +She was a new and diverting type to the Northern man and her name was +fitting and pleased him. A company passed just then, and a smothered +exclamation from Phyllis turned attention to it. On the end of the line, +with his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> chin in, his shoulders squared and his eyes straight forward, +was Crittenden's warrior-brother, Basil. Only his face coloured to show +that he knew where he was and who was looking at him, but not so much as +a glance of his eye did he send toward the tent. Judith turned to +Crittenden quickly:</p> + +<p>"Your little brother is going to the war?" The question was thoughtless +and significant, for it betrayed to him what was going on in her mind, +and she knew it and coloured, as he paled a little.</p> + +<p>"My little brother is going to the war," he repeated, looking at her. +Judith smiled and went on bravely:</p> + +<p>"And you?"</p> + +<p>Crittenden, too, smiled.</p> + +<p>"I may consider it my duty to stay at home."</p> + +<p>The girl looked rather surprised—instead of showing the subdued sarcasm +that he was looking for—and, in truth, she was. His evasive and +careless answer showed an indifference to her wish and opinion in the +matter that would once have been very unusual. Straightway there was a +tug at her heart-strings that also was unusual.</p> + +<p>The people were gathering into the open-air auditorium now and, from all +over the camp, the crowd began to move that way. All knew<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> the word of +the orator's mouth and the word of the editor—they had heard the one +and seen the other on his printed page many times; and it was for this +reason, perhaps, that Crittenden's fresh fire thrilled and swayed the +crowd as it did.</p> + +<p>When he rose, he saw his mother almost under him and, not far behind +her, Judith with her father, Judge Page. The lieutenant of regulars was +standing on the edge of the crowd, and to his right was Grafton, also +standing, with his hat under his arm—idly curious. But it was to his +mother that he spoke and, steadfastly, he saw her strong, gentle face +even when he was looking far over her head, and he knew that she knew +that he was arguing the point then and there between them.</p> + +<p>It was, he said, the first war of its kind in history. It marked an +epoch in the growth of national character since the world began. As an +American, he believed that no finger of mediævalism should so much as +touch this hemisphere. The Cubans had earned their freedom long since, +and the cries of starving women and children for the bread which fathers +and brothers asked but the right to earn must cease. To put out of mind +the Americans blown to death at Havana—if such a thing were +possible—he yet believed with all his heart in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> war. He did not +think there would be much of a fight—the regular army could doubtless +take good care of the Spaniard—but if everybody acted on that +presumption, there would be no answer to the call for volunteers. He was +proud to think that the Legion of his own State, that in itself stood +for the reunion of the North and the South, had been the first to spring +to arms. And he was proud to think that not even they were the first +Kentuckians to fight for Cuban liberty. He was proud that, before the +Civil War even, a Kentuckian of his own name and blood had led a band of +one hundred and fifty brave men of his own State against Spanish tyranny +in Cuba, and a Crittenden, with fifty of his followers, were captured +and shot in platoons of six.</p> + +<p>"A Kentuckian kneels only to woman and his God," this Crittenden had +said proudly when ordered to kneel blindfolded and with his face to the +wall, "and always dies facing his enemy." And so those Kentuckians had +died nearly half a century before, and he knew that the young +Kentuckians before him would as bravely die, if need be, in the same +cause now; and when they came face to face with the Spaniard they would +remember the shattered battle-ship in the Havana harbour, and something +more—they would remember Crittenden. And then the speaker<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> closed with +the words of a certain proud old Confederate soldier to his son:</p> + +<p>"No matter who was right and who was wrong in the Civil War, the matter +is settled now by the sword. The Constitution left the question open, +but it is written there now in letters of blood. We have given our word +that they shall stand; and remember it is the word of gentlemen and +binding on their sons. There have been those in the North who have +doubted that word; there have been those in the South who have given +cause for doubt; and this may be true for a long time. But if ever the +time comes to test that word, do you be the first to prove it. You will +fight for your flag—mine now as well as yours—just as sincerely as I +fought against it." And these words, said Crittenden in a trembling +voice, the brave gentleman spoke again on his death-bed; and now, as he +looked around on the fearless young faces about him, he had no need to +fear that they were spoken in vain.</p> + +<p>And so the time was come for the South to prove its loyalty—not to +itself nor to the North, but to the world.</p> + +<p>Under him he saw his mother's eyes fill with tears, for these words of +her son were the dying words of her lion-hearted husband. And Judith had +sat motionless, watching him with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> peculiar intensity and flushing a +little, perhaps at the memory of her jesting taunt, while Grafton had +stood still—his eyes fixed, his face earnest—missing not a word. He +was waiting for Crittenden, and he held his hand out when the latter +emerged from the crowd, with the curious embarrassment that assails the +newspaper man when he finds himself betrayed into unusual feeling.</p> + +<p>"I say," he said; "that was good, <i>good</i>!"</p> + +<p>The officer who, too, had stood still as a statue, seemed to be moving +toward him, and again Crittenden turned away—to look for his mother. +She had gone home at once—she could not face him now in that crowd—and +as he was turning to his own buggy, he saw Judith and from habit started +toward her, but, changing his mind, he raised his hat and kept on his +way, while the memory of the girl's face kept pace with him.</p> + +<p>She was looking at him with a curious wistfulness that was quite beyond +him to interpret—a wistfulness that was in the sudden smile of welcome +when she saw him start toward her and in the startled flush of surprise +when he stopped; then, with the tail of his eye, he saw the quick +paleness that followed as the girl's sensitive nostrils quivered once +and her spirited face settled quickly into a proud calm. And then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> he +saw her smile—a strange little smile that may have been at herself or +at him—and he wondered about it all and was tempted to go back, but +kept on doggedly, wondering at her and at himself with a miserable grim +satisfaction that he was at last over and above it all. She had told him +to conquer his boyish love for her and, as her will had always been law +to him, he had made it, at last, a law in this. The touch of the +loadstone that never in his life had failed, had failed now, and now, +for once in his life, desire and duty were one.</p> + +<p>He found his mother at her seat by her open window, the unopened buds of +her favourite roses hanging motionless in the still air outside, but +giving their fresh green faint fragrance to the whole room within; and +he remembered the quiet sunset scene every night for many nights to +come. Every line in her patient face had been traced there by a sorrow +of the old war, and his voice trembled:</p> + +<p>"Mother," he said, as he bent down and kissed her, "I'm going."</p> + +<p>Her head dropped quickly to the work in her lap, but she said nothing, +and he went quickly out again.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +<h3><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h3> +</div> + +<p>It was growing dusk outside. Chickens were going to roost with a great +chattering in some locust-trees in one corner of the yard. An aged +darkey was swinging an axe at the woodpile and two little pickaninnies +were gathering a basket of chips. Already the air was filled with the +twilight sounds of the farm—the lowing of cattle, the bleating of +calves at the cowpens, the bleat of sheep from the woods, and the nicker +of horses in the barn. Through it all, Crittenden could hear the nervous +thud of Raincrow's hoofs announcing rain—for that was the way the horse +got his name, being as black as a crow and, as Bob claimed, always +knowing when falling weather was at hand and speaking his prophecy by +stamping in his stall. He could hear Basil noisily making his way to the +barn. As he walked through the garden toward the old family graveyard, +he could still hear the boy, and a prescient tithe of the pain, that he +felt would strike him in full some day, smote him so sharply now that he +stopped a moment to listen, with one hand quickly raised to his +forehead. Basil was whistling—whistling joyously. Foreboding<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> touched +the boy like the brush of a bird's wing, and death and sorrow were as +remote as infinity to him. At the barn-door the lad called sharply:</p> + +<p>"Bob!"</p> + +<p>"Suh!" answered a muffled voice, and Bob emerged, gray with oatdust.</p> + +<p>"I want my buggy to-night." Bob grinned.</p> + +<p>"Sidebar?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"New whip—new harness—little buggy mare—reckon?"</p> + +<p>"I want 'em all."</p> + +<p>Bob laughed loudly. "Oh, I know. You gwine to see Miss Phyllis dis +night, sho—yes, Lawd!" Bob dodged a kick from the toe of the boy's +boot—a playful kick that was not meant to land—and went into the barn +and came out again.</p> + +<p>"Yes, an' I know somewhur else you gwine—you gwine to de war. Oh, I +know; yes, suh. Dere's a white man in town tryin' to git niggers to +'list wid him, an' he's got a nigger sojer what say he's a officer +hisself; yes, mon, a corpril. An' dis nigger's jes a-gwine through town +drawin' niggers right <i>an'</i> left. He talk to me, but I jes laugh at him, +an' say I gwine wid Ole Cap'n ur Young Cap'n, I don't keer which. An' +lemme tell you, Young Capn', ef you ur<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> Ole Cap'n doan lemme go wid you, +I'se gwine wid dat nigger corpril an' dat white man what 'long to a +nigger regiment, an' I know you don't want me to bring no sech disgrace +on de fambly dat way—no, suh. He axe what you de cap'n of," Bob went +on, aiming at two birds with one stone now, "an' I say you de cap'n of +ever'body an' ever'ting dat come 'long—dat's what I say-an' he be cap'n +of you wid all yo' unyform and sich, I say, if you jest come out to de +fahm—yes, mon, dat he will sho."</p> + +<p>The boy laughed and Bob reiterated:</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'se gwine—I'se gwine wid you—" Then he stopped short. The +turbaned figure of Aunt Keziah loomed from behind the woodpile.</p> + +<p>"What dat I heah 'bout you gwine to de wah, nigger, what dat I heah?"</p> + +<p>Bob laughed—but it was a laugh of propitiation.</p> + +<p>"Law, mammy. I was jes projeckin' wid Young Cap'n."</p> + +<p>"Fool nigger, doan know what wah is—doan lemme heah you talk no more +'bout gwine to de wah ur I gwine to w'ar you out wid a hickory—dat's +whut I'll do—now you min'." She turned on Basil then; but Basil had +retreated, and his laugh rang from the darkening yard. She cried after +him:</p> + +<p>"An' doan lemme heah you puttin' dis fool<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> nigger up to gittin' hisself +killed by dem Cubians neither; no suh!" She was deadly serious now. "I +done spanked you heap o' times, an' 'tain't so long ago, an' you ain' +too big yit; no, suh." The old woman's wrath was rising higher, and Bob +darted into the barn before she could turn back again to him, and a +moment later darted his head, like a woodpecker, out again to see if she +were gone, and grinned silently after her as she rolled angrily toward +the house, scolding both Bob and Basil to herself loudly.</p> + +<p>A song rose from the cowpens just then. Full, clear, and quivering, it +seemed suddenly to still everything else into silence. In a flash, Bob's +grin settled into a look of sullen dejection, and, with his ear cocked +and drinking in the song, and with his eye on the corner of the barn, he +waited. From the cowpens was coming a sturdy negro girl with a bucket of +foaming milk in each hand and a third balanced on her head, singing with +all the strength of her lungs. In a moment she passed the corner.</p> + +<p>"Molly—say, Molly."</p> + +<p>The song stopped short.</p> + +<p>"Say, honey, wait a minute—jes a minute, won't ye?" The milkmaid kept +straight ahead, and Bob's honeyed words soured suddenly.</p> + +<p>"Go on, gal, think yo'self mighty fine, don't ye? Nem' min'!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> + +<p>Molly's nostrils swelled to their full width, and, at the top of her +voice, she began again.</p> + +<p>"Go on, nigger, but you jes wait."</p> + +<p>Molly sang on:</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em;">"Take up yo' cross, oh, sinner-man."</p> + +<p>Before he knew it, Bob gave the response with great unction:</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em;">"Yes, Lawd."</p> + +<p>Then he stopped short.</p> + +<p>"I reckon I got to break dat gal's head some day. Yessuh; she knows whut +my cross is," and then he started slowly after her, shaking his head +and, as his wont was, talking to himself.</p> + +<p>He was still talking to himself when Basil came out to the stiles after +supper to get into his buggy.</p> + +<p>"Young Cap'n, dat gal Molly mighty nigh pesterin' de life out o' me. I +done tol' her I'se gwine to de wah."</p> + +<p>"What did she say?"</p> + +<p>"De fool nigger—she jes laughed—she jes laughed."</p> + +<p>The boy, too, laughed, as he gathered the reins and the mare sprang +forward.</p> + +<p>"We'll see—we'll see."</p> + +<p>And Bob with a triumphant snort turned toward Molly's cabin.</p> + +<p>The locust-trees were quiet now and the barn<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> was still except for the +occasional stamp of a horse in his stall or the squeak of a pig that was +pushed out of his warm place by a stronger brother. The night noises +were strong and clear—the cricket in the grass, the croaking frogs from +the pool, the whir of a night-hawk's wings along the edge of the yard, +the persistent wail of a whip-poor-will sitting lengthwise of a willow +limb over the meadow-branch, the occasional sleepy caw of crows from +their roost in the woods beyond, the bark of a house-dog at a +neighbour's home across the fields, and, further still, the fine high +yell of a fox-hunter and the faint answering yelp of a hound.</p> + +<p>And inside, in the mother's room, the curtain was rising on a tragedy +that was tearing open the wounds of that other war—the tragedy upon +which a bloody curtain had fallen more than thirty years before. The +mother listened quietly, as had her mother before her, while the son +spoke quietly, for time and again he had gone over the ground to +himself, ending ever with the same unalterable resolve.</p> + +<p>There had been a Crittenden in every war of the nation—down to the two +Crittendens who slept side by side in the old graveyard below the +garden.</p> + +<p>And the Crittenden—of whom he had spoken that morning—the gallant +Crittenden who led<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> his Kentuckians to death in Cuba, in 1851, was his +father's elder brother. And again he repeated the dying old +Confederate's deathless words with which he had thrilled the Legion that +morning—words heard by her own ears as well as his. What else was left +him to do—when he knew what those three brothers, if they were alive, +would have him do?</p> + +<p>And there were other untold reasons, hid in the core of his own heart, +faced only when he was alone, and faced again, that night, after he had +left his mother and was in his own room and looking out at the moonlight +and the big weeping willow that drooped over the one white tomb under +which the two brothers, who had been enemies in the battle, slept side +by side thus in peace. So far he had followed in their footsteps, since +the one part that he was fitted to play was the <i>rôle</i> they and their +ancestors had played beyond the time when the first American among them, +failing to rescue his king from Carisbrooke Castle, set sail for +Virginia on the very day Charles lost his royal head. But for the Civil +War, Crittenden would have played that <i>rôle</i> worthily and without +question to the end. With the close of the war, however, his birthright +was gone—even before he was born—and yet, as he grew to manhood, he +had gone on in the serene and lofty way of his father—there<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> was +nothing else he could do—playing the gentleman still, though with each +year the audience grew more restless and the other and lesser actors in +the drama of Southern reconstruction more and more resented the +particular claims of the star. At last, came with a shock the +realization that with the passing of the war his occupation had forever +gone. And all at once, out on his ancestral farm that had carried its +name Canewood down from pioneer days; that had never been owned by a +white man who was not a Crittenden; that was isolated, and had its +slaves and the children of those slaves still as servants; that still +clung rigidly to old traditions—social, agricultural, and +patriarchal—out there Crittenden found himself one day alone. His +friends—even the boy, his brother—had caught the modern trend of +things quicker than he, and most of them had gone to work—some to law, +some as clerks, railroad men, merchants, civil engineers; some to mining +and speculating in the State's own rich mountains. Of course, he had +studied law—his type of Southerner always studies law—and he tried the +practice of it. He had too much self-confidence, perhaps, based on his +own brilliant record as a college orator, and he never got over the +humiliation of losing his first case, being handled like putty by a +small, black-eyed youth of his own age, who had come<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> from nowhere and +had passed up through a philanthropical old judge's office to the +dignity, by and by, of a license of his own. Losing the suit, through +some absurd little technical mistake, Crittenden not only declined a +fee, but paid the judgment against his client out of his own pocket and +went home with a wound to his foolish, sensitive pride for which there +was no quick cure. A little later, he went to the mountains, when those +wonderful hills first began to give up their wealth to the world; but +the pace was too swift, competition was too undignified and greedy, and +business was won on too low a plane. After a year or two of rough life, +which helped him more than he knew, until long afterward, he went home. +Politics he had not yet tried, and politics he was now persuaded to try. +He made a brilliant canvass, but another element than oratory had crept +in as a new factor in political success. His opponent, Wharton, the +wretched little lawyer who had bested him once before, bested him now, +and the weight of the last straw fell crushingly. It was no use. The +little touch of magic that makes success seemed to have been denied him +at birth, and, therefore, deterioration began to set in—the +deterioration that comes from idleness, from energy that gets the wrong +vent, from strong passions that a definite purpose would have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> kept +under control—and the worse elements of a nature that, at the bottom, +was true and fine, slowly began to take possession of him as weeds will +take possession of an abandoned field.</p> + +<p>But even then nobody took him as seriously as he took himself. So that +while he fell just short, in his own eyes, of everything that was worth +while; of doing something and being something worth while; believing +something that made the next world worth while; or gaining the love of a +woman that would have made this life worth while—in the eyes of his own +people he was merely sowing his wild oats after the fashion of his race, +and would settle down, after the same fashion, by and by—that was the +indulgent summary of his career thus far. He had been a brilliant +student in the old university and, in a desultory way, he was yet. He +had worried his professor of metaphysics by puzzling questions and keen +argument until that philosopher was glad to mark him highest in his +class and let him go. He surprised the old lawyers when it came to a +discussion of the pure theory of law, and, on the one occasion when his +mother's pastor came to see him, he disturbed that good man no little, +and closed his lips against further censure of him in pulpit or in +private. So that all that was said against him by the pious was that he +did not go to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> church as he should; and by the thoughtful, that he was +making a shameful waste of the talents that the Almighty had showered so +freely down upon him. And so without suffering greatly in public +estimation, in spite of the fact that the ideals of Southern life were +changing fast, he passed into the old-young period that is the critical +time in the lives of men like him—when he thought he had drunk his cup +to the dregs; had run the gamut of human experience; that nothing was +left to his future but the dull repetition of his past. Only those who +knew him best had not given up hope of him, nor had he really given up +hope of himself as fully as he thought. The truth was, he never fell +far, nor for long, and he always rose with the old purpose the same, +even if it stirred him each time with less and less enthusiasm—and +always with the beacon-light of one star shining from his past, even +though each time it shone a little more dimly. For usually, of course, +there is the hand of a woman on the lever that prizes such a man's life +upward, and when Judith Page's clasp loosened on Crittenden, the castle +that the lightest touch of her finger raised in his imagination—that +he, doubtless, would have reared for her and for him, in fact, fell in +quite hopeless ruins, and no similar shape was ever framed for him above +its ashes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> + +<p>It was the simplest and oldest of stories between the two—a story that +began, doubtless, with the beginning, and will never end as long as two +men and one woman, or two women and one man are left on earth—the story +of the love of one who loves another. Only, to the sufferers the tragedy +is always as fresh as a knife-cut, and forever new.</p> + +<p>Judith cared for nobody. Crittenden laughed and pleaded, stormed, +sulked, and upbraided, and was devoted and indifferent for years—like +the wilful, passionate youngster that he was—until Judith did love +another—what other, Crittenden never knew. And then he really believed +that he must, as she had told him so often, conquer his love for her. +And he did, at a fearful cost to the best that was in him—foolishly, +but consciously, deliberately. When the reaction came, he tried to +reëstablish his relations to a world that held no Judith Page. Her +absence gave him help, and he had done very well, in spite of an +occasional relapse. It was a relapse that had sent him to the mountains, +six weeks before, and he had emerged with a clear eye, a clear head, +steady nerves, and with the one thing that he had always lacked, waiting +for him—a purpose. It was little wonder, then, that the first ruddy +flash across a sky that had been sunny with peace for thirty years and +more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> thrilled him like an electric charge from the very clouds. The +next best thing to a noble life was a death that was noble, and that was +possible to any man in war. One war had taken away—another might give +back again; and his chance was come at last.</p> + +<p>It was midnight now, and far across the fields came the swift faint beat +of a horse's hoofs on the turnpike. A moment later he could hear the hum +of wheels—it was his little brother coming home; nobody had a horse +that could go like that, and nobody else would drive that way if he had. +Since the death of their father, thirteen years after the war, he had +been father to the boy, and time and again he had wondered now why he +could not have been like that youngster. Life was an open book to the +boy—to be read as he ran. He took it as he took his daily bread, +without thought, without question. If left alone, he and the little girl +whom he had gone that night to see would marry, settle down, and go hand +in hand into old age without questioning love, life, or happiness. And +that was as it should be; and would to Heaven he had been born to tread +the self-same way. There was a day when he was near it; when he turned +the same fresh, frank face fearlessly to the world, when his nature was +as unspoiled and as clean, his hopes as high, and his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> faith as +child-like; and once when he ran across a passage in Stevenson in which +that gentle student spoke of his earlier and better self as his "little +brother" whom he loved and longed for and sought persistently, but who +dropped farther and farther behind at times, until, in moments of +darkness, he sometimes feared that he might lose him forever—Crittenden +had clung to the phrase, and he had let his fancy lead him to regard +this boy as his early and better self—better far than he had ever +been—his little brother, in a double sense, who drew from him, besides +the love of brother for brother and father for son, a tenderness that +was almost maternal.</p> + +<p>The pike-gate slammed now and the swift rush of wheels over the +bluegrass turf followed; the barn-gate cracked sharply on the night air +and Crittenden heard him singing, in the boyish, untrained tenor that is +so common in the South, one of the old-fashioned love-songs that are +still sung with perfect sincerity and without shame by his people:</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em;"> +"You'll never find another love like mine,<br /> +"You'll never find a heart that's half so true." +</p> + +<p>And then the voice was muffled suddenly. A little while later he entered +the yard-gate and stopped in the moonlight and, from his window,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> +Crittenden looked down and watched him. The boy was going through the +manual of arms with his buggy-whip, at the command of an imaginary +officer, whom, erect and martial, he was apparently looking straight in +the eye. Plainly he was a private now. Suddenly he sprang forward and +saluted; he was volunteering for some dangerous duty; and then he walked +on toward the house. Again he stopped. Apparently he had been promoted +now for gallant conduct, for he waved his whip and called out with low, +sharp sternness;</p> + +<p>"Steady, now! Ready; fire!" And then swinging his hat over his head:</p> + +<p>"Double-quick—charge!" After the charge, he sat down for a moment on +the stiles, looking up at the moon, and then came on toward the house, +singing again:</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em;"> +"You'll never find a man in all this world<br /> +Who'll love you half so well as I love you." +</p> + +<p>And inside, the mother, too, was listening; and she heard the elder +brother call the boy into his room and the door close, and she as well +knew the theme of their talk as though she could hear all they said. Her +sons—even the elder one—did not realize what war was; the boy looked +upon it as a frolic. That was the way her two brothers had regarded the +old war.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> They went with the South, of course, as did her father and her +sweetheart. And her sweetheart was the only one who came back, and him +she married the third month after the surrender, when he was so sick and +wounded that he could hardly stand. Now she must give up all that was +left for the North, that had taken nearly all she had.</p> + +<p>Was it all to come again—the same long days of sorrow, loneliness, the +anxious waiting, waiting, waiting to hear that this one was dead, and +that this one was wounded or sick to death—would either come back +unharmed? She knew now what her own mother must have suffered, and what +it must have cost her to tell her sons what she had told hers that +night. Ah, God, was it all to come again?</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> +<h3><a name="V" id="V"></a>V</h3> +</div> + +<p>Some days later a bugle blast started Crittenden from a soldier's cot, +when the flaps of his tent were yellow with the rising sun. Peeping +between them, he saw that only one tent was open. Rivers, as +acting-quartermaster, had been up long ago and gone. That blast was +meant for the private at the foot of the hill, and Crittenden went back +to his cot and slept on.</p> + +<p>The day before he had swept out of the hills again—out through a +blossoming storm of dogwood—but this time southward bound. +Incidentally, he would see unveiled these statues that Kentucky was +going to dedicate to her Federal and Confederate dead. He would find his +father's old comrade—little Jerry Carter—and secure a commission, if +possible. Meanwhile, he would drill with Rivers's regiment, as a soldier +of the line.</p> + +<p>At sunset he swept into the glory of a Southern spring and the hallowed +haze of an old battlefield where certain gallant Americans once fought +certain other gallant Americans fiercely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> forward and back over some six +thousand acres of creek-bottom and wooded hills, and where Uncle Sam was +pitching tents for his war-children—children, too—some of them—of +those old enemies, but ready to fight together now, and as near shoulder +to shoulder as the modern line of battle will allow.</p> + +<p>Rivers, bronzed, quick-tempered, and of superb physique, met him at the +station.</p> + +<p>"You'll come right out to camp with me."</p> + +<p>The town was thronged. There were gray slouched hats everywhere with +little brass crosses pinned to them—tiny rifles, sabres, +cannon—crosses that were not symbols of religion, unless this was a +time when the Master's coming meant the sword. Under them were soldiers +with big pistols and belts of big, gleaming cartridges—soldiers, white +and black, everywhere—swaggering, ogling, and loud of voice, but all +good-natured, orderly.</p> + +<p>Inside the hotel the lobby was full of officers in uniform, scanning the +yellow bulletin-boards, writing letters, chatting in groups; gray +veterans of horse, foot, and artillery; company officers in from Western +service—quiet young men with bronzed faces and keen eyes, like +Rivers's—renewing old friendships and swapping experiences on the +plains; subalterns down to the last graduating class from West Point +with slim<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> waists, fresh faces, and nothing to swap yet but memories of +the old school on the Hudson. In there he saw Grafton again and +Lieutenant Sharpe, of the Tenth Colored Cavalry, whom he had seen in the +Bluegrass, and Rivers introduced him. He was surprised that Rivers, +though a Southerner, had so little feeling on the question of negro +soldiers; that many officers in the negro regiments were Southern; that +Southerners were preferred because they understood the black man, and, +for that reason, could better handle him. Sharpe presented both to his +father, Colonel Sharpe, of the infantry, who was taking credit to +himself, that, for the first time in his life, he allowed his band to +play "Dixie" in camp after the Southerners in Congress had risen up and +voted millions for the national defence. Colonel Sharpe spoke with some +bitterness and Crittenden wondered. He never dreamed that there was any +bitterness on the other side—why? How could a victor feel bitterness +for a fallen foe? It was the one word he heard or was to hear about the +old war from Federal or ex-Confederate. Indeed, he mistook a short, +stout, careless appointee, Major Billings, with his negro servant, his +Southern mustache and goatee and his pompous ways, for a genuine +Southerner, and the Major, though from Vermont, seemed pleased.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p> + +<p>But it was to the soldier outside that Crittenden's heart had been +drawn, for it was his first stirring sight of the regular of his own +land, and the soldier in him answered at once with a thrill. Waiting for +Rivers, he stood in the door of the hotel, watching the strong men pass, +and by and by he saw three coming down the street, arm in arm. On the +edge of the light, the middle one, a low, thick-set, black-browed +fellow, pushed his comrades away, fell drunkenly, and slipped loosely to +the street, while the two stood above him in disgust. One of them was a +mere boy and the other was a giant, with a lean face, so like Lincoln's +that Crittenden started when the boy called impatiently:</p> + +<p>"Pick him up, Abe."</p> + +<p>The tall soldier stooped, and with one hand lifted the drunken man as +lightly as though he had been a sack of wool, and the two caught him +under the arms again. As they came on, both suddenly let go; the middle +one straightened sharply, and all three saluted. Crittenden heard +Rivers's voice at his ear:</p> + +<p>"Report for this, Reynolds."</p> + +<p>And the drunken soldier turned and rather sullenly saluted again.</p> + +<p>"You'll come right out to camp with me," repeated Rivers.</p> + +<p>And now out at the camp, next morning, a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> dozen trumpets were ringing +out an emphatic complaint into Crittenden's sleeping ears:</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em;"> +"I can't git 'em up,<br /> +I can't git 'em up,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I can't git 'em up in the mornin',</span><br /> +I can't git 'em up,<br /> +I can't git 'em up,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I can't git 'em up at all.</span><br /> +The corporal's worse than the sergeant,<br /> +The sergeant's worse than the lieutenant,<br /> +And the captain is worst of all." +</p> + +<p>This is as high up, apparently, as the private dares to go, unless he +considers the somnolent iniquity of the Colonel quite beyond the range +of the bugle. But the pathetic appeal was too much for Crittenden, and +he got up, stepping into a fragrant foot-bath of cold dew and out to a +dapple gray wash-basin that sat on three wooden stakes just outside. +Sousing his head, he sniffed in the chill air and, looking below him, +took in, with pure mathematical delight, the working unit of the army as +it came to life. The very camp was the symbol of order and system: a low +hill, rising from a tiny stream below him in a series of natural +terraces to the fringe of low pines behind him, and on these terraces +officers and men sitting, according to rank; the white tepees of the +privates and their tethered horses—camped in column of +troops—stretching<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> up the hill toward him; on the first terrace above +and flanking the columns, the old-fashioned army tents of company +officer and subaltern and the guidons in line—each captain with his +lieutenants at the head of each company street; behind them and on the +next terrace, the majors three—each facing the centre of his squadron. +And highest on top of the hill, and facing the centre of the regiment, +the slate-coloured tent of the Colonel, commanding every foot of the +camp.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said a voice behind him, "and you'll find it just that way +throughout the army."</p> + +<p>Crittenden turned in surprise, and the ubiquitous Grafton went on as +though the little trick of thought-reading were too unimportant for +notice.</p> + +<p>"Let's go down and take a look at things. This is my last day," Grafton +went on, "and I'm out early. I go to Tampa to-morrow."</p> + +<p>All the day before, as he travelled, Crittenden had seen the station +thronged with eager countrymen—that must have been the way it was in +the old war, he thought—and swarmed the thicker the farther he went +south. And now, as the two started down the hill, he could see in the +dusty road that ran through the old battlefield Southern interest and +sympathy taking visible shape. For a hundred miles around, the human<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +swarm had risen from the earth and was moving toward him on wagon, +bicycle, horseback, foot; in omnibus, carriage, cart; in barges on +wheels, with projecting additions, and other land-craft beyond +classification or description. And the people—the American Southerners; +rich whites, whites well-to-do, poor white trash; good country folks, +valley farmers; mountaineers—darkies, and the motley feminine horde +that the soldier draws the world over—all moving along the road as far +as he could see, and interspersed here and there in the long, low cloud +of dust with a clanking troop of horse or a red rumbling battery—all +coming to see the soldiers—the soldiers!</p> + +<p>And the darkies! How they flocked and stared at their soldier-brethren +with pathetic worship, dumb admiration, and, here and there, with a look +of contemptuous resentment that was most curious. And how those dusky +sons of Mars were drinking deep into their broad nostrils the incense +wafted to them from hedge and highway.</p> + +<p>For a moment Grafton stopped still, looking.</p> + +<p>"Great!"</p> + +<p>Below the Majors' terrace stood an old sergeant, with a gray mustache +and a kind, blue eye. Each horse had his nose in a mouth-bag and was +contentedly munching corn, while a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> trooper affectionately curried him +from tip of ear to tip of tail.</p> + +<p>"Horse ever first and man ever afterward is the trooper's law," said +Grafton.</p> + +<p>"I suppose you've got the best colonel in the army," he added to the +soldier and with a wink at Crittenden.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," said the guileless old Sergeant, quickly, and with perfect +seriousness. "We have, sir, and I'm not sayin' a wor-rd against the +rest, sir."</p> + +<p>The Sergeant's voice was as kind as his face, and Grafton soon learned +that he was called "the Governor" throughout the regiment—that he was a +Kentuckian and a sharpshooter. He had seen twenty-seven years of +service, and his ambition had been to become a sergeant of ordnance. He +passed his examination finally, but he was then a little too old. That +almost broke the Sergeant's heart, but the hope of a fight, now, was +fast healing it.</p> + +<p>"I'm from Kentucky, too," said Crittenden. The old soldier turned +quickly.</p> + +<p>"I knew you were, sir."</p> + +<p>This was too much for Grafton. "Now-how-on-earth—" and then he checked +himself—it was not his business.</p> + +<p>"You're a Crittenden."</p> + +<p>"That's right," laughed the Kentuckian.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> The Sergeant turned. A soldier +came up and asked some trifling question, with a searching look, Grafton +observed, at Crittenden. Everyone looked at that man twice, thought +Grafton, and he looked again himself. It was his manner, his bearing, +the way his head was set on his shoulders, the plastic force of his +striking face. But Crittenden saw only that the Sergeant answered the +soldier as though he were talking to a superior. He had been watching +the men closely—they might be his comrades some day—and, already, had +noticed, with increasing surprise, the character of the men whom he saw +as common soldiers—young, quiet, and above the average countryman in +address and intelligence—and this man's face surprised him still more, +as did his bearing. His face was dark, his eye was dark and penetrating +and passionate; his mouth was reckless and weak, his build was graceful, +and his voice was low and even—the voice of a gentleman; he was the +refined type of the Western gentleman-desperado, as Crittenden had +imagined it from fiction and hearsay. As the soldier turned away, the +old Sergeant saved him the question he was about to ask.</p> + +<p>"He used to be an officer."</p> + +<p>"Who—how's that?" asked Grafton, scenting "a story."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p> + +<p>The old Sergeant checked himself at once, and added cautiously:</p> + +<p>"He was a lieutenant in this regiment and he resigned. He just got back +to-day, and he has enlisted as a private rather than risk not getting to +Cuba at all. But, of course, he'll get his commission back again." The +Sergeant's manner fooled neither Grafton nor Crittenden; both respected +the old Sergeant's unwillingness to gossip about a man who had been his +superior, and Grafton asked no more questions.</p> + +<p>There was no idleness in that camp. Each man was busy within and without +the conical-walled tents in which the troopers lie like the spokes of a +wheel, with heads out like a covey of partridges. Before one tent sat +the tall soldier—Abe—and the boy, his comrade, whom Crittenden had +seen the night before.</p> + +<p>"Where's Reynolds?" asked Crittenden, smiling.</p> + +<p>"Guard-house," said the Sergeant, shaking his head.</p> + +<p>Not a scrap of waste matter was to be seen anywhere—not a piece of +paper—not the faintest odour was perceptible; the camp was as clean as +a Dutch kitchen.</p> + +<p>"And this is a camp of cavalry, mind you," said Grafton. "Ten minutes +after they have broken camp, you won't be able to tell that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> there has +been a man or horse on the ground, except for the fact that it will be +packed down hard in places. And I bet you that in a month they won't +have three men in the hospital." The old Sergeant nearly blushed with +pleasure.</p> + +<p>"An' I've got the best captain, too, sir," he said, as they turned away, +and Grafton laughed.</p> + +<p>"That's the way you'll find it all through the army. Each colonel and +each captain is always the best to the soldier, and, by the way," he +went on, "do you happen to know about this little United States regular +army?"</p> + +<p>"Not much."</p> + +<p>"I thought so. Germany knows a good deal—England, France, Prussia, +Russia—everybody knows but the American and the Spaniard. Just look at +these men. They're young, strong, intelligent—bully, good Americans. +It's an army of picked men—picked for heart, body, and brain. Almost +each man is an athlete. It is the finest body of men on God Almighty's +earth to-day, and everybody on earth but the American and the Spaniard +knows it. And how this nation has treated them. Think of that miserable +Congress—" Grafton waved his hands in impotent rage and ceased—Rivers +was calling them from the top of the hill.</p> + +<p>So all morning Crittenden watched the regimental unit at work. He took a +sabre lesson<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> from the old Sergeant. He visited camps of infantry and +artillery and, late that afternoon, he sat on a little wooded hill, +where stood four draped, ghost-like statues—watching these units paint +pictures on a bigger canvas below him, of the army at work as a whole.</p> + +<p>Every green interspace below was thickly dotted with tents and rising +spirals of faint smoke; every little plain was filled with soldiers, at +drill. Behind him wheeled cannon and caisson and men and horses, +splashed with prophetic drops of red, wheeling at a gallop, halting, +unlimbering, loading, and firing imaginary shells at imaginary +Spaniards—limbering and off with a flash of metal, wheel-spoke and +crimson trappings at a gallop again; in the plain below were regiments +of infantry, deploying in skirmish-line, advancing by rushes; beyond +them sharpshooters were at target practice, and little bands of recruits +and awkward squads were everywhere. In front, rose cloud after cloud of +dust, and, under them, surged cloud after cloud of troopers at mounted +drill, all making ready for the soldier's work—to kill with mercy and +die without complaint. What a picture—what a picture! And what a rich +earnest of the sleeping might of the nation behind it all. Just under +him was going an "escort of the standard," which he could plainly see. +Across<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> the long drill-ground the regiment—it was Rivers's +regiment—stood, a solid mass of silent, living statues, and it was a +brave sight that came now—that flash of sabres along the long length of +the drill-field, like one leaping horizontal flame. It was a regimental +acknowledgment of the honour of presentation to the standard, and +Crittenden raised his hat gravely in recognition of the same honour, +little dreaming that he was soon to follow that standard up a certain +Cuban hill.</p> + +<p>What a picture!</p> + +<p>There the nation was concentrating its power. Behind him that nation was +patching up its one great quarrel, and now a gray phantom stalked out of +the past to the music of drum and fife, and Crittenden turned sharply to +see a little body of men, in queer uniforms, marching through a camp of +regulars toward him. They were old boys, and they went rather slowly, +but they stepped jauntily and, in their natty old-fashioned caps and old +gray jackets pointed into a V-shape behind, they looked jaunty in spite +of their years. Not a soldier but paused to look at these men in gray, +who marched thus proudly through such a stronghold of blue, and were not +ashamed. Not a man joked or laughed or smiled, for all knew that they +were old Confederates in butter-nut, and once fighting-men indeed. All +knew that these men had fought battles that made scouts<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> and Indian +skirmishes and city riots and, perhaps, any battles in store for them +with Spain but play by contrast for the tin soldier, upon whom the +regular smiles with such mild contempt; that this thin column had seen +twice the full muster of the seven thousand strong encamped there melt +away upon that very battlefield in a single day. And so the little +remnant of gray marched through an atmosphere of profound respect, and +on through a mist of memories to the rocky little point where the +Federal Virginian Thomas—"The Rock of Chickamauga"—stood against +seventeen fierce assaults of hill-swarming demons in butter-nut, whose +desperate valour has hardly a parallel on earth, unless it then and +there found its counterpart in the desperate courage of the brothers in +name and race whose lives they sought that day. They were bound to a +patriotic love-feast with their old enemies in blue—these men in +gray—to hold it on the hill around the four bronze statues that +Crittenden's State was putting up to her sons who fought on one or the +other side on that one battlefield, and Crittenden felt a clutch at his +heart and his eyes filled when the tattered old flag of the stars and +bars trembled toward him. Under its folds rode the spirit of gallant +fraternity—a little, old man with a grizzled beard and with stars on +his shoulders,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle, his eyes +lifted dreamily upward—they called him the "bee-hunter," from that +habit of his in the old war—his father's old comrade, little Jerry +Carter. That was the man Crittenden had come South to see. Behind came a +carriage, in which sat a woman in widow's weeds and a tall girl in gray. +He did not need to look again to see that it was Judith, and, +motionless, he stood where he was throughout the ceremony, until he saw +the girl lift her hand and the veil fall away from the bronze symbols of +the soldier that was in her fathers and in his—stood resolutely still +until the gray figure disappeared and the veterans, blue and gray +intermingled, marched away. The little General was the last to leave, +and he rode slowly, as if overcome with memories. Crittenden took off +his hat and, while he hesitated, hardly knowing whether to make himself +known or not, the little man caught sight of him and stopped short.</p> + +<p>"Why—why, bless my soul, aren't you Tom Crittenden's son?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," said Crittenden.</p> + +<p>"I knew it. Bless me, I was thinking of him just that moment—naturally +enough—and you startled me. I thought it was Tom himself." He grasped +the Kentuckian's hand warmly.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, studying his face. "You look<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> just as he did when we +courted and camped and fought together." The tone of his voice moved +Crittenden deeply. "And you are going to the war—good—good! Your +father would be with me right now if he were alive. Come to see me right +away. I may go to Tampa any day." And, as he rode away, he stopped +again.</p> + +<p>"Of course you have a commission in the Legion."</p> + +<p>"No, sir. I didn't ask for one. I was afraid the Legion might not get to +Cuba." The General smiled.</p> + +<p>"Well, come to see me"—he smiled again—"we'll see—we'll see!" and he +rode on with his hands still folded on the pommel of his saddle and his +eyes still lifted, dreamily, upward.</p> + +<p>It was guard-mount and sunset when Crittenden, with a leaping heart, +reached Rivers's camp. The band was just marching out with a corps of +trumpeters, when a crash of martial music came across the hollow from +the camp on the next low hill, followed by cheers, which ran along the +road and were swollen into a mighty shouting when taken up by the camp +at the foot of the hill. Through the smoke and faint haze of the early +evening, moved a column of infantry into sight, headed by a band.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em;"> +"Tramp, tramp, tramp,<br /> +The boys are marching!" +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p> + +<p>Along the brow of the hill, and but faintly seen through the smoky haze, +came the pendulum-like swing of rank after rank of sturdy legs, with +guidons fluttering along the columns and big, ghostly army wagons +rumbling behind. Up started the band at the foot of the hill with a +rousing march, and up started every band along the line, and through +madly cheering soldiers swung the regiment on its way to Tampa—magic +word, hope of every chafing soldier left behind—Tampa, the point of +embarkation for the little island where waited death or glory.</p> + +<p>Rivers was deeply dejected.</p> + +<p>"Don't you join any regiment yet," he said to Crittenden; "you may get +hung up here all summer till the war is over. If you want to get into +the fun for sure—wait. Go to Tampa and wait. You might come here, or go +there, and drill and watch for your chance." Which was the conclusion +Crittenden had already reached for himself.</p> + +<p>The sun sank rapidly now. Dusk fell swiftly, and the pines began their +nightly dirge for the many dead who died under them five and thirty +years ago. They had a new and ominous chant now to Crittenden—a chant +of premonition for the strong men about him who were soon to follow +them. Camp-fires began to glow out of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> the darkness far and near over +the old battlefield.</p> + +<p>Around a little fire on top of the hill, and in front of the Colonel's +tent, sat the Colonel, with kind Irish face, Irish eye, and Irish wit of +tongue. Near him the old Indian-fighter, Chaffee, with strong brow, deep +eyes, long jaw, firm mouth, strong chin—the long, lean face of a +thirteenth century monk who was quick to doff cowl for helmet. While +they told war-stories, Crittenden sat in silence with the majors three, +and Willings, the surgeon (whom he was to know better in Cuba), and +listened. Every now and then a horse would loom from the darkness, and a +visiting officer would swing into the light, and everybody would say:</p> + +<p>"How!"</p> + +<p>There is no humour in that monosyllable of good cheer throughout the +United States Army, and with Indian-like solemnity they said it, tin cup +in hand:</p> + +<p>"How!"</p> + +<p>Once it was Lawton, tall, bronzed, commanding, taciturn—but fluent when +he did speak—or Kent, or Sumner, or little Jerry Carter himself. And +once, a soldier stepped into the circle of firelight, his heels clicking +sharply together; and Crittenden thought an uneasy movement ran around +the group, and that the younger men<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> looked furtively up as though to +take their cue from the Colonel. It was the soldier who had been an +officer once. The Colonel showed not a hint of consciousness, nor did +the impassive soldier to anybody but Crittenden, and with him it may +have been imagination that made him think that once, when the soldier +let his eye flash quite around the group, he flushed slightly when he +met Crittenden's gaze. Rivers shrugged his shoulders when Crittenden +asked about him later.</p> + +<!-- Transcriber's note: original punctuation retained in following sentence. --> +<p>"Black sheep ... well-educated, brave, well-born most likely, came up +from the ranks, ... won a commission as sergeant fighting Indians, but +always in trouble—gambling, fighting, and so forth. Somebody in +Washington got him a lieutenancy, and while the commission was on its +way to him out West he got into a bar-room brawl. He resigned then, and +left the army. He was gentleman enough to do that. Now he's back. The +type is common in the army, and they often come back. I expect he has +decency enough to want to get killed. If he has, maybe he'll come out a +captain yet."</p> + +<p>By and by came "tattoo," and finally far away a trumpet sounded "taps"; +then another and another and another still. At last, when all were +through, "taps" rose once more out of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> the darkness to the left. This +last trumpeter had waited—he knew his theme and knew his power. The +rest had simply given the command:</p> + +<p>"Lights out!"</p> + +<p>Lights out of the soldier's camp, they said. Lights out of the soldier's +life, said this one, sadly; and out of Crittenden's life just now +something that once was dearer than life itself.</p> + +<p>"Love, good-night."</p> + +<p>Such the trumpet meant to one poet, and such it meant to many another +than Crittenden, doubtless, when he stretched himself on his +cot—thinking of Judith there that afternoon, and seeing her hand lift +to pull away the veil from the statues again. So it had always been with +him. One touch of her hand and the veil that hid his better self parted, +and that self stepped forth victorious. It had been thickening, fold on +fold, a long while now; and now, he thought sternly, the rending must be +done, and should be done with his own hands. And then he would go back +to thinking of her as he saw her last in the Bluegrass. And he wondered +what that last look and smile of hers could mean. Later, he moved in his +sleep—dreaming of that brave column marching for Tampa—with his mind's +eye on the flag at the head of the regiment,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> and a thrill about his +heart that waked him. And he remembered that it was the first time he +had ever had any sensation about the flag of his own land. But it had +come to him—awake and asleep—and it was genuine.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> +<h3><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI</h3> +</div> + +<p>It was mid-May now, and the leaves were full and their points were +drooping toward the earth. The woods were musical with the cries of +blackbirds as Crittenden drove toward the pike-gate, and the meadow was +sweet with the love-calls of larks. The sun was fast nearing the zenith, +and air and earth were lusty with life. Already the lane, lined with +locust-trees, brambles, wild rose-bushes, and young elders, was fragrant +with the promise of unborn flowers, and the turnpike, when he neared +town, was soft with the dust of many a hoof and wheel that had passed +over it toward the haze of smoke which rose over the first recruiting +camp in the State for the Spanish war. There was a big crowd in the +lovely woodland over which hung the haze, and the music of horn and drum +came forth to Crittenden's ears even that far away, and Raincrow raised +head and tail and quickened his pace proudly.</p> + +<p>For a week he had drilled at Chickamauga. He had done the work of a +plain soldier, and he liked it—liked his temporary comrades, who were +frankly men to men with him, in spite of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> his friendship with their +superiors on top of the hill. To the big soldier, Abe Long, the wag of +the regiment, he had been drawn with genuine affection. He liked Abe's +bunkie, the boy Sanders, who was from Maine, while Abe was a +Westerner—the lineal descendant in frame, cast of mind, and character +of the border backwoodsman of the Revolution. Reynolds was a bully, and +Crittenden all but had trouble with him; for he bullied the boy Sanders +when Abe was not around, and bullied the "rookies." Abe seemed to have +little use for him, but as he had saved the big soldier's life once in +an Indian fight, Abe stuck to him, in consequence, loyally. But +Blackford, the man who had been an officer once, had interested him +most; perhaps, because Blackford showed peculiar friendliness for him at +once. From Washington, Crittenden had heard not a word; nor from General +Carter, who had left Chickamauga before he could see him again. If, +within two days more, no word came, Crittenden had made up his mind to +go to Tampa, where the little General was, and where Rivers's regiment +had been ordered, and drill again and, as Rivers advised, await his +chance.</p> + +<p>The camp was like some great picnic or political barbecue, with the +smoking trenches, the burgoo, and the central feast of beef and mutton +left out. Everywhere country folks were gathering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> up fragments of lunch +on the thick grass, or strolling past the tents of the soldiers, or +stopping before the Colonel's pavilion to look upon the martial young +gentlemen who composed his staff, their beautiful horses, and the +Colonel's beautiful guests from the river city—the big town of the +State. Everywhere were young soldiers in twos and threes keeping step, +to be sure, but with eyes anywhere but to the front; groups lying on the +ground, chewing blades of bluegrass, watching +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'gretty'">pretty</ins>ins> girls pass, and +lounging lazily; groups to one side, but by no means out of sight, +throwing dice or playing "craps"—the game dear to the darkey's heart. +On the outskirts were guards to gently challenge the visitor, but not +very stern sentinels were they. As Crittenden drove in, he saw one +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'pacing ing'">pacing</ins> a +shady beat with a girl on his arm. And later, as he stood by +his buggy, looking around with an amused sense of the playful contrast +it all was to what he had seen at Chickamauga, he saw another sentinel +brought to a sudden halt by a surprised exclamation from a girl, who was +being shown through the camp by a strutting lieutenant. The sentinel was +Basil and Phyllis was the girl.</p> + +<p>"Why, isn't that Basil?" she asked in an amazed tone—amazed because +Basil did not speak to her, but grinned silently.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why, it is Basil; why—why," and she turned helplessly from private to +officer and back again. "Can't you speak to me, Basil?"</p> + +<p>Basil grinned again sheepishly.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, answering her, but looking straight at his superior, "I +can if the Lieutenant there will let me." Phyllis was indignant.</p> + +<p>"Let you!" she said, witheringly; and she turned on the hapless tyrant +at her side.</p> + +<p>"Now, don't you go putting on airs, just because you happen to have been +in the Legion a little longer than <i>some</i> people. Of course, I'm going +to speak to my friends. I don't care where they are or what they happen +to be at the time, or who happens to think himself over them."</p> + +<p>And she walked up to the helpless sentinel with her hand outstretched, +while the equally helpless Lieutenant got very red indeed, and Basil +shifted his gun to a very unmilitary position and held out his hand.</p> + +<p>"Let me see your gun, Basil," she added, and the boy obediently handed +it over to her, while the little Lieutenant turned redder still.</p> + +<p>"You go to the guard-house for that, Crittenden," he said, quietly. +"Don't you know you oughtn't to give up your gun to anybody except your +commanding officer?"</p> + +<p>"Does he, indeed?" said the girl, just as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> quietly. "Well, I'll see the +Colonel." And Basil saluted soberly, knowing there was no guard-house +for him that night.</p> + +<p>"Anyhow," she added, "I'm the commanding officer here." And then the +gallant lieutenant saluted too.</p> + +<p>"You are, indeed," he said; and Phyllis turned to give Basil a parting +smile.</p> + +<p>Crittenden followed them to the Colonel's tent, which had a raised floor +and the good cheer of cigar-boxes, and of something under his cot that +looked like a champagne-basket; and he smiled to think of Chaffee's +Spartan-like outfit at Chickamauga. Every now and then a soldier would +come up with a complaint, and the Colonel would attend to him +personally.</p> + +<p>It was plain that the old ex-Confederate was the father of the regiment, +and was beloved as such; and Crittenden was again struck with the +contrast it all was to what he had just seen, knowing well, however, +that the chief difference was in the spirit in which regular and +volunteer approached the matter in hand. With one, it was a business +pure and simple, to which he was trained. With the other, it was a lark +at first, but business it soon would be, and a dashing business at that. +There was the same crowd before the tent—Judith, who greeted him with +gracious frankness, but with a humorous<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> light in her eye that set him +again to wondering; and Phyllis and Phyllis's mother, Mrs. Stanton, who +no sooner saw Crittenden than she furtively looked at Judith with a +solicitude that was maternal and significant.</p> + +<p>There can be no better hot-bed of sentiment than the mood of man and +woman when the man is going to war; and if Mrs. Stanton had not shaken +that nugget of wisdom from her memories of the old war, she would have +known it anyhow, for she was blessed with a perennial sympathy for the +heart-troubles of the young, and she was as quick to apply a remedy to +the children of other people as she was to her own, whom, by the way, +she cured, one by one, as they grew old enough to love and suffer, and +learn through suffering what it was to be happy. And how other mothers +wondered how it was all done! In truth, her method—if she had a +conscious method—was as mysterious and as sure as is the way of nature; +and one could no more catch her nursing a budding passion here and there +than one could catch nature making the bluegrass grow. Everybody saw the +result; nobody saw just how it was done. That afternoon an instance was +at hand. Judith wanted to go home, and Mrs. Stanton, who had brought her +to camp, wanted to go to town. Phyllis, too, wanted to go home, and her +wicked little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> brother, Walter, who had brought her, climbed into +Basil's brake before her eyes, and, making a face at her, disappeared in +a cloud of dust. Of course, neither of the brothers nor the two girls +knew what was going on, but, a few minutes later, there was Basil +pleading with Mrs. Stanton to let him take Phyllis home, and there was +Crittenden politely asking the privilege of taking Judith into his +buggy. The girl looked embarrassed, but when Mrs. Stanton made a +gracious feint of giving up her trip to town, Judith even more +graciously declined to allow her, and, with a smile to Crittenden, as +though he were a conscious partner in her effort to save Mrs. Stanton +trouble, gave him her hand and was helped into the smart trap, with its +top pressed flat, its narrow seat and a high-headed, high-reined, +half-thoroughbred restive between the slender shafts; and a moment +later, smiled a good-by to the placid lady, who, with a sigh that was +half an envious memory, half the throb of a big, kind heart, turned to +her own carriage, assuring herself that it really was imperative for her +to drive to town, if for no other reason than to see that her +mischievous boy got out of town with the younger Crittenden's brake.</p> + +<p>Judith and Crittenden were out of the push of cart, carriage, wagon, and +street-car now, and out of the smoke and dust of the town, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +Crittenden pulled his horse down to a slow trot. The air was clear and +fragrant and restful. So far, the two had spoken scarcely a dozen words. +Crittenden was embarrassed—he hardly knew why—and Judith saw it, and +there was a suppressed smile at the corners of her mouth which +Crittenden did not see.</p> + +<p>"It's too bad."</p> + +<p>Crittenden turned suddenly.</p> + +<p>"It's a great pleasure."</p> + +<p>"For which you have Mrs. Stanton to thank. You would have got it for +yourself five—dear me; is it possible?—five years ago."</p> + +<p>"Seven years ago," corrected Crittenden, grimly. "I was more +self-indulgent seven years ago than I am now."</p> + +<p>"And the temptation was greater then."</p> + +<p>The smile at her mouth twitched her lips faintly, and still Crittenden +did not see; he was too serious, and he kept silent.</p> + +<p>The clock-like stroke of the horse's high-lifted feet came sharply out +on the hard road. The cushioned springs under them creaked softly now +and then, and the hum of the slender, glittering spokes was noiseless +and drowsy.</p> + +<p>"You haven't changed much," said Judith, "except for the better."</p> + +<p>"You haven't changed at all. You couldn't—for better or worse."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> + +<p>Judith smiled dreamily and her eyes were looking backward—very far +backward. Suddenly they were shot with mischief.</p> + +<p>"Why, you really don't seem to—" she hesitated—"to like me any more."</p> + +<p>"I really don't—" Crittenden, too, hesitated—"don't like you any +more—not as I did."</p> + +<p>"You wrote me that."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>The girl gave a low laugh. How often he had played this harmless little +part. But there was a cool self-possession about him that she had never +seen before. She had come home, prepared to be very nice to him, and she +was finding it easy.</p> + +<p>"And you never answered," said Crittenden.</p> + +<p>"No; and I don't know why."</p> + +<p>The birds were coming from shade and picket—for midday had been +warm—into the fields and along the hedges, and were fluttering from one +fence-rail to another ahead of them and piping from the bushes by the +wayside and the top of young weeds.</p> + +<p>"You wrote that you were—'getting over it.' In the usual way?"</p> + +<p>Crittenden glanced covertly at Judith's face. A mood in her like this +always made him uneasy.</p> + +<p>"Not in the usual way; I don't think it's usual. I hope not."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How, then?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, pride, absence—deterioration and other things."</p> + +<p>"Why, then?"</p> + +<p>Judith's head was leaning backward, her eyes were closed, but her face +seemed perfectly serious.</p> + +<p>"You told me to get over it."</p> + +<p>"Did I?"</p> + +<p>Crittenden did not deign to answer this, and Judith was silent a long +while. Then her eyes opened; but they were looking backward again, and +she might have been talking to herself.</p> + +<p>"I'm wondering," she said, "whether any woman ever really meant that +when she said it to a man whom she—" Crittenden turned quickly—"whom +she liked," added Judith as though she had not seen his movement. "She +may think it her duty to say it; she may say it because it is her duty; +but in her heart, I suppose, she wants him to keep on loving her just +the same—if she likes him—" Judith paused—"even more than a very +little. That's very selfish, but I'm afraid it's true."</p> + +<p>And Judith sighed helplessly.</p> + +<p>"I think you made it little enough that time," laughed Crittenden. "Are +you still afraid of giving me too much hope?"</p> + +<p>"I am afraid of nothing—now."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Thank you. You were ever too much concerned about me."</p> + +<p>"I was. Other men may have found the fires of my conscience smouldering +sometimes, but they were always ablaze whenever you came near. I liked +you better than the rest—better than all——"</p> + +<p>Crittenden's heart gave a faint throb and he finished the sentence for +her.</p> + +<p>"But one."</p> + +<p>"But one."</p> + +<p>And that one had been unworthy, and Judith had sent him adrift. She had +always been frank with Crittenden. That much he knew and no more—not +even the man's name; but how he had wondered who and where and what +manner of man he was! And how he had longed to see him!</p> + +<p>They were passing over a little bridge in a hollow where a cool current +of air struck them and the freshened odour of moistening green things in +the creek-bed—the first breath of the night that was still below the +cloudy horizon.</p> + +<p>"Deterioration," said Judith, almost sharply. "What did you mean by +that?"</p> + +<p>Crittenden hesitated, and she added:</p> + +<p>"Go on; we are no longer children."</p> + +<p>"Oh, it was nothing, or everything, just as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> you look at it. I made a +discovery soon after you went away. I found that when I fell short of +the standard you"—Crittenden spoke slowly—"had set for me, I got at +least mental relief. I <i>couldn't</i> think of you until—until I had +recovered myself again."</p> + +<p>"So you——"</p> + +<p>"I used the discovery."</p> + +<p>"That was weak."</p> + +<p>"It was deliberate."</p> + +<p>"Then it was criminal."</p> + +<p>"Both, if you wish; but credit me with at least the strength to confess +and the grace to be ashamed. But I'm beginning all over again now—by +myself."</p> + +<p>He was flipping at one shaft with the cracker of his whip and not +looking at her, and Judith kept silent; but she was watching his face.</p> + +<p>"It's time," he went on, with slow humour. "So far, I've just missed +being what I should have been; doing what I should have done—by a +hair's breadth. I did pretty well in college, but thereafter, when +things begin to count! Law? I never got over the humiliation of my first +ridiculous failure. Business? I made a fortune in six weeks, lost it in +a month, and was lucky to get out without having to mortgage a farm. +Politics? Wharton won by a dozen votes. I just missed being what my +brother is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> now—I missed winning you—everything! Think of it! I am +five feet eleven and three-quarters, when I should have been full six +feet. I am the first Crittenden to fall under the line in a century. I +have been told"—he smiled—"that I have missed being handsome. There +again I believe I overthrow family tradition. My youth is going—to no +purpose, so far—and it looks as though I were going to miss life +hereafter as well as here, since, along with everything else, I have +just about missed faith."</p> + +<p>He was quite sincere and unsparing, but had Judith been ten years older, +she would have laughed outright. As it was, she grew sober and +sympathetic and, like a woman, began to wonder, for the millionth time, +perhaps, how far she had been to blame.</p> + +<p>"The comfort I have is that I have been, and still am, honest with +myself. I haven't done what I ought not and then tried to persuade +myself that it was right. I always knew it was wrong, and I did it +anyhow. And the hope I have is that, like the man in Browning's poem, I +believe I always try to get up again, no matter how often I stumble. I +sha'n't give up hope until I am willing to lie still. And I guess, after +all—" he lifted his head suddenly—"I haven't missed being a man."</p> + +<p>"And a gentleman," added Judith gently.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> + +<p>"According to the old standard—no." Crittenden paused.</p> + +<p>The sound of buggy wheels and a fast-trotting horse rose behind them. +Raincrow lifted his head and quickened his pace, but Crittenden pulled +him in as Basil and Phyllis swept by. The two youngsters were in high +spirits, and the boy shook his whip back and the girl her +handkerchief—both crying something which neither Judith nor Crittenden +could understand. Far behind was the sound of another horse's hoofs, and +Crittenden, glancing back, saw his political enemy—Wharton—a girl by +his side, and coming at full speed. At once he instinctively gave half +the road, and Raincrow, knowing what that meant, shot out his feet and +Crittenden tightened the reins, not to check, but to steady him. The +head of the horse behind he could just see, but he went on talking +quietly.</p> + +<p>"I love that boy," pointing with his whip ahead. "Do you remember that +passage I once read you in Stevenson about his 'little brother'?"</p> + +<p>Judith nodded.</p> + +<p>The horse behind was creeping up now, and his open nostrils were visible +past the light hair blowing about Judith's neck. Crittenden spoke one +quiet word to his own horse, and Judith saw the leaders of his wrist +begin to stand out as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> Raincrow settled into the long reach that had +sent his sire a winner under many a string.</p> + +<p>"Well, I know what he meant—that boy never will. And that is as a man +should be. The hope of the race isn't in this buggy—it has gone on +before with Phyllis and Basil."</p> + +<p>Once the buggy wheels ran within an inch of a rather steep bank, and +straight ahead was a short line of broken limestone so common on +bluegrass turnpikes, but Judith had the Southern girl's trust and +courage, and seemed to notice the reckless drive as little as did +Crittenden, who made the wheels straddle the stones, when the variation +of an inch or two would have lamed his horse and overturned them.</p> + +<p>"Yes, they are as frank as birds in their love-making, and they will +marry with as little question as birds do when they nest. They will have +a house full of children—I have heard her mother say that was her +ambition and the ambition she had for her children; and they will live a +sane, wholesome, useful, happy life."</p> + +<p>The buggy behind had made a little spurt, and the horses were almost +neck and neck. Wharton looked ugly, and the black-eyed girl with fluffy +black hair was looking behind Judith's head at Crittenden and was +smiling. Not once had Judith turned her head, even to see who they were. +Crittenden hardly knew<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> whether she was conscious of the race, but they +were approaching her gate now and he found out.</p> + +<p>"Shall I turn in?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Go on," said Judith.</p> + +<p>There was a long, low hill before them, and up that Crittenden let +Raincrow have his full speed for the first time. The panting nostrils of +the other horse fell behind—out of sight—out of hearing.</p> + +<p>"And if he doesn't get back from the war, she will mourn for him +sincerely for a year or two and then——"</p> + +<p>"Marry someone else."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>That was what she had so often told him to do, and now he spoke as +though it were quite possible—even for him; and she was both glad and a +little resentful.</p> + +<p>At the top of the hill they turned. The enemy was trotting leisurely up +the slope, having given up the race earlier than they knew. Judith's +face was flushed.</p> + +<p>"I don't think you are so very old," she said.</p> + +<div class='figcenter' style='width: 400px; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="image-077" id="image-077"></a> +<img src='images/illus-077.jpg' width='400' alt='"Go on!" said Judith.' title='' /><br /> +<span class='caption'>"Go on!" said Judith.</span> +</div> + +<p>Crittenden laughed, and took off his hat very politely when they met the +buggy, but Wharton looked surly. The girl with the black hair looked +sharply at Judith, and then again at Crittenden, and smiled. She must +have cared<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> little for her companion, Judith thought, or something for +Crittenden, and yet she knew that most women smiled at Crittenden, even +when they did not know him very well. Still she asked: "And the other +things—you meant other women?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, and no."</p> + +<p>"Why no?"</p> + +<p>"Because I have deceived nobody—not even myself—and Heaven knows I +tried that hard enough."</p> + +<p>"That was one?" she added, smiling.</p> + +<p>"I thought you knew me better than to ask such a question."</p> + +<p>Again Judith smiled—scanning him closely.</p> + +<p>"No, you aren't so very old—nor world-weary, after all."</p> + +<p>"No?"</p> + +<p>"No. And you have strong hands—and wrists. And your eyes are—" she +seemed almost embarrassed—"are the eyes of a good man, in spite of what +you say about yourself; and I would trust them. And it was very fine in +you to talk as you did when we were tearing up that hill a moment ago."</p> + +<p>Crittenden turned with a start of surprise.</p> + +<p>"Oh," he said, with unaffected carelessness. "You didn't seem to be very +nervous."</p> + +<p>"I trusted you."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> + +<p>Crittenden had stopped to pull the self-opening gate, and he drove +almost at a slow walk through the pasture toward Judith's home. The sun +was reddening through the trees now. The whole earth was moist and +fragrant, and the larks were singing their last songs for that happy +day. Judith was quite serious now.</p> + +<p>"Do you know, I was glad to hear you say that you had got over your old +feeling for me. I feel so relieved. I have always felt so responsible +for your happiness, but I don't now, and it is <i>such</i> a relief. Now you +will go ahead and marry some lovely girl and you will be happy and I +shall be happier—seeing it and knowing it."</p> + +<p>Crittenden shook his head.</p> + +<p>"No," he said, "something seems to have gone out of me, never to come +back."</p> + +<p>There was nobody in sight to open the yard gate, and Crittenden drove to +the stiles, where he helped Judith out and climbed back into his buggy.</p> + +<p>Judith turned in surprise. "Aren't you coming in?"</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid I haven't time."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, you have."</p> + +<p>A negro boy was running from the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"Hitch Mr. Crittenden's horse," she said, and Crittenden climbed out +obediently and followed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> her to the porch, but she did not sit down +outside. She went on into the parlour and threw open the window to let +the last sunlight in, and sat by it looking at the west.</p> + +<p>For a moment Crittenden watched her. He never realized before how much +simple physical beauty she had, nor did he realize the significance of +the fact that never until now had he observed it. She had been a spirit +before; now she was a woman as well. But he did note that if he could +have learned only from Judith, he would never have known that he even +had wrists or eyes until that day; and yet he was curiously unstirred by +the subtle change in her. He was busied with his own memories.</p> + +<p>"And I know it can never come back," he said, and he went on thinking as +he looked at her. "I wonder if you can know what it is to have somebody +such a part of your life that you never hear a noble strain of music, +never read a noble line of poetry, never catch a high mood from nature, +nor from your own best thoughts—that you do not imagine her by your +side to share your pleasure in it all; that you make no effort to better +yourself or help others; that you do nothing of which she could approve, +that you are not thinking of her—that really she is not the inspiration +of it all. That doesn't come but once. Think of having somebody so +linked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> with your life, with what is highest and best in you, that, when +the hour of temptation comes and overcomes, you are not able to think of +her through very shame. I wonder if <i>he</i> loved you that way. I wonder if +you know what such love is."</p> + +<p>"It never comes but once," he said, in a low tone, that made Judith turn +suddenly. Her eyes looked as if they were not far from tears.</p> + +<p>A tiny star showed in the pink glow over the west—</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em;"> +"Starlight, star bright!" +</p> + +<p>"Think of it. For ten years I never saw the first star without making +the same wish for you and me. Why," he went on, and stopped suddenly +with a little shame at making the confession even to himself, and at the +same time with an impersonal wonder that such a thing could be, "I used +to pray for you always—when I said my prayers—actually. And sometimes +even now, when I'm pretty hopeless and helpless and moved by some +memory, the old prayer comes back unconsciously and I find myself +repeating your name."</p> + +<p>For the moment he spoke as though not only that old love, but she who +had caused it, were dead, and the tone of his voice made her shiver.</p> + +<p>And the suffering he used to get—the suffering from trifles—the +foolish suffering from silly trifles!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> + +<p>He turned now, for he heard Judith walking toward him. She was looking +him straight in the eyes and was smiling strangely.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to make you love me as you used to love me."</p> + +<p>Her lips were left half parted from the whisper, and he could have +stooped and kissed her—something that never in his life had he done—he +knew that—but the old reverence came back from the past to forbid him, +and he merely looked down into her eyes, flushing a little.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, gently. "And I think you are just tall enough."</p> + +<p>In a flash her mood changed, and she drew his head down until she could +just touch his forehead with her lips. It was a sweet bit of +motherliness—no more—and Crittenden understood and was grateful.</p> + +<p>"Go home now," she said.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +<h3><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII</h3> +</div> + +<p>At Tampa—the pomp and circumstance of war.</p> + +<p>A gigantic hotel, brilliant with lights, music, flowers, women; halls +and corridors filled with bustling officers, uniformed from empty straps +to stars; volunteer and regular—easily distinguished by the ease of one +and the new and conscious erectness of the other; adjutants, millionaire +aids, civilian inspectors; gorgeous attachés—English, German, Swedish, +Russian, Prussian, Japanese—each wondrous to the dazzled republican +eye; Cubans with cigarettes, Cubans—little and big, war-like, with the +tail of the dark eye ever womanward, brave with machétes; on the divans +Cuban senoritas—refugees at Tampa—dark-eyed, of course, languid of +manner, to be sure, and with the eloquent fan, ever present, +omnipotent—shutting and closing, shutting and closing, like the wings +of a gigantic butterfly; adventurers, adventuresses; artists, +photographers; correspondents by the score—female correspondents; story +writers, novelists, real war correspondents, and real +draughtsmen—artists,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> indeed; and a host of lesser men with spurs yet +to win—all crowding the hotel day and night, night and day.</p> + +<p>And outside, to the sea—camped in fine white sand dust, under thick +stars and a hot sun—soldiers, soldiers everywhere, lounging through the +streets and the railway stations, overrunning the suburbs; +drilling—horseback and on foot—through clouds of sand; drilling at +skirmish over burnt sedge-grass and stunted and charred pine woods; +riding horses into the sea, and plunging in themselves like truant +schoolboys. In the bay a fleet of waiting transports, and all over dock, +camp, town, and hotel an atmosphere of fierce unrest and of eager +longing to fill those wooden hulks, rising and falling with such +maddening patience on the tide, and to be away. All the time, meanwhile, +soldiers coming in—more and more soldiers—in freight-box, day-coach, +and palace-car.</p> + +<p>That night, in the hotel, Grafton and Crittenden watched the crowd from +a divan of red plush, Grafton chatting incessantly. Around them moved +and sat the women of the "House of the Hundred Thousand"—officers' +wives and daughters and sisters and sweethearts and army +widows—claiming rank and giving it more or less consciously, according +to the rank of the man whom they represented. The big man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> with the +monocle and the suit of towering white from foot to crown was the +English naval attaché. He stalked through the hotel as though he had the +British Empire at his back.</p> + +<p>"And he has, too," said Grafton. "You ought to see him go down the steps +to the café. The door is too low for him. Other tall people bend +forward—he always rears back."</p> + +<p>And the picturesque little fellow with the helmet was the English +military attaché. Crittenden had seen him at Chickamauga, and Grafton +said they would hear of him in Cuba. The Prussian was handsome, and a +Count. The big, boyish blond was a Russian, and a Prince, as was the +quiet, modest, little Japanese—a mighty warrior in his own country. And +the Swede, the polite, the exquisite!</p> + +<p>"He wears a mustache guard. I offered him a cigar. He saluted: 'Thank +you,' he said. 'Nevare I schmoke.'"</p> + +<p>"They are the pets of the expedition," Grafton went on, "they and that +war-like group of correspondents over there. They'll go down on the +flag-ship, while we nobodies will herd together on one boat. But we'll +all be on the same footing when we get there."</p> + +<p>Just then a big man, who was sitting on the next divan twisting his +mustache and talking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> chiefly with his hands, rolled up and called +Grafton.</p> + +<p>"Huh!" he said.</p> + +<p>"Huh!" mimicked Grafton.</p> + +<p>"You don't know much about the army."</p> + +<p>"Six weeks ago I couldn't tell a doughboy officer from a cavalryman by +the stripe down his legs."</p> + +<p>The big man smiled with infinite pity and tolerance.</p> + +<p>"Therefore," said Grafton, "I shall not pass judgment, deliver expert +military opinions, and decide how the campaign ought to be +conducted—well, maybe for some days yet."</p> + +<p>"You've got to. You must have a policy—a Policy. I'll give you one."</p> + +<p>And he began—favoring monosyllables, dashes, exclamation points, pauses +for pantomime, Indian sign language, and heys, huhs, and humphs that +were intended to fill out sentences and round up elaborate argument.</p> + +<p>"There is a lot any damn fool can say, of course, hey? But you mustn't +say it, huh? Give 'em hell afterward." (Pantomime.) "That's right, ain't +it? Understand? Regular army all right." (Sign language.) "These damn +fools outside—volunteers, politicians, hey? Had best army in the world +at the close of the old war, see? Best equipped, you understand, huh? +Congress"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> (violent Indian sign language) "wanted to squash it—to +squash it—that's right, you understand, huh? Cut it down—cut it down, +see? Illustrate: Wanted 18,000 mules for this push, got 2,000, see? Same +principle all through; see? That's right! No good to say anything +now—people think you complain of the regular army, huh? Mustn't say +anything now—give 'em hell afterward—understand?" (More sign +language.) "Hell afterward. All right now, got your policy, go ahead."</p> + +<p>Grafton nodded basely, and without a smile:</p> + +<p>"Thanks, old man—thanks. It's very lucid."</p> + +<p>A little later Crittenden saw the stout civilian, Major Billings, fairly +puffing with pride, excitement, and a fine uniform of khaki, whom he had +met at Chickamauga; and Willings, the surgeon; and Chaffee, now a +brigadier; and Lawton, soon to command a division; and, finally, little +Jerry Carter, quiet, unassuming, dreamy, slight, old, but active, and +tough as hickory. The little general greeted Crittenden like a son.</p> + +<p>"I was sorry not to see you again at Chickamauga, but I started here +next day. I have just written you that there was a place on my staff for +you or your brother—or for any son of your father and my friend. I'll +write to Washington for you to-night, and you can report for duty +whenever you please."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span></p> + +<p>The little man made the astounding proposition as calmly as though he +were asking the Kentuckian to a lunch of bacon and hardtack, and +Crittenden flushed with gratitude and his heart leaped—his going was +sure now. Before he could stammer out his thanks, the general was gone. +Just then Rivers, who, to his great joy, had got at least that far, sat +down by him. He was much depressed. His regiment was going, but two +companies would be left behind. His colonel talked about sending him +back to Kentucky to bring down some horses, and he was afraid to go.</p> + +<p>"To think of being in the army as long as I have been, just for this +fight. And to think of being left here in this hell-hole all summer, and +missing all the fun in Cuba, not to speak of the glory and the game. We +haven't had a war for so long that glory will come easy now, and anybody +who does anything will be promoted. But it's missing the fight—the +fight—that worries me," and Rivers shook his head from side to side +dejectedly. "If my company goes, I'm all right; but if it doesn't, there +is no chance for me if I go away. I shall lose my last chance of +slipping in somewhere. I swear I'd rather go as a private than not at +all."</p> + +<p>This idea gave Crittenden a start, and made him on the sudden very +thoughtful.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Can you get me in as a private at the last minute?" he asked presently.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Rivers, quickly, "and I'll telegraph you in plenty of time, +so that you can get back."</p> + +<p>Crittenden smiled, for Rivers's plan was plain, but he was thinking of a +plan of his own.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, he drilled as a private each day. He was ignorant of the +Krag-Jorgensen, and at Chickamauga he had made such a laughable +exhibition of himself that the old Sergeant took him off alone one day, +and when they came back the Sergeant was observed to be smiling broadly. +At the first target practice thereafter, Crittenden stood among the +first men of the company, and the captain took mental note of him as a +sharpshooter to be remembered when they got to Cuba. With the drill he +had little trouble—being a natural-born horseman—so one day, when a +trooper was ill, he was allowed to take the sick soldier's place and +drill with the regiment. That day his trouble with Reynolds came. All +the soldiers were free and easy of speech and rather reckless with +epithets, and, knowing how little was meant, Crittenden merely +remonstrated with the bully and smilingly asked him to desist.</p> + +<p>"Suppose I don't?"</p> + +<p>Crittenden smiled again and answered nothing,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> and Reynolds mistook his +silence for timidity. At right wheel, a little later, Crittenden +squeezed the bully's leg, and Reynolds cursed him. He might have passed +that with a last warning, but, as they wheeled again, he saw Reynolds +kick Sanders so violently that the boy's eyes filled with tears. He went +straight for the soldier as soon as the drill was over.</p> + +<p>"Put up your guard."</p> + +<p>"Aw, go to——"</p> + +<p>The word was checked at his lips by Crittenden's fist. In a rage, +Reynolds threw his hand behind him, as though he would pull his +revolver, but his wrist was caught by sinewy fingers from behind. It was +Blackford, smiling into his purple face.</p> + +<p>"Hold on!" he said, "save that for a Spaniard."</p> + +<p>At once, as a matter of course, the men led the way behind the tents, +and made a ring—Blackford, without a word, acting as Crittenden's +second. Reynolds was the champion bruiser of the regiment and a boxer of +no mean skill, and Blackford looked anxious.</p> + +<p>"Worry him, and he'll lose his head. Don't try to do him up too +quickly."</p> + +<p>Reynolds was coarse, disdainful, and triumphant, but he did not look +quite so confident when Crittenden stripped and showed a white body, +closely jointed at shoulder and elbow and at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> knee and thigh, and +closely knit with steel-like tendons. The long muscles of his back +slipped like eels under his white skin. Blackford looked relieved.</p> + +<p>"Do you know the game?"</p> + +<p>"A little."</p> + +<p>"Worry him and wait till he loses his head—remember, now."</p> + +<p>"All right," said Crittenden, cheerfully, and turned and faced Reynolds, +smiling.</p> + +<p>"Gawd," said Abe Long. "He's one o' the fellows that laugh when they're +fightin'. They're worse than the cryin' sort—a sight worse."</p> + +<p>The prophecy in the soldier's tone soon came true. The smile never left +Crittenden's face, even when it was so bruised up that smiling was +difficult; but the onlookers knew that the spirit of the smile was still +there. Blackford himself was smiling now. Crittenden struck but for one +place at first—Reynolds's nose, which was naturally large and red, +because he could reach it every time he led out. The nose swelled and +still reddened, and Reynolds's small black eyes narrowed and flamed with +a wicked light. He fought with his skill at first, but those maddening +taps on his nose made him lose his head altogether in the sixth round, +and he senselessly rushed at Crittenden with lowered head, like a sheep. +Crittenden took him sidewise on his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> jaw as he came, and stepped aside. +Reynolds pitched to the ground heavily, and Crittenden bent over him.</p> + +<p>"You let that boy alone," he said, in a low voice, and then aloud and +calmly:</p> + +<p>"I don't like this, but it's in deference to your customs. I don't call +names, and I allow nobody to call me names; and if I have another +fight," Reynolds was listening now, "it won't be with my fists."</p> + +<p>"Well, Mister Man from Kentucky," said Abe, "I'd a damn sight ruther +you'd use a club on me than them fists; but there's others of us who +don't call names, and ain't called names; and some of us ain't easy +skeered, neither."</p> + +<p>"I wasn't threatening," said Crittenden, quickly, "but I have heard a +good deal of that sort of thing flying around, and I don't want to get +into this sort of a thing again." He looked steadily at the soldier, but +the eye of Abraham Long quailed not at all. Instead, a smile broke over +his face.</p> + +<p>"I got a drink waitin' fer you," he said; and Crittenden laughed.</p> + +<p>"Git up an' shake hands, Jim," said Abe, sternly, to Crittenden's +opponent, "an' let's have a drink." Reynolds got up slowly.</p> + +<p>"You gimme a damn good lickin,'" he said to Crittenden. "Shake!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> + +<p>Crittenden shook, and seconds and principals started for Long's tent.</p> + +<p>"Boys," he said to the others, "I'm sorry fer ye. I ain't got but four +drinks—and—" the old Sergeant was approaching; "and one more fer the +Governor."</p> + +<p>Rivers smiled broadly when he saw Crittenden at noon.</p> + +<p>"The 'Governor' told me," he said, "you couldn't do anything in this +regiment that would do you more good with officers and men. That fellow +has caused us more trouble than any other ten men in the regiment, and +you are the first man yet to get the best of him. If the men could elect +you, you'd be a lieutenant before to-morrow night."</p> + +<p>Crittenden laughed.</p> + +<p>"It was disgusting, but I didn't see any other way out of it."</p> + +<p>Tattoo was sounded.</p> + +<p>"Are you sure you can get me into the army at any time?"</p> + +<p>"Easy—as a private."</p> + +<p>"What regiment?"</p> + +<p>"Rough Riders or Regulars."</p> + +<p>"All right, then, I'll go to Kentucky for you."</p> + +<p>"No, old man. I was selfish enough to think it, but I'm not selfish +enough to do it. I won't have it."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But I want to go back. If I can get in at the last moment I should go +back anyhow to-night."</p> + +<p>"Really?"</p> + +<p>"Really. Just see that you let me know in time."</p> + +<p>Rivers grasped his hand.</p> + +<p>"I'll do that."</p> + +<p>Next morning rumours were flying. In a week, at least, they would sail. +And still regiments rolled in, and that afternoon Crittenden saw the +regiment come in for which Grafton had been waiting—a picturesque body +of fighting men and, perhaps, the most typical American regiment formed +since Jackson fought at New Orleans. At the head of it rode two men—one +with a quiet mesmeric power that bred perfect trust at sight, the other +with a kindling power of enthusiasm, and a passionate energy, mental, +physical, emotional, that was tireless; each a man among men, and both +together an ideal leader for the thousand Americans at their heels. +Behind them rode the Rough Riders—dusty, travel-stained troopers, +gathered from every State, every walk of labour and leisure, every +social grade in the Union—day labourer and millionaire, clerk and +clubman, college boys and athletes, Southern revenue officers and +Northern policemen; but most of them Westerners—Texan<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> rangers, +sheriffs, and desperadoes—the men-hunters and the men-hunted; Indians; +followers of all political faiths, all creeds—Catholics, Protestants, +Jews; but cowboys for the most part; dare-devils, to be sure, but +good-natured, good-hearted, picturesque, fearless. And Americans—all!</p> + +<p>As the last troopers filed past, Crittenden followed them with his eyes, +and he saw a little way off Blackford standing with folded arms on the +edge of a cloud of dust and looking after them too, with his face set as +though he were buried deep in a thousand memories. He started when +Crittenden spoke to him, and the dark fire of his eyes flashed.</p> + +<p>"That's where I belong," he said, with a wave of his hand after the +retreating column. "I don't know one of them, and I know them all. I've +gone to college with some; I've hunted, fished, camped, drank, and +gambled with the others. I belong with them; and I'm going with them if +I can; I'm trying to get an exchange now."</p> + +<p>"Well, luck to you, and good-by," said Crittenden, holding out his hand. +"I'm going home to-night."</p> + +<p>"But you're coming back?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>Blackford hesitated.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Are you going to join this outfit?"—meaning his own regiment.</p> + +<p>"I don't know; this or the Rough Riders."</p> + +<p>"Well," Blackford seemed embarrassed, and his manner was almost +respectful, "if we go together, what do you say to our going as +'bunkies'?"</p> + +<p>"Sure!"</p> + +<p>"Thank you."</p> + +<p>The two men grasped hands.</p> + +<p>"I hope you will come back."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure to come back. Good-by."</p> + +<p>"Good-by, sir."</p> + +<p>The unconscious "sir" startled Crittenden. It was merely habit, of +course, and the fact that Crittenden was not yet enlisted, but there was +an unintended significance in the soldier's tone that made him wince. +Blackford turned sharply away, flushing.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> +<h3><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII</h3> +</div> + +<p>Back in the Bluegrass, the earth was flashing with dew, and the air was +brilliant with a steady light that on its way from the sun was broken by +hardly a cloud. The woodland was alive with bird-wing and bird-song and, +under them, with the flash of metal and the joy of breaking camp. The +town was a mighty pedestal for flag-staffs. Everywhere flags were shaken +out. Main Street, at a distance, looked like a long lane of flowers in a +great garden—all blowing in a wind. Under them, crowds were +gathered—country people, negroes, and townfolk—while the town band +stood waiting at the gate of the park. The Legion was making ready to +leave for Chickamauga, and the town had made ready to speed its going.</p> + +<p>Out of the shady woodland, and into the bright sunlight, the young +soldiers came—to the music of stirring horn and drum—legs swinging +rhythmically, chins well set in, eyes to the front—wheeling into the +main street in perfect form—their guns a moving forest of glinting +steel—colonel and staff superbly mounted—every heart beating proudly +against every blue blouse, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> sworn to give up its blood for the flag +waving over them—the flag the fathers of many had so bitterly fought +five and thirty years before. Down the street went the flash and glitter +and steady tramp of the solid columns, through waving flags and +handkerchiefs and mad cheers—cheers that arose before them, swelled +away on either side and sank out of hearing behind them as they +marched—through faces bravely smiling, when the eyes were full of +tears; faces tense with love, anxiety, fear; faces sad with bitter +memories of the old war. On the end of the first rank was the boy Basil, +file-leader of his squad, swinging proudly, his handsome face serious +and fixed, his eyes turning to right nor left—seeing not his mother, +proud, white, tearless; nor Crittenden, with a lump of love in his +throat; nor even little Phyllis—her pride in her boy-soldier swept +suddenly out of her aching heart, her eyes brimming, and her +handkerchief at her mouth to keep bravely back the sob that surged at +her lips. The station at last, and then cheers and kisses and sobs, and +tears and cheers again, and a waving of hands and flags and +handkerchiefs—a column of smoke puffing on and on toward the +horizon—the vanishing perspective of a rear platform filled with jolly, +reckless, waving, yelling soldiers, and the tragedy of the parting was +over.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> + +<p>How every detail of earth and sky was seared deep into the memory of the +women left behind that afternoon—as each drove slowly homeward: for God +help the women in days of war! The very peace of heaven lay upon the +earth. It sank from the low, moveless clouds in the windless sky to the +sunlit trees in the windless woods, as still as the long shadows under +them. It lay over the still seas of bluegrass—dappled in woodland, +sunlit in open pasture—resting on low hills like a soft cloud of +bluish-gray, clinging closely to every line of every peaceful slope. +Stillness everywhere. Still cattle browsing in the distance; sheep +asleep in the far shade of a cliff, shadowing the still stream; even the +song of birds distant, faint, restful. Peace everywhere, but little +peace in the heart of the mother to whose lips was raised once more the +self-same cup that she had drained so long ago. Peace everywhere but for +Phyllis climbing the stairs to her own room and flinging herself upon +her bed in a racking passion of tears. God help the women in the days of +war! Peace from the dome of heaven to the heart of the earth, but a +gnawing unrest for Judith, who walked very slowly down the gravelled +walk and to the stiles, and sat looking over the quiet fields. Only in +her eyes was the light not wholly of sadness, but a proud light of +sacrifice and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> high resolve. Crittenden was coming that night. He was +going for good now; he was coming to tell her good-by; and he must not +go—to his death, maybe—without knowing what she had to tell him. It +was not much—it was very little, in return for his life-long +devotion—that she should at least tell him how she had wholly outgrown +her girlish infatuation—she knew now that it was nothing else—for the +one man who had stood in her life before him, and that now there was no +other—lover or friend—for whom she had the genuine affection that she +would always have for him. She would tell him frankly—she was a grown +woman now—because she thought she owed that much to him—because, under +the circumstances, she thought it was her duty; and he would not +misunderstand her, even if he really did not have quite the old feeling +for her. Then, recalling what he had said on the drive, she laughed +softly. It was preposterous. She understood all that. He had acted that +little part so many times in by-gone years! And she had always pretended +to take him seriously, for she would have given him mortal offence had +she not; and she was pretending to take him seriously now. And, anyhow, +what could he misunderstand? There was nothing to misunderstand.</p> + +<p>And so, during her drive home, she had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> thought all the way of him and +of herself since both were children—of his love and his long +faithfulness, and of her—her—what? Yes—she had been something of a +coquette—she had—she <i>had</i>; but men had bothered and worried her, and, +usually, she couldn't help acting as she had. She was so sorry for them +all that she had really tried to like them all. She had succeeded but +once—and even that was a mistake. But she remembered one thing: through +it all—far back as it all was—she had never trifled with Crittenden. +Before him she had dropped foil and mask and stood frankly face to face +always. There was something in him that had always forced that. And he +had loved her through it all, and he had suffered—how much, it had +really never occurred to her until she thought of a sudden that he must +have been hurt as had she—hurt more; for what had been only infatuation +with her had been genuine passion in him; and the months of her +unhappiness scarcely matched the years of his. There was none other in +her life now but him, and, somehow, she was beginning to feel there +never would be. If there were only any way that she could make amends.</p> + +<p>Never had she thought with such tenderness of him. How strong and brave +he was; how high-minded and faithful. And he was good, in spite of all +that foolish talk about himself.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> And all her life he had loved her, and +he had suffered. She could see that he was still unhappy. If, then, +there was no other, and was to be no other, and if, when he came back +from the war—why not?</p> + +<p>Why not?</p> + +<p>She felt a sudden warmth in her cheeks, her lips parted, and as she +turned from the sunset her eyes had all its deep tender light.</p> + +<p>Dusk was falling, and already Raincrow and Crittenden were jogging along +toward her at that hour—the last trip for either for many a day—the +last for either in life, maybe—for Raincrow, too, like his master, was +going to war—while Bob, at home, forbidden by his young captain to +follow him to Chickamauga, trailed after Crittenden about the place with +the appealing look of a dog—enraged now and then by the taunts of the +sharp-tongued Molly, who had the little confidence in the courage of her +fellows that marks her race.</p> + +<p>Judith was waiting for him on the porch, and Crittenden saw her from +afar.</p> + +<p>She was dressed for the evening in pure white—delicate, filmy—showing +her round white throat and round white wrists. Her eyes were soft and +welcoming and full of light; her manner was playful to the point of +coquetry; and in sharp contrast, now and then, her face was intense<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +with thought. A faint, pink light was still diffused from the afterglow, +and she took him down into her mother's garden, which was old-fashioned +and had grass-walks running down through it—bordered with pink beds and +hedges of rose-bushes. And they passed under a shadowed grape-arbour and +past a dead locust-tree, which a vine had made into a green tower of +waving tendrils, and from which came the fragrant breath of wild grape, +and back again to the gate, where Judith reached down for an +old-fashioned pink and pinned it in his button-hole, talking with low, +friendly affection meanwhile, and turning backward the leaves of the +past rapidly.</p> + +<p>Did he remember this—and that—and that? Memories—memories—memories. +Was there anything she had let go unforgotten? And then, as they +approached the porch in answer to a summons to supper, brought out by a +little negro girl, she said:</p> + +<p>"You haven't told me what regiment you are going with."</p> + +<p>"I don't know."</p> + +<p>Judith's eyes brightened. "I'm so glad you have a commission."</p> + +<p>"I have no commission."</p> + +<p>Judith looked puzzled. "Why, your mother——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but I gave it to Basil." And he explained<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> in detail. He had asked +General Carter to give the commission to Basil, and the General had said +he would gladly. And that morning the Colonel of the Legion had promised +to recommend Basil for the exchange. This was one reason why he had come +back to the Bluegrass. Judith's face was growing more thoughtful while +he spoke, and a proud light was rising in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"And you are going as——"</p> + +<p>"As a private."</p> + +<p>"With the Rough Riders?"</p> + +<p>"As a regular—a plain, common soldier, with plain, common soldiers. I +am trying to be an American now—not a Southerner. I've been drilling at +Tampa and Chickamauga with the regulars."</p> + +<p>"You are much interested?"</p> + +<p>"More than in anything for years."</p> + +<p>She had seen this, and she resented it, foolishly, she knew, and without +reason—but, still, she resented it.</p> + +<p>"Think of it," Crittenden went on. "It is the first time in my life, +almost, I have known what it was to wish to do something—to have a +purpose—that was not inspired by you." It was an unconscious and rather +ungracious declaration of independence—it was unnecessary—and Judith +was surprised, chilled—hurt.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p> + +<p>"When do you go?"</p> + +<p>Crittenden pulled a telegram from his pocket.</p> + +<p>"To-morrow morning. I got this just as I was leaving town."</p> + +<p>"To-morrow!"</p> + +<p>"It means life or death to me—this telegram. And if it doesn't mean +life, I don't care for the other. I shall come out with a commission +or—not at all. If dead, I shall be a hero—if alive," he smiled, "I +don't know what I'll be, but think of me as a hero, dead or alive, with +my past and my present. I can feel a change already, a sort of growing +pain, at the very thought."</p> + +<p>"When do you go to Cuba?"</p> + +<p>"Within four days."</p> + +<p>"Four days! And you can talk as you do, when you are going to war to +live the life of a common soldier—to die of fever, to be killed, +maybe," her lip shook and she stopped, but she went on thickly, "and be +thrown into an unknown grave or lie unburied in a jungle." She spoke +with such sudden passion that Crittenden was startled.</p> + +<p>"Listen!"</p> + +<p>Judge Page appeared in the doorway, welcoming Crittenden with old-time +grace and courtesy. Through supper, Judith was silent and thoughtful +and, when she did talk, it was with a perceptible effort. There was a +light in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> her eyes that he would have understood once—that would have +put his heart on fire. And once he met a look that he was wholly at loss +to understand. After supper, she disappeared while the two men smoked on +the porch. The moon was rising when she came out again. The breath of +honeysuckles was heavy on the air, and from garden and fields floated +innumerable odours of flower and clover blossom and moist grasses. +Crittenden lived often through that scene afterward—Judith on the +highest step of the porch, the light from the hallway on her dress and +her tightly folded hands; her face back in shadow, from which her eyes +glowed with a fire in them that he had never seen before.</p> + +<p>Judge Page rose soon to go indoors. He did not believe there was going +to be much of a war, and his manner was almost cheery when he bade the +young man good-by.</p> + +<p>"Good luck to you," he said. "If the chance comes, you will give a good +account of yourself. I never knew a man of your name who didn't."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, sir."</p> + +<p>There was a long silence.</p> + +<p>"Basil will hardly have time to get his commission, and get to Tampa."</p> + +<p>"No. But he can come after us."</p> + +<p>She turned suddenly upon him.</p> + +<p>"Yes—something has happened to you. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> didn't know what you meant that +day we drove home, but I do now. I feel it, but I don't understand."</p> + +<p>Crittenden flushed, but made no answer.</p> + +<p>"You could not have spoken to me in the old days as you do now. Your +instinct would have held you back. And something has happened to me." +Then she began talking to him as frankly and simply as a child to a +child. It was foolish and selfish, but it had hurt her when he told her +that he no longer had his old feeling for her. It was selfish and cruel, +but it was true, however selfish and cruel it seemed, and was—but she +had felt hurt. Perhaps that was vanity, which was not to her credit—but +that, too, she could not help. It had hurt her every time he had said +anything from which she could infer that her influence over him was less +than it once was—although, as a rule, she did not like to have +influence over people. Maybe he wounded her as his friend in this way, +and perhaps there was a little vanity in this, too—but a curious change +was taking place in their relations. Once he was always trying to please +her, and in those days she would have made him suffer if he had spoken +to her then as he had lately—but he would not have spoken that way +then. And now she wondered why she was not angry instead of being hurt. +And she wondered why she did not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> like him less. Somehow, it seemed +quite fair that she should be the one to suffer now, and she was glad to +take her share—she had caused him and others so much pain.</p> + +<p>"<i>He</i>"—not even now did she mention his name—"wrote to me again, not +long ago, asking to see me again. It was impossible. And it was the +thought of you that made me know how impossible it was—<i>you</i>." The girl +laughed, almost hardly, but she was thinking of herself when she +did—not of him.</p> + +<p>The time and circumstance that make woman the thing apart in a man's +life must come sooner or later to all women, and women must yield; she +knew that, but she had never thought they could come to her—but they +had come, and she, too, must give way.</p> + +<p>"It is all very strange," she said, as though she were talking to +herself, and she rose and walked into the warm, fragrant night, and down +the path to the stiles, Crittenden silently following. The night was +breathless and the moonlit woods had the still beauty of a dream; and +Judith went on speaking of herself as she had never done—of the man +whose name she had never mentioned, and whose name Crittenden had never +asked. Until that night, he had not known even whether the man were +still alive or dead. She had thought that was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> love—until lately she +had never questioned but that when that was gone from her heart, all was +gone that would ever be possible for her to know. That was why she had +told Crittenden to conquer his love for her. And now she was beginning +to doubt and to wonder—ever since she came back and heard him at the +old auditorium—and why and whence the change now? That puzzled her. One +thing was curious—through it all, as far back as she could remember, +her feeling for him had never changed, except lately. Perhaps it was an +unconscious response in her to the nobler change that in spite of his +new hardness her instinct told her was at work in him.</p> + +<p>She was leaning on the fence now, her elbow on the top plank, her hand +under her chin, and her face uplifted—the moon lighting her hair, her +face, and eyes, and her voice the voice of one slowly threading the +mazes of a half-forgotten dream. Crittenden's own face grew tense as he +watched her. There was a tone in her voice that he had hungered for all +his life; that he had never heard but in his imaginings and in his +dreams; that he had heard sounding in the ears of another and sounding +at the same time the death-knell of the one hope that until now had made +effort worth while. All evening she had played about his spirit as a +wistful,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> changeful light will play over the fields when the moon is +bright and clouds run swiftly. She turned on him like a flame now.</p> + +<p>"Until lately," she was saying, and she was not saying at all what she +meant to say; but here lately a change was taking place; something had +come into her feeling for him that was new and strange—she could not +understand—perhaps it had always been there; perhaps she was merely +becoming conscious of it. And when she thought, as she had been thinking +all day, of his long years of devotion—how badly she had requited +them—it seemed that the least she could do was to tell him that he was +now first in her life of all men—that much she could say; and perhaps +he had always been, she did not know; perhaps, now that the half-gods +were gone, it was at last the coming of the—the—She was deeply +agitated now; her voice was trembling; she faltered, and she turned +suddenly, sharply, and with a little catch in her breath, her lips and +eyes opening slowly—her first consciousness, perhaps, a wonder at his +strange silence—and dazed by her own feeling and flushing painfully, +she looked at him for the first time since she began to talk, and she +saw him staring fixedly at her with a half-agonized look, as though he +were speechlessly trying to stop her, his face white, bitter, shamed, +helpless,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> Not a word more dropped from her lips—not a sound. She +moved; it seemed that she was about to fall, and Crittenden started +toward her, but she drew herself erect, and, as she turned—lifting her +head proudly—the moonlight showed that her throat was drawn—nothing +more. Motionless and speechless, Crittenden watched her white shape move +slowly and quietly up the walk and grow dim; heard her light, even step +on the gravel, up the steps, across the porch, and through the doorway. +Not once did she look around.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>He was in his room now and at his window, his face hard as stone when +his heart was parching for tears. It was true, then. He was the brute he +feared he was. He had killed his life, and he had killed his +love—beyond even her power to recall. His soul, too, must be dead, and +it were just as well that his body die. And, still bitter, still shamed +and hopeless, he stretched out his arms to the South with a fierce +longing for the quick fate—no matter what—that was waiting for him +there.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> +<h3><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX</h3> +</div> + +<p>By and by bulletins began to come in to the mother at Canewood from her +boy at Tampa. There was little psychology in Basil's bulletin:</p> + +<div style="margin-left:5%; margin-right: 5%;"> +<p style="text-align: left">"I got here all right. My commission hasn't come, and I've joined +the Rough Riders, for fear it won't get here in time. The Colonel +was very kind to me—called me Mister.</p> + +<p style="text-align: left">"I've got a lieutenant's uniform of khaki, but I'm keeping it out +of sight. I may have no use for it. I've got two left spurs, and +I'm writing in the Waldorf-Astoria. I like these Northern fellows; +they are gentlemen and plucky—I can see that. Very few of them +swear. I wish I knew where brother is. The Colonel calls everybody +Mister—even the Indians.</p> + +<p style="text-align: left">"Word comes to-night that we are to be off to the front. Please +send me a piece of cotton to clean my gun. And please be easy about +me—do be easy. And if you insist on giving<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> me a title, don't call +me Private—call me <i>Trooper</i>.</p> + +<p style="text-align: left">"Yes, we are going; the thing is serious. We are all packed up now; +have rolled up camping outfit and are ready to start.</p> + +<p style="text-align: left">"Baggage on the transport now, and we sail this afternoon. Am sorry +to leave all of you, and I have a tear in my eye now that I can't +keep back. It isn't a summer picnic, and I don't feel like shouting +when I think of home; but I'm always lucky, and I'll come out all +right. I'm afraid I sha'n't see brother at all. I tried to look +cheerful for my picture (enclosed). Good-by.</p> + +<p style="text-align: left">"Some delay; actually on board and steam up.</p> + +<p style="text-align: left">"Waiting—waiting—waiting. It's bad enough to go to Cuba in boats +like these, but to lie around for days is trying. No one goes +ashore, and I can hear nothing of brother. I wonder why the General +didn't give him that commission instead of me. There is a curious +sort of fellow here, who says he knows brother. His name is +Blackford, and he is very kind to me. He used to be a regular, and +he says he thinks brother took his place in the —th and is a +regular now himself—a private; I don't understand. There is mighty +little Rough Riding about this.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> + +<p style="text-align: left">"P. S.—My bunkie is from Boston—Bob Sumner. His father <i>commanded +a negro regiment in a fight once against my father</i>; think of it!</p> + +<p style="text-align: left">"Hurrah! we're off."</p> +</div> + + +<p>It was a tropical holiday—that sail down to Cuba—a strange, huge +pleasure-trip of steamships, sailing in a lordly column of three; at +night, sailing always, it seemed, in a harbour of brilliant lights under +multitudinous stars and over thickly sown beds of tiny phosphorescent +stars that were blown about like flowers in a wind-storm by the frothing +wake of the ships; by day, through a brilliant sunlit sea, a cool +breeze—so cool that only at noon was the heat tropical—and over smooth +water, blue as sapphire. Music night and morning, on each ship, and +music coming across the little waves at any hour from the ships about. +Porpoises frisking at the bows and chasing each other in a circle around +bow and stern as though the transports sat motionless; schools of +flying-fish with filmy, rainbow wings rising from one wave and +shimmering through the sunlight to the foamy crest of another—sometimes +hundreds of yards away. Beautiful clear sunsets of rose, gold-green, and +crimson, with one big, pure radiant star ever like a censor over them; +every<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> night the stars more deeply and thickly sown and growing ever +softer and more brilliant as the boats neared the tropics; every day +dawn rich with beauty and richer for the dewy memories of the dawns that +were left behind.</p> + +<p>Now and then a little torpedo-boat would cut like a knife-blade through +the water on messenger service; or a gunboat would drop lightly down the +hill of the sea, along the top of which it patrolled so vigilantly; and +ever on the horizon hung a battle-ship that looked like a great gray +floating cathedral. But nobody was looking for a fight—nobody thought +the Spaniard would fight—and so these were only symbols of war; and +even they seemed merely playing the game.</p> + +<p>It was as Grafton said. Far ahead went the flag-ship with the huge +Commander-in-Chief and his staff, the gorgeous attachés, and the artists +and correspondents, with valets, orderlies, stenographers, and +secretaries. Somewhere, far to the rear, one ship was filled with +newspaper men from stem to stern. But wily Grafton was with Lawton and +Chaffee, the only correspondent aboard their transport. On the second +day, as he sat on the poop-deck, a negro boy came up to him, grinning +uneasily:</p> + +<p>"I seed you back in ole Kentuck, suh."</p> + +<p>"You did? Well, I don't remember seeing you. What do you want?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Captain say he gwine to throw me overboard."</p> + +<p>"What for?"</p> + +<p>"I ain't got no business here, suh."</p> + +<p>"Then what are you here for?"</p> + +<p>"Lookin' fer Ole Cap'n, suh."</p> + +<p>"Ole Cap'n who?" said Grafton, mimicking.</p> + +<p>"Cap'n Crittenden, suh."</p> + +<p>"Well, if you are his servant, I suppose they won't throw you overboard. +What's your name?"</p> + +<p>"Bob, suh—Bob Crittenden."</p> + +<p>"Crittenden," repeated Grafton, smiling. "Oh, yes, I know him; I should +say so! So he's a Captain?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh," said Bob, not quite sure whether he was lying or not.</p> + +<p>Grafton spoke to an officer, and was allowed to take Bob for his own +servant, though the officer said he did not remember any captain of that +name in the —th. To the newspaper man, Bob was a godsend; for humour +was scarce on board, and "jollying" Bob was a welcome diversion. He +learned many things of Crittenden and the Crittendens, and what great +people they had always been and still were; but at a certain point Bob +was evasive or dumb—and the correspondent respected the servant's +delicacy about family affairs and went no further<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> along that line—he +had no curiosity, and was questioning idly and for fun, but treated Bob +kindly and, in return, the fat of the ship, through Bob's keen eye and +quick hand, was his, thereafter, from day to day.</p> + +<p>Grafton was not storing up much material for use; but he would have been +much surprised if he could have looked straight across to the deck of +the ship running parallel to his and have seen the dignified young +statesman whom he had heard speak at the recruiting camp in Kentucky; +who made him think of Henry Clay; whom he had seen whisking a beautiful +girl from the camp in the smartest turn-out he had seen South—had seen +him now as Private <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Critdenden'">Crittenden</ins> +with his fast friend, Abe Long, and +passing in his company because of his bearing under a soubriquet donated +by his late enemy, Reynolds, as "Old Hamlet of Kentuck." And Crittenden +would have been surprised had he known that the active darky whom he saw +carrying coffee and shoes to a certain stateroom was none other than Bob +waiting on Grafton. And that the Rough Rider whom he saw scribbling on a +pad in the rigging of the <i>Yucatan</i> was none other than Basil writing +one of his bulletins home.</p> + +<p>It was hard for him to believe that he really was going to war, even +now, when the long sail<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> was near an end and the ships were running +fearlessly along the big, grim coast-mountains of Cuba, with bands +playing and colors to the breeze; hard to realize that he was not to +land in peace and safety and, in peace and safety, go back as he came; +that a little further down those gashed mountains, showing ever clearer +through the mist, were men with whom the quiet officers and men around +him would soon be in a death-grapple. The thought stirred him, and he +looked around at the big, strong fellows—intelligent, orderly, +obedient, good-natured, and patient; patient, restless, and sick as they +were from the dreadful hencoop life they had led for so many +days—patient beyond words. He had risen early that morning. The rose +light over the eastern water was whitening, and all over the deck his +comrades lay asleep, their faces gray in the coming dawn and their +attitudes suggesting ghastly premonitions—premonitions that would come +true fast enough for some of the poor fellows—perhaps for him. Stepping +between and over the prostrate bodies, he made his way forward and +leaned over the prow, with his hat in his hand and his hair blowing back +from his forehead.</p> + +<p>Already his face had suffered a change. For more than three long weeks +he had been merely a plain man among plain men. At once when he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> became +Private Crittenden, No. 63, Company C, —th United States Regular +Cavalry, at Tampa, he was shorn of his former estate as completely as +though in the process he had been wholly merged into some other man. The +officers, at whose table he had once sat, answered his salute precisely +as they answered any soldier's. He had seen Rivers but seldom—but once +only on the old footing, and that was on the night he went on board, +when Rivers came to tell him good-by and to bitterly bemoan the luck +that, as was his fear from the beginning, had put him among the +ill-starred ones chosen to stay behind at Tampa and take care of the +horses; as hostlers, he said, with deep disgust, adding hungrily:</p> + +<p>"I wish I were in your place."</p> + +<p>With the men, Crittenden was popular, for he did his work thoroughly, +asked no favors, shirked no duties. There were several officers' sons +among them working for commissions, and, naturally, he drifted to them, +and he found them all good fellows. Of Blackford, he was rather wary, +after Rivers's short history of him, but as he was friendly, unselfish, +had a high sense of personal honour, and a peculiar reverence for women, +Crittenden asked no further questions, and was sorry, when he came back +to Tampa, to find him gone with the Rough Riders. With<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> Reynolds, he was +particularly popular, and he never knew that the story of the Tampa +fight had gone to all the line officers of the regiment, and that nearly +every one of them knew him by sight and knew his history. Only once from +an officer, however, and steadily always from the old Sergeant, could he +feel that he was regarded in a different light from the humblest soldier +in the ranks—which is just what he would have asked. The Colonel had +cast an envious eye on Raincrow at Tampa, and, straightway, he had taken +the liberty of getting the Sergeant to take the horse to the Colonel's +tent with the request that he use him throughout the campaign. The horse +came back with the Colonel's thanks; but, when the order came that the +cavalry was to go unmounted, the Colonel sent word that he would take +the horse now, as the soldier could not use him. So Raincrow was aboard +the ship, and the old Colonel, coming down to look at the horse one day, +found Crittenden feeding him, and thanked him and asked him how he was +getting along; and, while there was a smile about his humorous mouth, +there was a kindly look in his blue eyes that pleased Crittenden +mightily. As for the old Sergeant, he could never forget that the +soldier was a Crittenden—one of his revered Crittendens. And, while he +was particularly stern with him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> in the presence of his comrades, for +fear that he might be betrayed into showing partiality—he was always +drifting around to give him a word of advice and to shake his head over +the step that Crittenden had taken.</p> + +<p>That step had made him good in body and soul. It made him lean and +tanned; it sharpened and strengthened his profile; it cleared his eye +and settled his lips even more firmly. Tobacco and liquor were scarce, +and from disuse he got a new sensation of mental clearness and physical +cleanliness that was comforting and invigorating, and helped bring back +the freshness of his boyhood.</p> + +<p>For the first time in many years, his days were full of work and, +asleep, awake, or at work, his hours were clock-like and steadied him +into machine-like regularity. It was work of his hands, to be sure, and +not even high work of that kind, but still it was work. And the measure +of the self-respect that this fact alone brought him was worth it all. +Already, his mind was taking character from his body. He was distinctly +less morbid and he found himself thinking during those long days of the +sail of what he should do after the war was over. His desire to get +killed was gone, and it was slowly being forced on him that he had been +priggish, pompous, self-absorbed, hair-splitting, lazy,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +good-for-nothing, when there was no need for him to be other than what +he meant to be when he got back. And as for Judith, he felt the +bitterness of gall for himself when he thought of her, and he never +allowed himself to think of her except to absolve her, as he knew she +would not absolve herself, and to curse himself heartily and bitterly. +He understood now. It was just her thought of his faithfulness, her +feeling of responsibility for him—the thought that she had not been as +kind to him as she might have been (and she had always been kinder than +he deserved)—all this had loosed her tears and her self-control, and +had thrown her into a mood of reckless self-sacrifice. And when she +looked up into his face that night of the parting, he felt her looking +into his soul and seeing his shame that he had lost his love because he +had lost himself, and she was quite right to turn from him, as she did, +without another word. Already, however, he was healthy enough to believe +that he was not quite so hopeless as she must think him—not as hopeless +as he had thought himself. Life, now, with even a soldier's work, was +far from being as worthless as life with a gentleman's idleness had +been. He was honest enough to take no credit for the clean change in his +life—no other life was possible; but he was learning the practical +value and mental comfort<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> of straight living as he had never learned +them before. And he was not so prone to metaphysics and morbid +self-examination as he once was, and he shook off a mood of that kind +when it came—impatiently—as he shook it off now. He was a soldier now, +and his province was action and no more thought than his superiors +allowed him. And, standing thus, at sunrise, on the plunging bow of the +ship, with his eager, sensitive face splitting the swift wind—he might +have stood to any thoughtful American who knew his character and his +history as a national hope and a national danger. The nation, measured +by its swift leap into maturity, its striking power to keep going at the +same swift pace, was about his age. South, North, and West it had lived, +or was living, his life. It had his faults and his virtues; like him, it +was high-spirited, high-minded, alert, active, manly, generous, and with +it, as with him, the bad was circumstantial, trivial, incipient; the +good was bred in the Saxon bone and lasting as rock—if the surface evil +were only checked in time and held down. Like him, it needed, like a +Titan, to get back, now and then, to the earth to renew its strength. +And the war would send the nation to the earth as it would send him, if +he but lived it through.</p> + +<p>There was little perceptible change in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> American officer and +soldier, now that the work was about actually to begin. A little more +soberness was apparent. Everyone was still simple, natural, +matter-of-fact. But that night, doubtless, each man dreamed his dream. +The West Point stripling saw in his empty shoulder-straps a single bar, +as the man above him saw two tiny bars where he had been so proud of +one. The Captain led a battalion, the Major charged at the head of a +thousand strong; the Colonel plucked a star, and the Brigadier heard the +tramp of hosts behind him. And who knows how many bold spirits leaped at +once that night from acorns to stars; and if there was not more than one +who saw himself the war-god of the anxious nation behind—saw, maybe, +even the doors of the White House swing open at the conquering sound of +his coming feet. And, through the dreams of all, waved aimlessly the +mighty wand of the blind master—Fate—giving death to a passion for +glory here; disappointment bitter as death to a noble ambition there; +and there giving unsought fame where was indifference to death; and +then, to lend substance to the phantom of just deserts, giving a mortal +here and there the exact fulfilment of his dream.</p> + +<p>Two toasts were drunk that night—one by the men who were to lead the +Rough Riders of the West.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p> + +<p>"May the war last till each man meets death, wears a wound, or wins +himself better spurs."</p> + +<p>And, in the hold of the same ship, another in whiskey from a tin cup +between two comrades:</p> + +<p>"Bunkie," said Blackford, to a dare-devil like himself, "welcome to the +Spanish bullet that knocks for entrance here"—tapping his heart. Basil +struck the cup from his hand, and Blackford swore, laughed, and put his +arm around the boy.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> +<h3><a name="X" id="X"></a>X</h3> +</div> + +<p>Already now, the first little fight was going on, and Grafton, the last +newspaper man ashore, was making for the front—with Bob close at his +heels. It was hot, very hot, but the road was a good, hard path of clean +sand, and now and then a breeze stirred, or a light, cool rain twinkled +in the air. On each side lay marsh, swamp, pool, and tropical +jungle—and, to Grafton's Northern imagination, strange diseases lurked +like monsters everywhere. Every strange, hot odour made him uneasy and, +at times, he found himself turning his head and holding his breath, as +he always did when he passed a pest-house in his childhood. About him +were strange plants, strange flowers, strange trees, the music of +strange birds, with nothing to see that was familiar except sky, +mountain, running water, and sand; nothing home-like to hear but the +twitter of swallows and the whistle of quail.</p> + +<p>That path was no road for a hard-drinking man to travel and, now and +then, Grafton shrank back, with a startled laugh, from the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> hideous +things crawling across the road and rustling into the cactus—spiders +with snail-houses over them; lizards with green bodies and yellow legs, +and green legs and yellow bodies; hairy tarantulas, scorpions, and +hideous mottled land-crabs, standing three inches from the sand, and +watching him with hideous little eyes as they shuffled sidewise into the +bushes. Moreover, he was following the trail of an army by the +uncheerful signs in its wake—the <i>débris</i> of the last night's +camp—empty cans, bits of hardtack, crackers, bad odours, and, by and +by, odds and ends that the soldiers discarded as the sun got warm and +their packs heavy—drawers, undershirts, coats, blankets, knapsacks, an +occasional gauntlet or legging, bits of fat bacon, canned meats, +hardtack—and a swarm of buzzards in the path, in the trees, and +wheeling in the air—and smiling Cubans picking up everything they could +eat or wear.</p> + +<p>An hour later, he met a soldier, who told him there had been a fight. +Still, an hour later, rumours came thick, but so conflicting and wild +that Grafton began to hope there had been no fight at all. Proof met +him, then, in the road—a white man, on foot, with his arm in a bloody +sling. Then, on a litter, a negro trooper with a shattered leg; then +another with a bullet through his throat; and another wounded man, and +another.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> On horseback rode a Sergeant with a bandage around his +brow—Grafton could see him smiling broadly fifty yards ahead—and the +furrow of a Mauser bullet across his temple, and just under his skin.</p> + +<p>"Still nutty," said Grafton to himself.</p> + +<p>Further on was a camp of insurgents—little, thin, brown fellows, +ragged, dirty, shoeless—each with a sugar-loaf straw hat, a Remington +rifle of the pattern of 1882, or a brand new Krag-Jorgensen donated by +Uncle Sam, and the inevitable and ever ready machéte swinging in a case +of embossed leather on the left hip. Very young they were, and very old; +and wiry, quick-eyed, intelligent, for the most part and, in +countenance, vivacious and rather gentle. There was a little creek next, +and, climbing the bank of the other side, Grafton stopped short, with a +start, in the road. To the right and on a sloping bank lay eight gray +shapes, muffled from head to foot, and Grafton would have known that all +of them were in their last sleep, but one, who lay with his left knee +bent and upright, his left elbow thrust from his blanket, and his hand +on his heart. He slept like a child.</p> + +<p>Beyond was the camp of the regulars who had taken part in the fight. On +one side stood a Colonel, who himself had aimed a Hotchkiss gun in the +last battle—covered with grime and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> sweat, and with the passion of +battle not quite gone from his eyes; and across the road soldiers were +digging one long grave. Grafton pushed on a little further, and on the +top of the ridge and on the grassy sunlit knoll was the camp of the +Riders, just beyond the rifle-pits from which they had driven the +Spaniards. Under a tree to the right lay another row of muffled shapes, +and at once Grafton walked with the Colonel to the hospital, a quarter +of a mile away. The path, thickly shaded and dappled with sunshine, ran +along the ridge through the battlefield, and it was as pretty, peaceful, +and romantic as a lovers' walk in a garden. Here and there, the tall +grass along the path was pressed flat where a wounded man had lain. In +one place, the grass was matted and dark red; nearby was a blood-stained +hat marked with the initials "E. L." Here was the spot where the first +victim of the fight fell. A passing soldier, who reluctantly gave his +name as Blackford, bared his left arm and showed the newspaper man three +places between his wrist and elbow where the skin had been merely +blistered by three separate bullets as he lay fighting unseen enemies. +Further on, lay a dead Spaniard, with covered face.</p> + +<p>"There's one," said the Colonel, with a careless gesture. A huge buzzard +flapped from the tree over the dead man as they passed beneath.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> Beyond +was the open-air hospital, where two more rigid human figures, and where +the wounded lay—white, quiet, uncomplaining.</p> + +<p>And there a surgeon told him how the wounded had lain there during the +fight singing:</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em;">"My Country, 'tis of thee!"</p> + +<p>And Grafton beat his hands together, while his throat was full and his +eyes were full of tears. To think what he had missed—to think what he +had missed!</p> + +<p>He knew that national interest would centre in this regiment of Rough +Riders; for every State in the Union had a son in its ranks, and the +sons represented every social element in the national life. Never was +there a more representative body of men, nor a body of more varied +elements standing all on one and the same basis of American manhood. He +recalled how, at Tampa, he had stood with the Colonel while the regiment +filed past, the Colonel, meanwhile, telling him about the men—the +strong men, who made strong stories for Wister and strong pictures for +Remington. And the Colonel had pointed with especial pride and affection +to two boy troopers, who marched at the head of his column—a Puritan +from Massachusetts and a Cavalier through Virginia blood from Kentucky; +one the son of a Confederate General,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> the other the son of a Union +General—both beardless "bunkies," brothers in arms, and fast becoming +brothers at heart—Robert Sumner and Basil Crittenden. The Colonel waved +his hand toward the wild Westerners who followed them.</p> + +<p>"It's odd to think it—but those two boys are the fathers of the +regiment."</p> + +<p>And now that Grafton looked around and thought of it again—they were. +The fathers of the regiment had planted Plymouth and Jamestown; had +wrenched life and liberty and civilization from the granite of New +England, the fastnesses of the Cumberland, and the wildernesses of the +rich valleys beyond; while the sires of these very Westerners had gone +on with the same trinity through the barren wastes of plains. And, now, +having conquered the New World, Puritan and Cavalier, and the children +of both were come together again on the same old mission of freedom, but +this time the freedom of others; carrying the fruits of their own +struggle back to the old land from which they came, with the sword in +one hand, if there was need, but with the torch of liberty in the +other—held high, and, as God's finger pointed, lighting the way.</p> + +<p>To think what he had missed!</p> + +<p>As Grafton walked slowly back, an officer<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> was calling the roll of his +company under the quiet, sunny hill, and he stopped to listen. Now and +then there was no answer, and he went on—thrilled and saddened. The +play was ended—this was war.</p> + +<p>Outside the camp the road was full of half-angry, bitterly disappointed +infantry—Chaffee's men. When he reached the camp of the cavalry at the +foot of the hill again, a soldier called his name as he passed—a grimy +soldier—and Grafton stopped in his tracks.</p> + +<p>"Well, by God!"</p> + +<p>It was Crittenden, who smiled when he saw Grafton's bewildered face. +Then the Kentuckian, too, stared in utter amazement at a black face +grinning over Grafton's shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Bob!" he said, sharply.</p> + +<p>"Yessuh," said Bob humbly.</p> + +<p>"Whar are you doing here?"</p> + +<p>"Nothin', Ole Cap'n—jes doin' nothin'," said Bob, with the <i>naïveté</i> of +a child. "Jes lookin' for you."</p> + +<p>"Is that your negro?" A sarcastic Lieutenant was asking the question.</p> + +<p>"He's my servant, sir."</p> + +<p>"Well, we don't allow soldiers to take their valets to the field."</p> + +<p>"My servant at home, sir, I meant. He came of his own accord."</p> + +<div class='figcenter' style='width: 400px; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="image-132" id="image-132"></a> +<img src='images/illus-132.jpg' width='400' alt=""Nothin', Ole Cap'n—jes doin' nothin'—jes lookin' for you." title='' /><br /> +<span class='caption'>""Nothin', Ole Cap'n—jes doin' nothin'—jes lookin' for you."</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>"Go +find Basil," Crittenden said to Bob, "and if you can't find him," he +added in a lower tone, "and want anything, come back here to me."</p> + +<p>"Yessuh," said Bob, loath to go, but, seeing the Lieutenant scowling, he +moved on down the road.</p> + +<p>"I thought you were a Captain," said Grafton. Crittenden laughed.</p> + +<p>"Not exactly."</p> + +<p>"Forward," shouted the Lieutenant, "march!"</p> + +<p>Grafton looked Crittenden over.</p> + +<p>"Well, I swear," he said heartily, and, as Crittenden moved forward, +Grafton stood looking after him. "A regular—I do be damned!"</p> + +<p>That night Basil wrote home. He had not fired his musket a single time. +He saw nothing to shoot at, and he saw no use shooting until he did have +something to shoot at. It was terrible to see men dead and wounded, but +the fight itself was stupid—blundering through a jungle, bullets +zipping about, and the Spaniards too far away and invisible. He wanted +to be closer.</p> + +<p>"General Carter has sent for me to take my place on his staff. I don't +want to go, but the Colonel says I ought. I don't believe I would, if +the General hadn't been father's friend and if my 'bunkie' weren't +wounded. He's all right, but he'll have to go back. I'd like to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> have +his wound, but I'd hate to have to go back. The Colonel says he's sorry +to lose me. He meant to make me a corporal, he says. I don't know what +for—but Hooray!</p> + +<p>"Brother was not in the fight, I suppose. Don't worry about me—please +don't worry.</p> + +<p>"P. S.—I have often wondered what it would be like to be on the eve of +a battle. It's no different from anything else."</p> + +<p>Abe Long and Crittenden were bunkies now. Abe's comrade, the boy +Sanders, had been wounded and sent to the rear. Reynolds, too, was shot +through the shoulder, and, despite his protests, was ordered back to the +coast.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'll be on hand for the next scrap," he said.</p> + +<p>Abe and Crittenden had been side by side in the fight. It was no +surprise to Crittenden that any man was brave. By his code, a man would +be better dead than alive a coward. He believed cowardice exceptional +and the brave man the rule, but he was not prepared for Abe's coolness +and his humour. Never did the Westerner's voice change, and never did +the grim half-smile leave his eyes or his mouth. Once during the fight +he took off his hat.</p> + +<p>"How's my hair parted?" he asked, quietly.</p> + +<p>A Mauser bullet had mowed a path through Abe's thick, upright hair, +scraping the skin for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> three inches, and leaving a trail of tiny, red +drops. Crittenden turned to look and laugh, and a bullet cut through the +open flap of his shirt, just over his heart. He pointed to it.</p> + +<p>"See the good turn you did me."</p> + +<p>While the two were cooking supper, the old Sergeant came up.</p> + +<p>"If you don't obey orders next time," he said to Crittenden, sternly, +for Abe was present, "I'll report you to the Captain." Crittenden had +declined to take shelter during the fight—it was a racial inheritance +that both the North and the South learned to correct in the old war.</p> + +<p>"That's right, Governor," said Abe.</p> + +<p>"The Colonel himself wanted to know what damn fool that was standing out +in the road. He meant you."</p> + +<p>"All right, Sergeant," Crittenden said.</p> + +<p>When he came in from guard duty, late that night, he learned that Basil +was safe. He lay down with a grateful heart, and his thoughts, like the +thoughts of every man in that tropical forest, took flight for home. +Life was getting very simple now for him—death, too, and duty. Already +he was beginning to wonder at his old self and, with a shock, it came to +him that there were but three women in the world to him—Phyllis and his +mother—and Judith. He thought of the night of the parting, and it +flashed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> for the first time upon him that Judith might have taken the +shame that he felt reddening his face as shame for her, and not for +himself: and a pain shot through him so keen that he groaned aloud.</p> + +<p>Above him was a clear sky, a quarter moon, an enveloping mist of stars, +and the very peace of heaven. But there was little sleep—and that +battle-haunted—for any: and for him none at all.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>And none at all during that night of agony for Judith, nor Phyllis, nor +the mother at Canewood, though there was a reaction of joy, next +morning, when the name of neither Crittenden was among the wounded or +the dead.</p> + +<p>Nothing had been heard, so far, of the elder brother but, as they sat in +the porch, a negro boy brought the town paper, and Mrs. Crittenden found +a paragraph about a soldier springing into the sea in full uniform at +Siboney to rescue a drowning comrade, who had fallen into the surf while +trying to land, and had been sunk to the bottom by his arms and +ammunition. And the rescuer's name was Crittenden. The writer went on to +tell who he was, and how he had given up his commission to a younger +brother and had gone as a private in the regular army—how he had been +offered another after<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> he reached Cuba, and had declined that, +too—having entered with his comrades, he would stay with them to the +end. Whereat the mother's face burned with a proud fire, as did +Phyllis's, when Mrs. Crittenden read on about this Crittenden's young +brother, who, while waiting for his commission, had gone as a Rough +Rider, and who, after gallant conduct during the first fight, had taken +his place on General Carter's staff. Phyllis clapped her hands, softly, +with a long sigh of pride—and relief.</p> + +<p>"I can eat strawberries, now." And she blushed again. Phyllis had been +living on bacon and corn-bread, she confessed shamefacedly, because +Trooper Basil was living on bacon and hardtack—little dreaming that the +food she forced upon herself in this sacrificial way was being swallowed +by that hearty youngster with a relish that he would not have known at +home for fried chicken and hot rolls.</p> + +<p>"Yes," laughed Mrs. Crittenden. "You can eat strawberries now. You can +balance them against his cocoanuts."</p> + +<p>Phyllis picked up the paper then, with a cry of surprise—the name +signed to the article was Grafton, whom she had seen at the recruiting +camp. And then she read the last paragraph that the mother had not read +aloud, and she turned sharply away and stooped to a pink-bed,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> as though +she would pick one, and the mother saw her shoulders shaking with silent +sobs, and she took the child in her arms.</p> + +<p>There was to be a decisive fight in a few days—the attack on +Santiago—that was what Phyllis had read. The Spaniard had a good +muster-roll of regulars and aid from Cervera's fleet; was well armed, +and had plenty of time to intrench and otherwise prepare himself for a +bloody fight in the last ditch.</p> + +<p>So that, each day there was a relief to the night agony, which, every +morning, began straightway with the thought that the fight might be +going on at that very hour. Not once did Judith come near. She had been +ill, to be sure, but one day Mrs. Crittenden met her on the way to town +and stopped her in the road; but the girl had spoken so strangely that +the mother drove on, at loss to understand and much hurt. Next day she +learned that Judith, despite her ill health and her father's protests, +had gone to nurse the sick and the wounded—what Phyllis plead in vain +to do. The following day a letter came from Mrs. Crittenden's elder son. +He was well, and the mother must not worry about either him or Basil. He +did not think there would be much fighting and, anyhow, the great risk +was from disease, and he feared very little from that. Basil would be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> +much safer as an aid on a General's staff. He would get plenty to eat, +would be less exposed to weather, have no long marches—as he would be +mounted—and no guard duty at all hours of day and night. And, moreover, +he would probably be less constantly exposed to bullets. So she must not +worry about him. Not one word was there about Judith—not even to ask +how she was, which was strange. He had said nothing about the girl when +he told his mother good-by; and when she broached the subject, he +answered sadly:</p> + +<p>"Don't, mother; I can't say a word—not a word."</p> + +<p>In his letter he had outlined Basil's advantages, not one of which was +his—and sitting on the porch of the old homestead at sunset of the last +rich day in June, the mother was following her eldest born through the +transport life, the fiery marches, the night watches on lonely outposts, +the hard food, the drenching rains, steaming heat, laden with the breath +of terrible disease, not realizing how little he minded it all and how +much good it was doing him. She did know, however, that it had been but +play thus far to what must follow. Perhaps, even now, she thought, the +deadly work was beginning, while she sat in the shrine of peace—even +now.</p> + +<p>And it was. Almost at that hour the troops<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> were breaking camp and +moving forward along the one narrow jungle-road—choked with wagon, +pack-mule, and soldier—through a haze of dust, and, turning to the +right at the first crossing beyond corps head-quarters—under +Chaffee—for Caney. Now and then a piece of artillery, with its flashes +of crimson, would pass through the advancing columns amid the waving of +hats and a great cheering to take position against the stone fort at +Caney or at El Poso, to be trained on the block-house at San Juan. And +through the sunset and the dusk the columns marched, and, after night +fell, the dark, silent masses of slouch hats, shoulders, and gun-muzzles +kept on marching past the smoke and flare of the deserted camp-fires +that lighted thicket and grassy plot along the trail. And after the +flames had died down to cinders—in the same black terrible silence, the +hosts were marching still.</p> + +<p>That night a last good-by to all womankind, but wife, mother, sister, +sweetheart. The world was to be a man's world next day, and the man a +coarse, dirty, sweaty, swearing, good-natured, grimly humorous, cruel, +kindly soldier, feverish for a fight and as primitive in passion as a +cave-dweller fighting his kind for food. The great little fight was at +hand.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> +<h3><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI</h3> +</div> + +<p>Before dawn again—everything in war begins at dawn—and the thickets +around a certain little gray stone fort alive with slouch hat, blue +blouse, and Krag-Jorgensen, slipping through the brush, building no +fires, and talking in low tones for fear the timorous enemy would see, +or hear, and run before the American sharpshooter could get a chance to +try his marksmanship; wondering, eight hours later, if the timorous +enemy were ever going to run. Eastward and on a high knoll stripped of +bushes, four 3.2 guns unlimbered and thrown into position against that +fort and a certain little red-roofed town to the left of it. This was +Caney.</p> + +<p>Eastward still, three miles across an uneven expanse of green, jungle +and jungle-road alive with men, bivouacing fearlessly around and under +four more 3.2 guns planted on another high-stripped knoll—El Poso—and +trained on a little pagoda-like block-house, which sat like a Christmas +toy on top of a green little, steep little hill from the base of which +curved an orchard-like valley back to sweeping curve of the jungle. This +was San Juan.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p> + +<p>Nature loves sudden effects in the tropics. While Chaffee fretted in +valley-shadows around Caney and Lawton strode like a yellow lion past +the guns on the hill and, eastward, gunner on the other hill at El Poso +and soldier in the jungle below listened westward, a red light ran like +a flame over the east, the tops of the mountains shot suddenly upward +and it was day—flashing day, with dripping dew and birds singing and a +freshness of light and air that gave way suddenly when the sun quickly +pushed an arc of fire over the green shoulder of a hill and smote the +soldiers over and under the low trees like rays from an open furnace.</p> + +<p>It smote Reynolds as he sat by the creek under the guns before San Juan, +idly watching water bubble into three canteens, and it opened his lips +for an oath that he was too lazy to speak; it smote Abe Long cooking +coffee on the bank some ten yards away, and made him raise from the fire +and draw first one long forearm and then the other across his +heat-wrinkled brow; but, unheeded, it smote Crittenden—who stood near, +leaning against a palm-tree—full in his uplifted face. Perhaps that was +the last sunrise on earth for him. He was watching it in Cuba, but his +spirit was hovering around home. He could feel the air from the woods in +front of Canewood; could hear the darkies going to work<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> and Aunt Keziah +singing in the kitchen. He could see his mother's shutter open, could +see her a moment later, smiling at him from her door. And Judith—where +was she, and what was she doing? Could she be thinking of him? The sound +of his own name coming down through the hot air made him start, and, +looking up toward the Rough Riders, who were gathered about a little +stuccoed farm-house just behind the guns on the hill, he saw Blackford +waving at him. At the same moment hoofs beat the dirt-road behind +him—familiar hoof-beats—and he turned to see Basil and Raincrow—for +Crittenden's Colonel was sick with fever and Basil had Raincrow now—on +their way with a message to Chaffee at Caney. Crittenden saluted +gravely, as did Basil, though the boy turned in his saddle, and with an +affectionate smile waved back at him.</p> + +<p>Crittenden's lips moved.</p> + +<p>"God bless him."</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>"Fire!"</p> + +<p>Over on the hill, before Caney, a man with a lanyard gave a quick jerk. +There was a cap explosion at the butt of the gun and a bulging white +cloud from the muzzle; the trail bounced from its shallow trench, the +wheels whirled back twice on the rebound, and the shell was hissing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> +through the air as iron hisses when a blacksmith thrusts it red-hot into +cold water. Basil could hear that awful hiss so plainly that he seemed +to be following the shell with his naked eye; he could hear it above the +reverberating roar of the gun up and down the coast-mountain; hear it +until, six seconds later, a puff of smoke answered beyond the Spanish +column where the shell burst. Then in eight seconds—for the shell +travelled that much faster than sound—the muffled report of its +bursting struck his ears, and all that was left of the first shot that +started the great little fight was the thick, sunlit smoke sweeping away +from the muzzle of the gun and the little mist-cloud of the shell rising +slowly upward beyond the stone fort, which seemed not to know any harm +was possible or near.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>Again Crittenden, leaning against the palm, heard his name called. Again +it was Blackford who was opening his mouth to shout some message +when—Ah! The shout died on Blackford's lips, and every man on the hill +and in the woods, at that instant, stayed his foot and his hand—even a +man standing with a gray horse against the blue wall—he, too, stopped +to listen. It really sounded too dull and muffled for a shell; but, a +few seconds later, there was a roar against the big walls of living +green behind Caney.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p> + +<p>The first shot!</p> + +<p>"Ready!"</p> + +<p>Even with the cry at El Poso came another sullen, low boom and another +aggressive roar from Caney: then a great crackling in the air, as though +thousands of schoolboys were letting off fire-crackers, pack after pack.</p> + +<p>"Fire!"</p> + +<p>Every ear heard, every eye saw the sudden white mist at a gun-muzzle and +followed that first shell screaming toward the little Christmas toy +sitting in the sun on that distant little hill. And yet it was nothing. +Another and yet another mass of shrapnel went screaming, and still there +was no response, no sign. It was nothing—nothing at all. Was the +Spaniard asleep?</p> + +<p>Crittenden could see attaché, correspondent, aid, staff-officer, +non-combatant, sight-seer crowding close about the guns—so close that +the gunners could hardly work. He could almost hear them saying, one to +another:</p> + +<p>"Why, is this war—really war? Why, this isn't so bad."</p> + +<p>Twanged just then a bow-string in the direction of San Juan hill, and +the twang seemed to be getting louder and to be coming toward the little +blue farm-house. No cannon was in sight; there was no smoke visible, and +many, with an upward look, wondered what the queer sound<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> could be. +Suddenly there was a screeching, crackling answer in the air; the +atmosphere was rent apart as by a lightning stroke directly overhead. +The man and the horse by the blue wall dropped noiselessly to the earth. +A Rough Rider paled and limped down the hill and Blackford shook his +hand—a piece of shrapnel had fallen harmlessly on his wrist. On the +hill—Crittenden laughed as he looked—on the hill, nobody +ran—everybody tumbled. Besides the men at the guns, only two others +were left—civilians.</p> + +<p>"You're a fool," said one.</p> + +<p>"You're another."</p> + +<p>"What'd you stay here for?"</p> + +<p>"Because you did. What'd you stay for?"</p> + +<p>"Because <i>you</i> did."</p> + +<p>Then they went down together—rapidly—and just in time. Another shell +shrieked. Two artillerymen and two sergeants dropped dead at their guns, +and a corporal fell, mortally wounded. A third burst in a group of +Cubans. Several of them flew out, killed or wounded, into the air; the +rest ran shrieking for the woods. Below, those woods began to move. +Under those shells started the impatient soldiers down that narrow lane +through the jungle, and with Reynolds and Abe Long on the "point" was +Crittenden, his Krag-Jorgensen across his breast—thrilled, for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> all the +world, as though he were on a hunt for big game.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>And all the time the sound of ripping cloth was rolling over from Caney, +the far-away rumble of wagons over cobble-stones, or softened stage hail +and stage thunder around the block-house, stone fort, and town. At first +it was a desultory fire, like the popping of a bunch of fire-crackers +that have to be relighted several times, and Basil and Grafton, +galloping toward it, could hear the hiss of bullets that far away. But, +now and then, the fire was as steady as a Gatling-gun. Behind them the +artillery had turned on the stone fort, and Grafton saw one shot tear a +hole through the wall, then another, and another. He could see Spaniards +darting from the fort and taking refuge in the encircling stone-cut +trenches; and then nothing else—for their powder was smokeless—except +the straw hats of the little devils in blue, who blazed away from their +trenches around the fort and minded the shells bursting over and around +them as little as though they had been bursting snowballs. If the boy +ahead noted anything, Grafton could not tell. Basil turned his head +neither to right nor left, and at the foot of the muddy hill, the black +horse that he rode, without touch of spur, seemed suddenly to leave the +earth and pass on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> out of sight with the swift silence of a shadow. At +the foot of a hill walked the first wounded man—a Colonel limping +between two soldiers. The Colonel looked up smiling—he had a terrible +wound in the groin.</p> + +<p>"Well," he called cheerily, "I'm the first victim."</p> + +<p>Grafton wondered. Was it possible that men were going to behave on a +battlefield just as they did anywhere else—just as naturally—taking +wounds and death and horror as a matter of course? Beyond were more +wounded—the wounded who were able to help themselves. Soon he saw them +lying by the roadside, here and there a dead one; by and by, he struck a +battalion marching to storm a block-house. He got down, hitched his +horse a few yards from the road and joined it. He was wondering how it +would feel to be under fire, when just as they were crossing another +road, with a whir and whistle and buzz, a cloud of swift insects buzzed +over his head. Unconsciously imitating the soldiers near him, he bent +low and walked rapidly. Right and left of him sounded two or three low, +horrible crunching noises, and right and left of him two or three blue +shapes sank limply down on their faces. A sudden sickness seized him, +nauseating him like a fetid odour—the crunching noise was the sound of +a bullet crashing into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> a living human skull as the men bent forward. +One man, he remembered afterward, dropped with the quick grunt of an +animal—he was killed outright; another gave a gasping cry, "Oh, +God"—there was a moment of suffering consciousness for him; a third +hopped aside into the bushes—cursing angrily. Still another, as he +passed, looked up from the earth at him with a curious smile, as though +he were half ashamed of something.</p> + +<p>"I've got it, partner," he said, "I reckon I've got it, sure." And +Grafton saw a drop of blood and the tiny mouth of a wound in his gullet, +where the flaps of his collar fell apart. He couldn't realize how he +felt—he was not interested any longer in how he felt. The instinct of +life was at work, and the instinct of self-defence. When the others +dropped, he dropped gladly; when they rose, he rose automatically. A +piece of brush, a bush, the low branch of a tree, a weed seemed to him +protection, and he saw others possessed with the same absurd idea. Once +the unworthy thought crossed his mind, when he was lying behind a squad +of soldiers and a little lower than they, that his chance was at least +better than theirs. And once, and only once—with a bitter sting of +shame—he caught himself dropping back a little, so that the same squad +should be between him and the enemy: and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> forthwith he stepped out into +the road, abreast with the foremost, cursing himself for a coward, and +thereafter took a savage delight in reckless exposure whenever it was +possible. And he soon saw that his position was a queer one, and an +unenviable one, as far as a cool test of nerve was the point at issue. +The officers, he saw, had their men to look after—orders to obey—their +minds were occupied. The soldiers were busy getting a shot at the +enemy—their minds, too, were occupied. It was his peculiar province to +stand up and be shot at without the satisfaction of shooting +back—studying his sensations, meanwhile, which were not particularly +pleasant, and studying the grewsome horrors about him. And it struck +him, too, that this was a ghastly business, and an unjustifiable, and +that if it pleased God to see him through he would never go to another +war except as a soldier. One consideration interested him and was +satisfactory. Nobody was shooting at him—nobody was shooting at anybody +in particular. If he were killed, or when anybody was killed, it was +merely accident, and it was thus pleasant to reflect that he was in as +much danger as anybody.</p> + +<p>The firing was pretty hot now, and the wounded were too many to be +handled. A hospital man called out sharply:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Give a hand here." Grafton gave a hand to help a poor fellow back to +the field hospital, in a little hollow, and when he reached the road +again that black horse and his boy rider were coming back like shadows, +through a rain of bullets, along the edge of the woods. Once the horse +plunged sidewise and shook his head angrily—a Mauser had stung him in +the neck—but the lad, pale and his eyes like stars, lifted him in a +flying leap over a barbed-wire fence and swung him into the road again.</p> + +<p>"Damn!" said Grafton, simply.</p> + +<p>Then rose a loud cheer from the battery on the hill, and, looking west, +he saw the war-balloon hung high above the trees and moving toward +Santiago. The advance had begun over there; there was the main +attack—the big battle. It was interesting and horrible enough where he +was, but Caney was not Santiago; and Grafton, too, mounted his horse and +galloped after Basil.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>At head-quarters began the central lane of death that led toward San +Juan, and Basil picked his way through it at a slow walk—his excitement +gone for the moment and his heart breaking at the sight of the terrible +procession on its way to the rear. Men with arms in slings; men with +trousers torn away at the knee, and bandaged legs; men with brow, face, +mouth, or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> throat swathed; men with no shirts, but a broad swathe around +the chest or stomach—each bandage grotesquely pictured with human +figures printed to show how the wound should be bound, on whatever part +of the body the bullet entered. Men staggering along unaided, or between +two comrades, or borne on litters, some white and quiet, some groaning +and blood-stained, some conscious, some dying, some using a rifle for a +support, or a stick thrust through the side of a tomato-can. Rolls, +haversacks, blouses, hardtack, bibles, strewn by the wayside, where the +soldiers had thrown them before they went into action. It was curious, +but nearly all of the wounded were dazed and drunken in appearance, +except at the brows, which were tightly drawn with pain. There was one +man, with short, thick, upright red hair, stumbling from one side of the +road to the other, with no wound apparent, and muttering:</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know what happened to me. I don't know what happened to +me."</p> + +<p>Another, hopping across the creek on one leg—the other bare and +wounded—and using his gun, muzzle down, as a vaulting-pole. Another, +with his arm in the sling, pointing out the way.</p> + +<p>"Take this road," he said. "I don't know where that one goes, but I know +this one. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> went up this one, and brought back a <i>souvenir</i>," he added, +cheerily, shaking a bloody arm.</p> + +<p>And everywhere men were cautioning him to beware of the guerillas, who +were in the trees, adding horror to the scene—shooting wounded men on +litters, hospital men, doctors. Once, there was almost the horror of a +panic in the crowded road. Soldiers answered the guerilla fire from the +road; men came running back; bullets spattered around.</p> + +<p>Ahead, the road was congested with soldiers. Beyond them was anchored +the balloon, over the Bloody Ford—drawing the Spanish fire to the +troops huddled beneath it. There was the death-trap.</p> + +<p>And, climbing from an ambulance to mount his horse, a little, bent old +man, weak and trembling from fever, but with his gentle blue eyes +glinting fire—Basil's hero—ex-Confederate Jerry Carter.</p> + +<p>"Give the Yanks hell, boys," he shouted.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>It had been a slow, toilsome march up that narrow lane of death, and, so +far, Crittenden had merely been sprinkled with Mauser and shrapnel. His +regiment had begun to deploy to the left, down the bed of a stream. The +negro cavalry and the Rough Riders were deploying to the right. Now +broke the storm. Imagine<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> sheet after sheet of hailstones, coated with +polished steel, and swerved when close to the earth at a sharp angle to +the line of descent, and sweeping the air horizontally with an awful +hiss—swifter in flight than a peal of thunder from sky to earth, and +hardly less swift than the lightning flash that caused it.</p> + +<p>"T-t-seu-u-u-h! T-t-seu-oo! T-t-seu-oo!"—they went like cloud after +cloud of lightning-winged insects, and passing, by God's mercy and the +Spaniard's bad marksmanship—passing high. Between two crashes, came a +sudden sputter, and some singing thing began to play up and down through +the trees, and to right and left, in a steady hum. It was a machine gun +playing for the range—like a mighty hose pipe, watering earth and trees +with a steady, spreading jet of hot lead. It was like some strange, huge +monster, unseeing and unseen, who knows where his prey is hidden and is +searching for it blindly—by feeling or by sense of smell—coming ever +nearer, showering the leaves down, patting into the soft earth ahead, +swishing to right and to left, and at last playing in a steady stream +about the prostrate soldiers.</p> + +<p>"Swish-ee! Swish-ee! Swishee!"</p> + +<p>"Whew!" said Abe Long.</p> + +<p>"God!" said Reynolds.</p> + +<p>Ah, ye scornful veterans of the great war.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> In ten minutes the Spaniard +let fly with his Mauser more bullets than did you fighting hard for two +long hours, and that one machine gun loosed more death stings in an hour +than did a regiment of you in two. And they were coming from +intrenchments on an all but vertical hill, from piles of unlimited +ammunition, and from soldiers who should have been as placid as the +earth under them for all the demoralization that hostile artillery fire +was causing them.</p> + +<p>And not all of them passed high. After that sweep of glistening steel +rain along the edge of the woods rose the cry here, there, everywhere:</p> + +<p>"Hospital man! hospital man!"</p> + +<p>And here and there, in the steady pelt of bullets, went the quiet, brave +fellows with red crosses on their sleeves; across the creek, Crittenden +could see a tall, young doctor, bare-headed in the sun, stretching out +limp figures on the sand under the bank—could see him and his +assistants stripping off blouse and trousers and shirt, and wrapping and +binding, and newly wounded being ever brought in.</p> + +<p>And behind forged soldiers forward, a tall aide at the ford urging them +across and stopping a panic among volunteers.</p> + +<p>"Come back, you cowards—come back! Push 'em back, boys!"</p> + +<p>A horse was crossing the stream. There was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> a hissing shriek in the air, +a geyser spouting from the creek, the remnants of a horse thrown upward, +and five men tossed in a swirl like straw: and, a moment later, a boy +feebly paddling towards the shore—while the water ran past him red with +blood. And, through it all, looking backward, Crittenden saw little +Carter coming on horseback, calm of face, calm of manner, with his hands +folded over his saddle, and his eyes looking upward—little Carter who +had started out in an ambulance that morning with a temperature of one +hundred and four, and, meeting wounded soldiers, gave up his wagon to +them, mounted his horse, and rode into battle—to come out normal at +dusk. And behind him—erect, proud, face aflame, eyes burning, but +hardly less cool—rode Basil. Crittenden's eyes filled with love and +pride for the boy.</p> + +<p>"God bless him—God save him!"</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>A lull came—one of the curious lulls that come periodically in battle +for the reason that after any violent effort men must have a breathing +spell—and the mist of bullets swept on to the right like a swift +passing shower of rain.</p> + +<p>There was a splash in the creek behind Crittenden, and someone fell on +his face behind the low bank with a fervent:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Thank God, I've got this far!" It was Grafton.</p> + +<p>"That nigger of yours is coming on somewhere back there," he added, and +presently he rose and calmly peered over the bank and at the line of +yellow dirt on the crest of the hill. A bullet spat in the ground close +by.</p> + +<p>"That hit you?" he asked, without altering the tone of his +voice—without even lowering his glasses.</p> + +<p>Reynolds, on his right, had ducked quickly. Crittenden looked up in +surprise. The South had no monopoly of nerve—nor, in that campaign, the +soldier.</p> + +<p>"Well, by God," said Reynolds, irritably—the bullet had gone through +his sleeve. "This ain't no time to joke."</p> + +<p>Grafton's face was still calm—he was still looking. Presently he turned +and beckoned to somebody in the rear.</p> + +<p>"There he is, now."</p> + +<p>Looking behind, Crittenden had to laugh. There was Bob, in a +cavalryman's hat, with a Krag-Jorgensen in his hand, and an ammunition +belt buckled around him.</p> + +<p>As he started toward Grafton, a Lieutenant halted him.</p> + +<p>"Why aren't you with your regiment?" he demanded sharply.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I ain't got no regiment. I'se looking fer Ole Captain."</p> + +<p>"Get back into your regiment," said the officer, with an oath, and +pointing behind to the Tenth Coloured Cavalry coming up.</p> + +<p>"Huh!" he said, looking after the officer a moment, and then he came on +to the edge of the creek.</p> + +<p>"Go to the rear, Bob," shouted Crittenden, sharply, and the next moment +Bob was crashing through the bushes to the edge of the creek.</p> + +<p>"Foh Gawd, Ole Cap'n, I sutn'ly is glad to fine you. I wish you'd jes +show me how to wuk this gun. I'se gwine to fight right side o' you—you +heah me."</p> + +<p>"Go back, Bob," said Crittenden, firmly.</p> + +<p>"Silence in the ranks," roared a Lieutenant. Bob hesitated. Just then a +company of the Tenth Cavalry filed down the road as they were deployed +to the right. Crittenden's file of soldiers could see that the last man +was a short, fat darky—evidently a recruit—and he was swinging along +as jauntily as in a cake-walk. As he wheeled pompously, he dropped his +gun, leaped into the air with a yell of amazed rage and pain, catching +at the seat of his trousers with both hands. A bullet had gone through +both buttocks.</p> + +<p>"Gawd, Ole Cap'n, did you see dat nigger?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></p> + +<p>A roar of laughter went down the bed of the creek.</p> + +<p>"Go back!" repeated Crittenden, threateningly, "and stop calling me Old +Captain." Bob looked after the file of coloured troops, and then at +Crittenden.</p> + +<p>"All right, Ole Cap'n; I tol' you in ole Kentuck that I gwine to fight +wid the niggers ef you don't lemme fight wid you. I don't like +disgracin' the family dis way, but 'tain't my fault, an' s'pose you git +shot—" the slap of the flat side of a sword across Bob's back made him +jump.</p> + +<p>"What are you doing here?" thundered an angry officer." Get into +line—get into line."</p> + +<p>"I ain't no sojer."</p> + +<p>"Get into line," and Bob ran after the disappearing file, shaking his +head helplessly.</p> + +<p>The crash started again, and the hum of bees and the soft snap of the +leaves when bullets clipped them like blows with a rattan cane, and the +rattling sputter of the machine guns, and once more came that long, long +wait that tries the soldier's heart, nerve, and brain.</p> + +<p>"Why was not something done—why?"</p> + +<p>And again rose the cry for the hospital men, and again the limp figures +were brought in from the jungle, and he could see the tall doctor with +the bare head helping the men who had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> been dressed with a first-aid +bandage to the protecting bank of the creek farther up, to make room for +the fresh victims. And as he stood up once, Crittenden saw him throw his +hand quickly up to his temple and sink to the blood-stained sand. The +assistant, who bent over him, looked up quickly and shook his head to +another, who was binding a wounded leg and looking anxiously to know the +fatal truth.</p> + +<p>"I've got it," said a soldier to Crittenden's left; joyously, he said +it, for the bullet had merely gone through his right shoulder. He could +fight no more, he had a wound and he could wear a scar to his grave.</p> + +<p>"So have I," said another, with a groan. And then next him there was a +sudden, soft thud:</p> + +<p>"T-h-u-p!" It was the sound of a bullet going into thick flesh, and the +soldier sprang to his feet—the impulse seemed uncontrollable for the +wounded to spring to their feet—and dropped with a groan—dead. +Crittenden straightened him out sadly—putting his hat over his face and +drawing his arms to his sides. Above, he saw with sudden nausea, +buzzards circling—little cared they whether the dead were American or +Spaniard, as long as there were eyes to pluck and lips to tear away, and +then straightway, tragedy merged into comedy as swiftly as on a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> stage. +Out of the woods across the way emerged a detail of negro troopers—sent +to clear the woods behind of sharpshooters—and last came Bob. The +detail, passing along the creek on the other bank from them, scattered, +and with Bob next the creek. Bob shook his gun aloft.</p> + +<p>"I can wuk her now!"</p> + +<p>Another lull came, and from the thicket arose the cry of a thin, high, +foreign voice:</p> + +<p>"Americano—Americano!"</p> + +<p>"Whut regiment you b'long to?" the voice was a negro's and was Bob's, +and Grafton and Crittenden listened keenly. Bob had evidently got a +sharpshooter up a tree, and caught him loading his gun.</p> + +<p>"Tenth Cav'rly—Tenth!" was the answer. Bob laughed long and loud.</p> + +<p>"Well, you jus the man I been lookin' fer—the fust white man I ever +seed whut 'longed to a nigger regiment. Come down, honey." There was the +sharp, clean crack of a Krag-Jorgensen, and a yell of savage triumph.</p> + +<p>"That nigger's a bird," said Grafton.</p> + +<p>Something serious was going to be done now—the intuition of it ran down +the line in that mysterious fashion by which information passes down a +line of waiting men. The line rose, advanced, and dropped again. +Companies deployed to the left and behind—fighting their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> way through +the <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'chapparal'">chaparral</ins> +as a swimmer buffets his way through choppy waves. Every +man saw now that the brigade was trying to form in line of battle for a +charge on that curving, smokeless flame of fire that ran to and fro +around the top of the hill—blazing fiercely and steadily here and +there. For half an hour the officers struggled to form the scattering +men. Forward a little way; slipping from one bush and tree to another; +through the thickets and bayonet grass; now creeping; now a dash through +an open spot; now flat on the stomach, until Crittenden saw a wire fence +stretching ahead. Followed another wait. And then a squad of negro +troopers crossed the road, going to the right, and diagonally. The +bullets rained about them, and they scuttled swiftly into the brush. The +hindmost one dropped; the rest kept on, unseeing; but Crittenden saw a +Lieutenant—it was Sharpe, whom he had met at home and at +Chickamauga—look back at the soldier, who was trying to raise himself +on his elbow—while the bullets seemed literally to be mowing down the +tall grass about him. Then Crittenden heard a familiar grunt behind him, +and the next minute Bob's figure sprang out into the open—making for +the wounded man by the sympathy of race. As he stooped, to Crittenden's +horror, Bob pitched to the ground—threshing around<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> like an animal that +has received a blow on the head. Without a thought, without +consciousness of his own motive or his act, Crittenden sprang to his +feet and dashed for Bob. Within ten feet of the boy, his toe caught in a +root and he fell headlong. As he scrambled to his feet, he saw Sharpe +making for him—thinking that he had been shot down—and, as he turned, +with Bob in his arms, half a dozen men, including Grafton and his own +Lieutenant, were retreating back into cover—all under the same impulse +and with the same motive having started for him, too. Behind a tree, +Crittenden laid Bob down, still turning his head from side to side +helplessly. There was a trail of blood across his temple, and, wiping it +away, he saw that the bullet had merely scraped along the skull without +penetrating it. In a moment, Bob groaned, opened his eyes, sat up, +looked around with rolling eyes, grunted once or twice, straightened +out, and reached for his gun, shaking his head.</p> + +<p>"Gimme drink, Ole Cap'n, please, suh."</p> + +<p>Crittenden handed him his canteen, and Bob drank and rose unsteadily to +his feet.</p> + +<p>"Dat ain't nuttin'," he said, contemptuously, feeling along the wound. +"'Tain't nigh as bad as mule kick. 'Tain't nuttin', 't all." And then he +almost fell.</p> + +<p>"Go back, Bob."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span></p> + +<p>"All right, Ole Cap'n, I reckon I'll jus' lay down heah little while," +he said, stretching out behind the tree.</p> + +<p>And Grafton reached over for Crittenden's hand. He was getting some new +and startling ideas about the difference in the feeling toward the negro +of the man who once owned him body and soul and of the man who freed him +body and soul. And in the next few minutes he studied Crittenden as he +had done before—taking in detail the long hair, lean face strongly +chiselled, fearless eye, modest demeanour—marking the intellectual look +of the face—it was the face of a student—a gentleman—gently born. +And, there in the heat of the fight, he fell to marvelling over the +nation that had such a man to send into the field as a common soldier.</p> + +<p>Again they moved forward. Crittenden's Lieutenant dropped—wounded.</p> + +<p>"Go on," he cried, "damn it, go on!"</p> + +<p>Grafton helped to carry him back, stepping out into the open for him, +and Crittenden saw a bullet lick up the wet earth between the +correspondent's feet.</p> + +<p>Forward again! It was a call for volunteers to advance and cut the +wires. Crittenden was the first to spring to his feet, and Abe Long and +Reynolds sprang after him. Forward they slipped on their bellies, and +the men behind saw<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> one brown, knotty hand after another reach up from +the grass and clip, clip, clip through the thickly braided wires.</p> + +<p>Forward again! The men slipped like eels through and under the wires, +and lay in the long grass behind. The time was come.</p> + +<p>"FORWARD!"</p> + +<p>Crittenden never knew before the thrill that blast sent through him, and +never in his life did he know it again.</p> + +<p>It was the call of America to the American, white and black: and race +and colour forgotten, the American answered with the grit of the Saxon, +the Celt's pure love of a fight, and all the dash of the passionate +Gaul.</p> + +<p>As Crittenden leaped to his feet, he saw Reynolds leap, too, and then +there was a hissing hell of white smoke and crackling iron at his +feet—and Reynolds disappeared.</p> + +<p>It was a marvel afterward but, at that moment, Crittenden hardly noted +that the poor fellow was blown into a hundred fragments. He was in the +front line now. A Brigadier, with his hat in his hand and his white hair +shining in the sun, run diagonally across in front of his line of +battle, and, with a wild cheer, the run of death began.</p> + +<p>God, how the bullets hissed and the shells shrieked; and, God, how +slow—slow—slow was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> the run! Crittenden's legs were of lead, and +leaden were the legs of the men with him—running with guns trailing the +earth or caught tightly across the breast and creeping unconsciously. He +saw nothing but the men in front of him, the men who were dropping +behind him, and the yellow line above, and the haven at the bottom of +the hill. Now and then he could see a little, dirty, blue figure leap +into view on the hill and disappear. Two men only were ahead of him when +he reached the foot of the hill—Sharpe and a tall Cuban close at his +side with machéte drawn—the one Cuban hero of that fierce charge. But +he could hear laboured panting behind him, and he knew that others were +coming on. God, how steep and high that hill was! He was gasping for +breath now, and he was side by side with Cuban and Lieutenant—gasping, +too. To right and left—faint cheers. To the right, a machine gun +playing like hail on the yellow dirt. To his left a shell, bursting in +front of a climbing, struggling group, and the soldiers tumbling +backward and rolling ten feet down the hill. A lull in the firing—the +Spaniards were running—and then the top—the top! Sharpe sprang over +the trench, calling out to save the wounded. A crouching Spaniard raised +his pistol, and Sharpe fell. With one leap, Crittenden reached him with +the butt of his gun<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> and, with savage exultation, he heard the skull of +the Spaniard crash.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>Straight in front, the Spaniards were running like rabbits through the +brush. To the left, Kent was charging far around and out of sight. To +the right, Rough Riders and negroes were driving Spaniards down one hill +and up the next. The negroes were as wild as at a camp meeting or a +voodoo dance. One big Sergeant strode along brandishing in each hand a +piece of his carbine that had been shot in two by a Mauser bullet, and +shouting at the top of his voice, contemptuously:</p> + +<p>"Heah, somebody, gimme a gun! gimme a gun, I tell ye," still striding +ahead and looking never behind him. "You don't know how to fight. Gimme +a gun!" To the negro's left, a young Lieutenant was going up the hill +with naked sword in one hand and a kodak in the other—taking pictures +as he ran. A bare-headed boy, running between him and a gigantic negro +trooper, toppled suddenly and fell, and another negro stopped in the +charge, and, with a groan, bent over him and went no farther.</p> + +<p>And all the time that machine gun was playing on the trenches like a +hard rain in summer dust. Whenever a Spaniard would leap from the +trench, he fell headlong. That pitiless fire<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> kept in the trenches the +Spaniards who were found there—wretched, pathetic, half-starved little +creatures—and some terrible deeds were done in the lust of slaughter. +One gaunt fellow thrust a clasp-knife into the buttock of a shamming +Spaniard, and, when he sprang to his feet, blew the back of his head +off. Some of the Riders chased the enemy over the hill and lay down in +the shade. One of them pulled out of a dead Spaniard's pocket +cigarettes, cigars, and a lady's slipper of white satin; with a grunt he +put the slipper back. Below the trenches, two boyish prisoners sat under +a tree, crying as though they were broken-hearted, and a big trooper +walked up and patted them both kindly on the head.</p> + +<p>"Don't cry, boys; it's all right—all right," he said, helplessly.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>Over at the block-house, Crittenden stopped firing suddenly, and, +turning to his men, shouted:</p> + +<p>"Get back over the hill boys, they're going to start in again." As they +ran back, a Lieutenant-Colonel met them.</p> + +<p>"Are you in command?"</p> + +<p>Crittenden saluted.</p> + +<p>"No, sir," he said.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," said the old Sergeant at his side. "He was. He brought these +men up the hill."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The hell he did. Where are your officers?"</p> + +<p>The old Sergeant motioned toward the valley below, and Crittenden opened +his lips to explain, but just then the sudden impression came to him +that some one had struck him from behind with the butt of a musket, and +he tried to wheel around—his face amazed and wondering. Then he +dropped. He wondered, too, why he couldn't get around, and then he +wondered how it was that he happened to be falling to the earth. +Darkness came then, and through it ran one bitter thought—he had been +shot in the back. He did think of his mother and of Judith—but it was a +fleeting vision of both, and his main thought was a dull wonder whether +there would be anybody to explain how it was that his wound was not in +front. And then, as he felt himself lifted, it flashed that he would at +least be found on top of the hill, and beyond the Spaniard's trench, and +he saw Blackford's face above him. Then he was dropped heavily to the +ground again and Blackford pitched across his body. There was one +glimpse of Abe Long's anxious face above him, another vision of Judith, +and then quiet, painless darkness.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>It was fiercer firing now than ever. The Spaniards were in the second +line of trenches and were making a sortie. Under the hill sat<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> Grafton +and another correspondent while the storm of bullets swept over them. +Grafton was without glasses—a Mauser had furrowed the skin on the +bridge of his nose, breaking his spectacle-frame so that one glass +dropped on one side of his nose and the other on the other. The other +man had several narrow squeaks, as he called them, and, even as they +sat, a bullet cut a leaf over his head and it dropped between the pages +of his note-book. He closed the book and looked up.</p> + +<p>"Thanks," he said. "That's just what I want—I'll keep that."</p> + +<p>"I observe," said Grafton, "that the way one of these infernal bullets +sounds depends entirely on where you happen to be when you hear it. When +a sharpshooter has picked you out and is plugging at you, they are +intelligent and vindictive. Coming through that bottom, they were for +all the world like a lot of nasty little insects. And listen to 'em +now." The other man listened. "Hear 'em as they pass over and go out of +hearing. That is for all the world like the last long note of a meadow +lark's song when you hear him afar off and at sunset. But I notice that +simile didn't occur to me until I got under the lee of this hill." He +looked around. "This hill will be famous, I suppose. Let's go up +higher." They went up higher, passing a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> crowd of skulkers, or men in +reserve—Grafton could not tell which—and as they went by a soldier +said:</p> + +<p>"Well, if I didn't have to be here, I be damned if I wouldn't like to +see anybody get me here. What them fellers come fer, I can't see."</p> + +<p>The firing was still hot when the two men got up to the danger line, and +there they lay down. A wounded man lay at Grafton's elbow. Once his +throat rattled and Grafton turned curiously.</p> + +<p>"That's the death-rattle," he said to himself, and he had never heard a +death-rattle before. The poor fellow's throat rattled again, and again +Grafton turned.</p> + +<p>"I never knew before," he said to himself, "that a dying man's throat +rattled but once." Then it flashed on him with horror that he should +have so little feeling, and he knew it at once as the curious +callousness that comes quickly to toughen the heart for the sights of +war. A man killed in battle was not an ordinary dead man at all—he +stirred no sensation at all—no more than a dead animal. Already he had +heard officers remarking calmly to one another, and apparently without +feeling:</p> + +<p>"Well, So and So was killed to-day." And he looked back to the +disembarkation, when the army was simply in a hurry. Two negro troopers<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> +were drowned trying to get off on the little pier. They were fished up; +a rope was tied about the neck of each, and they were lashed to the pier +and left to be beaten against the wooden pillars by the waves for four +hours before four comrades came and took them out and buried them. Such +was the dreadful callousness that sweeps through the human heart when +war begins, and he was under its influence himself, and long afterward +he remembered with shame his idle and half-scientific and useless +curiosity about the wounded man at his elbow. As he turned his head, the +soldier gave a long, deep, peaceful sigh, as though he had gone to +sleep. With pity now Grafton turned to him—and he had gone to sleep, +but it was his last sleep.</p> + +<p>"Look," said the other man. Grafton looked upward. Along the trenches, +and under a hot fire, moved little Jerry Carter, with figure bent, hands +clasped behind him—with the manner, for all the world, of a deacon in a +country graveyard looking for inscriptions on tombstones.</p> + +<p>Now and then a bullet would have a hoarse sound—that meant that it had +ricochetted. At intervals of three or four minutes a huge, old-fashioned +projectile would labour through the air, visible all the time, and crash +harmlessly into the woods. The Americans called it the "long yellow +feller," and sometimes a negro<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> trooper would turn and with a yell shoot +at it as it passed over. A little way off, a squad of the Tenth Cavalry +was digging a trench—close to the top of the hill. Now and then one +would duck—particularly the one on the end. He had his tongue in the +corner of his mouth, was twirling his pick over his shoulder like a +railroad hand, and grunting with every stroke. Grafton could hear him.</p> + +<p>"Foh Gawd (huh!) never thought (huh!) I'd git to love (huh!) a pick +befoh!" Grafton broke into a laugh.</p> + +<p>"You see the charge?"</p> + +<p>"Part of it."</p> + +<p>"That tall fellow with the blue handkerchief around his throat, +bare-headed, long hair?"</p> + +<p>"Well—" the other man stopped for a moment. His eye had caught sight of +a figure on the ground—on the top of the trench, and with the profile +of his face between him and the afterglow, and his tone changed—"there +he is!"</p> + +<p>Grafton pressed closer. "What, that the fellow?" There was the +handkerchief, the head was bare, the hair long and dark. The man's eyes +were closed, but he was breathing. Below them at that moment they heard +the surgeon say:</p> + +<p>"Up there." And two hospital men, with a litter, came toward them and +took up the body. As they passed, Grafton recoiled.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Good God!" It was Crittenden.</p> + +<p>And, sitting on the edge of the trench, with Sharpe lying with his face +on his arm a few feet away, and the tall Cuban outstretched beside him, +and the dead Spaniards, Americans, and Cubans about them, Grafton told +the story of Crittenden. And at the end the other man gave a low whistle +and smote the back of one hand into the palm of the other softly.</p> + +<p>Dusk fell quickly. The full moon rose. The stars came out, and under +them, at the foot of the big mountains, a red fire burned sharply out in +the mist rising over captured Caney, from which tireless Chaffee was +already starting his worn-out soldiers on an all-night march by the rear +and to the trenches at San Juan. And along the stormed hill-side +camp-fires were glowing out where the lucky soldiers who had rations to +cook were cheerily frying bacon and hardtack. Grafton moved down to +watch one squad and, as he stood on the edge of the firelight, wondering +at the cheery talk and joking laughter, somebody behind him said +sharply:</p> + +<p>"Watch out, there," and he turned to find himself on the edge of a grave +which a detail was digging not ten yards away from the fire—digging for +a dead comrade. Never had he seen a more peaceful moonlit night than the +night that closed over the battlefield. It was hard for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> him to realize +that the day had not been a terrible dream, and yet, as the moon rose, +its rich light, he knew, was stealing into the guerilla-haunted jungles, +stealing through guava-bush and mango-tree, down through clumps of +Spanish bayonet, on stiff figures that would rise no more; on white, set +faces with the peace of painless death upon them or the agony of silent +torture, fought out under fierce heat and in the silence of the jungle +alone.</p> + +<p>Looking toward Caney he could even see the hill from which he had +witnessed the flight of the first shell that had been the storm centre +of the hurricane of death that had swept all through the white, +cloudless day. It burst harmlessly—that shell—and meant no more than a +signal to fire to the soldiers closing in on Caney, the Cubans lurking +around a block-house at a safe artillery distance in the woods and to +the impatient battery before San Juan. Retrospectively now, it meant the +death-knell of brave men, the quick cry and long groaning of the +wounded, the pained breathing of sick and fever-stricken, the quickened +heart-beats of the waiting and anxious at home—the low sobbing of the +women to whom fatal news came. It meant Cervera's gallant dash, Sampson +and Schley's great victory, the fall of Santiago; freedom for Cuba, a +quieter sleep for the <i>Maine</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> dead, and peace with Spain. Once more, as +he rose, he looked at the dark woods, the dead-haunted jungles which the +moon was draping with a more than mortal beauty, and he knew that in +them, as in the long grass of the orchard-like valley below him, comrade +was looking for dead comrade. And among the searchers was the faithful +Bob, looking for his Old Captain, Crittenden, his honest heart nigh to +bursting, for already he had found Raincrow torn with a shell and he had +borne a body back to the horror-haunted little hospital under the creek +bank at the Bloody Ford—a body from which the head hung over his +shoulder—limp, with a bullet-hole through the neck—the body of his +Young Captain, Basil.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> +<h3><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII</h3> +</div> + +<p>Grafton sat, sobered and saddened, where he was awhile. The moon swung +upward white and peaceful, toward mild-eyed stars. Crickets chirped in +the grass around him, and nature's low night-music started in the wood +and the valley below, as though the earth had never known the hell of +fire and human passion that had rocked it through that day. Was there so +much difference between the creatures of the earth and the creatures of +his own proud estate? Had they not both been on the same brute level +that day? And, save for the wounded and the men who had comrades wounded +and dead, were not the unharmed as careless, almost as indifferent as +cricket and tree-toad to the tragedies of their sphere? Had there been +any inner change in any man who had fought that day that was not for the +worse? Would he himself get normal again, he wondered? Was there one +sensitive soul who fully realized the horror of that day? If so, he +would better have been at home. The one fact that stood above every +thought that had come to him that day was the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> utter, the startling +insignificance of death. Could that mean much more than a startlingly +sudden lowering of the estimate put upon human life? Across the hollow +behind him and from a tall palm over the Spanish trenches, rose, loud +and clear, the night-song of a mocking-bird. Over there the little men +in blue were toiling, toiling, toiling at their trenches; and along the +crest of the hill the big men in blue were toiling, toiling, toiling at +theirs. All through the night anxious eyes would be strained for +Chaffee, and at dawn the slaughter would begin again. Wherever he +looked, he could see with his mind's eye stark faces in the long grass +of the valley and the Spanish-bayonet clumps in the woods. All day he +had seen them there—dying of thirst, bleeding to death—alone. As he +went down the hill, lights were moving along the creek bed. A row of +muffled dead lay along the bed of the creek. Yet they were still +bringing in dead and wounded—a dead officer with his will and a letter +to his wife clasped in his hand. He had lived long enough to write them. +Hollow-eyed surgeons were moving here and there. Up the bank of the +creek, a voice rose:</p> + +<p>"Come on, boys"—appealingly—"you're not going back on me. Come on, you +cursed cowards! Good! Good! I take it back, boys. <i>Now</i> we've got 'em!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p> + +<p>Another voice: "Kill me, somebody—kill me. For God's sake, kill me. +Won't somebody give me a pistol? God—God...."</p> + +<p>Once Grafton started into a tent. On the first cot lay a handsome boy, +with a white, frank face and a bullet hole through his neck, and he +recognized the dashing little fellow whom he had seen splashing through +the Bloody Ford at a gallop, dropping from his horse at a barbed-wire +fence, and dashing on afoot with the Rough Riders. The face bore a +strong likeness to the face he had seen on the hill—of the Kentuckian, +Crittenden—the Kentucky regular, as Grafton always mentally +characterized him—and he wondered if the boy were not the brother of +whom he had heard. The lad was still alive—but how could he live with +that wound in his throat? Grafton's eyes filled with tears: it was +horror—horror—all horror.</p> + +<p>Here and there along the shadowed road lay a lifeless mule or horse or a +dead man. It was curious, but a man killed in battle was not like an +ordinary dead man—he was no more than he was—a lump of clay. It was +more curious still that one's pity seemed less acute for man than for +horse: it was the man's choice to take the risk—the horse had no +choice.</p> + +<p>Here and there by the roadside was a grave. Comrades had halted there +long enough to save<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> a comrade from the birds of prey. Every now and +then he would meet a pack-train loaded with ammunition and ration boxes; +or a wagon drawn by six mules and driven by a swearing, fearless, +tireless teamster. The forest was ringing with the noise of wheels, the +creaking of harness, the shouts of teamsters and the guards with them +and the officer in charge—all on the way to the working beavers on top +of the conquered hill.</p> + +<p>Going the other way were the poor wounded, on foot, in little groups of +slowly moving twos and threes, and in jolting, springless army +wagons—on their way of torture to more torture in the rear. His heart +bled for them. And the way those men took their suffering! Sometimes the +jolting wagons were too much for human endurance, and soldiers would +pray for the driver, when he stopped, not to start again. In one +ambulance that he overtook, a man groaned. "Grit your teeth," said +another, an old Irish sergeant, sternly—"Grit your teeth; there's +others that's hurt worse'n you." The Sergeant lifted his head, and a +bandage showed that he was shot through the face, and Grafton heard not +another sound. But it was the slightly hurt—the men shot in the leg or +arm—who made the most noise. He had seen three men brought into the +hospital from San Juan. The surgeon took<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> the one who was groaning. He +had a mere scratch on one leg. Another was dressed, and while the third +sat silently on a stool, still another was attended, and another, before +the surgeon turned to the man who was so patiently awaiting his turn.</p> + +<p>"Where are you hurt?"</p> + +<p>The man pointed to his left side.</p> + +<p>"Through?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>That day he had seen a soldier stagger out from the firing-line with +half his face shot away and go staggering to the rear without aid. On +the way he met a mounted staff officer, and he raised his hand to his +hatless, bleeding forehead, in a stern salute and, without a gesture for +aid, staggered on. The officer's eyes filled with tears.</p> + +<p>"Lieutenant," said a trooper, just after the charge on the trenches, "I +think I'm wounded."</p> + +<p>"Can you get to the rear without help?"</p> + +<p>"I think I can, sir," and he started. After twenty paces he pitched +forward—dead. His wound was through the heart.</p> + +<p>At the divisional hospital were more lights, tents, surgeons, stripped +figures on the tables under the lights; rows of figures in darkness +outside the tents; and rows of muffled shapes behind; the smell of +anæsthetics and cleansing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> fluids; heavy breathing, heavy groaning, and +an occasional curse on the night air.</p> + +<p>Beyond him was a stretch of moonlit road and coming toward him was a +soldier, his arm in a sling, and staggering weakly from side to side. +With a start of pure gladness he saw that it was Crittenden, and he +advanced with his hand outstretched.</p> + +<p>"Are you badly hurt?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," said Crittenden, pointing to his hand and arm, but not +mentioning the bullet through his chest.</p> + +<p>"Oh, but I'm glad. I thought you were gone sure when I saw you laid out +on the hill."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I am all right," he said, and his manner was as courteous as though +he had been in a drawing-room; but, in spite of his nonchalance, Grafton +saw him stagger when he moved off.</p> + +<p>"I say, you oughtn't to be walking," he called. "Let me help you," but +Crittenden waved him off.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm all right," he repeated, and then he stopped. "Do you know +where the hospital is?"</p> + +<p>"God!" said Grafton softly, and he ran back and put his arm around the +soldier—Crittenden laughing weakly:</p> + +<p>"I missed it somehow."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it's back here," said Grafton gently,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> and he saw now that the +soldier's eyes were dazed and that he breathed heavily and leaned on +him, laughing and apologizing now and then with a curious shame at his +weakness. As they turned from the road at the hospital entrance, +Crittenden dropped to the ground.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, but I'm afraid I'll have to rest a little while now. I'm all +right now—don't bother—don't—bother. I'm all right. I feel kind o' +sleepy—somehow—very kind—thank—" and he closed his eyes. A surgeon +was passing and Grafton called him.</p> + +<p>"He's all right," said the surgeon, with a swift look, adding shortly, +"but he must take his turn."</p> + +<p>Grafton passed on—sick. On along the muddy road—through more +pack-trains, wagons, shouts, creakings, cursings. On through the +beautiful moonlight night and through the beautiful tropical forest, +under tall cocoanut and taller palm; on past the one long grave of the +Rough Riders—along the battle-line of the first little fight—through +the ghastly, many-coloured masses of hideous land-crabs shuffling +sidewise into the cactus and shuffling on with an unearthly rustling of +dead twig and fallen leaf: along the crest of the foothills and down to +the little town of Siboney, lighted, bustling with preparation for the +wounded in the tents;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> bustling at the beach with the unloading of +rations, the transports moving here and there far out on the moonlighted +sea. Down there were straggler, wounded soldier, teamster, mule-packer, +refugee Cuban, correspondent, nurse, doctor, surgeon—the flotsam and +jetsam of the battle of the day.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>The moon rose.</p> + +<p>"Water! water! water!"</p> + +<p>Crittenden could not move. He could see the lights in the tents; the +half-naked figures stretched on tables; and doctors with bloody arms +about them—cutting and bandaging—one with his hands inside a man's +stomach, working and kneading the bowels as though they were dough. Now +and then four negro troopers would appear with something in a blanket, +would walk around the tent where there was a long trench, and, standing +at the head of this, two would lift up their ends of the blanket and the +other two would let go, and a shapeless shape would drop into the +trench. Up and down near by strolled two young Lieutenants, smoking +cigarettes—calmly, carelessly. He could see all this, but that was all +right; that was all right! Everything was all right except that long, +black shape in the shadow near him gasping:</p> + +<p>"Water! water! water!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> + +<p>He could not stand that hoarse, rasping whisper much longer. His canteen +he had clung to—the regular had taught him that—and he tried again to +move. A thousand needles shot through him—every one, it seemed, passing +through a nerve-centre and back the same path again. He heard his own +teeth crunch as he had often heard the teeth of a drunken man crunch, +and then he became unconscious. When he came to, the man was still +muttering; but this time it was a woman's name, and Crittenden lay +still. Good God!</p> + +<p>"Judith—Judith—Judith!" each time more faintly still. There were other +Judiths in the world, but the voice—he knew the voice—somewhere he had +heard it. The moon was coming; it had crossed the other man's feet and +was creeping up his twisted body. It would reach his face in time, and, +if he could keep from fainting again, he would see.</p> + +<p>"Water! water! water!"</p> + +<p>Why did not some one answer? Crittenden called and called and called; +but he could little more than whisper. The man would die and be thrown +into that trench; or <i>he</i> might, and never know! He raised himself on +one elbow again and dragged his quivering body after it; he clinched his +teeth; he could hear them crunching again; he was near him now; he would +not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> faint; and then the blood gushed from his mouth and he felt the +darkness coming again, and again he heard:</p> + +<p>"Judith—Judith!"</p> + +<p>Then there were footsteps near him and a voice—a careless voice:</p> + +<p>"He's gone."</p> + +<p>He felt himself caught, and turned over; a hand was put to his heart for +a moment and the same voice:</p> + +<p>"Bring in that other man; no use fooling with this one."</p> + +<p>When the light came back to him again, he turned his head feebly. The +shape was still there, but the moonlight had risen to the dead man's +breast and glittered on the edge of something that was clinched in his +right hand. It was a miniature, and Crittenden stared at +it—unwinking—stared and stared while it slowly came into the strong, +white light. It looked like the face of Judith. It wasn't, of course, +but he dragged himself slowly, slowly closer. It was Judith—Judith as +he had known her years ago. He must see now; he <i>must</i> see <i>now</i>, and he +dragged himself on and up until his eyes bent over the dead man's face. +He fell back then, and painfully edged himself away, shuddering.</p> + +<p>"Blackford! Judith! Blackford!"</p> + +<p>He was face to face with the man he had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> longed so many years to see; he +was face to face at last with him—dead.</p> + +<p>As he lay there, his mood changed and softened and a curious pity filled +him through and through. And presently he reached out with his left hand +and closed the dead man's eyes and drew his right arm to his side, and +with his left foot he straightened the dead man's right leg. The face +was in clear view presently—the handsome, dare-devil face—strangely +shorn of its evil lines now by the master-sculptor of the spirit—Death. +Peace was come to the face now; peace to the turbulent spirit; peace to +the man whose heart was pure and whose blood was tainted; who had lived +ever in the light of a baleful star. He had loved, and he had been +faithful to the end; and such a fate might have been his—as justly—God +knew.</p> + +<p>Footsteps approached again and Crittenden turned his head.</p> + +<p>"Why, he isn't dead!"</p> + +<p>It was Willings, the surgeon he had known at Chickamauga, and Crittenden +called him by name.</p> + +<p>"No, I'm not dead—I'm not going to die."</p> + +<p>Willings gave an exclamation of surprise.</p> + +<p>"Well, there's grit for you," said the other surgeon. "We'll take him +next."</p> + +<p>"Straighten <i>him</i> out there, won't you?" said<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> Crittenden, gently, as +the two men stooped for him.</p> + +<p>"Don't put him in there, please," nodding toward the trench behind the +tents; "and mark his grave, won't you, Doctor? He's my bunkie."</p> + +<p>"All right," said Willings, kindly.</p> + +<p>"And Doctor, give me <i>that</i>—what he has in his hand, please. I know +her."</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>A tent at Siboney in the fever-camp overlooking the sea.</p> + +<p>"Judith! Judith! Judith!"</p> + +<p>The doctor pointed to the sick man's name.</p> + +<p>"Answer him?"</p> + +<p>But the nurse would not call his name.</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear," she said, gently; and she put one hand on his forehead and +the other on the hand that was clinched on his breast. Slowly his hand +loosened and clasped hers tight, and Crittenden passed, by and by, into +sleep. The doctor looked at him closely.</p> + +<p>He had just made the rounds of the tents outside, and he was marvelling. +There were men who had fought bravely, who had stood wounds and the +surgeon's knife without a murmur; who, weakened and demoralized by fever +now, were weak and puling of spirit, and sly and thievish; who would +steal the food of the very comrades for whom a little while before they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> +had risked their lives—men who in a fortnight had fallen from a high +plane of life to the pitiful level of brutes. Only here and there was an +exception. This man, Crittenden, was one. When sane, he was gentle, +uncomplaining, considerate. Delirious, there was never a plaint in his +voice; never a word passed his lips that his own mother might not hear; +and when his lips closed, an undaunted spirit kept them firm.</p> + +<p>"Aren't you tired?"</p> + +<p>The nurse shook her head.</p> + +<p>"Then you had better stay where you are; his case is pretty serious. +I'll do your work for you."</p> + +<p>The nurse nodded and smiled. She was tired and worn to death, but she +sat as she was till dawn came over the sea, for the sake of the girl, +whose fresh young face she saw above the sick man's heart. And she knew +from the face that the other woman would have watched just that way for +her.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> +<h3><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII</h3> +</div> + +<p>The thunder of big guns, Cervera's doom, and truce at the trenches. A +trying week of hot sun, cool nights, tropical rains, and fevers. Then a +harmless little bombardment one Sunday afternoon—that befitted the day; +another week of heat and cold and wet and sickness. After that, the +surrender—and the fierce little war was over.</p> + +<p>Meantime, sick and wounded were homeward bound, and of the Crittendens +Bob was the first to reach Canewood. He came in one morning, hungry and +footsore, but with a swagger of importance that he had well earned.</p> + +<p>He had left his Young Captain Basil at Old Point Comfort, he said, where +the boy, not having had enough of war, had slipped aboard a transport +and gone off with the Kentucky Legion for Porto Rico—the unhappy Legion +that had fumed all summer at Chickamauga—and had hoisted sail for Porto +Rico, without daring to look backward for fear it should be wigwagged +back to land from Washington.</p> + +<p>Was Basil well?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yas'm. Young Cap'n didn' min' dat little bullet right through his neck +no mo'n a fly-bite. Nothin' gwine to keep dat boy back."</p> + +<p>They had let him out of the hospital, or, rather, he had gotten out by +dressing himself when his doctor was not there. An attendant tried to +stop him.</p> + +<p>"An' Young Cap'n he jes drew hisself up mighty gran' an' says: 'I'm +going to join my regiment,' he says. 'It sails to-morrow.' But Ole Cap'n +done killed," Bob reckoned; "killed on top of the hill where they druv +the Spaniards out of the ditches whar they wus shootin' from."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Crittenden smiled.</p> + +<p>"No, Bob, he's coming home now," and Bob's eyes streamed. "You've been a +good boy, Bob. Come here;" and she led him into the hallway and told him +to wait, while she went to the door of her room and called some one.</p> + +<p>Molly came out embarrassed, twisting a corner of her apron and putting +it in her mouth while she walked forward and awkwardly shook hands.</p> + +<p>"I think Molly has got something to say to you, Bob. You can go, Molly," +she added, smiling.</p> + +<p>The two walked toward the cabin, the negroes crowding about Bob and +shaking him by the hand and asking a thousand absurd questions;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> and +Bob, while he was affable, was lordly as well, and one or two of Bob's +possible rivals were seen to sniff, as did other young field hands, +though Bob's mammy was, for the first time in her life, grinning openly +with pride in her "chile," and she waved the curious away and took the +two in her own cabin, reappearing presently and walking toward the +kitchen.</p> + +<p>Bob and Molly sat down on opposite sides of the fireplace, Bob +triumphant at last, and Molly watching him furtively.</p> + +<p>"I believe you has somethin' to say to me, Miss Johnson," said Bob, +loftily.</p> + +<p>"Well, I sut'nly is glad to welcome you home ag'in, Mistuh Crittenden," +said Molly.</p> + +<p>"Is you?"</p> + +<p>Bob was quite independent now, and Molly began to weaken slightly.</p> + +<p>"An' is dat all you got to say?"</p> + +<p>"Ole Miss said I must tell you that I was mighty—mean—to—you—when +you went—to—de wah, an' that—I'm sorry."</p> + +<p>"Well, <i>is</i> you sorry?"</p> + +<p>Molly was silent.</p> + +<p>"Quit yo' foolin', gal; quit yo' foolin'."</p> + +<p>In a moment Bob was by her side, and with his arm around her; and Molly +rose to her feet with an ineffectual effort to unclasp his hands.</p> + +<p>"Quit yo' foolin'!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p> + +<p>Bob's strong arms began to tighten, and the girl in a moment turned and +gave way into his arms, and with her head on his shoulder, began to cry. +But Bob knew what sort of tears they were, and he was as gentle as +though his skin had been as white as was his heart.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>And Crittenden was coming home—Colour-Sergeant Crittenden, who had got +out of the hospital and back to the trenches just in time to receive +flag and chevrons on the very day of the surrender—only to fall ill of +the fever and go back to the hospital that same day. There was Tampa +once more—the great hotel, the streets, silent and deserted, except for +the occasional officer that rode or marched through the deep dust of the +town, and the other soldiers, regulars and volunteers, who had suffered +the disappointment, the heat, sickness, and hardship of war with little +credit from the nation at large, and no reward, such even as a like +fidelity in any path of peace would have brought them.</p> + +<p>Half out of his head, weak and feverish, Crittenden climbed into the +dusty train and was whirled through the dusty town, out through dry +marshes and dusty woods and dusty, cheerless, dead-flowered fields, but +with an exhilaration that made his temple throb like a woman's.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p> + +<p>Up through the blistered, sandy, piney lowlands; through Chickamauga +again, full of volunteers who, too, had suffered and risked all the ills +of the war without one thrill of compensation; and on again, until he +was once more on the edge of the Bluegrass, with birds singing the sun +down; and again the world for him was changed—from nervous exaltation +to an air of balm and peace; from grim hills to the rolling sweep of +low, brown slopes; from giant-poplar to broad oak and sugar-tree; from +log-cabin to homestead of brick and stone. And so, from mountain of Cuba +and mountain of his own land, Crittenden once more passed home. It had +been green spring for the earth when he left, but autumn in his heart. +Now autumn lay over the earth, but in his heart was spring.</p> + +<p>As he glanced out of the window, he could see a great crowd about the +station. A brass band was standing in front of the station-door—some +holiday excursion was on foot, he thought. As he stepped on the +platform, a great cheer was raised and a dozen men swept toward him, +friends, personal and political, but when they saw him pale, thin, +lean-faced, feverish, dull-eyed, the cheers stopped and two powerful +fellows took him by the arms and half carried him to the station-door, +where were waiting his mother—and little Phyllis.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p> + +<p>When they came out again to the carriage, the band started "Johnny Comes +Marching Home Again," and Crittenden asked feebly:</p> + +<p>"What does all this mean?"</p> + +<p>Phyllis laughed through her tears.</p> + +<p>"That's for you."</p> + +<p>Crittenden's brow wrinkled in a pathetic effort to collect his thoughts; +but he gave it up and looked at his mother with an unspoken question on +his lips. His mother smiled merely, and Crittenden wondered why; but +somehow he was not particularly curious—he was not particularly +concerned about anything. In fact, he was getting weaker, and the +excitement at the station was bringing on the fever again. Half the time +his eyes were closed, and when he opened them on the swiftly passing +autumn fields, his gaze was listless. Once he muttered several times, as +though he were out of his head; and when they drove into the yard, his +face was turning blue at the lips and his teeth began to chatter. Close +behind came the doctor's buggy.</p> + +<p>Crittenden climbed out slowly and slowly mounted the stiles. On the top +step he sat down, looking at the old homestead and the barn and the +stubble wheat-fields beyond, and at the servants coming from the +quarters to welcome him, while his mother stood watching and fondly +humouring him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Uncle Ephraim," he said to a respectful old white-haired man, "where's +my buggy?"</p> + +<p>"Right where you left it, suh."</p> + +<p>"Well, hitch up—" Raincrow, he was about to say, and then he remembered +that Raincrow was dead. "Have you got anything to drive?"</p> + +<p>"Yessuh; we got Mr. Basil's little mare."</p> + +<p>"Hitch her up to my buggy, then, right away. I want you to drive me."</p> + +<p>The old darky looked puzzled, but Mrs. Crittenden, still with the idea +of humouring him, nodded for him to obey, and the old man turned toward +the stable.</p> + +<p>"Yessuh—right away, suh."</p> + +<p>"Where's Basil, mother?"</p> + +<p>Phyllis turned her face quickly.</p> + +<p>"He'll be here soon," said his mother, with a smile.</p> + +<p>The doctor looked at his flushed face.</p> + +<p>"Come on, my boy," he said, firmly. "You must get out of the sun."</p> + +<p>Crittenden shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Mother, have I ever done anything that you asked me not to do?"</p> + +<p>"No, my son."</p> + +<p>"Please don't make me begin now," he said, gently. "Is—is she at home?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; but she is not very well. She has been ill a long while," she +added, but she did not tell<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> him that Judith had been nursing at Tampa, +and that she had been sent home, stricken with fever.</p> + +<p>The doctor had been counting his pulse, and now, with a grave look, +pulled a thermometer from his pocket; but Crittenden waved him away.</p> + +<p>"Not yet, Doctor; not yet," he said, and stopped a moment to control his +voice before he went on.</p> + +<p>"I know what's the matter better than you do. I'm going to have the +fever again; but I've got something to do before I go to bed, or I'll +never get up again. I have come up from Tampa just this way, and I can +go on like this for two more hours; and I'm going."</p> + +<p>The doctor started to speak, but Mrs. Crittenden shook her head at him, +and Phyllis's face, too, was pleading for him.</p> + +<p>"Mother, I'll be back in two hours, and then I'll do just what you and +the doctor say; but not now."</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>Judith sat bare-headed on the porch with a white shawl drawn closely +about her neck and about her half-bare arms. Behind her, on the floor of +the porch, was, where she had thrown it, a paper in which there was a +column about the home-coming of Crittenden—plain Sergeant Crittenden. +And there was a long editorial<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> comment, full of national spirit, and a +plain statement to the effect that the next vacant seat in Congress was +his without the asking.</p> + +<p>The pike-gate slammed—her father was getting home from town. The buggy +coming over the turf made her think what a change a few months had +brought to Crittenden and to her; of the ride home with him the previous +spring; and what she rarely allowed herself, she thought of the night of +their parting and the warm colour came to her cheeks. He had never sent +her a line, of course. The matter would never be mentioned—it couldn't +be. It struck her while she was listening to the coming of the feet on +the turf that they were much swifter than her father's steady-going old +buggy horse. The click was different; and when the buggy, instead of +turning toward the stable, came straight for the stiles, her heart +quickened and she raised her head. She heard acutely the creak of the +springs as some one stepped to the ground, and then, without waiting to +tie his horse, stepped slowly over the stiles. Unconsciously she rose to +her feet, not knowing what to think—to do. And then she saw that the +man wore a slouch hat, that his coat was off, and that a huge pistol was +buckled around him, and she turned for the door in alarm.</p> + +<p>"Judith!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p> + +<p>The voice was weak, and she did not know it; but in a moment the light +from the lamp in the hallway fell upon a bare-headed, gaunt-featured man +in the uniform of a common soldier.</p> + +<p>"Judith!"</p> + +<p>This time the voice broke a little, and for a moment Judith stood +speechless—still—unable to believe that the wreck before her was +Crittenden. His face and eyes were on fire—the fire of fever—she could +not know that; and he was trembling and looked hardly able to stand.</p> + +<p>"I've come, Judith," he said. "I haven't known what to do, and I've come +to tell you—to—ask——"</p> + +<p>He was searching her face anxiously, and he stopped suddenly and passed +one hand across, his eyes, as though he were trying to recall something. +The girl had drawn herself slowly upward until the honeysuckle above her +head touched her hair, and her face, that had been so full of aching +pity for him that in another moment she must have gone and put her arms +about him, took on a sudden, hard quiet; and the long anguish of the +summer came out suddenly in her trembling lip and the whiteness of her +face.</p> + +<p>"To ask for forgiveness," he might have said; but his instinct swerved +him; and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>"For mercy, Judith," he would have said, but the look of her face +stopped the words in an unheard whisper; and he stooped slowly, feeling +carefully for a step, and letting himself weakly down in a way that +almost unnerved her again; but he had begun to talk now, quietly and +evenly, and without looking up at her.</p> + +<p>"I'm not going to stay long. I'm not going to worry you. I'll go away in +just a moment; but I had to come; I had to come. I've been a little +sick, and I believe I've not quite got over the fever yet; but I +couldn't go through it again without seeing you. I know that, and +that's—why—I've—come. It isn't the fever. Oh, no; I'm not sick at +all. I'm very well, thank you——"</p> + +<p>He was getting incoherent, and he knew it, and stopped a moment.</p> + +<p>"It's you, Judith——"</p> + +<p>He stopped again, and with a painful effort went on slowly—slowly and +quietly, and the girl, without a word, stood still, looking down at him.</p> + +<p>"I—used—to—think—that—I—loved—you. I—used—to—think I +was—a—man. I didn't know what love was, and I didn't know what it was +to be a man. I know both now, thank God, and learning each has helped me +to learn the other. If I killed all your feeling for me, I deserve the +loss; but you must have known, Judith,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> that I was not myself that +night. You did know. Your instinct told you the truth; you—knew—I +loved—you—then—and that's why—that's why—you—God bless +you—said—what—you—did. To think that I should ever dare to open my +lips again! but I can't help it; I can't help it. I was crazy, +Judith—crazy—and I am now; but it didn't go and then come back. It +never went at all, as I found out, going down to Cuba—and yes, it did +come back; but it was a thousand times higher and better love than it +had ever been, for everything came back and I was a better man. I have +seen nothing but your face all the time—nothing—nothing, all the time +I've been gone; and I couldn't rest or sleep—I couldn't even die, +Judith, until I had come to tell you that I never knew a man could love +a woman as—I—love—you—Judith. I——"</p> + +<p>He rose very slowly, turned, and as he passed from the light, his +weakness got the better of him for the first time, because of his wounds +and sickness, and his voice broke in a half sob—the sob that is so +terrible to a woman's ears; and she saw him clinch his arms fiercely +around his breast to stifle it.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>It was the old story that night—the story of the summer's heat and +horror and suffering—heard and seen, and keenly felt in his delirium:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> +the dusty, grimy days of drill on the hot sands of Tampa; the long, +long, hot wait on the transport in the harbour; the stuffy, ill-smelling +breath of the hold, when the wind was wrong; the march along the coast +and the grewsome life over and around him—buzzard and strange bird in +the air, and crab and snail and lizard and scorpion and hairy tarantula +scuttling through the tropical green rushes along the path. And the +hunger and thirst and heat and dirt and rolling sweat of the last day's +march and every detail of the day's fight; the stench of dead horse and +dead man; the shriek of shell and rattle of musketry and yell of +officer; the slow rush through the long grass, and the climb up the +hill. And always, he was tramping, tramping, tramping through long, +green, thick grass. Sometimes a kaleidoscope series of pictures would go +jumbling through his brain, as though some imp were unrolling the scroll +of his brain backward, forward, and sidewise; a whirling cloud of sand, +a driving sheet of visible bullets; a hose-pipe that shot streams of +melted steel; a forest of smokestacks; the flash of trailing +phosphorescent foam; a clear sky, full of stars—the mountains clear and +radiant through sunlit vapours; camp-fires shooting flames into the +darkness, and men and guns moving past them. Through it all he could +feel his legs moving and his feet tramping, tramping,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> tramping through +long green grass. Sometimes he was tramping toward the figure of a +woman, whose face looked like Judith's; and tramp as he could, he could +never get close enough through that grass to know whether it was Judith +or not. But usually it was a hill that he was tramping toward, and then +his foothold was good; and while he went slowly he got forward and he +reached the hill, and he climbed it to a queer-looking little +block-house on top, from which queer-looking little blue men were +running. And now and then one would drop and not get up again. And by +and by came his time to drop. Then he would begin all over again, or he +would go back to the coast, which he preferred to do, in spite of his +aching wound, and the long wait in the hospital and the place where poor +Reynolds was tossed into the air and into fragments by a shell; in spite +of the long walk back to Siboney, the graves of the Rough Riders and the +scuttling land-crabs; and the heat and the smells. Then he would march +back again to the trenches in his dream, as he had done in Cuba when he +got out of the hospital. There was the hill up which he had charged. It +looked like the abode of cave-dwellers—so burrowed was it with +bomb-proofs. He could hear the shouts of welcome as his comrades, and +men who had never spoken to him before, crowded about him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p> + +<p>How often he lived through that last proud little drama of his soldier +life! There was his Captain wounded, and there was the old Sergeant—the +"Governor"—with chevrons and a flag.</p> + +<p>"You're a Sergeant, Crittenden," said the Captain.</p> + +<p>He, Crittenden, in blood and sympathy the spirit of secession—bearer +now of the Stars and Stripes! How his heart thumped, and how his head +reeled when he caught the staff and looked dumbly up to the folds; and +in spite of all his self-control, the tears came, as they came again and +again in his delirium.</p> + +<p>Right at that moment there was a great bustle in camp. And still holding +that flag, Crittenden marched with his company up to the trenches. There +was the army drawn up at parade, in a great ten-mile half-circle and +facing Santiago. There were the red roofs of the town, and the +batteries, which were to thunder word when the red and yellow flag of +defeat went down and the victorious Stars and Stripes rose up. There +were little men in straw hats and blue clothes coming from Santiago, and +swinging hammocks and tethering horses in an open field, while more +little men in Panama hats were advancing on the American trenches, +saluting courteously. And there were American officers jumping<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> across +the trenches to meet them, and while they were shaking hands, on the +very stroke of twelve, there came thunder—the thunder of two-score and +one salutes. And the cheers—the cheers! From the right rose those +cheers, gathering volume as they came, swinging through the centre far +to the left, and swinging through the centre back again, until they +broke in a wild storm against the big, green hills. A storm that ran +down the foothills to the rear, was mingled with the surf at Siboney and +swung by the rocking transports out to sea. Under the sea, too, it sang, +along the cables, to ring on through the white corridors of the great +capitol and spread like a hurricane throughout all the waiting land at +home! Then he could hear bands playing—playing the "Star-Spangled +Banner"—and the soldiers cheering and cheering again. Suddenly there +was quiet; the bands were playing hymns—old, old hymns that the soldier +had heard with bowed head at his mother's knee, or in some little old +country church at home—and what hardships, privations, wounds, death of +comrades had rarely done, those old hymns did now—they brought tears. +Then some thoughtful soldier pulled a box of hardtack across the +trenches and the little Spanish soldiers fell upon it like schoolboys +and scrambled like pickaninnies for a penny.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p> + +<p>Thus it was that day all around the shining circle of sheathed bayonets, +silent carbines, and dumb cannon-mouths at the American trenches around +Santiago, where the fighting was done.</p> + +<p>And on a little knoll not far away stood Sergeant Crittenden, swaying on +his feet—colour-sergeant to the folds of the ever-victorious, +ever-beloved Old Glory waving over him, with a strange new wave of +feeling surging through him. For then and there, Crittenden, Southerner, +died straightway and through a travail of wounds, suffering, sickness, +devotion, and love for that flag—Crittenden, American, was born. And +just at that proud moment, he would feel once more the dizziness seize +him. The world would turn dark, and again he would sink slowly.</p> + +<p>And again, when all this was over, the sick man would go back to the +long grass and tramp it once more until his legs ached and his brain +swam. And when it was the hill that he could see, he was quiet and got +rest for a while; and when it was the figure of Judith—he knew now that +it <i>was</i> Judith—he would call aloud for her, just as he did in the +hospital at Siboney. And always the tramp through the long grass would +begin again—</p> + +<p>Tramp—tramp—tramp.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span></p> + +<p>He was very tired, but there was the long grass ahead of him, and he +must get through it somehow.</p> + +<p>Tramp—tramp—tramp.<br /> +<!-- transcriber's comment: extended ellipsis in original recreated here --> +. +. +. +. +. +. +. +. . +</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> +<h3><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV</h3> +</div> + +<p>Autumn came and the Legion was coming home—Basil was coming home. And +Phyllis was for one hour haughty and unforgiving over what she called +his shameful neglect and, for another, in a fever of unrest to see him. +No, she was not going to meet him. She would wait for him at her own +home, and he could come to her there with the honours of war on his brow +and plead on bended knee to be forgiven. At least that was the picture +that she sometimes surprised in her own mind, though she did not want +Basil kneeling to anybody—not even to her.</p> + +<p>The town made ready, and the spirit of welcome for the home-coming was +oddly like the spirit of God-speed that had followed them six months +before; only there were more smiling faces, more and madder cheers, and +as many tears, but this time they were tears of joy. For many a mother +and daughter who did not weep when father and brother went away, wept +now, that they were coming home again. They had run the risk of fever +and sickness, the real terrors<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> of war. God knew they had done their +best to get to the front, and the people knew what account they would +have given of themselves had they gotten their chance at war. They had +had all the hardship—the long, long hardship without the one moment of +recompense that was the soldier's reward and his sole opportunity for +death or glory. So the people gave them all the deserved honour that +they would have given had they stormed San Juan or the stone fort at +Caney. The change that even in that short time was wrought in the +regiment, everybody saw; but only the old ex-Confederates and Federals +on the street knew the steady, veteran-like swing of the march and felt +the solid unity of form and spirit that those few months had brought to +the tanned youths who marched now like soldiers indeed. And next the +Colonel rode the hero of the regiment, who <i>had</i> got to Cuba, who <i>had</i> +stormed the hill, and who had met a Spanish bullet face to face and come +off conqueror—Basil, sitting his horse as only the Southerner, born to +the saddle, can. How they cheered him, and how the gallant, generous old +Colonel nodded and bowed as though to say:</p> + +<p>"That's right; that's right. Give it to him! give it to him!"</p> + +<p>Phyllis—her mother and Basil's mother being present—shook hands merely +with Basil when<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> she saw him first at the old woodland, and Basil +blushed like a girl. They fell behind as the older people walked toward +the auditorium, and Basil managed to get hold of her hand, but she +pulled it away rather haughtily. She was looking at him very +reproachfully, a moment later, when her eyes became suddenly fixed to +the neck of his blouse, and filled with tears. She began to cry softly.</p> + +<p>"Why, Phyllis."</p> + +<p>Phyllis was giving way, and, thereupon, with her own mother and Basil's +mother looking on, and to Basil's blushing consternation, she darted for +his neck-band and kissed him on the throat. The throat flushed, and in +the flush a tiny white spot showed—the mouth of a tiny wound where a +Mauser bullet had hissed straight through.</p> + +<p>Then the old auditorium again, and Crittenden, who had welcomed the +Legion to camp at Ashland, was out of bed, against the doctor's advice, +to welcome it to home and fireside. And when he faced the crowd—if they +cheered Basil, what did they do now? He was startled by the roar that +broke against the roof. As he stood there, still pale, erect, modest, +two pairs of eyes saw what no other eyes saw, two minds were thinking +what none others were—the mother and Judith Page. Others saw him as the +soldier, the generous brother, the returned hero.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> These two looked +deeper and saw the new man who had been forged from dross by the fire of +battle and fever and the fire of love. There was much humility in the +face, a new fire in the eyes, a nobler bearing—and his bearing had +always been proud—a nobler sincerity, a nobler purpose.</p> + +<p>He spoke not a word of himself—not a word of the sickness through which +he had passed. It was of the long patience and the patriotism of the +American soldier, the hardship of camp life, the body-wearing travail of +the march in tropical heat. And then he paid his tribute to the regular. +There was no danger of the volunteer failing to get credit for what he +had done, but the regular—there was no one to speak for him in camp, on +the transports, on the march, in tropical heat, and on the battlefield. +He had seen the regular hungry, wet, sick, but fighting still; and he +had seen him wounded, dying, dead, and never had he known anything but +perfect kindness from one to the other; perfect courtesy to outsider; +perfect devotion to officer, and never a word of complaint—never one +word of complaint.</p> + +<p>"Sometimes I think that the regular who has gone will not open his lips +if the God of Battles tells him that not yet has he earned eternal +peace."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span></p> + +<p>As for the war itself, it had placed the nation high among the seats of +the Mighty. It had increased our national pride, through unity, a +thousand fold. It would show to the world and to ourselves that the +heroic mould in which the sires of the nation were cast is still casting +the sons of to-day; that we need not fear degeneracy nor dissolution for +another hundred years—smiling as he said this, as though the dreams of +Greece and Rome were to become realities here. It had put to rest for a +time the troublous social problems of the day; it had brought together +every social element in our national life—coal-heaver and millionaire, +student and cowboy, plain man and gentleman, regular and volunteer—had +brought them face to face and taught each for the other tolerance, +understanding, sympathy, high regard; and had wheeled all into a solid +front against a common foe. It had thus not only brought shoulder to +shoulder the brothers of the North and South, but those brothers +shoulder to shoulder with our brothers across the sea. In the interest +of humanity, it had freed twelve million people of an alien race and +another land, and it had given us a better hope for the alien race in +our own.</p> + +<p>And who knew but that, up where France's great statue stood at the +wide-thrown portals of the Great City of the land, it had not given to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> +the mighty torch that nightly streams the light of Liberty across the +waters from the New World to the Old—who knew that it had not given to +that light a steady, ever-onward-reaching glow that some day should +illumine the earth?</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>The Cuban fever does not loosen its clutch easily.</p> + +<p>Crittenden went to bed that day and lay there delirious and in serious +danger for more than a fortnight. But at the end a reward came for all +the ills of his past and all that could ever come.</p> + +<p>His long fight was over, and that afternoon he lay by his window, which +was open to the rich, autumn sunlight that sifted through the woods and +over the pasture till it lay in golden sheens across the fence and the +yard and rested on his window-sill, rich enough almost to grasp with his +hand, should he reach out for it. There was a little colour in his +face—he had eaten one good meal that day, and his long fight with the +fever was won. He did not know that in his delirium he had spoken of +Judith—Judith—Judith—and this day and that had given out fragments +from which his mother could piece out the story of his love; that, at +the crisis, when his mother was about to go to the girl, Judith had come +of her own accord to his bedside. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> did not know her, but he grew +quiet at once when the girl put her hand on his forehead.</p> + +<p>Now Crittenden was looking out on the sward, green with the curious +autumn-spring that comes in that Bluegrass land: a second spring that +came every year to nature, and was coming this year to him. And in his +mood for field and sky was the old, dreamy mistiness of pure +delight—spiritual—that he had not known for many years. It was the +spirit of his youth come back—that distant youth when the world was +without a shadow; when his own soul had no tarnish of evil; when passion +was unconscious and pure; when his boyish reverence was the only feeling +he knew toward every woman. And lying thus, as the sun sank and the +shadows stole slowly across the warm bands of sunlight, and the +meadow-lark called good-night from the meadows, whence the cows were +coming homeward and the sheep were still browsing—out of the quiet and +peace and stillness and purity and sweetness of it all came his last +vision—the vision of a boy with a fresh, open face and no shadow across +the mirror of his clear eyes. It looked like Basil, but it was "the +little brother" of himself coming back at last—coming with a glad, +welcoming smile. The little man was running swiftly across the fields +toward him. He had floated lightly over the fence, and was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> making +straight across the yard for his window; and there he rose and floated +in, and with a boy's trustfulness put his small, chubby hand in the big +brother's, and Crittenden felt the little fellow's cheek close to his as +he slept on, his lashes wet with tears.</p> + +<p>The mother opened the door; a tall figure slipped gently in; the door +was closed softly after it again, and Judith was alone; for Crittenden +still lay with his eyes closed, and the girl's face whitened with pity +and flamed slowly as she slowly slipped forward and stood looking down +at him. As she knelt down beside him, something that she held in her +hand clanked softly against the bed and Crittenden opened his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Mother!"</p> + +<p>There was no answer. Judith had buried her face in her hands. A sob +reached his ears and he turned quickly.</p> + +<p>"Judith," he said; "Judith," he repeated, with a quick breath. "Why, my +God, you! Why—you—you've come to see me! you, after all—you!"</p> + +<p>He raised himself slowly, and as he bent over her, he saw his father's +sword, caught tightly in her white hands—the old sword that was between +him and Basil to win and wear—and he knew the meaning of it all, and +he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> had to steady himself to keep back his own tears.</p> + +<p>"Judith!"</p> + +<p>His voice choked; he could get no further, and he folded his arms about +her head and buried his face in her hair.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> +<h3><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV</h3> +</div> + +<p>The gray walls of Indian summer tumbled at the horizon and let the glory +of many fires shine out among the leaves. Once or twice the breath of +winter smote the earth white at dawn. Christmas was coming, and God was +good that Christmas.</p> + +<p>Peace came to Crittenden during the long, dream-like days—and +happiness; and high resolve had deepened.</p> + +<p>Day by day, Judith opened to him some new phase of loveliness, and he +wondered how he could have ever thought that he knew her; that he loved +her, as he loved her now. He had given her the locket and had told her +the story of that night at the hospital. She had shown no surprise, and +but very little emotion; moreover, she was silent. And Crittenden, too, +was silent, and, as always, asked no questions. It was her secret; she +did not wish him to know, and his trust was unfaltering. Besides, he had +his secrets as well. He meant to tell her all some day, and she meant to +tell him; but the hours were so full of sweet companionship that both +forbore<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> to throw the semblance of a shadow on the sunny days they spent +together.</p> + +<p>It was at the stiles one night that Judith handed Crittenden back the +locket that had come from the stiffened hand of the Rough Rider, +Blackford, along with a letter, stained, soiled, unstamped, addressed to +herself, marked on the envelope "Soldier's letter," and countersigned by +his Captain.</p> + +<p>"I heard him say at Chickamauga that he was from Kentucky," ran the +letter, "and that his name was Crittenden. I saw your name on a piece of +paper that blew out of his tent one day. I guessed what was between you +two, and I asked him to be my 'bunkie;' but as you never told him my +name, I never told him who I was. I went with the Rough Riders, but we +have been camped near each other. To-morrow comes the big fight. Our +regiments will doubtless advance together. I shall watch out for him as +long as I am alive. I shall be shot. It is no premonition—no fear, no +belief. I know it. I still have the locket you gave me. If I could, I +would give it to him; but he would know who I am, and it seems your wish +that he should not know. I should like to see you once more, but I +should not like you to see me. I am too much changed; I can see it in my +own face. Good-night. Good-by."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was no name signed. The initials were J. P., and Crittenden looked +up inquiringly.</p> + +<p>"His name was not Blackford; it was Page—Jack Page. He was my cousin," +she went on, gently. "That is why I never told you. It all happened +while you were at college. While you were here, he was usually out West; +and people thought we were merely cousins, and that I was weaning him +from his unhappy ways. I was young and foolish, but I had—you know the +rest."</p> + +<p>The tears gathered in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"God pity him!"</p> + +<p>Crittenden turned from her and walked to and fro, and Judith rose and +walked up to him, looking him in the eyes.</p> + +<p>"No, dear," she said; "I am sorry for him now—sorry, so sorry! I wish I +could have helped him more. That is all. It has all gone—long ago. It +never was. I did not know until I left you here at the stiles that +night."</p> + +<p>Crittenden looked inquiringly into her eyes before he stooped to kiss +her. She answered his look.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said simply; "when I sent him away."</p> + +<p>Crittenden's conscience smote him sharply. What right had he to ask such +a question—even with a look?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Come, dear," he said; "I want to tell you all—now."</p> + +<p>But Judith stopped him with a gesture.</p> + +<p>"Is there anything that may cross your life hereafter—or mine?"</p> + +<p>"No, thank God; no!"</p> + +<p>Judith put her finger on his lips.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to know."</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>And God was good that Christmas.</p> + +<p>The day was snapping cold, and just a fortnight before Christmas eve. +There had been a heavy storm of wind and sleet the night before, and the +negroes of Canewood, headed by Bob and Uncle Ephraim, were searching the +woods for the biggest fallen oak they could find. The frozen grass was +strewn with wrenched limbs, and here and there was an ash or a +sugar-tree splintered and prostrate, but wily Uncle Ephraim was looking +for a yule-log that would burn slowly and burn long; for as long as the +log burned, just that long lasted the holiday of every darky on the +place. So the search was careful, and lasted till a yell rose from Bob +under a cliff by the side of the creek—a yell of triumph that sent the +negroes in a rush toward him. Bob stood on the torn and twisted roots of +a great oak that wind and ice had tugged from its creek-washed roots and +stretched parallel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> with the water—every tooth showing delight in his +find. With the cries and laughter of children, two boys sprang upon the +tree with axes, but Bob waved them back.</p> + +<p>"Go back an' git dat cross-cut saw!" he said.</p> + +<p>Bob, as ex-warrior, took precedence even of his elders now.</p> + +<p>"Fool niggers don't seem to know dar'll be mo' wood to burn if we don't +waste de chips!"</p> + +<p>The wisdom of this was clear, and, in a few minutes, the long-toothed +saw was singing through the tough bark of the old monarch—a darky at +each end of it, the tip of his tongue in the corner of his mouth, the +muscles of each powerful arm playing like cords of elastic steel under +its black skin—the sawyers, each time with a mighty grunt, drew the +shining, whistling blade to and fro to the handle. Presently they began +to sing—improvising:</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em"> +Pull him t'roo! (grunt)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yes, man.</span><br /> +Pull him t'roo—huh!<br /> +Saw him to de heart.<br /> +</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em"> +Gwine to have Christmas.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yes, man!</span><br /> +Gwine to have Christmas.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yes, man!</span><br /> +Gwine to have Christmas<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Long as he can bu'n.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em"> +Burn long, log!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yes, log!</span><br /> +Burn long, log!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yes, log,</span><br /> +Heah me, log, burn long!<br /> +<br /> +Gib dis nigger Christmas.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yes, Lawd, long Christmas!</span><br /> +Gib dis nigger Christmas.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">O log, burn long!</span> +</p> + +<p>And the saw sang with them in perfect time, spitting out the black, +moist dust joyously—sang with them and without a breath for rest; for +as two pair of arms tired, another fresh pair of sinewy hands grasped +the handles. In an hour the whistle of the saw began to rise in key +higher and higher, and as the men slowed up carefully, it gave a little +high squeak of triumph, and with a "kerchunk" dropped to the ground. +With more cries and laughter, two men rushed for fence-rails to be used +as levers.</p> + +<p>There was a chorus now:</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em"> +Soak him in de water,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Up, now!</span><br /> +Soak him in de water,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Up, now!</span><br /> +O Lawd, soak long! +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was a tightening of big, black biceps, a swelling of powerful +thighs, a straightening of mighty backs; the severed heart creaked and +groaned, rose slightly, turned and rolled with a great splash into the +black, winter water. Another delighted chorus:</p> + +<p>"Dyar now!"</p> + +<p>"Hol' on," said Bob; and he drove a spike into the end of the log, tied +one end of a rope to the spike, and the other to a pliant young hickory, +talking meanwhile:</p> + +<p>"Gwine to rain, an' maybe ole Mister Log try to slip away like a thief +in de dark. Don't git away from Bob; no suh. You be heah now Christmas +eve—sho'!"</p> + +<p>"Gord!" said a little negro with bandy legs. "Soak dat log till +Christmas an' I reckon he'll burn mo'n two weeks."</p> + +<p>God was good that Christmas—good to the nation, for He brought to it +victory and peace, and made it one and indivisible in feeling, as it +already was in fact; good to the State, for it had sprung loyally to the +defence of the country, and had won all the honour that was in the +effort to be won, and man nor soldier can do more; good to the mother, +for the whole land rang with praises of her sons, and her own people +swore that to one should be given once more the seat of his fathers in +the capitol; but best to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> her when the bishop came to ordain, and, on +his knees at the chancel and waiting for the good old man's hands, was +the best beloved of her children and her first-born—Clay Crittenden. To +her a divine purpose seemed apparent, to bring her back the best of the +old past and all she prayed for the future.</p> + +<p>As Christmas day drew near, gray clouds marshalled and loosed white +messengers of peace and good-will to the frozen earth until the land was +robed in a thick, soft, shining mantle of pure white—the first +spiritualization of the earth for the birth of spring. It was the +mother's wish that her two sons should marry on the same day and on that +day, and Judith and Phyllis yielded. So early that afternoon, she saw +together Judith, as pure and radiant as a snow-hung willow in the +sunshine, and her son, with the light in his face for which she had +prayed so many years—saw them standing together and clasp hands +forever. They took a short wedding trip, and that straight across the +crystal fields, where little Phyllis stood with Basil in +uniform—straight and tall and with new lines, too, but deepened merely, +about his handsome mouth and chin—waiting to have their lives made one. +And, meanwhile, Bob and Molly too were making ready; for if there be a +better hot-bed of sentiment than the mood of man and woman when the man +is going to war<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> it is the mood of man and woman when the man has come +home from war; and with cries and grunts and great laughter and singing, +the negroes were pulling the yule-log from its long bath and across the +snowy fields; and when, at dusk, the mother brought her two sons and her +two daughters and the Pages and Stantons to her own roof, the big log, +hidden by sticks of pine and hickory, was sputtering Christmas cheer +with a blaze and crackle that warmed body and heart and home. That night +the friends came from afar and near; and that night Bob, the faithful, +valiant Bob, in a dress-suit that was his own and new, and Mrs. +Crittenden's own gift, led the saucy Molly, robed as no other dusky +bride at Canewood was ever arrayed, into the dining-room, while the +servants crowded the doors and hallway and the white folk climbed the +stairs to give them room. And after a few solemn moments, Bob caught the +girl in his arms and smacked her lips loudly:</p> + +<p>"Now, gal, I reckon I got yer!" he cried; and whites and blacks broke +into jolly laughter, and the music of fiddles rose in the kitchen, where +there was a feast for Bob's and Molly's friends. Rose, too, the music of +fiddles under the stairway in the hall, and Mrs. Crittenden and Judge +Page, and Crittenden and Mrs. Stanton, and Judith and Basil, and none +other<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> than Grafton and radiant little Phyllis led the way for the +opening quadrille. It was an old-fashioned Christmas the mother wanted, +and an old-fashioned Christmas, with the dance and merriment and the +graces of the old days, that the mother had. Over the portrait of the +eldest Crittenden, who slept in Cuba, hung the flag of the single star +that would never bend its colours again to Spain. Above the blazing log +and over the fine, strong face of the brave father, who had fought to +dissolve the Union, hung the Stars and Bars—proudly. And over the brave +brother, who looked down from the north wall, hung proudly the Stars and +Stripes for which he had given his young life.</p> + +<p>Then came toasts after the good old fashion—graceful toasts—to the +hostess and the brides, to the American soldier, regular and volunteer. +And at the end, Crittenden, regular, raised his glass and there was a +hush.</p> + +<p>It was good, he said, to go back to the past; good to revive and hold +fast to the ideals that time had proven best for humanity; good to go +back to the earth, like the Titans, for fresh strength; good for the +man, the State, the nation. And it was best for the man to go back to +the ideals that had dawned at his mother's knee; for there was the +fountain-head of the nation's faith in its God, man's faith in his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> +nation—man's faith in his fellow and faith in himself. And he drank to +one who represented his own early ideals better than he should ever +realize them for himself. Then he raised his glass, smiling, but deeply +moved:</p> + +<p>"My little brother."</p> + +<p>He turned to Basil when he spoke and back again to Judith, who, of all +present, knew all that he meant, and he saw her eyes shine with the +sudden light of tears.</p> + +<p>At last came the creak of wheels on the snow outside, the cries of +servants, the good-bys and good-wishes and congratulations from one and +all to one and all; the mother's kiss to Basil and Phyllis, who were +under their mother's wing; the last calls from the doorway; the light of +lanterns across the fields; the slam of the pike-gate—and, over the +earth, white silence. The mother kissed Judith and kissed her son.</p> + +<p>"My children!"</p> + +<p>Then, as was her custom always, she said simply:</p> + +<p>"Be sure to bolt the front door, my son."</p> + +<p>And, as he had done for years, Crittenden slipped the fastenings of the +big hall-door, paused a moment, and looked out. Around the corner of the +still house swept the sounds of merriment from the quarters. The moon +had risen on the snowy fields and white-cowled trees<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> and draped hedges +and on the slender white shaft under the bent willow over his father's +and his uncle's grave—the brothers who had fought face to face and were +sleeping side by side in peace, each the blameless gentleman who had +reverenced his conscience as his king, and, without regret for his way +on earth, had set his foot, without fear, on the long way into the +hereafter. For one moment his mind swept back over the short, fierce +struggle of the summer.</p> + +<p>As they had done, so he had tried to do; and as they had lived, so he, +with God's help, would live henceforth to the end. For a moment he +thought of the flag hanging motionless in the dim drawing-room behind +him—the flag of the great land that was stretching out its powerful +hand to the weak and oppressed of the earth. And then with a last look +to the willow and the shaft beneath, his lips moved noiselessly:</p> + +<p>"They will sleep better to-night."</p> + +<p>Judith was standing in the drawing-room on his hearth, looking into his +fire and dreaming. Ah, God, to think that it should come to pass at +last!</p> + +<p>He entered so softly that she did not hear him. There was no sound but +the drowsy tick of the great clock in the hall and the low song of the +fire.</p> + +<p>"Sweetheart!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p> + +<p>She looked up quickly, the dream gone from her face, and in its place +the light of love and perfect trust, and she stood still, her arms +hanging at her sides—waiting.</p> + +<p>"Sweetheart!"</p> + +<p>God was good that Christmas.</p> + +<p style="text-align: center; margin-top: 2em">THE END</p> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<div class="tnote"> +<h3>Transcriber’s Notes</h3> +<p>1. Punctuation normalized to be consistent with contemporary standards.</p> +<p>2. Table of Contents created for this text was not in original book.</p> +<p>3. Corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. +Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text +will <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'apprear'">appear</ins>.</p> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Crittenden, by John Fox, Jr. + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CRITTENDEN *** + +***** This file should be named 18318-h.htm or 18318-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/3/1/18318/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team +at http://www.pgdp.net" + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Crittenden + A Kentucky Story of Love and War + +Author: John Fox, Jr. + +Release Date: May 5, 2006 [EBook #18318] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CRITTENDEN *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team +at http://www.pgdp.net" + + + + +[Illustration: John Fox, Jr.] + + +CRITTENDEN + +A KENTUCKY STORY OF + +LOVE AND WAR + + +BY + +JOHN FOX, JR. + + +ILLUSTRATED BY + +F. GRAHAM COOTES + + * * * * * + +NEW YORK + +CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS + +1911 + + * * * * * + +COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY + +CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS + + * * * * * + + +To + +THE MASTER OF + +BALLYHOO + + * * * * * + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + +John Fox, Jr. (from a photograph) Frontispiece + + FACING PAGE + +"Go on!" said Judith 76 + +"Nothin', Ole Cap'n--jes doin' nothin'--jes lookin' for you" 132 + + + * * * * * + + + + +CRITTENDEN + + + + +I + + +Day breaking on the edge of the Bluegrass and birds singing the dawn in. +Ten minutes swiftly along the sunrise and the world is changed: from +nervous exaltation of atmosphere to an air of balm and peace; from grim +hills to the rolling sweep of green slopes; from a high mist of thin +verdure to low wind-shaken banners of young leaves; from giant poplar to +white ash and sugar-tree; from log-cabin to homesteads of brick and +stone; from wood-thrush to meadow-lark; rhododendron to bluegrass; from +mountain to lowland, Crittenden was passing home. + +He had been in the backwoods for more than a month, ostensibly to fish +and look at coal lands, but, really, to get away for a while, as his +custom was, from his worse self to the better self that he was when he +was in the mountains--alone. As usual, he had gone in with bitterness +and, as usual, he had set his face homeward with but half a heart for +the old fight against fate and himself that seemed destined always to +end in defeat. At dusk, he heard the word of the outer world from the +lips of an old mountaineer at the foot of the Cumberland--the first +heard, except from his mother, for full thirty days--and the word +was--war. He smiled incredulously at the old fellow, but, unconsciously, +he pushed his horse on a little faster up the mountain, pushed him, as +the moon rose, aslant the breast of a mighty hill and, winding at a +gallop about the last downward turn of the snaky path, went at full +speed alongside the big gray wall that, above him, rose sheer a thousand +feet and, straight ahead, broke wildly and crumbled into historic +Cumberland Gap. From a little knoll he saw the railway station in the +shadow of the wall, and, on one prong of a switch, his train panting +lazily; and, with a laugh, he pulled his horse down to a walk and then +to a dead stop--his face grave again and uplifted. Where his eyes rested +and plain in the moonlight was a rocky path winding upward--the old +Wilderness Trail that the Kentucky pioneers had worn with moccasined +feet more than a century before. He had seen it a hundred times +before--moved always; but it thrilled him now, and he rode on slowly, +looking up at it. His forefathers had helped blaze that trail. On one +side of that wall they had fought savage and Briton for a home and a +country, and on the other side they had done it again. Later, they had +fought the Mexican and in time they came to fight each other, for and +against the nation they had done so much to upbuild. It was even true +that a Crittenden had already given his life for the very cause that was +so tardily thrilling the nation now. Thus it had always been with his +people straight down the bloody national highway from Yorktown to +Appomattox, and if there was war, he thought proudly, as he swung from +his horse--thus it would now be with him. + +If there was war? He had lain awake in his berth a long while, looking +out the window and wondering. He had been born among the bleeding +memories of one war. The tales of his nursery had been tales of war. And +though there had been talk of war through the land for weeks before he +left home, it had no more seemed possible that in his lifetime could +come another war than that he should live to see any other myth of his +childhood come true. + +Now, it was daybreak on the edge of the Bluegrass, and, like a dark +truth from a white light, three tall letters leaped from the paper in +his hand--War! There was a token in the very dawn, a sword-like flame +flashing upward. The man in the White House had called for willing +hands by the thousands to wield it, and the Kentucky Legion, that had +fought in Mexico, had split in twain to fight for the North and for the +South, and had come shoulder to shoulder when the breach was closed--the +Legion of his own loved State--was the first body of volunteers to reach +for the hilt. Regulars were gathering from the four winds to an old +Southern battlefield. Already the Legion was on its way to camp in the +Bluegrass. His town was making ready to welcome it, and among the names +of the speakers who were to voice the welcome, he saw his own--Clay +Crittenden. + + + + +II + + +The train slackened speed and stopped. There was his +horse--Raincrow--and his buggy waiting for him when he stepped from the +platform; and, as he went forward with his fishing tackle, a +livery-stable boy sprang out of the buggy and went to the horse's head. + +"Bob lef' yo' hoss in town las' night, Mistuh Crittenden," he said. +"Miss Rachel said yestiddy she jes knowed you was comin' home this +mornin'." + +Crittenden smiled--it was one of his mother's premonitions; she seemed +always to know when he was coming home. + +"Come get these things," he said, and went on with his paper. + +"Yessuh!" + +Things had gone swiftly while he was in the hills. Old ex-Confederates +were answering the call from the Capitol. One of his father's old +comrades--little Jerry Carter--was to be made a major-general. Among the +regulars mobilizing at Chickamauga was the regiment to which Rivers, a +friend of his boyhood, belonged. There, three days later, his State was +going to dedicate two monuments to her sons who had fallen on the old +battlefield, where his father, fighting with one wing of the Legion for +the Lost Cause, and his father's young brother, fighting with the other +against it, had fought face to face; where his uncle met death on the +field and his father got the wound that brought death to him years after +the war. And then he saw something that for a moment quite blotted the +war from his brain and made him close the paper quickly. Judith had come +home--Judith was to unveil those statues--Judith Page. + +The town was asleep, except for the rattle of milk-carts, the banging of +shutters, and the hum of a street-car, and Crittenden moved through +empty streets to the broad smooth turnpike on the south, where Raincrow +shook his head, settled his haunches, and broke into the swinging trot +peculiar to his breed--for home. + +Spring in the Bluegrass! The earth spiritual as it never is except under +new-fallen snow--in the first shy green. The leaves, a floating mist of +green, so buoyant that, if loosed, they must, it seemed, have floated +upward--never to know the blight of frost or the droop of age. The air, +rich with the smell of new earth and sprouting grass, the long, low +skies newly washed and, through radiant distances, clouds light as +thistledown and white as snow. And the birds! Wrens in the hedges, +sparrows by the wayside and on fence-rails, starlings poised over +meadows brilliant with glistening dew, larks in the pastures--all +singing as they sang at the first dawn, and the mood of nature that +perfect blending of earth and heaven that is given her children but +rarely to know. It was good to be alive at the breaking of such a +day--good to be young and strong, and eager and unafraid, when the +nation called for its young men and red Mars was the morning star. The +blood of dead fighters began to leap again in his veins. His nostrils +dilated and his chin was raised proudly--a racial chord touched within +him that had been dumb a long while. And that was all it was--the blood +of his fathers; for it was honor and not love that bound him to his own +flag. He was his mother's son, and the unspoken bitterness that lurked +in her heart lurked, likewise, on her account, in his. + +On the top of a low hill, a wind from the dawn struck him, and the paper +in the bottom of the buggy began to snap against the dashboard. He +reached down to keep it from being whisked into the road, and he saw +again that Judith Page had come home. When he sat up again, his face was +quite changed. His head fell a little forward, his shoulders drooped +slightly and, for a moment, his buoyancy was gone. The corners of the +mouth showed a settled melancholy where before was sunny humour. The +eyes, which were dreamy, kindly, gray, looked backward in a morbid glow +of concentration; and over the rather reckless cast of his features, lay +at once the shadow of suffering and the light of a great tenderness. +Slowly, a little hardness came into his eyes and a little bitterness +about his mouth. His upper lip curved in upon his teeth with +self-scorn--for he had had little cause to be pleased with himself while +Judith was gone, and his eyes showed now how proud was the scorn--and he +shook himself sharply and sat upright. He had forgotten again. That part +of his life belonged to the past and, like the past, was gone, and was +not to come back again. The present had life and hope now, and the +purpose born that day from five blank years was like the sudden birth of +a flower in a desert. + +The sun had burst from the horizon now and was shining through the tops +of the trees in the lovely woodland into which Crittenden turned, and +through which a road of brown creek-sand ran to the pasture beyond and +through that to the long avenue of locusts, up which the noble portico +of his old homestead, Canewood, was visible among cedars and firs and +old forest trees. His mother was not up yet--the shutters of her window +were still closed--but the servants were astir and busy. He could see +men and plough-horses on their way to the fields; and, that far away, he +could hear the sound of old Ephraim's axe at the woodpile, the noises +around the barn and cowpens, and old Aunt Keziah singing a hymn in the +kitchen, the old wailing cry of the mother-slave. + + "Oh I wonder whur my baby's done gone, + Oh Lawd! + An' I git on my knees an' pray." + +The song stopped, a negro boy sprang out the kitchen-door and ran for +the stiles--a tall, strong, and very black boy with a dancing eye, white +teeth, and a look of welcome that was little short of dumb idolatry. + +"Howdy, Bob." + +"Howdy, Ole Cap'n." Crittenden had been "Ole Captain" with the +servants--since the death of "Ole Master," his father--to distinguish +him from "Young Captain," who was his brother, Basil. Master and servant +shook hands and Bob's teeth flashed. + +"What's the matter, Bob?" + +Bob climbed into the buggy. + +"You gwine to de wah." + +Crittenden laughed. + +"How do you know, Bob?" + +"Oh, I know--I know. I seed it when you was drivin' up to de stiles, an' +lemme tell you, Ole Cap'n." The horse started for the barn suddenly and +Bob took a wide circuit in order to catch the eye of a brown milkmaid in +the cowpens, who sniffed the air scornfully, to show that she did not +see him, and buried the waves of her black hair into the silken sides of +a young Jersey. + +"Yes," he said, shaking his head and making threats to himself, "an' +Bob's gwine wid him." + +As Crittenden climbed the stiles, old Keziah filled the kitchen-door. + +"Time you gittin' back, suh," she cried with mock severity. "I been +studyin' 'bout you. Little mo' an' I'd 'a' been comin' fer you myself. +Yes--suh." + +And she gave a loud laugh that rang through the yard and ended in a +soft, queer little whoop that was musical. Crittenden smiled but, +instead of answering, raised his hand warningly and, as he approached +the portico, he stepped from the gravel-walk to the thick turf and began +to tiptoe. At the foot of the low flight of stone steps he +stopped--smiling. + +The big double front door was wide open, and straight through the big, +wide hallway and at the entrance of the dining-room, a sword--a long +cavalry sabre--hung with a jaunty gray cap on the wall. Under them stood +a boy with his hands clasped behind him and his chin upraised. The lad +could see the bullet-hole through the top, and he knew that on the visor +was a faded stain of his father's blood. As a child, he had been told +never to touch the cap or sword and, until this moment, he had not +wanted to take them down since he was a child; and even now the habit of +obedience held him back for a while, as he stood looking up at them. +Outside, a light wind rustled the leaves of the rose-bush at his +mother's window, swept through the open door, and made the curtain at +his elbow swell gently. As the heavy fold fell back to its place and +swung out again, it caught the hilt of the sword and made the metal +point of the scabbard clank softly against the wall. The boy breathed +sharply, remembered that he was grown, and reverently reached upward. +There was the stain where the blood had run down from the furrowed wound +that had caused his father's death, long after the war and just before +the boy was born. The hilt was tarnished, and when he caught it and +pulled, the blade came out a little way and stuck fast. Some one stepped +on the porch outside and he turned quickly, as he might have turned had +some one caught him unsheathing the weapon when a child. + +"Hold on there, little brother." + +Crittenden stopped in the doorway, smiling affectionately, and the boy +thrust the blade back to the hilt. + +"Why, Clay," he cried, and, as he ran forward, "Are you going?" he +asked, eagerly. + +"I'm the first-born, you know," added Crittenden, still smiling, and the +lad stretched the sabre out to him, repeating eagerly, "Are you going?" + +The older brother did not answer, but turned, without taking the weapon, +and walked to the door and back again. + +"Are you?" + +"Me? Oh, I have to go," said the boy solemnly and with great dignity, as +though the matter were quite beyond the pale of discussion. + +"You do?" + +"Yes; the Legion is going." + +"Only the members who volunteer--nobody has to go." + +"Don't they?" said the lad, indignantly. "Well, if I had a son who +belonged to a military organization in time of peace"--the lad spoke +glibly--"and refused to go with it to war--well, I'd rather see him dead +first." + +"Who said that?" asked the other, and the lad coloured. + +"Why, Judge Page said it; that's who. And you just ought to hear Miss +Judith!" + +Again the other walked to the door and back again. Then he took the +scabbard and drew the blade to its point as easily as though it had been +oiled, thrust it back, and hung it with the cap in its place on the +wall. + +"Perhaps neither of us will need it," he said. "We'll both be +privates--that is, if I go--and I tell you what we'll do. We'll let the +better man win the sword, and the better man shall have it after the +war. What do you say?" + +"Say?" cried the boy, and he gave the other a hug and both started for +the porch. As they passed the door of his mother's room, the lad put one +finger on his lips; but the mother had heard and, inside, a woman in +black, who had been standing before a mirror with her hands to her +throat, let them fall suddenly until they were clasped for an instant +across her breast. But she gave no sign that she had heard, at breakfast +an hour later, even when the boy cleared his throat, and after many +futile efforts to bring the matter up, signalled across the table to his +brother for help. + +"Mother, Basil there wants to go to war. He says if he had a son who +belonged to a military organization in time of peace and refused to go +with it in time of war, that he'd rather see him dead." + +The mother's lip quivered when she answered, but so imperceptibly that +only the older son saw it. + +"That is what his father would have said," she said, quietly, and +Crittenden knew she had already fought out the battle with +herself--alone. For a moment the boy was stunned with his good +fortune--"it was too easy"--and with a whoop he sprang from his place +and caught his mother around the neck, while Uncle Ben, the black +butler, shook his head and hurried into the kitchen for corn-bread and +to tell the news. + +"Oh, I tell you it's great fun to _have_ to go to war! Mother," added +the boy, with quick mischief, "Clay wants to go, too." + +Crittenden braced himself and looked up with one quick glance sidewise +at his mother's face. It had not changed a line. + +"I heard all you said in the hallway. If a son of mine thinks it his +duty to go, I shall never say one word to dissuade him--if he thinks it +is his duty," she added, so solemnly that silence fell upon the three, +and with a smothered, "Good Lawd," at the door, Ben hurried again into +the kitchen. + +"Both them boys was a-goin' off to git killed an' ole Miss Rachel not +sayin' one wud to keep 'em back--not a wud." + +After breakfast the boy hurried out and, as Crittenden rose, the +mother, who pretended to be arranging silver at the old sideboard, spoke +with her back to him. + +"Think it over, son. I can't see that you should go, but if you think +you ought, I shall have nothing to say. Have you made up your mind?" + +Crittenden hesitated. + +"Not quite." + +"Think it over very carefully, then--please--for my sake." Her voice +trembled, and, with a pang, Crittenden thought of the suffering she had +known from one war. Basil's way was clear, and he could never ask the +boy to give up to him because he was the elder. Was it fair to his brave +mother for him to go, too--was it right? + +"Yes mother," he said, soberly. + + + + +III + + +The Legion came next morning and pitched camp in a woodland of oak and +sugar trees, where was to be voiced a patriotic welcome by a great +editor, a great orator, and young Crittenden. + +Before noon, company streets were laid out and lined with tents and, +when the first buggies and rockaways began to roll in from the country, +every boy-soldier was brushed and burnished to defy the stare of +inspection and to quite dazzle the eye of masculine envy or feminine +admiration. + +In the centre of the woodland was a big auditorium, where the speaking +was to take place. After the orators were done, there was to be a +regimental review in the bluegrass pasture in front of historic Ashland. +It was at the Colonel's tent, where Crittenden went to pay his respects, +that he found Judith Page, and he stopped for a moment under an oak, +taking in the gay party of women and officers who sat and stood about +the entrance. In the centre of the group stood a lieutenant in the blue +of a regular and with the crossed sabres of the cavalryman on his +neck-band and the number of his regiment. The girl was talking to the +gallant old Colonel with her back to Crittenden, but he would have known +her had he seen but an arm, a shoulder, the poise of her head, a single +gesture--although he had not seen her for years. The figure was the +same--a little fuller, perhaps, but graceful, round, and slender, as was +the throat. The hair was a trifle darker, he thought, but brown still, +and as rich with gold as autumn sunlight. The profile was in outline +now--it was more cleanly cut than ever. The face was a little older, but +still remarkably girlish in spite of its maturer strength; and as she +turned to answer his look, he kept on unconsciously reaffirming to his +memory the broad brow and deep clear eyes, even while his hand was +reaching for the brim of his hat. She showed only gracious surprise at +seeing him and, to his wonder, he was as calm and cool as though he were +welcoming back home any good friend who had been away a long time. He +could now see that the lieutenant belonged to the Tenth United States +Cavalry; he knew that the Tenth was a colored regiment; he understood a +certain stiffness that he felt rather than saw in the courtesy that was +so carefully shown him by the Southern volunteers who were about him; +and he turned away to avoid meeting him. For the same reason, he +fancied, Judith turned, too. The mere idea of negro soldiers was not +only repugnant to him, but he did not believe in negro regiments. These +would be the men who could and would organize and drill the blacks in +the South; who, in other words, would make possible, hasten, and prolong +the race war that sometimes struck him as inevitable. As he turned, he +saw a tall, fine-looking negro, fifty yards away, in the uniform of a +sergeant of cavalry and surrounded by a crowd of gaping darkies whom he +was haranguing earnestly. Lieutenant and sergeant were evidently on an +enlisting tour. + +Just then, a radiant little creature looked up into Crittenden's face, +calling him by name and holding out both hands--Phyllis, Basil's little +sweetheart. With her was a tall, keen-featured fellow, whom she +introduced as a war correspondent and a Northerner. + +"A sort of war correspondent," corrected Grafton, with a swift look of +interest at Crittenden, but turning his eyes at once back to Phyllis. +She was a new and diverting type to the Northern man and her name was +fitting and pleased him. A company passed just then, and a smothered +exclamation from Phyllis turned attention to it. On the end of the line, +with his chin in, his shoulders squared and his eyes straight forward, +was Crittenden's warrior-brother, Basil. Only his face coloured to show +that he knew where he was and who was looking at him, but not so much as +a glance of his eye did he send toward the tent. Judith turned to +Crittenden quickly: + +"Your little brother is going to the war?" The question was thoughtless +and significant, for it betrayed to him what was going on in her mind, +and she knew it and coloured, as he paled a little. + +"My little brother is going to the war," he repeated, looking at her. +Judith smiled and went on bravely: + +"And you?" + +Crittenden, too, smiled. + +"I may consider it my duty to stay at home." + +The girl looked rather surprised--instead of showing the subdued sarcasm +that he was looking for--and, in truth, she was. His evasive and +careless answer showed an indifference to her wish and opinion in the +matter that would once have been very unusual. Straightway there was a +tug at her heart-strings that also was unusual. + +The people were gathering into the open-air auditorium now and, from all +over the camp, the crowd began to move that way. All knew the word of +the orator's mouth and the word of the editor--they had heard the one +and seen the other on his printed page many times; and it was for this +reason, perhaps, that Crittenden's fresh fire thrilled and swayed the +crowd as it did. + +When he rose, he saw his mother almost under him and, not far behind +her, Judith with her father, Judge Page. The lieutenant of regulars was +standing on the edge of the crowd, and to his right was Grafton, also +standing, with his hat under his arm--idly curious. But it was to his +mother that he spoke and, steadfastly, he saw her strong, gentle face +even when he was looking far over her head, and he knew that she knew +that he was arguing the point then and there between them. + +It was, he said, the first war of its kind in history. It marked an +epoch in the growth of national character since the world began. As an +American, he believed that no finger of mediaevalism should so much as +touch this hemisphere. The Cubans had earned their freedom long since, +and the cries of starving women and children for the bread which fathers +and brothers asked but the right to earn must cease. To put out of mind +the Americans blown to death at Havana--if such a thing were +possible--he yet believed with all his heart in the war. He did not +think there would be much of a fight--the regular army could doubtless +take good care of the Spaniard--but if everybody acted on that +presumption, there would be no answer to the call for volunteers. He was +proud to think that the Legion of his own State, that in itself stood +for the reunion of the North and the South, had been the first to spring +to arms. And he was proud to think that not even they were the first +Kentuckians to fight for Cuban liberty. He was proud that, before the +Civil War even, a Kentuckian of his own name and blood had led a band of +one hundred and fifty brave men of his own State against Spanish tyranny +in Cuba, and a Crittenden, with fifty of his followers, were captured +and shot in platoons of six. + +"A Kentuckian kneels only to woman and his God," this Crittenden had +said proudly when ordered to kneel blindfolded and with his face to the +wall, "and always dies facing his enemy." And so those Kentuckians had +died nearly half a century before, and he knew that the young +Kentuckians before him would as bravely die, if need be, in the same +cause now; and when they came face to face with the Spaniard they would +remember the shattered battle-ship in the Havana harbour, and something +more--they would remember Crittenden. And then the speaker closed with +the words of a certain proud old Confederate soldier to his son: + +"No matter who was right and who was wrong in the Civil War, the matter +is settled now by the sword. The Constitution left the question open, +but it is written there now in letters of blood. We have given our word +that they shall stand; and remember it is the word of gentlemen and +binding on their sons. There have been those in the North who have +doubted that word; there have been those in the South who have given +cause for doubt; and this may be true for a long time. But if ever the +time comes to test that word, do you be the first to prove it. You will +fight for your flag--mine now as well as yours--just as sincerely as I +fought against it." And these words, said Crittenden in a trembling +voice, the brave gentleman spoke again on his death-bed; and now, as he +looked around on the fearless young faces about him, he had no need to +fear that they were spoken in vain. + +And so the time was come for the South to prove its loyalty--not to +itself nor to the North, but to the world. + +Under him he saw his mother's eyes fill with tears, for these words of +her son were the dying words of her lion-hearted husband. And Judith had +sat motionless, watching him with peculiar intensity and flushing a +little, perhaps at the memory of her jesting taunt, while Grafton had +stood still--his eyes fixed, his face earnest--missing not a word. He +was waiting for Crittenden, and he held his hand out when the latter +emerged from the crowd, with the curious embarrassment that assails the +newspaper man when he finds himself betrayed into unusual feeling. + +"I say," he said; "that was good, _good_!" + +The officer who, too, had stood still as a statue, seemed to be moving +toward him, and again Crittenden turned away--to look for his mother. +She had gone home at once--she could not face him now in that crowd--and +as he was turning to his own buggy, he saw Judith and from habit started +toward her, but, changing his mind, he raised his hat and kept on his +way, while the memory of the girl's face kept pace with him. + +She was looking at him with a curious wistfulness that was quite beyond +him to interpret--a wistfulness that was in the sudden smile of welcome +when she saw him start toward her and in the startled flush of surprise +when he stopped; then, with the tail of his eye, he saw the quick +paleness that followed as the girl's sensitive nostrils quivered once +and her spirited face settled quickly into a proud calm. And then he +saw her smile--a strange little smile that may have been at herself or +at him--and he wondered about it all and was tempted to go back, but +kept on doggedly, wondering at her and at himself with a miserable grim +satisfaction that he was at last over and above it all. She had told him +to conquer his boyish love for her and, as her will had always been law +to him, he had made it, at last, a law in this. The touch of the +loadstone that never in his life had failed, had failed now, and now, +for once in his life, desire and duty were one. + +He found his mother at her seat by her open window, the unopened buds of +her favourite roses hanging motionless in the still air outside, but +giving their fresh green faint fragrance to the whole room within; and +he remembered the quiet sunset scene every night for many nights to +come. Every line in her patient face had been traced there by a sorrow +of the old war, and his voice trembled: + +"Mother," he said, as he bent down and kissed her, "I'm going." + +Her head dropped quickly to the work in her lap, but she said nothing, +and he went quickly out again. + + + + +IV + + +It was growing dusk outside. Chickens were going to roost with a great +chattering in some locust-trees in one corner of the yard. An aged +darkey was swinging an axe at the woodpile and two little pickaninnies +were gathering a basket of chips. Already the air was filled with the +twilight sounds of the farm--the lowing of cattle, the bleating of +calves at the cowpens, the bleat of sheep from the woods, and the nicker +of horses in the barn. Through it all, Crittenden could hear the nervous +thud of Raincrow's hoofs announcing rain--for that was the way the horse +got his name, being as black as a crow and, as Bob claimed, always +knowing when falling weather was at hand and speaking his prophecy by +stamping in his stall. He could hear Basil noisily making his way to the +barn. As he walked through the garden toward the old family graveyard, +he could still hear the boy, and a prescient tithe of the pain, that he +felt would strike him in full some day, smote him so sharply now that he +stopped a moment to listen, with one hand quickly raised to his +forehead. Basil was whistling--whistling joyously. Foreboding touched +the boy like the brush of a bird's wing, and death and sorrow were as +remote as infinity to him. At the barn-door the lad called sharply: + +"Bob!" + +"Suh!" answered a muffled voice, and Bob emerged, gray with oatdust. + +"I want my buggy to-night." Bob grinned. + +"Sidebar?" + +"Yes." + +"New whip--new harness--little buggy mare--reckon?" + +"I want 'em all." + +Bob laughed loudly. "Oh, I know. You gwine to see Miss Phyllis dis +night, sho--yes, Lawd!" Bob dodged a kick from the toe of the boy's +boot--a playful kick that was not meant to land--and went into the barn +and came out again. + +"Yes, an' I know somewhur else you gwine--you gwine to de war. Oh, I +know; yes, suh. Dere's a white man in town tryin' to git niggers to +'list wid him, an' he's got a nigger sojer what say he's a officer +hisself; yes, mon, a corpril. An' dis nigger's jes a-gwine through town +drawin' niggers right _an'_ left. He talk to me, but I jes laugh at him, +an' say I gwine wid Ole Cap'n ur Young Cap'n, I don't keer which. An' +lemme tell you, Young Capn', ef you ur Ole Cap'n doan lemme go wid you, +I'se gwine wid dat nigger corpril an' dat white man what 'long to a +nigger regiment, an' I know you don't want me to bring no sech disgrace +on de fambly dat way--no, suh. He axe what you de cap'n of," Bob went +on, aiming at two birds with one stone now, "an' I say you de cap'n of +ever'body an' ever'ting dat come 'long--dat's what I say-an' he be cap'n +of you wid all yo' unyform and sich, I say, if you jest come out to de +fahm--yes, mon, dat he will sho." + +The boy laughed and Bob reiterated: + +"Oh, I'se gwine--I'se gwine wid you--" Then he stopped short. The +turbaned figure of Aunt Keziah loomed from behind the woodpile. + +"What dat I heah 'bout you gwine to de wah, nigger, what dat I heah?" + +Bob laughed--but it was a laugh of propitiation. + +"Law, mammy. I was jes projeckin' wid Young Cap'n." + +"Fool nigger, doan know what wah is--doan lemme heah you talk no more +'bout gwine to de wah ur I gwine to w'ar you out wid a hickory--dat's +whut I'll do--now you min'." She turned on Basil then; but Basil had +retreated, and his laugh rang from the darkening yard. She cried after +him: + +"An' doan lemme heah you puttin' dis fool nigger up to gittin' hisself +killed by dem Cubians neither; no suh!" She was deadly serious now. "I +done spanked you heap o' times, an' 'tain't so long ago, an' you ain' +too big yit; no, suh." The old woman's wrath was rising higher, and Bob +darted into the barn before she could turn back again to him, and a +moment later darted his head, like a woodpecker, out again to see if she +were gone, and grinned silently after her as she rolled angrily toward +the house, scolding both Bob and Basil to herself loudly. + +A song rose from the cowpens just then. Full, clear, and quivering, it +seemed suddenly to still everything else into silence. In a flash, Bob's +grin settled into a look of sullen dejection, and, with his ear cocked +and drinking in the song, and with his eye on the corner of the barn, he +waited. From the cowpens was coming a sturdy negro girl with a bucket of +foaming milk in each hand and a third balanced on her head, singing with +all the strength of her lungs. In a moment she passed the corner. + +"Molly--say, Molly." + +The song stopped short. + +"Say, honey, wait a minute--jes a minute, won't ye?" The milkmaid kept +straight ahead, and Bob's honeyed words soured suddenly. + +"Go on, gal, think yo'self mighty fine, don't ye? Nem' min'!" + +Molly's nostrils swelled to their full width, and, at the top of her +voice, she began again. + +"Go on, nigger, but you jes wait." + +Molly sang on: + + "Take up yo' cross, oh, sinner-man." + +Before he knew it, Bob gave the response with great unction: + + "Yes, Lawd." + +Then he stopped short. + +"I reckon I got to break dat gal's head some day. Yessuh; she knows whut +my cross is," and then he started slowly after her, shaking his head +and, as his wont was, talking to himself. + +He was still talking to himself when Basil came out to the stiles after +supper to get into his buggy. + +"Young Cap'n, dat gal Molly mighty nigh pesterin' de life out o' me. I +done tol' her I'se gwine to de wah." + +"What did she say?" + +"De fool nigger--she jes laughed--she jes laughed." + +The boy, too, laughed, as he gathered the reins and the mare sprang +forward. + +"We'll see--we'll see." + +And Bob with a triumphant snort turned toward Molly's cabin. + +The locust-trees were quiet now and the barn was still except for the +occasional stamp of a horse in his stall or the squeak of a pig that was +pushed out of his warm place by a stronger brother. The night noises +were strong and clear--the cricket in the grass, the croaking frogs from +the pool, the whir of a night-hawk's wings along the edge of the yard, +the persistent wail of a whip-poor-will sitting lengthwise of a willow +limb over the meadow-branch, the occasional sleepy caw of crows from +their roost in the woods beyond, the bark of a house-dog at a +neighbour's home across the fields, and, further still, the fine high +yell of a fox-hunter and the faint answering yelp of a hound. + +And inside, in the mother's room, the curtain was rising on a tragedy +that was tearing open the wounds of that other war--the tragedy upon +which a bloody curtain had fallen more than thirty years before. The +mother listened quietly, as had her mother before her, while the son +spoke quietly, for time and again he had gone over the ground to +himself, ending ever with the same unalterable resolve. + +There had been a Crittenden in every war of the nation--down to the two +Crittendens who slept side by side in the old graveyard below the +garden. + +And the Crittenden--of whom he had spoken that morning--the gallant +Crittenden who led his Kentuckians to death in Cuba, in 1851, was his +father's elder brother. And again he repeated the dying old +Confederate's deathless words with which he had thrilled the Legion that +morning--words heard by her own ears as well as his. What else was left +him to do--when he knew what those three brothers, if they were alive, +would have him do? + +And there were other untold reasons, hid in the core of his own heart, +faced only when he was alone, and faced again, that night, after he had +left his mother and was in his own room and looking out at the moonlight +and the big weeping willow that drooped over the one white tomb under +which the two brothers, who had been enemies in the battle, slept side +by side thus in peace. So far he had followed in their footsteps, since +the one part that he was fitted to play was the _role_ they and their +ancestors had played beyond the time when the first American among them, +failing to rescue his king from Carisbrooke Castle, set sail for +Virginia on the very day Charles lost his royal head. But for the Civil +War, Crittenden would have played that _role_ worthily and without +question to the end. With the close of the war, however, his birthright +was gone--even before he was born--and yet, as he grew to manhood, he +had gone on in the serene and lofty way of his father--there was +nothing else he could do--playing the gentleman still, though with each +year the audience grew more restless and the other and lesser actors in +the drama of Southern reconstruction more and more resented the +particular claims of the star. At last, came with a shock the +realization that with the passing of the war his occupation had forever +gone. And all at once, out on his ancestral farm that had carried its +name Canewood down from pioneer days; that had never been owned by a +white man who was not a Crittenden; that was isolated, and had its +slaves and the children of those slaves still as servants; that still +clung rigidly to old traditions--social, agricultural, and +patriarchal--out there Crittenden found himself one day alone. His +friends--even the boy, his brother--had caught the modern trend of +things quicker than he, and most of them had gone to work--some to law, +some as clerks, railroad men, merchants, civil engineers; some to mining +and speculating in the State's own rich mountains. Of course, he had +studied law--his type of Southerner always studies law--and he tried the +practice of it. He had too much self-confidence, perhaps, based on his +own brilliant record as a college orator, and he never got over the +humiliation of losing his first case, being handled like putty by a +small, black-eyed youth of his own age, who had come from nowhere and +had passed up through a philanthropical old judge's office to the +dignity, by and by, of a license of his own. Losing the suit, through +some absurd little technical mistake, Crittenden not only declined a +fee, but paid the judgment against his client out of his own pocket and +went home with a wound to his foolish, sensitive pride for which there +was no quick cure. A little later, he went to the mountains, when those +wonderful hills first began to give up their wealth to the world; but +the pace was too swift, competition was too undignified and greedy, and +business was won on too low a plane. After a year or two of rough life, +which helped him more than he knew, until long afterward, he went home. +Politics he had not yet tried, and politics he was now persuaded to try. +He made a brilliant canvass, but another element than oratory had crept +in as a new factor in political success. His opponent, Wharton, the +wretched little lawyer who had bested him once before, bested him now, +and the weight of the last straw fell crushingly. It was no use. The +little touch of magic that makes success seemed to have been denied him +at birth, and, therefore, deterioration began to set in--the +deterioration that comes from idleness, from energy that gets the wrong +vent, from strong passions that a definite purpose would have kept +under control--and the worse elements of a nature that, at the bottom, +was true and fine, slowly began to take possession of him as weeds will +take possession of an abandoned field. + +But even then nobody took him as seriously as he took himself. So that +while he fell just short, in his own eyes, of everything that was worth +while; of doing something and being something worth while; believing +something that made the next world worth while; or gaining the love of a +woman that would have made this life worth while--in the eyes of his own +people he was merely sowing his wild oats after the fashion of his race, +and would settle down, after the same fashion, by and by--that was the +indulgent summary of his career thus far. He had been a brilliant +student in the old university and, in a desultory way, he was yet. He +had worried his professor of metaphysics by puzzling questions and keen +argument until that philosopher was glad to mark him highest in his +class and let him go. He surprised the old lawyers when it came to a +discussion of the pure theory of law, and, on the one occasion when his +mother's pastor came to see him, he disturbed that good man no little, +and closed his lips against further censure of him in pulpit or in +private. So that all that was said against him by the pious was that he +did not go to church as he should; and by the thoughtful, that he was +making a shameful waste of the talents that the Almighty had showered so +freely down upon him. And so without suffering greatly in public +estimation, in spite of the fact that the ideals of Southern life were +changing fast, he passed into the old-young period that is the critical +time in the lives of men like him--when he thought he had drunk his cup +to the dregs; had run the gamut of human experience; that nothing was +left to his future but the dull repetition of his past. Only those who +knew him best had not given up hope of him, nor had he really given up +hope of himself as fully as he thought. The truth was, he never fell +far, nor for long, and he always rose with the old purpose the same, +even if it stirred him each time with less and less enthusiasm--and +always with the beacon-light of one star shining from his past, even +though each time it shone a little more dimly. For usually, of course, +there is the hand of a woman on the lever that prizes such a man's life +upward, and when Judith Page's clasp loosened on Crittenden, the castle +that the lightest touch of her finger raised in his imagination--that +he, doubtless, would have reared for her and for him, in fact, fell in +quite hopeless ruins, and no similar shape was ever framed for him above +its ashes. + +It was the simplest and oldest of stories between the two--a story that +began, doubtless, with the beginning, and will never end as long as two +men and one woman, or two women and one man are left on earth--the story +of the love of one who loves another. Only, to the sufferers the tragedy +is always as fresh as a knife-cut, and forever new. + +Judith cared for nobody. Crittenden laughed and pleaded, stormed, +sulked, and upbraided, and was devoted and indifferent for years--like +the wilful, passionate youngster that he was--until Judith did love +another--what other, Crittenden never knew. And then he really believed +that he must, as she had told him so often, conquer his love for her. +And he did, at a fearful cost to the best that was in him--foolishly, +but consciously, deliberately. When the reaction came, he tried to +reestablish his relations to a world that held no Judith Page. Her +absence gave him help, and he had done very well, in spite of an +occasional relapse. It was a relapse that had sent him to the mountains, +six weeks before, and he had emerged with a clear eye, a clear head, +steady nerves, and with the one thing that he had always lacked, waiting +for him--a purpose. It was little wonder, then, that the first ruddy +flash across a sky that had been sunny with peace for thirty years and +more thrilled him like an electric charge from the very clouds. The +next best thing to a noble life was a death that was noble, and that was +possible to any man in war. One war had taken away--another might give +back again; and his chance was come at last. + +It was midnight now, and far across the fields came the swift faint beat +of a horse's hoofs on the turnpike. A moment later he could hear the hum +of wheels--it was his little brother coming home; nobody had a horse +that could go like that, and nobody else would drive that way if he had. +Since the death of their father, thirteen years after the war, he had +been father to the boy, and time and again he had wondered now why he +could not have been like that youngster. Life was an open book to the +boy--to be read as he ran. He took it as he took his daily bread, +without thought, without question. If left alone, he and the little girl +whom he had gone that night to see would marry, settle down, and go hand +in hand into old age without questioning love, life, or happiness. And +that was as it should be; and would to Heaven he had been born to tread +the self-same way. There was a day when he was near it; when he turned +the same fresh, frank face fearlessly to the world, when his nature was +as unspoiled and as clean, his hopes as high, and his faith as +child-like; and once when he ran across a passage in Stevenson in which +that gentle student spoke of his earlier and better self as his "little +brother" whom he loved and longed for and sought persistently, but who +dropped farther and farther behind at times, until, in moments of +darkness, he sometimes feared that he might lose him forever--Crittenden +had clung to the phrase, and he had let his fancy lead him to regard +this boy as his early and better self--better far than he had ever +been--his little brother, in a double sense, who drew from him, besides +the love of brother for brother and father for son, a tenderness that +was almost maternal. + +The pike-gate slammed now and the swift rush of wheels over the +bluegrass turf followed; the barn-gate cracked sharply on the night air +and Crittenden heard him singing, in the boyish, untrained tenor that is +so common in the South, one of the old-fashioned love-songs that are +still sung with perfect sincerity and without shame by his people: + + "You'll never find another love like mine, + "You'll never find a heart that's half so true." + +And then the voice was muffled suddenly. A little while later he entered +the yard-gate and stopped in the moonlight and, from his window, +Crittenden looked down and watched him. The boy was going through the +manual of arms with his buggy-whip, at the command of an imaginary +officer, whom, erect and martial, he was apparently looking straight in +the eye. Plainly he was a private now. Suddenly he sprang forward and +saluted; he was volunteering for some dangerous duty; and then he walked +on toward the house. Again he stopped. Apparently he had been promoted +now for gallant conduct, for he waved his whip and called out with low, +sharp sternness; + +"Steady, now! Ready; fire!" And then swinging his hat over his head: + +"Double-quick--charge!" After the charge, he sat down for a moment on +the stiles, looking up at the moon, and then came on toward the house, +singing again: + + "You'll never find a man in all this world + Who'll love you half so well as I love you." + +And inside, the mother, too, was listening; and she heard the elder +brother call the boy into his room and the door close, and she as well +knew the theme of their talk as though she could hear all they said. Her +sons--even the elder one--did not realize what war was; the boy looked +upon it as a frolic. That was the way her two brothers had regarded the +old war. They went with the South, of course, as did her father and her +sweetheart. And her sweetheart was the only one who came back, and him +she married the third month after the surrender, when he was so sick and +wounded that he could hardly stand. Now she must give up all that was +left for the North, that had taken nearly all she had. + +Was it all to come again--the same long days of sorrow, loneliness, the +anxious waiting, waiting, waiting to hear that this one was dead, and +that this one was wounded or sick to death--would either come back +unharmed? She knew now what her own mother must have suffered, and what +it must have cost her to tell her sons what she had told hers that +night. Ah, God, was it all to come again? + + + + +V + + +Some days later a bugle blast started Crittenden from a soldier's cot, +when the flaps of his tent were yellow with the rising sun. Peeping +between them, he saw that only one tent was open. Rivers, as +acting-quartermaster, had been up long ago and gone. That blast was +meant for the private at the foot of the hill, and Crittenden went back +to his cot and slept on. + +The day before he had swept out of the hills again--out through a +blossoming storm of dogwood--but this time southward bound. +Incidentally, he would see unveiled these statues that Kentucky was +going to dedicate to her Federal and Confederate dead. He would find his +father's old comrade--little Jerry Carter--and secure a commission, if +possible. Meanwhile, he would drill with Rivers's regiment, as a soldier +of the line. + +At sunset he swept into the glory of a Southern spring and the hallowed +haze of an old battlefield where certain gallant Americans once fought +certain other gallant Americans fiercely forward and back over some six +thousand acres of creek-bottom and wooded hills, and where Uncle Sam was +pitching tents for his war-children--children, too--some of them--of +those old enemies, but ready to fight together now, and as near shoulder +to shoulder as the modern line of battle will allow. + +Rivers, bronzed, quick-tempered, and of superb physique, met him at the +station. + +"You'll come right out to camp with me." + +The town was thronged. There were gray slouched hats everywhere with +little brass crosses pinned to them--tiny rifles, sabres, +cannon--crosses that were not symbols of religion, unless this was a +time when the Master's coming meant the sword. Under them were soldiers +with big pistols and belts of big, gleaming cartridges--soldiers, white +and black, everywhere--swaggering, ogling, and loud of voice, but all +good-natured, orderly. + +Inside the hotel the lobby was full of officers in uniform, scanning the +yellow bulletin-boards, writing letters, chatting in groups; gray +veterans of horse, foot, and artillery; company officers in from Western +service--quiet young men with bronzed faces and keen eyes, like +Rivers's--renewing old friendships and swapping experiences on the +plains; subalterns down to the last graduating class from West Point +with slim waists, fresh faces, and nothing to swap yet but memories of +the old school on the Hudson. In there he saw Grafton again and +Lieutenant Sharpe, of the Tenth Colored Cavalry, whom he had seen in the +Bluegrass, and Rivers introduced him. He was surprised that Rivers, +though a Southerner, had so little feeling on the question of negro +soldiers; that many officers in the negro regiments were Southern; that +Southerners were preferred because they understood the black man, and, +for that reason, could better handle him. Sharpe presented both to his +father, Colonel Sharpe, of the infantry, who was taking credit to +himself, that, for the first time in his life, he allowed his band to +play "Dixie" in camp after the Southerners in Congress had risen up and +voted millions for the national defence. Colonel Sharpe spoke with some +bitterness and Crittenden wondered. He never dreamed that there was any +bitterness on the other side--why? How could a victor feel bitterness +for a fallen foe? It was the one word he heard or was to hear about the +old war from Federal or ex-Confederate. Indeed, he mistook a short, +stout, careless appointee, Major Billings, with his negro servant, his +Southern mustache and goatee and his pompous ways, for a genuine +Southerner, and the Major, though from Vermont, seemed pleased. + +But it was to the soldier outside that Crittenden's heart had been +drawn, for it was his first stirring sight of the regular of his own +land, and the soldier in him answered at once with a thrill. Waiting for +Rivers, he stood in the door of the hotel, watching the strong men pass, +and by and by he saw three coming down the street, arm in arm. On the +edge of the light, the middle one, a low, thick-set, black-browed +fellow, pushed his comrades away, fell drunkenly, and slipped loosely to +the street, while the two stood above him in disgust. One of them was a +mere boy and the other was a giant, with a lean face, so like Lincoln's +that Crittenden started when the boy called impatiently: + +"Pick him up, Abe." + +The tall soldier stooped, and with one hand lifted the drunken man as +lightly as though he had been a sack of wool, and the two caught him +under the arms again. As they came on, both suddenly let go; the middle +one straightened sharply, and all three saluted. Crittenden heard +Rivers's voice at his ear: + +"Report for this, Reynolds." + +And the drunken soldier turned and rather sullenly saluted again. + +"You'll come right out to camp with me," repeated Rivers. + +And now out at the camp, next morning, a dozen trumpets were ringing +out an emphatic complaint into Crittenden's sleeping ears: + + "I can't git 'em up, + I can't git 'em up, + I can't git 'em up in the mornin', + I can't git 'em up, + I can't git 'em up, + I can't git 'em up at all. + The corporal's worse than the sergeant, + The sergeant's worse than the lieutenant, + And the captain is worst of all." + +This is as high up, apparently, as the private dares to go, unless he +considers the somnolent iniquity of the Colonel quite beyond the range +of the bugle. But the pathetic appeal was too much for Crittenden, and +he got up, stepping into a fragrant foot-bath of cold dew and out to a +dapple gray wash-basin that sat on three wooden stakes just outside. +Sousing his head, he sniffed in the chill air and, looking below him, +took in, with pure mathematical delight, the working unit of the army as +it came to life. The very camp was the symbol of order and system: a low +hill, rising from a tiny stream below him in a series of natural +terraces to the fringe of low pines behind him, and on these terraces +officers and men sitting, according to rank; the white tepees of the +privates and their tethered horses--camped in column of +troops--stretching up the hill toward him; on the first terrace above +and flanking the columns, the old-fashioned army tents of company +officer and subaltern and the guidons in line--each captain with his +lieutenants at the head of each company street; behind them and on the +next terrace, the majors three--each facing the centre of his squadron. +And highest on top of the hill, and facing the centre of the regiment, +the slate-coloured tent of the Colonel, commanding every foot of the +camp. + +"Yes," said a voice behind him, "and you'll find it just that way +throughout the army." + +Crittenden turned in surprise, and the ubiquitous Grafton went on as +though the little trick of thought-reading were too unimportant for +notice. + +"Let's go down and take a look at things. This is my last day," Grafton +went on, "and I'm out early. I go to Tampa to-morrow." + +All the day before, as he travelled, Crittenden had seen the station +thronged with eager countrymen--that must have been the way it was in +the old war, he thought--and swarmed the thicker the farther he went +south. And now, as the two started down the hill, he could see in the +dusty road that ran through the old battlefield Southern interest and +sympathy taking visible shape. For a hundred miles around, the human +swarm had risen from the earth and was moving toward him on wagon, +bicycle, horseback, foot; in omnibus, carriage, cart; in barges on +wheels, with projecting additions, and other land-craft beyond +classification or description. And the people--the American Southerners; +rich whites, whites well-to-do, poor white trash; good country folks, +valley farmers; mountaineers--darkies, and the motley feminine horde +that the soldier draws the world over--all moving along the road as far +as he could see, and interspersed here and there in the long, low cloud +of dust with a clanking troop of horse or a red rumbling battery--all +coming to see the soldiers--the soldiers! + +And the darkies! How they flocked and stared at their soldier-brethren +with pathetic worship, dumb admiration, and, here and there, with a look +of contemptuous resentment that was most curious. And how those dusky +sons of Mars were drinking deep into their broad nostrils the incense +wafted to them from hedge and highway. + +For a moment Grafton stopped still, looking. + +"Great!" + +Below the Majors' terrace stood an old sergeant, with a gray mustache +and a kind, blue eye. Each horse had his nose in a mouth-bag and was +contentedly munching corn, while a trooper affectionately curried him +from tip of ear to tip of tail. + +"Horse ever first and man ever afterward is the trooper's law," said +Grafton. + +"I suppose you've got the best colonel in the army," he added to the +soldier and with a wink at Crittenden. + +"Yes, sir," said the guileless old Sergeant, quickly, and with perfect +seriousness. "We have, sir, and I'm not sayin' a wor-rd against the +rest, sir." + +The Sergeant's voice was as kind as his face, and Grafton soon learned +that he was called "the Governor" throughout the regiment--that he was a +Kentuckian and a sharpshooter. He had seen twenty-seven years of +service, and his ambition had been to become a sergeant of ordnance. He +passed his examination finally, but he was then a little too old. That +almost broke the Sergeant's heart, but the hope of a fight, now, was +fast healing it. + +"I'm from Kentucky, too," said Crittenden. The old soldier turned +quickly. + +"I knew you were, sir." + +This was too much for Grafton. "Now-how-on-earth--" and then he checked +himself--it was not his business. + +"You're a Crittenden." + +"That's right," laughed the Kentuckian. The Sergeant turned. A soldier +came up and asked some trifling question, with a searching look, Grafton +observed, at Crittenden. Everyone looked at that man twice, thought +Grafton, and he looked again himself. It was his manner, his bearing, +the way his head was set on his shoulders, the plastic force of his +striking face. But Crittenden saw only that the Sergeant answered the +soldier as though he were talking to a superior. He had been watching +the men closely--they might be his comrades some day--and, already, had +noticed, with increasing surprise, the character of the men whom he saw +as common soldiers--young, quiet, and above the average countryman in +address and intelligence--and this man's face surprised him still more, +as did his bearing. His face was dark, his eye was dark and penetrating +and passionate; his mouth was reckless and weak, his build was graceful, +and his voice was low and even--the voice of a gentleman; he was the +refined type of the Western gentleman-desperado, as Crittenden had +imagined it from fiction and hearsay. As the soldier turned away, the +old Sergeant saved him the question he was about to ask. + +"He used to be an officer." + +"Who--how's that?" asked Grafton, scenting "a story." + +The old Sergeant checked himself at once, and added cautiously: + +"He was a lieutenant in this regiment and he resigned. He just got back +to-day, and he has enlisted as a private rather than risk not getting to +Cuba at all. But, of course, he'll get his commission back again." The +Sergeant's manner fooled neither Grafton nor Crittenden; both respected +the old Sergeant's unwillingness to gossip about a man who had been his +superior, and Grafton asked no more questions. + +There was no idleness in that camp. Each man was busy within and without +the conical-walled tents in which the troopers lie like the spokes of a +wheel, with heads out like a covey of partridges. Before one tent sat +the tall soldier--Abe--and the boy, his comrade, whom Crittenden had +seen the night before. + +"Where's Reynolds?" asked Crittenden, smiling. + +"Guard-house," said the Sergeant, shaking his head. + +Not a scrap of waste matter was to be seen anywhere--not a piece of +paper--not the faintest odour was perceptible; the camp was as clean as +a Dutch kitchen. + +"And this is a camp of cavalry, mind you," said Grafton. "Ten minutes +after they have broken camp, you won't be able to tell that there has +been a man or horse on the ground, except for the fact that it will be +packed down hard in places. And I bet you that in a month they won't +have three men in the hospital." The old Sergeant nearly blushed with +pleasure. + +"An' I've got the best captain, too, sir," he said, as they turned away, +and Grafton laughed. + +"That's the way you'll find it all through the army. Each colonel and +each captain is always the best to the soldier, and, by the way," he +went on, "do you happen to know about this little United States regular +army?" + +"Not much." + +"I thought so. Germany knows a good deal--England, France, Prussia, +Russia--everybody knows but the American and the Spaniard. Just look at +these men. They're young, strong, intelligent--bully, good Americans. +It's an army of picked men--picked for heart, body, and brain. Almost +each man is an athlete. It is the finest body of men on God Almighty's +earth to-day, and everybody on earth but the American and the Spaniard +knows it. And how this nation has treated them. Think of that miserable +Congress--" Grafton waved his hands in impotent rage and ceased--Rivers +was calling them from the top of the hill. + +So all morning Crittenden watched the regimental unit at work. He took a +sabre lesson from the old Sergeant. He visited camps of infantry and +artillery and, late that afternoon, he sat on a little wooded hill, +where stood four draped, ghost-like statues--watching these units paint +pictures on a bigger canvas below him, of the army at work as a whole. + +Every green interspace below was thickly dotted with tents and rising +spirals of faint smoke; every little plain was filled with soldiers, at +drill. Behind him wheeled cannon and caisson and men and horses, +splashed with prophetic drops of red, wheeling at a gallop, halting, +unlimbering, loading, and firing imaginary shells at imaginary +Spaniards--limbering and off with a flash of metal, wheel-spoke and +crimson trappings at a gallop again; in the plain below were regiments +of infantry, deploying in skirmish-line, advancing by rushes; beyond +them sharpshooters were at target practice, and little bands of recruits +and awkward squads were everywhere. In front, rose cloud after cloud of +dust, and, under them, surged cloud after cloud of troopers at mounted +drill, all making ready for the soldier's work--to kill with mercy and +die without complaint. What a picture--what a picture! And what a rich +earnest of the sleeping might of the nation behind it all. Just under +him was going an "escort of the standard," which he could plainly see. +Across the long drill-ground the regiment--it was Rivers's +regiment--stood, a solid mass of silent, living statues, and it was a +brave sight that came now--that flash of sabres along the long length of +the drill-field, like one leaping horizontal flame. It was a regimental +acknowledgment of the honour of presentation to the standard, and +Crittenden raised his hat gravely in recognition of the same honour, +little dreaming that he was soon to follow that standard up a certain +Cuban hill. + +What a picture! + +There the nation was concentrating its power. Behind him that nation was +patching up its one great quarrel, and now a gray phantom stalked out of +the past to the music of drum and fife, and Crittenden turned sharply to +see a little body of men, in queer uniforms, marching through a camp of +regulars toward him. They were old boys, and they went rather slowly, +but they stepped jauntily and, in their natty old-fashioned caps and old +gray jackets pointed into a V-shape behind, they looked jaunty in spite +of their years. Not a soldier but paused to look at these men in gray, +who marched thus proudly through such a stronghold of blue, and were not +ashamed. Not a man joked or laughed or smiled, for all knew that they +were old Confederates in butter-nut, and once fighting-men indeed. All +knew that these men had fought battles that made scouts and Indian +skirmishes and city riots and, perhaps, any battles in store for them +with Spain but play by contrast for the tin soldier, upon whom the +regular smiles with such mild contempt; that this thin column had seen +twice the full muster of the seven thousand strong encamped there melt +away upon that very battlefield in a single day. And so the little +remnant of gray marched through an atmosphere of profound respect, and +on through a mist of memories to the rocky little point where the +Federal Virginian Thomas--"The Rock of Chickamauga"--stood against +seventeen fierce assaults of hill-swarming demons in butter-nut, whose +desperate valour has hardly a parallel on earth, unless it then and +there found its counterpart in the desperate courage of the brothers in +name and race whose lives they sought that day. They were bound to a +patriotic love-feast with their old enemies in blue--these men in +gray--to hold it on the hill around the four bronze statues that +Crittenden's State was putting up to her sons who fought on one or the +other side on that one battlefield, and Crittenden felt a clutch at his +heart and his eyes filled when the tattered old flag of the stars and +bars trembled toward him. Under its folds rode the spirit of gallant +fraternity--a little, old man with a grizzled beard and with stars on +his shoulders, his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle, his eyes +lifted dreamily upward--they called him the "bee-hunter," from that +habit of his in the old war--his father's old comrade, little Jerry +Carter. That was the man Crittenden had come South to see. Behind came a +carriage, in which sat a woman in widow's weeds and a tall girl in gray. +He did not need to look again to see that it was Judith, and, +motionless, he stood where he was throughout the ceremony, until he saw +the girl lift her hand and the veil fall away from the bronze symbols of +the soldier that was in her fathers and in his--stood resolutely still +until the gray figure disappeared and the veterans, blue and gray +intermingled, marched away. The little General was the last to leave, +and he rode slowly, as if overcome with memories. Crittenden took off +his hat and, while he hesitated, hardly knowing whether to make himself +known or not, the little man caught sight of him and stopped short. + +"Why--why, bless my soul, aren't you Tom Crittenden's son?" + +"Yes, sir," said Crittenden. + +"I knew it. Bless me, I was thinking of him just that moment--naturally +enough--and you startled me. I thought it was Tom himself." He grasped +the Kentuckian's hand warmly. + +"Yes," he said, studying his face. "You look just as he did when we +courted and camped and fought together." The tone of his voice moved +Crittenden deeply. "And you are going to the war--good--good! Your +father would be with me right now if he were alive. Come to see me right +away. I may go to Tampa any day." And, as he rode away, he stopped +again. + +"Of course you have a commission in the Legion." + +"No, sir. I didn't ask for one. I was afraid the Legion might not get to +Cuba." The General smiled. + +"Well, come to see me"--he smiled again--"we'll see--we'll see!" and he +rode on with his hands still folded on the pommel of his saddle and his +eyes still lifted, dreamily, upward. + +It was guard-mount and sunset when Crittenden, with a leaping heart, +reached Rivers's camp. The band was just marching out with a corps of +trumpeters, when a crash of martial music came across the hollow from +the camp on the next low hill, followed by cheers, which ran along the +road and were swollen into a mighty shouting when taken up by the camp +at the foot of the hill. Through the smoke and faint haze of the early +evening, moved a column of infantry into sight, headed by a band. + + "Tramp, tramp, tramp, + The boys are marching!" + +Along the brow of the hill, and but faintly seen through the smoky haze, +came the pendulum-like swing of rank after rank of sturdy legs, with +guidons fluttering along the columns and big, ghostly army wagons +rumbling behind. Up started the band at the foot of the hill with a +rousing march, and up started every band along the line, and through +madly cheering soldiers swung the regiment on its way to Tampa--magic +word, hope of every chafing soldier left behind--Tampa, the point of +embarkation for the little island where waited death or glory. + +Rivers was deeply dejected. + +"Don't you join any regiment yet," he said to Crittenden; "you may get +hung up here all summer till the war is over. If you want to get into +the fun for sure--wait. Go to Tampa and wait. You might come here, or go +there, and drill and watch for your chance." Which was the conclusion +Crittenden had already reached for himself. + +The sun sank rapidly now. Dusk fell swiftly, and the pines began their +nightly dirge for the many dead who died under them five and thirty +years ago. They had a new and ominous chant now to Crittenden--a chant +of premonition for the strong men about him who were soon to follow +them. Camp-fires began to glow out of the darkness far and near over +the old battlefield. + +Around a little fire on top of the hill, and in front of the Colonel's +tent, sat the Colonel, with kind Irish face, Irish eye, and Irish wit of +tongue. Near him the old Indian-fighter, Chaffee, with strong brow, deep +eyes, long jaw, firm mouth, strong chin--the long, lean face of a +thirteenth century monk who was quick to doff cowl for helmet. While +they told war-stories, Crittenden sat in silence with the majors three, +and Willings, the surgeon (whom he was to know better in Cuba), and +listened. Every now and then a horse would loom from the darkness, and a +visiting officer would swing into the light, and everybody would say: + +"How!" + +There is no humour in that monosyllable of good cheer throughout the +United States Army, and with Indian-like solemnity they said it, tin cup +in hand: + +"How!" + +Once it was Lawton, tall, bronzed, commanding, taciturn--but fluent when +he did speak--or Kent, or Sumner, or little Jerry Carter himself. And +once, a soldier stepped into the circle of firelight, his heels clicking +sharply together; and Crittenden thought an uneasy movement ran around +the group, and that the younger men looked furtively up as though to +take their cue from the Colonel. It was the soldier who had been an +officer once. The Colonel showed not a hint of consciousness, nor did +the impassive soldier to anybody but Crittenden, and with him it may +have been imagination that made him think that once, when the soldier +let his eye flash quite around the group, he flushed slightly when he +met Crittenden's gaze. Rivers shrugged his shoulders when Crittenden +asked about him later. + +"Black sheep, ... well-educated, brave, well-born most likely, came up +from the ranks, ... won a commission as sergeant fighting Indians, but +always in trouble--gambling, fighting, and so forth. Somebody in +Washington got him a lieutenancy, and while the commission was on its +way to him out West he got into a bar-room brawl. He resigned then, and +left the army. He was gentleman enough to do that. Now he's back. The +type is common in the army, and they often come back. I expect he has +decency enough to want to get killed. If he has, maybe he'll come out a +captain yet." + +By and by came "tattoo," and finally far away a trumpet sounded "taps"; +then another and another and another still. At last, when all were +through, "taps" rose once more out of the darkness to the left. This +last trumpeter had waited--he knew his theme and knew his power. The +rest had simply given the command: + +"Lights out!" + +Lights out of the soldier's camp, they said. Lights out of the soldier's +life, said this one, sadly; and out of Crittenden's life just now +something that once was dearer than life itself. + +"Love, good-night." + +Such the trumpet meant to one poet, and such it meant to many another +than Crittenden, doubtless, when he stretched himself on his +cot--thinking of Judith there that afternoon, and seeing her hand lift +to pull away the veil from the statues again. So it had always been with +him. One touch of her hand and the veil that hid his better self parted, +and that self stepped forth victorious. It had been thickening, fold on +fold, a long while now; and now, he thought sternly, the rending must be +done, and should be done with his own hands. And then he would go back +to thinking of her as he saw her last in the Bluegrass. And he wondered +what that last look and smile of hers could mean. Later, he moved in his +sleep--dreaming of that brave column marching for Tampa--with his mind's +eye on the flag at the head of the regiment, and a thrill about his +heart that waked him. And he remembered that it was the first time he +had ever had any sensation about the flag of his own land. But it had +come to him--awake and asleep--and it was genuine. + + + + +VI + + +It was mid-May now, and the leaves were full and their points were +drooping toward the earth. The woods were musical with the cries of +blackbirds as Crittenden drove toward the pike-gate, and the meadow was +sweet with the love-calls of larks. The sun was fast nearing the zenith, +and air and earth were lusty with life. Already the lane, lined with +locust-trees, brambles, wild rose-bushes, and young elders, was fragrant +with the promise of unborn flowers, and the turnpike, when he neared +town, was soft with the dust of many a hoof and wheel that had passed +over it toward the haze of smoke which rose over the first recruiting +camp in the State for the Spanish war. There was a big crowd in the +lovely woodland over which hung the haze, and the music of horn and drum +came forth to Crittenden's ears even that far away, and Raincrow raised +head and tail and quickened his pace proudly. + +For a week he had drilled at Chickamauga. He had done the work of a +plain soldier, and he liked it--liked his temporary comrades, who were +frankly men to men with him, in spite of his friendship with their +superiors on top of the hill. To the big soldier, Abe Long, the wag of +the regiment, he had been drawn with genuine affection. He liked Abe's +bunkie, the boy Sanders, who was from Maine, while Abe was a +Westerner--the lineal descendant in frame, cast of mind, and character +of the border backwoodsman of the Revolution. Reynolds was a bully, and +Crittenden all but had trouble with him; for he bullied the boy Sanders +when Abe was not around, and bullied the "rookies." Abe seemed to have +little use for him, but as he had saved the big soldier's life once in +an Indian fight, Abe stuck to him, in consequence, loyally. But +Blackford, the man who had been an officer once, had interested him +most; perhaps, because Blackford showed peculiar friendliness for him at +once. From Washington, Crittenden had heard not a word; nor from General +Carter, who had left Chickamauga before he could see him again. If, +within two days more, no word came, Crittenden had made up his mind to +go to Tampa, where the little General was, and where Rivers's regiment +had been ordered, and drill again and, as Rivers advised, await his +chance. + +The camp was like some great picnic or political barbecue, with the +smoking trenches, the burgoo, and the central feast of beef and mutton +left out. Everywhere country folks were gathering up fragments of lunch +on the thick grass, or strolling past the tents of the soldiers, or +stopping before the Colonel's pavilion to look upon the martial young +gentlemen who composed his staff, their beautiful horses, and the +Colonel's beautiful guests from the river city--the big town of the +State. Everywhere were young soldiers in twos and threes keeping step, +to be sure, but with eyes anywhere but to the front; groups lying on the +ground, chewing blades of bluegrass, watching pretty girls pass, and +lounging lazily; groups to one side, but by no means out of sight, +throwing dice or playing "craps"--the game dear to the darkey's heart. +On the outskirts were guards to gently challenge the visitor, but not +very stern sentinels were they. As Crittenden drove in, he saw one +pacing a shady beat with a girl on his arm. And later, as he stood by +his buggy, looking around with an amused sense of the playful contrast +it all was to what he had seen at Chickamauga, he saw another sentinel +brought to a sudden halt by a surprised exclamation from a girl, who was +being shown through the camp by a strutting lieutenant. The sentinel was +Basil and Phyllis was the girl. + +"Why, isn't that Basil?" she asked in an amazed tone--amazed because +Basil did not speak to her, but grinned silently. + +"Why, it is Basil; why--why," and she turned helplessly from private to +officer and back again. "Can't you speak to me, Basil?" + +Basil grinned again sheepishly. + +"Yes," he said, answering her, but looking straight at his superior, "I +can if the Lieutenant there will let me." Phyllis was indignant. + +"Let you!" she said, witheringly; and she turned on the hapless tyrant +at her side. + +"Now, don't you go putting on airs, just because you happen to have been +in the Legion a little longer than _some_ people. Of course, I'm going +to speak to my friends. I don't care where they are or what they happen +to be at the time, or who happens to think himself over them." + +And she walked up to the helpless sentinel with her hand outstretched, +while the equally helpless Lieutenant got very red indeed, and Basil +shifted his gun to a very unmilitary position and held out his hand. + +"Let me see your gun, Basil," she added, and the boy obediently handed +it over to her, while the little Lieutenant turned redder still. + +"You go to the guard-house for that, Crittenden," he said, quietly. +"Don't you know you oughtn't to give up your gun to anybody except your +commanding officer?" + +"Does he, indeed?" said the girl, just as quietly. "Well, I'll see the +Colonel." And Basil saluted soberly, knowing there was no guard-house +for him that night. + +"Anyhow," she added, "I'm the commanding officer here." And then the +gallant lieutenant saluted too. + +"You are, indeed," he said; and Phyllis turned to give Basil a parting +smile. + +Crittenden followed them to the Colonel's tent, which had a raised floor +and the good cheer of cigar-boxes, and of something under his cot that +looked like a champagne-basket; and he smiled to think of Chaffee's +Spartan-like outfit at Chickamauga. Every now and then a soldier would +come up with a complaint, and the Colonel would attend to him +personally. + +It was plain that the old ex-Confederate was the father of the regiment, +and was beloved as such; and Crittenden was again struck with the +contrast it all was to what he had just seen, knowing well, however, +that the chief difference was in the spirit in which regular and +volunteer approached the matter in hand. With one, it was a business +pure and simple, to which he was trained. With the other, it was a lark +at first, but business it soon would be, and a dashing business at that. +There was the same crowd before the tent--Judith, who greeted him with +gracious frankness, but with a humorous light in her eye that set him +again to wondering; and Phyllis and Phyllis's mother, Mrs. Stanton, who +no sooner saw Crittenden than she furtively looked at Judith with a +solicitude that was maternal and significant. + +There can be no better hot-bed of sentiment than the mood of man and +woman when the man is going to war; and if Mrs. Stanton had not shaken +that nugget of wisdom from her memories of the old war, she would have +known it anyhow, for she was blessed with a perennial sympathy for the +heart-troubles of the young, and she was as quick to apply a remedy to +the children of other people as she was to her own, whom, by the way, +she cured, one by one, as they grew old enough to love and suffer, and +learn through suffering what it was to be happy. And how other mothers +wondered how it was all done! In truth, her method--if she had a +conscious method--was as mysterious and as sure as is the way of nature; +and one could no more catch her nursing a budding passion here and there +than one could catch nature making the bluegrass grow. Everybody saw the +result; nobody saw just how it was done. That afternoon an instance was +at hand. Judith wanted to go home, and Mrs. Stanton, who had brought her +to camp, wanted to go to town. Phyllis, too, wanted to go home, and her +wicked little brother, Walter, who had brought her, climbed into +Basil's brake before her eyes, and, making a face at her, disappeared in +a cloud of dust. Of course, neither of the brothers nor the two girls +knew what was going on, but, a few minutes later, there was Basil +pleading with Mrs. Stanton to let him take Phyllis home, and there was +Crittenden politely asking the privilege of taking Judith into his +buggy. The girl looked embarrassed, but when Mrs. Stanton made a +gracious feint of giving up her trip to town, Judith even more +graciously declined to allow her, and, with a smile to Crittenden, as +though he were a conscious partner in her effort to save Mrs. Stanton +trouble, gave him her hand and was helped into the smart trap, with its +top pressed flat, its narrow seat and a high-headed, high-reined, +half-thoroughbred restive between the slender shafts; and a moment +later, smiled a good-by to the placid lady, who, with a sigh that was +half an envious memory, half the throb of a big, kind heart, turned to +her own carriage, assuring herself that it really was imperative for her +to drive to town, if for no other reason than to see that her +mischievous boy got out of town with the younger Crittenden's brake. + +Judith and Crittenden were out of the push of cart, carriage, wagon, and +street-car now, and out of the smoke and dust of the town, and +Crittenden pulled his horse down to a slow trot. The air was clear and +fragrant and restful. So far, the two had spoken scarcely a dozen words. +Crittenden was embarrassed--he hardly knew why--and Judith saw it, and +there was a suppressed smile at the corners of her mouth which +Crittenden did not see. + +"It's too bad." + +Crittenden turned suddenly. + +"It's a great pleasure." + +"For which you have Mrs. Stanton to thank. You would have got it for +yourself five--dear me; is it possible?--five years ago." + +"Seven years ago," corrected Crittenden, grimly. "I was more +self-indulgent seven years ago than I am now." + +"And the temptation was greater then." + +The smile at her mouth twitched her lips faintly, and still Crittenden +did not see; he was too serious, and he kept silent. + +The clock-like stroke of the horse's high-lifted feet came sharply out +on the hard road. The cushioned springs under them creaked softly now +and then, and the hum of the slender, glittering spokes was noiseless +and drowsy. + +"You haven't changed much," said Judith, "except for the better." + +"You haven't changed at all. You couldn't--for better or worse." + +Judith smiled dreamily and her eyes were looking backward--very far +backward. Suddenly they were shot with mischief. + +"Why, you really don't seem to--" she hesitated--"to like me any more." + +"I really don't--" Crittenden, too, hesitated--"don't like you any +more--not as I did." + +"You wrote me that." + +"Yes." + +The girl gave a low laugh. How often he had played this harmless little +part. But there was a cool self-possession about him that she had never +seen before. She had come home, prepared to be very nice to him, and she +was finding it easy. + +"And you never answered," said Crittenden. + +"No; and I don't know why." + +The birds were coming from shade and picket--for midday had been +warm--into the fields and along the hedges, and were fluttering from one +fence-rail to another ahead of them and piping from the bushes by the +wayside and the top of young weeds. + +"You wrote that you were--'getting over it.' In the usual way?" + +Crittenden glanced covertly at Judith's face. A mood in her like this +always made him uneasy. + +"Not in the usual way; I don't think it's usual. I hope not." + +"How, then?" + +"Oh, pride, absence--deterioration and other things." + +"Why, then?" + +Judith's head was leaning backward, her eyes were closed, but her face +seemed perfectly serious. + +"You told me to get over it." + +"Did I?" + +Crittenden did not deign to answer this, and Judith was silent a long +while. Then her eyes opened; but they were looking backward again, and +she might have been talking to herself. + +"I'm wondering," she said, "whether any woman ever really meant that +when she said it to a man whom she--" Crittenden turned quickly--"whom +she liked," added Judith as though she had not seen his movement. "She +may think it her duty to say it; she may say it because it is her duty; +but in her heart, I suppose, she wants him to keep on loving her just +the same--if she likes him--" Judith paused--"even more than a very +little. That's very selfish, but I'm afraid it's true." + +And Judith sighed helplessly. + +"I think you made it little enough that time," laughed Crittenden. "Are +you still afraid of giving me too much hope?" + +"I am afraid of nothing--now." + +"Thank you. You were ever too much concerned about me." + +"I was. Other men may have found the fires of my conscience smouldering +sometimes, but they were always ablaze whenever you came near. I liked +you better than the rest--better than all----" + +Crittenden's heart gave a faint throb and he finished the sentence for +her. + +"But one." + +"But one." + +And that one had been unworthy, and Judith had sent him adrift. She had +always been frank with Crittenden. That much he knew and no more--not +even the man's name; but how he had wondered who and where and what +manner of man he was! And how he had longed to see him! + +They were passing over a little bridge in a hollow where a cool current +of air struck them and the freshened odour of moistening green things in +the creek-bed--the first breath of the night that was still below the +cloudy horizon. + +"Deterioration," said Judith, almost sharply. "What did you mean by +that?" + +Crittenden hesitated, and she added: + +"Go on; we are no longer children." + +"Oh, it was nothing, or everything, just as you look at it. I made a +discovery soon after you went away. I found that when I fell short of +the standard you"--Crittenden spoke slowly--"had set for me, I got at +least mental relief. I _couldn't_ think of you until--until I had +recovered myself again." + +"So you----" + +"I used the discovery." + +"That was weak." + +"It was deliberate." + +"Then it was criminal." + +"Both, if you wish; but credit me with at least the strength to confess +and the grace to be ashamed. But I'm beginning all over again now--by +myself." + +He was flipping at one shaft with the cracker of his whip and not +looking at her, and Judith kept silent; but she was watching his face. + +"It's time," he went on, with slow humour. "So far, I've just missed +being what I should have been; doing what I should have done--by a +hair's breadth. I did pretty well in college, but thereafter, when +things begin to count! Law? I never got over the humiliation of my first +ridiculous failure. Business? I made a fortune in six weeks, lost it in +a month, and was lucky to get out without having to mortgage a farm. +Politics? Wharton won by a dozen votes. I just missed being what my +brother is now--I missed winning you--everything! Think of it! I am +five feet eleven and three-quarters, when I should have been full six +feet. I am the first Crittenden to fall under the line in a century. I +have been told"--he smiled--"that I have missed being handsome. There +again I believe I overthrow family tradition. My youth is going--to no +purpose, so far--and it looks as though I were going to miss life +hereafter as well as here, since, along with everything else, I have +just about missed faith." + +He was quite sincere and unsparing, but had Judith been ten years older, +she would have laughed outright. As it was, she grew sober and +sympathetic and, like a woman, began to wonder, for the millionth time, +perhaps, how far she had been to blame. + +"The comfort I have is that I have been, and still am, honest with +myself. I haven't done what I ought not and then tried to persuade +myself that it was right. I always knew it was wrong, and I did it +anyhow. And the hope I have is that, like the man in Browning's poem, I +believe I always try to get up again, no matter how often I stumble. I +sha'n't give up hope until I am willing to lie still. And I guess, after +all--" he lifted his head suddenly--"I haven't missed being a man." + +"And a gentleman," added Judith gently. + +"According to the old standard--no." Crittenden paused. + +The sound of buggy wheels and a fast-trotting horse rose behind them. +Raincrow lifted his head and quickened his pace, but Crittenden pulled +him in as Basil and Phyllis swept by. The two youngsters were in high +spirits, and the boy shook his whip back and the girl her +handkerchief--both crying something which neither Judith nor Crittenden +could understand. Far behind was the sound of another horse's hoofs, and +Crittenden, glancing back, saw his political enemy--Wharton--a girl by +his side, and coming at full speed. At once he instinctively gave half +the road, and Raincrow, knowing what that meant, shot out his feet and +Crittenden tightened the reins, not to check, but to steady him. The +head of the horse behind he could just see, but he went on talking +quietly. + +"I love that boy," pointing with his whip ahead. "Do you remember that +passage I once read you in Stevenson about his 'little brother'?" + +Judith nodded. + +The horse behind was creeping up now, and his open nostrils were visible +past the light hair blowing about Judith's neck. Crittenden spoke one +quiet word to his own horse, and Judith saw the leaders of his wrist +begin to stand out as Raincrow settled into the long reach that had +sent his sire a winner under many a string. + +"Well, I know what he meant--that boy never will. And that is as a man +should be. The hope of the race isn't in this buggy--it has gone on +before with Phyllis and Basil." + +Once the buggy wheels ran within an inch of a rather steep bank, and +straight ahead was a short line of broken limestone so common on +bluegrass turnpikes, but Judith had the Southern girl's trust and +courage, and seemed to notice the reckless drive as little as did +Crittenden, who made the wheels straddle the stones, when the variation +of an inch or two would have lamed his horse and overturned them. + +"Yes, they are as frank as birds in their love-making, and they will +marry with as little question as birds do when they nest. They will have +a house full of children--I have heard her mother say that was her +ambition and the ambition she had for her children; and they will live a +sane, wholesome, useful, happy life." + +The buggy behind had made a little spurt, and the horses were almost +neck and neck. Wharton looked ugly, and the black-eyed girl with fluffy +black hair was looking behind Judith's head at Crittenden and was +smiling. Not once had Judith turned her head, even to see who they were. +Crittenden hardly knew whether she was conscious of the race, but they +were approaching her gate now and he found out. + +"Shall I turn in?" he asked. + +"Go on," said Judith. + +There was a long, low hill before them, and up that Crittenden let +Raincrow have his full speed for the first time. The panting nostrils of +the other horse fell behind--out of sight--out of hearing. + +"And if he doesn't get back from the war, she will mourn for him +sincerely for a year or two and then----" + +"Marry someone else." + +"Why not?" + +That was what she had so often told him to do, and now he spoke as +though it were quite possible--even for him; and she was both glad and a +little resentful. + +At the top of the hill they turned. The enemy was trotting leisurely up +the slope, having given up the race earlier than they knew. Judith's +face was flushed. + +"I don't think you are so very old," she said. + +[Illustration: "Go on!" said Judith.] + +Crittenden laughed, and took off his hat very politely when they met the +buggy, but Wharton looked surly. The girl with the black hair looked +sharply at Judith, and then again at Crittenden, and smiled. She must +have cared little for her companion, Judith thought, or something for +Crittenden, and yet she knew that most women smiled at Crittenden, even +when they did not know him very well. Still she asked: "And the other +things--you meant other women?" + +"Yes, and no." + +"Why no?" + +"Because I have deceived nobody--not even myself--and Heaven knows I +tried that hard enough." + +"That was one?" she added, smiling. + +"I thought you knew me better than to ask such a question." + +Again Judith smiled--scanning him closely. + +"No, you aren't so very old--nor world-weary, after all." + +"No?" + +"No. And you have strong hands--and wrists. And your eyes are--" she +seemed almost embarrassed--"are the eyes of a good man, in spite of what +you say about yourself; and I would trust them. And it was very fine in +you to talk as you did when we were tearing up that hill a moment ago." + +Crittenden turned with a start of surprise. + +"Oh," he said, with unaffected carelessness. "You didn't seem to be very +nervous." + +"I trusted you." + +Crittenden had stopped to pull the self-opening gate, and he drove +almost at a slow walk through the pasture toward Judith's home. The sun +was reddening through the trees now. The whole earth was moist and +fragrant, and the larks were singing their last songs for that happy +day. Judith was quite serious now. + +"Do you know, I was glad to hear you say that you had got over your old +feeling for me. I feel so relieved. I have always felt so responsible +for your happiness, but I don't now, and it is _such_ a relief. Now you +will go ahead and marry some lovely girl and you will be happy and I +shall be happier--seeing it and knowing it." + +Crittenden shook his head. + +"No," he said, "something seems to have gone out of me, never to come +back." + +There was nobody in sight to open the yard gate, and Crittenden drove to +the stiles, where he helped Judith out and climbed back into his buggy. + +Judith turned in surprise. "Aren't you coming in?" + +"I'm afraid I haven't time." + +"Oh, yes, you have." + +A negro boy was running from the kitchen. + +"Hitch Mr. Crittenden's horse," she said, and Crittenden climbed out +obediently and followed her to the porch, but she did not sit down +outside. She went on into the parlour and threw open the window to let +the last sunlight in, and sat by it looking at the west. + +For a moment Crittenden watched her. He never realized before how much +simple physical beauty she had, nor did he realize the significance of +the fact that never until now had he observed it. She had been a spirit +before; now she was a woman as well. But he did note that if he could +have learned only from Judith, he would never have known that he even +had wrists or eyes until that day; and yet he was curiously unstirred by +the subtle change in her. He was busied with his own memories. + +"And I know it can never come back," he said, and he went on thinking as +he looked at her. "I wonder if you can know what it is to have somebody +such a part of your life that you never hear a noble strain of music, +never read a noble line of poetry, never catch a high mood from nature, +nor from your own best thoughts--that you do not imagine her by your +side to share your pleasure in it all; that you make no effort to better +yourself or help others; that you do nothing of which she could approve, +that you are not thinking of her--that really she is not the inspiration +of it all. That doesn't come but once. Think of having somebody so +linked with your life, with what is highest and best in you, that, when +the hour of temptation comes and overcomes, you are not able to think of +her through very shame. I wonder if _he_ loved you that way. I wonder if +you know what such love is." + +"It never comes but once," he said, in a low tone, that made Judith turn +suddenly. Her eyes looked as if they were not far from tears. + +A tiny star showed in the pink glow over the west-- + + "Starlight, star bright!" + +"Think of it. For ten years I never saw the first star without making +the same wish for you and me. Why," he went on, and stopped suddenly +with a little shame at making the confession even to himself, and at the +same time with an impersonal wonder that such a thing could be, "I used +to pray for you always--when I said my prayers--actually. And sometimes +even now, when I'm pretty hopeless and helpless and moved by some +memory, the old prayer comes back unconsciously and I find myself +repeating your name." + +For the moment he spoke as though not only that old love, but she who +had caused it, were dead, and the tone of his voice made her shiver. + +And the suffering he used to get--the suffering from trifles--the +foolish suffering from silly trifles! + +He turned now, for he heard Judith walking toward him. She was looking +him straight in the eyes and was smiling strangely. + +"I'm going to make you love me as you used to love me." + +Her lips were left half parted from the whisper, and he could have +stooped and kissed her--something that never in his life had he done--he +knew that--but the old reverence came back from the past to forbid him, +and he merely looked down into her eyes, flushing a little. + +"Yes," she said, gently. "And I think you are just tall enough." + +In a flash her mood changed, and she drew his head down until she could +just touch his forehead with her lips. It was a sweet bit of +motherliness--no more--and Crittenden understood and was grateful. + +"Go home now," she said. + + + + +VII + + +At Tampa--the pomp and circumstance of war. + +A gigantic hotel, brilliant with lights, music, flowers, women; halls +and corridors filled with bustling officers, uniformed from empty straps +to stars; volunteer and regular--easily distinguished by the ease of one +and the new and conscious erectness of the other; adjutants, millionaire +aids, civilian inspectors; gorgeous attaches--English, German, Swedish, +Russian, Prussian, Japanese--each wondrous to the dazzled republican +eye; Cubans with cigarettes, Cubans--little and big, war-like, with the +tail of the dark eye ever womanward, brave with machetes; on the divans +Cuban senoritas--refugees at Tampa--dark-eyed, of course, languid of +manner, to be sure, and with the eloquent fan, ever present, +omnipotent--shutting and closing, shutting and closing, like the wings +of a gigantic butterfly; adventurers, adventuresses; artists, +photographers; correspondents by the score--female correspondents; story +writers, novelists, real war correspondents, and real +draughtsmen--artists, indeed; and a host of lesser men with spurs yet +to win--all crowding the hotel day and night, night and day. + +And outside, to the sea--camped in fine white sand dust, under thick +stars and a hot sun--soldiers, soldiers everywhere, lounging through the +streets and the railway stations, overrunning the suburbs; +drilling--horseback and on foot--through clouds of sand; drilling at +skirmish over burnt sedge-grass and stunted and charred pine woods; +riding horses into the sea, and plunging in themselves like truant +schoolboys. In the bay a fleet of waiting transports, and all over dock, +camp, town, and hotel an atmosphere of fierce unrest and of eager +longing to fill those wooden hulks, rising and falling with such +maddening patience on the tide, and to be away. All the time, meanwhile, +soldiers coming in--more and more soldiers--in freight-box, day-coach, +and palace-car. + +That night, in the hotel, Grafton and Crittenden watched the crowd from +a divan of red plush, Grafton chatting incessantly. Around them moved +and sat the women of the "House of the Hundred Thousand"--officers' +wives and daughters and sisters and sweethearts and army +widows--claiming rank and giving it more or less consciously, according +to the rank of the man whom they represented. The big man with the +monocle and the suit of towering white from foot to crown was the +English naval attache. He stalked through the hotel as though he had the +British Empire at his back. + +"And he has, too," said Grafton. "You ought to see him go down the steps +to the cafe. The door is too low for him. Other tall people bend +forward--he always rears back." + +And the picturesque little fellow with the helmet was the English +military attache. Crittenden had seen him at Chickamauga, and Grafton +said they would hear of him in Cuba. The Prussian was handsome, and a +Count. The big, boyish blond was a Russian, and a Prince, as was the +quiet, modest, little Japanese--a mighty warrior in his own country. And +the Swede, the polite, the exquisite! + +"He wears a mustache guard. I offered him a cigar. He saluted: 'Thank +you,' he said. 'Nevare I schmoke.'" + +"They are the pets of the expedition," Grafton went on, "they and that +war-like group of correspondents over there. They'll go down on the +flag-ship, while we nobodies will herd together on one boat. But we'll +all be on the same footing when we get there." + +Just then a big man, who was sitting on the next divan twisting his +mustache and talking chiefly with his hands, rolled up and called +Grafton. + +"Huh!" he said. + +"Huh!" mimicked Grafton. + +"You don't know much about the army." + +"Six weeks ago I couldn't tell a doughboy officer from a cavalryman by +the stripe down his legs." + +The big man smiled with infinite pity and tolerance. + +"Therefore," said Grafton, "I shall not pass judgment, deliver expert +military opinions, and decide how the campaign ought to be +conducted--well, maybe for some days yet." + +"You've got to. You must have a policy--a Policy. I'll give you one." + +And he began--favoring monosyllables, dashes, exclamation points, pauses +for pantomime, Indian sign language, and heys, huhs, and humphs that +were intended to fill out sentences and round up elaborate argument. + +"There is a lot any damn fool can say, of course, hey? But you mustn't +say it, huh? Give 'em hell afterward." (Pantomime.) "That's right, ain't +it? Understand? Regular army all right." (Sign language.) "These damn +fools outside--volunteers, politicians, hey? Had best army in the world +at the close of the old war, see? Best equipped, you understand, huh? +Congress" (violent Indian sign language) "wanted to squash it--to +squash it--that's right, you understand, huh? Cut it down--cut it down, +see? Illustrate: Wanted 18,000 mules for this push, got 2,000, see? Same +principle all through; see? That's right! No good to say anything +now--people think you complain of the regular army, huh? Mustn't say +anything now--give 'em hell afterward--understand?" (More sign +language.) "Hell afterward. All right now, got your policy, go ahead." + +Grafton nodded basely, and without a smile: + +"Thanks, old man--thanks. It's very lucid." + +A little later Crittenden saw the stout civilian, Major Billings, fairly +puffing with pride, excitement, and a fine uniform of khaki, whom he had +met at Chickamauga; and Willings, the surgeon; and Chaffee, now a +brigadier; and Lawton, soon to command a division; and, finally, little +Jerry Carter, quiet, unassuming, dreamy, slight, old, but active, and +tough as hickory. The little general greeted Crittenden like a son. + +"I was sorry not to see you again at Chickamauga, but I started here +next day. I have just written you that there was a place on my staff for +you or your brother--or for any son of your father and my friend. I'll +write to Washington for you to-night, and you can report for duty +whenever you please." + +The little man made the astounding proposition as calmly as though he +were asking the Kentuckian to a lunch of bacon and hardtack, and +Crittenden flushed with gratitude and his heart leaped--his going was +sure now. Before he could stammer out his thanks, the general was gone. +Just then Rivers, who, to his great joy, had got at least that far, sat +down by him. He was much depressed. His regiment was going, but two +companies would be left behind. His colonel talked about sending him +back to Kentucky to bring down some horses, and he was afraid to go. + +"To think of being in the army as long as I have been, just for this +fight. And to think of being left here in this hell-hole all summer, and +missing all the fun in Cuba, not to speak of the glory and the game. We +haven't had a war for so long that glory will come easy now, and anybody +who does anything will be promoted. But it's missing the fight--the +fight--that worries me," and Rivers shook his head from side to side +dejectedly. "If my company goes, I'm all right; but if it doesn't, there +is no chance for me if I go away. I shall lose my last chance of +slipping in somewhere. I swear I'd rather go as a private than not at +all." + +This idea gave Crittenden a start, and made him on the sudden very +thoughtful. + +"Can you get me in as a private at the last minute?" he asked presently. + +"Yes," said Rivers, quickly, "and I'll telegraph you in plenty of time, +so that you can get back." + +Crittenden smiled, for Rivers's plan was plain, but he was thinking of a +plan of his own. + +Meanwhile, he drilled as a private each day. He was ignorant of the +Krag-Jorgensen, and at Chickamauga he had made such a laughable +exhibition of himself that the old Sergeant took him off alone one day, +and when they came back the Sergeant was observed to be smiling broadly. +At the first target practice thereafter, Crittenden stood among the +first men of the company, and the captain took mental note of him as a +sharpshooter to be remembered when they got to Cuba. With the drill he +had little trouble--being a natural-born horseman--so one day, when a +trooper was ill, he was allowed to take the sick soldier's place and +drill with the regiment. That day his trouble with Reynolds came. All +the soldiers were free and easy of speech and rather reckless with +epithets, and, knowing how little was meant, Crittenden merely +remonstrated with the bully and smilingly asked him to desist. + +"Suppose I don't?" + +Crittenden smiled again and answered nothing, and Reynolds mistook his +silence for timidity. At right wheel, a little later, Crittenden +squeezed the bully's leg, and Reynolds cursed him. He might have passed +that with a last warning, but, as they wheeled again, he saw Reynolds +kick Sanders so violently that the boy's eyes filled with tears. He went +straight for the soldier as soon as the drill was over. + +"Put up your guard." + +"Aw, go to----" + +The word was checked at his lips by Crittenden's fist. In a rage, +Reynolds threw his hand behind him, as though he would pull his +revolver, but his wrist was caught by sinewy fingers from behind. It was +Blackford, smiling into his purple face. + +"Hold on!" he said, "save that for a Spaniard." + +At once, as a matter of course, the men led the way behind the tents, +and made a ring--Blackford, without a word, acting as Crittenden's +second. Reynolds was the champion bruiser of the regiment and a boxer of +no mean skill, and Blackford looked anxious. + +"Worry him, and he'll lose his head. Don't try to do him up too +quickly." + +Reynolds was coarse, disdainful, and triumphant, but he did not look +quite so confident when Crittenden stripped and showed a white body, +closely jointed at shoulder and elbow and at knee and thigh, and +closely knit with steel-like tendons. The long muscles of his back +slipped like eels under his white skin. Blackford looked relieved. + +"Do you know the game?" + +"A little." + +"Worry him and wait till he loses his head--remember, now." + +"All right," said Crittenden, cheerfully, and turned and faced Reynolds, +smiling. + +"Gawd," said Abe Long. "He's one o' the fellows that laugh when they're +fightin'. They're worse than the cryin' sort--a sight worse." + +The prophecy in the soldier's tone soon came true. The smile never left +Crittenden's face, even when it was so bruised up that smiling was +difficult; but the onlookers knew that the spirit of the smile was still +there. Blackford himself was smiling now. Crittenden struck but for one +place at first--Reynolds's nose, which was naturally large and red, +because he could reach it every time he led out. The nose swelled and +still reddened, and Reynolds's small black eyes narrowed and flamed with +a wicked light. He fought with his skill at first, but those maddening +taps on his nose made him lose his head altogether in the sixth round, +and he senselessly rushed at Crittenden with lowered head, like a sheep. +Crittenden took him sidewise on his jaw as he came, and stepped aside. +Reynolds pitched to the ground heavily, and Crittenden bent over him. + +"You let that boy alone," he said, in a low voice, and then aloud and +calmly: + +"I don't like this, but it's in deference to your customs. I don't call +names, and I allow nobody to call me names; and if I have another +fight," Reynolds was listening now, "it won't be with my fists." + +"Well, Mister Man from Kentucky," said Abe, "I'd a damn sight ruther +you'd use a club on me than them fists; but there's others of us who +don't call names, and ain't called names; and some of us ain't easy +skeered, neither." + +"I wasn't threatening," said Crittenden, quickly, "but I have heard a +good deal of that sort of thing flying around, and I don't want to get +into this sort of a thing again." He looked steadily at the soldier, but +the eye of Abraham Long quailed not at all. Instead, a smile broke over +his face. + +"I got a drink waitin' fer you," he said; and Crittenden laughed. + +"Git up an' shake hands, Jim," said Abe, sternly, to Crittenden's +opponent, "an' let's have a drink." Reynolds got up slowly. + +"You gimme a damn good lickin,'" he said to Crittenden. "Shake!" + +Crittenden shook, and seconds and principals started for Long's tent. + +"Boys," he said to the others, "I'm sorry fer ye. I ain't got but four +drinks--and--" the old Sergeant was approaching; "and one more fer the +Governor." + +Rivers smiled broadly when he saw Crittenden at noon. + +"The 'Governor' told me," he said, "you couldn't do anything in this +regiment that would do you more good with officers and men. That fellow +has caused us more trouble than any other ten men in the regiment, and +you are the first man yet to get the best of him. If the men could elect +you, you'd be a lieutenant before to-morrow night." + +Crittenden laughed. + +"It was disgusting, but I didn't see any other way out of it." + +Tattoo was sounded. + +"Are you sure you can get me into the army at any time?" + +"Easy--as a private." + +"What regiment?" + +"Rough Riders or Regulars." + +"All right, then, I'll go to Kentucky for you." + +"No, old man. I was selfish enough to think it, but I'm not selfish +enough to do it. I won't have it." + +"But I want to go back. If I can get in at the last moment I should go +back anyhow to-night." + +"Really?" + +"Really. Just see that you let me know in time." + +Rivers grasped his hand. + +"I'll do that." + +Next morning rumours were flying. In a week, at least, they would sail. +And still regiments rolled in, and that afternoon Crittenden saw the +regiment come in for which Grafton had been waiting--a picturesque body +of fighting men and, perhaps, the most typical American regiment formed +since Jackson fought at New Orleans. At the head of it rode two men--one +with a quiet mesmeric power that bred perfect trust at sight, the other +with a kindling power of enthusiasm, and a passionate energy, mental, +physical, emotional, that was tireless; each a man among men, and both +together an ideal leader for the thousand Americans at their heels. +Behind them rode the Rough Riders--dusty, travel-stained troopers, +gathered from every State, every walk of labour and leisure, every +social grade in the Union--day labourer and millionaire, clerk and +clubman, college boys and athletes, Southern revenue officers and +Northern policemen; but most of them Westerners--Texan rangers, +sheriffs, and desperadoes--the men-hunters and the men-hunted; Indians; +followers of all political faiths, all creeds--Catholics, Protestants, +Jews; but cowboys for the most part; dare-devils, to be sure, but +good-natured, good-hearted, picturesque, fearless. And Americans--all! + +As the last troopers filed past, Crittenden followed them with his eyes, +and he saw a little way off Blackford standing with folded arms on the +edge of a cloud of dust and looking after them too, with his face set as +though he were buried deep in a thousand memories. He started when +Crittenden spoke to him, and the dark fire of his eyes flashed. + +"That's where I belong," he said, with a wave of his hand after the +retreating column. "I don't know one of them, and I know them all. I've +gone to college with some; I've hunted, fished, camped, drank, and +gambled with the others. I belong with them; and I'm going with them if +I can; I'm trying to get an exchange now." + +"Well, luck to you, and good-by," said Crittenden, holding out his hand. +"I'm going home to-night." + +"But you're coming back?" + +"Yes." + +Blackford hesitated. + +"Are you going to join this outfit?"--meaning his own regiment. + +"I don't know; this or the Rough Riders." + +"Well," Blackford seemed embarrassed, and his manner was almost +respectful, "if we go together, what do you say to our going as +'bunkies'?" + +"Sure!" + +"Thank you." + +The two men grasped hands. + +"I hope you will come back." + +"I'm sure to come back. Good-by." + +"Good-by, sir." + +The unconscious "sir" startled Crittenden. It was merely habit, of +course, and the fact that Crittenden was not yet enlisted, but there was +an unintended significance in the soldier's tone that made him wince. +Blackford turned sharply away, flushing. + + + + +VIII + + +Back in the Bluegrass, the earth was flashing with dew, and the air was +brilliant with a steady light that on its way from the sun was broken by +hardly a cloud. The woodland was alive with bird-wing and bird-song and, +under them, with the flash of metal and the joy of breaking camp. The +town was a mighty pedestal for flag-staffs. Everywhere flags were shaken +out. Main Street, at a distance, looked like a long lane of flowers in a +great garden--all blowing in a wind. Under them, crowds were +gathered--country people, negroes, and townfolk--while the town band +stood waiting at the gate of the park. The Legion was making ready to +leave for Chickamauga, and the town had made ready to speed its going. + +Out of the shady woodland, and into the bright sunlight, the young +soldiers came--to the music of stirring horn and drum--legs swinging +rhythmically, chins well set in, eyes to the front--wheeling into the +main street in perfect form--their guns a moving forest of glinting +steel--colonel and staff superbly mounted--every heart beating proudly +against every blue blouse, and sworn to give up its blood for the flag +waving over them--the flag the fathers of many had so bitterly fought +five and thirty years before. Down the street went the flash and glitter +and steady tramp of the solid columns, through waving flags and +handkerchiefs and mad cheers--cheers that arose before them, swelled +away on either side and sank out of hearing behind them as they +marched--through faces bravely smiling, when the eyes were full of +tears; faces tense with love, anxiety, fear; faces sad with bitter +memories of the old war. On the end of the first rank was the boy Basil, +file-leader of his squad, swinging proudly, his handsome face serious +and fixed, his eyes turning to right nor left--seeing not his mother, +proud, white, tearless; nor Crittenden, with a lump of love in his +throat; nor even little Phyllis--her pride in her boy-soldier swept +suddenly out of her aching heart, her eyes brimming, and her +handkerchief at her mouth to keep bravely back the sob that surged at +her lips. The station at last, and then cheers and kisses and sobs, and +tears and cheers again, and a waving of hands and flags and +handkerchiefs--a column of smoke puffing on and on toward the +horizon--the vanishing perspective of a rear platform filled with jolly, +reckless, waving, yelling soldiers, and the tragedy of the parting was +over. + +How every detail of earth and sky was seared deep into the memory of the +women left behind that afternoon--as each drove slowly homeward: for God +help the women in days of war! The very peace of heaven lay upon the +earth. It sank from the low, moveless clouds in the windless sky to the +sunlit trees in the windless woods, as still as the long shadows under +them. It lay over the still seas of bluegrass--dappled in woodland, +sunlit in open pasture--resting on low hills like a soft cloud of +bluish-gray, clinging closely to every line of every peaceful slope. +Stillness everywhere. Still cattle browsing in the distance; sheep +asleep in the far shade of a cliff, shadowing the still stream; even the +song of birds distant, faint, restful. Peace everywhere, but little +peace in the heart of the mother to whose lips was raised once more the +self-same cup that she had drained so long ago. Peace everywhere but for +Phyllis climbing the stairs to her own room and flinging herself upon +her bed in a racking passion of tears. God help the women in the days of +war! Peace from the dome of heaven to the heart of the earth, but a +gnawing unrest for Judith, who walked very slowly down the gravelled +walk and to the stiles, and sat looking over the quiet fields. Only in +her eyes was the light not wholly of sadness, but a proud light of +sacrifice and high resolve. Crittenden was coming that night. He was +going for good now; he was coming to tell her good-by; and he must not +go--to his death, maybe--without knowing what she had to tell him. It +was not much--it was very little, in return for his life-long +devotion--that she should at least tell him how she had wholly outgrown +her girlish infatuation--she knew now that it was nothing else--for the +one man who had stood in her life before him, and that now there was no +other--lover or friend--for whom she had the genuine affection that she +would always have for him. She would tell him frankly--she was a grown +woman now--because she thought she owed that much to him--because, under +the circumstances, she thought it was her duty; and he would not +misunderstand her, even if he really did not have quite the old feeling +for her. Then, recalling what he had said on the drive, she laughed +softly. It was preposterous. She understood all that. He had acted that +little part so many times in by-gone years! And she had always pretended +to take him seriously, for she would have given him mortal offence had +she not; and she was pretending to take him seriously now. And, anyhow, +what could he misunderstand? There was nothing to misunderstand. + +And so, during her drive home, she had thought all the way of him and +of herself since both were children--of his love and his long +faithfulness, and of her--her--what? Yes--she had been something of a +coquette--she had--she _had_; but men had bothered and worried her, and, +usually, she couldn't help acting as she had. She was so sorry for them +all that she had really tried to like them all. She had succeeded but +once--and even that was a mistake. But she remembered one thing: through +it all--far back as it all was--she had never trifled with Crittenden. +Before him she had dropped foil and mask and stood frankly face to face +always. There was something in him that had always forced that. And he +had loved her through it all, and he had suffered--how much, it had +really never occurred to her until she thought of a sudden that he must +have been hurt as had she--hurt more; for what had been only infatuation +with her had been genuine passion in him; and the months of her +unhappiness scarcely matched the years of his. There was none other in +her life now but him, and, somehow, she was beginning to feel there +never would be. If there were only any way that she could make amends. + +Never had she thought with such tenderness of him. How strong and brave +he was; how high-minded and faithful. And he was good, in spite of all +that foolish talk about himself. And all her life he had loved her, and +he had suffered. She could see that he was still unhappy. If, then, +there was no other, and was to be no other, and if, when he came back +from the war--why not? + +Why not? + +She felt a sudden warmth in her cheeks, her lips parted, and as she +turned from the sunset her eyes had all its deep tender light. + +Dusk was falling, and already Raincrow and Crittenden were jogging along +toward her at that hour--the last trip for either for many a day--the +last for either in life, maybe--for Raincrow, too, like his master, was +going to war--while Bob, at home, forbidden by his young captain to +follow him to Chickamauga, trailed after Crittenden about the place with +the appealing look of a dog--enraged now and then by the taunts of the +sharp-tongued Molly, who had the little confidence in the courage of her +fellows that marks her race. + +Judith was waiting for him on the porch, and Crittenden saw her from +afar. + +She was dressed for the evening in pure white--delicate, filmy--showing +her round white throat and round white wrists. Her eyes were soft and +welcoming and full of light; her manner was playful to the point of +coquetry; and in sharp contrast, now and then, her face was intense +with thought. A faint, pink light was still diffused from the afterglow, +and she took him down into her mother's garden, which was old-fashioned +and had grass-walks running down through it--bordered with pink beds and +hedges of rose-bushes. And they passed under a shadowed grape-arbour and +past a dead locust-tree, which a vine had made into a green tower of +waving tendrils, and from which came the fragrant breath of wild grape, +and back again to the gate, where Judith reached down for an +old-fashioned pink and pinned it in his button-hole, talking with low, +friendly affection meanwhile, and turning backward the leaves of the +past rapidly. + +Did he remember this--and that--and that? Memories--memories--memories. +Was there anything she had let go unforgotten? And then, as they +approached the porch in answer to a summons to supper, brought out by a +little negro girl, she said: + +"You haven't told me what regiment you are going with." + +"I don't know." + +Judith's eyes brightened. "I'm so glad you have a commission." + +"I have no commission." + +Judith looked puzzled. "Why, your mother----" + +"Yes, but I gave it to Basil." And he explained in detail. He had asked +General Carter to give the commission to Basil, and the General had said +he would gladly. And that morning the Colonel of the Legion had promised +to recommend Basil for the exchange. This was one reason why he had come +back to the Bluegrass. Judith's face was growing more thoughtful while +he spoke, and a proud light was rising in her eyes. + +"And you are going as----" + +"As a private." + +"With the Rough Riders?" + +"As a regular--a plain, common soldier, with plain, common soldiers. I +am trying to be an American now--not a Southerner. I've been drilling at +Tampa and Chickamauga with the regulars." + +"You are much interested?" + +"More than in anything for years." + +She had seen this, and she resented it, foolishly, she knew, and without +reason--but, still, she resented it. + +"Think of it," Crittenden went on. "It is the first time in my life, +almost, I have known what it was to wish to do something--to have a +purpose--that was not inspired by you." It was an unconscious and rather +ungracious declaration of independence--it was unnecessary--and Judith +was surprised, chilled--hurt. + +"When do you go?" + +Crittenden pulled a telegram from his pocket. + +"To-morrow morning. I got this just as I was leaving town." + +"To-morrow!" + +"It means life or death to me--this telegram. And if it doesn't mean +life, I don't care for the other. I shall come out with a commission +or--not at all. If dead, I shall be a hero--if alive," he smiled, "I +don't know what I'll be, but think of me as a hero, dead or alive, with +my past and my present. I can feel a change already, a sort of growing +pain, at the very thought." + +"When do you go to Cuba?" + +"Within four days." + +"Four days! And you can talk as you do, when you are going to war to +live the life of a common soldier--to die of fever, to be killed, +maybe," her lip shook and she stopped, but she went on thickly, "and be +thrown into an unknown grave or lie unburied in a jungle." She spoke +with such sudden passion that Crittenden was startled. + +"Listen!" + +Judge Page appeared in the doorway, welcoming Crittenden with old-time +grace and courtesy. Through supper, Judith was silent and thoughtful +and, when she did talk, it was with a perceptible effort. There was a +light in her eyes that he would have understood once--that would have +put his heart on fire. And once he met a look that he was wholly at loss +to understand. After supper, she disappeared while the two men smoked on +the porch. The moon was rising when she came out again. The breath of +honeysuckles was heavy on the air, and from garden and fields floated +innumerable odours of flower and clover blossom and moist grasses. +Crittenden lived often through that scene afterward--Judith on the +highest step of the porch, the light from the hallway on her dress and +her tightly folded hands; her face back in shadow, from which her eyes +glowed with a fire in them that he had never seen before. + +Judge Page rose soon to go indoors. He did not believe there was going +to be much of a war, and his manner was almost cheery when he bade the +young man good-by. + +"Good luck to you," he said. "If the chance comes, you will give a good +account of yourself. I never knew a man of your name who didn't." + +"Thank you, sir." + +There was a long silence. + +"Basil will hardly have time to get his commission, and get to Tampa." + +"No. But he can come after us." + +She turned suddenly upon him. + +"Yes--something has happened to you. I didn't know what you meant that +day we drove home, but I do now. I feel it, but I don't understand." + +Crittenden flushed, but made no answer. + +"You could not have spoken to me in the old days as you do now. Your +instinct would have held you back. And something has happened to me." +Then she began talking to him as frankly and simply as a child to a +child. It was foolish and selfish, but it had hurt her when he told her +that he no longer had his old feeling for her. It was selfish and cruel, +but it was true, however selfish and cruel it seemed, and was--but she +had felt hurt. Perhaps that was vanity, which was not to her credit--but +that, too, she could not help. It had hurt her every time he had said +anything from which she could infer that her influence over him was less +than it once was--although, as a rule, she did not like to have +influence over people. Maybe he wounded her as his friend in this way, +and perhaps there was a little vanity in this, too--but a curious change +was taking place in their relations. Once he was always trying to please +her, and in those days she would have made him suffer if he had spoken +to her then as he had lately--but he would not have spoken that way +then. And now she wondered why she was not angry instead of being hurt. +And she wondered why she did not like him less. Somehow, it seemed +quite fair that she should be the one to suffer now, and she was glad to +take her share--she had caused him and others so much pain. + +"_He_"--not even now did she mention his name--"wrote to me again, not +long ago, asking to see me again. It was impossible. And it was the +thought of you that made me know how impossible it was--_you_." The girl +laughed, almost hardly, but she was thinking of herself when she +did--not of him. + +The time and circumstance that make woman the thing apart in a man's +life must come sooner or later to all women, and women must yield; she +knew that, but she had never thought they could come to her--but they +had come, and she, too, must give way. + +"It is all very strange," she said, as though she were talking to +herself, and she rose and walked into the warm, fragrant night, and down +the path to the stiles, Crittenden silently following. The night was +breathless and the moonlit woods had the still beauty of a dream; and +Judith went on speaking of herself as she had never done--of the man +whose name she had never mentioned, and whose name Crittenden had never +asked. Until that night, he had not known even whether the man were +still alive or dead. She had thought that was love--until lately she +had never questioned but that when that was gone from her heart, all was +gone that would ever be possible for her to know. That was why she had +told Crittenden to conquer his love for her. And now she was beginning +to doubt and to wonder--ever since she came back and heard him at the +old auditorium--and why and whence the change now? That puzzled her. One +thing was curious--through it all, as far back as she could remember, +her feeling for him had never changed, except lately. Perhaps it was an +unconscious response in her to the nobler change that in spite of his +new hardness her instinct told her was at work in him. + +She was leaning on the fence now, her elbow on the top plank, her hand +under her chin, and her face uplifted--the moon lighting her hair, her +face, and eyes, and her voice the voice of one slowly threading the +mazes of a half-forgotten dream. Crittenden's own face grew tense as he +watched her. There was a tone in her voice that he had hungered for all +his life; that he had never heard but in his imaginings and in his +dreams; that he had heard sounding in the ears of another and sounding +at the same time the death-knell of the one hope that until now had made +effort worth while. All evening she had played about his spirit as a +wistful, changeful light will play over the fields when the moon is +bright and clouds run swiftly. She turned on him like a flame now. + +"Until lately," she was saying, and she was not saying at all what she +meant to say; but here lately a change was taking place; something had +come into her feeling for him that was new and strange--she could not +understand--perhaps it had always been there; perhaps she was merely +becoming conscious of it. And when she thought, as she had been thinking +all day, of his long years of devotion--how badly she had requited +them--it seemed that the least she could do was to tell him that he was +now first in her life of all men--that much she could say; and perhaps +he had always been, she did not know; perhaps, now that the half-gods +were gone, it was at last the coming of the--the--She was deeply +agitated now; her voice was trembling; she faltered, and she turned +suddenly, sharply, and with a little catch in her breath, her lips and +eyes opening slowly--her first consciousness, perhaps, a wonder at his +strange silence--and dazed by her own feeling and flushing painfully, +she looked at him for the first time since she began to talk, and she +saw him staring fixedly at her with a half-agonized look, as though he +were speechlessly trying to stop her, his face white, bitter, shamed, +helpless, Not a word more dropped from her lips--not a sound. She +moved; it seemed that she was about to fall, and Crittenden started +toward her, but she drew herself erect, and, as she turned--lifting her +head proudly--the moonlight showed that her throat was drawn--nothing +more. Motionless and speechless, Crittenden watched her white shape move +slowly and quietly up the walk and grow dim; heard her light, even step +on the gravel, up the steps, across the porch, and through the doorway. +Not once did she look around. + + * * * * * + +He was in his room now and at his window, his face hard as stone when +his heart was parching for tears. It was true, then. He was the brute he +feared he was. He had killed his life, and he had killed his +love--beyond even her power to recall. His soul, too, must be dead, and +it were just as well that his body die. And, still bitter, still shamed +and hopeless, he stretched out his arms to the South with a fierce +longing for the quick fate--no matter what--that was waiting for him +there. + + + + +IX + + +By and by bulletins began to come in to the mother at Canewood from her +boy at Tampa. There was little psychology in Basil's bulletin: + + "I got here all right. My commission hasn't come, and I've joined + the Rough Riders, for fear it won't get here in time. The Colonel + was very kind to me--called me Mister. + + "I've got a lieutenant's uniform of khaki, but I'm keeping it out + of sight. I may have no use for it. I've got two left spurs, and + I'm writing in the Waldorf-Astoria. I like these Northern fellows; + they are gentlemen and plucky--I can see that. Very few of them + swear. I wish I knew where brother is. The Colonel calls everybody + Mister--even the Indians. + + "Word comes to-night that we are to be off to the front. Please + send me a piece of cotton to clean my gun. And please be easy about + me--do be easy. And if you insist on giving me a title, don't call + me Private--call me _Trooper_. + + "Yes, we are going; the thing is serious. We are all packed up now; + have rolled up camping outfit and are ready to start. + + "Baggage on the transport now, and we sail this afternoon. Am sorry + to leave all of you, and I have a tear in my eye now that I can't + keep back. It isn't a summer picnic, and I don't feel like shouting + when I think of home; but I'm always lucky, and I'll come out all + right. I'm afraid I sha'n't see brother at all. I tried to look + cheerful for my picture (enclosed). Good-by. + + "Some delay; actually on board and steam up. + + "Waiting--waiting--waiting. It's bad enough to go to Cuba in boats + like these, but to lie around for days is trying. No one goes + ashore, and I can hear nothing of brother. I wonder why the General + didn't give him that commission instead of me. There is a curious + sort of fellow here, who says he knows brother. His name is + Blackford, and he is very kind to me. He used to be a regular, and + he says he thinks brother took his place in the --th and is a + regular now himself--a private; I don't understand. There is mighty + little Rough Riding about this. + + "P. S.--My bunkie is from Boston--Bob Sumner. His father _commanded + a negro regiment in a fight once against my father_; think of it! + + "Hurrah! we're off." + +It was a tropical holiday--that sail down to Cuba--a strange, huge +pleasure-trip of steamships, sailing in a lordly column of three; at +night, sailing always, it seemed, in a harbour of brilliant lights under +multitudinous stars and over thickly sown beds of tiny phosphorescent +stars that were blown about like flowers in a wind-storm by the frothing +wake of the ships; by day, through a brilliant sunlit sea, a cool +breeze--so cool that only at noon was the heat tropical--and over smooth +water, blue as sapphire. Music night and morning, on each ship, and +music coming across the little waves at any hour from the ships about. +Porpoises frisking at the bows and chasing each other in a circle around +bow and stern as though the transports sat motionless; schools of +flying-fish with filmy, rainbow wings rising from one wave and +shimmering through the sunlight to the foamy crest of another--sometimes +hundreds of yards away. Beautiful clear sunsets of rose, gold-green, and +crimson, with one big, pure radiant star ever like a censor over them; +every night the stars more deeply and thickly sown and growing ever +softer and more brilliant as the boats neared the tropics; every day +dawn rich with beauty and richer for the dewy memories of the dawns that +were left behind. + +Now and then a little torpedo-boat would cut like a knife-blade through +the water on messenger service; or a gunboat would drop lightly down the +hill of the sea, along the top of which it patrolled so vigilantly; and +ever on the horizon hung a battle-ship that looked like a great gray +floating cathedral. But nobody was looking for a fight--nobody thought +the Spaniard would fight--and so these were only symbols of war; and +even they seemed merely playing the game. + +It was as Grafton said. Far ahead went the flag-ship with the huge +Commander-in-Chief and his staff, the gorgeous attaches, and the artists +and correspondents, with valets, orderlies, stenographers, and +secretaries. Somewhere, far to the rear, one ship was filled with +newspaper men from stem to stern. But wily Grafton was with Lawton and +Chaffee, the only correspondent aboard their transport. On the second +day, as he sat on the poop-deck, a negro boy came up to him, grinning +uneasily: + +"I seed you back in ole Kentuck, suh." + +"You did? Well, I don't remember seeing you. What do you want?" + +"Captain say he gwine to throw me overboard." + +"What for?" + +"I ain't got no business here, suh." + +"Then what are you here for?" + +"Lookin' fer Ole Cap'n, suh." + +"Ole Cap'n who?" said Grafton, mimicking. + +"Cap'n Crittenden, suh." + +"Well, if you are his servant, I suppose they won't throw you overboard. +What's your name?" + +"Bob, suh--Bob Crittenden." + + +"Crittenden," repeated Grafton, smiling. "Oh, yes, I know him; I should +say so! So he's a Captain?" + +"Yes, suh," said Bob, not quite sure whether he was lying or not. + +Grafton spoke to an officer, and was allowed to take Bob for his own +servant, though the officer said he did not remember any captain of that +name in the --th. To the newspaper man, Bob was a godsend; for humour +was scarce on board, and "jollying" Bob was a welcome diversion. He +learned many things of Crittenden and the Crittendens, and what great +people they had always been and still were; but at a certain point Bob +was evasive or dumb--and the correspondent respected the servant's +delicacy about family affairs and went no further along that line--he +had no curiosity, and was questioning idly and for fun, but treated Bob +kindly and, in return, the fat of the ship, through Bob's keen eye and +quick hand, was his, thereafter, from day to day. + +Grafton was not storing up much material for use; but he would have been +much surprised if he could have looked straight across to the deck of +the ship running parallel to his and have seen the dignified young +statesman whom he had heard speak at the recruiting camp in Kentucky; +who made him think of Henry Clay; whom he had seen whisking a beautiful +girl from the camp in the smartest turn-out he had seen South--had seen +him now as Private Crittenden, with his fast friend, Abe Long, and +passing in his company because of his bearing under a soubriquet donated +by his late enemy, Reynolds, as "Old Hamlet of Kentuck." And Crittenden +would have been surprised had he known that the active darky whom he saw +carrying coffee and shoes to a certain stateroom was none other than Bob +waiting on Grafton. And that the Rough Rider whom he saw scribbling on a +pad in the rigging of the _Yucatan_ was none other than Basil writing +one of his bulletins home. + +It was hard for him to believe that he really was going to war, even +now, when the long sail was near an end and the ships were running +fearlessly along the big, grim coast-mountains of Cuba, with bands +playing and colors to the breeze; hard to realize that he was not to +land in peace and safety and, in peace and safety, go back as he came; +that a little further down those gashed mountains, showing ever clearer +through the mist, were men with whom the quiet officers and men around +him would soon be in a death-grapple. The thought stirred him, and he +looked around at the big, strong fellows--intelligent, orderly, +obedient, good-natured, and patient; patient, restless, and sick as they +were from the dreadful hencoop life they had led for so many +days--patient beyond words. He had risen early that morning. The rose +light over the eastern water was whitening, and all over the deck his +comrades lay asleep, their faces gray in the coming dawn and their +attitudes suggesting ghastly premonitions--premonitions that would come +true fast enough for some of the poor fellows--perhaps for him. Stepping +between and over the prostrate bodies, he made his way forward and +leaned over the prow, with his hat in his hand and his hair blowing back +from his forehead. + +Already his face had suffered a change. For more than three long weeks +he had been merely a plain man among plain men. At once when he became +Private Crittenden, No. 63, Company C, --th United States Regular +Cavalry, at Tampa, he was shorn of his former estate as completely as +though in the process he had been wholly merged into some other man. The +officers, at whose table he had once sat, answered his salute precisely +as they answered any soldier's. He had seen Rivers but seldom--but once +only on the old footing, and that was on the night he went on board, +when Rivers came to tell him good-by and to bitterly bemoan the luck +that, as was his fear from the beginning, had put him among the +ill-starred ones chosen to stay behind at Tampa and take care of the +horses; as hostlers, he said, with deep disgust, adding hungrily: + +"I wish I were in your place." + +With the men, Crittenden was popular, for he did his work thoroughly, +asked no favors, shirked no duties. There were several officers' sons +among them working for commissions, and, naturally, he drifted to them, +and he found them all good fellows. Of Blackford, he was rather wary, +after Rivers's short history of him, but as he was friendly, unselfish, +had a high sense of personal honour, and a peculiar reverence for women, +Crittenden asked no further questions, and was sorry, when he came back +to Tampa, to find him gone with the Rough Riders. With Reynolds, he was +particularly popular, and he never knew that the story of the Tampa +fight had gone to all the line officers of the regiment, and that nearly +every one of them knew him by sight and knew his history. Only once from +an officer, however, and steadily always from the old Sergeant, could he +feel that he was regarded in a different light from the humblest soldier +in the ranks--which is just what he would have asked. The Colonel had +cast an envious eye on Raincrow at Tampa, and, straightway, he had taken +the liberty of getting the Sergeant to take the horse to the Colonel's +tent with the request that he use him throughout the campaign. The horse +came back with the Colonel's thanks; but, when the order came that the +cavalry was to go unmounted, the Colonel sent word that he would take +the horse now, as the soldier could not use him. So Raincrow was aboard +the ship, and the old Colonel, coming down to look at the horse one day, +found Crittenden feeding him, and thanked him and asked him how he was +getting along; and, while there was a smile about his humorous mouth, +there was a kindly look in his blue eyes that pleased Crittenden +mightily. As for the old Sergeant, he could never forget that the +soldier was a Crittenden--one of his revered Crittendens. And, while he +was particularly stern with him in the presence of his comrades, for +fear that he might be betrayed into showing partiality--he was always +drifting around to give him a word of advice and to shake his head over +the step that Crittenden had taken. + +That step had made him good in body and soul. It made him lean and +tanned; it sharpened and strengthened his profile; it cleared his eye +and settled his lips even more firmly. Tobacco and liquor were scarce, +and from disuse he got a new sensation of mental clearness and physical +cleanliness that was comforting and invigorating, and helped bring back +the freshness of his boyhood. + +For the first time in many years, his days were full of work and, +asleep, awake, or at work, his hours were clock-like and steadied him +into machine-like regularity. It was work of his hands, to be sure, and +not even high work of that kind, but still it was work. And the measure +of the self-respect that this fact alone brought him was worth it all. +Already, his mind was taking character from his body. He was distinctly +less morbid and he found himself thinking during those long days of the +sail of what he should do after the war was over. His desire to get +killed was gone, and it was slowly being forced on him that he had been +priggish, pompous, self-absorbed, hair-splitting, lazy, +good-for-nothing, when there was no need for him to be other than what +he meant to be when he got back. And as for Judith, he felt the +bitterness of gall for himself when he thought of her, and he never +allowed himself to think of her except to absolve her, as he knew she +would not absolve herself, and to curse himself heartily and bitterly. +He understood now. It was just her thought of his faithfulness, her +feeling of responsibility for him--the thought that she had not been as +kind to him as she might have been (and she had always been kinder than +he deserved)--all this had loosed her tears and her self-control, and +had thrown her into a mood of reckless self-sacrifice. And when she +looked up into his face that night of the parting, he felt her looking +into his soul and seeing his shame that he had lost his love because he +had lost himself, and she was quite right to turn from him, as she did, +without another word. Already, however, he was healthy enough to believe +that he was not quite so hopeless as she must think him--not as hopeless +as he had thought himself. Life, now, with even a soldier's work, was +far from being as worthless as life with a gentleman's idleness had +been. He was honest enough to take no credit for the clean change in his +life--no other life was possible; but he was learning the practical +value and mental comfort of straight living as he had never learned +them before. And he was not so prone to metaphysics and morbid +self-examination as he once was, and he shook off a mood of that kind +when it came--impatiently--as he shook it off now. He was a soldier now, +and his province was action and no more thought than his superiors +allowed him. And, standing thus, at sunrise, on the plunging bow of the +ship, with his eager, sensitive face splitting the swift wind--he might +have stood to any thoughtful American who knew his character and his +history as a national hope and a national danger. The nation, measured +by its swift leap into maturity, its striking power to keep going at the +same swift pace, was about his age. South, North, and West it had lived, +or was living, his life. It had his faults and his virtues; like him, it +was high-spirited, high-minded, alert, active, manly, generous, and with +it, as with him, the bad was circumstantial, trivial, incipient; the +good was bred in the Saxon bone and lasting as rock--if the surface evil +were only checked in time and held down. Like him, it needed, like a +Titan, to get back, now and then, to the earth to renew its strength. +And the war would send the nation to the earth as it would send him, if +he but lived it through. + +There was little perceptible change in the American officer and +soldier, now that the work was about actually to begin. A little more +soberness was apparent. Everyone was still simple, natural, +matter-of-fact. But that night, doubtless, each man dreamed his dream. +The West Point stripling saw in his empty shoulder-straps a single bar, +as the man above him saw two tiny bars where he had been so proud of +one. The Captain led a battalion, the Major charged at the head of a +thousand strong; the Colonel plucked a star, and the Brigadier heard the +tramp of hosts behind him. And who knows how many bold spirits leaped at +once that night from acorns to stars; and if there was not more than one +who saw himself the war-god of the anxious nation behind--saw, maybe, +even the doors of the White House swing open at the conquering sound of +his coming feet. And, through the dreams of all, waved aimlessly the +mighty wand of the blind master--Fate--giving death to a passion for +glory here; disappointment bitter as death to a noble ambition there; +and there giving unsought fame where was indifference to death; and +then, to lend substance to the phantom of just deserts, giving a mortal +here and there the exact fulfilment of his dream. + +Two toasts were drunk that night--one by the men who were to lead the +Rough Riders of the West. + +"May the war last till each man meets death, wears a wound, or wins +himself better spurs." + +And, in the hold of the same ship, another in whiskey from a tin cup +between two comrades: + +"Bunkie," said Blackford, to a dare-devil like himself, "welcome to the +Spanish bullet that knocks for entrance here"--tapping his heart. Basil +struck the cup from his hand, and Blackford swore, laughed, and put his +arm around the boy. + + + + +X + + +Already now, the first little fight was going on, and Grafton, the last +newspaper man ashore, was making for the front--with Bob close at his +heels. It was hot, very hot, but the road was a good, hard path of clean +sand, and now and then a breeze stirred, or a light, cool rain twinkled +in the air. On each side lay marsh, swamp, pool, and tropical +jungle--and, to Grafton's Northern imagination, strange diseases lurked +like monsters everywhere. Every strange, hot odour made him uneasy and, +at times, he found himself turning his head and holding his breath, as +he always did when he passed a pest-house in his childhood. About him +were strange plants, strange flowers, strange trees, the music of +strange birds, with nothing to see that was familiar except sky, +mountain, running water, and sand; nothing home-like to hear but the +twitter of swallows and the whistle of quail. + +That path was no road for a hard-drinking man to travel and, now and +then, Grafton shrank back, with a startled laugh, from the hideous +things crawling across the road and rustling into the cactus--spiders +with snail-houses over them; lizards with green bodies and yellow legs, +and green legs and yellow bodies; hairy tarantulas, scorpions, and +hideous mottled land-crabs, standing three inches from the sand, and +watching him with hideous little eyes as they shuffled sidewise into the +bushes. Moreover, he was following the trail of an army by the +uncheerful signs in its wake--the _debris_ of the last night's +camp--empty cans, bits of hardtack, crackers, bad odours, and, by and +by, odds and ends that the soldiers discarded as the sun got warm and +their packs heavy--drawers, undershirts, coats, blankets, knapsacks, an +occasional gauntlet or legging, bits of fat bacon, canned meats, +hardtack--and a swarm of buzzards in the path, in the trees, and +wheeling in the air--and smiling Cubans picking up everything they could +eat or wear. + +An hour later, he met a soldier, who told him there had been a fight. +Still, an hour later, rumours came thick, but so conflicting and wild +that Grafton began to hope there had been no fight at all. Proof met +him, then, in the road--a white man, on foot, with his arm in a bloody +sling. Then, on a litter, a negro trooper with a shattered leg; then +another with a bullet through his throat; and another wounded man, and +another. On horseback rode a Sergeant with a bandage around his +brow--Grafton could see him smiling broadly fifty yards ahead--and the +furrow of a Mauser bullet across his temple, and just under his skin. + +"Still nutty," said Grafton to himself. + +Further on was a camp of insurgents--little, thin, brown fellows, +ragged, dirty, shoeless--each with a sugar-loaf straw hat, a Remington +rifle of the pattern of 1882, or a brand new Krag-Jorgensen donated by +Uncle Sam, and the inevitable and ever ready machete swinging in a case +of embossed leather on the left hip. Very young they were, and very old; +and wiry, quick-eyed, intelligent, for the most part and, in +countenance, vivacious and rather gentle. There was a little creek next, +and, climbing the bank of the other side, Grafton stopped short, with a +start, in the road. To the right and on a sloping bank lay eight gray +shapes, muffled from head to foot, and Grafton would have known that all +of them were in their last sleep, but one, who lay with his left knee +bent and upright, his left elbow thrust from his blanket, and his hand +on his heart. He slept like a child. + +Beyond was the camp of the regulars who had taken part in the fight. On +one side stood a Colonel, who himself had aimed a Hotchkiss gun in the +last battle--covered with grime and sweat, and with the passion of +battle not quite gone from his eyes; and across the road soldiers were +digging one long grave. Grafton pushed on a little further, and on the +top of the ridge and on the grassy sunlit knoll was the camp of the +Riders, just beyond the rifle-pits from which they had driven the +Spaniards. Under a tree to the right lay another row of muffled shapes, +and at once Grafton walked with the Colonel to the hospital, a quarter +of a mile away. The path, thickly shaded and dappled with sunshine, ran +along the ridge through the battlefield, and it was as pretty, peaceful, +and romantic as a lovers' walk in a garden. Here and there, the tall +grass along the path was pressed flat where a wounded man had lain. In +one place, the grass was matted and dark red; nearby was a blood-stained +hat marked with the initials "E. L." Here was the spot where the first +victim of the fight fell. A passing soldier, who reluctantly gave his +name as Blackford, bared his left arm and showed the newspaper man three +places between his wrist and elbow where the skin had been merely +blistered by three separate bullets as he lay fighting unseen enemies. +Further on, lay a dead Spaniard, with covered face. + +"There's one," said the Colonel, with a careless gesture. A huge buzzard +flapped from the tree over the dead man as they passed beneath. Beyond +was the open-air hospital, where two more rigid human figures, and where +the wounded lay--white, quiet, uncomplaining. + +And there a surgeon told him how the wounded had lain there during the +fight singing: + + "My Country, 'tis of thee!" + +And Grafton beat his hands together, while his throat was full and his +eyes were full of tears. To think what he had missed--to think what he +had missed! + +He knew that national interest would centre in this regiment of Rough +Riders; for every State in the Union had a son in its ranks, and the +sons represented every social element in the national life. Never was +there a more representative body of men, nor a body of more varied +elements standing all on one and the same basis of American manhood. He +recalled how, at Tampa, he had stood with the Colonel while the regiment +filed past, the Colonel, meanwhile, telling him about the men--the +strong men, who made strong stories for Wister and strong pictures for +Remington. And the Colonel had pointed with especial pride and affection +to two boy troopers, who marched at the head of his column--a Puritan +from Massachusetts and a Cavalier through Virginia blood from Kentucky; +one the son of a Confederate General, the other the son of a Union +General--both beardless "bunkies," brothers in arms, and fast becoming +brothers at heart--Robert Sumner and Basil Crittenden. The Colonel waved +his hand toward the wild Westerners who followed them. + +"It's odd to think it--but those two boys are the fathers of the +regiment." + +And now that Grafton looked around and thought of it again--they were. +The fathers of the regiment had planted Plymouth and Jamestown; had +wrenched life and liberty and civilization from the granite of New +England, the fastnesses of the Cumberland, and the wildernesses of the +rich valleys beyond; while the sires of these very Westerners had gone +on with the same trinity through the barren wastes of plains. And, now, +having conquered the New World, Puritan and Cavalier, and the children +of both were come together again on the same old mission of freedom, but +this time the freedom of others; carrying the fruits of their own +struggle back to the old land from which they came, with the sword in +one hand, if there was need, but with the torch of liberty in the +other--held high, and, as God's finger pointed, lighting the way. + +To think what he had missed! + +As Grafton walked slowly back, an officer was calling the roll of his +company under the quiet, sunny hill, and he stopped to listen. Now and +then there was no answer, and he went on--thrilled and saddened. The +play was ended--this was war. + +Outside the camp the road was full of half-angry, bitterly disappointed +infantry--Chaffee's men. When he reached the camp of the cavalry at the +foot of the hill again, a soldier called his name as he passed--a grimy +soldier--and Grafton stopped in his tracks. + +"Well, by God!" + +It was Crittenden, who smiled when he saw Grafton's bewildered face. +Then the Kentuckian, too, stared in utter amazement at a black face +grinning over Grafton's shoulder. + +"Bob!" he said, sharply. + +"Yessuh," said Bob humbly. + +"Whar are you doing here?" + +"Nothin', Ole Cap'n--jes doin' nothin'," said Bob, with the _naivete_ of +a child. "Jes lookin' for you." + +"Is that your negro?" A sarcastic Lieutenant was asking the question. + +"He's my servant, sir." + +"Well, we don't allow soldiers to take their valets to the field." + +"My servant at home, sir, I meant. He came of his own accord." + +[Illustration: "Nothin', Ole Cap'n--jes doin' nothin'--jes lookin' for +you."] + +"Go find Basil," Crittenden said to Bob, "and if you can't find him," he +added in a lower tone, "and want anything, come back here to me." + +"Yessuh," said Bob, loath to go, but, seeing the Lieutenant scowling, he +moved on down the road. + +"I thought you were a Captain," said Grafton. Crittenden laughed. + +"Not exactly." + +"Forward," shouted the Lieutenant, "march!" + +Grafton looked Crittenden over. + +"Well, I swear," he said heartily, and, as Crittenden moved forward, +Grafton stood looking after him. "A regular--I do be damned!" + +That night Basil wrote home. He had not fired his musket a single time. +He saw nothing to shoot at, and he saw no use shooting until he did have +something to shoot at. It was terrible to see men dead and wounded, but +the fight itself was stupid--blundering through a jungle, bullets +zipping about, and the Spaniards too far away and invisible. He wanted +to be closer. + +"General Carter has sent for me to take my place on his staff. I don't +want to go, but the Colonel says I ought. I don't believe I would, if +the General hadn't been father's friend and if my 'bunkie' weren't +wounded. He's all right, but he'll have to go back. I'd like to have +his wound, but I'd hate to have to go back. The Colonel says he's sorry +to lose me. He meant to make me a corporal, he says. I don't know what +for--but Hooray! + +"Brother was not in the fight, I suppose. Don't worry about me--please +don't worry. + +"P. S.--I have often wondered what it would be like to be on the eve of +a battle. It's no different from anything else." + +Abe Long and Crittenden were bunkies now. Abe's comrade, the boy +Sanders, had been wounded and sent to the rear. Reynolds, too, was shot +through the shoulder, and, despite his protests, was ordered back to the +coast. + +"Oh, I'll be on hand for the next scrap," he said. + +Abe and Crittenden had been side by side in the fight. It was no +surprise to Crittenden that any man was brave. By his code, a man would +be better dead than alive a coward. He believed cowardice exceptional +and the brave man the rule, but he was not prepared for Abe's coolness +and his humour. Never did the Westerner's voice change, and never did +the grim half-smile leave his eyes or his mouth. Once during the fight +he took off his hat. + +"How's my hair parted?" he asked, quietly. + +A Mauser bullet had mowed a path through Abe's thick, upright hair, +scraping the skin for three inches, and leaving a trail of tiny, red +drops. Crittenden turned to look and laugh, and a bullet cut through the +open flap of his shirt, just over his heart. He pointed to it. + +"See the good turn you did me." + +While the two were cooking supper, the old Sergeant came up. + +"If you don't obey orders next time," he said to Crittenden, sternly, +for Abe was present, "I'll report you to the Captain." Crittenden had +declined to take shelter during the fight--it was a racial inheritance +that both the North and the South learned to correct in the old war. + +"That's right, Governor," said Abe. + +"The Colonel himself wanted to know what damn fool that was standing out +in the road. He meant you." + +"All right, Sergeant," Crittenden said. + +When he came in from guard duty, late that night, he learned that Basil +was safe. He lay down with a grateful heart, and his thoughts, like the +thoughts of every man in that tropical forest, took flight for home. +Life was getting very simple now for him--death, too, and duty. Already +he was beginning to wonder at his old self and, with a shock, it came to +him that there were but three women in the world to him--Phyllis and his +mother--and Judith. He thought of the night of the parting, and it +flashed for the first time upon him that Judith might have taken the +shame that he felt reddening his face as shame for her, and not for +himself: and a pain shot through him so keen that he groaned aloud. + +Above him was a clear sky, a quarter moon, an enveloping mist of stars, +and the very peace of heaven. But there was little sleep--and that +battle-haunted--for any: and for him none at all. + + * * * * * + +And none at all during that night of agony for Judith, nor Phyllis, nor +the mother at Canewood, though there was a reaction of joy, next +morning, when the name of neither Crittenden was among the wounded or +the dead. + +Nothing had been heard, so far, of the elder brother but, as they sat in +the porch, a negro boy brought the town paper, and Mrs. Crittenden found +a paragraph about a soldier springing into the sea in full uniform at +Siboney to rescue a drowning comrade, who had fallen into the surf while +trying to land, and had been sunk to the bottom by his arms and +ammunition. And the rescuer's name was Crittenden. The writer went on to +tell who he was, and how he had given up his commission to a younger +brother and had gone as a private in the regular army--how he had been +offered another after he reached Cuba, and had declined that, +too--having entered with his comrades, he would stay with them to the +end. Whereat the mother's face burned with a proud fire, as did +Phyllis's, when Mrs. Crittenden read on about this Crittenden's young +brother, who, while waiting for his commission, had gone as a Rough +Rider, and who, after gallant conduct during the first fight, had taken +his place on General Carter's staff. Phyllis clapped her hands, softly, +with a long sigh of pride--and relief. + +"I can eat strawberries, now." And she blushed again. Phyllis had been +living on bacon and corn-bread, she confessed shamefacedly, because +Trooper Basil was living on bacon and hardtack--little dreaming that the +food she forced upon herself in this sacrificial way was being swallowed +by that hearty youngster with a relish that he would not have known at +home for fried chicken and hot rolls. + +"Yes," laughed Mrs. Crittenden. "You can eat strawberries now. You can +balance them against his cocoanuts." + +Phyllis picked up the paper then, with a cry of surprise--the name +signed to the article was Grafton, whom she had seen at the recruiting +camp. And then she read the last paragraph that the mother had not read +aloud, and she turned sharply away and stooped to a pink-bed, as though +she would pick one, and the mother saw her shoulders shaking with silent +sobs, and she took the child in her arms. + +There was to be a decisive fight in a few days--the attack on +Santiago--that was what Phyllis had read. The Spaniard had a good +muster-roll of regulars and aid from Cervera's fleet; was well armed, +and had plenty of time to intrench and otherwise prepare himself for a +bloody fight in the last ditch. + +So that, each day there was a relief to the night agony, which, every +morning, began straightway with the thought that the fight might be +going on at that very hour. Not once did Judith come near. She had been +ill, to be sure, but one day Mrs. Crittenden met her on the way to town +and stopped her in the road; but the girl had spoken so strangely that +the mother drove on, at loss to understand and much hurt. Next day she +learned that Judith, despite her ill health and her father's protests, +had gone to nurse the sick and the wounded--what Phyllis plead in vain +to do. The following day a letter came from Mrs. Crittenden's elder son. +He was well, and the mother must not worry about either him or Basil. He +did not think there would be much fighting and, anyhow, the great risk +was from disease, and he feared very little from that. Basil would be +much safer as an aid on a General's staff. He would get plenty to eat, +would be less exposed to weather, have no long marches--as he would be +mounted--and no guard duty at all hours of day and night. And, moreover, +he would probably be less constantly exposed to bullets. So she must not +worry about him. Not one word was there about Judith--not even to ask +how she was, which was strange. He had said nothing about the girl when +he told his mother good-by; and when she broached the subject, he +answered sadly: + +"Don't, mother; I can't say a word--not a word." + +In his letter he had outlined Basil's advantages, not one of which was +his--and sitting on the porch of the old homestead at sunset of the last +rich day in June, the mother was following her eldest born through the +transport life, the fiery marches, the night watches on lonely outposts, +the hard food, the drenching rains, steaming heat, laden with the breath +of terrible disease, not realizing how little he minded it all and how +much good it was doing him. She did know, however, that it had been but +play thus far to what must follow. Perhaps, even now, she thought, the +deadly work was beginning, while she sat in the shrine of peace--even +now. + +And it was. Almost at that hour the troops were breaking camp and +moving forward along the one narrow jungle-road--choked with wagon, +pack-mule, and soldier--through a haze of dust, and, turning to the +right at the first crossing beyond corps head-quarters--under +Chaffee--for Caney. Now and then a piece of artillery, with its flashes +of crimson, would pass through the advancing columns amid the waving of +hats and a great cheering to take position against the stone fort at +Caney or at El Poso, to be trained on the block-house at San Juan. And +through the sunset and the dusk the columns marched, and, after night +fell, the dark, silent masses of slouch hats, shoulders, and gun-muzzles +kept on marching past the smoke and flare of the deserted camp-fires +that lighted thicket and grassy plot along the trail. And after the +flames had died down to cinders--in the same black terrible silence, the +hosts were marching still. + +That night a last good-by to all womankind, but wife, mother, sister, +sweetheart. The world was to be a man's world next day, and the man a +coarse, dirty, sweaty, swearing, good-natured, grimly humorous, cruel, +kindly soldier, feverish for a fight and as primitive in passion as a +cave-dweller fighting his kind for food. The great little fight was at +hand. + + + + +XI + + +Before dawn again--everything in war begins at dawn--and the thickets +around a certain little gray stone fort alive with slouch hat, blue +blouse, and Krag-Jorgensen, slipping through the brush, building no +fires, and talking in low tones for fear the timorous enemy would see, +or hear, and run before the American sharpshooter could get a chance to +try his marksmanship; wondering, eight hours later, if the timorous +enemy were ever going to run. Eastward and on a high knoll stripped of +bushes, four 3.2 guns unlimbered and thrown into position against that +fort and a certain little red-roofed town to the left of it. This was +Caney. + +Eastward still, three miles across an uneven expanse of green, jungle +and jungle-road alive with men, bivouacing fearlessly around and under +four more 3.2 guns planted on another high-stripped knoll--El Poso--and +trained on a little pagoda-like block-house, which sat like a Christmas +toy on top of a green little, steep little hill from the base of which +curved an orchard-like valley back to sweeping curve of the jungle. This +was San Juan. + +Nature loves sudden effects in the tropics. While Chaffee fretted in +valley-shadows around Caney and Lawton strode like a yellow lion past +the guns on the hill and, eastward, gunner on the other hill at El Poso +and soldier in the jungle below listened westward, a red light ran like +a flame over the east, the tops of the mountains shot suddenly upward +and it was day--flashing day, with dripping dew and birds singing and a +freshness of light and air that gave way suddenly when the sun quickly +pushed an arc of fire over the green shoulder of a hill and smote the +soldiers over and under the low trees like rays from an open furnace. + +It smote Reynolds as he sat by the creek under the guns before San Juan, +idly watching water bubble into three canteens, and it opened his lips +for an oath that he was too lazy to speak; it smote Abe Long cooking +coffee on the bank some ten yards away, and made him raise from the fire +and draw first one long forearm and then the other across his +heat-wrinkled brow; but, unheeded, it smote Crittenden--who stood near, +leaning against a palm-tree--full in his uplifted face. Perhaps that was +the last sunrise on earth for him. He was watching it in Cuba, but his +spirit was hovering around home. He could feel the air from the woods in +front of Canewood; could hear the darkies going to work and Aunt Keziah +singing in the kitchen. He could see his mother's shutter open, could +see her a moment later, smiling at him from her door. And Judith--where +was she, and what was she doing? Could she be thinking of him? The sound +of his own name coming down through the hot air made him start, and, +looking up toward the Rough Riders, who were gathered about a little +stuccoed farm-house just behind the guns on the hill, he saw Blackford +waving at him. At the same moment hoofs beat the dirt-road behind +him--familiar hoof-beats--and he turned to see Basil and Raincrow--for +Crittenden's Colonel was sick with fever and Basil had Raincrow now--on +their way with a message to Chaffee at Caney. Crittenden saluted +gravely, as did Basil, though the boy turned in his saddle, and with an +affectionate smile waved back at him. + +Crittenden's lips moved. + +"God bless him." + + * * * * * + +"Fire!" + +Over on the hill, before Caney, a man with a lanyard gave a quick jerk. +There was a cap explosion at the butt of the gun and a bulging white +cloud from the muzzle; the trail bounced from its shallow trench, the +wheels whirled back twice on the rebound, and the shell was hissing +through the air as iron hisses when a blacksmith thrusts it red-hot into +cold water. Basil could hear that awful hiss so plainly that he seemed +to be following the shell with his naked eye; he could hear it above the +reverberating roar of the gun up and down the coast-mountain; hear it +until, six seconds later, a puff of smoke answered beyond the Spanish +column where the shell burst. Then in eight seconds--for the shell +travelled that much faster than sound--the muffled report of its +bursting struck his ears, and all that was left of the first shot that +started the great little fight was the thick, sunlit smoke sweeping away +from the muzzle of the gun and the little mist-cloud of the shell rising +slowly upward beyond the stone fort, which seemed not to know any harm +was possible or near. + + * * * * * + +Again Crittenden, leaning against the palm, heard his name called. Again +it was Blackford who was opening his mouth to shout some message +when--Ah! The shout died on Blackford's lips, and every man on the hill +and in the woods, at that instant, stayed his foot and his hand--even a +man standing with a gray horse against the blue wall--he, too, stopped +to listen. It really sounded too dull and muffled for a shell; but, a +few seconds later, there was a roar against the big walls of living +green behind Caney. + +The first shot! + +"Ready!" + +Even with the cry at El Poso came another sullen, low boom and another +aggressive roar from Caney: then a great crackling in the air, as though +thousands of schoolboys were letting off fire-crackers, pack after pack. + +"Fire!" + +Every ear heard, every eye saw the sudden white mist at a gun-muzzle and +followed that first shell screaming toward the little Christmas toy +sitting in the sun on that distant little hill. And yet it was nothing. +Another and yet another mass of shrapnel went screaming, and still there +was no response, no sign. It was nothing--nothing at all. Was the +Spaniard asleep? + +Crittenden could see attache, correspondent, aid, staff-officer, +non-combatant, sight-seer crowding close about the guns--so close that +the gunners could hardly work. He could almost hear them saying, one to +another: + +"Why, is this war--really war? Why, this isn't so bad." + +Twanged just then a bow-string in the direction of San Juan hill, and +the twang seemed to be getting louder and to be coming toward the little +blue farm-house. No cannon was in sight; there was no smoke visible, and +many, with an upward look, wondered what the queer sound could be. +Suddenly there was a screeching, crackling answer in the air; the +atmosphere was rent apart as by a lightning stroke directly overhead. +The man and the horse by the blue wall dropped noiselessly to the earth. +A Rough Rider paled and limped down the hill and Blackford shook his +hand--a piece of shrapnel had fallen harmlessly on his wrist. On the +hill--Crittenden laughed as he looked--on the hill, nobody +ran--everybody tumbled. Besides the men at the guns, only two others +were left--civilians. + +"You're a fool," said one. + +"You're another." + +"What'd you stay here for?" + +"Because you did. What'd you stay for?" + +"Because _you_ did." + +Then they went down together--rapidly--and just in time. Another shell +shrieked. Two artillerymen and two sergeants dropped dead at their guns, +and a corporal fell, mortally wounded. A third burst in a group of +Cubans. Several of them flew out, killed or wounded, into the air; the +rest ran shrieking for the woods. Below, those woods began to move. +Under those shells started the impatient soldiers down that narrow lane +through the jungle, and with Reynolds and Abe Long on the "point" was +Crittenden, his Krag-Jorgensen across his breast--thrilled, for all the +world, as though he were on a hunt for big game. + + * * * * * + +And all the time the sound of ripping cloth was rolling over from Caney, +the far-away rumble of wagons over cobble-stones, or softened stage hail +and stage thunder around the block-house, stone fort, and town. At first +it was a desultory fire, like the popping of a bunch of fire-crackers +that have to be relighted several times, and Basil and Grafton, +galloping toward it, could hear the hiss of bullets that far away. But, +now and then, the fire was as steady as a Gatling-gun. Behind them the +artillery had turned on the stone fort, and Grafton saw one shot tear a +hole through the wall, then another, and another. He could see Spaniards +darting from the fort and taking refuge in the encircling stone-cut +trenches; and then nothing else--for their powder was smokeless--except +the straw hats of the little devils in blue, who blazed away from their +trenches around the fort and minded the shells bursting over and around +them as little as though they had been bursting snowballs. If the boy +ahead noted anything, Grafton could not tell. Basil turned his head +neither to right nor left, and at the foot of the muddy hill, the black +horse that he rode, without touch of spur, seemed suddenly to leave the +earth and pass on out of sight with the swift silence of a shadow. At +the foot of a hill walked the first wounded man--a Colonel limping +between two soldiers. The Colonel looked up smiling--he had a terrible +wound in the groin. + +"Well," he called cheerily, "I'm the first victim." + +Grafton wondered. Was it possible that men were going to behave on a +battlefield just as they did anywhere else--just as naturally--taking +wounds and death and horror as a matter of course? Beyond were more +wounded--the wounded who were able to help themselves. Soon he saw them +lying by the roadside, here and there a dead one; by and by, he struck a +battalion marching to storm a block-house. He got down, hitched his +horse a few yards from the road and joined it. He was wondering how it +would feel to be under fire, when just as they were crossing another +road, with a whir and whistle and buzz, a cloud of swift insects buzzed +over his head. Unconsciously imitating the soldiers near him, he bent +low and walked rapidly. Right and left of him sounded two or three low, +horrible crunching noises, and right and left of him two or three blue +shapes sank limply down on their faces. A sudden sickness seized him, +nauseating him like a fetid odour--the crunching noise was the sound of +a bullet crashing into a living human skull as the men bent forward. +One man, he remembered afterward, dropped with the quick grunt of an +animal--he was killed outright; another gave a gasping cry, "Oh, +God"--there was a moment of suffering consciousness for him; a third +hopped aside into the bushes--cursing angrily. Still another, as he +passed, looked up from the earth at him with a curious smile, as though +he were half ashamed of something. + +"I've got it, partner," he said, "I reckon I've got it, sure." And +Grafton saw a drop of blood and the tiny mouth of a wound in his gullet, +where the flaps of his collar fell apart. He couldn't realize how he +felt--he was not interested any longer in how he felt. The instinct of +life was at work, and the instinct of self-defence. When the others +dropped, he dropped gladly; when they rose, he rose automatically. A +piece of brush, a bush, the low branch of a tree, a weed seemed to him +protection, and he saw others possessed with the same absurd idea. Once +the unworthy thought crossed his mind, when he was lying behind a squad +of soldiers and a little lower than they, that his chance was at least +better than theirs. And once, and only once--with a bitter sting of +shame--he caught himself dropping back a little, so that the same squad +should be between him and the enemy: and forthwith he stepped out into +the road, abreast with the foremost, cursing himself for a coward, and +thereafter took a savage delight in reckless exposure whenever it was +possible. And he soon saw that his position was a queer one, and an +unenviable one, as far as a cool test of nerve was the point at issue. +The officers, he saw, had their men to look after--orders to obey--their +minds were occupied. The soldiers were busy getting a shot at the +enemy--their minds, too, were occupied. It was his peculiar province to +stand up and be shot at without the satisfaction of shooting +back--studying his sensations, meanwhile, which were not particularly +pleasant, and studying the grewsome horrors about him. And it struck +him, too, that this was a ghastly business, and an unjustifiable, and +that if it pleased God to see him through he would never go to another +war except as a soldier. One consideration interested him and was +satisfactory. Nobody was shooting at him--nobody was shooting at anybody +in particular. If he were killed, or when anybody was killed, it was +merely accident, and it was thus pleasant to reflect that he was in as +much danger as anybody. + +The firing was pretty hot now, and the wounded were too many to be +handled. A hospital man called out sharply: + +"Give a hand here." Grafton gave a hand to help a poor fellow back to +the field hospital, in a little hollow, and when he reached the road +again that black horse and his boy rider were coming back like shadows, +through a rain of bullets, along the edge of the woods. Once the horse +plunged sidewise and shook his head angrily--a Mauser had stung him in +the neck--but the lad, pale and his eyes like stars, lifted him in a +flying leap over a barbed-wire fence and swung him into the road again. + +"Damn!" said Grafton, simply. + +Then rose a loud cheer from the battery on the hill, and, looking west, +he saw the war-balloon hung high above the trees and moving toward +Santiago. The advance had begun over there; there was the main +attack--the big battle. It was interesting and horrible enough where he +was, but Caney was not Santiago; and Grafton, too, mounted his horse and +galloped after Basil. + + * * * * * + +At head-quarters began the central lane of death that led toward San +Juan, and Basil picked his way through it at a slow walk--his excitement +gone for the moment and his heart breaking at the sight of the terrible +procession on its way to the rear. Men with arms in slings; men with +trousers torn away at the knee, and bandaged legs; men with brow, face, +mouth, or throat swathed; men with no shirts, but a broad swathe around +the chest or stomach--each bandage grotesquely pictured with human +figures printed to show how the wound should be bound, on whatever part +of the body the bullet entered. Men staggering along unaided, or between +two comrades, or borne on litters, some white and quiet, some groaning +and blood-stained, some conscious, some dying, some using a rifle for a +support, or a stick thrust through the side of a tomato-can. Rolls, +haversacks, blouses, hardtack, bibles, strewn by the wayside, where the +soldiers had thrown them before they went into action. It was curious, +but nearly all of the wounded were dazed and drunken in appearance, +except at the brows, which were tightly drawn with pain. There was one +man, with short, thick, upright red hair, stumbling from one side of the +road to the other, with no wound apparent, and muttering: + +"Oh, I don't know what happened to me. I don't know what happened to +me." + +Another, hopping across the creek on one leg--the other bare and +wounded--and using his gun, muzzle down, as a vaulting-pole. Another, +with his arm in the sling, pointing out the way. + +"Take this road," he said. "I don't know where that one goes, but I know +this one. I went up this one, and brought back a _souvenir_," he added, +cheerily, shaking a bloody arm. + +And everywhere men were cautioning him to beware of the guerillas, who +were in the trees, adding horror to the scene--shooting wounded men on +litters, hospital men, doctors. Once, there was almost the horror of a +panic in the crowded road. Soldiers answered the guerilla fire from the +road; men came running back; bullets spattered around. + +Ahead, the road was congested with soldiers. Beyond them was anchored +the balloon, over the Bloody Ford--drawing the Spanish fire to the +troops huddled beneath it. There was the death-trap. + +And, climbing from an ambulance to mount his horse, a little, bent old +man, weak and trembling from fever, but with his gentle blue eyes +glinting fire--Basil's hero--ex-Confederate Jerry Carter. + +"Give the Yanks hell, boys," he shouted. + + * * * * * + +It had been a slow, toilsome march up that narrow lane of death, and, so +far, Crittenden had merely been sprinkled with Mauser and shrapnel. His +regiment had begun to deploy to the left, down the bed of a stream. The +negro cavalry and the Rough Riders were deploying to the right. Now +broke the storm. Imagine sheet after sheet of hailstones, coated with +polished steel, and swerved when close to the earth at a sharp angle to +the line of descent, and sweeping the air horizontally with an awful +hiss--swifter in flight than a peal of thunder from sky to earth, and +hardly less swift than the lightning flash that caused it. + +"T-t-seu-u-u-h! T-t-seu-oo! T-t-seu-oo!"--they went like cloud after +cloud of lightning-winged insects, and passing, by God's mercy and the +Spaniard's bad marksmanship--passing high. Between two crashes, came a +sudden sputter, and some singing thing began to play up and down through +the trees, and to right and left, in a steady hum. It was a machine gun +playing for the range--like a mighty hose pipe, watering earth and trees +with a steady, spreading jet of hot lead. It was like some strange, huge +monster, unseeing and unseen, who knows where his prey is hidden and is +searching for it blindly--by feeling or by sense of smell--coming ever +nearer, showering the leaves down, patting into the soft earth ahead, +swishing to right and to left, and at last playing in a steady stream +about the prostrate soldiers. + +"Swish-ee! Swish-ee! Swishee!" + +"Whew!" said Abe Long. + +"God!" said Reynolds. + +Ah, ye scornful veterans of the great war. In ten minutes the Spaniard +let fly with his Mauser more bullets than did you fighting hard for two +long hours, and that one machine gun loosed more death stings in an hour +than did a regiment of you in two. And they were coming from +intrenchments on an all but vertical hill, from piles of unlimited +ammunition, and from soldiers who should have been as placid as the +earth under them for all the demoralization that hostile artillery fire +was causing them. + +And not all of them passed high. After that sweep of glistening steel +rain along the edge of the woods rose the cry here, there, everywhere: + +"Hospital man! hospital man!" + +And here and there, in the steady pelt of bullets, went the quiet, brave +fellows with red crosses on their sleeves; across the creek, Crittenden +could see a tall, young doctor, bare-headed in the sun, stretching out +limp figures on the sand under the bank--could see him and his +assistants stripping off blouse and trousers and shirt, and wrapping and +binding, and newly wounded being ever brought in. + +And behind forged soldiers forward, a tall aide at the ford urging them +across and stopping a panic among volunteers. + +"Come back, you cowards--come back! Push 'em back, boys!" + +A horse was crossing the stream. There was a hissing shriek in the air, +a geyser spouting from the creek, the remnants of a horse thrown upward, +and five men tossed in a swirl like straw: and, a moment later, a boy +feebly paddling towards the shore--while the water ran past him red with +blood. And, through it all, looking backward, Crittenden saw little +Carter coming on horseback, calm of face, calm of manner, with his hands +folded over his saddle, and his eyes looking upward--little Carter who +had started out in an ambulance that morning with a temperature of one +hundred and four, and, meeting wounded soldiers, gave up his wagon to +them, mounted his horse, and rode into battle--to come out normal at +dusk. And behind him--erect, proud, face aflame, eyes burning, but +hardly less cool--rode Basil. Crittenden's eyes filled with love and +pride for the boy. + +"God bless him--God save him!" + + * * * * * + +A lull came--one of the curious lulls that come periodically in battle +for the reason that after any violent effort men must have a breathing +spell--and the mist of bullets swept on to the right like a swift +passing shower of rain. + +There was a splash in the creek behind Crittenden, and someone fell on +his face behind the low bank with a fervent: + +"Thank God, I've got this far!" It was Grafton. + +"That nigger of yours is coming on somewhere back there," he added, and +presently he rose and calmly peered over the bank and at the line of +yellow dirt on the crest of the hill. A bullet spat in the ground close +by. + +"That hit you?" he asked, without altering the tone of his +voice--without even lowering his glasses. + +Reynolds, on his right, had ducked quickly. Crittenden looked up in +surprise. The South had no monopoly of nerve--nor, in that campaign, the +soldier. + +"Well, by God," said Reynolds, irritably--the bullet had gone through +his sleeve. "This ain't no time to joke." + +Grafton's face was still calm--he was still looking. Presently he turned +and beckoned to somebody in the rear. + +"There he is, now." + +Looking behind, Crittenden had to laugh. There was Bob, in a +cavalryman's hat, with a Krag-Jorgensen in his hand, and an ammunition +belt buckled around him. + +As he started toward Grafton, a Lieutenant halted him. + +"Why aren't you with your regiment?" he demanded sharply. + +"I ain't got no regiment. I'se looking fer Ole Captain." + +"Get back into your regiment," said the officer, with an oath, and +pointing behind to the Tenth Coloured Cavalry coming up. + +"Huh!" he said, looking after the officer a moment, and then he came on +to the edge of the creek. + +"Go to the rear, Bob," shouted Crittenden, sharply, and the next moment +Bob was crashing through the bushes to the edge of the creek. + +"Foh Gawd, Ole Cap'n, I sutn'ly is glad to fine you. I wish you'd jes +show me how to wuk this gun. I'se gwine to fight right side o' you--you +heah me." + +"Go back, Bob," said Crittenden, firmly. + +"Silence in the ranks," roared a Lieutenant. Bob hesitated. Just then a +company of the Tenth Cavalry filed down the road as they were deployed +to the right. Crittenden's file of soldiers could see that the last man +was a short, fat darky--evidently a recruit--and he was swinging along +as jauntily as in a cake-walk. As he wheeled pompously, he dropped his +gun, leaped into the air with a yell of amazed rage and pain, catching +at the seat of his trousers with both hands. A bullet had gone through +both buttocks. + +"Gawd, Ole Cap'n, did you see dat nigger?" + +A roar of laughter went down the bed of the creek. + +"Go back!" repeated Crittenden, threateningly, "and stop calling me Old +Captain." Bob looked after the file of coloured troops, and then at +Crittenden. + +"All right, Ole Cap'n; I tol' you in ole Kentuck that I gwine to fight +wid the niggers ef you don't lemme fight wid you. I don't like +disgracin' the family dis way, but 'tain't my fault, an' s'pose you git +shot--" the slap of the flat side of a sword across Bob's back made him +jump. + +"What are you doing here?" thundered an angry officer." Get into +line--get into line." + +"I ain't no sojer." + +"Get into line," and Bob ran after the disappearing file, shaking his +head helplessly. + +The crash started again, and the hum of bees and the soft snap of the +leaves when bullets clipped them like blows with a rattan cane, and the +rattling sputter of the machine guns, and once more came that long, long +wait that tries the soldier's heart, nerve, and brain. + +"Why was not something done--why?" + +And again rose the cry for the hospital men, and again the limp figures +were brought in from the jungle, and he could see the tall doctor with +the bare head helping the men who had been dressed with a first-aid +bandage to the protecting bank of the creek farther up, to make room for +the fresh victims. And as he stood up once, Crittenden saw him throw his +hand quickly up to his temple and sink to the blood-stained sand. The +assistant, who bent over him, looked up quickly and shook his head to +another, who was binding a wounded leg and looking anxiously to know the +fatal truth. + +"I've got it," said a soldier to Crittenden's left; joyously, he said +it, for the bullet had merely gone through his right shoulder. He could +fight no more, he had a wound and he could wear a scar to his grave. + +"So have I," said another, with a groan. And then next him there was a +sudden, soft thud: + +"T-h-u-p!" It was the sound of a bullet going into thick flesh, and the +soldier sprang to his feet--the impulse seemed uncontrollable for the +wounded to spring to their feet--and dropped with a groan--dead. +Crittenden straightened him out sadly--putting his hat over his face and +drawing his arms to his sides. Above, he saw with sudden nausea, +buzzards circling--little cared they whether the dead were American or +Spaniard, as long as there were eyes to pluck and lips to tear away, and +then straightway, tragedy merged into comedy as swiftly as on a stage. +Out of the woods across the way emerged a detail of negro troopers--sent +to clear the woods behind of sharpshooters--and last came Bob. The +detail, passing along the creek on the other bank from them, scattered, +and with Bob next the creek. Bob shook his gun aloft. + +"I can wuk her now!" + +Another lull came, and from the thicket arose the cry of a thin, high, +foreign voice: + +"Americano--Americano!" + +"Whut regiment you b'long to?" the voice was a negro's and was Bob's, +and Grafton and Crittenden listened keenly. Bob had evidently got a +sharpshooter up a tree, and caught him loading his gun. + +"Tenth Cav'rly--Tenth!" was the answer. Bob laughed long and loud. + +"Well, you jus the man I been lookin' fer--the fust white man I ever +seed whut 'longed to a nigger regiment. Come down, honey." There was the +sharp, clean crack of a Krag-Jorgensen, and a yell of savage triumph. + +"That nigger's a bird," said Grafton. + +Something serious was going to be done now--the intuition of it ran down +the line in that mysterious fashion by which information passes down a +line of waiting men. The line rose, advanced, and dropped again. +Companies deployed to the left and behind--fighting their way through +the chaparral as a swimmer buffets his way through choppy waves. Every +man saw now that the brigade was trying to form in line of battle for a +charge on that curving, smokeless flame of fire that ran to and fro +around the top of the hill--blazing fiercely and steadily here and +there. For half an hour the officers struggled to form the scattering +men. Forward a little way; slipping from one bush and tree to another; +through the thickets and bayonet grass; now creeping; now a dash through +an open spot; now flat on the stomach, until Crittenden saw a wire fence +stretching ahead. Followed another wait. And then a squad of negro +troopers crossed the road, going to the right, and diagonally. The +bullets rained about them, and they scuttled swiftly into the brush. The +hindmost one dropped; the rest kept on, unseeing; but Crittenden saw a +Lieutenant--it was Sharpe, whom he had met at home and at +Chickamauga--look back at the soldier, who was trying to raise himself +on his elbow--while the bullets seemed literally to be mowing down the +tall grass about him. Then Crittenden heard a familiar grunt behind him, +and the next minute Bob's figure sprang out into the open--making for +the wounded man by the sympathy of race. As he stooped, to Crittenden's +horror, Bob pitched to the ground--threshing around like an animal that +has received a blow on the head. Without a thought, without +consciousness of his own motive or his act, Crittenden sprang to his +feet and dashed for Bob. Within ten feet of the boy, his toe caught in a +root and he fell headlong. As he scrambled to his feet, he saw Sharpe +making for him--thinking that he had been shot down--and, as he turned, +with Bob in his arms, half a dozen men, including Grafton and his own +Lieutenant, were retreating back into cover--all under the same impulse +and with the same motive having started for him, too. Behind a tree, +Crittenden laid Bob down, still turning his head from side to side +helplessly. There was a trail of blood across his temple, and, wiping it +away, he saw that the bullet had merely scraped along the skull without +penetrating it. In a moment, Bob groaned, opened his eyes, sat up, +looked around with rolling eyes, grunted once or twice, straightened +out, and reached for his gun, shaking his head. + +"Gimme drink, Ole Cap'n, please, suh." + +Crittenden handed him his canteen, and Bob drank and rose unsteadily to +his feet. + +"Dat ain't nuttin'," he said, contemptuously, feeling along the wound. +"'Tain't nigh as bad as mule kick. 'Tain't nuttin', 't all." And then he +almost fell. + +"Go back, Bob." + +"All right, Ole Cap'n, I reckon I'll jus' lay down heah little while," +he said, stretching out behind the tree. + +And Grafton reached over for Crittenden's hand. He was getting some new +and startling ideas about the difference in the feeling toward the negro +of the man who once owned him body and soul and of the man who freed him +body and soul. And in the next few minutes he studied Crittenden as he +had done before--taking in detail the long hair, lean face strongly +chiselled, fearless eye, modest demeanour--marking the intellectual look +of the face--it was the face of a student--a gentleman--gently born. +And, there in the heat of the fight, he fell to marvelling over the +nation that had such a man to send into the field as a common soldier. + +Again they moved forward. Crittenden's Lieutenant dropped--wounded. + +"Go on," he cried, "damn it, go on!" + +Grafton helped to carry him back, stepping out into the open for him, +and Crittenden saw a bullet lick up the wet earth between the +correspondent's feet. + +Forward again! It was a call for volunteers to advance and cut the +wires. Crittenden was the first to spring to his feet, and Abe Long and +Reynolds sprang after him. Forward they slipped on their bellies, and +the men behind saw one brown, knotty hand after another reach up from +the grass and clip, clip, clip through the thickly braided wires. + +Forward again! The men slipped like eels through and under the wires, +and lay in the long grass behind. The time was come. + +"FORWARD!" + +Crittenden never knew before the thrill that blast sent through him, and +never in his life did he know it again. + +It was the call of America to the American, white and black: and race +and colour forgotten, the American answered with the grit of the Saxon, +the Celt's pure love of a fight, and all the dash of the passionate +Gaul. + +As Crittenden leaped to his feet, he saw Reynolds leap, too, and then +there was a hissing hell of white smoke and crackling iron at his +feet--and Reynolds disappeared. + +It was a marvel afterward but, at that moment, Crittenden hardly noted +that the poor fellow was blown into a hundred fragments. He was in the +front line now. A Brigadier, with his hat in his hand and his white hair +shining in the sun, run diagonally across in front of his line of +battle, and, with a wild cheer, the run of death began. + +God, how the bullets hissed and the shells shrieked; and, God, how +slow--slow--slow was the run! Crittenden's legs were of lead, and +leaden were the legs of the men with him--running with guns trailing the +earth or caught tightly across the breast and creeping unconsciously. He +saw nothing but the men in front of him, the men who were dropping +behind him, and the yellow line above, and the haven at the bottom of +the hill. Now and then he could see a little, dirty, blue figure leap +into view on the hill and disappear. Two men only were ahead of him when +he reached the foot of the hill--Sharpe and a tall Cuban close at his +side with machete drawn--the one Cuban hero of that fierce charge. But +he could hear laboured panting behind him, and he knew that others were +coming on. God, how steep and high that hill was! He was gasping for +breath now, and he was side by side with Cuban and Lieutenant--gasping, +too. To right and left--faint cheers. To the right, a machine gun +playing like hail on the yellow dirt. To his left a shell, bursting in +front of a climbing, struggling group, and the soldiers tumbling +backward and rolling ten feet down the hill. A lull in the firing--the +Spaniards were running--and then the top--the top! Sharpe sprang over +the trench, calling out to save the wounded. A crouching Spaniard raised +his pistol, and Sharpe fell. With one leap, Crittenden reached him with +the butt of his gun and, with savage exultation, he heard the skull of +the Spaniard crash. + + * * * * * + +Straight in front, the Spaniards were running like rabbits through the +brush. To the left, Kent was charging far around and out of sight. To +the right, Rough Riders and negroes were driving Spaniards down one hill +and up the next. The negroes were as wild as at a camp meeting or a +voodoo dance. One big Sergeant strode along brandishing in each hand a +piece of his carbine that had been shot in two by a Mauser bullet, and +shouting at the top of his voice, contemptuously: + +"Heah, somebody, gimme a gun! gimme a gun, I tell ye," still striding +ahead and looking never behind him. "You don't know how to fight. Gimme +a gun!" To the negro's left, a young Lieutenant was going up the hill +with naked sword in one hand and a kodak in the other--taking pictures +as he ran. A bare-headed boy, running between him and a gigantic negro +trooper, toppled suddenly and fell, and another negro stopped in the +charge, and, with a groan, bent over him and went no farther. + +And all the time that machine gun was playing on the trenches like a +hard rain in summer dust. Whenever a Spaniard would leap from the +trench, he fell headlong. That pitiless fire kept in the trenches the +Spaniards who were found there--wretched, pathetic, half-starved little +creatures--and some terrible deeds were done in the lust of slaughter. +One gaunt fellow thrust a clasp-knife into the buttock of a shamming +Spaniard, and, when he sprang to his feet, blew the back of his head +off. Some of the Riders chased the enemy over the hill and lay down in +the shade. One of them pulled out of a dead Spaniard's pocket +cigarettes, cigars, and a lady's slipper of white satin; with a grunt he +put the slipper back. Below the trenches, two boyish prisoners sat under +a tree, crying as though they were broken-hearted, and a big trooper +walked up and patted them both kindly on the head. + +"Don't cry, boys; it's all right--all right," he said, helplessly. + + * * * * * + +Over at the block-house, Crittenden stopped firing suddenly, and, +turning to his men, shouted: + +"Get back over the hill boys, they're going to start in again." As they +ran back, a Lieutenant-Colonel met them. + +"Are you in command?" + +Crittenden saluted. + +"No, sir," he said. + +"Yes, sir," said the old Sergeant at his side. "He was. He brought these +men up the hill." + +"The hell he did. Where are your officers?" + +The old Sergeant motioned toward the valley below, and Crittenden opened +his lips to explain, but just then the sudden impression came to him +that some one had struck him from behind with the butt of a musket, and +he tried to wheel around--his face amazed and wondering. Then he +dropped. He wondered, too, why he couldn't get around, and then he +wondered how it was that he happened to be falling to the earth. +Darkness came then, and through it ran one bitter thought--he had been +shot in the back. He did think of his mother and of Judith--but it was a +fleeting vision of both, and his main thought was a dull wonder whether +there would be anybody to explain how it was that his wound was not in +front. And then, as he felt himself lifted, it flashed that he would at +least be found on top of the hill, and beyond the Spaniard's trench, and +he saw Blackford's face above him. Then he was dropped heavily to the +ground again and Blackford pitched across his body. There was one +glimpse of Abe Long's anxious face above him, another vision of Judith, +and then quiet, painless darkness. + + * * * * * + +It was fiercer firing now than ever. The Spaniards were in the second +line of trenches and were making a sortie. Under the hill sat Grafton +and another correspondent while the storm of bullets swept over them. +Grafton was without glasses--a Mauser had furrowed the skin on the +bridge of his nose, breaking his spectacle-frame so that one glass +dropped on one side of his nose and the other on the other. The other +man had several narrow squeaks, as he called them, and, even as they +sat, a bullet cut a leaf over his head and it dropped between the pages +of his note-book. He closed the book and looked up. + +"Thanks," he said. "That's just what I want--I'll keep that." + +"I observe," said Grafton, "that the way one of these infernal bullets +sounds depends entirely on where you happen to be when you hear it. When +a sharpshooter has picked you out and is plugging at you, they are +intelligent and vindictive. Coming through that bottom, they were for +all the world like a lot of nasty little insects. And listen to 'em +now." The other man listened. "Hear 'em as they pass over and go out of +hearing. That is for all the world like the last long note of a meadow +lark's song when you hear him afar off and at sunset. But I notice that +simile didn't occur to me until I got under the lee of this hill." He +looked around. "This hill will be famous, I suppose. Let's go up +higher." They went up higher, passing a crowd of skulkers, or men in +reserve--Grafton could not tell which--and as they went by a soldier +said: + +"Well, if I didn't have to be here, I be damned if I wouldn't like to +see anybody get me here. What them fellers come fer, I can't see." + +The firing was still hot when the two men got up to the danger line, and +there they lay down. A wounded man lay at Grafton's elbow. Once his +throat rattled and Grafton turned curiously. + +"That's the death-rattle," he said to himself, and he had never heard a +death-rattle before. The poor fellow's throat rattled again, and again +Grafton turned. + +"I never knew before," he said to himself, "that a dying man's throat +rattled but once." Then it flashed on him with horror that he should +have so little feeling, and he knew it at once as the curious +callousness that comes quickly to toughen the heart for the sights of +war. A man killed in battle was not an ordinary dead man at all--he +stirred no sensation at all--no more than a dead animal. Already he had +heard officers remarking calmly to one another, and apparently without +feeling: + +"Well, So and So was killed to-day." And he looked back to the +disembarkation, when the army was simply in a hurry. Two negro troopers +were drowned trying to get off on the little pier. They were fished up; +a rope was tied about the neck of each, and they were lashed to the pier +and left to be beaten against the wooden pillars by the waves for four +hours before four comrades came and took them out and buried them. Such +was the dreadful callousness that sweeps through the human heart when +war begins, and he was under its influence himself, and long afterward +he remembered with shame his idle and half-scientific and useless +curiosity about the wounded man at his elbow. As he turned his head, the +soldier gave a long, deep, peaceful sigh, as though he had gone to +sleep. With pity now Grafton turned to him--and he had gone to sleep, +but it was his last sleep. + +"Look," said the other man. Grafton looked upward. Along the trenches, +and under a hot fire, moved little Jerry Carter, with figure bent, hands +clasped behind him--with the manner, for all the world, of a deacon in a +country graveyard looking for inscriptions on tombstones. + +Now and then a bullet would have a hoarse sound--that meant that it had +ricochetted. At intervals of three or four minutes a huge, old-fashioned +projectile would labour through the air, visible all the time, and crash +harmlessly into the woods. The Americans called it the "long yellow +feller," and sometimes a negro trooper would turn and with a yell shoot +at it as it passed over. A little way off, a squad of the Tenth Cavalry +was digging a trench--close to the top of the hill. Now and then one +would duck--particularly the one on the end. He had his tongue in the +corner of his mouth, was twirling his pick over his shoulder like a +railroad hand, and grunting with every stroke. Grafton could hear him. + +"Foh Gawd (huh!) never thought (huh!) I'd git to love (huh!) a pick +befoh!" Grafton broke into a laugh. + +"You see the charge?" + +"Part of it." + +"That tall fellow with the blue handkerchief around his throat, +bare-headed, long hair?" + +"Well--" the other man stopped for a moment. His eye had caught sight of +a figure on the ground--on the top of the trench, and with the profile +of his face between him and the afterglow, and his tone changed--"there +he is!" + +Grafton pressed closer. "What, that the fellow?" There was the +handkerchief, the head was bare, the hair long and dark. The man's eyes +were closed, but he was breathing. Below them at that moment they heard +the surgeon say: + +"Up there." And two hospital men, with a litter, came toward them and +took up the body. As they passed, Grafton recoiled. + +"Good God!" It was Crittenden. + +And, sitting on the edge of the trench, with Sharpe lying with his face +on his arm a few feet away, and the tall Cuban outstretched beside him, +and the dead Spaniards, Americans, and Cubans about them, Grafton told +the story of Crittenden. And at the end the other man gave a low whistle +and smote the back of one hand into the palm of the other softly. + +Dusk fell quickly. The full moon rose. The stars came out, and under +them, at the foot of the big mountains, a red fire burned sharply out in +the mist rising over captured Caney, from which tireless Chaffee was +already starting his worn-out soldiers on an all-night march by the rear +and to the trenches at San Juan. And along the stormed hill-side +camp-fires were glowing out where the lucky soldiers who had rations to +cook were cheerily frying bacon and hardtack. Grafton moved down to +watch one squad and, as he stood on the edge of the firelight, wondering +at the cheery talk and joking laughter, somebody behind him said +sharply: + +"Watch out, there," and he turned to find himself on the edge of a grave +which a detail was digging not ten yards away from the fire--digging for +a dead comrade. Never had he seen a more peaceful moonlit night than the +night that closed over the battlefield. It was hard for him to realize +that the day had not been a terrible dream, and yet, as the moon rose, +its rich light, he knew, was stealing into the guerilla-haunted jungles, +stealing through guava-bush and mango-tree, down through clumps of +Spanish bayonet, on stiff figures that would rise no more; on white, set +faces with the peace of painless death upon them or the agony of silent +torture, fought out under fierce heat and in the silence of the jungle +alone. + +Looking toward Caney he could even see the hill from which he had +witnessed the flight of the first shell that had been the storm centre +of the hurricane of death that had swept all through the white, +cloudless day. It burst harmlessly--that shell--and meant no more than a +signal to fire to the soldiers closing in on Caney, the Cubans lurking +around a block-house at a safe artillery distance in the woods and to +the impatient battery before San Juan. Retrospectively now, it meant the +death-knell of brave men, the quick cry and long groaning of the +wounded, the pained breathing of sick and fever-stricken, the quickened +heart-beats of the waiting and anxious at home--the low sobbing of the +women to whom fatal news came. It meant Cervera's gallant dash, Sampson +and Schley's great victory, the fall of Santiago; freedom for Cuba, a +quieter sleep for the _Maine_ dead, and peace with Spain. Once more, as +he rose, he looked at the dark woods, the dead-haunted jungles which the +moon was draping with a more than mortal beauty, and he knew that in +them, as in the long grass of the orchard-like valley below him, comrade +was looking for dead comrade. And among the searchers was the faithful +Bob, looking for his Old Captain, Crittenden, his honest heart nigh to +bursting, for already he had found Raincrow torn with a shell and he had +borne a body back to the horror-haunted little hospital under the creek +bank at the Bloody Ford--a body from which the head hung over his +shoulder--limp, with a bullet-hole through the neck--the body of his +Young Captain, Basil. + + + + +XII + + +Grafton sat, sobered and saddened, where he was awhile. The moon swung +upward white and peaceful, toward mild-eyed stars. Crickets chirped in +the grass around him, and nature's low night-music started in the wood +and the valley below, as though the earth had never known the hell of +fire and human passion that had rocked it through that day. Was there so +much difference between the creatures of the earth and the creatures of +his own proud estate? Had they not both been on the same brute level +that day? And, save for the wounded and the men who had comrades wounded +and dead, were not the unharmed as careless, almost as indifferent as +cricket and tree-toad to the tragedies of their sphere? Had there been +any inner change in any man who had fought that day that was not for the +worse? Would he himself get normal again, he wondered? Was there one +sensitive soul who fully realized the horror of that day? If so, he +would better have been at home. The one fact that stood above every +thought that had come to him that day was the utter, the startling +insignificance of death. Could that mean much more than a startlingly +sudden lowering of the estimate put upon human life? Across the hollow +behind him and from a tall palm over the Spanish trenches, rose, loud +and clear, the night-song of a mocking-bird. Over there the little men +in blue were toiling, toiling, toiling at their trenches; and along the +crest of the hill the big men in blue were toiling, toiling, toiling at +theirs. All through the night anxious eyes would be strained for +Chaffee, and at dawn the slaughter would begin again. Wherever he +looked, he could see with his mind's eye stark faces in the long grass +of the valley and the Spanish-bayonet clumps in the woods. All day he +had seen them there--dying of thirst, bleeding to death--alone. As he +went down the hill, lights were moving along the creek bed. A row of +muffled dead lay along the bed of the creek. Yet they were still +bringing in dead and wounded--a dead officer with his will and a letter +to his wife clasped in his hand. He had lived long enough to write them. +Hollow-eyed surgeons were moving here and there. Up the bank of the +creek, a voice rose: + +"Come on, boys"--appealingly--"you're not going back on me. Come on, you +cursed cowards! Good! Good! I take it back, boys. _Now_ we've got 'em!" + +Another voice: "Kill me, somebody--kill me. For God's sake, kill me. +Won't somebody give me a pistol? God--God...." + +Once Grafton started into a tent. On the first cot lay a handsome boy, +with a white, frank face and a bullet hole through his neck, and he +recognized the dashing little fellow whom he had seen splashing through +the Bloody Ford at a gallop, dropping from his horse at a barbed-wire +fence, and dashing on afoot with the Rough Riders. The face bore a +strong likeness to the face he had seen on the hill--of the Kentuckian, +Crittenden--the Kentucky regular, as Grafton always mentally +characterized him--and he wondered if the boy were not the brother of +whom he had heard. The lad was still alive--but how could he live with +that wound in his throat? Grafton's eyes filled with tears: it was +horror--horror--all horror. + +Here and there along the shadowed road lay a lifeless mule or horse or a +dead man. It was curious, but a man killed in battle was not like an +ordinary dead man--he was no more than he was--a lump of clay. It was +more curious still that one's pity seemed less acute for man than for +horse: it was the man's choice to take the risk--the horse had no +choice. + +Here and there by the roadside was a grave. Comrades had halted there +long enough to save a comrade from the birds of prey. Every now and +then he would meet a pack-train loaded with ammunition and ration boxes; +or a wagon drawn by six mules and driven by a swearing, fearless, +tireless teamster. The forest was ringing with the noise of wheels, the +creaking of harness, the shouts of teamsters and the guards with them +and the officer in charge--all on the way to the working beavers on top +of the conquered hill. + +Going the other way were the poor wounded, on foot, in little groups of +slowly moving twos and threes, and in jolting, springless army +wagons--on their way of torture to more torture in the rear. His heart +bled for them. And the way those men took their suffering! Sometimes the +jolting wagons were too much for human endurance, and soldiers would +pray for the driver, when he stopped, not to start again. In one +ambulance that he overtook, a man groaned. "Grit your teeth," said +another, an old Irish sergeant, sternly--"Grit your teeth; there's +others that's hurt worse'n you." The Sergeant lifted his head, and a +bandage showed that he was shot through the face, and Grafton heard not +another sound. But it was the slightly hurt--the men shot in the leg or +arm--who made the most noise. He had seen three men brought into the +hospital from San Juan. The surgeon took the one who was groaning. He +had a mere scratch on one leg. Another was dressed, and while the third +sat silently on a stool, still another was attended, and another, before +the surgeon turned to the man who was so patiently awaiting his turn. + +"Where are you hurt?" + +The man pointed to his left side. + +"Through?" + +"Yes, sir." + +That day he had seen a soldier stagger out from the firing-line with +half his face shot away and go staggering to the rear without aid. On +the way he met a mounted staff officer, and he raised his hand to his +hatless, bleeding forehead, in a stern salute and, without a gesture for +aid, staggered on. The officer's eyes filled with tears. + +"Lieutenant," said a trooper, just after the charge on the trenches, "I +think I'm wounded." + +"Can you get to the rear without help?" + +"I think I can, sir," and he started. After twenty paces he pitched +forward--dead. His wound was through the heart. + +At the divisional hospital were more lights, tents, surgeons, stripped +figures on the tables under the lights; rows of figures in darkness +outside the tents; and rows of muffled shapes behind; the smell of +anaesthetics and cleansing fluids; heavy breathing, heavy groaning, and +an occasional curse on the night air. + +Beyond him was a stretch of moonlit road and coming toward him was a +soldier, his arm in a sling, and staggering weakly from side to side. +With a start of pure gladness he saw that it was Crittenden, and he +advanced with his hand outstretched. + +"Are you badly hurt?" + +"Oh, no," said Crittenden, pointing to his hand and arm, but not +mentioning the bullet through his chest. + +"Oh, but I'm glad. I thought you were gone sure when I saw you laid out +on the hill." + +"Oh, I am all right," he said, and his manner was as courteous as though +he had been in a drawing-room; but, in spite of his nonchalance, Grafton +saw him stagger when he moved off. + +"I say, you oughtn't to be walking," he called. "Let me help you," but +Crittenden waved him off. + +"Oh, I'm all right," he repeated, and then he stopped. "Do you know +where the hospital is?" + +"God!" said Grafton softly, and he ran back and put his arm around the +soldier--Crittenden laughing weakly: + +"I missed it somehow." + +"Yes, it's back here," said Grafton gently, and he saw now that the +soldier's eyes were dazed and that he breathed heavily and leaned on +him, laughing and apologizing now and then with a curious shame at his +weakness. As they turned from the road at the hospital entrance, +Crittenden dropped to the ground. + +"Thank you, but I'm afraid I'll have to rest a little while now. I'm all +right now--don't bother--don't--bother. I'm all right. I feel kind o' +sleepy--somehow--very kind--thank--" and he closed his eyes. A surgeon +was passing and Grafton called him. + +"He's all right," said the surgeon, with a swift look, adding shortly, +"but he must take his turn." + +Grafton passed on--sick. On along the muddy road--through more +pack-trains, wagons, shouts, creakings, cursings. On through the +beautiful moonlight night and through the beautiful tropical forest, +under tall cocoanut and taller palm; on past the one long grave of the +Rough Riders--along the battle-line of the first little fight--through +the ghastly, many-coloured masses of hideous land-crabs shuffling +sidewise into the cactus and shuffling on with an unearthly rustling of +dead twig and fallen leaf: along the crest of the foothills and down to +the little town of Siboney, lighted, bustling with preparation for the +wounded in the tents; bustling at the beach with the unloading of +rations, the transports moving here and there far out on the moonlighted +sea. Down there were straggler, wounded soldier, teamster, mule-packer, +refugee Cuban, correspondent, nurse, doctor, surgeon--the flotsam and +jetsam of the battle of the day. + + * * * * * + +The moon rose. + +"Water! water! water!" + +Crittenden could not move. He could see the lights in the tents; the +half-naked figures stretched on tables; and doctors with bloody arms +about them--cutting and bandaging--one with his hands inside a man's +stomach, working and kneading the bowels as though they were dough. Now +and then four negro troopers would appear with something in a blanket, +would walk around the tent where there was a long trench, and, standing +at the head of this, two would lift up their ends of the blanket and the +other two would let go, and a shapeless shape would drop into the +trench. Up and down near by strolled two young Lieutenants, smoking +cigarettes--calmly, carelessly. He could see all this, but that was all +right; that was all right! Everything was all right except that long, +black shape in the shadow near him gasping: + +"Water! water! water!" + +He could not stand that hoarse, rasping whisper much longer. His canteen +he had clung to--the regular had taught him that--and he tried again to +move. A thousand needles shot through him--every one, it seemed, passing +through a nerve-centre and back the same path again. He heard his own +teeth crunch as he had often heard the teeth of a drunken man crunch, +and then he became unconscious. When he came to, the man was still +muttering; but this time it was a woman's name, and Crittenden lay +still. Good God! + +"Judith--Judith--Judith!" each time more faintly still. There were other +Judiths in the world, but the voice--he knew the voice--somewhere he had +heard it. The moon was coming; it had crossed the other man's feet and +was creeping up his twisted body. It would reach his face in time, and, +if he could keep from fainting again, he would see. + +"Water! water! water!" + +Why did not some one answer? Crittenden called and called and called; +but he could little more than whisper. The man would die and be thrown +into that trench; or _he_ might, and never know! He raised himself on +one elbow again and dragged his quivering body after it; he clinched his +teeth; he could hear them crunching again; he was near him now; he would +not faint; and then the blood gushed from his mouth and he felt the +darkness coming again, and again he heard: + +"Judith--Judith!" + +Then there were footsteps near him and a voice--a careless voice: + +"He's gone." + +He felt himself caught, and turned over; a hand was put to his heart for +a moment and the same voice: + +"Bring in that other man; no use fooling with this one." + +When the light came back to him again, he turned his head feebly. The +shape was still there, but the moonlight had risen to the dead man's +breast and glittered on the edge of something that was clinched in his +right hand. It was a miniature, and Crittenden stared at +it--unwinking--stared and stared while it slowly came into the strong, +white light. It looked like the face of Judith. It wasn't, of course, +but he dragged himself slowly, slowly closer. It was Judith--Judith as +he had known her years ago. He must see now; he _must_ see _now_, and he +dragged himself on and up until his eyes bent over the dead man's face. +He fell back then, and painfully edged himself away, shuddering. + +"Blackford! Judith! Blackford!" + +He was face to face with the man he had longed so many years to see; he +was face to face at last with him--dead. + +As he lay there, his mood changed and softened and a curious pity filled +him through and through. And presently he reached out with his left hand +and closed the dead man's eyes and drew his right arm to his side, and +with his left foot he straightened the dead man's right leg. The face +was in clear view presently--the handsome, dare-devil face--strangely +shorn of its evil lines now by the master-sculptor of the spirit--Death. +Peace was come to the face now; peace to the turbulent spirit; peace to +the man whose heart was pure and whose blood was tainted; who had lived +ever in the light of a baleful star. He had loved, and he had been +faithful to the end; and such a fate might have been his--as justly--God +knew. + +Footsteps approached again and Crittenden turned his head. + +"Why, he isn't dead!" + +It was Willings, the surgeon he had known at Chickamauga, and Crittenden +called him by name. + +"No, I'm not dead--I'm not going to die." + +Willings gave an exclamation of surprise. + +"Well, there's grit for you," said the other surgeon. "We'll take him +next." + +"Straighten _him_ out there, won't you?" said Crittenden, gently, as +the two men stooped for him. + +"Don't put him in there, please," nodding toward the trench behind the +tents; "and mark his grave, won't you, Doctor? He's my bunkie." + +"All right," said Willings, kindly. + +"And Doctor, give me _that_--what he has in his hand, please. I know +her." + + * * * * * + +A tent at Siboney in the fever-camp overlooking the sea. + +"Judith! Judith! Judith!" + +The doctor pointed to the sick man's name. + +"Answer him?" + +But the nurse would not call his name. + +"Yes, dear," she said, gently; and she put one hand on his forehead and +the other on the hand that was clinched on his breast. Slowly his hand +loosened and clasped hers tight, and Crittenden passed, by and by, into +sleep. The doctor looked at him closely. + +He had just made the rounds of the tents outside, and he was marvelling. +There were men who had fought bravely, who had stood wounds and the +surgeon's knife without a murmur; who, weakened and demoralized by fever +now, were weak and puling of spirit, and sly and thievish; who would +steal the food of the very comrades for whom a little while before they +had risked their lives--men who in a fortnight had fallen from a high +plane of life to the pitiful level of brutes. Only here and there was an +exception. This man, Crittenden, was one. When sane, he was gentle, +uncomplaining, considerate. Delirious, there was never a plaint in his +voice; never a word passed his lips that his own mother might not hear; +and when his lips closed, an undaunted spirit kept them firm. + +"Aren't you tired?" + +The nurse shook her head. + +"Then you had better stay where you are; his case is pretty serious. +I'll do your work for you." + +The nurse nodded and smiled. She was tired and worn to death, but she +sat as she was till dawn came over the sea, for the sake of the girl, +whose fresh young face she saw above the sick man's heart. And she knew +from the face that the other woman would have watched just that way for +her. + + + + +XIII + + +The thunder of big guns, Cervera's doom, and truce at the trenches. A +trying week of hot sun, cool nights, tropical rains, and fevers. Then a +harmless little bombardment one Sunday afternoon--that befitted the day; +another week of heat and cold and wet and sickness. After that, the +surrender--and the fierce little war was over. + +Meantime, sick and wounded were homeward bound, and of the Crittendens +Bob was the first to reach Canewood. He came in one morning, hungry and +footsore, but with a swagger of importance that he had well earned. + +He had left his Young Captain Basil at Old Point Comfort, he said, where +the boy, not having had enough of war, had slipped aboard a transport +and gone off with the Kentucky Legion for Porto Rico--the unhappy Legion +that had fumed all summer at Chickamauga--and had hoisted sail for Porto +Rico, without daring to look backward for fear it should be wigwagged +back to land from Washington. + +Was Basil well? + +"Yas'm. Young Cap'n didn' min' dat little bullet right through his neck +no mo'n a fly-bite. Nothin' gwine to keep dat boy back." + +They had let him out of the hospital, or, rather, he had gotten out by +dressing himself when his doctor was not there. An attendant tried to +stop him. + +"An' Young Cap'n he jes drew hisself up mighty gran' an' says: 'I'm +going to join my regiment,' he says. 'It sails to-morrow.' But Ole Cap'n +done killed," Bob reckoned; "killed on top of the hill where they druv +the Spaniards out of the ditches whar they wus shootin' from." + +Mrs. Crittenden smiled. + +"No, Bob, he's coming home now," and Bob's eyes streamed. "You've been a +good boy, Bob. Come here;" and she led him into the hallway and told him +to wait, while she went to the door of her room and called some one. + +Molly came out embarrassed, twisting a corner of her apron and putting +it in her mouth while she walked forward and awkwardly shook hands. + +"I think Molly has got something to say to you, Bob. You can go, Molly," +she added, smiling. + +The two walked toward the cabin, the negroes crowding about Bob and +shaking him by the hand and asking a thousand absurd questions; and +Bob, while he was affable, was lordly as well, and one or two of Bob's +possible rivals were seen to sniff, as did other young field hands, +though Bob's mammy was, for the first time in her life, grinning openly +with pride in her "chile," and she waved the curious away and took the +two in her own cabin, reappearing presently and walking toward the +kitchen. + +Bob and Molly sat down on opposite sides of the fireplace, Bob +triumphant at last, and Molly watching him furtively. + +"I believe you has somethin' to say to me, Miss Johnson," said Bob, +loftily. + +"Well, I sut'nly is glad to welcome you home ag'in, Mistuh Crittenden," +said Molly. + +"Is you?" + +Bob was quite independent now, and Molly began to weaken slightly. + +"An' is dat all you got to say?" + +"Ole Miss said I must tell you that I was mighty--mean--to--you--when +you went--to--de wah, an' that--I'm sorry." + +"Well, _is_ you sorry?" + +Molly was silent. + +"Quit yo' foolin', gal; quit yo' foolin'." + +In a moment Bob was by her side, and with his arm around her; and Molly +rose to her feet with an ineffectual effort to unclasp his hands. + +"Quit yo' foolin'!" + +Bob's strong arms began to tighten, and the girl in a moment turned and +gave way into his arms, and with her head on his shoulder, began to cry. +But Bob knew what sort of tears they were, and he was as gentle as +though his skin had been as white as was his heart. + + * * * * * + +And Crittenden was coming home--Colour-Sergeant Crittenden, who had got +out of the hospital and back to the trenches just in time to receive +flag and chevrons on the very day of the surrender--only to fall ill of +the fever and go back to the hospital that same day. There was Tampa +once more--the great hotel, the streets, silent and deserted, except for +the occasional officer that rode or marched through the deep dust of the +town, and the other soldiers, regulars and volunteers, who had suffered +the disappointment, the heat, sickness, and hardship of war with little +credit from the nation at large, and no reward, such even as a like +fidelity in any path of peace would have brought them. + +Half out of his head, weak and feverish, Crittenden climbed into the +dusty train and was whirled through the dusty town, out through dry +marshes and dusty woods and dusty, cheerless, dead-flowered fields, but +with an exhilaration that made his temple throb like a woman's. + +Up through the blistered, sandy, piney lowlands; through Chickamauga +again, full of volunteers who, too, had suffered and risked all the ills +of the war without one thrill of compensation; and on again, until he +was once more on the edge of the Bluegrass, with birds singing the sun +down; and again the world for him was changed--from nervous exaltation +to an air of balm and peace; from grim hills to the rolling sweep of +low, brown slopes; from giant-poplar to broad oak and sugar-tree; from +log-cabin to homestead of brick and stone. And so, from mountain of Cuba +and mountain of his own land, Crittenden once more passed home. It had +been green spring for the earth when he left, but autumn in his heart. +Now autumn lay over the earth, but in his heart was spring. + +As he glanced out of the window, he could see a great crowd about the +station. A brass band was standing in front of the station-door--some +holiday excursion was on foot, he thought. As he stepped on the +platform, a great cheer was raised and a dozen men swept toward him, +friends, personal and political, but when they saw him pale, thin, +lean-faced, feverish, dull-eyed, the cheers stopped and two powerful +fellows took him by the arms and half carried him to the station-door, +where were waiting his mother--and little Phyllis. + +When they came out again to the carriage, the band started "Johnny Comes +Marching Home Again," and Crittenden asked feebly: + +"What does all this mean?" + +Phyllis laughed through her tears. + +"That's for you." + +Crittenden's brow wrinkled in a pathetic effort to collect his thoughts; +but he gave it up and looked at his mother with an unspoken question on +his lips. His mother smiled merely, and Crittenden wondered why; but +somehow he was not particularly curious--he was not particularly +concerned about anything. In fact, he was getting weaker, and the +excitement at the station was bringing on the fever again. Half the time +his eyes were closed, and when he opened them on the swiftly passing +autumn fields, his gaze was listless. Once he muttered several times, as +though he were out of his head; and when they drove into the yard, his +face was turning blue at the lips and his teeth began to chatter. Close +behind came the doctor's buggy. + +Crittenden climbed out slowly and slowly mounted the stiles. On the top +step he sat down, looking at the old homestead and the barn and the +stubble wheat-fields beyond, and at the servants coming from the +quarters to welcome him, while his mother stood watching and fondly +humouring him. + +"Uncle Ephraim," he said to a respectful old white-haired man, "where's +my buggy?" + +"Right where you left it, suh." + +"Well, hitch up--" Raincrow, he was about to say, and then he remembered +that Raincrow was dead. "Have you got anything to drive?" + +"Yessuh; we got Mr. Basil's little mare." + +"Hitch her up to my buggy, then, right away. I want you to drive me." + +The old darky looked puzzled, but Mrs. Crittenden, still with the idea +of humouring him, nodded for him to obey, and the old man turned toward +the stable. + +"Yessuh--right away, suh." + +"Where's Basil, mother?" + +Phyllis turned her face quickly. + +"He'll be here soon," said his mother, with a smile. + +The doctor looked at his flushed face. + +"Come on, my boy," he said, firmly. "You must get out of the sun." + +Crittenden shook his head. + +"Mother, have I ever done anything that you asked me not to do?" + +"No, my son." + +"Please don't make me begin now," he said, gently. "Is--is she at home?" + +"Yes; but she is not very well. She has been ill a long while," she +added, but she did not tell him that Judith had been nursing at Tampa, +and that she had been sent home, stricken with fever. + +The doctor had been counting his pulse, and now, with a grave look, +pulled a thermometer from his pocket; but Crittenden waved him away. + +"Not yet, Doctor; not yet," he said, and stopped a moment to control his +voice before he went on. + +"I know what's the matter better than you do. I'm going to have the +fever again; but I've got something to do before I go to bed, or I'll +never get up again. I have come up from Tampa just this way, and I can +go on like this for two more hours; and I'm going." + +The doctor started to speak, but Mrs. Crittenden shook her head at him, +and Phyllis's face, too, was pleading for him. + +"Mother, I'll be back in two hours, and then I'll do just what you and +the doctor say; but not now." + + * * * * * + +Judith sat bare-headed on the porch with a white shawl drawn closely +about her neck and about her half-bare arms. Behind her, on the floor of +the porch, was, where she had thrown it, a paper in which there was a +column about the home-coming of Crittenden--plain Sergeant Crittenden. +And there was a long editorial comment, full of national spirit, and a +plain statement to the effect that the next vacant seat in Congress was +his without the asking. + +The pike-gate slammed--her father was getting home from town. The buggy +coming over the turf made her think what a change a few months had +brought to Crittenden and to her; of the ride home with him the previous +spring; and what she rarely allowed herself, she thought of the night of +their parting and the warm colour came to her cheeks. He had never sent +her a line, of course. The matter would never be mentioned--it couldn't +be. It struck her while she was listening to the coming of the feet on +the turf that they were much swifter than her father's steady-going old +buggy horse. The click was different; and when the buggy, instead of +turning toward the stable, came straight for the stiles, her heart +quickened and she raised her head. She heard acutely the creak of the +springs as some one stepped to the ground, and then, without waiting to +tie his horse, stepped slowly over the stiles. Unconsciously she rose to +her feet, not knowing what to think--to do. And then she saw that the +man wore a slouch hat, that his coat was off, and that a huge pistol was +buckled around him, and she turned for the door in alarm. + +"Judith!" + +The voice was weak, and she did not know it; but in a moment the light +from the lamp in the hallway fell upon a bare-headed, gaunt-featured man +in the uniform of a common soldier. + +"Judith!" + +This time the voice broke a little, and for a moment Judith stood +speechless--still--unable to believe that the wreck before her was +Crittenden. His face and eyes were on fire--the fire of fever--she could +not know that; and he was trembling and looked hardly able to stand. + +"I've come, Judith," he said. "I haven't known what to do, and I've come +to tell you--to--ask----" + +He was searching her face anxiously, and he stopped suddenly and passed +one hand across, his eyes, as though he were trying to recall something. +The girl had drawn herself slowly upward until the honeysuckle above her +head touched her hair, and her face, that had been so full of aching +pity for him that in another moment she must have gone and put her arms +about him, took on a sudden, hard quiet; and the long anguish of the +summer came out suddenly in her trembling lip and the whiteness of her +face. + +"To ask for forgiveness," he might have said; but his instinct swerved +him; and-- + +"For mercy, Judith," he would have said, but the look of her face +stopped the words in an unheard whisper; and he stooped slowly, feeling +carefully for a step, and letting himself weakly down in a way that +almost unnerved her again; but he had begun to talk now, quietly and +evenly, and without looking up at her. + +"I'm not going to stay long. I'm not going to worry you. I'll go away in +just a moment; but I had to come; I had to come. I've been a little +sick, and I believe I've not quite got over the fever yet; but I +couldn't go through it again without seeing you. I know that, and +that's--why--I've--come. It isn't the fever. Oh, no; I'm not sick at +all. I'm very well, thank you----" + +He was getting incoherent, and he knew it, and stopped a moment. + +"It's you, Judith----" + +He stopped again, and with a painful effort went on slowly--slowly and +quietly, and the girl, without a word, stood still, looking down at him. + +"I--used--to--think--that--I--loved--you. I--used--to--think I +was--a--man. I didn't know what love was, and I didn't know what it was +to be a man. I know both now, thank God, and learning each has helped me +to learn the other. If I killed all your feeling for me, I deserve the +loss; but you must have known, Judith, that I was not myself that +night. You did know. Your instinct told you the truth; you--knew--I +loved--you--then--and that's why--that's why--you--God bless +you--said--what--you--did. To think that I should ever dare to open my +lips again! but I can't help it; I can't help it. I was crazy, +Judith--crazy--and I am now; but it didn't go and then come back. It +never went at all, as I found out, going down to Cuba--and yes, it did +come back; but it was a thousand times higher and better love than it +had ever been, for everything came back and I was a better man. I have +seen nothing but your face all the time--nothing--nothing, all the time +I've been gone; and I couldn't rest or sleep--I couldn't even die, +Judith, until I had come to tell you that I never knew a man could love +a woman as--I--love--you--Judith. I----" + +He rose very slowly, turned, and as he passed from the light, his +weakness got the better of him for the first time, because of his wounds +and sickness, and his voice broke in a half sob--the sob that is so +terrible to a woman's ears; and she saw him clinch his arms fiercely +around his breast to stifle it. + + * * * * * + +It was the old story that night--the story of the summer's heat and +horror and suffering--heard and seen, and keenly felt in his delirium: +the dusty, grimy days of drill on the hot sands of Tampa; the long, +long, hot wait on the transport in the harbour; the stuffy, ill-smelling +breath of the hold, when the wind was wrong; the march along the coast +and the grewsome life over and around him--buzzard and strange bird in +the air, and crab and snail and lizard and scorpion and hairy tarantula +scuttling through the tropical green rushes along the path. And the +hunger and thirst and heat and dirt and rolling sweat of the last day's +march and every detail of the day's fight; the stench of dead horse and +dead man; the shriek of shell and rattle of musketry and yell of +officer; the slow rush through the long grass, and the climb up the +hill. And always, he was tramping, tramping, tramping through long, +green, thick grass. Sometimes a kaleidoscope series of pictures would go +jumbling through his brain, as though some imp were unrolling the scroll +of his brain backward, forward, and sidewise; a whirling cloud of sand, +a driving sheet of visible bullets; a hose-pipe that shot streams of +melted steel; a forest of smokestacks; the flash of trailing +phosphorescent foam; a clear sky, full of stars--the mountains clear and +radiant through sunlit vapours; camp-fires shooting flames into the +darkness, and men and guns moving past them. Through it all he could +feel his legs moving and his feet tramping, tramping, tramping through +long green grass. Sometimes he was tramping toward the figure of a +woman, whose face looked like Judith's; and tramp as he could, he could +never get close enough through that grass to know whether it was Judith +or not. But usually it was a hill that he was tramping toward, and then +his foothold was good; and while he went slowly he got forward and he +reached the hill, and he climbed it to a queer-looking little +block-house on top, from which queer-looking little blue men were +running. And now and then one would drop and not get up again. And by +and by came his time to drop. Then he would begin all over again, or he +would go back to the coast, which he preferred to do, in spite of his +aching wound, and the long wait in the hospital and the place where poor +Reynolds was tossed into the air and into fragments by a shell; in spite +of the long walk back to Siboney, the graves of the Rough Riders and the +scuttling land-crabs; and the heat and the smells. Then he would march +back again to the trenches in his dream, as he had done in Cuba when he +got out of the hospital. There was the hill up which he had charged. It +looked like the abode of cave-dwellers--so burrowed was it with +bomb-proofs. He could hear the shouts of welcome as his comrades, and +men who had never spoken to him before, crowded about him. + +How often he lived through that last proud little drama of his soldier +life! There was his Captain wounded, and there was the old Sergeant--the +"Governor"--with chevrons and a flag. + +"You're a Sergeant, Crittenden," said the Captain. + +He, Crittenden, in blood and sympathy the spirit of secession--bearer +now of the Stars and Stripes! How his heart thumped, and how his head +reeled when he caught the staff and looked dumbly up to the folds; and +in spite of all his self-control, the tears came, as they came again and +again in his delirium. + +Right at that moment there was a great bustle in camp. And still holding +that flag, Crittenden marched with his company up to the trenches. There +was the army drawn up at parade, in a great ten-mile half-circle and +facing Santiago. There were the red roofs of the town, and the +batteries, which were to thunder word when the red and yellow flag of +defeat went down and the victorious Stars and Stripes rose up. There +were little men in straw hats and blue clothes coming from Santiago, and +swinging hammocks and tethering horses in an open field, while more +little men in Panama hats were advancing on the American trenches, +saluting courteously. And there were American officers jumping across +the trenches to meet them, and while they were shaking hands, on the +very stroke of twelve, there came thunder--the thunder of two-score and +one salutes. And the cheers--the cheers! From the right rose those +cheers, gathering volume as they came, swinging through the centre far +to the left, and swinging through the centre back again, until they +broke in a wild storm against the big, green hills. A storm that ran +down the foothills to the rear, was mingled with the surf at Siboney and +swung by the rocking transports out to sea. Under the sea, too, it sang, +along the cables, to ring on through the white corridors of the great +capitol and spread like a hurricane throughout all the waiting land at +home! Then he could hear bands playing--playing the "Star-Spangled +Banner"--and the soldiers cheering and cheering again. Suddenly there +was quiet; the bands were playing hymns--old, old hymns that the soldier +had heard with bowed head at his mother's knee, or in some little old +country church at home--and what hardships, privations, wounds, death of +comrades had rarely done, those old hymns did now--they brought tears. +Then some thoughtful soldier pulled a box of hardtack across the +trenches and the little Spanish soldiers fell upon it like schoolboys +and scrambled like pickaninnies for a penny. + +Thus it was that day all around the shining circle of sheathed bayonets, +silent carbines, and dumb cannon-mouths at the American trenches around +Santiago, where the fighting was done. + +And on a little knoll not far away stood Sergeant Crittenden, swaying on +his feet--colour-sergeant to the folds of the ever-victorious, +ever-beloved Old Glory waving over him, with a strange new wave of +feeling surging through him. For then and there, Crittenden, Southerner, +died straightway and through a travail of wounds, suffering, sickness, +devotion, and love for that flag--Crittenden, American, was born. And +just at that proud moment, he would feel once more the dizziness seize +him. The world would turn dark, and again he would sink slowly. + +And again, when all this was over, the sick man would go back to the +long grass and tramp it once more until his legs ached and his brain +swam. And when it was the hill that he could see, he was quiet and got +rest for a while; and when it was the figure of Judith--he knew now that +it _was_ Judith--he would call aloud for her, just as he did in the +hospital at Siboney. And always the tramp through the long grass would +begin again-- + +Tramp--tramp--tramp. + +He was very tired, but there was the long grass ahead of him, and he +must get through it somehow. + +Tramp--tramp--tramp. + + * * * * * + + + + +XIV + + +Autumn came and the Legion was coming home--Basil was coming home. And +Phyllis was for one hour haughty and unforgiving over what she called +his shameful neglect and, for another, in a fever of unrest to see him. +No, she was not going to meet him. She would wait for him at her own +home, and he could come to her there with the honours of war on his brow +and plead on bended knee to be forgiven. At least that was the picture +that she sometimes surprised in her own mind, though she did not want +Basil kneeling to anybody--not even to her. + +The town made ready, and the spirit of welcome for the home-coming was +oddly like the spirit of God-speed that had followed them six months +before; only there were more smiling faces, more and madder cheers, and +as many tears, but this time they were tears of joy. For many a mother +and daughter who did not weep when father and brother went away, wept +now, that they were coming home again. They had run the risk of fever +and sickness, the real terrors of war. God knew they had done their +best to get to the front, and the people knew what account they would +have given of themselves had they gotten their chance at war. They had +had all the hardship--the long, long hardship without the one moment of +recompense that was the soldier's reward and his sole opportunity for +death or glory. So the people gave them all the deserved honour that +they would have given had they stormed San Juan or the stone fort at +Caney. The change that even in that short time was wrought in the +regiment, everybody saw; but only the old ex-Confederates and Federals +on the street knew the steady, veteran-like swing of the march and felt +the solid unity of form and spirit that those few months had brought to +the tanned youths who marched now like soldiers indeed. And next the +Colonel rode the hero of the regiment, who _had_ got to Cuba, who _had_ +stormed the hill, and who had met a Spanish bullet face to face and come +off conqueror--Basil, sitting his horse as only the Southerner, born to +the saddle, can. How they cheered him, and how the gallant, generous old +Colonel nodded and bowed as though to say: + +"That's right; that's right. Give it to him! give it to him!" + +Phyllis--her mother and Basil's mother being present--shook hands merely +with Basil when she saw him first at the old woodland, and Basil +blushed like a girl. They fell behind as the older people walked toward +the auditorium, and Basil managed to get hold of her hand, but she +pulled it away rather haughtily. She was looking at him very +reproachfully, a moment later, when her eyes became suddenly fixed to +the neck of his blouse, and filled with tears. She began to cry softly. + +"Why, Phyllis." + +Phyllis was giving way, and, thereupon, with her own mother and Basil's +mother looking on, and to Basil's blushing consternation, she darted for +his neck-band and kissed him on the throat. The throat flushed, and in +the flush a tiny white spot showed--the mouth of a tiny wound where a +Mauser bullet had hissed straight through. + +Then the old auditorium again, and Crittenden, who had welcomed the +Legion to camp at Ashland, was out of bed, against the doctor's advice, +to welcome it to home and fireside. And when he faced the crowd--if they +cheered Basil, what did they do now? He was startled by the roar that +broke against the roof. As he stood there, still pale, erect, modest, +two pairs of eyes saw what no other eyes saw, two minds were thinking +what none others were--the mother and Judith Page. Others saw him as the +soldier, the generous brother, the returned hero. These two looked +deeper and saw the new man who had been forged from dross by the fire of +battle and fever and the fire of love. There was much humility in the +face, a new fire in the eyes, a nobler bearing--and his bearing had +always been proud--a nobler sincerity, a nobler purpose. + +He spoke not a word of himself--not a word of the sickness through which +he had passed. It was of the long patience and the patriotism of the +American soldier, the hardship of camp life, the body-wearing travail of +the march in tropical heat. And then he paid his tribute to the regular. +There was no danger of the volunteer failing to get credit for what he +had done, but the regular--there was no one to speak for him in camp, on +the transports, on the march, in tropical heat, and on the battlefield. +He had seen the regular hungry, wet, sick, but fighting still; and he +had seen him wounded, dying, dead, and never had he known anything but +perfect kindness from one to the other; perfect courtesy to outsider; +perfect devotion to officer, and never a word of complaint--never one +word of complaint. + +"Sometimes I think that the regular who has gone will not open his lips +if the God of Battles tells him that not yet has he earned eternal +peace." + +As for the war itself, it had placed the nation high among the seats of +the Mighty. It had increased our national pride, through unity, a +thousand fold. It would show to the world and to ourselves that the +heroic mould in which the sires of the nation were cast is still casting +the sons of to-day; that we need not fear degeneracy nor dissolution for +another hundred years--smiling as he said this, as though the dreams of +Greece and Rome were to become realities here. It had put to rest for a +time the troublous social problems of the day; it had brought together +every social element in our national life--coal-heaver and millionaire, +student and cowboy, plain man and gentleman, regular and volunteer--had +brought them face to face and taught each for the other tolerance, +understanding, sympathy, high regard; and had wheeled all into a solid +front against a common foe. It had thus not only brought shoulder to +shoulder the brothers of the North and South, but those brothers +shoulder to shoulder with our brothers across the sea. In the interest +of humanity, it had freed twelve million people of an alien race and +another land, and it had given us a better hope for the alien race in +our own. + +And who knew but that, up where France's great statue stood at the +wide-thrown portals of the Great City of the land, it had not given to +the mighty torch that nightly streams the light of Liberty across the +waters from the New World to the Old--who knew that it had not given to +that light a steady, ever-onward-reaching glow that some day should +illumine the earth? + + * * * * * + +The Cuban fever does not loosen its clutch easily. + +Crittenden went to bed that day and lay there delirious and in serious +danger for more than a fortnight. But at the end a reward came for all +the ills of his past and all that could ever come. + +His long fight was over, and that afternoon he lay by his window, which +was open to the rich, autumn sunlight that sifted through the woods and +over the pasture till it lay in golden sheens across the fence and the +yard and rested on his window-sill, rich enough almost to grasp with his +hand, should he reach out for it. There was a little colour in his +face--he had eaten one good meal that day, and his long fight with the +fever was won. He did not know that in his delirium he had spoken of +Judith--Judith--Judith--and this day and that had given out fragments +from which his mother could piece out the story of his love; that, at +the crisis, when his mother was about to go to the girl, Judith had come +of her own accord to his bedside. He did not know her, but he grew +quiet at once when the girl put her hand on his forehead. + +Now Crittenden was looking out on the sward, green with the curious +autumn-spring that comes in that Bluegrass land: a second spring that +came every year to nature, and was coming this year to him. And in his +mood for field and sky was the old, dreamy mistiness of pure +delight--spiritual--that he had not known for many years. It was the +spirit of his youth come back--that distant youth when the world was +without a shadow; when his own soul had no tarnish of evil; when passion +was unconscious and pure; when his boyish reverence was the only feeling +he knew toward every woman. And lying thus, as the sun sank and the +shadows stole slowly across the warm bands of sunlight, and the +meadow-lark called good-night from the meadows, whence the cows were +coming homeward and the sheep were still browsing--out of the quiet and +peace and stillness and purity and sweetness of it all came his last +vision--the vision of a boy with a fresh, open face and no shadow across +the mirror of his clear eyes. It looked like Basil, but it was "the +little brother" of himself coming back at last--coming with a glad, +welcoming smile. The little man was running swiftly across the fields +toward him. He had floated lightly over the fence, and was making +straight across the yard for his window; and there he rose and floated +in, and with a boy's trustfulness put his small, chubby hand in the big +brother's, and Crittenden felt the little fellow's cheek close to his as +he slept on, his lashes wet with tears. + +The mother opened the door; a tall figure slipped gently in; the door +was closed softly after it again, and Judith was alone; for Crittenden +still lay with his eyes closed, and the girl's face whitened with pity +and flamed slowly as she slowly slipped forward and stood looking down +at him. As she knelt down beside him, something that she held in her +hand clanked softly against the bed and Crittenden opened his eyes. + +"Mother!" + +There was no answer. Judith had buried her face in her hands. A sob +reached his ears and he turned quickly. + +"Judith," he said; "Judith," he repeated, with a quick breath. "Why, my +God, you! Why--you--you've come to see me! you, after all--you!" + +He raised himself slowly, and as he bent over her, he saw his father's +sword, caught tightly in her white hands--the old sword that was between +him and Basil to win and wear--and he knew the meaning of it all, and +he had to steady himself to keep back his own tears. + +"Judith!" + +His voice choked; he could get no further, and he folded his arms about +her head and buried his face in her hair. + + + + +XV + + +The gray walls of Indian summer tumbled at the horizon and let the glory +of many fires shine out among the leaves. Once or twice the breath of +winter smote the earth white at dawn. Christmas was coming, and God was +good that Christmas. + +Peace came to Crittenden during the long, dream-like days--and +happiness; and high resolve had deepened. + +Day by day, Judith opened to him some new phase of loveliness, and he +wondered how he could have ever thought that he knew her; that he loved +her, as he loved her now. He had given her the locket and had told her +the story of that night at the hospital. She had shown no surprise, and +but very little emotion; moreover, she was silent. And Crittenden, too, +was silent, and, as always, asked no questions. It was her secret; she +did not wish him to know, and his trust was unfaltering. Besides, he had +his secrets as well. He meant to tell her all some day, and she meant to +tell him; but the hours were so full of sweet companionship that both +forbore to throw the semblance of a shadow on the sunny days they spent +together. + +It was at the stiles one night that Judith handed Crittenden back the +locket that had come from the stiffened hand of the Rough Rider, +Blackford, along with a letter, stained, soiled, unstamped, addressed to +herself, marked on the envelope "Soldier's letter," and countersigned by +his Captain. + +"I heard him say at Chickamauga that he was from Kentucky," ran the +letter, "and that his name was Crittenden. I saw your name on a piece of +paper that blew out of his tent one day. I guessed what was between you +two, and I asked him to be my 'bunkie;' but as you never told him my +name, I never told him who I was. I went with the Rough Riders, but we +have been camped near each other. To-morrow comes the big fight. Our +regiments will doubtless advance together. I shall watch out for him as +long as I am alive. I shall be shot. It is no premonition--no fear, no +belief. I know it. I still have the locket you gave me. If I could, I +would give it to him; but he would know who I am, and it seems your wish +that he should not know. I should like to see you once more, but I +should not like you to see me. I am too much changed; I can see it in my +own face. Good-night. Good-by." + +There was no name signed. The initials were J. P., and Crittenden looked +up inquiringly. + +"His name was not Blackford; it was Page--Jack Page. He was my cousin," +she went on, gently. "That is why I never told you. It all happened +while you were at college. While you were here, he was usually out West; +and people thought we were merely cousins, and that I was weaning him +from his unhappy ways. I was young and foolish, but I had--you know the +rest." + +The tears gathered in her eyes. + +"God pity him!" + +Crittenden turned from her and walked to and fro, and Judith rose and +walked up to him, looking him in the eyes. + +"No, dear," she said; "I am sorry for him now--sorry, so sorry! I wish I +could have helped him more. That is all. It has all gone--long ago. It +never was. I did not know until I left you here at the stiles that +night." + +Crittenden looked inquiringly into her eyes before he stooped to kiss +her. She answered his look. + +"Yes," she said simply; "when I sent him away." + +Crittenden's conscience smote him sharply. What right had he to ask such +a question--even with a look? + +"Come, dear," he said; "I want to tell you all--now." + +But Judith stopped him with a gesture. + +"Is there anything that may cross your life hereafter--or mine?" + +"No, thank God; no!" + +Judith put her finger on his lips. + +"I don't want to know." + + * * * * * + +And God was good that Christmas. + +The day was snapping cold, and just a fortnight before Christmas eve. +There had been a heavy storm of wind and sleet the night before, and the +negroes of Canewood, headed by Bob and Uncle Ephraim, were searching the +woods for the biggest fallen oak they could find. The frozen grass was +strewn with wrenched limbs, and here and there was an ash or a +sugar-tree splintered and prostrate, but wily Uncle Ephraim was looking +for a yule-log that would burn slowly and burn long; for as long as the +log burned, just that long lasted the holiday of every darky on the +place. So the search was careful, and lasted till a yell rose from Bob +under a cliff by the side of the creek--a yell of triumph that sent the +negroes in a rush toward him. Bob stood on the torn and twisted roots of +a great oak that wind and ice had tugged from its creek-washed roots and +stretched parallel with the water--every tooth showing delight in his +find. With the cries and laughter of children, two boys sprang upon the +tree with axes, but Bob waved them back. + +"Go back an' git dat cross-cut saw!" he said. + +Bob, as ex-warrior, took precedence even of his elders now. + +"Fool niggers don't seem to know dar'll be mo' wood to burn if we don't +waste de chips!" + +The wisdom of this was clear, and, in a few minutes, the long-toothed +saw was singing through the tough bark of the old monarch--a darky at +each end of it, the tip of his tongue in the corner of his mouth, the +muscles of each powerful arm playing like cords of elastic steel under +its black skin--the sawyers, each time with a mighty grunt, drew the +shining, whistling blade to and fro to the handle. Presently they began +to sing--improvising: + + Pull him t'roo! (grunt) + Yes, man. + Pull him t'roo--huh! + Saw him to de heart. + + Gwine to have Christmas. + Yes, man! + Gwine to have Christmas. + Yes, man! + + Gwine to have Christmas + Long as he can bu'n. + + Burn long, log! + Yes, log! + Burn long, log! + Yes, log, + Heah me, log, burn long! + + Gib dis nigger Christmas. + Yes, Lawd, long Christmas! + Gib dis nigger Christmas. + O log, burn long! + +And the saw sang with them in perfect time, spitting out the black, +moist dust joyously--sang with them and without a breath for rest; for +as two pair of arms tired, another fresh pair of sinewy hands grasped +the handles. In an hour the whistle of the saw began to rise in key +higher and higher, and as the men slowed up carefully, it gave a little +high squeak of triumph, and with a "kerchunk" dropped to the ground. +With more cries and laughter, two men rushed for fence-rails to be used +as levers. + +There was a chorus now: + + Soak him in de water, + Up, now! + Soak him in de water, + Up, now! + O Lawd, soak long! + +There was a tightening of big, black biceps, a swelling of powerful +thighs, a straightening of mighty backs; the severed heart creaked and +groaned, rose slightly, turned and rolled with a great splash into the +black, winter water. Another delighted chorus: + +"Dyar now!" + +"Hol' on," said Bob; and he drove a spike into the end of the log, tied +one end of a rope to the spike, and the other to a pliant young hickory, +talking meanwhile: + +"Gwine to rain, an' maybe ole Mister Log try to slip away like a thief +in de dark. Don't git away from Bob; no suh. You be heah now Christmas +eve--sho'!" + +"Gord!" said a little negro with bandy legs. "Soak dat log till +Christmas an' I reckon he'll burn mo'n two weeks." + +God was good that Christmas--good to the nation, for He brought to it +victory and peace, and made it one and indivisible in feeling, as it +already was in fact; good to the State, for it had sprung loyally to the +defence of the country, and had won all the honour that was in the +effort to be won, and man nor soldier can do more; good to the mother, +for the whole land rang with praises of her sons, and her own people +swore that to one should be given once more the seat of his fathers in +the capitol; but best to her when the bishop came to ordain, and, on +his knees at the chancel and waiting for the good old man's hands, was +the best beloved of her children and her first-born--Clay Crittenden. To +her a divine purpose seemed apparent, to bring her back the best of the +old past and all she prayed for the future. + +As Christmas day drew near, gray clouds marshalled and loosed white +messengers of peace and good-will to the frozen earth until the land was +robed in a thick, soft, shining mantle of pure white--the first +spiritualization of the earth for the birth of spring. It was the +mother's wish that her two sons should marry on the same day and on that +day, and Judith and Phyllis yielded. So early that afternoon, she saw +together Judith, as pure and radiant as a snow-hung willow in the +sunshine, and her son, with the light in his face for which she had +prayed so many years--saw them standing together and clasp hands +forever. They took a short wedding trip, and that straight across the +crystal fields, where little Phyllis stood with Basil in +uniform--straight and tall and with new lines, too, but deepened merely, +about his handsome mouth and chin--waiting to have their lives made one. +And, meanwhile, Bob and Molly too were making ready; for if there be a +better hot-bed of sentiment than the mood of man and woman when the man +is going to war it is the mood of man and woman when the man has come +home from war; and with cries and grunts and great laughter and singing, +the negroes were pulling the yule-log from its long bath and across the +snowy fields; and when, at dusk, the mother brought her two sons and her +two daughters and the Pages and Stantons to her own roof, the big log, +hidden by sticks of pine and hickory, was sputtering Christmas cheer +with a blaze and crackle that warmed body and heart and home. That night +the friends came from afar and near; and that night Bob, the faithful, +valiant Bob, in a dress-suit that was his own and new, and Mrs. +Crittenden's own gift, led the saucy Molly, robed as no other dusky +bride at Canewood was ever arrayed, into the dining-room, while the +servants crowded the doors and hallway and the white folk climbed the +stairs to give them room. And after a few solemn moments, Bob caught the +girl in his arms and smacked her lips loudly: + +"Now, gal, I reckon I got yer!" he cried; and whites and blacks broke +into jolly laughter, and the music of fiddles rose in the kitchen, where +there was a feast for Bob's and Molly's friends. Rose, too, the music of +fiddles under the stairway in the hall, and Mrs. Crittenden and Judge +Page, and Crittenden and Mrs. Stanton, and Judith and Basil, and none +other than Grafton and radiant little Phyllis led the way for the +opening quadrille. It was an old-fashioned Christmas the mother wanted, +and an old-fashioned Christmas, with the dance and merriment and the +graces of the old days, that the mother had. Over the portrait of the +eldest Crittenden, who slept in Cuba, hung the flag of the single star +that would never bend its colours again to Spain. Above the blazing log +and over the fine, strong face of the brave father, who had fought to +dissolve the Union, hung the Stars and Bars--proudly. And over the brave +brother, who looked down from the north wall, hung proudly the Stars and +Stripes for which he had given his young life. + +Then came toasts after the good old fashion--graceful toasts--to the +hostess and the brides, to the American soldier, regular and volunteer. +And at the end, Crittenden, regular, raised his glass and there was a +hush. + +It was good, he said, to go back to the past; good to revive and hold +fast to the ideals that time had proven best for humanity; good to go +back to the earth, like the Titans, for fresh strength; good for the +man, the State, the nation. And it was best for the man to go back to +the ideals that had dawned at his mother's knee; for there was the +fountain-head of the nation's faith in its God, man's faith in his +nation--man's faith in his fellow and faith in himself. And he drank to +one who represented his own early ideals better than he should ever +realize them for himself. Then he raised his glass, smiling, but deeply +moved: + +"My little brother." + +He turned to Basil when he spoke and back again to Judith, who, of all +present, knew all that he meant, and he saw her eyes shine with the +sudden light of tears. + +At last came the creak of wheels on the snow outside, the cries of +servants, the good-bys and good-wishes and congratulations from one and +all to one and all; the mother's kiss to Basil and Phyllis, who were +under their mother's wing; the last calls from the doorway; the light of +lanterns across the fields; the slam of the pike-gate--and, over the +earth, white silence. The mother kissed Judith and kissed her son. + +"My children!" + +Then, as was her custom always, she said simply: + +"Be sure to bolt the front door, my son." + +And, as he had done for years, Crittenden slipped the fastenings of the +big hall-door, paused a moment, and looked out. Around the corner of the +still house swept the sounds of merriment from the quarters. The moon +had risen on the snowy fields and white-cowled trees and draped hedges +and on the slender white shaft under the bent willow over his father's +and his uncle's grave--the brothers who had fought face to face and were +sleeping side by side in peace, each the blameless gentleman who had +reverenced his conscience as his king, and, without regret for his way +on earth, had set his foot, without fear, on the long way into the +hereafter. For one moment his mind swept back over the short, fierce +struggle of the summer. + +As they had done, so he had tried to do; and as they had lived, so he, +with God's help, would live henceforth to the end. For a moment he +thought of the flag hanging motionless in the dim drawing-room behind +him--the flag of the great land that was stretching out its powerful +hand to the weak and oppressed of the earth. And then with a last look +to the willow and the shaft beneath, his lips moved noiselessly: + +"They will sleep better to-night." + +Judith was standing in the drawing-room on his hearth, looking into his +fire and dreaming. Ah, God, to think that it should come to pass at +last! + +He entered so softly that she did not hear him. There was no sound but +the drowsy tick of the great clock in the hall and the low song of the +fire. + +"Sweetheart!" + +She looked up quickly, the dream gone from her face, and in its place +the light of love and perfect trust, and she stood still, her arms +hanging at her sides--waiting. + +"Sweetheart!" + +God was good that Christmas. + + +THE END + + * * * * * + +Transcriber's Notes: + +1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards. + +2. Contemporary spelling has been retained, with these corrections: + p. 64 "gretty" to "pretty" ("watching pretty girls"). + p. 64 "pacing ing" to "pacing" ("pacing a steady beat"). + p. 117 "Critdenden" to "Crittenden" ("Private Crittenden"). + p. 162 "chapparal" to "chaparral" ("through the chaparral"). + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Crittenden, by John Fox, Jr. + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CRITTENDEN *** + +***** This file should be named 18318.txt or 18318.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/3/1/18318/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team +at http://www.pgdp.net" + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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