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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a79e8be --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #54358 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54358) diff --git a/old/54358-0.txt b/old/54358-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4ad1c28..0000000 --- a/old/54358-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4013 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Gettysburg, by Elsie Singmaster - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Gettysburg - Stories of the Red Harvest and the Aftermath - - -Author: Elsie Singmaster - - - -Release Date: March 14, 2017 [eBook #54358] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTYSBURG*** - - -E-text prepared by Barry Abrahamsen and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made -available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this - file which includes the original illustrations. - See 28711-h.htm or 28711-h.zip: - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28711/28711-h/28711-h.htm) - or - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28711/28711-h.zip) - - - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/gettysburgstorie00insing - - - - - -GETTYSBURG - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - By Elsie Singmaster - - GETTYSBURG. Illustrated - - WHEN SARAH WENT TO SCHOOL. Illustrated. - 12mo, $1.00. - - WHEN SARAH SAVED THE DAY. Illustrated. - 12mo, $1.00. - - HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY - BOSTON AND NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -GETTYSBURG - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: A BATTLE IS TO BE FOUGHT HERE] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -GETTYSBURG - -Stories of the Red Harvest and the Aftermath - -by - -ELSIE SINGMASTER - - - - - - -[Illustration: Publisher's Logo] - -Boston and New York -Houghton Mifflin Company -1913 - -Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons -Copyright, 1907, 1909, 1911 and 1912, by Harper And Brothers -Copyright, 1909, by J. B. Lippincott Company -Copyright, 1909, by the S. S. Mcclure Co. -Copyright, 1913, by Elsie Singmaster Lewars - -All Rights Reserved - -Published April 1913 - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - TO MY FATHER - JOHN ALDEN SINGMASTER, D.D. - THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY - DEDICATED - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - 1863-1913 - - -_Four Score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this -continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty; and dedicated to the -proposition that all men are created equal._ - -_Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, -or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are -met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a -portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here -gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting -and proper that we should do this._ - -_But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we -cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who -struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add -or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say -here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the -living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they -who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us -to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from -these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which -they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly -resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, -under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of -the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the -earth._ - -ABRAHAM LINCOLN. - -GETTYSBURG, NOVEMBER 19, 1863. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - CONTENTS - - - _Page_ - I. JULY THE FIRST 1 - - II. THE HOME-COMING 21 - - III. VICTORY 45 - - IV. THE BATTLE-GROUND 65 - - V. GUNNER CRISWELL 87 - - VI. THE SUBSTITUTE 109 - - VII. THE RETREAT 133 - - VIII. THE GREAT DAY 157 - - IX. MARY BOWMAN 181 - - -NOTE. Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editors for permission to -reprint in this volume chapters that first appeared in _Harper's_, -_Lippincott's_, _McClure's_, and _Scribner's Magazines_. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - ILLUSTRATIONS - - - A BATTLE IS TO BE FOUGHT 13 - HERE _Frontispiece_ - - From the drawing by - Sidney H. Riesenberg, - reproduced by courtesy - of Harper and Brothers - - "I CAN'T STAND IT," HE 26 - SAID THICKLY - - From the drawing by - Frederic Dorr Steele - reproduced by courtesy - of McClure's Magazine - - HE STOOD WHERE LINCOLN 104 - HAD STOOD: - - From the drawing by C. E. - Chambers, reproduced by - courtesy of Harper and - Brothers - - THEY SAW THE STRANGE OLD 152 - FIGURE ON THE PORCH - - From the drawing by F. - Walter Taylor, - reproduced by courtesy - of Chas. Scribner's - Sons - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - GETTYSBURG - - I - - JULY THE FIRST - - -From the kitchen to the front door, back to the kitchen, out to the -little stone-fenced yard behind the house, where her children played -in their quiet fashion, Mary Bowman went uneasily. She was a -bright-eyed, slender person, with an intense, abounding joy in life. -In her red plaid gingham dress, with its full starched skirt, she -looked not much older than her ten-year-old boy. - -Presently, admonishing herself sternly, she went back to her work. She -sat down in a low chair by the kitchen table, and laid upon her knee a -strip of thick muslin. Upon that she placed a piece of linen, which -she began to scrape with a sharp knife. Gradually a soft pile of -little, downy masses gathered in her lap. After a while, as though -this process were too slow, or as though she could no longer endure -her bent position, she selected another piece of linen and began to -pull it to pieces, adding the raveled threads to the pile of lint. -Suddenly, she slipped her hands under the soft mass, and lifted it to -the table. Forgetting the knife, which fell with a clatter, she rose -and went to the kitchen door. - -"Children," she said, "remember you are not to go away." - -The oldest boy answered obediently. Mounted upon a broomstick, he -impersonated General Early, who, a few days before, had visited the -town and had made requisition upon it; and little Katy and the -four-year-old boy represented General Early's ragged Confederates. - -Their mother's bright eyes darkened as she watched them. Those raiding -Confederates had been so terrible to look upon, so ragged, so worn, so -starving. Their eyes had been like black holes in their brown faces; -they had had the figures of youth and the decrepitude of age. A -straggler from their ranks had told her that the Southern men of -strength and maturity were gone, that there remained in his village in -Georgia only little boys and old, old men. The Union soldiers who had -come yesterday, marching in the Emmittsburg road, through the town and -out to the Theological Seminary, were different; travel-worn as they -were, they had seemed, in comparison, like new recruits. - -Suddenly Mary Bowman clasped her hands. Thank God, they would not -fight here! Once more frightened Gettysburg had anticipated a battle, -once more its alarm had proved ridiculous. Early had gone days ago to -York, the Union soldiers were marching toward Chambersburg. Thank God, -John Bowman, her husband, was not a regular soldier, but a fifer in -the brigade band. Members of the band, poor Mary thought, were safe, -danger would not come nigh them. Besides, he was far away with -Hooker's idle forces. No failure to give battle made Mary indignant, -no reproaches of an inert general fell from her lips. She was -passionately grateful that they did not fight. - -It was only on dismal, rainy days, or when she woke at night and -looked at her little children lying in their beds, that the vague, -strange possibility of her husband's death occurred to her. Then she -assured herself with conviction that God would not let him die. They -were so happy, and they were just beginning to prosper. They had paid -the last upon their little house before he went to war; now they meant -to save money and to educate their children. By fall the war would be -over, then John would come back and resume his school-teaching, and -everything would be as it had been. - -She went through the kitchen again and out to the front door, and -looked down the street with its scattering houses. Opposite lived -good-natured, strong-armed Hannah Casey; in the next house, a dozen -rods away, the Deemer family. The Deemers had had great trouble, the -father was at war and the two little children were ill with typhoid -fever. In a little while she would go down and help. It was still -early; perhaps the children and their tired nurses slept. - -Beyond, the houses were set closer together, the Wilson house first, -where a baby was watched for now each day, and next to it the McAtee -house, where Grandma McAtee was dying. In that neighborhood, and a -little farther on past the new court-house in the square, which -Gettysburg called "The Diamond," men were moving about, some mounted, -some on foot. Their presence did not disturb Mary, since Early had -gone in one direction and the Union soldiers were going in the other. -Probably the Union soldiers had come to town to buy food before they -started on their march. She did not even think uneasily of the sick -and dying; she said to herself that if the soldiers had wished to -fight here, the good men of the village, the judge, the doctor, and -the ministers would have gone forth to meet them and with accounts of -the invalids would have persuaded them to stay away! - -Over the tops of the houses, Mary could see the cupola of the Seminary -lifting its graceful dome and slender pillars against the blue sky. -She and her husband had always planned that one of their boys should -go to the Seminary and learn to be a preacher; she remembered their -hope now. Far beyond Seminary Ridge, the foothills of the Blue Ridge -lay clear and purple in the morning sunshine. The sun, already high in -the sky, was behind her; it stood over the tall, thick pines of the -little cemetery where her kin lay, and where she herself would lie -with her husband beside her. Except for that dim spot, the whole -lovely landscape was unshadowed. - -Suddenly she put out her hand to the pillar of the porch and called -her neighbor:— - -"Hannah!" - -The door of the opposite house opened, and Hannah Casey's burly figure -crossed the street. She had been working in her carefully tended -garden and her face was crimson. Hannah Casey anticipated no battle. - -"Good morning to you," she called. "What is it you want?" - -"Come here," bade Mary Bowman. - -The Irishwoman climbed the three steps to the little porch. - -"What is it?" she asked again. "What is it you see?" - -"Look!—Out there at the Seminary! You can see the soldiers moving -about, like black specks under the trees!" - -Hannah squinted a pair of near-sighted eyes in the direction of the -Seminary. - -"I'll take your word for it," she said. - -With a sudden motion Mary Bowman lifted her hand to her lips. - -"Early wouldn't come back!" she whispered. "He would never come back!" - -Hannah Casey laughed a bubbling laugh. - -"Come back? Those rag-a-bones? It 'ud go hard with them if they did. -The Unionists wouldn't jump before 'em like the rabbits here. But I -didn't jump! The Bateses fled once more for their lives, it's the -seventeenth time they've saved their valuable commodities from the -foe. Down the street they flew, their tin dishes and their precious -chiny rattling in their wagon. 'Oh, my kind sir!' says Lillian to the -raggedy man you fed,—'oh, my kind sir, I surrender!' 'You're right you -do,' says he. 'We're goin' to eat you up!'—'Lady,' says that same snip -to me, 'you'd better leave your home.' 'Worm!' says I back to him, -'_you_ leave my home!' And you fed him, you soft-heart!" - -"He ate like an animal," said Mary; "as though he had had nothing for -days." - -"And all the cave-dwellers was talkin' about divin' for their cellars. -I wasn't goin' into no cellar. Here I stay, aboveground, till they lay -me out for good." - -Mary Bowman laughed suddenly, hysterically. She had laughed thus far -through all the sorrows war had brought,—poverty, separation, anxiety. -She might still laugh; there was no danger; Early had gone in one -direction, the Union soldiers in the other. - -"Did you see him dive into the apple-butter, Hannah Casey? His face -was smeared with it. He couldn't wait till the biscuits were out of -the oven. He—" She stopped and listened, frowning. She looked out once -more toward the ridge with its moving spots, then down at the town -with its larger spots, then back at the pines, standing straight and -tall in the July sunshine. She could see the white tombstones beneath -the trees. - -"Listen!" she cried. - -"To what?" demanded Hannah Casey. - -For a few seconds the women stood silently. There were still the same -faint, distant sounds, but they were not much louder, not much more -numerous than could be heard in the village on any summer morning. A -heart which dreaded ominous sound might have been set at rest by the -peace and stillness. - -Hannah Casey spoke irritably. "What do you hear?" - -"Nothing," answered Mary Bowman. "But I thought I heard men marching. -I believe it's my heart beating! I thought I heard them in the night. -Could you sleep?" - -"Like a log!" said Hannah Casey. "Sleep? Why, of course, I could -sleep! Ain't our boys yonder? Ain't the Rebs shakin' in their shoes? -No, they ain't. They ain't got no shoes. Ain't the Bateses, them -barometers of war, still in their castle, ain't—" - -"I slept the first part of the night," interrupted Mary Bowman. "Then -it seemed to me I heard men marching. I thought perhaps they were -coming through the town from the hill, and I looked out, but there was -nothing stirring. It was the brightest night I ever saw. I—" - -Again Hannah Casey laughed her mighty laugh. There were nearer sounds -now, the rattle of a cart behind them, the gallop of hoofs before. -Again the Bateses were coming, a family of eight crowded into a little -springless wagon with what household effects they could collect. -Hannah Casey waved her apron at them and went out to the edge of the -street. - -"Run!" she yelled. "Skedaddle! Murder! Help! Police!" - -Neither her jeers nor Mary Bowman's laugh could make the Bateses turn -their heads. Mrs. Bates held in her short arms a feather bed, her -children tried to get under it as chicks creep under the wings of a -mother hen. Down in front of the Deemer house they stopped suddenly. A -Union soldier had halted them, then let them pass. He rode his horse -up on the pavement and pounded with his sword at the Deemer door. - -"He might terrify the children to death!" cried Mary Bowman, starting -forward. - -But already the soldier was riding toward her. - -"There is sickness there!" she shouted to his unheeding ears; "you -oughtn't to pound like that!" - -"You women will have to stay in your cellars," he answered. "A battle -is to be fought here." - -"Here?" said Mary Bowman stupidly. - -"Get out!" said Hannah Casey. "There ain't nobody here to fight with!" - -The soldier rode his horse to Hannah Casey's door, and began to pound -with his sword. - -"I live there!" screamed Hannah. "You dare to bang that door!" - -Mary Bowman crossed the street and looked up at him as he sat on his -great horse. - -"Oh, sir, do you mean that they will fight _here_?" - -"I do." - -"In Gettysburg?" Hannah Casey could scarcely speak for rage. - -"In Gettysburg." - -"Where there are women and children?" screamed Hannah. "And gardens -planted? I'd like to see them in my garden, I—" - -"Get into your cellars," commanded the soldier. "You'll be safe -there." - -"Sir!" Mary Bowman went still a little closer. The crisis in the -Deemer house was not yet passed, even at the best it was doubtful -whether Agnes Wilson could survive the hour of her trial, and Grandma -McAtee was dying. "Sir!" said Mary Bowman, earnestly, ignorant of the -sublime ridiculousness of her reminder, "there are women and children -here whom it might kill." - -The man laughed a short laugh. - -"Oh, my God!" He leaned a little from his saddle. "Listen to me, -sister! I have lost my father and two brothers in this war. Get into -your cellars." - -With that he rode down the street. - -"He's a liar," cried Hannah Casey. She started to run after him. "Go -out to Peterson's field to do your fighting," she shouted furiously. -"Nothing will grow there! Go out there!" - -Then she stopped, panting. - -The soldier took time to turn and grin and wave his hand. - -"He's a liar," declared Hannah Casey once more. "Early's went. There -ain't nothing to fight with." - -Still scolding, she joined Mary Bowman on her porch. Mary Bowman stood -looking through the house at her children, playing in the little -field. They still played quietly; it seemed to her that they had never -ceased to miss their father. - -Then Mary Bowman looked down the street. In the Diamond the movement -was more rapid, the crowd was thicker. Women had come out to the -doorsteps, men were hurrying about. It seemed to Mary that she heard -Mrs. Deemer scream. Suddenly there was a clatter of hoofs; a dozen -soldiers, riding from the town, halted and began to question her. -Their horses were covered with foam; they had come at a wild gallop -from Seminary Ridge. - -"This is the road to Baltimore?" - -"Yes." - -"Straight ahead?" - -"Yes." - -Gauntleted hands lifted the dusty reins. - -"You'd better protect yourself! There is going to be a battle." - -"Here?" asked Mary Bowman again stupidly. - -"Right here." - -Hannah Casey thrust herself between them. - -"Who are you goin' to fight with, say?" - -The soldiers grinned at her. They were already riding away. - -"With the Turks," answered one over his shoulder. - -Another was kinder, or more cruel. - -"Sister!" he explained, "it is likely that two hundred thousand men -will be engaged on this spot. The whole Army of Northern Virginia is -advancing from the north, the whole Army of the Potomac is advancing -from the south, you—" - -The soldier did not finish. His galloping comrades had left him, he -hastened to join them. After him floated another accusation of lying -from the lips of Hannah Casey. Hannah was irritated because the -Bateses were right. - -"Hannah!" said Mary Bowman thickly. "I told you how I dreamed I heard -them marching. It was as though they came in every road, Hannah, from -Baltimore and Taneytown and Harrisburg and York. The roads were full -of them, they were shoulder against shoulder, and their faces were -like death!" - -Hannah Casey grew ghastly white. Superstition did what common sense -and word of man could not do. - -"So you did!" she whispered; "so you did!" - -Mary Bowman clasped her hands and looked about her, down the street, -out toward the Seminary, back at the grim trees. The little sounds had -died away; there was now a mighty stillness. - -"He said the whole Army of the Potomac," she repeated. "John is in the -Army of the Potomac." - -"That is what he said," answered the Irishwoman. - -"What will the Deemers do?" cried Mary Bowman. "And the Wilsons?" - -"God knows!" said Hannah Casey. - -Suddenly Mary Bowman lifted her hands above her head. - -"Look!" she screamed. - -"What?" cried Hannah Casey. "What is it?" - -Mary Bowman went backwards toward the door, her eyes still fixed on -the distant ridge, as though they could not be torn away. It was nine -o'clock; a shrill little clock in the house struck the hour. - -"Children!" called Mary Bowman. "Come! See!" - -The children dropped the little sticks with which they played and ran -to her. - -"What is it?" whined Hannah Casey. - -Mary Bowman lifted the little boy to her shoulder. A strange, -unaccountable excitement possessed her, she hardly knew what she was -doing. She wondered what a battle would be like. She did not think of -wounds, or of blood or of groans, but of great sounds, of martial -music, of streaming flags carried aloft. She sometimes dreamed that -her husband, though he had so unimportant a place, might perform some -great deed of valor, might snatch the colors from a wounded bearer, -and lead his regiment to victory upon the field of battle. And now, -besides, this moment, he was marching home! She never thought that he -might die, that he might be lost, swallowed up in the yawning mouth of -some great battle-trench; she never dreamed that she would never see -him again, would hunt for him among thousands of dead bodies, would -have her eyes filled with sights intolerable, with wretchedness -unspeakable, would be tortured by a thousand agonies which she could -not assuage, torn by a thousand griefs beside her own. She could not -foresee that all the dear woods and fields which she loved, where she -had played as a child, where she had picnicked as a girl, where she -had walked with her lover as a young woman, would become, from Round -Top to the Seminary, from the Seminary to Culp's Hill, a great -shambles, then a great charnel-house. She lifted the little boy to her -shoulder and held him aloft. - -"See, darling!" she cried. "See the bright things sparkling on the -hill!" - -"What are they?" begged Hannah Casey, trying desperately to see. - -"They are bayonets and swords!" - -She put the little boy down on the floor, and looked at him. Hannah -Casey had clutched her arm. - -"Hark!" said Hannah Casey. - -Far out toward the shining cupola of the Seminary there was a sharp -little sound, then another, and another. - -"What is it?" shrieked Hannah Casey. "Oh, what is it?" - -"What is it!" mocked Mary Bowman. "It is—" - -A single, thundering, echoing blast took the words from Mary Bowman's -lips. - -Stupidly, she and Hannah Casey looked at one another. - - - - - II - - THE HOME-COMING - - -Parsons knew little of the great wave of protest that swept over the -Army of the Potomac when Hooker was replaced by Meade. The sad -depression of the North, sick at heart since December, did not move -him; he was too thoroughly occupied with his own sensations. He sat -alone, when his comrades would leave him alone, brooding, his terror -equally independent of victory or defeat. The horror of war appalled -him. He tried to reconstruct the reasons for his enlisting, but found -it impossible. The war had made of him a stranger to himself. He could -scarcely visualize the little farm that he had left, or his mother. -Instead of the farm, he saw corpse-strewn fields; instead of his -mother, the mutilated bodies of young men. His senses seemed unable to -respond to any other stimuli than those of war. He had not been -conscious of the odors of the sweet Maryland spring, or of the song of -mocking-birds; his nostrils were full of the smell of blood, his ears -of the cries of dying men. - -Worse than the recollection of what he had seen were the forebodings -that filled his soul. In a day—yes, an hour, for the rumors of coming -battle forced themselves to his unwilling ears—he might be as they. -Presently he too would lie, staring, horrible, under the Maryland sky. - -The men in his company came gradually to leave him to himself. At -first they thought no less of him because he was afraid. They had all -been afraid. They discussed their sensations frankly as they sat round -the camp-fire, or lay prone on the soft grass of the fields. - -"Scared!" laughed the oldest member of the company, who was speaking -chiefly for the encouragement of Parsons, whom he liked. "My knees -shook, and my chest caved in. Every bullet killed me. But by the time -I'd been dead about forty times, I saw the Johnnies, and something hot -got into my throat, and I got over it." - -"And weren't you afraid afterwards?" asked Parsons, trying to make his -voice sound natural. - -"No, never." - -"But I was," confessed another man. His face was bandaged, and blood -oozed through from the wound that would make him leer like a satyr for -the rest of his life. "I get that way every time. But I get over it. I -don't get hot in my throat, but my skin prickles." - -Young Parsons walked slowly away, his legs shaking visibly beneath -him. - -Adams turned on his side and watched him. - -"Got it bad," he said shortly. Then he lay once more on his back and -spread out his arms. "God, but I'm sick of it! And if Lee's gone into -Pennsylvania, and we're to chase him, and old Joe's put out, the Lord -knows what'll become of us. I bet you a pipeful of tobacco, there -ain't one of us left by this time next week. I bet you—" - -The man with the bandaged face did not answer. Then Adams saw that -Parsons had come back and was staring at him. - -"Ain't Hooker in command no more?" he asked. - -"No; Meade." - -"And we're going to Pennsylvania?" - -"Guess so." Adams sat upright, the expression of kindly commiseration -on his face changed to one of disgust. "Brace up, boy. What's the -matter with you?" - -Parsons sat down beside him. His face was gray; his blue eyes, looking -out from under his little forage-cap, closed as though he were -swooning. - -[Illustration: "I CAN'T STAND IT," HE SAID THICKLY] - -"I can't stand it," he said thickly. "I can see them all day, and hear -them all night, all the groaning—I—" - -The old man pulled from his pocket a little bag. It contained his last -pipeful of tobacco, the one that he had been betting. - -"Take that. You got to get such things out of your head. It won't do. -The trouble with you is that ever since you've enlisted, this -company's been hanging round the outside. You ain't been in a battle. -One battle'll cure you. You got to get over it." - -"Yes," repeated the boy. "I got to get over it." - -He lay down beside Adams, panting. The moon, which would be full in a -few days, had risen; the sounds of the vast army were all about -them—the click of tin basin against tin basin, the stamping of horses, -the oaths and laughter of men. Some even sang. The boy, when he heard -them, said, "Oh, God!" It was his one exclamation. It had broken from -his lips a thousand times, not as a prayer or as an imprecation, but -as a mixture of both. It seemed the one word that could represent the -indescribable confusion of his mind. He said again, "Oh, God! Oh, -God!" - -It was not until two days later, when they had been for hours on the -march, that he realized that they were approaching the little -Pennsylvania town where he lived. He had been marching almost blindly, -his eyes nearly closed, still contemplating his own misery and fear. -He could not discuss with his comrades the next day's prospects, he -did not know enough about the situation to speculate. Adams's hope -that there would be a battle brought to his lips the familiar "Oh, -God!" He had begun to think of suicide. - -It was almost dark once more when they stumbled into a little town. -Its streets, washed by rains, had been churned to thick red mud by -thousands of feet and wheels. The mud clung to Parsons's worn shoes; -it seemed to his half-crazy mind like blood. Then, suddenly, his gun -dropped with a wild clatter to the ground. - -"It's Taneytown!" he called wildly. "It's Taneytown." - -Adams turned upon him irritably. He was almost too tired to move. - -"What if it is Taneytown?" he thundered. "Pick up your gun, you young -fool." - -"But it's only ten miles from home!" - -The shoulder of the man behind him sent Parsons sprawling. He gathered -himself up and leaped into his place by Adams's side. His step was -light. - -"Ten miles from home! We're only ten miles from home!"—he said it as -though the evil spirits which had beset him had been exorcised. He saw -the little whitewashed farmhouse, the yellowing wheat-fields beside -it; he saw his mother working in the garden, he heard her calling. - -Presently he began to look furtively about him. If he could only get -away, if he could get home, they could never find him. There were many -places where he could hide, holes and caverns in the steep, rough -slopes of Big Round Top, at whose foot stood his mother's little -house. They could never find him. He began to speak to Adams -tremulously. - -"When do you think we'll camp?" - -Adams answered him sharply. - -"Not to-night. Don't try any running-away business, boy. 'Tain't worth -while. They'll shoot you. Then you'll be food for crows." - -The boy moistened his parched lips. - -"I didn't say anything about running away," he muttered. But hope died -in his eyes. - -It did not revive when, a little later, they camped in the fields, -trampling the wheat ready for harvest, crushing down the corn already -waist-high, devouring their rations like wolves, then falling asleep -almost on their feet. - -Well indeed might they sleep heavily, dully, undisturbed by cry of -picket or gallop of returning scout. The flat country lay clear and -bright in the moonlight; to the north-west they could almost see the -low cone of Big Round Top, to which none then gave a thought, not even -Parsons himself, who lay with his tanned face turned up toward the -sky. Once his sunken eyes opened, but he did not remember that now, if -ever, he must steal away, over his sleeping comrades, past the -picket-line, and up the long red road toward home. He thought of home -no more, nor of fear; he lay like a dead man. - -It was a marvelous moonlit night. All was still as though round -Gettysburg lay no vast armies, seventy thousand Southerners to the -north, eighty-five thousand Northerners to the south. They lay or -moved quietly, like great octopi, stretching out, now and then, grim -tentacles, which touched or searched vainly. They knew nothing of the -quiet, academic town, lying in its peaceful valley away from the world -for which it cared little. Mere chance decreed that on the morrow its -name should stand beside Waterloo. - -Parsons whimpered the next morning when he heard the sound of guns. He -knew what would follow. In a few hours the firing would cease; then -they would march, wildly seeking an enemy that seemed to have -vanished, or covering the retreat of their own men; and there would be -once more all the ghastly sounds and cries. But the day passed, and -they were still in the red fields. - -It was night when they began to march once more. All day the sounds of -firing had echoed faintly from the north, bringing fierce rage to the -hearts of some, fear to others, and dread unspeakable to Parsons. He -did not know how the day passed. He heard the guns, he caught glimpses -now and then of messengers galloping to headquarters; he sat with bent -head and staring eyes. Late in the afternoon the firing ceased, and he -said over and over again, "Oh, God, don't let us go that way! Oh, God, -don't let us go that way!" He did not realize that the noise came from -the direction of Gettysburg, he did not comprehend that "that way" -meant home, he felt no anxiety for the safety of his mother; he knew -only that, if he saw another dead or dying man, he himself would die. -Nor would his death be simply a growing unconsciousness; he would -suffer in his body all the agony of the wounds upon which he looked. - -The great octopus of which he was a part did not feel in the least the -spark of resistance in him, one of the smallest of the particles that -made up its vast body. When the moon had risen, he was drawn in toward -the centre with the great tentacle to which he belonged. The octopus -suffered; other vast arms were bleeding and almost severed. It seemed -to shudder with foreboding for the morrow. - -Round Top grew clear before them as they marched. The night was -blessedly cool and bright, and they went as though by day, but -fearfully, each man's ears strained to hear. It was like marching into -the crater of a volcano which, only that afternoon, had been in fierce -eruption. It was all the more horrible because now they could see -nothing but the clear July night, hear nothing but the soft sounds of -summer. There was not even a flag of smoke to warn them. - -They caught, now and again, glimpses of men hiding behind hedge-rows, -then hastening swiftly away. - -"Desertin'," said Adams grimly. - -"What did you say?" asked Parsons. - -He had heard distinctly enough, but he longed for the sound of Adams's -voice. When Adams repeated the single word, Parsons did not hear. He -clutched Adams by the arm. - -"You see that hill, there before us?" - -"Yes." - -"Gettysburg is over that hill. There's the cemetery. My father's -buried there." - -Adams looked in under the tall pines. He could see the white stones -standing stiffly in the moonlight. - -"We're goin' in there," he said. "Keep your nerve up there, boy." - -Adams had seen other things besides the white tombstones, things that -moved faintly or lay quietly, or gave forth ghastly sounds. He was -conscious, by his sense of smell, of the army about him and of the -carnage that had been. - -Parsons, strangely enough, had neither heard nor smelled. A sudden awe -came upon him; the past returned: he remembered his father, his -mother's grief at his death, his visits with her to the cemetery. It -seemed to him that he was again a boy stealing home from a day's -fishing in Rock Creek, a little fearful as he passed the cemetery -gate. He touched Adams's arm shyly before he began to sling off his -knapsack and to lie down as his comrades were doing all about him. - -"That is my father's grave," he whispered. - -Then, before the kindly answer sprang from Adams's lips, a gurgle came -into Parsons's throat as though he were dying. One of the apparitions -that Adams had seen lifted itself from the grass, leaving behind dark -stains. The clear moonlight left no detail of the hideous wounds to -the imagination. - -"Parsons!" cried Adams sharply. - -But Parsons had gone, leaping over the graves, bending low by the -fences, dashing across an open field, then losing himself in the -woodland. For a moment Adams's eyes followed him, then he saw that the -cemetery and the outlying fields were black with ten thousand men. It -would be easy for Parsons to get away. - -"No hope for him," he said shortly, as he set to work to do what he -could for the maimed creature at his feet. Dawn, he knew, must be -almost at hand; he fancied that the moonlight was paling. He was -almost crazy for sleep, sleep that he would need badly enough on the -morrow, if he were any prophet of coming events. - -Parsons, also, was aware of the tens of thousands of men about him, to -him they were dead or dying men. He staggered as he ran, his feet -following unconsciously the path that took him home from fishing, -along the low ridge, past scattered farmhouses, toward the cone of -Round Top. It seemed to him that dead men leaped at him and tried to -stop him, and he ran ever faster. Once he shrieked, then he crouched -in a fence-corner and hid. He would have been ludicrous, had the -horrors from which he fled been less hideous. - -He, too, felt the dawn coming, as he saw his mother's house. He sobbed -like a little child, and, no longer keeping to the shade, ran across -the open fields. There were no dead men here, thank God! He threw -himself frantically at the door, and found it locked. Then he drew -from the window the nail that held it down, and crept in. He was -ravenously hungry, and his hands made havoc in the familiar cupboard. -He laughed as he found cake, and the loved "drum-sticks" of his -childhood. - -He did not need to slip off his shoes for fear of waking his mother, -for the shoes had no soles; but he stooped down and removed them with -trembling hands. Then a great peace seemed to come into his soul. He -crept on his hands and knees past his mother's door, and climbed to -his own little room under the eaves, where, quite simply, as though he -were a little boy, and not a man deserting from the army on the eve of -a battle, he said his prayers and went to bed. - -When he awoke, it was late afternoon. He thought at first that he had -been swinging, and had fallen; then he realized that he still lay -quietly in his bed. He stretched himself, reveling in the blessed -softness, and wondering why he felt as though he had been brayed in a -mortar. Then a roar of sound shut out possibility of thought. The -little house shook with it. He covered his ears, but he might as well -have spared himself his pains. That sound could never be shut out, -neither then, nor for years afterward, from the ears of those who -heard it. There were many who would hear no other sound forevermore. -The coward began again his whining, "Oh, God! Oh, God!" His nostrils -were full of smoke; he could smell already the other ghastly odors -that would follow. He lifted himself from his bed, and, hiding his -eyes from the window, felt his way down the steep stairway. He meant, -God help him! to go and hide his face in his mother's lap. He -remembered the soft, cool smoothness of her gingham apron. - -Gasping, he staggered into her room. But his mother was not there. The -mattress and sheets from her bed had been torn off; one sheet still -trailed on the floor. He picked it up and shook it. He was imbecile -enough to think she might be beneath it. - -"Mother!" he shrieked "Mother! Mother!" forgetting that even in that -little room she could not have heard him. He ran through the house, -shouting. Everywhere it was the same—stripped beds, cupboards flung -wide, the fringe of torn curtains still hanging. His mother was not -there. - -His terror drove him finally to the window overlooking the garden. It -was here that he most vividly remembered her, bending over her -flower-beds, training the tender vines, pulling weeds. She must be -here. In spite of the snarl of guns, she must be here. But the garden -was a waste, the fence was down. He saw only the thick smoke beyond, -out of which crept slowly toward him half a dozen men with blackened -faces and blood-stained clothes, again his dead men come to life. He -saw that they wore his own uniform, but the fact made little -impression upon him. Was his mother dead? Had she been killed -yesterday, or had they taken her away last night or this morning while -he slept? He saw that the men were coming nearer to the house, -creeping slowly on through the thick smoke. He wondered vaguely -whether they were coming for him as they had come for his mother. Then -he saw, also vaguely, on the left, another group of men, stealing -toward him, men who did not wear his uniform, but who walked as -bravely as his own comrades. - -He knew little about tactics, and his brain was too dull to realize -that the little house was the prize they sought. It was marvelous that -it had remained unpossessed so long, when a tiny rock or a little bush -was protection for which men struggled. The battle had surged that -way; the little house was to become as famous as the Peach Orchard or -the Railroad Cut, it was to be the "Parsons House" in history. Of this -Parsons had no idea; he only knew, as he watched them, that his mother -was gone, his house despoiled. - -Then, suddenly, rage seized upon him, driving out fear. It was not -rage with the men in gray, creeping so steadily upon him—he thought of -them as men like himself, only a thousand times more brave—it was rage -with war itself, which drove women from their homes, which turned -young men into groaning apparitions. And because he felt this rage, he -too must kill. He knelt down before the window, his gun in his hand. -He had carried it absently with him the night before, and he had -twenty rounds of ammunition. He took careful aim: his hand, thanks to -his mother's food and his long sleep, was quite steady; and he pulled -the trigger. - -At first, both groups of men halted. The shot had gone wide. They had -seen the puff of smoke, but they had no way of telling whether it was -friend or foe who held the little house. There was another puff, and a -man in gray fell. The men in blue hastened their steps, even yet half -afraid, for the field was broad, and to cross it was madness unless -the holders of the house were their own comrades. Another shot went -wide, another man in gray dropped, and another, and the men in blue -leaped on, yelling. Not until then did Parsons see that there were -more than twice as many men in gray as men in blue. The men in gray -saw also, and they, too, ran. The little house was worth tremendous -risks. Another man bounded into the air and rolled over, blood -spurting from his mouth, and the man behind him stumbled over him. -There were only twelve now. Then there were eleven. But they came -on—they were nearer than the men in blue. Then another fell, and -another. It seemed to Parsons that he could go on forever watching -them. He smiled grimly at the queer antics that they cut, the strange -postures into which they threw themselves. Then another fell, and they -wavered and turned. One of the men in blue stopped at the edge of the -garden to take deliberate aim, but Parsons, grinning, also leveled his -gun once more. He wondered, a little jealously, which of them had -killed the man in gray. - -The six men, rushing in, would not believe that he was there alone. -They looked at him, admiringly, grim, bronzed as they were, the -veterans of a dozen battles. They did not think of him for an instant -as a boy; his eyes were the eyes of a man who had suffered and who had -known the hot pleasures of revenge. It was he who directed them now in -fortifying the house, he who saw the first sign of the creeping -Confederates making another sally from the left, he who led them into -the woods when, reinforced by a hundred of their comrades, they used -the little house only as a base toward which to retreat. They had -never seen such fierce rage as his. The sun sank behind the Blue -Ridge, and he seemed to regret that the day of blood was over. He was -not satisfied that they held the little house; he must venture once -more into the dark shadows of the woodland. - -From there his new-found comrades dragged him helpless. His enemies, -powerless against him by day, had waited until he could not see them. -His comrades carried him into the house, where they had made a dim -light. The smoke of battle seemed to be lifting; there was still sharp -firing, but it was silence compared to what had been, peace compared -to what would be on the morrow. - -They laid him on the floor of the little kitchen, and looked at the -wide rent in his neck, and lifted his limp arm, not seeing that a door -behind them had opened quietly, and that a woman had come up from the -deep cellar beneath the house. There was not a cellar within miles -that did not shelter frightened women and children. Parsons's mother, -warned to flee, had gone no farther. She appeared now, a ministering -angel. In her cellar was food in plenty; there were blankets, -bandages, even pillows for bruised and aching heads. Heaven grant that -some one would thus care for her boy in the hour of his need! - -The men watched Parsons's starting eyes, thinking they saw death. They -would not have believed that it was Fear that had returned upon him, -their brave captain. They would have said that he never could have -been afraid. He put his hand up to his torn throat. His breath came in -thick gasps. He muttered again, "Oh, God! Oh, God!" - -Then, suddenly, incomprehensibly to the men who did not see the -gracious figure behind them, peace ineffable came into his blue eyes. - -"Why, _mother_!" he said softly. - - - - - III - - VICTORY[1] - - -Footnote 1: - - From the narrative of Colonel Frank Aretas Haskell, Thirty-sixth - Wisconsin Infantry. While aide-de-camp to General Gibbon he was - largely instrumental in saving the day at Gettysburg to the Union - forces. His brilliant story of the battle is contained in a series - of letters written to his brother soon after the contest. - - -Sitting his horse easily in the stone-fenced field near the rounded -clump of trees on the hot noon of the third day of battle, his heart -leaping, sure of the righteousness of his cause, sure of the -overruling providence of God, experienced in war, trained to -obedience, accustomed to command, the young officer looked about him. - -To his right and left and behind him, from Culp's Hill to Round Top, -lay the Army of the Potomac, the most splendid army, in his opinion, -which the world had ever seen, an army tried, proved, reliable in all -things. The first day's defeat, the second day's victory, were past; -since yesterday the battle-lines had been re-formed; upon them the -young man looked with approval, thanking Heaven for Meade. The lines -were arranged, except here in the very centre near this rounded clump -of trees where he waited, as he would have arranged them himself, -conformably to the ground, batteries in place, infantry—there a -double, here a single line—to the front. There had been ample time for -such re-formation during the long, silent morning. Now each man was in -his appointed place, munition-wagons and ambulances waited, regimental -flags streamed proudly; everywhere was order, composure. The laughter -and joking which floated to the ears of the young officer betokened -also minds composed, at ease. Yesterday twelve thousand men had been -killed or wounded upon this field; the day before yesterday, eleven -thousand; to-day, this afternoon, within a few hours, eight thousand -more would fall. Yet, lightly, their arms stacked, men laughed, and -the young officer heard them with approval. - -Opposite, on another ridge, a mile away, Lee's army waited. They, too, -were set out in brave array; they, too, had re-formed; they, too, -seemed to have forgotten yesterday, to have closed their eyes to -to-morrow. From the rounded clump of trees, the young officer could -look across the open fields, straight to the enemy's centre. Again he -wished for a double line of troops here about him. But Meade alone had -power to place them there. - -The young officer was cultivated, college-bred, with the gift of keen -observation, of vivid expression. The topography of that varied -country was already clear to him; he was able to draw a sketch of it, -indicating its steep hills, its broad fields, its tracts of virgin -woodland, the "wave-like" crest upon which he now stood. He could not -have written so easily during the marches of the succeeding weeks if -he had not now, in the midst of action, begun to fit words to what he -saw. He watched Meade ride down the lines, his face "calm, serious, -earnest, without arrogance of hope or timidity of fear." He shared -with his superiors in a hastily prepared, delicious lunch, eaten on -the ground; he recorded it with humorous impressions of these great -soldiers. - -The evening before he had attended them in their council of war; he -has made it as plain to us as though we, too, had been inside that -little farmhouse. It is a picture in which Rembrandt would have -delighted,—the low room, the little table with its wooden water-pail, -its tin cup, its dripping candle. We can see the yellow light on blue -sleeves, on soft, slouched, gilt-banded hats, on Gibbon's single star. -Meade, tall, spare, sinewy; Sedgwick, florid, thick-set; young Howard -with his empty sleeve; magnificent Hancock,—of all that distinguished -company the young officer has drawn imperishable portraits. - -He heard their plans, heard them decide to wait until the enemy had -hurled himself upon them; he said with satisfaction that their heads -were sound. He recorded also that when the council was over and the -chance for sleep had come, he could hardly sit his horse for -weariness, as he sought his general's headquarters in the sultry, -starless midnight. Yet, now, in the hot noon of the third day, as he -dismounted and threw himself down in the shade, he remembered the -sound of the moving ambulances, the twinkle of their unsteady lamps. - -Lying prone, his hat tilted over his eyes, he smiled drowsily. It was -impossible to tell at what moment battle would begin, but now there -was infinite peace everywhere. The young men of his day loved the -sounding poetry of Byron; it is probable that he thought of the -"mustering squadron," of the "marshaling in arms," of "battle's -magnificently-stern array." Trained in the classics he must have -remembered lines from other glorious histories. "Stranger," so said -Leonidas, "stranger, go tell it in Lacedæmon that we died here in -defense of her laws." "The glory of Miltiades will not let me sleep!" -cried the youth of Athens. A line of Virgil the young officer wrote -down afterwards in his account, thinking of weary marches: "Forsan et -hæc olim meminisse juvabit."—"Perchance even these things it will be -delightful hereafter to remember." - -Thus while he lay there, the noon droned on. Having hidden their -wounds, ignoring their losses, having planted their guidons and loaded -their guns, the thousands waited. - -Still dozing, the young officer looked at his watch. Once more he -thought of the centre and wished that it were stronger; then he -stretched out his arms to sleep. It was five minutes of one o'clock. -Near him his general rested also, and with them both time moved -heavily. - -Drowsily he closed his eyes, comfortably he lay. Then, suddenly, at a -distinct, sharp sound from the enemy's line he was awake, on his feet, -staring toward the west. Before his thoughts were collected, he could -see the smoke of the bursting shell; before he and his fellow officers -could spring to their saddles, before they could give orders, the iron -rain began about the low, wave-like crest. The breast of the general's -orderly was torn open, he plunged face downward, the horses which he -held galloped away. Not an instant passed after that first shot before -the Union guns answered, and battle had begun. - -It opened without fury, except the fury of sound, it proceeded with -dignity, with majesty. There was no charge; that fierce, final onrush -was yet hours away; the little stone wall near that rounded clump of -trees, over which thousands would fight, close-pressed like wrestlers, -was to be for a long time unstained by blood. The Confederate -aggressor, standing in his place, delivered his hoarse challenge; his -Union antagonist standing also in his place, returned thunderous -answer. The two opposed each other—if one may use for passion so -terrible this light comparison—at arm's length, like fencers in a -play. - -The business of the young officer was not with these cannon, but with -the infantry, who, crouching before the guns, hugging the ground, were -to bide their time in safety for two hours. Therefore, sitting on his -horse, he still fitted words to his thoughts. The conflict before him -is not a fight for men, it is a fight for mighty engines of war; it is -not a human battle, it is a storm, far above earthly passion. -"Infuriate demons" are these guns, their mouths are ablaze with smoky -tongues of livid fire, their breath is murky, sulphur-laden; they are -surrounded by grimy, shouting, frenzied creatures who are not their -masters but their ministers. Around them rolls the smoke of Hades. To -their sound all other cannonading of the young officer's experience -was as a holiday salute. Solid shot shattered iron of gun and living -trunk of tree. Shot struck also its intended target: men fell, torn, -mangled; horses started, stiffened, crashed to the ground, or rushed, -maddened, away. - -Still there was nothing for the young officer to do but to watch. Near -him a man crouched by a stone, like a toad, or like pagan worshiper -before his idol. The young officer looked at him curiously. - -"Go to your regiment and be a man!" he ordered. - -But the man did not stir, the shot which splintered the protecting -stone left him still kneeling, still unhurt. To the young officer he -was one of the unaccountable phenomena of battle, he was -incomprehensible, monstrous. - -He noted also the curious freaks played by round shot, the visible -flight of projectiles through the air, their strange hiss "with sound -of hot iron, plunged into water." He saw ambulances wrecked as they -moved along; he saw frantic horses brought down by shells; he calls -them "horse-tamers of the upper air." He saw shells fall into -limber-boxes, he heard the terrific roar which followed louder than -the roar of guns; he observed the fall of officer, of orderly, of -private soldier. - -After the first hour of terrific din, he rode with his general down -the line. The infantry still lay prone upon the ground, out of range -of the missiles. The men were not suffering and they were quiet and -cool. They professed not to mind the confusion; they claimed -laughingly to like it. - -From the shelter of a group of trees the young officer and his general -watched in silence. For that "awful universe of battle," it seemed now -that all other expressions were feeble, mean. The general expostulated -with frightened soldiers who were trying to hide near by. He did not -reprove or command, he reminded them that they were in the hands of -God, and therefore as safe in one place as another. He assured his -young companion of his own faith in God. - -Slowly, after an hour and a half, the roar of battle abated, and the -young officer and his general made their way back along the line. By -three o'clock the great duel was over; the two hundred and fifty guns, -having been fired rapidly for two hours, seemed to have become mortal, -and to suffer a mortal's exhaustion. Along the crest, battery-men -leaned upon their guns, gasped, and wiped the grime and sweat from -their faces. - -Again there was deep, ominous silence. Of the harm done on the -opposite ridge they could know nothing with certainty. They looked -about, then back at each other questioningly. Here disabled guns were -being taken away, fresh guns were being brought up. The Union lines -had suffered harm, but not irreparable harm. That centre for which the -young officer had trembled was still safe. Was the struggle over? -Would the enemy withdraw? Had yesterday's defeat worn him out; was -this great confusion intended to cover his retreat? Was it— - -Suddenly, madly, the young officer and his general flung themselves -back into their saddles, wildly they galloped to the summit of that -wave-like crest. - -What they saw there was incredible, yet real; it was impossible, yet -it was visible. How far had the enemy gone in the retreat which they -suspected? The enemy was at hand. What of their speculations about his -withdrawal, of their cool consideration of his intention? In five -minutes he would be upon them. From the heavy smoke he issued, -regiment after regiment, brigade after brigade, his front half a mile -broad, his ranks shoulder to shoulder, line supporting line. His eyes -were fixed upon that rounded clump of trees, his course was directed -toward the centre of that wave-like crest. He was eighteen thousand -against six thousand; should his gray mass enter, wedge-like, the -Union line, yesterday's Union victories, day before yesterday's Union -losses would be in vain. - -To the young officer, enemies though they were, they seemed admirable. -They had but one soul; they would have been, under a less deadly fire, -opposed by less fearful odds, an irresistible mass. Before them he saw -their galloping officers, their scarlet flags; he discerned their -gun-barrels and bayonets gleaming in the sun. - -His own army was composed also; it required no orders, needed no -command; it knew well what that gray wall portended. He heard the -click of gun-locks, the clang of muskets, raised to position upon the -stone wall, the clink of iron axles, the words of his general, quiet, -calm, cool. - -"Do not hurry! Let them come close! Aim low and steadily!" - -There came to him a moment of fierce rapture. He saw the -color-sergeant tipping his lance toward the enemy; he remembered that -from that glorious flag, lifted by the western breeze, these advancing -hosts would filch half its stars. With bursting heart, blessing God -who had kept him loyal, he determined that this thing should not be. - -He was sent to Meade to announce the coming of the foe; he returned, -galloping along the crest. Into that advancing army the Union cannon -poured shells; then, as the range grew shorter, shrapnel; then, -canister; and still the hardy lines moved on. There was no charging -shout, there was still no confusion, no halt under that raking fire. -Stepping over the bodies of their friends, they continued to advance, -they raised their muskets, they fired. There was now a new sound, -"like summer hail upon the city roofs." - -The young officer searched for his general, and could not find him. He -had been mounted; now, probably wounded, possibly killed, he was down -from his horse. - -Then, suddenly, once more, the impossible, the incredible became -possible, real. The young officer had not dreamed that the -Confederates would be able to advance to the Union lines; his -speculation concerned only the time they would be able to stand the -Union fire. But they have advanced, they are advancing still farther. -And there in that weak centre—he cannot trust his own vision—men are -leaving the sheltering wall; without order or reason, a "fear-stricken -flock of confusion," they are falling back. The fate of Gettysburg, it -seemed to his horrified eyes, hung by a spider's single thread. - -"A great, magnificent passion"—thus in his youthful emotion he -describes it—came upon the young man. Danger had seemed to him -throughout a word without meaning. Now, drawing his sword, laying -about with it, waving it in the air, shouting, he rushed upon this -fear-stricken flock, commanded it, reproached it, cheered it, urged it -back. Already the red flags had begun to thicken and to flaunt over -the deserted spot; they were to him, he wrote afterwards, like red to -a maddened bull. That portion of the wall was lost; he groaned for the -presence of Gibbon, of Hays, of Hancock, of Doubleday, but they were -engaged, or they were too far away. He rushed hither and yon, still -beseeching, commanding, praying that troops be sent to that imperiled -spot. - -Then, in joy which was almost insanity, he saw that gray line begin to -waver and to break. Tauntingly he shouted, fiercely his men roared; -than their mad yells no Confederate "Hi-yi" was ever more ferocious. -This repelling host was a new army, sprung Phœnix-like from the body -of the old; to him its eyes seemed to stream lightning, it seemed to -shake its wings over the yet glowing ashes of its progenitor. He -watched the jostling, swaying lines, he saw them boil and roar, saw -them dash their flamy spray above the crest like two hostile billows -of a fiery ocean. - -Once more commands are few, men do not heed them. Clearly once more -they see their duty, magnificently they obey. This is war at the -height of its passion, war at the summit of its glory. A -color-sergeant rushed to the stone wall, there he fell; eagerly at -once his comrades plunged forward. There was an instant of fierce -conflict, of maddening, indistinguishable confusion. Men wrestled with -one another, opposed one another with muskets used as clubs, tore at -each other like wolves, until spent, exhausted, among heaps of dead, -the conquered began to give themselves up. Back and forth over -twenty-five square miles they had fought, for three interminable days. -Here on this little crest, by this little wall, the fight was ended. -Here the high-water mark was reached, here the flood began its ebb. -Laughing, shouting, "so that the deaf could have seen it in their -faces, the blind have heard it in their voices," the conquerors -proclaimed the victory. Thank God, the crest is safe! - -Are men wounded and broken by the thousands, do they lie in burning -thirst, pleading for water, pleading for the bandaging of bleeding -arteries, pleading for merciful death? The conquerors think of none of -these things. Is night coming, are long marches coming? Still the -conquerors shout like mad. Is war ended by this mammoth victory? For -months and months it will drag on. Is this conquered foe a stranger, -will he now withdraw to a distant country? He is our brother, his ills -are ours, these wounds which we have given, we shall feel ourselves -for fifty years. Is this brave young officer to enjoy the reward of -his great courage, to live in fame, to be honored by his countrymen? -At Cold Harbor he is to perish with a bullet in his forehead. Is not -all this business of war mad? - -It is a feeble, peace-loving, fireside-living generation which asks -such questions as these. - -Now, thank God, _the crest is safe_! - - - - - IV - - THE BATTLE-GROUND - - -Mercifully, Mary Bowman, a widow, whose husband had been missing since -the battle of Gettysburg, had been warned, together with the other -citizens of Gettysburg, that on Thursday the nineteenth of November, -1863, she would be awakened from sleep by a bugler's reveillé, and -that during that great day she would hear again dread sound of cannon. - -Nevertheless, hearing again the reveillé, she sat up in bed with a -scream and put her hands over her ears. Then, gasping, groping about -in her confusion and terror, she rose and began to dress. She put on a -dress which had been once a bright plaid, but which now, having lost -both its color and the stiff, out-standing quality of the skirts of -'63, hung about her in straight and dingy folds. It was clean, but it -had upon it certain ineradicable brown stains on which soap and water -seemed to have had no effect. She was thin and pale, and her eyes had -a set look, as though they saw other sights than those directly about -her. - -In the bed from which she had risen lay her little daughter; in a -trundle-bed near by, her two sons, one about ten years old, the other -about four. They slept heavily, lying deep in their beds, as though -they would never move. Their mother looked at them with her strange, -absent gaze; then she barred a little more closely the broken -shutters, and went down the stairs. The shutters were broken in a -curious fashion. Here and there they were pierced by round holes, and -one hung from a single hinge. The window-frames were without glass, -the floor was without carpet, the beds without pillows. - -In her kitchen Mary Bowman looked about her as though still seeing -other sights. Here, too, the floor was carpetless. Above the stove a -patch of fresh plaster on the wall showed where a great rent had been -filled in; in the doors were the same little round holes as in the -shutters of the room above. But there was food and fuel, which was -more than one might have expected from the aspect of the house and its -mistress. She opened the shattered door of the cupboard, and, having -made the fire, began to prepare breakfast. - -Outside the house there was already, at six o'clock, noise and -confusion. Last evening a train from Washington had brought to the -village Abraham Lincoln; for several days other trains had been -bringing less distinguished guests, until thousands thronged the -little town. This morning the tract of land between Mary Bowman's -house and the village cemetery was to be dedicated for the burial of -the Union dead, who were to be laid there in sweeping semicircles -round a centre on which a great monument was to rise. - -But of the dedication, of the President of the United States, of his -distinguished associates, of the great crowds, of the soldiers, of the -crape-banded banners, Mary Bowman and her children would see nothing. -Mary Bowman would sit in her little wrecked kitchen with her children. -For to her the President of the United States and others in high -places who prosecuted war or who tolerated war, who called for young -men to fight, were hateful. To Mary Bowman the crowds of curious -persons who coveted a sight of the great battle-fields were ghouls; -their eyes wished to gloat upon ruin, upon fragments of the weapons of -war, upon torn bits of the habiliments of soldiers; their feet longed -to sink into the loose ground of hastily made graves; the discovery of -a partially covered body was precious to them. - -Mary Bowman knew that field! From Culp's Hill to the McPherson farm, -from Big Round Top to the poorhouse, she had traveled it, searching, -searching, with frantic, insane disregard of positions or of -possibility. Her husband could not have fallen here among the Eleventh -Corps, he could not lie here among the unburied dead of the Louisiana -Tigers! If he was in the battle at all, it was at the Angle that he -fell. - -She had not been able to begin her search immediately after the battle -because there were forty wounded men in her little house; she could -not prosecute it with any diligence even later, when the soldiers had -been carried to the hospitals, in the Presbyterian Church, the -Catholic Church, the two Lutheran churches, the Seminary, the College, -the Court-House, and the great tented hospital on the York road. -Nurses were here, Sisters of Mercy were here, compassionate women were -here by the score; but still she was needed, with all the other women -of the village, to nurse, to bandage, to comfort, to pray with those -who must die. Little Mary Bowman had assisted at the amputation of -limbs, she had helped to control strong men torn by the frenzy of -delirium, she had tended poor bodies which had almost lost all -semblance to humanity. Neither she nor any of the other women of the -village counted themselves especially heroic; the delicate wife of the -judge, the petted daughter of the doctor, the gently bred wife of the -preacher forgot that fainting at the sight of blood was one of the -distinguishing qualities of their sex; they turned back their sleeves -and repressed their tears, and, shoulder to shoulder with Mary Bowman -and her Irish neighbor, Hannah Casey, they fed the hungry and healed -the sick and clothed the naked. If Mary Bowman had been herself, she -might have laughed at the sight of her dresses cobbled into trousers, -her skirts wrapped round the shoulders of sick men. But neither then -nor ever after did Mary laugh at any incident of that summer. - -Hannah Casey laughed, and by and by she began to boast. Meade, -Hancock, Slocum, were non-combatants beside her. She had fought whole -companies of Confederates, she had wielded bayonets, she had assisted -at the spiking of a gun, she was Barbara Frietchie and Moll Pitcher -combined. But all her lunacy could not make Mary Bowman smile. - -Of John Bowman no trace could be found. No one could tell her anything -about him, to her frantic letters no one responded. Her old friend, -the village judge, wrote letters also, but could get no reply. Her -husband was missing; it was probable that he lay somewhere upon this -field, the field upon which they had wandered as lovers. - -In midsummer a few trenches were opened, and Mary, unknown to her -friends, saw them opened. At the uncovering of the first great pit, -she actually helped with her own hands. For those of this generation -who know nothing of war, that fact may be written down, to be passed -over lightly. The soldiers, having been on other battle-fields, -accepted her presence without comment. She did not cry, she only -helped doggedly, and looked at what they found. That, too, may be -written down for a generation which has not known war. - -Immediately, an order went forth that no graves, large or small, were -to be opened before cold weather. The citizens were panic-stricken -with fear of an epidemic; already there were many cases of dysentery -and typhoid. Now that the necessity for daily work for the wounded was -past, the village became nervous, excited, irritable. Several men and -boys were killed while trying to open unexploded shells; their deaths -added to the general horror. There were constant visitors who sought -husbands, brothers, sweet-hearts; with these the Gettysburg women were -still able to weep, for them they were still able to care; but the -constant demand for entertainment for the curious annoyed those who -wished to be left alone to recover from the shock of battle. -Gettysburg was prostrate, bereft of many of its worldly possessions, -drained to the bottom of its well of sympathy. Its schools must be -opened, its poor must be helped. Cold weather was coming and there -were many, like Mary Bowman, who owned no longer any quilts or -blankets, who had given away their clothes, their linen, even the -precious sheets which their grandmothers had spun. Gettysburg grudged -nothing, wished nothing back, it asked only to be left in peace. - -When the order was given to postpone the opening of graves till fall, -Mary began to go about the battle-field searching alone. Her good, -obedient children stayed at home in the house or in the little field. -They were beginning to grow thin and wan, they were shivering in the -hot August weather, but their mother did not see. She gave them a -great deal more to eat than she had herself, and they had far better -clothes than her blood-stained motley. - -She went about the battle-field with her eyes on the ground, her feet -treading gently, anticipating loose soil or some sudden obstacle. -Sometimes she stooped suddenly. To fragments of shells, to bits of -blue or gray cloth, to cartridge belts or broken muskets, she paid no -heed; at sight of pitiful bits of human bodies she shuddered. But -there lay also upon that field little pocket Testaments, letters, -trinkets, photographs. John had had her photograph and the children's, -and surely he must have had some of the letters she had written! - -But poor Mary found nothing. - -One morning, late in August, she sat beside her kitchen table with her -head on her arm. The first of the scarlet gum leaves had begun to -drift down from the shattered trees; it would not be long before the -ground would be covered, and those depressed spots, those tiny wooden -headstones, those fragments of blue and gray be hidden. The thought -smothered her. She did not cry, she had not cried at all. Her soul -seemed hardened, stiff, like the terrible wounds for which she had -helped to care. - -Suddenly, hearing a sound, Mary had looked up. The judge stood in the -doorway; he had known all about her since she was a little girl; -something in his face told her that he knew also of her terrible -search. She did not ask him to sit down, she said nothing at all. She -had been a loquacious person, she had become an abnormally silent one. -Speech hurt her. - -The judge looked round the little kitchen. The rent in the wall -was still unmended, the chairs were broken; there was nothing else -to be seen but the table and the rusty stove and the thin, -friendless-looking children standing by the door. It was the house -not only of poverty and woe, but of neglect. - -"Mary," said the judge, "how do you mean to live?" - -Mary's thin, sunburned hand stirred a little as it lay on the table. - -"I do not know." - -"You have these children to feed and clothe and you must furnish your -house again. Mary—" The judge hesitated for a moment. John Bowman had -been a school-teacher, a thrifty, ambitious soul, who would have -thought it a disgrace for his wife to earn her living. The judge laid -his hand on the thin hand beside him. "Your children must have food, -Mary. Come down to my house, and my wife will give you work. Come -now." - -Slowly Mary had risen from her chair, and smoothed down her dress and -obeyed him. Down the street they went together, seeing fences still -prone, seeing walls torn by shells, past the houses where the shock of -battle had hastened the deaths of old persons and little children, and -had disappointed the hearts of those who longed for a child, to the -judge's house in the square. There wagons stood about, loaded with -wheels of cannon, fragments of burst caissons, or with long, narrow, -pine boxes, brought from the railroad, to be stored against the day of -exhumation. Men were laughing and shouting to one another, the driver -of the wagon on which the long boxes were piled cracked his whip as he -urged his horses. - -Hannah Casey congratulated her neighbor heartily upon her finding -work. - -"That'll fix you up," she assured her. - -She visited Mary constantly, she reported to her the news of the war, -she talked at length of the coming of the President. - -"I'm going to see him," she announced. "I'm going to shake him by the -hand. I'm going to say, 'Hello, Abe, you old rail-splitter, God bless -you!' Then the bands'll play, and the people will march, and the -Johnny Rebs will hear 'em in their graves." - -Mary Bowman put her hands over her ears. - -"I believe in my soul you'd let 'em all rise from the dead!" - -"I would!" said Mary Bowman hoarsely. "I would!" - -"Well, not so Hannah Casey! Look at me garden tore to bits! Look at me -beds, stripped to the ropes!" - -And Hannah Casey departed to her house. - -Details of the coming celebration penetrated to the ears of Mary -Bowman whether she wished it or not, and the gathering crowds made -themselves known. They stood upon her porch, they examined the broken -shutters, they wished to question her. But Mary Bowman would answer no -questions, would not let herself be seen. To her the thing was -horrible. She saw the battling hosts, she heard once more the roar of -artillery, she smelled the smoke of battle, she was torn by its -confusion. Besides, she seemed to feel in the ground beneath her a -feebly stirring, suffering, ghastly host. They had begun again to open -the trenches, and she had looked into them. - -Now, on the morning of Thursday, the nineteenth of November, her -children dressed themselves and came down the steps. They had begun to -have a little plumpness and color, but the dreadful light in their -mother's eyes was still reflected in theirs. On the lower step they -hesitated, looking at the door. Outside stood the judge, who had found -time in the multiplicity of his cares, to come to the little house. - -He spoke with kind but firm command. - -"Mary," said he, "you must take these children to hear President -Lincoln." - -"What!" cried Mary. - -"You must take these children to the exercises." - -"I cannot!" cried Mary. "I cannot! I cannot!" - -"You must!" The judge came into the room. "Let me hear no more of this -going about. You are a Christian, your husband was a Christian. Do you -want your children to think it is a wicked thing to die for their -country? Do as I tell you, Mary." - -Mary got up from her chair, and put on her children all the clothes -they had, and wrapped about her own shoulders a little black coat -which the judge's wife had given her. Then, as one who steps into an -unfriendly sea, she started out with them into the great crowd. Once -more, poor Mary said to herself, she would obey. She had seen the -platform; by going round through the citizen's cemetery she could get -close to it. - -The November day was bright and warm, but Mary and her children -shivered. Slowly she made her way close to the platform, patiently she -stood and waited. Sometimes she stood with shut eyes, swaying a -little. On the moonlit night of the third day of battle she had -ventured from her house down toward the square to try to find some -brandy for the dying men about her, and as in a dream she had seen a -tall general, mounted upon a white horse with muffled hoofs, ride down -the street. Bending from his saddle he had spoken, apparently to the -empty air. - -"Up, boys, up!" - -There had risen at his command thousands of men lying asleep on -pavement and street, and quietly, in an interminable line, they had -stolen out like dead men toward the Seminary, to join their comrades -and begin the long, long march to Hagerstown. It seemed to her that -all about her dead men might rise now to look with reproach upon these -strangers who disturbed their rest. - -The procession was late, the orator of the day was delayed, but still -Mary waited, swaying a little in her place. Presently the great guns -roared forth a welcome, the bands played, the procession approached. -On horseback, erect, gauntleted, the President of the United States -drew rein beside the platform, and, with the orator and the other -famous men, dismounted. There were great cheers, there were deep -silences, there were fresh volleys of artillery, there was new music. - -Of it all, Mary Bowman heard but little. Remembering the judge, whom -she saw now near the President, she tried to obey the spirit as well -as the letter of his command; she directed her children to look, she -turned their heads toward the platform. - -Men spoke and prayed and sang, and Mary stood still in her place. The -orator of the day described the battle, he eulogized the dead, he -proved the righteousness of this great war; his words fell upon Mary's -ears unheard. If she had been asked who he was, she might have said -vaguely that he was Mr. Lincoln. When he ended, she was ready to go -home. There was singing; now she could slip away, through the gaps in -the cemetery fence. She had done as the judge commanded and now she -would go back to her house. - -With her arms about her children, she started away. Then someone who -stood near by took her by the hand. - -"Madam!" said he, "the President is going to speak!" - -Half turning, Mary looked back. The thunder of applause made her -shiver, made her even scream, it was so like that other thunderous -sound which she would hear forever. She leaned upon her little -children heavily, trying to get her breath, gasping, trying to keep -her consciousness. She fixed her eyes upon the rising figure before -her, she clung to the sight of him as a drowning swimmer in deep -waters, she struggled to fix her thoughts upon him. Exhaustion, grief, -misery threatened to engulf her, she hung upon him in desperation. - -Slowly, as one who is old or tired or sick at heart, he rose to his -feet, the President of the United States, the Commander-in-Chief of -the Army and Navy, the hope of his country. Then he stood waiting. In -great waves of sound the applause rose and died and rose again. He -waited quietly. The winner of debate, the great champion of a great -cause, the veteran in argument, the master of men, he looked down upon -the throng. The clear, simple things he had to say were ready in his -mind, he had thought them out, written out a first draft of them in -Washington, copied it here in Gettysburg. It is probable that now, as -he waited to speak, his mind traveled to other things, to the misery, -the wretchedness, the slaughter of this field, to the tears of -mothers, the grief of widows, the orphaning of little children. - -Slowly, in his clear voice, he said what little he had to say. To the -weary crowd, settling itself into position once more, the speech -seemed short; to the cultivated who had been listening to the -elaborate periods of great oratory, it seemed commonplace, it seemed a -speech which any one might have made. But it was not so with Mary -Bowman, nor with many other unlearned persons. Mary Bowman's soul -seemed to smooth itself out like a scroll, her hands lightened their -clutch on her children, the beating of her heart slackened, she gasped -no more. - -She could not have told exactly what he said, though later she read it -and learned it and taught it to her children and her children's -children. She only saw him, felt him, breathed him in, this great, -common, kindly man. His gaze seemed to rest upon her; it was not -impossible, it was even probable, that during the hours that had -passed he had singled out that little group so near him, that desolate -woman in her motley dress, with her children clinging about her. He -said that the world would not forget this field, these martyrs; he -said it in words which Mary Bowman could understand, he pointed to a -future for which there was a new task. - -"Daughter!" he seemed to say to her from the depths of trouble, of -responsibility, of care greater than her own,—"Daughter, be of good -comfort!" - -Unhindered now, amid the cheers, across ground which seemed no longer -to stir beneath her feet, Mary Bowman went back to her house. There, -opening the shutters, she bent and solemnly kissed her little -children, saying to herself that henceforth they must have more than -food and raiment; they must be given some joy in life. - - - - - V - - GUNNER CRISWELL - - -On an afternoon in late September, 1910, a shifting crowd, sometimes -numbering a few score, sometimes a few hundred, stared at a massive -monument on the battle-field of Gettysburg. The monument was not yet -finished, sundry statues were lacking, and the ground about it was -trampled and bare. But the main edifice was complete, the plates, on -which were cast the names of all the soldiers from Pennsylvania who -had fought in the battle, were in place, and near at hand the -platform, erected for the dedicatory services on the morrow, was being -draped with flags. The field of Gettysburg lacks no tribute which can -be paid its martyrs. - -The shifting crowd was part of the great army of veterans and their -friends who had begun to gather for the dedication; these had come -early to seek out their names, fixed firmly in enduring bronze on the -great monument. Among them were two old men. The name of one was -Criswell; he had been a gunner in Battery B, and was now blind. The -explosion which had paralyzed the optic nerve had not disfigured him; -his smooth-shaven face in its frame of thick, white hair was unmarred, -and with his erect carriage and his strong frame he was -extraordinarily handsome. The name of his friend, bearded, untidy, -loquacious, was Carolus Depew. - -Gettysburg opens wide not only its hospitable arms, but its heart, to -the old soldier. Even now, after almost fifty years, the shadow of war -is not yet fled away, the roaring of the guns of battle is not -stilled. The old soldier finds himself appreciated, admired, cared -for, beyond a merely adequate return for the money he brings into the -town. Here he can talk of the battle with the proprietor of the hotel -at which he stays, with the college professor, with the urchin on the -street. Any citizen will leave his work to help find a certain house -where wounds were dressed, or where women gave out bread, fresh and -hot from the oven; or a certain well, from which life-saving, -delicious drinks were quaffed. When there are great excursions or -dedications such as this, the town is decorated, there is waving of -flags, there are bursts of song. - -No stretching of hospitable arms could shelter the vast crowd which -gathered upon this occasion. The boarding-houses which accommodated -ten guests during the ordinary summer traffic now took thirty, the -hotels set up as many cot-beds as their halls would hold, the students -of the college and the theological seminary shared their rooms or gave -them up entirely, in faculty houses every room was filled, and all -church doors were thrown wide. Yet many men—and old men—spent the -night upon the street. - -Gunner Criswell wondered often whether many lives ran like his, up and -up to a sharp peak of happiness, then plunged down, down to -inexpressible misery. As a boy he had been intensely happy, eager, -ambitious, alive to all the glory of the world. He had married the -girl whom he loved, and had afterward enlisted, scorning any fears -that he might not return. On the second day of July, 1863, on his -twenty-third birthday, he had lost his sight in an explosion on the -battle-field of Gettysburg; on the same day his young wife had died in -their faraway corner of the state, leaving a helpless baby to a blind -and sick father. - -To-day the daughter was middle-aged, the father old. They lived -together on their little farm in Greene County, Ellen managing the -farm and doing much of the work, Gunner Criswell making baskets. War -had taken his sight, his wife, all his prospects for life; it had left -him, he said, Ellen, and the fresh, clear mountain air, a strong pair -of hands, and his own soul. Life had settled at last to a quiet level -of peace. He had learned to read the raised language of the blind, but -he could not afford many books. He was poor; owing to an irregularity -in his enlistment the Government had not given him a pension, nor had -any one taken the trouble to have the matter straightened out. The -community was small and scattered, few persons knew him, and no -Congressman needed his vote in that solidly Republican district. Nor -was he entirely certain that the giving of pensions to those who could -work was not a form of pauperization. He, for instance, had been -pretty well handicapped, yet he had got on. He said to himself often -that when one went to war one offered everything. If there was in his -heart any faint, lingering bitterness because his country had done -nothing for him, who had given her so much, he checked it sternly. - -And, besides, he said often to himself with amusement, he had Carolus -Depew! - -It was Carolus who had told him, one evening in July, about the -Pennsylvania monument. Carolus had served in a different regiment, -without injury and with a thousand brave adventures. He was talking -about them now. - -"I'm going! I'm going back to that place. I could find it. I know -where I knocked that feller down with the butt of my gun when my -ammunition gave out. I know exactly where I stood when the captain -said, 'Give 'em hell, Carolus!' The captain and me, we was pretty -intimate." - -The blind man smiled, his busy hands going on with their unending -work. When he smiled, his face was indescribably beautiful; one's -heart ached for the woman who fifty years ago had had to die and leave -him. - -"Ellen!" he called. - -Ellen appeared in the doorway, in her short, unbecoming gingham dress. -She had inherited none of her father's beauty, and the freshness of -her youth was gone. She looked at her father kindly enough, but her -voice was harsh. Ellen's life, too, had suffered from war. - -"Ellen, Carolus wants me to go with him to Gettysburg in September. A -great monument is to be dedicated, and Carolus says our names are to -be on it. May I go?" - -Ellen turned swiftly away. Sometimes her father's cheerfulness nearly -broke her heart. - -"I guess you can go if you want to." - -"Thank you, Ellen." - -"I've reckoned it all out," said Carolus. "We can do it for twenty -dollars. We ought to get transportation. Somebody ought to make a -present to the veterans, the Government ought to, or the trusts, or -the railroads." - -"Where will we stay?" asked Gunner Criswell. His hands trembled -suddenly and he laid down the stiff reeds. - -"They'll have places. I bet they'll skin us for board, though. The -minute I get there I'm going straight to that monument to hunt for my -name. They'll have us all arranged by regiments and companies. I'll -find yours for you." - -The hand of the blind man opened and closed. He could find his own -name, thank Heaven! he could touch it, could press his palm upon it, -know that it was there, feel it in his own soul—Adam Criswell. His -calm vanished, his passive philosophy melted in the heat of old -desires relit, desire for fame, for power, for life. He was excited, -discontented, happy yet unhappy. Such an experience would crown his -life; it would be all the more wonderful because it had never been -dreamed of. That night he could not sleep. He saw his name, Adam -Criswell, written where it would stand for generations to come. From -that time on he counted the days, almost the hours, until he should -start for Gettysburg. - -Carolus Depew was a selfish person, for all his apparent devotion to -his friend. Having arrived at Gettysburg, he had found the monument, -and he had impatiently hunted for the place of Gunner Criswell's -Battery B, and guided his hand to the raised letters, and then had -left him alone. - -"I've found it!" he shouted, a moment later. "'Carolus Depew, -Corporal,' big as life. 'Carolus Depew, Corporal'! What do you think -of that, say! It'll be here in a hundred years, 'Carolus Depew, -Corporal'!" - -Then Carolus wandered a little farther along the line of tablets and -round to the other side of the great monument. Gunner Criswell called -to him lightly, as though measuring the distance he had gone. When -Carolus did not answer, Gunner Criswell spoke to a boy who had offered -him souvenir postal cards. It was like him to take his joy quietly, -intensely. - -"Will you read the names of this battery for me?" he asked. - -The boy sprang as though he had received a command. It was not only -the man's blindness which won men and women and children; his -blindness was seldom apparent; it was his air of power and strength. - -The boy read the list slowly and distinctly, and then refused the -nickel which Criswell offered him. In a moment Carolus returned, still -thrilled by his own greatness, as excited as a child. - -"We must hunt a place to stay now," he said. "This is a grand spot. -There's monuments as far as the eye can reach. Come on. Ain't you glad -to walk with 'Carolus Depew, Corporal'?" - -It was three o'clock in the afternoon when Carolus left Gunner -Criswell on a doorstep in Gettysburg and went in search of rooms. At a -quarter to six the blind man still sat on the same spot. He was -seventy years old and he was tired, and the cold step chilled him -through. He did not dare to move; it seemed to him that thousands of -persons passed and repassed. If he went away, Carolus could not find -him. And where should he go? He felt tired and hungry and worn and -old; his great experience of the afternoon neither warmed nor fed him; -he wished himself back in his own place with his work and his peace of -mind and Ellen. - -Then, suddenly, he realized that some one was speaking to him. The -voice was a woman's, low-pitched, a little imperious, the voice of one -not accustomed to be kept waiting. - -"Will you please move and let me ring this door-bell?" - -Gunner Criswell sprang to his feet. He did not like to acknowledge his -infirmity; it seemed always like bidding for sympathy. But now the -words rushed from him, words than which there are none more -heartrending. - -"Madam, forgive me! I am blind." - -A perceptible interval passed before the woman answered. Once Gunner -Criswell thought she had gone away. - -Instead she was staring at him, her heart throbbing. She laid her hand -on his arm. - -"Why do you sit here on the steps? Have you no place to stay?" - -Gunner Criswell told her about Carolus. - -"You must come to my house," she invited. - -Gunner Criswell explained that he could not leave his friend. "He -would be worried if he couldn't find me. He"—Gunner Criswell turned -his head, then he smiled—"he is coming now. I can hear him." - -Protesting, scolding, Carolus came down the street. He was with -several other veterans, and all were complaining bitterly about the -lack of accommodations. The lady looked at Carolus's untidiness, then -back at the blind man. - -"I can take you both," she said. "My name is Mrs. James, and I live on -the college campus. Anybody can direct you. Tell the maid I sent you." - -Mrs. James's house was large, and in it the two old men found a -comfortable room, distinguished and delightful company, and a -heart-warming dinner. There were five other guests, who like -themselves had neglected to engage rooms beforehand—a famous general -of the Civil War and four lesser officers. Professor James made them -all welcome, and the two small boys made it plain that this was the -greatest occasion of their lives. The dinner-table was arranged in a -way which Carolus Depew had never seen; it was lit by candles and -decked with the best of the asters from Mrs. James's garden. The -officers wore their uniforms, Mrs. James her prettiest dress. Carolus -appreciated all the grandeur, but he insisted to the blind man that it -was only their due. It was paying a debt which society owed the -veteran. - -"This professor didn't fight," argued Carolus. "Why shouldn't he do -this for us? They oughtn't to charge us a cent. But I bet they will." - -Gunner Criswell, refreshed and restored, was wholly grateful. He -listened to the pleasant talk, he heard with delight the lovely voice -of his hostess, he felt beside him the fresh young body of his -hostess's little son. Even the touch of the silver and china pleased -him. His wife had brought from her home a few plates as delicate, a -few spoons as heavy, and they had had long since to be sold. - -Carolus helped the blind man constantly during the meal; he guided his -hand to the bread-plate and gave him portions of food, all of which -was entirely unnecessary. The blind man was much more deft than -Carolus, and the maid was careful and interested and kind. All the -guests except the general watched the blind man with admiration. The -general talked busily and constantly at the other end of the table; it -was not to be expected that he should notice a private soldier. - -It was the general who had first proposed inscribing the names of all -the soldiers on the great monument; the monument, though he was not a -member of the building committee, was his dearest enterprise. Since -the war the general had become a statistician; he was interested in -lists and tabulations, he enjoyed making due return for value -received, he liked to provide pensions, to place old soldiers -comfortably in Soldiers' Homes. The war was long past; his memory had -begun to grow dim; to his mind the lives of the soldiers would be -completed, rounded, by this tribute, as his own would be by the statue -of himself which should some day rise upon this field. It was he who -had compiled the lists for this last and greatest roster; about it he -talked constantly. - -Presently, as the guests finished their coffee, one of the lesser -officers asked the man next him a question about a charge, and then -Professor James asked another, and the war changed suddenly from a -thing of statistics and lists and pensions to what it actually was, a -thing of horror, of infinite sacrifice, of heroism. Men drilled and -marched and fought and suffered and prayed and were slain. The faces -of the _raconteurs_ glowed, the eager voices of the questioners -trembled. Once one of the officers made an effort to draw Gunner -Criswell into speech, but Gunner Criswell was shy. He sat with his arm -round the little boy, the candle-light shining on his beautiful face, -listening with his whole soul. With Carolus it was different. Carolus -had several times firmly to be interrupted. - -In the morning Mrs. James took the blind man for a drive. The air was -as fresh and clear as the air of his own mountains; the little boy sat -on a stool between his feet and rested his shoulder against his knee. -Mrs. James knew the field thoroughly; she made as plain as possible -its topography, the main lines, the great charges, the open fields -between the two ridges, the mighty rocks of Devil's Den, the almost -impenetrable thickets. To Gunner Criswell, Gettysburg had been a -little smoke-o'erlaid town seen faintly at the end of a long march, -its recollection dimmed afterward by terrible physical pain. He -realized now for the first time the great territory which the -battle-lines inclosed, he understood the titanic grandeur of the event -of which he had been a part, he breathed in also the present and -enduring peace. He touched the old muzzle-loading cannon; the little -boy guided his hand to the tiny tombstones in the long lines of graves -of the unknown; he stood where Lincoln had stood, weary, heart-sick, -despairing, in the fall of '63. - -[Illustration: HE STOOD WHERE LINCOLN HAD STOOD] - -Then, strangely for him, Gunner Criswell began to talk. Something -within him seemed to have broken, hidden springs of feeling seemed to -well up in his heart. It was the talk of a man at peace with himself, -reconciled, happy, conscious of his own value, sure of his place in -the scheme of things. He talked as he had never talked in his life—of -his youth, of his hopes, of his wife, of Ellen. It was almost more -than Mrs. James could endure. - -"It is coming back here that makes you feel like this," she said -brokenly. "You realize how tremendous it was, and you know that you -did your part and that you haven't been forgotten, that you were -important in a great cause." - -"Yes, ma'am," answered Gunner Criswell, in his old-fashioned way. "It -is that exactly." - -Mrs. James had little respect for rank as such. She and the great -general, the four lesser officers, her husband and her two boys, were -to drive together to the dedication that afternoon and to have seats -on the platform, and thither she took Private Criswell. Carolus Depew -was not sorry to be relieved of the care of the blind man; he had -found some old comrades and was crazy with excitement. - -"It is a good thing that she invited you," said Carolus, "because we -are going to march, just like we used to, and you couldn't very well." - -The dedication exercises were not long. To the blind man there was the -singing which stirred his heart, there was the cool air in his face, -there was the touch of the little boy's hand, there was Mrs. James's -voice in explanation or description. - -"There is the Governor!" cried Mrs. James. "He will pass right beside -you. There is the Secretary of War. You can hear him talking to the -Governor if you listen carefully. That deep voice is his. _Can_ you -hear?" - -"Oh, yes," answered the blind man happily. - -He heard the speeches, he heard the music, he could tell by the wild -shouting when the great enveloping flag drifted to the ground and the -monument stood wholly unveiled; he could feel presently the vast crowd -beginning to depart. He stood quietly while the great general near him -laughed and talked, receiving the congratulations of great men, -presenting the great men to Mrs. James; he heard other bursts of -cheering, other songs. He was unspeakably happy. - -Then suddenly he felt a strange hand on his arm. The general was close -to him, was speaking to him; there was a silence all about them. The -general turned him a little as he spoke toward the great bronze -tablets with their record of the brave. - -"You were in the army?" asked the general. - -"Yes, sir." - -"In what regiment?" - -"I was in Battery B, sir." - -"Then," said the general, "let us find your name." - -Mrs. James came forward to the blind man's side. The general wished to -make visible, actual, the rewarding of the soldier, and she was -passionately thankful that it was upon this man that the general's eye -had fallen. - -But Gunner Criswell, to her astonishment, held back. Then he said an -extraordinary thing for one who hesitated always to make his infirmity -plain, and for one who could read the raised letters, who had read -them, here on this very spot. He said again those three words, only a -little less dreadful than the other three terrible words, "He is -dead." - -"Oh, sir," he cried, "I cannot read! I am blind!" - -The general flung his arm across the blind man's shoulder. He was a -tall man also, and magnificently made. It gave one a thrill to see -them stand together. - -"I will read for you." - -"But, sir—" Still Gunner Criswell hung back, his hand clutching the -little boy's, his beautiful, sightless eyes turned toward Mrs. James, -as though he would have given anything to save her, to save any of -them, pain. "It is not a question of reward, sir. I would endure it -all again, gladly—everything. I don't count it, sir. But do not look -for my name. It is chance, accident. It might have happened to any -one, sir. It is not your fault. But my name has been omitted." - - - - - VI - - THE SUBSTITUTE - - -It was nine o'clock on the eve of Memorial Day, and pandemonium -reigned on the platform of the little railroad station at Gettysburg. -A heavy thunderstorm, which had brought down a score of fine trees on -the battle-field, and had put entirely out of service the electric -light plant of the town, was just over. In five minutes the evening -train from Harrisburg would be due, and with it the last delegation to -the convention of the Grand Army of the Republic. - -A spectator might have thought it doubtful whether the arriving -delegation would be able to set foot upon the crowded platform. In the -dim light, representatives from the hotels and boarding-houses fought -each other for places on the steps beyond which the town council had -forbidden them to go. Back of them, along the pavement, their -unwatched horses stood patiently, too tired to make even the slight -movement which would have inextricably tangled the wheels of the -omnibuses and tourist wagons. On the platform were a hundred old -soldiers, some of them still hale, others crippled and disabled, and -as many women, the "Ladies of the Relief Corps," come to assist in -welcoming the strangers. The railroad employees elbowed the crowd -good-naturedly, as their duties took them from one part of the station -to another; small boys chased each other, racing up the track to catch -the first glimpse of the headlight of the train; and presently all -joined in a wild and joyous singing of "My Country, 'tis of Thee." - -High above the turmoil, on a baggage truck which had been pushed -against the wall, stood "Old Man Daggett," whistling. He was -apparently unaware of the contrast between the whiteness of his beard -and the abandoned gayety of his tune, which was "We won't go home -until morning"; he was equally unaware or indifferent to the care with -which the crowd avoided his neighborhood. But though he had been -drinking, he was not drunk. He looked down upon the crowd, upon his -former companions in the Grand Army post, who had long since -repudiated him because of the depths to which he had fallen; he -thought of the days when he had struggled with the other guides for a -place at the edge of the platform, and, wretched as was his present -condition, he continued to whistle. - -When, presently, the small boys shouted, "There she comes!" the old -man added his cheer to the rest, purely for the joy of hearing his own -voice. The crowd lurched forward, the station agent ordered them back, -the engine whistled, her bell rang, the old soldiers called wildly, -"Hello, comrades!" "Hurrah, comrades!" and the train stopped. Then -ensued a wilder pandemonium. There were multitudinous cries:— - -"Here you are, the Keystone House!" - -"Here you are, the Palace, the official hotel of Gettysburg!" - -"The Battle Hotel, the best in the city!" - -There were shouts also from the visitors. - -"Hello, comrades! Hurrah! Hurrah!" - -"Did you ever see such a storm?" - -"Hurrah! Hurrah!" - -At first it seemed impossible to bring order out of the chaos. The -human particles would rush about forever, wearing themselves into -nothingness by futile contact with one another. Presently, however, -one of the carriages drove away and then another, and the crowd began -to thin. Old Daggett watched them with cheerful interest, rejoicing -when Jakie Barsinger of the Palace, or Bert Taylor of the Keystone, -lost his place on the steps. By and by his eyes wandered to the other -end of the dim platform. Three men stood there, watching the crowd. -The sight of three prosperous visitors, unclaimed and unsolicited by -the guides, seemed to rouse some latent energy in old Daggett. It was -almost ten years since he had guided any one over the field. He -scrambled down from the truck and approached the visitors. - -"Have you gentlemen engaged rooms?" he asked. "Or a guide?" - -The tallest of the three men answered. He was Ellison Brant, former -Congressman, of great wealth and vast physical dimensions. His manner -was genial and there was a frank cordiality in his voice which his -friends admired and his enemies distrusted. His companions, both -younger than himself, were two faithful henchmen, Albert Davis and -Peter Hayes. They had not heard of the convention in Gettysburg, which -they were visiting for the first time, and, irritated by having to -travel in the same coach with the noisy veterans, they were now -further annoyed by the discovery that all the hotels in the town were -crowded. Brant's voice had lost entirely its cordial tone. - -"Have you any rooms to recommend?" - -"You can't get places at the hotels any more," answered Daggett. "But -I could get you rooms." - -"Where is your best hotel?" - -"Right up here. We'll pass it." - -"All right. Take us there first." - -Brant's irritation found expression in an oath as they went up the -narrow, uneven pavement. He was accustomed to obsequious porters, and -his bag was heavy. It was not their guide's age which prevented Brant -from giving him the burden, but the fear that he might steal off with -it, down a dark alley or side street. - -"There's the Keystone," said Daggett. "You can't get in there." - -The hotel was brilliantly lighted, a band played in its lobby, and out -to the street extended the cheerful, hurrahing crowd. General -Davenant, who was to be the orator at the Memorial Day celebration, -had come out on a balcony to speak to them. Brant swore again in his -disgust. - -"I can take you to a fine place," insisted old Daggett. - -"Go on, then," said Brant. "What are you waiting for?" - -A square farther on, Daggett rapped at the door of a little house. The -woman who opened it, lamp in hand, seemed at first unwilling to -listen. - -"You can't get in here, you old rascal." - -But Daggett had put his foot inside the door. - -"I've got three fine boarders for you," he whispered. "You can take -'em or leave 'em. I can take them anywhere and get a quarter apiece -for them." - -The woman opened the door a little wider and peered out at the three -men. Their appearance seemed to satisfy her. - -"Come in, comrades," she invited cordially. She had not meant to take -boarders during this convention, but these men looked as though they -could pay well. "I have fine rooms and good board." - -Daggett stepped back to allow the strangers to go into the house. - -"I'll be here at eight o'clock sharp to take you over the field, -gentlemen," he promised. - -There was a briskness about his speech and an alertness in his step, -which, coupled with the woman's gratitude, kept her from telling her -guests what a reprobate old Daggett was. - -By some miracle of persuasion or threat, he secured a two-seated -carriage and an ancient horse for the next day's sight-seeing. A great -roar of laughter went up from the drivers of the long line of -carriages before the Keystone House, as he drove by. - -"Where you going to get your passengers, Daggett?" - -"Daggett's been to the bone-yard for a horse." - -"He ain't as old as your joke," called Daggett cheerfully. - -The prospect of having work to do gave him for the moment greater -satisfaction than the thought of what he meant to buy with his wages, -which was saying a great deal. He began to repeat to himself fragments -of his old speech. - -"Yonder is the Seminary cupilo objecting above the trees," he said to -himself. "From that spot, ladies and gentlemen—from that spot, ladies -and gentlemen—" He shook his head and went back to the beginning. -"Yonder is the Seminary cupilo. From that spot—" He was a little -frightened when he found that he could not remember. "But when I'm -there it'll come back," he said to himself. - -His three passengers were waiting for him on the steps, while from -behind them peered the face of their hostess, curious to see whether -old Daggett would keep his word. Brant looked at the ancient horse -with disapproval. - -"Is everything in this town worn out, like you and your horse?" he -asked roughly. - -Daggett straightened his shoulders, which had not been straightened -with pride or resentment for many days. - -"You can take me and my horse or you can leave us," he said. - -Brant had already clambered into the carriage. Early in the morning -Davis and Hayes had tried to find another guide, but had failed. - -As they drove down the street, the strangers were aware that every -passer-by stopped to look at them. People glanced casually at the -horse and carriage, as one among a multitude which had started over -the field that morning, then, at sight of the driver, their eyes -widened, and sometimes they grinned. Daggett did not see—he was too -much occupied in trying to remember his speech. The three men had -lighted long black cigars, and were talking among themselves. The cool -morning air which blew into their faces from the west seemed to -restore Brant's equanimity, and he offered Daggett a cigar, which -Daggett took and put into his pocket. Daggett's lips were moving, he -struggled desperately to remember. Presently his eyes brightened. - -"Ah!" he said softly. Then he began his speech:— - -"Yonder is the Seminary cupilo objecting above the trees. From there -Buford observed the enemy, from there the eagle eye of Reynolds took -in the situation at a glance, from there he decided that the heights -of Gettysburg was the place to fight. You will see that it is an -important strategic point, an important strategic point"—his lips -delighted in the long-forgotten words. "And here—" - -The old horse had climbed the hill, and they were upon the Confederate -battle-line of the third day's fight. Old Daggett's voice was lost for -an instant in a recollection of his ancient oratorical glories. His -speech had been learned from a guide-book, but there was a time when -it had been part of his soul. - -"Here two hundred cannons opened fire, ladies and gentlemen. From the -Union side nearly a hundred guns replied, not because we had no more -guns, ladies and gentlemen, but, owing to the contour of the ground, -we could only get that many in position at one time. Then came the -greatest artillery duel of the war—nearly three hundred cannons -bleaching forth their deadly measles, shells bursting and screaming -everywhere. The shrieks of the dying and wounded were mingled with the -roar of the iron storm. The earth trembled for hours. It was fearful, -ladies and gentlemen, fearful." - -The visitors had been too deeply interested in what they were saying -to hear. - -"You said we were on the Confederate battle-line?" asked Brant -absently. - -"The Confederate battle-line," answered Daggett. - -He had turned the horse's head toward Round Top, and he did not care -whether they heard or not. - -"Yonder in the distance is Round Top; to the left is Little Round Top. -They are important strategic points. There the Unionists were attacked -in force by the enemy. There—but here as we go by, notice the -breech-loading guns to our right. They were rare. Most of the guns -were muzzle-loaders." - -Presently the visitors began to look about them. They said the field -was larger than they expected; they asked whether the avenues had been -there at the time of the battle; they asked whether Sherman fought at -Gettysburg. - -"Sherman!" said Daggett. "Here? No." He looked at them in scorn. "But -here"—the old horse had stopped without a signal—"here is where -Pickett's charge started." - -He stepped down from the carriage into the dusty road. This story he -could not tell as he sat at ease. He must have room to wave his arms, -to point his whip. - -"They aimed toward that clump of trees, a mile away. They marched with -steady step, as though they were on dress parade. When they were half -way across the Union guns began to fire. They was torn apart; the -rebel comrades stepped over the dead and went on through the storm of -deadly measles as though it was rain and wind. When they started they -was fifteen thousand; when they got back they was eight. They was -almost annihilated. You could walk from the stone wall to beyond the -Emmitsburg road without treading on the ground, the bodies lay so -thick. Pickett and his men had done their best." - -"Well done!" cried Brant, when he was through. "Now, that'll do. We -want to talk. Just tell us when we get to the next important place." - -They drove on down the wide avenue. Spring had been late, and there -were lingering blossoms of dogwood and Judas-tree. Here and there a -scarlet tanager flashed among the leaves; rabbits looked brightly at -them from the wayside, and deep in the woods resounded the limpid note -of a wood-robin. - -Disobedient to Brant's command, Daggett was still talking, repeating -to himself all the true and false statements of his old speeches. -Some, indeed, were mad absurdities. - -"There's only one Confederate monument on the field," he said. "You -can tell it when we get there. It says 'C. S. A.' on it—'Secesh -Soldiers of America.' - -"There was great fightin' round Spangler's Spring," he went on -soberly. "There those that had no legs gave water to those that had no -arms, and those that had no arms carried off those that had no legs." - -At the summit of Little Round Top the old horse stopped again. - -"You see before you the important strategic points of the second day's -fight—Devil's Den, the Wheat-Field, the Valley of Death. Yonder—" - -Suddenly the old man's memory seemed to fail. He whispered -incoherently, then he asked them if they wanted to get out. - -"No," said Brant. - -"But everybody gets out here," insisted Daggett peevishly. "You can't -see Devil's Den unless you do. You _must_ get out." - -"All right," acquiesced Brant. "Perhaps we are not getting our money's -worth." - -He lifted himself ponderously down, and Davis followed him. - -"I'll stay here," said Hayes. "I'll see that our driver don't run off. -Were you a soldier?" he asked the old man. - -"Yes," answered Daggett. "I was wounded in this battle. I wasn't old -enough to go, but they took me as a substitute for another man. And I -never"—an insane anger flared in the old man's eyes—"I never got my -bounty. He was to have paid me a thousand dollars. A thousand -dollars!" He repeated it as though the sum were beyond his -computation. "After I came out I was going to set up in business. But -the skunk never paid me." - -"What did you do afterwards?" - -"Nothing," said Daggett. "I was wounded here, and I stayed here after -I got well, and hauled people round. Hauled people round!" He spoke as -though the work were valueless, degrading. - -"Why didn't you go into business?" - -"I didn't have my thousand dollars," replied Daggett petulantly. -"Didn't I tell you I didn't have my thousand dollars? The skunk never -paid me." - -The thought of the thousand dollars of which he had been cheated -seemed to paralyze the old man. He told them no more stories; he drove -silently past Stannard, high on his great shaft, Meade on his noble -horse, fronting the west. He did not mention Stubborn Smith or gallant -Armistead. Brant, now that he had settled with his friends some -legislative appointments which he controlled, was ready to listen, and -was angry at the old man's silence. - -"When you take us back to town, you take us to that hotel we saw last -night," he ordered. "We're not going back to your lady friend." - -Old Daggett laughed. Lady friend! How she would scold! He would tell -her that the gentlemen thought she was his lady friend. - -"And we'll have to have a better horse and driver after dinner, if -we're going to see this field." - -"All right," said Daggett. - -His morning's work would buy him drink for a week, and beyond the week -he had no interest. - -He drove the ancient horse to the hotel, and his passengers got out. -He waited, expecting to be sent for their baggage. The porch and -pavement were as crowded as they had been the night before. The -soldiers embraced each other, hawkers cried their picture postcards -and their manufactured souvenirs, at the edge of the pavement a band -was playing. - -Brant pushed his way to the clerk's desk. The clerk remembered him at -once as the triumphantly vindicated defendant in a Congressional -scandal, and welcomed him obsequiously. Brant's picture had been in -all the papers, and his face was not easily forgotten. - -"Well, sir, did you just get in?" the clerk asked politely. - -"No, I've been here all night," answered Brant. "I was told you had no -rooms." - -Meanwhile old Daggett had become tired of waiting. He wanted his -money; the Keystone people might send for the baggage. He tied his old -horse, unheeding the grins of his former companions in the army post -and of the colored porters and the smiles of the fine ladies. He -followed Brant into the hotel. - -"Who said we hadn't rooms?" he heard the clerk say to Brant, and then -he heard Brant's reply: "An old drunk." - -"Old Daggett?" said the clerk. - -A frown crossed Brant's handsome face. - -"Daggett?" he repeated sharply. "Frederick Daggett?" - -Then he looked back over his shoulder. - -"Yes, Frederick Daggett," said the old man himself. "What of it?" - -"Nothing," answered Brant nervously. - -He pulled out his purse and began to pay the old man, aware that the -crowd had turned to listen. - -But the old man did not see the extended hand. He was staring at -Brant's smooth face as though he saw it for the first time. - -"You pay me my money," he said thickly. - -"I am paying you your money," answered Brant. - -The clerk looked up, meaning to order old Daggett out. Then his pen -dropped from his hand as he saw Brant's face. - -"You give me my thousand dollars," said Daggett. "I want my thousand -dollars." - -Some one in the crowd laughed. Every one in Gettysburg had heard of -Daggett's thousand dollars. - -"Put him out! He's crazy." - -"Be still," said some one, who was watching Brant. - -"I want my thousand dollars," said old Daggett, again. He looked as -though, even in his age and weakness, he would spring upon Brant. "I -want my thousand dollars." - -Brant thrust a trembling hand into his pocket and drew out his -check-book. If he had had a moment to think, if the face before him -had not been so ferocious, if General Davenant, whom he knew, and who -knew him, had not been looking with stern inquiry over old Daggett's -shoulder, he might have laughed, or he might have pretended that he -had tried to find Daggett after the war, or he might have denied that -he had ever seen him. But before he thought of an expedient, it was -too late. He had committed the fatal blunder of drawing out his -check-book. - -"Be quiet and I'll give it to you," he said, beginning to write. - -Daggett almost tore the slip of blue paper from his hand. - -"I won't be quiet!" he shouted, in his weak voice, hoarse from his -long speech in the morning. "This is the man that got me to substitute -for him and cheated me out of my thousand dollars. I won't be quiet!" -He looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. Perhaps it was the -ease with which Brant paid out such a vast sum that moved him, perhaps -it was the uselessness of the thousand dollars, now that he was old. -He tore the blue strip across and threw it on the floor. "There is -your thousand dollars!" - -He had never looked so wretchedly miserable as he did now. He was -ragged and dusty, and the copious tears of age were running down his -cheeks. His were not the only tears in the crowd. A member of his old -post, which had repudiated him, seized him by the arm. - -"Come with me, Daggett. We'll fix you up. We'll make it up to you, -Daggett." - -But Daggett jerked away. - -"Get out. I'll fix myself up if there's any fixing." - -He walked past Brant, not deigning to look at him, he stepped upon the -fragments of paper on the floor, and shambled to the door. There he -saw the faces of Jakie Barsinger and Bert Taylor and the other guides -who had laughed at him, who had called him "Thousand-Dollar" Daggett, -now gaping at him. Old Daggett's cheerfulness returned. - -"You blame' fools couldn't earn a thousand dollars if you worked a -thousand years. And I"—he waved a scornful hand over his shoulder—"I -can throw a thousand dollars away." - - - - - VII - - THE RETREAT - - -Grandfather Myers rose stiffly from his knees. He had been weeding -Henrietta's nasturtium bed, which, thanks to him, was always the -finest in the neighborhood of Gettysburg. As yet, the plants were not -more than three inches high, and the old man tended them as carefully -as though they were children. He was thankful now that his morning's -work was done, the wood-box filled, the children escorted part of the -way to school, and the nasturtium bed weeded, for he saw the buggy of -the mail-carrier of Route 4 come slowly down the hill. It was -grandfather's privilege to bring the mail in from the box. This time -he reached it before the postman, and waited smilingly for him. It -always reminded him a little of his youth, when the old stone house -behind him had been a tavern, and the stage drew up before it each -morning with flourish of horn and proud curveting of horses. - -The postman waved something white at him as he approached. - -"Great news for Gettysburg," he called. "The state militia's coming to -camp in July." - -"You don't say so!" exclaimed Grandfather Myers. - -"Yes, they'll be here a week." - -"How many'll there be?" - -"About ten thousand." - -Grandfather started away in such excitement that the postman had to -call him back to receive the newspaper. The old man took it and -hobbled up the yard, his trembling hands scarcely able to unfold it. -He paused twice to read a paragraph, and when he reached the porch he -sat down on the upper step, the paper quivering in his hands. - -"Henrietta!" he called. - -His son's wife appeared in the doorway, a large, strong, young woman -with snapping eyes. She was drying a platter and her arms moved -vigorously. - -"What is it, grandfather?" she asked impatiently. - -The old man was so excited he could scarcely answer. - -"There's going to be an encampment at Gettysburg, Henrietta. All the -state troops is going to be here. It'll be like war-time again. It -says here—" - -"I like to read the paper my own self, father," said Henrietta, moving -briskly away from the door. She felt a sudden anger that it was -grandfather who had this great piece of news to tell. "You ain't taken -your weeds away from the grass yet, and it's most dinner-time." - -Grandfather laid down the paper and went to finish his task. He was -accustomed to Henrietta's surliness, and nothing made him unhappy very -long. He threw the weeds over the fence and then went back to the -porch. So willing was he to forgive Henrietta, and so anxious to tell -her more of the exciting news in the paper, that, sitting on the -steps, he read her extracts. - -"Ten thousand of 'em, Henrietta. They're going to camp around -Pickett's Charge, and near the Codori Farm, and they're going to put -the cavalry and artillery near Reynolds Woods, and some regulars are -coming, Henrietta. It'll be like war-time. And they're going to have a -grand review with the soldiers marchin' before the Governor. The -Governor'll be there, Henrietta! And—" - -"I don't believe it's true," remarked Henrietta coldly. "I believe -it's just newspaper talk." - -"Oh, no, Henrietta!" Grandfather spoke with deep conviction. "There -wouldn't be no cheatin' about such a big thing as this. The -Government'd settle them if they'd publish lies. And—" grandfather -rose in his excitement—"there'll be cannons a-boomin' and guns -a-firin' and oh, my!" He waved the paper above his head. "And the -review! I guess you ain't ever seen so many men together. But I have. -I tell you I have. When I laid upstairs here, with the bullet in -here"—he laid his hand upon his chest—"I seen 'em goin'." -Grandfather's voice choked as the voice of one who speaks of some -tremendous experience of his past. "I seen 'em goin'. Men and men and -men and horses and horses and wagons. They was millions, Henrietta." - -Henrietta did not answer. She said to herself that she had heard the -account of grandfather's millions of men millions of times. Wounded at -Chancellorsville, and sent home on furlough, he had watched the -Confederate retreat from an upper window of the old stone house. - -"I woke up in the night, and I looked out," he would say. "Everybody -was sleepin' and I crept over to the window. It was raining like"—here -grandfather's long list of comparisons failed, and he described it -simply—"it was just rain and storm and marchin'. They kept going and -going. It was tramp, tramp all night." - -"Didn't anybody speak, grandfather?" the children would ask. - -"You couldn't hear 'em for the rain," he would answer. "Once in a -while you could hear 'em cryin'. But most of the time it was just rain -and storm, rain and storm. They couldn't go fast, they—" - -"Why didn't our boys catch them?" little Caleb always asked. "I'd 'a' -run after them." - -"Our boys was tired." Grandfather dismissed the Union army with one -short sentence. "The rebels kept droppin' in their tracks. There was -two dead front of the porch in the morning, and three across the -bridge. I tried to sneak out in the night and give 'em something to -eat, or ask some of 'em to come in, but the folks said I was too sick. -They wouldn't let me go. I—" - -"It would 'a' been a nice thing to help the enemies of your country -that you'd been fightin' against!" Henrietta would sometimes say -scornfully. - -"You didn't see 'em marchin' and hear the sick ones cryin' when the -rain held up a little," he reminded Henrietta. "Oh, I wish I'd sneaked -out and done something for 'em!" - -Then he would lapse into silence, his eyes on the long, red road which -led to Hagerstown. It lay now clear and hot and treeless in the -sunshine; to his vision, however, the dust was whipped into deep mud -by a beating rain, beneath which Lee and his army "marched and -marched." He leaned forward as though straining to see. - -"I saw some flags once when it lightened," he said; "and once I -thought I saw General Lee." - -"Oh, I guess not!" Henrietta would answer with scornful indulgence to -which grandfather was deaf. - -He read the newspaper announcement of the encampment again and again, -then he went to meet the children on their way from school, stopping -to tell their father, who was at work in the field. - -"There'll be a grand review," grandfather said. "Ten thousand soldiers -in line. We'll go to it, John. It'll be a great day for the young -ones." - -"We'll see," answered John. - -He was a brisk, energetic man, too busy to be always patient. - -In the children grandfather had his first attentive listeners. - -"Will it be like the war?" they asked, eagerly. - -"Oh, something. There won't be near so many, and they won't kill -nobody. But it'll be a great time. They'll drill all day long." - -"Will their horses' hoofs sound like dry leaves rustlin'?" asked -little Mary, who always remembered most clearly what the old man had -said. - -"Yes, like leaves a-rustlin'," repeated the old man. "You must be good -children, now, so you don't miss the grand review." - -All through the early summer they talked of the encampment. Because of -it the annual Memorial Day visit to the battle-field was omitted. Each -night the children heard the story of the battle and the retreat, -until they listened for commands, faintly given, and the sound of -thousands of weary feet. Grandfather often got up in the night and -looked out across the yard to the road. Sometimes they heard him -whispering to himself as he went back to bed. He got down his old -sword and spent many hours trying to polish away the rust which had -been gathering for forty years. - -"You expect to wear the sword, father?" asked Henrietta, laughing. - -News of the encampment reached them constantly. Three weeks before it -opened, they were visited by a man who wished to hire horses for the -use of the cavalry and the artillery. John debated for a moment. The -wheat was in, the oats could wait until the encampment was over, the -price paid for horse hire was good. He told the man that he might have -Dick, one of the heavy draft horses. - -Grandfather ran to meet the children as they came from a neighbor's. - -"Dick's going to the war," he cried excitedly. - -"To the war?" repeated the children. - -"I mean to the encampment. He's been hired. He's going to help pull -one of the cannons for the artill'ry." - -The next week John drove into town with a load of early apples. He was -offered work at a dozen different places. Supplies were being sent in, -details of soldiers were beginning to lay out the camp and put up -tents, Gettysburg was already crowded with visitors. Grandfather made -him tell it all the second time; then he explained the formation of an -army to the children. - -"First comes a company, that's the smallest, then a regiment, then a -brigade. A quartermaster looks after supplies, a sutler is a fellow -who sells things to the soldiers. But, children, you should 'a' seen -'em marching by that night!" Grandfather always came back to the -retreat. "They hadn't any sutlers to sell 'em anything to eat. I -wish—I wish I'd sneaked out and given 'em something." - -After grandfather went upstairs that night he realized that he was -thirsty, and he came down again. The children were asleep, but their -father and mother still sat talking on the porch. Grandfather had -taken off his shoes and came upon them before they were aware. - -"I don't see no use in his going," Henrietta was saying. "There ain't -no room for him in the buggy with us and the children. Where'd we put -him? And he saw the real war." - -"But he's looked forward to it, Henrietta, he—" - -"Well, would you have me stay at home, or would you have the children -stay at home, or what?" Henrietta felt the burden of Grandfather Myers -more every day. "He'll forget it anyhow in a few days. He forgets -everything." - -"Do you—do you—" They turned to see grandfather behind them. He held -weakly to the side of the door. "Do you mean I ain't to go, -Henrietta?" - -It did not occur to him to appeal to his son. - -"I don't see how you can," answered Henrietta. She was sorry he had -heard. She meant to have John tell him gently the next day. "There is -only the buggy, and if John goes and I and the children—it's you have -made them so anxious to go." - -She spoke as though she blamed him. - -"But—" Grandfather ignored the meanness of the excuse. "But couldn't -we take the wagon?" - -"The wagon? To Gettysburg? With the whole country looking on? I guess -they'd think John was getting along fine if we went in the wagon." -Henrietta was glad to have so foolish a speech to answer as it -deserved. "Why, grandfather!" - -"Then"—grandfather's brain, which had of late moved more and more -slowly, was suddenly quickened—"then let me drive the wagon and you -can go in the buggy. I can drive Harry and nobody'll know I belong to -you, and—" - -"Let you drive round with all them horses and the shooting and -everything!" exclaimed Henrietta. - -Her husband turned toward her. - -"You might drive the buggy and take grandfather, and I could go in the -wagon," he said. - -"I don't go to Gettysburg without a man on such a day," said Henrietta -firmly. - -"But—" Grandfather interrupted his own sentence with a quavering -laugh. Henrietta did not consider him a man! - -Then he turned and went upstairs, forgetting his drink of water. He -heard Henrietta's voice long afterward, and John's low answers. John -wanted him to go, he did not blame John. - -The next day he made a final plea. He followed John to the barn. - -"Seems as if I might ride Harry," he said tentatively. - -"O father, you couldn't," John answered gently. "You know how it will -be, noise and confusion and excitement. Harry isn't used to it. You -couldn't manage him." - -"Seems as though if Dick goes, Harry ought to go, too. 'Tain't fair -for Dick to go, and not Harry," he whispered childishly. - -"I'm sorry, father," said John. - -It was better that his father should be disappointed than that -Henrietta should be opposed. His father would forget in a few days and -Henrietta would remember for weeks. - -The next day when the man came for Dick they found grandfather in the -stable patting the horse and talking about the war. He watched Dick -out of sight, and then sat down in his armchair on the porch -whispering to himself. - -The children protested vigorously when they found that the old man was -not going, but they were soon silenced by their mother. Grandfather -was old, it was much better that he should not go. - -"You can tell him all about it when you come home," she said. - -"You can guard the place while we're gone, Grandfather," suggested -little Caleb. "Perhaps the Confederates will come back." - -"They wouldn't hurt nothing," answered the old man. "They was -tired—tired—tired." - -When the family drove away he sat on the porch. He waved his hand -until he could see little Mary's fluttering handkerchief no more, then -he fell asleep. As Henrietta said, he soon forgot. When he woke up a -little later, he went down to the barn and patted Harry, then he went -out to the mail-box to see whether by any chance he had missed a -letter. He looked at the nasturtium bed, now aglow with yellow and -orange and deep crimson blossoms, then he went back to the porch. He -was lonely. He missed the sound of John's voice calling to the horses -down in the south meadow or across the road in the wheat-field, he -missed the chatter of the children, he missed even their mother's curt -answers to his questions. For an instant he wondered where they had -gone, then he sighed heavily as he remembered. Instead of sitting down -again in his chair, he went into the house and upstairs. There he -tiptoed warily up to the garret as if he were afraid that some one -would follow him, and drew from a hiding-place which he fancied no one -knew but himself an old coat, blue, with buttons of dull, tarnished -brass. He thrust his arms into it, still whispering to himself, and -smoothed it down. His fingers hesitated as they touched a jagged rent -just in front of the shoulder. - -"What— Oh, yes, I remember!" - -Grandfather had never been quite so forgetful as this. On his way -downstairs he took from its hook his old sword. - -"Caleb says I must guard the house," he said smilingly. - -When he reached the porch, he turned his chair so that it no longer -faced toward Gettysburg, whither John and Henrietta and the children -had gone, but toward the blue hills and Hagerstown. Once he picked up -the sword and pointed with it, steadying it with both hands. "Through -that gap they went," he said. - -Then he dozed again. The old clock, which had stood on the kitchen -mantelpiece since before he was born, struck ten, but he did not hear. -Henrietta had told him where he could find some lunch, but he did not -remember nor care. His dinner was set out beneath a white cloth on the -kitchen table, but he had not curiosity enough to lift it and see what -good things Henrietta had left for him. When he woke again, he began -to sing in a shrill voice:— - - "Away down South in Dixie, - Look away, look away." - -"They didn't sing that when they was marching home," he said solemnly. -"They only tramped along in the dark and rain." - -Then suddenly he straightened up. Like an echo from his own lips, -there came from the distance toward Gettysburg the same tune, played -by fifes, with the dull accompaniment of drums. He bent forward, -listening, then stood up, looking off toward the blue hills. At once -he realized that the sound came from the other direction. - -"I thought they was all past, long ago," he said. "And they never -played. I guess I was asleep and dreaming." - -He sat down once more, his head on his breast. When he lifted it, it -was in response to a sharp "Halt!" He stared about him. The road -before him was filled with soldiers, in dusty yellow uniforms. Then he -was not dreaming, then—He tottered to the edge of the porch. - -The men of the Third Regiment of the National Guard of Pennsylvania -did not approve of the march, in their parlance a "hike," which their -colonel had decided to give them along the line of Lee's retreat. They -felt that just before the grand review in the afternoon, it was an -imposition. They were glad to halt, while the captain of each company -explained that upon the night of the third of July, 1863, Lee had -traversed this road on his way to recross the Potomac. - -When his explanation was over, the captain of Company I moved his men -a little to the right under the shade of the maples. From there he saw -the moving figure behind the vines. - -"Sergeant, go in and ask whether we may have water." - -[Illustration: THEY SAW THE STRANGE OLD FIGURE ON THE PORCH.] - -The sergeant entered the gate, and the thirsty men, hearing the order, -looked after him. They saw the strange old figure on the porch, the -torn blue jacket belted at the waist, the sword, the smiling, eager -face. The captain saw, too. - -"Three cheers for the old soldier," he cried, and hats were swung in -the air. - -"May we have a drink?" the sergeant asked, and grandfather pointed the -way to the well. - -He tried to go down the steps to help them pump, but his knees -trembled, and he stayed where he was. He watched them, still smiling. -He did not realize that the cheers were for him, he could not quite -understand why suits which should be gray were so yellow, but he -supposed it was the mud. - -"Poor chaps," he sighed. "They're goin' back to Dixie." - -One by one the companies drew up before the gate, and one by one they -cheered. They had been cheering ever since the beginning of the -encampment—for Meade, for Hancock, for Reynolds, among the dead; for -the Governor, the colonel, the leader of the regiment band, among the -living. They had enlisted for a good time, for a trip to Gettysburg, -for a taste of camp-life, from almost any other motive than that which -had moved this old man to enlist in '61. They suddenly realized how -little this encampment was like war. All the drill, all the pomp of -this tin soldiering, even all the graves of the battle-field, had not -moved them as did this old man in his tattered coat. Here was love of -country. Would any of them care to don in fifty years their khaki -blouses? Then, before the momentary enthusiasm or the momentary -seriousness had time to wear away, the order was given to march back -to camp. - -The old man did not turn to watch them go. He sat still with his eyes -upon the distant hills. After a while his sword fell clattering to the -floor. - -"I'm glad I sneaked out and gave 'em something," he said, smiling with -a great content. - -The long leaves of the corn in the next field rustled in the wind, the -sun rose higher, then declined, and still he sat there smilingly -unheeding, his eyes toward the west. Once he said, "Poor chaps, it's -dark for 'em." - -The cows waited at the pasture gate for the master and mistress, who -were late. Henrietta had wished that morning that grandfather could -milk, so that they would not have to hurry home. Presently they came, -tired and hungry, the children eager to tell of the wonders they had -seen. At their mother's command, they ran to let down the pasture bars -while their father led the horses to the barn, and she herself went on -to the porch. - -"Grandfather," she said kindly, "we're here." She even laid her hand -on his shoulder. "Wake up, grandfather!" She spoke sharply, angry at -his failure to respond to her unaccustomed gentleness of speech. Her -hand fell upon his shoulder once more, this time heavily, and her -finger-tips touched a jagged edge of cloth. "What—" she began. She -remembered the old coat, which she had long since made up her mind to -burn. She felt for the buttons down the front, the belt with its broad -plate. Yes, it was—Then suddenly she touched his hands, and screamed -and ran, crying, toward the barn. - -"John!" she called. "John! Grandfather is dead." - - - - - VIII - - THE GREAT DAY - - -Old Billy Gude strode slowly into the kitchen, where his wife bent -over the stove. Just inside the door he stopped, and chewed -meditatively upon the toothpick in his mouth. His wife turned -presently to look at him. - -"What are you grinning at?" she asked pleasantly. - -Billy did not answer. Instead he sat down in his armchair and lifted -his feet to the window-sill. - -"_Won't_ you speak, or can't you?" demanded Mrs. Gude. - -When he still did not respond, she gravely pushed her frying-pan to -the back of the stove, and went toward the door. Before her hand -touched the latch, however, Billy came to himself. - -"Abbie!" he cried. - -"I can't stop now," answered Mrs. Gude. "I gave you your chance to -tell what you got to tell. Now you can wait till I come home." - -"You'll be sorry." - -Mrs. Gude looked back. Her husband still grinned. - -"You're crazy," she said, with conviction, and went out. - -An instant later she reopened the door. Billy was executing a _pas -seul_ in the middle of the floor. - -"_Are_ you crazy?" she demanded, in affright. - -Billy paused long enough to wink at her. - -"You better go do your errand, Abbie." - -Abbie seized him by the arm. - -"What is the matter?" - -Then Billy's news refused longer to be retained. - -"There's a great day comin'," he announced solemnly. "The President of -the United States is comin' here on Decoration Day to see the -battle-field." - -"What of that?" said Abbie scornfully. "It won't do you no good. He'll -come in the morning in an automobile, an' he'll scoot round the field -with Jakie Barsinger a-settin' on the step tellin' lies, an' you can -see him go by." - -"See him go by nothin'," declared Billy. "That's where you're left. -He's comin' in the mornin' on a special train, an' he's goin' to be -driven round the field, an' he's goin' to make a speech at the -nostrum"—thus did Billy choose to pronounce rostrum—"an'—" - -"And Jakie Barsinger will drive him over the field and to the nostrum, -and you can sit and look on." - -"That's where you're left again," mocked Billy. "I, bein' the oldest -guide, an' the best knowed, an' havin' held Mr. Lincoln by the hand in -'63, an' havin' driven all the other big guns what come here till -automobiles an' Jakie Barsinger come in, _I_ am selected to do the -drivin' on the great day." - -Mrs. Gude sat down heavily on a chair near the door. - -"Who done it, Billy?" - -"I don't know who done it," Billy answered. "An' I don't care. Some of -the galoots had a little common sense for once." - -"_Why_ did they do it?" gasped Mrs. Gude. - -"Why?" repeated Billy. "Why? Because when you get people to talk about -a battle, it's better to have some one what saw the battle, an' not -some one what was in long clothes. I guess they were afraid Jakie -might tell something wrong. You can't fool this President." - -"I mean, what made 'em change _now_?" went on Abbie. "They knew this -long time that Jakie Barsinger was dumb." - -"I don't know, an' I don't care. I only know that I'm goin' to drive -the President. I heard Lincoln make his speech in '63, an' I drove -Everett an' Sickles an' Howard an' Curtin, and this President's -father, an' then"—Billy's voice shook—"then they said I was gettin' -old, an' Jakie Barsinger an' all the chaps get down at the station an' -yell an' howl like Piute Indians, an' they get the custom, an' the -hotels tell the people I had an accident with an automobile. -Automobiles be danged!" - -Mrs. Gude laid a tender hand on his shoulder. - -"Don't you cry," she said. - -Billy dashed the tears from his eyes. - -"I ain't cryin'. You go on with your errand." - -Mrs. Gude put on her sunbonnet again. She had no errand, but it would -not do to admit it. - -"Not if you're goin' to hop round like a loony." - -"I'm safe for to-day, I guess. Besides, my legs is give out." - -Left alone, Billy rubbed one leg, then the other. - -"G'lang there," he said, presently, his hands lifting a pair of -imaginary reins. "Mr. President, hidden here among the trees an' -bushes waited the foe; here—" - -Before he had finished he was asleep. He was almost seventy years old, -and excitement wearied him. - -For forty years he had shown visitors over the battle-field. At first -his old horse had picked his way carefully along lanes and across -fields; of late, however, his handsome grays had trotted over fine -avenues. The horses knew the route of travel as thoroughly as did -their master. They drew up before the National Monument, on the turn -of the Angle, and at the summit of Little Round Top without the least -guidance. - -"There ain't a stone or a bush I don't know," boasted Billy, "there -ain't a tree or a fence-post." - -Presently, however, came a creature which neither Billy nor his horses -knew. It dashed upon them one day with infernal tooting on the steep -curve of Culp's Hill, and neither they nor Billy were prepared. He sat -easily in his seat, the lines loose in his hands, while he described -the charge of the Louisiana Tigers. - -"From yonder they came," he said. "Up there, a-creepin' through the -bushes, an' then a-dashin', an' down on 'em came—" - -And then Billy knew no more. The automobile was upon them; there was a -crash as the horses whirled aside into the underbrush, another as the -carriage turned turtle, then a succession of shrieks. No one was -seriously hurt, however, but Billy himself. When, weeks later, he went -back to his old post beside the station platform, where the guides -waited the arrival of trains, Jakie Barsinger had his place, and Jakie -would not move. He was of a new generation of guides, who made up in -volubility what they lacked in knowledge. - -For weeks Billy continued to drive to the station. He had enlisted the -services of a chauffeur, and his horses were now accustomed to -automobiles. - -"I tamed 'em," he said to Abbie. "I drove 'em up to it, an' round it, -an' past it. An' he snorted it, an' tooted it, an' brought it at 'em -in front an' behind. They're as calm as pigeons." - -Nevertheless, trade did not come back. Jakie Barsinger had become the -recognized guide for the guests at the Palace, and John Harris for -those at the Keystone, and it was always from the hotels that the best -patronage came. - -"Jakie Barsinger took the Secretary of War round the other day," the -old man would say, tearfully, to his wife, "an' he made a fool of -himself. He don't know a brigade from a company. An' he grinned at -me—he grinned at me!" - -Abbie did her best to comfort him. - -"Perhaps some of the old ones what used to have you will come back." - -"An' if they do," said Billy, "the clerk at the Palace'll tell 'em I -ain't in the business, or I was in a accident, or that I'm dead. I -wouldn't put it past 'em to tell 'em I'm dead." - -Robbed of the occupation of his life, which was also his passion, -Billy grew rapidly old. Abbie listened in distress as, sitting alone, -he declaimed his old speeches. - -"Here on the right they fought with clubbed muskets. Here—" - -Often he did not finish, but dozed wearily off. There were times when -it seemed that he could not long survive. - -Now, however, as Memorial Day approached, he seemed to have taken a -new lease of life. No longer did he sit sleepily all day on the porch -or by the stove. He began to frequent his old haunts, and he assumed -his old proud attitude towards his rivals. - -Mrs. Gude did not share his unqualified elation. - -"Something might happen," she suggested fearfully. - -"Nothin' could happen," rejoined Billy scornfully, "unless I died. An' -then I wouldn't care. But I hope the Lord won't let me die." Billy -said it as though it were a prayer. "I'm goin' to set up once more an' -wave my whip at 'em, with the President of the United States beside -me. No back seat for him! Colonel Mott said the President 'd want to -sit on the front seat. An' he said he'd ask questions. 'Let him ask,' -I said. 'I ain't afraid of no questions nobody can ask. No s'tistics, -nor manœuvres, nor—'" - -"But Jakie Barsinger might do you a mean trick." - -"There ain't nothin' he _can_ do. Mott said to me, 'Be on time, Gude, -bright an' early.'" Then Billy's voice sank to a whisper. "They're -goin' to stop the train out at the sidin' back of the Seminary, so as -to fool the crowd. They'll be waitin' in town, an' we'll be off an' -away. An' by an' by we'll meet Jakie with a load of jays. Oh, it'll -be—it'll be immense!" - -Through the weeks that intervened before the thirtieth of May, Abbie -watched him anxiously. Each day he exercised the horses, grown fat and -lazy; each day he went over the long account of the battle,—as though -he could forget what was part and parcel of himself! His eyes grew -brighter, and there was a flush on his old cheeks. The committee of -arrangements lost their fear that they had been unwise in appointing -him. - -"Gude's just as good as he ever was," said Colonel Mott. "It wouldn't -do to let the President get at Barsinger. If you stop him in the -middle of a speech, he has to go back to the beginning." Then he told -a story of which he never grew weary. "'Here on this field lay ten -thousand dead men,' says Barsinger. 'Ten thousand dead men, -interspersed with one dead lady.' No; Billy Gude's all right." - -Colonel Mott sighed with relief. The planning for a President's visit -was no light task. There were arrangements to be made with the -railroad companies, the secret service men were to be stationed over -the battle-field, there were to be trustworthy guards, a programme was -to be made out for the afternoon meeting at which the President was to -speak. - -The night before the thirtieth Abbie did not sleep. She heard Billy -talking softly to himself. - -"Right yonder, Mr. President, they came creepin' through the bushes; -right yonder—" Then he groaned heavily, and Abbie shook him awake. - -"I was dreamin' about the automobile," he said, confusedly. "I—oh, -ain't it time to get up?" - -At daylight he was astir, and Abbie helped him dress. His hand shook -and his voice trembled as he said good-bye. - -"You better come to the window an' see me go past," he said; then, -"What you cryin' about, Abbie?" - -"I'm afraid somethin' 's goin' to happen," sobbed the old woman. "I'm -afraid—" - -"Afraid!" he mocked. "Do you think, too, that I'm old an' wore out an' -no good? You'll see!" - -And, defiantly, he went out. - -Half an hour later he drove to the siding where the train was to stop. -A wooden platform had been built beside the track, and on it stood -Colonel Mott and the rest of the committee. - -"Drive back there, Billy," Colonel Mott commanded. "Then when I signal -to you, you come down here. And hold on to your horses. There's going -to be a Presidential salute. As soon as that's over we'll start." - -Billy drew back to the side of the road. Evidently, through some -mischance, the plans for the President's reception had become known, -and there was a rapidly increasing crowd. On the slope of the hill a -battery of artillery awaited the word to fire. Billy sat straight, his -eyes on his horses' heads, his old hands gripping the lines. He -watched with pride the marshal waving all carriages back from the -road. Only he, Billy Gude, had the right to be there. _He_ was to -drive the President. The great day had come. He chuckled aloud, not -noticing that just back of the marshal stood Jakie Barsinger's fine -new carriage, empty save for Jakie himself. - -Presently the old man sat still more erectly. He heard, clear above -the noise of the crowd, a distant whistle—that same whistle for which -he had listened daily when he had the best place beside the station -platform. The train was rounding the last curve. In a moment more it -would come slowly to view out of the fatal Railroad Cut, whose -forty-year-old horrors Billy could describe so well. - -The fields were black now with the crowd, the gunners watched their -captain, and slowly the train drew in beside the bright pine platform. -At the door of the last car appeared a tall and sturdy figure, and ten -thousand huzzas made the hills ring. Then a thunder of guns awoke -echoes which, like the terror-stricken cries from the Railroad Cut, -had been silent forty years. Billy, listening, shivered. The horror -had not grown less with his repeated telling. - -He leaned forward now, watching for Colonel Mott's uplifted hand; he -saw him signal, and then—From behind he heard a cry, and turned to -look; then he swiftly swung Dan and Bess in toward the fence. A pair -of horses, maddened by the noise of the firing, dashed toward him. He -heard women scream, and thought, despairing, of Abbie's prophecy. -There would not be room for them to pass. After all, he would not -drive the President. Then he almost sobbed in his relief. They were -safely by. He laughed grimly. It was Jakie Barsinger with his fine new -carriage. Then Billy clutched the reins again. In the short glimpse he -had caught of Jakie Barsinger, Jakie did not seem frightened or -disturbed. Nor did he seem to make any effort to hold his horses in. -Billy stared into the cloud of dust which followed him. What did it -mean? And as he stared the horses stopped, skillfully drawn in by -Jakie Barsinger's firm hand beside the yellow platform. The cloud of -dust thinned a little, and Billy saw plainly now. Into the front seat -of the tourists' carriage, beside Jakie Barsinger, climbed the -President of the United States. Billy rose in his seat. - -"Colonel Mott!" he called, frantically. "Colonel Mott!" - -But no one heeded. If any one heard, he thought it was but another -cheer. The crowd swarmed down to the road shouting, huzza-ing, here -and there a man or a girl pausing to steady a camera on a fence-post, -here and there a father lifting his child to his shoulder. - -"Where is the President?" they asked, and Billy heard the answer. - -"There, there! Look! By Jakie Barsinger!" - -The old man's hands dropped, and he sobbed. It had all been so neatly -done: the pretense of a runaway, the confusion of the moment, Colonel -Mott's excitement—and the crown of his life was gone. - -Long after the crowd had followed in the dusty wake of Jakie -Barsinger's carriage, he turned his horses toward home. A hundred -tourists had begged him to take them over the field, but he had -silently shaken his head. He could not speak. Dan and Bess trotted -briskly, mindful of the cool stable toward which their heads were set, -and they whinnied eagerly at the stable door. They stood there for -half an hour, however, before their master clambered down to unharness -them. He talked to himself feebly, and, when he had finished, went -out, not to the house, where Abbie, who had watched Jakie Barsinger -drive by, waited in an agony of fear, but down the street, and out by -quiet alleys and lanes to the National Cemetery. Sometimes he looked a -little wonderingly toward the crowded main streets, not able to recall -instantly why the crowd was there, then remembering with a rage which -shook him to the soul. Fleeting, futile suggestions of revenge rushed -upon him—a loosened nut in Jakie Barsinger's swingle-tree or a cut -trace—and were repelled with horror which hurt as much as the rage. -All the town would taunt him now. Why had he not turned his carriage -across the road and stopped Jakie Barsinger in his wild dash? It would -have been better to have been killed than to have lived to this. - -Around the gate of the cemetery a company of cavalry was stationed, -and within new thousands of visitors waited. It was afternoon now, and -almost time for the trip over the field to end and the exercises to -begin. As Billy passed through the crowd, he felt a hand on his -shoulder. - -"Thought you were going to drive the President," said a loud voice. - -Billy saw for an instant the strange faces about him, gaping, -interested to hear his answer. - -"I ain't nobody's coachman," he said coolly, and walked on. - -"They ain't goin' to get a rise out of me," he choked. "They ain't -goin' to get a rise out of me." - -He walked slowly up the wide avenue, and presently sat down on a -bench. He was tired to death, his head nodded, and soon he slept, -regardless of blare of band and shouting of men and roll of carriage -wheels. There was a song, and then a prayer, but Billy heard nothing -until the great speech was almost over. Then he opened his eyes -drowsily, and saw the throng gathered round the wistaria-covered -rostrum, on which the President was standing. Billy sprang up. At -least he would hear the speech. Nobody could cheat him out of that. He -pushed his way through the crowd, which, seeing his white hair, opened -easily enough. Then he stood trembling, all his misery rushing over -him again at sight of the tall figure. He was to have sat beside him, -to have talked with him! He rubbed a weak hand across his eyes. -Suddenly he realized that the formal portion of the speech was over, -the President was saying now a short farewell. - -"I wish to congratulate the Commission which has made of this great -field so worthy a memorial to those who died here. I wish to express -my gratification to the citizens of this town for their share in the -preservation of the field, and their extraordinary knowledge of the -complicated tactics of the battle. Years ago my interest was aroused -by hearing my father tell of a visit here, and of the vivid story of a -guide—his name, I think, was William Gude. I—" - -"'His name, I think,'" old Billy repeated dully. "'His name, I think, -was William Gude.'" - -It was a few seconds before the purport of it reached his brain. Then -he raised both arms, unaware that the speech was ended and that the -crowd had begun to cheer. - -"Oh, Mr. President," he called, "my name is William Gude!" His head -swam. They were turning away; they did not hear. "My name is William -Gude," he said again pitifully. - -The crowd, pressing toward Jakie Barsinger's carriage, into which the -President was stepping, carried him with them. They looked about them -questioningly; they could see Colonel Mott, who was at the President's -side, beckoning to some one; who it was they could not tell. Then -above the noise they heard him call. - -"Billy Gude!" he shouted. "Billy—" - -"It's me!" said Billy. - -He stared, blinking, at Colonel Mott and at the President. - -Colonel Mott laid his hand on Billy's shoulder. He had been trying to -invent a suitable punishment for Jakie Barsinger. No more custom -should come to him through the Commission. - -"The President wants you to ride down to the station with him, Billy," -he said. "He wants to know whether you remember his father." - -As in a dream, Billy climbed into the carriage. The President sat on -the rear seat now, and Billy was beside him. - -"I remember him like yesterday," he declared. "I remember what he said -an' how he looked, an'—" the words crowded upon each other as eagerly -as the President's questions, and Billy forgot all save them—the -cheering crowd, the wondering, envious eyes of his fellow citizens; he -did not even remember that Jakie Barsinger was driving him, Billy -Gude, and the President of the United States together. Once he caught -a glimpse of Abbie's frightened face, and he waved his hand and the -President lifted his hat. - -"I wish I could have known about you earlier in the day," said the -President, as he stepped down at the railroad station. Then he took -Billy's hand in his. "It has been a great pleasure to talk to you." - -The engine puffed near at hand, there were new cheers from throats -already hoarse with cheering, and the great man was gone, the great -day over. For an instant Billy watched the train, his hand uplifted -with a thousand other hands in a last salute to the swift-vanishing -figure in the observation-car. Then he turned, to meet the unwilling -eyes of Jakie Barsinger, helpless to move his carriage in the great -crowd. For an instant the recollection of his wrongs overwhelmed him. - -"Jakie—" he began. Then he laughed. The crowd was listening, -open-mouthed. For the moment, now that the President was gone, he, -Billy Gude, was the great man. He stepped nimbly into the carriage. -"Coachman," he commanded, "you can drive home." - - - - - IX - - MARY BOWMAN - - -Outside the broad gateway which leads into the National Cemetery at -Gettysburg and thence on into the great park, there stands a little -house on whose porch there may be seen on summer evenings an old -woman. The cemetery with its tall monuments lies a little back of her -and to her left; before her is the village; beyond, on a little -eminence, the buildings of the Theological Seminary; and still farther -beyond the foothills of the Blue Ridge. The village is tree-shaded, -the hills are set with fine oaks and hickories, the fields are green. -It would be difficult to find in all the world an expanse more lovely. -Those who have known it in their youth grow homesick for it; their -eyes ache and their throats tighten as they remember it. At sunset it -is bathed in purple light, its trees grow darker, its hills more -shadowy, its hollows deeper and more mysterious. Then, lifted above -the dark masses of the trees, one may see marble shafts and domes turn -to liquid gold. - -The little old woman, sitting with folded hands, is Mary Bowman, whose -husband was lost on this field. The battle will soon be fifty years in -the past, she has been for that long a widow. She has brought up three -children, two sons and a daughter. One of her sons is a merchant, one -is a clergyman, and her daughter is well and happily married. Her own -life of activity is past; she is waited upon tenderly and loved dearly -by her children and her grandchildren. She was born in this village, -she has almost never been away. From here her husband went to war, -here he is buried among thousands of unknown dead, here she nursed the -wounded and dying, here she will be buried herself in the Evergreen -cemetery, beyond the National cemetery. - -She has seen beauty change to desolation, trees shattered, fields -trampled, walls broken, all her dear, familiar world turned to chaos; -she has seen desolation grow again to beauty. These hills and streams -were always lovely, now a nation has determined to keep them forever -in the same loveliness. Here was a rocky, wooded field, destined by -its owner to cultivation; it has been decreed that its rough -picturesqueness shall endure forever. Here is a lowly farmhouse; upon -it no hand of change shall be laid while the nation continues. -Preserved, consecrated, hallowed are the woods and lanes in which Mary -Bowman walked with the lover of her youth. - -Broad avenues lead across the fields, marking the lines where by -thousands Northerners and Southerners were killed. Big Round Top, to -which one used to journey by a difficult path, is now accessible; -Union and Confederate soldiers, returning, find their way with ease to -old positions; lads from West Point are brought to see, spread out -before them as on a map, that Union fish-hook, five miles long, -inclosing that slightly curved Confederate line. - -Monuments are here by hundreds, names by thousands, cast in bronze, as -endurable as they can be made by man. All that can be done in -remembrance of those who fought here has been done, all possible -effort to identify the unknown has been made. For fifty years their -little trinkets have been preserved, their pocket Testaments, their -photographs, their letters—letters addressed to "My precious son," "My -dear brother," "My beloved husband." Seeing them to-day, you will find -them marked by a number. This stained scapular, this little housewife -with its rusty scissors, this unsigned letter, dated in '63, belonged -to him who lies now in Grave Number 20 or Number 3500. - -There is almost an excess of tenderness for these dead, yet mixed with -it is a strange feeling of remoteness. We mourn them, praise them, -laud them, but we cannot understand them. To this generation war is -strange, its sacrifices are uncomprehended, incomprehensible. It is -especially so in these latter years, since those who came once to this -field come now no more. Once the heroes of the war were familiar -figures upon these streets; Meade with his serious, bearded face, -Slocum with his quick, glancing eyes, Hancock with his distinguished -air, Howard with his empty sleeve. They have gone hence, and with them -have marched two thirds of Gettysburg's two hundred thousand. - -Mary Bowman has seen them all, has heard them speak. Sitting on her -little porch, she has watched most of the great men of the United -States go by, Presidents, cabinet officials, ambassadors, army -officers, and also famous visitors from other lands who know little of -the United States, but to whom Gettysburg is as a familiar country. -She has watched also that great, rapidly shrinking army of private -soldiers in faded blue coats, who make pilgrimages to see the fields -and hills upon which they fought. She has tried to make herself -realize that her husband, if he had lived, would be like these old -men, maimed, feeble, decrepit, but the thought possesses no reality -for her. He is still young, still erect, he still goes forth in the -pride of life and strength. - -Mary Bowman will not talk about the battle. To each of her children -and each of her grandchildren, she has told once, as one who performs -a sacred duty, its many-sided story. She has told each one of wounds -and suffering, but she has not omitted tales of heroic death, of -promotion on the field, of stubborn fight for glory. By others than -her own she will not be questioned. A young officer, recounting the -rigors of the march, has written, "Forsan et hæc olim meminisse -juvabit,"—"Perchance even these things it will be delightful to -remember." To feel delight, remembering these things, Mary Bowman has -never learned. Her neighbors who suffered with her, some just as -cruelly, have recovered; their wounds have healed, as wounds do in the -natural course of things. But Mary Bowman has remained mindful; she -has been, for all these years, widowed indeed. - -Her faithful friend and neighbor, Hannah Casey, is the great joy of -visitors to the battle-field. She will talk incessantly, -enthusiastically, with insane invention. The most morbid visitor will -be satisfied with Hannah's wild account of a Valley of Death filled to -the rim with dead bodies, of the trickling rivulet of Plum Creek -swollen with blood to a roaring torrent. But Mary Bowman is different. - -Her granddaughter, who lives with her, is curious about her emotions. - -"Do you feel reconciled?" she will ask. "Do you feel reconciled to the -sacrifice, grandmother? Do you think of the North and South as -reunited, and are you glad you helped?" - -Her grandmother answers with no words, but with a slow, tearful smile. -She does not analyze her emotions. Perhaps it is too much to expect of -one who has been a widow for fifty years, that she philosophize about -it! - -Sitting on her porch in the early morning, she remembers the first of -July, fifty years ago. - -"Madam!" cried the soldier who galloped to the door, "there is to be a -battle in this town!" - -"Here?" she had answered stupidly. "_Here?_" - -Sitting there at noon, she hears the roaring blasts of artillery, she -seems to see shells, as of old, curving like great ropes through the -air, she remembers that somewhere on this field, struck by a missile -such as that, her husband fell. - -Sitting there in the moonlight, she remembers Early on his white -horse, with muffled hoofs, riding spectralwise down the street among -the sleeping soldiers. - -"Up, boys!" he whispers, and is heard even in that heavy stupor. "Up, -boys, up! We must get away!" - -She hears also the pouring rain of July the fourth, falling upon her -little house, upon that wide battle-field, upon her very heart. She -sees, too, the deep, sad eyes of Abraham Lincoln, she hears his voice -in the great sentences of his simple speech, she feels his message in -her soul. - -"Daughter!" he seems to say, "Daughter, be of good comfort!" - -So, still, Mary Bowman sits waiting. She is a Christian, she has great -hope; as her waiting has been long, so may the joy of her reunion be -full. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - The Riverside Press - - CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS - - U . S . A - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -Transcriber's note: - - ○ Chapter IV, fourth paragraph, the hyphen in out-standing was - retained. In this context, the dress should have been standing - out from her body. It was not an outstanding dress. - - ○ Chapters I, VI, the variable spelling of Emmittsburg / Emmitsburg - is as in the original text - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTYSBURG*** - - -******* This file should be named 54358-0.txt or 54358-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/4/3/5/54358 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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- margin-bottom: 0.5em; } - .c011 { margin-right: 2.78%; text-indent: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; - margin-bottom: 0.5em; } - .c012 { text-decoration: none; } - .c013 { margin-left: 2.78%; margin-right: 2.78%; } - .c014 { margin-right: 2.78%; margin-top: 4em; } - - h1.pg { font-weight: bold; - font-size: 190%; - clear: both; } - h2.pg { font-weight: bold; - font-size: 135%; - clear: both; } - h3,h4 { text-align: center; - clear: both; } - hr.full { width: 100%; - margin-top: 3em; - margin-bottom: 0em; - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; - height: 4px; - border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ - border-style: solid; - border-color: #000000; - clear: both; } - </style> -</head> -<body> -<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, Gettysburg, by Elsie Singmaster</h1> -<p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States -and most other parts of the world 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 <a -href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook.</p> -<p>Title: Gettysburg</p> -<p> Stories of the Red Harvest and the Aftermath</p> -<p>Author: Elsie Singmaster</p> -<p>Release Date: March 14, 2017 [eBook #54358]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: UTF-8</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTYSBURG***</p> -<p> </p> -<h4>E-text prepared by Barry Abrahamsen<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> - from page images generously made available by<br /> - Internet Archive<br /> - (<a href="https://archive.org">https://archive.org</a>)</h4> -<p> </p> -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td valign="top"> - Note: - </td> - <td> - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - <a href="https://archive.org/details/gettysburgstorie00insing"> - https://archive.org/details/gettysburgstorie00insing</a> - </td> - </tr> -</table> -<p> </p> -<hr class="full" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/cover.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>By Elsie Singmaster</div> - <div class='c000'>GETTYSBURG. Illustrated</div> - <div class='c000'>WHEN SARAH WENT TO SCHOOL. Illustrated.</div> - <div>12mo, $1.00.</div> - <div class='c000'>WHEN SARAH SAVED THE DAY. Illustrated.</div> - <div>12mo, $1.00.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div>HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY</div> - <div><span class='sc'>Boston and New York</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> -<div> - <h1 class='c002'>GETTYSBURG</h1> -</div> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c001' /> -</div> - -<div id='i005' class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_005.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -<div class='ic002'> -<p>A BATTLE IS TO BE FOUGHT HERE</p> -</div> -</div> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>GETTYSBURG</div> - <div class='c000'>STORIES</div> - <div>OF THE RED HARVEST</div> - <div>AND THE AFTERMATH</div> - <div class='c003'>BY</div> - <div>ELSIE SINGMASTER</div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id003'> -<img src='images/logo.png' alt='Publisher's Logo' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>BOSTON AND NEW YORK</div> - <div>HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY</div> - <div>1913</div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS</div> - <div>COPYRIGHT, 1907, 1909, 1911 AND 1912, BY HARPER AND BROTHERS</div> - <div>COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY</div> - <div>COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY THE S. S. McCLURE CO.</div> - <div>COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY ELSIE SINGMASTER LEWARS</div> - <div class='c000'>ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</div> - <div class='c000'><i>Published April 1913</i></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>TO MY FATHER</div> - <div>JOHN ALDEN SINGMASTER, D.D.</div> - <div>THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY</div> - <div>DEDICATED</div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c004'>1863-1913</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c005'><i>Four Score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this -continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty; and dedicated to the -proposition that all men are created equal.</i></p> - -<p class='c006'><i>Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, -or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met -on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion -of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their -lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper -that we should do this.</i></p> - -<p class='c006'><i>But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we -cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who -struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or -detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, -but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, -rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who -fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be -here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these -honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they -gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that -these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, -shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by -the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.</i></p> - -<p class='c006'>ABRAHAM LINCOLN.<br /></p> - -<p class='c006'><span class='sc'>Gettysburg, November 19, 1863.</span></p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c004'>CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<div class='outtable'> -<table class='table0' summary=''> -<colgroup> -<col width='67%' /> -<col width='32%' /> -</colgroup> - <tr> - <td class='c007'> </td> - <td class='c008'><i>Page</i></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>I. <span class='sc'>July the First</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#ch01'>1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>II. <span class='sc'>The Home-Coming</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#ch02'>21</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>III. <span class='sc'>Victory</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#ch03'>45</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>IV. <span class='sc'>The Battle-ground</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#ch04'>65</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>V. <span class='sc'>Gunner Criswell</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#ch05'>87</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>VI. <span class='sc'>The Substitute</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#ch06'>109</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>VII. <span class='sc'>The Retreat</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#ch07'>133</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>VIII. <span class='sc'>The Great Day</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#ch08'>157</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'>IX. <span class='sc'>Mary Bowman</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#ch09'>181</a></td> - </tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class='c005'><span class='sc'>Note.</span> Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editors for permission to -reprint in this volume chapters that first appeared in <i>Harper's</i>, -<i>Lippincott's</i>, <i>McClure's</i>, and <i>Scribner's Magazines</i>.</p> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c004'>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> -</div> -<table class='table1' summary=''> -<colgroup> -<col width='83%' /> -<col width='16%' /> -</colgroup> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Battle is to be fought here</span> <i>Frontispiece</i></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#i005'>13</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'>From the drawing by Sidney H. Riesenberg, reproduced by courtesy of Harper and Brothers</td> - <td class='c008'> </td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><span class='sc'>"I can't stand it," he said thickly</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#i042'>26</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'>From the drawing by Frederic Dorr Steele reproduced by courtesy of McClure's Magazine</td> - <td class='c008'> </td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><span class='sc'>He stood where Lincoln had stood</span>:</td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#i122'>104</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'>From the drawing by C. E. Chambers, reproduced by courtesy of Harper and Brothers</td> - <td class='c008'> </td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'><span class='sc'>They saw the Strange Old Figure on the Porch</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#i172'>152</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c009'>From the drawing by F. Walter Taylor, reproduced by courtesy of Chas. Scribner's Sons</td> - <td class='c008'> </td> - </tr> -</table> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 id='ch01' class='c004'>GETTYSBURG <br /> <br /> I <br /> <br /> JULY THE FIRST</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>From the kitchen to the front door, back to the kitchen, out to the -little stone-fenced yard behind the house, where her children played in -their quiet fashion, Mary Bowman went uneasily. She was a bright-eyed, -slender person, with an intense, abounding joy in life. In her red plaid -gingham dress, with its full starched skirt, she looked not much older -than her ten-year-old boy.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Presently, admonishing herself sternly, she went back to her work. She -sat down in a low chair by the kitchen table, and laid upon her knee a -strip of thick muslin. Upon that she placed a piece of linen, which she -began to scrape with a sharp knife. Gradually a soft pile of little, -downy masses gathered in her lap. After a while, as though this process -were too slow, or as though she could no longer endure her bent -position, she selected another piece of linen and began to pull it to -pieces, adding the raveled threads to the pile of lint. Suddenly, she -slipped her hands under the soft mass, and lifted it to the table. -Forgetting the knife, which fell with a clatter, she rose and went to -the kitchen door.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Children," she said, "remember you are not to go away."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The oldest boy answered obediently. Mounted upon a broomstick, he -impersonated General Early, who, a few days before, had visited the town -and had made requisition upon it; and little Katy and the four-year-old -boy represented General Early's ragged Confederates.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Their mother's bright eyes darkened as she watched them. Those raiding -Confederates had been so terrible to look upon, so ragged, so worn, so -starving. Their eyes had been like black holes in their brown faces; -they had had the figures of youth and the decrepitude of age. A -straggler from their ranks had told her that the Southern men of -strength and maturity were gone, that there remained in his village in -Georgia only little boys and old, old men. The Union soldiers who had -come yesterday, marching in the Emmittsburg road, through the town and -out to the Theological Seminary, were different; travel-worn as they -were, they had seemed, in comparison, like new recruits.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Suddenly Mary Bowman clasped her hands. Thank God, they would not fight -here! Once more frightened Gettysburg had anticipated a battle, once -more its alarm had proved ridiculous. Early had gone days ago to York, -the Union soldiers were marching toward Chambersburg. Thank God, John -Bowman, her husband, was not a regular soldier, but a fifer in the -brigade band. Members of the band, poor Mary thought, were safe, danger -would not come nigh them. Besides, he was far away with Hooker's idle -forces. No failure to give battle made Mary indignant, no reproaches of -an inert general fell from her lips. She was passionately grateful that -they did not fight.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was only on dismal, rainy days, or when she woke at night and looked -at her little children lying in their beds, that the vague, strange -possibility of her husband's death occurred to her. Then she assured -herself with conviction that God would not let him die. They were so -happy, and they were just beginning to prosper. They had paid the last -upon their little house before he went to war; now they meant to save -money and to educate their children. By fall the war would be over, then -John would come back and resume his school-teaching, and everything -would be as it had been.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She went through the kitchen again and out to the front door, and looked -down the street with its scattering houses. Opposite lived good-natured, -strong-armed Hannah Casey; in the next house, a dozen rods away, the -Deemer family. The Deemers had had great trouble, the father was at war -and the two little children were ill with typhoid fever. In a little -while she would go down and help. It was still early; perhaps the -children and their tired nurses slept.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Beyond, the houses were set closer together, the Wilson house first, -where a baby was watched for now each day, and next to it the McAtee -house, where Grandma McAtee was dying. In that neighborhood, and a -little farther on past the new court-house in the square, which -Gettysburg called "The Diamond," men were moving about, some mounted, -some on foot. Their presence did not disturb Mary, since Early had gone -in one direction and the Union soldiers were going in the other. -Probably the Union soldiers had come to town to buy food before they -started on their march. She did not even think uneasily of the sick and -dying; she said to herself that if the soldiers had wished to fight -here, the good men of the village, the judge, the doctor, and the -ministers would have gone forth to meet them and with accounts of the -invalids would have persuaded them to stay away!</p> - -<p class='c011'>Over the tops of the houses, Mary could see the cupola of the Seminary -lifting its graceful dome and slender pillars against the blue sky. She -and her husband had always planned that one of their boys should go to -the Seminary and learn to be a preacher; she remembered their hope now. -Far beyond Seminary Ridge, the foothills of the Blue Ridge lay clear and -purple in the morning sunshine. The sun, already high in the sky, was -behind her; it stood over the tall, thick pines of the little cemetery -where her kin lay, and where she herself would lie with her husband -beside her. Except for that dim spot, the whole lovely landscape was -unshadowed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Suddenly she put out her hand to the pillar of the porch and called her -neighbor:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Hannah!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>The door of the opposite house opened, and Hannah Casey's burly figure -crossed the street. She had been working in her carefully tended garden -and her face was crimson. Hannah Casey anticipated no battle.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Good morning to you," she called. "What is it you want?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Come here," bade Mary Bowman.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The Irishwoman climbed the three steps to the little porch.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What is it?" she asked again. "What is it you see?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Look!—Out there at the Seminary! You can see the soldiers moving -about, like black specks under the trees!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Hannah squinted a pair of near-sighted eyes in the direction of the -Seminary.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I'll take your word for it," she said.</p> - -<p class='c011'>With a sudden motion Mary Bowman lifted her hand to her lips.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Early wouldn't come back!" she whispered. "He would never come back!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Hannah Casey laughed a bubbling laugh.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Come back? Those rag-a-bones? It 'ud go hard with them if they did. The -Unionists wouldn't jump before 'em like the rabbits here. But I didn't -jump! The Bateses fled once more for their lives, it's the seventeenth -time they've saved their valuable commodities from the foe. Down the -street they flew, their tin dishes and their precious chiny rattling in -their wagon. 'Oh, my kind sir!' says Lillian to the raggedy man you -fed,—'oh, my kind sir, I surrender!' 'You're right you do,' says he. -'We're goin' to eat you up!'—'Lady,' says that same snip to me, 'you'd -better leave your home.' 'Worm!' says I back to him, '<i>you</i> leave -my home!' And you fed him, you soft-heart!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"He ate like an animal," said Mary; "as though he had had nothing for -days."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"And all the cave-dwellers was talkin' about divin' for their cellars. I -wasn't goin' into no cellar. Here I stay, aboveground, till they lay me -out for good."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mary Bowman laughed suddenly, hysterically. She had laughed thus far -through all the sorrows war had brought,—poverty, separation, anxiety. -She might still laugh; there was no danger; Early had gone in one -direction, the Union soldiers in the other.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Did you see him dive into the apple-butter, Hannah Casey? His face was -smeared with it. He couldn't wait till the biscuits were out of the -oven. He—" She stopped and listened, frowning. She looked out once more -toward the ridge with its moving spots, then down at the town with its -larger spots, then back at the pines, standing straight and tall in the -July sunshine. She could see the white tombstones beneath the trees.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Listen!" she cried.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"To what?" demanded Hannah Casey.</p> - -<p class='c011'>For a few seconds the women stood silently. There were still the same -faint, distant sounds, but they were not much louder, not much more -numerous than could be heard in the village on any summer morning. A -heart which dreaded ominous sound might have been set at rest by the -peace and stillness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Hannah Casey spoke irritably. "What do you hear?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Nothing," answered Mary Bowman. "But I thought I heard men marching. I -believe it's my heart beating! I thought I heard them in the night. -Could you sleep?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Like a log!" said Hannah Casey. "Sleep? Why, of course, I could sleep! -Ain't our boys yonder? Ain't the Rebs shakin' in their shoes? No, they -ain't. They ain't got no shoes. Ain't the Bateses, them barometers of -war, still in their castle, ain't—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I slept the first part of the night," interrupted Mary Bowman. "Then it -seemed to me I heard men marching. I thought perhaps they were coming -through the town from the hill, and I looked out, but there was nothing -stirring. It was the brightest night I ever saw. I—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Again Hannah Casey laughed her mighty laugh. There were nearer sounds -now, the rattle of a cart behind them, the gallop of hoofs before. Again -the Bateses were coming, a family of eight crowded into a little -springless wagon with what household effects they could collect. Hannah -Casey waved her apron at them and went out to the edge of the street.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Run!" she yelled. "Skedaddle! Murder! Help! Police!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Neither her jeers nor Mary Bowman's laugh could make the Bateses turn -their heads. Mrs. Bates held in her short arms a feather bed, her -children tried to get under it as chicks creep under the wings of a -mother hen. Down in front of the Deemer house they stopped suddenly. A -Union soldier had halted them, then let them pass. He rode his horse up -on the pavement and pounded with his sword at the Deemer door.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"He might terrify the children to death!" cried Mary Bowman, starting -forward.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But already the soldier was riding toward her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"There is sickness there!" she shouted to his unheeding ears; "you -oughtn't to pound like that!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You women will have to stay in your cellars," he answered. "A battle is -to be fought here."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Here?" said Mary Bowman stupidly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Get out!" said Hannah Casey. "There ain't nobody here to fight with!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>The soldier rode his horse to Hannah Casey's door, and began to pound -with his sword.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I live there!" screamed Hannah. "You dare to bang that door!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mary Bowman crossed the street and looked up at him as he sat on his -great horse.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Oh, sir, do you mean that they will fight <i>here</i>?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I do."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"In Gettysburg?" Hannah Casey could scarcely speak for rage.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"In Gettysburg."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Where there are women and children?" screamed Hannah. "And gardens -planted? I'd like to see them in my garden, I—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Get into your cellars," commanded the soldier. "You'll be safe there."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Sir!" Mary Bowman went still a little closer. The crisis in the Deemer -house was not yet passed, even at the best it was doubtful whether Agnes -Wilson could survive the hour of her trial, and Grandma McAtee was -dying. "Sir!" said Mary Bowman, earnestly, ignorant of the sublime -ridiculousness of her reminder, "there are women and children here whom -it might kill."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The man laughed a short laugh.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Oh, my God!" He leaned a little from his saddle. "Listen to me, sister! -I have lost my father and two brothers in this war. Get into your -cellars."</p> - -<p class='c011'>With that he rode down the street.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"He's a liar," cried Hannah Casey. She started to run after him. "Go out -to Peterson's field to do your fighting," she shouted furiously. -"Nothing will grow there! Go out there!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then she stopped, panting.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The soldier took time to turn and grin and wave his hand.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"He's a liar," declared Hannah Casey once more. "Early's went. There -ain't nothing to fight with."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Still scolding, she joined Mary Bowman on her porch. Mary Bowman stood -looking through the house at her children, playing in the little field. -They still played quietly; it seemed to her that they had never ceased -to miss their father.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then Mary Bowman looked down the street. In the Diamond the movement was -more rapid, the crowd was thicker. Women had come out to the doorsteps, -men were hurrying about. It seemed to Mary that she heard Mrs. Deemer -scream. Suddenly there was a clatter of hoofs; a dozen soldiers, riding -from the town, halted and began to question her. Their horses were -covered with foam; they had come at a wild gallop from Seminary Ridge.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"This is the road to Baltimore?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Yes."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Straight ahead?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Yes."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gauntleted hands lifted the dusty reins.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You'd better protect yourself! There is going to be a battle."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Here?" asked Mary Bowman again stupidly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Right here."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Hannah Casey thrust herself between them.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Who are you goin' to fight with, say?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>The soldiers grinned at her. They were already riding away.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"With the Turks," answered one over his shoulder.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Another was kinder, or more cruel.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Sister!" he explained, "it is likely that two hundred thousand men will -be engaged on this spot. The whole Army of Northern Virginia is -advancing from the north, the whole Army of the Potomac is advancing -from the south, you—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>The soldier did not finish. His galloping comrades had left him, he -hastened to join them. After him floated another accusation of lying -from the lips of Hannah Casey. Hannah was irritated because the Bateses -were right.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Hannah!" said Mary Bowman thickly. "I told you how I dreamed I heard -them marching. It was as though they came in every road, Hannah, from -Baltimore and Taneytown and Harrisburg and York. The roads were full of -them, they were shoulder against shoulder, and their faces were like -death!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Hannah Casey grew ghastly white. Superstition did what common sense and -word of man could not do.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"So you did!" she whispered; "so you did!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mary Bowman clasped her hands and looked about her, down the street, out -toward the Seminary, back at the grim trees. The little sounds had died -away; there was now a mighty stillness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"He said the whole Army of the Potomac," she repeated. "John is in the -Army of the Potomac."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"That is what he said," answered the Irishwoman.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What will the Deemers do?" cried Mary Bowman. "And the Wilsons?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"God knows!" said Hannah Casey.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Suddenly Mary Bowman lifted her hands above her head.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Look!" she screamed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What?" cried Hannah Casey. "What is it?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mary Bowman went backwards toward the door, her eyes still fixed on the -distant ridge, as though they could not be torn away. It was nine -o'clock; a shrill little clock in the house struck the hour.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Children!" called Mary Bowman. "Come! See!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>The children dropped the little sticks with which they played and ran to -her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What is it?" whined Hannah Casey.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mary Bowman lifted the little boy to her shoulder. A strange, -unaccountable excitement possessed her, she hardly knew what she was -doing. She wondered what a battle would be like. She did not think of -wounds, or of blood or of groans, but of great sounds, of martial music, -of streaming flags carried aloft. She sometimes dreamed that her -husband, though he had so unimportant a place, might perform some great -deed of valor, might snatch the colors from a wounded bearer, and lead -his regiment to victory upon the field of battle. And now, besides, this -moment, he was marching home! She never thought that he might die, that -he might be lost, swallowed up in the yawning mouth of some great -battle-trench; she never dreamed that she would never see him again, -would hunt for him among thousands of dead bodies, would have her eyes -filled with sights intolerable, with wretchedness unspeakable, would be -tortured by a thousand agonies which she could not assuage, torn by a -thousand griefs beside her own. She could not foresee that all the dear -woods and fields which she loved, where she had played as a child, where -she had picnicked as a girl, where she had walked with her lover as a -young woman, would become, from Round Top to the Seminary, from the -Seminary to Culp's Hill, a great shambles, then a great charnel-house. -She lifted the little boy to her shoulder and held him aloft.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"See, darling!" she cried. "See the bright things sparkling on the -hill!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What are they?" begged Hannah Casey, trying desperately to see.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"They are bayonets and swords!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>She put the little boy down on the floor, and looked at him. Hannah -Casey had clutched her arm.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Hark!" said Hannah Casey.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Far out toward the shining cupola of the Seminary there was a sharp -little sound, then another, and another.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What is it?" shrieked Hannah Casey. "Oh, what is it?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What is it!" mocked Mary Bowman. "It is—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>A single, thundering, echoing blast took the words from Mary Bowman's -lips.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Stupidly, she and Hannah Casey looked at one another.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 id='ch02' class='c004'>II <br /> <br /> THE HOME-COMING</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Parsons knew little of the great wave of protest that swept over the -Army of the Potomac when Hooker was replaced by Meade. The sad -depression of the North, sick at heart since December, did not move him; -he was too thoroughly occupied with his own sensations. He sat alone, -when his comrades would leave him alone, brooding, his terror equally -independent of victory or defeat. The horror of war appalled him. He -tried to reconstruct the reasons for his enlisting, but found it -impossible. The war had made of him a stranger to himself. He could -scarcely visualize the little farm that he had left, or his mother. -Instead of the farm, he saw corpse-strewn fields; instead of his mother, -the mutilated bodies of young men. His senses seemed unable to respond -to any other stimuli than those of war. He had not been conscious of the -odors of the sweet Maryland spring, or of the song of mocking-birds; his -nostrils were full of the smell of blood, his ears of the cries of dying -men.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Worse than the recollection of what he had seen were the forebodings -that filled his soul. In a day—yes, an hour, for the rumors of coming -battle forced themselves to his unwilling ears—he might be as they. -Presently he too would lie, staring, horrible, under the Maryland sky.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The men in his company came gradually to leave him to himself. At first -they thought no less of him because he was afraid. They had all been -afraid. They discussed their sensations frankly as they sat round the -camp-fire, or lay prone on the soft grass of the fields.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Scared!" laughed the oldest member of the company, who was speaking -chiefly for the encouragement of Parsons, whom he liked. "My knees -shook, and my chest caved in. Every bullet killed me. But by the time -I'd been dead about forty times, I saw the Johnnies, and something hot -got into my throat, and I got over it."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"And weren't you afraid afterwards?" asked Parsons, trying to make his -voice sound natural.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"No, never."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"But I was," confessed another man. His face was bandaged, and blood -oozed through from the wound that would make him leer like a satyr for -the rest of his life. "I get that way every time. But I get over it. I -don't get hot in my throat, but my skin prickles."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Young Parsons walked slowly away, his legs shaking visibly beneath him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Adams turned on his side and watched him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Got it bad," he said shortly. Then he lay once more on his back and -spread out his arms. "God, but I'm sick of it! And if Lee's gone into -Pennsylvania, and we're to chase him, and old Joe's put out, the Lord -knows what'll become of us. I bet you a pipeful of tobacco, there ain't -one of us left by this time next week. I bet you—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>The man with the bandaged face did not answer. Then Adams saw that -Parsons had come back and was staring at him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Ain't Hooker in command no more?" he asked.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"No; Meade."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"And we're going to Pennsylvania?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Guess so." Adams sat upright, the expression of kindly commiseration on -his face changed to one of disgust. "Brace up, boy. What's the matter -with you?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Parsons sat down beside him. His face was gray; his blue eyes, looking -out from under his little forage-cap, closed as though he were swooning.</p> - -<div id='i042' class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_042.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -<div class='ic002'> -<p>"I CAN'T STAND IT," HE SAID THICKLY</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>"I can't stand it," he said thickly. "I can see them all day, and hear -them all night, all the groaning—I—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>The old man pulled from his pocket a little bag. It contained his last -pipeful of tobacco, the one that he had been betting.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Take that. You got to get such things out of your head. It won't do. -The trouble with you is that ever since you've enlisted, this company's -been hanging round the outside. You ain't been in a battle. One -battle'll cure you. You got to get over it."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Yes," repeated the boy. "I got to get over it."</p> - -<p class='c011'>He lay down beside Adams, panting. The moon, which would be full in a -few days, had risen; the sounds of the vast army were all about -them—the click of tin basin against tin basin, the stamping of horses, -the oaths and laughter of men. Some even sang. The boy, when he heard -them, said, "Oh, God!" It was his one exclamation. It had broken from -his lips a thousand times, not as a prayer or as an imprecation, but as -a mixture of both. It seemed the one word that could represent the -indescribable confusion of his mind. He said again, "Oh, God! Oh, God!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was not until two days later, when they had been for hours on the -march, that he realized that they were approaching the little -Pennsylvania town where he lived. He had been marching almost blindly, -his eyes nearly closed, still contemplating his own misery and fear. He -could not discuss with his comrades the next day's prospects, he did not -know enough about the situation to speculate. Adams's hope that there -would be a battle brought to his lips the familiar "Oh, God!" He had -begun to think of suicide.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was almost dark once more when they stumbled into a little town. Its -streets, washed by rains, had been churned to thick red mud by thousands -of feet and wheels. The mud clung to Parsons's worn shoes; it seemed to -his half-crazy mind like blood. Then, suddenly, his gun dropped with a -wild clatter to the ground.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"It's Taneytown!" he called wildly. "It's Taneytown."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Adams turned upon him irritably. He was almost too tired to move.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What if it is Taneytown?" he thundered. "Pick up your gun, you young -fool."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"But it's only ten miles from home!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>The shoulder of the man behind him sent Parsons sprawling. He gathered -himself up and leaped into his place by Adams's side. His step was -light.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Ten miles from home! We're only ten miles from home!"—he said it as -though the evil spirits which had beset him had been exorcised. He saw -the little whitewashed farmhouse, the yellowing wheat-fields beside it; -he saw his mother working in the garden, he heard her calling.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Presently he began to look furtively about him. If he could only get -away, if he could get home, they could never find him. There were many -places where he could hide, holes and caverns in the steep, rough slopes -of Big Round Top, at whose foot stood his mother's little house. They -could never find him. He began to speak to Adams tremulously.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"When do you think we'll camp?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Adams answered him sharply.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Not to-night. Don't try any running-away business, boy. 'Tain't worth -while. They'll shoot you. Then you'll be food for crows."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The boy moistened his parched lips.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I didn't say anything about running away," he muttered. But hope died -in his eyes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It did not revive when, a little later, they camped in the fields, -trampling the wheat ready for harvest, crushing down the corn already -waist-high, devouring their rations like wolves, then falling asleep -almost on their feet.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Well indeed might they sleep heavily, dully, undisturbed by cry of -picket or gallop of returning scout. The flat country lay clear and -bright in the moonlight; to the north-west they could almost see the low -cone of Big Round Top, to which none then gave a thought, not even -Parsons himself, who lay with his tanned face turned up toward the sky. -Once his sunken eyes opened, but he did not remember that now, if ever, -he must steal away, over his sleeping comrades, past the picket-line, -and up the long red road toward home. He thought of home no more, nor of -fear; he lay like a dead man.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was a marvelous moonlit night. All was still as though round -Gettysburg lay no vast armies, seventy thousand Southerners to the -north, eighty-five thousand Northerners to the south. They lay or moved -quietly, like great octopi, stretching out, now and then, grim -tentacles, which touched or searched vainly. They knew nothing of the -quiet, academic town, lying in its peaceful valley away from the world -for which it cared little. Mere chance decreed that on the morrow its -name should stand beside Waterloo.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Parsons whimpered the next morning when he heard the sound of guns. He -knew what would follow. In a few hours the firing would cease; then they -would march, wildly seeking an enemy that seemed to have vanished, or -covering the retreat of their own men; and there would be once more all -the ghastly sounds and cries. But the day passed, and they were still in -the red fields.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was night when they began to march once more. All day the sounds of -firing had echoed faintly from the north, bringing fierce rage to the -hearts of some, fear to others, and dread unspeakable to Parsons. He did -not know how the day passed. He heard the guns, he caught glimpses now -and then of messengers galloping to headquarters; he sat with bent head -and staring eyes. Late in the afternoon the firing ceased, and he said -over and over again, "Oh, God, don't let us go that way! Oh, God, don't -let us go that way!" He did not realize that the noise came from the -direction of Gettysburg, he did not comprehend that "that way" meant -home, he felt no anxiety for the safety of his mother; he knew only -that, if he saw another dead or dying man, he himself would die. Nor -would his death be simply a growing unconsciousness; he would suffer in -his body all the agony of the wounds upon which he looked.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The great octopus of which he was a part did not feel in the least the -spark of resistance in him, one of the smallest of the particles that -made up its vast body. When the moon had risen, he was drawn in toward -the centre with the great tentacle to which he belonged. The octopus -suffered; other vast arms were bleeding and almost severed. It seemed to -shudder with foreboding for the morrow.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Round Top grew clear before them as they marched. The night was -blessedly cool and bright, and they went as though by day, but -fearfully, each man's ears strained to hear. It was like marching into -the crater of a volcano which, only that afternoon, had been in fierce -eruption. It was all the more horrible because now they could see -nothing but the clear July night, hear nothing but the soft sounds of -summer. There was not even a flag of smoke to warn them.</p> - -<p class='c011'>They caught, now and again, glimpses of men hiding behind hedge-rows, -then hastening swiftly away.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Desertin'," said Adams grimly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What did you say?" asked Parsons.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He had heard distinctly enough, but he longed for the sound of Adams's -voice. When Adams repeated the single word, Parsons did not hear. He -clutched Adams by the arm.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You see that hill, there before us?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Yes."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Gettysburg is over that hill. There's the cemetery. My father's buried -there."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Adams looked in under the tall pines. He could see the white stones -standing stiffly in the moonlight.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"We're goin' in there," he said. "Keep your nerve up there, boy."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Adams had seen other things besides the white tombstones, things that -moved faintly or lay quietly, or gave forth ghastly sounds. He was -conscious, by his sense of smell, of the army about him and of the -carnage that had been.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Parsons, strangely enough, had neither heard nor smelled. A sudden awe -came upon him; the past returned: he remembered his father, his mother's -grief at his death, his visits with her to the cemetery. It seemed to -him that he was again a boy stealing home from a day's fishing in Rock -Creek, a little fearful as he passed the cemetery gate. He touched -Adams's arm shyly before he began to sling off his knapsack and to lie -down as his comrades were doing all about him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"That is my father's grave," he whispered.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then, before the kindly answer sprang from Adams's lips, a gurgle came -into Parsons's throat as though he were dying. One of the apparitions -that Adams had seen lifted itself from the grass, leaving behind dark -stains. The clear moonlight left no detail of the hideous wounds to the -imagination.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Parsons!" cried Adams sharply.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But Parsons had gone, leaping over the graves, bending low by the -fences, dashing across an open field, then losing himself in the -woodland. For a moment Adams's eyes followed him, then he saw that the -cemetery and the outlying fields were black with ten thousand men. It -would be easy for Parsons to get away.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"No hope for him," he said shortly, as he set to work to do what he -could for the maimed creature at his feet. Dawn, he knew, must be almost -at hand; he fancied that the moonlight was paling. He was almost crazy -for sleep, sleep that he would need badly enough on the morrow, if he -were any prophet of coming events.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Parsons, also, was aware of the tens of thousands of men about him, to -him they were dead or dying men. He staggered as he ran, his feet -following unconsciously the path that took him home from fishing, along -the low ridge, past scattered farmhouses, toward the cone of Round Top. -It seemed to him that dead men leaped at him and tried to stop him, and -he ran ever faster. Once he shrieked, then he crouched in a fence-corner -and hid. He would have been ludicrous, had the horrors from which he -fled been less hideous.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He, too, felt the dawn coming, as he saw his mother's house. He sobbed -like a little child, and, no longer keeping to the shade, ran across the -open fields. There were no dead men here, thank God! He threw himself -frantically at the door, and found it locked. Then he drew from the -window the nail that held it down, and crept in. He was ravenously -hungry, and his hands made havoc in the familiar cupboard. He laughed as -he found cake, and the loved "drum-sticks" of his childhood.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He did not need to slip off his shoes for fear of waking his mother, for -the shoes had no soles; but he stooped down and removed them with -trembling hands. Then a great peace seemed to come into his soul. He -crept on his hands and knees past his mother's door, and climbed to his -own little room under the eaves, where, quite simply, as though he were -a little boy, and not a man deserting from the army on the eve of a -battle, he said his prayers and went to bed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When he awoke, it was late afternoon. He thought at first that he had -been swinging, and had fallen; then he realized that he still lay -quietly in his bed. He stretched himself, reveling in the blessed -softness, and wondering why he felt as though he had been brayed in a -mortar. Then a roar of sound shut out possibility of thought. The little -house shook with it. He covered his ears, but he might as well have -spared himself his pains. That sound could never be shut out, neither -then, nor for years afterward, from the ears of those who heard it. -There were many who would hear no other sound forevermore. The coward -began again his whining, "Oh, God! Oh, God!" His nostrils were full of -smoke; he could smell already the other ghastly odors that would follow. -He lifted himself from his bed, and, hiding his eyes from the window, -felt his way down the steep stairway. He meant, God help him! to go and -hide his face in his mother's lap. He remembered the soft, cool -smoothness of her gingham apron.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gasping, he staggered into her room. But his mother was not there. The -mattress and sheets from her bed had been torn off; one sheet still -trailed on the floor. He picked it up and shook it. He was imbecile -enough to think she might be beneath it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Mother!" he shrieked "Mother! Mother!" forgetting that even in that -little room she could not have heard him. He ran through the house, -shouting. Everywhere it was the same—stripped beds, cupboards flung -wide, the fringe of torn curtains still hanging. His mother was not -there.</p> - -<p class='c011'>His terror drove him finally to the window overlooking the garden. It -was here that he most vividly remembered her, bending over her -flower-beds, training the tender vines, pulling weeds. She must be here. -In spite of the snarl of guns, she must be here. But the garden was a -waste, the fence was down. He saw only the thick smoke beyond, out of -which crept slowly toward him half a dozen men with blackened faces and -blood-stained clothes, again his dead men come to life. He saw that they -wore his own uniform, but the fact made little impression upon him. Was -his mother dead? Had she been killed yesterday, or had they taken her -away last night or this morning while he slept? He saw that the men were -coming nearer to the house, creeping slowly on through the thick smoke. -He wondered vaguely whether they were coming for him as they had come -for his mother. Then he saw, also vaguely, on the left, another group of -men, stealing toward him, men who did not wear his uniform, but who -walked as bravely as his own comrades.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He knew little about tactics, and his brain was too dull to realize that -the little house was the prize they sought. It was marvelous that it had -remained unpossessed so long, when a tiny rock or a little bush was -protection for which men struggled. The battle had surged that way; the -little house was to become as famous as the Peach Orchard or the -Railroad Cut, it was to be the "Parsons House" in history. Of this -Parsons had no idea; he only knew, as he watched them, that his mother -was gone, his house despoiled.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then, suddenly, rage seized upon him, driving out fear. It was not rage -with the men in gray, creeping so steadily upon him—he thought of them -as men like himself, only a thousand times more brave—it was rage with -war itself, which drove women from their homes, which turned young men -into groaning apparitions. And because he felt this rage, he too must -kill. He knelt down before the window, his gun in his hand. He had -carried it absently with him the night before, and he had twenty rounds -of ammunition. He took careful aim: his hand, thanks to his mother's -food and his long sleep, was quite steady; and he pulled the trigger.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At first, both groups of men halted. The shot had gone wide. They had -seen the puff of smoke, but they had no way of telling whether it was -friend or foe who held the little house. There was another puff, and a -man in gray fell. The men in blue hastened their steps, even yet half -afraid, for the field was broad, and to cross it was madness unless the -holders of the house were their own comrades. Another shot went wide, -another man in gray dropped, and another, and the men in blue leaped on, -yelling. Not until then did Parsons see that there were more than twice -as many men in gray as men in blue. The men in gray saw also, and they, -too, ran. The little house was worth tremendous risks. Another man -bounded into the air and rolled over, blood spurting from his mouth, and -the man behind him stumbled over him. There were only twelve now. Then -there were eleven. But they came on—they were nearer than the men in -blue. Then another fell, and another. It seemed to Parsons that he could -go on forever watching them. He smiled grimly at the queer antics that -they cut, the strange postures into which they threw themselves. Then -another fell, and they wavered and turned. One of the men in blue -stopped at the edge of the garden to take deliberate aim, but Parsons, -grinning, also leveled his gun once more. He wondered, a little -jealously, which of them had killed the man in gray.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The six men, rushing in, would not believe that he was there alone. They -looked at him, admiringly, grim, bronzed as they were, the veterans of a -dozen battles. They did not think of him for an instant as a boy; his -eyes were the eyes of a man who had suffered and who had known the hot -pleasures of revenge. It was he who directed them now in fortifying the -house, he who saw the first sign of the creeping Confederates making -another sally from the left, he who led them into the woods when, -reinforced by a hundred of their comrades, they used the little house -only as a base toward which to retreat. They had never seen such fierce -rage as his. The sun sank behind the Blue Ridge, and he seemed to regret -that the day of blood was over. He was not satisfied that they held the -little house; he must venture once more into the dark shadows of the -woodland.</p> - -<p class='c011'>From there his new-found comrades dragged him helpless. His enemies, -powerless against him by day, had waited until he could not see them. -His comrades carried him into the house, where they had made a dim -light. The smoke of battle seemed to be lifting; there was still sharp -firing, but it was silence compared to what had been, peace compared to -what would be on the morrow.</p> - -<p class='c011'>They laid him on the floor of the little kitchen, and looked at the wide -rent in his neck, and lifted his limp arm, not seeing that a door behind -them had opened quietly, and that a woman had come up from the deep -cellar beneath the house. There was not a cellar within miles that did -not shelter frightened women and children. Parsons's mother, warned to -flee, had gone no farther. She appeared now, a ministering angel. In her -cellar was food in plenty; there were blankets, bandages, even pillows -for bruised and aching heads. Heaven grant that some one would thus care -for her boy in the hour of his need!</p> - -<p class='c011'>The men watched Parsons's starting eyes, thinking they saw death. They -would not have believed that it was Fear that had returned upon him, -their brave captain. They would have said that he never could have been -afraid. He put his hand up to his torn throat. His breath came in thick -gasps. He muttered again, "Oh, God! Oh, God!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then, suddenly, incomprehensibly to the men who did not see the gracious -figure behind them, peace ineffable came into his blue eyes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Why, <i>mother</i>!" he said softly.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 id='ch03' class='c004'>III <br /> <br /> VICTORY<a id='r1' /><a href='#f1' class='c012'><sup>[1]</sup></a></h2> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f1'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. From the narrative of Colonel Frank Aretas Haskell, -Thirty-sixth Wisconsin Infantry. While aide-de-camp to General Gibbon he -was largely instrumental in saving the day at Gettysburg to the Union -forces. His brilliant story of the battle is contained in a series of -letters written to his brother soon after the contest.</p> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Sitting his horse easily in the stone-fenced field near the rounded -clump of trees on the hot noon of the third day of battle, his heart -leaping, sure of the righteousness of his cause, sure of the overruling -providence of God, experienced in war, trained to obedience, accustomed -to command, the young officer looked about him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>To his right and left and behind him, from Culp's Hill to Round Top, lay -the Army of the Potomac, the most splendid army, in his opinion, which -the world had ever seen, an army tried, proved, reliable in all things. -The first day's defeat, the second day's victory, were past; since -yesterday the battle-lines had been re-formed; upon them the young man -looked with approval, thanking Heaven for Meade. The lines were -arranged, except here in the very centre near this rounded clump of -trees where he waited, as he would have arranged them himself, -conformably to the ground, batteries in place, infantry—there a double, -here a single line—to the front. There had been ample time for such -re-formation during the long, silent morning. Now each man was in his -appointed place, munition-wagons and ambulances waited, regimental flags -streamed proudly; everywhere was order, composure. The laughter and -joking which floated to the ears of the young officer betokened also -minds composed, at ease. Yesterday twelve thousand men had been killed -or wounded upon this field; the day before yesterday, eleven thousand; -to-day, this afternoon, within a few hours, eight thousand more would -fall. Yet, lightly, their arms stacked, men laughed, and the young -officer heard them with approval.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Opposite, on another ridge, a mile away, Lee's army waited. They, too, -were set out in brave array; they, too, had re-formed; they, too, seemed -to have forgotten yesterday, to have closed their eyes to to-morrow. -From the rounded clump of trees, the young officer could look across the -open fields, straight to the enemy's centre. Again he wished for a -double line of troops here about him. But Meade alone had power to place -them there.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The young officer was cultivated, college-bred, with the gift of keen -observation, of vivid expression. The topography of that varied country -was already clear to him; he was able to draw a sketch of it, indicating -its steep hills, its broad fields, its tracts of virgin woodland, the -"wave-like" crest upon which he now stood. He could not have written so -easily during the marches of the succeeding weeks if he had not now, in -the midst of action, begun to fit words to what he saw. He watched Meade -ride down the lines, his face "calm, serious, earnest, without arrogance -of hope or timidity of fear." He shared with his superiors in a hastily -prepared, delicious lunch, eaten on the ground; he recorded it with -humorous impressions of these great soldiers.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The evening before he had attended them in their council of war; he has -made it as plain to us as though we, too, had been inside that little -farmhouse. It is a picture in which Rembrandt would have delighted,—the -low room, the little table with its wooden water-pail, its tin cup, its -dripping candle. We can see the yellow light on blue sleeves, on soft, -slouched, gilt-banded hats, on Gibbon's single star. Meade, tall, spare, -sinewy; Sedgwick, florid, thick-set; young Howard with his empty sleeve; -magnificent Hancock,—of all that distinguished company the young -officer has drawn imperishable portraits.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He heard their plans, heard them decide to wait until the enemy had -hurled himself upon them; he said with satisfaction that their heads -were sound. He recorded also that when the council was over and the -chance for sleep had come, he could hardly sit his horse for weariness, -as he sought his general's headquarters in the sultry, starless -midnight. Yet, now, in the hot noon of the third day, as he dismounted -and threw himself down in the shade, he remembered the sound of the -moving ambulances, the twinkle of their unsteady lamps.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Lying prone, his hat tilted over his eyes, he smiled drowsily. It was -impossible to tell at what moment battle would begin, but now there was -infinite peace everywhere. The young men of his day loved the sounding -poetry of Byron; it is probable that he thought of the "mustering -squadron," of the "marshaling in arms," of "battle's magnificently-stern -array." Trained in the classics he must have remembered lines from other -glorious histories. "Stranger," so said Leonidas, "stranger, go tell it -in Lacedæmon that we died here in defense of her laws." "The glory of -Miltiades will not let me sleep!" cried the youth of Athens. A line of -Virgil the young officer wrote down afterwards in his account, thinking -of weary marches: "Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit."—"Perchance -even these things it will be delightful hereafter to remember."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Thus while he lay there, the noon droned on. Having hidden their wounds, -ignoring their losses, having planted their guidons and loaded their -guns, the thousands waited.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Still dozing, the young officer looked at his watch. Once more he -thought of the centre and wished that it were stronger; then he -stretched out his arms to sleep. It was five minutes of one o'clock. -Near him his general rested also, and with them both time moved heavily.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Drowsily he closed his eyes, comfortably he lay. Then, suddenly, at a -distinct, sharp sound from the enemy's line he was awake, on his feet, -staring toward the west. Before his thoughts were collected, he could -see the smoke of the bursting shell; before he and his fellow officers -could spring to their saddles, before they could give orders, the iron -rain began about the low, wave-like crest. The breast of the general's -orderly was torn open, he plunged face downward, the horses which he -held galloped away. Not an instant passed after that first shot before -the Union guns answered, and battle had begun.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It opened without fury, except the fury of sound, it proceeded with -dignity, with majesty. There was no charge; that fierce, final onrush -was yet hours away; the little stone wall near that rounded clump of -trees, over which thousands would fight, close-pressed like wrestlers, -was to be for a long time unstained by blood. The Confederate aggressor, -standing in his place, delivered his hoarse challenge; his Union -antagonist standing also in his place, returned thunderous answer. The -two opposed each other—if one may use for passion so terrible this -light comparison—at arm's length, like fencers in a play.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The business of the young officer was not with these cannon, but with -the infantry, who, crouching before the guns, hugging the ground, were -to bide their time in safety for two hours. Therefore, sitting on his -horse, he still fitted words to his thoughts. The conflict before him is -not a fight for men, it is a fight for mighty engines of war; it is not -a human battle, it is a storm, far above earthly passion. "Infuriate -demons" are these guns, their mouths are ablaze with smoky tongues of -livid fire, their breath is murky, sulphur-laden; they are surrounded by -grimy, shouting, frenzied creatures who are not their masters but their -ministers. Around them rolls the smoke of Hades. To their sound all -other cannonading of the young officer's experience was as a holiday -salute. Solid shot shattered iron of gun and living trunk of tree. Shot -struck also its intended target: men fell, torn, mangled; horses -started, stiffened, crashed to the ground, or rushed, maddened, away.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Still there was nothing for the young officer to do but to watch. Near -him a man crouched by a stone, like a toad, or like pagan worshiper -before his idol. The young officer looked at him curiously.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Go to your regiment and be a man!" he ordered.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But the man did not stir, the shot which splintered the protecting stone -left him still kneeling, still unhurt. To the young officer he was one -of the unaccountable phenomena of battle, he was incomprehensible, -monstrous.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He noted also the curious freaks played by round shot, the visible -flight of projectiles through the air, their strange hiss "with sound of -hot iron, plunged into water." He saw ambulances wrecked as they moved -along; he saw frantic horses brought down by shells; he calls them -"horse-tamers of the upper air." He saw shells fall into limber-boxes, -he heard the terrific roar which followed louder than the roar of guns; -he observed the fall of officer, of orderly, of private soldier.</p> - -<p class='c011'>After the first hour of terrific din, he rode with his general down the -line. The infantry still lay prone upon the ground, out of range of the -missiles. The men were not suffering and they were quiet and cool. They -professed not to mind the confusion; they claimed laughingly to like it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>From the shelter of a group of trees the young officer and his general -watched in silence. For that "awful universe of battle," it seemed now -that all other expressions were feeble, mean. The general expostulated -with frightened soldiers who were trying to hide near by. He did not -reprove or command, he reminded them that they were in the hands of God, -and therefore as safe in one place as another. He assured his young -companion of his own faith in God.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Slowly, after an hour and a half, the roar of battle abated, and the -young officer and his general made their way back along the line. By -three o'clock the great duel was over; the two hundred and fifty guns, -having been fired rapidly for two hours, seemed to have become mortal, -and to suffer a mortal's exhaustion. Along the crest, battery-men leaned -upon their guns, gasped, and wiped the grime and sweat from their faces.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Again there was deep, ominous silence. Of the harm done on the opposite -ridge they could know nothing with certainty. They looked about, then -back at each other questioningly. Here disabled guns were being taken -away, fresh guns were being brought up. The Union lines had suffered -harm, but not irreparable harm. That centre for which the young officer -had trembled was still safe. Was the struggle over? Would the enemy -withdraw? Had yesterday's defeat worn him out; was this great confusion -intended to cover his retreat? Was it—</p> - -<p class='c011'>Suddenly, madly, the young officer and his general flung themselves back -into their saddles, wildly they galloped to the summit of that wave-like -crest.</p> - -<p class='c011'>What they saw there was incredible, yet real; it was impossible, yet it -was visible. How far had the enemy gone in the retreat which they -suspected? The enemy was at hand. What of their speculations about his -withdrawal, of their cool consideration of his intention? In five -minutes he would be upon them. From the heavy smoke he issued, regiment -after regiment, brigade after brigade, his front half a mile broad, his -ranks shoulder to shoulder, line supporting line. His eyes were fixed -upon that rounded clump of trees, his course was directed toward the -centre of that wave-like crest. He was eighteen thousand against six -thousand; should his gray mass enter, wedge-like, the Union line, -yesterday's Union victories, day before yesterday's Union losses would -be in vain.</p> - -<p class='c011'>To the young officer, enemies though they were, they seemed admirable. -They had but one soul; they would have been, under a less deadly fire, -opposed by less fearful odds, an irresistible mass. Before them he saw -their galloping officers, their scarlet flags; he discerned their -gun-barrels and bayonets gleaming in the sun.</p> - -<p class='c011'>His own army was composed also; it required no orders, needed no -command; it knew well what that gray wall portended. He heard the click -of gun-locks, the clang of muskets, raised to position upon the stone -wall, the clink of iron axles, the words of his general, quiet, calm, -cool.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Do not hurry! Let them come close! Aim low and steadily!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>There came to him a moment of fierce rapture. He saw the color-sergeant -tipping his lance toward the enemy; he remembered that from that -glorious flag, lifted by the western breeze, these advancing hosts would -filch half its stars. With bursting heart, blessing God who had kept him -loyal, he determined that this thing should not be.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He was sent to Meade to announce the coming of the foe; he returned, -galloping along the crest. Into that advancing army the Union cannon -poured shells; then, as the range grew shorter, shrapnel; then, -canister; and still the hardy lines moved on. There was no charging -shout, there was still no confusion, no halt under that raking fire. -Stepping over the bodies of their friends, they continued to advance, -they raised their muskets, they fired. There was now a new sound, "like -summer hail upon the city roofs."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The young officer searched for his general, and could not find him. He -had been mounted; now, probably wounded, possibly killed, he was down -from his horse.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then, suddenly, once more, the impossible, the incredible became -possible, real. The young officer had not dreamed that the Confederates -would be able to advance to the Union lines; his speculation concerned -only the time they would be able to stand the Union fire. But they have -advanced, they are advancing still farther. And there in that weak -centre—he cannot trust his own vision—men are leaving the sheltering -wall; without order or reason, a "fear-stricken flock of confusion," -they are falling back. The fate of Gettysburg, it seemed to his -horrified eyes, hung by a spider's single thread.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"A great, magnificent passion"—thus in his youthful emotion he -describes it—came upon the young man. Danger had seemed to him -throughout a word without meaning. Now, drawing his sword, laying about -with it, waving it in the air, shouting, he rushed upon this -fear-stricken flock, commanded it, reproached it, cheered it, urged it -back. Already the red flags had begun to thicken and to flaunt over the -deserted spot; they were to him, he wrote afterwards, like red to a -maddened bull. That portion of the wall was lost; he groaned for the -presence of Gibbon, of Hays, of Hancock, of Doubleday, but they were -engaged, or they were too far away. He rushed hither and yon, still -beseeching, commanding, praying that troops be sent to that imperiled -spot.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then, in joy which was almost insanity, he saw that gray line begin to -waver and to break. Tauntingly he shouted, fiercely his men roared; than -their mad yells no Confederate "Hi-yi" was ever more ferocious. This -repelling host was a new army, sprung Phœnix-like from the body of -the old; to him its eyes seemed to stream lightning, it seemed to shake -its wings over the yet glowing ashes of its progenitor. He watched the -jostling, swaying lines, he saw them boil and roar, saw them dash their -flamy spray above the crest like two hostile billows of a fiery ocean.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Once more commands are few, men do not heed them. Clearly once more they -see their duty, magnificently they obey. This is war at the height of -its passion, war at the summit of its glory. A color-sergeant rushed to -the stone wall, there he fell; eagerly at once his comrades plunged -forward. There was an instant of fierce conflict, of maddening, -indistinguishable confusion. Men wrestled with one another, opposed one -another with muskets used as clubs, tore at each other like wolves, -until spent, exhausted, among heaps of dead, the conquered began to give -themselves up. Back and forth over twenty-five square miles they had -fought, for three interminable days. Here on this little crest, by this -little wall, the fight was ended. Here the high-water mark was reached, -here the flood began its ebb. Laughing, shouting, "so that the deaf -could have seen it in their faces, the blind have heard it in their -voices," the conquerors proclaimed the victory. Thank God, the crest is -safe!</p> - -<p class='c011'>Are men wounded and broken by the thousands, do they lie in burning -thirst, pleading for water, pleading for the bandaging of bleeding -arteries, pleading for merciful death? The conquerors think of none of -these things. Is night coming, are long marches coming? Still the -conquerors shout like mad. Is war ended by this mammoth victory? For -months and months it will drag on. Is this conquered foe a stranger, -will he now withdraw to a distant country? He is our brother, his ills -are ours, these wounds which we have given, we shall feel ourselves for -fifty years. Is this brave young officer to enjoy the reward of his -great courage, to live in fame, to be honored by his countrymen? At Cold -Harbor he is to perish with a bullet in his forehead. Is not all this -business of war mad?</p> - -<p class='c011'>It is a feeble, peace-loving, fireside-living generation which asks such -questions as these.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Now, thank God, <i>the crest is safe</i>!</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 id='ch04' class='c004'>IV <br /> <br /> THE BATTLE-GROUND</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Mercifully, Mary Bowman, a widow, whose husband had been missing since -the battle of Gettysburg, had been warned, together with the other -citizens of Gettysburg, that on Thursday the nineteenth of November, -1863, she would be awakened from sleep by a bugler's reveillé, and that -during that great day she would hear again dread sound of cannon.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Nevertheless, hearing again the reveillé, she sat up in bed with a -scream and put her hands over her ears. Then, gasping, groping about in -her confusion and terror, she rose and began to dress. She put on a -dress which had been once a bright plaid, but which now, having lost -both its color and the stiff, out-standing quality of the skirts of '63, -hung about her in straight and dingy folds. It was clean, but it had -upon it certain ineradicable brown stains on which soap and water seemed -to have had no effect. She was thin and pale, and her eyes had a set -look, as though they saw other sights than those directly about her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In the bed from which she had risen lay her little daughter; in a -trundle-bed near by, her two sons, one about ten years old, the other -about four. They slept heavily, lying deep in their beds, as though they -would never move. Their mother looked at them with her strange, absent -gaze; then she barred a little more closely the broken shutters, and -went down the stairs. The shutters were broken in a curious fashion. -Here and there they were pierced by round holes, and one hung from a -single hinge. The window-frames were without glass, the floor was -without carpet, the beds without pillows.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In her kitchen Mary Bowman looked about her as though still seeing other -sights. Here, too, the floor was carpetless. Above the stove a patch of -fresh plaster on the wall showed where a great rent had been filled in; -in the doors were the same little round holes as in the shutters of the -room above. But there was food and fuel, which was more than one might -have expected from the aspect of the house and its mistress. She opened -the shattered door of the cupboard, and, having made the fire, began to -prepare breakfast.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Outside the house there was already, at six o'clock, noise and -confusion. Last evening a train from Washington had brought to the -village Abraham Lincoln; for several days other trains had been bringing -less distinguished guests, until thousands thronged the little town. -This morning the tract of land between Mary Bowman's house and the -village cemetery was to be dedicated for the burial of the Union dead, -who were to be laid there in sweeping semicircles round a centre on -which a great monument was to rise.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But of the dedication, of the President of the United States, of his -distinguished associates, of the great crowds, of the soldiers, of the -crape-banded banners, Mary Bowman and her children would see nothing. -Mary Bowman would sit in her little wrecked kitchen with her children. -For to her the President of the United States and others in high places -who prosecuted war or who tolerated war, who called for young men to -fight, were hateful. To Mary Bowman the crowds of curious persons who -coveted a sight of the great battle-fields were ghouls; their eyes -wished to gloat upon ruin, upon fragments of the weapons of war, upon -torn bits of the habiliments of soldiers; their feet longed to sink into -the loose ground of hastily made graves; the discovery of a partially -covered body was precious to them.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mary Bowman knew that field! From Culp's Hill to the McPherson farm, -from Big Round Top to the poorhouse, she had traveled it, searching, -searching, with frantic, insane disregard of positions or of -possibility. Her husband could not have fallen here among the Eleventh -Corps, he could not lie here among the unburied dead of the Louisiana -Tigers! If he was in the battle at all, it was at the Angle that he -fell.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She had not been able to begin her search immediately after the battle -because there were forty wounded men in her little house; she could not -prosecute it with any diligence even later, when the soldiers had been -carried to the hospitals, in the Presbyterian Church, the Catholic -Church, the two Lutheran churches, the Seminary, the College, the -Court-House, and the great tented hospital on the York road. Nurses were -here, Sisters of Mercy were here, compassionate women were here by the -score; but still she was needed, with all the other women of the -village, to nurse, to bandage, to comfort, to pray with those who must -die. Little Mary Bowman had assisted at the amputation of limbs, she had -helped to control strong men torn by the frenzy of delirium, she had -tended poor bodies which had almost lost all semblance to humanity. -Neither she nor any of the other women of the village counted themselves -especially heroic; the delicate wife of the judge, the petted daughter -of the doctor, the gently bred wife of the preacher forgot that fainting -at the sight of blood was one of the distinguishing qualities of their -sex; they turned back their sleeves and repressed their tears, and, -shoulder to shoulder with Mary Bowman and her Irish neighbor, Hannah -Casey, they fed the hungry and healed the sick and clothed the naked. If -Mary Bowman had been herself, she might have laughed at the sight of her -dresses cobbled into trousers, her skirts wrapped round the shoulders of -sick men. But neither then nor ever after did Mary laugh at any incident -of that summer.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Hannah Casey laughed, and by and by she began to boast. Meade, Hancock, -Slocum, were non-combatants beside her. She had fought whole companies -of Confederates, she had wielded bayonets, she had assisted at the -spiking of a gun, she was Barbara Frietchie and Moll Pitcher combined. -But all her lunacy could not make Mary Bowman smile.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Of John Bowman no trace could be found. No one could tell her anything -about him, to her frantic letters no one responded. Her old friend, the -village judge, wrote letters also, but could get no reply. Her husband -was missing; it was probable that he lay somewhere upon this field, the -field upon which they had wandered as lovers.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In midsummer a few trenches were opened, and Mary, unknown to her -friends, saw them opened. At the uncovering of the first great pit, she -actually helped with her own hands. For those of this generation who -know nothing of war, that fact may be written down, to be passed over -lightly. The soldiers, having been on other battle-fields, accepted her -presence without comment. She did not cry, she only helped doggedly, and -looked at what they found. That, too, may be written down for a -generation which has not known war.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Immediately, an order went forth that no graves, large or small, were to -be opened before cold weather. The citizens were panic-stricken with -fear of an epidemic; already there were many cases of dysentery and -typhoid. Now that the necessity for daily work for the wounded was past, -the village became nervous, excited, irritable. Several men and boys -were killed while trying to open unexploded shells; their deaths added -to the general horror. There were constant visitors who sought husbands, -brothers, sweet-hearts; with these the Gettysburg women were still able -to weep, for them they were still able to care; but the constant demand -for entertainment for the curious annoyed those who wished to be left -alone to recover from the shock of battle. Gettysburg was prostrate, -bereft of many of its worldly possessions, drained to the bottom of its -well of sympathy. Its schools must be opened, its poor must be helped. -Cold weather was coming and there were many, like Mary Bowman, who owned -no longer any quilts or blankets, who had given away their clothes, -their linen, even the precious sheets which their grandmothers had spun. -Gettysburg grudged nothing, wished nothing back, it asked only to be -left in peace.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When the order was given to postpone the opening of graves till fall, -Mary began to go about the battle-field searching alone. Her good, -obedient children stayed at home in the house or in the little field. -They were beginning to grow thin and wan, they were shivering in the hot -August weather, but their mother did not see. She gave them a great deal -more to eat than she had herself, and they had far better clothes than -her blood-stained motley.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She went about the battle-field with her eyes on the ground, her feet -treading gently, anticipating loose soil or some sudden obstacle. -Sometimes she stooped suddenly. To fragments of shells, to bits of blue -or gray cloth, to cartridge belts or broken muskets, she paid no heed; -at sight of pitiful bits of human bodies she shuddered. But there lay -also upon that field little pocket Testaments, letters, trinkets, -photographs. John had had her photograph and the children's, and surely -he must have had some of the letters she had written!</p> - -<p class='c011'>But poor Mary found nothing.</p> - -<p class='c011'>One morning, late in August, she sat beside her kitchen table with her -head on her arm. The first of the scarlet gum leaves had begun to drift -down from the shattered trees; it would not be long before the ground -would be covered, and those depressed spots, those tiny wooden -headstones, those fragments of blue and gray be hidden. The thought -smothered her. She did not cry, she had not cried at all. Her soul -seemed hardened, stiff, like the terrible wounds for which she had -helped to care.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Suddenly, hearing a sound, Mary had looked up. The judge stood in the -doorway; he had known all about her since she was a little girl; -something in his face told her that he knew also of her terrible search. -She did not ask him to sit down, she said nothing at all. She had been a -loquacious person, she had become an abnormally silent one. Speech hurt -her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The judge looked round the little kitchen. The rent in the wall was -still unmended, the chairs were broken; there was nothing else to be -seen but the table and the rusty stove and the thin, friendless-looking -children standing by the door. It was the house not only of poverty and -woe, but of neglect.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Mary," said the judge, "how do you mean to live?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mary's thin, sunburned hand stirred a little as it lay on the table.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I do not know."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You have these children to feed and clothe and you must furnish your -house again. Mary—" The judge hesitated for a moment. John Bowman had -been a school-teacher, a thrifty, ambitious soul, who would have thought -it a disgrace for his wife to earn her living. The judge laid his hand -on the thin hand beside him. "Your children must have food, Mary. Come -down to my house, and my wife will give you work. Come now."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Slowly Mary had risen from her chair, and smoothed down her dress and -obeyed him. Down the street they went together, seeing fences still -prone, seeing walls torn by shells, past the houses where the shock of -battle had hastened the deaths of old persons and little children, and -had disappointed the hearts of those who longed for a child, to the -judge's house in the square. There wagons stood about, loaded with -wheels of cannon, fragments of burst caissons, or with long, narrow, -pine boxes, brought from the railroad, to be stored against the day of -exhumation. Men were laughing and shouting to one another, the driver of -the wagon on which the long boxes were piled cracked his whip as he -urged his horses.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Hannah Casey congratulated her neighbor heartily upon her finding work.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"That'll fix you up," she assured her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She visited Mary constantly, she reported to her the news of the war, -she talked at length of the coming of the President.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I'm going to see him," she announced. "I'm going to shake him by the -hand. I'm going to say, 'Hello, Abe, you old rail-splitter, God bless -you!' Then the bands'll play, and the people will march, and the Johnny -Rebs will hear 'em in their graves."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mary Bowman put her hands over her ears.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I believe in my soul you'd let 'em all rise from the dead!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I would!" said Mary Bowman hoarsely. "I would!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Well, not so Hannah Casey! Look at me garden tore to bits! Look at me -beds, stripped to the ropes!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>And Hannah Casey departed to her house.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Details of the coming celebration penetrated to the ears of Mary Bowman -whether she wished it or not, and the gathering crowds made themselves -known. They stood upon her porch, they examined the broken shutters, -they wished to question her. But Mary Bowman would answer no questions, -would not let herself be seen. To her the thing was horrible. She saw -the battling hosts, she heard once more the roar of artillery, she -smelled the smoke of battle, she was torn by its confusion. Besides, she -seemed to feel in the ground beneath her a feebly stirring, suffering, -ghastly host. They had begun again to open the trenches, and she had -looked into them.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Now, on the morning of Thursday, the nineteenth of November, her -children dressed themselves and came down the steps. They had begun to -have a little plumpness and color, but the dreadful light in their -mother's eyes was still reflected in theirs. On the lower step they -hesitated, looking at the door. Outside stood the judge, who had found -time in the multiplicity of his cares, to come to the little house.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He spoke with kind but firm command.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Mary," said he, "you must take these children to hear President -Lincoln."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What!" cried Mary.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You must take these children to the exercises."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I cannot!" cried Mary. "I cannot! I cannot!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You must!" The judge came into the room. "Let me hear no more of this -going about. You are a Christian, your husband was a Christian. Do you -want your children to think it is a wicked thing to die for their -country? Do as I tell you, Mary."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mary got up from her chair, and put on her children all the clothes they -had, and wrapped about her own shoulders a little black coat which the -judge's wife had given her. Then, as one who steps into an unfriendly -sea, she started out with them into the great crowd. Once more, poor -Mary said to herself, she would obey. She had seen the platform; by -going round through the citizen's cemetery she could get close to it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The November day was bright and warm, but Mary and her children -shivered. Slowly she made her way close to the platform, patiently she -stood and waited. Sometimes she stood with shut eyes, swaying a little. -On the moonlit night of the third day of battle she had ventured from -her house down toward the square to try to find some brandy for the -dying men about her, and as in a dream she had seen a tall general, -mounted upon a white horse with muffled hoofs, ride down the street. -Bending from his saddle he had spoken, apparently to the empty air.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Up, boys, up!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>There had risen at his command thousands of men lying asleep on pavement -and street, and quietly, in an interminable line, they had stolen out -like dead men toward the Seminary, to join their comrades and begin the -long, long march to Hagerstown. It seemed to her that all about her dead -men might rise now to look with reproach upon these strangers who -disturbed their rest.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The procession was late, the orator of the day was delayed, but still -Mary waited, swaying a little in her place. Presently the great guns -roared forth a welcome, the bands played, the procession approached. On -horseback, erect, gauntleted, the President of the United States drew -rein beside the platform, and, with the orator and the other famous men, -dismounted. There were great cheers, there were deep silences, there -were fresh volleys of artillery, there was new music.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Of it all, Mary Bowman heard but little. Remembering the judge, whom she -saw now near the President, she tried to obey the spirit as well as the -letter of his command; she directed her children to look, she turned -their heads toward the platform.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Men spoke and prayed and sang, and Mary stood still in her place. The -orator of the day described the battle, he eulogized the dead, he proved -the righteousness of this great war; his words fell upon Mary's ears -unheard. If she had been asked who he was, she might have said vaguely -that he was Mr. Lincoln. When he ended, she was ready to go home. There -was singing; now she could slip away, through the gaps in the cemetery -fence. She had done as the judge commanded and now she would go back to -her house.</p> - -<p class='c011'>With her arms about her children, she started away. Then someone who -stood near by took her by the hand.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Madam!" said he, "the President is going to speak!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Half turning, Mary looked back. The thunder of applause made her shiver, -made her even scream, it was so like that other thunderous sound which -she would hear forever. She leaned upon her little children heavily, -trying to get her breath, gasping, trying to keep her consciousness. She -fixed her eyes upon the rising figure before her, she clung to the sight -of him as a drowning swimmer in deep waters, she struggled to fix her -thoughts upon him. Exhaustion, grief, misery threatened to engulf her, -she hung upon him in desperation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Slowly, as one who is old or tired or sick at heart, he rose to his -feet, the President of the United States, the Commander-in-Chief of the -Army and Navy, the hope of his country. Then he stood waiting. In great -waves of sound the applause rose and died and rose again. He waited -quietly. The winner of debate, the great champion of a great cause, the -veteran in argument, the master of men, he looked down upon the throng. -The clear, simple things he had to say were ready in his mind, he had -thought them out, written out a first draft of them in Washington, -copied it here in Gettysburg. It is probable that now, as he waited to -speak, his mind traveled to other things, to the misery, the -wretchedness, the slaughter of this field, to the tears of mothers, the -grief of widows, the orphaning of little children.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Slowly, in his clear voice, he said what little he had to say. To the -weary crowd, settling itself into position once more, the speech seemed -short; to the cultivated who had been listening to the elaborate periods -of great oratory, it seemed commonplace, it seemed a speech which any -one might have made. But it was not so with Mary Bowman, nor with many -other unlearned persons. Mary Bowman's soul seemed to smooth itself out -like a scroll, her hands lightened their clutch on her children, the -beating of her heart slackened, she gasped no more.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She could not have told exactly what he said, though later she read it -and learned it and taught it to her children and her children's -children. She only saw him, felt him, breathed him in, this great, -common, kindly man. His gaze seemed to rest upon her; it was not -impossible, it was even probable, that during the hours that had passed -he had singled out that little group so near him, that desolate woman in -her motley dress, with her children clinging about her. He said that the -world would not forget this field, these martyrs; he said it in words -which Mary Bowman could understand, he pointed to a future for which -there was a new task.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Daughter!" he seemed to say to her from the depths of trouble, of -responsibility, of care greater than her own,—"Daughter, be of good -comfort!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Unhindered now, amid the cheers, across ground which seemed no longer to -stir beneath her feet, Mary Bowman went back to her house. There, -opening the shutters, she bent and solemnly kissed her little children, -saying to herself that henceforth they must have more than food and -raiment; they must be given some joy in life.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 id='ch05' class='c004'>V <br /> <br /> GUNNER CRISWELL</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>On an afternoon in late September, 1910, a shifting crowd, sometimes -numbering a few score, sometimes a few hundred, stared at a massive -monument on the battle-field of Gettysburg. The monument was not yet -finished, sundry statues were lacking, and the ground about it was -trampled and bare. But the main edifice was complete, the plates, on -which were cast the names of all the soldiers from Pennsylvania who had -fought in the battle, were in place, and near at hand the platform, -erected for the dedicatory services on the morrow, was being draped with -flags. The field of Gettysburg lacks no tribute which can be paid its -martyrs.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The shifting crowd was part of the great army of veterans and their -friends who had begun to gather for the dedication; these had come early -to seek out their names, fixed firmly in enduring bronze on the great -monument. Among them were two old men. The name of one was Criswell; he -had been a gunner in Battery B, and was now blind. The explosion which -had paralyzed the optic nerve had not disfigured him; his smooth-shaven -face in its frame of thick, white hair was unmarred, and with his erect -carriage and his strong frame he was extraordinarily handsome. The name -of his friend, bearded, untidy, loquacious, was Carolus Depew.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gettysburg opens wide not only its hospitable arms, but its heart, to -the old soldier. Even now, after almost fifty years, the shadow of war -is not yet fled away, the roaring of the guns of battle is not stilled. -The old soldier finds himself appreciated, admired, cared for, beyond a -merely adequate return for the money he brings into the town. Here he -can talk of the battle with the proprietor of the hotel at which he -stays, with the college professor, with the urchin on the street. Any -citizen will leave his work to help find a certain house where wounds -were dressed, or where women gave out bread, fresh and hot from the -oven; or a certain well, from which life-saving, delicious drinks were -quaffed. When there are great excursions or dedications such as this, -the town is decorated, there is waving of flags, there are bursts of -song.</p> - -<p class='c011'>No stretching of hospitable arms could shelter the vast crowd which -gathered upon this occasion. The boarding-houses which accommodated ten -guests during the ordinary summer traffic now took thirty, the hotels -set up as many cot-beds as their halls would hold, the students of the -college and the theological seminary shared their rooms or gave them up -entirely, in faculty houses every room was filled, and all church doors -were thrown wide. Yet many men—and old men—spent the night upon the -street.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gunner Criswell wondered often whether many lives ran like his, up and -up to a sharp peak of happiness, then plunged down, down to -inexpressible misery. As a boy he had been intensely happy, eager, -ambitious, alive to all the glory of the world. He had married the girl -whom he loved, and had afterward enlisted, scorning any fears that he -might not return. On the second day of July, 1863, on his twenty-third -birthday, he had lost his sight in an explosion on the battle-field of -Gettysburg; on the same day his young wife had died in their faraway -corner of the state, leaving a helpless baby to a blind and sick father.</p> - -<p class='c011'>To-day the daughter was middle-aged, the father old. They lived together -on their little farm in Greene County, Ellen managing the farm and doing -much of the work, Gunner Criswell making baskets. War had taken his -sight, his wife, all his prospects for life; it had left him, he said, -Ellen, and the fresh, clear mountain air, a strong pair of hands, and -his own soul. Life had settled at last to a quiet level of peace. He had -learned to read the raised language of the blind, but he could not -afford many books. He was poor; owing to an irregularity in his -enlistment the Government had not given him a pension, nor had any one -taken the trouble to have the matter straightened out. The community was -small and scattered, few persons knew him, and no Congressman needed his -vote in that solidly Republican district. Nor was he entirely certain -that the giving of pensions to those who could work was not a form of -pauperization. He, for instance, had been pretty well handicapped, yet -he had got on. He said to himself often that when one went to war one -offered everything. If there was in his heart any faint, lingering -bitterness because his country had done nothing for him, who had given -her so much, he checked it sternly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>And, besides, he said often to himself with amusement, he had Carolus -Depew!</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was Carolus who had told him, one evening in July, about the -Pennsylvania monument. Carolus had served in a different regiment, -without injury and with a thousand brave adventures. He was talking -about them now.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I'm going! I'm going back to that place. I could find it. I know where -I knocked that feller down with the butt of my gun when my ammunition -gave out. I know exactly where I stood when the captain said, 'Give 'em -hell, Carolus!' The captain and me, we was pretty intimate."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The blind man smiled, his busy hands going on with their unending work. -When he smiled, his face was indescribably beautiful; one's heart ached -for the woman who fifty years ago had had to die and leave him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Ellen!" he called.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Ellen appeared in the doorway, in her short, unbecoming gingham dress. -She had inherited none of her father's beauty, and the freshness of her -youth was gone. She looked at her father kindly enough, but her voice -was harsh. Ellen's life, too, had suffered from war.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Ellen, Carolus wants me to go with him to Gettysburg in September. A -great monument is to be dedicated, and Carolus says our names are to be -on it. May I go?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Ellen turned swiftly away. Sometimes her father's cheerfulness nearly -broke her heart.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I guess you can go if you want to."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Thank you, Ellen."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I've reckoned it all out," said Carolus. "We can do it for twenty -dollars. We ought to get transportation. Somebody ought to make a -present to the veterans, the Government ought to, or the trusts, or the -railroads."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Where will we stay?" asked Gunner Criswell. His hands trembled suddenly -and he laid down the stiff reeds.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"They'll have places. I bet they'll skin us for board, though. The -minute I get there I'm going straight to that monument to hunt for my -name. They'll have us all arranged by regiments and companies. I'll find -yours for you."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The hand of the blind man opened and closed. He could find his own name, -thank Heaven! he could touch it, could press his palm upon it, know that -it was there, feel it in his own soul—Adam Criswell. His calm vanished, -his passive philosophy melted in the heat of old desires relit, desire -for fame, for power, for life. He was excited, discontented, happy yet -unhappy. Such an experience would crown his life; it would be all the -more wonderful because it had never been dreamed of. That night he could -not sleep. He saw his name, Adam Criswell, written where it would stand -for generations to come. From that time on he counted the days, almost -the hours, until he should start for Gettysburg.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Carolus Depew was a selfish person, for all his apparent devotion to his -friend. Having arrived at Gettysburg, he had found the monument, and he -had impatiently hunted for the place of Gunner Criswell's Battery B, and -guided his hand to the raised letters, and then had left him alone.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I've found it!" he shouted, a moment later. "'Carolus Depew, Corporal,' -big as life. 'Carolus Depew, Corporal'! What do you think of that, say! -It'll be here in a hundred years, 'Carolus Depew, Corporal'!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then Carolus wandered a little farther along the line of tablets and -round to the other side of the great monument. Gunner Criswell called to -him lightly, as though measuring the distance he had gone. When Carolus -did not answer, Gunner Criswell spoke to a boy who had offered him -souvenir postal cards. It was like him to take his joy quietly, -intensely.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Will you read the names of this battery for me?" he asked.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The boy sprang as though he had received a command. It was not only the -man's blindness which won men and women and children; his blindness was -seldom apparent; it was his air of power and strength.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The boy read the list slowly and distinctly, and then refused the nickel -which Criswell offered him. In a moment Carolus returned, still thrilled -by his own greatness, as excited as a child.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"We must hunt a place to stay now," he said. "This is a grand spot. -There's monuments as far as the eye can reach. Come on. Ain't you glad -to walk with 'Carolus Depew, Corporal'?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was three o'clock in the afternoon when Carolus left Gunner Criswell -on a doorstep in Gettysburg and went in search of rooms. At a quarter to -six the blind man still sat on the same spot. He was seventy years old -and he was tired, and the cold step chilled him through. He did not dare -to move; it seemed to him that thousands of persons passed and repassed. -If he went away, Carolus could not find him. And where should he go? He -felt tired and hungry and worn and old; his great experience of the -afternoon neither warmed nor fed him; he wished himself back in his own -place with his work and his peace of mind and Ellen.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then, suddenly, he realized that some one was speaking to him. The voice -was a woman's, low-pitched, a little imperious, the voice of one not -accustomed to be kept waiting.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Will you please move and let me ring this door-bell?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gunner Criswell sprang to his feet. He did not like to acknowledge his -infirmity; it seemed always like bidding for sympathy. But now the words -rushed from him, words than which there are none more heartrending.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Madam, forgive me! I am blind."</p> - -<p class='c011'>A perceptible interval passed before the woman answered. Once Gunner -Criswell thought she had gone away.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Instead she was staring at him, her heart throbbing. She laid her hand -on his arm.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Why do you sit here on the steps? Have you no place to stay?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gunner Criswell told her about Carolus.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You must come to my house," she invited.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gunner Criswell explained that he could not leave his friend. "He would -be worried if he couldn't find me. He"—Gunner Criswell turned his head, -then he smiled—"he is coming now. I can hear him."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Protesting, scolding, Carolus came down the street. He was with several -other veterans, and all were complaining bitterly about the lack of -accommodations. The lady looked at Carolus's untidiness, then back at -the blind man.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I can take you both," she said. "My name is Mrs. James, and I live on -the college campus. Anybody can direct you. Tell the maid I sent you."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mrs. James's house was large, and in it the two old men found a -comfortable room, distinguished and delightful company, and a -heart-warming dinner. There were five other guests, who like themselves -had neglected to engage rooms beforehand—a famous general of the Civil -War and four lesser officers. Professor James made them all welcome, and -the two small boys made it plain that this was the greatest occasion of -their lives. The dinner-table was arranged in a way which Carolus Depew -had never seen; it was lit by candles and decked with the best of the -asters from Mrs. James's garden. The officers wore their uniforms, Mrs. -James her prettiest dress. Carolus appreciated all the grandeur, but he -insisted to the blind man that it was only their due. It was paying a -debt which society owed the veteran.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"This professor didn't fight," argued Carolus. "Why shouldn't he do this -for us? They oughtn't to charge us a cent. But I bet they will."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gunner Criswell, refreshed and restored, was wholly grateful. He -listened to the pleasant talk, he heard with delight the lovely voice of -his hostess, he felt beside him the fresh young body of his hostess's -little son. Even the touch of the silver and china pleased him. His wife -had brought from her home a few plates as delicate, a few spoons as -heavy, and they had had long since to be sold.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Carolus helped the blind man constantly during the meal; he guided his -hand to the bread-plate and gave him portions of food, all of which was -entirely unnecessary. The blind man was much more deft than Carolus, and -the maid was careful and interested and kind. All the guests except the -general watched the blind man with admiration. The general talked busily -and constantly at the other end of the table; it was not to be expected -that he should notice a private soldier.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was the general who had first proposed inscribing the names of all -the soldiers on the great monument; the monument, though he was not a -member of the building committee, was his dearest enterprise. Since the -war the general had become a statistician; he was interested in lists -and tabulations, he enjoyed making due return for value received, he -liked to provide pensions, to place old soldiers comfortably in -Soldiers' Homes. The war was long past; his memory had begun to grow -dim; to his mind the lives of the soldiers would be completed, rounded, -by this tribute, as his own would be by the statue of himself which -should some day rise upon this field. It was he who had compiled the -lists for this last and greatest roster; about it he talked constantly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Presently, as the guests finished their coffee, one of the lesser -officers asked the man next him a question about a charge, and then -Professor James asked another, and the war changed suddenly from a thing -of statistics and lists and pensions to what it actually was, a thing of -horror, of infinite sacrifice, of heroism. Men drilled and marched and -fought and suffered and prayed and were slain. The faces of the -<i>raconteurs</i> glowed, the eager voices of the questioners trembled. -Once one of the officers made an effort to draw Gunner Criswell into -speech, but Gunner Criswell was shy. He sat with his arm round the -little boy, the candle-light shining on his beautiful face, listening -with his whole soul. With Carolus it was different. Carolus had several -times firmly to be interrupted.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In the morning Mrs. James took the blind man for a drive. The air was as -fresh and clear as the air of his own mountains; the little boy sat on a -stool between his feet and rested his shoulder against his knee. Mrs. -James knew the field thoroughly; she made as plain as possible its -topography, the main lines, the great charges, the open fields between -the two ridges, the mighty rocks of Devil's Den, the almost impenetrable -thickets. To Gunner Criswell, Gettysburg had been a little -smoke-o'erlaid town seen faintly at the end of a long march, its -recollection dimmed afterward by terrible physical pain. He realized now -for the first time the great territory which the battle-lines inclosed, -he understood the titanic grandeur of the event of which he had been a -part, he breathed in also the present and enduring peace. He touched the -old muzzle-loading cannon; the little boy guided his hand to the tiny -tombstones in the long lines of graves of the unknown; he stood where -Lincoln had stood, weary, heart-sick, despairing, in the fall of '63.</p> - -<div id='i122' class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_122.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -<div class='ic002'> -<p>HE STOOD WHERE LINCOLN HAD STOOD</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>Then, strangely for him, Gunner Criswell began to talk. Something within -him seemed to have broken, hidden springs of feeling seemed to well up -in his heart. It was the talk of a man at peace with himself, -reconciled, happy, conscious of his own value, sure of his place in the -scheme of things. He talked as he had never talked in his life—of his -youth, of his hopes, of his wife, of Ellen. It was almost more than Mrs. -James could endure.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"It is coming back here that makes you feel like this," she said -brokenly. "You realize how tremendous it was, and you know that you did -your part and that you haven't been forgotten, that you were important -in a great cause."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Yes, ma'am," answered Gunner Criswell, in his old-fashioned way. "It is -that exactly."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mrs. James had little respect for rank as such. She and the great -general, the four lesser officers, her husband and her two boys, were to -drive together to the dedication that afternoon and to have seats on the -platform, and thither she took Private Criswell. Carolus Depew was not -sorry to be relieved of the care of the blind man; he had found some old -comrades and was crazy with excitement.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"It is a good thing that she invited you," said Carolus, "because we are -going to march, just like we used to, and you couldn't very well."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The dedication exercises were not long. To the blind man there was the -singing which stirred his heart, there was the cool air in his face, -there was the touch of the little boy's hand, there was Mrs. James's -voice in explanation or description.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"There is the Governor!" cried Mrs. James. "He will pass right beside -you. There is the Secretary of War. You can hear him talking to the -Governor if you listen carefully. That deep voice is his. <i>Can</i> you -hear?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Oh, yes," answered the blind man happily.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He heard the speeches, he heard the music, he could tell by the wild -shouting when the great enveloping flag drifted to the ground and the -monument stood wholly unveiled; he could feel presently the vast crowd -beginning to depart. He stood quietly while the great general near him -laughed and talked, receiving the congratulations of great men, -presenting the great men to Mrs. James; he heard other bursts of -cheering, other songs. He was unspeakably happy.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then suddenly he felt a strange hand on his arm. The general was close -to him, was speaking to him; there was a silence all about them. The -general turned him a little as he spoke toward the great bronze tablets -with their record of the brave.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You were in the army?" asked the general.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Yes, sir."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"In what regiment?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I was in Battery B, sir."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Then," said the general, "let us find your name."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mrs. James came forward to the blind man's side. The general wished to -make visible, actual, the rewarding of the soldier, and she was -passionately thankful that it was upon this man that the general's eye -had fallen.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But Gunner Criswell, to her astonishment, held back. Then he said an -extraordinary thing for one who hesitated always to make his infirmity -plain, and for one who could read the raised letters, who had read them, -here on this very spot. He said again those three words, only a little -less dreadful than the other three terrible words, "He is dead."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Oh, sir," he cried, "I cannot read! I am blind!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>The general flung his arm across the blind man's shoulder. He was a tall -man also, and magnificently made. It gave one a thrill to see them stand -together.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I will read for you."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"But, sir—" Still Gunner Criswell hung back, his hand clutching the -little boy's, his beautiful, sightless eyes turned toward Mrs. James, as -though he would have given anything to save her, to save any of them, -pain. "It is not a question of reward, sir. I would endure it all again, -gladly—everything. I don't count it, sir. But do not look for my name. -It is chance, accident. It might have happened to any one, sir. It is -not your fault. But my name has been omitted."</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 id='ch06' class='c004'>VI <br /> <br /> THE SUBSTITUTE</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>It was nine o'clock on the eve of Memorial Day, and pandemonium reigned -on the platform of the little railroad station at Gettysburg. A heavy -thunderstorm, which had brought down a score of fine trees on the -battle-field, and had put entirely out of service the electric light -plant of the town, was just over. In five minutes the evening train from -Harrisburg would be due, and with it the last delegation to the -convention of the Grand Army of the Republic.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A spectator might have thought it doubtful whether the arriving -delegation would be able to set foot upon the crowded platform. In the -dim light, representatives from the hotels and boarding-houses fought -each other for places on the steps beyond which the town council had -forbidden them to go. Back of them, along the pavement, their unwatched -horses stood patiently, too tired to make even the slight movement which -would have inextricably tangled the wheels of the omnibuses and tourist -wagons. On the platform were a hundred old soldiers, some of them still -hale, others crippled and disabled, and as many women, the "Ladies of -the Relief Corps," come to assist in welcoming the strangers. The -railroad employees elbowed the crowd good-naturedly, as their duties -took them from one part of the station to another; small boys chased -each other, racing up the track to catch the first glimpse of the -headlight of the train; and presently all joined in a wild and joyous -singing of "My Country, 'tis of Thee."</p> - -<p class='c011'>High above the turmoil, on a baggage truck which had been pushed against -the wall, stood "Old Man Daggett," whistling. He was apparently unaware -of the contrast between the whiteness of his beard and the abandoned -gayety of his tune, which was "We won't go home until morning"; he was -equally unaware or indifferent to the care with which the crowd avoided -his neighborhood. But though he had been drinking, he was not drunk. He -looked down upon the crowd, upon his former companions in the Grand Army -post, who had long since repudiated him because of the depths to which -he had fallen; he thought of the days when he had struggled with the -other guides for a place at the edge of the platform, and, wretched as -was his present condition, he continued to whistle.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When, presently, the small boys shouted, "There she comes!" the old man -added his cheer to the rest, purely for the joy of hearing his own -voice. The crowd lurched forward, the station agent ordered them back, -the engine whistled, her bell rang, the old soldiers called wildly, -"Hello, comrades!" "Hurrah, comrades!" and the train stopped. Then -ensued a wilder pandemonium. There were multitudinous cries:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Here you are, the Keystone House!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Here you are, the Palace, the official hotel of Gettysburg!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"The Battle Hotel, the best in the city!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>There were shouts also from the visitors.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Hello, comrades! Hurrah! Hurrah!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Did you ever see such a storm?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Hurrah! Hurrah!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>At first it seemed impossible to bring order out of the chaos. The human -particles would rush about forever, wearing themselves into nothingness -by futile contact with one another. Presently, however, one of the -carriages drove away and then another, and the crowd began to thin. Old -Daggett watched them with cheerful interest, rejoicing when Jakie -Barsinger of the Palace, or Bert Taylor of the Keystone, lost his place -on the steps. By and by his eyes wandered to the other end of the dim -platform. Three men stood there, watching the crowd. The sight of three -prosperous visitors, unclaimed and unsolicited by the guides, seemed to -rouse some latent energy in old Daggett. It was almost ten years since -he had guided any one over the field. He scrambled down from the truck -and approached the visitors.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Have you gentlemen engaged rooms?" he asked. "Or a guide?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>The tallest of the three men answered. He was Ellison Brant, former -Congressman, of great wealth and vast physical dimensions. His manner -was genial and there was a frank cordiality in his voice which his -friends admired and his enemies distrusted. His companions, both younger -than himself, were two faithful henchmen, Albert Davis and Peter Hayes. -They had not heard of the convention in Gettysburg, which they were -visiting for the first time, and, irritated by having to travel in the -same coach with the noisy veterans, they were now further annoyed by the -discovery that all the hotels in the town were crowded. Brant's voice -had lost entirely its cordial tone.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Have you any rooms to recommend?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You can't get places at the hotels any more," answered Daggett. "But I -could get you rooms."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Where is your best hotel?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Right up here. We'll pass it."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"All right. Take us there first."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Brant's irritation found expression in an oath as they went up the -narrow, uneven pavement. He was accustomed to obsequious porters, and -his bag was heavy. It was not their guide's age which prevented Brant -from giving him the burden, but the fear that he might steal off with -it, down a dark alley or side street.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"There's the Keystone," said Daggett. "You can't get in there."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The hotel was brilliantly lighted, a band played in its lobby, and out -to the street extended the cheerful, hurrahing crowd. General Davenant, -who was to be the orator at the Memorial Day celebration, had come out -on a balcony to speak to them. Brant swore again in his disgust.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I can take you to a fine place," insisted old Daggett.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Go on, then," said Brant. "What are you waiting for?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>A square farther on, Daggett rapped at the door of a little house. The -woman who opened it, lamp in hand, seemed at first unwilling to listen.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You can't get in here, you old rascal."</p> - -<p class='c011'>But Daggett had put his foot inside the door.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I've got three fine boarders for you," he whispered. "You can take 'em -or leave 'em. I can take them anywhere and get a quarter apiece for -them."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The woman opened the door a little wider and peered out at the three -men. Their appearance seemed to satisfy her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Come in, comrades," she invited cordially. She had not meant to take -boarders during this convention, but these men looked as though they -could pay well. "I have fine rooms and good board."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Daggett stepped back to allow the strangers to go into the house.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I'll be here at eight o'clock sharp to take you over the field, -gentlemen," he promised.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a briskness about his speech and an alertness in his step, -which, coupled with the woman's gratitude, kept her from telling her -guests what a reprobate old Daggett was.</p> - -<p class='c011'>By some miracle of persuasion or threat, he secured a two-seated -carriage and an ancient horse for the next day's sight-seeing. A great -roar of laughter went up from the drivers of the long line of carriages -before the Keystone House, as he drove by.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Where you going to get your passengers, Daggett?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Daggett's been to the bone-yard for a horse."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"He ain't as old as your joke," called Daggett cheerfully.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The prospect of having work to do gave him for the moment greater -satisfaction than the thought of what he meant to buy with his wages, -which was saying a great deal. He began to repeat to himself fragments -of his old speech.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Yonder is the Seminary cupilo objecting above the trees," he said to -himself. "From that spot, ladies and gentlemen—from that spot, ladies -and gentlemen—" He shook his head and went back to the beginning. -"Yonder is the Seminary cupilo. From that spot—" He was a little -frightened when he found that he could not remember. "But when I'm there -it'll come back," he said to himself.</p> - -<p class='c011'>His three passengers were waiting for him on the steps, while from -behind them peered the face of their hostess, curious to see whether old -Daggett would keep his word. Brant looked at the ancient horse with -disapproval.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Is everything in this town worn out, like you and your horse?" he asked -roughly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Daggett straightened his shoulders, which had not been straightened with -pride or resentment for many days.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You can take me and my horse or you can leave us," he said.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Brant had already clambered into the carriage. Early in the morning -Davis and Hayes had tried to find another guide, but had failed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As they drove down the street, the strangers were aware that every -passer-by stopped to look at them. People glanced casually at the horse -and carriage, as one among a multitude which had started over the field -that morning, then, at sight of the driver, their eyes widened, and -sometimes they grinned. Daggett did not see—he was too much occupied in -trying to remember his speech. The three men had lighted long black -cigars, and were talking among themselves. The cool morning air which -blew into their faces from the west seemed to restore Brant's -equanimity, and he offered Daggett a cigar, which Daggett took and put -into his pocket. Daggett's lips were moving, he struggled desperately to -remember. Presently his eyes brightened.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Ah!" he said softly. Then he began his speech:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Yonder is the Seminary cupilo objecting above the trees. From there -Buford observed the enemy, from there the eagle eye of Reynolds took in -the situation at a glance, from there he decided that the heights of -Gettysburg was the place to fight. You will see that it is an important -strategic point, an important strategic point"—his lips delighted in -the long-forgotten words. "And here—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>The old horse had climbed the hill, and they were upon the Confederate -battle-line of the third day's fight. Old Daggett's voice was lost for -an instant in a recollection of his ancient oratorical glories. His -speech had been learned from a guide-book, but there was a time when it -had been part of his soul.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Here two hundred cannons opened fire, ladies and gentlemen. From the -Union side nearly a hundred guns replied, not because we had no more -guns, ladies and gentlemen, but, owing to the contour of the ground, we -could only get that many in position at one time. Then came the greatest -artillery duel of the war—nearly three hundred cannons bleaching forth -their deadly measles, shells bursting and screaming everywhere. The -shrieks of the dying and wounded were mingled with the roar of the iron -storm. The earth trembled for hours. It was fearful, ladies and -gentlemen, fearful."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The visitors had been too deeply interested in what they were saying to -hear.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You said we were on the Confederate battle-line?" asked Brant absently.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"The Confederate battle-line," answered Daggett.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He had turned the horse's head toward Round Top, and he did not care -whether they heard or not.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Yonder in the distance is Round Top; to the left is Little Round Top. -They are important strategic points. There the Unionists were attacked -in force by the enemy. There—but here as we go by, notice the -breech-loading guns to our right. They were rare. Most of the guns were -muzzle-loaders."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Presently the visitors began to look about them. They said the field was -larger than they expected; they asked whether the avenues had been there -at the time of the battle; they asked whether Sherman fought at -Gettysburg.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Sherman!" said Daggett. "Here? No." He looked at them in scorn. "But -here"—the old horse had stopped without a signal—"here is where -Pickett's charge started."</p> - -<p class='c011'>He stepped down from the carriage into the dusty road. This story he -could not tell as he sat at ease. He must have room to wave his arms, to -point his whip.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"They aimed toward that clump of trees, a mile away. They marched with -steady step, as though they were on dress parade. When they were half -way across the Union guns began to fire. They was torn apart; the rebel -comrades stepped over the dead and went on through the storm of deadly -measles as though it was rain and wind. When they started they was -fifteen thousand; when they got back they was eight. They was almost -annihilated. You could walk from the stone wall to beyond the Emmitsburg -road without treading on the ground, the bodies lay so thick. Pickett -and his men had done their best."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Well done!" cried Brant, when he was through. "Now, that'll do. We want -to talk. Just tell us when we get to the next important place."</p> - -<p class='c011'>They drove on down the wide avenue. Spring had been late, and there were -lingering blossoms of dogwood and Judas-tree. Here and there a scarlet -tanager flashed among the leaves; rabbits looked brightly at them from -the wayside, and deep in the woods resounded the limpid note of a -wood-robin.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Disobedient to Brant's command, Daggett was still talking, repeating to -himself all the true and false statements of his old speeches. Some, -indeed, were mad absurdities.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"There's only one Confederate monument on the field," he said. "You can -tell it when we get there. It says 'C. S. A.' on it—'Secesh Soldiers of -America.'</p> - -<p class='c011'>"There was great fightin' round Spangler's Spring," he went on soberly. -"There those that had no legs gave water to those that had no arms, and -those that had no arms carried off those that had no legs."</p> - -<p class='c011'>At the summit of Little Round Top the old horse stopped again.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You see before you the important strategic points of the second day's -fight—Devil's Den, the Wheat-Field, the Valley of Death. Yonder—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Suddenly the old man's memory seemed to fail. He whispered incoherently, -then he asked them if they wanted to get out.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"No," said Brant.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"But everybody gets out here," insisted Daggett peevishly. "You can't -see Devil's Den unless you do. You <i>must</i> get out."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"All right," acquiesced Brant. "Perhaps we are not getting our money's -worth."</p> - -<p class='c011'>He lifted himself ponderously down, and Davis followed him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I'll stay here," said Hayes. "I'll see that our driver don't run off. -Were you a soldier?" he asked the old man.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Yes," answered Daggett. "I was wounded in this battle. I wasn't old -enough to go, but they took me as a substitute for another man. And I -never"—an insane anger flared in the old man's eyes—"I never got my -bounty. He was to have paid me a thousand dollars. A thousand dollars!" -He repeated it as though the sum were beyond his computation. "After I -came out I was going to set up in business. But the skunk never paid -me."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What did you do afterwards?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Nothing," said Daggett. "I was wounded here, and I stayed here after I -got well, and hauled people round. Hauled people round!" He spoke as -though the work were valueless, degrading.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Why didn't you go into business?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I didn't have my thousand dollars," replied Daggett petulantly. "Didn't -I tell you I didn't have my thousand dollars? The skunk never paid me."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The thought of the thousand dollars of which he had been cheated seemed -to paralyze the old man. He told them no more stories; he drove silently -past Stannard, high on his great shaft, Meade on his noble horse, -fronting the west. He did not mention Stubborn Smith or gallant -Armistead. Brant, now that he had settled with his friends some -legislative appointments which he controlled, was ready to listen, and -was angry at the old man's silence.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"When you take us back to town, you take us to that hotel we saw last -night," he ordered. "We're not going back to your lady friend."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Old Daggett laughed. Lady friend! How she would scold! He would tell her -that the gentlemen thought she was his lady friend.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"And we'll have to have a better horse and driver after dinner, if we're -going to see this field."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"All right," said Daggett.</p> - -<p class='c011'>His morning's work would buy him drink for a week, and beyond the week -he had no interest.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He drove the ancient horse to the hotel, and his passengers got out. He -waited, expecting to be sent for their baggage. The porch and pavement -were as crowded as they had been the night before. The soldiers embraced -each other, hawkers cried their picture postcards and their manufactured -souvenirs, at the edge of the pavement a band was playing.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Brant pushed his way to the clerk's desk. The clerk remembered him at -once as the triumphantly vindicated defendant in a Congressional -scandal, and welcomed him obsequiously. Brant's picture had been in all -the papers, and his face was not easily forgotten.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Well, sir, did you just get in?" the clerk asked politely.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"No, I've been here all night," answered Brant. "I was told you had no -rooms."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Meanwhile old Daggett had become tired of waiting. He wanted his money; -the Keystone people might send for the baggage. He tied his old horse, -unheeding the grins of his former companions in the army post and of the -colored porters and the smiles of the fine ladies. He followed Brant -into the hotel.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Who said we hadn't rooms?" he heard the clerk say to Brant, and then he -heard Brant's reply: "An old drunk."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Old Daggett?" said the clerk.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A frown crossed Brant's handsome face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Daggett?" he repeated sharply. "Frederick Daggett?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then he looked back over his shoulder.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Yes, Frederick Daggett," said the old man himself. "What of it?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Nothing," answered Brant nervously.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He pulled out his purse and began to pay the old man, aware that the -crowd had turned to listen.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But the old man did not see the extended hand. He was staring at Brant's -smooth face as though he saw it for the first time.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You pay me my money," he said thickly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I am paying you your money," answered Brant.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The clerk looked up, meaning to order old Daggett out. Then his pen -dropped from his hand as he saw Brant's face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You give me my thousand dollars," said Daggett. "I want my thousand -dollars."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Some one in the crowd laughed. Every one in Gettysburg had heard of -Daggett's thousand dollars.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Put him out! He's crazy."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Be still," said some one, who was watching Brant.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I want my thousand dollars," said old Daggett, again. He looked as -though, even in his age and weakness, he would spring upon Brant. "I -want my thousand dollars."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Brant thrust a trembling hand into his pocket and drew out his -check-book. If he had had a moment to think, if the face before him had -not been so ferocious, if General Davenant, whom he knew, and who knew -him, had not been looking with stern inquiry over old Daggett's -shoulder, he might have laughed, or he might have pretended that he had -tried to find Daggett after the war, or he might have denied that he had -ever seen him. But before he thought of an expedient, it was too late. -He had committed the fatal blunder of drawing out his check-book.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Be quiet and I'll give it to you," he said, beginning to write.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Daggett almost tore the slip of blue paper from his hand.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I won't be quiet!" he shouted, in his weak voice, hoarse from his long -speech in the morning. "This is the man that got me to substitute for -him and cheated me out of my thousand dollars. I won't be quiet!" He -looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. Perhaps it was the ease -with which Brant paid out such a vast sum that moved him, perhaps it was -the uselessness of the thousand dollars, now that he was old. He tore -the blue strip across and threw it on the floor. "There is your thousand -dollars!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>He had never looked so wretchedly miserable as he did now. He was ragged -and dusty, and the copious tears of age were running down his cheeks. -His were not the only tears in the crowd. A member of his old post, -which had repudiated him, seized him by the arm.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Come with me, Daggett. We'll fix you up. We'll make it up to you, -Daggett."</p> - -<p class='c011'>But Daggett jerked away.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Get out. I'll fix myself up if there's any fixing."</p> - -<p class='c011'>He walked past Brant, not deigning to look at him, he stepped upon the -fragments of paper on the floor, and shambled to the door. There he saw -the faces of Jakie Barsinger and Bert Taylor and the other guides who -had laughed at him, who had called him "Thousand-Dollar" Daggett, now -gaping at him. Old Daggett's cheerfulness returned.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You blame' fools couldn't earn a thousand dollars if you worked a -thousand years. And I"—he waved a scornful hand over his shoulder—"I -can throw a thousand dollars away."</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 id='ch07' class='c004'>VII <br /> <br /> THE RETREAT</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Grandfather Myers rose stiffly from his knees. He had been weeding -Henrietta's nasturtium bed, which, thanks to him, was always the finest -in the neighborhood of Gettysburg. As yet, the plants were not more than -three inches high, and the old man tended them as carefully as though -they were children. He was thankful now that his morning's work was -done, the wood-box filled, the children escorted part of the way to -school, and the nasturtium bed weeded, for he saw the buggy of the -mail-carrier of Route 4 come slowly down the hill. It was grandfather's -privilege to bring the mail in from the box. This time he reached it -before the postman, and waited smilingly for him. It always reminded him -a little of his youth, when the old stone house behind him had been a -tavern, and the stage drew up before it each morning with flourish of -horn and proud curveting of horses.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The postman waved something white at him as he approached.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Great news for Gettysburg," he called. "The state militia's coming to -camp in July."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You don't say so!" exclaimed Grandfather Myers.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Yes, they'll be here a week."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"How many'll there be?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"About ten thousand."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Grandfather started away in such excitement that the postman had to call -him back to receive the newspaper. The old man took it and hobbled up -the yard, his trembling hands scarcely able to unfold it. He paused -twice to read a paragraph, and when he reached the porch he sat down on -the upper step, the paper quivering in his hands.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Henrietta!" he called.</p> - -<p class='c011'>His son's wife appeared in the doorway, a large, strong, young woman -with snapping eyes. She was drying a platter and her arms moved -vigorously.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What is it, grandfather?" she asked impatiently.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The old man was so excited he could scarcely answer.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"There's going to be an encampment at Gettysburg, Henrietta. All the -state troops is going to be here. It'll be like war-time again. It says -here—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I like to read the paper my own self, father," said Henrietta, moving -briskly away from the door. She felt a sudden anger that it was -grandfather who had this great piece of news to tell. "You ain't taken -your weeds away from the grass yet, and it's most dinner-time."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Grandfather laid down the paper and went to finish his task. He was -accustomed to Henrietta's surliness, and nothing made him unhappy very -long. He threw the weeds over the fence and then went back to the porch. -So willing was he to forgive Henrietta, and so anxious to tell her more -of the exciting news in the paper, that, sitting on the steps, he read -her extracts.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Ten thousand of 'em, Henrietta. They're going to camp around Pickett's -Charge, and near the Codori Farm, and they're going to put the cavalry -and artillery near Reynolds Woods, and some regulars are coming, -Henrietta. It'll be like war-time. And they're going to have a grand -review with the soldiers marchin' before the Governor. The Governor'll -be there, Henrietta! And—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I don't believe it's true," remarked Henrietta coldly. "I believe it's -just newspaper talk."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Oh, no, Henrietta!" Grandfather spoke with deep conviction. "There -wouldn't be no cheatin' about such a big thing as this. The Government'd -settle them if they'd publish lies. And—" grandfather rose in his -excitement—"there'll be cannons a-boomin' and guns a-firin' and oh, -my!" He waved the paper above his head. "And the review! I guess you -ain't ever seen so many men together. But I have. I tell you I have. -When I laid upstairs here, with the bullet in here"—he laid his hand -upon his chest—"I seen 'em goin'." Grandfather's voice choked as the -voice of one who speaks of some tremendous experience of his past. "I -seen 'em goin'. Men and men and men and horses and horses and wagons. -They was millions, Henrietta."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Henrietta did not answer. She said to herself that she had heard the -account of grandfather's millions of men millions of times. Wounded at -Chancellorsville, and sent home on furlough, he had watched the -Confederate retreat from an upper window of the old stone house.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I woke up in the night, and I looked out," he would say. "Everybody was -sleepin' and I crept over to the window. It was raining like"—here -grandfather's long list of comparisons failed, and he described it -simply—"it was just rain and storm and marchin'. They kept going and -going. It was tramp, tramp all night."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Didn't anybody speak, grandfather?" the children would ask.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You couldn't hear 'em for the rain," he would answer. "Once in a while -you could hear 'em cryin'. But most of the time it was just rain and -storm, rain and storm. They couldn't go fast, they—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Why didn't our boys catch them?" little Caleb always asked. "I'd 'a' -run after them."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Our boys was tired." Grandfather dismissed the Union army with one -short sentence. "The rebels kept droppin' in their tracks. There was two -dead front of the porch in the morning, and three across the bridge. I -tried to sneak out in the night and give 'em something to eat, or ask -some of 'em to come in, but the folks said I was too sick. They wouldn't -let me go. I—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"It would 'a' been a nice thing to help the enemies of your country that -you'd been fightin' against!" Henrietta would sometimes say scornfully.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You didn't see 'em marchin' and hear the sick ones cryin' when the rain -held up a little," he reminded Henrietta. "Oh, I wish I'd sneaked out -and done something for 'em!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then he would lapse into silence, his eyes on the long, red road which -led to Hagerstown. It lay now clear and hot and treeless in the -sunshine; to his vision, however, the dust was whipped into deep mud by -a beating rain, beneath which Lee and his army "marched and marched." He -leaned forward as though straining to see.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I saw some flags once when it lightened," he said; "and once I thought -I saw General Lee."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Oh, I guess not!" Henrietta would answer with scornful indulgence to -which grandfather was deaf.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He read the newspaper announcement of the encampment again and again, -then he went to meet the children on their way from school, stopping to -tell their father, who was at work in the field.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"There'll be a grand review," grandfather said. "Ten thousand soldiers -in line. We'll go to it, John. It'll be a great day for the young ones."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"We'll see," answered John.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He was a brisk, energetic man, too busy to be always patient.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In the children grandfather had his first attentive listeners.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Will it be like the war?" they asked, eagerly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Oh, something. There won't be near so many, and they won't kill nobody. -But it'll be a great time. They'll drill all day long."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Will their horses' hoofs sound like dry leaves rustlin'?" asked little -Mary, who always remembered most clearly what the old man had said.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Yes, like leaves a-rustlin'," repeated the old man. "You must be good -children, now, so you don't miss the grand review."</p> - -<p class='c011'>All through the early summer they talked of the encampment. Because of -it the annual Memorial Day visit to the battle-field was omitted. Each -night the children heard the story of the battle and the retreat, until -they listened for commands, faintly given, and the sound of thousands of -weary feet. Grandfather often got up in the night and looked out across -the yard to the road. Sometimes they heard him whispering to himself as -he went back to bed. He got down his old sword and spent many hours -trying to polish away the rust which had been gathering for forty years.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You expect to wear the sword, father?" asked Henrietta, laughing.</p> - -<p class='c011'>News of the encampment reached them constantly. Three weeks before it -opened, they were visited by a man who wished to hire horses for the use -of the cavalry and the artillery. John debated for a moment. The wheat -was in, the oats could wait until the encampment was over, the price -paid for horse hire was good. He told the man that he might have Dick, -one of the heavy draft horses.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Grandfather ran to meet the children as they came from a neighbor's.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Dick's going to the war," he cried excitedly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"To the war?" repeated the children.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I mean to the encampment. He's been hired. He's going to help pull one -of the cannons for the artill'ry."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The next week John drove into town with a load of early apples. He was -offered work at a dozen different places. Supplies were being sent in, -details of soldiers were beginning to lay out the camp and put up tents, -Gettysburg was already crowded with visitors. Grandfather made him tell -it all the second time; then he explained the formation of an army to -the children.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"First comes a company, that's the smallest, then a regiment, then a -brigade. A quartermaster looks after supplies, a sutler is a fellow who -sells things to the soldiers. But, children, you should 'a' seen 'em -marching by that night!" Grandfather always came back to the retreat. -"They hadn't any sutlers to sell 'em anything to eat. I wish—I wish I'd -sneaked out and given 'em something."</p> - -<p class='c011'>After grandfather went upstairs that night he realized that he was -thirsty, and he came down again. The children were asleep, but their -father and mother still sat talking on the porch. Grandfather had taken -off his shoes and came upon them before they were aware.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I don't see no use in his going," Henrietta was saying. "There ain't no -room for him in the buggy with us and the children. Where'd we put him? -And he saw the real war."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"But he's looked forward to it, Henrietta, he—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Well, would you have me stay at home, or would you have the children -stay at home, or what?" Henrietta felt the burden of Grandfather Myers -more every day. "He'll forget it anyhow in a few days. He forgets -everything."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Do you—do you—" They turned to see grandfather behind them. He held -weakly to the side of the door. "Do you mean I ain't to go, Henrietta?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>It did not occur to him to appeal to his son.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I don't see how you can," answered Henrietta. She was sorry he had -heard. She meant to have John tell him gently the next day. "There is -only the buggy, and if John goes and I and the children—it's you have -made them so anxious to go."</p> - -<p class='c011'>She spoke as though she blamed him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"But—" Grandfather ignored the meanness of the excuse. "But couldn't we -take the wagon?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"The wagon? To Gettysburg? With the whole country looking on? I guess -they'd think John was getting along fine if we went in the wagon." -Henrietta was glad to have so foolish a speech to answer as it deserved. -"Why, grandfather!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Then"—grandfather's brain, which had of late moved more and more -slowly, was suddenly quickened—"then let me drive the wagon and you can -go in the buggy. I can drive Harry and nobody'll know I belong to you, -and—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Let you drive round with all them horses and the shooting and -everything!" exclaimed Henrietta.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Her husband turned toward her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You might drive the buggy and take grandfather, and I could go in the -wagon," he said.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I don't go to Gettysburg without a man on such a day," said Henrietta -firmly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"But—" Grandfather interrupted his own sentence with a quavering laugh. -Henrietta did not consider him a man!</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then he turned and went upstairs, forgetting his drink of water. He -heard Henrietta's voice long afterward, and John's low answers. John -wanted him to go, he did not blame John.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The next day he made a final plea. He followed John to the barn.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Seems as if I might ride Harry," he said tentatively.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"O father, you couldn't," John answered gently. "You know how it will -be, noise and confusion and excitement. Harry isn't used to it. You -couldn't manage him."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Seems as though if Dick goes, Harry ought to go, too. 'Tain't fair for -Dick to go, and not Harry," he whispered childishly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I'm sorry, father," said John.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was better that his father should be disappointed than that Henrietta -should be opposed. His father would forget in a few days and Henrietta -would remember for weeks.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The next day when the man came for Dick they found grandfather in the -stable patting the horse and talking about the war. He watched Dick out -of sight, and then sat down in his armchair on the porch whispering to -himself.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The children protested vigorously when they found that the old man was -not going, but they were soon silenced by their mother. Grandfather was -old, it was much better that he should not go.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You can tell him all about it when you come home," she said.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You can guard the place while we're gone, Grandfather," suggested -little Caleb. "Perhaps the Confederates will come back."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"They wouldn't hurt nothing," answered the old man. "They was -tired—tired—tired."</p> - -<p class='c011'>When the family drove away he sat on the porch. He waved his hand until -he could see little Mary's fluttering handkerchief no more, then he fell -asleep. As Henrietta said, he soon forgot. When he woke up a little -later, he went down to the barn and patted Harry, then he went out to -the mail-box to see whether by any chance he had missed a letter. He -looked at the nasturtium bed, now aglow with yellow and orange and deep -crimson blossoms, then he went back to the porch. He was lonely. He -missed the sound of John's voice calling to the horses down in the south -meadow or across the road in the wheat-field, he missed the chatter of -the children, he missed even their mother's curt answers to his -questions. For an instant he wondered where they had gone, then he -sighed heavily as he remembered. Instead of sitting down again in his -chair, he went into the house and upstairs. There he tiptoed warily up -to the garret as if he were afraid that some one would follow him, and -drew from a hiding-place which he fancied no one knew but himself an old -coat, blue, with buttons of dull, tarnished brass. He thrust his arms -into it, still whispering to himself, and smoothed it down. His fingers -hesitated as they touched a jagged rent just in front of the shoulder.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What— Oh, yes, I remember!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Grandfather had never been quite so forgetful as this. On his way -downstairs he took from its hook his old sword.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Caleb says I must guard the house," he said smilingly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When he reached the porch, he turned his chair so that it no longer -faced toward Gettysburg, whither John and Henrietta and the children had -gone, but toward the blue hills and Hagerstown. Once he picked up the -sword and pointed with it, steadying it with both hands. "Through that -gap they went," he said.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then he dozed again. The old clock, which had stood on the kitchen -mantelpiece since before he was born, struck ten, but he did not hear. -Henrietta had told him where he could find some lunch, but he did not -remember nor care. His dinner was set out beneath a white cloth on the -kitchen table, but he had not curiosity enough to lift it and see what -good things Henrietta had left for him. When he woke again, he began to -sing in a shrill voice:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-l c013'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>"Away down South in Dixie,</div> - <div class='line'>Look away, look away."</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>"They didn't sing that when they was marching home," he said solemnly. -"They only tramped along in the dark and rain."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then suddenly he straightened up. Like an echo from his own lips, there -came from the distance toward Gettysburg the same tune, played by fifes, -with the dull accompaniment of drums. He bent forward, listening, then -stood up, looking off toward the blue hills. At once he realized that -the sound came from the other direction.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I thought they was all past, long ago," he said. "And they never -played. I guess I was asleep and dreaming."</p> - -<p class='c011'>He sat down once more, his head on his breast. When he lifted it, it was -in response to a sharp "Halt!" He stared about him. The road before him -was filled with soldiers, in dusty yellow uniforms. Then he was not -dreaming, then—He tottered to the edge of the porch.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The men of the Third Regiment of the National Guard of Pennsylvania did -not approve of the march, in their parlance a "hike," which their -colonel had decided to give them along the line of Lee's retreat. They -felt that just before the grand review in the afternoon, it was an -imposition. They were glad to halt, while the captain of each company -explained that upon the night of the third of July, 1863, Lee had -traversed this road on his way to recross the Potomac.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When his explanation was over, the captain of Company I moved his men a -little to the right under the shade of the maples. From there he saw the -moving figure behind the vines.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Sergeant, go in and ask whether we may have water."</p> - -<div id='i172' class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_172.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -<div class='ic002'> -<p>THEY SAW THE STRANGE OLD FIGURE ON THE PORCH.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>The sergeant entered the gate, and the thirsty men, hearing the order, -looked after him. They saw the strange old figure on the porch, the torn -blue jacket belted at the waist, the sword, the smiling, eager face. The -captain saw, too.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Three cheers for the old soldier," he cried, and hats were swung in the -air.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"May we have a drink?" the sergeant asked, and grandfather pointed the -way to the well.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He tried to go down the steps to help them pump, but his knees trembled, -and he stayed where he was. He watched them, still smiling. He did not -realize that the cheers were for him, he could not quite understand why -suits which should be gray were so yellow, but he supposed it was the -mud.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Poor chaps," he sighed. "They're goin' back to Dixie."</p> - -<p class='c011'>One by one the companies drew up before the gate, and one by one they -cheered. They had been cheering ever since the beginning of the -encampment—for Meade, for Hancock, for Reynolds, among the dead; for -the Governor, the colonel, the leader of the regiment band, among the -living. They had enlisted for a good time, for a trip to Gettysburg, for -a taste of camp-life, from almost any other motive than that which had -moved this old man to enlist in '61. They suddenly realized how little -this encampment was like war. All the drill, all the pomp of this tin -soldiering, even all the graves of the battle-field, had not moved them -as did this old man in his tattered coat. Here was love of country. -Would any of them care to don in fifty years their khaki blouses? Then, -before the momentary enthusiasm or the momentary seriousness had time to -wear away, the order was given to march back to camp.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The old man did not turn to watch them go. He sat still with his eyes -upon the distant hills. After a while his sword fell clattering to the -floor.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I'm glad I sneaked out and gave 'em something," he said, smiling with a -great content.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The long leaves of the corn in the next field rustled in the wind, the -sun rose higher, then declined, and still he sat there smilingly -unheeding, his eyes toward the west. Once he said, "Poor chaps, it's -dark for 'em."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The cows waited at the pasture gate for the master and mistress, who -were late. Henrietta had wished that morning that grandfather could -milk, so that they would not have to hurry home. Presently they came, -tired and hungry, the children eager to tell of the wonders they had -seen. At their mother's command, they ran to let down the pasture bars -while their father led the horses to the barn, and she herself went on -to the porch.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Grandfather," she said kindly, "we're here." She even laid her hand on -his shoulder. "Wake up, grandfather!" She spoke sharply, angry at his -failure to respond to her unaccustomed gentleness of speech. Her hand -fell upon his shoulder once more, this time heavily, and her finger-tips -touched a jagged edge of cloth. "What—" she began. She remembered the -old coat, which she had long since made up her mind to burn. She felt -for the buttons down the front, the belt with its broad plate. Yes, it -was—Then suddenly she touched his hands, and screamed and ran, crying, -toward the barn.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"John!" she called. "John! Grandfather is dead."</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 id='ch08' class='c004'>VIII <br /> <br /> THE GREAT DAY</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Old Billy Gude strode slowly into the kitchen, where his wife bent over -the stove. Just inside the door he stopped, and chewed meditatively upon -the toothpick in his mouth. His wife turned presently to look at him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What are you grinning at?" she asked pleasantly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Billy did not answer. Instead he sat down in his armchair and lifted his -feet to the window-sill.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"<i>Won't</i> you speak, or can't you?" demanded Mrs. Gude.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When he still did not respond, she gravely pushed her frying-pan to the -back of the stove, and went toward the door. Before her hand touched the -latch, however, Billy came to himself.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Abbie!" he cried.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I can't stop now," answered Mrs. Gude. "I gave you your chance to tell -what you got to tell. Now you can wait till I come home."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You'll be sorry."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mrs. Gude looked back. Her husband still grinned.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You're crazy," she said, with conviction, and went out.</p> - -<p class='c011'>An instant later she reopened the door. Billy was executing a <i>pas -seul</i> in the middle of the floor.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"<i>Are</i> you crazy?" she demanded, in affright.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Billy paused long enough to wink at her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You better go do your errand, Abbie."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Abbie seized him by the arm.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What is the matter?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then Billy's news refused longer to be retained.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"There's a great day comin'," he announced solemnly. "The President of -the United States is comin' here on Decoration Day to see the -battle-field."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"What of that?" said Abbie scornfully. "It won't do you no good. He'll -come in the morning in an automobile, an' he'll scoot round the field -with Jakie Barsinger a-settin' on the step tellin' lies, an' you can see -him go by."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"See him go by nothin'," declared Billy. "That's where you're left. He's -comin' in the mornin' on a special train, an' he's goin' to be driven -round the field, an' he's goin' to make a speech at the nostrum"—thus -did Billy choose to pronounce rostrum—"an'—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"And Jakie Barsinger will drive him over the field and to the nostrum, -and you can sit and look on."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"That's where you're left again," mocked Billy. "I, bein' the oldest -guide, an' the best knowed, an' havin' held Mr. Lincoln by the hand in -'63, an' havin' driven all the other big guns what come here till -automobiles an' Jakie Barsinger come in, <i>I</i> am selected to do the -drivin' on the great day."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mrs. Gude sat down heavily on a chair near the door.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Who done it, Billy?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I don't know who done it," Billy answered. "An' I don't care. Some of -the galoots had a little common sense for once."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"<i>Why</i> did they do it?" gasped Mrs. Gude.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Why?" repeated Billy. "Why? Because when you get people to talk about a -battle, it's better to have some one what saw the battle, an' not some -one what was in long clothes. I guess they were afraid Jakie might tell -something wrong. You can't fool this President."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I mean, what made 'em change <i>now</i>?" went on Abbie. "They knew -this long time that Jakie Barsinger was dumb."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I don't know, an' I don't care. I only know that I'm goin' to drive the -President. I heard Lincoln make his speech in '63, an' I drove Everett -an' Sickles an' Howard an' Curtin, and this President's father, an' -then"—Billy's voice shook—"then they said I was gettin' old, an' Jakie -Barsinger an' all the chaps get down at the station an' yell an' howl -like Piute Indians, an' they get the custom, an' the hotels tell the -people I had an accident with an automobile. Automobiles be danged!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mrs. Gude laid a tender hand on his shoulder.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Don't you cry," she said.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Billy dashed the tears from his eyes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I ain't cryin'. You go on with your errand."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mrs. Gude put on her sunbonnet again. She had no errand, but it would -not do to admit it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Not if you're goin' to hop round like a loony."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I'm safe for to-day, I guess. Besides, my legs is give out."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Left alone, Billy rubbed one leg, then the other.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"G'lang there," he said, presently, his hands lifting a pair of -imaginary reins. "Mr. President, hidden here among the trees an' bushes -waited the foe; here—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Before he had finished he was asleep. He was almost seventy years old, -and excitement wearied him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>For forty years he had shown visitors over the battle-field. At first -his old horse had picked his way carefully along lanes and across -fields; of late, however, his handsome grays had trotted over fine -avenues. The horses knew the route of travel as thoroughly as did their -master. They drew up before the National Monument, on the turn of the -Angle, and at the summit of Little Round Top without the least guidance.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"There ain't a stone or a bush I don't know," boasted Billy, "there -ain't a tree or a fence-post."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Presently, however, came a creature which neither Billy nor his horses -knew. It dashed upon them one day with infernal tooting on the steep -curve of Culp's Hill, and neither they nor Billy were prepared. He sat -easily in his seat, the lines loose in his hands, while he described the -charge of the Louisiana Tigers.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"From yonder they came," he said. "Up there, a-creepin' through the -bushes, an' then a-dashin', an' down on 'em came—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>And then Billy knew no more. The automobile was upon them; there was a -crash as the horses whirled aside into the underbrush, another as the -carriage turned turtle, then a succession of shrieks. No one was -seriously hurt, however, but Billy himself. When, weeks later, he went -back to his old post beside the station platform, where the guides -waited the arrival of trains, Jakie Barsinger had his place, and Jakie -would not move. He was of a new generation of guides, who made up in -volubility what they lacked in knowledge.</p> - -<p class='c011'>For weeks Billy continued to drive to the station. He had enlisted the -services of a chauffeur, and his horses were now accustomed to -automobiles.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I tamed 'em," he said to Abbie. "I drove 'em up to it, an' round it, -an' past it. An' he snorted it, an' tooted it, an' brought it at 'em in -front an' behind. They're as calm as pigeons."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Nevertheless, trade did not come back. Jakie Barsinger had become the -recognized guide for the guests at the Palace, and John Harris for those -at the Keystone, and it was always from the hotels that the best -patronage came.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Jakie Barsinger took the Secretary of War round the other day," the old -man would say, tearfully, to his wife, "an' he made a fool of himself. -He don't know a brigade from a company. An' he grinned at me—he grinned -at me!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Abbie did her best to comfort him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Perhaps some of the old ones what used to have you will come back."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"An' if they do," said Billy, "the clerk at the Palace'll tell 'em I -ain't in the business, or I was in a accident, or that I'm dead. I -wouldn't put it past 'em to tell 'em I'm dead."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Robbed of the occupation of his life, which was also his passion, Billy -grew rapidly old. Abbie listened in distress as, sitting alone, he -declaimed his old speeches.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Here on the right they fought with clubbed muskets. Here—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Often he did not finish, but dozed wearily off. There were times when it -seemed that he could not long survive.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Now, however, as Memorial Day approached, he seemed to have taken a new -lease of life. No longer did he sit sleepily all day on the porch or by -the stove. He began to frequent his old haunts, and he assumed his old -proud attitude towards his rivals.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mrs. Gude did not share his unqualified elation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Something might happen," she suggested fearfully.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Nothin' could happen," rejoined Billy scornfully, "unless I died. An' -then I wouldn't care. But I hope the Lord won't let me die." Billy said -it as though it were a prayer. "I'm goin' to set up once more an' wave -my whip at 'em, with the President of the United States beside me. No -back seat for him! Colonel Mott said the President 'd want to sit on the -front seat. An' he said he'd ask questions. 'Let him ask,' I said. 'I -ain't afraid of no questions nobody can ask. No s'tistics, nor -manœuvres, nor—'"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"But Jakie Barsinger might do you a mean trick."</p> - -<p class='c011'>"There ain't nothin' he <i>can</i> do. Mott said to me, 'Be on time, -Gude, bright an' early.'" Then Billy's voice sank to a whisper. "They're -goin' to stop the train out at the sidin' back of the Seminary, so as to -fool the crowd. They'll be waitin' in town, an' we'll be off an' away. -An' by an' by we'll meet Jakie with a load of jays. Oh, it'll be—it'll -be immense!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Through the weeks that intervened before the thirtieth of May, Abbie -watched him anxiously. Each day he exercised the horses, grown fat and -lazy; each day he went over the long account of the battle,—as though -he could forget what was part and parcel of himself! His eyes grew -brighter, and there was a flush on his old cheeks. The committee of -arrangements lost their fear that they had been unwise in appointing -him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Gude's just as good as he ever was," said Colonel Mott. "It wouldn't do -to let the President get at Barsinger. If you stop him in the middle of -a speech, he has to go back to the beginning." Then he told a story of -which he never grew weary. "'Here on this field lay ten thousand dead -men,' says Barsinger. 'Ten thousand dead men, interspersed with one dead -lady.' No; Billy Gude's all right."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Colonel Mott sighed with relief. The planning for a President's visit -was no light task. There were arrangements to be made with the railroad -companies, the secret service men were to be stationed over the -battle-field, there were to be trustworthy guards, a programme was to be -made out for the afternoon meeting at which the President was to speak.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The night before the thirtieth Abbie did not sleep. She heard Billy -talking softly to himself.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Right yonder, Mr. President, they came creepin' through the bushes; -right yonder—" Then he groaned heavily, and Abbie shook him awake.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I was dreamin' about the automobile," he said, confusedly. "I—oh, -ain't it time to get up?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>At daylight he was astir, and Abbie helped him dress. His hand shook and -his voice trembled as he said good-bye.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"You better come to the window an' see me go past," he said; then, "What -you cryin' about, Abbie?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I'm afraid somethin' 's goin' to happen," sobbed the old woman. "I'm -afraid—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Afraid!" he mocked. "Do you think, too, that I'm old an' wore out an' -no good? You'll see!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>And, defiantly, he went out.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Half an hour later he drove to the siding where the train was to stop. A -wooden platform had been built beside the track, and on it stood Colonel -Mott and the rest of the committee.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Drive back there, Billy," Colonel Mott commanded. "Then when I signal -to you, you come down here. And hold on to your horses. There's going to -be a Presidential salute. As soon as that's over we'll start."</p> - -<p class='c011'>Billy drew back to the side of the road. Evidently, through some -mischance, the plans for the President's reception had become known, and -there was a rapidly increasing crowd. On the slope of the hill a battery -of artillery awaited the word to fire. Billy sat straight, his eyes on -his horses' heads, his old hands gripping the lines. He watched with -pride the marshal waving all carriages back from the road. Only he, -Billy Gude, had the right to be there. <i>He</i> was to drive the -President. The great day had come. He chuckled aloud, not noticing that -just back of the marshal stood Jakie Barsinger's fine new carriage, -empty save for Jakie himself.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Presently the old man sat still more erectly. He heard, clear above the -noise of the crowd, a distant whistle—that same whistle for which he -had listened daily when he had the best place beside the station -platform. The train was rounding the last curve. In a moment more it -would come slowly to view out of the fatal Railroad Cut, whose -forty-year-old horrors Billy could describe so well.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The fields were black now with the crowd, the gunners watched their -captain, and slowly the train drew in beside the bright pine platform. -At the door of the last car appeared a tall and sturdy figure, and ten -thousand huzzas made the hills ring. Then a thunder of guns awoke echoes -which, like the terror-stricken cries from the Railroad Cut, had been -silent forty years. Billy, listening, shivered. The horror had not grown -less with his repeated telling.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He leaned forward now, watching for Colonel Mott's uplifted hand; he saw -him signal, and then—From behind he heard a cry, and turned to look; -then he swiftly swung Dan and Bess in toward the fence. A pair of -horses, maddened by the noise of the firing, dashed toward him. He heard -women scream, and thought, despairing, of Abbie's prophecy. There would -not be room for them to pass. After all, he would not drive the -President. Then he almost sobbed in his relief. They were safely by. He -laughed grimly. It was Jakie Barsinger with his fine new carriage. Then -Billy clutched the reins again. In the short glimpse he had caught of -Jakie Barsinger, Jakie did not seem frightened or disturbed. Nor did he -seem to make any effort to hold his horses in. Billy stared into the -cloud of dust which followed him. What did it mean? And as he stared the -horses stopped, skillfully drawn in by Jakie Barsinger's firm hand -beside the yellow platform. The cloud of dust thinned a little, and -Billy saw plainly now. Into the front seat of the tourists' carriage, -beside Jakie Barsinger, climbed the President of the United States. -Billy rose in his seat.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Colonel Mott!" he called, frantically. "Colonel Mott!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>But no one heeded. If any one heard, he thought it was but another -cheer. The crowd swarmed down to the road shouting, huzza-ing, here and -there a man or a girl pausing to steady a camera on a fence-post, here -and there a father lifting his child to his shoulder.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Where is the President?" they asked, and Billy heard the answer.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"There, there! Look! By Jakie Barsinger!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>The old man's hands dropped, and he sobbed. It had all been so neatly -done: the pretense of a runaway, the confusion of the moment, Colonel -Mott's excitement—and the crown of his life was gone.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Long after the crowd had followed in the dusty wake of Jakie Barsinger's -carriage, he turned his horses toward home. A hundred tourists had -begged him to take them over the field, but he had silently shaken his -head. He could not speak. Dan and Bess trotted briskly, mindful of the -cool stable toward which their heads were set, and they whinnied eagerly -at the stable door. They stood there for half an hour, however, before -their master clambered down to unharness them. He talked to himself -feebly, and, when he had finished, went out, not to the house, where -Abbie, who had watched Jakie Barsinger drive by, waited in an agony of -fear, but down the street, and out by quiet alleys and lanes to the -National Cemetery. Sometimes he looked a little wonderingly toward the -crowded main streets, not able to recall instantly why the crowd was -there, then remembering with a rage which shook him to the soul. -Fleeting, futile suggestions of revenge rushed upon him—a loosened nut -in Jakie Barsinger's swingle-tree or a cut trace—and were repelled with -horror which hurt as much as the rage. All the town would taunt him now. -Why had he not turned his carriage across the road and stopped Jakie -Barsinger in his wild dash? It would have been better to have been -killed than to have lived to this.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Around the gate of the cemetery a company of cavalry was stationed, and -within new thousands of visitors waited. It was afternoon now, and -almost time for the trip over the field to end and the exercises to -begin. As Billy passed through the crowd, he felt a hand on his -shoulder.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Thought you were going to drive the President," said a loud voice.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Billy saw for an instant the strange faces about him, gaping, interested -to hear his answer.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I ain't nobody's coachman," he said coolly, and walked on.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"They ain't goin' to get a rise out of me," he choked. "They ain't goin' -to get a rise out of me."</p> - -<p class='c011'>He walked slowly up the wide avenue, and presently sat down on a bench. -He was tired to death, his head nodded, and soon he slept, regardless of -blare of band and shouting of men and roll of carriage wheels. There was -a song, and then a prayer, but Billy heard nothing until the great -speech was almost over. Then he opened his eyes drowsily, and saw the -throng gathered round the wistaria-covered rostrum, on which the -President was standing. Billy sprang up. At least he would hear the -speech. Nobody could cheat him out of that. He pushed his way through -the crowd, which, seeing his white hair, opened easily enough. Then he -stood trembling, all his misery rushing over him again at sight of the -tall figure. He was to have sat beside him, to have talked with him! He -rubbed a weak hand across his eyes. Suddenly he realized that the formal -portion of the speech was over, the President was saying now a short -farewell.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I wish to congratulate the Commission which has made of this great -field so worthy a memorial to those who died here. I wish to express my -gratification to the citizens of this town for their share in the -preservation of the field, and their extraordinary knowledge of the -complicated tactics of the battle. Years ago my interest was aroused by -hearing my father tell of a visit here, and of the vivid story of a -guide—his name, I think, was William Gude. I—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"'His name, I think,'" old Billy repeated dully. "'His name, I think, -was William Gude.'"</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was a few seconds before the purport of it reached his brain. Then he -raised both arms, unaware that the speech was ended and that the crowd -had begun to cheer.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Oh, Mr. President," he called, "my name is William Gude!" His head -swam. They were turning away; they did not hear. "My name is William -Gude," he said again pitifully.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The crowd, pressing toward Jakie Barsinger's carriage, into which the -President was stepping, carried him with them. They looked about them -questioningly; they could see Colonel Mott, who was at the President's -side, beckoning to some one; who it was they could not tell. Then above -the noise they heard him call.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Billy Gude!" he shouted. "Billy—"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"It's me!" said Billy.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He stared, blinking, at Colonel Mott and at the President.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Colonel Mott laid his hand on Billy's shoulder. He had been trying to -invent a suitable punishment for Jakie Barsinger. No more custom should -come to him through the Commission.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"The President wants you to ride down to the station with him, Billy," -he said. "He wants to know whether you remember his father."</p> - -<p class='c011'>As in a dream, Billy climbed into the carriage. The President sat on the -rear seat now, and Billy was beside him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I remember him like yesterday," he declared. "I remember what he said -an' how he looked, an'—" the words crowded upon each other as eagerly -as the President's questions, and Billy forgot all save them—the -cheering crowd, the wondering, envious eyes of his fellow citizens; he -did not even remember that Jakie Barsinger was driving him, Billy Gude, -and the President of the United States together. Once he caught a -glimpse of Abbie's frightened face, and he waved his hand and the -President lifted his hat.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"I wish I could have known about you earlier in the day," said the -President, as he stepped down at the railroad station. Then he took -Billy's hand in his. "It has been a great pleasure to talk to you."</p> - -<p class='c011'>The engine puffed near at hand, there were new cheers from throats -already hoarse with cheering, and the great man was gone, the great day -over. For an instant Billy watched the train, his hand uplifted with a -thousand other hands in a last salute to the swift-vanishing figure in -the observation-car. Then he turned, to meet the unwilling eyes of Jakie -Barsinger, helpless to move his carriage in the great crowd. For an -instant the recollection of his wrongs overwhelmed him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Jakie—" he began. Then he laughed. The crowd was listening, -open-mouthed. For the moment, now that the President was gone, he, Billy -Gude, was the great man. He stepped nimbly into the carriage. -"Coachman," he commanded, "you can drive home."</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 id='ch09' class='c004'>IX <br /> <br /> MARY BOWMAN</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Outside the broad gateway which leads into the National Cemetery at -Gettysburg and thence on into the great park, there stands a little -house on whose porch there may be seen on summer evenings an old woman. -The cemetery with its tall monuments lies a little back of her and to -her left; before her is the village; beyond, on a little eminence, the -buildings of the Theological Seminary; and still farther beyond the -foothills of the Blue Ridge. The village is tree-shaded, the hills are -set with fine oaks and hickories, the fields are green. It would be -difficult to find in all the world an expanse more lovely. Those who -have known it in their youth grow homesick for it; their eyes ache and -their throats tighten as they remember it. At sunset it is bathed in -purple light, its trees grow darker, its hills more shadowy, its hollows -deeper and more mysterious. Then, lifted above the dark masses of the -trees, one may see marble shafts and domes turn to liquid gold.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The little old woman, sitting with folded hands, is Mary Bowman, whose -husband was lost on this field. The battle will soon be fifty years in -the past, she has been for that long a widow. She has brought up three -children, two sons and a daughter. One of her sons is a merchant, one is -a clergyman, and her daughter is well and happily married. Her own life -of activity is past; she is waited upon tenderly and loved dearly by her -children and her grandchildren. She was born in this village, she has -almost never been away. From here her husband went to war, here he is -buried among thousands of unknown dead, here she nursed the wounded and -dying, here she will be buried herself in the Evergreen cemetery, beyond -the National cemetery.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She has seen beauty change to desolation, trees shattered, fields -trampled, walls broken, all her dear, familiar world turned to chaos; -she has seen desolation grow again to beauty. These hills and streams -were always lovely, now a nation has determined to keep them forever in -the same loveliness. Here was a rocky, wooded field, destined by its -owner to cultivation; it has been decreed that its rough picturesqueness -shall endure forever. Here is a lowly farmhouse; upon it no hand of -change shall be laid while the nation continues. Preserved, consecrated, -hallowed are the woods and lanes in which Mary Bowman walked with the -lover of her youth.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Broad avenues lead across the fields, marking the lines where by -thousands Northerners and Southerners were killed. Big Round Top, to -which one used to journey by a difficult path, is now accessible; Union -and Confederate soldiers, returning, find their way with ease to old -positions; lads from West Point are brought to see, spread out before -them as on a map, that Union fish-hook, five miles long, inclosing that -slightly curved Confederate line.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Monuments are here by hundreds, names by thousands, cast in bronze, as -endurable as they can be made by man. All that can be done in -remembrance of those who fought here has been done, all possible effort -to identify the unknown has been made. For fifty years their little -trinkets have been preserved, their pocket Testaments, their -photographs, their letters—letters addressed to "My precious son," "My -dear brother," "My beloved husband." Seeing them to-day, you will find -them marked by a number. This stained scapular, this little housewife -with its rusty scissors, this unsigned letter, dated in '63, belonged to -him who lies now in Grave Number 20 or Number 3500.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There is almost an excess of tenderness for these dead, yet mixed with -it is a strange feeling of remoteness. We mourn them, praise them, laud -them, but we cannot understand them. To this generation war is strange, -its sacrifices are uncomprehended, incomprehensible. It is especially so -in these latter years, since those who came once to this field come now -no more. Once the heroes of the war were familiar figures upon these -streets; Meade with his serious, bearded face, Slocum with his quick, -glancing eyes, Hancock with his distinguished air, Howard with his empty -sleeve. They have gone hence, and with them have marched two thirds of -Gettysburg's two hundred thousand.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mary Bowman has seen them all, has heard them speak. Sitting on her -little porch, she has watched most of the great men of the United States -go by, Presidents, cabinet officials, ambassadors, army officers, and -also famous visitors from other lands who know little of the United -States, but to whom Gettysburg is as a familiar country. She has watched -also that great, rapidly shrinking army of private soldiers in faded -blue coats, who make pilgrimages to see the fields and hills upon which -they fought. She has tried to make herself realize that her husband, if -he had lived, would be like these old men, maimed, feeble, decrepit, but -the thought possesses no reality for her. He is still young, still -erect, he still goes forth in the pride of life and strength.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mary Bowman will not talk about the battle. To each of her children and -each of her grandchildren, she has told once, as one who performs a -sacred duty, its many-sided story. She has told each one of wounds and -suffering, but she has not omitted tales of heroic death, of promotion -on the field, of stubborn fight for glory. By others than her own she -will not be questioned. A young officer, recounting the rigors of the -march, has written, "Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit,"—"Perchance -even these things it will be delightful to remember." To feel delight, -remembering these things, Mary Bowman has never learned. Her neighbors -who suffered with her, some just as cruelly, have recovered; their -wounds have healed, as wounds do in the natural course of things. But -Mary Bowman has remained mindful; she has been, for all these years, -widowed indeed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Her faithful friend and neighbor, Hannah Casey, is the great joy of -visitors to the battle-field. She will talk incessantly, -enthusiastically, with insane invention. The most morbid visitor will be -satisfied with Hannah's wild account of a Valley of Death filled to the -rim with dead bodies, of the trickling rivulet of Plum Creek swollen -with blood to a roaring torrent. But Mary Bowman is different.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Her granddaughter, who lives with her, is curious about her emotions.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Do you feel reconciled?" she will ask. "Do you feel reconciled to the -sacrifice, grandmother? Do you think of the North and South as reunited, -and are you glad you helped?"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Her grandmother answers with no words, but with a slow, tearful smile. -She does not analyze her emotions. Perhaps it is too much to expect of -one who has been a widow for fifty years, that she philosophize about -it!</p> - -<p class='c011'>Sitting on her porch in the early morning, she remembers the first of -July, fifty years ago.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Madam!" cried the soldier who galloped to the door, "there is to be a -battle in this town!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Here?" she had answered stupidly. "<i>Here?</i>"</p> - -<p class='c011'>Sitting there at noon, she hears the roaring blasts of artillery, she -seems to see shells, as of old, curving like great ropes through the -air, she remembers that somewhere on this field, struck by a missile -such as that, her husband fell.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Sitting there in the moonlight, she remembers Early on his white horse, -with muffled hoofs, riding spectralwise down the street among the -sleeping soldiers.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Up, boys!" he whispers, and is heard even in that heavy stupor. "Up, -boys, up! We must get away!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>She hears also the pouring rain of July the fourth, falling upon her -little house, upon that wide battle-field, upon her very heart. She -sees, too, the deep, sad eyes of Abraham Lincoln, she hears his voice in -the great sentences of his simple speech, she feels his message in her -soul.</p> - -<p class='c011'>"Daughter!" he seems to say, "Daughter, be of good comfort!"</p> - -<p class='c011'>So, still, Mary Bowman sits waiting. She is a Christian, she has great -hope; as her waiting has been long, so may the joy of her reunion be -full.</p> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c014'> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c000' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c014'> - <div>The Riverside Press</div> - <div class='c000'>CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS</div> - <div class='c000'>U . S . A</div> - </div> -</div> -<p> </p> -<hr class='pb c000' /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - - <ul class='ul_1 c001'> - <li>Transcriber's Note: - <ul class='ul_2'> - <li>Chapter IV, fourth paragraph, the hyphen in out-standing was retained. In this - context, the dress should have been standing out from her body. It was not an outstanding - dress. - </li> - <li>Chapters I, VI, the variable spelling of Emmittsburg / Emmitsburg - is as in the original text - </li> - </ul> - </li> - </ul> - -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<hr class="full" /> -<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTYSBURG***</p> -<p>******* This file should be named 54358-h.htm or 54358-h.zip *******</p> -<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> -<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/4/3/5/54358">http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/3/5/54358</a></p> -<p> -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed.</p> - -<p>Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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