A Lincoln Conscript

by Homer Greene

  CHAPTER VI

  A DESPERATE DECISION

  Through all of the day following the breakfast at Sarah Jane Stark’shouse, indeed through most of the succeeding night, the thought andambition loomed large in Bob Bannister’s mind and heart, to lift, insome way, the dark cloud of disloyalty that rested upon the householdhe loved. His one hour with the soldiers of the United States hadinspired and inspirited him to new and greater effort, to the making ofany sacrifice, in order to uphold the honor of his country and his home.

  In the night an idea came to him, suddenly, brilliantly--he wonderedhe had not thought of it before. To be sure, there were some detailsto be worked out, some difficulties to be overcome; but the plan wasfeasible, he knew that, and, if he could carry it into successfulexecution, his father would have the price lifted from his head, thehonor of the family would be saved, and he himself would have the joyof serving his country.

  So it was settled and he went to sleep. On the following morning hewent up to Mount Hermon and drew from the bank half of his savings. Themoney was paid to him without question, as his father had long beforemade formal release of his legal right to it. It was money that hehimself had earned, most of it in former years, by carrying the mailfrom the village post-office to Rick’s Corners, the next settlementto the east on the old North and South Turnpike road. But when hisfather’s pro-slavery and anti-war sentiments became pronounced, Boblost his position as mail-carrier, and a boy whose father had beenamong the first to enlist as a soldier received the appointment.

  As for his morning tasks at home that day, he did them with a vigorand spirit that surprised and pleased his father. In the afternoonhe finished up little odds and ends of work that had been awaitinghis leisure, and rearranged his small store of keepsakes, treasures,valuables, things that a boy of seventeen has accumulated and looksupon with sentiment. Some articles, outgrown by him or become useless,he destroyed. He appeared to be making ready for a long absence. But hedid it all so quietly, with so little ostentation, that no suspicionswere aroused on the part of any member of his family.

  Then, when everything was done, doubts as to the wisdom of hiscontemplated course began to assail his mind. What would his fathersay? What would his mother do? What would his little sister think? Theplan that had seemed so brilliant to him in the darkness of the nightloomed shadowy and doubtful in the cold light of a dull October day.He began to wish that there were some one whom he could take into hisconfidence; to whom he could outline the project he had in mind, andfrom whom he could get good and seasonable advice. Well, there wassome one. There was Seth Mills. He was old, to be sure; but he wasabsolutely honest, his judgment was still good, he had always beenBob’s father’s faithful friend, and his mother’s kindest neighbor.Besides, having no children of his own, the old man always had setgreat store by Bob, and the boy felt that, in any event, he would getsympathy and disinterested counsel. So he went to see Seth Mills. Hewalked down along the path by the spring-house, and across the meadow,and found his neighbor in the barn-yard milking his cows.

  “Uncle Seth,” he said, “I’ve come to tell you what I’m going to do, andsee what you think of it.”

  The old man looked up but did not stop his milking.

  “Well, Robbie, what is it ye goin’ to do?”

  “I’m going to war.”

  The rich streams that had been piercing the boiling white foam in themilk-pail suddenly ceased. The man’s hands relaxed without falling,and he gazed at the boy as if trying to comprehend his meaning.

  “You--you goin’ to enlist?”

  “Yes. I’ve thought it all out. You know my father. You know what hethinks about the war and about the draft. You know he’s been draftedand won’t go, and says the soldiers can’t take him alive. Well,Sergeant Anderson said that, defying the draft that way, he’s classedas a deserter, and when he’s caught he’s liable to be shot. Now youknow that isn’t a nice thing to happen to your father. So I’ve decidedto do this. I’m going to Easton to see this provost-marshal and offerto take my father’s place as a drafted man, and go wherever they chooseto send me, provided they’ll let him off. I think they will, don’t you?”

  For a moment the old man did not answer. He seemed to be trying fullyto comprehend the situation. Then, suddenly, he took it in. Rising tohis feet as quickly as his rheumatic legs would let him, kicking overhis three-legged milking-stool in the operation, and barely saving hispail of milk from the same fate, he grasped Bob heartily by the hand.

  “Jest the thing!” he exclaimed, “jest the thing! Here I’ve been layin’awake nights fur a week tryin’ to think up some way o’ savin’ RhettBannister’s neck, an’ here you’ve gone an’ struck it the first time, bycracky!”

  “You think the plan’s all right, do you, Uncle Seth?”

  “Sound as a dollar, my boy, sound as a dollar. They’ll take ye an’ gladto git ye. To be sure, you’re a leetle mite under age, but that won’tmake no difference; you’re big an’ strong, an’ you can carry a gun an’fight with the best of ’em.”

  “But, will they let father off?”

  “Well, now I sh’d think they would. They don’t want no copperheads inthe army, nor no deserters, nor--why, I sh’d think they’d be tickled todeath to swap him for you, an’ call good riddance to him. That’s whatI say.”

  “It looks that way to me, too, Uncle Seth, and I do want to help fatherand save him if I can.”

  “Yes, an’ they’s another thing about it, Robbie. S’posin’ ye git togo down there. S’posin’ ye git to be one of Uncle Sam’s soldiersa-fightin’ in the army. You think your father’s goin’ to set down tohum contented, an’ let his boy do the soldierin’? No, sir-ee! thatain’t him. You mark my words. In less’n ten days he’ll be down therea-tryin’ to git to take your place stid o’ your takin’ his’n. That’swhat I say. Now, you mark my words!”

  But Bob did not quite believe that. The most that he hoped to do wasto relieve his father from the effect of the draft and the result ofhis disobedience to it. More than that, of course, it would give himthe opportunity that he had longed for and waited for, to fight for hiscountry and his country’s flag.

  So they talked it over, the boy and the old man, and every moment theygrew more enthusiastic over the project and what it was likely toaccomplish.

  “When ye goin’, Robbie?”

  “Why, I thought--I thought I’d go to-morrow morning, Uncle Seth. Yousee I can’t very well let them know I’m going. That would spoil it all.So I thought I’d get up early to-morrow morning and slip away beforeanybody was up, and catch the early train at Carbon Creek. You don’tthink I ought to tell them before I go, do you?”

  “No, I s’pose not. But what’ll your ma think when she finds you ain’tto home? What’ll your pa say?”

  “That’s the only thing about it that worries me, Uncle Seth. When I’monce in the army, and they know where I am and what to expect, it won’tbe so bad. But how to ease their minds before they find out, I don’tknow. I’ve thought over it a good deal, but I can’t quite make out howI’m going to do it. I might leave a letter, but then they’d know whereI was going and likely stop me before I got there. I might--say, I’lltell you what; I just happen to think of it. Suppose you kind o’ happenalong there some time to-morrow forenoon, and say to them that youknow where I am and where I’m going, and that it’s all right; and if Idon’t come back in a day or two I’ll write and tell them all about it.That’ll do, won’t it?”

  “Certain! I’ll put their minds to rest. Jest leave that to me. They’llknow’t when I tell ’em ye’re all right, ye air all right.”

  Then, for a minute, the old man stood silent, chewing contemplativelyon a straw.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally, “as I’d ort to encourage ye in thisthing. Mebbe it ain’t jest right. It’s a-goin’ ag’inst yer father’swish an’ will. It’s a-makin’ yer mother an awful lot of anxiety. Mebbeit won’t amount to nothin’ anyway. Mebbe they won’t take ye. Mebbe theywon’t lea
ve him go free. Ef they do take ye, ye go to war, an’ yeknow, or else ye don’t know, what war is. You’re jest a boy. You’ll hevto suffer. You’ll see some hard times. Ye ain’t use to it. Likely ye’llgit sick. Mebbe ye’ll git swamp fever, an’ that’s bad enough. Mebbeye’ll git wounded, crippled for life. Mebbe ye’ll git killed, an’ yerbody buried in a trench with a hundred others, like they buried ’em atAntietam an’ Gettysburg, an’ nobody never know where ye lay, nor how yedied. It’s awful, war is, it’s jest awful, an’ ye ortn’t to go, unlessye realize what’s likely to happen to ye; and I ortn’t to encourage yein goin’ unless I’m ready to shoulder the responsibility fer what mayhappen, an’ I ain’t quite ready to do that.”

  “And I don’t want you to do that, Uncle Seth. I know what I’m about.I’ve thought it all out. I’ve thought about every dreadful thing thatcan possibly happen to me. But before I get through thinking what mayhappen to me, I begin to think about what is pretty sure to happento my father if things go on as they are. And then I can’t hesitateany more. To have my father shot as a deserter, why, that would beworse for me, and worse for my mother, and for my little sister allour lives, than it would be to have me tired, or hungry, or sick, orwounded, or shot to death in battle and buried in a trench. And besidesthat I want to go for the sake of going. I want to do something for mycountry. Abraham Lincoln wants more soldiers, and if he wants them heshould have them. I’m ready to go, and I’m going. I’ve made up my mind;and you couldn’t discourage me, Uncle Seth, if you talked a thousandyears!”

  In the gray October twilight the boy stood erect, with flushed faceand flashing eyes. The spirit of the time had entered his soul as itentered the souls of thousands of other boys in those soul-stirringdays, and, like them, he was ready. Consequences were of no moment. Hiscountry was calling, his response rang fervent and true.

  So Seth Mills spoke no more discouraging words. But he put his hands onthe boy’s shoulders and looked up into his eyes, for the boy was thetaller of the two.

  “You’re right,” he said, “and I’m wrong. I hadn’t thought it was in ye.Go on. I’ll stand back o’ ye. God bless ye, I’m proud o’ ye!”

  Tears came into the old man’s eyes as he spoke, and coursed down thefurrows in his cheeks, and his own patriotic heart was roused to a newpitch of loyalty.

  When, at last, the final arrangement with his old friend had beenmade, and the little details of his departure were settled, and thegood-bys and hand-shaking were at an end, and Bob turned back into themeadow-path toward home, it was almost dark.

  His father sat at the supper-table that evening with apparent unconcern.He knew that there were no provost-guards in the neighborhood, no onewith authority to arrest or imprison him. For while it was true that,in a sense, he was isolated in the midst of an intensely patrioticcommunity, he was, nevertheless, in more or less constant communicationwith friends and sympathizers who kept him well informed as to thedangers which surrounded or approached him. On this night he knew, forinstance, that Sergeant Anderson, with his little squad of soldiers, hadreturned to Easton, and that no other detail of troops had as yet comeinto the county. He knew also that means would be found to warn him ofthe approach of an enemy long before that enemy could reach him. So heate his supper with his family in peace, and sat quietly at his tablereading his paper without apprehension of danger when Bob started to goupstairs to bed.

  “Good-by, father!” said the boy, standing at the stair-door with hislamp in his hand.

  “Good-_by_,” repeated his father, “what do you mean by that?”

  “Did I say good-by? I meant to say good-night. But you know I never goto bed at night any more, father, without thinking that something mayhappen before morning to separate us--forever.”

  His lip trembled a little as he spoke, and he still stood, hesitating,at the stair-door.

  “Well, Robert, nothing will happen to-night, I know. You can go to bedwithout fear to-night. To-morrow, maybe, danger will come again, wecannot tell. But to-night, I believe we are safe.”

  He saw that, for some reason, the boy’s emotions were deeply stirred,and he imagined it was due to a suddenly augmented fear of what mighthappen to his father.

  “You don’t know anything, do you, Bob?” he inquired suddenly. “Youhaven’t heard of danger immediately at hand? Did Seth Mills tell youanything that would lead you to think--?”

  “No, father, oh no! I was just--well, I won’t worry about you to-night,anyway. But if anything _should_ happen that we don’t see each otheragain--for a good while--I’d like to have you think that while Ibelieve in Abraham Lincoln, and in the Union, and in the war, Ibelieve in you, too, and I wouldn’t want, ever, to do anything thatwould seem to be disloyal to you.”

  “No, Bob, of course not. I believe that. I’m sorry these Northernnotions of patriotism have entered so deeply into your mind. But, whenyou’re older and understand things better, you’ll think differently.There, go along to bed, now. You’re tired and nervous to-night. In themorning you’ll feel better.”

  He held out his hand and Bob came over and clasped it tightly.

  “Good-night, father!”

  “Good-night!”

  The boy went on to bed, and Rhett Bannister resumed his reading. But hecould keep neither his mind nor his eyes on the printed page. He wasthinking of his son upstairs. Once a sudden and startling thought cameto him, more by way of intuition than suggestion. He dropped his book,rose to his feet, and stood staring at the door through which Bob hadgone. But a sound of voices came to him faintly down the stairway,natural, reassuring voices, and after a minute he sat down again andtook up his book, and whatever apprehensive thought it was that had sosuddenly and strangely entered his mind, he dismissed it and resumedhis reading.

  Upstairs Bob had found his mother sitting with Louise, who had longbeen asleep, and sewing. It seemed to him that when his mother was notbusy about something else she was always sewing. He entered the roomwhere she sat, and looked at her a moment before speaking. The anxietyof the last few months, the harassing dread of the last few days, hadworn her greatly and left her haggard and pale. Bob was almost shockedas he gazed on her face under the lamplight. He had never seen her lookso before. Would his conduct of the morrow bring to her added sorrow,or intense relief? He dared not stop to think about it then. He knewsimply that he was doing right and could not change his plans.

  “Good-night, mother!” he said. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Good-night, Robbie! Come here and kiss me.”

  He went where she was, and leaned over, and she put her hands on hisshoulders and kissed him. He started to go away, but at the door of theroom he turned back.

  “Mother, if anything should happen to-night,--we don’t know what mayhappen these days,--but if anything should happen, and I had to dosomething, I don’t want you ever to think but that I felt I was doingthe right thing.”

  “Yes, Robbie, yes. I don’t know just what you mean, but I know you meanto do what is right. And these are dreadful days, and dreadful nights.I don’t know how it’s all going to end. I’m in terror all the time.I wish your father could do something, or you could do something, orsomebody could do something to help us. If this keeps on I shall die!Oh, why don’t they stop this cruel, _cruel_ war!”

  Bob went back into the room and put his arms about his mother’sshoulders.

  “There, mother, there. It’s terrible! I know it’s terrible. I wish thewar would stop. I wish I could do something to stop it. Maybe I can,just a little. But the only way to stop it is to give Abraham Lincolnenough soldiers to defeat the Southern armies. We must do that. At anysacrifice, we _must_ do it. And, mother, I shall do my part.”

  She did not appreciate the significance of his words, but she wiped thetears from her eyes and said:--

  “Don’t let’s think about it any more to-night, Robbie.” And she kissedhim again, and again she took up her sewing.

  Bob went over to Louise, who was stirring uneasily in her sleep, andkissed he
r gently, and went out into the hall. At the door he turned tolook once more at his mother.

  “Good-night, mother!” he said, “and good dreams. I think we shall allbe happier soon.”

  He went to his room, removed his working-clothes, put on his bestsuit, got together a few things and put them into a little hand-bagthat had once belonged to his South Carolinian grandfather, put outhis light, and threw himself down on the bed for a brief sleep. But heslept only fitfully, looking often at his watch by the light of themoon that shone in at his window; and at last, at four o’clock, he rosefor the last time, took his satchel and shoes in his hands and creptsoftly downstairs. He went through by the kitchen, stopping there tobathe his face and hands, then, sliding back the bolt, he opened thedoor and stepped out on to the porch. The moon was shining brightly,and the night was very still. There were as yet no signs of morningin the east, nor any noise of stirring men or beasts. He bethoughthimself of food, but he feared lest, by moving around in the darknessof the pantry to seek it, he would arouse some of the inmates of thehouse. So he closed the door behind him, sat down on the porch-stepsand put on his shoes, and then, satchel in hand, he started down thegarden pathway to the kitchen gate. The windows of the sleeping-roomoccupied by Louise opened on this side of the house, but there was nopossibility of his being seen by her. Once in the road, he turned hisface toward Mount Hermon. When he reached the front gate, he stoppedand looked up the path toward the house. From his mother’s window shonethe faint light of her night-lamp. There were no other signs of lifeabout the premises. Then, suddenly, there in the shadow of the trees,with his boyhood home in front of him, and in the dark west towardwhich his footsteps were pointing a fate which no man could fathom, afeeling of profound depression fell upon him, a sense of unutterableloneliness and desolation. For the time being all of his courage, allof his determination, all of his invincible patriotism, deserted himand left him weak and homesick and miserable. In another moment hewould have turned back and sought the safety and protection which hisdear home offered him; but, even as he hesitated, out of the darknessof the east there grew slowly and solemnly clear to his mental visionthe tall, gaunt form, the sadly resolute and rugged face of AbrahamLincoln. And, with the vision, there came back into his mind, oneby one and then all together, the overpowering reasons that had ledhim into taking this momentous step. So his judgment returned, histhought grew clear, courage came back to him, and strength, and deepdetermination, and he turned his face once more toward Mount Hermon,and plunged ahead into the shadows.