Pickett's Gap

by Homer Greene

  CHAPTER VIII

  The moment of silence in the court room was followed by a confusedmurmur of voices. People were moving about in their seats and craningtheir necks, anxious to see. Charlie Pickett was on his feet, his faceflushed, his breast heaving with emotion, his eyes fixed on the twofigures at the witness stand. When Abner Pickett lifted his face fromDannie's neck, his eyes were filled with tears.

  "Where did you come from, Dannie?" he asked; and Dannie answered:--

  "I came from home, Gran'pap."

  "Not to-day?"

  "Yes, to-day."

  "But, Dannie, how--how--?"

  "I had to, Gran'pap. I had to tell you. I had to make it right as nearas I could, as quick as I could."

  Again the old man, leaning far out over the rail, drew the boy up tohis breast.

  For the moment Marshall was at a loss how to act. He did not quiteknow what was coming next. Then his long experience and his nativeshrewdness came to his rescue, and he rose to the situation.

  "That will do, Mr. Pickett," he said. "Dannie, you may take the witnessstand."

  The next minute Dannie was in the place vacated by his grandfather, andthe old man, refusing to go far away, had dropped into a chair by thedefendant's table, inside the bar.

  Marshall began his questions with gentle emphasis.

  "Your name is Dannie Pickett?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And you are a grandson of the witness last on the stand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And is it true that you pulled out the stakes set by the engineers ofthe Delaware Valley and Eastern Railroad Company?"

  "Yes, sir, it is."

  "When did you remove them?"

  "The same night they were set."

  "At about what hour of the night?"

  "I think it was about eleven o'clock when I began. I don't know whattime it was when I got through."

  "How many stakes did you remove?"

  "All of 'em. I began in the potato field where they left off surveyingthat night, and I pulled 'em out all the way through the meadow, andacross the road, and in the graveyard, and down the gap, and along thehill on the other side."

  "You made a clean sweep of it, didn't you?"

  "Yes, sir; I think I found every one, as far as I went."

  "Was any one there with you?"

  "No, sir. I did it all alone. Oh, yes! there was some one with mecomin' back. The other engineers. I met 'em in the gap."

  "You mean the engineers of the T. & W.?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "So they were with you, were they?"

  "Yes, sir. But not until after I was all through an' comin' home. Thenthey made me go back with 'em."

  "Down through the gap?"

  "Yes, sir, all the way."

  "Did you tell them you had removed the stakes?"

  "No, sir, I didn't."

  "Did they know it?"

  "No, sir, they didn't. Not one of 'em. I didn't tell anybody, not evenGran'pap."

  "Did any one ask you to remove those stakes?"

  "No, sir, not any one."

  "Then why did you do it?"

  "Well, I just thought they had no right to set 'em where they did. Ithought they wouldn't 'a' done it if Gran'pap had been there. I thoughtif I pulled 'em out, they couldn't build any railroad through thegraveyard. And then, I got very angry at the engineer for what he saidto me when I asked him about the railroad."

  "What did he say to you?"

  "Well, if you please, I'd rather not tell."

  "You needn't. Now, Dannie, didn't you know that you were doing wrongwhen you removed those stakes, no matter what your motive might havebeen?"

  "I didn't stop to think much about it then. I just went ahead and didit. But I know now that it was wrong. I've known it ever since it wasdone. I haven't any excuse to make."

  "Do you want it understood that you alone are to blame, and that youalone are responsible for this deed?"

  "Yes, sir. That's it exactly."

  "Well, let us see about that. Did you, on the evening of the night inwhich you removed the stakes, hear your grandfather declare that noperson could do a better deed than to pull them all up and throw theminto the brook?"

  "Why, yes, sir--yes; I heard him say somethin' like that."

  "Very well. Did or did not that declaration have anything to do withyour subsequent conduct?"

  Marshall saw that the sympathy of the audience, and possibly of thecourt, was with the child, and he desired to trace the moral, if notthe actual responsibility for the deed back to shoulders that would notbe spared. Dannie looked hopelessly down at his questioner, and thenturned an appealing glance to his grandfather, who sat with bowed headand eyes fixed on the floor, and did not see him.

  "I'd rather not answer that question," he said, at last, and then addedquickly: "If my grandfather'd had any idea of what I was goin' to do,he'd 'a' stopped me. I know he would. Why, I stole out o' the house inmy stockin' feet, so he wouldn't hear me. And I never told 'im whatI'd done till I told 'im here to-day. Never! never! never!"

  "There, Dannie; don't get excited. Just keep cool and answer myquestion. Would you have gone out that night and removed those stakesif you had not heard your grandfather say it would be a good thing todo?"

  Again the boy looked hopelessly down at the lawyer and was silent. Heknew, in his heart, that it was his grandfather's declaration that hadstarted him on his midnight errand; but he would rather have faced theterrors of the jail than said so. He would not willingly shift any partof the burden of responsibility to other shoulders than his own. In themidst of the profound silence which followed Marshall's question, AbnerPickett rose slowly to his feet.

  "I'll answer that," he said. "The boy ain't to blame. He simply didwhat he thought I wanted done. In his heart and soul the child isinnocent. If any crime has been committed, I'm the one who is guilty ofit."

  He spoke slowly, distinctly, yet with a tremor in his voice thatbetrayed his deep emotion. It was all out of order, this declaration ofhis, in the midst of the examination of another witness, but no oneinterrupted him; even court and counsel listened with close attentionuntil he finished his appeal and dropped back into his chair. ThenDannie himself was the first to speak.

  "Oh, no, Gran'pap!" he exclaimed; "oh, no! Maybe I wouldn't 'a' doneit but for what you said; but I ought to 'a' known you didn't mean it.I ought to 'a' known you wouldn't 'a' let me done it. I ought to 'a'known you wouldn't permit anything wrong. And that was wrong, and Iknew it; only I didn't stop to think. Oh, no, Gran'pap; I'm to blame!I'm to blame!"

  He held out his hands appealingly as he spoke, gazing alternately athis grandfather and at the lawyer. Tears were coursing down the oldman's cheeks; and out in the court room many an eye was moist watchingthis little drama of love and protection, staged and played in the barof the court.

  It was plain to the dullest understanding that the boy was frank andtruthful, and that the old man was not inclined to shirk his shareof the responsibility. But Marshall was not yet satisfied. He wantednot only the truth, but the whole truth. It was due to his clientthat every fact should be brought out in detail. He took up again theregular order of examination.

  "Were you subpoenaed as a witness in this case?" he asked.

  "No," replied Dannie, "I wasn't."

  "Then what was it that led you to come here and make this remarkablestatement?"

  "Well, I'll tell you how it was. I got to thinkin' about it yesterday,after they'd all gone, and I thought an' thought, till it seemed asif it'd kill me if I didn't tell somebody. An' so, last night, I toldAunt Martha. An' she said the only way to make it right was by tellin'those that had been injured by what I'd done. So we made it up betweenus that I was to come up here the first thing this mornin' an' tell itall. And I tried to get here before court began; but--but I couldn'tmake out to do it. I--I'm sorry I was so long comin'; but I hope itain't too late?"

  Marshall looked up at him incredulously.

  "You haven't come here f
rom Pickett's Gap to-day, my boy?"

  "Yes, sir. I left there this mornin' real early; before it began todrift much."

  "But the roads are absolutely impassable!"

  "I know. We had hard work. The roads were drifted full. I came in thestage as far as the poor-house. The horses gave out there. Then thestage driver and I, we footed it as far as Keene's. From there I walkedon to Mooreville alone."

  As he recalled that awful journey Dannie looked up wearily, and outover the sea of sympathetic faces turned toward him in the court room.But he was too tired to see them. They floated indistinctly before him.They seemed to advance and recede, to expand and contract, alternatelyto fade and find form before his aching eyes.

  "And did you think it necessary to come here at the risk of your lifeto make this acknowledgment?" asked Marshall.

  "Why, I didn't think just that way about it," replied the boy; "but Iknew I'd done wrong to keep it to myself so, an' I felt that I oughtto get here an' tell about it as soon as I could. I wanted Gran'papto know. I never kept anything from him before, an' I wanted to tellhim first, because he's done more for me, an' been kinder to me thananybody else. An' then--an' then I'd heard that the engineer who madethe night survey had been accused o' pullin' out those stakes, orhavin' 'em pulled out; an' I was afraid they'd try to prove it on 'imhere, an' maybe find 'im guilty of it before I could get here an' set'em right. And I wouldn't 'a' had that happen--why, I'd sooner 'a' diedin the snow than had 'em do that. He was so good to run his line aroundthe graveyard. He was so gentle, an' kind, an'--an', oh, he couldn't'a' been kinder an' gentler an' sweeter to me if he'd 'a' been my ownfather."

  Charlie Pickett, sitting back among the spectators, felt the hot bloodsurge into his face, and the paternal passion flood his heart. Helonged to take this boy at once in his arms,--this boy whose frankacknowledgment of his fault had brought tears to a hundred eyes, whosesimple story of dreadful daring for conscience' sake had thrilled everybreast in the court room,--to take him at once into the shelter of hislove, and keep him and protect him against all the world.

  But Marshall was asking his last question.

  "Have you anything more to say, Dannie, in extenuation of your conduct?I do not know what action, if any, the officers of the D. V. & E. willtake against you. Your offence was certainly a serious one. But, inview of any possible punishment they may have in mind for you, I wantto give you this opportunity for any further explanation you may wishto make."

  "I've nothing more to say," replied Dannie, wearily; "I've told youall. I'm ready to be punished for what I've done. I made up my mind tothat before I came here. I'm willin' to go to jail; except that I'd besorry for the disgrace I'd brought on Gran'pap an' Aunt Martha. Theybrought me up to be honest an' good. An' I'd be sorry on account of myfather, too, very sorry, if he should ever know about it. But I've nocomplaint to make, an' I'll try to stand whatever comes without cryin'."

  Yet even as he spoke, the boy's lips trembled, and great tears filledhis eyes. He could not help thinking of those gloomy and forbiddingcells in the county jail.

  A gentleman who had been sitting inside the bar, listening intentlyto the testimony, came over hurriedly and whispered to Marshall. Thelatter rose at once from his chair, and said to Dannie:--

  "Mr. Rayburn, the general manager of the D. V. & E. just informs methat his company will not prosecute you for your offence against thelaw. He says he believes that your conscience, has already punishedyou with sufficient severity to say nothing of what you have enduredin forcing your way here through this terrible storm to set us righton what has been, heretofore, an unexplainable mystery. Moreover, hewishes me to thank you for your frank and manly statement of the facts.That is all. You may leave the stand."

  But Dannie did not move. The revulsion of feeling on learning that,after all, he was not to be punished, that the iron doors of the grimold jail were not to open for his admittance, was too strong to becontrolled. His face flushed with sudden joy, and then the color allwent out and he grew white as death. The lashes of his eyelids droopedupon his cheeks, his hands fell to his sides, his chin sank upon hisbreast, and those who looked on him saw that he had been stricken withsudden faintness. A court attendant hurried into a side room for aglass of water. Abner Pickett and Marshall were on their feet in aninstant hurrying toward the fainting boy. But before either of themcould reach his chair, Charlie Pickett, with great strides, had swunghimself from the bench where he was sitting to the boy's side, and hadcaught him in his arms. He held him to his breast, looking about foran instant to see what he should do. Then, without waiting to followany of the dozen suggestions that were given to him simultaneously bylawyers and officers of the court, he started with his burden down thecrowded aisle. People gave way before him, looking with sympatheticeyes on the limp little body borne so tenderly in the strong parentalarms. When he reached the long corridor, Charlie saw the door of a juryroom standing invitingly open, and into that he hurried and laid theunconscious boy at full length on a convenient bench. A court attendantbustled in with a glass of water. A young physician, who had beensitting in the court room, hurried in and offered his services.

  "I am a doctor," he said; "perhaps I can be of some assistance."

  He felt the boy's pulse, touched his cheek, and listened to hisbreathing.

  "It is only a fainting spell," he said; "he will come out of it in aminute. Brought on by excitement and exhaustion, I presume. I don'twonder at it if the boy's story of his journey through the storm istrue."

  He was chafing Dannie's hands as he spoke, loosening the neckband ofhis shirt, and touching his cheek to note the returning circulation.

  "Whatever he said is true," declared Abner Pickett; "the boy never tolda lie in his life."

  Gabriel, who had followed the party to the jury room, had, with a quickinstinct not unusual for him, constituted himself a doorkeeper, and washolding back the curious and inquiring crowd.

  "Jest a little faintin' spell," he explained. "Ain't used to court, youknow, an' the judge an' the lawyers an' all, they kind o' scairt 'im.He'll be all right in a minute or two--much obleeged to ye."

  Charlie Pickett, leaning over the prostrate body of his son, touchedhis father's arm.

  "Father," he said, "I want to speak to you for a moment. Dannie is safein the doctor's hands. Will you come out with me?"

  And Abner Pickett looked up at him coldly and replied:--

  "I've no call to speak to you, sir. I'll take care of the boy."

  "Then I shall exercise my right as a father in the presence of thesepeople."

  Before either of the men could speak again, Dannie opened his eyes andlooked around him.

  "What is it, Gran'pap?" he asked. "What did I do? Where--oh! Iremember."

  Then, as his recollection grew more distinct, he exclaimed:--

  "I'm not to go to jail, Gran'pap! Did you hear 'em say so? I'm not togo to jail!"

  The horrible nightmare of imprisonment that had brooded over his pillowfor weeks had suddenly vanished, and he could not contain himself forjoy.

  "No, Dannie," replied the old man, gently, "no, not to jail. They'veno call to punish you. You've borne a thousand times too much already.We'll go home, Dannie. Can you get up? Can you get on your feet? Canyou walk? There, that's it. Hang on to my arm, so! We'll go home."

  "Father!"

  It was Charlie Pickett who spoke. The old man did not heed him.

  "Father!"

  The voice attracted Dannie's attention. It had, somehow, a familiarsound. He loosened his grasp on the old man's arm and turned to look atthe speaker. Then the blood rushed into his face again. He recognizedhis friend of the night journey through the gap.

  "I'm so glad to see you," he said, holding out his hand. "Gran'pap,this man was good to me. He was good to you, Gran'pap, an' to those inthe graveyard, an' to all of us."

  But Abner Pickett stood speechless, with stony eyes and rigid face.Charlie turned to the tipstaff and the doctor.

  "Will you kindly
leave us alone together?" he asked. "It is a familymatter I wish to settle. Gabriel, please close the door and guard it."

  Then they were alone together in the room; three generations, the sameblood running in their veins, the same family pride swelling theirhearts, the same will and grim determination shaping every act of theirlives. Dannie, stunned by the revelation that had been so suddenlymade to him, sank back again upon the bench, looking, with bewilderedeyes, first upon one man, then upon the other. He could not yet quitecomprehend it; but the joyful truth was forcing itself slowly in uponhis mind that this fine, stalwart, lovable man was his father. Whenthe door was closed, Charlie turned to the boy. Frank, impetuous,unselfish, as he had ever been, he spoke his mind.

  "Dannie," he said, "I am your father. There, sit still; wait till Iam through. When you were a baby there was a matter about which yourgrandfather and I differed. I spoke to him unkindly and in anger. WhatI told him was not true. I admitted it then, I admit it to-day. He saidthat no person who had lied to him once should have the opportunityto do so again, and he sent me from his house and forbade me ever toreturn. I went, leaving you in his custody, knowing that with AuntMartha also to care for you, you would want for nothing. For thirteenyears I have done penance for that lie, but my father has not forgivenme. For thirteen years I have looked forward, day and night, to thetime when I should claim you and ask you to come with me, and be my sonin fact as well as in name. I am ready to take you now. I want you.Will you come?"

  It was so sudden, so astounding, that Dannie could not comprehend itall at once. The bewildered look was still in his eyes.

  "You--are my father?" he asked.

  "Yes, Dannie."

  "Is it true, Gran'pap?"

  "It is."

  The old man, standing with folded arms, his back to the door, hischeeks flushed, his lips set, with lightning veiled under the coldglitter of his eyes, looked the picture of dignified wrath.

  Dannie turned again to his father.

  "And--and you lied to Gran'pap?"

  "Yes, Dannie, I did."

  "Is that true, Gran'pap?"

  "That is true."

  The words might have come from lips of marble, they were so precise andpassionless.

  "Father," exclaimed Charlie, "be just to me! Say that it was the firstand last lie I ever told you. Say that afterward I acknowledged myfault, and asked your forgiveness, and you would not listen to me."

  "That is true."

  Cold as ice, clear as crystal, the answer to his son's appeal came fromthe old man's lips. For a moment there was silence, and then Danniespoke again to his father.

  "And you want me to come--to come an' live with you?"

  There was a tremor of joy in the boy's voice at the very thought ofsuch happiness as this.

  "I do. I want you. I need you. I cannot live my life as I shouldwithout you."

  "Gran'pap, may I go?"

  At last the supreme moment had come, the vital question had been put.Abner Pickett still stood there, motionless, with folded arms.

  "You may choose," he said, "between him and me. I shall have no dividedallegiance. If you go with him, you can say good-by to me to-day forall time."

  Never before had he so veiled the passion in his heart with calmutterance of words. But if his speech was cool, it was determined.He meant what he said to the last degree. He wanted far more fromhis son than a mere acknowledgment of his fault, and a petition forforgiveness. It was not enough to come to him with bowed head andpenitent words. He wanted the prodigal to prostrate himself in thedust at his father's feet, to yield everything, to receive nothing.Strange he did not know that a Pickett never had done that, never coulddo it, never would do it; that even in the confession of a fault, thePickett pride would never humble itself more deeply than honor andconscience might demand. Yet here was this old man, in his own prideand stubbornness, choosing to give up absolutely and forever hischoicest living treasure, rather than yield one jot or tittle of thestern law he had laid down thirteen years before. Charlie Pickett wasnot deceived by his father's calmness. He well knew that if Dannie camewith him it would be outlawry for the boy from the old home; it wouldbe the breaking of every tie that bound him to his grandfather's heartand hearth. He knew what they had been to each other--those two--couldhe bend himself to the severance of those sweet relations? Would it notbe cruelty to both of them? And yet--and yet he wanted so to have hisson.

  On Dannie's face the lights and shadows fell alternately. He knew notwhat to say or to do. How could he choose between these two?--betweenthe father who had come suddenly into his life like a dream of lightand sweetness, and the grandfather who had loved him and cared for him,and had been his comrade and playfellow from babyhood. Charlie Pickett,looking on his son's face, saw there the agony of indecision, and hisheart melted. Tears sprang to his eyes, and his voice choked withemotion.

  "Father," he said, "I yield. He shall stay with you. It is right, it isjust. Some day, when I am old and alone and need him, as you do now,I will call and he will come to me. Go with him, Dannie. Be good tohim, as he has been to you. Good-by! Good-by, my lad,--good-by!"

  He lifted the boy from the bench, clasped him to his breast, kissed himonce and again, and then gently placed him at his grandfather's side.He turned to the door, unclosed it and held it wide open, standing withbowed head and trembling lips and tear-dimmed eyes, while the old manand his grandson, hand in hand, passed out into the corridor.

  "He held the door wide open while the old man and hisgrandson passed out into the corridor."]

  At the head of the staircase Dannie stopped, turned, and ran swiftlyback into the jury room. He leaped sobbing into his father's arms.

  "Father!" he cried, "Father, I'm goin' to bring you an' Gran'paptogether. I want you both. I need you both. I must have you both. I'mgoin' to bring you together if it takes my life to do it. I will--Iwill!"

  Again the strong man, with tears streaming down his face, strained theboy to his heart.

  "Thank you, Dannie,--thank you! And God speed the day ofreconciliation. Good-by again, my boy,--good-by!"

  Once more he released him, and Dannie hurried back to where hisgrandfather stood on the steps, fearful lest the old man might thinkthat, after all, he had chosen to desert him. But the grim smile oftriumph on Abner Pickett's face as they passed down the staircase andout to the court-house porch, told of the satisfaction that reigned inhis heart over the victory he had won, and over the fact that the boywas to be his and his alone, for years to come.

  He stopped to button Dannie's great-coat, and tie wraps about histhroat and ears, and then they started out together into the snow-boundworld, pushing their way through the drifts that blocked the path tothe street; while Charlie Pickett, looking from an upper window, withtear-blurred eyes, watched them out of sight.