“It all looks a sight bigger to me now than it did then,” said Henry Merrill. “Our goin’ to the war, I refer to. We didn’t sense it no more than other folks did. I used to be sick o’ hearin’ their stuff about patriotism and lovin’ your country, an’ them pieces o’ poetry women folks wrote for the papers on the old flag, an’ our fallen heroes, an’ them things; they didn’t seem to strike me in the right place; but I tell ye it kind o’ starts me now every time I come on the flag sudden,—it does so. A spell ago—’long in the fall, I guess it was—I was over to Alton, an’ there was a fire company paradin’. They’d got the prize at a fair, an’ had just come home on the cars,dy an’ I heard the band; so I stepped to the front o’ the store where me an’ my woman was tradin’, an’ the company felt well, an’ was comin’ along the street ’most as good as troops. I see the old flag a-comin’, kind of blowin’ back, an’ it went all over me. Somethin’ worked round in my throat; I vow I come near cryin’. I was glad nobody see me.”
“I’d go to war again in a minute,” declared Stover, after an expressive pause; “but I expect we should know better what we was about. I don’ know but we’ve got too many rooted opinions now to make us the best o’ soldiers.”
“Martin Tighe an’ John Tighe was considerable older than the rest, and they done well,” answered Henry Merrill quickly. “We three was the youngest of any, but we did think at the time we knew the most.”
“Well, whatever you may say, that war give the country a great start,” said Asa Brown. “I tell ye we just begin to see the scope on ’t. There was my cousin, you know, Dan’l Evins, that stopped with us last winter; he was tellin’ me that one o’ his coastin’ trips he was into the port o’ Beaufortdz lo’din’ with yaller-pine lumber, an’ he roved into an old buryin’-ground there is there, an’ he see a stone that had on it some young Southern fellow’s name that was killed in the war, an’ under it was, ‘He died for his country.’ Dan’l knowed how I used to feel about them South Car’lina goings on, an’ I did feel kind o’ red an’ ugly for a minute, an’ then somethin’ come over me, an’ I says, ‘Well, I don’ know but what the poor chap did, Dan Evins, when you come to view it all round.’ ”
The other men made no answer.
“Le’s see what we can do this year. I don’t care if we be a poor han’ful,” urged Henry Merrill. “The young folks ought to have the good of it; I’d like to have my boys see somethin’ different. Le’s get together what men there is. How many ’s left, anyhow? I know there was thirty-seven went from old Barlow, three-months’ea men an’ all.”
“There can’t be over eight now, countin’ out Martin Tighe; he can’t march,” said Stover. “No, ’t ain’t worth while.” But the others did not notice his disapproval.
“There’s nine in all,” announced Asa Brown, after pondering and counting two or three times on his fingers. “I can’t make us no more. I never could carry figur’s in my head.”
“I make nine,” said Merrill. “We’ll have Martin ride, an’ Jesse Dean too, if he will. He’s awful lively on them canes o’ his. An’ there’s Jo Wade with his crutch; he’s amazin’ spry for a short distance. But we can’t let ’em go far afoot; they’re decrippedeb men. We’ll make ’em all put on what they’ve got left o’ their uniforms, an’ we’ll scratch round an’ have us a fife an’ drum, an’ make the best show we can.”
“Why, Martin Tighe’s boy, the next to the oldest, is an excellent hand to play the fife!” said John Stover, suddenly growing enthusiastic. “If you two are set on it, let’s have a word with the minister to-morrow, an’ see what he says. Perhaps he’ll give out some kind of a notice. You have to have a good many bunches o’ flowers. I guess we’d better call a meetin’, some few on us, an’ talk it over first o’ the week. ’T wouldn’t be no great of a range for us to take to march from the old buryin’-ground at the meetin’-house here up to the poor-farm an’ round by Deacon Elwell’s lane, so ’s to notice them two stones he set up for his boys that was sunk on the man-o’-war. I expect they notice stones same ’s if the folks laid there, don’t they?”
He spoke wistfully. The others knew that Stover was thinking of the stone he had set up to the memory of his only brother, whose nameless grave had been made somewhere in the Wilderness.ec
“I don’t know but what they’ll be mad if we don’t go by every house in town,” he added anxiously, as they rose to go home. “ ’T is a terrible scattered population in Barlow to favor with a procession.”
It was a mild starlit night. The three friends took their separate ways presently, leaving the Plains road and crossing the fields by foot-paths toward their farms.
II
THE WEEK WENT BY, and the next Saturday morning brought fair weather. It was a busy morning on the farms—like any other; but long before noon the teams of horses and oxen were seen going home from work in the fields, and everybody got ready in haste for the great event of the afternoon. It was so seldom that any occasion roused public interest in Barlow that there was an unexpected response, and the green before the old white meeting-houseed was covered with country wagons and groups of people, whole families together, who had come on foot. The old soldiers were to meet in the church; at half past one the procession was to start, and on its return the minister was to make an address in the old burying-ground. John Stover had been first lieutenant in the war, so he was made captain of the day. A man from the next town had offered to drum for them, and Martin Tighe’s proud boy was present with his fife. He had a great longing—strange enough in that peaceful, sheep-raising neighborhood—to go into the army; but he and his elder brother were the mainstay of their crippled father, and he could not be spared from the large household until a younger brother could take his place; so that all his fire and military zeal went for the present into martial tunes, and the fife was a safety-valve for his enthusiasm.
The army men were used to seeing each other; everybody knew everybody in the little country town of Barlow; but when one comrade after another appeared in what remained of his accoutrements, they felt the day to be greater than they had planned, and the simple ceremony proved more solemn than any one expected. They could make no use of their every-day jokes and friendly greetings. Their old blue coats and tarnished army caps looked faded and antiquated enough. One of the men had nothing left but his rusty canteen and rifle; but these he carried like sacred emblems. He had worn out all his army clothes long ago, because he was too poor when he was discharged to buy any others.
When the door of the church opened, the veterans were not abashed by the size and silence of the crowd. They came walking two by two down the steps, and took their places in line as if there were nobody looking on. Their brief evolutions were like a mystic rite. The two lame men refused to do anything but march as best they could; but poor Martin Tighe, more disabled than they, was brought out and lifted into Henry Merrill’s best wagon, where he sat up, straight and soldierly, with his boy for driver. There was a little flag in the whip-socket before him, which flapped gayly in the breeze. It was such a long time since he had been seen out-of-doors that everybody found him a great object of interest, and paid him much attention. Even those who were tired of being asked to contribute to his support, who resented the fact of his having a helpless wife and great family; who always insisted that with his little pension and hopeless lameness, his fingerless left hand and failing sight, he could support himself and his household if he chose,—even those persons came forward now to greet him handsomely and with large approval. To be sure, he enjoyed the conversation of idlers, and his wife had a complaining way that was the same as begging, especially since her boys began to grow up and be of some use; and there were one or two near neighbors who never let them really want; so other people, who had cares enough of their own, could excuse themselves for forgetting him the year round, and even call him shiftless. But there were none to look askance at Martin Tighe on Decoration Day, as he sat in the wagon, with his bleached face like a captive’s
, and his thin, afflicted body. He stretched out his whole hand impartially to those who had remembered and those who had forgotten both his courage at Fredericksburg and his sorry need in Barlow.
Henry Merrill had secured the engine company’s large flag in Alton, and now carried it proudly. There were eight men in line, two by two, and marching a good bit apart, to make their line the longer. The fife and drum struck up gallantly together, and the little procession moved away slowly along the country road. It gave an unwonted touch of color to the landscape,—the scarlet, the blue, between the new-ploughed fields and budding roadside thickets, between the wide dim ranges of the mountains, under the great white clouds of the spring sky. Such processions grow more pathetic year by year; it will not be so long now before wondering children will have seen the last. The aging faces of the men, the renewed comradeship, the quick beat of the hearts that remember, the tenderness of those who think upon old sorrows,—all these make the day a lovelier and a sadder festival. So men’s hearts were stirred, they knew not why, when they heard the shrill fife and the incessant drum along the quiet Barlow road, and saw the handful of old soldiers marching by. Nobody thought of them as familiar men and neighbors alone,—they were a part of that army which had saved its country. They had taken their lives in their hands and gone out to fight for their country, plain John Stover and Jesse Dean and the rest. No matter if every other day in the year they counted for little or much, whether they were lame-footed and lagging, whether their farms were of poor soil or rich.
The little troop went in slender line along the road; the crowded country wagons and all the people who went afoot followed Martin Tighe’s wagon as if it were a great gathering at a country funeral. The route was short, and the long, straggling line marched slowly; it could go no faster than the lame men could walk.
In one of the houses by the roadside an old woman sat by a window, in an old-fashioned black gown, and clean white cap with a prim border which bound her thin, sharp features closely. She had been for a long time looking out eagerly over the snowberry and cinnamon-rose bushes; her face was pressed close to the pane, and presently she caught sight of the great flag as it came down the road.
“Let me see ’em! I’ve got to see ’em go by!” she pleaded, trying to rise from her chair alone when she heard the fife, and the women helped her to the door, and held her so that she could stand and wait. She had been an old woman when the war began; she had sent sons and grandsons to the field; they were all gone now. As the men came by, she straightened her bent figure with all the vigor of youth. The fife and drum stopped suddenly; the colors lowered. She did not heed that, but her old eyes flashed and then filled with tears to see the flag going to salute the soldier’s graves. “Thank ye, boys; thank ye!” she cried, in her quavering voice, and they all cheered her. The cheer went back along the straggling line for old Grandmother Dexter, standing there in her front door between the lilacs. It was one of the great moments of the day.
The few old people at the poor-house, too, were waiting to see the show. The keeper’s young son, knowing that it was a day of festivity, and not understanding exactly why, had put his toy flag out of the gable window, and there it showed against the gray clapboards like a gay flower. It was the only bit of decoration along the veterans’ way, and they stopped and saluted it before they broke ranks and went out to the field corner beyond the poor-farm barn to the bit of ground that held the paupers’ unmarked graves. There was a solemn silence while Asa Brown went to the back of Tighe’s wagon, where such light freight was carried, and brought two flags, and he and John Stover planted them straight in the green sod. They knew well enough where the right graves were, for these had been made in a corner by themselves, with unwonted sentiment. And so Eben Munson and John Tighe were honored like the rest, both by their flags and by great and unexpected nosegays of spring flowers, daffiesee and flowering currant and red tulips, which lay on the graves already. John Stover and his comrade glanced at each other curiously while they stood singing, and then laid their own bunches of lilacs down and came away.
Then something happened that almost none of the people in the wagons understood. Martin Tighe’s boy, who played the fife, had studied well his part, and on his poor short-winded instrument now sounded taps as well as he could. He had heard it done once in Alton at a soldier’s funeral. The plaintive notes called sadly over the fields, and echoed back from the hills. The few veterans could not look at each other; their eyes brimmed up with tears; they could not have spoken. Nothing called back old army days like that. They had a sudden vision of the Virginian camp, the hillside dotted white with tents, the twinkling lights in other camps, and far away the glow of smouldering fires. They heard the bugle call from post to post; they remembered the chilly winter night, the wind in the pines, the laughter of the men. Lights out! Martin Tighe’s boy sounded it again sharply. It seemed as if poor Eb Munson and John Tighe must hear it too in their narrow graves.
The procession went on, and stopped here and there at the little graveyards on the farms, leaving their bright flags to flutter through summer and winter rains and snows, and to bleach in the wind and sunshine. When they returned to the church, the minister made an address about the war, and every one listened with new ears. Most of what he said was familiar enough to his listeners; they were used to reading those phrases about the results of the war, the glorious future of the South, in their weekly newspapers; but there never had been such a spirit of patriotism and loyalty waked in Barlow as was waked that day by the poor parade of the remnant of the Barlow soldiers. They sent flags to all the distant graves, and proud were those households who claimed kinship with valor, and could drive or walk away with their flags held up so that others could see that they, too, were of the elect.ef
III
IT IS WELL THAT the days are long in the last of May, but John Stover had to hurry more than usual with his evening work, and then, having the longest distance to walk, he was much the latest comer to the Plains store, where his two triumphant friends were waiting for him impatiently on the bench. They also had made excuse of going to the post-office and doing an unnecessary errand for their wives, and were talking together so busily that they had gathered a group about them before the store. When they saw Stover coming, they rose hastily and crossed the road to meet him, as if they were a committee in special session. They leaned against the post-and-board fence, after they had shaken hands with each other solemnly.
“Well, we’ve had a great day, ain’t we, John?” asked Henry Merrill. “You did lead off splendid. We’ve done a grand thing, now, I tell you. All the folks say we’ve got to keep it up every year. Everybody had to have a talk about it as I went home. They say they had no idea we should make such a show. Lord! I wish we’d begun while there was more of us!”
“That han’some flag was the great feature,” said Asa Brown generously. “I want to pay my part for hirin’ it. An’ then folks was glad to see poor old Martin made o’ some consequence.”
“There was half a dozen said to me that another year they was goin’ to have flags out, and trim up their places somehow or ’nother. Folks has feelin’ enough, but you’ve got to rouse it,” said Merrill.
“I have thought o’ joinin’ the Grand Armyeg over to Alton time an’ again, but it’s a good ways to go, an’ then the expense has been o’ some consideration,” Asa continued. “I don’t know but two or three over there. You know, most o’ the Alton men nat’rally went out in the rigiments t’ other side o’ the State line, an’ they was in other battles, an’ never camped nowheres nigh us. Seems to me we ought to have home feelin’ enough to do what we can right here.”
“The minister says to me this afternoon that he was goin’ to arrange an’ have some talks in the meetin’-house next winter, an’ have some of us tell where we was in the South; an’ one night ’t will be about camp life, an’ one about the long marches, an’ then about the battles,—that would take some time,—an’ tell all we could about the bo
ys that was killed, an’ their record, so they wouldn’t be forgot. He said some of the folks must have the letters we wrote home from the front, an’ we could make out quite a history of us. I call Elder Dallas a very smart man; he’d planned it all out a’ready, for the benefit o’ the young folks, he said,” announced Henry Merrill, in a tone of approval.
“I s’pose there ain’t none of us but could add a little somethin’,” answered John Stover modestly. “ ’T would re’lly learn the young folks a good deal. I should be scared numb to try an’ speak from the pulpit. That ain’t what the Elder means, is it? Now I was one that had a good chance to see somethin’ o’ Washin’ton. I shook hands with President Lincoln, an’ I always think I’m worth lookin’ at for that, if I ain’t for nothin’ else. ’T was that time I was just out o’ hos pit’l, an’ able to crawl about some. I’ve often told you how ’t was I met him, an’ he stopped an’ shook hands an’ asked where I’d been at the front an’ how I was gettin’ along with my hurts. Well, we’ll see how ’t is when winter comes. I never thought I had no gift for public speakin’, ’less ’t was for drivin’ cattle or pollin’ the house town-meetin’ days. Here! I’ve got somethin’ in mind. You needn’t speak about it if I tell it to ye,” he added suddenly. “You know all them han’some flowers that was laid on to Eb Munson’s grave an’ Tighe’s? I mistrusted you thought the same thing I did by the way you looked. They come from Marthy Down’s front yard. My woman told me when we got home that she knew ’em in a minute; there wa’n’t nobody in town had that kind o’ red flowers but her. She must ha’ kind o’ harked back to the days when she was Marthy Peck. She must have come over with ’em after dark, or else dreadful early in the mornin’.”
The Country of the Pointed Firs and Selected Short Fiction Page 33