by John Fox
CHAPTER 28.
PALL-BEARERS OF THE LOST CAUSE
The rain was falling with a steady roar when General Hunt broke camp afew days before. The mountain-tops were black with thunderclouds, andalong the muddy road went Morgan's Men--most of them on mules which hadbeen taken from abandoned wagons when news of the surrendercame--without saddles and with blind bridles or rope halters--the restslopping along through the yellow mud on foot--literally--for few ofthem had shoes; they were on their way to protect Davis and joinJohnston, now that Lee was no more. There was no murmuring, nofaltering, and it touched Richard Hunt to observe that they were nowmore prompt to obedience, when it was optional with them whether theyshould go or stay, than they had ever been in the proudest days of theConfederacy.
Threatened from Tennessee and cut off from Richmond, Hunt had made uphis mind to march eastward to join Lee, when the news of the surrendercame. Had the sun at that moment dropped suddenly to the horizon fromthe heaven above them, those Confederates would have been hardly morestartled or plunged into deeper despair. Crowds of infantry threw downtheir arms and, with the rest, all sense of discipline was lost. Of thecavalry, however, not more than ten men declined to march south, andout they moved through the drenching rain in a silence that was brokenonly with a single cheer when ninety men from another Kentucky brigadejoined them, who, too, felt that as long as the Confederate Governmentsurvived, there was work for them to do. So on they went to keep up thestruggle, if the word was given, skirmishing, fighting and slippingpast the enemies that were hemming them in, on with Davis, his cabinet,and General Breckinridge to join Taylor and Forrest in Alabama. Acrossthe border of South Carolina, an irate old lady upbraided Hunt forallowing his soldiers to take forage from her barn.
"You are a gang of thieving Kentuckians," she said, hotly; "you areafraid to go home, while our boys are surrendering decently."
"Madam!"--Renfrew the Silent spoke--spoke from the depths of his oncebrilliant jacket--"you South Carolinians had a good deal to say aboutgetting up this war, but we Kentuckians have contracted to close itout."
Then came the last Confederate council of war. In turn, each officerspoke of his men and of himself and each to the same effect; the causewas lost and there was no use in prolonging the war.
"We will give our lives to secure your safety, but we cannot urge ourmen to struggle against a fate that is inevitable, and perhaps thusforfeit all hope of a restoration to their homes and friends."
Davis was affable, dignified, calm, undaunted.
"I will hear of no plan that is concerned only with my safety. A fewbrave men can prolong the war until this panic has passed, and theywill be a nucleus for thousands more."
The answer was silence, as the gaunt, beaten man looked from face toface. He rose with an effort.
"I see all hope is gone," he said, bitterly, and though his calmremained, his bearing was less erect, his face was deathly pale and hisstep so infirm that he leaned upon General Breckinridge as he nearedthe door--in the bitterest moment, perhaps, of his life.
So, the old Morgan's Men, so long separated, were united at the end. Ina broken voice General Hunt forbade the men who had followed him onfoot three hundred miles from Virginia to go farther, but to disperseto their homes; and they wept like children.
In front of him was a big force of Federal cavalry; retreat the way hehad come was impossible, and to the left, if he escaped, was the sea;but dauntless Hunt refused to surrender except at the order of asuperior, or unless told that all was done that could be done to assurethe escape of his President. That order came from Breckinridge.
"Surrender," was the message. "Go back to your homes, I will not haveone of these young men encounter one more hazard for my sake."
That night Richard Hunt fought out his fight with himself, pacing toand fro under the stars. He had struggled faithfully for what hebelieved, still believed, and would, perhaps, always believe, wasright. He had fought for the broadest ideal of liberty as he understoodit, for citizen, State and nation. The appeal had gone to the sword andthe verdict was against him. He would accept it. He would go home, takethe oath of allegiance, resume the law, and, as an American citizen, dohis duty. He had no sense of humiliation, he had no apology to make andwould never have--he had done his duty. He felt no bitterness, and hadno fault to find with his foes, who were brave and had done their dutyas they had seen it; for he granted them the right to see a differentduty from what he had decided was his. And that was all.
Renfrew the Silent was waiting at the smouldering fire. He neitherlooked up nor made any comment when General Hunt spoke hisdetermination. His own face grew more sullen and he reached his handinto his breast and pulled from his faded jacket the tattered colorsthat he once had borne.
"These will never be lowered as long as I live," he said, "norafterwards if I can prevent it." And lowered they never were. On alittle island in the Pacific Ocean, this strange soldier, after leavinghis property and his kindred forever, lived out his life among thenatives with this bloodstained remnant of the Stars and Bars over hishut, and when he died, the flag was hung over his grave, and above thatgrave to-day the tattered emblem still sways in southern air.
. . . . .
A week earlier, two Rebels and two Yankees started across the mountaintogether--Chad and Dan and the giant Dillon twins--Chad and Yankee Jakeafoot. Up Lonesome they went toward the shaggy flank of Black Mountainwhere the Great Reaper had mowed down Chad's first friends. The logs ofthe cabin were still standing, though the roof was caved in and theyard was a tangle of undergrowth. A dull pain settled in Chad's breast,while he looked, and as they were climbing the spur, he choked when hecaught sight of the graves under the big poplar.
There was the little pen that he had built over his foster-mother'sgrave--still undisturbed. He said nothing and, as they went down thespur, across the river and up Pine Mountain, he kept his gnawingmemories to himself. Only ten years before, and he seemed an old, oldman now. He recognized the very spot where he had slept the first nightafter he ran away and awakened to that fearful never-forgotten storm atsunrise, which lived in his memory now as a mighty portent of thestorms of human passion that had swept around him on many abattlefield. There was the very tree where he had killed the squirreland the rattlesnake. It was bursting spring now, but the buds of laureland rhododendron were unbroken. Down Kingdom Come they went. Here waswhere he had met the old cow, and here was the little hill where Jackhad fought Whizzer and he had fought Tad Dillon and where he had firstseen Melissa. Again the scarlet of her tattered gown flashed before hiseyes. At the bend of the river they parted from the giant twins.Faithful Jake's face was foolish when Chad took him by the hand andspoke to him, as man to man, and Rebel Jerry turned his face quicklywhen Dan told him that he would never forget him, and made him promiseto come to see him, if Jerry ever took another raft down to thecapital. Looking back from the hill, Chad saw them slowly moving alonga path toward the woods--not looking at each other and speaking not atall.
Beyond rose the smoke of the old Turner cabin. On the porch sat the oldTurner mother, her bonnet in her hand, her eyes looking down the river.Dozing at her feet was Jack--old Jack. She had never forgiven Chad, andshe could not forgive him now, though Chad saw her eyes soften when shelooked at the tattered butternut that Dan wore. But Jack--half-blindand aged--sprang trembling to his feet when he heard Chad's voice andwhimpered like a child. Chad sank on the porch with one arm about theold dog's neck. Mother Turner answered all questions shortly.
Melissa had gone to the "Settlemints." Why? The old woman would notanswer. She was coming back, but she was ill. She had never been wellsince she went afoot, one cold night, to warn some YANKEE that DawsDillon was after him. Chad started. It was Melissa who had perhapssaved his life. Tad Dillon had stepped into Daws's shoes, and the warwas still going on in the hills. Tom Turner had died in prison. The oldmother was waiting for Dolph and Rube to come back--she was looking forthem every hour, day and night She did not know what had beco
me of theschool-master--but Chad did, and he told her. The school-master haddied, storming breastworks at Gettysburg. The old woman said not a word.
Dan was too weak to ride now. So Chad got Dave Hilton, Melissa's oldsweetheart, to take Dixie to Richmond--a little Kentucky town on theedge of the Bluegrass--and leave her there and he bought the old Turnercanoe. She would have no use for it, Mother Turner said--he could haveit for nothing; but when Chad thrust a ten dollar Federal bill into herhands, she broke down and threw her arms around him and cried.
So down the river went Chad and Dan--drifting with the tide--Chad inthe stern, Dan lying at full length, with his head on a blue army-coatand looking up at the over-swung branches and the sky and the cloudsabove them--down, through a mist of memories for Chad--down to thecapital.
And Harry Dean, too, was on his way home--coming up from the farSouth--up through the ravaged land of his own people, past homes andfields which his own hands had helped to lay waste.