The Copperhead

by Harold Frederic

  CHAPTER VII

  THE ELECTION

  Soon the fine weather was at an end. One day it was soft and warm, witha tender blue haze over the distant woods and a sun like a blood-orangein the tranquil sky, and birds twittering about among the elders andsumac along the rail fences. And the next day everything was gray andlifeless and desolate, with fierce winds sweeping over the bare fields,and driving the cold rain in sheets before them.

  Some people--among them Hurley--said it was the equinoctial that was uponus. Abner Beech ridiculed this, and proved by the dictionary that theequinoctial meant September 22d, whereas it was now well-nigh the endof October. The Irishman conceded that in books this might be so, butstuck wilfully to it that in practice the equinoctial came just beforewinter set in. After so long a period of saddened silence broodingover our household, it was quite a relief to hear the men argue thisquestion of the weather.

  Down at the Corners old farmers had wrangled over the identity ofthe equinoctial ever since I could remember. It was pretty generallyagreed that each year along some time during the fall, there came astorm which was properly entitled to that name, but at this pointharmony ended. Some insisted that it came before Indian Summer, somethat it followed that season, and this was further complicated by thefact that no one was ever quite sure when it _was_ Indian Summer.There were all sorts of rules for recognizing this delectable timeof year, rules connected, I recall, with the opening of the chestnutburrs, the movement of birds, and various other incidents in nature'sgreat processional, but these rules rarely came right in our roughlatitude, and sometimes never came at all--at least did not bring withthem anything remotely resembling Indian Summer, but made our autumnone prolonged and miserable succession of storms. And then it was anespecially trying trick to pick out the equinoctial from the lot--andeven harder still to prove to sceptical neighbors that you were right.

  Whatever this particular storm may have been it came too soon. Being soshort-handed on the farm, we were much behind in the matter of drawingour produce to market. And now, after the first day or two of rain, theroads were things to shudder at. It was not so bad getting to and fromthe Corners, for Agrippa Hill had a gravel formation, but beyond theCorners, whichever way one went over the bottom lands of the NedahmaValley, it was a matter of lashing the panting teams through seas ofmud punctuated by abyssmal pitch-holes, into which the wheels slumpedover their hubs, and quite generally stuck till they were pried outwith fence-rails.

  Abner Beech was exceptionally tender in his treatment of live-stock.The only occasion I ever heard of on which he was tempted into usinghis big fists upon a fellow-creature, was once, long before my time,when one of his hired men struck a refractory cow over its hauncheswith a shovel. He knocked this man clear through the stanchions. OftenJeff and I used to feel that he carried his solicitude for horse-fleshtoo far--particularly when we wanted to drive down to the creek for asummer evening swim, and he thought the teams were too tired.

  So now he would not let us hitch up and drive into Octavius with eventhe lightest loads, on account of the horses. It would be better towait, he said, until there was sledding; then we could slip in in notime. He pretended that all the signs this year pointed to an earlywinter.

  The result was that we were more than ever shut off from news of theouter world. The weekly paper which came to us was full, I remember, ofpolitical arguments and speeches--for a Congress and Governor were to beelected a few weeks hence--but there were next to no tidings from thefront. The war, in fact, seemed to have almost stopped altogether, andthis paper spoke of it as a confessed failure. Farmer Beech and Hurley,of course, took the same view, and their remarks quite prepared me fromday to day to hear that peace had been concluded.

  But down at the Corners a strikingly different spirit reigned. It quitesurprised me, I know, when I went down on occasion for odds and endsof groceries which the bad roads prevented us from getting in town, todiscover that the talk there was all in favor of having a great dealmore war than ever.

  This store at the Corners was also the post-office, and, more importantstill, it served as a general rallying place for the men-folks of theneighborhood after supper. Lee Watkins, who kept it, would rather havemissed a meal of victuals any day than not to have had the "boys" comein of an evening, and sit or lounge around discussing the situation.Many of them were very old boys now, garrulous seniors who remembered"Matty" Van Buren, as they called him, and told weird stories of theAnti-Masonry days. These had the well-worn arm-chairs nearest thestove, in cold weather, and spat tobacco-juice on its hottest partswith a precision born of longtime experience. The younger fellowsaccommodated themselves about the outer circle, squatting on boxes,or with one leg over a barrel, sampling the sugar and crackers andraisins in an absent-minded way each evening, till Mrs. Watkins cameout and put the covers on. She was a stout, peevish woman in bloomers,and they said that her husband, Lee, couldn't have run the post-officefor twenty-four hours if it hadn't been for her. We understood thatshe was a Woman's Rights' woman, which some held was much the same asbelieving in Free Love. All that was certain, however, was that she didnot believe in free lunches out of her husband's barrels and cases.

  The chief flaw in this village parliament was the absence of anopposition. Among all the accustomed assemblage of men who sat about,their hats well back on their heads, their mouths full of stronglanguage and tobacco, there was none to disagree upon any essentialfeature of the situation with the others. To secure even the merestsemblance of variety, those whose instincts were cross-grained had togo out of their way to pick up trifling points of difference, and thearguments over these had to be spun out with the greatest possiblecare, to be kept going at all. I should fancy, however, that thisapparent concord only served to keep before their minds, with addedpersistency, the fact that there _was_ an opposition, nursing itsheretical wrath in solitude up on the Beech farm. At all events, Iseemed never to go into the grocery of a night without hearing bitterremarks, or even curses, levelled at our household.

  It was from these casual visits--standing about on the outskirts of thegathering, beyond the feeble ring of light thrown out by the kerosenelamp on the counter--that I learned how deeply the Corners were opposedto peace. It appeared from the talk here that there was something verylike treason at the front. The victory at Antietam--so dearly boughtwith the blood of our own people--had been, they said, of worse thanno use at all. The defeated Rebels had been allowed to take their owntime in crossing the Potomac comfortably. They had not been pursuedor molested since, and the Corners could only account for this on thetheory of treachery at Union headquarters. Some only hinted guardedlyat this. Others declared openly that the North was being sold out byits own generals. As for old "Jee" Hagadorn, who came in almost everynight, and monopolized the talking all the while he was present, hemade no bones of denouncing McClellan and Porter as traitors who mustbe hanged.

  He comes before me as I write--his thin form quivering with excitement,the red stubbly hair standing up all round his drawn and livid face,his knuckles rapping out one fierce point after another on thecandle-box, as he filled the hot little room with angry declamation."Go it Jee!" "Give 'em Hell!" "Hangin's too good for 'em!" his auditorsused to exclaim in encouragement, whenever he paused for breath, andthen he would start off again still more furiously, till he had to gaspafter every word, and screamed "Lin-coln-ah!" "Lee-ah!" "Antietam-ah!"and so on, into our perturbed ears. Then I would go home, recalling howhe had formerly shouted about "Adam-ah!" and "Eve-ah!" in church, andmarvelling that he had never worked himself into a fit, or broken ablood-vessel.

  So between what Abner and Hurley said on the farm, and what wasproclaimed at the Corners, it was pretty hard to figure out whether thewar was going to stop, or go on much worse than ever.

  Things were still in this doubtful state, when election Tuesdaycame round. I had not known or thought about it, until, at thebreakfast-table Abner said that he guessed he and Hurley would go downand vote before dinner. He had some
days before secured a package ofballots from the organization of his party at Octavius, and these henow took from one of the bookcase drawers, and divided between himselfand Hurley.

  "They won't be much use, I dessay, peddlin' 'em at the polls," he said,with a grim momentary smile, "but, by the Eternal, we'll vote 'em!"

  "As many of 'em as they'll be allowin' us," added Hurley, in chucklingqualification.

  They were very pretty tickets in those days, with marbled and plaidedbacks in brilliant colors, and spreading eagles in front, over theprinted captions. In other years I had shared with the urchins ofthe neighborhood the excitement of scrambling for a share of theseballots, after they had been counted, and tossed out of the boxes. Theconditions did not seem to be favorable for a repetition of that thisyear, and apparently this occurred to Abner, for of his own accordhe handed me over some dozen of the little packets, each tied with athread, and labelled, "State," "Congressional," "Judiciary," and thelike. He, moreover, consented--the morning chores being out of theway--that I should accompany them to the Corners. The ground had frozenstiff overnight, and the road lay in hard uncompromising ridges betweenthe tracks of yesterday's wheels. The two men swung along down the hillahead of me, with resolute strides and their heads proudly thrown back,as if they had been going into battle. I shuffled on behind in my newboots, also much excited. The day was cold and raw.

  The polls were fixed up in a little building next to the post-office--aone-story frame structure where Lee Watkins kept his bobsleigh and oilbarrels, as a rule. These had been cleared out into the yard, and atable and some chairs put in in their place. A pane of glass had beentaken out of the window. Through this aperture the voters, each inhis turn, passed their ballots, to be placed by the inspectors in theseveral boxes ranged along the window-sill inside. A dozen or more men,mainly in army overcoats, stood about on the sidewalk or in the roadoutside, stamping their feet for warmth, and slapping their shoulderswith their hands, between the fingers of which they held little packetsof tickets like mine--that is to say, they were like mine in form andbrilliancy of color, but I knew well enough that there the resemblanceended abruptly. A yard or so from the window two posts had been driveninto the ground, with a board nailed across to prevent undue crowding.

  Abner and Hurley marched up to the polls without a word to anyone, orany sign of recognition from the bystanders. Their appearance, however,visibly awakened the interest of the Corners, and several young fellowswho were standing on the grocery steps sauntered over in their waketo see what was going on. These, with the ticket-peddlers, crowded upclose to the window now, behind our two men.

  "Abner Beech!" called the farmer through the open pane, in a defiantvoice. Standing on tiptoe, I could just see the heads of some meninside, apparently looking through the election books. No questionswere asked, and in a minute or so Abner had voted and stood aside alittle, to make room for his companion.

  "Timothy Joseph Hurley!" shouted our hired man, standing on his toes tomake himself taller, and squaring his weazened shoulders.

  "Got your naturalization papers?" came out a sharp, gruff inquirythrough the window-sash.

  "That I have!" said the Irishman, wagging his head in satisfactionat having foreseen this trick, and winking blandly into the wall ofstolid, hostile faces encircling him. "That I have!"

  He drew forth an old and crumpled envelope, from his breast-pocket, andextracted some papers from its ragged folds which he passed throughto the inspector. The latter just cast his eye over the documents andhanded them back.

  "Them ain't no good!" he said, curtly.

  "What's that you're saying?" cried the Irishman. "Sure I've voted onthim same papers every year since 1856, an' niver a man gainsaid me. Nogood, is it? Huh!"

  "Why ain't they no good?" boomed in Abner Beech's deep, angry voice. Hehad moved back to the window.

  "Because they ain't, that's enough!" returned the inspector. "Don'tblock up the window, there! Others want to vote!"

  "I'll have the law on yez!" shouted Hurley. "I'll swear me vote in!I'll--I'll--"

  "Aw, shut up, you Mick!" someone called out close by, and then thererose another voice farther back in the group: "Don't let him vote! OneCopperhead's enough in Agrippa!"

  "I'll have the law--" I heard Hurley begin again, at the top of hisvoice, and Abner roared out something I could not catch. Then as ina flash the whole cluster of men became one confused whirling tangleof arms and legs, sprawling and wrestling on the ground, and fromit rising the repellant sound of blows upon flesh, and a discordantchorus of grunts and curses. Big chunks of icy mud flew through theair, kicked up by the boots of the men as they struggled. I saw thetwo posts with the board weave under the strain, then give way, someof the embattled group tumbling over them as they fell. It was whollyimpossible to guess who was who in this writhing and tossing mass offighters. I danced up and down in a frenzy of excitement, watching thiswild spectacle, and, so I was told years afterward, screaming with allmy might and main.

  Then all at once there was a mighty upheaval, and a big manhalf-scrambled, half-hurled himself to his feet. It was Abner, whohad wrenched one of the posts bodily from under the others, and swungit now high in air. Some one clutched it, and for the moment stayedits descent, yelling, meanwhile, "Look out! Look out!" as though lifeitself depended on the volume of his voice.

  The ground cleared itself as if by magic. On the instant there was onlyAbner standing there with the post in his hands, and little Hurleybeside him, the lower part of his face covered with blood, and hiscoat torn half from his back. The others had drawn off, and formeda semicircle just out of reach of the stake, like farm-dogs round awounded bear at bay. Two or three of them had blood about their headsand necks.

  There were cries of "Kill him!" and it was said afterward that RoselleUpman drew a pistol, but if he did others dissuaded him from using it.Abner stood with his back to the building, breathing hard, and a gooddeal covered with mud, but eyeing the crowd with a masterful ferocity,and from time to time shifting his hands to get a new grip on thattremendous weapon of his. He said not a word.

  The Irishman, after a moment's hesitation, wiped some of the blood fromhis mouth and jaw, and turned to the window again. "Timothy JosephHurley!" he shouted in, defiantly.

  This time another inspector came to the front--the owner of the tanyardover on the Dutch road, and a man of importance in the district.Evidently there had been a discussion inside.

  "We will take your vote if you want to swear it in," he said, in apacific tone, and though there were some dissenting cries from thecrowd without, he read the oath, and Hurley mumbled it after him.

  Then, with some difficulty, he sorted out from his pocket some torn andmud-stained packets of tickets, picked the cleanest out from each, andvoted them--all with a fine air of unconcern.

  Abner Beech marched out behind him now with a resolute clutch on thestake. The crowd made reluctant way for them, not without a good manytruculent remarks, but with no offer of actual violence. Some of themore boisterous ones, led by Roselle Upman, were for following them,and renewing the encounter beyond the Corners. But this, too, came tonothing, and when I at last ventured to cross the road and join Abnerand Hurley, even the cries of "Copperhead" had died away.

  The sun had come out, and the frosty ruts had softened to stickiness.The men's heavy boots picked up whole sections of plastic earth as theywalked in the middle of the road up the hill.

  "What's the matter with your mouth?" asked Abner at last, casting asidelong glance at his companion. "It's be'n a-bleedin'."

  Hurley passed an investigating hand carefully over the lower part ofhis face, looked at his reddened fingers, and laughed aloud.

  "I'd a fine grand bite at the ear of one of them," he said, inexplanation. "'Tis no blood o' mine."

  Abner knitted his brows. "That ain't the way we fight in this country,"he said, in tones of displeasure. "Bitin' men's ears ain't no civilizedway of behavin'."

  "'Twas not much of a day for civilizati
on," remarked Hurley, lightly;and there was no further conversation on our homeward tramp.