The Copperhead

by Harold Frederic

  CHAPTER XI

  THE CONQUEST OF ABNER

  Some time during the night, I was awakened by the mice frisking throughthe hay about my ears. My head was aching again, and I could not getback into sleep. Besides, Hurley was snoring mercilessly.

  We two had chosen for our resting-place the little mow of half a loador so, which had not been stowed away above, but lay ready for presentuse over by the side-door opening on the cow-yard. Temporary beds hadbeen spread for the women with fresh straw and blankets at the furtherend of the central threshing-floor. Abner himself had taken one of therescued ticks and a quilt over to the other end, and stretched hisponderous length out across the big doors, with the gun by his side. Noone had, of course, dreamed of undressing.

  Only a few minutes of wakefulness sufficed to throw me into a desperatestate of fidgets. The hay seemed full of strange creeping noises. Thewhole big barn echoed with the boisterous ticking of the old eight-dayclock which had been saved from the wreck of the kitchen, and whichM'rye had set going again on the seat of the democrat wagon. And thenHurley!

  I began to be convinced, now, that I was coming down with a great spellof sickness--perhaps even "the fever." Yes, it undoubtedly was thefever. I could feel it in my bones, which now started up queer pricklysensations on novel lines, quite as if they were somebody else's bonesinstead. My breathing, indeed, left a good deal to be desired from thetrue fever standpoint. It was not nearly so rapid or convulsive as Iunderstood that the breathing of a genuine fever victim ought to be.But that, no doubt, would come soon enough--nay! was it not alreadycoming? I thought, upon examination, that I did breathe more swiftlythan before. And oh! that Hurley!

  As noiselessly as possible I made my way, half-rolling, half-sliding,off the hay, and got on my feet on the floor. It was pitch dark, but Icould feel along the old disused stanchion-row to the corner; thenceit was plain sailing over to where Abner was sleeping by the big frontdoors. I would not dream of rousing him if he was in truth asleep, butit would be something to be nigh him, in case the fever should take afatal turn before morning. I would just cuddle down on the floor nearto him, and await events.

  When I had turned the corner, it surprised me greatly to see aheadof me, over at the front of the barn, the reflection of a light.Creeping along toward it, I came out upon Abner, seated with his backagainst one of the doors, looking over an account-book by the aid ofa lantern perched on a box at his side. He had stood the frame of anold bobsleigh on end close by, and hung a horse-blanket over it, sothat the light might not disturb the women-folk at the other end of thebarn. The gun lay on the floor beside him.

  He looked up at my approach, and regarded me with something, I fancied,of disapprobation in his habitually grave expression.

  "Well, old seventy-six, what's the matter with you?" he asked, keepinghis voice down to make as little noise as possible.

  I answered in the same cautious tones that I was feeling bad. Had anyencouragement suggested itself in the farmer's mien, I was prepared tooverwhelm him with a relation of my symptoms in detail. But he shookhis head instead.

  "You'll have to wait till morning, to be sick," he said--"that is, toget 'tended to. I don't know anything about such things, an' I wouldn'twake M'rye up now for a whole baker's dozen o' you chaps." Seeing myface fall at this sweeping declaration, he proceeded to modify itin a kindlier tone. "Now you just lay down again, sonny," he added,"an' you'll be to sleep in no time, an' in the morning M'rye'll fixup something for ye. This ain't no fit time for white folks to bebelly-achin' around."

  "I kind o' thought I'd feel better if I was sleeping over here nearyou," I ventured now to explain, and his nod was my warrant fortiptoeing across to the heap of disorganized furniture, and getting outsome blankets and a comforter, which I arranged in the corner a fewyards away and simply rolled myself up in, with my face turned awayfrom the light. It was better over here than with Hurley, and thoughthat prompt sleep which the farmer had promised did not come, I atleast was drowsily conscious of an improved physical condition.

  Perhaps I drifted off more than half-way into dreamland, for it waswith a start that all at once I heard someone close by talking withAbner.

  "I saw you were up, Mr. Beech"--it was Esther Hagadorn who spoke--"and Idon't seem able to sleep, and I thought, if you didn't mind, I'd comeover here."

  "Why, of course," the farmer responded. "Just bring up a chair there,an' sit down. That's it--wrap the shawl around you good. It's a coldnight--snowin' hard outside."

  Both had spoken in muffled tones, so as not to disturb the others. Thissame dominant notion of keeping still deterred me from turning over,in order to be able to see them. I expected to hear them discuss myillness, but they never referred to it. Instead, there was what seemeda long silence. Then the school-ma'am spoke.

  "I can't begin to tell you," she said, "how glad I am that you andyour wife aren't a bit cast down by the--the calamity."

  "No," came back Abner's voice, buoyant even in its half-whisper,"we're all right. I've be'n sort o' figurin' up here, an' they ain'tmuch real harm done. I'm insured pretty well. Of course, this bein'obleeged to camp out in a hay-barn might be improved on, but then it'sa change--somethin' out o' the ordinary rut--an' it'll do us good. I'llhave the carpenters over from Juno Mills in the forenoon, an' if theypush things, we can have a roof over us again before Christmas. Itcould be done even sooner, p'raps, only they ain't any neighbors tohelp _me_ with a raisin' bee. They're willin' enough to burn my housedown, though. However, I don't want them not an atom more'n they wantme."

  There was no trace of anger in his voice. He spoke like onecontemplating the unalterable conditions of life.

  "Did they really, do you believe, _set_ it on fire?" Esther asked,intently.

  "No, _I_ think it caught from that fool-fire they started aroundback of the house, to heat their fool tar by. The wind was blowinga regular gale, you know. Janey Wilcox, she will have it that thatRoselle Upman set it on purpose. But then, she don't like him--an' Ican't blame her much, for that matter. Once Otis Barnum was seein'her home from singin' school, an' when he was goin' back alone thisRoselle Upman waylaid him in the dark, an' pitched onto him, an'broke his collar-bone. I always thought it puffed Janey up some, thisbein' fought over like that, but it made her mad to have Otis hurton her account, an' then nothing come of it. I wouldn't a' mindedpepperin' Roselle's legs a trifle, if I'd had a barrel loaded, say,with birdshot. He's a nuisance to the whole neighborhood. He kicks upa fight at every dance he goes to, all winter long, an' hangs aroundthe taverns day in an' day out, inducin' young men to drink an' loaf. Ithought a fellow like him 'd be sure to go off to the war, an' so goodriddance; but no! darned if the coward don't go an' get his front teethpulled, so 't he can't bite ca'tridges, an' jest stay around, a worsenuisance than ever! I'd half forgive that miserable war if it--only tookoff the--the right men."

  "Mr. Beech," said Esther, in low fervent tones, measuring each word asit fell, "you and I, we must forgive that war together!"

  I seemed to feel the farmer shaking his head. He said nothing in reply.

  "I'm beginning to understand how you've felt about it all along," thegirl went on, after a pause. "I knew the fault must be in my ignorance,that our opinions of plain right and plain wrong should be such polesapart. I got a school-friend of mine, whose father is your way ofthinking, to send me all the papers that came to their house, and I'vebeen going through them religiously--whenever I could be quite alone. Idon't say I don't think you're wrong, because I _do_, but I am gettingto understand how you should believe yourself to be right."

  She paused as if expecting a reply, but Abner only said, "Go on," aftersome hesitation, and she went on:

  "Now take the neighbors all about here--"

  "Excuse _me_!" broke in the farmer. "I guess if it's all the same toyou, I'd rather not. They're too rich for my blood."

  "Take these very neighbors," pursued Esther, with gentledetermination. "Something must be very wrong indeed when they behaveto yo
u the way they do. Why I know that even now, right down in theirhearts, they recognize that you're far and away the best man inAgrippa. Why, I remember, Mr. Beech, when I first applied, and you wereschool-commissioner, and you sat there through the examination--why,you were the only one whose opinion I gave a rap for. When you praisedme, why, I was prouder of it than if you had been a Regent of theUniversity. And I tell you, everybody all around here feels at bottomjust as I do."

  "They take a dummed curious way o' showin' it, then," commented Abner,roundly.

  "It isn't _that_ they're trying to show at all," said Esther. "Theyfeel that other things are more important. They're all wrought up overthe war. How could it be otherwise when almost everyone of them hasgot a brother, or a father, or--or--_a son_--down there in the South, andevery day brings news that some of these have been shot dead, and morestill wounded and crippled, and others--_others_, that God only knows_what_ has become of them--oh, how can they help feeling that way? Idon't know that I ought to say it--" the school-ma'am stopped to catchher breath, and hesitated, then went on--"but yes, you'll understandme _now_--there was a time here, not so long ago, Mr. Beech, when Idownright hated you--you and M'rye both!"

  This was important enough to turn over for. I flopped asunostentatiously as possible, and neither of them gave any signof having noted my presence. The farmer sat with his back againstthe door, the quilt drawn up to his waist, his head bent in silentmeditation. His whole profile was in deep shadow from where Ilay--darkly massive and powerful and solemn. Esther was watching himwith all her eyes, leaning forward from her chair, the lantern-lightfull upon her eager face.

  "M'rye an' I don't lay ourselves out to be specially bad folks, asfolks go," the farmer said at last, by way of deprecation. "We've gotour faults, of course, like the rest, but--"

  "No," interrupted Esther, with a half-tearful smile in her eyes. "Youonly pretend to have faults. You really haven't got any at all."

  The shadowed outline of Abner's face softened. "Why, that _is_ a faultitself, ain't it?" he said, as if pleased with his logical acuteness.

  The crowing of some foolish rooster, grown tired of waiting for thebelated November daylight, fell upon the silence from one of thebuildings near by.

  Abner Beech rose to his feet with ponderous slowness, pushing thebedclothes aside with his boot, and stood beside Esther's chair. Helaid his big hand on her shoulder with a patriarchal gesture.

  "Come now," he said, gently, "you go back to bed, like a good girl, an'get some sleep. It'll be all right."

  The girl rose in turn, bearing her shoulder so that the fatherly handmight still remain upon it. "Truly?" she asked, with a new light uponher pale face.

  "Yes--truly!" Abner replied, gravely nodding his head.

  Esther took the hand from her shoulder, and shook it in both of hers."Good-night again, then," she said, and turned to go.

  Suddenly there resounded the loud rapping of a stick on the barn-door,close by my head.

  Abner squared his huge shoulders and threw a downright glance at thegun on the floor.

  "Well?" he called out.

  "_Is my da'ater inside there?_"

  We all knew that thin, high-pitched, querulous voice. It was old "Jee"Hagadorn who was outside.