CHAPTER V
"THE POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE"
The shifting scenes in the panorama of the opening war brought about the day of departure. The company to which Tom Waters belonged was to leave on an afternoon train for Columbus, and Dorbury was alert to see them off; friend and foe swayed by the same excitement. The town took on the appearance and spirit of a gala day. The streets were full of sight-seers, pedestrians, riders and drivers, for the event had brought in the farmers from surrounding townships. Here and there, the blue of a uniform showed among the crowd and some soldier made his way proudly, the centre of an admiring crowd. A troop of little boys fired by the enthusiasm of their elders marched to and fro to the doubtful tune of a shrill fife and an asthmatic drum. People who lived a long distance away, and who consequently had been compelled to start long before sunrise, now lolled lazily around, munching ginger-bread, or sat more decorously in the public square, eating their delayed breakfasts.
About the barracks, which were the quarters of the militia, was gathered a heterogeneous crowd. Within, there was the sound of steady tramping, as the sentinels moved back and forth over their beats. Their brothers without, were doing a more practical duty, for it took all the bravery of their bristling bayonets to keep back the curious. There was a stir among them like the rippling of the sea by the wind when a young man in the uniform of a private of the Light Guards hastened up and elbowed his way towards the door. There was a buzz, a single shout, and then a burst of cheers, as the young man, flushed and hot, leaped up the stops and entered the door. Some who had been his enemies were in the crowd; some who had laid violent hands on him only a few days before, but they were all his friends now. It was Walter Stewart. He had followed the leadings of his own mind and stayed with his company; but somehow the applause of these people who were all his father's enemies, was very bitter to him.
After Stewart, came a figure that elicited a shout from the throng, and a burst of laughter. It was the town crier, Negro Ed, who was to go as servant to the militia captain, Horace Miller.
"Hi, Ed," called one, "ain't you afraid they'll got you and make you a slave?" and "Don't forget to stop at Dorbury when you get to running!"
Ed was usually good-natured, and met such sallies with a grin, but a new cap and a soldier's belt had had their effect on him, and he marched among his deriders, very stern, dignified and erect, as if the arduous duties of the camp were already telling upon him. The only reply he vouchsafed was "Nemmine, you people, nemmine. You got to git somebody else to ring yo' ol' bell now." The crowd laughed. There came a time when they wept at thought of that black buffoon; the town nigger, the town drunkard, when in the hospital and by deathbeds his touch was as the touch of a mother; when over a blood-swept field, he bore a woman's dearest and nursed him back to a broken life. But no more of that. The telling of it must be left to a time when he who says aught of a negro's virtues will not be cried down as an advocate drunk with prejudice.
To the listeners outside the barracks came the noise of grounding arms, and the talk of men relieved from duty. They were to go to their homes until time to form in the afternoon. The authorities were considerate. If men must go to war, good-byes must be said, women must weep and children cling to their fathers. The last sad meal must be taken. The net of speculation must be thrown out to catch whatever motes of doubt the wind of war may blow, and the questions must fly, "Will he come back? Shall I see him again?"
Yes, women must weep. In spite of all the glory of war they will cling to the neck of the departing husband, brother or son. Poor foolish creatures; they have no eye then for the brave array, the prancing charger and the gleaming arms. They have no ear for the inspiring fife and drum.
The men were soberer than they had yet been when they filed out of the barracks. At last, the reality of things was coming home to them. It was all very well, this drilling on the common in the eyes of the town, but now for the result of their drills.
Midway among them came Tom and Walter side by side, lieutenant and private; they had not yet come to feel the difference in their positions.
"Well, we'll be on the way in a few hours," said Walter as they passed out beyond the borders of the crowd, "and I'm glad of it."
"I'm glad, too, now that we're in it, Walt, and I'm glad to be in it myself. But it means a whole lot, doesn't it?"
"Of course, you're leaving your family," replied Walter tentatively.
"More than that."
Both young men smiled, Walter a little bit sheepishly. He had been Tom's rival for Nannie Wood's affections, and had taken defeat at his hands.
"Oh," pursued Tom, "if the fight is going to be as short as many people think, a more brush, in fact, we shan't be gone long— but———"
"The people who think this is going to be a mere brush don't know the temper of the South."
"I believe you. There'll be a good many of us who won't come back."
"Oh, well, it's one time or another," and Walter smiled again as they came to the corner, and Tom turned up the street towards Nannie's house. "So long."
"So long, until this afternoon," and then the young lieutenant found himself staring straight into the eyes of Robert Van Doren. For a moment the feeling of antagonism which had shown in his conversation with Mary, surged over him, but in the next, he remembered his promise. He held out his hand.
"Hello, Bob," he said, "I guess it's hello and good-bye together."
Bob grasped his hand warmly. "Well, I reckon nobody'll be gladder to say how-dye-do to you again than I, Tom. Good luck."
"Thanks, Bob."
"Give my regards to Mary."
"I will." Tom started on. Suddenly he turned and found Van Doren watching him with a strange expression on his face. He went back and impulsively seized the other's hand. "Say, Bob, what's what?"
The blood went out of Van Doren's face. "God knows," he said in a pained voice, "that's just what I've been asking myself, and I don't know yet, Tom."
The young man paused ashamed of this show of feeling, then he said, "Well, anyway, Bob, good luck," and they went their ways.
In his heart, Tom believed that Robert Van Doren would eventually go to the Confederacy, and he resented what to him seemed flagrant disloyalty. Ohio was Van Doren's adopted home, and a tender mother she had been to him. Out of her bounty she had given him well. Now to go over to her enemies! The fight in Tom's mind as to his manner of meeting Van Doren had been brief but sharp. The result was less the outcome of generosity than the result of a subtle selfishness. It was, as all putting one's self in another's place is, the sacrifice which we make to the gods of our own desires, the concession we make to our weakness. He forgave Robert, not because Mary loved and was about to lose him, but because he, himself, loved Nannie, and for a time, at least, was about to lose her. The grasp which he gave Bob's hand meant pity for himself as well as for his sister.
There was a flash of pride on Nannie's face, though tears stood in her eyes as she saw her lover approaching. She had boon expecting him and was at the gate. The soft April sunshine was playing on her gold-brown hair, and in her simple pink dimity gown she looked akin to the morning glories that blossomed about her. She opened the gate and took the young man's hand, and together they passed around the side of the house, to a rustic bench among the verbenas and sweetwilliams.
There was a simplicity and frankness about Nannie's love that was almost primitive. It was so natural, so spontaneous, so unashamed. It looked you as squarely in the face as did her coquetry. But there was no sign of coquetry now. Gone were all her whims and quips, her airs and graces. There had come into her life the transmuting element that suddenly makes a maid a woman.
For a time the two sat in silence on her flower-surrounded bench. Tom, afraid to trust his voice, and Nannie finding a certain satisfaction in merely pressing the hand she held.
Finally, he broke silence. "Well, the time is about here, Nannie."
"Yes," she replied, drawing his hand closer and caressing it, "you— you're glad, of course?"
"Glad? Well, that's a hard question. I'm glad, of course, but— but"—he struggled to grasp the elusive idea that was floating in his brain—"but there is more than one kind of being glad. I am glad, to be sure, as a citizen, and I'm sorry as a man———"
"You're sorry because———"
"You know why, little girl, I'm sorry to leave you. I'm sorry to take any chance of never being able to call you wife. It may be cowardly, but at such a time, the thought is forced irresistibly upon a man."
"It isn't cowardly, Tom, it isn't. It's manly, I know it is, because you're thinking about me. Oh, but I shall miss you when you are gone. But I'll pray for you, and I'll try to be as brave up here as you are down there. You are wrong, Tom, you are very brave, braver than the men who do not think to sorrow for the women, but go rushing into this war with a blind enthusiasm that will not let them feel. You're brave, you're brave, and I'm going to be, but I can't help it!" He caught her in his arms, and strained the weeping face to his breast.
"Darling, darling, my brave little girl, don't cry." A man is so helpless, so wordless in these times. He can do nothing but stammer and exclaim and lavish caresses.
After the first gust of weeping was over, she raised her tear-stained face, and said with a rainy smile, "I want you to understand, Tom, I'm not crying all for grief. It's just as much pride as it is sorrow. Oh, I've been spoiling your uniform." There was somewhat of a return of her old coquetry of manner, and her lover was unspeakably cheered. He had felt in that brief moment of passion as he had never felt before; how near the ocean of tears lay to the outer air and how strong was their surge against the barriers of manhood. But her change of manner gave him the courage to say the tender good-bye—the fare-well too sacred to be spied upon. Ah, how his heart ached within him. How his throat swelled, and she smiled and smiled, though her eyes grew moist again. And he went on inspired by the heroism of a woman's smile, the smile she gives even when she sends her dear ones forth to face death.
He bade good-bye to Nannie's family, and went home to a sad meal and a repetition of his leave-takings.
The sister hardly succeeded as well as the sweetheart in hiding her emotions. Her heart was already heavy, and she wept, not only at the fear of death, but with the pain of love. At the very last, when he was going to take his place in the ranks, she broke down, and clung sobbing to her brother. Tom gulped, and the father, wringing his son's hands, took away her arms and comforted her as best he could. His eyes were bright and hard with the stress of the fight he was having with his feelings, but his voice was firm. Bradford Waters showed the mettle of his pasture. A New Englander, born and reared in that section of the country which has produced the most and the least emotional people, men the most conservative and the most radical; the wisest philosophers and the wildest fanatics, he did not disgrace his breeding.
It was easier for Tom, when he was once more in the ranks. Then he felt again the infectious spirit of enthusiasm which swayed his comrades. His heart beat with the drums. He heard the people cheering as they went down the street. Handkerchiefs were waving from windows and balconies, and there was a following that half walked, half trotted to keep up with the swinging stride of the soldiers. The train that was to bear them away stood puffing in the station. They crowded on. Here and there, a man dropped into his seat and buried his head in his hands, but most of the heads were out of the windows nodding good-byes. There was an air of forced gayety over it all. Young fellows with flushed cheeks laughed hard laughs, and bit their lips the moment after. It was as if no one wanted to think and yet thought would come. Children were held up to be kissed, their mothers weoping openly as is a mother's right. Fathers would start a reassuring sentence, and suddenly break off to laugh brokenly, short skeleton laughs that were sadder than tears. Then the bell gave warning and with a last rousing shout, they were off for the state capital and the chances of war.
Tom caught the last glimpse of the family and Nannie as they stood together on the platform. They wore waving to him and he waved back. Nannie and Mary stood with clasped hands watching the long line of cars. On the former's face there was sorrow and pride; sorrow for her lover, pride for her soldier; but with the latter was only grief, for she could not be thoroughly loyal to her brother without feeling disloyalty to her lover. Bradford Waters walked with the crowd, but the two girls stood still, until they heard the train whistle and slacken speed as it crossed the railroad bridge, then they turned and walked back to the town. A few moments before the place had been all movement and life; now it was left to silence and tears.