War; or, What happens when one loves one's enemy/Chapter 12
XII
DAVE'S BUSINESS
STRANGE things happen in war—like I said—especially when one lives so close to it. And so, funny people kept coming and going, asking funny questions. At last Evelyn said, kind of shivery, she'd better see 'em, they'd be polite to her—so's to keep me from breaking the commandments all to pieces—just in fun, of course. And so she did—mostly getting rid of them easy. Soldiers were passing all the time, and stopping to water their horses and fill their haversacks and ask questions, and not always Union soldiers. Only the Unions rode in the daytime and the others rode mostly at night.
But one day a squad of Union cavalry rode up and pounded on the door with their carbines—not even bothering to water the horses at the trough! Evelyn was "in town," as she said, where she'd been going often of late—sighing and dragging herself off. Jon was fishing. I answered the door.
"Can't you wait a minute?" yells I, from the up-stairs. "Don't break in the door. There's not much of it left, so many of yous come pounding on it. I ain't no Knight, or sympathizer, or spy."
"What's your name?" asks the lieutenant as soon as I got the door open.
I'd got used to answering that, so I says, as sharp as he:
"Stephen Vonner."
The lieutenant turns and nods to his men.
"He's telling the truth, boys, anyhow!"
He was the same man that had asked our names at Crider's.
"How many in your family?"
"Three," says I.
"Men or women?"
"Men."
"No children or ladies?" he asks savage.
"Betsy, the cook," says I, "but she's no lady. Hired. Anyhow, ladies don't count."
"Let us see her," commands the officer.
I calls her and Betsy comes. She's so fat I have to step aside so she can get through the door. They all laughs and the officer says:
"Betsy, go back to your cooking."
"And next, you'll be asking for pies!" says Betsy, wheeling so sudden she almost knocked me over.
"Ah! Wait!" calls the officer. "You, yourself, have sealed their doom, Betsy. We haven't time to stop for the dinner you are cooking. But—pies!"
He opens his haversack and shows that it is empty. And, at a motion from him, his men do the same.
"Betsy," he goes on, "these brave fellows are fighting for you—that you may stay here—and bake pies—for, I can see in one look, that you are Union. Now, Betsy, what do you think?" He points to the empty haversacks.
Says Betsy:
"I always keep something on hand for them—" she points to the haversacks too!—"ever since the war began!"
And Betsy filled them while they all clapped their hands, like at theaters. Doughnuts, pies, tied between tin plates so's they wouldn't get broke, bread wrapped in napkins, sweet cakes, coffee in little tin boxes, flour in bags, and even jam in sardine boxes! That s the kind of Union old Betsy was!
The soldiers took off their hats.
"Betsy," says the lieutenant, "it's such as you that's going to save the Union. You're worth a regiment of fighting men. You know, an army moves upon its belly. And you provide the belly. Boys, three cheers for Betsy!"
And they gave 'em, while Betsy wipes her eyes.
"I do my share, Lieutenant," says Betsy, "and a little more, because some others on the border don't!"
The officer got back to business right straight.
"What do you mean?" he asks, in that sharp way.
"The border's honeycombed with spies and sympathizers," says Betsy.
"Who? You know some of them!" says the officer.
Betsy says:
"No, I don't know any of 'em, but I know their doings. Ain't the church nailed shut? Where'll I go on Sunday now?"
Betsy goes away, and the officer looks thoughtful for a moment. Then he says to another officer:
"Betsy's loyal—that's certain."
They laugh together.
"Any others in your household?" asks the officer.
"One more," says I, "but she's only a girl and, anyhow, she's gone away."
"When did she go?"
Well, I didn't want 'em riding after Evelyn and bothering her—scaring her to death with questions—so, I answers:
"Oh, some time ago. I don't remember just when."
Which was, really, exactly true.
"When do you expect her back?"
I just shakes my head, like I'd say I don't know, but leaving him to read it "Never," if he liked. You just couldn't tell them fellows everything.
"Was she your daughter?"
"Ach, no!" says I, real hearty.
"Any relation?"
"No relation at all," says I. "Just a caller."
"Oh!" says they. "A caller!" and laughs.
Well—that's nearly so. I meant visitor.
"There were only two men in your family a while ago," says the officer to me. "Where—who is the other one?"
"The other one?" I laughs. "Why, Dave, of course."
"Who's Dave?"
"Dave? My boy."
"Where did he come from?"
"Virginia," says I.
"Oh!"
And a whole lot of "ohs" echoed from the men.
"What was his business there?"
"School—he was going to college."
"There are colleges all about you here—Baltimore, Philadelphia, Washington—better ones than any in Virginia. Why was he sent there?"
"Goshens," says I, "that's the first time I ever been asked that question and the first time I ever thought about it. I don't know—oh—I expect it's because all the Vonners which got educated, went to William and Mary College. Mebby that's it. We all do as our fathers done."
"Shrewd!" says the officer to the man behind him, who nods yes.
Well, that's the first—and, be goshens,—the last—time any one ever called me that!
"Sure he has come just now? All Union men left Virginia long ago. Had to."
"Man!" says I, "why he's, why he's just a boy—our baby. He don't know Union from pot-cheese! No, nor rebel, either. And he's been home some time. You don't know the news."
That sort of stopped them for a minute.
"Let us see him," says the officer then.
I turns and yells in the house, funny:
"Little Davy, come out. Some gentlemen wants to see you. I don't want 'em to, but they won't go unless you come toddling out!"
And I laughs to think how they'd be fooled when they saw—my baby.
Well, they was—and not over well pleased to be fooled.
Dave comes loafing to the door in his shirtsleeves, looking bigger than ever. He was reading something—a newspaper scrap—and didn't bother much about the soldiers.
"Baby, eh?" says they, and laughs most as hard as I had. "Very shrewd."
Then the officer says, again to the one behind him:
"What do you make of it? Why were we to think him a child? Too much or too little here?"
He touches his head.
"Too little," nods the officer.
"I don't agree with you. But the boy?"
"Maybe," nods the second in command.
Then the officer says to Dave:
"What were you doing down in Virginia, my little boy?"
"Eating and drinking and sleeping, my tall old man," says Dave. "What are you doing up in Maryland?"
"Trying to find out what you are doing there!"
"Well, go on," says Dave. "I'm sorry for you."
"Why?" asks the officer.
"You don't look like you loved work."
"What's your business?" asks the soldier.
"Loafing," says Dave.
"And how long has that been your business?"
"Ever since," answers Dave.
"And how long is that?"
"Ask daddy, here. He begun it. I was born that way."
"How long have you lived here?"
"Ask daddy," says Dave. "He's got it in a book somewheres, I expect."
If you won't tell me what you were doing down in Virginia, and exactly when you came North, and why, perhaps you'll tell me what you are doing here now?"
"Same thing," says Dave, "as in Virginia."
"Oh!" says the second in command, as if he had found something out, "the same thing! You notice that he says he is doing the same thing up here!"
"Are you doing it alone," asks the officer, "or have you help?"
"Oh! I have a good deal of help. Most every man round who knows what I am doing wants to help."
"You don't say so! Reports made it bad enough, but I didn't think it was that bad. Thank you. Go on."
"My real name, and it's real name, and everything?" says Dave.
"Never mind your name and its name. We know them both. Proceed with the rest."
Then Dave turns to the officer and kicks the boards with his toes, like he's guilty of something.
"I might as well be honest with you," he says, "since you're bound to know."
"That sounds better," nodded the officer to his second. "Go on. You'll not regret telling me."
"I have been doing one thing up here that I didn't do down there," admits Dave.
"Aha!" cries the lieutenant, slapping the sergeant, hearty. "Now we re getting to it. I told you so." To Dave he says, nice and sweet: "Go on. I can not promise you immunity, but I will promise the lightest punishment that the government can inflict."
"Goshens! Does the government punish it?" asks Dave.
"It does, sir. The punishment is death, sir. But, sir, so kind and merciful is our president that any one who confesses and satisfies the president that he will do so no more—ahem!—I think I can promise, at least, that he will not die for it."
"Death?" says Dave. "That's a hard punishment for—"
"Not at all. No, sir, death is the only fit punishment for it."
"What's the matter with marriage?" asks Dave, solemn as an owl.
"Marriage?" says the officer. "No one has mentioned marriage."
"I know better," says Dave. "I have, a lot of times."
"Well, sir? Come, make a clean breast of it and I'll do what I can—"
"What's the use—" says Dave, in a pout—"what's the use—my breast may as well stay dirty—if it's wrong—to be in—"
"Come, come! We are losing time. Campbell will take it down."
Campbell got out some paper and a pencil.
"Now, sir, quickly, and briefly, what was the other thing you did when you came North from Virginia?"
"Fell in love," says Dave, still solemn.
"What? What's that? Campbell, never mind, just yet. Now, then, sir, repeat that and I'll arrest you!" yells the officer.
"Then I won't repeat it," says Dave.
"Do you hear that, Campbell?—he refuses to repeat his confession. Put him under—"
Campbell salutes and says:
"The only thing he has confessed, sir, as far as I can see, is that he has fallen in love."
"Is that so, sir?" thunders the lieutenant.
"That you have confessed nothing but falling in love?"
"That's all," sighs Dave, like he was tired, and winking hard at me.
"Well, sir. I've a great mind to arrest you for that, sir!"
"I'm sorry," says Dave. "I didn't know that I could be arrested for it."
By this time all the soldiers was laughing at the fool-officer. And mad! Phew!
For a minute I didn't know whether he was going to run Dave through the bosom with his sword, or not. Then he slaps the other two on the shoulders, put his sword up, and they all laughs like blazes.
"Constantly looking for treason makes one silly about it, I guess," he says to the others. "I got what I deserve." To Dave he says: "I won't arrest you—just yet. I'm rather inclined to shake your hand. I like a man who gets the better of me—and is in love!"
He held out his hand and Dave takes it. But, as he does so, he exposes the newspaper scrap that he has been reading.
"What have you been reading?" asks the officer. "I may not be so far off, after all."
"Nothing," says Dave, indifferent.
But the officer takes the paper out of his hand.
"Jefferson Davis's speech last week at Chattanooga!" he says. "Why the Confederacy can not fail.
"Excuse me. I was reading the other side," says Dave. "The little rebel girl I'm in love with sent it to me. See? The other side is poetry. Give it back to me."
But the officer put it in his pocket.
"Is this girl Southern?" asks the officer.
"Lord!" says Dave. "The Southernest of the Southern! She's the rebelest rebel yet! If all the rebel soldiers would fight as hard as she does, the war wouldn't last a month!"
"The one we spoke of a while ago?" laughs the officer.
"The same one," answers Dave.
"You are going to marry her?" asks the officer.
"She'll never get away from me!" says Dave. "If I die for it—like you said."
"That's fine," says the officer. "But I suppose it will be some time yet, before you go to Virginia to marry her, Mr.—Mr. Mallory?"
He sprung it on Dave just like on me. But Dave never winked.
"Vonner," says Dave, easy as you like, "Dutch, not Irish."
"Yes? Excuse me," says the officer. "But, if there were such a person hereabouts you would know it, eh?"
"Daddy would," says Dave. "He knows everything, and he'd be sure to tell me. He can't keep no secret, can you, daddy?" and he winks at me, right before them all.
"So I supposed, Mr. Mallory."
Then Dave got mad
"Vonner, I told you. What are you about, anyhow? Suppose you tell us where you came from and what you are and where you are going? Don't think because you're in brass buttons and blue clothes that you own the universe. We see enough uniforms about here not to be scared of 'em."
"And some gray ones, I have no doubt, Mr.—"
"Vonner," says Dave, "for fear you'll forget it again. Yes, lots of gray ones. And, anyhow, they don't bother us as much as the blue ones. They're a heap-sight more polite."
"I believe you, Mr.—"
"Vonner."
"Yes, that's quite natural. Thank you for a pleasant morning. I shall hope to meet you again."
"Not if I see you first," laughs Dave.
"No," nods the officer, "not if you see me first. I'll take care of that! And I'll keep an eye on this love-affair, too. It interests me. I like love-affairs. We shall be sure to meet again, Mr. Mallory," and he laughs and winks, as he rides off. "For you're sure to stay here—now that we know its name and yours."
"There's that Mallory again," says I, when they were gone.
"Where?" says Dave. "If you'll show him to me I'll spoil his face. I suppose he looks like me."
"Is that the reason you want to spoil his face?"
"Yes. I won't have a twin round here where Evelyn is. She might take him for me."
We laughs and slaps each other—just in fun, as any one can see.