War; or, What happens when one loves one's enemy/Chapter 19
XIX
WHAT JONATHAN FOUND TO TAKE HER PLACE
THE whole little town was in the Square, and were as crazy as old Jake. But it wasn't, like his, that they all wanted to fight the rebels. It was just the other way. For the boys had been coming home in rough pine boxes mighty fast of late. They wanted to fight—but not the rebels. Something safer. There was a good deal of bad whisky about just as I told Jon—and more hard talk. A few was for "On to Richmond"—for the others. Some was for shooting Burnside. Others was just crazy to tell what they would do if they was Lincoln or Davis. But I didn't hear a soul who was crazy to enlist. A couple of houses were illuminated to show that they were Union. And it was strange that these were houses where the Union flag in the window was tied with crêpe. Jon said it was mighty brave to do it. Anyhow, the windows was broke in these houses. But most of the dwellings were dark. There were two little newspapers printed in the town, one Union, and one Democrat. The Union office had about a hundred tallow candles burning in the windows.—"Just for spite"—as a card in the window said. And there was a large placard in front with this on it:
WE ARE COMING FATHER
ABRAHAM!—
Not Quite 300,000 More—
But 100 More—
AND RIGHT OUT OF DARKEST
EGYPT!
At "Egypt" there was a hand pointing to the Democrat office.
That was dark, and had some of its windows broken, too, while the mischievous boys in the procession poked their torches through the broken panes and tried to set the place afire. Other rowdy boys were trying to stop them, till the men took part; and at last a crowd with guns and scythes and pitchforks marched down the street and took charge as vigilantes, and said the meeting should go on. And in peace. It was a case of fair play. And so it did.
You could see that the sentiments was changing. It wouldn't have been possible to hold that meeting a little while before. It wasn't easy now. Any one, no matter who, that hung out a Union flag would have been mobbed. And there was no vigilantes then to see fair play. There was only one kind of fair play a little while ago.
In the middle of the Square, Kratz, the editor of the Union paper, got on a box and made a speech:
"Enough men," says he, "has gone out of this neighborhood to make a regiment. But the most of them have gone the wrong way. And there are many more who would go that way if they weren't afraid of powder and lead. That's all that keeps them here eating us up who have hardly enough for ourselves. I'd rather see 'em go. Aren't we drinking parched rye for coffee—and only a little of that? Don't we pay a dollar a pound for musty flour? And glad to get it—when we have the dollar. And it takes two of them now to make one. No one is working, all are fighting. But the secessionists are gone, to jail or elsewhere—thanks to Ben Butler—and this is a Union and not a rebel place now."
He yells that so hard that the houses rattled. And, Lord, what yells answered him! And the names they called him! But the old boys with the pitchforks turned their backs to the editor, and their forks and scythes to the crowd, and, maybe, it was correct that they were cowards—as Kratz called 'em—them outside the scythes. For they said they would tear his insides out but no one came to do it. The editor is game and yells it at 'em again:
"This is a Union town and not a rebel town, now, I say. And I have just proved it. Out there, the further away the better for them, they have threatened to kill me. Well, does any one come to do it? There's rebellion for you! Wind!
"I thought the government had got all the traitors. There's a few left. But don't you worry out there! I see you. Your names will be in my paper to-morrow. And that'll go straight to Washington. By God, I'm going to see that what I just said is true. That this is a Union town now. Don't worry out there! I expect the government has missed a few of you. But I know who you are, and if Uncle Sam don't get every sympathizer and Knight, and secessionist and Copperhead and spy in this county, you can blame it on me! Yes, and take it out of me—if you dare!
"Why, you are the scum of the rebellion. I respect those secessionists among us, who, thinking they were right, went into the Southern armies to prove it. I say so in my paper. I have nothing against the rebel who fights and takes his chances with powder and lead. He's a man! But such left-overs as you—stragglers—hangers-on whose only weapon is their mouth—spying and lying—taking no risk yourselves—eating our substance and then bringing the provost guard down on us—by the Lord, if I were Lincoln, I'd hang every one of you on sight—as he is entitled to do with spies. And, if I can bring it about, that's what's going to happen to you—and mighty soon! My advice to you is to go into the rebel army to save your lives! Though it's full of gentlemen—the rebel army—and God knows what they'd do with such as you! You'd be out of your class."
Well, I don't know if Kratz was fooling or not. But he certainly scared 'em some, like I never knowed 'em to be scared before. They didn't make so much noise after that nor show themselves so much; and some of 'em sneaked away. He had a much better chance to make his speech.
"What I was going to say, fellow citizens, was that though this is a Union and not a rebel place, and though we have about a hundred men in the Union army, they have gone to the front and enlisted as individuals because we have been afraid to come out with our colors and organize a full company. Fellow citizens, we have not had the honor of sending to the front a company like other towns, carrying our own flag, wearing the uniforms we have put on them, carrying the muskets we have placed in their hands, bearing into the fight our name! And this has hurt me, it hurts you, it hurts our dear little town. Don't you suppose that that man down at Washington, bearing our sorrows, has looked at the map, has seen our name, has wondered whether we have sent him a company, has been told that we have not? And what other town on the map tells him such a tale? Boys, boys, do you want this war fought out without having helped? If you can stand it I can't. I'm going to let you get your news from there, such as it is—"
He turned and pointed to the Democrat office.
"—and I am going to fight. But, for the honor and glory of our town, I want to go with a hundred of my neighbors. I want to march straight to the White House door, draw up before it and say to the President: 'Father Abraham, we have redeemed ourselves! Here, when the cause is at its lowest, when the outlook is darkest, when even patriots are saying that your war is a failure, we come to tell you that it is not. We come to cheer you, to hold up your tired hands and say, On, yes, by the Lord God! on to Richmond! One more grand effort and it is done! There are still a million soldiers, like us, waiting for precisely this moment, which comes in every struggle—the moment when the contest wavers! Call them; they will come as we have come without calling. We have sent you our money, we have sent you our grain and pork and lead and powder and cloth; but now we send you one hundred men. And from Maryland!'"
Well, there was a thrill abroad, at last. The calling of names and the fighting had stopped and it was serious.
The editor pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and wrote his name with a splendid dash.
"There's my name—about the middle of the sheet—as evidence of my sincerity. I leave my business, my wife, my babies, in poverty. I have got to go. There is something inside that compels me. Now, who'll be the second man of one hundred to put his name down with mine?"
No one answered.
"Who wants to stand beside me and see the glory on that worn old face in the White House, when we stand at parade before him? Who wants to feel the grasp of that big honest hand? I wouldn't miss it for a mint. I want to hear him call us his children. I want to call him by that simple, homely, but glorious name, Father Abraham. I want my babies to know it all. And then, by the God above us, I want to go out and fight for him—die for him—if it must be. Oh, yes! I know. I see, as well as you, the lead-lined boxes at the station. I know! But you know how we bury them. To the Dead March. With flags and flowers and troops of children, sobbing, sobbing. You know that not one who had died here in his bed would be so remembered. But you know, too, that all those who come back that way are our heroes—immortal;—yes, even when they come in gray! And you know that there is nothing on earth that will ever make you forget them. Tell me, each one of you, if you had to choose a form of death, wouldn't you choose that? Well, some day you must choose death. Come with me and choose one that is sweet and glorious beyond words!"
Still no one said a word.
"Of course it goes hard in a place where the Union element has been afraid, so far, to show its face. I appreciate that it is going to take courage for any man to walk up here and be spotted by the spies and informers, with the chance of some Knight assassinating him by command of the order. But, I tell you, the times have changed. We have settled down. We have thought. We have had war enough to know what it is. We didn't at first. It was a grand spree! A holiday parade! It didn't matter so much when some one else was doing the fighting, and we were comfortable at home. But the war is at our doors now, and bare living has grown so hard that something must happen—and soon. And, now, right now, boys, is the time to make it happen—before the country is destroyed. And you can do it—you! Come! Don't you want to?"
Again Kratz waits, but not a word. He looks all about to catch an eye. But all look away.
"The man who puts his name down next," says the editor, "will be an officer. He may have the captaincy. I don't want it. My God! Don't that move some one? Don't you all want to be captain or lieutenant?"
No one seemed to want to be an officer—though soldier companies was about half officers until they got to the front.
"Good God! Is it possible!" says Kratz, wiping the tears out of his eyes. "I have lived among you all my life. I was born here. And you are going to send me out alone. You are going to let me say to Father Abraham—'Father, I come alone. They were tried and found wanting! There were more than two thousand strong men listening to me as I told them how badly you needed only one hundred of them in this the darkest hour of your war. Yet, out of that host, not one was burning to write his name upon his country's roll of glory!"
All stood mute.
"Not one was ready to die that his country might live undivided. All were willing that those who have already died in this great cause, shall have died in vain. All were willing that the glorious fruits of victory, just within our grasp, for a final great effort, shall be handed over to the enemy.' Come! I ask you for the last time, is there not one—but one!—who will put his name here with mine?"
It was quieter than ever while he waited, and he drooped his head and was turning away, when Jon steps up quiet as a May morning, and says:
"I will."
And do you think that I could say a word? No. I was so worked up with the thoughts that editor had made me think, that if Jon hadn't spoken I would. Well, it was good to see that poor devil of an editor rise from despair to glory. He faced Jon about so the crowd could see him. He could hardly talk. He was crying like a baby.
"After all, friends," he choked out, "I'm glad you didn't hurry. Look at your second Union soldier—your first, in fact! Did you ever see a finer leader? Captain Vonner, I salute you! God bless you!
"And, oh, what an answer to calumny! Friends, he comes from the veriest hotbed of treason in Maryland. Up there, in the hills, a cordon of guards surrounds him; the provost guard is on the watch night and day. He, himself, has been named to me as a suspect. His family have been. Thank God, I knew it for a lie. Now he stands here, by my side, to prove his Unionism with his life!"
Then he turns to Jon:
"If you and I must go alone, down there, to that sad man at Washington, representing our town, I am not ashamed. My great end is achieved. Give me your hand—both of them. And, I swear to you, that if no one else volunteers to-night, you and I will go alone! But I don't think we shall. I see, crowding up here, other young men like you—the hope and glory of our land. Come, come, come! Now they halt! They are at the Rubicon! A word will carry them over! Say a word to them—Captain Vonner—just a word!"
Well, by that time the red-headed son of a gun had got me and all the rest crazy! Yes, there was a bunch of fine young men all crowded together, and just waiting, right out in front, for another encouraging word!
"Captain Vonner, say a word!" yells Kratz, the craziest of all.
"Not captain," says Jon, determined. "That's why I didn't answer sooner."
"Captain Vonner," repeats the editor, "say a word—just a word! There are many of your young friends here. God help us, I should go to Washington mad with joy, in a company of such splendid young spirits. Could we do that, we should, indeed, have more than redeemed ourselves! Just a word, Captain Vonner!"
I know that the last thing on earth he could ask of Jon was a speech. He'd never made one in his life. He couldn't. But that just shows how little a father sometimes knows about his sons! Jon stepped upon the box, calm as calm and says:
"Friends, most of what you have heard is true. I, too, think now of that dark sad man at Washington, bearing the burdens of us all. I am going to help him. He is right. If any of you who know me can be influenced by me, I say, come with me!"
Such a little thing! But so powerful! I didn't know my dear old Jonathan standing up there, tall, strong, white, half smiling, as if, at last, he had found a way through darkness. The multitude moved upon itself. I saw three boys I knew coming through the crowd. No fuss, just in earnest—just like Jonathan. But I was deathly afraid they'd get there before I could. So I yells out:
"Me next!"
The crowd parted and the editor grabbed me by the hands and dragged me to the box. He was crying more than ever.
"Oh, men of the Union!" he sobs out. "This is glorious! Another of the suspected family standing before you, proving his loyalty with his life! Oh, it swells my heart almost to bursting! I have heard him called a Knight—sympathizer—Copperhead. I have heard his house called the headquarters for the South—whence information and material go to the Confederates. Why, friends, maybe, if we only knew it, all this while, all about us, men like these have been under suspicion, yet only waiting, yearning, to fight for the dear old flag! Lieutenant Vonner, with an overflowing heart, apologizing for my neighbors' doubts, I salute you!"
"Not lieutenant," I says. "I ain't fit. If I can't fight in the ranks I won't go—"
But no one heard me. By that time they were crowding in to sign, and the band struck up The Star Spangled Banner and played till the shingles came off the houses, they say.
Jon sneaked up to me and says:
"Daddy, I'm surprised at you. Who'll take care of Evelyn and Dave? You shouldn't have done it. Please withdraw. There is time. One of us is enough under our circumstances."
"Jonthy," says I, "I don't know what withdraw means—" just in fun; I did know, of course—"and it was your fault. I wouldn't have done it for his speech. But yours—"
"I have a special purpose in going, daddy."
"No?" says I. "Patriotism?"
Well, anyhow, about that time, the editor came up and put his arms about us both.
"I hear something about withdrawing. You can do that, Mr. Vonner, without a bit of shame. With your son we feel that you have given enough. Thank God your enlistment has proved your loyalty. And I'll get my hundred now."
I just stood up and folded my arms:
"I am of age, twice," I says. "I do not withdraw. I go with my noble son—" just for fun. "And not to prove my loyalty."
The band played like mad, the boys started signing, and we started home.
"Well, you see how it went, Jonthy," says I. "You got me crazy, too. We'd have better stayed at home."
Jon shakes his head no.
"Daddy," says he, more to himself than to me, "the reason was that I had to find something to take her place here"—his heart—"I had to have something! There was such a void there! And it aches—daddy, it aches! Strange, though, that war should fill the place of love!"
"Well," says I, "that's what she does—mixes up war and love like thunder—does Evelyn."
"Yes, I couldn't understand that before. I do now. But why should you go?"
"I got an aching void myself," says I, "and I know where it come from."
"That is strange," says Jon.
"I suppose war's good for all aching voids," says I; "not?"
"Maybe," nods Jon, and said no more about my withdrawing. That aching void business settled him. He understood that I meant we weren't getting enough to eat—just in fun—of course. At least I hope so—and not that I was in love with some one warlike.