War; or, What happens when one loves one's enemy/Chapter 35
XXXV
HOME, SWEET HOME
AND so, as I was sitting on the porch, out there, one afternoon, and the old Jerry-horse was eating grass in the front yard, a couple of regiments of cavalry came up the road, just beyond, in command of a young colonel in a faded old uniform. When he got opposite he stopped and saluted like I was a major-general.
"God-a-mighty!" says I, putting on my glasses, "you're the first man who's acknowledge that I fought, bled and died—nearly—for the Union. Who are you? Wait! I want to shake hands!"
I salutes and runs down the yard, crazy for the Union the minute I sees the uniforms. When I got near, something, mostly the smile, I think, reminded me a little of Dave.
"Who are you?" I yells. "Not God-a-mighty—not at last—Dave?"
"No," says the young officer, "only Jon."
And he gets down and hugs me and cries over my empty sleeve.
"Where do you come from? Where are you going? Can't yon stay for dinner?" I asks altogether.
"No," Jon smiles. "We come from everywhere. We're pushing on to Hooker at Gettysburg. Orders are to get there to-night. There's likely to be a fight. We are paralleling Lee. As you know, he's on the way to Pennsylvania. After the fight I'll manage to get a little leave and come back for the dinner and a talk. So, daddy, dear, good-by."
He turns to get on his horse. I holds him fast.
"What about Dave?" I asked.
"Nothing," he shakes, and gets on his horse.
"Wait," I yells. "I can't stand this from my son—if he is a colonel. I must talk. God knows I don't get the chance often now. Everybody's in the war—or dead. I'll ride along a mile or two."
Jon pulled up a little, and I jumped on the old Jerry-horse, just back from the mill, and rode with Jon right out in front.
Well, it was like old times, and the Jerry-horse spruced up and pranced along as if he were going to war again. He understood, the old Jerry-horse did.
"Jon," I says, "get me a saber."
"Nonsense," laughs Jonathan. "What do you want with a saber? You re incapacitated."
"Nothing," says I, "only it don't seem right without. I think the old Jerry-horse will behave better if he feels a saber on his ribs."
But the truth was that I was rambunctious—crazy to fight! Now what do you think of that!
Jon laughs and gets me a saber.
"Not for you," he says, "but for the old Jerry-horse!"
And, in fact, the horse understood, and stopped his prancing and drew long breaths and snorted now and then, as if there was a battle near.
As we went on down the road, nearer and nearer to Excelsior, it seemed as if all the rebels of the earlier part of the war had disappeared and all were now Union. For the road became lined with people who wouldn't let us through till they had filled up our haversacks, canteens and bellies—with flowers in our buttonholes and hands. Why, they brought hot coffee in tubs! There were bushel baskets of fresh loaves! And, if you've never been a soldier you don't know what the smell of fresh bread and coffee is! Whisky was plenty, too, and cigars, and even clothes! Why, any man in a blue uniform had only to ask for what he wanted to get it. The sentiment was all for the Union now. Jon tried to keep them moving. But I begged to let 'em have one good time in their lives.
"If there's going to be a fight to-morrow, Jonthy," says I, "God knows it will be the last good time for some of them!"
"Nevertheless," says old Jon, in the way I knew, "I can't permit this. They are demoralizing—"
Just about then a hundred girls or so, all dressed up, joined hands across the road right in front of us.
Jon surrendered.
Then a couple hundred more gathered there, right in the road, about the dearest young faces I had ever seen, and began to sing.
Annie Laurie, Her Bright Smile Haunts Me Still, Tramp, Tramp, Tramp! All Quiet Along the Potomac To-night, Home, Sweet Home!
The battered soldiers had begun by singing out of tune with them—very gay. And there was much tossing of flowers to and fro and laughing. But at Home, Sweet Home a great silence fell. They took off their hats and let the tears roll down their cheeks. They weren't much like the apple-faced boys, these bearded, bronzed and faded soldiers. They were from everywhere—Maine to Virginia. But they all cried at Home, Sweet Home.
Each one had left a good home—for this!
An old preacher, in a long rusty coat, got up on a store box and addressed the boys, talked to them, nice, just a little, of their homes—and what was in them. Then he prayed and blessed them and begged God to end the war soon and to save them all for their homes.
Suddenly an orderly came riding up to Jon and said something.
"Ladies," Jon shouts out, "thank you for all. But clear the road at once. There is work for us. When we return you may sing us the victor's pæan. Go to the cellars."
I never saw such quick vanishment. Then we sees that we're attacked by rebel cavalry.
"Forward!" yells Jon to the men. "Carry sabers! Trot! Gallop! Charge!"
But before we got well started, the Johnnies burst right on us, in front and both flanks, from behind some barns and houses, cutting like devils. We had no chance at all. They were dressed in the Union uniforms stolen from the dead at Chancellorsville and we didn't know, in our surprise at seeing men in Union clothes cutting us down, what to do. But Jon did. He never lost his head for a minute.
He ordered the retreat, and we fought our way to the cover of houses and fences and barns. Finally we formed and rested. There were a good many missing. And Jon—there was a dangerous look in his eyes when he saw it. The rebels had posted batteries and were shelling us.
"Boys," said Jon, quiet as a deacon, "I respect an honest rebel. But these are dressed in the uniforms of our dead brothers. What are you going to do about it? I think they outnumber us five or ten to one."
"Advance!" they yells, to a man.
And Jon ordered it.
Oh, that was different! You know how you fight when you re imposed upon. We drove 'em like cattle, riding them down, shooting them in the back or front—no matter which. The old Jerry-horse, needing no bridle hand, behaved like a trump. He thought he ought to be in front—and he was. But this Jon, beside me, was still another incarnation of my boy—the thing that war makes of gentle men! His cap was off, and his saber was the busiest in the lot. He piloted us into the very hell of it—leading himself to show us how!
We had them demoralized and on the run. The road was nearly impassable with dead men and horses and equipments. But we could see, off to the right, on another road, the colonel commanding, trying to rally some of his men to a last effort. He had only one arm, like me. But he was a Trojan at making men fight. Well, he succeeded. They came at our flank like a whirlwind. But Jon had been making ready. He faced us right, and we counter-charged, Jon in the lead, like Lucifer himself, outdistancing the Jerry-horse.
But the Johnny was game. He gave us a carbine volley on the run and pushed right into us. God! I'll never forget that coming together! Four thousand men meeting as hard as their horses could run! Those behind piling up on those in front, heaps of shrieking men and plunging horses, and every man at each other's throats, men firing out of this mass and into it! Then a shell fell amongst us and stopped all for a second. When the smoke cleared we could see the rebel colonel pinned under his dead horse, but firing over him at Jon. Corbin and I dashed on to capture him—stop him—firing, too—and then we saw Jon crawl over the dead horse to the rebel colonel and hold up his battered sword to stop us. Just then the rebel shot him. I jumped down to help Jon, and found him calling the one-armed colonel Dave!
He worked his arm around Dave and kissed him three times, talking in a soft joyous voice.
"She gave 'em to me to give to you when I found you. And, you see, I have, at last, fulfilled my trust. The fight is all gone out of me now. That was all I stayed in for—to find you. I have hunted you so long, Dave. For her, Dave. Didn't you know it? Didn't you think I would?"
Dave said nothing—only dazed and dreamy. Jon pushed the blood out of his face and looked at Dave, as if he would never get enough.
"You're not badly hurt, Dave? No; of course not. Nor am I. How could we hurt each other within a mile of home? Now we'll go back to Evelyn and fight no more. Right here the war ends for us. If some one would help me up I could walk. Corbin! Daddy!"
He fainted and Dave gave him some water out of his battered canteen. When he revived, Jon says:
"I'm glad you're not in one of those Chancellorsville uniforms, Dave."
"I ordered that," says Dave, with his head in his hand.
"You!" says Jon. "I'll never believe it. You'd have worn one yourself if you had."
"I had to wear this one," says Dave.
"Why?" says Jon, maybe forgetting.
"It is Evelyn's."
"That's right, Davy, that's right," say Jon. "You're her soldier."
"I am her soldier," says Dave, as if he had no pride in it.
"Dave, I'm tired of war—very, very tired. I want to fish with you. Come!"
But his head fell over on Dave's breast, and Dave caught him in his arm, and so he died.