Some years later, as I looked out of my window one dull November day,
the only cheerful thing I saw was the red cap of a messenger who was
examining the slate that hung on a wall opposite my hotel. A tall man
with gray hair and beard, one arm, and a blue army-coat. I always
salute, figuratively at least, when I see that familiar blue,
especially if one sleeve of the coat is empty; so I watched the
messenger with interest as he trudged away on some new errand, wishing
he had a better day and a thicker pair of boots. He was an unusually
large, well-made man, and reminded me of a fine building going to
ruin before its time; for the broad shoulders were bent, there was a
stiffness about the long legs suggestive of wounds or rheumatism, and
the curly hair looked as if snow had fallen on it too soon. Sitting at
work in my window, I fell into the way of watching my Red Cap, as I
called him, with more interest than I did the fat doves on the roof
opposite, or the pert sparrows hopping in the mud below. I liked the
steady way in which he plodded on through fair weather or foul, as if
intent on doing well the one small service he had found to do. I liked
his cheerful whistle as he stood waiting for a job under the porch
of the public building where his slate hung, watching the luxurious
carriages roll by, and the well-to-do gentlemen who daily passed him
to their comfortable homes, with a steady, patient sort of face, as if
wondering at the inequalities of fortune, yet neither melancholy nor
morose over the small share of prosperity which had fallen to his lot.
I often planned to give him a job, that I might see him nearer; but
I had few errands, and little Bob, the hall-boy, depended on doing
those: so the winter was nearly over before I found out that my Red
Cap was an old friend.
A parcel came for me one day, and bidding the man wait for an answer,
I sat down to write it, while the messenger stood just inside the
door like a sentinel on duty. When I looked up to give my note and
directions, I found the man staring at me with a beaming yet bashful
face, as he nodded, saying heartily,--
"I mistrusted it was you, ma'am, soon's I see the name on the bundle,
and I guess I ain't wrong. It's a number of years sence we met, and
you don't remember Joe Collins as well as he does you, I reckon?"
"Why, how you have changed! I've been seeing you every day all winter,
and never knew you," I said, shaking hands with my old patient, and
very glad to see him.
"Nigh on to twenty years makes consid'able of a change in folks,
'specially if they have a pretty hard row to hoe."
"Sit down and warm yourself while you tell me all about it; there is
no hurry for this answer, and I'll pay for your time."
Joe laughed as if that was a good joke, and sat down as if the fire
was quite as welcome as the friend.
"How are they all at home?" I asked, as he sat turning his cap round,
not quite knowing where to begin.
"I haven't got any home nor any folks neither;" and the melancholy
words banished the brightness from his rough face like a cloud.
"Mother died soon after I got back. Suddin', but she was ready, and I
was there, so she was happy. Jim lived a number of years, and was a
sight of care, poor feller; but we managed to rub along, though we had
to sell the farm: for I couldn't do much with one arm, and doctor's
bills right along stiddy take a heap of money. He was as comfortable
as he could be; and, when he was gone, it wasn't no great matter, for
there was only me, and I don't mind roughin' it."
"But Lucindy, where was she?" I asked very naturally.
"Oh! she married another man long ago. Couldn't expect her to take
me and my misfortins. She's doin' well, I hear, and that's a comfort
anyway."
There was a look on Joe's face, a tone in Joe's voice as he spoke,
that plainly showed how much he had needed comfort when left to bear
his misfortunes all alone. But he made no complaint, uttered no
reproach, and loyally excused Lucindy's desertion with a simple sort
of dignity that made it impossible to express pity or condemnation.
"How came you here, Joe?" I asked, making a sudden leap from past to
present.
"I had to scratch for a livin', and can't do much: so, after tryin' a
number of things, I found this. My old wounds pester me a good deal,
and rheumatism is bad winters; but, while my legs hold out, I can git
on. A man can't set down and starve; so I keep waggin' as long as I
can. When I can't do no more, I s'pose there's almshouse and hospital
ready for me."
"That is a dismal prospect, Joe. There ought to be a comfortable place
for such as you to spend your last days in. I am sure you have earned
it."
"Wal, it does seem ruther hard on us when we've give all we had, and
give it free and hearty, to be left to knock about in our old age. But
there's so many poor folks to be took care of, we don't get much of
a chance, for _we_ ain't the beggin' sort," said Joe, with a wistful
look at the wintry world outside, as if it would be better to lie
quiet under the snow, than to drag out his last painful years,
friendless and forgotten, in some refuge of the poor.
"Some kind people have been talking of a home for soldiers, and I hope
the plan will be carried out. It will take time; but, if it comes to
pass, you shall be one of the first men to enter that home, Joe, if I
can get you there."
"That sounds mighty cheerin' and comfortable, thanky, ma'am. Idleness
is dreadful tryin' to me, and I'd rather wear out than rust out; so I
guess I can weather it a spell longer. But it will be pleasant to look
forrard to a snug harbor bymeby. I feel a sight better just hearin'
tell about it." He certainly looked so, faint as the hope was; for the
melancholy eyes brightened as if they already saw a happier refuge in
the future than almshouse, hospital, or grave, and, when he trudged
away upon my errand, he went as briskly as if every step took him
nearer to the promised home.
After that day it was all up with Bob, for I told my neighbors Joe's
story, and we kept him trotting busily, adding little gifts, and
taking the sort of interest in him that comforted the lonely fellow,
and made him feel that he had not outlived his usefulness. I never
looked out when he was at his post that he did not smile back at me; I
never passed him in the street that the red cap was not touched with a
military flourish; and, when any of us beckoned to him, no twinge of
rheumatism was too sharp to keep him from hurrying to do our errands,
as if he had Mercury's winged feet.
Now and then he came in for a chat, and always asked how the Soldiers'
Home was prospering; expressing his opinion that "Boston was the
charitablest city under the sun, and he was sure he and his mates
would be took care of somehow."
When we parted in the spring, I told him things looked hopeful, bade
him be ready for a good long rest as soon as the hospitable doors were
open, and left him nodding cheerfully.