IN the rear of Mrs. Gaston’s place, there stood in the midst of an
orchard a log house of two rooms, with hallway between them. There was
a mud-thatched wooden chimney at each end, and from the back of the
hallway a kitchen extension of the same material with another mud
chimney. The house stood in the middle of a ten acre lot, and a woman
was busy in the garden with a little girl, planting seed.
“Hurry up Annie, less finish this in time to fix up a fine dinner er
greens and turnips an’taters an a chicken. Yer Pappy’ll get home
to-day sure. Colonel Gaston’s Nelse come last night. Yer Pappy was in
the Colonel’s regiment an’ Nelse said he passed him on the road comin’
with two one-legged soldiers. He ain’t got but one leg, he says. But,
Lord, if there’s a piece of him left we’ll praise God an’ be thankful
for what we’ve got.”
“Maw, how did he look? I mos’ forgot--’s been so long sence I seed
him?” asked the child.
“Look! Honey! He was the handsomest man in Campbell county! He had a
tall fine figure, brown curly beard, and the sweetest mouth that was
always smilin’ at me, an’ his eyes twinklin’ over somethin’ funny he’d
seed or thought about. When he was young ev’ry gal around here was crazy
about him. I got him all right, an’ he got me too. Oh me! I can’t help
but cry, to think he’s been gone so long. But he’s comin’ to-day! I jes
feel it in my bones.”
“Look a yonder, Maw, what a skeer-crow ridin’ er ole hoss!” cried the
girl, looking suddenly toward the road.
“Glory to God! It’s Tom!” she shouted, snatching her old faded
sun-bonnet off her head and fairly flying across the field to the gate,
her cheeks aflame, her blond hair tumbling over her shoulders, her eyes
wet with tears.
Tom was entering the gate of his modest home in as fine style as
possible, seated proudly on a stack of bones that had once been a horse,
an old piece of wool on his head that once had been a hat, and a wooden
peg fitted into a stump where once was a leg. His face was pale and
stained with the red dust of the hill roads, and his beard, now iron
grey, and his ragged buttonless uniform were covered with dirt. He was
truly a sight to scare crows, if not of interest to buzzards. But to the
woman whose swift feet were hurrying to his side, and whose lips were
muttering half articulate cries of love, he was the knightliest figure
that ever rode in the lists before the assembled beauty of the world.
“Oh! Tom, Tom, Tom, my ole man! You’ve come at last!” she sobbed as
she threw her arms around his neck, drew him from the horse and fairly
smothered him with kisses.
“Look out, ole woman, you’ll break my new leg!” cried Tom when he could
get breath.
“I don’t care,--I’ll get you another one,” she laughed through her
tears.
“Look out there again you’re smashing my game shoulder. Got er Minie
ball in that one.”
“Well your mouth’s all right I see,” cried the delighted woman, as she
kissed and kissed him.
“Say, Annie, don’t be so greedy, give me a chance at my young one.”
Tom’s eyes were devouring the excited girl who had drawn nearer.
“Come and kiss your Pappy and tell him how glad you are to see him!”
said Tom, gathering her in his arms and attempting to carry her to the
house.
He stumbled and fell. In a moment the strong arms of his wife were about
him and she was helping him into the house.
She laid him tenderly on the bed, petted him and cried over him. “My
poor old man, he’s all shot and cut to pieces. You’re so weak, Tom--I
can’t believe it. You were so strong. But we’ll take care of you. Don’t
you worry. You just sleep a week and then rest all summer and watch us
work the garden for you!”
He lay still for a few moments with a smile playing around his lips.
“Lord, ole woman, you don’t know how nice it is to be petted like that,
to hear a woman’s voice, feel her breath on your face and the touch of
her hand, warm and soft after four years sleeping on dirt and living
with men and mules, and fightin’ and runnin’ and diggin’ trenches like
rats and moles, killin’ men, buryin’ the dead like carrion, holdin’ men
while doctors sawed their legs off, till your turn came to be held and
sawed! You can’t believe it, but this is the first feather bed I’ve
touched in four years.”
“Well, well!--Bless God it’s over now,” she cried. “S’long as I’ve got
two strong arms to slave for you--as long as there’s a piece of you left
big enough to hold on to--I’ll work for you,” and again she bent low
over his pale face, and crooned over him as she had so often done over
his baby in those four lonely years of war and poverty.
Suddenly Tom pushed her aside and sprang up in bed.
“Geemimy, Annie, I forgot my pardners--there’s two more peg-legs out at
the gate by this time waiting for us to get through huggin’ and carryin’
on before they come in. Run, fetch’em in quick!”
Tom struggled to his feet and met them at the door.
“Come right into my palace, boys. I’ve seen some fine places in my time,
but this is the handsomest one I ever set eyes on. Now, Annie, put the
big pot in the little one and don’t stand back for expenses. Let’s have
a dinner these fellers’ll never forget.”
It was a feast they never forgot. Tom’s wife had raised a brood of early
chickens, and managed to keep them from being stolen. She killed four of
them and cooked them as only a Southern woman knows how. She had sweet
potatoes carefully saved in the mound against the kitchen chimney. There
were turnips and greens and radishes, young onions and lettuce and hot
corn dodgers fit for a king; and in the centre of the table she deftly
fixed a pot of wild flowers little Annie had gathered. She did not tell
them that it was the last peck of potatoes and the last pound of meal.
This belonged to the morrow. To-day they would live.
They laughed and joked over this splendid banquet, and told stories of
days and nights of hunger and exhaustion, when they had filled their
empty stomachs with dreams of home.
“Miss Camp, you’ve got the best husband in seven states, did you know
that?” asked one of the soldiers, a mere boy.
“Of course she’ll agree to that, sonny,” laughed Tom.
“Well it’s so. If it hadn’t been for him, M’am, we’d a been peggin’
along somewhere way up in Virginny ‘stead o’ bein’ so close to home. You
see he let us ride his hoss a mile and then he’d ride a mile. We took it
turn about, and here we are.”
“Tom, how in this world did you get that horse?” asked his wife.
“Honey, I got him on my good looks,” said he with a wink. “You see I was
a settin’ out there in the sun the day o’ the surrender. I was sorter
cryin’ and wonderin’ how I’d get home with that stump of wood instead
of a foot, when along come a chunky heavy set Yankee General, looking as
glum as though his folks had surrendered instead of Marse Robert. He saw
me, stopped, looked at me a minute right hard and says, ‘Where do you
live?’”
“Way down in ole No’th Caliny,” I says, “at Ham-bright, not far from
King’s Mountain.”
“How are you going to get home?” says he.
“God knows, I don’t, General. I got a wife and baby down there I ain’t
seed fer nigh four years, and I want to see ’em so bad I can taste
’em. I was lookin’ the other way when I said that, fer I was purty
well played out, and feelin’ weak and watery about the eyes, an’ I
didn’t want no Yankee General to see water in my eyes.”
“He called a feller to him and sorter snapped out to him, ‘Go bring the
best horse you can spare for this man and give it to him’.”
“Then he turns to me and seed I was all choked up and couldn’t say
nothin’ and says:
“I’m General Grant. Give my love to your folks when you get home. I’ve
known what it was to be a poor white man down South myself once for
awhile.”
“God bless you, General. I thanks you from the bottom of my heart,” I
says as quick as I could find my tongue, “if it had to be surrender I’m
glad it was to such a man as you.”
“He never said another word, but just walked slow along smoking a big
cigar. So ole woman, you know the reason I named that hoss, ‘General
Grant.’ It may be I have seen finer hosses than that one, but I couldn’t
recollect anything about ’em on the road home.”
Dinner over, Tom’s comrades rose and looked wistfully down the dusty
road leading southward.
“Well, Tom, ole man, we gotter be er movin’,” said the older of the
two soldiers. “We’re powerful obleeged to you fur helpin’ us along this
fur.”
“All right, boys, you’ll find yer train standin’ on the side o’ the
track eatin’ grass. Jes climb up, pull the lever and let her go.”
The men’s faces brightened, their lips twitched. They looked at Tom, and
then at the old horse. They looked down the long dusty road stretching
over hill and valley, hundreds of miles south, and then at Tom’s wife
and child, whispered to one another a moment, and the elder said:
“No, pardner, you’ve been awful good to us, but we’ll get along
somehow--we can’t take yer hoss. It’s all yer got now ter make a livin’
on yer place.”
“All I got?” shouted Tom, “man alive, ain’t you seed my ole woman, as
fat and jolly and han’some as when I married her ’leven years ago?
Didn’t you hear her cryin’ an’ shoutin’ like she’s crazy when I got
home? Didn’t you see my little gal with eyes jes like her daddy’s? Don’t
you see my cabin standin’ as purty as a ripe peach in the middle of the
orchard when hundreds of fine houses are lyin’ in ashes? Ain’t I got ten
acres of land? Ain’t I got God Almighty above me and all around me, the
same God that watched over me on the battlefields? All I got? That old
stack o’ bones that looks like er hoss? Well I reckon not!”
“Pardner, it ain’t right,” grumbled the soldier, with more of cheerful
thanks than protest in his voice.
“Oh! Get off you fools,” said Tom good-naturedly, “ain’t it my hoss?
Can’t I do what I please with him?” So with hearty hand-shakes they
parted, the two astride the old horse’s back. One had lost his right
leg, the other his left, and this gave them a good leg on each side to
hold the cargo straight.
“Take keer yerself, Tom!” they both cried in the same breath as they
moved away.
“Take keer yerselves, boys. I’m all right!” answered Tom, as he stumped
his way back to the home. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he muttered
to himself. “He’d a come in handy, but I’d a never slept thinkin’ o’
them peggin’ along them rough roads.”
Before reaching the house he sat down on a wooden bench beneath a tree
to rest. It was the first week in May and the leaves were not yet grown.
The sun was pouring his hot rays down into the moist earth, and the heat
began to feel like summer. As he drank in the beauty and glory of the
spring his soul was melted with joy. The fruit trees were laden with
the promise of the treasures of the summer and autumn, a cat-bird was
singing softly to his mate in the tree over his head, and a mocking-bird
seated in the topmost branch of an elm near his cabin home was leading
the oratorio of feathered songsters. The wild plum and blackberry briars
were in full bloom in the fence comers, and the sweet odour filled the
air. He heard his wife singing in the house.
“It’s a fine old world after all!” he exclaimed leaning back and half
closing his eyes, while a sense of ineffable peace filled his soul.
“Peace at last! Thank God! May I never see a gun or a sword, or hear a
drum or a fife’s scream on this earth again!”
A hound came close wagging his tail and whining for a word of love and
recognition.
“Well. Bob, old boy, you’re the only one left. You’ll have to chase
cotton-tails by yourself now.”
Bob’s eyes watered and he licked his master’s hand apparently
understanding every word he said.
Breaking from his master’s hands the dog ran toward the gate barking,
and Tom rose in haste as he recognised the sturdy tread of the Preacher,
Rev. John Durham, walking rapidly toward the house.
Grasping him heartily by the hand the Preacher said, “Tom, you don’t
know how it warms my soul to look into your face again. When you left, I
felt like a man who had lost one hand. I’ve found it to-day. You’re the
same stalwart Christian full of joy and love. Some men’s religion didn’t
stand the wear and tear of war. You’ve come out with your soul like gold
tried in the fire. Colonel Gaston wrote me you were the finest soldier
in the regiment, and that you were the only Chaplain he had seen that he
could consult for his own soul’s cheer. That’s the kind of a deacon
to send to the front! I’m proud of you, and you’re still at your old
tricks. I met two one-legged soldiers down the road riding your horse
away as though you had a stable full at your command. You needn’t
apologise or explain, they told me all about it.”
“Preacher, it’s good to have the Lord’s messenger speak words like them.
I can’t tell you how glad I am to be home again and shake your hand.
I tell you it was a comfort to me when I lay awake at night on them
battlefields, a wonderin’ what had become of my ole woman and the baby,
to recollect that you were here, and how often I’d heard you tell us how
the Lord tempered the wind to the shorn lamb. Annie’s been telling me
who watched out for her them dark days when there was nothin’ to eat.
I reckon you and your wife knows the way to this house about as well
as you do to the church.” Tom had pulled the Preacher down on the seat
beside him while he said this.
“The dark days have only begun, Tom. I’ve come to see you to have you
cheer me up. Somehow you always seemed to me to be closer to God than
any man in the church. You will need all your faith now. It seems to me
that every second woman I know is a widow. Hundreds of families have
no seed even to plant, no horses to work crops, no men who will work
if they had horses. What are we to do? I see hungry children in every
house.”
“Preacher, the Lord is looking down here to-day and sees all this as
plain as you and me. As long as He is in the sky everything will come
all right on the earth.”
“How’s your pantry?” asked the Preacher.
“Don’t know. ‘Man shall not live by bread alone,’ you know. When I hear
these birds in the trees an’ see this old dog waggin’ his tail at me,
and smell the breath of them flowers, and it all comes over me that I’m
done killin’ men, and I’m at home, with a bed to sleep on, a roof over
my head, a woman to pet me and tell me I’m great and handsome, I don’t
feel like I’ll ever need anything more to eat! I believe I could live a
whole month here without eatin’ a bite.”
“Good. You come to the prayer meeting to-night and say a few things
like that, and the folks will believe they have been eating three square
meals every day.”
“I’ll be there. I ain’t asked Annie what she’s got, but I know she’s
got greens and turnips, onions and col-lards, and strawberries in the
garden. Irish taters’ll be big enough to eat in three weeks, and sweets
comin’ right on. We’ve got a few chickens. The blackberries and plums
and peaches and apples are all on the road. Ah! Preacher, it’s my soul
that’s been starved away from my wife and child!”
“You don’t know how much I need help sometimes Tom. I am always giving,
giving myself in sympathy and help to others, I’m famished now and then.
I feel faint and worn out. You seem to fill me again with life.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Preacher. I get downhearted sometimes,
when I recollect I’m nothin’ but a poor white man. I’ll remember your
words. I’m goin’ to do my part in the church work. You know where to
find me.”
“Well, that’s partly what brought me here this morning. I want you to
help me look after Mrs. Gaston and her little boy. She is prostrated
over the death of the Colonel and is hanging between life and death.
She is in a delirious condition all the time and must be watched day and
night. I want you to watch the first half of the night with Nelse, and
Eve and Mary will watch the last half.”
“Of course, I’ll do anything in the world I can for my Colonel’s widder.
He was the bravest man that ever led a regiment, and he was a father to
us boys. I’ll be there. But I won’t set up with that nigger. He can go
to bed.”
“Tom, it’s a funny thing to me that as good a Christian as you are
should hate a nigger so. He’s a human being. It’s not right.”
“He may be human, Preacher, I don’t know. To tell you the truth, I have
my doubts. Anyhow, I can’t help it. God knows I hate the sight of ’em
like I do a rattlesnake. That nigger Nelse, they say is a good one. He
was faithful to the Colonel, I know, but I couldn’t bear him no more
than any of the rest of ’em. I always hated a nigger since I was knee
high. My daddy and my mammy hated ’em before me. Somehow, we always
felt like they was crowdin’ us to death on them big plantations, and the
little ones too. And then I had to leave my wife and baby and fight four
years, all on account of their stinkin’ hides, that never done nothin’
for me except make it harder to live. Every time I’d go into battle and
hear them Minie balls begin to sing over us, it seemed to me I could see
their black ape faces grinnin’ and makin’ fun of poor whites. At night
when they’d detail me to help the ambulance corps carry off the dead and
the wounded, there was a strange smell on the field that came from the
blood and night damp and burnt powder. It always smelled like a nigger
to me! It made me sick. Yes, Preacher, God forgive me, I hate ’em! I
can’t help it any more than I can the color of my skin or my hair.”
“I’ll fix it with Nelse, then. You take the first part of the night ’till
twelve o’clock. I’ll go down with you from the church to-night,” said
the Preacher, as he shook Tom’s hand and took his leave.