and corridors filled with bustling officers, uniformed from empty straps
to stars; volunteer and regular--easily distinguished by the ease of one
and the new and conscious erectness of the other; adjutants, millionaire
aids, civilian inspectors; gorgeous attachés--English, German, Swedish,
Russian, Prussian, Japanese--each wondrous to the dazzled republican
eye; Cubans with cigarettes, Cubans--little and big, war-like, with the
tail of the dark eye ever womanward, brave with machétes; on the divans
Cuban senoritas--refugees at Tampa--dark-eyed, of course, languid of
manner, to be sure, and with the eloquent fan, ever present,
omnipotent--shutting and closing, shutting and closing, like the wings
of a gigantic butterfly; adventurers, adventuresses; artists,
photographers; correspondents by the score--female correspondents; story
writers, novelists, real war correspondents, and real
draughtsmen--artists, indeed; and a host of lesser men with spurs yet
to win--all crowding the hotel day and night, night and day.
And outside, to the sea--camped in fine white sand dust, under thick
stars and a hot sun--soldiers, soldiers everywhere, lounging through the
streets and the railway stations, overrunning the suburbs;
drilling--horseback and on foot--through clouds of sand; drilling at
skirmish over burnt sedge-grass and stunted and charred pine woods;
riding horses into the sea, and plunging in themselves like truant
schoolboys. In the bay a fleet of waiting transports, and all over dock,
camp, town, and hotel an atmosphere of fierce unrest and of eager
longing to fill those wooden hulks, rising and falling with such
maddening patience on the tide, and to be away. All the time, meanwhile,
soldiers coming in--more and more soldiers--in freight-box, day-coach,
and palace-car.
That night, in the hotel, Grafton and Crittenden watched the crowd from
a divan of red plush, Grafton chatting incessantly. Around them moved
and sat the women of the "House of the Hundred Thousand"--officers'
wives and daughters and sisters and sweethearts and army
widows--claiming rank and giving it more or less consciously, according
to the rank of the man whom they represented. The big man with the
monocle and the suit of towering white from foot to crown was the
English naval attaché. He stalked through the hotel as though he had the
British Empire at his back.
"And he has, too," said Grafton. "You ought to see him go down the steps
to the café. The door is too low for him. Other tall people bend
forward--he always rears back."
And the picturesque little fellow with the helmet was the English
military attaché. Crittenden had seen him at Chickamauga, and Grafton
said they would hear of him in Cuba. The Prussian was handsome, and a
Count. The big, boyish blond was a Russian, and a Prince, as was the
quiet, modest, little Japanese--a mighty warrior in his own country. And
the Swede, the polite, the exquisite!
"He wears a mustache guard. I offered him a cigar. He saluted: 'Thank
you,' he said. 'Nevare I schmoke.'"
"They are the pets of the expedition," Grafton went on, "they and that
war-like group of correspondents over there. They'll go down on the
flag-ship, while we nobodies will herd together on one boat. But we'll
all be on the same footing when we get there."
Just then a big man, who was sitting on the next divan twisting his
mustache and talking chiefly with his hands, rolled up and called
Grafton.
"Huh!" he said.
"Huh!" mimicked Grafton.
"You don't know much about the army."
"Six weeks ago I couldn't tell a doughboy officer from a cavalryman by
the stripe down his legs."
The big man smiled with infinite pity and tolerance.
"Therefore," said Grafton, "I shall not pass judgment, deliver expert
military opinions, and decide how the campaign ought to be
conducted--well, maybe for some days yet."
"You've got to. You must have a policy--a Policy. I'll give you one."
And he began--favoring monosyllables, dashes, exclamation points, pauses
for pantomime, Indian sign language, and heys, huhs, and humphs that
were intended to fill out sentences and round up elaborate argument.
"There is a lot any damn fool can say, of course, hey? But you mustn't
say it, huh? Give 'em hell afterward." (Pantomime.) "That's right, ain't
it? Understand? Regular army all right." (Sign language.) "These damn
fools outside--volunteers, politicians, hey? Had best army in the world
at the close of the old war, see? Best equipped, you understand, huh?
Congress" (violent Indian sign language) "wanted to squash it--to
squash it--that's right, you understand, huh? Cut it down--cut it down,
see? Illustrate: Wanted 18,000 mules for this push, got 2,000, see? Same
principle all through; see? That's right! No good to say anything
now--people think you complain of the regular army, huh? Mustn't say
anything now--give 'em hell afterward--understand?" (More sign
language.) "Hell afterward. All right now, got your policy, go ahead."
Grafton nodded basely, and without a smile:
"Thanks, old man--thanks. It's very lucid."
A little later Crittenden saw the stout civilian, Major Billings, fairly
puffing with pride, excitement, and a fine uniform of khaki, whom he had
met at Chickamauga; and Willings, the surgeon; and Chaffee, now a
brigadier; and Lawton, soon to command a division; and, finally, little
Jerry Carter, quiet, unassuming, dreamy, slight, old, but active, and
tough as hickory. The little general greeted Crittenden like a son.
"I was sorry not to see you again at Chickamauga, but I started here
next day. I have just written you that there was a place on my staff for
you or your brother--or for any son of your father and my friend. I'll
write to Washington for you to-night, and you can report for duty
whenever you please."
The little man made the astounding proposition as calmly as though he
were asking the Kentuckian to a lunch of bacon and hardtack, and
Crittenden flushed with gratitude and his heart leaped--his going was
sure now. Before he could stammer out his thanks, the general was gone.
Just then Rivers, who, to his great joy, had got at least that far, sat
down by him. He was much depressed. His regiment was going, but two
companies would be left behind. His colonel talked about sending him
back to Kentucky to bring down some horses, and he was afraid to go.
"To think of being in the army as long as I have been, just for this
fight. And to think of being left here in this hell-hole all summer, and
missing all the fun in Cuba, not to speak of the glory and the game. We
haven't had a war for so long that glory will come easy now, and anybody
who does anything will be promoted. But it's missing the fight--the
fight--that worries me," and Rivers shook his head from side to side
dejectedly. "If my company goes, I'm all right; but if it doesn't, there
is no chance for me if I go away. I shall lose my last chance of
slipping in somewhere. I swear I'd rather go as a private than not at
all."
This idea gave Crittenden a start, and made him on the sudden very
thoughtful.
"Can you get me in as a private at the last minute?" he asked presently.
"Yes," said Rivers, quickly, "and I'll telegraph you in plenty of time,
so that you can get back."
Crittenden smiled, for Rivers's plan was plain, but he was thinking of a
plan of his own.
Meanwhile, he drilled as a private each day. He was ignorant of the
Krag-Jorgensen, and at Chickamauga he had made such a laughable
exhibition of himself that the old Sergeant took him off alone one day,
and when they came back the Sergeant was observed to be smiling broadly.
At the first target practice thereafter, Crittenden stood among the
first men of the company, and the captain took mental note of him as a
sharpshooter to be remembered when they got to Cuba. With the drill he
had little trouble--being a natural-born horseman--so one day, when a
trooper was ill, he was allowed to take the sick soldier's place and
drill with the regiment. That day his trouble with Reynolds came. All
the soldiers were free and easy of speech and rather reckless with
epithets, and, knowing how little was meant, Crittenden merely
remonstrated with the bully and smilingly asked him to desist.
"Suppose I don't?"
Crittenden smiled again and answered nothing, and Reynolds mistook his
silence for timidity. At right wheel, a little later, Crittenden
squeezed the bully's leg, and Reynolds cursed him. He might have passed
that with a last warning, but, as they wheeled again, he saw Reynolds
kick Sanders so violently that the boy's eyes filled with tears. He went
straight for the soldier as soon as the drill was over.
"Put up your guard."
"Aw, go to----"
The word was checked at his lips by Crittenden's fist. In a rage,
Reynolds threw his hand behind him, as though he would pull his
revolver, but his wrist was caught by sinewy fingers from behind. It was
Blackford, smiling into his purple face.
"Hold on!" he said, "save that for a Spaniard."
At once, as a matter of course, the men led the way behind the tents,
and made a ring--Blackford, without a word, acting as Crittenden's
second. Reynolds was the champion bruiser of the regiment and a boxer of
no mean skill, and Blackford looked anxious.
"Worry him, and he'll lose his head. Don't try to do him up too
quickly."
Reynolds was coarse, disdainful, and triumphant, but he did not look
quite so confident when Crittenden stripped and showed a white body,
closely jointed at shoulder and elbow and at knee and thigh, and
closely knit with steel-like tendons. The long muscles of his back
slipped like eels under his white skin. Blackford looked relieved.
"Do you know the game?"
"A little."
"Worry him and wait till he loses his head--remember, now."
"All right," said Crittenden, cheerfully, and turned and faced Reynolds,
smiling.
"Gawd," said Abe Long. "He's one o' the fellows that laugh when they're
fightin'. They're worse than the cryin' sort--a sight worse."
The prophecy in the soldier's tone soon came true. The smile never left
Crittenden's face, even when it was so bruised up that smiling was
difficult; but the onlookers knew that the spirit of the smile was still
there. Blackford himself was smiling now. Crittenden struck but for one
place at first--Reynolds's nose, which was naturally large and red,
because he could reach it every time he led out. The nose swelled and
still reddened, and Reynolds's small black eyes narrowed and flamed with
a wicked light. He fought with his skill at first, but those maddening
taps on his nose made him lose his head altogether in the sixth round,
and he senselessly rushed at Crittenden with lowered head, like a sheep.
Crittenden took him sidewise on his jaw as he came, and stepped aside.
Reynolds pitched to the ground heavily, and Crittenden bent over him.
"You let that boy alone," he said, in a low voice, and then aloud and
calmly:
"I don't like this, but it's in deference to your customs. I don't call
names, and I allow nobody to call me names; and if I have another
fight," Reynolds was listening now, "it won't be with my fists."
"Well, Mister Man from Kentucky," said Abe, "I'd a damn sight ruther
you'd use a club on me than them fists; but there's others of us who
don't call names, and ain't called names; and some of us ain't easy
skeered, neither."
"I wasn't threatening," said Crittenden, quickly, "but I have heard a
good deal of that sort of thing flying around, and I don't want to get
into this sort of a thing again." He looked steadily at the soldier, but
the eye of Abraham Long quailed not at all. Instead, a smile broke over
his face.
"I got a drink waitin' fer you," he said; and Crittenden laughed.
"Git up an' shake hands, Jim," said Abe, sternly, to Crittenden's
opponent, "an' let's have a drink." Reynolds got up slowly.
"You gimme a damn good lickin,'" he said to Crittenden. "Shake!"
Crittenden shook, and seconds and principals started for Long's tent.
"Boys," he said to the others, "I'm sorry fer ye. I ain't got but four
drinks--and--" the old Sergeant was approaching; "and one more fer the
Governor."
Rivers smiled broadly when he saw Crittenden at noon.
"The 'Governor' told me," he said, "you couldn't do anything in this
regiment that would do you more good with officers and men. That fellow
has caused us more trouble than any other ten men in the regiment, and
you are the first man yet to get the best of him. If the men could elect
you, you'd be a lieutenant before to-morrow night."
Crittenden laughed.
"It was disgusting, but I didn't see any other way out of it."
Tattoo was sounded.
"Are you sure you can get me into the army at any time?"
"Easy--as a private."
"What regiment?"
"Rough Riders or Regulars."
"All right, then, I'll go to Kentucky for you."
"No, old man. I was selfish enough to think it, but I'm not selfish
enough to do it. I won't have it."
"But I want to go back. If I can get in at the last moment I should go
back anyhow to-night."
"Really?"
"Really. Just see that you let me know in time."
Rivers grasped his hand.
"I'll do that."
Next morning rumours were flying. In a week, at least, they would sail.
And still regiments rolled in, and that afternoon Crittenden saw the
regiment come in for which Grafton had been waiting--a picturesque body
of fighting men and, perhaps, the most typical American regiment formed
since Jackson fought at New Orleans. At the head of it rode two men--one
with a quiet mesmeric power that bred perfect trust at sight, the other
with a kindling power of enthusiasm, and a passionate energy, mental,
physical, emotional, that was tireless; each a man among men, and both
together an ideal leader for the thousand Americans at their heels.
Behind them rode the Rough Riders--dusty, travel-stained troopers,
gathered from every State, every walk of labour and leisure, every
social grade in the Union--day labourer and millionaire, clerk and
clubman, college boys and athletes, Southern revenue officers and
Northern policemen; but most of them Westerners--Texan rangers,
sheriffs, and desperadoes--the men-hunters and the men-hunted; Indians;
followers of all political faiths, all creeds--Catholics, Protestants,
Jews; but cowboys for the most part; dare-devils, to be sure, but
good-natured, good-hearted, picturesque, fearless. And Americans--all!
As the last troopers filed past, Crittenden followed them with his eyes,
and he saw a little way off Blackford standing with folded arms on the
edge of a cloud of dust and looking after them too, with his face set as
though he were buried deep in a thousand memories. He started when
Crittenden spoke to him, and the dark fire of his eyes flashed.
"That's where I belong," he said, with a wave of his hand after the
retreating column. "I don't know one of them, and I know them all. I've
gone to college with some; I've hunted, fished, camped, drank, and
gambled with the others. I belong with them; and I'm going with them if
I can; I'm trying to get an exchange now."
"Well, luck to you, and good-by," said Crittenden, holding out his hand.
"I'm going home to-night."
"But you're coming back?"
"Yes."
Blackford hesitated.
"Are you going to join this outfit?"--meaning his own regiment.
"I don't know; this or the Rough Riders."
"Well," Blackford seemed embarrassed, and his manner was almost
respectful, "if we go together, what do you say to our going as
'bunkies'?"
"Sure!"
"Thank you."
The two men grasped hands.
"I hope you will come back."
"I'm sure to come back. Good-by."
"Good-by, sir."
The unconscious "sir" startled Crittenden. It was merely habit, of
course, and the fact that Crittenden was not yet enlisted, but there was
an unintended significance in the soldier's tone that made him wince.
Blackford turned sharply away, flushing.
VIII
Back in the Bluegrass, the earth was flashing with dew, and the air was
brilliant with a steady light that on its way from the sun was broken by
hardly a cloud. The woodland was alive with bird-wing and bird-song and,
under them, with the flash of metal and the joy of breaking camp. The
town was a mighty pedestal for flag-staffs. Everywhere flags were shaken
out. Main Street, at a distance, looked like a long lane of flowers in a
great garden--all blowing in a wind. Under them, crowds were
gathered--country people, negroes, and townfolk--while the town band
stood waiting at the gate of the park. The Legion was making ready to
leave for Chickamauga, and the town had made ready to speed its going.
Out of the shady woodland, and into the bright sunlight, the young
soldiers came--to the music of stirring horn and drum--legs swinging
rhythmically, chins well set in, eyes to the front--wheeling into the
main street in perfect form--their guns a moving forest of glinting
steel--colonel and staff superbly mounted--every heart beating proudly
against every blue blouse, and sworn to give up its blood for the flag
waving over them--the flag the fathers of many had so bitterly fought
five and thirty years before. Down the street went the flash and glitter
and steady tramp of the solid columns, through waving flags and
handkerchiefs and mad cheers--cheers that arose before them, swelled
away on either side and sank out of hearing behind them as they
marched--through faces bravely smiling, when the eyes were full of
tears; faces tense with love, anxiety, fear; faces sad with bitter
memories of the old war. On the end of the first rank was the boy Basil,
file-leader of his squad, swinging proudly, his handsome face serious
and fixed, his eyes turning to right nor left--seeing not his mother,
proud, white, tearless; nor Crittenden, with a lump of love in his
throat; nor even little Phyllis--her pride in her boy-soldier swept
suddenly out of her aching heart, her eyes brimming, and her
handkerchief at her mouth to keep bravely back the sob that surged at
her lips. The station at last, and then cheers and kisses and sobs, and
tears and cheers again, and a waving of hands and flags and
handkerchiefs--a column of smoke puffing on and on toward the
horizon--the vanishing perspective of a rear platform filled with jolly,
reckless, waving, yelling soldiers, and the tragedy of the parting was
over.
How every detail of earth and sky was seared deep into the memory of the
women left behind that afternoon--as each drove slowly homeward: for God
help the women in days of war! The very peace of heaven lay upon the
earth. It sank from the low, moveless clouds in the windless sky to the
sunlit trees in the windless woods, as still as the long shadows under
them. It lay over the still seas of bluegrass--dappled in woodland,
sunlit in open pasture--resting on low hills like a soft cloud of
bluish-gray, clinging closely to every line of every peaceful slope.
Stillness everywhere. Still cattle browsing in the distance; sheep
asleep in the far shade of a cliff, shadowing the still stream; even the
song of birds distant, faint, restful. Peace everywhere, but little
peace in the heart of the mother to whose lips was raised once more the
self-same cup that she had drained so long ago. Peace everywhere but for
Phyllis climbing the stairs to her own room and flinging herself upon
her bed in a racking passion of tears. God help the women in the days of
war! Peace from the dome of heaven to the heart of the earth, but a
gnawing unrest for Judith, who walked very slowly down the gravelled
walk and to the stiles, and sat looking over the quiet fields. Only in
her eyes was the light not wholly of sadness, but a proud light of
sacrifice and high resolve. Crittenden was coming that night. He was
going for good now; he was coming to tell her good-by; and he must not
go--to his death, maybe--without knowing what she had to tell him. It
was not much--it was very little, in return for his life-long
devotion--that she should at least tell him how she had wholly outgrown
her girlish infatuation--she knew now that it was nothing else--for the
one man who had stood in her life before him, and that now there was no
other--lover or friend--for whom she had the genuine affection that she
would always have for him. She would tell him frankly--she was a grown
woman now--because she thought she owed that much to him--because, under
the circumstances, she thought it was her duty; and he would not
misunderstand her, even if he really did not have quite the old feeling
for her. Then, recalling what he had said on the drive, she laughed
softly. It was preposterous. She understood all that. He had acted that
little part so many times in by-gone years! And she had always pretended
to take him seriously, for she would have given him mortal offence had
she not; and she was pretending to take him seriously now. And, anyhow,
what could he misunderstand? There was nothing to misunderstand.
And so, during her drive home, she had thought all the way of him and
of herself since both were children--of his love and his long
faithfulness, and of her--her--what? Yes--she had been something of a
coquette--she had--she _had_; but men had bothered and worried her, and,
usually, she couldn't help acting as she had. She was so sorry for them
all that she had really tried to like them all. She had succeeded but
once--and even that was a mistake. But she remembered one thing: through
it all--far back as it all was--she had never trifled with Crittenden.
Before him she had dropped foil and mask and stood frankly face to face
always. There was something in him that had always forced that. And he
had loved her through it all, and he had suffered--how much, it had
really never occurred to her until she thought of a sudden that he must
have been hurt as had she--hurt more; for what had been only infatuation
with her had been genuine passion in him; and the months of her
unhappiness scarcely matched the years of his. There was none other in
her life now but him, and, somehow, she was beginning to feel there
never would be. If there were only any way that she could make amends.
Never had she thought with such tenderness of him. How strong and brave
he was; how high-minded and faithful. And he was good, in spite of all
that foolish talk about himself. And all her life he had loved her, and
he had suffered. She could see that he was still unhappy. If, then,
there was no other, and was to be no other, and if, when he came back
from the war--why not?
Why not?
She felt a sudden warmth in her cheeks, her lips parted, and as she
turned from the sunset her eyes had all its deep tender light.
Dusk was falling, and already Raincrow and Crittenden were jogging along
toward her at that hour--the last trip for either for many a day--the
last for either in life, maybe--for Raincrow, too, like his master, was
going to war--while Bob, at home, forbidden by his young captain to
follow him to Chickamauga, trailed after Crittenden about the place with
the appealing look of a dog--enraged now and then by the taunts of the
sharp-tongued Molly, who had the little confidence in the courage of her
fellows that marks her race.
Judith was waiting for him on the porch, and Crittenden saw her from
afar.
She was dressed for the evening in pure white--delicate, filmy--showing
her round white throat and round white wrists. Her eyes were soft and
welcoming and full of light; her manner was playful to the point of
coquetry; and in sharp contrast, now and then, her face was intense
with thought. A faint, pink light was still diffused from the afterglow,
and she took him down into her mother's garden, which was old-fashioned
and had grass-walks running down through it--bordered with pink beds and
hedges of rose-bushes. And they passed under a shadowed grape-arbour and
past a dead locust-tree, which a vine had made into a green tower of
waving tendrils, and from which came the fragrant breath of wild grape,
and back again to the gate, where Judith reached down for an
old-fashioned pink and pinned it in his button-hole, talking with low,
friendly affection meanwhile, and turning backward the leaves of the
past rapidly.
Did he remember this--and that--and that? Memories--memories--memories.
Was there anything she had let go unforgotten? And then, as they
approached the porch in answer to a summons to supper, brought out by a
little negro girl, she said:
"You haven't told me what regiment you are going with."
"I don't know."
Judith's eyes brightened. "I'm so glad you have a commission."
"I have no commission."
Judith looked puzzled. "Why, your mother----"
"Yes, but I gave it to Basil." And he explained in detail. He had asked
General Carter to give the commission to Basil, and the General had said
he would gladly. And that morning the Colonel of the Legion had promised
to recommend Basil for the exchange. This was one reason why he had come
back to the Bluegrass. Judith's face was growing more thoughtful while
he spoke, and a proud light was rising in her eyes.
"And you are going as----"
"As a private."
"With the Rough Riders?"
"As a regular--a plain, common soldier, with plain, common soldiers. I
am trying to be an American now--not a Southerner. I've been drilling at
Tampa and Chickamauga with the regulars."
"You are much interested?"
"More than in anything for years."