[Illustration:
_Page 93_
"EMMELINE," HE SAID GENTLY, "DO YOU SUPPOSE YOU COULD HELP ME?"]
EMMELINE
BY
Elsie Singmaster
_With Illustrations_
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY PERRY MASON COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY ELSIE SINGMASTER LEWARS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TO
Miss Annie Wallace Horner
IS DEDICATED
THIS LITTLE STORY
OF HER NATIVE TOWN
CONTENTS
I. THE SOUND OF BUGLES 1
II. EMMELINE AND THE SCHMIDTS TAKE A JOURNEY 27
III. EMMELINE MEETS THE ENEMIES OF HER COUNTRY 53
IV. THE SECOND DAY OF BATTLE 80
V. PRIVATE CHRISTY SAYS FAREWELL 103
VI. THE TERROR PAST 130
ILLUSTRATIONS
"EMMELINE," HE SAID GENTLY, "DO YOU SUPPOSE
YOU COULD HELP ME?" (page 93) _Frontispiece_
"I AM IN GREAT TROUBLE, EMMELINE" 32
EMMELINE WATCHED HIM GO 128
"YES," ANSWERED MRS. WILLING. "BERTHA IS
ASLEEP UPSTAIRS" 150
_Reproduced by courtesy of "The Youth's Companion" from drawings by B.
J. Rosenmeyer_
EMMELINE
CHAPTER I
THE SOUND OF BUGLES
For an hour at least Emmeline lay quietly curled up on the rear seat
of the Willing surrey. This vehicle was very old and low and broad; it
had been built in the days when people made long journeys in carriages
and liked to have them comfortable. At present the surrey was not in
motion, but in repose in the Willing wagon shed.
Tranquillity was not characteristic of Emmeline. She was by nature a
jumping jack. Although she was fifteen years old and very desirous of
appearing much older, she had put few of the ways of childhood behind
her.
This June day was hot, and Emmeline had been active since early
morning. She had risen at six o'clock, eaten her breakfast, fed
the chickens, washed the dishes, and picked the last of the red
raspberries; then, while she sat by Sister Bertha's bed, she had
raveled enough lint to fill a pint measure. After taking Sister Bertha
her tray, she had gone downstairs to eat her own dinner hungrily. While
she waited on Sister Bertha, or when she heard the neighbors talk about
Sister Bertha, Emmeline's face was a blank mask. Of her sister--or,
rather, her sister-in-law--Emmeline was deeply ashamed.
Sister Bertha was, alas! a rebel. She had come from the South before
the war had broken out to teach school in a village near Gettysburg;
there young Henry Willing had seen her and had loved her, and nearly a
year ago had married her. It was an act not hard to understand after
you had seen Bertha. But it was war time, and between the two, in the
opinion of Emmeline, there should have been undying hatred instead of
love. Henry had already enlisted, and had gone away in his beautiful
blue uniform to join his regiment. He cherished the comfortable
conviction that his mother's home was still his, and thither he had
brought his bride. To Emmeline the act was subversive of all order; it
was contrary to the traditions of the world. Henry was, moreover, hers;
he did not belong to this pale, dark-eyed creature to whom she had to
carry trays.
To Emmeline's mother, Henry's marriage had brought great care. Soon
after Bertha had come to the old home she had been taken ill with a
slow fever, and had lain for weeks helpless in her bed. After a while
she had got better, and had been able to walk to the window and to look
out across the green fields toward the south, where two small hills
lifted rounded heads above the undulating fields.
"One is called Big Round Top and one Little Round Top," Emmeline had
explained in a rare moment of confidence. "There are queer rocks on Big
Round Top. One is shaped like George Washington's head, hat and all,
and there are two tremendous elephants, and there is Devil's Den. I
climbed through Devil's Den once when we went for a picnic. When we go
to grandfather's you can see it. At grandfather's there is a new calf,
and there is Willoughby Run, where I go fishing. I--"
At that point, Emmeline, reminding herself that she was holding
commerce with an enemy of her country, had stopped.
Emmeline's mother bore cheerfully the addition to her family. Bertha
was Henry's--that was reason enough; she was helpless, and she was,
besides, a very lovable person. Mrs Willing had begun bravely to make
quilts for Henry's setting up in housekeeping, and even poor Bertha
had tried to lift a needle in her slim, white fingers. Bertha could
pick lint, but she did not succeed in sewing. Now for two weeks she
had lain once more quiet and pale in her bed. Her improvement had been
inspired by Henry's letters; at the coming of one she had sat up;
at the coming of the second she had walked to the window. Suddenly,
alas! letters had ceased to arrive, and poor Bertha rose no more. The
neighbors--Mrs. Schmidt across the street, Mrs. Bannon next door--were
certain that Bertha could rise if she would. Mrs. Schmidt undertook to
condole with Mrs. Willing upon the difficulties of her situation. In
that Mrs. Schmidt was unwise. Mrs. Schmidt's husband was a sutler in
the army; and she had a great fear of his enemies.
"Ach, I pity you!" she cried in her German way. "She is strange to you
and a rebel to it yet!"
Mrs. Willing's eyes flashed. She was a stout, able person with a great
deal of common sense.
"She is my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Schmidt," she answered sharply.
Mrs. Schmidt said no more to Mrs. Willing, but to Mrs. Bannon and to
Emmeline she continued to express her pity for Mrs. Willing. Emmeline
made no consenting answer, but her heart was meanly pleased.
Now, lying in the old carriage, Emmeline dreamed. She had a favorite
vision, in which she saw herself an army nurse, bringing comfort to
hundreds of wounded Union soldiers. At the end of a long career she
became engaged to a young Union general. Of course she realized that
there was little chance of such dreams coming true. The war could
hardly last until she was old enough to be engaged, or wise enough to
be a nurse. Indeed, as a practical nurse, she had already failed. Long
and irksome were the hours she spent by Sister Bertha's bed--that fact
was plain even to the poor invalid herself.
It is impossible to tell to what length Emmeline's dreaming might not
have gone this hot, sleepy afternoon. But Emmeline heard, or thought
she heard, a sound, and to her, dreaming was far less interesting than
doing. She sprang up, tossed back the long braids of her hair, and
climbed down out of the carriage. Here she shook herself thoroughly
awake, and thus prepared for active life, ran out into the hot sunshine.
Standing still in the garden, Emmeline cocked her head. She had
been certain that she heard shouting. Gettysburg, which was near the
border, had often prepared itself for the arrival of the enemy, but
now almost all the inhabitants except Emmeline had relinquished that
fear. Emmeline still expected a battle. She went out by the side of the
house and looked up and down the street, which lay bare and hot and
quiet. She could hear her mother's voice as she talked in a low tone
to Bertha; across the street the Schmidt baby whimpered. Emmeline, who
loved babies, often took charge of the Schmidt baby.
Emmeline listened for a long minute, but heard nothing more. She
shook one braid to the front of her shoulder, braided it tighter, and
shook it back; then she examined the other, which proved to be still
securely fastened.
Emmeline had long, thick hair and sparkling eyes. Her dress of blue
and white striped calico was made with a skirt as full as a ruffle;
her active legs were clothed in pantalets to match her dress; her arms
and neck were bare, according to the fashion of '63. Having smoothed
down her dress, Emmeline sauntered across the street, and went to the
kitchen door of the Schmidt house. She realized uneasily that Bertha
was crying and that her mother was trying to comfort her.
"I'll take the baby down the street, Mrs. Schmidt," Emmeline offered.
"I have to go to the store."
"Thanks to you," answered Mrs. Schmidt, whose dinner dishes were still
on the table. "With these six, indeed, I don't know what to do, Emmy."
Emmeline took the baby with the condescending air of perfect capability
to perfect incapability. She would never, she said to herself, suffer
her house or her children to get into the condition in which Mrs.
Schmidt's house and children were. When she had washed the baby's face
and smoothed his hair, he stopped crying at once, and with a beaming
smile settled himself into his little cart. Then, with "Get ups!"
and with prancings, Emmeline took him through the gate and down the
quiet street. At the corner she stopped to look up the hill toward
the seminary building and out toward the college. Now that the boys
had formed a company and had gone to war, the town and Emmeline were
denied even the excitement of their presence.
Emmeline traveled more and more slowly. The air was hot and heavy. She
had seen nothing that day of her bosom friend, Eliza Batterson; perhaps
if she waited, Eliza might appear. Her other boon companion, Jessie
Mullin, had long since been sent away from Gettysburg to visit friends
in the country to the north, so much did her parents fear an invasion.
Emmeline prayed that no such ignominious experience would be hers.
Presently old black Tom, who sold peanuts on the streets of Gettysburg,
stopped to inquire about Henry; and then Mrs. Peter, the ever-curious,
asked about Bertha. To black Tom, Emmeline gave gracious response; to
Mrs. Peter, Emmeline returned an answer so short and sharp as to be
impertinent. Mrs. Bannon and Mrs. Schmidt were neighbors, and had a
right to discuss Bertha; Mrs. Peter had none.
When Mrs. Peter had gone, Emmeline remembered uneasily that Bertha had
been crying, and that there was constantly a strained, anxious look in
her mother's eyes. But Henry would come back; there would probably be a
letter from him in the evening mail. Not for an instant would Emmeline
admit to her mind the possibility of anything else.
Presently Emmeline yawned. She could hear now unmistakably the sound of
voices, but it was only the laughter of the pupils of the Young Ladies'
Academy. Next year Emmeline would enter the academy; there was at
present, however, between her and those young ladies a gulf as wide as
the Atlantic. She nodded to them, and then took the handle of the baby
cart and proceeded on her way to the village store.
But Emmeline did not reach the village store, neither then nor for
a long time thereafter. She heard a new sound, and looked up. Men
and women were running past her; the courthouse bell gave a single
startling peal; she heard the clatter of galloping hoofs.
"What's the matter?" cried Emmeline to a passer-by. "What in the world
is the matter?"
"The rebels are coming! You can see them from the corner!"
"I don't believe it!" cried Emmeline, with a throbbing heart.
Emmeline thought of the Schmidt baby. He was heavy, and could not
be dragged, cart and all, through crowds; he would be an annoying
encumbrance to a girl who liked to be in the forefront of everything.
It was certainly not true that the rebels were coming; but something
was coming, and Emmeline wished to be at hand to see. If she hurried up
this alley and down that back street, she could reach her own yard and
then the front street. She could leave the Schmidt baby, fast asleep by
now, on the side porch of her house, or could thrust him, cart and all,
into the kitchen.
Planning as she ran, Emmeline hurried down the alley and the back
street, and at last reached her own garden. Leaving the baby in the
kitchen, she came through the side yard to the gate. There she halted,
with quaking knees.
It was not the rebels that had come, but some strange, tanned,
half-clad creatures; they marched in good order, and looked steadily
from their hollow eyes at astonished Gettysburg, which crowded, half
fearful, at corners, and hung, curious, from windows. Many of the
soldiers were barefooted; others wore shoes from which the soles had
fallen; some had tied the soles to their shoes with strips of soiled
and blackened rags. Emmeline stared with open mouth.
Half in fun and half in earnest, the strangers began to jeer at their
amazed and paralyzed audience:--
"We're not a parade, Yankees!"
"We've come to eat you up!"
One of them caught sight of Emmeline, with her ruffled dress, staring
eyes, and open mouth. "Hello, sissy!" he called. "Look out that when
you close your mouth you don't bite your tongue off!"
Emmeline did not realize the full measure of the insult, for as he
spoke, she had caught sight of a flag that hitherto she had beheld only
in pictures--a flag that she scorned and despised. She mounted at once
to a higher bar on her mother's gate.
"'Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light,'" sang Emmeline.
"'What so--'" Suddenly she felt some one seize her. She struggled, and
cried, "Let me go! Let me go, I tell you!"
Then she realized that the hand on her shoulder was a familiar one.
"Emmeline," commanded her mother, "be still!"
"He insulted me! He's a rebel!"
"Emmeline," commanded Mrs. Willing again, "be still!" Then from her
mother's lips came an incredible order: "Go and fill the water pail,
and bring it here with a dipper."
"Mother!" gasped Emmeline. "Are we going to give them water?"
"Go, Emmeline!"
"They are the enemies of my country!"
"Go!" said Emmeline's mother.
When Mrs. Willing spoke in that tone, even Henry, who was a man, moved
swiftly. Emmeline looked up into her mother's face, but her mother was
not looking down at her. Her eyes were turned toward the street, toward
that apparently unending line of weariness and raggedness and burning
eyes. She saw only the men's hunger, their thirst, their need.
When Emmeline returned, her mother told her to put the pail under the
tree at the edge of the pavement; as she stood there waiting, with her
mother's hand on her shoulder, her eyes flamed and her heart fumed. But
no soldier stopped to drink.
"Go offer them water, Emmeline."
"Mother!" protested Emmeline again.
Emmeline went and filled the dipper and stood holding it out; but no
soldier left the line, although the lips of many were almost black.
Some looked in Emmeline's direction, some passed grimly without a
glance.
"They will not drink it, mother!" cried Emmeline.
"You don't end our lives that way, sissy!" jeered a passing voice.
Emmeline dropped the dipper and fled back to her mother's side. Her
mother had covered her face with her hands and stood shivering.
Emmeline, watching her, was for the moment awed. For the first time
something of the heavy horror of war penetrated her young heart.
"We are not really going to have a battle, mother!"
Mrs. Willing shook her head. "They have come for money and supplies."
"Will they get them?"
"Not here, dear. We haven't them."
"Where will they get them?"
"At York, perhaps," her mother replied.
"May I go down to the square now, mother?"
With the passing of the soldiers, the feeling of horror had passed
also. Emmeline felt secure here in her own quiet village.
"Why, no, of course not!" In Mrs. Willing's eyes was still that
anxious, strained expression. "Where is your baby? Take him to his
mother and come right back."
With a heavy heart Emmeline went to obey. She said to herself that she
never could see anything; she remembered all the pleasures that had
been denied her in her short life,--the political meetings and funerals
she had been forbidden to attend, the parties for which she was thought
too youthful,--and she felt sadly aggrieved. There was nothing to do
in this dreary town. Even picnics had ceased, and home itself, devoted
to the care of Sister Bertha, was home no more.
The afternoon passed, and Emmeline was sadly aware of the stir down
the street. Presently, after burning a few cars on a siding, the
troops went on their way. Saturday brought no excitement to brighten
Emmeline's dull lot. On Sunday, when a body of Union soldiers rode
through the town, Emmeline was, alas! in church. Once or twice troopers
galloped through the streets, and people whispered that soldiers were
riding about the fields with maps. Gettysburg was once more alert and
frightened.
On Tuesday, Emmeline, sitting by the bedside of Bertha with her
patchwork in her hands, heard a thrilling sound--a bugle blast.
Forgetting Bertha, and dropping her patchwork and workbasket, she flew
to the window and stood entranced. Fate was again directing affairs in
Emmeline's way. A great body of soldiers was coming down the street.
They were all mounted soldiers--dusty, tanned, and weather-beaten,
but well clad and well fed. Above them floated a banner that Emmeline
knew,--stripes of crimson and of white, with white stars on a blue
ground, like the stars of heaven,--Emmeline's flag, Henry's flag.
For almost a minute Emmeline held herself in check; then
a black-slippered foot went over the window sill, and a
blue-and-white-pantaletted leg followed. Sitting on the sill, she
raised her voice in song.
"'Glory, glory, hallelujah!'" sang Emmeline, beginning with the chorus.
"'Glory, glory, hallelujah!'"
This time no one grasped Emmeline; there was no one near enough to
grasp her. The soldiers cheered her, and waved to her, and saluted her.
With her red cheeks, and her long braids, and her ruffled dress, she
was a quaint and lovely figure. After a long time her mother called to
her, and she clambered back into the room. The troops had passed, but
huzzas still filled the air. Out through the town the soldiers went,
and camped on Seminary Ridge.
To her keen disappointment Emmeline was not permitted to visit the
camp, but from her room that night she could see the camp-fires
glitter. It seemed to her that her heart would burst with excitement.
What would she see to-morrow? A battle?
But such good fortune could not last. When Emmeline opened her eyes the
next morning, she found her mother by her bed. Mrs. Willing looked as
if she had not slept.
"Get up, Emmeline," said she.
To Emmeline's dismay, she saw a little satchel in her mother's hand.
Emmeline's mind was quick.
"You are not--you are not going to send me _away_, mother!"
"You are to go out to grandfather's for a little visit."
"O _mother_!" wailed Emmeline.
"Yes, Emmeline. Get up and dress. Mrs. Schmidt is going to her
brother's, and you are to ride with her." Mrs. Willing was firm.
"Is there to be a battle?"
"We do not know." Mrs. Willing turned away.
"O mother!" wailed Emmeline a second time.
But no "O mother!" availed. Slowly, with a bitter heart, poor Emmeline
gloomily but obediently put on her striped dress.