It was three days later that Pen came home one evening, alert of step,
bright-eyed, his countenance beaming with satisfaction and delight.
"Well, mother," he cried as he entered the house; "it's settled. I'm
going!"
She looked up in surprise and alarm.
"What's settled, Pen? Where are you going?"
"I'm going to war."
She dropped the work at which she had been busy and sat down weakly in
a chair by her dining-room table. He went to her and laid an
affectionate hand on her shoulder.
"Pardon me, mother!" he continued, "I didn't mean to frighten you, but
I'm so happy over it."
She looked up into his face.
"To war, Pen? What war?"
"The big war, mother. The war in France. Do you remember the other
night when I told you I had an idea?"
"Yes, I remember."
"Well, that was it. It occurred to me, then, that if I couldn't fight
for my own country, under my own flag, I would fight for those other
countries, under their flags. They are making a desperate and a
splendid war to uphold the rights of civilized nations."
He stood there, erect, manly, resolute, his face lighted with the glow
of his enthusiasm. She could but admire him, even though her heart
sank under the weight of his announced purpose. Many times, of an
evening, they had talked together of the mighty conflict in Europe.
From the very first Pen's sympathies had been with France and her
Allies. He could not get over denouncing the swiftness and savagery of
the raid into Belgium, the wanton destruction of her cities and her
monuments of art, the hardships and brutalities imposed upon her
people. The Bryce report, with its details of outrage and crime,
stirred his nature to its depths. The tragedy of the _Lusitania_
filled him with indignation and horror. Now, suddenly, had come the
desire and the opportunity to fight with those peoples who were
struggling to save their ideals from destruction.
"I'm going to Canada," he continued, "to enlist in the American
Legion. They say hundreds and thousands of young men from the United
States who are willing to fight under the Union Jack, have gone up
into Canada for training and are this very minute facing the gray
coats of the German enemy in northern France."
"But, Pen," she protested, "this is such a horrible war. The soldiers
live in the muddiest, foulest kinds of trenches. They kill each other
with gases and blazing oil. They slaughter each other by thousands
with guns that go by machinery. It's simply terrible!"
"I know, mother. It's modern warfare. It's up to date. It's no pink
tea as some one has said. But the more awful it is the sooner it'll be
over, and the more credit there'll be to us who fight in it."
"And you'll be so far away."
She looked up at him, pale-faced, with appealing eyes. He knew how
uncontrollably she shrank from the thought of losing him in this wild
vortex of savagery. He patted her cheek tenderly.
"But you'll be a good patriot," he said, "and let me go. It's my duty
to fight, and it's your duty to let me fight. There isn't any doubt
about that. Besides, this isn't really France's war nor England's war
any more than it is our war, or any more than it is the war of any
country that wants to maintain the ideals of modern civilization. I
shall be serving my country almost the same as though I were fighting
under the Stars and Stripes. And I'll be answering in the only way
it's possible for me to answer, those people who have been charging me
with disloyalty to the flag. Oh, I must show you what Grandfather
Butler says. He made a speech yesterday at the flag-raising at
Chestnut Valley, and it's all in the Lowbridge _Citizen_ this morning.
Listen! Here's the way he winds up."
He drew a newspaper from his pocket and read:
"'So, fellow citizens, let me predict that before this great war
shall come to an end the Stars and Stripes will wave over every
battlefield in Europe. Sooner or later we must enter the conflict; and
the sooner the better. For it's our war. It's the war of every country
that loves liberty and justice. Up to this moment the Allies have been
fighting for the freedom of the world, your freedom and mine, my
friends, as well as their own. It is high time the Government at
Washington, impelled by the patriotic ardor of our thinking citizens,
declared the enemies of England and France to be our enemies, and
joined hands with those heroic countries to stamp out forever the
teutonic menace to liberty and civilization. In the meantime I say to
the red-blooded youth of America: Glory awaits you on the war-scarred
fields of France. Go forth! There is no barrier in the way. Remember
that when the ragged troops of Washington were locked in a death-grip
with the red-coated soldiers of King George, Lafayette, Rochambeau and
de Grasse came to our aid with six and twenty thousand of the bravest
sons of France. It is your turn now to spring to the aid of this
stricken land and prove that you are worthy descendants of the
grateful patriots of old.'"
Pen finished his reading and laid down the paper. There had been a
tremor in his voice at the end, and his eyes were wet.
"That's grandfather," he said, "all over. I knew he'd feel that way
about it. I had decided to go before I read that speech. Now I
couldn't stay at home if I tried. I'm his grandson yet, mother, and I
shall answer his call to arms."
After that he sat down quietly and unfolded to his mother all of his
plans. He told her that he had gone to Major Starbird and had confided
to him his desire to serve with the Allied armies. The old soldier,
veteran of many battles, had sympathized with his ambition and had
procured for him the necessary information concerning enlistment and
training in Canada. He was to go to New York and report to a certain
confidential agent there at an address which had been given him, where
he would receive the necessary credentials for enlistment in the new
American Legion then in process of formation. And Major Starbird had
said to him that when he returned, if at all, his place at the mill
would still be open to him and he would be welcomed back. He told it
all with a quiet enthusiasm that evidenced not only his fixed purpose,
but also the fact that his whole heart was in the adventure, and that
there would be no turning back.
And his mother gave her consent that he should go. What else was there
for her to do? Mothers have sent their sons to war from time
immemorial. It is thus that they suffer and bleed for their country.
And who shall say that their sacrifice is not as great in its way as
is the sacrifice of those who offer up their lives in battle? But that
night, through sleepless hours, when she thought of the loneliness
that would be hers, and the hazards and horrors that would be his, and
of how, after all, he was such a mere boy, to be petted and spoiled
and kept at home rather than to be sent out to meet the trials and
terrors of the most cruel war in history, her heart failed her, and
she wept in unspeakable dread. It is the women, in the long run, who
are the greater sufferers from the armed clash of nations!
The mother who conceals her grief
While to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief,
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,
With no one but her secret God
To know the pain that weighs upon her,
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod
Received on Freedom's field of honor!
It was three days later that Pen went away. There were many little
matters to which he must attend before going. His mother must be
safeguarded and her comfort looked after during his absence. His own
private affairs must be left in such shape that in the event of his
not returning they could easily be closed up. He permitted nothing to
remain at loose ends. But to no one save to his employer and his
mother did he confide his plans. He did not care to publish a purpose
that lay so near to his heart. He went on the early morning train.
Major Starbird was at the station to wring his hand and bid him
Godspeed and wish him a safe return. But his mother was not there. She
was in her room at home, her white face against the window, gazing
with tear-wet eyes toward the south. She heard the distant rumble of
the cars as they came, and the blasts from the far away whistle fell
softly on her ears. And, by and by, the ever lengthening and fading
line of smoke against the far horizon told her that the train bearing
her only child to unknown and possibly dreadful destiny was on its
way.
Pen had been in New York before. On several memorable occasions, as a
boy, he had accompanied his grandfather Butler to the city and had
enjoyed the sights and sounds of the great metropolis, and had learned
something of its ways and byways. He had no difficulty, therefore, in
finding the address that had been given him by Major Starbird, and,
having found it, he was made welcome there. He learned, what indeed he
already knew, that Canada was not averse to filling out her quota of
loyal troops for the great war by enlisting and training young men of
good character and robust physique from the States. Armed with
confidential letters of introduction and commendation, and certain
other requisite documents, he left the quiet office on the busy street
feeling that at last the desire of his heart was to be fully
gratified. It was now late afternoon. He was to take a night train
from the Grand Central station which would carry him by way of Albany
to Toronto. Borne along by the crowd of home-going people he found
himself on Broadway facing Trinity Church. The dusk of evening was
already falling, and here and there the glow of electric lamps began
to pierce the gloom. On one occasion he had wandered, with his
grandfather, through Trinity Churchyard, and had read and been
thrilled by inscriptions on ancient tomb-stones marking the graves of
those who had served their country well in her early and struggling
years. Had it been still day he would not have been able to resist the
impulse to repeat that experience of his boyhood. As it was, he stood,
for many minutes, peering through the iron railing that separated the
living, hurrying throngs on the pavement from the narrow homes of
those who, more than a century before, had served their generation by
the will of God and had fallen on sleep.
As he turned his eyes away from the deepening shadows of the graveyard
it occurred to him that he would go to a hotel formerly frequented by
Colonel Butler, and get his dinner there before going to the train. It
would seem like old times, for it was there that they had stayed when
he had accompanied his grandfather on those trips of his boyhood. To
be sure the colonel would not be there, but delightful memories would
be stirred by revisiting the place, and he felt that those memories
would be most welcome this night.
Ever more and more, in these latter days, his thoughts had turned
toward his boyhood home. After six years of absence and estrangement
there was still no tenderer spot in his heart, save the one occupied
by his mother, than the spot in which reposed his memories of his
childhood's hero, the master of Bannerhall. He wished that there might
have been a reconciliation between them before he went to war. He
would have given much if only he could have seen the stern face with
its gray moustache and its piercing eyes, if he could have felt the
warm grasp of the hand, if he could have heard the firm and kindly
voice speak to him one word of farewell and Godspeed. He sighed as he
turned in at the subway kiosk and descended the steps to the platform
to join the pushing and the jostling crowd on its homeward way. At the
Grand Central Station he procured his railway tickets and checked his
baggage and then came out into Forty-second street. After a few
minutes of bewildered turning he located himself and made his way
without further trouble to his hotel. But the place seemed strange to
him now; not as spacious as when he was a boy, not as ornate, not as
wonderful. It was only after he had eaten his dinner and come out
again into the lobby that it took on any kind of a familiar air, and
not until he was ready to depart that he could have imagined the erect
form of Colonel Butler, with its imposing and attractive personality,
approaching him through the crowd as he had so often seen it in other
years.
Then, as he turned toward the street door, a strange thing happened. A
familiar figure emerged from a side corridor and came out into the
main lobby in full view of the departing boy. It needed no second
glance to convince Pen that this was indeed his grandfather. The
stern face, the white, drooping moustache, the still soldierly
bearing, could belong to no one else. The colonel stopped for a minute
to make inquiry and obtain information from a hotel attendant, then,
having apparently learned what he wished to know, he stood looking
searchingly about him.
Pen stood still in his tracks and wondered what he should do. The
vision had come upon him so suddenly that it had quite taken away his
breath. But it did not take long for him to decide. He would do the
obvious and manly thing and let the consequences take care of
themselves. He stepped forward and held out his hand.
"How do you do, grandfather," he said.
Colonel Butler turned an unrecognizing glance on the boy.
"You have the advantage of me, sir," he replied. "I--"
He stopped speaking suddenly, his face flushed, and a look of glad
surprise came into his eyes.
"Why, Penfield!" he exclaimed, "is this you?"
But, before Pen had time to respond, either by word or movement, to
the greeting, the old man's gloved hand which had been thrust partly
forward, fell back to his side, the light of recognition left his
eyes, and he stood, as stern-faced and determined as he had stood on
that February night, years ago, asking about a boy and a flag.
"Yes, grandfather," said Pen, "it is I."
The colonel did not turn away, nor did any harsh word come to his
lips. He spoke with cold courtesy, as he might have spoken to any
casual acquaintance.
"This is a surprise, sir. I had not expected to see you here."
He made a brave effort to control his voice, but it trembled in spite
of him.
Pen's heart was stirred with sudden pity. He saw as he looked on his
grandfather's face, that age and sorrow had made sad inroads during
these few years. The hair and moustache, iron-gray before, were now
completely white, the countenance was deep-lined and sallow, the eyes
had lost their piercing brightness. But Pen did not permit his
surprise, or his sorrow, or his grief at the manner of his reception,
to show itself by any word or look.
"Nor did I expect to see you," he said. "Have you been long in the
city?"
"I arrived less than an hour ago. I expect to meet here my friend
Colonel Marshall with whom I shall discuss the state of the country."
"Did--did you come alone?"
It was the wrong thing to say, and Pen knew it the moment he had said
it. But the old man's appearance of feebleness had aroused in him the
sudden thought that he ought not to be traveling alone, and,
impulsively, he had given expression to the thought. Colonel Butler
straightened his shoulders and turned upon his grandson a look of fine
scorn.
"I came alone, sir," he replied. "How else did you expect me to come?"
"Why, I thought possibly Aunt Milly might have come along."
"In troublous times like these the woman's place is at the fire-side.
The man's duty should lead him wherever his country calls, or wherever
he can be of service to a people defending themselves against the
onslaught of armed autocracy."
"Yes, grandfather."
"I am therefore here to take counsel with certain men of judgment
concerning the participation of this country in the bloody struggle
that is going on abroad. After that I shall proceed to Washington to
urge upon the heads of our government my belief that the time is ripe
to throw the weight of our influence, and the weight of our wealth,
and the weight of our armies, into the scale with France and Great
Britain for the subjugation of those central powers that are waging
upon these gallant countries a most unjust and unrighteous war."
"Yes, grandfather; I agree with you."
"Of course you do, sir. No right-minded man could fail to agree with
me. And I shall tender my sword and my services, to be at the disposal
of my country, in whatever branch of the service the Secretary of War
may see fit to assign me as soon as war is declared. As a matter of
fact, sir, we are already at war with Germany. Both by land and sea
she has, for the last year, been making open war upon our commerce,
on our citizens, on the integrity of our government. It is
exasperating, sir, exasperating beyond measure, to see the authorities
at Washington drifting aimlessly and unpreparedly into an armed
conflict which is bound to come. Our president should demand from
congress at once a declaration that a state of war exists with
Germany, and with that declaration should go a system of organized
preparedness, and then, sir, we should go to Europe and fight, and,
thus fighting, help our Allies and save our native land. It shall be
my errand to Washington to urge such an aggressive course."
Of his belief in his theory there could be no doubt. Of his
earnestness in advocating it there was not the slightest question. His
profound sympathy with the Allies did credit to his heart as well as
his judgment. And the devotion of this one-armed and enfeebled veteran
to the cause of his own country, his eagerness to serve her in the
field and his confidence in his ability still to do so, were pathetic
as well as inspiring. It was all so big, and patriotic, and splendid,
even in its childish egotism and simplicity, that the pure absurdity
of it found no place in the mind of this affectionate and
manly-hearted boy.
"I believe you are right, grandfather," he said, "and it's noble of
you to offer your services that way."
"Thank you, sir!"
The colonel turned as if to move toward the information desk at the
office, and then turned back.
"Pardon me!" he said, "but I forgot to inquire concerning your own
errand in the city."
"I am on my way to Canada, grandfather."
A look of surprise came into the old man's eyes, followed at once by
an expression of infinite scorn. He remembered that, in the days of
the civil war, slackers and rebel sympathizers who wished to evade the
draft made their way across the national border into Canada. They had
received the contempt of their own generation and had drawn a
figurative bar-sinister across the shield of their descendants. Could
it be possible that this grandchild of his was about to add disgrace
to disloyalty? That, in addition to heaping insults on the flag of his
country as a boy, he was now, as a man, taking time by the forelock
and escaping to the old harbor of safety to avoid some possible future
conscription? The absurdity and impracticability of such a proposition
did not occur to him at the moment, only the humiliation and the
horror of it.
"To Canada, sir?" he demanded; "the refuge of cowards and copperheads!
Why to Canada, sir, in the face of this impending crisis in your
country's affairs?"
His voice rose at the end in angry protest. The look of scorn that
blazed from under his gray eye-brows was withering in its intensity.
Pen, who was sufficiently familiar with the history of the civil war
to know what lay in his grandfather's mind, answered quickly but
quietly:
"I am going to Canada to enlist."
"To--to what? Enlist?"
"Yes; in the American Legion; to fight under the Union Jack in
France."
A pillar stood near by, and the colonel backed up against it for
support. The shock of the surprise, the sudden revulsion of feeling,
left him nerveless.
"And you--you are going to war?"
He could not quite believe it yet. He wanted confirmation.
"Yes, grandfather; I'm going to war. I couldn't stay out of it. Until
my own country takes up arms I'll fight under another flag. When she
does get into it I hope to fight under the Stars and Stripes."
A wonderful look came into the old man's face, a look of pride, of
satisfaction, of unadulterated joy. His mouth twitched as though he
desired to speak and could not. Then, suddenly, he thrust out his one
arm and seized Pen's hand in a mighty and affectionate grip. In that
moment the sorrow, the bitterness, the estrangement of years vanished,
never to return.
"I am proud of you, sir!" he said. "You are worthy of your illustrious
ancestors. You are maintaining the best traditions of Bannerhall."
"I'm glad you're pleased, grandfather."
"Pleased is too mild an expression. I am rejoiced. It is the proudest
moment of my life." He stepped away from the pillar, straightened his
shoulders, and gazed benignantly on his grandson. "Not that I
especially desire," he added after a moment, "that you should be
subjected to the hazards and the hardships of a soldier's life. That
goes without saying. But it is the hazards and the hardships he faces
that make the soldier a hero. Death itself has no terrors for the
patriotic brave. '_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori._'"
His eyes wandered away into some alluring distance and his thought
into the fields of memory, and for a moment he was silent. Nor did Pen
speak. He felt that the occasion was too momentous, the event too
sacred to be spoiled by unnecessary words from him.
It was the colonel who at last broke the silence.
"It is not an opportune time," he said, "to speak of the past. But, as
to the future, you may rest in confidence. While you are absent your
mother shall be looked after. Her every want shall be supplied. It
will be my delight to attend to the matter personally."
Swift tears sprang to Pen's eyes. Surely the beautiful, the tender
side of life was again turning toward him. It was with difficulty that
he was able sufficiently to control his voice to reply:
"Thank you, grandfather! You are very good to us."
"Do not mention it! How about your own wants? Have you money
sufficient to carry you to your destination?"
"Thank you! I have all the money I need."
"Very well. I shall communicate with you later, and see that you lack
nothing for your comfort. Will you kindly send me your address when
you are permanently located in your training camp?"
"Yes, I will."
Pen glanced at his watch and saw that he had but a few minutes left in
which to catch his train.
"I'm sorry, grandfather," he said, "but when I met you I was just
starting for the station to take my train north; and now, if I don't
hurry, I'll get left."
He held out his hand and the old man grasped it anew.
"Penfield, my boy;" his voice was firm and brave as he spoke.
"Penfield, my boy, quit yourself like the man that you are! Remember
whose blood courses in your veins! Remember that you are an American
citizen and be proud of it. Farewell!"
He parted his white moustache, bent over, pressed a kiss upon his
grandson's forehead, swung him about to face the door, and watched his
form as he retreated. When he turned again he found his friend,
Colonel Marshall, standing at his side.
"I have just bidden farewell," he said proudly, "to my grandson,
Master Penfield Butler, who is leaving on the next train for Canada
where he will go into training with the American Legion, and
eventually fight under the Union Jack, on the war-scarred fields of
France."
"He is a brave and patriotic boy," replied Colonel Marshall.
"It is in his blood and breeding, sir. No Butler of my line was ever
yet a coward, or ever failed to respond to a patriotic call."
And as for Pen, midnight found him speeding northward with a heart
more full and grateful, and a purpose more splendidly fixed, than his
life had ever before known.