Through the great heat of July, 1862, the war went on its inconclusive
way. In Westways, as elsewhere, the call of the people's President for
three hundred thousand men was felt the more thoughtfully because now it
was, of course, known that Penhallow was Colonel of the 129th Infantry;
that he had made a great sacrifice of money was also known, but not
understood, and Ann Penhallow's half-forgotten politics were again
discussed when the village evening parliament met in front of the
post-office.
Mrs. Crocker, off duty, stood framed in the door, cooling her round
face with a palmetto fan and listening with interest to the talk or
taking part in the discussion in so positive a way as was felt to be
indiscreetly feminine, but respected on account of her official
representation of a husband too deaf to fulfil his duties.
The Doctor got out of his gig. "Any letters from my boy?"
"Yes, two. Wanted to send them by Billy, but he's war-wild and wouldn't
go." The Doctor looked over his letters.
"All right, I hope," said Mrs. Crocker.
Pole in his shirt sleeves listening said, "Of course, he is all
right--doctors don't fight none."
"Send your son, Pole, before you talk nonsense," said McGregor. "My boy
got a ball in his leg at Malvern Hill."
"My son's going along with the Squire," returned Pole, "leaves me short
of help, and my wife's about crazy over it."
"What about Mrs. Penhallow?" said Mrs. Crocker. "I guess she's the kind
that don't show what she feels."
"Oh, money's a great comforter," returned the butcher. "What I'm to do, I
don't know."
"Well, I'm going too," said Joe Grace, "and father says I'm right."
"Oh, here's the parson," said Pole, as Rivers approached. "He's like the
rest of them--all for war."
"Well, Pole," said Rivers, "how are you and Mrs. Crocker? I think you are
getting thin this hot weather."
"Am I? No such good luck. We are talking war, Mr. Rivers. I do hear that
what with the mill-boys and country fellows there's some thirty going
into the Colonel's regiment."
"So I hear. On Sunday I mean to talk to them after service. You might say
so."
"I will. If I had a boy, he should go," said Mrs. Crocker.
"It's easy talking when you haven't none," said Pole. "We are gettin'
licked, and some day Lee will be over the border. It's just useless to
spend money and cripple men."
There was a moment of silence, when Mrs. Crocker spoke. "Pole, you
aren't ever sure of your legs. You were all for Buchanan, and then all
for Lincoln. Now you're uneasy on the top rail of the fence and the rail
ain't round." The parliament broke into laughter, and with more talk
dissolved after some critical wisdom about the war.
* * * * *
It was July 30th, after ten at night, the day before the final Sunday of
the month. The Colonel of the 129th stood with Leila before a big war
map. "This fight at Malvern Hill"--he put a pin on the place--"was a
mistake on the part of Lee, and yet he is a master of the game. He was
terribly beaten--an aggressive general would have attacked at once."
"Would he have won, uncle?"
"I think so--but after a defeat these armies are as dangerous as a
cornered cat."
"But, dear Uncle Jim, what is the matter with us?--We have men, money and
courage."
"Well, this is how I see it. Neither side has a broad-minded General in
command of the whole field of war. Every day sees bits of fights,
skirmishes, useless loss of life. There is on neither side any connected
scheme of war. God knows how it will end. I do not yet see the man. If
Robert Lee were in absolute command of all the effective force of the
South, we would have trouble."
"But if he is so good a soldier, why did he make what you call a frontal
attack on entrenched troops at Malvern?"
"My dear, when two men spar and neither can quite end the fight, one
gets angry or over-confident and loses his head, then he does something
wild--and pays for it."
"I see. You leave on Monday?"
"Yes--early."
"Mr. Rivers means to talk after service to the men who are enlisting."
"So he told me. I begged him to be moderate."
"He asked me for a text, uncle."
"Well!"
"I gave him the one about Caesar and God."
"What put that into your head--it does not seem suitable?"
"Oh, do you think so? Some one once mentioned it to me. I could preach on
it myself, but texts grow wonderfully in his hands. They glow--oh, they
get halos about them. He ought to be in a great city."
"Oh, my dear, Mark Rivers has his limitations like all of us. He would
die. Even here he has to be watched. McGregor told him last year that he
was suffering from the contagion of other people's wickedness with
occasional acute fits of over-conscientiousness. Rivers said it was
incomprehensible nonsense; he was almost angry."
"And yet it is true, Uncle Jim."
"I'm glad I haven't the disease. I told McGregor as much. By George! he
said my variety of the disorder was about other folk's stupidity. Then,
when I said that I didn't understand him, he laughed. He makes me furious
when he only laughs and won't answer--and won't explain."
"Why, uncle! I love to see him laugh. He laughs all over--he shakes. I
told him it was a mirthquake. That set him off again. Was Tom McGregor
badly hurt?"
"No, not badly."
"Will aunt go to church to-morrow?"
"No."
"I thought she would not. I should love to see you in uniform."
"Not here, my dear, but I will send you a daguerreotype."
* * * * *
When on this Sunday long remembered in Westways, the tall figure of Mark
Rivers rose to open the service, he saw the little church crowded, the
aisles filled, and in the front pews Penhallow, his niece, and behind
them the young men who were to join his regiment. Grace had asked his own
people to be present, and here and there were the mothers and sisters of
the recruits, and a few men on crutches or wasted by the fevers of the
Virginia marshes. Mark Rivers read the morning service as few men know
how to read it. He rarely needed the prayer-book--he knew it all. He gave
to it the freshness of a new message of love and helpfulness. More than
ever on this Sunday Leila felt a sense of spiritual soaring, of
personally sharing the praises of the angel choir when, looking upwards,
he said: "Therefore with angels and archangels and all the company of
heaven we laud and magnify Thy glorious name." She recalled that John had
said, "When Mark Rivers says 'angels and archangels' it is like the clash
of silver cymbals."
He gave out at the close his favourite hymn, "Lead, Kindly Light." It was
well and sweetly sung by the girl-choir. As the music closed he rose--a
figure of command, his spare frame looking larger for his robes. For a
silent moment his eloquent eyes wandered over the crowd, gathering the
attentive gaze of young and old, then he said: "I want to talk on this
unusual occasion for a little while, to you who are answering the call of
a man who is like a father calling his sons to a task of danger. My text
is: 'Render, therefore, unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's and unto
God the things that are God's.' The wonder of the great texts is that
they have many applications as time runs on. You know the familiar story.
Payment of the tax meant obedience to the Government, to law, to order. I
would that I had the power to make you see with me the scene. It is to me
so very distinct. The Pharisees desire to tempt him, a Jew, into a
statement treasonable to the Roman rule they had accepted. Was it right
for the Jew to pay the tax which sustained this Government? He had, as
you may remember, already paid it for Peter and himself. He asks for the
penny bearing Caesar's head and answers them in the words of the text,
'Render unto Caesar, therefore, the things which are Caesar's.' He
returns the penny. I wonder where that little coin is to-day? It has
gone, but the lesson it read remains forever; nor even today is the
Pharisee gone with his invidious temptations. _You_ are to-day obeying a
greater than Caesar. _You_ are meeting the material obligations of a day
of discouragement--and for some a day of doubt.
"The nobler applications which lie within the meaning of the latter part
of the text He answers more fully than was asked: 'Render unto God the
things which are God's.' What are these things which are at need to be
rendered to Him? What larger tax? Ease--comfort--home--the strong bodies
which make work safe and pleasant. He asks of you the exercise of unusual
qualities--the courage which looks death in the face and will not take
the bribe of safety, of life, at the cost of dishonour. Ah! not in battle
is my fear for you. In the long idleness of camps will come your hours of
temptation. Think then of those at home who believe in you. It is a great
thing to have an outside conscience--wife, mother, sister. Those are
hours when it is hard to render unto God what he gave.
"We are now, as I said, at a time of discouragement. There are cowards
who would yield--who would compromise--men who want peace at any cost.
You answer them nobly. Here, in this sacred cause, if He asks it, we
render life or the easy competencies of youth in its day of vigour."
The man paused. The strange power of the eyes spoke to them in this
moment of silence. "Oh! I said the cause was sacred--an unbroken land.
_He_ gave you that, just for wide-world uses. Keep it! Guard it!--with
all that Union of the States meant and still means to-day. _You_ are not
to blame for this necessity--war. The man who bends unpaid over the
master's cotton-field is the innocent cause of all this bloodshed. If
there were no slavery, there would have been no war. But let there be
no hatred in the brave hearts you carry. God did not slay Saul, the
earnest--I might say--the honest persecutor. He made him blind for a
time. The awful charity of God is nowhere else so wonderful. These
gallant people you are going to meet will some day see that God was
opening their eyes to better days and nobler ways. They too are honest
in the belief that God is on their side. Therefore, let there be no
bitterness.
"Some of you are what we call religious. Do not be ashamed of it.
The hardest fighters the world has known were men who went to battle
with arms invisible to man. A word more and I have done. I have the
hope--indeed the certainty--that I shall be sent to the field on errands
of mercy and helpfulness. We may meet again. And now, take with you the
earnest will to render unto God what things He gave for His highest uses.
Now let us offer the prayer for the volunteers our great Bishop desires
the Church to use. Let us pray."
In unusual silence the congregation moved away, a silence shared by Leila
and her uncle. At last she said, "Uncle Jim, I wish Aunt Ann could have
heard that sermon--it could not have hurt her."
"Perhaps not."
"I wonder why she has so great a respect for him, so real a friendship.
He thinks slavery the sin of sins. He has very little charity about
it--oh, none--and Aunt Ann is as sure it is a divinely appointed
relation."
"They fought it out, my dear, in his early days at Westways, and when
they both found that they were clad in the armour of changeless beliefs
no arguments could penetrate, they gave up and took of two fine natures
what was left for life's uses and became friends. At least, that is how
McGregor put it. He sometimes states things well."
"I see," said Leila thoughtfully, and set herself to thinking whether if
she had radical differences of opinion with some one, she could settle
into a condition of armed neutrality. Then she wondered if war made
changes in the character of a man.
Presently she asked, "Why, Uncle Jim, are you suddenly in such haste to
go?"
"There is need of haste. I could not tell Ann; I can tell you. We were
never worse off since the war began. The Governor asks me to meet him
in Harrisburg. What he fears is that in September Lee will cross the
Potomac, with the hope of Maryland rising. Our Governor will call out
fifty thousand militia. He wants me to take a command; I shall take it,
but Lee's veterans would brush our militia away like summer flies. If he
finds the Army of the Potomac before him, there may be a different story.
I hope, please God, to be with it. There you have all I know, but it is
for you alone. My regiment will go to the front before the end of the
month."
"You will write to me, uncle."
"Yes, when I can. Your aunt asks me to write often, but not to write
about the war, as if--well, no matter. But I can write to you. Good
night--and be brave, dear--and Ann! You will watch over her?"
"Yes, surely."
* * * * *
Ann Penhallow having sorrowfully made up her mind that her husband's
honour required his return to the army saw to it with her usual
efficiency that everything he might need was carefully provided. At
bed-time of that Sunday she said quietly, "Good night and good-bye,
James. I do not want to be called to-morrow to say good-bye. You will be
off by six. Leila will give you your breakfast. Write often." She was to
appearance cheerful and even gay, as she paused on the stairs laughing.
"These men," she cried, "I wonder how they do without women orderlies.
At the last moment I found you had left your razors--good-night!"
The Colonel's eyes followed her slight form a little puzzled and not
entirely pleased at this easy dismissal of sentiment, when he knew what
he himself would have done if she had flown the least signal of distress.
He turned to Leila. "I am very much relieved, my dear, to see that your
aunt is taking my departure quietly. I was afraid of another breakdown,
and I could not have stayed a day longer."
Leila who had watched this parting with some anxiety said, "I was a
little uneasy myself, but really Aunt Ann was great." She could have
made the well-loved Colonel miserable by translating for him into the
tongue of man the language of the actress on the stairs. "I wonder,"
she reflected, "if all men are that blind, or only the heroic or
unimaginative."
* * * * *
Colonel Penhallow was detained by consultations with the Governor and by
regimental work until near the close of August, when his command was
hurried forward to join McClellan's army. He followed it a day later. He
wrote long notes to his wife almost daily and then in September after the
battle of Antietam more freely to Leila:--
"DEAR LEILA: You will be surprised to hear from me as at Washington on
this September 19th. I overtook my command at noon, in Philadelphia,
where the regiment was being well fed in the big building known as the
Cooper Shop. I was pleased with the look of the men, who have been long
drilled in camp. After the meal I went outside and mounted Dixy, who was
as rebellious as if he knew he was on the side to which his name did
not belong. A soldier was vainly trying to mount my mare. He lost his
temper and struck her. I saw a black man interfering, and rode forward
seeing there was some trouble. By George! it was Josiah. I shook hands
with him and said, 'Where did you come from? He said, 'Saw your name,
sir, in the paper and just quit my work. I'm goin' along with you--I'm
your servant. I've been thinkin' this long while I'd go back to Westways,
but I've been doin' well here, and I just kep' a puttin' it off. I'm
goin' with you.' I said, 'All right, get on that horse.' He patted the
uneasy mare and in a moment was in the saddle and I a well pleased man.
Tell your aunt I am well cared for.
"We were hurried forward, and I had the pleasure of seeing my men behave
well when we stormed South Mountain--a very gallant affair. Joe Grace was
hurt, but not badly, and was left behind. As to the killed, none are from
Westways. At Antietam we were with the reserve, which I thought should
have been used and was not. It was an attack on an interior line as seems
always to be our luck. McClellan will follow Lee, of course. My regiment
is to be with the Sixth Corps, but I was ordered by the Secretary of War
to report to him in Washington. It is disgusting! But orders are orders.
The Lieutenant-Colonel will have my place, and I hope to get back soon.
Josiah was caught in the thick of the fight at Fox Gap. He was scared a
sort of green. He will get over it--I know the signs. It was pure
nervousness. His explanation was very perfect, 'I just laid down flat
because I was afraid of gittin' this servant of yours killed.' We grinned
mutual approval of the excuse.
"Yours ever,
"JAMES PENHALLOW."
"P.S. You will have found this letter very unsatisfactory, but the fact
is that only people of ample leisure make good correspondents. But now
to sum up: Yesterday I saw Stanton, had a glimpse of Swallow, saw Mr.
Lincoln, and had an adventure so out of the common that it was like
one of the stories of adventure in which Jack used to delight. Now I
cannot--should not tell it--but some day--yes. Send this P.S., bit of
good news, on its way. Read it first."
"Well, that is exasperating? Surely men are most unsatisfactory letter
writers. No woman with an interesting subject could be so uninteresting.
John is as bad or worse."
She found enclosed a postscript slip for Mr. Grace.
"DEAR SIR: That boy of yours is not badly hurt. He behaved with
intelligent courage when for a moment a part of our charging line
hesitated. I was proud of him; I have made him a Corporal.
"Yours truly,
"JAMES PENHALLOW."
The order to report to the former counsel of his firm, Secretary Stanton,
brought an unhappy Colonel to the War Department. He sent in his card,
and was asked to follow an orderly. As he was about to enter the private
office of the War Minister, to his amazement Swallow came out. With a
curt good morning, Penhallow went by him. The great Secretary rose to
greet him, saying, "You are very welcome, Penhallow--never more welcome."
"You look worn out, Stanton," said the Colonel.
"No, not yet; but, my God! Penhallow, my life is one to kill the
toughest. What with army mishaps, inefficiency, contractors backed by
Congressmen--all the scum that war brings to the top. Do you know why
I sent for you?"
"No. It was an order--I ask no questions. I am at your service."
"You were disappointed, of course."
"Yes, I was."
"Well, there were two reasons. One is frankly this. Your firm has a
contract for field artillery--and now you are in the service."
"I see! It is not now my firm. I gave up my partnership."
"So I saw, but who of these hungry contractors will believe that you gave
up--a fortune--to enter the army! The facts are either not well known or
have been misstated."
"Very likely. I gave up what you speak of as a fortune as you gave up a
great income at the bar, and for the same reason I withdrew all my
capital. Even the rental of my mills will go to the Sanitary Commission.
I could not leave a doubt or the least cause for suspicion."
"I was sure of you, but this has been a well-nursed scandal, due to an
influential lot of disappointed contractors who would have controlled the
giving of that contract had I not come into office. I shall kill it dead.
Trust that to me."
"Thank you, Stanton, I could have stood it."
"Yes, but you do not know, my dear Penhallow, what Washington is at
present. Well, let it go. It is now my business. Do you know this Mr.
Swallow?"
"Know him? Yes--a usurious scamp of a lawyer, who to our relief has left
Westways. Do not trust him. I presume that I owe this talk about me to
him."
"Well, yes, to him and his associates."
"What does he want now?"
"What he will not get. Let him go. I said I had two reasons for ordering
you here. One I have stated. I want some one I can entirely trust, not
merely for honesty and loyalty, but also because of business competence.
All manner of work for the Government is going on here and elsewhere. I
want some one to report on it from time to time. It will keep you here
this winter. You do not like it?"
"No, but it was an order."
"Yes, I am sorry to take you for a time out of active service, but
trust me this war will last long. This winter I want you for a variety
of inspection work here or elsewhere. It will be mere business, dull,
unexciting, with unending watchfulness, and advisory technical help
and advice. I want not only personal character--I can get that, but
not easily the combination of technical training and business capacity."
He unrolled a bundle of papers. "There for example, Colonel, are plans
for a new form of ambulance and pontoon wagons ready for approval. I
want a report on both." He went on to speak of the ambulances with
amazing knowledge of the details of their build. Penhallow watched
this earnest, overtasked man, and began to comprehend the vastness of
his daily toil, the weight of his mighty load of care. As he talked,
cards were brought in, messages sent or received, telegrams--the talk
was dropped--resumed--and the Colonel simply listened. At last the
Secretary said, "That will do for to-day. You have room No. 27, and such
clerks and orderlies as you may need. You will find on your table these
specifications--and more--others. And now, how is your beautiful Grey
Pine and its mistress and Leila? You will assure them of my undiminished
affection. And John--where is he?"
"With General Grant, but where just now I cannot say."
As he spoke, the door opened and an officer announced--"The President."
The ungainly length of Lincoln appeared. A quiet smile lingered on the
large-featured face, with some humorous appreciation of the War
Secretary's evident annoyance at this abrupt visit. Mr. Stanton's
greeting as he rose was as the Colonel thought coldly civil.
"My friend, Colonel Penhallow, sir."
"Glad to see you," said Lincoln, and then with a certain simplicity
explained, "You see, Colonel, sometimes I run away out of the back of
the White House--just to get free of the guards. Don't look so bothered,
Stanton. I'm too fine a failure for any one to want to kill me. Any
news?"
"None," said the secretary, as he stood not too well pleased; "Colonel
Penhallow is to be in my office on inspection duty."
"Indeed! Glad to see you." The huge hand closed on Penhallow's with
innocent use of its power. "Name sounds familiar. Yes--there was a cadet
of your name last year. Your son, I suppose?"
"No, my nephew--in the engineers with General Grant."
"Tell him I asked for him--handsome fellow. Anything I can do for him?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Anything I can do for you?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Don't let Stanton kill you. He ought to have a brevet, Stanton. He is
the only man in Washington don't want anything." Even the weary face of
the Secretary smiled under his heavy beard. "Just stepped in to divide
growls with you. Come with me, Colonel, or Stanton will have a brigade of
officers to escort me. Wait for me at the outer door--I'll join you."
Penhallow pleased and amused, went out taking with him the sense of
puzzle felt by so many over this unusual personage. At the main entrance
the Colonel came on Swallow.
"A word with you," he said very quietly. "You have been lying about me to
the Secretary and elsewhere. Be careful. I am sometimes short of temper.
You have hurt yourself, not me, and you will get no contracts here."
"Well, we will see about that," said Swallow, and was about to say more
when the President appeared.
"Come, Colonel," he said. Swallow fell back and Penhallow walked away as
men touched their hats. For a block or more Lincoln did not speak, and
respecting his silence the soldier was as silent. Then, with his amazing
frankness, Lincoln spoke.
"Does the Emancipation Proclamation please you?"
"As a war measure, yes."
"And not otherwise?"
"It is none of my business to criticize my Commander-in-Chief."
"Well, I won't make it an order, but I wish McClellan was of your way of
thinking." Again there was silence. Penhallow was astonished at this
outspoken statement, being aware as few men were of the fact that the
General in question had been disinclined to announce the emancipation
message to the army until he found that his corps commanders were not
cordially with him in opinion.
As they stopped at the gate of the railing around the White House,
Lincoln said, "When you don't want anything, come and see me--or if you
do." Then, becoming grave, he asked, "What effect will my proclamation of
emancipation have in the South? It takes effect in January, you know." It
was like Lincoln. He asked this question of all manner of people. "I want
to know," he added, as Penhallow hesitated.
"I am not in a position, sir, to have any opinion about how the Rebels
will be affected by it."
"Oh, Confederates! Colonel--not Rebels. Calling names only hurts, and
don't ever help. Better to be amiable about labels."
"It was a slip of the tongue, Mr. President. I usually say Confederates."
"Quite right--tongue very slippery organ. Reckon my small truant
holiday's over. Everybody generally is letting me know what effect that
emancipation-thunder will have." A strangely tender smile grew upon the
large features. "You see, Colonel, you and I are the only ignorant people
in Washington. Good-bye."