LEAVE-TAKING
Early in the morning, while the earth was still a mass of gray shadow
and mist, and the sky had only begun to show faint signs of the flush
of dawn, Betty, awake and alert, crept softly out of bed, not to
awaken Martha, who slept the sleep of utter weariness at her side.
Martha had returned only the day before from her visit to her
grandfather's, a long carriage ride away from Leauvite.
Betty bathed hurriedly, giving a perfunctory brushing to the tangled
mass of curls, and getting into her clothing swiftly and silently. She
had been cautioned the night before by her mother not to awaken her
sister by getting up at too early an hour, for she would be called in
plenty of time to drive over with the rest to see the soldiers off.
But what if her mother should forget! So she put on her new white
dress and gathered a few small parcels which she had carefully tied up
the night before, and her hat and little white linen cape, and taking
her shoes in her hand, softly descended the stairs.
"Betty, Betty," her mother spoke in a sleepy voice from her own room
as the child crept past her door; "why, my dear, it isn't time to get
up yet. We shan't start for hours."
"I heard Peter Junior say they were going to strike camp at daybreak,
and I want to see them strike it. You don't need to get up. I can go
over there alone."
"Why, no, child! Mother couldn't let you do that. They don't want
little girls there. Go back to bed, dear. Did you wake Martha?"
"Oh, mother. Can't I go downstairs? I don't want to go to bed again.
I'll be very still."
"Will you lie on the lounge and try to go to sleep again?"
"Yes, mother."
Mary Ballard turned with a sigh and presently fell asleep, and Betty
softly continued her way and obediently lay down in the darkened room
below; but sleep she could not. At last, having satisfied her
conscience by lying quietly for a while, she stole to the open door,
for in that peaceful spot the Ballards slept with doors and windows
wide open all through the warm nights. Oh, but the world was cool and
mysterious, and the air was sweet! Little rustling noises made her
feel as if strange beings were stirring; above her head were soft
chirpings, and somewhere a bird was calling an undulating, long-drawn
note, low and sweet, like a tone drawn from her father's violin.
Betty sat on the edge of the porch and put on her shoes, and then
walked down the path to the gate. The white peonies and the iris
flowers were long since gone, and on the Harvest apple trees and the
Sweet Boughs the fruit hung ripening. All Betty's life long she never
forgot this wonderful moment of the breaking of day. She listened for
sounds to come to her from the camp far away on the river bluff, but
none were heard, only the restless moving of her grandfather's team
taking their early feed in the small pasture lot near by.
How fresh everything smelled! And the sky! Surely it must be like
this in heaven! It must be heaven showing through, while the world
slept. She was glad she had awakened early so she might see it,--she
and God and the angels, and all the wild things of earth.
Slowly everything around her grew plainer, and long rays of color,
faintly pink, streamed up into the sky from the eastern horizon; then
suddenly some pale gray, floating clouds above her head blossomed into
a wonderful rose laid upon a sea of gold, then gradually turned
shell-pink, then faded through changing shades to daytime clouds of
white. She wondered if the soldiers saw it, too. They were breaking
camp now, surely, for it was day. Still she swung on the gate and
dreamed, until a voice roused her.
"So Betty sleeps all night on the gate like a chicken on the fence." A
pair of long arms seized her and lifted her high in the air to a pair
of strong shoulders. Then she was tossed about and her cheeks rubbed
red against grandfather Clide's stubby beard, until she laughed aloud.
"What are you doing here on the gate?"
"I was watching the sky. I think God looked through and smiled, for
all at once it blossomed. Now the colors are gone."
Grandfather Clide set her gently on her feet and stood looking gravely
down on her for a moment. "So?" he said.
"The soldiers are striking camp over there, and then they are going to
march to the square, and then every one is to see them form and
salute--and then they are to march to the station, and--and--then--and
then I don't know what will be--I think glory."
Her grandfather shook his head, his thoughtful face half smiling and
half grave. He took her hand. "Come, we'll see what Jack and Jill are
up to." He led her to the pasture lot and the horses came and thrust
their heads over the fence and whinnied. "See? They want their oats."
Then Betty was lifted to old Jack's bare back and grandfather led him
by the forelock to the barn, while Jill followed after.
"Did Jack ever 'fall down and break his crown,' grandfather?"
"No, but he ran away once on a time."
"Oh, did Jill come running after?"
"That she did."
The sun had but just cast his first glance at High Knob, where the
camp was, and Mary Ballard was hastily whipping up batter for
pancakes, the simplest thing she could get for breakfast, as they were
to go early enough to see the "boys" at the camp before they formed
for their march to the town square. The children were to ride over in
the great carriage with grandfather and grandmother Clide, while
father and mother would take Bobby with them in the carryall. It was
an arrangement liked equally by the three small children and the
well-content grandparents.
Betty came to the house, clinging to her grandfather's hand. He drew
the large rocking-chair from the kitchen--where winter and summer it
occupied a place by the window, that Bertrand in his moments of rest
and leisure might sit and read the war news aloud to his wife as she
worked--out to a cool grass plot by the door, so that he might still
be near enough to chat with his daughter, while enjoying the morning
air.
Betty found tidy little Martha, fresh and clean as a rosebud,
stepping busily about, setting the table with extra places and putting
the chairs around. Filled with self-condemnation at the sight of her
sister's helpfulness, she dashed upstairs to do her part in getting
all neat for the day. First she coaxed naughty little Jamie, who, in
his nightshirt, was out on the porch roof fishing, dangling his shoe
over the edge by its strings tied to his father's cane, to return and
be hustled into his trousers--funny little garments that came almost
to his shoe tops--and to stand still while "sister" washed his face
and brushed his curly red hair into a state of semi-orderliness.
Then there was Bobby to be kissed and coaxed, and washed and dressed,
and told marvelous tales to beguile him into listening submission.
"Mother, mayn't I put Bobby's Sunday dress on him?" called Betty, from
the head of the stairs.
"Yes, dear, anything you like, but hurry. Breakfast is almost ready;"
then to Martha, "Leave the sweeping, deary, and run down to the spring
for the cream." To her father, Mary explained: "The little girls are a
great help. Betty manages to do for the boys without irritating them.
Now we'll eat while the cakes are hot. Come, Bertrand."
It was a grave mission and a sorrowful one, that early morning ride to
say good-by to those youthful volunteers. The breakfast conversation
turned on the subject with subdued intensity. Mary Ballard did not
explain herself,--she was too busy serving,--but denounced the war in
broad terms as "unnecessary and iniquitous," thus eliciting from her
husband his usual exclamation, when an aphorism of more than ordinary
daring burst from her lips: "Mary! why, Mary! I'm astonished!"
"Every one regards it from a different point of view," said his wife,
"and this is my point." It was conclusive.
Grandfather Clide turned sideways, leaned one elbow on the table in a
meditative way he had, and spoke slowly. Betty gazed up at him in
wide-eyed attention, while Mary poured the coffee and Martha helped
her mother by passing the cakes. Bobby sat close to his comfortable
grandmother, who seemed to be giving him all her attention, but who
heard everything, and was ready to drop a quiet word of significance
when applicable.
"If we bring the question down to its primal cause," said grandfather,
"if we bring it down to its primal cause, Mary is right; for the cause
being iniquitous, of course, the war is the same."
"What is 'primal cause,' grandfather?" asked Betty.
"The thing that began it all," said grandfather, regarding her
quizzically.
"I don't agree with your conclusion," said Bertrand, pausing to put
sirup on Jamie's cakes, after repeated demands therefor. "If the cause
be evil, it follows that to annihilate the cause--wipe it out of
existence--must be righteous."
"In God's good time," said grandmother Clide, quietly.
"God's good time, in my opinion, seems to be when we are forced to a
thing." Grandfather lifted one shaggy eyebrow in her direction.
"At any rate, and whatever happens," said Bertrand, "the Union must be
preserved, a nation, whole and undivided. My father left England for
love of its magnificent ideals of government by the people. Here is to
be the vast open ground where all nations may come and realize their
highest possibilities, and consequently this nation must be held
together and developed as a whole in all its resources, and not cut up
into small, ineffective, quarrelsome factions. To allow that would
mean the ruin of a colossal scheme for universal progress."
Mary brought her husband's coffee and put it beside his plate, as he
was too absorbed to take it, and as she did so placed her hand on his
shoulder with gentle pressure and their eyes met for an instant. Then
grandfather Clide took up the thread.
"Speaking of your father makes me think of my father, your old
grandfather Clide, Mary. He fought with his father in the Revolutionary
War when he was a lad no more than Peter Junior's age--or less. He lived
through it and came to be a judge of the supreme court of New York, and
helped to frame the constitution of that State, too. I used to hear
him say, when I was a mere boy,--and he would bring his fist down on
the table with an emphasis that made the dishes rattle, for all he
averred that he never used gesticulation to aid his oratory,--he used to
say,--I remember his words, as if it were but yesterday,--'Slavery is a
crime which we, the whole nation, are accountable for, and for which we
will be held accountable. If we as a nation will not do away with it by
legislation or mutual compact justly, then the Lord will take it into
his own hands and wipe it out with blood. He may be patient for a long
while, and give us a good chance, but if we wait too long,--it may
not be in my day--it may not be in yours,--he will wipe it out with
blood!' and here was where he used to make the dishes rattle."
"Maybe, then, this is the Lord's good time," said grandmother.
"I believe in preserving the Union at any cost, slavery or no
slavery," said Bertrand.
"The bigger and grander the nation, the more rottenness, if it's
rotten at heart. I believe it better--even at the cost of war--to wipe
out a national crime,--or let those who want slavery take themselves
out of it."
Betty began to quiver through all her little system of high-strung
nerves and sympathies. The talk was growing heated, and she hated to
listen to excited arguments; yet she gazed and listened with
fascinated attention.
Bertrand looked up at his father-in-law. "Why, father! why, father!
I'm astonished! I fail to see how permitting one tremendous evil can
possibly further any good purpose. To my mind the most tremendous evil
that could be perpetrated on this globe--the thing that would do more
to set all progress back for hundreds of years, maybe--would be to
break up this Union. Here in this country now we are advancing at a
pace that covers the centuries of the past in leaps of a hundred years
in one. Now cut this land up into little, caviling factions, and where
are we? Why, the very motto of the republic would be done away
with--'In Union there is strength.' I tell you slavery is a sort of
Delilah, and the nation--if it is divided--will be like Sampson with
his locks shorn."
"Well, war is here," said Mary, "and we must send off our young men to
the shambles, and later on fill up our country with the refuse of
Europe in their stead. It will be a terrible blood-letting for both
North and South, and it will be the best blood on both sides. I'm as
sorry for the mothers down there as I am for ourselves. Did you get
the apples, Bertrand? We'd better start, to be there at eight."
"I put them in the carryall, my dear, Sweet Boughs and Harvest apples.
The boys will have one more taste before they leave."
"Father, we want to carry some. Put some in the carriage too," said
Martha.
"Yes, father. We want to eat some while we are on the way."
"Why, Jamie, they are for the soldiers; they're not for us," cried
Betty, in horror. To eat even one, it seemed to her, would be greed
and robbery.
In spite of the gravity of the hour to the older ones, the occasion
took on an air of festivity to the children. In grandfather's
dignified old family carriage Martha sat with demure elation on the
back seat at her grandmother's side, wearing her white linen cape, and
a wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat of Neapolitan straw, with a blue
ribbon around the crown, and a narrow one attached to the front, the
end of which she held in her hand to pull the brim down to shade her
eyes as was the fashion for little girls of the day. She felt well
pleased with the hat, and held the ribbon daintily in her shapely
little hand.
At her feet was the basket of apples, and with her other hand she
guarded three small packages. Grandmother wore a gray, changeable
silk. The round waist fitted her plump figure smoothly, and the skirt
was full and flowing. Her bonnet was made of the same silk shirred on
rattan, and was not perched on the top of her head, but covered it
well and framed her sweet face with a full, white tulle ruching set
close under the brim.
Grandfather, up in front, drove Jack and Jill, who, he said, were
"feeling their oats." Betty did not wonder, for oats are sharp and
must prick their stomachs. She sat with grandfather,--he had promised
she should the night before,--and Jamie was tucked in between them. He
ought to have been in behind with grandmother, but his scream of
rebellion as he was lifted in brought instant yielding from Betty,
when grandfather interfered and took them both. But when Jamie
insisted on holding the reins, grandfather grew firm, and when screams
again began, his young majesty was lifted down and placed in the road
to remain until instant obedience was promised, after which he was
restored to the coveted place and away they went.
Betty's white linen cape blew out behind and her ribbons flew like
blue butterflies all about her hat. She forgot to hold down the brim,
as polite little girls did who knew how to wear their Sunday clothes.
She, too, held three small packages in her lap. For days, ever since
Peter Junior and Richard Kildene had taken tea with them in their new
uniforms, the little girls had patiently sewed to make the articles
which filled these packages.
Mary Ballard had planned them. In each was a needle-book filled with
needles large enough to be used by clumsy fingers, a pin ball, a
good-sized iron thimble, and a case of thread and yarn for mending,
buttons of various sizes, and a bit of beeswax, molded in Mary
Ballard's thimble, to wax their linen thread. All were neatly packed
in a case of bronzed leather bound about with firm braid, and tucked
under the strap of the leather on the inside was a small pair of
scissors. It was all very compact and tied about with the braid.
Mother had done some of the hardest of the sewing, but for the most
part the stitches had been painstakingly put in by the children's own
fingers.
The morning was cool, and the dust had been laid by a heavy shower in
the night. The horses held up their heads and went swiftly, in spite
of their long journey the day before. Soon they heard in the distance
the sound of the drum, and the merry note of a fife. Again a pang shot
through Betty's heart that she had not been a boy of Peter Junior's
age that she might go to war. She heaved a deep sigh and looked up in
her grandfather's face. It was a grizzled face, with blue eyes that
shot a kindly glance sideways at her as if he understood.
When they drew near, the horses danced to the merry tune, as if they
would like to go, too. All the camp seemed alive. How splendid the
soldiers looked in their blue uniforms, their guns flashing in the
sun! Betty watched how their legs with the stripes on them seemed to
twinkle as they moved all together, marching in companies. Back and
forth, back and forth, they went, and the orders came to the children
short and abrupt, as the men went through their maneuvers. They saw
the sentinel pacing up and down, and wondered why he did it instead of
marching with the other men. All these questions were saved up to ask
of grandfather when they got home. They were too interested to do
anything but watch now.
At last, very suddenly it seemed, the soldiers broke ranks and
scattered over the greensward, running hither and thither like ants.
Betty again drew a long breath. Now they were coming, the soldiers in
whom they were particularly interested.
"Can they do what they please now?" she asked her grandfather.
"Yes, for a while."
All along the sentry line carriages were drawn up, for this hour from
eight till nine was given to the "boys" to see their friends for the
last time in many months, maybe years, maybe forever. As they had come
from all over the State, some had no friends to meet them, but guests
were there in crowds, and every man might receive a handshake whether
he was known or not. All were friends to these young volunteers.
Bertrand Ballard was known and loved by all the youths. Some from the
village, and others from the country around, had been in the way of
coming to the Ballard home simply because the place was made an
enjoyable center for them. Some came to practice the violin and others
to sing. Some came to try their hand at sketching and painting and
some just to hear Bertrand talk. All was done for them quite
gratuitously on his part, and no laugh was merrier than his. Even the
chore boy came in for a share of the Ballards' kindly help, sitting at
Mary Ballard's side in the long winter evenings, and conning lessons
to patch up an education snatched haphazard and hardly come by.
Here comes one of them now, head up, smiling, and happy-go-lucky.
"Bertrand, here comes Johnnie. Give him the apples and let him
distribute them. Poor boy! I'm sorry he's going; he's too easily led,"
said Mary.
"Oh! Johnnie, Johnnie Cooper! I've got something for you. We made
them. Mother helped us," cried Martha. Now the children were out of
the carriage and running about among their friends.
Johnnie Cooper snatched Jamie from the ground and threw him up over
his head, then set him down again and took the parcel. Then he caught
Martha up and set her on his shoulder while he peeped into the
package.
"Stop, Johnnie. Set me down. I'm too big now for you to toss me up."
Her arms were clasped tightly under his chin as he held her by the
feet. Slowly he let her slide to the ground and thrust the little case
in his pocket, and stooping, kissed the child.
"I'll think of you and your mother when I use this," he said.
"And you'll write to us, won't you, Johnnie?" said Mary. "If you
don't, I shall think something is gone wrong with you." He knew what
she meant, and she knew he knew. "There are worse things than bullets,
Johnnie."
"Never you worry for me, Mrs. Ballard. We're going down for business,
and you won't see me again until we've licked the 'rebs.'" He held her
hand awkwardly for a minute, then relieved the tension by carrying off
the two baskets of apples. "I know the trees these came from," he
said, and soon a hundred boys in blue were eating Bertrand's choicest
apples.
"Here come the twins!" said some one, as Peter Junior and Richard
Kildene came toward them across the sward. Betty ran to meet them and
caught Richard by the hand. She loved to have him swing her in long
leaps from the ground as he walked.
"See, Richard, I made this for you all myself--almost. I put C in the
corner so it wouldn't get mixed with the others, because this I made
especially for you."
"Did you? Why didn't you put R in the corner if you meant it for me? I
think you meant this for Charley Crabbe."
"No, I didunt." Betty spoke most emphatically. "Martha has one for
him. I put C because--you'll see when you open it. Everything's bound
all round with my very best cherry-colored hair ribbon, to make it
very special, and that is what C is for. All the rest are brown, and
this is prettier, and it won't get mixed with Peter Junior's."
"Ah, yes. C is for cherry--Betty's hair ribbon; and the gold-brown
leather is for Betty's hair. Is that it?"
"Yep."
"Haven't I one, too?" asked Peter Junior.
"Yep. We made them just alike, and you can sew on buttons and
everything."
Thus the children made the leave-taking less somber, to the relief of
every one.
Grandfather and grandmother Clide had friends of their own whom they
had come all the forty miles to see,--neighbor boys from many of the
farms around their home, and their daughter-in-law's own brother, who
was like a son to them. There he stood, lithe and strong and genial,
and, alas! too easy-going to be safe among the temptations of the
camp.
Quickly the hour passed and the call came to form ranks for the march
to the town square, where speeches were to be made and prayers were to
be read before the march to the station.
Our little party waited until the last company had left the camp
ground and the excited children had seen them all and heard the sound
of the fife and drum to their last note and beat as the "boys in blue"
filed past them and off down the winding country road among the trees.
Nothing was said by the older ones of what might be in the future for
those gallant youths--yes, and for the few men of greater years with
them--as they wound out of sight. It was better so. Bobby fell asleep
in Mary Ballard's arms as they drove back, and a bright tear fell from
her wide-open, far-seeing eyes down on his baby cheek.
It was no lack of love for his son that kept Elder Craigmile away at
the departure of the boys from their camp on the bluff. He had
virtually said his say and parted from his son when he gave his
consent to his going in the first place. To him war meant sacrifice,
and the parting with sons, at no matter what cost. The dominant idea
with him was ever the preservation of the Union. At nine o'clock as
usual that morning he had entered the bank, and a few minutes later,
when the troops formed on the square, he came out and took his
appointed place on the platform, as one of the speakers, and offered a
closing prayer for the confounding of the enemy after the manner of
David of old--then he descended and took his son's hand, as he stood
in the ranks, with his arm across the boy's shoulder, looked a moment
in his eyes; then, without a word, he turned and reëntered the bank.