Somehow, after the fashion of other years, they got their meager crops
in--turnips, potatoes and Hubbard squashes put up in the vegetable
cellar; oats cradled; corn husked; the buckwheat ready for the mill;
even Tom's crooked furrows for the spring sowings made. Somehow, Maw
helping like a man and Tom obeying like a docile child, they took toll
of their summer. And suddenly September was at their heels--and then the
equinox.
It seemed to Luke that it had never rained so much before. Brown vapor
rose eternally from the valley flats; the hilltops lay lost entirely in
clotted murk. By periods hard rains, like showers of steel darts, beat
on the soaking earth. Gypsy gales of wind went ricocheting among the
farm buildings, setting the shingles to snapping and singing; the
windows moaned and rattled. The sourest weather the boy could remember!
And on the worst day of all they got the news. Out of the mail box in
the lane Luke got it--going down under an old rubber cape in a steady
blinding pour. It got all damp--the letter, foreign postmark, stamp and
all--by the time he put it into Maw's hand.
It was a double letter--or so one judged, first opening it. There was
another inside, complete, sealed, and addressed in Nat's hand; but one
must read the paper inclosed with it first--that was obvious. It was
just a strip, queer, official looking, with a few lines typed upon it
and a black heading that sprang out at one strangely. They read it
together--or tried to. At first they got no sense from it. Paris--from
clear off in France--and then the words below--and Maw's name at the
top, just like the address on the newspaper:
MRS. JERE HAYNES,
Stony Brook, New York.
It was for Maw all right. Then quite suddenly the words came clear
through the blur:
MRS. JERE HAYNES,
Stony Brook, New York.
_Dear Madam_: We regret to inform you that the official _communiqué_ for
September sixth contains the tidings that the writer of the enclosed
letter, Nathaniel Haynes, of Stony Brook, New York, U. S. A., was killed
while on duty as an ambulance driver in the Sector of Verdun, and has
been buried in that region. Further details will follow.
The American Ambulance, Paris.
Even when she realized, Maw never cried out. She sat wetting her lips
oddly, looking at the words that had come like evil birds across the
wide spaces of earth. It was Luke who remembered the other letter:
"_My dear kind folks--Father, Mother and Brothers_: I guess I dare call
you that when I get far enough away from you. Perhaps you won't mind
when I tell you my news.
"Well we came over from England last Thursday and struck into our
contract here. Things was going pretty good; but you might guess yours
truly couldn't stand the dead end of things. I bet Maw's guessed
already. Well sir it's that roving streak in me I guess. Never could
stick to nothing steady. It got me bad when I got here any how.
"To cut it short I throwed up my job with the firm yesterday and have
volunteered as an Ambulance driver. Nothing but glory; but I'm going to
like it fine! They're short-handed anyhow and a fellow likes to help
what he can. Wish I could send a little money; but it took all I had to
outfit me. Had to cough up eight bucks for a suit of underclothes. What
do you know about that?
"You can write me in care of the Ambulance, Paris.
"Now Maw don't worry! I'm not going to fight. I did try to get into the
Foreign Legion but had no chance. I'm all right. Think of me as a nice
little Red Cross boy and the Wise Willie on the gas wagon. And won't I
have the hot stuff to make old Luke's eyes pop out! Hope Paw's legs are
better. And Maw have a kiss on me. Mebbe you folks think I don't
appreciate you. If I was any good at writing I'd tell you different.
"Your Son and Brother,
"NAT HAYNES."
The worst of it all was about Maw's not crying--just sitting there
staring at the fire, or where the fire had been when the wood had died
out of neglect. It's not in reason that a woman shouldn't cry, Luke
felt. He tried some words of comfort:
"He's safe, anyhow, Maw--'member that! That's a whole lot too. Didn't
always know that, times he was rollin' round so over here. You worried a
whole lot about him, you know."
But Maw didn't answer. She seldom spoke at all--moved about as little as
possible. When she had put out food for him and Tom she always went back
to her corner and stared into the fire. Luke had to bring a plate to her
and coax her to eat. Even the day Uncle Clem and Aunt Mollie came up
she did not notice them. Only once she spoke of Nat to Luke.
"You loved him the most, didn't ye, Maw?" he asked timidly one dreary
evening.
She answered in a sort of dull surprise.
"Why, lad, he was my first!" she said; and after a bit as though to
herself: "His head was that round and shiny when he was a little fellow
it was like to a little round apple. I mind, before he ever come, I
bought me a cap fur him over to Rockville, with a blue bow onto it. He
looked awful smart an' pretty in it."
Sometimes in the night Luke, sleeping ill and thinking long, lay and
listened for possible sounds from Maw's room. Perhaps she cried in the
nights. If she only would--it would help break the tension for them all.
But he never heard anything but the rain--steadily, miserably beating on
the sodden shingles overhead.
* * *
It was only Luke who watched the mail box now. One morning his journey
to it bore fruit. No sting any longer; no fear in the thick foreign
letter he carried.
"It'll tell ye all's to it, I bet!" he said eagerly.
Maw seemed scarcely interested. It was Luke who broke the seal and read
it aloud.
It was written from the Ambulance Headquarters, in Paris--written by a
man of rare insight, of fine and delicate perception. All that Nat's
family might have wished to learn he sought to tell them. He had himself
investigated Nat's story and he gave it all fully and freely. He spoke
in praise of Nat; of his friendly associations with the Ambulance men;
of his good nature and cheerful spirits; his popularity and ready
willingness to serve. People, one felt, had loved Nat over there.
He wrote of the preliminary duties in Paris, the preparations--of Nat's
final going to join one of the three sections working round Verdun. It
wasn't easy work that waited for Nat there. It was a stiff contract
guiding the little ambulance over the shell-rutted roads, with deftness
and precision, to those distant dressing stations where the hurt
soldiers waited for him. It was a picture that thrilled Luke and made
his pulses tingle--the blackness of the nights; the rumble of moving
artillery and troops; the flash of starlights; the distant crackling of
rifle fire; the steady thunder of heavy guns.
And the shells! It was mighty close they swept to a fellow, whistling,
shrieking, low overhead; falling to tear out great gouges in the earth.
It was enough to wreck one's nerve utterly; but the fellows that drove
were all nerve. Just part of the day's work to them! And that was Nat
too. Nat hadn't known what fear was--he'd eaten it alive. The adventurer
in him had gone out to meet it joyously.
Nat was only on his third trip when tragedy had come to him. He and a
companion were seeking a dressing station in the cellar of a little
ruined house in an obscure French village, when a shell had burst right
at their feet, so to speak. That was all. Simple as that. Nat was dead
instantly and his companion--oh, Nat was really the lucky one....
Luke had to stop for a little time. One couldn't go on at once before a
thing like that.... When he did, it was to leave behind the darkness,
the shell-torn houses, the bruised earth, the racked and mutilated
humans.... Reading on, it was like emerging from Hades into a great
Peace.
* * *
"I wish it were possible to convey to you, my dear Mrs. Haynes, some
impression of the moving and beautiful ceremony with which your son was
laid to rest on the morning of September ninth, in the little village of
Aucourt. Imagine a warm, sunny, late-summer day, and a village street
sloping up a hillside, filled with soldiers in faded, dusty blue, and
American Ambulance drivers in khaki.
"In the open door of one of the houses, the front of which was covered
with the tri-color of France, the coffin was placed, wrapped in a great
French flag, and covered with flowers and wreaths sent by the various
American sections. At the head a small American flag was placed, on
which was pinned the _Croix de Guerre_--a gold star on a red-and-green
ribbon--a tribute from the army general to the boy who gave his life for
France.
"A priest, with six soldier attendants, led the procession from the
courtyard. Six more soldiers bore the coffin, the Americans and
representatives of the army branches following, bearing wreaths. After
these came the General of the Army Corps, with a group of officers, and
a detachment of soldiers with arms reversed. At the foot of the hill a
second detachment fell in and joined them....
"The scene was unforgettable, beautiful and impressive. In the little
church a choir of soldiers sang and a soldier-priest played the organ,
while the Chaplain of the Army Division held the burial service. The
chaplain's sermon I have asked to have reproduced and sent to you,
together with other effects of your son's....
"The chaplain spoke most beautifully and at length, telling very
tenderly what it meant to the French people that an American should give
his life while trying to help them in the hour of their extremity. The
name of this chaplain is Henri Deligny, _Aumônier Militaire_, Ambulance
16-27, Sector 112; and he was assisted by the permanent curé of the
little church, Abbé Blondelle, who wishes me to assure you that he will
guard most reverently your son's grave, and be there to receive you when
the day may come that you shall wish to visit it.
"After leaving the church the procession marched to the military
cemetery, where your son's body was laid beside the hundreds of others
who have died for France. Both the lieutenant and general here paid
tributes of appreciation, which I will have sent to you. The general,
various officers of the army, and ambulance assisted in the last
rites....
"I have brought back and will send you the _Croix de Guerre_...."
* * *
Oh, but you couldn't read any further--for the great lump of pride in
your throat, the thick mist of tears in your eyes. A sob escaped the
boy. He looked over at Maw and saw the miraculous. Maw was awake at last
and crying--a new-fledged pulsating Maw emerged from the brown chrysalis
of her sorrows.
"Oh, Maw!... Our Nat!... All that--that--funeral!... Some funeral, Maw!"
The boy choked.
"My Nat!" Maw was saying. "Buried like a king!... Like a King o'
France!" She clasped her hands tightly.
It was like some beautiful fantasy. A Haynes--the despised and rejected
of earth--borne to his last home with such pomp and ceremony!
"There never was nothin' like it heard of round here, Maw.... If folks
could only know--"
She lifted her head as at a challenge.
"Why, they're goin' to know, Luke--for I'm goin' to tell 'em. Folks that
have talked behind Nat's back--folks that have pitied us--when they see
this--like a King o' France!" she repeated softly. "I'm goin' down to
town to-day, Luke."
V
It was dusk when Maw came back; dusk of a clear day, with a rosy sunset
off behind the hills. Luke opened the door for her and he saw that she
had brought some of the sun along in with her--its colors in her worn
face; its peace in her eyes. She was the same, yet somehow new. Even the
tilt of her crazy old bonnet could not detract from a strange new
dignity that clothed her.
She did not speak at once, going over to warm her gloveless hands at
the stove, and staring up at the Grampaw Peel plate; then:
"When it comes--my Nat's medal--it's goin' to set right up here, 'stead
o' this old thing--an' the letters and the sermons in my shell box I got
on my weddin' trip.... Lawyer Ritchie told me to-day what it means, the
name o' that medal--Cross o' War! It's a decoration fur soldiers and
earned by bravery."
She paused; then broke out suddenly:
"I b'en a fool, settin' here grievin'. My Nat was a hero, an' I never
knew it!... A hero's folks hadn't ought to cry. It's a thing too big for
that. Come here, you little Luke! Maw hain't b'en real good to you an'
Tommy lately. You're gittin' all white an' peaked. Too much frettin'
'bout Nat. You an' me's got to stop it, I tell you. Folks round here
ain't goin' to let us fret--"
"Folks! Maw!" The words burst from the boy's heart. "Did they find
out?... You showed it to 'em? Uncle Clem--"
Maw sniffed.
"Clem! Oh, he was real took aback; but he don't count in on this--not
big enough." Then triumph hastened her story. "It's the big ones that's
mixin' into this, Lukey. Seems like they'd heard somethin' a spell back
in one o' the county papers, an' we didn't know.... Anyhow, when I first
got into town I met Judge Geer. He had me right into his office in
Masonic Hall 'fore I could git my breath almost--had me settin' in his
private room, an' sent his stenugifer out fur a cup o' cawfee fur me. He
had me give him the letter to read, an' asked dare he make some copies.
The stenugifer took 'em like lightnin', right there.
"The judge had a hard time of it, coughin' an' blowin' over that letter.
He's goin' to send some copies to the New York papers right off. He took
me acrost the hall and interduced me to Lawyer Ritchie. Lawyer Ritchie,
he read the letter too. 'A hero!' they called Nat; an' me 'A hero's
mother!'
"'We ain't goin' to forgit this, Mis' Haynes,' Lawyer Ritchie said.
'This here whole town's proud o' your Nat.'... My land! I couldn't sense
it all!... Me, Delia Haynes, gettin' her hand wrung, 'count o' anything
Nat'd b'en doin', by the big bugs round town! Judge Geer, he fetched 'em
all out o' their offices--Slade, the supervisor, and Fuller Brothers,
and old Sumner Pratt--an' all! An' Ben Watson asked could he have a copy
to put in the _Bi-weekly_. It's goin' to take the whole front page, with
an editor'al inside. He said the Rockville Center News'd most likely
copy it too.
"I was like in a dream!... All I'd aimed to do was to let some o' them
folks know that those people acrost the ocean had thought well of our
Nat, an' here they was breakin' their necks to git in on it too!...
Goin' down the street they was more of it. Lu Shiffer run right out o'
the hardware store an' left the nails he was weighin' to shake hands
with me; and Jem Brand came; and Lan'lord Peters come out o' the Valley
House an' spoke to me.... I felt awful public. An' Jim Beckonridge come
out of the Emporium to shake too.
"'I ain't seen you down in town fur quite a spell,' he sez. 'How are you
all up there to the farm?... Want to say I'm real proud o' Nat--a boy
from round here!' he sez.... Old Beckonridge, that was always wantin' to
arrest Nat fur takin' his chestnuts or foolin' down in the store!
"I just let 'em drift--seein' they had it all fixed fur me. All along
the street they come an' spoke to me. Mame Parmlee, that ain't b'en able
to see me fur three years, left off sweepin' her porch an' come down an'
shook my hand, an' cried about it; an' that stylish Mis' Willowby,
that's president o' the Civil Club, followed me all over the Square and
asked dare she read a copy o' the letter an' tell about Nat to the
schoolhouse next Wednesday.
"It seems Judge Geer had gone out an' spread it broadcast that I was in
town, for they followed me everywhere. Next thing I run into Reverend
Kearns and Reverend Higby, huntin' me hard. They both had one idee.
"'We wanted to have a memor'al service to the churches 'bout Nat,' they
sez; 'then it come over us that it was the town's affair really. So,
Mis' Haynes,' they sez, 'we want you should share this thing with us.
You mustn't be selfish. You gotta give us a little part in it too. Are
you willin'?'"
"It knocked me dumb--me givin' anybody anything! Well, to finish, they's
to be a big public service in the Town Hall on Friday. They'll have it
all flags--French ones, an' our'n too. An' the ministers'll preach; an'
Judge Geer'll tell Nat's story an' speak about him; an' the Ladies'
Guild'll serve a big hot supper, because they'll probably be hundreds
out; an' they'll read the letters an' have prayers for our Nat!" She
faltered a moment. "An' we'll be there too--you an' me an' Tom--settin'
in the seat o' honor, right up front!... It'll be the greatest funeral
service this town's ever seen, Luke."
Maw's face was crimson with emotion.
"An' Uncle Clem an' Aunt Mollie--"
"Oh--them!" Maw came back to earth and smiled tolerantly. "They was real
sharp to be in it too. Mollie took me into the parlor an' fetched a
glass o' wine to stren'then me up." Maw mused a moment; then spoke with
a touch of patronage: "I'm goin' to knit Clem some new socks this
winter. He says he can't git none like the oldtime wool ones; an' the
market floors are cold. Clem's done what he could, an' I'll be real glad
to help him out.... Oh, I asked 'em to come an' set with us at the
service--S'norta too. I allowed we could manage to spare 'em the room."
She dreamed again, launched on a sea of glory; then roused to her final
triumph:
"But that's only part, Luke. The best's comin'. Jim Beckonridge wants
you to go down an' see him. 'That lame boy o' yours,' he sez, 'was in
here a spell ago with some notion about raisin' bees an' buckwheat
together, an' gittin' a city market fur buckwheat honey. Slipped my
mind,' he sez, 'till I heard what Nat'd done; an' then it all come back.
City party this summer had the same notion an' was lookin' out for a
likely place to invest some cash in. You send that boy down an' we'll
talk it over. Shouldn't wonder if he'd get some backin'. I calculate I
might help him, myself,' he sez, 'I b'en thinkin' of it too.'... Don't
seem like it could hardly be true."
"Oh, Maw!" Luke's pulses were leaping wildly. Buckwheat honey was the
dear dream of many a long hour's wistful meditation. "If we could--I
could study up about it an' send away fur printed books. We could make
some money--"
But Maw had not yet finished.
"An' they's some about Tom, too, Luke! That young Doctor Wells down
there--he's on'y b'en there a year--he come right up, an' spoke to me,
in the midst of several. 'I want to talk about your boy,' he sez. 'I've
wanted to fur some time, but didn't like to make bold; but now seem's as
good a time as any.' 'They're all talkin' of him,' I sez. 'Well,' he
sez, 'I don't mean the dead, but the livin' boy--the one folks calls Big
Tom. I've heard his story, an' I got a good look over him down here in
the store a while ago. Woman'--he sez it jest like that--'if that big
boy o' your'n had a little operation, he'd be as good as any.'
"I answered him patient, an' told him what ailed Tom an' why he couldn't
be no different--jest what old Doc Andrews told us--that they was a
little piece o' bone druv deep into his skull that time he fell. He
spoke real vi'lent then. 'But--my Lord!--woman,' he sez, 'that's what
I'm talkin' about. If we jack up that bone'--trepannin', he called it
too--'his brains'd git to be like anybody else's.' Told me he wants fur
us to let him look after it. Won't cost anything unless we want. They's
a hospital to Rockville would tend to it, an' glad to--when we git
ready.... My poor Tommy!... Don't seem's if it could be true."
Her face softened, and she broke up suddenly.
"I got good boys all round," she wept. "I always said it; an' now folks
know."
* * *
Luke lay on the old settle, thinking. In the air-tight stove the hickory
fagots crackled, with jeweled color-play. On the other side Tom sat
whittling silently--Tom, who would presently whittle no more, but rise
to be a man.
It was incredible! Incredible that the old place might some day shake
off its shackles of poverty and be organized for a decent struggle with
life! Incredible that Maw--stepping briskly about getting the
supper--should be singing!
Already the room seemed filled and warmed with the odors of prosperity
and self-respect. Maw had put a red geranium on the table; there was the
crispy fragrance of frying salt pork and soda biscuit in the air.
These the Hayneses! These people, with hope and self-esteem once more in
their hearts! These people, with a new, a unique place in the
community's respect! It was all like a beautiful miracle; and, thinking
of its maker, Luke choked suddenly and gulped.
There was a moist spot on the old Mexican hairless right under his eyes;
but it had been made by tears of pride, not sorrow. Maw was right! A
hero's folks hadn't ought to cry. And he wouldn't. Nat was better off
than ever--safe and honored. He had trod the path of glory. A line out
of the boy's old Reader sprang to his mind: "The paths of glory lead but
to the grave." Oh, but it wasn't true! Nat's path led to life--to hope;
to help for all of them, for Nat's own. In his death, if not in his
life, he had rehabilitated them. And Nat--who loved them--would look
down and call it good.
In spite of himself the boy sobbed, visioning his brother's face.
"Oh, Nat!" he whispered. "I knew you'd do it! I always said you'd do
somethin' big for us all."