It was in the early summer of 1864 that the family at Swan Manor was
thrown off its balance by the calling out of "The Junior Reserves."
That unfledged boys, and among them their own little smooth-cheeked
Billy, should be called upon to fill up the thinned and broken ranks
of the Southern army filled their hearts with dismay. The old Squire,
with bushy brows beetling over his eyes, sat in grief too deep for
words, a prey to the darkest forebodings. Miss Jemima had wept until
her eyes were mere nothings, while her nose, coming gallantly to the
front, had assumed an undue prominence. Kate, with her pretty lips
drawn to keep down the rising sobs, tried all in vain to bestow upon
her twin brother bright looks and smiles, ever before so ready and
spontaneous. In the early secession days it had seemed such fun to
ride to dress parade and toss bouquets to the laughing "boys in
gray," while all the world played Dixie!
"Away down South in Dixie."
How she and Billy had whispered and plotted, and how great the triumph
when together they climbed the gate-post and, after much toil,
successfully planted their little red and white flag! But now, alas!
all was changed,--they were fast getting to be grown-up people, and
now her own dear Billy must go to help drive the Yankees out of Dixie.
As for Billy himself, a suppressed but exultant grin shone upon his
face, a trifle deprecating when in the presence of his grandfather or
his tearful Aunt Jemima, but very jubilant despite these drawbacks. In
truth this junior reserve was only too pleased to exchange the Latin
grammar for the musket, and little cared he for prospective hardships,
provided school were not among them.
In the few busy days before the departure, Kate followed Billy's
footsteps, trying in vain to share his elation. "Good gracious,
Kate," he would exclaim, when he discovered her furtively wiping her
eyes with her little damp ball of a pocket handkerchief, "don't be
such a little goose; why, what would you have a fellow do? I had no
idea that you were that sort of a girl." Then, as between laughing and
crying her face contorted itself into a sort of spasmodic grin, he
would say: "Now that's right, that's the way to do, if you'll just
cheer up, I'll be all right; the Yankees'll not bother me much, you
bet."
At the request of Serena (Billy's former nurse) her boy Cy was chosen
to accompany his young master as body servant, one of his chief
recommendations being that, naturally "skeary," he would be a safe
companion; also, as his mother proudly averred, he was the fastest
runner upon the plantation.
It was upon a golden evening in June that little Billy bade farewell
to his home, Miss Jemima and Kate going with him to the little wayside
station. Cy, gotten up in great style, followed, while the rear was
brought up by a motley procession,--all eager for the honor of
carrying some of the belongings. The Squire, with Don the old Irish
setter, stood in the doorway until Billy passed out of sight; then the
two together, the old man and the old dog, went back into the silent
house.
The path to the station wound its way through a field of ripening
wheat, from whence the clear whistle of a partridge smote sharply
though the fervid air. Billy paused, and, pointing to a tangle of
blackberry, exclaimed: "There's a nest there as sure as shooting, and
I'll go there to-mor--" A quick catching of the breath cut short the
unfinished words, and the boy, with lips slightly drawn, quickened his
pace. Kate, choking down her sobs, held his hand in her tight clasp,
as she kept pace with his hurried step. Miss Jemima, steadying her
voice, remarked with a sprightly air that there would be fine shooting
when he should come back in the autumn. Then the little station came
into view, looking very empty and deserted; two men loading a flat car
were the only living objects to be seen. They paused in their work to
greet Billy, and ask where he was off to. It seemed so strange a
thing to Kate that all the world did not know.
The train was not on time, and the waiting became so painful that it
was almost with gladness that they heard the warning whistle far down
the track. A small crowd had gradually collected, and some one
remarked: "She's blowin' for the bridge. It'll be ten minutes before
she's here." To the tumultuously throbbing hearts of the little party
it was a positive relief when a puff of smoke was seen and the engine
came rushing around the bend. Then there were hurried kisses; the bell
clanged, a voice called out, "All aboard," and the train was off.
"Gone, gone, gone," Kate repeated over and over to herself, as she
gazed with tearless eyes into the dim distance of the now silent
track.
As the party retraced their steps homeward the partridge was still
calling his cheerful "Bob White" from amid the wheat, while from the
shadowy depth of a laurel thicket came the sweet gurgle of the
wood-thrush.
In the late summer, news--glorious news--came that the foe had been
driven back, and their boy was unhurt.
Later, a man from the front at home on furlough was heard to say that
"Billy Swan was a regular trump, and had borne himself like a
veteran." Kate walked elate, saying the words over and over, with a
proud smile, "A hero, a regular trump,"--he, her own dear Billy. The
old Squire, too, with ill-concealed pride in his boy, was once more
like his former self.
Happy days--brief, hopeful days! Alas, alas! Many Junes have come and
gone since little Billy was laid to rest in the old burying-ground,
close to the wheat-field where the partridge calls, calls, the long
day through. June roses scatter their leaves above him, and when the
sun drops low, with long golden shafts upon the green mound which
covers him, from far down in the laurel thicket comes the liquid
gurgle of the wood-thrush. Kate looks into faces, once frank and
bright, and full of youth and hope, now grown old and seamed with
care, and she tells herself that "whom the gods love, die young."