LOST AT THE CAPITAL
It had been arranged by the school-master that they should all meet at
the railway station to go home, next day at noon, and, as the Turner
boys had to help the Squire with the logs at the river, and the
school-master had to attend to some business of his own, Chad roamed
all morning around the town. So engrossed was he with the people and
the sights and sounds of the little village that he came to himself
with a start and trotted back to the boarding-house for fear that he
might not be able to find the station alone. The old lady was standing
in the sunshine at the gate.
Chad panted--"Where's--?"
"They're gone."
"Gone!" echoed Chad, with a sinking heart.
"Yes, they've been gone--" But Chad did not wait to listen; he whirled
into the hall-way, caught up his rifle, and, forgetting his injured
foot, fled at full speed down the street. He turned the corner, but
could not see the station, and he ran on about another corner and still
another, and, just when he was about to burst into tears, he saw the
low roof that he was looking for, and hot, panting, and tired, he
rushed to it, hardly able to speak.
"Has that enJINE gone?" he asked breathlessly. The man who was whirling
trunks on their corners into the baggage-room did not answer. Chad's
eyes flashed and he caught the man by the coat-tail.
"Has that enJINE gone?" he cried.
The man looked over his shoulder.
"Leggo my coat, you little devil. Yes, that enJINE'S gone," he added,
mimicking. Then he saw the boy's unhappy face and he dropped the trunk
and turned to him.
"What's the matter?" he asked, kindly.
Chad had turned away with a sob.
"They've lef' me--they've lef' me," he said, and then, controlling
himself:
"Is thar another goin'?"
"Not till to-morrow mornin'."
Another sob came, and Chad turned away--he did not want anybody to see
him cry. And this was no time for crying, for Chad's prayer back at the
grave under the poplar flashed suddenly back to him.
"I got to ack like a man now." And, sobered at once, he walked on up
the hill--thinking. He could not know that the school-master was back
in the town, looking for him. If he waited until the next morning, the
Turners would probably have gone on; whereas, if he started out now on
foot, and walked all night, he might catch them before they left
Lexington next morning. And if he missed the Squire and the Turner
boys, he could certainly find the school-master there. And if not, he
could go on to the mountains alone. Or he might stay in the
"settlemints"--what had he come for? He might--he would--oh, he'd get
along somehow, he said to himself, wagging his head--he always had and
he always would. He could always go back to the mountains. If he only
had Jack--if he only had Jack! Nothing would make any difference then,
and he would never be lonely, if he only had Jack. But, cheered with
his determination, he rubbed the tears from his eyes with his
coat-sleeve and climbed the long hill. There was the Armory, which,
years later, was to harbor Union troops in the great war, and beyond it
was the little city of the dead that sits on top of the hill far above
the shining river. At the great iron gates he stopped a moment, peering
through. He saw a wilderness of white slabs and, not until he made his
way across the thick green turf and spelled out the names carved on
them, could he make out what they were for. How he wondered when he saw
the innumerable green mounds, for he hardly knew there were as many
people in the world living as he saw there must be in that place, dead.
But he had no time to spare and he turned quickly back to the
pike--saddened--for his heart went back, as his faithful heart was
always doing, to the lonely graves under the big poplar back in the
mountains.
When he reached the top of the slope, he saw a rolling country of low
hills stretching out before him, greening with spring; with far
stretches of thick grass and many woodlands under a long, low sky, and
he wondered if this was the Bluegrass. But he "reckoned" not--not yet.
And yet he looked in wonder at the green slopes, and the woods, and the
flashing creek, and nowhere in front of him--wonder of all--could he
see a mountain. It was as Caleb Hazel had told him, only Chad was not
looking for any such mysterious joy as thrilled his sensitive soul.
There had been a light sprinkle of snow--such a fall as may come even
in early April--but the noon sun had let the wheat-fields and the
pastures blossom through it, and had swept it from the gray moist pike
until now there were patches of white only in gully and along north
hill-sides under little groups of pines and in the woods, where the
sunlight could not reach; and Chad trudged sturdily on in spite of his
heavy rifle and his lame foot, keenly alive to the new sights and
sounds and smells of the new world--on until the shadows lengthened and
the air chilled again; on, until the sun began to sink close to the
far-away haze of the horizon. Never had the horizon looked so far away.
His foot began to hurt, and on the top of a hill he had to stop and sit
down for a while in the road, the pain was so keen. The sun was setting
now in a glory of gold, rose, pink, and crimson over him, the still
clouds caught the divine light which swept swiftly through the heavens
until the little pink clouds over the east, too, turned golden pink and
the whole heavens were suffused with green and gold. In the west, cloud
was piled on cloud like vast cathedrals that must have been built for
worship on the way straight to the very throne of God. And Chad sat
thrilled, as he had been at the sunrise on the mountains the morning
after he ran away. There was no storm, but the same loneliness came to
him now and he wondered what he should do. He could not get much
farther that night--his foot hurt too badly. He looked up--the clouds
had turned to ashes and the air was growing chill--and he got to his
feet and started on. At the bottom of the hill and down a little creek
he saw a light and he turned toward it. The house was small, and he
could hear the crying of a child inside and could see a tall man
cutting wood, so he stopped at the bars and shouted
"Hello!"
The man stopped his axe in mid-air and turned. A woman, with a baby in
her arms, appeared in the light of the door with children crowding
about her.
"Hello!" answered the man.
"I want to git to stay all night." The man hesitated.
"We don't keep people all night."
"Not keep people all night," thought Chad with wonder.
"Oh, I reckon you will," he said. Was there anybody in the world who
wouldn't take in a stranger for the night? From the doorway the woman
saw that it was a boy who was asking shelter and the trust in his voice
appealed vaguely to her.
"Come in!" she called, in a patient, whining tone. "You can stay, I
reckon."
But Chad changed his mind suddenly. If they were in doubt about wanting
him--he was in no doubt as to what he would do.
"No, I reckon I'd better git on," he said sturdily, and he turned and
limped back up the hill to the road--still wondering, and he remembered
that, in the mountains, when people wanted to stay all night, they
usually stopped before sundown. Travelling after dark was suspicious in
the mountains, and perhaps it was in this land, too. So, with this
thought, he had half a mind to go back and explain, but he pushed on.
Half a mile farther, his foot was so bad that he stopped with a cry of
pain in the road and, seeing a barn close by, he climbed the fence and
into the loft and burrowed himself under the hay. From under the shed
he could see the stars rising. It was very still and very lonely and he
was hungry--hungrier and lonelier than he had ever been in his life,
and a sob of helplessness rose to his lips--if he only had Jack--but he
held it back.
"I got to ack like a man now." And, saying this over and over to
himself, he went to sleep.