little boy's, his beautiful, sightless eyes turned toward Mrs. James,
as though he would have given anything to save her, to save any of
them, pain. "It is not a question of reward, sir. I would endure it
all again, gladly—everything. I don't count it, sir. But do not look
for my name. It is chance, accident. It might have happened to any
one, sir. It is not your fault. But my name has been omitted."
VI
THE SUBSTITUTE
It was nine o'clock on the eve of Memorial Day, and pandemonium
reigned on the platform of the little railroad station at Gettysburg.
A heavy thunderstorm, which had brought down a score of fine trees on
the battle-field, and had put entirely out of service the electric
light plant of the town, was just over. In five minutes the evening
train from Harrisburg would be due, and with it the last delegation to
the convention of the Grand Army of the Republic.
A spectator might have thought it doubtful whether the arriving
delegation would be able to set foot upon the crowded platform. In the
dim light, representatives from the hotels and boarding-houses fought
each other for places on the steps beyond which the town council had
forbidden them to go. Back of them, along the pavement, their
unwatched horses stood patiently, too tired to make even the slight
movement which would have inextricably tangled the wheels of the
omnibuses and tourist wagons. On the platform were a hundred old
soldiers, some of them still hale, others crippled and disabled, and
as many women, the "Ladies of the Relief Corps," come to assist in
welcoming the strangers. The railroad employees elbowed the crowd
good-naturedly, as their duties took them from one part of the station
to another; small boys chased each other, racing up the track to catch
the first glimpse of the headlight of the train; and presently all
joined in a wild and joyous singing of "My Country, 'tis of Thee."
High above the turmoil, on a baggage truck which had been pushed
against the wall, stood "Old Man Daggett," whistling. He was
apparently unaware of the contrast between the whiteness of his beard
and the abandoned gayety of his tune, which was "We won't go home
until morning"; he was equally unaware or indifferent to the care with
which the crowd avoided his neighborhood. But though he had been
drinking, he was not drunk. He looked down upon the crowd, upon his
former companions in the Grand Army post, who had long since
repudiated him because of the depths to which he had fallen; he
thought of the days when he had struggled with the other guides for a
place at the edge of the platform, and, wretched as was his present
condition, he continued to whistle.
When, presently, the small boys shouted, "There she comes!" the old
man added his cheer to the rest, purely for the joy of hearing his own
voice. The crowd lurched forward, the station agent ordered them back,
the engine whistled, her bell rang, the old soldiers called wildly,
"Hello, comrades!" "Hurrah, comrades!" and the train stopped. Then
ensued a wilder pandemonium. There were multitudinous cries:—
"Here you are, the Keystone House!"
"Here you are, the Palace, the official hotel of Gettysburg!"
"The Battle Hotel, the best in the city!"
There were shouts also from the visitors.
"Hello, comrades! Hurrah! Hurrah!"
"Did you ever see such a storm?"
"Hurrah! Hurrah!"
At first it seemed impossible to bring order out of the chaos. The
human particles would rush about forever, wearing themselves into
nothingness by futile contact with one another. Presently, however,
one of the carriages drove away and then another, and the crowd began
to thin. Old Daggett watched them with cheerful interest, rejoicing
when Jakie Barsinger of the Palace, or Bert Taylor of the Keystone,
lost his place on the steps. By and by his eyes wandered to the other
end of the dim platform. Three men stood there, watching the crowd.
The sight of three prosperous visitors, unclaimed and unsolicited by
the guides, seemed to rouse some latent energy in old Daggett. It was
almost ten years since he had guided any one over the field. He
scrambled down from the truck and approached the visitors.
"Have you gentlemen engaged rooms?" he asked. "Or a guide?"
The tallest of the three men answered. He was Ellison Brant, former
Congressman, of great wealth and vast physical dimensions. His manner
was genial and there was a frank cordiality in his voice which his
friends admired and his enemies distrusted. His companions, both
younger than himself, were two faithful henchmen, Albert Davis and
Peter Hayes. They had not heard of the convention in Gettysburg, which
they were visiting for the first time, and, irritated by having to
travel in the same coach with the noisy veterans, they were now
further annoyed by the discovery that all the hotels in the town were
crowded. Brant's voice had lost entirely its cordial tone.
"Have you any rooms to recommend?"
"You can't get places at the hotels any more," answered Daggett. "But
I could get you rooms."
"Where is your best hotel?"
"Right up here. We'll pass it."
"All right. Take us there first."
Brant's irritation found expression in an oath as they went up the
narrow, uneven pavement. He was accustomed to obsequious porters, and
his bag was heavy. It was not their guide's age which prevented Brant
from giving him the burden, but the fear that he might steal off with
it, down a dark alley or side street.
"There's the Keystone," said Daggett. "You can't get in there."
The hotel was brilliantly lighted, a band played in its lobby, and out
to the street extended the cheerful, hurrahing crowd. General
Davenant, who was to be the orator at the Memorial Day celebration,
had come out on a balcony to speak to them. Brant swore again in his
disgust.
"I can take you to a fine place," insisted old Daggett.
"Go on, then," said Brant. "What are you waiting for?"
A square farther on, Daggett rapped at the door of a little house. The
woman who opened it, lamp in hand, seemed at first unwilling to
listen.
"You can't get in here, you old rascal."
But Daggett had put his foot inside the door.
"I've got three fine boarders for you," he whispered. "You can take
'em or leave 'em. I can take them anywhere and get a quarter apiece
for them."
The woman opened the door a little wider and peered out at the three
men. Their appearance seemed to satisfy her.
"Come in, comrades," she invited cordially. She had not meant to take
boarders during this convention, but these men looked as though they
could pay well. "I have fine rooms and good board."
Daggett stepped back to allow the strangers to go into the house.
"I'll be here at eight o'clock sharp to take you over the field,
gentlemen," he promised.
There was a briskness about his speech and an alertness in his step,
which, coupled with the woman's gratitude, kept her from telling her
guests what a reprobate old Daggett was.
By some miracle of persuasion or threat, he secured a two-seated
carriage and an ancient horse for the next day's sight-seeing. A great
roar of laughter went up from the drivers of the long line of
carriages before the Keystone House, as he drove by.
"Where you going to get your passengers, Daggett?"
"Daggett's been to the bone-yard for a horse."
"He ain't as old as your joke," called Daggett cheerfully.
The prospect of having work to do gave him for the moment greater
satisfaction than the thought of what he meant to buy with his wages,
which was saying a great deal. He began to repeat to himself fragments
of his old speech.
"Yonder is the Seminary cupilo objecting above the trees," he said to
himself. "From that spot, ladies and gentlemen—from that spot, ladies
and gentlemen—" He shook his head and went back to the beginning.
"Yonder is the Seminary cupilo. From that spot—" He was a little
frightened when he found that he could not remember. "But when I'm
there it'll come back," he said to himself.
His three passengers were waiting for him on the steps, while from
behind them peered the face of their hostess, curious to see whether
old Daggett would keep his word. Brant looked at the ancient horse
with disapproval.
"Is everything in this town worn out, like you and your horse?" he
asked roughly.
Daggett straightened his shoulders, which had not been straightened
with pride or resentment for many days.
"You can take me and my horse or you can leave us," he said.
Brant had already clambered into the carriage. Early in the morning
Davis and Hayes had tried to find another guide, but had failed.
As they drove down the street, the strangers were aware that every
passer-by stopped to look at them. People glanced casually at the
horse and carriage, as one among a multitude which had started over
the field that morning, then, at sight of the driver, their eyes
widened, and sometimes they grinned. Daggett did not see—he was too
much occupied in trying to remember his speech. The three men had
lighted long black cigars, and were talking among themselves. The cool
morning air which blew into their faces from the west seemed to
restore Brant's equanimity, and he offered Daggett a cigar, which
Daggett took and put into his pocket. Daggett's lips were moving, he
struggled desperately to remember. Presently his eyes brightened.
"Ah!" he said softly. Then he began his speech:—
"Yonder is the Seminary cupilo objecting above the trees. From there
Buford observed the enemy, from there the eagle eye of Reynolds took
in the situation at a glance, from there he decided that the heights
of Gettysburg was the place to fight. You will see that it is an
important strategic point, an important strategic point"—his lips
delighted in the long-forgotten words. "And here—"
The old horse had climbed the hill, and they were upon the Confederate
battle-line of the third day's fight. Old Daggett's voice was lost for
an instant in a recollection of his ancient oratorical glories. His
speech had been learned from a guide-book, but there was a time when
it had been part of his soul.
"Here two hundred cannons opened fire, ladies and gentlemen. From the
Union side nearly a hundred guns replied, not because we had no more
guns, ladies and gentlemen, but, owing to the contour of the ground,
we could only get that many in position at one time. Then came the
greatest artillery duel of the war—nearly three hundred cannons
bleaching forth their deadly measles, shells bursting and screaming
everywhere. The shrieks of the dying and wounded were mingled with the
roar of the iron storm. The earth trembled for hours. It was fearful,
ladies and gentlemen, fearful."
The visitors had been too deeply interested in what they were saying
to hear.
"You said we were on the Confederate battle-line?" asked Brant
absently.
"The Confederate battle-line," answered Daggett.
He had turned the horse's head toward Round Top, and he did not care
whether they heard or not.
"Yonder in the distance is Round Top; to the left is Little Round Top.
They are important strategic points. There the Unionists were attacked
in force by the enemy. There—but here as we go by, notice the
breech-loading guns to our right. They were rare. Most of the guns
were muzzle-loaders."
Presently the visitors began to look about them. They said the field
was larger than they expected; they asked whether the avenues had been
there at the time of the battle; they asked whether Sherman fought at
Gettysburg.
"Sherman!" said Daggett. "Here? No." He looked at them in scorn. "But
here"—the old horse had stopped without a signal—"here is where
Pickett's charge started."
He stepped down from the carriage into the dusty road. This story he
could not tell as he sat at ease. He must have room to wave his arms,
to point his whip.
"They aimed toward that clump of trees, a mile away. They marched with
steady step, as though they were on dress parade. When they were half
way across the Union guns began to fire. They was torn apart; the
rebel comrades stepped over the dead and went on through the storm of
deadly measles as though it was rain and wind. When they started they
was fifteen thousand; when they got back they was eight. They was
almost annihilated. You could walk from the stone wall to beyond the
Emmitsburg road without treading on the ground, the bodies lay so
thick. Pickett and his men had done their best."
"Well done!" cried Brant, when he was through. "Now, that'll do. We
want to talk. Just tell us when we get to the next important place."
They drove on down the wide avenue. Spring had been late, and there
were lingering blossoms of dogwood and Judas-tree. Here and there a
scarlet tanager flashed among the leaves; rabbits looked brightly at
them from the wayside, and deep in the woods resounded the limpid note
of a wood-robin.
Disobedient to Brant's command, Daggett was still talking, repeating
to himself all the true and false statements of his old speeches.
Some, indeed, were mad absurdities.
"There's only one Confederate monument on the field," he said. "You
can tell it when we get there. It says 'C. S. A.' on it—'Secesh
Soldiers of America.'
"There was great fightin' round Spangler's Spring," he went on
soberly. "There those that had no legs gave water to those that had no
arms, and those that had no arms carried off those that had no legs."
At the summit of Little Round Top the old horse stopped again.
"You see before you the important strategic points of the second day's
fight—Devil's Den, the Wheat-Field, the Valley of Death. Yonder—"
Suddenly the old man's memory seemed to fail. He whispered
incoherently, then he asked them if they wanted to get out.
"No," said Brant.
"But everybody gets out here," insisted Daggett peevishly. "You can't
see Devil's Den unless you do. You _must_ get out."
"All right," acquiesced Brant. "Perhaps we are not getting our money's
worth."
He lifted himself ponderously down, and Davis followed him.
"I'll stay here," said Hayes. "I'll see that our driver don't run off.
Were you a soldier?" he asked the old man.
"Yes," answered Daggett. "I was wounded in this battle. I wasn't old
enough to go, but they took me as a substitute for another man. And I
never"—an insane anger flared in the old man's eyes—"I never got my
bounty. He was to have paid me a thousand dollars. A thousand
dollars!" He repeated it as though the sum were beyond his
computation. "After I came out I was going to set up in business. But
the skunk never paid me."
"What did you do afterwards?"
"Nothing," said Daggett. "I was wounded here, and I stayed here after
I got well, and hauled people round. Hauled people round!" He spoke as
though the work were valueless, degrading.
"Why didn't you go into business?"
"I didn't have my thousand dollars," replied Daggett petulantly.
"Didn't I tell you I didn't have my thousand dollars? The skunk never
paid me."
The thought of the thousand dollars of which he had been cheated
seemed to paralyze the old man. He told them no more stories; he drove
silently past Stannard, high on his great shaft, Meade on his noble
horse, fronting the west. He did not mention Stubborn Smith or gallant
Armistead. Brant, now that he had settled with his friends some
legislative appointments which he controlled, was ready to listen, and
was angry at the old man's silence.
"When you take us back to town, you take us to that hotel we saw last
night," he ordered. "We're not going back to your lady friend."
Old Daggett laughed. Lady friend! How she would scold! He would tell
her that the gentlemen thought she was his lady friend.
"And we'll have to have a better horse and driver after dinner, if
we're going to see this field."
"All right," said Daggett.
His morning's work would buy him drink for a week, and beyond the week
he had no interest.
He drove the ancient horse to the hotel, and his passengers got out.
He waited, expecting to be sent for their baggage. The porch and
pavement were as crowded as they had been the night before. The
soldiers embraced each other, hawkers cried their picture postcards
and their manufactured souvenirs, at the edge of the pavement a band
was playing.
Brant pushed his way to the clerk's desk. The clerk remembered him at
once as the triumphantly vindicated defendant in a Congressional
scandal, and welcomed him obsequiously. Brant's picture had been in
all the papers, and his face was not easily forgotten.
"Well, sir, did you just get in?" the clerk asked politely.
"No, I've been here all night," answered Brant. "I was told you had no
rooms."
Meanwhile old Daggett had become tired of waiting. He wanted his
money; the Keystone people might send for the baggage. He tied his old
horse, unheeding the grins of his former companions in the army post
and of the colored porters and the smiles of the fine ladies. He
followed Brant into the hotel.
"Who said we hadn't rooms?" he heard the clerk say to Brant, and then
he heard Brant's reply: "An old drunk."
"Old Daggett?" said the clerk.
A frown crossed Brant's handsome face.
"Daggett?" he repeated sharply. "Frederick Daggett?"
Then he looked back over his shoulder.
"Yes, Frederick Daggett," said the old man himself. "What of it?"
"Nothing," answered Brant nervously.
He pulled out his purse and began to pay the old man, aware that the
crowd had turned to listen.
But the old man did not see the extended hand. He was staring at
Brant's smooth face as though he saw it for the first time.
"You pay me my money," he said thickly.
"I am paying you your money," answered Brant.
The clerk looked up, meaning to order old Daggett out. Then his pen
dropped from his hand as he saw Brant's face.
"You give me my thousand dollars," said Daggett. "I want my thousand
dollars."
Some one in the crowd laughed. Every one in Gettysburg had heard of
Daggett's thousand dollars.
"Put him out! He's crazy."
"Be still," said some one, who was watching Brant.
"I want my thousand dollars," said old Daggett, again. He looked as
though, even in his age and weakness, he would spring upon Brant. "I
want my thousand dollars."
Brant thrust a trembling hand into his pocket and drew out his
check-book. If he had had a moment to think, if the face before him
had not been so ferocious, if General Davenant, whom he knew, and who
knew him, had not been looking with stern inquiry over old Daggett's
shoulder, he might have laughed, or he might have pretended that he
had tried to find Daggett after the war, or he might have denied that
he had ever seen him. But before he thought of an expedient, it was
too late. He had committed the fatal blunder of drawing out his
check-book.
"Be quiet and I'll give it to you," he said, beginning to write.
Daggett almost tore the slip of blue paper from his hand.
"I won't be quiet!" he shouted, in his weak voice, hoarse from his
long speech in the morning. "This is the man that got me to substitute
for him and cheated me out of my thousand dollars. I won't be quiet!"
He looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. Perhaps it was the
ease with which Brant paid out such a vast sum that moved him, perhaps
it was the uselessness of the thousand dollars, now that he was old.
He tore the blue strip across and threw it on the floor. "There is
your thousand dollars!"
He had never looked so wretchedly miserable as he did now. He was
ragged and dusty, and the copious tears of age were running down his
cheeks. His were not the only tears in the crowd. A member of his old
post, which had repudiated him, seized him by the arm.
"Come with me, Daggett. We'll fix you up. We'll make it up to you,
Daggett."
But Daggett jerked away.
"Get out. I'll fix myself up if there's any fixing."
He walked past Brant, not deigning to look at him, he stepped upon the
fragments of paper on the floor, and shambled to the door. There he
saw the faces of Jakie Barsinger and Bert Taylor and the other guides
who had laughed at him, who had called him "Thousand-Dollar" Daggett,
now gaping at him. Old Daggett's cheerfulness returned.
"You blame' fools couldn't earn a thousand dollars if you worked a
thousand years. And I"—he waved a scornful hand over his shoulder—"I
can throw a thousand dollars away."
VII
THE RETREAT
Grandfather Myers rose stiffly from his knees. He had been weeding
Henrietta's nasturtium bed, which, thanks to him, was always the
finest in the neighborhood of Gettysburg. As yet, the plants were not
more than three inches high, and the old man tended them as carefully
as though they were children. He was thankful now that his morning's
work was done, the wood-box filled, the children escorted part of the
way to school, and the nasturtium bed weeded, for he saw the buggy of
the mail-carrier of Route 4 come slowly down the hill. It was
grandfather's privilege to bring the mail in from the box. This time
he reached it before the postman, and waited smilingly for him. It
always reminded him a little of his youth, when the old stone house
behind him had been a tavern, and the stage drew up before it each
morning with flourish of horn and proud curveting of horses.
The postman waved something white at him as he approached.
"Great news for Gettysburg," he called. "The state militia's coming to
camp in July."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Grandfather Myers.
"Yes, they'll be here a week."
"How many'll there be?"
"About ten thousand."
Grandfather started away in such excitement that the postman had to
call him back to receive the newspaper. The old man took it and
hobbled up the yard, his trembling hands scarcely able to unfold it.
He paused twice to read a paragraph, and when he reached the porch he
sat down on the upper step, the paper quivering in his hands.
"Henrietta!" he called.
His son's wife appeared in the doorway, a large, strong, young woman
with snapping eyes. She was drying a platter and her arms moved
vigorously.
"What is it, grandfather?" she asked impatiently.
The old man was so excited he could scarcely answer.
"There's going to be an encampment at Gettysburg, Henrietta. All the
state troops is going to be here. It'll be like war-time again. It
says here—"
"I like to read the paper my own self, father," said Henrietta, moving
briskly away from the door. She felt a sudden anger that it was
grandfather who had this great piece of news to tell. "You ain't taken
your weeds away from the grass yet, and it's most dinner-time."
Grandfather laid down the paper and went to finish his task. He was
accustomed to Henrietta's surliness, and nothing made him unhappy very
long. He threw the weeds over the fence and then went back to the
porch. So willing was he to forgive Henrietta, and so anxious to tell
her more of the exciting news in the paper, that, sitting on the
steps, he read her extracts.
"Ten thousand of 'em, Henrietta. They're going to camp around
Pickett's Charge, and near the Codori Farm, and they're going to put
the cavalry and artillery near Reynolds Woods, and some regulars are
coming, Henrietta. It'll be like war-time. And they're going to have a
grand review with the soldiers marchin' before the Governor. The
Governor'll be there, Henrietta! And—"
"I don't believe it's true," remarked Henrietta coldly. "I believe
it's just newspaper talk."
"Oh, no, Henrietta!" Grandfather spoke with deep conviction. "There
wouldn't be no cheatin' about such a big thing as this. The
Government'd settle them if they'd publish lies. And—" grandfather
rose in his excitement—"there'll be cannons a-boomin' and guns
a-firin' and oh, my!" He waved the paper above his head. "And the
review! I guess you ain't ever seen so many men together. But I have.
I tell you I have. When I laid upstairs here, with the bullet in
here"—he laid his hand upon his chest—"I seen 'em goin'."
Grandfather's voice choked as the voice of one who speaks of some
tremendous experience of his past. "I seen 'em goin'. Men and men and
men and horses and horses and wagons. They was millions, Henrietta."
Henrietta did not answer. She said to herself that she had heard the
account of grandfather's millions of men millions of times. Wounded at
Chancellorsville, and sent home on furlough, he had watched the
Confederate retreat from an upper window of the old stone house.
"I woke up in the night, and I looked out," he would say. "Everybody
was sleepin' and I crept over to the window. It was raining like"—here
grandfather's long list of comparisons failed, and he described it
simply—"it was just rain and storm and marchin'. They kept going and
going. It was tramp, tramp all night."
"Didn't anybody speak, grandfather?" the children would ask.
"You couldn't hear 'em for the rain," he would answer. "Once in a
while you could hear 'em cryin'. But most of the time it was just rain
and storm, rain and storm. They couldn't go fast, they—"