run after them."
"Our boys was tired." Grandfather dismissed the Union army with one
short sentence. "The rebels kept droppin' in their tracks. There was
two dead front of the porch in the morning, and three across the
bridge. I tried to sneak out in the night and give 'em something to
eat, or ask some of 'em to come in, but the folks said I was too sick.
They wouldn't let me go. I—"
"It would 'a' been a nice thing to help the enemies of your country
that you'd been fightin' against!" Henrietta would sometimes say
scornfully.
"You didn't see 'em marchin' and hear the sick ones cryin' when the
rain held up a little," he reminded Henrietta. "Oh, I wish I'd sneaked
out and done something for 'em!"
Then he would lapse into silence, his eyes on the long, red road which
led to Hagerstown. It lay now clear and hot and treeless in the
sunshine; to his vision, however, the dust was whipped into deep mud
by a beating rain, beneath which Lee and his army "marched and
marched." He leaned forward as though straining to see.
"I saw some flags once when it lightened," he said; "and once I
thought I saw General Lee."
"Oh, I guess not!" Henrietta would answer with scornful indulgence to
which grandfather was deaf.
He read the newspaper announcement of the encampment again and again,
then he went to meet the children on their way from school, stopping
to tell their father, who was at work in the field.
"There'll be a grand review," grandfather said. "Ten thousand soldiers
in line. We'll go to it, John. It'll be a great day for the young
ones."
"We'll see," answered John.
He was a brisk, energetic man, too busy to be always patient.
In the children grandfather had his first attentive listeners.
"Will it be like the war?" they asked, eagerly.
"Oh, something. There won't be near so many, and they won't kill
nobody. But it'll be a great time. They'll drill all day long."
"Will their horses' hoofs sound like dry leaves rustlin'?" asked
little Mary, who always remembered most clearly what the old man had
said.
"Yes, like leaves a-rustlin'," repeated the old man. "You must be good
children, now, so you don't miss the grand review."
All through the early summer they talked of the encampment. Because of
it the annual Memorial Day visit to the battle-field was omitted. Each
night the children heard the story of the battle and the retreat,
until they listened for commands, faintly given, and the sound of
thousands of weary feet. Grandfather often got up in the night and
looked out across the yard to the road. Sometimes they heard him
whispering to himself as he went back to bed. He got down his old
sword and spent many hours trying to polish away the rust which had
been gathering for forty years.
"You expect to wear the sword, father?" asked Henrietta, laughing.
News of the encampment reached them constantly. Three weeks before it
opened, they were visited by a man who wished to hire horses for the
use of the cavalry and the artillery. John debated for a moment. The
wheat was in, the oats could wait until the encampment was over, the
price paid for horse hire was good. He told the man that he might have
Dick, one of the heavy draft horses.
Grandfather ran to meet the children as they came from a neighbor's.
"Dick's going to the war," he cried excitedly.
"To the war?" repeated the children.
"I mean to the encampment. He's been hired. He's going to help pull
one of the cannons for the artill'ry."
The next week John drove into town with a load of early apples. He was
offered work at a dozen different places. Supplies were being sent in,
details of soldiers were beginning to lay out the camp and put up
tents, Gettysburg was already crowded with visitors. Grandfather made
him tell it all the second time; then he explained the formation of an
army to the children.
"First comes a company, that's the smallest, then a regiment, then a
brigade. A quartermaster looks after supplies, a sutler is a fellow
who sells things to the soldiers. But, children, you should 'a' seen
'em marching by that night!" Grandfather always came back to the
retreat. "They hadn't any sutlers to sell 'em anything to eat. I
wish—I wish I'd sneaked out and given 'em something."
After grandfather went upstairs that night he realized that he was
thirsty, and he came down again. The children were asleep, but their
father and mother still sat talking on the porch. Grandfather had
taken off his shoes and came upon them before they were aware.
"I don't see no use in his going," Henrietta was saying. "There ain't
no room for him in the buggy with us and the children. Where'd we put
him? And he saw the real war."
"But he's looked forward to it, Henrietta, he—"
"Well, would you have me stay at home, or would you have the children
stay at home, or what?" Henrietta felt the burden of Grandfather Myers
more every day. "He'll forget it anyhow in a few days. He forgets
everything."
"Do you—do you—" They turned to see grandfather behind them. He held
weakly to the side of the door. "Do you mean I ain't to go,
Henrietta?"
It did not occur to him to appeal to his son.
"I don't see how you can," answered Henrietta. She was sorry he had
heard. She meant to have John tell him gently the next day. "There is
only the buggy, and if John goes and I and the children—it's you have
made them so anxious to go."
She spoke as though she blamed him.
"But—" Grandfather ignored the meanness of the excuse. "But couldn't
we take the wagon?"
"The wagon? To Gettysburg? With the whole country looking on? I guess
they'd think John was getting along fine if we went in the wagon."
Henrietta was glad to have so foolish a speech to answer as it
deserved. "Why, grandfather!"
"Then"—grandfather's brain, which had of late moved more and more
slowly, was suddenly quickened—"then let me drive the wagon and you
can go in the buggy. I can drive Harry and nobody'll know I belong to
you, and—"
"Let you drive round with all them horses and the shooting and
everything!" exclaimed Henrietta.
Her husband turned toward her.
"You might drive the buggy and take grandfather, and I could go in the
wagon," he said.
"I don't go to Gettysburg without a man on such a day," said Henrietta
firmly.
"But—" Grandfather interrupted his own sentence with a quavering
laugh. Henrietta did not consider him a man!
Then he turned and went upstairs, forgetting his drink of water. He
heard Henrietta's voice long afterward, and John's low answers. John
wanted him to go, he did not blame John.
The next day he made a final plea. He followed John to the barn.
"Seems as if I might ride Harry," he said tentatively.
"O father, you couldn't," John answered gently. "You know how it will
be, noise and confusion and excitement. Harry isn't used to it. You
couldn't manage him."
"Seems as though if Dick goes, Harry ought to go, too. 'Tain't fair
for Dick to go, and not Harry," he whispered childishly.
"I'm sorry, father," said John.
It was better that his father should be disappointed than that
Henrietta should be opposed. His father would forget in a few days and
Henrietta would remember for weeks.
The next day when the man came for Dick they found grandfather in the
stable patting the horse and talking about the war. He watched Dick
out of sight, and then sat down in his armchair on the porch
whispering to himself.
The children protested vigorously when they found that the old man was
not going, but they were soon silenced by their mother. Grandfather
was old, it was much better that he should not go.
"You can tell him all about it when you come home," she said.
"You can guard the place while we're gone, Grandfather," suggested
little Caleb. "Perhaps the Confederates will come back."
"They wouldn't hurt nothing," answered the old man. "They was
tired—tired—tired."
When the family drove away he sat on the porch. He waved his hand
until he could see little Mary's fluttering handkerchief no more, then
he fell asleep. As Henrietta said, he soon forgot. When he woke up a
little later, he went down to the barn and patted Harry, then he went
out to the mail-box to see whether by any chance he had missed a
letter. He looked at the nasturtium bed, now aglow with yellow and
orange and deep crimson blossoms, then he went back to the porch. He
was lonely. He missed the sound of John's voice calling to the horses
down in the south meadow or across the road in the wheat-field, he
missed the chatter of the children, he missed even their mother's curt
answers to his questions. For an instant he wondered where they had
gone, then he sighed heavily as he remembered. Instead of sitting down
again in his chair, he went into the house and upstairs. There he
tiptoed warily up to the garret as if he were afraid that some one
would follow him, and drew from a hiding-place which he fancied no one
knew but himself an old coat, blue, with buttons of dull, tarnished
brass. He thrust his arms into it, still whispering to himself, and
smoothed it down. His fingers hesitated as they touched a jagged rent
just in front of the shoulder.
"What— Oh, yes, I remember!"
Grandfather had never been quite so forgetful as this. On his way
downstairs he took from its hook his old sword.
"Caleb says I must guard the house," he said smilingly.
When he reached the porch, he turned his chair so that it no longer
faced toward Gettysburg, whither John and Henrietta and the children
had gone, but toward the blue hills and Hagerstown. Once he picked up
the sword and pointed with it, steadying it with both hands. "Through
that gap they went," he said.
Then he dozed again. The old clock, which had stood on the kitchen
mantelpiece since before he was born, struck ten, but he did not hear.
Henrietta had told him where he could find some lunch, but he did not
remember nor care. His dinner was set out beneath a white cloth on the
kitchen table, but he had not curiosity enough to lift it and see what
good things Henrietta had left for him. When he woke again, he began
to sing in a shrill voice:—
"Away down South in Dixie,
Look away, look away."
"They didn't sing that when they was marching home," he said solemnly.
"They only tramped along in the dark and rain."
Then suddenly he straightened up. Like an echo from his own lips,
there came from the distance toward Gettysburg the same tune, played
by fifes, with the dull accompaniment of drums. He bent forward,
listening, then stood up, looking off toward the blue hills. At once
he realized that the sound came from the other direction.
"I thought they was all past, long ago," he said. "And they never
played. I guess I was asleep and dreaming."
He sat down once more, his head on his breast. When he lifted it, it
was in response to a sharp "Halt!" He stared about him. The road
before him was filled with soldiers, in dusty yellow uniforms. Then he
was not dreaming, then—He tottered to the edge of the porch.
The men of the Third Regiment of the National Guard of Pennsylvania
did not approve of the march, in their parlance a "hike," which their
colonel had decided to give them along the line of Lee's retreat. They
felt that just before the grand review in the afternoon, it was an
imposition. They were glad to halt, while the captain of each company
explained that upon the night of the third of July, 1863, Lee had
traversed this road on his way to recross the Potomac.
When his explanation was over, the captain of Company I moved his men
a little to the right under the shade of the maples. From there he saw
the moving figure behind the vines.
"Sergeant, go in and ask whether we may have water."
[Illustration: THEY SAW THE STRANGE OLD FIGURE ON THE PORCH.]
The sergeant entered the gate, and the thirsty men, hearing the order,
looked after him. They saw the strange old figure on the porch, the
torn blue jacket belted at the waist, the sword, the smiling, eager
face. The captain saw, too.
"Three cheers for the old soldier," he cried, and hats were swung in
the air.
"May we have a drink?" the sergeant asked, and grandfather pointed the
way to the well.
He tried to go down the steps to help them pump, but his knees
trembled, and he stayed where he was. He watched them, still smiling.
He did not realize that the cheers were for him, he could not quite
understand why suits which should be gray were so yellow, but he
supposed it was the mud.
"Poor chaps," he sighed. "They're goin' back to Dixie."
One by one the companies drew up before the gate, and one by one they
cheered. They had been cheering ever since the beginning of the
encampment—for Meade, for Hancock, for Reynolds, among the dead; for
the Governor, the colonel, the leader of the regiment band, among the
living. They had enlisted for a good time, for a trip to Gettysburg,
for a taste of camp-life, from almost any other motive than that which
had moved this old man to enlist in '61. They suddenly realized how
little this encampment was like war. All the drill, all the pomp of
this tin soldiering, even all the graves of the battle-field, had not
moved them as did this old man in his tattered coat. Here was love of
country. Would any of them care to don in fifty years their khaki
blouses? Then, before the momentary enthusiasm or the momentary
seriousness had time to wear away, the order was given to march back
to camp.
The old man did not turn to watch them go. He sat still with his eyes
upon the distant hills. After a while his sword fell clattering to the
floor.
"I'm glad I sneaked out and gave 'em something," he said, smiling with
a great content.
The long leaves of the corn in the next field rustled in the wind, the
sun rose higher, then declined, and still he sat there smilingly
unheeding, his eyes toward the west. Once he said, "Poor chaps, it's
dark for 'em."
The cows waited at the pasture gate for the master and mistress, who
were late. Henrietta had wished that morning that grandfather could
milk, so that they would not have to hurry home. Presently they came,
tired and hungry, the children eager to tell of the wonders they had
seen. At their mother's command, they ran to let down the pasture bars
while their father led the horses to the barn, and she herself went on
to the porch.
"Grandfather," she said kindly, "we're here." She even laid her hand
on his shoulder. "Wake up, grandfather!" She spoke sharply, angry at
his failure to respond to her unaccustomed gentleness of speech. Her
hand fell upon his shoulder once more, this time heavily, and her
finger-tips touched a jagged edge of cloth. "What—" she began. She
remembered the old coat, which she had long since made up her mind to
burn. She felt for the buttons down the front, the belt with its broad
plate. Yes, it was—Then suddenly she touched his hands, and screamed
and ran, crying, toward the barn.
"John!" she called. "John! Grandfather is dead."
VIII
THE GREAT DAY
Old Billy Gude strode slowly into the kitchen, where his wife bent
over the stove. Just inside the door he stopped, and chewed
meditatively upon the toothpick in his mouth. His wife turned
presently to look at him.
"What are you grinning at?" she asked pleasantly.
Billy did not answer. Instead he sat down in his armchair and lifted
his feet to the window-sill.
"_Won't_ you speak, or can't you?" demanded Mrs. Gude.
When he still did not respond, she gravely pushed her frying-pan to
the back of the stove, and went toward the door. Before her hand
touched the latch, however, Billy came to himself.
"Abbie!" he cried.
"I can't stop now," answered Mrs. Gude. "I gave you your chance to
tell what you got to tell. Now you can wait till I come home."
"You'll be sorry."
Mrs. Gude looked back. Her husband still grinned.
"You're crazy," she said, with conviction, and went out.
An instant later she reopened the door. Billy was executing a _pas
seul_ in the middle of the floor.
"_Are_ you crazy?" she demanded, in affright.
Billy paused long enough to wink at her.
"You better go do your errand, Abbie."
Abbie seized him by the arm.
"What is the matter?"
Then Billy's news refused longer to be retained.
"There's a great day comin'," he announced solemnly. "The President of
the United States is comin' here on Decoration Day to see the
battle-field."
"What of that?" said Abbie scornfully. "It won't do you no good. He'll
come in the morning in an automobile, an' he'll scoot round the field
with Jakie Barsinger a-settin' on the step tellin' lies, an' you can
see him go by."
"See him go by nothin'," declared Billy. "That's where you're left.
He's comin' in the mornin' on a special train, an' he's goin' to be
driven round the field, an' he's goin' to make a speech at the
nostrum"—thus did Billy choose to pronounce rostrum—"an'—"
"And Jakie Barsinger will drive him over the field and to the nostrum,
and you can sit and look on."
"That's where you're left again," mocked Billy. "I, bein' the oldest
guide, an' the best knowed, an' havin' held Mr. Lincoln by the hand in
'63, an' havin' driven all the other big guns what come here till
automobiles an' Jakie Barsinger come in, _I_ am selected to do the
drivin' on the great day."
Mrs. Gude sat down heavily on a chair near the door.
"Who done it, Billy?"
"I don't know who done it," Billy answered. "An' I don't care. Some of
the galoots had a little common sense for once."
"_Why_ did they do it?" gasped Mrs. Gude.
"Why?" repeated Billy. "Why? Because when you get people to talk about
a battle, it's better to have some one what saw the battle, an' not
some one what was in long clothes. I guess they were afraid Jakie
might tell something wrong. You can't fool this President."
"I mean, what made 'em change _now_?" went on Abbie. "They knew this
long time that Jakie Barsinger was dumb."
"I don't know, an' I don't care. I only know that I'm goin' to drive
the President. I heard Lincoln make his speech in '63, an' I drove
Everett an' Sickles an' Howard an' Curtin, and this President's
father, an' then"—Billy's voice shook—"then they said I was gettin'
old, an' Jakie Barsinger an' all the chaps get down at the station an'
yell an' howl like Piute Indians, an' they get the custom, an' the
hotels tell the people I had an accident with an automobile.
Automobiles be danged!"
Mrs. Gude laid a tender hand on his shoulder.
"Don't you cry," she said.
Billy dashed the tears from his eyes.
"I ain't cryin'. You go on with your errand."
Mrs. Gude put on her sunbonnet again. She had no errand, but it would
not do to admit it.
"Not if you're goin' to hop round like a loony."
"I'm safe for to-day, I guess. Besides, my legs is give out."
Left alone, Billy rubbed one leg, then the other.
"G'lang there," he said, presently, his hands lifting a pair of
imaginary reins. "Mr. President, hidden here among the trees an'
bushes waited the foe; here—"
Before he had finished he was asleep. He was almost seventy years old,
and excitement wearied him.
For forty years he had shown visitors over the battle-field. At first
his old horse had picked his way carefully along lanes and across
fields; of late, however, his handsome grays had trotted over fine
avenues. The horses knew the route of travel as thoroughly as did
their master. They drew up before the National Monument, on the turn
of the Angle, and at the summit of Little Round Top without the least
guidance.
"There ain't a stone or a bush I don't know," boasted Billy, "there
ain't a tree or a fence-post."
Presently, however, came a creature which neither Billy nor his horses
knew. It dashed upon them one day with infernal tooting on the steep
curve of Culp's Hill, and neither they nor Billy were prepared. He sat
easily in his seat, the lines loose in his hands, while he described
the charge of the Louisiana Tigers.
"From yonder they came," he said. "Up there, a-creepin' through the
bushes, an' then a-dashin', an' down on 'em came—"
And then Billy knew no more. The automobile was upon them; there was a
crash as the horses whirled aside into the underbrush, another as the
carriage turned turtle, then a succession of shrieks. No one was
seriously hurt, however, but Billy himself. When, weeks later, he went
back to his old post beside the station platform, where the guides
waited the arrival of trains, Jakie Barsinger had his place, and Jakie
would not move. He was of a new generation of guides, who made up in
volubility what they lacked in knowledge.
For weeks Billy continued to drive to the station. He had enlisted the
services of a chauffeur, and his horses were now accustomed to
automobiles.
"I tamed 'em," he said to Abbie. "I drove 'em up to it, an' round it,
an' past it. An' he snorted it, an' tooted it, an' brought it at 'em
in front an' behind. They're as calm as pigeons."
Nevertheless, trade did not come back. Jakie Barsinger had become the
recognized guide for the guests at the Palace, and John Harris for
those at the Keystone, and it was always from the hotels that the best
patronage came.
"Jakie Barsinger took the Secretary of War round the other day," the
old man would say, tearfully, to his wife, "an' he made a fool of
himself. He don't know a brigade from a company. An' he grinned at
me—he grinned at me!"
Abbie did her best to comfort him.
"Perhaps some of the old ones what used to have you will come back."
"An' if they do," said Billy, "the clerk at the Palace'll tell 'em I
ain't in the business, or I was in a accident, or that I'm dead. I
wouldn't put it past 'em to tell 'em I'm dead."
Robbed of the occupation of his life, which was also his passion,
Billy grew rapidly old. Abbie listened in distress as, sitting alone,
he declaimed his old speeches.
"Here on the right they fought with clubbed muskets. Here—"
Often he did not finish, but dozed wearily off. There were times when
it seemed that he could not long survive.
Now, however, as Memorial Day approached, he seemed to have taken a
new lease of life. No longer did he sit sleepily all day on the porch
or by the stove. He began to frequent his old haunts, and he assumed
his old proud attitude towards his rivals.
Mrs. Gude did not share his unqualified elation.
"Something might happen," she suggested fearfully.
"Nothin' could happen," rejoined Billy scornfully, "unless I died. An'
then I wouldn't care. But I hope the Lord won't let me die." Billy
said it as though it were a prayer. "I'm goin' to set up once more an'
wave my whip at 'em, with the President of the United States beside
me. No back seat for him! Colonel Mott said the President 'd want to
sit on the front seat. An' he said he'd ask questions. 'Let him ask,'
I said. 'I ain't afraid of no questions nobody can ask. No s'tistics,
nor manœuvres, nor—'"
"But Jakie Barsinger might do you a mean trick."
"There ain't nothin' he _can_ do. Mott said to me, 'Be on time, Gude,
bright an' early.'" Then Billy's voice sank to a whisper. "They're
goin' to stop the train out at the sidin' back of the Seminary, so as
to fool the crowd. They'll be waitin' in town, an' we'll be off an'
away. An' by an' by we'll meet Jakie with a load of jays. Oh, it'll
be—it'll be immense!"
Through the weeks that intervened before the thirtieth of May, Abbie
watched him anxiously. Each day he exercised the horses, grown fat and
lazy; each day he went over the long account of the battle,—as though
he could forget what was part and parcel of himself! His eyes grew
brighter, and there was a flush on his old cheeks. The committee of
arrangements lost their fear that they had been unwise in appointing
him.
"Gude's just as good as he ever was," said Colonel Mott. "It wouldn't
do to let the President get at Barsinger. If you stop him in the
middle of a speech, he has to go back to the beginning." Then he told
a story of which he never grew weary. "'Here on this field lay ten
thousand dead men,' says Barsinger. 'Ten thousand dead men,
interspersed with one dead lady.' No; Billy Gude's all right."
Colonel Mott sighed with relief. The planning for a President's visit
was no light task. There were arrangements to be made with the
railroad companies, the secret service men were to be stationed over
the battle-field, there were to be trustworthy guards, a programme was
to be made out for the afternoon meeting at which the President was to
speak.
The night before the thirtieth Abbie did not sleep. She heard Billy
talking softly to himself.
"Right yonder, Mr. President, they came creepin' through the bushes;
right yonder—" Then he groaned heavily, and Abbie shook him awake.