ain't it time to get up?"
At daylight he was astir, and Abbie helped him dress. His hand shook
and his voice trembled as he said good-bye.
"You better come to the window an' see me go past," he said; then,
"What you cryin' about, Abbie?"
"I'm afraid somethin' 's goin' to happen," sobbed the old woman. "I'm
afraid—"
"Afraid!" he mocked. "Do you think, too, that I'm old an' wore out an'
no good? You'll see!"
And, defiantly, he went out.
Half an hour later he drove to the siding where the train was to stop.
A wooden platform had been built beside the track, and on it stood
Colonel Mott and the rest of the committee.
"Drive back there, Billy," Colonel Mott commanded. "Then when I signal
to you, you come down here. And hold on to your horses. There's going
to be a Presidential salute. As soon as that's over we'll start."
Billy drew back to the side of the road. Evidently, through some
mischance, the plans for the President's reception had become known,
and there was a rapidly increasing crowd. On the slope of the hill a
battery of artillery awaited the word to fire. Billy sat straight, his
eyes on his horses' heads, his old hands gripping the lines. He
watched with pride the marshal waving all carriages back from the
road. Only he, Billy Gude, had the right to be there. _He_ was to
drive the President. The great day had come. He chuckled aloud, not
noticing that just back of the marshal stood Jakie Barsinger's fine
new carriage, empty save for Jakie himself.
Presently the old man sat still more erectly. He heard, clear above
the noise of the crowd, a distant whistle—that same whistle for which
he had listened daily when he had the best place beside the station
platform. The train was rounding the last curve. In a moment more it
would come slowly to view out of the fatal Railroad Cut, whose
forty-year-old horrors Billy could describe so well.
The fields were black now with the crowd, the gunners watched their
captain, and slowly the train drew in beside the bright pine platform.
At the door of the last car appeared a tall and sturdy figure, and ten
thousand huzzas made the hills ring. Then a thunder of guns awoke
echoes which, like the terror-stricken cries from the Railroad Cut,
had been silent forty years. Billy, listening, shivered. The horror
had not grown less with his repeated telling.
He leaned forward now, watching for Colonel Mott's uplifted hand; he
saw him signal, and then—From behind he heard a cry, and turned to
look; then he swiftly swung Dan and Bess in toward the fence. A pair
of horses, maddened by the noise of the firing, dashed toward him. He
heard women scream, and thought, despairing, of Abbie's prophecy.
There would not be room for them to pass. After all, he would not
drive the President. Then he almost sobbed in his relief. They were
safely by. He laughed grimly. It was Jakie Barsinger with his fine new
carriage. Then Billy clutched the reins again. In the short glimpse he
had caught of Jakie Barsinger, Jakie did not seem frightened or
disturbed. Nor did he seem to make any effort to hold his horses in.
Billy stared into the cloud of dust which followed him. What did it
mean? And as he stared the horses stopped, skillfully drawn in by
Jakie Barsinger's firm hand beside the yellow platform. The cloud of
dust thinned a little, and Billy saw plainly now. Into the front seat
of the tourists' carriage, beside Jakie Barsinger, climbed the
President of the United States. Billy rose in his seat.
"Colonel Mott!" he called, frantically. "Colonel Mott!"
But no one heeded. If any one heard, he thought it was but another
cheer. The crowd swarmed down to the road shouting, huzza-ing, here
and there a man or a girl pausing to steady a camera on a fence-post,
here and there a father lifting his child to his shoulder.
"Where is the President?" they asked, and Billy heard the answer.
"There, there! Look! By Jakie Barsinger!"
The old man's hands dropped, and he sobbed. It had all been so neatly
done: the pretense of a runaway, the confusion of the moment, Colonel
Mott's excitement—and the crown of his life was gone.
Long after the crowd had followed in the dusty wake of Jakie
Barsinger's carriage, he turned his horses toward home. A hundred
tourists had begged him to take them over the field, but he had
silently shaken his head. He could not speak. Dan and Bess trotted
briskly, mindful of the cool stable toward which their heads were set,
and they whinnied eagerly at the stable door. They stood there for
half an hour, however, before their master clambered down to unharness
them. He talked to himself feebly, and, when he had finished, went
out, not to the house, where Abbie, who had watched Jakie Barsinger
drive by, waited in an agony of fear, but down the street, and out by
quiet alleys and lanes to the National Cemetery. Sometimes he looked a
little wonderingly toward the crowded main streets, not able to recall
instantly why the crowd was there, then remembering with a rage which
shook him to the soul. Fleeting, futile suggestions of revenge rushed
upon him—a loosened nut in Jakie Barsinger's swingle-tree or a cut
trace—and were repelled with horror which hurt as much as the rage.
All the town would taunt him now. Why had he not turned his carriage
across the road and stopped Jakie Barsinger in his wild dash? It would
have been better to have been killed than to have lived to this.
Around the gate of the cemetery a company of cavalry was stationed,
and within new thousands of visitors waited. It was afternoon now, and
almost time for the trip over the field to end and the exercises to
begin. As Billy passed through the crowd, he felt a hand on his
shoulder.
"Thought you were going to drive the President," said a loud voice.
Billy saw for an instant the strange faces about him, gaping,
interested to hear his answer.
"I ain't nobody's coachman," he said coolly, and walked on.
"They ain't goin' to get a rise out of me," he choked. "They ain't
goin' to get a rise out of me."
He walked slowly up the wide avenue, and presently sat down on a
bench. He was tired to death, his head nodded, and soon he slept,
regardless of blare of band and shouting of men and roll of carriage
wheels. There was a song, and then a prayer, but Billy heard nothing
until the great speech was almost over. Then he opened his eyes
drowsily, and saw the throng gathered round the wistaria-covered
rostrum, on which the President was standing. Billy sprang up. At
least he would hear the speech. Nobody could cheat him out of that. He
pushed his way through the crowd, which, seeing his white hair, opened
easily enough. Then he stood trembling, all his misery rushing over
him again at sight of the tall figure. He was to have sat beside him,
to have talked with him! He rubbed a weak hand across his eyes.
Suddenly he realized that the formal portion of the speech was over,
the President was saying now a short farewell.
"I wish to congratulate the Commission which has made of this great
field so worthy a memorial to those who died here. I wish to express
my gratification to the citizens of this town for their share in the
preservation of the field, and their extraordinary knowledge of the
complicated tactics of the battle. Years ago my interest was aroused
by hearing my father tell of a visit here, and of the vivid story of a
guide—his name, I think, was William Gude. I—"
"'His name, I think,'" old Billy repeated dully. "'His name, I think,
was William Gude.'"
It was a few seconds before the purport of it reached his brain. Then
he raised both arms, unaware that the speech was ended and that the
crowd had begun to cheer.
"Oh, Mr. President," he called, "my name is William Gude!" His head
swam. They were turning away; they did not hear. "My name is William
Gude," he said again pitifully.
The crowd, pressing toward Jakie Barsinger's carriage, into which the
President was stepping, carried him with them. They looked about them
questioningly; they could see Colonel Mott, who was at the President's
side, beckoning to some one; who it was they could not tell. Then
above the noise they heard him call.
"Billy Gude!" he shouted. "Billy—"
"It's me!" said Billy.
He stared, blinking, at Colonel Mott and at the President.
Colonel Mott laid his hand on Billy's shoulder. He had been trying to
invent a suitable punishment for Jakie Barsinger. No more custom
should come to him through the Commission.
"The President wants you to ride down to the station with him, Billy,"
he said. "He wants to know whether you remember his father."
As in a dream, Billy climbed into the carriage. The President sat on
the rear seat now, and Billy was beside him.
"I remember him like yesterday," he declared. "I remember what he said
an' how he looked, an'—" the words crowded upon each other as eagerly
as the President's questions, and Billy forgot all save them—the
cheering crowd, the wondering, envious eyes of his fellow citizens; he
did not even remember that Jakie Barsinger was driving him, Billy
Gude, and the President of the United States together. Once he caught
a glimpse of Abbie's frightened face, and he waved his hand and the
President lifted his hat.
"I wish I could have known about you earlier in the day," said the
President, as he stepped down at the railroad station. Then he took
Billy's hand in his. "It has been a great pleasure to talk to you."
The engine puffed near at hand, there were new cheers from throats
already hoarse with cheering, and the great man was gone, the great
day over. For an instant Billy watched the train, his hand uplifted
with a thousand other hands in a last salute to the swift-vanishing
figure in the observation-car. Then he turned, to meet the unwilling
eyes of Jakie Barsinger, helpless to move his carriage in the great
crowd. For an instant the recollection of his wrongs overwhelmed him.
"Jakie—" he began. Then he laughed. The crowd was listening,
open-mouthed. For the moment, now that the President was gone, he,
Billy Gude, was the great man. He stepped nimbly into the carriage.
"Coachman," he commanded, "you can drive home."
IX
MARY BOWMAN
Outside the broad gateway which leads into the National Cemetery at
Gettysburg and thence on into the great park, there stands a little
house on whose porch there may be seen on summer evenings an old
woman. The cemetery with its tall monuments lies a little back of her
and to her left; before her is the village; beyond, on a little
eminence, the buildings of the Theological Seminary; and still farther
beyond the foothills of the Blue Ridge. The village is tree-shaded,
the hills are set with fine oaks and hickories, the fields are green.
It would be difficult to find in all the world an expanse more lovely.
Those who have known it in their youth grow homesick for it; their
eyes ache and their throats tighten as they remember it. At sunset it
is bathed in purple light, its trees grow darker, its hills more
shadowy, its hollows deeper and more mysterious. Then, lifted above
the dark masses of the trees, one may see marble shafts and domes turn
to liquid gold.
The little old woman, sitting with folded hands, is Mary Bowman, whose
husband was lost on this field. The battle will soon be fifty years in
the past, she has been for that long a widow. She has brought up three
children, two sons and a daughter. One of her sons is a merchant, one
is a clergyman, and her daughter is well and happily married. Her own
life of activity is past; she is waited upon tenderly and loved dearly
by her children and her grandchildren. She was born in this village,
she has almost never been away. From here her husband went to war,
here he is buried among thousands of unknown dead, here she nursed the
wounded and dying, here she will be buried herself in the Evergreen
cemetery, beyond the National cemetery.
She has seen beauty change to desolation, trees shattered, fields
trampled, walls broken, all her dear, familiar world turned to chaos;
she has seen desolation grow again to beauty. These hills and streams
were always lovely, now a nation has determined to keep them forever
in the same loveliness. Here was a rocky, wooded field, destined by
its owner to cultivation; it has been decreed that its rough
picturesqueness shall endure forever. Here is a lowly farmhouse; upon
it no hand of change shall be laid while the nation continues.
Preserved, consecrated, hallowed are the woods and lanes in which Mary
Bowman walked with the lover of her youth.
Broad avenues lead across the fields, marking the lines where by
thousands Northerners and Southerners were killed. Big Round Top, to
which one used to journey by a difficult path, is now accessible;
Union and Confederate soldiers, returning, find their way with ease to
old positions; lads from West Point are brought to see, spread out
before them as on a map, that Union fish-hook, five miles long,
inclosing that slightly curved Confederate line.
Monuments are here by hundreds, names by thousands, cast in bronze, as
endurable as they can be made by man. All that can be done in
remembrance of those who fought here has been done, all possible
effort to identify the unknown has been made. For fifty years their
little trinkets have been preserved, their pocket Testaments, their
photographs, their letters—letters addressed to "My precious son," "My
dear brother," "My beloved husband." Seeing them to-day, you will find
them marked by a number. This stained scapular, this little housewife
with its rusty scissors, this unsigned letter, dated in '63, belonged
to him who lies now in Grave Number 20 or Number 3500.
There is almost an excess of tenderness for these dead, yet mixed with
it is a strange feeling of remoteness. We mourn them, praise them,
laud them, but we cannot understand them. To this generation war is
strange, its sacrifices are uncomprehended, incomprehensible. It is
especially so in these latter years, since those who came once to this
field come now no more. Once the heroes of the war were familiar
figures upon these streets; Meade with his serious, bearded face,
Slocum with his quick, glancing eyes, Hancock with his distinguished
air, Howard with his empty sleeve. They have gone hence, and with them
have marched two thirds of Gettysburg's two hundred thousand.
Mary Bowman has seen them all, has heard them speak. Sitting on her
little porch, she has watched most of the great men of the United
States go by, Presidents, cabinet officials, ambassadors, army
officers, and also famous visitors from other lands who know little of
the United States, but to whom Gettysburg is as a familiar country.
She has watched also that great, rapidly shrinking army of private
soldiers in faded blue coats, who make pilgrimages to see the fields
and hills upon which they fought. She has tried to make herself
realize that her husband, if he had lived, would be like these old
men, maimed, feeble, decrepit, but the thought possesses no reality
for her. He is still young, still erect, he still goes forth in the
pride of life and strength.
Mary Bowman will not talk about the battle. To each of her children
and each of her grandchildren, she has told once, as one who performs
a sacred duty, its many-sided story. She has told each one of wounds
and suffering, but she has not omitted tales of heroic death, of
promotion on the field, of stubborn fight for glory. By others than
her own she will not be questioned. A young officer, recounting the
rigors of the march, has written, "Forsan et hæc olim meminisse
juvabit,"—"Perchance even these things it will be delightful to
remember." To feel delight, remembering these things, Mary Bowman has
never learned. Her neighbors who suffered with her, some just as
cruelly, have recovered; their wounds have healed, as wounds do in the
natural course of things. But Mary Bowman has remained mindful; she
has been, for all these years, widowed indeed.
Her faithful friend and neighbor, Hannah Casey, is the great joy of
visitors to the battle-field. She will talk incessantly,
enthusiastically, with insane invention. The most morbid visitor will
be satisfied with Hannah's wild account of a Valley of Death filled to
the rim with dead bodies, of the trickling rivulet of Plum Creek
swollen with blood to a roaring torrent. But Mary Bowman is different.
Her granddaughter, who lives with her, is curious about her emotions.
"Do you feel reconciled?" she will ask. "Do you feel reconciled to the
sacrifice, grandmother? Do you think of the North and South as
reunited, and are you glad you helped?"
Her grandmother answers with no words, but with a slow, tearful smile.
She does not analyze her emotions. Perhaps it is too much to expect of
one who has been a widow for fifty years, that she philosophize about
it!
Sitting on her porch in the early morning, she remembers the first of
July, fifty years ago.
"Madam!" cried the soldier who galloped to the door, "there is to be a
battle in this town!"
"Here?" she had answered stupidly. "_Here?_"
Sitting there at noon, she hears the roaring blasts of artillery, she
seems to see shells, as of old, curving like great ropes through the
air, she remembers that somewhere on this field, struck by a missile
such as that, her husband fell.
Sitting there in the moonlight, she remembers Early on his white
horse, with muffled hoofs, riding spectralwise down the street among
the sleeping soldiers.
"Up, boys!" he whispers, and is heard even in that heavy stupor. "Up,
boys, up! We must get away!"
She hears also the pouring rain of July the fourth, falling upon her
little house, upon that wide battle-field, upon her very heart. She
sees, too, the deep, sad eyes of Abraham Lincoln, she hears his voice
in the great sentences of his simple speech, she feels his message in
her soul.
"Daughter!" he seems to say, "Daughter, be of good comfort!"
So, still, Mary Bowman sits waiting. She is a Christian, she has great
hope; as her waiting has been long, so may the joy of her reunion be
full.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber's note:
○ Chapter IV, fourth paragraph, the hyphen in out-standing was
retained. In this context, the dress should have been standing
out from her body. It was not an outstanding dress.
○ Chapters I, VI, the variable spelling of Emmittsburg / Emmitsburg
is as in the original text