For the remainder of that week Jeb was an ill man. He could neither eat
nor sleep, but paced restlessly about the garden, sometimes going far
into the country and coming home exhausted. He did not realize that his
panic-stricken mind was showing signs of its agony, or that his aunts
were becoming greatly alarmed. But Sunday morning Miss Sallie and Miss
Veemie held a consultation and decided to call Doctor Purdy--a gruff,
good-natured friend of the family, who not infrequently dropped in for a
cup of tea. This time he found his patient in the garden and was soon
walking arm in arm with him. Later he rejoined the ladies on the front
porch.
"Is it serious?" they asked, in a breath.
"Um," he answered, pursing his lips and looking out across the lawn,
"no."
They did not suspect that Doctor Purdy was utterly in the dark about
Jeb's ailment; nor that in a general way he had diagnosed it to be love
or debt, judging solely from a very evident depression. Neither did the
man of medicine guess how dangerously ill in mind his patient had
become; for Jeb, in the darkest hours of these days, during which he was
imminently faced with conscription--meaning to him a hell of hells in a
foreign battlefield--had so worked himself into an hysteria that
personal injury seemed the easiest and only solution to his suffering.
Were he to shoot off his finger, for instance, he would not be drafted!
He had read of this being done in other countries! Or, he might point
the rifle at his foot--but that, perhaps, would be a needless sacrifice.
He had thought it carefully out, and had been actually on the point of
deciding when the old physician appeared. Then Doctor Purdy, reading in
his eyes the very image of despair, left good suggestions as the best
medicine he then knew to bolster him up. The consequence was that Jeb,
instead of resorting to wounds, settled on a better plan: he would
become more ill, grow worse and worse, so that by Tuesday the doctor
might carry a certificate to the registration place exempting him from
service. He brightened wonderfully after this; he really became a
hopeful looking invalid for one who intended to flirt shamelessly with
death. He almost laughed. His appetite returned, and it was a hard knock
for him to take to his bed instead of sitting down at the sumptuous
feast which he knew Miss Sallie and Miss Veemie had provided. But bed it
must be, and no dinner.
News of his illness had got abroad somewhat, and during the afternoon
the Colonel and Mr. Strong called. When Miss Veemie, out of breath, came
up to tell him this he expressed a feeble wish to see them, arranging
himself deeper in the pillows and trying to remain calm.
"Well, sir," said the Colonel jovially, "this is no place for a soldier!
The time will come, doubtless, when we'll be dropping by to see you
tucked in white sheets, but then you'll have a leg off, or half your
head! You'll be a battle-scarred veteran, then!"
The light was not strong enough for any of them to have seen the effect
of this encouraging speech, but Jeb acquiesced feebly, adding a weak
desire that the prophecy might come true. This sentiment, just at this
time, did not escape the Colonel, who looked for the merest instant
startled--then put an unworthy thought aside as the invalid concluded:
"I'm awfully sorry I won't be out Tuesday to register."
"Don't let that worry you, my boy," Mr. Strong leaned gently over and
spoke to him. "The War Department has provided for those who happen to
be ill, so you won't miss it; we promise to see to that, eh, Roger?"
"He's in my district," the generous Colonel answered, "so I'll come by
here first thing Tuesday morning and fill out his card. Why, it'll be a
pleasure, Jeb!"
Where was the good fairy, the kind Fate, now that had stood between him
and this war horror! He felt limp and willing to lie still awhile; but
as soon as the guests had left he sprang up and feverishly paced the
floor.
Had he possessed one chum, to whom he could pour out this agony and who
in turn could have jolted him back into a normal perspective, Jeb might
have faced the issue with coolness and even gladness, as millions of
other fellows were doing. But he had started wrong, and the farther he
stumbled down the wrong road the harder it was to struggle back. Each
hour he had let himself be confronted with agonizing thoughts of pain
and death--strangling in the cruel embrace of the one, or being drawn
whimpering into the mysterious uncertainty of the other; vivid
prospects, these, that drew him into a state of dumb hysteria. He
loathed himself, he loathed everything about him, until the untoward
tomorrows were nearly effaced by the self-torment of todays. To be
caught between the two was an endless terror--since tomorrows are always
tomorrows, and todays face us with every dawn. Trembling at the
uncertainties ahead, he longed for that peace which is only found in the
finalities of yesterdays. With anguished eyes he peered into the future,
and wrung his hands impotently.
When he heard Miss Sallie and Miss Veemie coming up to say goodnight, he
slipped between the sheets and remained impassive while they fussed
about, touching the pillow here or patting the coverlet there. At last,
alone for the night, he crossed silently to the door and locked it; then
drew a chair to the window and gazed moodily out into the trees, one of
whose branches brushed the sill on which he leaned.
There was an agitation in the leaves that seemed to whisper eerie things
to him; they were stirred by some invisible emotion--by fear, he
thought. To his mind all nature was trembling before the great human
sacrifice about to be demanded of this fair land; and he imagined other
trees, forests upon forests of them, vines, flowers, grasses--aye,
mountains and gorges, even--being obsessed by this same dumb shivering.
"The world is shivering," he whispered. He was shivering! How long, he
wondered, must it be before this quietly shivering world would burst
into a raging frenzy, as these trees within touch of him had been
whipped by storms of unbridled passion! He recalled a storm in the
previous summer, when green leaves torn from their stems were driven
before the hurricane and plastered on these very window panes above his
head. He likened it to a man-made fury, wherein pieces of human body
would be blown about with the same unrelenting indifference.
By eight o'clock next morning Jeb was on his way downtown. Although his
face was white and somewhat drawn, the illness had disappeared; he had
eaten a man's size breakfast and declared himself to be fit. The shivers
that earlier made a playground of his frame were quiet; their elements
were present, but scattered by a resolution that was now driving him
onward--and well nigh driving him mad!
Turning into the _Eagle_ building he walked stolidly to the editor's
room and entered. As he had hoped, Mr. Strong was not there, and only
the Colonel arose, crying with outstretched hands:
"A soldier's recovery, on my word, sir! Jeb, you rebound like a rubber
ball--I'm proud of you!"
"You mustn't be proud of me," he replied slowly, not looking into the
honest face that smiled at him. "I am not fit to be proud of."
The words might have been taken for extreme modesty, but the tone fell
unpleasantly on the Colonel's ears. He recognized, or thought he
recognized, something that had its root in this young man before him;
not merely an expression of the moment. For an instant his keen eyes
bored into the averted face, causing Jeb to look up rather defiantly.
"Colonel," he said jerkily, "tomorrow is draft day. I'm afraid of it;
I'm a--a----" then it burst in a tone of desperation, "--a coward, sir!"
The office was perfectly still for nearly a minute, during which the
Colonel's scrutinizing gaze never faltered. He would have been vacuous
indeed to ask if this thing were a joke, for Jeb's whole attitude
condemned him. But the old gentleman was not the type who easily
surrendered the honor of his friends, and when he spoke his words came
haltingly, as though he were weighing this damning statement against all
that had formerly been good; he was unwilling to pronounce a verdict on
the bare face value of such an accusation without throwing into the
balance, not only Jeb's character since boyhood, but the affectionate
memory of his father.
"It takes a brave man to say that, Jeb, and you've certainly shown no
cowardice thus far. I prefer to think that you are mistaking a new
situation, a strange sensation, for this more unworthy thing--I won't
name it, sir!"
Whatever the hope to which Colonel Hampton clung, he could no longer
doubt Jeb's earnestness nor his sanity. He saw that this son of his dead
friend was speaking a horrible truth which he, himself, could not
possibly understand. And then he seemed suddenly to have aged, to have
grown old in a moment.
Sometimes an autumn will progress far while still holding the bounteous
greens of summer; the skies will have tempered their chill to trees and
grass, and even scattered wild flowers will retain their bloom. But, one
night, something taps upon the window pane. Faster, faster, like
metallic clicks of a speeding-up machine, the sleet rattles for a little
while, and lo! where are the leaves, the flowers, of yesterday! Thus did
the Colonel age at this quick approach of blighting cold which the
optimism of his nature was impotent to withstand. Yet he was still
unwilling to give up the fight. Jeb was afraid, not a coward! There lay
a vast difference between these, and he said hopefully:
"Get this in your mind, Jeb: bravery is the absence of fear, but courage
is the ability to overcome fear! It's no disgrace to be afraid; it's
only a disgrace to be a slave to fear. The man who possesses one pound
of fear and two pounds of courage, is a lion; reverse this order and you
have--that other thing, which I won't believe you are! Why, boy, I
remember my first experience well! My regiment was behind a hill,
waiting the word that would send us charging into action--and a red-hot
fight they said it would be, too! I was leaning on my rifle in the most
nonchalant attitude of indifference, but the truth was that if it hadn't
been for that prop my knees would have crumpled up. You're the first man
I ever told this to, and I wouldn't now unless I thought it would help
you. That was the most unhappy moment in my life; but, like all
troubles, it appeared to be much greater at a distance. Once in action I
had a rattling good time and hated like the devil to quit; and you'll be
the same way--I know you will. I'll go a step further with your case--as
also mine--and assert that the man who doesn't know fear is an utter
stranger to the extreme delights of courage--for courage is a delight to
the very soul after it takes possession. The trouble is, you've been
thinking too much; you've been picturing foreign things in a foreign
land, and your vision is distorted. Go to it, lad, and you'll be the
same game rooster your daddy was before you!"
The Colonel finished with a burst of enthusiasm that was genuine until
he saw the face of his staring listener. Then his jaws set and the
appearance of age again crept slowly back. He turned away and began
drumming on the table with his pencil.
"I suppose it can't be helped," he said, tremulously, after a death-like
silence wherein the breathing of each was distinctly audible. "I suppose
it's in one's make-up," he continued, as though pleading with an
invisible accuser who was sitting there in judgment upon the son of his
old friend. "It's probably like an ear for music, an eye for color, an
aptitude for this or that pursuit in life--just stuck in, you know,
without apparent cause; and so with the stuff that makes soldiers."
Then, turning in a sudden fury, he thundered: "But the hell of it is,
that every born male baby should be then and there a born soldier, else
nature has blundered in making it a male!--for a boy-child that comes
into the world without that divine element which later would make it
joyfully die for its country, ought to be a girl-child! I'm not sure
that it ought to be anything at all, judging from the nobility our
girls, our women, have always shown when their country bleeds! There's
Marian Strong, possessed with the courage of a lion--yes, sir, a lion! I
don't understand you; I don't understand anything--I'm damned if I
do!--not anything at all!"
Again, except for the drumming pencil, the same sickening stillness
filled the room. When Mr. Strong was heard outside talking to a member
of his staff, the old soldier and the young slacker looked at each other
quickly, almost guiltily, as if they had nearly been surprised in a
crime. To their relief he turned and descended the stairs, but the
Colonel tilted his chair until he could see the courthouse clock, saying
drily:
"He'll be back in a few minutes. The draft registration is tomorrow.
What are we going to do?"
Jeb felt as though his body were a sponge that had absorbed all the
sickening heaviness extant throughout the world. There was a strong
tugging within that demanded of him to cry aloud his intention to
enlist, but another personality whimpered desperately, "I can't--I
can't!" His own face now was drawn as the Colonel's had been; his eyes
seemed filmy, and when he spoke his voice was lifeless.
"I know it is," he said.
It did not escape the Colonel that Jeb had replied directly to the thing
which most concerned him. The draft was his evil fetish; second in
importance came the question of what he should do, or whether Mr. Strong
might return and be a witness to his disgrace--yet the Colonel even now
was unwilling to call it this. Applied to any one else--yes! Treating
with any one else he would doubtless have ordered him from the office.
But this was the son of his old friend; the boy he had watched with
pride, lo! these twenty-six years. One cannot in the batting of an eye
shake off an affection so deeply grounded!
"Well, sir, I know it, too," he suddenly exclaimed. "I ask you what we
are going to do!"
"I--I wish I knew," Jeb answered desperately. "I--I want to do
something----"
"You've _got_ to do something," the interruption came with
uncompromising sternness.
The door opened and Mr. Strong entered.
"Hullo," he cried, with a brevity characteristic of him when hurried.
"Would have been here sooner, but that plagued unit had to be got
fixed."
"What unit are you talking about, Amos?" the Colonel asked, glad and
sorry for the interruption.
The editor seated himself and began to run a thin steel paper knife
through one after another of several unopened letters.
"Barrow's," he answered, without turning around. "Barrow's hospital
unit--leaves some time tonight; and Wade, the man listed to go from
here, dropped a packing box on his foot. Barrow 'phoned me last night,
and I've been looking for a suitable man all morning."
Nearly everyone in Hillsdale had heard that the great Barrow was heading
a hospital unit, and the editor's nearest friends knew that he had been
honored with permission to select one man from his own town. Now this
man had come to grief! The Colonel looked across at Jeb. He saw at once
a miraculous opportunity, and whispered:
"Helping about a hospital is a fine work, Jeb. Of course, it isn't like
being with the Colors, but it means service--a very noble service!"
Jeb's mind had sprung farther ahead than the nobility of service. It saw
a place of comparative safety, far from the range of shells; there would
be no charging over parapets, no bullets would come ploughing through
his stomach, no shrapnel would tear shreds from his face! He thought
much of that face. He could actually be in France and come home a hero!
Besides all these considerations, he would escape the draft!
The Colonel, watching closely, read each argument, each emotion. For a
moment his own fearless, honest eyes drew to shiny points and his lips,
had he not controlled them, would have curled in disgust. But he could
not quite forget that Jeb was the son of his old friend; aye, and his
own friend. As there had been two personalities in Jeb, tugging for and
against enlistment, so were there two beings in the Colonel's soul
condemning and pleading for this weakling Hercules. He now turned
anxiously to the editor, asking:
"You haven't found anyone, have you, Amos?"
"Eh? No, Roger, I haven't. Our boys, who are not already pledged to the
Colors, prefer taking their turn with the draft."
"Then wire Barrow quickly that Jeb takes Wade's place!"
Mr. Strong swung about in his chair.
"Jeb? Does Jeb want _that_ branch of service?"
"He's crazy for it, Amos! He wants anything that'll get him to France as
speedily as possible."
The Colonel tried manfully, for the love of old associations, to look
without flinching into the eyes of Amos Strong. He felt that Jeb should
have told this lie--not, perhaps, an out and out lie, for Jeb did truly
want any service wherein he would escape the draft and gun-fire; but it
was a lie, nevertheless, and the Colonel's cheeks burned hotly.
"Well, I'm----!" Mr. Strong did not say it--not that he wouldn't have!
He turned, wrote a hurried direction and rang for his stenographer;
then, as she retired, he wheeled back again with a cordial smile.
"You've greatly surprised me, Jeb--that is, I'm delighted with your
resolution. I've a blank somewhere," he now began fumbling over the
littered desk, "and we'll make it out at once; just a form, you
know--all units have 'em in one style or another! Now: Name? ----
Residence? ---- Age? ----"
It was soon done and passed over for Jeb's signature which was attached
with a firm, confident hand. Mr. Strong wrote awhile further, and looked
up, saying:
"It may be slightly irregular, but the time is so short we can't help
ourselves; so I've vouched for your physical condition. I've also waived
indemnity in case you're killed, since, of course, thus far in life
you've contributed nothing to the support of your aunts."
This mention of being killed, put down in regular form, drove the color
from Jeb's cheeks; but it seemed absurd to him and the next moment he
laughed, saying:
"I don't suppose there's one chance in a thousand of that, way back in a
hospital!"
The desk telephone rang and Mr. Strong took up the receiver, thus
checking his reply.
"Yes, Barrow, I called you. I've a man for Wade's place. Still room?
Good! Jeb Tumpson--known him all his life! J-E-B, yes, Jeb. Not time to
mail it?--wait!" He reached for the application and began to read it
slowly, sometimes repeating so the listener could take it correctly
down. "When shall he report, Barrow? Good! He'll be uniformed there?
Splendid! Don't forget, if you should see my daughter! Well, goodbye and
good luck, Barrow; yours is a noble work, and God husband you!"
"Amen," the Colonel whispered.
Mr. Strong, hanging up the receiver, swung about enthusiastically.
"Jeb," he cried, "hustle! Barrow says bring only a suitcase and toilet
articles; report to his hospital as soon as your train lands you, and be
fitted out. I'll mail this original application to the proper place with
a notation that you've left. You'll take the fast express this
afternoon, reach him about nine-thirty, and sail some time after
midnight. That's moving some!" he slapped his thigh. "Now hurry home and
tell the little aunts. Roger and I will have money at the train for you.
Oh, by the way," he arose and followed Jeb who was about to pass out, "I
wouldn't let on about dangers, understand? Just pretend there aren't
any; for if those dear ladies knew you were going into a branch of
service where the death toll is higher than any place else in the army,
they'd be ill with worrying."
Jeb leaned against the door-jamb and opened his lips wide for breath.
His throat felt parched, his heart was beating like the roll-call on a
drum. But Mr. Strong, moved greatly by the moment, laid a hand on his
shoulder, adding:
"I haven't said as much as I want; I'm not going to, either. You know I
want to be proud of you, and I'll be watching for news with an interest
akin to that which I feel for Marian. You're going away to play a mighty
big game, boy, wherein Humanity is trumps and Patriotism, Righteousness
and Service are the other three aces. Yet even if you hold all these,
you may still lose unless you possess one more magic card: Self-respect.
We all owe to our soul a certain measure of self-respect, Jeb. It is a
gentleman's personal debt of honor to himself, demanding payment before
every other obligation, and is satisfied only when we face each of
life's crises with steel-tipped, crystal courage. Think of this often;
carry it with you everywhere; it is the last and best thing I can give
you. Now hustle!" he gave him an affectionate push. "We'll be at the
depot waiting."
Job went down the stairs in a storm of mental hysteria. His physical
senses seemed to be numb, but the brain more than made up for this. It
was writhing in an agony of fear, a chaos of racing tortures; yet in
their midst one thing stood aloof with the firmness of rock. This was
the belief--unassailable, absolute--that he could not by any human means
turn from the direction his life was pointing. He felt this profoundly.
His mind kicked and held back against it, but a great something was
calmly impelling him on. He hated this inexorable force; he cursed it;
for he did not realize that it was his own soul!
The editor had followed him out, having duties elsewhere in the
building, so the Colonel sat alone listening to their retreating steps.
His fine head was erect, his hands were clasped and his arms thrust out
before him on the table. Jeb's confession was burning into his brain as
he reviewed every chapter of the boy's behavior since early April. Each
of Jeb's procrastinations and evasions now stood out clearly, connoting
but one thing, predicated on but one thing! Slowly the old gentleman's
mustache began to move in a curious way; by degrees his face became
convulsed; then, letting his head fall between the outstretched arms, he
yielded to a great sob:
"My God--a coward!"