to the window, and he stood there gazing at the spectacle in a bewildered
way. It was more surprising to him than it was to the children. He could
make nothing of it. He could only rub his eyes and look. Here were his
horses, his mules, and his cattle coming back in a hurry, driven by the
soldiers in blue. He went to the rear porch to see what would be done
with the stock, and there, to his further surprise, he saw a soldier
on guard. The soldier saluted the white-haired old man with the utmost
deference, standing at “present arms” until the gentleman, somewhat rusty
in military etiquette, had returned the salute. Then the soldier resumed
his march back and forth.
Looking across to the lot, the old gentleman saw Aaron showing the
foragers where to put the horses, the mules, and the cows, and with Aaron
were two or three negroes who had refused to go off with the rest.
“What is the trouble here?” the old gentleman asked the soldier. “Are we
prisoners?”
“No, sir,” replied the soldier, laughing; “we are here to protect this
house from the foragers and stragglers. I was thinkin’ may be you’re some
close kin to Uncle Cump.”
“Uncle who?”
“Uncle Cump, Cump—Tecump. We march by that name.”
The white-haired gentleman, regarding this as a soldier’s joke, went
into the house. The children, still at the window, called attention to
a soldier marching back and forth. Going on the front piazza, he saw a
soldier marching on that side, and but for the garden fence doubtless
there would have been a fourth soldier marching behind the kitchen.
Later in the afternoon a squad of riders came galloping down the avenue.
They drew up their horses at the yard gate, and one of them alighted,
throwing his reins to one of the others. The children ran into the front
parlor and peeped through the curtains. The soldier who had come into
the yard had neither gun nor sword. He wore a heavy overcoat, and his
spurs rattled as he stamped the mud and water from his boots. He removed
his overcoat, lifted the knocker on the door and let it fall twice, and
then walked back and forth on the piazza, with a quick, nervous step. He
seemed to be restless and impatient.
The children’s grandfather went to the door and threw it open. The
soldier lifted his hat with a gesture that was more familiar than
deferential.
“Come in, sir,” said the grandfather. “We do not keep the door closed
even on our enemies.”
“I am here,” remarked the soldier, curtly, “because I have a message for
this house.”
He had a quick, nervous way of talking, and his eyes ran from the carpet
on the floor to the pictures on the wall. One of these pictures was the
portrait of a little boy, pale and wan, and the top of a crutch peeped
from behind his shoulder. On this portrait the eyes of the soldier
lingered, and he turned to it with a quick gesture. The children’s
grandfather stood watching him. The old gentleman’s attitude was stiff
and formal, and there was an expression of resentment on his face, for he
recognized that the commander, the General of the Army of invasion, stood
before him.
As for the soldier, his stiff red beard bristled, the lines in his
weather-beaten face deepened, and his eyes sparkled. If he had noticed
the attitude or expression of the other he ignored it.
“That is Little Crotchet,” he said, brusquely. “Where is he?”
The face of the children’s grandfather softened and his whole attitude
changed.
“Little Crotchet is not here now,” he replied. He turned and walked to
the window, which seemed to be blurred by the mist and the rain blown
against it by the east wind.
The commander took a quick step forward and placed his hand gently on the
grandfather’s shoulder.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I have a message for Little Crotchet.”
[Illustration: HIS EYES LINGERED ON THE PORTRAIT]
“If my son had lived,” remarked the children’s grandfather, by way of
explanation, “he would be a grown man. As it is, he is still a little
boy.”
“That is curious, too,” said the commander. “Since I heard of him, I have
always thought of him as a little bit of a chap. Something like that.” He
turned to the portrait on the wall almost impatiently.
“I am forgetting myself,” said the children’s grandfather, holding out
his hand, which the soldier seized and pressed in his quick, nervous way.
“Sit in this rocking-chair near the hearth and dry yourself. You and I
are old acquaintances. Years ago you passed through this part of the
country on horseback, and stopped here over night.”
“That is so,” replied the commander. “I was just beginning the business
of life. You had already begun it.”
“To some extent. I was ahead of you, then, just as you have now
outstripped me in the business of dealing out death and destruction.”
The commander rose from his chair quick as a flash, and again placed his
hand on the old gentleman’s shoulder.
“My dear sir,” he said, “this is war, and war is the most serious
business that men can engage in.”
He resumed his seat as suddenly as he had left it, throwing one leg
across the other with an easy familiarity that was not at all displeasing
to the elder man.
“You would think war was my business,” remarked the commander, after a
pause, during which his keen, restless eyes tried to solve the mysteries
of the glowing coals; “but it is not. I am a school teacher. I had rather
be yonder in Mississippi, training my college boys, than to be leading
this army. But war is the price of union and peace, and here I am. Where
is Aaron?”
“Aaron?” The question was so sudden and unexpected that the children’s
grandfather was taken by surprise.
“Wasn’t that the name of some queer negro you owned?”
“Certainly. I will call him,” replied the grandfather.
At that moment there was a rap at the door, and Aaron opened it. He bowed
as he saw the uniformed and booted stranger, and then proceeded to make
his report. He told his master that all the horses, mules, and cattle had
been brought back, and some more besides. He stood, half smiling, in an
easy and yet an expectant attitude.
“This is Aaron,” said the commander. “I must take him by the hand.” He
stepped across the floor with arm extended and clasped Aaron’s hand in
his. “You are a good man, Aaron,” he remarked, “a good man. I want to
read you something.”
The commander fumbled in the breast pocket of his coat and drew forth a
huge morocco memorandum book. From this he took a letter.
“This,” he said, “was sent to me in cipher from the War Department at
Washington. I have had it translated and written out. Do you remember a
man named Hudspeth?”
“Perfectly,” said the old gentleman.
“Mighty well,” said Aaron.
“Well, this man, Richard Hudspeth, is one of the most influential members
of Congress. He is on the Military Committee of the House. Here is what
he says:
“DEAR GENERAL,—As a member of the Committee on Military
Affairs, it has come to my ears that you will before long swing
loose from Atlanta and march across Georgia, either to Savannah
or Augusta. Should my information be correct, I have a favor to
ask of you. It is this: that, so far as is consistent with your
duties as a soldier, you will protect the lives and property of
the people whom you may find on the Abercrombie place in Middle
Georgia. You cannot miss the place. Whether you go to Savannah
or Augusta, it will be in your line of march. It is in the very
heart of Georgia, and is known far and wide.
“I am not sure that the people I knew are living there now;
but I am very sure that I spent some very happy and some very
miserable days there. It was in the days of the years of my
youth, and I should have been more miserable still but for the
kindness of the people on that place.
“More than that, I owe them my life, which at one time I was on
the point of losing at the hands of some of the neighborhood
ruffians. Some day when we meet in Washington you shall have
the particulars.
“You will find on that place, I trust—though he seemed too
frail to live long—a youngster known as Little Crotchet. Say
to him that I shall love him tenderly while life lasts. I hope
you will also find there the kindly gentleman to whose patience
and courtesy I owe many a pleasant hour. I hope, too, you will
find Aaron there—Aaron the fugitive, who was and who remains a
mystery.
“For the sake of these people and for the sake of old times, I
venture to ask you to surround the place with such protection
as may be consistent with duties which at this distance I can
only have a vague conception of.
“Meanwhile, the few of us who have had hints of the adventure
you are about to undertake are trembling with fear and hope.
We confide in your genius, but we should be happier if we had
already heard from you at the end of your journey.
“Faithfully yours,
“RICHARD HUDSPETH.”
The children’s grandfather gazed steadily in the fire without moving.
The commander placed the letter in his pocket, and rose from his chair,
pushing it away from him impatiently.
“And this is Aaron?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” replied Aaron.
“Well, Aaron, I want to shake your hand again.”
Aaron took the proffered hand and bowed his head over it, as if giving
silent utterance to a prayer. The commander gave his hand to the
White-haired Master, passed out upon the veranda, and so to where he had
left his orderlies. He leaped into the saddle, turned and waved an adieu,
and then the small cavalcade went clattering up the avenue.
Somewhere in the distance Buster John and Sweetest Susan heard a band
playing a sweet tune, and so War passed out of their sight—passed
out of their sight, let us hope, forever. But it should be recorded
here that the spectacle of these slow-moving files of armed men, this
vast procession of cavalry and artillery, with all their lumbering
accompaniments, was far more amazing to these children than anything they
had seen and heard in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country, or than any of
their experience with the Son of Ben Ali.