REQUIESCAT IN PACE.
It happened that the ship, gaining her port, was moored to the dock on
a Fourth of July; and half an hour after landing, hustled by the
riotous crowd near Faneuil Hall, the old man narrowly escaped being run
over by a patriotic triumphal car in the procession, flying a broidered
banner, inscribed with gilt letters:
“BUNKER-HILL
1775.
GLORY TO THE HEROES THAT FOUGHT!”
It was on Copps’ Hill, within the city bounds, one of the enemy’s
positions during the fight, that our wanderer found his best repose
that day. Sitting down here on a mound in the graveyard, he looked off
across Charles River towards the battle-ground, whose incipient
monument, at that period, was hard to see, as a struggling sprig of
corn in a chilly spring. Upon those heights, fifty years before, his
now feeble hands had wielded both ends of the musket. There too he had
received that slit upon the chest, which afterwards, in the affair with
the Serapis, being traversed by a cutlass wound, made him now the
bescarred bearer of a cross.
For a long time he sat mute, gazing blankly about him. The sultry July
day was waning. His son sought to cheer him a little ere rising to
return to the lodging for the present assigned them by the
ship-captain. “Nay,” replied the old man, “I shall get no fitter rest
than here by the mounds.”
But from this true “Potter’s Field,” the boy at length drew him away;
and encouraged next morning by a voluntary purse made up among the
reassembled passengers, father and son started by stage for the country
of the Housatonie. But the exile’s presence in these old mountain
townships proved less a return than a resurrection. At first, none knew
him, nor could recall having heard of him. Ere long it was found, that
more than thirty years previous, the last known survivor of his family
in that region, a bachelor, following the example of three-fourths of
his neighbors, had sold out and removed to a distant country in the
west; where exactly, none could say.
He sought to get a glimpse of his father’s homestead. But it had been
burnt down long ago. Accompanied by his son, dim-eyed and dim-hearted,
he next went to find the site. But the roads had years before been
changed. The old road was now browsed over by sheep; the new one ran
straight through what had formerly been orchards. But new orchards,
planted from other suckers, and in time grafted, throve on sunny slopes
near by, where blackberries had once been picked by the bushel. At
length he came to a field waving with buckwheat. It seemed one of those
fields which himself had often reaped. But it turned out, upon inquiry,
that but three summers since a walnut grove had stood there. Then he
vaguely remembered that his father had sometimes talked of planting
such a grove, to defend the neighboring fields against the cold north
wind; yet where precisely that grove was to have been, his shattered
mind could not recall. But it seemed not unlikely that during his long
exile, the walnut grove had been planted and harvested, as well as the
annual crops preceding and succeeding it, on the very same soil.
Ere long, on the mountain side, he passed into an ancient natural wood,
which seemed some way familiar, and midway in it, paused to contemplate
a strange, mouldy pile, resting at one end against a sturdy beech.
Though wherever touched by his staff, however lightly, this pile would
crumble, yet here and there, even in powder, it preserved the exact
look, each irregularly defined line, of what it had originally
been—namely, a half-cord of stout hemlock (one of the woods least
affected by exposure to the air), in a foregoing generation chopped and
stacked up on the spot, against sledging-time, but, as sometimes
happens in such cases, by subsequent oversight, abandoned to oblivious
decay—type now, as it stood there, of forever arrested intentions, and
a long life still rotting in early mishap.
“Do I dream?” mused the bewildered old man, “or what is this vision
that comes to me of a cold, cloudy morning, long, long ago, and I
heaving yon elbowed log against the beech, then a sapling? Nay, nay, I
cannot be so old.”
“Come away, father, from this dismal, damp wood,” said his son, and led
him forth.
Blindly ranging to and fro, they next saw a man ploughing. Advancing
slowly, the wanderer met him by a little heap of ruinous burnt masonry,
like a tumbled chimney, what seemed the jams of the fire- place, now
aridly stuck over here and there, with thin, clinging, round,
prohibitory mosses, like executors’ wafers. Just as the oxen were bid
stand, the stranger’s plough was hitched over sideways, by sudden
contact with some sunken stone at the ruin’s base.
“There, this is the twentieth year my plough has struck this old
hearthstone. Ah, old man,—sultry day, this.”
“Whose house stood here, friend?” said the wanderer, touching the
half-buried hearth with his staff, where a fresh furrow overlapped it.
“Don’t know; forget the name; gone West, though, I believe. You know
’em?”
But the wanderer made no response; his eye was now fixed on a curious
natural bend or wave in one of the bemossed stone jambs.
“What are you looking at so, father?”
“‘_Father_!’ Here,” raking with his staff, “_my_ father would sit, and
here, my mother, and here I, little infant, would totter between, even
as now, once again, on the very same spot, but in the unroofed air, I
do. The ends meet. Plough away, friend.”
Best followed now is this life, by hurrying, like itself, to a close.
Few things remain.
He was repulsed in efforts after a pension by certain caprices of law.
His scars proved his only medals. He dictated a little book, the record
of his fortunes. But long ago it faded out of print—himself out of
being—his name out of memory. He died the same day that the oldest oak
on his native hills was blown down.
THE END.