D'ri and I left the chateau that afternoon, putting up in the red
tavern at Morristown about dusk.
My companion rode away proudly, the medal dangling at his waistcoat
lapel.
"Jerushy Jane!" said he, presently, as he pulled rein. "Ain't
a-goin' t' hev thet floppin' there so--meks me feel luk a bird.
Don't seem nohow nat'ral. Wha' d' ye s'pose he gin me thet air
thing fer?"
He was putting it away carefully in his wallet.
"As a token of respect for your bravery," said I.
His laughter roared in the still woods, making my horse lift and
snort a little. It was never an easy job to break any horse to
D'ri's laughter.
"It's _reedic'lous_," said he, thoughtfully, in a moment.
"Why?"
"'Cause fer the reason why they don't no man deserve nuthin' fer
doin' what he 'd orter," he answered, with a serious and determined
look.
"You did well," said I, "and deserve anything you can get."
"Done my damdest!" said he. "But I did n't do nuthin' but git
licked. Got shot an' tore an' slammed all over thet air deck, an'
could n't do no harm t' nobody. Jes luk a boss tied 'n the stall,
an' a lot o' men whalin' 'im, an' a lot more tryin' t' scare 'im t'
death."
"Wha' d' ye s'pose thet air thing's made uv?" he inquired after a
little silence.
"Silver," said I.
"Pure silver?"
"Undoubtedly," was my answer.
"Judas Priest!" said he, taking out his wallet again, to look at
the trophy. "Thet air mus' be wuth suthin'."
"More than a year's salary," said I.
He looked up at me with a sharp whistle of surprise.
"Ain' no great hand fer sech flummydiddles," said he, as he put the
medal away.
"It's a badge of honor," said I. "It shows you 're a brave man."
"Got 'nough on 'em," said D'ri. "This 'ere rip 'n the forehead's
'bout all the badge I need."
"It's from the emperor--the great Napoleon," I said. "It's a mark
of his pleasure."
"Wall, by Judas Priest!" said D'ri, "I would n't jump over a stump
over a stun wall t' please no emp'ror, an' I would n't cut off my
leetle finger fer a hull bushel basket o' them air. I hain't
a-fightin' fer no honor."
"What then?" said I.
His face turned very sober. He pursed his lips, and spat across
the ditch; then he gave his mouth a wipe, and glanced thoughtfully
at the sky.
"Fer liberty," said he, with decision. "Same thing my father died
fer."
Not to this day have I forgotten it, the answer of old D'ri, or the
look of him as he spoke. I was only a reckless youth fighting for
the love of peril and adventure, and with too little thought of the
high purposes of my country. The causes of the war were familiar
to me; that proclamation of Mr. Madison had been discussed freely
in our home, and I had felt some share in the indignation of D'ri
and my father. This feeling had not been allayed by the bloody
scenes in which I had had a part. Now I began to feel the great
passion of the people, and was put to shame for a moment.
"Liberty--that is a grand thing to fight for," said I, after a
brief pause.
"Swap my blood any time fer thet air," said D'ri. "I can fight
sassy, but not fer no king but God A'mighty. Don't pay t' git all
tore up less it's fer suthin' purty middlin' vallyble. My life
ain't wuth much, but, ye see, I hain't nuthin' else."
We rode awhile in sober thought, hearing only a sough of the wind
above and the rustling hoof-beat of our horses in the rich harvest
of the autumn woods. We were walking slowly over a stretch of bare
moss when, at a sharp turn, we came suddenly in sight of a huge
bear that sat facing us. I drew my pistol as we pulled rein,
firing quickly. The bear ran away into the brush as I fired
another shot.
"He 's hit," said D'ri, leaping off and bidding me hold the bit.
Then, with a long stride, he ran after the fleeing bear. I had
been waiting near half an hour when D'ri came back slowly, with a
downhearted look.
"'Tain' no use," said he. "Can't never git thet bear. He's got a
flesh-wound high up in his hin' quarters, an' he's travellin' fast."
He took a fresh chew of tobacco and mounted his horse.
"Terrible pity!" he exclaimed, shaking his head with some trace of
lingering sorrow. "Ray," said he, soberly, after a little silence,
"when ye see a bear lookin' your way, ef ye want 'im, alwus shute
at the end thet's _toward_ ye."
There was no better bear-hunter in the north woods than D'ri, and
to lose a bear was, for him, no light affliction.
"Can't never break a bear's neck by shutin' 'im in the hin'
quarters," he remarked.