Sooner or later all things come to an end, including wars and
histories,--a God's mercy!--and even the lives of such lucky men as
I. All things, did I say? Well, what wonder, for am I not writing
of youth and far delights with a hand trembling of infirmity? All
things save one, I meant to say, and that is love, the immortal
vine, with its root in the green earth, that weathers every storm,
and "groweth not old," and climbs to paradise; and who eats of its
fruit has in him ever a thought of heaven--a hope immortal as
itself.
This book of my life ends on a bright morning in the summer of '17,
at the new home of James Donatianus Le Ray, Comte de Chaumont, the
chateau having burned the year before.
President Monroe is coming on the woods-pike, and veterans are
drawn up in line to meet him. Here are men who fought at Chippewa
and Lundy's Lane and Lake Erie and Chrysler's Farm, and here are
some old chaps who fought long before at Plattsburg and
Ticonderoga. Joseph Bonaparte, the ex-king of Spain, so like his
mighty brother at St. Helena, is passing the line. He steps
proudly, in ruffles and green velvet. Gondolas with liveried
gondoliers, and filled with fair women, are floating on the still
lake, now rich with shadow-pictures of wood and sky and rocky shore.
A burst of melody rings in the great harp of the woodland. In that
trumpet peal, it seems, a million voices sing:--
Hail, Columbia, happy land!
Slowly the line begins to limp along. There are wooden legs and
crutches and empty sleeves in that column. D'ri goes limping in
front, his right leg gone at the knee since our last charge.
Draped around him is that old battle-flag of the _Lawrence_. I
march beside him, with only this long seam across my check to show
that I had been with him that bloody day at Chrysler's. We move
slowly over a green field to the edge of the forest. There, in the
cool shadow, are ladies in white, and long tables set for a feast.
My dear wife, loved of all and more beautiful than ever, comes to
meet us.
"Sweetheart," she whispers, "I was never so proud to be your wife."
"And an American," I suggest, kissing her.
"And an American," she answers.
A bugle sounds; the cavalcade is coming.
"The President!" they cry, and we all begin cheering.
He leads the escort on a black horse, a fine figure in military
coat and white trousers, his cocked hat in hand, a smile lighting
his face. The count receives him and speaks our welcome.
President Monroe looks down the war-scarred line a moment. His
eyes fill with tears, and then he speaks to us.
"Sons of the woodsmen," says he, concluding his remarks, "you shall
live in the history of a greater land than that we now behold or
dream of, and in the gratitude of generations yet unborn, long,
long after we are turned to dust."
And then we all sing loudly with full hearts:
O land I love!--thy acres sown
With sweat and blood and shattered bone--
God's grain, that ever doth increase
The goodly harvest of his peace.