FINIS
“He's all right; you can look for him here right along now, any day; he
_was_ hurt a leetle, but he's as peart an' chipper now as a blue-jay on
a hick'ry limb; yes, he's a-comin' right smack home!”
This was the gist of the assurances which Ni vouchsafed to the first
rush of eager questions—to his sister, and M'rye, and Janey Wilcox.
Abner had held a little aloof, to give the weaker sex a chance. Now he
reasserted himself once more: “Stan' back, now, and give the young man
breathin' room. Janey, hand a chair for'ard—that's it. Now set ye down,
Ni, an' take your own time, an' tell us all about it. So you reely
found him, eh?”
“Pshaw! there ain't anything to that,” expostulated Ni, seating himself
with nonchalance, and tilting back his chair. “_That_ was easy as
rollin' off a log. But what's the matter _here_? That's what knocks
me. We—that is to say, I—come up on a freight train to a ways beyond
Juno Junction, an' got the conductor to slow up and let me drop off,
an' footed it over the hill. It was jest about broad daylight when I
turned the divide. Then I began lookin' for your house, an' I'm lookin'
for it still. There's a hole out there, full o' snow an' smoke, but
nary a house. How'd it happen?”
“'Lection bonfire—high wind—woodshed must 'a' caught,” replied Abner,
sententiously. “So you reely got down South, eh?”
“An' Siss here, too,” commented Ni, with provoking disregard for the
farmer's suggestions; “a reg'lar family party. An', hello!”
His roving eye had fallen upon the recumbent form on the made-up bed,
under the muffling blankets, and he lifted his sandy wisps of eyebrows
in inquiry.
“Sh! It's father,” explained Esther. “He isn't feeling very well. I
think he's asleep.”
The boy's freckled, whimsical face melted upon reflection into a
distinct grin. “Why,” he said, “you've been havin' a reg'lar old
love-feast up here. I guess it was _that_ that set the house on fire!
An' speakin' o' feasts, if you've got a mouthful o' somethin' to eat
handy—”
The women were off like a shot to the impromptu larder at the far end
of the barn.
“Well, thin,” put in Hurley, taking advantage of their absence, “an'
had ye the luck to see anny rale fightin'?”
“Never mind that,” said Abner; “when he gits around to it he'll tell us
everything. But, fust of all—why, he knows what I want to hear about.”
“Why, the last time I talked with you, Abner—” Ni began, squinting up
one of his eyes and giving a quaint drawl to his words.
“That's a good while ago,” said the farmer, quietly.
“Things have took a change, eh?” inquired Ni.
“That's neither here nor there,” replied Abner, somewhat testily. “You
oughtn't to need so dummed much explainin'. I've told you what I want
specially to hear. An' that's what we all want to hear.”
When the women had returned, and Ni, with much deliberation, had
filled both hands with selected eatables, the recital at last got
under way. Its progress was blocked from time to time by sheer force
of tantalizing perversity on the part of the narrator, and it suffered
steadily from the incidental hitches of mastication; but such as it was
we listened to it with all our ears, sitting or standing about, and
keeping our eyes intently upon the freckled young hero.
“It wasn't so much of a job to git down there as I'd figured on,” Ni
said, between mouthfuls. “I got along on freight trains—once worked
my way a while on a hand-car—as far as Albany, an' on down to New York
on a river-boat, cheap, an' then, after foolin' round a few days, I
hitched up with the Sanitary Commission folks, an' got them to let me
sail on one o' their boats round to 'Napolis. I thought I was goin'
to die most o' the voyage, but I didn't, you see, an' when I struck
'Napolis I hung around Camp Parole there quite a spell, talkin' with
fellers that'd bin pris'ners down in Richmond an' got exchanged an'
sent North. They said there was a whole slew of our fellers down there
still that'd been brought in after Antietam. They didn't know none
o' their names, but they said they'd all be sent North in time, in
exchange for Johnny Rebs that we'd captured. An' so I waited round—”
“You _might_ have written!” interrupted Esther, reproachfully.
“What'd bin the good o' writin'? I hadn't anything to tell. Besides
writin' letters is for girls. Well, one day a man come up from
Libby—that's the prison at Richmond—an' he said there _was_ a tall
feller there from York State, a farmer, an' he died. He thought the
name was Birch, but it might 'a' been Beech—or Body-Maple, for that
matter. I s'pose you'd like to had me write _that_ home!”
“No—oh, no!” murmured Esther, speaking the sense of all the company.
“Well, then I waited some more, an' kep' on waitin', an' then waited
ag'in, until bimeby, one fine day, along comes Mr. Blue-jay himself.
There he was, stan'in' up on the paddle-box with a face on him as long
as your arm, an' I sung out, ‘Way there, Agrippa Hill!’ an' he come
mighty nigh fallin' head over heels into the water. So then he come
off, an' we shook han's, an' went up to the commissioners to see about
his exchange, an'—an' as soon's that's fixed, an' the papers drawn up
all correct, why, he'll come home. An' that's all there is to it.”
“And even _then_ you never wrote!” said Esther, plaintively.
“Hold on a minute,” put in Abner. “You say he's comin' home. That
wouldn't be unless he was disabled. They'd keep him to fight ag'in,
till his time was up. Come, now, tell the truth—he's be'n hurt bad!”
Ni shook his unkempt red head. “No, no,” he said. “This is how it
was. Fust he was fightin' in a cornfield, an' him an' Bi Truax, they
got chased out, an' lost their regiment, an' got in with some other
fellers, and then they all waded a creek breast-high, an' had to run up
a long stretch o' slopin' ploughed ground to capture a battery they was
on top o' the knoll. But they didn't see a regiment of sharp-shooters
layin' hidden behind a rail fence, an' these fellers riz up all to
once an' give it to 'em straight, an' they wilted right there, an'
laid down, an' there they was after dusk when the rebs come out an'
started lookin' round for guns an' blankets an' prisoners. Most of 'em
was dead, or badly hurt, but they was a few who'd simply lain there in
the hollow because it'd have bin death to git up. An' Jeff was one o'
_them_.”
“You said yourself 't he had been hurt—some,” interposed M'rye, with
snapping eyes.
“Jest a scratch on his arm,” declared Ni. “Well, then they marched
the well ones back to the rear of the reb line, an' there they jest
skinned 'em of everything they had—watch an' jack-knife an' wallet
an' everything—an' put 'em to sleep on the bare ground. Next day they
started 'em out on the march toward Richmond, an' after four or five
days o' that, they got to a railroad, and there was cattle cars for 'em
to ride the rest o' the way in. An' that's how it was.”
“No,” said Abner, sternly; “you haven't told us. How badly is he hurt?”
“Well,” replied Ni, “it was only a scratch, as I said, but it got worse
on that march, an' I s'pose it wasn't tended to anyways decently, an'
so—an' so—”
M'rye had sprung to her feet and stood now drawn up to her full height,
with her sharp nose in air as if upon some strange scent, and her eyes
fairly glowing in eager excitement. All at once she made a bound past
us and ran to the doors, furiously digging her fingers in the crevice
between them, then, with a superb sweep of the shoulders, sending them
both rattling back on their wheels with a bang.
“I knew it!” she screamed in triumph.
We who looked out beheld M'rye's black hair and brown calico dress
suddenly suffer a partial eclipse of pale blue, which for the moment
seemed in some way a part of the bright winter sky beyond. Then we saw
that it was a soldier who had his arm about M'rye, and his cap bent
down tenderly over the head she had laid on his shoulder.
Our Jeff had come home.
A general instinct rooted us to our places and kept us silent, the
while mother and son stood there in the broad open doorway.
Then the two advanced toward us, M'rye breathing hard, and with tears
and smiles struggling together on her face under the shadow of a
wrathful frown. We noted nothing of Jeff's appearance save that he had
grown a big yellow beard, and seemed to be smiling. It was the mother's
distraught countenance at which we looked instead.
She halted in front of Abner, and lifted the blue cape from Jeff's left
shoulder, with an abrupt gesture.
“Look there!” she said, hoarsely. “See what they've done to my boy!”
We saw now that the left sleeve of Jeff's army-overcoat was empty and
hung pinned against his breast. On the instant we were all swarming
about him, shaking the hand that remained to him and striving against
one another in a babel of questions, comments, and expressions of
sympathy with his loss, satisfaction at his return. It seemed the
most natural thing in the world that he should kiss Esther Hagadorn,
and that Janey Wilcox should reach up on tiptoes and kiss him. When
the Underwood girl would have done the same, however, M'rye brusquely
shouldered her aside.
So beside ourselves with excitement were we all, each in turn seeking
to get in a word edgewise, that no one noticed the approach and
entrance of a stranger, who paused just over the threshold of the
barn and coughed in a loud perfunctory way to attract our attention.
I had to nudge Abner twice before he turned from where he stood at
Jeff's side, with his hand on the luckless shoulder, and surveyed the
new-comer.
The sun was shining so brightly on the snow outside, that it was not
for the moment easy to make out the identity of this shadowed figure.
Abner took a forward step or two before he recognized his visitor.
It was Squire Avery, the rich man of the Corners, and justice of the
peace, who had once even run for Congress.
“How d' do?” said Abner, shading his eyes with a massive hand. “Won't
you step in?”
The Squire moved forward a little and held forth his hand, which the
farmer took and shook doubtfully. We others were as silent now as the
grave, feeling this visit to be even stranger than all that had gone
before.
“I drove up right after breakfast, Mr. Beech,” said the Squire, making
his accustomed slow delivery a trifle more pompous and circumspect
than usual, “to express to you the feeling of such neighbors as I
have, in this limited space of time, being able to foregather with. I
believe, sir, that I may speak for them all when I say that we regret,
deplore, and contemplate with indignation the outrage and injury to
which certain thoughtless elements of the community last night, sir,
subjected you and your household.”
“It's right neighborly of you, Square, to come an' say so,” remarked
Abner. “Won't you set down? You see, my son Jeff's jest come home from
the war, an' the house bein' burnt, an' so on, we're rather upset for
the minute.”
The Squire put on his spectacles and smiled with surprise at seeing
Jeff. He shook hands with him warmly, and spoke with what we felt to be
the right feeling about that missing arm; but he could not sit down, he
said. The cutter was waiting for him, and he must hurry back.
“I am glad, however,” he added, “to have been the first, Mr. Beech, to
welcome your brave son back, and to express to you the hope, sir, that
with this additional link of sympathy between us, sir, bygones may be
allowed to become bygones.”
“I don't bear no ill will,” said Abner, guardedly. “I s'pose in the
long run folks act pooty close to about what they think is right. I'm
willin' to give 'em that credit—the same as I take to myself. They
ain't been much disposition to give _me_ that credit, but then, as
our school-ma'am here was a sayin' last night, people've been a good
deal worked up about the war—havin' them that's close to 'em right
down in the thick of it—an' I dessay it was natural enough they should
git hot in the collar about it. As I said afore, I don't bear no ill
will—though prob'ly I'm entitled to.”
The Squire shook hands with Abner again. “Your sentiments, Mr. Beech,”
he said, in his stateliest manner, “do credit alike to your heart and
your head. There is a feeling, sir, that this would be an auspicious
occasion for you to resume sending your milk to the cheese-factory.”
Abner pondered the suggestion for a moment. “It would be handier,” he
said, slowly; “but, you know, I ain't goin' to eat no humble pie. That
Rod Bidwell was downright insultin' to my man, an' me too—”
“It was all, I assure you, sir, an unfortunate misunderstanding,”
pursued the Squire, “and is now buried deep in oblivion. And it
is further suggested, that, when you have reached that stage of
preparation for your new house, if you will communicate with me, the
neighbors will be glad to come up and extend their assistance to you in
what is commonly known as a raising-bee. They will desire, I believe,
to bring with them their own provisions. And, moreover, Mr. Beech”—here
the Squire dropped his oratorical voice and stepped close to the
farmer—“if this thing has cramped you any, that is to say, if you find
yourself in need of—of—any accommodation—”
“No, nothin' o' that sort,” said Abner. He stopped at that, and kept
silence for a little, with his head down and his gaze meditatively
fixed on the barn floor. At last he raised his face and spoke again,
his deep voice shaking a little in spite of itself.
“What you've said, Square, an' your comin' here, has done me a lot o'
good. It's pooty nigh wuth bein' burnt out for—to have this sort o'
thing come on behind as an after-clap. Sometimes, I tell you, sir, I've
despaired o' the republic. I admit it, though it's to my shame. I've
said to myself that when American citizens, born an' raised right on
the same hill-side, got to behavin' to each other in such an all-fired
mean an' cantankerous way, why, the hull blamed thing wasn't worth
tryin' to save. But you see I was wrong—I admit I was wrong. It was
jest a passin' flurry—a kind o' snow-squall in hayin' time. All the
while, right down't the bottom, their hearts was sound an' sweet as a
butter-nut. It fetches me—that does—it makes me prouder than ever I was
before in all my born days to be an American—yes, sir—that's the way
I—I feel about it.”
There were actually tears in the big farmer's eyes, and he got out
those finishing words of his in fragmentary gulps. None of us had ever
seen him so affected before.
After the Squire had shaken hands again and started off, Abner stood
at the open door, looking after him, then gazing in a contemplative
general way upon all out-doors. The vivid sunlight reflected up from
the melting snow made his face to shine as if from an inner radiance.
He stood still and looked across the yards with their piles of wet
straw smoking in the forenoon heat, and the black puddles eating into
the snow as the thaw went on; over the further prospect, made weirdly
unfamiliar by the disappearance of the big old farm-house; down the
long broad sloping hill-side with its winding road, its checkered
irregular patches of yellow stubble and stacked fodder, of deep umber
ploughed land and warm gray woodland, all pushing aside their premature
mantle of sparkling white, and the scattered homesteads and red barns
beyond—and there was in his eyes the far-away look of one who saw still
other things.
He turned at last and came in, walking over to where Jeff and Esther
stood hand in hand beside the bed on the floor. Old Jee Hagadorn was
sitting up now, and had exchanged some words with the couple.
“Well, Brother Hagadorn,” said the farmer, “I hope you're feelin'
better.”
“Yes, a good deal—B—Brother Beech, thank'ee,” replied the cooper,
slowly and with hesitation.
Abner laid a fatherly hand on Esther's shoulder and another on Jeff's.
A smile began to steal over his big face, broadening the square which
his mouth cut down into his beard, and deepening the pleasant wrinkles
about his eyes. He called M'rye over to the group with beckoning nod
of the head.
“It's jest occurred to me, mother,” he said, with the mock gravity of
tone we once had known so well and of late had heard so little—“I jest
be'n thinkin' we might 'a' killed two birds with one stun while the
Square was up here. He's justice o' the peace, you know—an' they say
them kindo' marriages turn out better'n all the others.”
“Go 'long with yeh!” said M'rye, vivaciously. But she too put a hand on
Esther's other shoulder.
The school-teacher nestled against M'rye's side. “I tell you what,” she
said, softly, “if Jeff ever turns out to be half the man his father is,
I'll just be prouder than my skin can hold.”
THE END
Norwood Press:
J.S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith.
Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
What appeared to be clear typographical errors were corrected; any
other mistakes or inconsistencies were retained.
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.