IT was under a blue cap that I first saw the honest face of Joe Collins.
In the third year of the late war a Maine regiment was passing through
Boston, on its way to Washington. The Common was all alive with troops
and the spectators who clustered round them to say God-speed, as the
brave fellows marched away to meet danger and death for our sakes.
Every one was eager to do something; and, as the men stood at ease, the
people mingled freely with them, offering gifts, hearty grips of the
hand, and hopeful prophecies of victory in the end. Irresistibly
attracted, my boy Tom and I drew near, and soon, becoming excited by the
scene, ravaged the fruit-stands in our neighborhood for tokens of our
regard, mingling candy and congratulations, peanuts and prayers, apples
and applause, in one enthusiastic jumble.
While Tom was off on his third raid, my attention was attracted by a man
who stood a little apart, looking as if his thoughts were far away. All
the men were fine, stalwart fellows, as Maine men usually are; but this
one over-topped his comrades, standing straight and tall as a Norway
pine, with a face full of the mingled shrewdness, sobriety, and
self-possession of the typical New Englander. I liked the look of him;
and, seeing that he seemed solitary, even in a crowd, I offered him my
last apple with a word of interest. The keen blue eyes met mine
gratefully, and the apple began to vanish in vigorous bites as we
talked; for no one thought of ceremony at such a time.
“Where are you from?”
“Woolidge, ma’am.”
“Are you glad to go?”
“Wal, there’s two sides to that question. I calk’late to do my duty, and
do it hearty; but it _is_ rough on a feller leavin’ his folks, for good,
maybe.”
There was a sudden huskiness in the man’s voice that was not
apple-skins, though he tried to make believe that it was. I knew a word
about home would comfort him, so I went on with my questions.
“It is very hard. Do you leave a family?”
“My old mother, a sick brother,—and Lucindy.”
The last word was uttered in a tone of intense regret, and his brown
cheek reddened as he added hastily, to hide some embarrassment,—
“You see, Jim went last year, and got pretty well used up; so I felt as
if I’d ought to take my turn now. Mother was a regular old hero about it
and I dropped everything, and come off. Lucindy didn’t think it was my
duty; and that made it awful hard, I tell you.”
“Wives are less patriotic than mothers,” I began; but he would not hear
Lucindy blamed, and said quickly,—
“She ain’t my wife yet, but we calk’lated to be married in a month or
so; and it was wus for her than for me, women lot so on not being
disappointed. I _couldn’t_ shirk, and here I be. When I git to work, I
shall be all right: the first wrench is the tryin’ part.”
Here he straightened his broad shoulders, and turned his face toward the
flags fluttering far in front, as if no backward look should betray the
longing of his heart for mother, home, and wife. I liked that little
glimpse of character; and when Tom returned with empty hands, reporting
that every stall was exhausted, I told him to find out what the man
would like best, then run across the street and get it.
“I know without asking. Give us your purse, and I’ll make him as happy
as a king,” said the boy, laughing, as he looked up admiringly at our
tall friend, who looked down on him with an elder-brotherly air pleasant
to see. While Tom was gone, I found out Joe’s name and business,
promised to write and tell his mother how finely the regiment went off,
and was just expressing a hope that we might meet again, for I too was
going to the war as nurse, when the order to “Fall in!” came rolling
down the ranks, and the talk was over. Fearing Tom would miss our man in
the confusion, I kept my eye on him till the boy came rushing up with a
packet of tobacco in one hand and a good supply of cigars in the other.
Not a romantic offering, certainly, but a very acceptable one, as Joe’s
face proved, as we scrambled these treasures into his pockets, all
laughing at the flurry, while less fortunate comrades helped us, with an
eye to a share of these fragrant luxuries by and by. There was just time
for this, a hearty shake of the big hand, and a grateful “Good-by,
ma’am;” then the word was given, and they were off. Bent on seeing the
last of them, Tom and I took a short cut, and came out on the wide
street down which so many troops marched that year; and, mounting some
high steps, we watched for our man, as we already called him.
As the inspiring music, the grand tramp, drew near, the old thrill went
through the crowd, the old cheer broke out. But it was a different scene
now than in the first enthusiastic, hopeful days. Young men and ardent
boys filled the ranks then, brave by instinct, burning with loyal zeal,
and blissfully unconscious of all that lay before them. Now the blue
coats were worn by mature men, some gray, all grave and resolute:
husbands and fathers, with the memory of wives and children tugging at
their heart-strings; homes left desolate behind them, and before them
the grim certainty of danger, hardship, and perhaps the life-long
helplessness worse than death. Little of the glamour of romance about
the war now: they saw it as it was, a long, hard task; and here were the
men to do it well. Even the lookers-on were different now. Once all was
wild enthusiasm and glad uproar; now men’s lips were set, and women’s
smileless as they cheered; fewer handkerchiefs whitened the air, for wet
eyes needed them; and sudden lulls, almost solemn in their stillness,
followed the acclamations of the crowd. All watched with quickened
breath and brave souls that living wave, blue below, and bright with a
steely glitter above, as it flowed down the street and away to distant
battle-fields already stained with precious blood.
“There he is! The outside man, and tallest of the lot. Give him a cheer,
auntie: he sees us, and remembers!” cried Tom, nearly tumbling off his
perch, as he waved his hat, and pointed out Joe Collins.
Yes, there he was, looking up, with a smile on his brave brown face, my
little nosegay in his button-hole, a suspicious bulge in the pocket
close by, and doubtless a comfortable quid in his mouth, to cheer the
weary march. How like an old friend he looked, though we had only met
fifteen minutes ago; how glad we were to be there to smile back at him,
and send him on his way feeling that, even in a strange city, there was
some one to say, “God bless you, Joe!” We watched the tallest blue cap
till it vanished, and then went home in a glow of patriotism,—Tom to
long for his turn to come, I to sew vigorously on the gray gown the new
nurse burned to wear as soon as possible, and both of us to think and
speak often of poor Joe Collins and his Lucindy. All this happened long
ago; but it is well to recall those stirring times,—to keep fresh the
memory of sacrifices made for us by men like these; to see to it that
the debt we owe them is honestly, gladly paid; and, while we decorate
the graves of those who died, to remember also those who still live to
deserve our grateful care.
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