SOME years later, as I looked out of my window one dull November day,
the only cheerful thing I saw was the red cap of a messenger who was
examining the slate that hung on a wall opposite my hotel. A tall man
with gray hair and beard, one arm, and a blue army-coat. I always
salute, figuratively at least, when I see that familiar blue, especially
if one sleeve of the coat is empty; so I watched the messenger with
interest as he trudged away on some new errand, wishing he had a better
day and a thicker pair of boots. He was an unusually large, well-made
man, and reminded me of a fine building going to ruin before its time;
for the broad shoulders were bent, there was a stiffness about the long
legs suggestive of wounds or rheumatism, and the curly hair looked as if
snow had fallen on it too soon. Sitting at work in my window, I fell
into the way of watching my Red Cap, as I called him, with more interest
than I did the fat doves on the roof opposite, or the pert sparrows
hopping in the mud below. I liked the steady way in which he plodded on
through fair weather or foul, as if intent on doing well the one small
service he had found to do. I liked his cheerful whistle as he stood
waiting for a job under the porch of the public building where his slate
hung, watching the luxurious carriages roll by, and the well-to-do
gentlemen who daily passed him to their comfortable homes, with a
steady, patient sort of face, as if wondering at the inequalities of
fortune, yet neither melancholy nor morose over the small share of
prosperity which had fallen to his lot.
I often planned to give him a job, that I might see him nearer; but I
had few errands, and little Bob, the hall-boy, depended on doing those:
so the winter was nearly over before I found out that my Red Cap was an
old friend.
A parcel came for me one day, and bidding the man wait for an answer, I
sat down to write it, while the messenger stood just inside the door
like a sentinel on duty. When I looked up to give my note and
directions, I found the man staring at me with a beaming yet bashful
face, as he nodded, saying heartily,—
“I mistrusted it was you, ma’am, soon’s I see the name on the bundle,
and I guess I ain’t wrong. It’s a number of years sence we met, and you
don’t remember Joe Collins as well as he does you, I reckon?”
“Why, how you have changed! I’ve been seeing you every day all winter,
and never knew you,” I said, shaking hands with my old patient, and very
glad to see him.
“Nigh on to twenty years makes consid’able of a change in folks,
’specially if they have a pretty hard row to hoe.”
“Sit down and warm yourself while you tell me all about it; there is no
hurry for this answer, and I’ll pay for your time.”
Joe laughed as if that was a good joke, and sat down as if the fire was
quite as welcome as the friend.
“How are they all at home?” I asked, as he sat turning his cap round,
not quite knowing where to begin.
“I haven’t got any home nor any folks neither;” and the melancholy words
banished the brightness from his rough face like a cloud. “Mother died
soon after I got back. Suddin’, but she was ready, and I was there, so
she was happy. Jim lived a number of years, and was a sight of care,
poor feller; but we managed to rub along, though we had to sell the
farm: for I couldn’t do much with one arm, and doctor’s bills right
along stiddy take a heap of money. He was as comfortable as he could be;
and, when he was gone, it wasn’t no great matter, for there was only me,
and I don’t mind roughin’ it.”
“But Lucindy, where was she?” I asked very naturally.
“Oh! she married another man long ago. Couldn’t expect her to take me
and my misfortins. She’s doin’ well, I hear, and that’s a comfort
anyway.”
There was a look on Joe’s face, a tone in Joe’s voice as he spoke, that
plainly showed how much he had needed comfort when left to bear his
misfortunes all alone. But he made no complaint, uttered no reproach,
and loyally excused Lucindy’s desertion with a simple sort of dignity
that made it impossible to express pity or condemnation.
“How came you here, Joe?” I asked, making a sudden leap from past to
present.
“I had to scratch for a livin’, and can’t do much; so, after tryin’ a
number of things, I found this. My old wounds pester me a good deal, and
rheumatism is bad winters; but, while my legs hold out, I can git on. A
man can’t set down and starve; so I keep waggin’ as long as I can. When
I can’t do no more, I s’pose there’s almshouse and hospital ready for
me.”
“That is a dismal prospect, Joe. There ought to be a comfortable place
for such as you to spend your last days in. I am sure you have earned
it.”
“Wal, it does seem ruther hard on us when we’ve give all we had, and
give it free and hearty, to be left to knock about in our old age. But
there’s so many poor folks to be took care of, we don’t get much of a
chance, for _we_ ain’t the beggin’ sort,” said Joe, with a wistful look
at the wintry world outside, as if it would be better to lie quiet under
the snow, than to drag out his last painful years, friendless and
forgotten, in some refuge of the poor.
“Some kind people have been talking of a home for soldiers, and I hope
the plan will be carried out. It will take time; but, if it comes to
pass, you shall be one of the first men to enter that home, Joe, if I
can get you there.”
“That sounds mighty cheerin’ and comfortable, thanky, ma’am. Idleness is
dreadful tryin’ to me, and I’d ruther wear out than rust out; so I guess
I can weather it a spell longer. But it will be pleasant to look forrard
to a snug harbor byme-by. I feel a sight better just hearin’ tell about
it.” He certainly looked so, faint as the hope was; for the melancholy
eyes brightened as if they already saw a happier refuge in the future
than almshouse, hospital, or grave, and, when he trudged away upon my
errand, he went as briskly as if every step took him nearer to the
promised home.
After that day it was all up with Bob, for I told my neighbors Joe’s
story, and we kept him trotting busily, adding little gifts, and taking
the sort of interest in him that comforted the lonely fellow, and made
him feel that he had not outlived his usefulness. I never looked out
when he was at his post that he did not smile back at me; I never passed
him in the street that the red cap was not touched with a military
flourish; and, when any of us beckoned to him, no twinge of rheumatism
was too sharp to keep him from hurrying to do our errands, as if he had
Mercury’s winged feet.
Now and then he came in for a chat, and always asked how the Soldiers’
Home was prospering; expressing his opinion that “Boston was the
charitablest city under the sun, and he was sure he and his mates would
be took care of somehow.”
When we parted in the spring, I told him things looked hopeful, bade him
be ready for a good long rest as soon as the hospitable doors were open,
and left him nodding cheerfully.
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