By Homer Greene
A LINCOLN CONSCRIPT. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50.
COAL AND THE COAL MINES. In Riverside Library for Young People.
Illustrated. 16mo, 75 cents.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
Boston and New York
A LINCOLN CONSCRIPT
[Illustration: “MY BOY, OF SUCH STUFF ARE PATRIOTS AND HEROES MADE.”]
A LINCOLN
CONSCRIPT
BY HOMER GREENE
ILLUSTRATED BY T. DE THULSTRUP
[Illustration]
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK : THE
RIVERSIDE PRESS, CAMBRIDGE
1909
COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY HOMER GREENE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published April 1909_
CONTENTS
I. “THE SINS OF THE FATHERS” 1
II. NEWS FROM GETTYSBURG 27
III. A LOVER OF LINCOLN 52
IV. THE DRAFTED COPPERHEAD 77
V. AN UNEXPECTED BREAKFAST 100
VI. A DESPERATE DECISION 122
VII. OFF TO THE WAR 143
VIII. A LETTER FROM THE FRONT 166
IX. WITH ABRAHAM LINCOLN 191
X. FIGHTING FOR THE FLAG 215
XI. THE GREAT TRAGEDY 238
XII. THE WELCOME HOME 260
ILLUSTRATIONS
“_My boy, of such stuff are patriots and heroes made_”
(_page 244_) Frontispiece
“_I’m no traitor_” 12
“_This isn’t fair play_” 54
“_I’ve discovered a way to get rid of these men_” 108
“_Well, what’s your case?_” 154
_Lincoln laid his hand on Bannister’s knee_ 202
“_Father, what does it mean?_” 218
_He faced his fellow townsmen_ 274
A LINCOLN CONSCRIPT
CHAPTER I
“THE SINS OF THE FATHERS”
On the second day of July in the year 1863 the Civil War in America
was at its height. Late in the preceding month Lee had turned his
face northward, and, with an army of a hundred thousand Confederate
soldiers at his back, had marched up into Pennsylvania. There was
little to hinder his advance. Refraining, by reason of strict orders,
from wanton destruction of property, his soldiers nevertheless lived on
the rich country through which they passed. York and Carlisle were in
their grasp. Harrisburg was but a day’s march away, and now, on this
second day of July, flushed with fresh victories, they had turned and
were giving desperate battle, through the streets and on the hills of
Gettysburg, to the Union armies that had followed them.
The old commonwealth was stirred as she had not been stirred before
since the fall of Sumter. Every town and village in the state
responded quickly to the governor’s call for emergency troops to
defend the capital city. Mount Hermon, already depleted by generous
early enlistments, and by the draft of 1862, gathered together the
bulk of the able-bodied men left in the village and its surroundings,
and sent them forth in defense of the commonwealth. Not that Mount
Hermon was in especial danger from Lee’s invasion, far from it. Up
in the northeastern corner of the state, on a plateau of one of the
low foot-hills of the Moosic range, sheltered by the mountains at its
back, it was well protected, both by reason of distance and location,
from the advancing foe. But Mount Hermon was intensely patriotic. In
the days preceding the Revolution the sturdy pioneers from Connecticut
had met the equally sturdy settlers from the domain of Penn, and on
this plateau they had fought out their contentions and settled their
differences; the son of the Pennamite had married the daughter of the
Yankee; and the new race, with love of country tingeing every drop
of its blood a deeper red, had stayed on and possessed the land. So,
on this July day, when the armies of North and South were striving
and struggling with each other in bloody combat back and forth across
the plain and up the hills of Gettysburg, Mount Hermon’s heart beat
fast. But it was not for themselves that these people were anxious. It
was for the fathers, husbands, sons, lovers in that army with which
Meade, untried and unproven, was endeavoring to match the strategy and
strength of Lee. News of the first day’s skirmishing had reached the
village, and it was felt that a great battle was imminent. In the early
evening, while the women were still busy at their household tasks,
the men gathered at the post-office and the stores, eager for late
news, anxious to discuss the situation as they had learned it. In the
meantime the boys of the town had congregated on the village green to
resume the military drills which, with more or less frequency, they
had carried on during the summer. These drills were not wholly without
serious intent. It was play, indeed; but, out of the ranks of these
boys, three of the older ones had already gone to the front to fight
real battles; and it was felt, by the men of the town, that the boys
could not be too thoroughly imbued with the military spirit. So, on
this July evening, wakened into new ardor by the news from Gettysburg,
they had gathered to resume their nightly work--and play.
There were thirty-three of them, ranging in years all the way from
eight to eighteen. They were eager and enthusiastic. And the light
of the low sun, shining red on their faces, disclosed a spirit of
earnestness among them, as well as that appreciation of sport common
to all American boys. At the command to fall in there was much pushing
and jostling, much striving for desirable places, and even the young
captain, with great show of authority, could not quite adjust all
differences to the complete satisfaction of his men.
Before the confusion had wholly ceased, and while there were still
awkward gaps in the ranks, a tall, straight, shy-mannered boy of
seventeen, who had remained hitherto on the outskirts of the group,
quietly slipped into one of the vacant places.
The ranks being finally formed, the orderly sergeant stepped out in
front of the company to call the roll. By some inadvertence he had lost
or mislaid his list of names, and for the moment he was at a loss what
to do. But his quick wit came to his rescue, and, beginning at the
right of the line, he called the names of those who were under his eye.
“Albright!”
“Here.”
“Valentine!”
“Here.”
“Bannister!”
“Here.”
It was the tall straight boy who had slipped quietly into the ranks
who responded to this last name. Down the line there went a little
murmur of surprise, and before the sergeant could call the next name,
one of his soldiers stepped one pace to the front and struck his hand
violently against his breast.
The astonished sergeant ceased suddenly to call the roll.
“What’s the matter with you, Sam?” he inquired.
“I want to know,” said Sam, resentment ringing in his voice, “what
right Bob Bannister has to be in this company.”
“Why ain’t he got a right?” responded the sergeant.
“Because he’s a traitor,” replied the indignant Sam.
“And his father’s a copperhead,” added another fledgeling soldier,
stepping also one pace to the front. Then came from the ranks generally
a chorus of protest against the admission of the tall straight youth to
the privileges of the drill.
The sergeant, turning appealingly to the captain, who was standing with
folded arms at some little distance, said deprecatingly: “It’s none o’
my business. All I got to do is to call the roll. I don’t muster ’em
in.”
Whereupon the captain, fifteen years of age, took the matter up.
“Let private Bannister step to the front,” he commanded.
The accused boy fell out of the rear rank, passed to the left of the
line, and so on to the front.
“Speak for yourself, Bob,” he said. “You’re charged with being a
traitor.”
“It’s not true,” replied the boy quietly but firmly, his face flushing
and paling by turns.
“Well, what about your father?” cried Sam. “Ain’t he said ’t this
war’s a failure and ’t Abe Lincoln’s a fraud?”
“An’ ain’t he the biggest copperhead in Mount Hermon township?” piped
up a small boy on the extreme left.
Whereupon there was another chorus of denunciation, and a half-dozen
boys shouted at once: “We don’t want any son of a copperhead in this
company!”
“Shut up, you fellows!” exclaimed the captain, “or I’ll have every
mother’s son of you arrested for breach of discipline, an’ shut you up
in the guard-house on bread an’ water, every one of you. Now, let’s get
at this thing orderly. We’ll give Bob a fair hearing an’ then decide
whether we want him or not.”
“Yes,” added Sam, “le’s court-martial ’im. That’s the way to settle his
hash.”
The idea of court-martialing the objectionable applicant for military
privileges met with instant approval on the part of the company.
Whereupon the captain at once made his appointments for the purpose.
“You, Brilly--Lieutenant Brill, you be judge-advocate general; you,
Sergeant Davis and Corporal Guild, you be assistant judge-advocate
general; you, Sam Powers, you be prosecuting attorney, and you, Private
Grimstone, you defend the prisoner. All three of you sit down on the
bench under this tree an’ hear the witnesses.”
“Aw, shucks!” exclaimed a disgusted youth, leaving the ranks and
walking away. “You fellows are too smart. If you don’t want ’im, kick
’im out an’ done with it, an’ you’ll kick out the best soldier in the
company. Court-martial snakes! Aw, shucks!”
“You, Bill Hinkle,” retorted the captain, “you’re discharged in
disgrace for insubordination. Now, boys, come on. Oh, I forgot! Break
ranks, march!”
But the ranks were already broken beyond immediate repair, and the
crowd surged toward the bench on which the members of the military
trial court were already seated. Witnesses were at once called to
prove what every one knew, that Bob Bannister’s father was an open
sympathizer with the South, that he had declared the war to be a
mistake and a failure and Abraham Lincoln to be a fraud. Then Bob’s
lawyer called for witnesses to come to Bob’s defense; but no one came.
His cause was too unpopular. So the attorney called on Bob himself.
“Now you just stand up here,” he said, “before these judges, an’ make a
clean breast o’ the whole business, an’ throw yourself on the mercy of
this honorable court; an’ don’t you tell no lies because we won’t have
it; do you hear?”
Thus commanded by his own counsel, Bob stood up to face his accusers.
Although he was one of the oldest boys present, and capable, both by
reason of his bigness and his mental ability, of being their leader,
yet his natural diffidence and his unfortunate paternal connection
had kept him in the background during the entire course of the war.
In this mock trial he saw no humor. To him it was very real and of
much moment. He felt that the time was come when he should either be
vindicated as a loyal citizen, fit to associate with his fellows, or
else shut out permanently from their companionship. His face was very
pale as he began to speak, his dark eyes were suffused with emotion,
and a stray lock of his black hair hung damp across his forehead.
“I’m no traitor,” he began. “It’s not right to call me a traitor. And
I’m no copperhead either. I believe in the war. I believe in Abraham
Lincoln, and I--I love the flag.”
[Illustration: “I’M NO TRAITOR.”]
He turned his eyes up toward the stars and stripes drooping lazily from
the summit of the great pole planted on the village green.
“Well, ain’t your father a copperhead?” asked the prosecuting
lawyer savagely. “An’ ain’t he talked ag’inst Lincoln, an’ ag’inst
the soldiers, an’ ag’inst the war, an’ ag’inst the govament, an’
ag’inst--ag’inst the whole business? Ain’t he? An’ ain’t you his son,
an’ ain’t you got to mind him? An’ don’t you believe he tells the
truth? Do you s’pose your father’d lie? Answer me that now. Do you
think he’d lie?”
The prosecuting attorney turned toward his auditors with a smile and a
nod, as much as to say: “That’s a clincher, I’ve got him now.”
But by this time Bob’s diffidence had disappeared. The under part of
his nature was roused and ready to assert itself. He lifted his head,
and his eyes sparkled as he looked around him.
“My father is no liar,” he replied. “He says what he believes to be
true about the war. Maybe he’s mistaken. That’s not for me to say, nor
for you. But so far as I’m concerned, I tell you again that I’m loyal.
I stand by the President, and by the government, and by the flag; and
some day I’ll fight for it, and I’ll do things for it that you, Sam
Powers, and you, Jim Brill, and all the rest of you wouldn’t dare to
do.”
He stood erect, with flushed face and flashing eyes, and for a brief
moment his accusers were silent. Then, gently at first, but increasing
soon to a storm of protest, the voices of his companions were heard in
reply. In the midst of the confusion the judge-advocate general held up
his hand for silence.
“It appears to the court”--he began, but a voice interrupted him:--
“Question! Put the question!”
With little knowledge of parliamentary rules, and still less of
proceedings before a court-martial, the judge-advocate general and his
associates looked a trifle dazed.
“Question! I call for the question,” demanded the person with insistent
voice. “Shall Bob Bannister be allowed to be a member of this company?”
The judge-advocate general pulled himself together and slowly repeated
the question:--
“Shall Bob Bannister be allowed to be a member of this company? All you
that want him say Yes.”
Three feeble and uncertain voices responded in the affirmative.
“And all you that don’t want him say No.”
The chorus of noes was triumphantly loud.
“The noes win,” declared the judge-advocate general; and the captain
added, “The court’s adjourned sign dee.”
“Aw, shucks!” exclaimed Bill Hinkle, now in disgrace himself and
therefore more in sympathy with Bob. “You fellows know a lot, don’t
you! You’re smart, ain’t you! W’y, Bob Bannister’s the best man you
got. I’ll back him to lick any three of you, with one hand tied behind
’is back, by jimminy! You’ve made regular nincompoops o’ yourselves,
you have. Aw, shucks!”
And the deeply and doubly disgusted one walked away.
So did Bob Bannister walk away. He went with bent head and breaking
heart. To be denied the right to join with his companions in any
demonstration looking to his country’s glory or welfare was, to him,
a tragedy. His was one of those natures endowed at birth with a spirit
of patriotism. From the time when he could first read he had absorbed
the history of his country and her heroes. No colors had ever shone
before his eyes more brilliant and beautiful than the red, white, and
blue of his country’s flag. With an intuition far beyond his years, he
had grasped the meaning and foreseen the consequences of a dissolution
of the compact that bound the states together. And when, at last,
the storm broke, when Sumter fell, when Bull Run came, an awakening
calamity, he threw his whole heart and soul into the cause of the
North, and from that time on he lived in spirit, and would have died
in body, with the Union armies, fighting, that the old flag and all
that it symbolized might prevail. Yet, strange as it may seem, his
father, with whom he lived, of whom he was proud and fond, to whom he
was loyally obedient, was an outspoken sympathizer with the Southern
Confederacy. Perhaps it was the strain of Southern blood in his veins,
perhaps it was the underlying aristocracy of feeling of those whose
ancestors have owned slaves, perhaps it was the clear logic of his
mind running in the narrow grooves that genius so often hollows out,
that led Rhett Bannister into his passionate sympathy with the South.
Be that as it may, he was no coward. What he was, what he felt, what
he thought, was known of all men. Opposition could not conquer him,
opprobrious epithets could not cow him, nor could ostracism silence his
eloquent tongue.
Notwithstanding the general and fervent loyalty of the community in
which Bannister lived, there were, nevertheless, among the people,
those who felt that the war was a mistake and a failure, that the issue
had been tried out at an awful sacrifice with but indifferent success,
and that now peace should be had on any reasonable terms. These were
the conservatives, the locofocos. Then there were those who, deeply
sympathizing with the South from the beginning of the trouble, were
ready to make any legal opposition to a further prosecution of the war
by the Federal government, using politics and public speech as their
strongest weapons. These were classed in the North as copperheads. Then
there were still others who, saying little and clothing their conduct
with secrecy, gave what aid, comfort, and active coöperation they could
to the enemies of the Federal government. These were plainly spoken of
as traitors. Indeed, secret organizations sprang up in the North and
West, with their lodges, officers, grips, and passwords, having for
their object a concentrated effort to undermine the patriotic efforts
of the citizens of the North and the administration at Washington,
and to aid indirectly in the defeat of the Union armies in the field.
Perhaps the most deeply rooted organization of the kind in the loyal
states was known as the Knights of the Golden Circle. But Rhett
Bannister was not one of their members. He despised the stab in the
dark, and all secret and unfair methods of warfare. Frank, eloquent,
and outspoken, he never hesitated to say and to do freely and openly
that which he deemed to be right, regardless of the opinions, the
condemnation, or even the hate of his neighbors.
It was to this father and to his home that the boy, refused admission
into the patriotic ranks of his comrades, now started on his way. At
the edge of the village he met Sarah Jane Stark. There are some people
who are always known, not only to their friends but to the public also,
by their full names. Sarah Jane Stark was one of them. She had lived
in Mount Hermon all her life. How long that was it would be ungallant
to say, had not Miss Stark herself declared boastfully that she had
come within fifteen years of living in two centuries. With no children
of her own, she was a mother to all the children in the village.
Kind-hearted, sharp-tongued, a terror to evil-doers, “a very present
help in trouble” to all the worthy who needed her assistance, the
social arbiter of the town, she was the most loved as well as the most
feared woman in the community. When she met Bob in the footpath at the
roadside, she looked at him sharply.
“Look here, Bob Bannister,” she said, “you’ve been crying. Or if you
haven’t, you’ve been so close to it there wasn’t any fun in it. Now you
just go ahead and tell me what the matter is.”
Bob knew from previous experience, on many occasions, that it was
absolutely useless to attempt evasion with Sarah Jane Stark. Much as
his sensitive nature rebelled against complaining of any slight that
his fellows had put upon him, he felt that he must make a clean breast
of it to his questioner.
“Why, they put me out of the company, Miss Stark,” he said. “I wanted
to drill in the company with the other fellows and they wouldn’t let
me. That’s all. I s’pose they had a right to do it; of course they had
a right.”
“Put you out of the company, did they? And what did they put you out
for, I’d like to know? Aren’t you as good a soldier as any of them?”
“Well, that wasn’t exactly it, Miss Stark. They seemed to think that
because--well, they thought I wasn’t loyal.”
“Thought you weren’t loyal! Well, that is a note! Why, you--oh, I see!
On account of your father, eh? Yes, I see.”
Miss Stark tapped her foot impatiently on the hard soil of the
side-path, and looked off toward the blue sky-line of the Moosic range,
behind which the sun had already gone down.
“‘The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,’” she
said musingly. Then she turned again to Bob.
“You’re no copperhead yourself, are you?” she inquired. “You’re not
even a locofoco, are you?”
“No, indeed, Miss Stark! There isn’t one of those boys that believes
in putting down the rebellion more than I do, that loves the old flag
more than I do, or would fight for it, or for the government, or for
Abraham Lincoln, quicker than I would if I had the chance--Miss Stark,
I’m loyal, I’m loyal!”
He stood erect, eyes flashing, the color back in his cheeks, the soul
within him speaking. Sarah Jane Stark went up to him and put her arm
about his shoulders.
“Good!” she cried. “You’re the right sort. I wish Abe Lincoln had a
hundred thousand at the front just like you. Now you leave that matter
about the company to me. I’ll see those boys, the little brats, and if
they don’t take you in I’ll--”
“No, Miss Stark, please don’t! I couldn’t go back in now. I couldn’t
ever go in after this. But if the war lasts till I get old enough, I
shall be a real soldier in a real company some day.”
“Bully for you!”
It was not a very dignified nor refined expression; but Sarah Jane
Stark was noted for expressing herself forcibly when the occasion
demanded it, and she felt that this was one of the occasions that
demanded it.
“And,” she added, “you go tell Rhett Bannister for me, that if he had
one thousandth part of the natural patriotism and horse-sense of his
son-- No, you needn’t tell him; I’ll tell him myself. I can do it
better. You just trot along home and don’t let the conduct of those
fool boys trouble you. You’re right and they’re wrong, and that’s all
there is to it.”
So Bob went on his way. The Bannister home lay on the old North and
South turnpike road, a full mile from the centre of the village. A very
comfortable home it was, too, neat and prosperous in appearance, with
a small and fertile farm behind the commodious house, and a well-kept
lawn in front. For Rhett Bannister, theorist though he was, was no mere
dreamer of dreams, he was a worker as well; both the fruit of his brain
and the labor of his hands being evident in the comforts by which he
was surrounded.
When Bob went up the path to the porch he found his father and mother
and his six-year-old sister all there, enjoying the coolness of the
evening. It was already too dark for either of his parents to discover
in Bob’s face any sign of distress, and he did not mention to them his
experiences of the evening. But the quick ear of his mother caught the
troubled cadence in his voice, and she went over and sat by him and
began smoothing the hair back from his forehead.
“You’re tired, Robbie,” she said, “and it’s been such a warm day.”
“Did you hear anything new up town about the Pennsylvania raid?”
inquired his father.
“Nothing much,” replied the boy. “I believe there’s been some fighting
around Gettysburg, and they’re expecting a big battle there to-day.”
“Yes,” replied the man, “I suppose the two armies are facing each
other there, very likely the slaughter has already begun. Perhaps
there’ll be another holocaust like Fredericksburg. Doubtless thousands
of lives will be sacrificed and millions of money squandered at
Gettysburg, when ten words from the stiff-necked incompetents at
Washington would have stopped the horrible conflict and brought peace
to the country months ago.”
Bob said nothing, he knew it was useless. He had, on two or three
occasions, attempted in a feeble way to argue with his father questions
pertaining to the war, but he had been fairly swept off his feet by a
flood of logic and eloquence, and he had found silence on these matters
to be the better part for him to take in the presence of his father.
After a few minutes the man added: “If, even now, Lincoln would concede
one half of what the South demands as a plain right--”
Bannister paused. Somewhere in the darkness up the road there was a
confused sound of voices. Then, from a score of lusty young throats
there came in on the still air of the summer night the familiar words
of a patriotic song.
“My country, ’tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty--”
“It sounds good, Robert,” said Rhett Bannister. “But what’s it all
about? What does it mean?”
“I don’t know, father,” said Bob; “I--I guess it’s just the boys
a-marching.”
The voices and the words of the song grew clearer and more distinct.
Now the steady tramp of marching feet could be distinguished. Then
another song broke in upon the night.
“John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave;
John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave;
John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave;
But his soul goes marching on.”
Loud, clear, and musical came the “Glory, glory, hallelujah!” chorus;
and, indistinctly in the darkness, the figures of the marching company
could be discerned, coming down the road in front of the lawn.
The expression on Rhett Bannister’s face could not be seen, but his
voice was heavy with indignation as he muttered:--
“And that same John Brown was a fanatic, a fool, and a murderer, and
richly deserved his fate.”
“They don’t know, father,” said Bob apologetically. “They sing it
because it sounds good.”
Down by the gate there was, for a moment, an ominous silence, then,
full-volumed and vigorous, a new parody on “John Brown’s Body” was
hurled across the darkness toward the house of the copperhead.
“We’ll hang Rhett Ban’ster on a sour-apple tree;
We’ll hang Rhett Ban’ster on a sour-apple tree;
We’ll hang Rhett Ban’ster on a sour-apple tree;
As we go marching on.”