A DESPERATE DECISION
Through all of the day following the breakfast at Sarah Jane Stark’s
house, indeed through most of the succeeding night, the thought and
ambition loomed large in Bob Bannister’s mind and heart, to lift, in
some way, the dark cloud of disloyalty that rested upon the household
he loved. His one hour with the soldiers of the United States had
inspired and inspirited him to new and greater effort, to the making of
any sacrifice, in order to uphold the honor of his country and his home.
In the night an idea came to him, suddenly, brilliantly--he wondered
he had not thought of it before. To be sure, there were some details
to be worked out, some difficulties to be overcome; but the plan was
feasible, he knew that, and, if he could carry it into successful
execution, his father would have the price lifted from his head, the
honor of the family would be saved, and he himself would have the joy
of serving his country.
So it was settled and he went to sleep. On the following morning he
went up to Mount Hermon and drew from the bank half of his savings. The
money was paid to him without question, as his father had long before
made formal release of his legal right to it. It was money that he
himself had earned, most of it in former years, by carrying the mail
from the village post-office to Rick’s Corners, the next settlement
to the east on the old North and South Turnpike road. But when his
father’s pro-slavery and anti-war sentiments became pronounced, Bob
lost his position as mail-carrier, and a boy whose father had been
among the first to enlist as a soldier received the appointment.
As for his morning tasks at home that day, he did them with a vigor
and spirit that surprised and pleased his father. In the afternoon
he finished up little odds and ends of work that had been awaiting
his leisure, and rearranged his small store of keepsakes, treasures,
valuables, things that a boy of seventeen has accumulated and looks
upon with sentiment. Some articles, outgrown by him or become useless,
he destroyed. He appeared to be making ready for a long absence. But he
did it all so quietly, with so little ostentation, that no suspicions
were aroused on the part of any member of his family.
Then, when everything was done, doubts as to the wisdom of his
contemplated course began to assail his mind. What would his father
say? What would his mother do? What would his little sister think? The
plan that had seemed so brilliant to him in the darkness of the night
loomed shadowy and doubtful in the cold light of a dull October day.
He began to wish that there were some one whom he could take into his
confidence; to whom he could outline the project he had in mind, and
from whom he could get good and seasonable advice. Well, there was
some one. There was Seth Mills. He was old, to be sure; but he was
absolutely honest, his judgment was still good, he had always been
Bob’s father’s faithful friend, and his mother’s kindest neighbor.
Besides, having no children of his own, the old man always had set
great store by Bob, and the boy felt that, in any event, he would get
sympathy and disinterested counsel. So he went to see Seth Mills. He
walked down along the path by the spring-house, and across the meadow,
and found his neighbor in the barn-yard milking his cows.
“Uncle Seth,” he said, “I’ve come to tell you what I’m going to do, and
see what you think of it.”
The old man looked up but did not stop his milking.
“Well, Robbie, what is it ye goin’ to do?”
“I’m going to war.”
The rich streams that had been piercing the boiling white foam in the
milk-pail suddenly ceased. The man’s hands relaxed without falling,
and he gazed at the boy as if trying to comprehend his meaning.
“You--you goin’ to enlist?”
“Yes. I’ve thought it all out. You know my father. You know what he
thinks about the war and about the draft. You know he’s been drafted
and won’t go, and says the soldiers can’t take him alive. Well,
Sergeant Anderson said that, defying the draft that way, he’s classed
as a deserter, and when he’s caught he’s liable to be shot. Now you
know that isn’t a nice thing to happen to your father. So I’ve decided
to do this. I’m going to Easton to see this provost-marshal and offer
to take my father’s place as a drafted man, and go wherever they choose
to send me, provided they’ll let him off. I think they will, don’t you?”
For a moment the old man did not answer. He seemed to be trying fully
to comprehend the situation. Then, suddenly, he took it in. Rising to
his feet as quickly as his rheumatic legs would let him, kicking over
his three-legged milking-stool in the operation, and barely saving his
pail of milk from the same fate, he grasped Bob heartily by the hand.
“Jest the thing!” he exclaimed, “jest the thing! Here I’ve been layin’
awake nights fur a week tryin’ to think up some way o’ savin’ Rhett
Bannister’s neck, an’ here you’ve gone an’ struck it the first time, by
cracky!”
“You think the plan’s all right, do you, Uncle Seth?”
“Sound as a dollar, my boy, sound as a dollar. They’ll take ye an’ glad
to git ye. To be sure, you’re a leetle mite under age, but that won’t
make no difference; you’re big an’ strong, an’ you can carry a gun an’
fight with the best of ’em.”
“But, will they let father off?”
“Well, now I sh’d think they would. They don’t want no copperheads in
the army, nor no deserters, nor--why, I sh’d think they’d be tickled to
death to swap him for you, an’ call good riddance to him. That’s what
I say.”
“It looks that way to me, too, Uncle Seth, and I do want to help father
and save him if I can.”
“Yes, an’ they’s another thing about it, Robbie. S’posin’ ye git to
go down there. S’posin’ ye git to be one of Uncle Sam’s soldiers
a-fightin’ in the army. You think your father’s goin’ to set down to
hum contented, an’ let his boy do the soldierin’? No, sir-ee! that
ain’t him. You mark my words. In less’n ten days he’ll be down there
a-tryin’ to git to take your place stid o’ your takin’ his’n. That’s
what I say. Now, you mark my words!”
But Bob did not quite believe that. The most that he hoped to do was
to relieve his father from the effect of the draft and the result of
his disobedience to it. More than that, of course, it would give him
the opportunity that he had longed for and waited for, to fight for his
country and his country’s flag.
So they talked it over, the boy and the old man, and every moment they
grew more enthusiastic over the project and what it was likely to
accomplish.
“When ye goin’, Robbie?”
“Why, I thought--I thought I’d go to-morrow morning, Uncle Seth. You
see I can’t very well let them know I’m going. That would spoil it all.
So I thought I’d get up early to-morrow morning and slip away before
anybody was up, and catch the early train at Carbon Creek. You don’t
think I ought to tell them before I go, do you?”
“No, I s’pose not. But what’ll your ma think when she finds you ain’t
to home? What’ll your pa say?”
“That’s the only thing about it that worries me, Uncle Seth. When I’m
once in the army, and they know where I am and what to expect, it won’t
be so bad. But how to ease their minds before they find out, I don’t
know. I’ve thought over it a good deal, but I can’t quite make out how
I’m going to do it. I might leave a letter, but then they’d know where
I was going and likely stop me before I got there. I might--say, I’ll
tell you what; I just happen to think of it. Suppose you kind o’ happen
along there some time to-morrow forenoon, and say to them that you
know where I am and where I’m going, and that it’s all right; and if I
don’t come back in a day or two I’ll write and tell them all about it.
That’ll do, won’t it?”
“Certain! I’ll put their minds to rest. Jest leave that to me. They’ll
know’t when I tell ’em ye’re all right, ye air all right.”
Then, for a minute, the old man stood silent, chewing contemplatively
on a straw.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, “as I’d ort to encourage ye in this
thing. Mebbe it ain’t jest right. It’s a-goin’ ag’inst yer father’s
wish an’ will. It’s a-makin’ yer mother an awful lot of anxiety. Mebbe
it won’t amount to nothin’ anyway. Mebbe they won’t take ye. Mebbe they
won’t leave him go free. Ef they do take ye, ye go to war, an’ ye
know, or else ye don’t know, what war is. You’re jest a boy. You’ll hev
to suffer. You’ll see some hard times. Ye ain’t use to it. Likely ye’ll
git sick. Mebbe ye’ll git swamp fever, an’ that’s bad enough. Mebbe
ye’ll git wounded, crippled for life. Mebbe ye’ll git killed, an’ yer
body buried in a trench with a hundred others, like they buried ’em at
Antietam an’ Gettysburg, an’ nobody never know where ye lay, nor how ye
died. It’s awful, war is, it’s jest awful, an’ ye ortn’t to go, unless
ye realize what’s likely to happen to ye; and I ortn’t to encourage ye
in goin’ unless I’m ready to shoulder the responsibility fer what may
happen, an’ I ain’t quite ready to do that.”
“And I don’t want you to do that, Uncle Seth. I know what I’m about.
I’ve thought it all out. I’ve thought about every dreadful thing that
can possibly happen to me. But before I get through thinking what may
happen to me, I begin to think about what is pretty sure to happen
to my father if things go on as they are. And then I can’t hesitate
any more. To have my father shot as a deserter, why, that would be
worse for me, and worse for my mother, and for my little sister all
our lives, than it would be to have me tired, or hungry, or sick, or
wounded, or shot to death in battle and buried in a trench. And besides
that I want to go for the sake of going. I want to do something for my
country. Abraham Lincoln wants more soldiers, and if he wants them he
should have them. I’m ready to go, and I’m going. I’ve made up my mind;
and you couldn’t discourage me, Uncle Seth, if you talked a thousand
years!”
In the gray October twilight the boy stood erect, with flushed face
and flashing eyes. The spirit of the time had entered his soul as it
entered the souls of thousands of other boys in those soul-stirring
days, and, like them, he was ready. Consequences were of no moment. His
country was calling, his response rang fervent and true.
So Seth Mills spoke no more discouraging words. But he put his hands on
the boy’s shoulders and looked up into his eyes, for the boy was the
taller of the two.
“You’re right,” he said, “and I’m wrong. I hadn’t thought it was in ye.
Go on. I’ll stand back o’ ye. God bless ye, I’m proud o’ ye!”
Tears came into the old man’s eyes as he spoke, and coursed down the
furrows in his cheeks, and his own patriotic heart was roused to a new
pitch of loyalty.
When, at last, the final arrangement with his old friend had been
made, and the little details of his departure were settled, and the
good-bys and hand-shaking were at an end, and Bob turned back into the
meadow-path toward home, it was almost dark.
His father sat at the supper-table that evening with apparent unconcern.
He knew that there were no provost-guards in the neighborhood, no one
with authority to arrest or imprison him. For while it was true that,
in a sense, he was isolated in the midst of an intensely patriotic
community, he was, nevertheless, in more or less constant communication
with friends and sympathizers who kept him well informed as to the
dangers which surrounded or approached him. On this night he knew, for
instance, that Sergeant Anderson, with his little squad of soldiers, had
returned to Easton, and that no other detail of troops had as yet come
into the county. He knew also that means would be found to warn him of
the approach of an enemy long before that enemy could reach him. So he
ate his supper with his family in peace, and sat quietly at his table
reading his paper without apprehension of danger when Bob started to go
upstairs to bed.
“Good-by, father!” said the boy, standing at the stair-door with his
lamp in his hand.
“Good-_by_,” repeated his father, “what do you mean by that?”
“Did I say good-by? I meant to say good-night. But you know I never go
to bed at night any more, father, without thinking that something may
happen before morning to separate us--forever.”
His lip trembled a little as he spoke, and he still stood, hesitating,
at the stair-door.
“Well, Robert, nothing will happen to-night, I know. You can go to bed
without fear to-night. To-morrow, maybe, danger will come again, we
cannot tell. But to-night, I believe we are safe.”
He saw that, for some reason, the boy’s emotions were deeply stirred,
and he imagined it was due to a suddenly augmented fear of what might
happen to his father.
“You don’t know anything, do you, Bob?” he inquired suddenly. “You
haven’t heard of danger immediately at hand? Did Seth Mills tell you
anything that would lead you to think--?”
“No, father, oh no! I was just--well, I won’t worry about you to-night,
anyway. But if anything _should_ happen that we don’t see each other
again--for a good while--I’d like to have you think that while I
believe in Abraham Lincoln, and in the Union, and in the war, I
believe in you, too, and I wouldn’t want, ever, to do anything that
would seem to be disloyal to you.”
“No, Bob, of course not. I believe that. I’m sorry these Northern
notions of patriotism have entered so deeply into your mind. But, when
you’re older and understand things better, you’ll think differently.
There, go along to bed, now. You’re tired and nervous to-night. In the
morning you’ll feel better.”
He held out his hand and Bob came over and clasped it tightly.
“Good-night, father!”
“Good-night!”
The boy went on to bed, and Rhett Bannister resumed his reading. But he
could keep neither his mind nor his eyes on the printed page. He was
thinking of his son upstairs. Once a sudden and startling thought came
to him, more by way of intuition than suggestion. He dropped his book,
rose to his feet, and stood staring at the door through which Bob had
gone. But a sound of voices came to him faintly down the stairway,
natural, reassuring voices, and after a minute he sat down again and
took up his book, and whatever apprehensive thought it was that had so
suddenly and strangely entered his mind, he dismissed it and resumed
his reading.
Upstairs Bob had found his mother sitting with Louise, who had long
been asleep, and sewing. It seemed to him that when his mother was not
busy about something else she was always sewing. He entered the room
where she sat, and looked at her a moment before speaking. The anxiety
of the last few months, the harassing dread of the last few days, had
worn her greatly and left her haggard and pale. Bob was almost shocked
as he gazed on her face under the lamplight. He had never seen her look
so before. Would his conduct of the morrow bring to her added sorrow,
or intense relief? He dared not stop to think about it then. He knew
simply that he was doing right and could not change his plans.
“Good-night, mother!” he said. “I’m going to bed.”
“Good-night, Robbie! Come here and kiss me.”
He went where she was, and leaned over, and she put her hands on his
shoulders and kissed him. He started to go away, but at the door of the
room he turned back.
“Mother, if anything should happen to-night,--we don’t know what may
happen these days,--but if anything should happen, and I had to do
something, I don’t want you ever to think but that I felt I was doing
the right thing.”
“Yes, Robbie, yes. I don’t know just what you mean, but I know you mean
to do what is right. And these are dreadful days, and dreadful nights.
I don’t know how it’s all going to end. I’m in terror all the time.
I wish your father could do something, or you could do something, or
somebody could do something to help us. If this keeps on I shall die!
Oh, why don’t they stop this cruel, _cruel_ war!”
Bob went back into the room and put his arms about his mother’s
shoulders.
“There, mother, there. It’s terrible! I know it’s terrible. I wish the
war would stop. I wish I could do something to stop it. Maybe I can,
just a little. But the only way to stop it is to give Abraham Lincoln
enough soldiers to defeat the Southern armies. We must do that. At any
sacrifice, we _must_ do it. And, mother, I shall do my part.”
She did not appreciate the significance of his words, but she wiped the
tears from her eyes and said:--
“Don’t let’s think about it any more to-night, Robbie.” And she kissed
him again, and again she took up her sewing.
Bob went over to Louise, who was stirring uneasily in her sleep, and
kissed her gently, and went out into the hall. At the door he turned to
look once more at his mother.
“Good-night, mother!” he said, “and good dreams. I think we shall all
be happier soon.”
He went to his room, removed his working-clothes, put on his best
suit, got together a few things and put them into a little hand-bag
that had once belonged to his South Carolinian grandfather, put out
his light, and threw himself down on the bed for a brief sleep. But he
slept only fitfully, looking often at his watch by the light of the
moon that shone in at his window; and at last, at four o’clock, he rose
for the last time, took his satchel and shoes in his hands and crept
softly downstairs. He went through by the kitchen, stopping there to
bathe his face and hands, then, sliding back the bolt, he opened the
door and stepped out on to the porch. The moon was shining brightly,
and the night was very still. There were as yet no signs of morning
in the east, nor any noise of stirring men or beasts. He bethought
himself of food, but he feared lest, by moving around in the darkness
of the pantry to seek it, he would arouse some of the inmates of the
house. So he closed the door behind him, sat down on the porch-steps
and put on his shoes, and then, satchel in hand, he started down the
garden pathway to the kitchen gate. The windows of the sleeping-room
occupied by Louise opened on this side of the house, but there was no
possibility of his being seen by her. Once in the road, he turned his
face toward Mount Hermon. When he reached the front gate, he stopped
and looked up the path toward the house. From his mother’s window shone
the faint light of her night-lamp. There were no other signs of life
about the premises. Then, suddenly, there in the shadow of the trees,
with his boyhood home in front of him, and in the dark west toward
which his footsteps were pointing a fate which no man could fathom, a
feeling of profound depression fell upon him, a sense of unutterable
loneliness and desolation. For the time being all of his courage, all
of his determination, all of his invincible patriotism, deserted him
and left him weak and homesick and miserable. In another moment he
would have turned back and sought the safety and protection which his
dear home offered him; but, even as he hesitated, out of the darkness
of the east there grew slowly and solemnly clear to his mental vision
the tall, gaunt form, the sadly resolute and rugged face of Abraham
Lincoln. And, with the vision, there came back into his mind, one
by one and then all together, the overpowering reasons that had led
him into taking this momentous step. So his judgment returned, his
thought grew clear, courage came back to him, and strength, and deep
determination, and he turned his face once more toward Mount Hermon,
and plunged ahead into the shadows.