THE WELCOME HOME
The war was over. Peace rested on the land. All men, North and South,
were thankful that the shedding of human blood had ceased. June came,
brighter, more beautiful, than any other June of which living men had
memory. The world was filled with sunshine, with flowers, with the
songs of birds, with the flashings of waters, with the gladness of
nature and humanity. The last tired, tattered soldier of the South
had gone back to his home to pick up the broken threads of destiny
and to begin his life anew. And, slowly drifting up from camp and
battle-field, the veterans of the Union army were coming by ones and
twos and in little groups, some of them mere ghosts of the boys who had
gone to the front when the war was on. But for every war-worn soldier
thus returning there was one who would never come again. So there were
tears as well as smiles, and heart-aches as well as rejoicings.
But the soldiers from Mount Hermon did not come until after the close
of the Grand Review in Washington, in which they took part. Then they
too turned their faces toward home. It was agreed that they should all
come together. And Mount Hermon, that had sent them forth with its
God-speed, that had rejoiced in their victories and sorrowed in their
defeats, was ready to welcome them back. They were to come on a special
car that would reach Carbon Creek late in the forenoon. There they were
to be met by a committee of welcome, with a band of music and decorated
wagons. The party would reach Mount Hermon about noon, and after the
first greetings had been given, there was to be a dinner under a great
tent on the public square, the finest dinner that the men of Mount
Hermon could buy and the women of Mount Hermon could prepare. And
after the dinner, from the platform at the end of the tent, there were
to be addresses of welcome, and music, and every returning man and boy
who had worn the blue was to be made to feel that the town was proud of
him this day, and honored him for the service he had performed for his
country and the lustre he had shed upon Mount Hermon.
So, on the day of the arrival, the committee of welcome was at Carbon
Creek a full hour before the train was due, so fearful were they lest
by some unforeseen delay they should be one minute too late. In due
time the procession, half a hundred strong, started on its way to Mount
Hermon, the band in the first wagon playing “Marching through Georgia.”
All along the route there was, as the newspapers said next day, “a
continuous ovation.” Farm-houses were decorated, flags were flying
everywhere, groups of cheering citizens stood at every crossroad. When
they reached the borough line, they all descended from the wagons and
formed on foot to march to the village green. Not quite as they had
formed in other days under Southern skies, for now there was no one in
command; officers and privates alike were in the ranks to-day, marching
shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm, in one long, glad, home-coming
procession. But you couldn’t keep those ranks in order; no one could
have kept them in order. One old veteran said that Ulysses Grant
himself couldn’t have kept the men in line, there was so much cheering,
so much hand-shaking, so many waiting wives and mothers and children to
be kissed and hugged and kissed again. And long before the great tent
on the green was reached there was no more semblance of order in those
happy ranks, than you would have found among a group of schoolgirls out
for a holiday.
Private Bannister and his son were both in the procession. Not that
it was Rhett Bannister’s choice to be there. He had thought to make
the journey back to his home quietly and alone, in much the same way
that he had left it nearly two years before, and there await such
welcome, good or ill, as the people of the community might see fit to
give him. But his comrades simply would not have it so. Indeed, they
refused absolutely to go together, or to partake in the ceremony of
welcome, unless he would go with them. So he went, not without many
misgivings, fearing the worst, yet hoping for the best. And the best
came. His record in the ranks had preceded him long before. The story
of his conversion by Abraham Lincoln was a story that his neighbors
never wearied of telling. And if there was one thing more than another
on which Mount Hermon prided herself, next to having as one of her own
boys the youngest commissioned officer in the Army of the Potomac, it
was on the fact that Rhett Bannister, the once hated, despised, and
outlawed copperhead, had become one of the best and bravest and truest
soldiers in the armies of his country.
And so Mount Hermon welcomed him. Nor could he for one moment doubt
the sincerity of his welcome. The hearty handclasp, the trembling
voice, the tear-dimmed eye with which old friends and neighbors greeted
him, left no room for questionings.
One block from the public square Henry Bradbury came upon them. He put
his one remaining arm around Bob’s shoulders and hugged him till he
winced.
“You rascal!” he exclaimed. “You runaway! You patriot! God bless you!”
Then he released Bob, and grasped Bob’s father’s hand.
“Rhett Bannister,” he said, “I never took hold of but one man’s hand
in my life before, that I was prouder to shake, and that was Abraham
Lincoln’s.”
Then when he got his voice again, he added:--
“Fall out, both of you. Sarah Jane Stark wants to see you at her house
before you go to the square.”
So they followed him three blocks around, and down to the house of
Sarah Jane Stark. She was there in the hall, waiting for them.
“Bob Bannister,” she said, “I love you!” And she put her hands up on
his broad shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. Then she turned
to Bob’s father, and, without a word, and much to his amazement and
confusion, she saluted him in the same way.
“There!” she exclaimed, “that’s the first time I’ve kissed a man in
forty years. I never expect to kiss another, but--to-day--it’s worth
it. There, not a word! I know what I’m doing. Go in there, both of you.
March!”
She opened the parlor door, thrust them both into the room, and closed
the door on them without another word. In that room were Mary Bannister
and Louise. At the end of fifteen minutes, Sarah Jane Stark came back
down the hall and knocked briskly.
“Come,” she said, “it’s time to go to the square. You needn’t think
you can stay here and make love all day. And I won’t give you a thing
to eat. You’ve got to go up to the tent and eat with the rest of us.”
On the way up she walked with Bob. She had a thousand questions to ask,
nor could Bob get one quite answered before a new one would strike him
squarely between the eyes. But when she said: “And where’s that dear
sergeant who took breakfast with us one morning, and who couldn’t say
grace; what became of him?” and Bob answered, “He was killed at Cold
Harbor, Miss Stark,” she was silent for a full minute.
They were just ready to sit down to dinner in the big tent when the
Bannisters arrived. A place had been reserved for them at the head of
the table, two and two on each side of the master of the feast, with
all the other veterans and their wives and daughters and sweethearts in
line below, and the patriotic citizens of Mount Hermon filling up the
rest of the long tables.
That was a dinner! In the whole history of Mount Hermon nothing had
been known to equal it. And when it was over, and the tables had been
partly cleared, the flag at the end of the tent was drawn aside, and
there on the platform were the speakers, the singers, and the band. A
chorus of girls, dressed in white, with little flags in their hands,
sang “America.” There was a brief and fervent prayer by the old
clergyman who had married nearly every one’s father and mother in Mount
Hermon, and who knew all the middle-aged people by their first names.
Then the burgess of the borough delivered the address of welcome, and
the band played. After that the chairman of the meeting rose and rapped
for order.
“Our young friends,” he said, “desire to participate, to a brief
extent, in this programme of rejoicing. I will call upon Master Samuel
Powers.”
So Master Samuel Powers made his way awkwardly and blushingly up
between benches and tables, to the platform. At the steps he stumbled,
recovered himself with a masterly jerk, and continued on his course.
Turning to the audience, red-faced and frightened, he began to search
in his pockets for something that he had evidently mislaid. Into
his coat pockets and trousers pockets, each side in turn, outside
and inside, he searched with increasing desperation, but in vain.
Then he tried the pockets all over again, with the same result. The
audience began to see the comical side of the boy’s embarrassment, and
half-suppressed laughter was heard throughout the tent. Some one in the
crowd yelled:--
“Cough it up, Sam! cough it up! You’ve swallered it!”
And a boy’s voice somewhere in the rear responded:--
“Aw, snakes! Let ’im alone. He’s got it in his head. Give it to ’em,
Sammy, boy! Chuck it at ’em! Go it!”
Thus adjured, Sam advanced to the front of the platform.
“I had a paper,” he said, “to read from, but I guess I’ve lost it.
Anyway, what I want to say is that two years ago us boys had a military
company here. An’ we’ve got it yet. An’ we’re goin’ to keep it. Well,
two years ago Bob Bannister tried to get in the company an’ we wouldn’t
let ’im in because--” he gave a frightened glance at Rhett Bannister,
sitting below him--“I might as well tell--because his father was a
copperhead. Well, after what happened we got a little ashamed of
ourselves, an’ when we heard how he was fightin’ down there in a real
company, we were all sorry we hadn’t let him in. So when our captain
moved away we elected Bob Bannister captain, with leave of absence till
the war was over. But somehow or another that didn’t seem to be quite
enough to do. An’ then when we heard about Five Forks we got together
an’ chipped in, and our fathers helped us a little, and we bought him
the best sword an’ silk sash that Henry Bradbury could find in New
York, an’ we want to give it to him here to-day. Say, Bill Hinkle,
bring that sword up here!”
Thunders of applause greeted Sam’s remarks. Some one took Bob by the
arm and dragged him to the platform, and when he had received the
sword, which was indeed a beauty, there were insistent calls for a
speech. Bob looked down to his father for help and inspiration, and as
he did so the audience saw on his head the long, red, ragged scar over
which the hair had not yet grown, and then the applause was renewed
with threefold vehemence.
Finally he managed to stammer out:--
“I can’t make a speech. I’m sure this tribute from the boys has touched
my heart. I know I’m very grateful to you all for the way you’ve
welcomed me. I’ll never forget this day, and--and I guess that’s all.”
He turned and made a rapid retreat from the platform, while the
audience shouted itself hoarse with approval of his speech. There
was more music by the band, and then Judge Morgan mounted the
platform. He had aged much during the last two years of the war, and
his hand trembled visibly as he thrust it, after the old fashion,
into the breast of his tightly buttoned Prince Albert coat. But his
voice, though quavering a little at the start, was still strong and
penetrating, and no one in the audience could fail to hear him as he
spoke.
“Mr. Chairman, returning soldiers of the Union armies, ladies and
fellow citizens:--
“Some two years ago it was my fortune, or misfortune as you choose,
to be present at a meeting of the citizens of Mount Hermon, held
on the nation’s natal day, on this very spot. The great battle of
Gettysburg had just been fought. Public feeling ran high, the spirit
of patriotism was at white heat. It became my duty to draw and present
to that meeting a set of resolutions condemnatory of one of our fellow
citizens whose unpatriotic attitude and open disloyalty brought down
upon his head our righteous wrath. I need not repeat those resolutions
here. I need not call your attention further to the exciting incidents
of that day. Many of you will remember them. I will hasten on to say
that it has been my duty and my great pleasure to prepare another set
of resolutions to be presented to this meeting to-day. They are as
follows:--
“RESOLVED: _First_,--That the resolutions heretofore adopted by the
citizens of Mount Hermon on the fourth day of July, A. D. 1863,
denouncing as disloyal and unworthy of citizenship one Rhett Bannister,
be and they are hereby absolutely suspended, revoked, and made void.
“_Second_,--That we welcome the said Rhett Bannister to his home as he
returns to us from the war, bringing with him a record for loyalty and
courage of which the best and bravest soldier might well be proud. And
we congratulate him and his noble wife on the splendid service which
their son Lieutenant Robert Barnwell Bannister has rendered to his
country in her hour of need.
“_Third_,--That we welcome with open arms and thankful hearts all these
soldiers of the Republic, who have returned to us this day bearing
laurels of victory, and we extend our assistance and condolence to all
sick and wounded veterans and to all widows and orphans through whose
sufferings our country has been saved.
“Mr. Chairman, I move the adoption of these resolutions by a rising
vote.”
And how they did vote! rising of course, standing on chairs, tables,
anything; cheering, waving hats and handkerchiefs, to express their
approval of the resolutions which Judge Morgan had so acceptably
framed. Then there were shouts for “Bannister! Rhett Bannister! Rhett
Bannister!”
At first he did not want to go. Then, as the second and wiser thought
came to him, he mounted the platform and faced his fellow townsmen.
In the beginning he could not quite control his voice, but it soon
got back its old resonant ring, and then the audience sat in rapt
attention, listening to his words.
[Illustration: HE FACED HIS FELLOW TOWNSMEN.]
“My friends and neighbors, I do not deserve this. I never dreamed of a
welcome home like this. I thought to come back quietly, alone, and slip
as easily as I might into the old grooves, and I hoped that some day,
possibly, you would forget. But the boys who marched with me, fought
with me, suffered with me, not one of whom but has been braver, truer,
more faithful, and more deserving than I,--the boys, I say, would not
listen to it. So here I am, with them--and you. And now that I am here
I want to say to you what I have had it in my heart to say to you,
night and day, for nearly two years. I am, as you know, descended from
the men and women of the South. When the war came on I sympathized with
my brothers there. If I had been resident among them then, and had
failed to rally to their cause, I would have been more than a poltroon.
I could not see that the environment of a lifetime here should have
led me into wiser counsels and better judgment. You know the story of
my folly. But, like Saul of Tarsus, breathing out threatenings and
slaughter, I came one day into the presence of an overmastering soul. I
went out from that presence changed, and utterly subdued. I saw things
in a new light and with a larger vision. Not that I loved my people
of the South any less, but that I loved my country more. By the grace
and mercy of Abraham Lincoln, and the goodness of God, I was permitted
to fight in the ranks of my country’s soldiers, side by side with my
son whom you have just seen and heard. I never commended this boy
publicly before, and it is not probable that I ever shall again; but
I will say to-day, that no knight of old ever sought the Holy Grail
with more persistent courage and deeper devotion than he has sought
his country’s welfare. As for me, I am what I am to-day, I have done
what I have done, because of Abraham Lincoln. If you had seen him as
I saw him, if you had heard him as I heard him, you would have loved
him as I loved him--yet not so deeply. For my love was greater because
he loved my people of the South. Doubt me if you will, discredit me if
you must, but I speak what I believe and know when I say that the men
and women of the South have never had a better friend, a truer guide,
a wiser counselor, than they lost when the foul assassin’s bullet sent
this gentle spirit to its home. I have done what I could. I have been
the best soldier I knew how to be. Now I am back with you, to take up
once more the old life, and to try to prove to you through all the
days and nights that are to come, that your flag is my flag, that your
country is my country, and that this home among the Pennsylvania hills
was never quite so dear to me before as it is to-day. I thank you.
I am grateful to you all. Your welcome has touched me so deeply--so
deeply”--and then his voice went utterly to pieces, and with tears of
joy streaming down his face, he left the stand.
The meeting did not last long after that. There were more numbers on
the programme indeed. But when Rhett Bannister had finished, so many
were talking, so many were cheering, so many were crying, that the
chairman simply let the people have their own way and finish as they
would.
It was a happy supper-party at the Bannister home that night; so like
the suppers in the summer days of old, in the years before the war.
After it was over, Bob went down by the path across the meadow, as he
used to go, to see Seth Mills. The old man had failed much of late. Age
was resting heavily upon him, and he was too feeble to go far from home.
And in the beautiful June twilight Rhett Bannister sat upon his porch
and looked out upon the old familiar scene: the fields, the trees,
the road, the clear and wonderful expanse of sky. But when his eyes
wandered, for a moment, to the shop and the windmill tower crowned by
the motionless blades of the big wheel, he turned them away. There
were things which, on this night of nights, he did not care to bring
back to memory. And, as he sat there, holding in his own the hand of
the happiest, proudest woman that the stars looked down upon that
summer night in all the old Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, there came
the well-remembered click of the front-gate latch, and, out of the
darkness, hobbling slowly up the walk, came the bent figure of Seth
Mills. Bannister leaped from the porch and hurried down the path to
meet him. The old man stopped and looked him over in well-feigned
dismay.
“Rhett Bannister,” he exclaimed, “you blamed ol’ copperhead! you
skallywag deserter! you deep-dyed villyan! what ’a you wearin’ them
blue soldier clothes fur?”
Then, as Bannister hesitated, in doubt as to how he should take this
outburst, his visitor broke into a hearty laugh.
“Well, Rhett,” he said, “I forgive you. I forgive you. Where’s your
hand? Where’s your two hands? I knowed what you’d do when the boy
went. I told him so. God bless you, but I’m proud of you! I’m proud
o’ both of you! Bob’s been down; splendid boy; said I mustn’t come up
here; too fur to walk. I told him to mind his own business; that I was
comin’ up to shake hands with Rhett Bannister ef it took a leg; ef it
took both legs, by cracky!”
Bannister helped the old man up the steps, and made him comfortable in
a big porch-chair, and told him a hundred things he wanted to know, and
at last he told him about Abraham Lincoln.
“You know I saw the President?”
“I heard all about it, Rhett. You’ve been blessed above your fellow
men.”
“But you didn’t know that he spoke to me of you?”
“Of me? Seth Mills?”
“Yes, of you. He told me that story about how you settled the spring
controversy with Sam Lewis.”
“No!”
“Yes, he did. And then I told him that I knew you, that you were my
nearest and best neighbor; and he said: ‘You tell Seth Mills for me, if
you ever see him again, that Abe Lincoln remembers him, and sends him
greeting and good wishes in memory of the old days in Sangamon County.’
I’ve carried that message in my heart for you through blood and fire,
Seth, and now, to-night, it is yours.”
But the old man did not reply. Instead, his hand stole out and rested
on his neighbor’s knee, and then, softly in the darkness, Bannister
heard him sob.
But Seth Mills went home at last, and over the crest of the eastern
hill-range the full moon came shining. And then something else
happened. From the shadows of the roadway that fronted the house,
suddenly, sweetly, jubilantly on the night air, came the music of a
chorus of fresh young voices singing:--
“Home, home, sweet, sweet home;
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”
They were the same boys who, two years before, had marched down the
road at night singing songs of derision to the hated copperhead.
Ah! but those two years. What may not happen in a time like that? What
change of thought, of heart, of life? What tragedy and transformation?
As the faint, sweet chorus of the boy-singers came back to him across
the moonlit fields, Rhett Bannister turned his face to the star-strewn
sky, and thanked God that after the storm and stress and trial, and
through the ministry of one great man, he had fallen upon such glorious
days.
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS
U · S · A
Transcriber’s Notes:
--Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
--Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
follow the text that they illustrate, so the page number of the
illustration may not match the page number in the Illustrations.
--Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
--The Author’s em-dash style has been retained.