by Homer Greene
CHAPTER VII
OFF TO THE WAR
By the time Bob reached the village the sky was gray along theeastern horizon, and a faint tinge of pink, seen through a gap in thehill-range, announced the coming of the sun. In front of the gate ofSarah Jane Stark he stopped, and looked longingly up at her house.Light shone from two of her lower windows, and a wisp of blue smokecurled lazily from the southern chimney. He thought he would like to goin and tell Miss Stark what he was about to do. He wondered what shewould say if she knew. He felt, in his heart, that she would approvehis course and bid him God-speed. However, there was not time to visither. He wanted to get through the village before daybreak, so thathe should not be seen of many people. So he gripped his satchel andhurried on. At the next corner he turned out of the main street, andskirted the closely built portion of the town by an outlying way. Hemet no one whom he knew until he came in again to the main traveledhighway beyond the town. This road led directly to the railroadstation at Carbon Creek. It had been his purpose to wait here for thestage that left Mount Hermon every morning for Carbon Creek, carryingpassengers and mail. But he was in no mood to stand still, and,besides, the chilly October air made exercise a necessity. So he walkedquickly along, feeling that the farther from Mount Hermon he couldget the safer he would be. It was broad daylight now, and the stagewas likely to overtake him at any moment. He began to wonder whom hewould have for fellow passengers. But, even as he wondered, a horse andbuggy, coming up rapidly from behind, was about to pass him, when theman who was driving turned in his seat and looked back at Bob. When hesaw who it was, he reined up his horse and called out:
“Why, Bob Bannister! is that you? Where are you going? Won’t you jumpin and ride?”
It was Henry Bradbury who spoke, the crippled veteran who had left anarm at Malvern Hill in ’62, and who had declared that he would gladlyhave left both arms, or even his life, if only “Little Mac” could havetaken Richmond as the climax of that unfortunate Peninsular Campaign.For, somehow, after that campaign, McClellan, whom he, with a hundredthousand other soldiers, had worshiped as the one splendid hero of thewar, lost lustre in his eyes, and never regained it to that Novembernight, when, at Warrenton, Virginia, he was relieved from the commandof the Army of the Potomac. And yet, to this day, Henry Bradbury willnot permit any one, in his presence, to speak harshly of McClellan.
“No, thank you, Mr. Bradbury,” replied Bob, very much confused. “I’mnot going far. I was just waiting for the stage to come along.”
“Well, if you’re going to Carbon Creek you might just as well jump inand ride with me. I’ve got lots of room and you’ll save your stagefare.”
Bob hesitated for a moment. He did not know what embarrassing questionsthe veteran might ask. Then, suddenly, he made up his mind to acceptthe invitation.
“I will go with you, Mr. Bradbury,” he said. “I think I would a gooddeal rather go with you than in the stage.”
He climbed into the wagon and they started on, the old soldier drivingwith one hand with great ease and facility.
“I might as well be plain with you, Bob,” he said. “I don’t think muchof your father, but I’ve got nothing against you. In fact, if what theytell me about your loyalty is true, you deserve a good deal of credit,and I wouldn’t be the last one to give it to you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bradbury! My father and I don’t quite agree about thewar, and about--the draft, but I don’t want to set up my judgment asbetter than his, and I don’t want to criticise him, and I’d rather nothear anybody else do it.”
“That’s all right, my boy. I’m afraid his obstinacy is going to costhim his neck, but I don’t know as I’ve got any call to try to set hisson against him. Let’s change the subject. Going up to the station, areyou?”
“Yes.”
“Going to take the train?”
“Yes, I expect to.”
After that for a few minutes there was silence. Bradbury looked Bobover carefully to see if perchance there might be something about hisdress or appearance to indicate his errand. But there was nothing.Finally his curiosity prevailed, and he said:--
“I don’t want to be inquisitive, but may I ask where you are going?”
“I want to go to Easton, Mr. Bradbury.”
There was another pause, followed by another question.
“I suppose it’s none o’ my business, but can I inquire if RhettBannister has decided to give himself up?”
“I think not, Mr. Bradbury. He don’t change his mind very easily afterhe’s once made it up.”
The veteran was puzzled. What was Bob Bannister going to Easton for? Hisvisit there must in some way be connected with the provost-marshal’soffice and the draft. He could have no other errand. Then, suddenly, alight broke in upon Henry Bradbury’s mind. He reined his horse upsharply and turned to face the boy.
“Look here, Bob Bannister! are you going to enlist?”
Bob hardly knew how to reply. He considered the question for a momentbefore he answered it.
“Well,” he said finally, “I thought one of us ought to go to the war,Mr. Bradbury.”
The man dropped his reins and grasped Bob’s hand.
“You’re all right!” he exclaimed. “I wish Abe Lincoln had a hundredthousand more just like you. Richmond would be ours in thirty days.”
“But, Mr. Bradbury, nobody knows what I’m going to do, and I wish youwouldn’t tell. Maybe I’ll not be able to do it, anyway.”
“Mum’s the word. Don’t your folks know?”
“No. I couldn’t have gone if they knew.”
“Certainly not. Well, my boy, Henry Bradbury says God bless you! Do youhear? God bless you!”
So, after the ice had been thus broken, Bob explained fully the projecthe had in mind; there were a score of things to be talked about, ahundred questions to be asked on either side, and a hundred answers tobe given. And before they were quite aware of it they had reached thestation at Carbon Creek. But the train would not be due yet for nearlyan hour. Learning that Bob had not had his breakfast, the veterancompelled him to go across the road with him to the Eagle Hotel.
“Get up the best breakfast you know how for this young man and me,”he said to the landlord. “Ham and eggs and potatoes and biscuits andpancakes and coffee and all the fixin’s. I want you to remember,” headded to Bob, “I want you to remember, some morning when you’re eatinghard-tack and salt pork, and drinking black and muddy coffee,--I wantyou to remember the breakfast Henry Bradbury bought for you at theEagle Hotel at Carbon Creek the morning you started for the war.”
And Bob did remember it. Many times he remembered it in the days thatwere to come.
In due time the stage pulled up at the station, the train came in,and Bob said good-by to his veteran friend and stepped on board.He had but one change of cars to make, the one at Scranton, and,late in the afternoon, he reached Phillipsburg and walked across theriver to Easton. The provost-marshal’s office was already closedfor the day, and Bob had to content himself with finding a modesthotel where he could stay over night and wait patiently for what themorning might bring. After supper he strolled out into the street.Reaching the public square, he saw a hundred newly arrived drafted menformed into a company and drilled in military movements. They werevery awkward, indeed. Bob thought that the company of boys at homecould have done far better. But, later in the evening, when a body ofseasoned veterans, belonging to the invalid corps, reached the city,and marched, with fine precision, up the street to the square, andstacked their arms and were dismissed, he looked upon them with deepadmiration. This was something like. The moving ranks, the rhythmictramp, the glistening arms, the stirring music of the fife and drum,all this had a fascination for the boy such as he had never experiencedbefore. When the troops were dismissed one of the officers, meeting andgreeting a comrade on the corner where Bob was waiting, stood for amoment and talked with him.
“Yes,” Bob heard him say, “we’ve got a little provost duty to do upin this end of the sta
te. There were a good many in some sections whodidn’t respond to the draft. Some of them are already in, the restwe’re going to round up. One of the most notorious of these fellows isa man by the name of Bannister. I’m going after him myself, when I getthrough around here. I’ll give him four days from now to make his peacewith Uncle Sam, and if he don’t do it something will drop. I’m goingafter him and I intend to get him, dead or alive.”
The soldiers passed on, and Bob, pale of face and much troubled inheart, went back to his hotel more determined than ever to take hisfather’s place in the ranks if, by any possible means, so desirable asubstitution could be made.
Notwithstanding his anxiety and the many noises in the streets, heslept fairly well, and at nine o’clock on the following morning hepresented himself at the office of the provost-marshal. Many werealready waiting to see that officer, and Bob had to take his place inline and await his turn. Most of those who swarmed about the marshal’soffice were drafted men who were there to urge their claims forexemption from service on account of physical disability. Many werepresent with substitutes whom they had hired to serve for them. Somewho had failed to respond to the notice of draft were being broughtin by members of the provost-guard, to answer for their neglect ordisobedience.
When Bob’s turn finally came and he was ushered into the provost-marshal’soffice, he did not quite know how to state his errand. A man in captain’suniform sat behind a long table, busily writing. There were two or threeclerks in various parts of the room, and soldiers with side-arms stoodguard at the door.
The provost-marshal looked up from his writing and saw Bob.
“Well,” he said, “what’s your case?”
“WELL, WHAT’S YOUR CASE?”]
“I haven’t any case,” replied Bob, “except that I want to enlist inplace of my father, who has been drafted.”
“Go as a substitute, eh? Well, you want to see Lieutenant Morrisonabout that, in the next room. Your father is here, I suppose,” headded, as Bob turned away.
“No,” replied Bob, “he isn’t. That’s the trouble. Nor does he know I’mhere.”
The captain laid down his pen and looked at the boy curiously.
“That’s strange,” he said. “What’s the reason he don’t know?”
Bob advanced a step closer to the marshal’s table.
“Well, he isn’t in sympathy with the war. And when he was drafted hewouldn’t report. And when the soldiers came to arrest him he--theycouldn’t find him.”
“I see. And you--why did you come without his knowledge?”
“Why, he wouldn’t have let me come if he knew. And I, I believe in thewar. I want to be a soldier. And I thought if I could just take hisplace so he could stay home with mother and I could go and fight--why,I thought it would be better all around.”
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Bannister. Rhett Bannister.”
The marshal’s face clouded.
“Bannister of Mount Hermon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry, my boy, but, figuratively speaking, there’s a price on yourfather’s head. He’s a notorious rebel sympathizer, a regular secessionfirebrand. He has declared that the government will never take himalive. Very well, then, we’ll take him dead. But we can’t afford toaccept a price for his freedom. Our orders are to get him, and weshall do it if it takes a regiment of soldiers.”
The marshal took up his pen and made as if to resume his writing.
“Then it’s no use,” inquired Bob weakly, “for me to think aboutsubstituting for him?”
“Not the slightest, my boy. But if you really want to serve yourcountry, I’ll tell you what you can do. You can enlist. We need menand we’ll be glad to have you. Any recruiting officer will take yourapplication. That’s all, isn’t it?”
“I guess so; yes, sir.”
“Very well, good-morning! Let in the next man, corporal.”
Bob left the office in a daze. The hope that for two days had lainnext his heart, was suddenly blasted. He hardly knew what to do orwhich way to turn. He walked out through the crowd of waiting men,but he scarcely saw them, nor did they notice him. It was too commona sight in these days to see disappointed men leaving the marshal’soffice, for any one to comment on this particular boy’s downcastlook or halting step. He went out into the October sunlight, and,threading his way through throngs of citizens and soldiers, he walkeddown the eastern side of the public square. Well, it was all over. Hehad failed. His errand had simply served to emphasize his father’sdisloyalty. What now? Should he go home, or-- The marshal had saidsomething about his enlisting, anyway. How would that work? He hadwandered into the street leading to the bridge across the Delaware.Suddenly he was aware that a man in soldier’s uniform, whom he hadjust met and passed, had stopped and turned and was calling to him.Bob faced about and looked. In an instant he recognized the soldier asSergeant Anderson, who had arrested him and marched him off to SarahJane Stark’s house for breakfast.
“Are you Bob Bannister?” asked the sergeant.
“Yes,” replied Bob, “and you are Sergeant Anderson.”
“Exactly. But what in the world are you doing here?”
“Why, I came here last night to-- Well, I might as well tell you; Ithought they would let me substitute for my father.”
“Oh, no! I don’t believe you could do that. Have you seen Captain Yohe?”
“Yes, he wouldn’t let me.”
“I thought he wouldn’t. That’s too bad after you came all the way herefor that purpose. It will be a disappointment to your father, too.”
“He don’t know I came.”
“Don’t know you came! Why--say, boy, did you work this thing outyourself? Were you willing to do this?”
“Willing! I’d ’a’ crawled from Mount Hermon on my hands and knees tobe allowed to do it. I want to save my father, Sergeant Anderson. AndI want to help my country. I thought I was going to do both, and now Ican’t do either.”
“That’s too bad!”
“Say, do you suppose I could enlist? The marshal suggested that I mightenlist.”
“Why, yes, I suppose you could. How old are you?”
“Seventeen my last birthday.”
“Well, that’s a little under age, but I guess you can get in. Uncle Samneeds soldiers pretty bad. I guess they’ll take you.”
“I believe I’ll try it. It looks this way to me. If I get to be asoldier and have a good record, then if they do get father, whateverhappens to him it won’t be quite so bad for the rest of us if I’veproved my loyalty.”
“That’s right! I don’t believe you’re going to help him by enlisting,but if worst comes to worst men are going to forget your father’sdisgrace in thinking of your bravery. Will you do it? Will you enlist?”
“Yes, Sergeant Anderson, I will.”
“Then I’ll tell you what to do. You go with me. In an hour I shallstart back to the South to join my regiment. I’ll take you along. I’llget you into my company. I’ll get you into my mess. I’ll stand byyou, and take care of you, and share with you, because you’re a heroalready, and I’m proud of you!”
The sergeant’s eyes dimmed as he grasped the boy’s hand and shook itenthusiastically.
“Thank you!” replied Bob. “I’m no hero; and I may disgrace you; butI’ll go, and I’ll do the very best I can.”
“Good! Be at the depot across the bridge yonder in an hour, and I’llmeet you there. The train leaves at eleven o’clock.”
The sergeant hurried away, and Bob went back to his hotel to get hisbaggage. It occurred to him to write a brief letter to Seth Mills,and he did so, telling him what had happened at Easton and giving himpermission to repeat to his father and mother so much or so littleof the information as he saw fit. Then he hurried to the railroadstation and there, promptly at the hour agreed upon, he met SergeantAnderson. At eleven o’clock they boarded the train for Harrisburg, andfrom thence, with little delay, they went to Washington. It was la
te atnight when they reached the capital city, and Bob was very tired. Theypassed through the jostling crowds at the railroad station and sought arooming house, not far away, with which Sergeant Anderson was familiar,stopping on the way to get a meagre luncheon at a near-by restaurant.They were not long in seeking their beds, and they had no sooner laidthemselves down than the young officer fell into a heavy and restfulsleep.
But Bob was not so fortunate. The events of the day were stillvery fresh and vivid in his mind, and he could not readily dismissthe memory of them. It had all been so novel, so exciting, sonerve-racking, for this boy of seventeen, who never before in his lifehad been fifty miles distant from his native town. Yet he was notdiscontented or unhappy. On the contrary, so far as the wisdom of hiscourse was concerned, his mind was perfectly at rest. His only anxietywas on account of his father and mother, who would be worrying abouthim at home. Yet he felt that he had done right. Whatever now mighthappen to his father, permanent escape from the Federal authorities, orarrest, imprisonment, and death, he knew that his own record as a Unionsoldier would help to save the family from complete disgrace. Moreover,the ambition of years was about to be realized, he was soon to beenlisted in the ranks of his country’s soldiers, and march and fightunder the folds of the old flag. So, with this thought in his mind totemper the anxiety for his father in his heart, he fell into a calmer,deeper sleep than he had known before in many months.
It was late when they arose the next morning, and, after a hurriedbreakfast, went out into the streets. It was Bob’s first visit toWashington, and he was deeply impressed by the sights and sounds thatsurrounded him. There were many people moving to and fro. Small bodiesof troops went marching by. Officers in uniform hurried here and there.Hospital wagons carrying sick and wounded men brought in from thefront, went trailing through the streets. Everywhere was noise, bustle,activity, color. Yet nowhere was there gayety. There was no laughter,no lightness of look or word, no care-free expression on the face ofany passer-by. For Washington was troubled. Meade, who had been drivenback almost half-way from the Rappahannock to the capital, under therepeated onslaughts of Lee’s depleted but still daring and determinedarmies, was just now taking fresh courage, facing his troops about,and turning back once more from Centreville toward the Rapidan. Yetthe shadow of unnecessary retreat and imminent danger still restedon the city, and complete confidence had not been restored in thecommander and the army that had fought so splendidly and successfullyat Gettysburg in July. Even Sergeant Anderson, usually buoyant andlight-hearted, seemed to partake of the prevailing depression, and ashe and Bob made their way down to the river and across Long Bridge,little was said by either of them.
At the end of the bridge a supply wagon going down to Alexandria camealong, and the driver, who knew Sergeant Anderson, gave both men a ridewith him to the Virginia city.
Early in the afternoon one of the trains that ran at irregularintervals from Alexandria to the front was made up, and Anderson,having the necessary passports, was able to procure a ride for hiscompanion and himself. At Bristol station he made inquiry and learnedthat his regiment had gone on to Gainesville, and thence to Auburn,and so the two men followed after on foot. That night, as guests ofthe rear-guard, they slept, rolled in blankets, in an open field. Itwas not until late the next morning that they came up with Anderson’sregiment, camped under the shelter of a low hill-range near Auburn.
The sergeant, beloved by the men of his company for his bravery inbattle, and his cheerfulness and gentleness in camp and on the march,was heartily welcomed back. And his recommendation of Bob was an opensesame for the boy into the good graces of the entire command. So ithappened that, before nightfall, Bob Bannister, duly examined, passed,mustered, and clothed in uniform, became a soldier in the Army of thePotomac.
