Si Klegg, Book 1

by John McElroy

  CHAPTER XXII. A NIGHT OF SONG

  HOME-SICKNESS AND ITS OUTPOURING IN MUSIC.

  IT WAS Sunday again, and the 200th Ind. still lingered near Nashville.For some inscrutible reason known only to the commanding officers thebrigade had been for nearly a week in camp on the banks of the swiftrunning Cumberland. They had been bright, sunshiny days, the last two ofthem. Much rain in the hill country had swollen the swift waters of theCumberland and they fiercely clamored their devious way to the broadOhio. The gentle roar as the rippling wavelets dashed against the rockbound shores sounded almost surf-life, but to Si, who had neverheard the salt waves play hide-and-go-seek on the pebbly beach, theCumberland's angry flood sang only songs of home on the Wabash. He hadseen the Wabash raging in flood time and had helped to yank many a headof stock from its engulfing fury. He had seen the Ohio, too, when sheran bank full with her arched center carrying the Spring floodsand hundreds of acres of good soil down to the continent-dividingMississippi, and on out to sea. His strong arms and stout muscles hadpiloted many a boat-load of boys and girls through the Wabash eddiesand rapids during the Spring rise, and as he stood now, looking over thevast width of this dreary waste of waters, a great wave of home-sicknessswept over him.

  After all, Si was only a kid of a boy, like thousands of his comrades.'True, he was past his majority a few months, but his environment fromyouth to his enlistment had so sheltered him that he was a boy at heart.

  "The like precurse of fierce events and prologue to the omen comingon" had as yet made small impression upon him. Grim visaged war hadnot frightened him much up to that time. He was to get his regeneratingbaptism of blood at Murfreesboro a few weeks later. Just now Si Klegg wassimply a boy grown big, a little over fat, fond of mother's cooking,mother's nice clean feather beds, mother's mothering, if the truth mustbe told. He had never in his life before been three nights from underthe roof of the comfortable old house in which he was born. He had nowbeen wearing the blue uniform of the Union a little more than threemonths, and had not felt mother's work-hardened hands smoothing hisrebellious hair or seen her face or heard a prayer like she could makein all that three months.

  "Shucks!" he said fretfully to himself as he looked back at the droning,half asleep brigade camp, and then off to the north, across the boilingyellow flood of waters that tumbled past the rocks far below him.

  "A feller sure does git tired of doin' nothin'."

  Lusty, young, and bred to an active life, Si, while he did not reallycrave hustle and bustle, was yet wedded to "keeping things moving." Hehad already forgotten the fierce suffering of his early marching--itseemed three years to him instead of three months back; he had forgottenthe graybacks, the wet nights, the foraging expeditions, the extra guardduty and all that. There had been two days of soft Autumn sunshine in acamp that was almost ideal. Everything was cleaned up, mended up, andthe men had washed and barbered themselves into almost dude-likeneatness. Their heaviest duties had been lazy camp guard duty, whichShorty, growing indolent, had declared to be "dumned foolishness," andthe only excitement offered came from returning foraging parties. Therewas no lurking enemy to fear, for the country had been cleared ofguerrillas, and in very truth the ease and quietness of the days ofinactivity was almost demoralizing the men.

  There had been no Sunday services. The 200th Ind. was sprawled out onthe ground in its several hundred attitudes of ease, and those with whomthey were brigaded were just as carelessly disposed.

  As Si sauntered aimlessly back to look for Shorty, the early twilightbegan to close in as the sun slid down behind the distant hills.Campfires began to glow as belated foragers prepared their suppers,and the gentle hum of voices came pleasantly to the ear, punctuated bylaughter, often boisterous, but quite as often just the babbling, cheerylaugh of carefree boys.

  Si felt--well, Si was just plain homesick for mother and the girls, andone particular girl, whose front name was Annabel, and he almost felt asthough he didn't care who knew it.

  The air was redolent with the odor of frying meat. Mingled with thiswere vagrant whiffs of cooking potatoes, onions, chickens, and thefragrance of coffee steaming to blackest strength, all telling tales ofskillful and successful foraging, and it all reminded Si of home and theodors in his mother's kitchen.

  Si couldn't find Shorty, so he hunched down, silent and alone, besidehis tent, a prey to the blue devils. It would soon be Christmas at home.He could see the great apple bins in the cellar; the pumpkins in thehay in the barn; the turkeys roosting above the woodshed; the yardsof encased sausages in the attic; he could even smell the mince meatseasoning in the great stone jar; the honey in the bee cellar; the hugefruit cake in the milk pan in the pantry; since he could remember heseen and smelled all these, with 57 varieties of preserves, "jells,"marmalades, and fruit-butters thrown in for good measure at Christmastime. He had even contemplated with equanimity all these 21 Christmases,the dose of "blue pills" that inevitably followed over-feeding at MotherKlegg's, and now on his 22d Christmas he might be providing a target fora rebel bullet.

  Suddenly Si noticed that the dark had come; the fragrance of tobaccofrom hundreds of pipes was filling the air, and from away off in thedistance the almost Indian Summer zephyrs were bringing soft rythmicsounds like--surely--yes, he caught it now, it was that mighty sootherof tired hearts--

  "Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly. While the billows near me roll. While the tempest still is high."

  Si shut his eyes lest the tear drops welling suddenly up fall on hisuniform, not stopping to think that in the gloom they could not be seen.

  Miles away the singers seemed to be when Si caught the first sounds,but as the long, swinging notes reached out in the darkness, squad aftersquad, company after company, regiment after regiment took up the grandold hymn until Si himself lifted up his not untuneful voice and with thethousands of others was pleading--

  "Hide me, oh, my Savior hide, 'Till the storm of life is past; Safe into the haven guide. Oh, receive my soul at last."

  and the song rose and swelled out and up toward heaven, and stole awayoff to the horizon till the whole vast universe seemed filled with thesacred melody. As the last words and their music faded out in space.Shorty lunged down beside Si.

  "Say, Pard," he began banteringly, "you've missed yer callin'. Op'ryoughter have been yer trade."

  "Oh, chop off yer chin music for a minute. Shorty," broke in Si. "Inthe dark here it seemed most as though I was at home in the little oldchurch with Maria and Annabel and Pap and Mother, and us all singingtogether, and you've busted it--ah! listen!"

  From not far away a bugler had tuned up and through the fragrant nightcame piercingly sweet--

  "I will sing you a song of that beautiful land--"

  Then near at hand a strong, clear, musical tenor voice took up thesecond line,

  "The far away home of the soul,"

  and almost instantly a deep, resonant bass voice boomed in--

  "Where no storms ever beat on that glittering strand While the years of eternity roll,"

  and soon a hundred voices were making melody of the spheres as they sangPhilip Phillips's beautiful song.

  "That was Wilse Hornbeck singin' tenor," said Si, as the song ended.

  "And it was Hen Withers doin' the bass stunt," returned Shorty.

  "You just oughter hear him do the ornamental on a mule whacker. Why, Si,he's an artist at cussing. Hen Withers is. Sodom and Gomorrah would gitjealous of him if he planted himself near 'em, he's that wicked."

  "Well, he can sing all right," grunted Si.

  Just then Hen Withers, in the squad some 50 feet away broke into songagain--

  "Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light"

  It welled up from his throat like the pipe from a church organ, and asmellow as the strains from a French horn. When the refrain rolled outfully 3,000 men were singing, yelling and shouting in frenzied fervor--

  "And the Star Spangled ba
nner. In triumph shall wave, O'er the land of the free, And the home of the brave."

  While Hen Withers rested on his well-earned laurels, a strong, clearvoice, whose owner was probably thinking of home and the shady gloomof the walk through the grove to singing school with his sweetheart,trilled an apostrophe to the queen of light.

  "Roll on, silvery moon, Guide the traveler on his way,"

  but he had it pretty much to himself, for not many knew the words, andhe trailed off into

  "I loved a little beauty, Bell Brandon,"

  then his music died out in the night.

  It was now the "tenore robusto" who chimed in bells, on a new battle songthat held a mile square of camp spellbound:

  "Oh, wrap the flag around me, boys,

  To die were far more sweet With freedom's starry emblem, boys.

  To be my winding sheet. In life I loved to see it wave

  And follow where it led, And now my eyes grow dim, my hands

  Would clasp its last bright shred. Oh, I had thought to meet you, boys,

  On many a well-worn field When to our starry emblem, boys,

  The trait'rous foe should yield. But now, alas, I am denied

  My dearest earthly prayer, You'll follow and you'll meet the foe,

  But I shall not be there."

  Wilse Hornback knew by the hush of the camp as the sound of hiswonderful voice died on the far horizon that he had his laurels, too,and so he sang on while the mile square of camp went music-mad again asit sang with him--

  "We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before, Shouting the battle cry of freedom. And we'll fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more. Shouting the battle cry of freedom."

  Chorus:

  "The Union forever! Hurrah, boys. Hurrah; Down with the traitor and up with the Star, While we rally 'round the Flag, boys, We'll rally once again, Shouting the battle cry of freedom.

  We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true and brave. Shouting the battle cry of freedom, And although they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave. Shouting the battle cry of freedom.

  So we're springing to the call from the East and from the West, Shouting the battle cry of freedom, And we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best, Shouting the battle cry of freedom."

  In the almighty hush that followed the billows of sound, somesweet-voiced fellow started Annie Laurie, and then sang--

  "In the prison cell I sit"

  with grand chorus accompaniment. Then Wilse Hornback started and HenWithers joined in singing the Battle Hymn--

  "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,"

  and oh, God of Battles! how that army of voices took up the refrain--

  "Glory, glory, hallelujah,"

  and tossed and flung it back and forth from hill to hill and shore toshore till it seemed as though Lee and his cohorts must have heard andquailed before the fearful prophecy and arraignment.

  Then the "tenore robusto" and the "basso profundo" opened a regularconcert program, more or less sprinkled with magnificent chorus:singing, as it was easy or difficult for the men to recall the words.You must rummage in the closets of memory for most of them! The OldOaken Bucket; Nellie Gray; Anna Lisle; No, Ne'er Can Thy Home be Mine;Tramp, Tramp, Tramp; We are Coming, Father Abraham; Just as I Am; ByCold Siloam's Shady Rill--how those home-loving Sunday school youngboys did sing that! It seemed incongruous, but every now and then theydropped into these old hymn tunes, which many a mother had sung her babyto sleep with in those elder and better days.

  The war songs are all frazzled and torn fragments of memory now, coveredwith dust and oblivion, but they were great songs in and for their day.No other country ever had so many.

  Laughter and badinage had long since ceased. Flat on their backs,gazing up at the stars through the pine and hemlock boughs, the boyslay quietly smoking while the "tenore robusto" assisted by the "bassoprofundo" and hundreds of others sang "Willie, We Have Missed You,""Just Before the Battle, Mother," "Brave Boys Are They," and the "VacantChair."

  In a little break in the singing. Hen Withers sang a wonderful song, nowalmost forgotten. It was new to the boys then, but the bugler had heardit, and as Hen's magnificent voice rolled forth its fervid words thebugle caught up the high note theme, and never did the stars singtogether more entrancingly than did the "wicked mule whacker" and thatbugle--

  "Lift up your eyes, desponding freemen. Fling to the winds your needless fears. He who unfurled our beauteous banner Says it shall wave a thousand years."

  On the glorious chorus a thousand voices took up the refrain in droningfashion that made one think of "The Sound of the Great Amen."

  "A thousand years, my own Columbia! Tis the glad day so long foretold! 'Tis the glad mom whose early twilight Washington saw in times of old."

  By the time Hen had sung all of the seven verses the whole brigadeknew the refrain and roared it forth as a defiance to the SouthernConfederacy, which took on physical vigor in the days that came after,when the 200th Ind. went into battle to come off victorious on many afiercely contested field.

  Then the tenor sang that doleful, woe begone, hope effacing,heart-string-cracking "Lorena." Some writer has said that it sung theheart right out of the Southern Confederacy.

  "The sun's low down the sky, Lorena, The snow is on the grass again."

  As Wilse Hornbeck let his splendid voice out on the mournful cadences,Si felt his very heart strings snap, and even Shorty drew his breathhard, while some of the men simply rolled over, and burying their facesin their arms, sobbed audibly.

  Wilse had not counted on losing his own nerve, but found his voicebreaking on the melancholy last lines, and bounding to his feet with apetulant,

  "Oh, hang it!"

  "Say, darkies, hab you seen de Massa"

  came dancing up from the jubilating chords of that wonderful human musicbox, and soon the camp was reeling giddily with the jolly, rollicking,

  "Or Massa ran, ha! ha!! The darkies stay, ho! ho!!"

  Then, far in the distance a bugle sounded "lights out," and the songfestwas at an end; as bugler after bugler took it up, one by one thecampfires blinked out, and squad after squad sank into quiet.

  "I feel a heap better somehow," remarked Si, as he crawled under hisblanket.

  "Dogged if I hain't had a sort of uplift, too," muttered Shorty, as hewrapped his blanket round his head. In the distance a tenor voice wassinging as he kicked out his fire and got ready for bed--

  "Glory, glory, hallelujah."