Chapter 44
Nehemiah, whom I had known as John Trumbull, sat a long time between hisfather and mother, holding a hand of each, and talking in a low tone,while Hope and I were in the kitchen with Uncle Eb. Now that fatherand son were side by side we saw how like they were and wondered we hadnever guessed the truth.
'Do you remember?' said Nehemiah, when we returned. 'Do you rememberwhen you were a little boy, coming one night to the old log house onBowman's Hill with Uncle Eb?
'I remember it very well,' I answered.
'That was the first time I ever saw you,' he said.
'Why, you are not the night man?'
'I was the night man,' he answered.
I stared at him with something of the old, familiar thrill that hadalways come at the mention of him years agone.
'He's grown a leetle since then,' said Uncle Eb.
'I thought so the night I carried him off the field at Bull Run,' saidNehemiah.
'Was that you?' I asked eagerly.
'It was,' he answered. 'I came over from Washington that afternoon. Yourcolonel told me you had been wounded.
'Wondered who you were, but I could not get you to answer. I have tothank you for my life.
Hope put her arms about his neck and kissed him.
'Tell us,' said she, 'how you came to be the night man.'
He folded his arms and looked down and began his story.
'Years ago I had a great misfortune. I was a mere boy at the time. Byaccident I killed another boy in play. It was an old gun we were playingwith and nobody knew it was loaded. I had often quarrelled with theother boy--that is why they thought I had done it on purpose. Therewas a dance that night. I had got up in the evening, crawled out of thewindow and stolen away. We were in Rickard's stable. I remember how thepeople ran out with lanterns. They would have hung me--some of them--orgiven me the blue beech, if a boy friend had not hurried me away. It wasa terrible hour. I was stunned; I could say nothing. They drove me tothe 'Burg, the boy's father chasing us. I got over into Canada, walkedto Montreal and there went to sea. It was foolish, I know, but I wasonly a boy of fifteen. I took another name; I began a new life. NehemiahBrower was like one dead. In 'Frisco I saw Ben Gilman. He had been aschool mate in Faraway. He put his hand on my shoulder and called me theold name. It was hard to deny it--the hardest thing I ever did. I washomesick; I wanted to ask him about my mother and father and my sister,who was a baby when I left. I would have given my life to talk with him.But I shook my head.
'"No," I said, "my name is not Brower. You are mistaken."
'Then I walked away and Nemy Brower stayed in his grave.
'Well, two years later we were cruising from Sidney to Van Dieman'sLand. One night there came a big storm. A shipmate was washed away inthe dark. We never saw him again. They found a letter in his box thatsaid his real name was Nehemiah Brower, son of David Brower, of Faraway,NY, USA. I put it there, of course, and the captain wrote a letter to myfather about the death of his son. My old self was near done for andthe man Trumbull had a new lease of life. You see in my madness I hadconvicted and executed myself.
He paused a moment. His mother put her hand upon his shoulder with aword of gentle sympathy. Then he went on.
'Well, six years after I had gone away, one evening in midsummer, wecame into the harbour of Quebec. I had been long in the southern seas.When I went ashore, on a day's leave, and wandered off in the fields andgot the smell of the north, I went out of my head--went crazy for a lookat the hills o' Faraway and my own people. Nothing could stop me then.I drew my pay, packed my things in a bag and off I went. Left the'Burg afoot the day after; got to Faraway in the evening. It wasbeautiful--the scent o' the new hay that stood in cocks and rows on thehill--the noise o' the crickets--the smell o' the grain--the old house,just as I remembered them; just as I had dreamed of them a thousandtimes. And--when I went by the gate Bony--my old dog--came out andbarked at--me and I spoke to him and he knew me and came and licked myhands, rubbing upon my leg. I sat down with him there by the stone walland--the kiss of that old dog--the first token of love I had known foryears' called back the dead and all that had been his. I put my armsabout his--neck and was near crying out with joy.
'Then I stole up to the house and looked in at a window. There satfather, at a table, reading his paper; and a little girl was on herknees by mother saying her prayers. He stopped a moment, covering hiseyes with his handkerchief.
'That was Hope,' I whispered.
'That was Hope,' he went on. 'All the king's oxen could not have draggedme out of Faraway then. Late at night I went off into the woods. The olddog followed to stay with me until he died. If it had not been for himI should have been hopeless. I had with me enough to eat for a time.We found a cave in a big ledge over back of Bull Pond. Its mouth wascovered with briars. It had a big room and a stream of cold watertrickling through a crevice. I made it my home and a fine place itwas--cool in summer and warm in winter. I caught a cub panther that falland a baby coon. They grew up with me there and were the only friends Ihad after Bony, except Uncle Eb.
'Uncle Eb!' I exclaimed.
'You know how I met him,' he continued. 'Well, he won my confidence. Itold him my history. I came into the clearing almost every night. Methim often. He tried to persuade me to come back to my people, but Icould not do it. I was insane; I feared something--I did not know what.Sometimes I doubted even my own identity. Many a summer night I sattalking for hours, with Uncle Eb, at the foot of Lone Pine. O, he waslike a father to me! God knows what I should have done without him.Well, I stuck to my life, or rather to my death, O--there in thewoods--getting fish out of the brooks and game out of the forest, andmilk out of the cows in the pasture. Sometimes I went through the woodsto the store at Tifton for flour and pork. One night Uncle Eb told meif I would go out among men to try my hand at some sort of business hewould start me with a thousand dollars. Well, I did--it. I had alsoa hundred dollars of my own. I came through the woods afoot. Boughtfashionable clothing at Utica, and came to the big city--you know therest. Among men my fear has left me, so I wonder at it. I am a debtor tolove--the love of Uncle Eb and that of a noble woman I shall soon marry.It has made me whole and brought me back to my own people.
'And everybody knew he was innocent the day after he left,' said David.
'Three cheers for Uncle Eb!' I demanded.
And we gave them.
'I declare!' said he. 'In all my born days never see sech fun. It'stree-menjious! I tell ye. Them 'et takes care uv others'll be took careuv--'less they do it o'purpose.'
And when the rest of us had gone to bed Uncle Eb sat awhile by the firewith David. Late at night he came upstairs with his candle. He came overto my bed on tiptoe to see if I were awake, holding the candle above myhead. I was worn out and did not open my eyes. He sat down snickering.
'Tell ye one thing, Dave Brower,' he whispered to himself as he drewoff his boots, 'when some folks calls ye a fool 's a purty good sign yeain't.'
Chapter 45
Since that day I have seen much coming and going.
We are now the old folks--Margaret and Nehemiah and Hope and I. Thoseothers, with their rugged strength, their simple ways, their undyingyouth, are of the past. The young folks--they are a new kind of people.It gives us comfort to think they will never have to sing in choirs or'pound the rock' for board money; but I know it is the worse luckfor them. They are a fine lot of young men and women--comely andwell-mannered--but they will not be the pathfinders of the future. Whatwith balls and dinners and clubs and theatres, they find too great asolace in the rear rank.
Nearly twenty years after that memorable Christmas, coming from Buffaloto New York one summer morning, my thoughts went astray in the northcountry. The familiar faces, the old scenes came trooping by and thatvery day I saw the sun set in Hillsborough as I had often those lateyears.
Mother was living in the old home, alone, with a daughter of GrandmaBisnette. It was her wish to live and die under that roof. She cooked m
ea fine supper, with her own hands, and a great anxiety to please me.
'Come Willie!' said she, as if I were a small boy again, 'you fill thewoodbox an' I'll git supper ready. Lucindy, you clear out,' she said tothe hired girl, good-naturedly. 'You dunno how t'cook for him.'
I filled the woodbox and brought a pail of water and while she wasfrying the ham and eggs read to her part of a speech I had made inCongress. Before thousands I had never felt more elation. At last Iwas sure of winning her applause. The little bent figure stood,thoughtfully, turning the ham and eggs. She put the spider aside, tostand near me, her hands upon her hips. There was a mighty pride in herface when I had finished.
I rose and she went and looked out of the window.
'Grand!' she murmured, wiping her eyes with the corner of herhandkerchief.
'Glad you like it,' I said, with great satisfaction.
'O, the speech!' she answered, her elbow resting on the window sash, herhand supporting her head. 'I liked it very well--but--but I was thinkingof the sunset. How beautiful it is.
I was weary after my day of travel and went early to bed there in my oldroom. I left her finishing a pair of socks she had been knitting forme. Lying in bed, I could hear the creak of her chair and the low sung,familiar words:
'On the other side of Jordan, In the sweet fields of Eden, Where thetree of life is blooming, There is rest for you.
Late at night she came into my room with a candle. I heard her comesoftly to the bed where she stood a moment leaning over me. Then shedrew the quilt about my shoulder with a gentle hand.
'Poor little orphan!' said she, in a whisper that trembled. She wasthinking of my childhood--of her own happier days.
Then she went away and I heard, in the silence, a ripple of measurelesswaters.
Next morning I took flowers and strewed them on the graves of David andUncle Eb; there, Hope and I go often to sit for half a summer day abovethose perished forms, and think of the old time and of those last wordsof my venerable friend now graven on his tombstone:
I AIN'T AFRAID. 'SHAMED O'NUTHIN' I EVER DONE. ALWUSS KEP'MY TUGS TIGHT, NEVER SWORE 'LESS 'TWAS NECESSARY, NEVER KETCHED A FISH BIGGER 'N 'TWAS ER LIED 'N A HOSS TRADE ER SHED A TEAR I DIDN'T HEV TO. NEVER CHEATED ANYBODY BUT EBEN HOLDEN. GOIN' OFF SOMEWHERES, BILL DUNNO THE WAY NUTHER DUNNO 'F IT'S EAST ER WEST ER NORTH ER SOUTH, ER ROAD ER TRAIL; BUT I AIN'T AFRAID.
Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country Page 44
