A Lincoln Conscript Read online

  CHAPTER II

  NEWS FROM GETTYSBURG

  At the first line of the daring parody Rhett Bannister and his sonboth sprang to their feet, the one white with sudden rage, the otherstricken with indignation and alarm. With one step the man reached theedge of the porch, with the next he was down on the path on his way tothe gate, to give physical expression to his wrath. What would havehappened in the road can only be conjectured, had not Bob’s frightenedlittle mother run to the porch-steps and called to her husband:--

  “Rhett, dear! Rhett, don’t! Don’t mind them. Come back, Rhett, dear!”

  The angry man stopped in his headlong passage down the walk. There hadnever been a time in all his married life when the pleading voice ofhis wife had not been sufficient to check any outburst of passion onhis part. Daring and defiant to all the world beside when occasionprompted him, he had always been as tender and gentle with her as inthe days of their courtship. She was down at his side now, one hand onhis arm, trying to soothe his outraged feelings.

  “They’re mere boys, Rhett. They don’t know any better. Some day, whenthey’re older, they’ll regret it. And now you’ll have nothing toregret, Rhett, dear, nothing.”

  Up from the road came a defiant shout:

  “Hurrah for Abe Lincoln!”

  “Down with the copperheads!”

  But, even at the height of his rage, with the taunts and threats of histormentors ringing in his ears, Rhett Bannister turned and took pityon his wife, and led her back to the porch with reassuring words. Theunterrified boys, taking up again their line of march, turned into thecrossroad on their way back to the village, singing:--

  “Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching; Cheer up, comrades, they will come.”

  “I suppose it isn’t worth while,” said the man, seating himself on theporch-steps and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. “The boysare not so much to blame. It’s their parents who instill into theirminds that spirit of intolerance, who deserve to be chastened. Nowyou can see, Robert,” turning to the boy, “the extremes to which theNorthern adherents of Lincoln’s cause carry their hate for those whowill not agree with them.”

  “I know, father, I know. It’s an outrage. They have treated me evenworse than they have you. And yet--and yet I can’t believe Lincoln isto blame for it.”

  For once the defense of Lincoln did not arouse Bannister’s ire. He wastoo deeply interested in what the boy had said of himself.

  “And how have they treated you, Robert? What have they done to you?”

  “Oh, nothing much. Only they say you’re a copperhead, and they--they--”

  “Well?”

  “They think I must be a copperhead, too.”

  “So! Well, it’s not a pretty name, to be sure, but it stands forsomething in these days. And suppose you were a copperhead, what then?”

  “But I’m not. And that’s how they hurt me.”

  “What have they done to you, Robert? What have they said to you? Howhave they hurt you? I want to know.”

  The pitch of anger was back in the man’s voice. He could standpersecution for himself, but to have his loved ones persecuted, thatwas unbearable.

  “Oh, it don’t amount to much,” replied the boy; “they simply didn’twant me, that’s all.”

  “Didn’t want you when? where? how? Tell me, Robert! I say, tell me!”

  It was the last thing the boy would have told to his father voluntarily,the story of the slight put upon him that evening at the village. But,inadvertently, he had stumbled into the mention of it, and now there wasno escape from telling the whole story. He had never learned the art ofequivocation, and it did not take many questionings before the wholehumiliating tale was in his father’s possession. But the outburst ofwrath that the boy had feared did not come. Instead, for many minutes,the man sat silent, looking down at the gray footpath losing itself inthe shadows of the trees. When at last he raised his head, he spokeslowly as if to himself.

  “Poor, weak, wicked human nature! Poor, paltry, fluctuating popularsentiment! Utterly illogical, brutally oppressive, with no mind northought of its own, led hither and thither by charlatans and demagogues‘clothed with a little brief authority.’ Ah! but those men who rule andruin down there at Washington will have much to answer for some day!It may not be until the last great day, but the accounting is bound tocome. Mary,” turning to his wife, “is it better that we should followthe lead of our own minds and consciences, and suffer humiliation andinsult and ostracism; or shall we yield to popular pressure, and hideour sentiments, and go along with the shouting, cheering, mindlessrabble, and shout and cheer with them?”

  “I don’t know, Rhett, dear. I don’t know anything about it. I try tothink it out sometimes, but I get all confused and I stop trying. Youknow Cousin Henry is fighting with Lee, and Cousin Charley is withGrant in Mississippi. So many Kentucky families are divided that way,and it isn’t strange that I should be at a loss to decide. But you’vethought it all out, Rhett, and you must be right, and I’ll think justas you do, no matter what happens to us. Anyway, so long as I haveyou and Robert and Louise I shall try to be happy. Where is Louise? Iforgot all about her. Louise!”

  “Here, mother.”

  The child had retreated to the corner of the porch when the first signof trouble appeared, and, now that the excitement was over, she wastired and sleepy.

  “Come, dearie, it’s long past bedtime. Say good-night to papa andRobert.”

  After that, though Bob and his father sat long upon the porch, therewas no resumption of conversation. Each was immersed in thought, eachwas depressed in spirit, and each went to his bed only to pass arestless and troubled night.

  The next day but one was the Fourth of July. Early in the morning therecame down to the Bannister homestead the dull echo of the firing of thelittle old village heirloom of a cannon, which the boys had draggedup to the top of a ledge back of the town, and with which they wereaccustomed, on Independence Day, to rouse their sleeping neighbors.There was to be a celebration at the village, of course. There had beena celebration on the Fourth of July at Mount Hermon from a time whereofthe memory of the oldest inhabitant ran not to the contrary. There wereto be speeches, the band was to play, the glee club was to sing. Allday, in the basement of the town hall, the young ladies were to sellrefreshments and fireworks for the benefit of the Soldiers’ Relief Fund.

  Yet there was no spirit of cheerfulness or rejoicing in the air.The times were too tense. The strain of conflict was too great. Themightiest battle of the Civil War was on at Gettysburg. For two days,across the streets and up the heights of that quaint Pennsylvaniavillage, the armies of Meade and Lee had clashed and striven with eachother, until the uncovered dead lay by ghastly thousands, and everyhollow in the hillside held its pool of blood. Rumors of victory andrumors of disaster crossed and recrossed each other on the way from thebattle-field to the villages of the North. Mount Hermon hardly knewwhat to believe. She was positive only of this: that two score of hersons were down there in the Army of the Potomac, and that in all humanprobability some of them, many of them indeed, were wounded, dying,dead. Whose husband, son, brother, lover would it prove to be, whoseeyes would never see Mount Hermon’s elms again? No wonder the spirit ofanxiety and fearfulness outweighed that of jubilant patriotism on thisday.

  All the morning the news had been sifting little by little into thevillage. Toward noon it was certain that out of the stress and horrorof a mighty battle had come distinct victory for the Union armies. Leewas crushed, there was no doubt of that. His broken ranks were alreadyin retreat, that too was well assured. From some quarter also came arumor that Grant, who had been for weeks thundering at the gates ofVicksburg, had broken them down at last, had occupied the city, andthat Pemberton’s army was his. Yet Mount Hermon did no loud rejoicing.She waited impatiently for confirmation of the news, anxiously forthe list of dead and wounded. At two o’clock the stage would come,bringing the mail and the morning papers. As the hour approached,
thecrowd about the post-office grew greater. Not a jubilant crowd, just awaiting, hoping, fearing, intensely earnest concourse of the people ofMount Hermon.

  Into this gathering strode Rhett Bannister. It was imprudent andfoolhardy for him to come, and he should have known it. Indeed, he didknow it. But during the two nights and a day that had passed since theslight put on his boy, since the sons of his neighbors had insulted himat his own home, he had thought much. And the more he thought, the moredeeply wounded became his pride, the more restlessly he chafed underthe humiliating yoke that had been forced on him, the more defiantlyhe determined to assert his right to think for himself and to expresssuch opinions as he saw fit concerning public affairs. He felt that hewas as much of a patriot, that he had the interest of his country asdeeply at heart as any resident of Mount Hermon. Why then should hesubmit tamely to humiliation and ostracism and maltreatment? And if hechose to go where he had a right to go, on the highway, through thevillage streets, to the government post-office, to the public gatheringin celebration of a day which was as dear to his heart as to the heartof any citizen of the town, why in the name of liberty should he notgo? Let the rabble say what they would, he felt that he could defendhimself, by word of mouth, with his strong right arm, if necessary,against any blatant demagogue or blind political partisan who mightchoose to set upon him. In this frame of mind he started for thevillage, and in this frame of mind he strode into that group of tense,anxious, patriotic men and women waiting for the news.

  There were few who greeted him as he pushed his way to the post-officewindow, and called for his mail. The postmaster handed out to him twopapers and a letter. He tore off the end of the envelope, drew out thescrap of paper which had been inclosed, and looked at it. Then hisface turned red with anger. Some mischievous, malicious busybody hadsent him an anonymous epistle: a crudely penciled picture, a libelousscrawl beneath it, the whole a coarse thrust at his alleged disloyalty.If this had been intended as a joke, he could not have taken it assuch. But it was no joke. To him, indeed, it was simply a coarse,brutal, wanton attack on his manhood and patriotism. It started thefires of rage burning with sevenfold heat in his heart. He lifted hisblazing eyes to find half the people in the little room staring athim, some wonderingly, some exultingly. Out by the doorway there was asuppressed chuckle. No one spoke. If Bannister had been content to holdhis peace, there would have been no trouble. But he could not do that.Only death could have sealed his lips in that moment. He held up thecoarse cartoon, with its equally coarse inscription, for the crowd tolook at. Then he said, speaking deliberately:--

  “I observe that you have found a new way to fight the battles of youralleged country.”

  For a moment no one replied. Then, from the farther side of the roomcame the voice of Sergeant Goodman, home on furlough, wounded.

  “To whom are you speaking, Rhett Bannister?”

  And the reply came, hot and swift:--

  “To the coward who sent me this work of art; to you who aided andabetted him, and to all of you who take your cue from the Federalgovernment at Washington, and persecute in every mean and malicious waythose who do not believe in wholesale murder in the South and who arenot afraid to say so in the North.”

  “I don’t know anything about your letter and picture, Bannister,” saidthe sergeant, “but we who are doing the fighting believe in the Federalgovernment at Washington, we believe that we are carrying on a justwar, and we believe that if it were not for you and the rest of yourbackbiting, disloyal, copperhead crew here in the North, who are givingaid and sympathy to the rebels of the South, we would have had this warended a year ago.”

  “Give it to him, sergeant!” cried an enthusiastic listener; “let himunderstand that it ain’t healthy for traitors around here.”

  “I’m no traitor,” responded Bannister hotly. “I think as much of mycountry as you do of yours. I’ll give more to-day, in proportion to mymeans, to secure an honorable peace between North and South than anyother man in this room.”

  “Hon’able peace!” shouted a gray-haired man indignantly. “Dishon’ablesurrender you mean. You want the govament to back down, don’t ye, an’acknowledge the corn, an’ let Jeff Davis hev his own way, an’ make apresent to ’em o’ the hull South an’ half the North to boot, don’t ye?An’ tell ’em they done right to shoot down the ol’ flag on Fort Sumter,an’ tell ’em ’at Abe Lincoln’s a fool an’ a fraud an’ a murderer,don’t ye? don’t ye?”

  “That estimate of Abraham Lincoln is not far from right, my friend,”replied Bannister. “For it is only a fool and a knave, and a man withthe spirit of Cain in his heart, that would plunge his country intoruin and keep her there; that would send you, Sergeant Goodman, andyou, Henry Bradbury, and all of us who may be drawn in the accursedconscription that is coming, down to slaughter, without cause, ourbrothers of the South.”

  “Look here, Rhett Bannister!”

  This was the voice of Henry Bradbury. He stood against the wall with anempty sleeve hanging at his side, telling mutely of Antietam and Libby.“You can’t talk that way about Abe Lincoln here. We don’t want to hurtyou, but there’s some of us who’ve been in the army, an’ who love oldAbe, an’ who won’t stand an’ hear him slandered; do you hear!”

  “Oh, lynch him!” yelled a shrill voice. “Lynch him, an’ have done withit. He deserves it!”

  “No, tar an’ feather him an’ send him where Old Abe sent Vallandigham,down among his rebel friends!” cried another.

  People were crowding into the little lobby of the post-office,attracted by the sound of angry voices, curious to see and hear, readyfor any sensation that might befall. Up near the box-window, white withanger, not with fear, stood Rhett Bannister with clenched hands. Infront of him were a score of indignant men, ready at the next instant,if wrought to it, to do him bodily harm.

  Then old Jeremiah Holloway, the postmaster, puffing and perspiringwith his three hundred pounds, came out from his side door and rappedagainst the wall with his cane.

  “This won’t do, gentlemen!” he said. “I can’t have a riot in a govamentpost-office. You’ll have to git outside an’ have your fun if you wantit. I ain’t protectin’ no copperheads. But I’m goin’ to protect myproperty an’ Uncle Sam’s if I have to knock down every one of you.Besides, the stage’s a-comin’ an’ you got to make way for the UnitedStates mail.”

  Holloway’s appeal for the protection of his property might or mightnot have had the desired effect, but his announcement of the arrivalof the stage called the attention of the crowd to the approach of afour-horse vehicle, already half-way down the square, and people surgedout to meet it. For by the stage came papers, letters from the seatof war, sometimes soldiers on furlough, and this afternoon it broughtalso the speaker of the day, an eloquent young lawyer from the countytown, who had already seen service at the front. The band struck upa patriotic air and marched, playing, across to the platform on thegreen, followed by the girls and boys. The older people remained atthe post-office to get their mail. Passengers by stage confirmed thenews of the victory at Gettysburg, hotly fought for, dearly bought,but a victory nevertheless. They also brought more definite rumors ofGrant’s probable success at Vicksburg. The letters were distributed anddelivered. There were few from the front. The boys who were with Meadehad had no opportunity to write that week. But the newspapers werealready in the hands of eager readers, men with pale faces, women withpounding hearts.

  “Listen to this!” said Adam Johns, the schoolmaster. “Here’s what the_Tribune_ says: ‘Pickett’s division of Longstreet’s corps crossed theplain in splendid marching order, driving our skirmishers before them.At the Emmitsburg road they met the first serious resistance. But theystormed the stone fence which formed our barricade, and swept on up thehill under a galling fire from our rifles in front and our artillery ontheir flank, closing in and marching over their thousands of fallen, upinto and over our shallow rifle-pits, overpowering our troops, not onlyby the momentum, but as well by the daring of their desper
ate charge.And that charge was met by resistance just as stubborn, by bravery asgreat, by daring as magnificent. From this moment the fighting wasterrible. They were on our guns, bayoneting our gunners, waving theirflags above our pieces, yelling the victory they believed they had won.But now came the crisis. They had gone too far, they had penetrated toodeeply into our lines. They had exposed themselves to a storm of grapeand canister from our guns on the western slope of Cemetery Hill, and,Pettigrew’s supporting division having broken and fled, our flankingcolumns began to close in on their rear. Then came twenty minutes ofthe bloodiest fighting of the war. Gaylord’s regiment of Pennsylvaniafarmers struck Pickett’s extreme left and doubled and crushed it in afierce encounter. But it was done at an awful sacrifice. Brackett’scompany alone lost twenty-three of its men, and every sergeant, andBrackett himself was killed in a hand-to-hand encounter with a rebelrifleman--’”

  The reader paused, lifted his eyes, and looked fearfully around thelittle room, peering into the strained faces turned toward him.

  “She ain’t here,” said a voice from the crowd.

  “God help Martha Brackett!” added another.

  But there was a woman there, poorly dressed, pale and shrunken fromrecent illness, scanning, with dreading eyes, the lists of dead,wounded, missing, with which columns of the paper some one had givenher were filled. In the midst of the confusion of voices following theannouncement of Brackett’s heroic charge and fall, there was a shrillscream, the paper fell from the nerveless hand of the woman in poorclothes, and she fell, white and insensible, to the floor.

  “She saw her boy’s name in the list of killed,” said one who had beenlooking over her shoulder as she read. Others lifted the poor, limpbody and carried the stricken woman into the fresh air to await her sadreturn to consciousness.

  And all this time Rhett Bannister, standing defiantly in his corner,holding his peace, watching the grim tragedies that were being enactedaround him, dread echoes of that mighty tragedy of battle, felt thesurging tide of indignation rising higher and higher in his breast,until, at last, unable longer to keep rein on his tongue, he criedout:--

  “I charge Abraham Lincoln and the Abolition leaders at Washington withthe death of George Brackett and the murder of Jennie Lebarrow’s son!”

  Then, Sergeant Goodman, home on furlough, wounded, strode forth andgrasped the collar of Bannister’s coat, and before he could shakehimself free, or defend himself in any way, others had seized hishands, and bound his wrists together behind his back, and then they ledhim forth, helpless, mute with unspeakable rage.

  “What shall we do with him?” asked one.

  “Rush him to the platform!” cried another.

  And almost before he knew it, Bannister had been tossed up on thespeaker’s stand and thrown into a chair, and was being held there, anobject of execration to the crowd that surrounded him. He was not cowedor frightened. But he was dumb with indignation that his rights and hisperson had been so shamelessly outraged. White-faced, hatless, withtorn coat and disheveled hair, he sat there breathing hate and lookingdefiance at his captors and tormentors.

  “If this had been in some countries,” said the young orator, lookingscornfully down on him, “you would now be dangling at the end of a ropethrown over the limb of that big maple yonder, and willing hands wouldbe pulling you into eternity.”

  “And if this were in some communities,” retorted Bannister, “you wouldbe tried and convicted and legally hanged for inciting an ignorant andbrutal populace to riot and murder.”

  A tall, dignified, white-haired old gentleman, who had been scribblingon a pad, now advanced to the edge of the platform, holding a sheet ofpaper in one hand, and resting the other easily in the bosom of hispartly buttoned frock-coat.

  “Mr. Chairman,” he said impressively, “I rise to offer the followingresolution, which I hope will be adopted without a dissenting voice.

  “_Whereas_, Rhett Bannister, a resident of Mount Hermon township, andan avowed enemy of Abraham Lincoln and the government at Washington,has publicly affronted the patriotism and decency of this communitythis day;

  “_Therefore_, be it resolved that we, the citizens of Mount Hermon,hereby express our indignation and horror at his conduct, and declarethat he has forfeited all right to his citizenship among us, and toany consideration on our part, and that henceforth he shall be and ishereby utterly ostracized, repudiated, and detested by the citizensof Mount Hermon, and that we use all legal measures to drive him indisgrace from our community.

  “Mr. Chairman, I move the adoption of that resolution.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the chairman, “you have heard JudgeMorgan’s resolution, and the motion for its adoption. Is the motionseconded?”

  A hundred persons vied with one another for the honor of being firstto second it, and a great, tumultuous chorus of “Aye!” indicated itspassage by an overwhelming and unanimous vote.

  “And now,” inquired the chairman, “what shall be done with theprisoner?”

  “Drive him home with his hands tied, and let the band play him out oftown to the Rogues’ March!” cried one.

  Whereupon the crowd shouted its enthusiastic approval of thesuggestion. And in another moment, helpless as he was, Bannister waspulled from his chair and from the platform, and a dozen willing handsturned his face toward home.

  Then, suddenly, a woman stood beside him, and the resolute voice ofSarah Jane Stark was heard:--

  “Gentlemen, don’t you think you’re going a little bit too far?”