 8. As a man thinketh in his heart. When Mary recovered consciousness it was to find herself lying in Nanny's own bed and her friend beside her. For a moment she did not remember what had happened, and then the full flood-tide of recollection swept over her mind. She buried her head on Nanny's bosom and sobbed out her story. "'Never mind,' said Nanny. "'Never mind. You're going to come here and stay with me. That's what you're going to do. No hard-hearted fathers are going to bother you. That's what they're not. Say what you will. There is always something of the child left in every woman, and though the soft-hearted girl talked and cooed to Mary as she would have done to a restless child, the heartbroken woman was soothed by it. Don't you think father ought to understand, Nanny? It isn't because Robert is a copperhead or a rebel, whichever he is, that I love him, but in spite of it.' Mary, said Nanny, and her voice was meditative and her face dreamy. Don't you know there never was a man yet who knew how or why a woman loved? A new wisdom, a half-playful wisdom, though it was, seemed to have come to the girl. Some women never grow clear-sighted until their eyes are opened to the gray form of an oncoming sorrow. Nanny was of this class. But, she went on laughing, it's all the fault of Father Adam. Men are so much the sons of their fathers, and it all comes of giving him the first woman, while he was asleep, and not letting him know when or how. And yet men do love, said Mary, seriously. Oh, of course they love, but the girl's eyes met, and both of them blushed. It won't last long anyhow, Mary. So what's the use of being sad? Let's talk about them. Nanny cuddled down close to the bed. About whom was the deceitful question? Oh, you minks, you know whom? What's the use of asking? I wonder where Tom is tonight. It's hard telling, they've been delaying them so much along the road. I don't think it's right at all. They rush them off toward Washington, and I think they ought to be allowed to get there. How's a man going to distinguish himself if he can't get anywhere within sight of the enemy? I haven't your spirit, Nanny. I wish I had. I forget all about distinction. I only wonder how it's all going to turn out, and if those I love are coming back to me. Oh, Mary, don't be like that. Of course they're coming back. Tom and Robb and all of them, and we're going to be happy again, and there won't be any such names called as copperhead and rebel and abolitionist. Let me show you what I've made for Tom. I'd have given it to him before he went away, but it was also sudden. Oh, my! And for an instant the girl dropped her chin upon her hands and sat staring into Mary's eyes without seeing her. Then she sprang up and darted away. In a few minutes she returned, bearing with her some mysterious piece of feminine handiwork over which the two fell into the sweet confidences so dear to their age and sex. Nanny, light and frivolous as she seemed, had a deep purpose in her mind. She saw clearly that the serious, not to say morbid cast, of Mary's character would drive her to lay too much importance upon her father's act, and so perhaps let it prove more injurious to her than was necessary. Without Mary's depth she saw more clearly than Bradford Waters' daughter that a little space of madness was at hand, and every deed had to be judged not by its face alone, but by its face as affected by the surrounding atmosphere, just as the human countenance shows ghastly in one light and ruddy in another without really changing. So she strove to draw her companion's thought away from her sorrows and to avert the dangers she anticipated. She succeeded only in part. After a while Mary fell into a light sleep, but on the morrow she awoke with a raging fever. The strain on her nerves had been too great, and she had succumbed to it. At the first intimation of danger to his daughter Nanny had bid her father hasten to notify Bradford Waters. It's no use, said Nathan Woods. Waters is more set in his views than any man I ever saw. If he believes that he had reason to send her out of his house, not even death itself could take her back there unless those reasons were destroyed. I know Bradford Waters, and he's a hard man. But the young woman insisted, and as usual, had her way. Her father went to Waters. There was not much tact or finesse about his approach. He found his neighbor sitting down to a lonely breakfast, and after depositing his hat on the floor after an embarrassed silence he began. Kind of lonesome, eh? These are no times for men to be lonesome. The Lord makes every loyal man a host in himself. That's good, and yet it isn't the kind of host that crowds on each other's toes and cracks jokes to keep the time agon. You're irreverent, Nathan, and besides, this is no time to be cracking jokes. The hour has come when the cracking of rifles is the only thing. I didn't mean to be irreverent, and I'm afraid you don't understand. I've come for your own good, Waters. The little girl sent me. Don't you think you're doing wrong? No. As the God of battles is my judge, no. Waters' eyes were blazing, and he had forgotten his breakfast. Your daughter is at my house, and she is sick, very sick. I have no daughter. God gave you one. He also said that a house divided against itself cannot stand. What of that? My house is my son Tom and myself. What of your daughter Mary? Waters turned upon him, his sad bright eyes, sad in spite of their hardness. If thy right hand offended, cut it off, he said, with a slashing gesture. That's not right, said Nathan Woods. It's not right, I say, to be using the scripture to stand between you and your daughter. I have no daughter. The daughter I had has gone out after other gods than mine. The old New England fanaticism, the puritanical intolerance, was strong in the man. My God exclaimed his opposer, quit mutilating the Bible to bolster up your own pride. Mary's sick. She's sick enough to die, maybe. If she die away from home, it is God's will. Perhaps his punishment, said Waters solemnly. Is it Jephthah and his daughter? No, it is David and Absalom. Nathan Woods got up. He looked long and hard at his old friend. Then taking his hat from the floor, he started for the door. There he paused. And the war has done this, he said slowly. Well, Bradford, I say, damn the war. The lonely father sat down again to his breakfast, but the food disgusted him. Mary, sick and away from home, what would Tom say? What would Tom have done? But then the memory of the whole wrong she had done him and her brother came back upon the old man, and he shut his teeth hard. It was a crime. It was treason. Let her go her way, and die among the people who are willing to condone her faults. He could not. It was not flesh and blood, but soul and spirit that counted now. It was not that the South had touched his body, and that Mary had sided with them. It was that a rebellious section had touched not his soul, but the soul of his country, and his daughter had bade them Godspeed. This was the unforgivable thing. This was the thing that put the girl outside the pale of parental pardon. So thinking, he rose from the table and went out of the disordered house. Dora Berry was a town of just the size where anyone's business is everyone else's. So it was an impossibility that the breach between Mary and her father should long remain a secret. A half dozen neighbors knew the story an hour after the doctor had left Nathan Woods' door and had told it in varying degrees of incorrectness. One gossip said that Water's daughter had sought to elope with Robert Vandoren, had even got as far as the railway station when her father had found her and brought her back. She was now imprisoned at the woods with nanny to watch her. Another knew on good authority that Mary had denounced the union, declared her intention of doing all she could to aid the Confederacy, and had then fled from home to escape from her father's just wrath. An East Crowder's story of the affair in the sewing circle gave color to this view of the case. Still another, however, told how Robert Vandoren's sweetheart, mad for love of him, and crazed at the choice he had made, went wandering about the streets until friendly hands took her to nanny's door. One man had helped to take her there. So the rumors flew from lip to lip like shuttlecocks, and the story grew with the telling of it. It would have been strange then if it had not reached the ears of the Vandoren's. Indeed, it came to them on the first morning. Stephen Vandoren chuckled, You're making a great stir for one poor copperhead, he said to his son. You've made the wolf stir in the water sheepfold. If you'll only cause the Yankees as much trouble when you have a musket in your hand, I shall have reason to be proud of my son. Robert turned angrily upon his father. I wish you wouldn't talk that way about the matter, father. I don't like all this talk about Mary, and I wish I could stop it. If the girl is suffering on account of loyalty to me, God bless her. It's as little as my father could do to speak respectfully of her sacrifice. You do not understand me, Robert. I do not laugh at the girl. It is at her father and his folly that I laugh. My love for his daughter makes the father sacred to me. It must be a very strong love that makes Bradford water sacred. My love for Mary is deeper and stronger than any political prejudice that you or I might have. Very well, Bob. Very well. Go your own way. My business is not with your love, but with your politics. If the latter be all right, I shall not worry about the forma. Robert Van Doran spent little time after hearing of Mary's illness, but he took himself immediately to her door. Nanny met him and drew him inside. I am so sorry she began before he could tell his errand, but you cannot see her. She is very sick and excitable. Oh, Robert, isn't it awful, this war and all that it is bringing to us? I wish it were over. Is Mary delirious? At times, and when she isn't, we could almost wish she were. She is so piteous. Her father has been hard upon her. Yes, that's because he's delirious, too. Everyone is mad. You and I and all of us. When shall we come to our senses? God knows. Will you give Mary this? He drew off his glove and laid it in Nanny's hand. Tell her it is forbidden me to say goodbye to her, but I leave this as a pledge, and when I may, I shall come back and redeem it. There were tears on Nanny's face as he turned toward the door. With an impulsive movement, she sprang forward and laid her hand on his arm. You may kiss me, she said, and I will bear it to her and place it on her lips as you would have done. Robert paused and bent over her lips as he might have done over Mary's, and then with a wave of his hand he was gone and the door behind him closed. Nanny turned and went to Mary's room where she laid the glove on the pillow beside the pale face of the unconscious girl. Her brow was fevered and her hair disheveled, and every now and then incoherent words forced themselves between her parched lips. I might have let him see her for a minute, but it was better not to. He would only have gone away with the misery of it in his heart. Then Nanny stooped and kissed her friend's lips. There, Mary, she said, it's from him. Oh, my dear, dear girl, if your father could see you now, I believe even his heart would melt towards you. But Bradford Warders was not to see her then. With bowed head and slow steps, eaten by grief, anger, and anxiety, he made his way towards the tobacco warehouse where he spent a large part of the day among his employees. The place had never seemed quite the same to him since the first day Tom had been absent from his desk. He was thinking of him now as he went cheerlessly along. What a head for business the boy had. How much more of a success he would be than ever his father had been. How the men loved him already. It was no wonder that Mary, but Mary, he checked his thoughts and set his teeth hard. There was no Mary, no sister anymore. She had broken the tie that bound her to Tom and him. He said this to himself because he did not know how women wrench and tear their hearts to keep from breaking ties that war with each other. He was absorbed in such thoughts when someone hailed him from a doorway. What news said a gentleman stepping out and joining him in his walk? No news, except of delay, said Waters in a dissatisfied tone. Where is the gallant first now? There were already the gallant first, although they had not yet got within powder-smelling distance of the enemy. The gallant first is being delayed and played with somewhere between Columbus and Washington. Why should that be? It all comes of electing a gentleman governor. Why now, Waters? said Davies, smilingly, there is surely no objection to a governor's being a gentleman. There is some objection to his being nothing else. You remind me a good deal of the Methodist and the Devil. Whatever bad happens, they are never at a loss to know where to put the blame. I sometimes think that maybe the devil is painted a little black, and likewise maybe Denison isn't to blame for everything that goes wrong in the handling of this situation. Waters took this sally with none too good a grace. Davies was suspected of being lukewarm in the Union cause, and some had even accused him of positive Southern sympathies. He was a wealthy, polished, easygoing man, and his defense of Governor Denison, whose acts everyone felt free to blame at that time, was more because he sympathized with that gentleman's aristocratic taste and manners than because he wished delay to the progress of the Union's forces. So you think it's Denison who's delaying the troops, do you? He went on in a light bantering tone. I think nothing about it. I only know that our boys went rushing away to the state capital, and under the impression that Washington was menaced, were sent flying east, half equipped, and totally unprepared for the conflict. And I do know that despite their haste, they have not reached their destination yet, for which of course the devil is to blame. Whoever is to blame, this is no time for a banqueting, bowing, speech-making governor. We need a man of action in the chair now if we ever did. Look how things are going at Columbus. Troops flocking there, no provision made for them, half of them not knowing whether they are to be accepted or not, and the dandy who calls himself the chief executive sits there and writes letters, my God, what have we come to? Have you ever thought that even a governor needs time to adjust himself to a great crisis? Is it not true that the authorities of the general government insisted on the regiment in which your son's company is placed going directly to Washington? Then why are they not there, instead of dallying about heaven knows where, while a lot of other fellows are being quartered at the Columbus hotels at extortionate prices which the taxpayers must pay. Are you measuring your patriotism by dollars and cents? I'm measuring my patriotism by the greatest gift that anyone could make to his country, his only son. Have you an equal measure? No, but I have some confidence in my state and my country's officers, and that is worth something in a time like this. Now don't get hot in the collar waters, but you wait a while and give Denison and the government time. Yes, wait, wait, that's been the cry right along. Wait until every road this side of the capital of the country is blocked, and from Maryland and Virginia, the rebels march victorious into Washington. Don't talk to me of waiting, Davies. We have waited too long already. That's what's the matter. Davies laughed lightly as he turned down the street, which led to his own office. Bradford Waters' intemperance was a great index of the spirit of the time as it was manifested in Ohio. Governor Denison was too slow for the radicals, too swift for the conservatives, and incompetent in the opinion of both. Nothing could happen except what was good. Nothing could go wrong but that he was blamed for it. All the men who volunteered could not be accepted, and Denison was to blame. The soldiers were delayed en route, and Denison was to blame. Rations were scarce, and prices high, and Denison was to blame. And so all the odium that attaches to a great war, which strikes the people unprepared for it, fell upon the head of the hapless executive. CHAPTER IX. OF THE FANATICS. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Butros. THE FANATICS. By Paul Lawrence Dunbar. CHAPTER IX. A LETTER FROM THE FRONT. In the days which followed the separation between Mary and himself, Bradford Waters was indeed a lonely man. He was harassed not only by the breach with the child he loved, and the public comments upon it, but torn with anxiety for Tom. He spent his days and nights in brooding that made him harder and bitterer as time went on. His fanatical dislike for Stephen Van Doren grew because this man and his family seemed to him the author of all his woes. He was not only just a copperhead now, with a son in the Confederate Army. He stood as the personification of the whole body of rebellion that had taken Waters' son and daughter and broken up his home. He could have no pride in his soldier-boy without cursing Van Doren for being one of those who had driven him into danger. He could not grieve for the loss of Mary without sending his implications flying in the same direction. Always to his distorted vision, his old-time enemy appeared as some relentless monster grinning in terrible glee at his distress. Despite his moroseness, however, there was a wistful, almost plaintive attitude in Waters' conduct towards his acquaintances. He hovered between moods of grief, anxiety, and pride. But always at the last the innate hardness of his nature triumphed. There were times when his heart cried out for Mary, for some one of his blood to share his grief with him. But he closed his lips and uttered no word to bring her back to him. Always a simple living man, accustomed to no service, saved that of his own family. He was compelled to employ a servant, and this galled him, not out of penoriousness, but because he could not bear an alien in his home. He felt her eyes upon him at moments when it seemed that the struggle in his heart must be written large upon his face, and it filled him with dumb, helpless anger. A change, too, was taking place in Van Doran. Now that he had a son in the field, he had a new feeling for his friend and enemy. Besides being a partisan, he was a father, and the paternal instinct prompted him to change his actions towards Waters. Had the two old men let themselves, they would have poured out their fears, hopes, and anxieties to each other, and found relief and sympathy. Both affectionate fathers, similarly bereft of sons, and similarly alone, they might have been a comfort to each other, but that their passions forbade their fraternizing. Often they met upon the streets, and Van Doran would look at Waters with a question in his eyes. It would have been such a natural thing to say, any news of Tom? And to be asked in the same tone, what of Bob? But Waters always scowled fiercely, although he kept his head averted. So each, smothering down the yearning in his heart for companionship and sympathy, passed on his way with a curb bit on his emotions. It was about this time that dispatches from the front gave warning that a sharp, though brief encounter had taken place between the rebels and a detachment of troops under General Schenck. The news ran like wildfire through Dorberry, for it was at first rumored and then assured that the first, to which the home company belonged, had been engaged and had lost several men. Every home out of which a husband, son, or father had gone, waited with breathless expectancy, longing yet dreading to hear more definite tidings from the field. The people about every fireside clustered closer together with blanched faces, wondering if their circle had been touched. This was war indeed, and with the first fear for their loved ones came the first realization of what it really meant. At first Bradford Waters tried hard to restrain himself. He gripped his hands hard and paced up and down the room, but finally he could stand it no longer. The house had grown close and unbearable. Its walls seemed to be narrowing in upon him like the sides of a torture chamber. He hurried out into the street and into the telegraph office. There was no further news. Then to the office of the one remaining paper. Their bulletin furnished nothing further. For two hours he paced back and forth between these two places, feverish and disturbed. Then Doran saw him pass back and forth on his anxious tramp, and his own heart interpreted the others' feelings. Once the impulse came to him to speak to Waters, and he rose from the window where he had been sitting and went to the door. But the crazed man turned upon him such a gray haggard face and with all so fierce and unfriendly that he retreated from his good intentions and let him pass on unchallenged. The next day the news was better. The paper said that the casualties had been almost nothing. Waters' hopes rose, and he showed a more cheerful face to those who saw him. Maybe Tom was safe after all. Maybe he had been gallant in action and would be promoted. His heart throbbed with joy and pride as if what he wished were already a fact. It is a strange thing about home people in wartime that after the first pang of anxiety is over, the very next thought is one of ambition. They seem all to see but two contingencies for their loved ones, death or promotion. It happened that there was not a single engagement of the war, however small or insignificant, but it gave some home circle a thrill of hope that one who is dear to them might have moved up a notch in the notice and respect of his country. It was not narrowness nor was it the lust for personal advancement. It was rather the desire of those who give of their best to serve a beloved cause, to have them serve it in the highest and most responsible position possible. Meanwhile, to Mary slowly recovering her strength and balance had come much of the anxiety which wracked her father. With the inconsistent faith of a woman, she said that God could not have let her brother fall in this first fight, and she prayed that he might be restored to them safe. And even before the breath of her declaration and prayer had cooled on her lips, she wept as she pictured him dead on the roadside. Later it is true these people's hearts came to be so schooled in the terrible lessons of civil war that they let such light skirmishes as this one at Vienna give them little uneasiness. But then they did not know. Bradford Warder's great joy came to him two days after the papers had lightened his care. There was a list of the wounded and killed, and Tom's name was not among them. Then came his letter. Dear father, it ran. I suppose you've been in horrible suspense about me, and a good deal of it is my fault. But when a fellow is learning entirely new things, among them how to write without any sort of writing materials under the sun, it isn't easy, is it? Then too, I've been trying to learn to be a soldier. It's awfully different, this being a militiamen and a soldier. In the first place, a militiamen may curse his governor, a soldier must not. It's been hard refraining, but I haven't cursed Denison as I wanted to. Some of the fellows say he's all right, but we've been delayed on the way here by first one thing and then another until the patience of all of us is worn out. If it isn't Governor Denison's fault, who's is it? I wish you'd find out. We fellows don't know and can't find out anything. The generals just take us wherever they please and never consult us about anything. But I'm used to that now. Of course, you've heard about the trouble at Vienna, and I was afraid you'd be considerably worried. It wasn't anything much. Only it was different from a muster day. Some rebels fired on our train unexpectedly, but we tumbled out helter-skelter and fired back at them, and so they let us alone. It didn't seem quite fair to jump on a fellow when he wasn't looking, but I guess this is war. There isn't a thing to do about Washington these days. It's as safe as a meeting-house. There are some New York troops here that I have got acquainted with, but we don't any of us do anything but look pretty. Some of the fellows are already looking forward to the mustering-out day, but mustered out or not, I'm going to hang around here, for there's no telling when things are going wrong. And for my part, I expect more trouble. A set of fellows who will fire on their own flag as they did at Sumter are perfectly capable of lying low until they quiet our suspicions, and then raising the very dickens. Give Mary my love, and tell her she ought to see Washington and all the pretty girls here that cheer us as we go along the streets. Tell her to read this part of the letter to Nanny. I'm going to write her anyway in a day or two, but now it's all go, go, go. Learn, learn, learn. Take care of yourself, Father, or rather let Mary take care of you, for you would never think of it. I'll write you again when I get a chance. Your son, Tom. Bradford Waters could have wept for joy over his son's letter, but that he felt weeping to be unworthy of a soldier's father. The battle of Vienna had been fought, and his son had come out safe. He thought of it as a thermopylae when it was only a petty skirmish. A few rebels fired at a few unionists who lined themselves up against their cars and returned the fire. This was all, but he preferred to think of his son as one of a band of heroes who, at great odds, had repelled the assailants of their country's flag, and held the day against armed treason. One thing grieved him greatly, the reference to Mary. He could not tell her, nor talk it over with her. She take care of him. What would her brother think if he knew how they were living, and he was going to write to Nanny? Would she not tell him all? And what encouragement would this be to the boy in the field when he knew how matters were going at home? Bradford Waters' hand trembled, and the letter burned in his fingers. Notwithstanding his perplexity, when Waters appeared on the streets that day, Stephen Van Doren, seeing him, did not need to inquire to know that the unionist had received a welcome letter from his son, and secretly he rejoiced at it. Knowing as he did that the time would come when anxiety for his own boy would tear at his heart, he could not begrudge the other man his joy. He was pleased, too, because as he passed Waters and looked into his beaming face, there seemed almost an inclination on his part to stop and speak. Indeed, the old unionist did want to stop and say, Stephen, I've heard from Tom, and he's all right. He did not, and the repression only made him long the more for Mary. He wanted her to see his letter, to know that her brother was being cheered by the women of Washington, and to feel what he felt. But would she feel so? Had not her heart already gone too strongly to the other side? The question came again to him, and he hardened again in face of it. He would not tell her, nor send the letter to her, she was a traitor. But he would let her know that he had received it. So that afternoon he talked much of his letter in the places where men congregate, and told what Tom had said, and Mary heard of it from others, and burned with eagerness. That night, as soon as darkness had fallen, eluding Nanny's vigilance, she crept out of the house, she made her way to her own home, and back and forth before the door she walked and kept vigil. Maybe her father would see her, and come out and tell her more of Tom. Maybe he would understand and forgive her, and she could go back to him again. But she wished in vain, and after a time, her heart unsatisfied, she went back to Nanny's, and silently let herself in. It was after midnight when waters crept out of his house, and with feverish steps made his way to the wood's door. For a long time he walked up and down before the place, even as Mary had done. And then, as if struck with a sudden determination, he opened the gate, and going to the door, slipped the letter under it. Then he turned away home, feeling lighter and better, because he had shared his joy with his daughter. CHAPTER X It was of a peace with the proverbial blindness of men that Nathan Woods should have stepped over the letter as he went out in the morning without taking note of it. Just as it was natural to the keen sight of woman that Nanny should see it the first thing as she came down in the morning. She ran swiftly towards it and cast her eye over the address. At first she gasped, then she awoke the echoes with a joyous shriek and went flying up to Mary's room. Mary sat up in bed in dumb amazement which was only increased when the enthusiastic girl threw her arms about her and began sobbing and laughing alternately. Oh, Mary, she cried, it's come, it's come, and he's all right. What is it, Nanny? What's come, and who's all right? Your father's been here. Oh, my father, when? What did he say? Nothing. Oh, I didn't see him. He didn't say anything. I don't understand you, Nanny. You say my father didn't say anything at all? Why, how could he? He came at night, and he didn't say anything because he couldn't, you know? We were all asleep, but he left this. She broke off her violent demonstrations long enough to thrust the letter into Mary's hand. Then she immediately resumed them with such a degree of fervor that her friend found it impossible to get a glimpse of the missive she held in her hand. Gently at last she put her hand aside and then trembling with anticipation glanced at the letter. Her face fell. But this is not addressed to me, she said. Oh, you great goose, don't you see that it's to your father and from Tom and that he wanted you to know? Else why should he have slipped it under the door? Do you think he did it, really? Of course he did. Who else? He couldn't lose it crawling into our hallway, and that's the only other way it could have got there. I wonder if I ought to read it, mused Mary, fingering the envelope eagerly but nervously. Mary Waters exclaimed, Nanny, if you don't read that letter this instant, I'll take it from you and read it myself. That's right, do Nanny, you're braver than I am. And Mary proffered the letter. But Nanny sprang back with sudden timidity. No, I won't, she said. It's for you, but if it were my brother's letter I'd have read it long before now. Well, I'll read it if you'll stay and hear it. And she took the pencil cheats out and began the perusal of the words, which had brought so much joy to her father's heart. As she read, the color came back to her faded cheeks and the light to her eyes. Her bosom heaved with pleasure and pride. Nanny was no less delighted. As the reading went on, she continued to give Mary little encouraging hugs, and she was radiant. Then came the passage about the girls. Huh! said Nanny. Is that all a soldier has to write about? I should think he'd be thinking more about the safety of his country than about the girls he sees. Oh, you know he's only funny, Nanny. And then he says Washington's as safe as a meeting-house. I don't believe it. I believe the rebels are waiting to swoop down on the city at any time and capture all our state papers and archives and things wherever they keep them, while our soldiers go around looking pretty for the girls to cheer. Huh! Mary kissed her and laughed, and the rest of the reading proceeded without demonstrations from Tom's sweetheart. At its close she made no comment whatever, but sat upon the bed, swinging her feet with pronounced indifference. Aren't you glad to hear from him? said Mary merrily, and to find him in such good spirits. Dear old Tom, and wasn't it good of father to bring his letter to me? Didn't I tell you, Nanny, that my father didn't mean half, he said? No, you didn't, Mary Waters. You thought the end of everything had come, even after I tried to convince you that it hadn't. And as for being glad, to be sure, I'm glad you've heard from your brother. Anyone with relatives in the field must be very anxious. But you know, he said he was going to write to you, Nanny. It's very kind in him. I wonder he can take time from his Washington girls to write. Then Mary laughed. It can't be that you are jealous, Nanny girl. She said, affectionately taking her friend in her arms. You know Tom is teasing you. I jealous, oh, how the little woman sniffed. I can assure you that I'm not jealous, but I have the interests of my country at heart, and I cannot but feel sorry to see our soldiers giving themselves up to trivial amusements when she is in danger of, oh, just the most awful things. I'm not jealous, oh no, but I'm ashamed of Tom. Why, Nanny, how can you? said Mary, reddening. Well, I am, and I mean it, and it's awful, that's what it is. I'm sorry my brother has offended you. Oh, Mary, Nanny was always inarticulate in her emotion, but Mary understood the burst of tears as Nanny threw herself on her bosom and forgave her disparagement of Tom. What a little silly you are. You know he was only joking. Joking. Such a letter isn't any joke. It's brutal, that's what it is. Pretty girls cheering him. I hate those Washington girls. I just know they're bold, brazen things, and they didn't look at another man but Tom. Never you mind. You'll have a letter soon. I don't want it. All right, maybe it won't come. The males are very irregular now. Mary Waters, how can you say such a mean thing? I didn't think you'd mind it. But I do mind it. You know the males are regular here. It's not the males that I'm worrying about. She must have worried about something, though, for when her father came in with the morning paper she was eager to know if he had been to the post office and on receiving a negative answer was downcast for fully five minutes. The male wouldn't have been sorted yet anyhow, said her father, and Bane's boy's going to bring it when he goes for theirs. The male is very slow in Dorbury, isn't it? Nanny proffered a little later, and was angry because Mary laughed again. The promise of a letter was at least two days away, but Nanny ate very little that morning. She fastened her eyes upon the window, which commanded the walk up which the Bane's boy must come. Finally, when he hoeved in sight, she sprang away from the table with a cry of, oh, there he is! And everyone knew why her appetite had lapsed. Fate was kind. It was kind two days ahead of promise, a strange thing, but this was her off day. There was a letter, and it was for Nanny and from Tom. She came directly to the table with it because she didn't know any better, and there were no Dawes about to peck at an exposed heart. She read and smiled, and bridled and blushed, while the rest of the assembly neglected their eggs. Oh, give us some of it, said her father, banteringly. I won't, she answered, and it was a good thing Tom couldn't see her smile and blush, for if he had been any sort of man he would have deserted at once. Isn't there anything he says that we may hear? Oh, do let me alone, she answered, and, well, it's hard to tell, but she giggled. What a softy he must be, said her little brother, just writing about no accountings, when you think he'd be saying something about fighting. Take polite to read letters before folks anyhow. You hush up, Ruben, said Nanny, indignantly. Don't you suppose a soldier can talk about anything but the horrors of war? I knew it was from Tom, said Ruben, jeeringly. Keep quiet, Ruben, said his father. No telling when you'll be putting on fresh ties every night, and trying to find out an excuse to be out to a literary or a singing school. Ruben grew red and was silent. His particular tone of red was what is denominated turkey, and it was relieved by freckles. Well, I'll just read you a little of it, said Nanny, finally. I'm not going to tell you what he calls me in the beginning. That's none of their business, is it, Mary? And she ran over and kissed Tom's sister for Tom's sake. Then she looked at the letter again. Well, he says, dear little, no, I'm going to leave that out. He sends his love to you, Papa, but of course that's at the last. Would it hurt you to be consecutive? asked Nathan Woods dryly. Oh no, don't tease, just listen. He says, oh, Mary. He doesn't say another word about those Washington girls. It was only a joke, don't you think it was? I knew Tom couldn't be thinking very seriously just of girls when there was something very, very important to do. You know I told you so, Mary. No, said Mary tantalizingly. I don't think that you did tell me just that. And of course, said her father, you may not know it isn't, but this is not I maintain. This is not hearing the letter. Oh well, he says he's in Washington. How perfectly charming it must be in Washington. I know that must be a great town with the government and senators and such things about you. Dear, how I should like to be there, and oh, Mary, don't you remember about the Potomac and the geography? Just think, Tom's seen the Potomac. I know about the Potomac, said Ruben. That's not the letter yet, was her father's comment. Well, if you'd only stop father, I'd get to it, said nanny. We are dumb. Oh, Papa now, please don't joke. It's really very, very serious. Has one among them been taken? That's just it. That's just it. The rebels tried to take them and they didn't, and Tom, Tom, I think he ought to be promoted for it. It's wonderful. What did Tom do, save his whole brigade? Well, I don't know that he did that, but he says that he shot and shot, and that the bullets spit up against the cars behind him. Think of it. It would have been a good deal worse if they had spit up against him, said Woods. He had been in the Mexican war and unfortunately had lost his romance. Now daughter, for the letter. All right, you won't mind omissions, will you? No, if you'll only omit your pauses and exclamations. We are here at last in the capital, and I tell you it's a great place. I don't wonder in the least that men want to be congressmen when they can live in a town like this. Why, I'd be willing to take all the cares of the government on my shoulders just to live in a town like this. But you know, the voters have never pressed upon my shoulders the affairs of state, and so my willingness to be unselfish goes for nothing. Now isn't that bright of Tom? Oh nanny, for heaven's sake, go on. Nathan Woods was both short and impatient. What we want is news, news about the troops and their condition there. I'm afraid Papa, said nanny, ruefully, that there isn't much news. But never mind, listen. I got to see Lincoln the other day, and I don't think much of him. He's a big raw-boned fellow with a long face and an awfully serious look. But for any kind of polish, I'll bet old Denison could give him a good many lessons, although I don't think much of Denison. My own? Oh no, that's where I've got to make an omission, but he goes on to say, people are saying that the rebellion is going to be a good deal bigger thing than we think, and that three-month service is hardly going to begin the fighting. Others say well, I don't care, I'm in it to stay, and you needn't expect to see me until we've licked the boots off these fellows. Do you know what they say? They boast that one southerner can lick five Yankees. Well, I'd like to see them try it. Oh, isn't that just like Tom? He always was in for experiments. Go on, nanny, and omit comment. But as old man Wilson used to say in geometry class, if they proceed upon this hypothesis, they will be wrong. Oh, Mary, don't you remember old Mr. Wilson and how often Tom used to tell us about his funny expressions? How awfully clever of him to think of it now. But I know you're waiting to hear the rest. Oh, I can't read this, Papa, not a bit of it. Nor the rest. Oh, I wouldn't read that for anything. Tom is so enthusiastic. You know how he is. That's just what is going to make a good soldier out of him. He says, I've seen General Schenck, and he's just what you would expect from the Schenck family. It seems as if those people kept themselves busy making decent men. The boys all like him, although they have not got generally trained into liking generals yet. Say, nanny. And that's all, said the young girl with a guilty blush. How abruptly your brother and his letters, said Nathan Woods, turning to Mary with a quizzical smile. It may be striking, but it's not a good literary style. You must always consider the collaborator, Mr. Woods, said Mary. In this case, I'm not sure that it has been collaboration. It may have been interpretation, or even, heaven help us, expurgation. Papa, said nanny, with a very red face. Then she gathered up the loose sheets of her letter and fled from the table. Mary, said Nathan Woods, what has happened this morning has made me very happy. But don't count too much upon it. No man respects your father more than I do. But the oyster opens his shell for a little and then shuts it as tight as ever. So I would advise you to stay with us a while longer. Had he wanted you at home, now this is plain, he would have come to you openly. But in putting the letter under the door, he only made a sacrifice on account of his love for Tom. Don't cry, little girl. No, I'm going to be brave, for I am glad even of this kindness from him. But aren't we treating you pretty well? Yes, but Mr. Woods, you know, don't you? Yes, I believe I do understand how you feel about it, but just keep on waiting, your time will come. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of the Fanatics This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Rita Butros The Fanatics by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Chapter 11 At Home With the incidents that immediately succeeded this skirmish at Vienna, this story has little to do. Not withstanding the enlistment of only three months men, the country had begun to settle down to the realization of war, not insurrection, not only rebellion any longer, but war, stern, implacable, and perhaps to last longer than had at first been expected. As the days passed, there was talk of reorganization. The first was not behind hand in the matter, and by the August following work among the men had begun. On the day that the men came home, doorberry, complacent, because no casualty had as yet attacked ranks, was out in full force to meet them. They, too, recognized the state of war, but as yet it was only a passive condition, and when they saw their unbroken lines come back, three months veterans, their pride and joy knew no bounds. That many of their men would return to the field would go back to soldiers' deaths and soldiers' graves did not disturb them then. Sufficient into the day is the evil thereof, so they put away all thought of further disaster and reveled only in the present. Among those who came back, proud and happy, none was more noticeable than nigger Ed. The sight of camps, the hurry of men, and the press of a real responsibility had evoked a subtle change in the negro, and though his blackface showed its accustomed grins and he answered with humor the sallies made at him, he capered no more in the public square for the delectation of the crowd that despised him. He walked with a more stately step and the people greeted him in more serious tones, as if his association with the soldiers, light though it had been, had brought him nearer to the manhood which they still refused to recognize in him. Perhaps the least joyous of them all was Walter Steward who had given up his family for a principal. While the other boys returned to eager relatives, he came home to no waiting mother's arms, and to no sweetheart was there to greet him with love and pride in her eyes. There were friends, of course, who gave him hearty hand clasps, but what were friends compared with one's own family? His mood was not improved when less than two days after the return there came a telegram calling him to the bedside of his dying father. It was a great blow to the young fellow, and coming as it did, seemingly as a reproof of his career, it may be forgiven him if in his grief his heart grew lukewarm towards the cause he had espoused. As soon as he was able, he hastened away to Virginia and his father's bedside torn with conflicting emotions of remorse, love, and sorrow. On an open space, topping a hill near Dorbury, the white tents of the reorganizing regiment had begun to settle like a flock of gulls on a green sea. Most of the men who had been out were going back again, and the town took on a military appearance. It came to be now that the girl who had not a military lover or relative was one to be pitied, and the one who had stood up with complacent Phariseeism and thanked her creator that she was not as other maidens were. It was now that the sewing circle exerted itself to the utmost, both in their natural province and in entertainment for the soldiers. Everything now had the military prefix to it. There were soldiers' balls, soldiers' teas, soldiers' dinners, and soldiers' concerts. Indeed, the sentiment bad fair to run to a foolish craze, and those who felt most deeply and looked forward with fear to what the days might bring forth beheld this tendency deprecatingly. Many of the volunteers from being decent, sensible fellows had developed into conceited prigs. The pride of their families and the adulation of indiscreet women and none-too-well-balanced men combined to turn their thoughts more upon the picturesqueness of their own personalities than upon the seriousness of what was yet to be done. They were blinded by the glare of possible heroism and sometimes lost sight of the main thing for which they had banded themselves together. It would be entirely false to say that at their first realization of what they had gone into they did not rise to all that was expected of them. But such was for a time the prevailing spirit, and for a while it called forth the sneers of old men who had not forgotten 1812 and 1846 at these three-month soldiers. There were others too who smiled at the behavior of the young soldiers with less generous thoughts. Among them Stephen Van Doran who watched from behind closed blinds their comings and goings. Do they expect to whip the south which is all fire and passion with their stripling dandies who go about the streets posing for a child's wonder and a woman's glance? The men who have gone into the field from the states of rebellion have gone to fight for a principle not to wear a uniform. They are all earnestness and self-sacrifice and that was going to take the south to victory. His old housekeeper who was alone with him on the place heard with admiration and belief for she shared her master's opinion of the relative worth of the two sections of the country. Neither one of them knew that the young men of the south were taking their valets into the service with them entering it as galants with the traditionary ideas of the day and leaving college for the field because they believed it would be a famous lark. It was perfectly true of both sections that neither looked upon the contest at first with a great amount of seriousness but it is equally true that the fact might have been forgiven the youth of a country whose sons hitherto had made a common cause against a general enemy. Unlike Van Doren who stayed between walls and chuckled at the coming discomforture of the union arms, Bradford Waters was much upon the streets and at Camp Corwin as if the sight of these blue-coated defenders of the flag gave him courage and hope. He had a good word for every soldier he met and his eyes sparkled as they told him of Tom and the few experiences they had had together. Tom true to his promise had not returned with the rest but had preferred to remain near the seat of war and to join his regiment after its reorganization. The old man took pride even in this fact. To him it was as if Tom was staying on the field where he could guard the safety of his country in an hour of laxity on the part of his comrades. He longed to see him of course but there was joy in the pain he felt at making a sacrifice of his own desires. He had not loaned his son to the cause. He had given him freely and fully. The difference in attitude between Van Doren and Waters was the difference between regard for traditions and a personal faith. The Southerner said, What my people have done. The Yankee what a man must do. Said one coming from the stock he does Bob must fight well. Said the other if they all fight like Tom were bound to whip. It all came to the same thing at last but the contrast was very apparent then. At news of the safety of his enemy's son the copperhead had lost any sympathy he may have had for his union antagonist and the other no longer looked wistfully at his foreman's face when they chance to meet. It was not unnatural that the two girls Nanny and Mary should be affected by the hero worshiping spirit of the town and being deprived of the objects of their immediate affection enter heartily into the business of spoiling all the other young men they could. To Nanny it was all very pleasant and something of coquetry entered into her treatment of the soldiers but with Mary it was different her thoughts and motives were serious and her chief aim was to do something for Tom's old associates for Tom's sake. There was no abatement of the rigor of the estrangement between her and her father for although after the incident of the letter she had expected him to call her home he had made no further sign nor had she. She had yielded not one wit in her devotion and loyalty to Robert Vandoren but she took pleasure in doing little kindnesses for the men whom she knew hated him for the choice he had made. The time soon came when even this pleasure gentle as it was was denied her. The story went round among the soldiers that old water's daughter was the sweetheart of a rebel soldier and that in spite of all her good work she had left home for love of him and his cause and they grew cold towards her. Some were even rude. It hurt the girl but she continued her ministrations nevertheless. Then one day as she passed through the camp where the girls sometimes went she heard a voice from a tent singing derisively. Father is a unionist so is brother Tom but I am making lots of things to keep a rebel warm. Mary flushed and hurried on but the voice sang after her. Never mind my union home. Never mind my flag. What's the glorious stars and stripes besides Jeff Davis's rag? Damn my home and family. Damn my northern pride. So you let me go my way to be a rebel's bride. The song which some scallowag had improvised cut Mary to the heart but though no man would have dared sing it openly she never took the chance of hearing it again. In spite of nanny's pleadings she would not go again where soldiers were congregated. Nor would she tell her reason not that she felt shame in her love but that there seemed some shade of truth in the song. She did not want to go her way and she did want to be Robert's bride even though they called him by such a name as rebel. She loved him and what had the stars and stripes or love of country to do with that. What he believed was nothing to her. It was only what he was. She had heard from Robert but once since his departure. A brief but brave and loving letter in which he told her that he was safe within the confederate lines and spoke of John Morgan whom he had already begun to admire. Now in the dark moment of her sorrow when every hand seemed turned against her because she loved this man. She dreamed over his letter as if it were a sacred writing and so dreaming kept to herself whenever she could. Even old Nathan Woods began to look as scant at her when her visits and ministrations to the soldiers ceased but he comforted himself with the philosophy that a woman is an unreasonable creature and never is responsible for her actions and however false this may be in fact it satisfied him towards Mary and kept him unchanged to her. He was influenced too by Nanny's stalwart faith. While she could not understand Mary could not enter into the secret chamber of her soul and see what was within there she believed in her and faith is stronger than knowledge. Never mind she said one day after roundly scolding her friend for remaining so close to the house I know you've got some good reason though I'm sure it's something fanciful. It's so like you Mary. This may have been a bit inconsistent in the young girl but it was expressive of her trust in Mary and the burdened girl was grateful for it. So with bicker prejudice, adulation, discontent and a hundred other emotions that must come to human beings the stream of days went on and the reorganization of the first was an accomplished fact. Still from the south there came news of battle and from Cincinnati there were tidings of Kentucky's threatening attitude. West Virginia had been rescued for the Union but what if this even more powerful state went over to the Confederacy? Men were of many minds some were wondering at the president for his tardiness and others cursing Denison for his rashness. It became the fashion to damn Lincoln on Sunday and Denison on Monday. It was from such a hotbed of discontent that the first finally tore itself and left Dorberry on the last day of October for the southernmost city of the state. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of the Fanatics. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Rita Butros. The Fanatics by Paul Laurence Dunbar. Chapter 12 A Journey South. The condition of mind in which young Walter Stewart left Dorberry was not calculated to bring him back hastily for the reorganization of his old regiment. His thoughts were more of seeing his father alive and of settling their differences than of the righteousness of his cause. Indeed as the train sped southward his busy mind sometimes questioned if he had done right. If the north and south were one people as he claimed would not neutrality have been the better course? Surely two brothers have the right to differ without the whole families putting in. Is the love of country which we call patriotism a more commendable trait than filial affection and obedience? And can one deficient in the latter be fully capable of comprehending the former? Had he not by the very act of disobeying his father's wishes and refuting his wisdom in a case where right and wrong were so nearly related demonstrated his inability for a high devotion and obedience to his country? These and like sophistries raced through the young man's mind in the first heat of this remorse and for the time he forgot that his choice meant not less love for his father but a broader devotion to his country. It was not for the sake of disobedience that he had cast his lot with the north but in pursuance of an idea of a larger allegiance. But this he could not see and as he worried and speculated his distress grew. When he reached Washington he had anticipations of some difficulty in securing passage through the lines. There was every possibility of his being taken for a spy or an informer by one side or the other. And the fact that he was a lately mustered out soldier would make him an object of suspicion to both unionist and confederate. For the time being his anxiety to be away across the Potomac and into Virginia drove every other thought out of his head. Fortunately for him he was known in Washington and influential friends procured for him passes through the union lines. His progress after he reached the rebel outposts was less speedy but for seeing this he conceived that discretion would be the better part of valor and so waited for night and then the laxity of the few pickets scattered about helped him and the stables of false church were kind to him and within an hour after darkness had fallen he was galloping down the road towards Rockford. The night was dark and the road none too even but he rode as speedily as caution would allow. The way was unfamiliar to him but he followed the directions he had received trusting somewhat to the instincts of his horse to keep the path. Now and then as the animals hoofs clattered over the wooden bridge of river or streamlet he held his breath lest he should rouse some lurking foreman. Once as he sped along the road besides which the trees grew thickly a voice called to him to halt but he only dug his spurs into the mare's flank and leaning low over her neck urged her on. Two shots spit vainly in the darkness as the road fell away under his horse's feet. Suppose I should miss the path he said to himself and daylight find me still upon the way. Well it's only a thing to chance now and I must see father before he dies I must see him. The cry died away between clenched teeth and leap after leap the blackness swallowed him and vomited him forth again. The branches of the trees underneath which he passed reached out and caught at him as if they would detain him from his errand. The wind and the cricket and all the voices of the night called to him. The horse stumbled and her rider lurched forward but a good steed was up and on again with scarcely a break in her pace as if she knew that the man upon her back was crying in an agony of fear. Father, father, live till I come. As the distance lessened Walter's mind was in a tumult of emotions again and again the picture of his father already dead came before him. The white covering of the bed, the stark form and the weeping women all were vivid to him as actuality. He saw a light ahead of him and checking the speed of his horse he rode towards it but he found that it came from a house up one of two roads which forked before him. He paused and looked helplessly at the diverging paths. He knew there was no time to be lost and chafed at the delay. His indecision however did not last long. He turned the animal's head up the road on which the light was shining. Proceeding cautiously he found that the rays which had guided him came from the curtained but unchuttered window of a little house standing back from the roadside on a terrace. The place itself did not look formidable but there was no telling what elements of further delay were behind the closed door. Nevertheless he reigned in and bringing his horse just inside the side gateway hastened up the terrace and knocked at the door. There was the shuffling of feet within and then the soft swift scurrying as of someone hastening from the room. A moment later the back door slammed and a horse and rider clattered around the side of the house and out of the gate. In spite of his haste and anxiety Walter could but smile at the grim humor of the situation. That he who stood there on the threshold dreading what he should encounter beyond should prove a source of terror to anyone else was but an illustration of the intermittent comedy which treads upon the heels of tragedy in the stern melodrama of war. His reflections took about a moment. All that had passed had hardly taken more time but before the impressions were out of his mind he found himself again knocking at the door. Who is there? came a woman's voice. A stranger but a friend. How do I know that you are a friend? You need not know. You need not even open the door. Only answer my question. I am hunting the house of Colonel Stewart and I'm not sure that I am on the right road. Can you direct me? You have missed your way? said the hidden woman in a voice that bespoke relief from some fear. You should have taken the road to the right at the forks. The house is about two miles beyond on the right side. You can tell it without trouble. It is a large house and there will be lights about it for the Colonel is very sick. Walter did not wait to hear the woman's closing words but with a hardy word of thanks hurried away towards the gate. He was almost blithe with the thought that his journey would soon be over and hope rose again in his heart. His father might be alive. He would be alive. He must be. So he went from hope to certainty as he passed with flying steps across the lawn and terrace to the gate. There he stopped with a gasp of alarm. His horse was no longer there. Gone and the distance between him and his father lessened by many minutes when every second counted. It all came to him in a flash. The frightened rider who had dashed away from the house in a flash fearing pursuit had taken the horse with him. Or the animal itself had become frightened and followed involuntarily. Walter halted hardly a moment but turned swiftly back to the house. To his knock came the woman's voice again in question. Someone has taken my horse he cried. It is not so far to walk from here to Colonel Stewart's, said the woman coldly. But I cannot walk. I am pressed for time. I do not know you, was the reply. Nor do I know your business, but I warn you that I am armed and you had better go away. My God! cried Walter. I mean you no harm, but can't you help me to a horse? Or must I take one wherever I can find it? I am Colonel Stewart's son and my father is dying. I must see him. A dry sob broken his throat. An exclamation was uttered from within, something that was very like the thud of a gun butt sounded on the carpeted floor. The bolts were shot and the woman stood in the flood of yellow light. In the first instant Walter saw the form of a tall young woman with fair hair and behind her the room disordered as by hasty movements. A gun stood against the wall. Further details he did not take note of. Come in for a moment said the woman. You need have no fear. I can help you to a horse. She was hastening into a wrap and hood as she spoke. We already know of you, my brother and I. You are Colonel Stewart's unionist son. Walter flushed but raised his head defiantly. The young woman laughed as she hastened out of the room and came back with a lantern and key. You need have no fear. There are no ambushes here. Come. She led the way around the house where Walter could see the low outlines of the outbuildings. You gave us quite a fright. I may tell you now that I know who you are. Brother is suspected of unionist sentiments and has been looking to be arrested every moment. Tonight we took you for a confederate officer. Come to exercise that unpleasant commission. And it was he who must have frightened off your horse as he rode away. He's on blue grass and if your horse keeps up with him they're farther away now than you would care to follow. During the last words she was unlocking the barn door. Then she handed the lantern to Walter and called softly. Come, Beth, come. A winny answered her and she went forward and quickly took the halter from a sleek brown mare. Walter started in to put the bridle on but the girl waved her hand. No, she said, I'll do it myself. Beth is my own particular pet and is somewhat averse to strangers. You'll have to ride bareback too as there isn't another man's saddle about. But she'll carry you safe when she's once on the road and she'll turn in at the right gate for she knows the way. The young man was stammering his thanks as the girl led the horse out. He would have walked with her back to the house but upon an assurance that she was not afraid he leapt to the mare's back and was off. But it was not written that the object of his heart should be so easily obtained. He had scarcely gone halfway to the crossroads when the ominous word, halt, sounded again in his ears and several mounted men rose as from the road before him. Again he gave spur to his horse but this time it was only for a moment that he moved and then he came crash into another horseman and felt the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against his face while a hand seized his bridle. Steady, my boy, steady, unless you want to get hurt. We don't want to do you any harm but you mustn't move. Are you hurt, Sergeant? asked a voice from the darkness. No, Captain, not particular. I may be a little strained and this horse may be a little bruised up but I was ready for the shock. I knew the youngster was game. Just now the man addressed as Captain rode up. Well, youngster, he said, we've got a little business with you and I reckon we're just in time. Walter's head was whirling with the shock of his collision and he had a mean pain in the leg that had struck the other man's saddle but he spoke up hotly. What's the meaning of this outrage, he asked, cannot a man and a Virginian at that ride his own roads in safety by night and by day? Hoity-toity, not so fast, my young Union peacock, not so fast. Any Virginian may go his way in Virginia until he becomes dangerous to Virginia's cause. Then he comes with us as you do. What right have you to take me in this high-handed way? We needn't bend you words but I can say that we have the right that any state has to arrest within its borders any citizen who is suspected of working or attempting to work against its interest and safety. We have been watching you for a long time, Etheridge, and we know what your plans are. They had been standing for the few moments that they talked but now the company started to move off. Stop, cried Walter, as the name was called. Whom do you take me for? We know who you are, said the Captain Grimly, but my name is not Etheridge, you are mistaken. What is this, Sergeant? asked the officer in charge of the party and who had done most of the talking. I know the horse Captain, it's his sisters. Come on then, don't delay any further, it's no use denying your identity. But I can prove to you that I'm not the man you're seeking, nor is this horse mine. Having lost my own, I borrowed it at a house a little way up the road here. A very likely story. But if there is anyone here who knows Etheridge, let him look at me and see. The sergeant leaned forward and striking a match looked into Walter's face. Captain, he whistled, it's true, we've caught the wrong bird. This is not Nelson Etheridge, he's a stranger. Well, who the devil are you? asked the Captain shortly. Strangers without credentials are not very welcome about here these times. My name is Walter Stewart and my father is Colonel Stewart, who lives about two miles from here. Stewart, Walter Stewart. Hurrah boys, cried the Captain, we've lost one good bird but caged another. This is Colonel Stewart's Yankee soldier's son. You'll do, come on. But Captain, I'm not in the service now and my father is dying. A few minutes delay may keep me from ever seeing him alive. I am sorry, was the Captain's reply, but you have been a Union soldier. We take you leaving a suspected house and find you as you tacitly admit within our lines and without credentials. It may be hard for you, but you are our prisoner. Very well, but cannot I be paroled at once? If necessary, send a soldier with me to my house and keep me under guard. The Captain halted, I know your father, he said coldly, and he is a brave man and a Southern gentleman who has not forsaken the South. For his sake, I will do as you say, even though I exceed my authority. I will send two men with you. You will remain under guard until I secure your parole, if that may be done. I thank you, said Walter. Sergeant Davis, the sergeant saluted, you and Private Wilkins will take charge of the prisoner. When his parole has been secured, you will be relieved. Until then, the closest vigilance. I am a soldier and a gentleman, said Walter Comley. The officer vouchsafed no answer, but with his remaining associates spurred on into the darkness, leaving the prisoner to ride away with his captors. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 of the Fanatics This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Rita Butros. The Fanatics by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Chapter 13 A steward comes to his own. As Walter approached his father's house, he saw lights moving about in the upper chambers and he began to fear the worst. Have you heard any news of my father? he asked the sergeant. None, except that he is a pretty sick man and not expected to last long. How did the captain and all of you come to know about me? The servants will talk and its few family secrets they don't know and tell. Your father invested in some niggers as soon as he got here, in order to show his contempt for the Yankees invasion. But they're too new to have any of the family pride that the old ones used to have. Why, an old family servant would rather die than tell any of the happenings at the big house, but these darkies of your fathers have blown his business broadcast. Walter shivered at the man's tone and his revelations. In order not to alarm the house unduly, they dismounted at the gate and left the private to lead the horses around to the stables, while the sergeant went with Walter. Their ring brought a servant to the door, who stood in white-eyed astonishment as he saw the young man, worn and haggard with anxiety and beside him an officer in gray. Why, why, gentlemen, this he is a Confederate house. Shut up and let us in, make as little stir as possible and bring my mother to the parlor. Sergeant, this will be a family meeting. You know my order, sir. I do, and I am enough of a soldier not to want to disobey them, but I prefer seeing my family alone. Examine the room where I shall talk with my mother and have the places of egress guarded. I think the windows let out on veranda. There may be more than one outlet, and I have not enough men to guard them if there is. You forget, sergeant, said Walter haughtily, that I am a soldier and a gentleman. I'm not much of either yet, return the non-commissioned officer calmly, but I'm learning enough of a soldier's business to know how to obey orders. You are right, said the younger man, blushing. Come, let's examine the room together, and see what dispositions we can make. At this period private Wilkins came in from his errand. They stationed him outside and passed into the room. It was a large apartment, with three long windows, opening as Walter had surmised on the veranda. You see, pursued the sergeant, it's just as I said, you have too many places by which to leave, though I do not doubt your honour. Let us see, said Walter, going to the door. Ah, this will serve you, and he held up a key. Lock this door that shuts off one outlet. One of you patrol the veranda and the other hold the hall. Will that suit you? Perfectly. And the sergeant proceeded to do as directed. He stationed Wilkins in the hall, and then, as he was about to step out upon the veranda, turned, and on a sudden impulse saluted the young private as if you were an officer. He had hardly left the room when Mrs. Stewart came rushing in. Walter, Walter, my boy, dear little mother, oh, you are well, you are well, aren't you? In body, yes, mother, but am I in time? Thank God, yes. The young man bowed his head, and the gesture itself was a prayer of thanksgiving that God understood. I have so much that I want to say to you, mother, but take me to him at once. I am afraid that it will be too late. You shall have a talk with me afterwards. He put his arm affectionately about his mother's waist. Wait a moment, Walter, she said. He is yet conscious. Oh, Walter, Walter, humor him, humor him in his dying moments. Promise, whatever he asks. Whatever he asks? Why, what can he ask? Perhaps one great thing. Your father has not changed, even in the hands of death. I shall promise what I can, without lying. If necessary, my son lie to ease your father's heart. Have I ever given you such advice before? Will you do it? He looked at her fondly for a moment, and then answered firmly, I will lie if need be. Take me to him. They started out, but Walter turned back to call the sergeant. I'm going to my father's room, he said. I will come as far as the door. He said, for the rest, I leave that to you. Go on. As they passed up the broad steps, Mrs. Stewart asked, in some agitation, What does the presence of those soldiers mean? Don't disturb yourself, mother. But I was taken on the way here, after I had passed the rep, the confederate lines, and I am a prisoner. She grasped him by the arm. A prisoner, she gasped. Don't be alarmed, he went on soothingly. I shall be paroled. The captain has as good as promised it, and then I shall be here with you. That is almost good, she replied, and you will have less to promise. The light was turned low in the sick room, and a nurse glided out as they entered. Walter's sister passed out also, and in passing pressed his hand. Mrs. Stewart left her son at the door, and went forward to the bed, a shadowy gliding form in the dim room. Here is Walter, she said softly. The sick man opened his eyes, and said weakly, but with some of his old coldness, raise the light, and let me see him. Father, the boy stood over the bed. The eyes that even then, death was glazing, grew brighter as the Colonel looked upon his son, but the words that he whispered huskily were, thank God, he does not wear their uniform. Walter, the young man, threw his arms about his father, and held him close to his heaving breast. His eyes were tearless, but his bronzed face was pale, and his throat throbbed convulsively. Father, I am so sorry to have grieved you, so sorry. You're a steward, said the old man weakly, but dotingly. They always were, they always were strong-headed, but you won't go back to them, will you, Walter, will you? For your father's sake, for the sake of Virginia, you won't go back to the Yankees. I cannot lie to you, Father, now. The filming eyes formed a new light, and his mother started forward. What? I could not go back to them, if I would. I was taken on the way here, and I'm a prisoner in the hands of our own people. The old man settled back with a glad sigh. This is very good, he said. Very good. They can never have your services again. Better a prisoner in the camp of our people, our people, you said, Walter, than a general of those aliens. Now I am content. Would you not better rest now, asked his son gently. Yes, yes, I will rest. And he relaxed again upon his pillow. Walter was easing his arms from underneath the gray head, when the muscles of the dying man took on strength again. His eyes opened. Would you, he said almost fiercely, would you go back to them again, if you could? Walter cast one agonizing look at his mother's appealing eyes. Then he answered firmly, No, father, not if I could. His father smiled. I knew it, he murmured. He is a steward, and a steward must come back to his own. Now I shall rest. He sank into a soft slumber, and mother and son left the room on tiptoe. Come, you will go and see Emily now, said his mother. Let them come to my room, he said, wherever you have placed me. We must make it as easy for Sergeant Davis as possible. The morrow proved that the colonel had been right. He had rested, and the rest was one that should be eternally unbroken. As soon as he found that the home was a place of death and mourning, the sergeant, be it said to his credit, relaxed some of his vigilance, and Walter was allowed to attend to the duties connected with his father's funeral with greater freedom. The same day his parole was granted, and the house given over again to privacy. In spite of a natural sorrow for his father's loss, Walter felt a sense of peace, even joy, at the reconciliation. The words, now I shall rest, rang in his head with soothing cadence. It was so much better this way than that his father should have gone from him in anger and reproach. The joy Walter felt in coming back into the family circle proved how much his heart must have been hungering forward. Drawn by a strong enthusiasm for what he deemed the right, he had gone off into the wilderness to face death. But he had not ceased to look back with longing eyes towards the flesh pots of Egypt. Being back to them, he was not prone to question why he came. The fact in itself was sufficiently pregnant of content. Somehow he did not feel ashamed of the satisfaction he felt in having the parole solve a vexing problem. He had lied to his father, had he not, in saying that he would not go back if he could, and then he began to quibble with himself. Had he lied, after all, was it not merely the premature assertion of a condition of mind that was to be? Would he go back if he could? He was not sure. His father had called him a steward and that meant much. It was sweet to be there with his own family in the great old place. Going to the window, his eyes swept the surrounding landscape with restful satisfaction. There was the broad sweep of lawn and across that rugged against the sky the dark row of outbuildings, the kitchen, the stables, and the negro cabins, and beyond that the woods. It was fine and menorial and appealed to the something in Walter which is in every Anglo-Saxon, the love of pomp and circumstance and power. After all, it was for this he had been dragged from the camp and from the hardships of war. And was it not a pleasant change? Fate had been kind to him. There were many young fellows who would envy him. So why should he repine? While he was still in the midst of his meditations, his mother came into the room. Brudden again, she said, you must not do this, my son. He blushed and raised his hand in protest, but his mother went on. I know you are influenced by a strong principle, my son, a principle so deeply rooted that you are willing to give up everything for it, and you are longing to be back again. But yours are, after all, only the common fortunes of war. The young man's face was burning, and all the thoughts that had just passed through his mind came surging back in an accusing flood. He saw that he had weakened on the side of his affections, and that for a little while he had put home and ease and mother love before the cause for which he had once been so hot. His shame seethed in his face. You know what I told father, he said, that I would not go back if I could. Yes, yes, I know, and I understand what the falsehood cost you, but wait against what it brought to your father and me, it seems justifiable. Why, Walter, don't you see that even a lie that softens a father's deathbed is a noble sacrifice? I should feel the better if it were that way, but it is not a lie, it is coming to be true. Your heart is really coming over to the south? Not to the south, so much as to you and Emily, and home, and father's memory. Walter, Walter, she cried, embracing him. This is nothing to hang your head about, this is true nobility. Her mother love blinded her sight to his moral defection, but he saw and saw clearly and was ashamed. It is strange, Mrs. Stewart mused, how things have balanced. If the south has gained an adherent in you, the north has just taken one of Virginia's own sons. What do you mean? The news came to us this morning that Nelson Etheridge has not returned, but has gone over to the Union lines. How do you know that? cried Walter, starting up. We sent Caesar with the horse this morning. Oh, I wanted to take it over myself and thank Miss Etheridge in person. You will have many chances to thank her, said his mother. She has a great friend of Emily's and is often here. I am very glad he stammered, that is, on Emily's account. When his mother left him, he too went from the room and sought the room where his father lay. He drew back the cloth and looked at the calm face, as stern and white as a figure in marble. Even in death the lips had found their old line of compression and the chin had not lost its decision. Oh, my father, said Walter, I am a weaker man than you, but I am more your son than I knew. He replaced the cloth and went sadly away. The funeral of Colonel Stewart was a piteous affair. The remnants of the families about came to pay their respects to the dead. But mostly they were women or old men. The army had taken the rest. The clergymen who conducted the services wore the gray under his gown, and as soon as his work was done left his vestments and rode back to the regiment of which he was chaplain. People looked at Scantz at Walter or did not look at him at all. To them he had the shame of being a unionist on parole. But within him there was a greater shame that he was neither with them, nor against them.