 CHAPTER 1 LOVE AND POLITICS The warmth of the April sunshine had brought out the grass, and Mary Waters and Bob Van Doran trod it gleefully beneath their feet as they wended their way homeward from the outskirts of the town, where Mary had gone ostensibly to look for early spring blossoms and where Bob had followed her in quest of a pet setter that was not lost. The little town was buzzing with excitement as the young people entered it, but they did not notice it, for a sweeter excitement was burning in their hearts. Bob and Mary had been engaged for three months, a long time in those simple days in Ohio, where marriages were often affairs of a glance, a word, and a parent's blessing. The parent's blessing in this case had been forthcoming, too, for while the two widowed fathers could not agree politically, Stephen Van Doran being a staunch Democrat, and Bradford Waters as staunch a Republican. Yet they had but one mind as to the welfare of their children. They had loud and long discussions on the question of slavery and kindred subjects, but when it came to shaking hands over the union of Bob and Mary they were as one. They had fallen out over the Missouri Compromise and quarreled vigorously over the fugitive slave law. But Stephen had told his son to go in and win, for there was not a better girl in the village than Mary, and Bradford had said yes to Bob when he came. On this day, as the young people passed down Main Street, oblivious of all save what was in their hearts, some people who stood on the outskirts of a crowd that was gathered about the courthouse snickered and nudged each other. This combination, old man Thorn said to his nearest neighbor, who was tiptoeing to get a glimpse into the middle of the circle. What's that? Look at there! And he pointed to the lovers who had passed on down the street. Gee, a Whelicans, said the onlooker, what a pity somebody didn't call their attention. Wouldn't it have been a contrast, though? It would have been worse than a contrast. It would have been a broken engagement, and perhaps a pair of broken hearts. Well, of all fools, as the saying is, an old fool is the worst. And a southern fool up north who has grown old in the south, said Johnson, who was somewhat of a curbstone politician. Oh, I don't know, said Thorn placidly. Different people have different ways of thinking. But when you're in Rome, do as Rome does, return Johnson. These men carries their countries with them. The Dutchman comes over here, but he still eats his sauerkraut. Oh, plague take that. America for the Americans, I say. And Ohio for the Ohioans. Old Waters is right. How long you been here from York State? Oh, that ain't didn't the question. Oh, certainly not. It's all a matter of whose ox is gored. The matter within the circle which had awakened Mr. Johnson's sense of contrast was a hot debate which was just about terminating. Two old men, their hats off and their faces flushed, were holding forth in the midst of the crowd. One was Stephen Van Doran, and the other was Bradford Waters. The former had come up from Virginia sometime in the forties, and his ideas were still the ideas of the old south. He was a placid, gentlemanly old man with a soldierly bearing and courtly manners, but his opinions were most decided, and he had made bitter enemies as well as strong friends in the Ohio town. The other was the typical Yankee pioneer, thin, wiry, and excitable. He was shouting now into his opponent's face, go back down south, go back to Virginia and preach those doctrines. They've got sense enough to know them down there. It's only up here to gentlemen like you that they need to be preached. You talk about secession, you, you, I'd like to see you build a fence unless the rails would all stand together, one rail falling this way and another pulling that. The crowd laughed. I'd like you to show me a hand where one finger wasn't independent of another in an emergency. Build a fence, shouted Waters, pick up a pin, answered Van Doren. You're trying to ruin the whole country. You're trying to stamp on the opinions that the country has lived for and fought for and died for. Seven states have seceded, and I think in some of those seven were men who lived and fought and even died for their country. Yes, sir, I tell you, Yankee, as you are, to your face, the south has done for this country what you, buying and selling, making and trading Yankees have never done. You have made goods, but the south has produced men. The old man was warmed up. Men, men, we can equal any you bring. Calhoun, Sumner, Clay, Webster, we shall claim Douglas, Lincoln. I should have said the south produced gentlemen, not rail splitters. We don't make statesmen of them. We produce men, and we'd make soldiers of them if it was necessary. Well, it may be. Oh, no it won't. Even the state that gave birth to men like you, Stephen Van Doren, wouldn't dare to raise its hand against the Union. Wait and see. Wait and see. I don't need to wait and see. I know. Bah! You all are like dreamers, dreamers, dreamers. Maybe, but my God, don't wake us. The crowd began to break as it saw that the argument was over, and the bystanders whispered and laughed among themselves at the vehemence of the two men. Windbags, time wasted listening, war, pshaw. Just then a newsboy tore into the square shouting, Paper, paper! And every heart stood still with ominous dread at the next words. Fort Sumter fired on. The crowd stood still, and then with one accord formed around the old men. A slow smile covered Stephen Van Doren's lips as he stood facing Bradford Waters. Well, they've done it, he said. Yes, replied the other, wavering from the shock. Now what are you going to do about it? The old man straightened himself with sudden fire. He took off his hat and his thin white hair blew hither and thither in the cool spring breeze. I'll tell you what I'm going to do about it. I'll tell you what I'm going to do when the call comes. I'm going down there and I'll help whip them out of their boots. And if they won't take me, I'll send a son. Now what are you going to do? Likewise, Bradford Waters was known as a religious man, but now he turned and raising his hand to heaven said. Not grant that we are our sons may meet where the right will win, you damned copperhead you. In an instant Van Doren's fist shot out, but someone caught his arm. Waters sprang towards him, but was intercepted, and the two were born away by different crowds who were thunderstruck at the awful calamity which had fallen upon the nation. The two old men sweated to be loosed upon each other, but they were forcibly taken to their homes. Over the gate of the Waters cottage Bob Van Doren leaned, and Mary's hand was in his. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 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. The Fanatics by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Chapter 2 The Parting of the Ways Don't you think a little cottage down by the river would be the best thing, Mary? asked Bob. And then you'd be away from me every minute you could spare fishing. I know you, Bob Van Doren. From the inside of the house Mary's brother Tom twitted the two unmercifully. I say there, Bob, he called. You'd better let Mary come in and help about this supper. If you don't, there'll be a death when father comes home. Mary's father was gentle with her, and this remark of her brothers was so obviously hyperbolic that she burst out laughing as she flung back. Oh, I guess you've kept Nanny Woods from her work many a time, and there haven't been any deaths in that family yet. But there may be in this if Luke Sharples catches you sparking around Nanny, interposed Bob. Oh, I can attend to Luke any day. That's so. Luke isn't a very fast runner. Tom threw a corn cob out of the door, and it struck Bob's hat and knocked it off. There's an answer for you, he called. There was still laughing, and Mary's face was flushed with love and merriment when Bradford Waters came up and strode silently through the gateway. I must go in now, said Mary. So soon? Why, it's hardly time to put the potatoes on yet. Suppose sometimes you should come home and find your supper not ready. Oh, I wouldn't mind if you were there. Just then Bradford Waters' voice floated angrily out to them. What's that young well panging around my gate for? The girl turned pale, and her heart stood still, but the young man only laughed and shouted back. What's the matter, Mr. Waters? You and Father been at war again? Yes, we've been at war, and soon we shall all be at war. Some of your dirty kinsmen have fired on Fort Sumter. What? Yes, and there'll be hell for this day's work. You mark my words. The old man came to the door again, and his son stood behind him, holding his arm. Get away from my gate there. Mary, come in the house. I've got better business for you than skylocking with copperheads. The girl stood transfixed. What is it, Father? What is it? cried Tom. I tell you, those southern devils have fired on Fort Sumter, and it means war. Get away from here, Bob Van Doren. There is a time when men must separate on the ground of their beliefs, and this house has no dealing with the enemies of the Union, Mary. But the girl's eyes were flashing, and her lips compressed. Go in, Mary, said Bob, and he dropped her hand. His face was red and pale by turns. She turned and went into the house, and her lover left the gate and walked down the street. Let this be the last time I catch you talking with one of the Van Doren's. We are two families on opposite sides of a great question. We can have no dealings, one with the other. But, Father, you gave Bob the right to love me, and you can't take it back. You can't. I can take it back, and I will take it back. I'd rather see you marry Nigger Ed, the town crier, than to cross my blood with that Van Doren breed. Today, Stephen Van Doren rejoiced because his flag had been fired upon. The flag he is living under, the flag that protects him wherever he goes. That wasn't Bob, Father. Like father, like son, broke in Tom passionately. Why, Tom, Mary turned her eyes, grief filled to overflowing upon her brother. You and he were such friends. I have no friends who are not friends of my country. Since I know what I know, I would not take Bob Van Doren's hand if he were my brother. If he were Nanny Woods' brother. Nanny Woods is a good, loyal girl, and her affections are placed on a loyal man. There is no division there. Bob is right, Mary. We have come to the parting of the ways. Those who hold with the south must go with the south. Those who hold with the north must stand by the flag. We are all either union men, or we are rebels. But Father, what of Valendigam? You have always said that he was a noble man. Valendigam? Let me never hear his name again. In this house it spells treason. I can make some allowance for the Southerner, living among his institutions and drawing his life from them. But for the man who lives at the north represents northern people, and fills his pockets with the coin which northern hounds have worked for him, I have only contempt. Such men hide like copperheads in the grass, and sting when we least expect it. Weed them out, I say. Weed them out! The old man shook with the passion of his feelings, and his face was ashen with anger. There had been a time when Valendigam was his idol. He had gone against his party to help vote him into Congress, and then it was a strangely silent meal to which the three sat down that night. Tom was feverishly anxious to be out for news, and Mary with tear-stained face sat looking away into space. There was a compression about her lips that gave her countenance a wonderful similarity to her father's. She could not eat, and she could not talk, but her thoughts were busy with the events that were going on about her. How she hated it all, the strife, the turmoil, the bickering and disagreements, the union, confederacy, abolition, slavery, the north, the south, one the upper, the other the lower millstone, and between them, love and the women of the whole country. Why could not they be let alone? Was there not enough to be sacrificed that even the budding flower of love must be brought to? It was hard, too hard. She loved Bob Vandoren. What did she care with which side, he sympathized? She loved Bob, not his politics. What had she to do with those black men down there in the south? It was none of her business. For her part, she only knew one black man, and he was bad enough. Of course, nigger Ed was funny. They all liked him, and laughed at him, but he was not exemplary. He filled with equal adaptability the position of town crier and town drunkard. Really, if all his brethren were like him, they would be none the worse for having masters. Anyhow, her father had not been always so rigid, for he laughed when somebody stole the Bible from the Colored Folk's meeting-house, and wondered what they could do with a Bible anyhow. Her reverie was broken by her brothers rising from the table. I'm going out to see what's going on, he announced. I'll walk up the street with you, said his father. They took their hats and went out, and with a gray face but set lips, the daughter went about her evening's work. When they reached the courthouse, a crowd was gathered there, and rumors and stories of all kinds were passing from lip to lip. Another crowd was gathered on the opposite side of the street, hooting and jeering, while now and then some self-appointed orator harangued it. The assembly was composed of some of the worst elements of the town, reinforced by the young sports of some of the best families. Altogether it was a combination of hot blood and lawlessness. An old friend of the waters, who had been listening to the noisier crowd, brushed against the two men, and said under his breath, Come on home, there's hell's work brewing here tonight. Then I'll stay and be in it, said the older man. There's nothing you can help about, replied the friend. You'd better come. No, we'll stay. The lawless element, emboldened at the news of Sumter's disaster, determined to have some fun at the expense of their opponents. With one accord they surged towards the office of the Republican, armed with horns, and whistled, hooted and jeered themselves hoarse. This is child's play, said Bradford Waters to his son. If this is all they're going to do, we might as well go home. They went back to the house where for hours they could hear the horns and whistles of the crowd. It was near midnight when they were awakened by the clanging of a bell, and they heard nigger Ed as he sped past the house, crying, Fire! Fire! The Republican, built in on fire, turned out. The waters were dressed and out of the house in a twinkling, and had joined the crowd of men and boys, who, with shouts and grunts, were tugging at the old hose cart. Then they strained and tore their way to the Republican office where the fire had made terrible headway. The hose was turned on the building, and the pumps started. The flames crackled and the water hissed, and like an echo there floated to the ears of the toiling men. The cry of the rioters far away in another part of the town. They had done their work. It had perhaps come about unintentionally. They had only met to jeer, but finally someone threw a stone. The sound of crashing glass filled them with the spirit of destruction. A rioter cried, Fire! The damn shanty! There were cries of no, no, but the cry had already been taken up, and a brand had been flung. Then madness seized them all, and they battered and broke, smashed and tore, fired the place, and fled singing with delirious joy. The work of the firemen was of no avail, and in an hour the building and its contents were a confused mass of ashes, charred beams, and molten metal. When the waters reached home, Mary, wide-eyed, white and shivering, sat up waiting for them. She hurried to give them each a cup of coffee, but asked no questions, though her hungry eyes craved the news. She sat and stared at them as they eagerly drank. Then her father turned to her. Well, he said, here's another sacrifice to the spirit of rebellion in the north. A man ruined, his property destroyed. They have burned the Republican, but they can't burn the principal it stood for, and the fire they lighted tonight will leave a flame in the heart of loyal citizens that will burn out every stock and stubble of secession and disloyalty. Then woe to the copperheads who are hiding in the grass. When the flames have driven them out, we will trample on them, trample on them. The old man rose and ground his heel into the floor. Mary gave a cry, and shivering, covered her face with her hands. CHAPTER III There were many other men in Dorbury no less stirred than was Bradford Waters over the events of the night and the news from Charleston Harbor. The next day saw meetings of the loyal citizens in every corner of the little town, which at last melted into one convention at the courthouse. Those who had no southern sympathies had been stung into action by the unwarranted rashness of the rioters, which brought the passions of the time so close to themselves. The one question was asked on all sides, how soon would the president call for troops to put down this insurrection? And even as they asked it, the men were organizing, recruiting, drilling and forming companies to go to the front. The light guards, the local organization, donned their uniforms and paraded the streets. Many drums were heard on all sides and the shrill cry of the fives. In that portion of the town where lived a number of wealthy southerners there was the quiet and desolation of the grave. Their doors were barred and their windows were shut. Even they could not have believed that it would come to this. But since it had come it was too soon for them to readjust themselves to new conditions, too soon to go boldly over to the side of the south, or changing all their traditions come out for the north and the union which in spite of all they loved. So they kept silent and the turmoil went on around them. The waves of excitement rolled to their very doors, receded and surged up again. Through their closed blinds they heard the shouts of the men at the public meeting a few blocks away. They heard the tramping of feet as the forming companies moved up and down. The men knew that many of their employees were away, mingling with the crowds and that work was being neglected. But they kept to their rooms and to their meditations. Ah, said one, it's a hard thing to make us choose between the old home and the old flag. We love both, which the better God only knows. The children came home from school and told how one of the teachers was preparing to go to war and it brought the situation up to their very faces. Those were indeed terrible times when preceptors left their desks for the battlefield. But still their hearts cried within them, what shall we do? In the afternoon of the day following the convention, Nanny Woods came over for a chat with Mary Waters. They were close friends and as confidential as prospective sisters should be. Do you think they will fight? Asked Nanny. The South? Yes, they will fight, I am sure of it. They have already shown what is in them. Father and Tom think it will be easy to subdue them, but I feel somehow that it will be a long struggle. But we shall whip them, cried the other girl, her eyes flashing. I don't know, I don't know. I wish we didn't have to try. Why Mary, are you afraid? Oh no, I'm not afraid, but there are those I love on both sides, and in the coming contest, whichever wins, I shall have my share of sorrow. Whichever wins, why you haven't a single friend in the South. I have no friend in the South now. Oh, you mean Rob Van Doren. Well if he didn't think enough of me to be on my side, I'd sent him about his business. A man who didn't have courage enough to hold to his own opinions wouldn't be a man I'd marry. A man who didn't have love enough to change his opinions to my side wouldn't be the man for me. Very well, Nanny, we can't agree. But we're not going to fall out, Mary, and Nanny threw her arms impulsively around her friend's neck. But oh, I do long to see our boys march down there and show those rebels what we're made of. What do you think? Father says they claim that one of them can whip five Yankees, meaning us. Well, I'd like to see them try it. Spoken like a brave and loyal little woman, cried Tom, rushing in. Eve's dropping, said Nanny, coquettishly. But Mary turned her sad eyes upon him. I am no less loyal than Nanny, she said. And if the worst comes, I know where my allegiance lies. But I wish it wasn't necessary. I wish it wasn't necessary to take sides. Never you mind, Mary. It's going to be all right. We'll whip them in a month or two. We, cried Nanny, oh, Tom, you're never going. Why, what should I be doing when men are at war? But will there be war? There is war. The South has fallen out of step. And we shall have to whip them back into line. But it won't be long, two or three months at most. And then all will be quiet again. It may not even mean bloodshed. I think a display of armed force will be sufficient to quell them. God grant it may be so. Tom turned and looked at his sister in an amused way. Oh, you needn't be afraid, Mary. Bob Van Doren won't go. Copperheads only talk. They never fight, ha-ha. Tom Waters, that's mean of you, Nanny exclaimed. And it's very little of you. For a day or two ago, Bob was your friend. She held Mary closer as she spoke. But Tom Waters was imbued with the madness that was in the air. What, he burst out, Bob Van Doren, my friend. I have no friend except the friends of the union, I tell you. And mark my words. When the others of us march away, you will find him skulking with the rest of his breed in the grass where all snakes lie. Bob Van Doren is no coward, said Mary intensely. And when the time comes, he will be found where his convictions lead, either boldly on the side of the union or fighting for the cause which his honor chooses you. She broke down and burst into tears. Oh, dry up, Mary, Tom said, with rough tenderness. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Rob's a good enough fellow. But oh, I wish he was on our side. Don't cry, Mary. He's a first-rate fellow, and I'll be friends with him. Tom, you go away, cried Nanny. You're just like all men, a great big blundering. Don't cry, Mary. Don't cry. Mind your own business, Tom Waters. Nobody wants you officiating around here. You've put your foot in it. And if you get smart, Mary and I will both turn rebel. Take your arm away. A pretty rebel you'd make. I'd make a better rebel than you would a soldier. All right, I'll show you. And the young man went out and slammed the door behind him. Now you've hurt his feelings, said Mary, suddenly drying her tears. I don't care. It was all your fault, Mary Waters. Then they wept in each other's arms because they were both so miserable. Just then, the negro known as Nigger Ed came running down the street. Laws have musty on us. Days hang in mist of land to hem. The hearts of the two girls stood still with horror for the moment, and they clutched each other wildly. But the taint of Eve conquered, and they hurried to the door to get the news. Nigger Ed, Nigger Ed, they called. And the colored man came breathlessly back to them. What did you say as you passed the house? They're hanging Mr. Vell and Digum? Yes, they're hanging him up by the courthouse. A whole crowd of men's are hanging him. Your father's among them missy, he said, turning to Mary. My father helping to hang Vell and Digum. Oh, what are we coming to? Isn't it a terrible thing? Why, it's murder. Nanny called across to a friend who was passing on the other side of the street. Oh, Mr. Smith, can it be true that they are hanging Vell and Digum? The friend laughed, only in effigy, he said. Get along with you, Ed, said Nanny indignantly, running around here scaring a body to death. They're only hanging him in effigy. Effigy, effigy, that's what they said, but it don't make no difference how a man's hung. That's so he's hung. Go along, you dunce. It's a stuffed Vell and Digum they're hanging. Stuffed, cried Ed. I thought Evigy meant his clothes. Lord bless your soul, missy, and me, breaking my neck, running from a stuffed corpse. I reckon I longed half to town, and Ed went on his way. And it's for those people, our brothers and fathers are going to war? Oh, no, not at all, said Nanny. It's for the union and against states' rights and everything like that. Those people are at the bottom of it all. I know it. I knew when that book by Mrs. Stowe came out. They're at the bottom of all this trouble. I wish they'd never been brought into this country. Why, how foolish you are, Mary. What on earth would the South have done without them? You don't suppose white people could work down in that hot country? White people will work down in that hot country, and they will fight down there, and oh my God they will die down there. Mary, you cry now at the least thing. I believe you're getting a touch of hysteria. If you say so, I'll burn some feathers under your nose. It isn't hysterics, Nanny, unless the whole spirit of the times is hysterical. But it is hard to see families that have known and loved each other for so long suddenly torn asunder by these dissensions. But the women folks needn't be separated. They can go on loving each other just the same. No, the women must and will follow their natural masters. It only remains for them to choose which shall be their masters, the men at home or those whom they love outside. Well, with most of us, that will be an easy matter for our lovers and the folks at home agree. Forgive me, Mary, I mean no reflection upon you, and I am sorry. We are not all so fortunate, but however it comes, our women's hearts will bear the burdens. The men will get the glory, and we shall have the grief. Hooray, Tom's voice floated in from the street, and he swung in at the gate, singing gaily his cap in his hand. Oh, what is it, Tom, cried Nanny, what's the news? The bulletin says it is more than likely that the president will call for volunteers tomorrow, and I'm going to be the first lieutenant in the company if the light guards go as a body. Oh, my poor brother, poor nothing. Boom, boom, terrara, boom, forward march. And Tom tramped about the room in an excess of youthful enthusiasm. He was still parading much to Nanny's pride and delight when his father entered and stood looking at him. His eyes were swollen and dark, and there were lines of pain about his mouth. Ah, Tom, he said presently, there'll be something more than marching to do. I had expected to go along with you, but they tell me I'm too old, and so I must be denied the honor of going to the front. But if you go, my son, I want your eyes to be open to the fact that you are going down there for no child's play. It will be full grown men's work. There will be uniforms and shining equipments, but there will be shot and shell as well. You go down there to make yourself a target for rebel bullets and a mark for southern fevers. There will be the screaming of fives, but there will also be the whistling of shot. The flag that we love will float above you, but overall will hover the dark wings of death. Oh, father, father, cried Mary. It is a terrible business, daughter. Tom had stood silent in the middle of the floor while his father was speaking, and now he drew up his shoulders and answered, don't be afraid of me, father. I understand it all. If I go to the war, I shall expect to meet and endure all that the war will bring. Hardships may be worse. I'm not going for fun, and I don't think you'll ever have reason to be ashamed of me. Mary flung herself on her father's breast and clung to him as if fearful that he also might be taken from her. But Nanny, with burning face, ran across and placed her hand in Tom's. That's right, Tom, and I'm not afraid for you. The young man put his hand tenderly upon the girl's head and smiled down into her face. You're a brave little woman, Nanny, he said. The deep menace of the approaching contest seemed to have subdued them all. I'm not afraid for my son's honor, said Bradford Waters proudly, but we must all remember that war brings more tears than smiles and makes more widows than wives. We know that, said Nanny, but we women will play our part at home and be brave, won't we, Mary? The girl could not answer, but she raised her head from her father's shoulder and gripped her brother's hand tightly. It was strange talk and a strange scene for these self-contained people who thought so little of their emotions, but their very fervor gave a melodramatic touch to all they did that at another time must have appeared ridiculous. End of chapter three. Chapter four 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 four, Sons and Fathers. The scenes that were taking place in Dorbury were not different from those that were being enacted over the whole country. While the North was thunderstruck at the turn matters had taken, there had yet been gathering there a political force which only needed this last act of effrontery to galvanize its intention into action. Everywhere men were gathering themselves into companies or like Dorbury already had their light guards. Then like the sound of a deep bell in the midst of potential silence came the president's proclamation and the waiting hosts heard gladly. Lincoln's call for troops could hardly do more than was already done. Volunteering was but a word. In effect, thousands of men were ready and the call meant only marching orders. The enthusiasm of the time was infectious. Old men were vying with youths in their haste and eagerness to offer their services to the country. As Bradford Waters had said, it was a time for sharp divisions. And men who had been lukewarm in behalf of the Northern cause before now threw themselves heart and soul into it. This state of affairs affected Southern sympathizers in the North in two ways. It reduced the less robust of spirit to silence and evasion. The bolder and more decided ones were still also but between the silence of one and that of the other was a vast difference of motive. One was the conceding silence of fear. The other was a sullen repression that brooded and bided its time. Among those who came out strongly on the side of the South was old Colonel Stuart, one of the oldest citizens of the town. He had served with distinction throughout the Mexican war and was the close friend of Valendingham. He had come of good old Virginia blood and could not and would not try to control his utterances. So when the crisis came, his family fearing the heat and violence of the time urged him to go South where his words and feelings would be more in accordance with the views of his neighbors. But he angrily refused. No, said he, I will not run from them a single step. I will stay here and thrust the truth of what I believe down their throats. But it will do no good, said his old wife plaintively. These people are as set in their beliefs as you are in yours and you have no more chance of turning them than of stemming the Ohio River. I am not here to stem the current. Let them go on with it and be swept to destruction by their own madness, but they shall not move me. All of your friends are keeping silent Colonel, although they feel as deeply as you do. All the more reason for him who feels and dares speak to speak, then too you owe it to your family to leave this place. Your views make it hard for us and they will make it worse as the trouble grows. I hope I have a family heroic enough to bear with me some of the burdens of the South. His wife sighed hopelessly. It seemed a throwing of her words into empty air to talk to her husband. But Emily Stewart took up the cause. She had the subtlety of the newer generation, which in argument she substituted for her mother's simple directness. It seems to me, father, she said, that you owe the most not to your family but to yourself. What do you mean? He said, turning upon her. That if you are going to bear the burdens of the South, you should bear them not half-heartedly but in full. Well, am I not? Let me explain. If trouble should come to the South, if disaster or defeat, it would be easy for you, for any man, to raise his voice on her behalf. While he himself rides out and beyond the stress of the storm. If you are on the side of the South, she has a right to demand your presence there, the strength of your personality thrown in with her strength. The old man thought deeply and then he said, I believe you are right. Body as well as soul should be with the South now. Yes, we will go South. But I am sorry about Walter. He has been so bound up in his work. It will be a great disappointment for him to go away and leave it all. But then he may, in fact. I hope he will find consolation for whatever he loses in defending the birthplace of his father against the invasion of vandals. The two women were silent. They were keener than the man. Women always are. And these knew or felt with a vividness that bordered on knowledge that Walter would not think as his father thought or go his father's way. And here the breach would come. But the colonel never once thought but that his son would enter heartily into all his plans and he prided himself upon the step he was about to take. His wife and daughter went out and left him anxiously awaiting Walter's coming. They were apprehensive when they heard the young man's step in the hall. And afterwards heard him enter the library where the colonel always insisted that any matter of importance should be discussed. Heroism, real or fancied, is its own reward, its own audience and its own applause. With continued thought upon the matter, Colonel Stewart's enthusiasm had reached the fever pitch from which he could admit but one view of it. He had bad the servant sent his son to him as soon as he came in and he was walking back and forth across the floor when he heard the young man's step. The old man paused and threw back his head with the spirited motion that was reminiscent of the days when he was a famous orator. The boy who was the colonel's only son was not yet 24, a handsome fellow, tall, well-made and as straight as an arrow. As they stood there facing each other, there was something very much alike in them. Age, experience and contact with the world had hardened the lines about the old man's mouth which as yet in the boys only indicated firmness. Sit down, Walter, said the colonel impressively. I have something of importance to say to you, something that will probably change your whole life. His son had dropped into a chair opposite to the one which his father had taken. His face was white with the apprehension that would tug at his heart but his eye was steady and his lips firm. Alexander Steward could never quite forget that for two sessions he had been a speaking member of the Ohio legislature and whenever he had anything of importance to say, he returned involuntarily to his forensic manner. Walter, my son, he began, we have come upon startling times. I have known all along that this crisis would come but I had not expected to see it in my day. It was inevitable that the proud spirit of the South and the blind arrogance of the North should someday clash. The clash has now come and with it the time for all strong men to take a decided stand. We of the South, the boy winced at the words, hold to our allegiance though we have changed our homes and this is the time for us to show our loyalty. The South has been insulted. Her oldest institutions derided and her proudest names dragged in the dust by men who might have been their owners overseers. But she does not bear malice. She is not going to wage a war of vengeance but a holy war for truth, justice and right. I am going back home to help her. The old man's own eloquence had brought him to his feet in the middle of the floor where he stood with eyes blazing. Back home he repeated and you my son, he held out his hand. Father, Walter also arose, his face was deadly pale. He did not take the proffered hand. His father gazed at him first in amazement then as the truth began to reach his mind a livid flush overspread his face. His hand dropped at his side and his fingers clenched. You, he half groaned, half growled between his teeth. Father, listen to me. There is but one thing I can listen to from you. You can never hear that. The North is my home. I was born here. I was brought up to revere the flag. You taught me that. But there is a reverence greater than that for any flag. There is a time when a flag loses its right to respect. You never talk to me of any such reverence or told me of any such time. And now I choose to stand by the home I know. This is not your home. Your home is the home of your family and the blood in your veins is drawn from the best in the South. My blood was made by the streams and in the meadows, on the hills and in the valleys of Ohio, here where I have played from babyhood. And Father, I can't, I can't. May we not think differently and be friends? No. If you had the blood of a single Yankee ancestor in you, I would impute it to that and forgive the defection. I could understand your weakening at this time, but it is not weakening, Walter flashed back. If anything, it is strengthening when a man stands up for his flag. For the only flag he has ever known when it is attacked by traitors. Traitors, the old man almost shouted the word as he made a step towards the boy. Traitors, yes, traitors said the son unflinchingly. You cur, you mongrel cur, neither northern nor southern. Father, silence, I wish the North joy of your acquisition. The South is well shed of you. You would have been like to turn tail and sculpt in her direst extremity. It is well to know what you are from the start. Let me say a word, Father. Don't father me. I'll father no such weak-need renegade as you are. From today you are no son of mine. I curse you, curse you. The door opened softly and Mrs. Stewart stood there, transfixed, gazing at the two men. She was very pale for she had heard the last words. Husband, Walter, she said tremulously. I have intruded, but I could not help it. Neither man spoke. Alexander, she went on, take back those words. I felt all along it would be so, but you and Walter can disagree with each other and yet be father and son. Walter, come and shake hands with your father. The boy took a reluctant step forward without raising his head, but his father drew himself up and folded his arms. Alexander, I have no son, he said simply. Walter raised his eyes and answered, and I no father. And seizing his mother in his arms, he covered her face with kisses and rushed from the room. Presently they heard the front door close behind him. Call him back, husband, call him back for God's sake. He is our son, the only one left. Call him back. The colonel stood like a statue, not a muscle of his face quivered, and his folded arms were like iron in their tenseness. He has chosen his faith, he said. He relaxed then to receive his wife's fainting form in his arms. He laid her gently on a couch and calling his daughter on the servants went to his own room. It is an awful thing to have to answer to a mother for her boy. To see her eyes searching your soul with the question in them, where is my child? But it is a more terrible thing to a father's conscience when he himself is questioner, accuser and culprit in one. Colonel Stewart walked his room alone and thought with agony over his position. He knew Walter's disposition. It was very like his own. And this was not a matter in which to say, I have been hasty and then allow it to pass over. How could he meet his wife's accusing eyes? How could he do without Walter? The old man sat down and buried his face in his hands. The fire and enthusiasm of indignation which had held him up during his interview with his son had left him and he was only a sad broken old man. If he could but stay in his room forever away from everybody. As soon as his wife recovered from her swoon she sent for him. He went tremblingly and reluctantly to her fearful of what he should see in her eyes. The room though was sympathetically darkened when he went in. He groped his way to the bed. A hand reached out and took his and a voice said, let us hurry, let us go away from here, Alexander. There was no anger, no reproach in the tone only a deep lingering sadness that tore at his heartstrings. Margaret, Margaret, he cried and flinging his arms about her held her close while Sobs shook his frame. His wife patted his gray hair. Don't cry, beloved, she said, this is wall but let us go away from here, let us go away. Yes, Margaret, he sobbed, we will go away. Preparations for the departure of the stewards began immediately. Mrs. Stewart busied herself feverishly as one who works to drive out bitter thoughts. But the Colonel kept to his room away from the scenes of activity. His trouble weighed heavily upon him. His enthusiasm for the war seemed suddenly to have turned its heat malignantly upon him to consume him. Except when circumstances demanded his presence he kept away from the rest of the family no longer through the mere dread of meeting them for it was the spirit of his conscience to press the iron into his soul. But because he felt that this was a trouble to be born alone no one could share it, no one could understand it. For several days no one outside of the house knew of the breach that had occurred in the Steward family nor of their intention to go south. Then they made the mistake of hiring the Negro Ed to help them finish their packing. The servant is always curious. The Negro servant particularly so. And to the Negro, the very atmosphere of this silent house the constrained attitude of the family were pregnant with mystery. Then he did not see the son about. It took about a little time for his curiosity to lead to the discovery that the son was boarding in the town. This with scraps of information that he got from the other servants he put together and his imagination did the rest. Ed had a picturesque knack for lying and the tail that resulted from his speculations was a fabric worthy of its weaver. According to the Negro's version the Colonel though long past the age for service was going down south to be a general and wanted to take his son Walter along with him to be a captain. Walter had refused and he and his father had come to fisticuffs in which the young man was worsted for Ed adding admiringly by way of embellishment. Dold Colonel is a mighty good man yet. After this the young man had left his father's house because he thought he was too old to be whipped. This was the tale with which Ed regaled the people for whom he worked about Dorbury but be it said in vindication of their common sense that few if any believed it. That there was some color of fact in the matter they could not doubt when it was plainly shown that Walter Stewart was not living at his father's house. There must have been a breach of some kind they admitted but Ed's picture must be reduced about one half. The story however threw young Stewart into an unenviable prominence as modest as it is natural for a young man of 23 to be. It gave him no pleasure to have people turn around to look after him with an audible, there he goes. At first his feeling towards his father had been one not so much of anger as of grief but he had no confidant and the grief that could not find an outlet hardened into a grief that sticks in the throat that cannot be floated off by tears or blown away by curses that will not melt that will not move that becomes rebellion. It was all unjust. He thought of the ideas of independence that his father had inculcated in him how he had held up to him the very strength of manhood which he now repudiated. How he had set before him the very example upon which he now modeled his conduct and then abasted. He had built and broken his own idol and the ruins lay not only about his feet but about his sons. It was a hard thought in the boy's mind and for a time he felt as if he wanted to hold his way in the world asking of nothing. Is it right or wrong? Leaning to no beliefs following no principles. This was the first mad rebellion of his flowering youth against the fading ideals against the revelation of things as they are. But with the rebound which marks the dividing line between youth and manhood, he came back to a saner view of the affair. It came to him for the first time that now was a period of general madness in which no rule of sane action held good. And yet he could not wholly forgive his father his unnecessary harshness. The understanding of his unmerited cruelty came to him, but his condemnation of it did not leave. Only once did he ask himself whether the cause for which he stood was worthy of all that he had sacrificed for it. Home, mother, comfort, and a father's love. Then there came back to him the words his father had uttered on a memorable occasion. Walter, principal is too dear to be sacrificed at any price, and his lips closed in a line of determination. Resolutely, he turned his face away from that path of soft delight. He was no longer his father's son, but he was enough of a steward to believe strongly. He felt sorely hurt though when he found that Ed's story, while failing to find a resting place in the ears of the sensible, had percolated the minds of the lower classes of the town. He heard ominous threats hurled at the old copperhead which he knew to be directed at his father. All that lay in his power to do, he did to stem the tide of popular anger, but he felt it rising steadily and knew that at any moment it might take the form of open violence or insult to his family. This must be avoided, he determined, and night after night after he had left home, he patrolled the sidewalk in front of his father's house and the grief-stricken mother reaching out her arms and moaning for her son in her sleep, did not know that he was there watching the low flicker of the night lamp in her room. It was nearly a week after the memorable evening interview between Walter and his father that the young man received by the hands of the gossiping Ed a note from his mother. It ran, we expect to go tomorrow evening at seven. Will you not come and tell me goodbye? Walter was brave and he gulped hard. This was from his mother and neither principal nor anything else separated him from her. He would go. He wrote, I will come in by the side gate and wait for you in the arbor. The evening found him there a half hour before the time set, but a mother's fond eagerness had outrun the hours and Mrs. Stewart was already there awaiting him. She embraced her son with tears in her eyes and they talked long together. From the window of his room, Colonel Stewart watched them. His eyes lingered over every outline of his son's figure. Once he placed his hand on the sash as if to raise it, then he checked himself and took a turn round the dismantled room. When he came back to the window, Walter was taking his leave. The old man saw his wife clinging about the boy's neck. He saw the young fellow brush his hand hastily across his eyes. Again, his hand went out involuntarily to the window, but he drew it back and grounded in the other while a groan struggled up from under the weight of his pride and tore itself from his pale lips. Gone, gone, Walter was gone, and with him his chance of reconciliation. He saw his wife return, but he locked his door and sat down to battle with his pride and grief until it was time to go. It was a worn-looking old man that came down to step into the carriage an hour later, but Colonel Stewart never looked more the soldier. Walter was at a safe point of vantage, watching to get a last glimpse of his family. He was heavy of heart in spite of his bravery, but suddenly his sadness flamed into anger. A crowd had been gathering about his father's house, but he thought it only the usual throng attracted by curiosity. As his father stepped into the carriage, he heard a sudden huzzah. The people had surrounded the vehicle. A band appeared and there floated to his ears the strains of the rogue's march. A red mist came before his eyes, but through it he could not help seeing that they were taking the horses from the shafts. He waited to see no more, but dashed down the street. He forgot his sorrow, he forgot the breach, he forgot everything but his fury. It was his father, his father. They were drawing the carriage toward him now and the band was crashing out the hateful music. He reached the crowd and dashed into it like a young bull knocking the surprised rioters and musicians right and left. He was cursing, he was pale and his lip was bleeding where he had bitten it. The music stopped. Those who held the shafts dropped them. They were too astonished by the sudden onslaught to move. Then a growl rose like the noise of wild beasts and the crowd began to surge upon the young man. Forward and back they swept him, struggling and fighting. Then the carriage door opened and Colonel Stewart stepped out. His face was the face of an angel in anger or perhaps of a very noble devil. Stop, he thundered and at his voice the uproar ceased. Take up the shafts, my fellow citizens, he said sneeringly. This act is what I might have expected of you, but go on, it is meat that I should be drawn by such cattle. Then turning to his son he said, saw I need no defense from you. There was a joyous cry at this, though it was the young man's salvation. Someone hurled a stone which grazed the old man's head. Walter was at the coward side in an instant and had felt him to the ground. For an instant something that was not contempt gleamed in the old man's eye, but Walter turned and lifting his hat to his father backed from the crowd. They took up the shafts again. The musicians gathered their courage and with a shout they bore the Colonel away to the station. Walter stood looking after the carriage. He had caught a glimpse of his mother's face from the window for a moment and to the day of his death he never forgot the look she gave him. It was to be a help to him in the time of his trouble and strength when the fight was hottest. His anger at his father had melted away in the flash of action, but he could not help wonder if the Colonel's insult to him had been sincere or only for the purpose of accomplishing what it did, the diversion of the crowd. He knew that he had been saved rough handling and that his father had saved him and he went home with a calmer spirit than he had known for many days. Despite the intolerance which kept Steven Van Doran always at loggerheads with Bradford Waters, he was in reality a fairly reasonable man. He was as deep and ardent a partisan of the South as Colonel Steward and if he was not less anxious than his son should espouse her cause, at least he had more patience and more faith to wait for his boy to turn to the right path. From the time that Robert Van Doran was driven from his sweetheart's gate, there had been a silence between father and son as to the latter's intentions. But as the feverish preparations went on, Steven Van Doran grew more and more uneasy and excited. It was hard not to speak to his son and find out from him where he stood in regard to the questions which were agitating his fellows, but a stalwart pride held the old man back. There were times when he told himself that the boy only waited for a word from him, but that word he determined never to say. The South did not need the arm of anyone who had to be urged to fight for her. The struggle and anxiety which possessed his father's mind was not lost on the young man and he sympathized with the trouble while he respected the fine courtly breeding which compelled silence under it. As for himself, he must have more time to think. This was no light question which he was now called upon to decide. The times were asking of every American in his position, are you an American or a Southerner first? The answer did not hang ready upon his lips. Where foes from without assailed it was the country, the whole country. Could there arise any internal conditions that would make it different? Finally he could not stand the pain question in his father's eyes any longer. A word would let him know that at least his son was thinking of the matter which agitated him. Father, he said, you are worrying about me. The old man looked up proudly. You are mistaken, was the reply. I have no need to worry about my son, he is a man. Robert gave his father a grateful glance and went on. You are right, you need not worry. I am looking for the right. When I find it, you may depend on me to go that way. I am sure of it, Bob, exclaimed the old man, grasping his son's hand. I am sure you will. You are a man and must judge for yourself. I have confidence in you, Bob. Thank you, father. They pressed each other's hands warmly. The cloud cleared from Van Doren's brow and the subject was dropped between the two. Between Tom Waters and his father from the very first, there had been only harmony. There was a brief period of silence between them when Bradford Waters first fully realized that his age put him hopelessly beyond the chance of being beside his son in the ranks. At the first intimation that he was too old, he had scouted the idea and said that it often took a gray head to manage a strong arm rightly. But when he saw the full quota of militia made up and his application denied, it filled him with poignant grief. I had so hoped to be by your side, Tom, in this fight, he said. It's best, father, as it is, though, for there's Mary to be taken care of. Yes, the fever of our blood makes us forget the nearest and dearest nowadays, but I'm glad that you will be there to represent me anyway. From that time, all the enthusiasm which Waters had felt in the northern cause was centered upon his son. He watched him on the parade ground with undisguised pride, and when Tom came home in the glory of his new uniform with the straps upon his square shoulders, Bradford Waters' voice was husky, and there was a moisture in his eyes as he said, I'm glad now that it's you who are going, Tom, for I understand what a poor figure I must have made among you young fellows. The son was too joyous to be much affected by the sadness in his father's tone, and he only laughed as he replied, I tell you, father, those steel muscles of yours would have put many a young fellow to the blush when it came to endurance. Well, it isn't my chance, you're the soldier. The young fellow would have felt a pardonable pride, could he have known that his father was saying over and over again, Lieutenant Thomas Waters, Lieutenant Thomas Waters, why not Captain or Colonel? And his pride would have been tempered, could he have known also that back of this exclamation was the question, will he come back to me? For so long a time had Bradford Waters been both father and mother to his son that he had come to have some of the qualities of both parents, and if it were true, as Mary said, that in this war the women's hearts would suffer most, then must he suffer doubly. With the woman's heart of the mother and the man's heart of the father, the ache had already begun for the struggle was on between the tenderness of the one and the pride of the other, between the mother's love and the father's ambition. At the barracks or on the parade ground in the Blair of the Trumpets, where Lieutenant Waters strode back and forth, ambition conquered. But in the long still nights, when his boy Tom was in his thoughts and dreams, only love and tenderness held him. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 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 5 The Pump and Circumstance The shifting scenes in the panorama of the opening war brought about the day of departure. The company to which Tom Waters belonged was to leave on an afternoon train for Columbus, and Dorbury was alert to see them off. Friend and foe swayed by the same excitement. The town took on the appearance and spirit of a gala day. The streets were full of sightseers, pedestrians, riders and drivers, for the event had brought in the farmers from surrounding townships. Here and there the blue of a uniform showed among the crowd, and some soldier made his way proudly the center of an admiring crowd. A troupe of little boys, fired by the enthusiasm of their elders, marched to and fro to the doubtful tune of a shrill fife and an asthmatic drum. People who lived a long distance away, and who consequently had been compelled to start long before sunrise, now lulled lazily around, munching gingerbread, or sat more decorously in the public square, eating their delayed breakfasts. About the barracks, which were the quarters of the militia, was gathered a heterogeneous crowd. Within there was the sound of steady trapping, as the sentinels moved back and forth over their beats. Their brothers without were doing a more practical duty, for it took all the bravery of their bristling bayonets to keep back the curious. There was a stir among them like the rippling of the sea by the wind, when a young man, in the uniform of a private of the light guards, hastened up and elbowed his way towards the door. There was a buzz, a single shout, and then a burst of cheers, as the young man, flushed and hot, leaped up the steps and entered the door. Some who had been his enemies were in the crowd. Some who had laid violent hands on him only a few days before, but they were all his friends now. It was Walter Steward. He had followed the leadings of his own mind and stayed with his company, but somehow the applause of these people, who were all his father's enemies, was very bitter to him. After Steward came a figure that elicited a shout from the throng and a burst of laughter. It was the town crier, Negro Ed, who was to go as servant to the militia captain, Horace Miller. Hi, Ed, called one. Ain't you afraid they'll get you and make you a slave? And don't forget to stop at Dorbury when you get to running. Ed was usually good-natured and met such sallies with a grin, but a new cap and a soldier's belt had had their effect on him, and he marched among his deriders, very stern, dignified and direct, as if the arduous duties of the camp were already telling upon him. The only reply he vouchsafed was, Nemine, you people, Nemine, you got to get somebody else to ring your old bell now? The crowd laughed. There came a time when they wept at thought of that black buffoon, the town nigger, the town drunkard. When in the hospital and by deathbeds, his touch was as the touch of a mother. When over a blood-swept field, he bore a woman's dearest and nursed him back to a broken life. But no more of that. The telling of it must be left to a time when he who says ought of a Negro's virtues will not be cried down as an advocate drunk with prejudice. To the listeners outside the barracks came the noise of grounding arms, and the talk of men relieved from duty. They were to go to their homes until time to form in the afternoon. The authorities were considerate. If men must go to war, good-byes must be said, women must weep, and children cling to their fathers. The last sad meal must be taken. The net of speculation must be thrown out to catch whatever moats of doubt the wind of war may blow. And the questions must fly. Will he come back? Shall I see him again? Yes, women must weep. In spite of all the glory of war, they will cling to the neck of the departing husband, brother, or son. Poor, foolish creatures, they have no eye then for the brave array, the prancing charger, and the gleaming arms. They have no ear for the inspiring fife and drum. The men were soberer than they had yet been when they filed out of the barracks. At last the reality of things was coming home to them. It was all very well this drilling on the common in the eyes of the town, but now for the result of their drills. Midway among them came Tom and Walter, side by side, lieutenant and private. They had not yet come to feel the difference in their positions. Well, we'll be on the way in a few hours, said Walter, as they passed out beyond the borders of the crowd, and I'm glad of it. I'm glad too, now that we're in it, Walt, and I'm glad to be in it myself. But it means a whole lot, doesn't it? Of course, you're leaving your family, replied Walter tentatively. More than that. Both young men smiled. Walter a little bit sheepishly. He had been Tom's rival for Nanny Wood's affections, and had taken defeat at his hands. Oh, pursued Tom, if the fight is going to be as short as many people think, a mere brush in fact, we shan't be gone long, but the people who think this is going to be a mere brush don't know the temper of the south. I believe you, there'll be a good many of us who won't come back. Oh well, it's one time or another. And Walter smiled again, as they came to the corner, and Tom turned up the street towards Nanny's house, so long, so long until this afternoon, and then the young lieutenant found himself staring straight into the eyes of Robert Van Doren. For a moment the feeling of antagonism which had shown in his conversation with Mary surged over him, but in the next he remembered his promise. He held out his hand. Hello, Bob, he said. I guess it's hello and good-bye together. Bob grasped his hand warmly. Well, I reckon nobody'll be gladder to say how do you do to you again and I, Tom. Good luck. Thanks, Bob. Give my regards to Mary. I will. Tom started on. Suddenly he turned and found Van Doren watching him with a strange expression on his face. He went back and impulsively seized the other's hand. Say, Bob, what's what? The blood went out of Van Doren's face. God knows, he said, in a pained voice. That's just what I've been asking myself, and I don't know yet, Tom. The young man paused, ashamed of this show of feeling. Then he said, Well, anyways, Bob, good luck. And they went their ways. In his heart, Tom believed that Robert Van Doren would eventually go to the Confederacy, and he resented what to him seemed flagrant disloyalty. Ohio was Van Doren's adopted home, and a tender mother she had been to him. Out of her bounty she had given him well, now to go over to her enemies. The fight in Tom's mind, as to his manner of meeting Van Doren, had been brief but sharp. The result was less the outcome of generosity than the result of a subtle selfishness. It was, as all putting oneself in another's place is, the sacrifice which we make to the gods of our own desires, the concession we make to our weakness. He forgave Robert, not because Mary loved and was about to lose him, but because he himself loved Nanny, and for a time at least, was about to lose her. The grasp which he gave Bob's hand meant pity for himself as well as for his sister. There was a flash of pride on Nanny's face, though tears stood in her eyes as she saw her lover approaching. She had been expecting him, and was at the gate. The soft April sunshine was playing on her gold-brown hair, and in her simple pink, dimity gown she looked akin to the morning glories that blossomed about her. She opened the gate and took the young man's hand, and together they passed around the side of the house to a rustic bench among the verbinas and sweet Williams. There was a simplicity and frankness about Nanny's love that was almost primitive. It was so natural, so spontaneous, so unashamed. It looked you as squarely in the face as did her coquetry. But there was no sign of coquetry now. Gone were all her whims and quips, her airs and graces. There had come into her life the transmuting element that suddenly makes a maid, a woman. For a time the two sat in silence on her flower-surrounded bench. Tom, afraid to trust his voice, and Nanny finding a certain satisfaction in merely pressing the hand she held. Finally he broke silence. Well, the time is about here, Nanny. Yes, she replied, drawing his hand closer and caressing it. You're glad, of course. Glad? Well, that's a hard question. I'm glad, of course, but he struggled to grasp the elusive idea that was floating in his brain. But there was more than one kind of being glad. I am glad to be sure as a citizen, and I'm sorry as a man. You're sorry because—you know why, little girl. I'm sorry to leave you. I'm sorry to take any chance of never being able to call you wife. It may be cowardly, but at such a time the thought is forced irresistibly upon a man. It isn't cowardly, Tom. It isn't. It's manly. I know it is because you're thinking about me. Oh, but I shall miss you when you are gone. But I'll pray for you, and I'll try to be as brave up here as you are down there. You are wrong, Tom. You are very brave, braver than the men who do not think too sorrow for the women, but go rushing into this war with a blind enthusiasm that will not let them feel. You're brave, you're brave, and I'm going to be, but I can't help it. He caught her in his arms and strained the weeping face to his breast. Darling, darling, my brave little girl, don't cry. A man is so helpless, so wordless in these times. He can do nothing but stammer and exclaim and lavish caresses. After the first gust of weeping was over, she raised her tear-stained face and said with a rainy smile, I want you to understand, Tom, I'm not crying all for grief. It's just as much pride as it is sorrow. Oh, I've been spoiling your uniform. There was somewhat of a return of her old coquetry of manner, and her lover was unspeakably cheered. He had felt in that brief moment of passion as he had never felt before, how near the ocean of tears lay to the outer air, and how strong was their surge against the barriers of manhood. But her change of manner gave him the courage to say the tender goodbye, the farewell too sacred to be spied upon. Ah, how his heart ached within him, how his throat swelled. And she smiled and smiled, though her eyes grew moist again. And he went on, inspired by the heroism of a woman's smile, the smile she gives even when she sends her dear one's forth to face death. He bad goodbye to Nanny's family, and went home to a sad meal and a repetition of his leave takings. The sister hardly succeeded as well as the sweetheart in hiding her emotions. Her heart was already heavy, and she wept not only at the fear of death, but with the pain of love. At the very last, when he was going to take his place in the ranks, she broke down and clung sobbing to her brother. Tom gulped, and the father, wringing his son's hands, took away her arms and comforted her as best he could. His eyes were bright and hard with the stress of the fight he was having with his feelings, but his voice was firm. Bradford Waters showed the medal of his pastor. A new Englander, born and reared in that section of the country, which has produced the most and the least emotional people, the most conservative and the most radical, the wisest philosophers and the wildest fanatics. He did not disgrace his breeding. It was easier for Tom when he was once more in the ranks. Then he felt again the infectious spirit of enthusiasm which swayed his comrades. His heart beat with the drums. He heard the people cheering as they went down the street. Hankerchips were waving from windows and balconies, and there was a following that half walked, half trotted to keep up with the swinging stride of the soldiers. The train that was to bear them away stood puffing in the station. They crowded on. Here and there a man dropped into his seat and buried his head in his hands. But most of the heads were out of the windows, not in goodbyes. There was an air of forced gaiety over it all. Young fellows with flushed cheeks laughed hard laughs and bit their lips the moment after. It was as if no one wanted to think and yet thought would come. Children were held up to be kissed, their mothers weeping openly as is a mother's right. Fathers would start a reassuring sentence and suddenly break off to laugh brokenly, short skeleton laughs that were sadder than tears. Then the bell gave warning and with a last rousing shout they were off for the state capital and the chances of war. Tom caught the last glimpse of the family and Nanny as they stood together on the platform. They were waving to him and he waved back. Nanny and Mary stood with clasped hands watching the long line of cars. On the former's face there was sorrow and pride, sorrow for her lover, pride for her soldier. But with the latter was only grief, for she could not be thoroughly loyal to her brother without feeling disloyalty to her lover. Bradford Waters walked with the crowd, but the two girls stood still until they heard the train whistle and slackened speed as it crossed the railroad bridge. Then they turned and slackened speed as it crossed the railroad bridge. Then they turned and walked back to the town. A few moments before the place had been all movement and life. Now it was left to silence and tears. There was one man whom the moving glory of the departing troops filled with no elation. From a distant point Bob Vandoren saw the blue lines swinging down the streets of Dorbury and heard the shrieks of the fives. But there was in him no inclination to join in the shouting or to follow the admiring crowd. He was possessed neither by the joyous nor the sorrowing interest of the citizen, nor yet by the cowardly shame of the stay at home. While he could not go as far as his father and stay within the closed and shuttered house, yet he felt that he was not a part of the flag-flying drum-beating throng. Many of the young fellows there were his friends who had eaten and drunk with him. They had laughed and sported together both as men and boys. But now suddenly it seemed that something had arisen to make them entirely different, and to put him as far apart from them and their sympathies as if they had been born at opposite poles. What was this impalpable something he asked himself? Was it in him, in them, or outside, and beyond them both? Or to get at the bottom of things, did it really exist? Their training and his had been very much the same. They had gone to the same schools, read the same books, and adored the same heroes. What then was the subtle element that had entered into life to divide them? These were the questions he was asking himself as he heard the farewell shouts of the departing troops and the clanging of the train-bell. Then he turned and with his mind full of harassing inquiries took his way home. Well, they're off to help rob the south of its niggers, are they? said his father. They're gone, replied Robert leconically. He was not in the mood to talk. Southern buzzards will be the fatter for them. Don't, Father, that's horrible. There are a good many of the fellows we both knew and liked among them. Stephen Van Doren flashed a quick suspicious glance at his son as he remarked. So much the worse for them. I wish it might have been settled some other way, pursued Robert drearily. I'd rather have let the south secede than institute this orgy of unnatural bloodshed, brother against brother, friend against friend. Again his father flashed that white questioning look at him. Then he rose abruptly and left the room. Robert hardly noticed the movement, so absorbed was he in his own thoughts, but sat staring blankly before him. He was momentarily aroused from his reverie by the re-entrance of his father, who laid an old miniature upon the table before him and went out again without a word. Robert picked up the picture. It was the portrait of a beautiful young woman painted in the style of forty years before, his mother, and her name was written on a piece of yellow paper stuck in the frame. Virginia Nelson, Fairfax Courthouse, Virginia. He gazed at the picture and read and re-read the inscription, Fairfax Courthouse, what a quaint old-fashioned southern sound it had. It seemed redolent of magnolias and jesemines, and soft as the speech of its own citizens. But was that home or this the place where his youth and early manhood had been passed? Which was home, the place of memories or the place of action? What makes home, dreams or labor, the hopes of boyhood or the hard reality of later life? To young Van Doren, the memory of his mother, who had lived only two years after coming north, had been as a guiding star, and he knew that it was to recall this that his father had brought him the picture. It was apparent that he must have been strongly moved, for that little worn and faded miniature seldom left the old man's desk. His father felt deeply, so did he. His mother's eyes were pleading with him. Sentiment said his mind. Truth said his heart. Finally he laid the picture face downward on the table. He told himself it must not enter into his thoughts at all. But his mind would not let it go. Eel-like, his consciousness wrapped itself about it and would not let it go. He felt guilty when the thought assailed him that perhaps the face of another woman which was graven on his heart argued more strongly than the pictured one. Mary, Mary, his heart said, is my love for you blinding me to write injustice? While other men decide and do, I stand still here, waiting, and ask in what to do. He thought of Walter Steward and the apparent ease with which he had made a hard decision, and his anger flashed up against his own impotence. But still his inclination wavered weakly back and forth. The Union, the Confederacy, the place of his boyhood, and the home of his manhood. At last he asked himself the question which he had so long shunned, what he believed, and he was compelled to answer that his convictions leaned to the side of those who were in arms against the general government. Then there was but one thing to do. He stood up, very pale, and sad of countenance, trembling on the verge of a decision. But suddenly, as out of nowhere, a voice seemed to sound into his very being. Has love no right? Good God, he cried aloud, shall I go on this way, forever wavering? Shall I go on being a coward, I who hate cowardice? His heart was burning with pain, misery and anger, and shame at himself. And yet he could not, he dared not say where he stood. The fact that he tried to fight out of recognition, and herein lay his greatest cowardice, was that he did not feel the southern cause deeply enough to risk losing the woman he loved by its espousal. Nor could he leap open-eyed into the northern movement for which he had no sympathy. Had he felt either as deeply as did Bradford Waters or his own father, he would not have hesitated where to take his place. The struggle in his mind had not just begun. From the very moment that the atmosphere had become electric, with the currents of opposing beliefs, he had felt himself drawn into the circuit. But by nature, always inexpressive, he had said nothing, and left those who thought of him to the conviction that he was unmoved by passing events. But the lone nights and the grey dawns knew better. Many a time had he gone to bed after a period of earnest self-searching, satisfied at last and saying, It is true, I shall take my stand, only to wake and find that everything was changed in the light of day. Many a time had Morning found him in his chair, where he had sat all night trying to wrench order out of the chaos of his mind. And now, now it was no better. There was a step in the hall, and his father looked in on him for a moment and passed on. Robert knew that he was going through an ordeal no less terrible than his own, and he wished that it might be ended, even if it brought strife and separation between them, as it had done between Walter Stewart and his father. The thought had hardly left his brain when it was occupied by another. Was he to be watched like a child who was likely to get into mischief? This was too much, too much. He had borne with his father as long as he could. Now he would show him that he was his own master to go his own way. Anyway, it was his concern alone. With whichever side he went, he must be shot for himself. If he stayed at home, it was he who must bear the sneers and jokes, who must live down the contumely. Whose right was it then to institute an annoying surveillance over him, not even his father's? It had come to a pretty pass when a man might not think without interruption. Bah! He could not call his soul his own. It was only the sign of his nervous condition that he should fall into this state of petulant anger. Then, unaccountably, his whole mental attitude changed, and the appearance of his father's questioning face in the door struck him only with a ludicrous aspect. He thought of himself as some coquettish but wavering maiden who bade her lover wait outside until she could answer the momentous question, yes or no, and he burst out laughing. But his mirth was short and unnatural. I'm either a fool or a brute, he said. I know that father and Mary are both watching me, but they have a right to watch, and they have the right to demand from me the answer in their hearts. He paused as if a new thought had struck him. Then he rose and took his hat. I'll do it, he exclaimed passionately. I'll go to her and let her help me. Why haven't I thought of it before? He passed out and called to his father as he went. I'm going out for a while, father. All right, was the answer, but the words that followed solemnly were. The boys driven out into the street, even as the men possessed of devil spirit, were driven to the rocks and the tombs. It is the evil spirit of northern narrowness working in him. It was with a heart somewhat lightened by the hope of relief that Robert van Doren hastened along the street towards the water's home. So much had passed in the days since he had last stood at the gate that the little difference between him and the father of the woman he loved appeared as a very small thing. When two great sections of a nation are arrayed against each other, there is no time for the harboring of petty angers. Two thoughts held him. He would see Mary again. She would help him, and his honor should come to its own. These thoughts left no room in his mind for malice. No misgiving touched him, even when he stood at the door, and his knock brought Mary to the door. She looked at him with a frightened face and turned involuntarily to glance at her father who sat within. Is anything the matter? she said in a low hurried voice. Nothing, only I want your advice and help, said van Doren, stepping across the threshold. At the voice and step Bradford Waters rose and faced the visitor, and his face began working with growing anger. What do you mean by invading my house again, Robert van Doren? I came to see Mary. Waters took his daughter by the hand as if he would put himself between the girl and her lover. Mary can have no dealings with you or your kind. We do not want you here. I have told you that before. Your way and ours lie apart. They have not always lain apart and need not now. Van Doren's surprise was stronger than his resentment as he looked into the old man's passionate face. Could a few days work such a change in a man? They must and shall lie apart, Waters took him up hotly. What you have been to this family you cannot be again. What have I done to forfeit your respect? It isn't what you've done, but what you are. How do you know what I am? That's it. At least your father has the courage to come out and say what he is. You haven't. At least he is a man. Father, father, cried Mary, don't say any more. I am sorry to see a daughter of mine, said Waters, turning upon her, pleading for one of those whom her brother has gone south to kill. The girl put her hands up quickly as if she would check the words upon her father's lips. Van Doren had turned very white. He stood as one stunned. All his hopes of help had been suddenly checked, and instead of sympathy he had received hard words. But a smile curved his lips. Have I not said enough, Robert Van Doren? Yes, was the reply, still with a quiet smile. You have said enough, and he turned towards the door. Mary sprang away from her father. Robert, Robert, don't go, she cried. He doesn't mean it. This great trouble has made him mad. Bradford Waters started to speak, but stopped as the young man put off the girl's detaining hand. I must go, Mary, he said. Your father is right. We have come to the parting of the ways. I have not had the courage to say where I stood, but I have it now. I came for help to decide a momentous question. I have got it. Good-bye, Mary. Good-bye, Mr. Waters. The Confederacy may thank you for another recruit. He opened the door and passed out, the old man's voice ringing after him. Better an open rebel than a copperhead. A hard look came into the girl's eyes. You needn't worry, said her father. It's good riddance. She made no reply. In spite of all that past, Robert Van Doren went home in a lighter frame of mind. I'm going to leave tomorrow, he said to his father. You have made your choice. The South needs me, returned the young man evasively. His father came to him and kissed him on both cheeks. Then he took the miniature from the table and placed it on his breast. I knew that your mother would not plead with you on vain, he said. And Robert smiled bitterly. CHAPTER VII DIVIDED HOUSES There is a tragic quietness about a town whose best and bravest have gone to a doubtful battlefield. The whole place seems hushed and on tiptoe, as if listening for some sound from the field. The cry of a cricket shivers the silence into splinters of sound. And each one pierces the ear with a sharpness, which is almost pain. It was under such a pall of stillness that Dorbury lay immediately after the departure of the troops. It was not altogether the torpor that succeeds an upheaval. Part of it was the breathless silence of expectancy, as when from a height someone hurls a boulder into space and waits to hear it fall. Of course it would be some time before they could expect to hear from the new soldiers, and yet Dorbury listened, expectant, hand to ear. The spring sunshine, not yet strong, nor violent enough to destroy its own sweetness, fell with a golden caress on the quiet streets. To some who went to and fro, bowed with anxiety, it seemed strange that in such a time, nature should go on performing her processes as she had always done. Their hearts seemed to stand still, but time went on. The flowers bloomed, the grasses sprung, and the restless river sang to the silent town. The tension of suspense had told greatly upon Bradford Water's character. From being a gentle father, he had grown to be short, almost harsh to marry. His love and fear for his soldier's son had made him blind to the pain his daughter suffered. He was so far gone in the earnestness of his views that he could see nothing but a perverse disloyalty in his daughter's feeling towards Robert Van Doren. His friendship for the young fellow had changed with the changing of the times, and he could not understand that a woman's love may be stronger than her politics, her heart truer to its affections than her head to its principles. It can hardly be said of Mary that she felt more than she thought, but her emotions were stronger than her convictions. It was the worst for her state of mind that, for two wildly different reasons, the taking of her brother and the estrangement from her lover, she was placed in a resentful position against the cause that she naturally would have espoused. Still, at first she kept a certain appearance of loyalty, and when some of the girls with impetuous enthusiasm started a sewing circle for the soldiers, she joined with them and began to ply her needle in the interest of the Union troops. But among these friends of undivided interests it was not always pleasant for Mary. All about her she heard sentiments that did not comport with the feelings of one who had loved ones on both sides of the great question. Over the lint and flannels that passed through the sower's hands were made several hot and thoughtless speeches that seared the very soul of one poor girl. They were not intentional. Most of them, had they known that one among them suffered from their unthinking remarks, would have held their tongues. Others, not more than one or two, be it said, knew that every sneer they cast at the army of the south, every hard wish they expressed tore like an arrow through the tender heart of the pale sad girl in the corner, who bent so silently over her work. I do wish, said little Martha Blake one day, that the whole southern army was drowned in the depths of the sea. They are so troublesome. What would their sisters do? asked Mary quietly. Oh, really, they seem such monsters to me that I never thought of their having sisters. Mary smiled, and yet they have, she said. Some of them, perhaps, making just as foolish a wish about our brothers as you have made about them. I know it's foolish, Martha pursued, but it has never seemed to me that those people down there who have done so much to tempt the northern government are quite the same as we are. Unconsciously, Mary took the defensive, and stepped over into the point of view of the man, whom, in her heart, she was defending. But why, she exclaimed, do you say the northern government? The very mention of the word denies the principle for which we claim we are fighting, that there is no north, no south, but one country inseparable into sections. I had never thought of that, said Martha. I don't think any of us have thought of it, put in a niece-crowder, except those who have very dear friends among the traders. Mary turned deadly pale, for she knew that Bob Van Doren's decision had just become generally known. She turned a pair of flashing eyes on Anise, as she replied. No man is a traitor who fights for what he believes to be right. Any man is a traitor who lives under one flag and leaves it to fight under another. A man is accountable only to his conscience and his God. Yes, when he has proved traitor to every other tie, only then. The words cut Mary like a knife. She rose, work in hand, and stood quivering with passion as she looked down on her insulter. Then the woman who cares for such a man, who dares stand up for him as a traitor too? She cried as she flung her work to the floor. Yes, said Anise acidly. Mary started towards the door, but a chorus of girls' voices checked her. Don't go, Mary, they cried. We know, we don't blame you. But the girl's heart was overburdened and bursting into tears she fled from the room. She heard the hubbub of voices as she went hastily out of the house, and even in that moment of grief she was glad that some of the girls there would be quick to defend her. She knew who must have been foremost in this defense when she heard a light step behind her and felt Nanny Wood's arm about her waist. Don't cry, Mary, said Nanny soothingly. No one minds Anise Crowder or anything she says. Anyway, I gave her a good piece of my mind before I left there, and so did some of the rest of the girls. I just told her right to her face that she'd have more feeling for people if she had a lover on either side. Mary was forced to smile a little at her friend's impetuosity, but from her heart she thanked the girl and drew her arm tighter about her waist. I suppose Anise thinks that I can send my love where I will and that I am to blame if it does not go in the right or what she thinks the right direction. She's a cat, was the emphatic rejoinder, and I for one will never go to their old sewing circle. We'll sew together, just you and I, Mary, and while I'm making things for Tom, there's no reason why you shouldn't make a keepsake for Bob to take with him. Mary gasped. Oh, that's all right. I know if I lived down south and it was Tom, I'd— Hush, nanny, said Mary hurriedly. You mustn't say those things. I will say them and I don't care. They reached the water's gate and the girls parted. There, for nanny, the incident closed, but it was destined to cause Mary Waters even more suffering. Women's sewing circles are not usually noted for their reticence, and the institution at Dorbury was no exception. Within an hour after it happened, the whole affair was out to the town, and the story, in a highly embellished form, reached Bradford Waters' ears. He went home in a white passion. Mary had got supper and was sitting idly by the window when her father burst into the room. She looked up and saw on the instant that he had heard. What is this I hear of you at the sewing circle? I suppose you have heard the truth or part of it. So it has come to the pass where my daughter must defend a former copperhead and now an avowed rebel. The man whom I defended, if defense it could be called, was to me neither copperhead nor rebel. He was my lover. I have nothing to do with his politics. The war has nothing to do with my love. She was calmer than usual, and her very quietness exasperated her father the more. I'll have no more of it, he cried passionately. I'll have no more of it. Love or no love, a house divided against itself cannot stand. My house must be with me, and if my daughter feels called upon to go over to the enemy's side, she must go over to the enemy's house. My house shall not shelter her. Father! Enough. I have said my say. You must abide by it. I'll have no more stories as I have heard today poured into my ears. Either give up that renegade or take your love for him to another roof. He flung himself petulantly into a chair and fell to his supper. Mary did not answer him. Only a look of hard defense came into her gentle eyes. It might have struck Bradford Waters had he seen it, but he did not look at her again. A little kindness might have done much to soften the rigor of Mary's feelings and so changed the course of events, for she was easily swayed through her affections. She would not have given up then, Doran. His hold upon her was too strong, but she would have repressed herself even to the hiding of her feelings had she not been driven into the open revolt to which her father's harsh treatment goaded her. Now the determination to be true to her lover at all hazards came upon her so strongly that her attitude really became one of aggression. It was now that the remembrance of Nanny's thoughtless words came to her and she asked herself, why not? Why should she not make and give Van Doran a keepsake to take into the ranks with him? She had suffered sorrow for his sake. In effect, she had been forcibly almost involuntarily cast on his side. She had to withstand contempt and reviling. Would this one show of affection be so much more? That evening Mary was very busy sowing and so a part of the next day until the time when her father came home. Then she hastened to leave her stitching to go about her supper, for in the absorption of her new idea she had neglected it. Bradford Waters looked at the work which had stood between him and his meals with an ill-concealed exasperation. Why couldn't women sow at the proper time and leave off properly? Maybe, though, it was something for her brother, Tom. If that were so, he did not care. He would go without his meals any time that Tom might have a single comfort. Bless the brave boy. His face softened and he looked with filling eyes as his mind dwelt on tender memories of the soldier's son. Suddenly the bit of embroidery there on the shelf seemed to take on a new interest for him. Mary was crossing the floor with a plate in her hand when he rose and going to the shelf picked up the work. She made an involuntary motion as if to stop him and take it away. Then she paused rigid. He stood smiling down on the sowing, something for Tom he began, and then the smile froze and the words died on his lips as he turned it over. It was only a little maroon housewife such as any soldier might need in the emergencies of camp life. But on its front were embroidered the letters RVD. He stood gazing at them for a moment as if they were cabalistic, and the mystery was just filtering through his mind. Then, with trembling hands, he threw it across the room. My God! he cried, and I thought it was for her brother, and it is for the comfort of the enemy. It is only a keepsake, said Mary faintly. She was frightened and weakened by his agitation. He looked at her as if he saw her but dimly. Then he said in a hard voice, This is the end of all. Pick it up, pointing to the housewife. Now go, take the visible evidence of your treason and go, and may God and your poor brother forgive you. I never shall. At another time, Mary might have pleaded with him, but she was dazed, and before she had recovered her presence of mind her father had left the house. Then she too, as if still in a dream, picked up the offending gift and went out. She could not understand her father. She did not know what the gift to the enemy meant to him. How he felt, as if a serpent had stung him from his own hearth. She went mechanically at first, scarce knowing which way she tended. Then thought came to her, and with the keepsake still in her hand, she turned dry-eyed toward Nanny Wood's house. It was such a little thing, she murmured as she went into the house, and then suddenly unconsciousness came to her. End of Chapter 7