University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
THE DEPARTURE.

THE 13th Regiment was ordered to Elmira, and
the day had arrived for the departure of the volunteers.
Bright was the sun, and cloudless the
sky which shone on Rockland, that spring day; but cloudless
sky nor warm spring sun could comfort the hearts
about to part with their treasures, some forever, and
some to meet again, but when, or where, or how, none
could tell save Him who holds the secrets of the future.

There were mothers who had never felt a pang so keen
or a pain so sore, as when with hearts too full of anguish
for the dry, red eyes to weep, they watched their sons
pass from the threshold of the door, and knew that
when the golden sunlight, falling so brightly around
them, was purple in the west, they would look in vain
for that returning step, and listen in vain for tones which
were the first, perhaps, to stir the deep fountains of maternal
love. Fathers, too, were there, with heads bent
down to hide the tears they deemed it weak to shed, as
they gave the farewell blessing to their boy, praying that
God might be over and around him, both when the deafening
battle roar was sounding in his ear, and when in
the stilly night he wrapped his blanket about him, and
laid him down to rest, sometimes with the southern stars
shining upon him, and sometimes with the southern

rain falling on his unsheltered head, for all these vicissitudes
must come to a soldier on the field. Wives and
sisters, too, there were, who shuddered as they thought
how the dear ones to whom they said good-bye, would
miss the comforts they were leaving, miss the downy
pillow, the soft, warm bed made with loving hands, and
the luxuries of home never prized one half so much as
now, when they were to be exchanged for a life within
the camp. And there were maidens, from whose cheeks
the roses faded, as they gave the parting kiss, and promised
to be faithful, even though the manly form the lover
bore away should come back to them all maimed and
crushed and crippled with the toil of war. Far better
so than not to come at all. At least so Annie Graham
thought, as, winding her arms around her husband's
neck, she whispered to him:

“If the body you bring back has my George's heart
within it, I shall love you just the same as I do now,”
and with her fair head lying on his bosom, Annie wept
piteously.

Not till then had she realized what it was to let him
go. She had become somewhat accustomed to thinking
of it,—accustomed to seeing him pass in and out, dressed
in his stylish uniform, which made him look so handsome,
and then she had hoped the regiment would not be
ordered for a long, long time, never perhaps; but now
that dream was over; the dreaded hour had come, and
for a moment Annie felt herself too weak to meet it.
Through the livelong night she had prayed, or if perchance
sleep for a moment shut the swollen lids, the lips
had moved in prayer that her husband might come back
to her again, or failing to do so, that he might grasp,
even at the eleventh hour, the Christian's faith, and so
go to the Christian's home, where they would meet once

more. She had given him her little Bible, all pencil-marked
and worn with daily usage,—the one she read
when first the spirit taught her the meaning of its great
mysteries,—and George had promised he would read it
every day,—had said that when he went to battle he
would place it next his heart, a talisman to shield him
from the bullets of the foe. And Annie, smiling through
her tears, pointed him again to the only One who could
stand between him and death, asking that when he was
far away, he would remember what she said, and pray to
the God she honored.

“It's time, now, darling,” he said, at last, as he heard
in the distance the beat of the drum.

But the clinging arms refused to leave his neck, and
the quivering lips pressed so constantly to his, murmured:

“Wait a little minute more. 'Tis the last, you
know.”

Again the drum-beat was heard mingled with the shrill
notes of the fife; the soldiers were marching down the
street, and he must go, but oh, who can tell of the love, the
pain, the grief, the tears mingled with that parting,
—or the agony it cost poor Annie to take her arms
from off his neck, to feel him putting her away, to
hear him going from the room, across the threshold,
down the walk, through the gate, and know that he was
gone.

As a child in peril instinctively turns to the mother
who it knows has never failed to succor, so Annie turned
to God, and with a moaning cry for help, sank on her
knees just where George had left her. Burying her face
in the lounge she prayed that He who heareth even the
raven's cry, would care for her husband, and bring him
home again if that could be. So absorbed was she as

not to hear the gate's sharp click, nor the footstep coming
up the walk. Impelled by something he could not
resist, George had paused just by the garden fence, and
yielding to the impulse which said he must see Annie's
face once more, he stole softly to the open door, and
stood gazing at her as she knelt, her hands clasped together,
and her face hidden from his view, as she prayed
for him.

“Will the kind Father keep my George from peril if it
can be, but if,—oh, God, how can I say it?—if he must
die, teach him the road to Heaven.”

That was what she said, and George, listening to her,
felt as if it were an angel's presence in which he stood.
He could not disturb her. She was in safer hands than
his, and he would rather leave her thus,—would rather
think of her when far away, just as he saw her last,
kneeling in her desolation and praying for him.

“It will help to make me a better man,” he said, and
brushing aside the great tears swimming in his eyes, he
left his angel Annie, and went on his way to battle.

Just off from Rockland's main street, and in a cottage
more humble than that of George Graham, the sun shone
on another parting,—on Widow Simms giving up her
boys, and straining every nerve to look composed, and
keep back the maternal love throbbing so madly at her
heart. Rigid as if cut in stone were the lines upon her
forehead and around her mouth, as she bustled about,
doing everything exactly as it should be done, and coming
often to where Isaac sat trying to look unconcerned
and whistling “Dixie” as he pulled on the soft, warm
pair of socks she had sat up nights to knit him. Eli and
John had some too, snugly tucked away in their bundle,

but Isaac's were different. She had ravelled her own
lamb's wool stockings for the material composing his,
for Isaac's feet were tender; there were marks of chilblains
on them; they would become sore and swollen
from the weary march, and his mother would not be
there with soothing lint and ointment made from the
blue poke-berries. Great pains had the widow taken
with her breakfast that morning, preparing each son's
favorite dish and bringing out the six china cups and
damask cloth, part of her grandmother's bridal dower.
It was a very tempting table, and John and Eli tried to
eat, exchanging meaning smiles when they saw their
mother put in Isaac's cup the biggest lump of sugar, and
the largest share of cream. They did not care,—for they
too loved the fair-haired, smooth-faced boy sipping the
yellow coffee he could not drink for the mysterious
bunches rising so fast in his throat. The breakfast was
over now. Isaac was trying on his socks, while Eli and
John, knowing their mother would rather be alone when
she said good-bye to her baby, prepared to start, talking
quite loud, and keeping up stout courage till the last
moment came, when both the tall, six-foot young men
put their arms around the widow's neck, and faltered a
faint “Good-bye, mother, good-bye.”

There were no tears in the mother's eyes, nor in the
sons', but in the breast of each there was a whirlpool of
raging waters, hurting far more than if they had been
suffered to overflow in torrents. Eli was the first to go,
for John lingered a moment. There was something he
would say, something which made him blush and stammer.

“Mother,” he began, “I saw Susan last night. We
went to Squire Harding's together; and,—and,—well,
'taint no use opposing it now,—Susan and I are one; and

if I shouldn't come back, be good to her, for my sake.
Susan's a nice girl, mother,” and on the brown, bearded
cheek, there was a tear, wrung out by thoughts of only
last night's bride, Susan Ruggles, whose family the widow
did not like, and had set herself against.

There was no help now, and a sudden start was all the
widow's answer. She was not angry, John knew; and
satisfied with this, he joined his brother in the yard,
where he was cutting his name upon the beech tree.
Thrice the widow called them back, failing each time to
remember what she wanted to say. “It was something,
sure,” and the hard hands worked nervously, twisting up
the gingham apron into a roll, smoothing it out again
and working at the strings, until Eli and John passed
from the yard, and left her standing there, watching
them as they walked down the road. They were a
grand-looking couple, she thought, as she saw how
well they kept step. They were to march together
to the depot, she knew, and nobody in town could turn
out a finer span, but who would go with Isaac?—
“Stub,” his brothers called him. She hoped it might be
Judge Warner's son,—it would be such an honor; and
that brought her back to the fact that Isaac was waiting
for her inside; that the hardest part of all was yet to
come, the bidding him good-bye. He was not in the
chair where she had left him sitting, but was standing
by the window, and raising often to his eyes his cotton
handkerchief. He heard his mother come in, and turning
toward her, said, with a sobbing laugh:

“I wish the plaguy thing was over.”

She thought he meant the war, and answered that “it
would be in a few months, perhaps.”

“I don't mean that, I mean the telling you good-bye.
Mother, oh, mother!” and the warm-hearted boy clasped

his mother to his bosom, crying like a child; “if I've
ever been mean to you,” he said, his voice choked with tears
—“if I've ever been mean to you, or done a hateful thing,
you'll forget it when I'm gone? I never meant to be bad
and the time I made that face, and called you an old fool,
when I was a little boy, you don't know how sorry I felt,
nor how long I cried in the trundle-bed after you were
asleep. You'll forget it, won't you, when I am gone,
never to come back, maybe? Will you, mother, say?”

Would she? Could she remember aught against her
youngest born, save that he had ever been to her the
best, the dearest, most obedient child in the world? No,
she could not, and so she told him, caressing his light
brown hair and showering upon it the kisses which the
compressed lips could no longer restrain. The fountain
of love was broken, and the widow's tears dropped like
rain on the upturned face of her boy.

Suddenly there came to their ears the same drum-beat
which had sounded so like a funeral knell to Annie Graham.
Isaac must go, but not till one act more was done.

“Mother,” he whispered, half hesitatingly, “it will make
me a better soldier if you say the Lord's Prayer with me
just as you used to do, with your hand upon my head.
I'll kneel down, if you like,” and the boy of eighteen,
wearing a soldier's dress, did kneel down, nor felt shame
as the shaky hand rested once more on his bowed head,
while his mother said with him the prayer learned years
ago, kneeling as he knelt now.

Surely to the angels looking on there was charge given
concerning that young boy,—charge to see that no murderous
bullet came near him, even though they should
fall round him thick and fast as summer hail. It would
seem that some such thought as this intruded itself
upon the Widow Simms, for where the swelling pain had

been there came a gentle peace. God would care for
Isaac. He would send him home in safety, and so the
bitterness of that parting was more than half taken
away.

Again the drum beat just as Annie heard it. Another
pressure of the hand, another burning kiss, another
“good-bye, mother, don't fret too much about us,” and
then the last of the widow's boys was gone.

Turn we now to the shanty-like building down by the
mill, where the mother of Harry and Bill rocked to and
fro upon the unmade bed, and rent the air with her dismal
howls, hoping thus to win at least one tender word
from the two youths, voraciously devouring the breakfast
she, like Widow Simms, had been at so much pains to
prepare, watching even through her tears to see “if
they wan't going to leave her one atom of the steak she
had spent her yesterday's earnings to buy.”

No they didn't. Harry took the last piece, growling
angrily at Bill, who, kinder hearted than his brother,
suggested that “Hal shouldn't be a pig, but leave something
for the old woman.”

“Leave it yourself,” was Harry's gruff response, and
turning to his mother, he told her “not to make a fool
of herself, when she knew she was glad to be rid of them.
At any rate, if she were not, the whole village were;”
adding, by way of consolation, that “he should probably
end his days in State Prison if he staid at home, and he
had better be shot in a fair fight, as there was some
credit in that.”

Around Harry Baker's childhood there clustered no
remembrance of prayers said at the mother's knee, or of
Bible stories told in the dusky twilight, and though reared
in New England, within sight of the church spire, he had
rarely been inside the house of God, and this it was

which made the difference between that scene and the
one transpiring in the house of Widow Simms. All the
animal passions in Harry Baker's case were brought to
full perfection, unsubdued by any softer influence, and
rising from the table, after having filled his stomach almost
to bursting, he swaggered across the room, and
opening his bundle began to comment upon the different
articles, he having been too drunk to notice them
when given to him on the previous night.

“What in thunder is this for?” he exclaimed, holding
up the calico housewife, and letting buttons, scissors
and thread drop upon the floor. “Plaguy pretty
implements of war, these!” and he began to enumerate
the articles. “Fine tooth comb, black as the ace of
spades. Good enough idea that; hain't used one since
I can remember;” and he passed it through his shaggy
hair, whose appearance fully verified the truth of his
assertion. “Half a paper of pins. Why didn't the
stingy critters give us more? An old brass thimble,
too. Here, mother, I'll give you that to remember me
by,” and he tossed it into her lap. The drawers then
took his attention; the identical pair Rose Mather made,
and though they were better than any he had ever worn,
he laughed at them derisively. Trying them on he succeeded
in making quite a long rip in one of the seams,
for Rose's stitches were none the shortest. Then, with a
flourish, he kicked them off, uttering an oath as he felt a
sharp scratch from the needle which Rose had broken,
and failed to extricate. The woolen shirt came next, but
any remarks he might have made upon that, were
prevented by his catching sight of the little brown book
which lay at the bottom of the bundle.

“Hurrah, Bill, if here ain't a Testament, with `Harry
Baker' inside. Rich, by George! Wonder if they

s'posed I'd read it. Let us see what it says. `Come
unto me all ye that labor.' Mother, that means you, scrubbin'
and workin', you know. Keep the pesky thing. I
enlisted to lick the Southerners, not to sing himes and
psalms!” and he threw the sacred book across the floor,
just as the first drum-beat sounded. “That's the signal,”
he exclaimed, and hastily rolling up the shirt and drawers,
he started for the door, carelessly saying, “Come Bill,
take your Testament and come along. Good-bye, old lady.
You needn't wear black if I'm killed. 'Twon't pay, I
guess.”

“Oh, Harry, Harry, wait. Wait, Billy boy, do wait.
Give your old marm one kiss,” and the poor woman tottered
toward Harry, who savagely repulsed her, saying
“he wan't going to have her slobberin' over him.”

“You, Billy, then, you'll let me kiss you, won't you?”
and she turned toward Bill, who hesitated a moment,
for Harry was in the way.

Bill was afraid of Harry's jeers, and so he, too, refused,
while the wailing cry rose louder.

“Oh, Billy, do just once, and I've been so good to you!
Just once, do, Billy.”

“Shan't do it,” was Bill's reply, as he followed Harry,
who, as a farewell parting had hurled a stone at a cow
across the street, set the dog on his mother's kitten,
stepped on the old cat's tail, and then left the yard, slamming
after him the rickety gate his mother had tried in
vain to have him fix before he went.

Billy, however, waited. There was something more
human in his nature than in his brother's. He had not
thrown his Testament away, and the sight of it in his
bundle had touched a tender chord, making him half
resolve to read it. Watching his brother till he was

out of sight, he went back to where his mother sat, moaning
dolefully,

“Oh that I should raise sich boys!—that I should
raise sich boys!”

“Mother,” he said, and Mrs. Baker's heart fairly leaped
at the sound, for there was genuine sympathy in the tone.
“Mother, now that Hal has gone, I don't mind kissin'
you, or lettin' you kiss me, if you want to.”

The doleful moan was a perfect scream as the
shrivelled arms clasped Bill, while the joyful mother
kissed the rough but not ill-humored face.

“There, now, don't screech so like an owl,” he said,
releasing himself from her, and adding, as he glanced
at a huge silver watch, won by gambling, “Maybe seein'
I've a few minutes to spare, I'll drive a nail or so into
that confounded gate, and I dun know, but while I'm
about it, I'll split you an armful of wood. I had or'to
have cut up the hull on't I s'pose, but when Hal is 'round
I can't do nothin'.”

It was strange how many little things Bill did do in
these few minutes he had to spare —things which added
greatly to his mother's comfort, and saved her several
shillings, beside making a soft warm spot in a heart which
knew not many such. Glancing at the tall clock brought
from New England, when Mrs. Baker first moved to Rockland,
Bill remarked:

“The darned thing has stopped agin. I or'to have
iled it, I s'pose. It would kind of been company for you,
hearin' it tick. I vum, if I hain't a mind to give you this
old turnep,” and again he drew out the silver watch.
“You'll lay abed all day without no time. Like enough
I'll nab one from some tarnal rebel,—who knows?” and
with his favorite expression, “Nuff said,” Bill laid the
watch upon the table, his mother moaning all the while,

“Billy boy, Billy boy, I never sot so much store by

you before. How can I let you go? Stay, Billy, do, or
else run away the first chance you git. Will you, Billy
boy?”

“Not by a jug full!” was the emphatic response. “I
ain't none of that kind. I'll be shot like a dog before
I'll run. The Baker name shall never be disgraced by
my desertin'. It's more like Hal to do that; but don't
howl so. I'm kinder puttin' on the tender, you know,
'cause I'm goin' away. I should be ugly as ever if I's
to stay to hum. So stop your snivelin',” and having
driven the last nail into a broken chair, Bill gathered up
his bundle, and with the single remark, “Nuff said,”
darted through the open door, and was off ere his mother
fairly comprehended it.

There was a great crowd out that morning to see the
company off. Fathers, mothers, wives, and sisters,—
those who had friends in the company and those who had
none. The Mather carriage was there, and from its window
Rose's childish face looked out, now irradiated with
smiles as its owner bowed to some acquaintance, and
again shadowed with sympathy as the cries of some bereaved
one were heard amid the throng.

Widow Simms, too, was there, drawn thither by a desire
to see if Isaac did march with Charlie Warner, as
she hoped he would, notwithstanding that he had told
her he was probably too short. She didn't believe
that,—he was taller than he looked, and inasmuch as
Charlie was the most aristocratic of the company, she
did hope Isaac would go with him. So there she stood
waiting, not far from Mrs. Baker, who had dried her
eyes, and come for a last look at her boys.

Onward the soldiers came, slowly, steadily onward, the
regular tread of their feet and the measured beat of the
drum making solemn music as they came, and sending
a chill to many a heart; for 'twas no gala day, no Fourth

of July, no old fashioned general training, they were
there to celebrate. Every drum-beat was a note of war,
and they who kept time to it were going forth to battle.
Onward, onward still they came, George Graham's splendid
figure towering above the rest, and eliciting more
than one flattering compliment from the lookers on.

There were John and Eli, side by side,—John eagerly
scanning the female forms which lined the walk for a
sight of last night's bride, and Eli looking for his mother,
if perchance she should be there. She was there, and
what to John was better yet, she stood with her hand on
Susan's shoulder, showing that thus early she was trying
to mother her.

“That's him,—that's John,” and Susan's voice faltered
as she pointed him out to the widow, whose heart gave
one great spasm of pain as she saw him, and then grew
suddenly still with wrath and indignation; for alas, her
Isaac, who was to have gone with Charlie Warner, son
of Rockland's Judge, was marching with William Baker,—
Bill,—who had been to the workhouse twice, to say nothing
of the times he had stolen her rare-ripes and early
melons! She had not looked for anything like this, and
could scarcely believe her senses. Yet there they were,
right before her eyes, Isaac and Bill, the former hoping
his mother would not see him, and the latter trying not
to see his mother, who was quite as much delighted to
see him with Isaac Simms as the widow would have been
had Isaac been with Charlie Warner, just in front.

Mrs. Baker had followed her sons to the hall, had
heard the reasons for the captain's decision, and she
called out in a loud, exultant tone,

“Miss Simms! Miss Simms do you see your Ike with
Billy? Cap'n Johnson would have put him with Charlie
Warner if he hadn't fell short two inches. Look kinder

nice together, don't they? only Ike stoops a trifle, 'pears
to me.”

It didn't “'pear” so to Widow Simms, but then her eyes
were blurred so that she could not see distinctly, for,
strange to say, the sharpest pang of all was the knowing
that Isaac, so pure, so gentle, so girl-like, must be a companion
for reckless, swearing, gambling Bill, and for a time
she could not quite forgive her youngest born that he had
not been just two inches taller. Blind, ignorant Widow
Simms, the hour will come when, on her bended knees,
she'll thank the over-ruling hand which kept her boy
from growing just two inches taller!

Onward, still onward they moved, until they turned
the corner and paused before the depot.

A little apart from the rest George Graham stood,
wishing that the cars would come, and building airy-castles
of what would be when he returned, covered with
laurels, as he was sure to do if only opportunities were
offered. He would distinguish himself, he thought, with
many a brave deed, so that the papers would talk of him
as a gallant hero, and when he came back to Rockland,
the people would come out to meet him, a denser crowd
than was assembled now. Their faces would not then
be so sad, for they would come to do him honor, and in
fancy he heard the stirring notes of the martial music,
and saw the smile of joy steal over the weather-beaten
features of the leader of the band, the man with the
jammed white hat, as he fifed that welcome home. There
would be carriages there, too, more than now, and maybe
there would be a carriage expressly for him, and the
dreamer saw the long procession moving down the street,
—saw the little boys on the walk, the women at the
doors, and heard the peal of the village bells. It would
be grand, he thought, if he could have a crown, just as

the Roman victors used to do,—it would please Annie
so much to see him thus triumphant. She would not
come up to the depot, he knew. She would rather be
alone when she met him, while he, too, would prefer that
all those people should not be looking on when he kissed
his little wife. Just then the train appeared, and the
confusion became greater as the crowd drew nearer together,
and the man with the jammed white hat who was
to fife George's welcome home, redoubled his exertions,
and tried his best to drown his own emotions in the harsh
sounds he made. But above the fife's shrill scream,
above the bass drum's beat, and above the engine's hiss,
was heard the sound of wailing, as one by one the Rockland
volunteers stepped aboard the train.

Bill was the last to go, for as a parting act he had fired
the old cannon, which almost from time immemorial had
heralded to Rockland's sleeping citizens that twelve
o'clock had struck and it was Independence day. Some
said it was no good omen that the worn-out gun burst in
twain from the heavy charge with which Bill had seen
fit to load it, but Bill cared not for omens, and with three
cheers and a tiger for Uncle Sam, he jumped upon the
platform just as the final all aboard was shouted.

There was a ringing of the bell, a sudden puffing of the
engine, a straining of machinery, a sweeping backward
of the wreaths of smoke, and then, where so lately one
hundred soldiers had been, there was nothing left save
an open space of frozen ground and iron rails, as cold
and as empty as the hearts of those who watched until
the last curling ring of vapor died amid the eastern
woods, and then went sadly back to the homes left so
desolate.