CHAPTER XIII
THE BREAKFAST
If there was ever a more curious meal in Dearborn County than thatfirst breakfast of ours in the barn, I never heard of it.
The big table was among the things saved from the living-room, andEsther spread it again with the cloth which had been in use on theprevious evening. There was the stain of the tea which the Underwoodgirl had spilled in the excitement of the supper's rough interruption;there were other marks of calamity upon it as well--the smudge ofcinders, for one thing, and a general diffused effect of smokiness. Butit was the only table-cloth we had. The dishes, too, were a queer lot,representing two or three sets of widely differing patterns and value,other portions of which we should never see again.
When it was announced that breakfast was ready, Abner took hisaccustomed arm-chair at the head of the table. He only half turnedhis head toward Hagadorn and said in formal tones, over his shoulder,"Won't you draw up and have some breakfast?"
Jee was still sitting where he had planted himself two hours or sobefore. He still wore his round cap, with the tabs tied down over hisears. In addition to his overcoat, someone--probably his daughter--hadwrapped a shawl about his thin shoulders. The boots had not come in, asyet, from the stove, and the blanket was drawn up over his stockingedfeet to the knees. From time to time his lips moved, as if he werereciting scripture texts to himself, but so far as I knew, he had saidnothing to anyone. His cough seemed rather worse than better.
"Yes, come, father!" Esther added to the farmer's invitation, anddrew a chair back for him two plates away from Abner. Thus adjured herose and hobbled stiffly over to the place indicated, bringing hisfoot-blanket with him. Esther stooped to arrange this for him and thenseated herself next the host.
"You see, I'm going to sit beside you, Mr. Beech," she said, with a wanlittle smile.
"Glad to have you," remarked Abner, gravely.
The Underwood girl brought in a first plate of buckwheat cakes, set itdown in front of Abner, and took her seat opposite Hagadorn and next tome. There remained three vacant places, down at the foot of the table,and though we all began eating without comment, everybody continuallyencountered some other's glance straying significantly toward theseempty seats. Janey Wilcox, very straight and with an uppish air, camein with another plate of cakes and marched out again in tell-talesilence.
"Hurley! Come along in here an' git your breakfast!"
The farmer fairly roared out this command, then added in a lower,apologetic tone: "I 'spec' the women-folks 've got their hands fullwith that broken-down old stove."
We all looked toward the point, half-way down the central barn-floor,where the democrat wagon, drawn crosswise, served to divide ourimprovised living-room and kitchen. Through the wheels, and under itsuplifted pole, we could vaguely discern two petticoated figures atthe extreme other end, moving about the stove, the pipe of which wascarried up and out through a little window above the door. Then Hurleyappeared, ducking his head under the wagon-pole.
"I'm aitin' out here, convanient to the stove," he shouted from thisdividing-line.
"No, come and take your proper place!" bawled back the farmer, andHurley had nothing to do but obey. He advanced with obvious reluctance,and halted at the foot of the table, eying with awkward indecision thethree vacant chairs. One was M'rye's; the others would place him eithernext to the hated cooper or diagonally opposite, where he must look athim all the while.
"Sure, I'm better out there!" he ventured to insist, in a wheedlingtone; but Abner thundered forth an angry "No, sir!" and the Irishmansank abruptly into the seat beside Hagadorn. From this place he eyedthe Underwood girl with a glare of contemptuous disapproval. I learnedafterward that M'rye and Janey Wilcox regarded her desertion of them asthe meanest episode of the whole miserable morning, and beguiled theirlabors over the stove by recounting to each other all the low-downqualities illustrated by the general history of her "sap-headed tribe."
Meanwhile conversation languished.
With the third or fourth instalment of cakes, Janey Wilcox had haltedlong enough to deliver herself of a few remarks, sternly limited tothe necessities of the occasion. "M'rye says," she declaimed, coldly,looking the while with great fixedness at the hay-wall, "if the cakesare sour she can't help it. We saved what was left over of the batter,but the Graham flour and the sody are both burnt up," and with thatstalked out again.
Not even politeness could excuse the pretence on anyone's part that thecakes were _not_ sour, but Abner seized upon the general subject as anopening for talk.
"'Member when I was a little shaver," he remarked, with an effort atamiability, "my sisters kicked about havin' to bake the cakes, onaccount of the hot stove makin' their faces red an' spoilin' theircomplexions, an' they wanted specially to go to some fandango or other,an' look their pootiest, an' so father sent us boys out into thekitchen to bake 'em instid. Old Lorenzo Dow, the Methodist preacher,was stoppin' over-night at our house, an' mother was jest besideherself to have everything go off ship-shape--an' then them cakes beguncomin' in. Fust my brother William, he baked one the shape of a horse,an' then Josh, he made one like a jackass with ears as long as thegriddle would allow of lengthwise, and I'd got jest comfortably startedin on one that I begun as a pig, an' then was going to alter into aship with sails up, when father, he come out with a hold-back strap,an'--well--mine never got finished to this day. Mother, she was mortifiedmost to death, but old Dow, he jest lay back and laughed--laughed tillyou'd thought he'd split himself."
"It was from Lorenzo Dow's lips that I had my first awakening call untorighteousness," said Jee Hagadorn, speaking with solemn unction inhigh, quavering tones.
The fact that he should have spoken at all was enough to take even thesourness out of M'rye's cakes.
Abner took up the ball with solicitous promptitude. "A very great man,Lorenzo Dow was--in his way," he remarked.
"By grace he was spared the shame and humiliation," said Hagadorn,lifting his voice as he went on--"the humiliation of living to see onewhole branch of the Church separate itself from the rest--withdraw andcall itself the Methodist Episcopal Church, South, in defence of humanslavery!"
Esther, red-faced with embarrassment, intervened peremptorily. "How_can_ you, father!" she broke in. "For all you know he might have beenred-hot on that side himself! In fact, I dare say he would have been.How on earth can _you_ know to the contrary, anyway?"
Jee was all excitement on the instant, at the promise of an argument.His eyes flashed; he half rose from his seat and opened his mouth toreply. So much had he to say, indeed, that the words stumbled overone another on his tongue, and produced nothing, but an incoherentstammering sound, which all at once was supplanted by a violent fit ofcoughing. So terrible were the paroxysms of this seizure that when theyhad at last spent their fury the poor man was trembling like a leaf andtoppled in his chair as if about to swoon. Esther had hovered aboutover him from the outset of the fit, and now looked up appealingly toAbner. The farmer rose, walked down the table-side, and gathered Jee'sfragile form up under one big engirdling arm. Then, as the girl hastilydragged forth the tick and blankets again and spread them into therough semblance of a bed, Abner half led, half carried the cooper overand gently laid him down thereon. Together they fixed up some sort ofpillow for him with hay under the blanket, and piled him snugly overwith quilts and my comfortable.
"There--you'll be better layin' down," said Abner, soothingly. Hagadornclosed his eyes wearily and made no answer. They left him after aminute or two and returned to the table.
The rest of the breakfast was finished almost wholly in silence. Everyonce in a while Abner and Esther would exchange looks, his gravelykind, hers gratefully contented, and these seemed really to renderspeech needless. For my own part, I foresaw with some degree ofdepression that there would soon be no chance whatever of my securingattention in the _role_ of an invalid, at least in this part of thebarn.
Perhaps, however, they might welcome me in the kitchen part, as a sortof
home-product rival to the sick cooper. I rose and walked languidlyout into M'rye's domain. But the two women were occupied with a furiousscrubbing of rescued pans for the morning's milk, and they allowed meto sit feebly down on the wood-box behind the stove without so much asa glance of sympathy.
By and by we heard one of the great front doors rolled back on itsshrieking wheels and then shut to again. Someone had entered, and ina moment there came some strange, inarticulate sounds of voices whichshowed that the arrival had created a commotion. M'rye lifted her head,and I shall never forget the wild, expectant flashing of her black eyesin that moment of suspense.
"Come in here, mother!" we heard Abner's deep voice call out frombeyond the democrat wagon. "Here's somebody wants to see you!"
M'rye swiftly wiped her hands on her apron and glided rather thanwalked toward the forward end of the barn. Janey Wilcox and I followedclose upon her heels, dodging together under the wagon-pole, andemerging, breathless and wild with curiosity, on the fringe of anexcited group.
In the centre of this group, standing with a satisfied smile on hisface, his general appearance considerably the worse for wear, but indemeanor, to quote M'rye's subsequent phrase, "as cool as Cuffy," wasNi Hagadorn.
CHAPTER XIV
FINIS
"He's all right; you can look for him here right along now, any day; he_was_ hurt a leetle, but he's as peart an' chipper now as a blue-jay ona hick'ry limb; yes, he's a-comin' right smack home!"
This was the gist of the assurances which Ni vouchsafed to the firstrush of eager questions--to his sister, and M'rye, and Janey Wilcox.
Abner had held a little aloof, to give the weaker sex a chance. Now hereasserted himself once more: "Stan' back, now, and give the young manbreathin' room. Janey, hand a chair for'ard--that's it. Now set ye down,Ni, an' take your own time, an' tell us all about it. So you reelyfound him, eh?"
"Pshaw! there ain't anything to that," expostulated Ni, seating himselfwith nonchalance, and tilting back his chair. "_That_ was easy asrollin' off a log. But what's the matter _here_? That's what knocksme. We--that is to say, I--come up on a freight train to a ways beyondJuno Junction, an' got the conductor to slow up and let me drop off,an' footed it over the hill. It was jest about broad daylight when Iturned the divide. Then I began lookin' for your house, an' I'm lookin'for it still. There's a hole out there, full o' snow an' smoke, butnary a house. How'd it happen?"
"'Lection bonfire--high wind--woodshed must 'a' caught," replied Abner,sententiously. "So you reely got down South, eh?"
"An' Siss here, too," commented Ni, with provoking disregard for thefarmer's suggestions; "a reg'lar family party. An', hello!"
His roving eye had fallen upon the recumbent form on the made-up bed,under the muffling blankets, and he lifted his sandy wisps of eyebrowsin inquiry.
"Sh! It's father," explained Esther. "He isn't feeling very well. Ithink he's asleep."
The boy's freckled, whimsical face melted upon reflection into adistinct grin. "Why," he said, "you've been havin' a reg'lar oldlove-feast up here. I guess it was _that_ that set the house on fire!An' speakin' o' feasts, if you've got a mouthful o' somethin' to eathandy--"
The women were off like a shot to the impromptu larder at the far endof the barn.
"Well, thin," put in Hurley, taking advantage of their absence, "an'had ye the luck to see anny rale fightin'?"
"Never mind that," said Abner; "when he gits around to it he'll tell useverything. But, fust of all--why, he knows what I want to hear about."
"Why, the last time I talked with you, Abner--" Ni began, squinting upone of his eyes and giving a quaint drawl to his words.
"That's a good while ago," said the farmer, quietly.
"Things have took a change, eh?" inquired Ni.
"That's neither here nor there," replied Abner, somewhat testily. "Yououghtn't to need so dummed much explainin'. I've told you what I wantspecially to hear. An' that's what we all want to hear."
When the women had returned, and Ni, with much deliberation, hadfilled both hands with selected eatables, the recital at last gotunder way. Its progress was blocked from time to time by sheer forceof tantalizing perversity on the part of the narrator, and it sufferedsteadily from the incidental hitches of mastication; but such as it waswe listened to it with all our ears, sitting or standing about, andkeeping our eyes intently upon the freckled young hero.
"It wasn't so much of a job to git down there as I'd figured on," Nisaid, between mouthfuls. "I got along on freight trains--once workedmy way a while on a hand-car--as far as Albany, an' on down to New Yorkon a river-boat, cheap, an' then, after foolin' round a few days, Ihitched up with the Sanitary Commission folks, an' got them to let mesail on one o' their boats round to 'Napolis. I thought I was goin'to die most o' the voyage, but I didn't, you see, an' when I struck'Napolis I hung around Camp Parole there quite a spell, talkin' withfellers that'd bin pris'ners down in Richmond an' got exchanged an'sent North. They said there was a whole slew of our fellers down therestill that'd been brought in after Antietam. They didn't know noneo' their names, but they said they'd all be sent North in time, inexchange for Johnny Rebs that we'd captured. An' so I waited round--"
"You _might_ have written!" interrupted Esther, reproachfully.
"What'd bin the good o' writin'? I hadn't anything to tell. Besideswritin' letters is for girls. Well, one day a man come up fromLibby--that's the prison at Richmond--an' he said there _was_ a tallfeller there from York State, a farmer, an' he died. He thought thename was Birch, but it might 'a' been Beech--or Body-Maple, for thatmatter. I s'pose you'd like to had me write _that_ home!"
"No--oh, no!" murmured Esther, speaking the sense of all the company.
"Well, then I waited some more, an' kep' on waitin', an' then waitedag'in, until bimeby, one fine day, along comes Mr. Blue-jay himself.There he was, stan'in' up on the paddle-box with a face on him as longas your arm, an' I sung out, 'Way there, Agrippa Hill!' an' he comemighty nigh fallin' head over heels into the water. So then he comeoff, an' we shook han's, an' went up to the commissioners to see abouthis exchange, an'--an' as soon's that's fixed, an' the papers drawn upall correct, why, he'll come home. An' that's all there is to it."
"And even _then_ you never wrote!" said Esther, plaintively.
"Hold on a minute," put in Abner. "You say he's comin' home. Thatwouldn't be unless he was disabled. They'd keep him to fight ag'in,till his time was up. Come, now, tell the truth--he's be'n hurt bad!"
Ni shook his unkempt red head. "No, no," he said. "This is how itwas. Fust he was fightin' in a cornfield, an' him an' Bi Truax, theygot chased out, an' lost their regiment, an' got in with some otherfellers, and then they all waded a creek breast-high, an' had to run upa long stretch o' slopin' ploughed ground to capture a battery they wason top o' the knoll. But they didn't see a regiment of sharp-shooterslayin' hidden behind a rail fence, an' these fellers riz up all toonce an' give it to 'em straight, an' they wilted right there, an'laid down, an' there they was after dusk when the rebs come out an'started lookin' round for guns an' blankets an' prisoners. Most of 'emwas dead, or badly hurt, but they was a few who'd simply lain there inthe hollow because it'd have bin death to git up. An' Jeff was one o'_them_."
"You said yourself 't he had been hurt--some," interposed M'rye, withsnapping eyes.
"Jest a scratch on his arm," declared Ni. "Well, then they marchedthe well ones back to the rear of the reb line, an' there they jestskinned 'em of everything they had--watch an' jack-knife an' walletan' everything--an' put 'em to sleep on the bare ground. Next day theystarted 'em out on the march toward Richmond, an' after four or fivedays o' that, they got to a railroad, and there was cattle cars for 'emto ride the rest o' the way in. An' that's how it was."
"No," said Abner, sternly; "you haven't told us. How badly is he hurt?"
"Well," replied Ni, "it was only a scratch, as I said, but it got worseon that march, an' I s'pose it wasn't tended to anyways decently, an'so--an' so--"
&nb
sp; M'rye had sprung to her feet and stood now drawn up to her full height,with her sharp nose in air as if upon some strange scent, and her eyesfairly glowing in eager excitement. All at once she made a bound pastus and ran to the doors, furiously digging her fingers in the crevicebetween them, then, with a superb sweep of the shoulders, sending themboth rattling back on their wheels with a bang.
"I knew it!" she screamed in triumph.
We who looked out beheld M'rye's black hair and brown calico dresssuddenly suffer a partial eclipse of pale blue, which for the momentseemed in some way a part of the bright winter sky beyond. Then we sawthat it was a soldier who had his arm about M'rye, and his cap bentdown tenderly over the head she had laid on his shoulder.
Our Jeff had come home.
A general instinct rooted us to our places and kept us silent, thewhile mother and son stood there in the broad open doorway.
Then the two advanced toward us, M'rye breathing hard, and with tearsand smiles struggling together on her face under the shadow of awrathful frown. We noted nothing of Jeff's appearance save that he hadgrown a big yellow beard, and seemed to be smiling. It was the mother'sdistraught countenance at which we looked instead.
She halted in front of Abner, and lifted the blue cape from Jeff's leftshoulder, with an abrupt gesture.
"Look there!" she said, hoarsely. "See what they've done to my boy!"
We saw now that the left sleeve of Jeff's army-overcoat was empty andhung pinned against his breast. On the instant we were all swarmingabout him, shaking the hand that remained to him and striving againstone another in a babel of questions, comments, and expressions ofsympathy with his loss, satisfaction at his return. It seemed themost natural thing in the world that he should kiss Esther Hagadorn,and that Janey Wilcox should reach up on tiptoes and kiss him. Whenthe Underwood girl would have done the same, however, M'rye brusquelyshouldered her aside.
So beside ourselves with excitement were we all, each in turn seekingto get in a word edgewise, that no one noticed the approach andentrance of a stranger, who paused just over the threshold of thebarn and coughed in a loud perfunctory way to attract our attention.I had to nudge Abner twice before he turned from where he stood atJeff's side, with his hand on the luckless shoulder, and surveyed thenew-comer.
The sun was shining so brightly on the snow outside, that it was notfor the moment easy to make out the identity of this shadowed figure.Abner took a forward step or two before he recognized his visitor.It was Squire Avery, the rich man of the Corners, and justice of thepeace, who had once even run for Congress.
"How d' do?" said Abner, shading his eyes with a massive hand. "Won'tyou step in?"
The Squire moved forward a little and held forth his hand, which thefarmer took and shook doubtfully. We others were as silent now as thegrave, feeling this visit to be even stranger than all that had gonebefore.
"I drove up right after breakfast, Mr. Beech," said the Squire, makinghis accustomed slow delivery a trifle more pompous and circumspectthan usual, "to express to you the feeling of such neighbors as Ihave, in this limited space of time, being able to foregather with. Ibelieve, sir, that I may speak for them all when I say that we regret,deplore, and contemplate with indignation the outrage and injury towhich certain thoughtless elements of the community last night, sir,subjected you and your household."
"It's right neighborly of you, Square, to come an' say so," remarkedAbner. "Won't you set down? You see, my son Jeff's jest come home fromthe war, an' the house bein' burnt, an' so on, we're rather upset forthe minute."
The Squire put on his spectacles and smiled with surprise at seeingJeff. He shook hands with him warmly, and spoke with what we felt to bethe right feeling about that missing arm; but he could not sit down, hesaid. The cutter was waiting for him, and he must hurry back.
"I am glad, however," he added, "to have been the first, Mr. Beech, towelcome your brave son back, and to express to you the hope, sir, thatwith this additional link of sympathy between us, sir, bygones may beallowed to become bygones."
"I don't bear no ill will," said Abner, guardedly. "I s'pose in thelong run folks act pooty close to about what they think is right. I'mwillin' to give 'em that credit--the same as I take to myself. Theyain't been much disposition to give _me_ that credit, but then, asour school-ma'am here was a sayin' last night, people've been a gooddeal worked up about the war--havin' them that's close to 'em rightdown in the thick of it--an' I dessay it was natural enough they shouldgit hot in the collar about it. As I said afore, I don't bear no illwill--though prob'ly I'm entitled to."
The Squire shook hands with Abner again. "Your sentiments, Mr. Beech,"he said, in his stateliest manner, "do credit alike to your heart andyour head. There is a feeling, sir, that this would be an auspiciousoccasion for you to resume sending your milk to the cheese-factory."
Abner pondered the suggestion for a moment. "It would be handier," hesaid, slowly; "but, you know, I ain't goin' to eat no humble pie. ThatRod Bidwell was downright insultin' to my man, an' me too--"
"It was all, I assure you, sir, an unfortunate misunderstanding,"pursued the Squire, "and is now buried deep in oblivion. And itis further suggested, that, when you have reached that stage ofpreparation for your new house, if you will communicate with me, theneighbors will be glad to come up and extend their assistance to you inwhat is commonly known as a raising-bee. They will desire, I believe,to bring with them their own provisions. And, moreover, Mr. Beech"--herethe Squire dropped his oratorical voice and stepped close to thefarmer--"if this thing has cramped you any, that is to say, if you findyourself in need of--of--any accommodation--"
"No, nothin' o' that sort," said Abner. He stopped at that, and keptsilence for a little, with his head down and his gaze meditativelyfixed on the barn floor. At last he raised his face and spoke again,his deep voice shaking a little in spite of itself.
"What you've said, Square, an' your comin' here, has done me a lot o'good. It's pooty nigh wuth bein' burnt out for--to have this sort o'thing come on behind as an after-clap. Sometimes, I tell you, sir, I'vedespaired o' the republic. I admit it, though it's to my shame. I'vesaid to myself that when American citizens, born an' raised right onthe same hill-side, got to behavin' to each other in such an all-firedmean an' cantankerous way, why, the hull blamed thing wasn't worthtryin' to save. But you see I was wrong--I admit I was wrong. It wasjest a passin' flurry--a kind o' snow-squall in hayin' time. All thewhile, right down't the bottom, their hearts was sound an' sweet as abutter-nut. It fetches me--that does--it makes me prouder than ever I wasbefore in all my born days to be an American--yes, sir--that's the wayI--I feel about it."
There were actually tears in the big farmer's eyes, and he got outthose finishing words of his in fragmentary gulps. None of us had everseen him so affected before.
After the Squire had shaken hands again and started off, Abner stoodat the open door, looking after him, then gazing in a contemplativegeneral way upon all out-doors. The vivid sunlight reflected up fromthe melting snow made his face to shine as if from an inner radiance.He stood still and looked across the yards with their piles of wetstraw smoking in the forenoon heat, and the black puddles eating intothe snow as the thaw went on; over the further prospect, made weirdlyunfamiliar by the disappearance of the big old farm-house; down thelong broad sloping hill-side with its winding road, its checkeredirregular patches of yellow stubble and stacked fodder, of deep umberploughed land and warm gray woodland, all pushing aside their prematuremantle of sparkling white, and the scattered homesteads and red barnsbeyond--and there was in his eyes the far-away look of one who saw stillother things.
He turned at last and came in, walking over to where Jeff and Estherstood hand in hand beside the bed on the floor. Old Jee Hagadorn wassitting up now, and had exchanged some words with the couple.
"Well, Brother Hagadorn," said the farmer, "I hope you're feelin'better."
"Yes, a good deal--B--Brother Beech, thank'ee," replied the cooper,slowly and with hesitation.
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Abner laid a fatherly hand on Esther's shoulder and another on Jeff's.A smile began to steal over his big face, broadening the square whichhis mouth cut down into his beard, and deepening the pleasant wrinklesabout his eyes. He called M'rye over to the group with beckoning nodof the head.
"It's jest occurred to me, mother," he said, with the mock gravity oftone we once had known so well and of late had heard so little--"I jestbe'n thinkin' we might 'a' killed two birds with one stun while theSquare was up here. He's justice o' the peace, you know--an' they saythem kindo' marriages turn out better'n all the others."
"Go 'long with yeh!" said M'rye, vivaciously. But she too put a hand onEsther's other shoulder.
The school-teacher nestled against M'rye's side. "I tell you what," shesaid, softly, "if Jeff ever turns out to be half the man his father is,I'll just be prouder than my skin can hold."
THE END
Norwood Press: J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith. Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
What appeared to be clear typographical errors were corrected; anyother mistakes or inconsistencies were retained.
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.
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