CHAPTER 30.
PEACE
It was strange to Chad that he should be drifting toward a new lifedown the river which once before had carried him to a new world. Thefuture then was no darker than now, but he could hardly connect himselfwith the little fellow in coon-skin cap and moccasins who had floateddown on a raft so many years ago, when at every turn of the river hiseager eyes looked for a new and thrilling mystery.
They talked of the long fight, the two lads, for, in spite of thewar-worn look of them, both were still nothing but boys--and theytalked with no bitterness of camp life, night attacks, surprises,escapes, imprisonment, incidents of march and battle. Both spoke littleof their boyhood days or the future. The pall of defeat overhung Dan.To him the world seemed to be nearing an end, while to Chad the outlookwas what he had known all his life--nothing to begin with andeverything to be done. Once only Dan voiced his own trouble:
"What are you going to do, Chad--now that this infernal war is over?Going into the regular army?"
"No," said Chad, decisively. About his own future Dan volunteerednothing--he only turned his head quickly to the passing woods, asthough in fear that Chad might ask some similar question, but Chad wassilent. And thus they glided between high cliffs and down into thelowlands until at last, through a little gorge between two swellingriver hills, Dan's eye caught sight of an orchard, a leafy woodland,and a pasture of bluegrass. With a cry he raised himself on one elbow.
"Home! I tell you, Chad, we're getting home!" He closed his eyes anddrew the sweet air in as though he were drinking it down like wine. Hiseyes were sparkling when he opened them again and there was a new colorin his face. On they drifted until, toward noon, the black column ofsmoke that meant the capital loomed against the horizon. There Mrs.Dean was waiting for them, and Chad turned his face aside when themother took her son in her arms. With a sad smile she held out her handto Chad.
"You must come home with us," Mrs. Dean said, with quiet decision.
"Where is Margaret, mother?" Chad almost trembled when he heard thename.
"Margaret couldn't come. She is not very well and she is taking care ofHarry."
The very station had tragic memories to Chad. There was the long hillwhich he had twice climbed--once on a lame foot and once on flyingDixie--past the armory and the graveyard. He had seen enough dead sincehe peered through those iron gates to fill a dozen graveyards the likein size. Going up in the train, he could see the barn where he hadslept in the hayloft the first time he came to the Bluegrass, and thecreek-bridge where Major Buford had taken him into his carriage. MajorBuford was dead. He had almost died in prison, Mrs. Dean said, and Chadchoked and could say nothing. Once, Dan began a series of eagerquestions about the house and farm, and the servants and the neighbors,but his mother's answers were hesitant and he stopped short. She, too,asked but few questions, and the three were quiet while the trainrolled on with little more speed than Chad and Dixie had made on thatlong ago night-ride to save Dan and Rebel Jerry. About that ride Chadhad kept Harry's lips and his own closed, for he wished no such appealas that to go to Margaret Dean. Margaret was not at the station inLexington. She was not well Rufus said; so Chad would not go with themthat night, but would come out next day.
"I owe my son's life to you, Captain Buford," said Mrs. Dean, withtrembling lip, "and you must make our house your home while you arehere. I bring that message to you from Harry and Margaret. I know andthey know now all you have done for us and all you have tried to do."
Chad could hardly speak his thanks. He would be in the Bluegrass only afew days, he stammered, but he would go out to see them next day. Thatnight he went to the old inn where the Major had taken him to dinner.Next day he hired a horse from the livery stable where he had boughtthe old brood mare, and early in the afternoon he rode out the broadturnpike in a nervous tumult of feeling that more than once made himhalt in the road. He wore his uniform, which was new, and made himuncomfortable--it looked too much like waving a victorious flag in theface of a beaten enemy--but it was the only stitch of clothes he had,and that he might not explain.
It was the first of May. Just eight years before, Chad with a burningheart had watched Richard Hunt gayly dancing with Margaret, while thedead chieftain, Morgan, gayly fiddled for the merry crowd. Now the sunshone as it did then, the birds sang, the wind shook the happy leavesand trembled through the budding heads of bluegrass to show that naturehad known no war and that her mood was never other than of hope andpeace. But there were no fat cattle browsing in the Dean pastures now,no flocks of Southdown sheep with frisking lambs The worm fences hadlost their riders and were broken down here and there. The gate saggedon its hinges; the fences around yard and garden and orchard had knownno whitewash for years; the paint on the noble old house was crackedand peeling, the roof of the barn was sunken in, and the cabins of thequarters were closed, for the hand of war, though unclinched, still layheavy on the home of the Deans. Snowball came to take his horse. He wasrespectful, but his white teeth did not flash the welcome Chad once hadknown. Another horse stood at the hitching-post and on it was a cavalrysaddle and a rebel army blanket, and Chad did not have to guess whoseit might be. From the porch, Dan shouted and came down to meet him, andHarry hurried to the door, followed by Mrs. Dean. Margaret was not tobe seen, and Chad was glad--he would have a little more time forself-control. She did not appear even when they were seated in theporch until Dan shouted for her toward the garden; and then lookingtoward the gate Chad saw her coming up the garden walk bare-headed,dressed in white, with flowers in her hand; and walking by her side,looking into her face and talking earnestly, was Richard Hunt. Thesight of him nerved Chad at once to steel. Margaret did not lift herface until she was half-way to the porch, and then she stopped suddenly.
"Why, there's Major Buford," Chad heard her say, and she came on ahead,walking rapidly. Chad felt the blood in his face again, and as hewatched Margaret nearing him--pale, sweet, frank, gracious,unconscious--it seemed that he was living over again another scene inhis life when he had come from the mountains to live with old MajorBuford; and, with a sudden prayer that his past might now be wiped asclean as it was then, he turned from Margaret's hand-clasp to look intothe brave, searching eyes of Richard Hunt and feel his sinewy fingersin a grip that in all frankness told Chad plainly that between them, atleast, one war was not quite over yet.
"I am glad to meet you, Major Buford, in these piping times of peace."
"And I am glad to meet you, General Hunt--only in times of peace," Chadsaid, smiling.
The two measured each other swiftly, calmly. Chad had a mightyadmiration for Richard Hunt. Here was a man who knew no fight but tothe finish, who would die as gamely in a drawing-room as on abattle-field. To think of him--a brigadier-general at twenty-seven, asundaunted, as unbeaten as when he heard the first bullet of the warwhistle, and, at that moment, as good an American as Chadwick Buford orany Unionist who had given his life for his cause! Such a foe thrilledChad, and somehow he felt that Margaret was measuring them as they weremeasuring each other. Against such a man what chance had he?
He would have been comforted could he have known Richard Hunt'sthoughts, for that gentleman had gone back to the picture of a raggedmountain boy in old Major Buford's carriage, one court day long ago,and now he was looking that same lad over from the visor of his capdown his superb length to the heels of his riding-boots. His eyesrested long on Chad's face. The change was incredible, but blood hadtold. The face was highly bred, clean, frank, nobly handsome; it hadstrength and dignity, and the scar on his cheek told a story that wasas well known to foe as to friend.
"I have been wanting to thank you, not only for trying to keep us outof that infernal prison after the Ohio raid, but for trying to get usout. Harry here told me. That was generous."
"That was nothing," said Chad. "You forget, you could have killed meonce and--and you didn't." Margaret was listening eagerly.
"You didn't give me time," laughed General Hunt.
"Oh, yes, I
did. I saw you lift your pistol and drop it again. I havenever ceased to wonder why you did that."
Richard Hunt laughed. "Perhaps I'm sorry sometimes that I did," hesaid, with a certain dryness.
"Oh, no, you aren't, General," said Margaret.
Thus they chatted and laughed and joked together above the sombre tideof feeling that showed in the face of each if it reached not histongue, for, when the war was over, the hatchet in Kentucky was buriedat once and buried deep. Son came back to father, brother to brother,neighbor to neighbor; political disabilities were removed and thesundered threads, unravelled by the war, were knitted together fast.That is why the postbellum terrors of reconstruction were practicallyunknown in the State. The negroes scattered, to be sure, not fromdisloyalty so much as from a feverish desire to learn whether theyreally could come and go as they pleased. When they learned that theywere really free, most of them drifted back to the quarters where theywere born, and meanwhile the white man's hand that had wielded thesword went just as bravely to the plough, and the work of rebuildingwar-shattered ruins began at once. Old Mammy appeared, by and by, shookhands with General Hunt and made Chad a curtsey of rather distantdignity. She had gone into exile with her "chile" and her "ole Mistis"and had come home with them to stay, untempted by the doubtful sweetsof freedom. "Old Tom, her husband, had remained with Major Buford, waswith him on his deathbed," said Margaret, "and was on the place still,too old, he said, to take root elsewhere."
Toward the middle of the afternoon Dan rose and suggested that theytake a walk about the place. Margaret had gone in for a moment toattend to some household duty, and as Richard Hunt was going away nextday he would stay, he said, with Mrs. Dean, who was tired and could notjoin them. The three walked toward the dismantled barn where thetournament had taken place and out into the woods. Looking back, Chadsaw Margaret and General Hunt going slowly toward the garden, and heknew that some crisis was at hand between the two. He had hard worklistening to Dan and Harry as they planned for the future, and recalledto each other and to him the incidents of their boyhood. Harry meant tostudy law, he said, and practise in Lexington; Dan would stay at homeand run the farm. Neither brother mentioned that the old place washeavily mortgaged, but Chad guessed the fact and it made him heartsickto think of the struggle that was before them and of the privations yetin store for Mrs. Dean and Margaret.
"Why don't you, Chad?"
"Do what?"
"Stay here and study law," Harry smiled. "We'll go into partnership."
Chad shook his head. "No," he said, decisively. "I've already made upmy mind. I'm going West."
"I'm sorry," said Harry, and no more; he had learned long ago howuseless it was to combat any purpose of Chadwick Buford.
General Hunt and Margaret were still away when they got back to thehouse. In fact, the sun was sinking when they came in from the woods,still walking slowly, General Hunt talking earnestly and Margaret withher hands clasped before her and her eyes on the path. The faces ofboth looked pale, even that far away, but when they neared the porch,the General was joking and Margaret was smiling, nor was anythingperceptible to Chad when he said good-by, except a certain tendernessin his tone and manner toward Margaret, and one fleeting look ofdistress in her clear eyes. He was on his horse now, and was liftinghis cap.
"Good-by, Major," he said. "I'm glad you got through the war alive.Perhaps I'll tell you some day why I didn't shoot you that morning."And then he rode away, a gallant, knightly figure, across the pasture.At the gate he waved his cap and at a gallop was gone.
After supper, a heaven-born chance led Mrs. Dean to stroll out into thelovely night. Margaret rose to go too, and Chad followed. The samechance, perhaps, led old Mammy to come out on the porch and call Mrs.Dean back. Chad and Margaret walked on toward the stiles where stillhung Margaret's weather-beaten Stars and Bars. The girl smiled andtouched the flag.
"That was very nice of you to salute me that morning. I never felt sobitter against Yankees after that day. I'll take it down now," and shedetached it and rolled it tenderly about the slender staff.
"That was not my doing," said Chad, "though if I had been Grant, andthere with the whole Union army, I would have had it salute you. I wasunder orders, but I went back for help. May I carry it for you?"
"Yes," said Margaret, handing it to him. Chad had started toward thegarden, but Margaret turned him toward the stile and they walked nowdown through the pasture toward the creek that ran like a wind-shakenribbon of silver under the moon.
"Won't you tell me something about Major Buford? I've been wanting toask, but I simply hadn't the heart. Can't we go over there tonight? Iwant to see the old place, and I must leave to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" said Margaret. "Why--I--I was going to take you over thereto-morrow, for I--but, of course, you must go to-night if it is to beyour only chance."
And so, as they walked along, Margaret told Chad of the old Major'slast days, after he was released from prison, and came home to die. Shewent to see him every day, and she was at his bedside when he breathedhis last. He had mortgaged his farm to help the Confederate cause andto pay indemnity for a guerilla raid, and Jerome Conners held his notesfor large amounts.
"The lawyer told me that he believed some of the notes were forged, buthe couldn't prove it. He says it is doubtful if more than the house anda few acres will be left." A light broke in on Chad's brain.
"He told you?"
Margaret blushed. "He left all he had to me," she said, simply.
"I'm so glad," said Chad.
"Except a horse which belongs to you. The old mare is dead."
"Dear old Major!"
At the stone fence Margaret reached for the flag.
"We'll leave it here until we come back," she said, dropping it in ashadow. Somehow the talk of Major Buford seemed to bring them nearertogether--so near that once Chad started to call her by her first nameand stopped when it had half passed his lips. Margaret smiled.
"The war is over," she said, and Chad spoke eagerly:
"And you'll call me?"
"Yes, Chad."
The very leaves over Chad's head danced suddenly, and yet the girl wasso simple and frank and kind that the springing hope in his breast wasas quickly chilled.
"Did he ever speak of me except about business matters?"
"Never at all at first," said Margaret, blushing againincomprehensively, "but he forgave you before he died."
"Thank God for that!"
"And you will see what he did for you--the last thing of his life."
They were crossing the field now.
"I have seen Melissa," said Margaret, suddenly. Chad was so startledthat he stopped in the path.
"She came all the way from the mountains to ask if you were dead, andto tell me about--about your mother. She had just learned it, she said,and she did not know that you knew. And I never let her know that Iknew, since I supposed you had some reason for not wanting her to know."
"I did," said Chad, sadly, but he did not tell his reason. Melissawould never have learned the one thing from him as Margaret would notlearn the other now.
"She came on foot to ask about you and to defend you against--againstme. And she went back afoot. She disappeared one morning before we gotup. She seemed very ill, too, and unhappy. She was coughing all thetime, and I wakened one night and heard her sobbing, but she was sosullen and fierce that I was almost afraid of her. Next morning she wasgone. I would have taken her part of the way home myself. Poor thing!"Chad was walking with his head bent.
"I'm going down to see her before I go West."
"You are going West--to live?"
"Yes."
They had reached the yard gate now which creaked on rusty hinges whenChad pulled it open. The yard was running wild with plantains, thegravelled walk was overgrown, the house was closed, shuttered, anddark, and the spirit of desolation overhung the place, but the ruinlooked gentle in the moonlight. Chad's throat hurt and his eyes filled.
"I want to show you
now the last thing he did," said Margaret. Her eyeslighted with tenderness and she led him wondering down through thetangled garden to the old family graveyard.
"Climb over and look, Chad," she said, leaning over the wall.
There was the grave of the Major's father which he knew so well; nextthat, to the left, was a new mound under which rested the Majorhimself. To the right was a stone marked "Chadwick Buford, born inVirginia, 1750, died in Kentucky"--and then another stone marked simply:
Mary Buford.
"He had both brought from the mountains," said Margaret, softly, "andthe last time he was out of the house was when he leaned here to watchthem buried there. He said there would always be a place next yourmother for you. 'Tell the boy that,' he said." Chad put his arms aroundthe tombstone and then sank on one knee by his mother's grave. It wasstrewn with withered violets.
"You--YOU did that, Margaret?"
Margaret nodded through her tears.
. . . . .
The wonder of it! They stood very still, looking for a long time intoeach other's eyes. Could the veil of the hereafter have been lifted forthem at that moment and they have seen themselves walking that samegarden path, hand in hand, their faces seamed with age to other eyes,but changed in not a line to them, the vision would not have added ajot to their perfect faith. They would have nodded to each other andsmiled--"Yes, we know, we know!" The night, the rushing earth, thestar-swept spaces of the infinite held no greater wonder than wastheirs--they held no wonder at all. The moon shone, that night, forthem; the wind whispered, leaves danced, flowers nodded, and cricketschirped from the grass for them; the farthest star kept eternal lidsapart just for them and beyond, the Maker himself looked down, thatnight, just to bless them.
Back they went through the old garden, hand in hand. No caress had everpassed between these two. That any man could ever dare even to dream oftouching her sacred lips had been beyond the boy's imaginings--such wasthe reverence in his love for her--and his very soul shook when, at thegate, Margaret's eyes dropped from his to the sabre cut on his cheekand she suddenly lifted her face.
"I know how you got that, Chad," she said, and with her lips she gentlytouched the scar. Almost timidly the boy drew her to him. Again herlips were lifted in sweet surrender, and every wound that he had knownin his life was healed.
. . . . .
"I'll show you your horse, Chad."
They did not waken old Tom, but went around to the stable and Chad ledout a handsome colt, his satiny coat shining in the moonlight likesilver. He lifted his proud head, when he saw Margaret, and whinnied.
"He knows his mistress, Margaret--and he's yours."
"Oh, no, Chad."
"Yes," said Chad, "I've still got Dixie."
"Do you still call her Dixie?"
"All through the war."
Homeward they went through the dewy fields.
"I wish I could have seen the Major before he died. If he could onlyhave known how I suffered at causing him so much sorrow. And if youcould have known."
"He did know and so did I--later. All that is over now."
They had reached the stone wall and Chad picked up the flag again.
"This is the only time I have ever carried this flag, unless I--unlessit had been captured."
"You had captured it, Chad."
"There?" Chad pointed to the stile and Margaret nodded.
"There--here everywhere."
Seated on the porch, Mrs. Dean and Harry and Dan saw them coming acrossthe field and Mrs. Dean sighed.
"Father would not say a word against it, mother," said the elder boy,"if he were here."
"No," said Dan, "not a word."
"Listen, mother," said Harry, and he told the two about Chad's ride forDan from Frankfort to Lexington. "He asked me not to tell. He did notwish Margaret to know. And listen again, mother. In a skirmish one daywe were fighting hand to hand. I saw one man with his pistol levelledat me and another with his sabre lifted on Chad. He saw them both. Mypistol was empty, and do you know what he did? He shot the man who wasabout to shoot me instead of his own assailant. That is how he got thatscar. I did tell Margaret that."
"Yes, you must go down in the mountain first," Margaret was saying,"and see if there is anything you can do for the people who were sogood to you--and to see Melissa. I am worried about her."
"And then I must come back to you?"
"Yes, you must come back to see me once more if you can. And then someday you will come again and buy back the Major's farm"--she stopped,blushing. "I think that was his wish Chad, that you and I--but I wouldnever let him say it."
"And if that should take too long?"
"I will come to you, Chad," said Margaret.
Old Mammy came out on the porch as they were climbing the stile.
"Ole Miss," she said, indignantly, "my Tom say that he can't get nary atriflin' nigger to come out hyeh to wuk, an' ef that cawnfiel' ain'tploughed mighty soon, it's gwine to bu'n up."
"How many horses are there on the place, Mammy?" asked Dan.
"Hosses!" sniffed the old woman. "They ain't NARY a hoss--nothin' buttwo ole broken-down mules."
"Well, I'll take one and start a plough myself," said Harry.
"And I'll take the other," said Dan.
Mammy groaned.
. . . . .
And still the wonder of that night to Chad and Margaret!
"It was General Hunt who taught me to understand--and forgive. Do youknow what he said? That every man, on both sides, was right--who didhis duty."
"God bless him," said Chad.