The Fanatics/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
A LETTER FROM THE FRONT
In the days which followed the separation between Mary and himself, Bradford Waters was indeed a lonely man. He was harassed not only by the breach with the child he loved and the public comments upon it, but torn with anxiety for Tom. He spent his days and nights in brooding that made him harder and bitterer as time went on. His fanatical dislike for Stephen Van Doren grew because this man and his family seemed to him the author of all his woes. He was not only just a copperhead, now, with a son in the Confederate army, he stood as the personification of the whole body of rebellion that had taken Waters son and daughter and broken up his home. He could have no pride in his soldier boy without cursing Van Doren for being one of those who had driven him into danger. He could not grieve for the loss of Mary without sending his imprecations flying in the same direction. Always to his distorted vision, his old-time enemy appeared as some relentless monster grinning in terrible glee at his distress.
Despite his moroseness, however, there was a wistful, almost plaintive attitude in Waters' conduct towards his acquaintances. He hovered between moods of grief, anxiety and pride. But always, at the last, the innate hardness of his nature triumphed. There were times when his heart cried out for Mary, for some one of his blood to share his grief with him. But he closed his lips and uttered no word to bring her back to him. Always a simple-living man, accustomed to no service save that of his own family, he was compelled to employ a servant, and this galled him, not out of penuriousness, but because he could not bear an alien in his home. He felt her eyes upon him at moments when it seemed that the struggle in his heart must be written large upon his face, and it filled him. with dumb, helpless anger.
A change, too, was taking place in Van Doren. Now that he had a son in the field, he had a new feeling for his friend and enemy. Besides being a partisan, he was a father and the paternal instinct prompted him to change his actions to wards Waters. Had the two old men let themselves, they would have poured out their fears, hopes and anxieties to each other, and found relief and sympathy. Both affectionate fathers, similarly bereft of sons and similarly alone, they might have been a comfort to each other, but that their passions forbade their fraternizing. Often they met upon the streets and Van Doren would look at Waters with a question in his eyes. It would have been such a natural thing to say, "Any news of Tom?" and to be asked in the same tone, "What of Bob?" But Waters always scowled fiercely although he kept his head averted. So each, smothering down the yearning in his heart for companionship and sympathy passed on his way with a curb bit on his emotions.
It was about this time that dispatches from the front gave warning that a sharp, though brief encounter had taken place between the rebels and a detachment of troops under General Schenck. The news ran like wildfire through Dorbury, for it was at first rumored and then assured that the First, to which the home company belonged, had been engaged and had lost several men. Every home out of which a husband, son or father had gone, waited with breathless expectancy, longing, yet dreading to hear more definite tidings from the field. The people about every fireside clustered closer together with blanched faces, wondering if their circle had been touched. This was war indeed, and with the first fear for their loved ones, came the first realization of what it really meant.
At first, Bradford Waters tried hard to restrain himself. He gripped his hands hard and paced up and down the room. But finally, ho could stand it no longer. The house had grown close and unbearable. Its walls seemed to be narrowing in upon him like the sides of a torture chamber. He hurried out into the street and into the telegraph office. There was no further news. Then to the office of the one remaining paper. Their bulletin furnished nothing further. For two hours he paced back and forth between these two places, feverish and disturbed. Van Doren saw him pass back and forth on his anxious tramp, and his own heart interpreted the other's feelings. Once, the impulse came to him to speak to Waters, and he rose from the window where he had been sitting, and went to the door, but the crazed man turned upon him such a grey, haggard face and withal so fierce and unfriendly, that he retreated from his good intentions, and let him pass on unchallenged.
The next day the news was better. The papers said that the casualties had been almost nothing.
Waters' hopes rose, and he showed a more cheerful face to those who saw him. Maybe Tom was safe, after all, maybe he had been gallant in action, and would be promoted. His heart throbbed with joy and pride as if what he wished were already a fact. It is a strange thing about home people in war time that after the first pang of anxiety is over, the very next thought is one of ambition. They seem all to see but two contingencies for their loved oncs, death or promotion. It happened that there was not a single engagement of the war, however small or insignificant, but it gave some home circle a thrill of hope that one who was dear to them might have moved up a notch in the notice and respect of his country. It was not narrowness nor was it the lust for personal advancement. It was rather the desire of those who give of their best to serve a beloved cause to have them serve it in the highest and most responsible position possible.
Meanwhile, to Mary slowly recovering her strength and balance, had come much of the anxiety which racked her father. With the inconsistent faith of a woman, she said that God could not have let her brother fall in this first fight, and she prayed that he might be restored to them safe. And even before the breath of her declaration and prayer had cooled on her lips, she wept as she pictured him dead on the roadside. Later, it is true, these people's hearts came to be so schooled in the terrible lessons of civil war that they let such light skirmishes as this one at Vienna give them little uneasiness. But then, they did not know.
Bradford Waters' great joy came to him two days after the papers had lightened his care. There was a list of the wounded and killed, and Tom's name was not among them. Then came his letter.
"Dear father," it ran, "I suppose you've been in horrible suspense about me, and a good deal of it is my fault. But when a fellow is learning entirely new things, among them how to write without any sort of writing materials under the sun, it isn't easy, is it? Then, too, I've been trying to learn to be a soldier. It's awfully different, this being a militiaman and a soldier. In the first place, a militiaman may curse his governor. A soldier must not. It's been hard refraining, but I haven't cursed Dennison as I wanted to. Some of the fellows say he's all right, but we've been delayed on the way here by first one thing and then another until the patience of all of us is worn out. If it isn't Governor Dennison's fault, whose is it? I wish you'd find out. We fellows don't know, and can't find out anything. The generals just take us wherever they please and never consult us about anything. But I'm used to that now.
"Of course, you've heard about the trouble at Vienna, and I was afraid you'd be considerably worried. It wasn't anything much. Only it was different from a muster day. Some rebels fired on our train unexpectedly, but we tumbled out helter-skelter and fired back at them, and so they let us alone. It didn't seem quite fair to jump on a fellow when he wasn't looking, but I guess this is war.
"There isn't a thing to do about Washington these days. It's as safe as a meeting-house. There are some New York troops here that I have got acquainted with, but we don't any of us do any thing but look pretty. Some of the fellows are already looking forward to the mustering out day. But mustered out or not, I'm going to hang around here, for there's no telling when things are going wrong, and for my part, I expect more trouble. A set of follows who will fire on their own flag as they did at Sumter are perfectly capable of lying low until they quiet our suspicions and then raising the very dickens.
"Give Mary my love, and tell her she ought to see Washington and all the pretty girls here that cheer us as we go along the streets. (Tell her to read this part of the letter to Nannie. I'm going to write her anyway in a day or two, but now it's all go, go, go, learn, learn, learn.) Take care of yourself, father, or rather let Mary take care of you, for you would never think of it. I'll write you again when I get a chance.
"Your son,
"Тom."
Bradford Waters could have wept for joy over his son's letter, but that he felt weeping to be unworthy of a soldier's father. The battle of Vienna had been fought and his son had come out safe. He thought of it as a Thermopylæ when it was only a petty skirmish. A few rebels fired at a few Unionists, who lined themselves up against their cars and returned the fire. This was all, but he preferred to think of his son as one of a band of heroes who at great odds had repelled the assailants of their country's flag, and held the day against armed treason.
One thing grieved him greatly, the reference to Mary. He could not tell her nor talk it over with her. She take care of him! What would her brother think if he knew how they were living, and he was going to write to Nannie? Would she not tell him all, and what encouragement would this be to the boy in the field when he knew how matters were going at home? Bradford Waters' hand trembled and the letter burned in his fingers.
Notwithstanding his perplexity, when Waters appeared on the streets that day, Stephen Van Doren seeing him, did not need to inquire to know that the Unionist had received a welcome letter from his son, and secretly, he rejoiced at it. Knowing as he did, that the time would come when anxiety for his own boy would tear at his heart, he could not begrudge the other man his joy. He was pleased, too, because as he passed Waters and looked into his beaming face, there seemed almost an inclination on his part to stop and speak.
Indeed, the old Unionist did want to stop and say, "Stephen, I've heard from Tom, and he's all right." He did not, and the repression only made him long the more for Mary. He wanted her to see his letter, to know that her brother was being cheered by the women of Washington, and to feel what he felt. But would she feel so? Had not her heart already gone too strongly to the other side? The question came again to him, and he hardened again in face of it.
He would not tell her nor send the letter to her. She was a traitor. But he would let her know that he had received it. So that afternoon, he talked much of his letter in the places where men congregate, and told what Tom had said, and Mary heard of it from others and burned with eagerness.
That night, as soon as darkness had fallen, eluding Nannie's vigilance, she crept out of the house. She made her way to her own home, and back and forth before the door, she walked and kept vigil. Maybe her father would see her and come out and tell her more of Tom. Maybe he would understand and forgive her and she could go back to him again. But she wished in vain, and after a time, her heart unsatisfied, she went back to Nannie's, and silently let herself in.
It was after midnight, when Waters crept out of his house, and with feverish steps made his way to the Woods' door. For a long time he walked up and down before the place even as Mary had done, and then, as if struck with a sudden determination, he opened the gate and going to the door, slipped the letter under it. Then he turned away home, feeling lighter and better because he had shared his joy with his daughter.