AN INDIANA CAMPAIGN
I
When the able-bodied citizens of the village formed a company and
marched away to the war, Major Tom Boldin assumed in a manner the burden
of the village cares. Everybody ran to him when they felt obliged to
discuss their affairs. The sorrows of the town were dragged before him.
His little bench at the sunny side of Migglesville tavern became a sort
of an open court where people came to speak resentfully of their
grievances. He accepted his position and struggled manfully under the
load. It behoved him, as a man who had seen the sky red over the quaint,
low cities of Mexico, and the compact Northern bayonets gleaming on the
narrow roads.
One warm summer day the major sat asleep on his little bench. There was
a lull in the tempest of discussion which usually enveloped him. His
cane, by use of which he could make the most tremendous and impressive
gestures, reposed beside him. His hat lay upon the bench, and his old
bald head had swung far forward until his nose actually touched the
first button of his waistcoat.
The sparrows wrangled desperately in the road, defying perspiration.
Once a team went jangling and creaking past, raising a yellow blur of
dust before the soft tones of the field and sky. In the long grass of
the meadow across the road the insects chirped and clacked eternally.
Suddenly a frouzy-headed boy appeared in the roadway, his bare feet
pattering rapidly. He was extremely excited. He gave a shrill whoop as
he discovered the sleeping major and rushed toward him. He created a
terrific panic among some chickens who had been scratching intently near
the major's feet. They clamoured in an insanity of fear, and rushed
hither and thither seeking a way of escape, whereas in reality all ways
lay plainly open to them.
This tumult caused the major to arouse with a sudden little jump of
amazement and apprehension. He rubbed his eyes and gazed about him.
Meanwhile, some clever chicken had discovered a passage to safety, and
led the flock into the garden, where they squawked in sustained alarm.
Panting from his run and choked with terror, the little boy stood
before the major, struggling with a tale that was ever upon the tip of
his tongue.
"Major--now--major----"
The old man, roused from a delicious slumber, glared impatiently at the
little boy. "Come, come! What's th' matter with yeh?" he demanded.
"What's th' matter? Don't stand there shaking! Speak up!"
"Lots is th' matter!" the little boy shouted valiantly, with a courage
born of the importance of his tale. "My ma's chickens 'uz all stole, an'--
now--he's over in th' woods!"
"Who is? Who is over in the woods? Go ahead!"
"Now--th' rebel is!"
"What?" roared the major.
"Th' rebel!" cried the little boy, with the last of his breath.
The major pounced from his bench in tempestuous excitement. He seized
the little boy by the collar and gave him a great jerk. "Where? Are yeh
sure? Who saw 'im? How long ago? Where is he now? Did you see 'im?"
The little boy, frightened at the major's fury, began to sob. After a
moment he managed to stammer: "He--now--he's in the woods. I saw 'im. He
looks uglier'n anythin'."
The major released his hold upon the boy, and pausing for a time,
indulged in a glorious dream. Then he said: "By thunder! we'll ketch th'
cuss. You wait here," he told the boy, "and don't say a word t' anybody.
Do you hear?"
The boy, still weeping, nodded, and the major hurriedly entered the
inn. He took down from its pegs an awkward smooth-bore rifle and
carefully examined the enormous percussion cap that was fitted over the
nipple. Mistrusting the cap, he removed it and replaced it with a new
one. He scrutinised the gun keenly, as if he could judge in this manner
of the condition of the load. All his movements were deliberate and
deadly.
When he arrived upon the porch of the tavern he beheld the yard filled
with people. Peter Witheby, sooty-faced and grinning, was in the van. He
looked at the major. "Well?" he said.
"Well?" returned the major, bridling.
"Well, what's 'che got?" said old Peter.
"'Got?' Got a rebel over in th' woods!" roared the major.
At this sentence the women and boys, who had gathered eagerly about
him, gave vent to startled cries. The women had come from adjacent
houses, but the little boys represented the entire village. They had
miraculously heard the first whisper of rumour, and they performed
wonders in getting to the spot. They clustered around the important
figure of the major and gazed in silent awe. The women, however, burst
forth. At the word "rebel," which represented to them all terrible
things, they deluged the major with questions which were obviously
unanswerable.
He shook them off with violent impatience. Meanwhile Peter Witheby was
trying to force exasperating interrogations through the tumult to the
major's ears. "What? No! Yes! How d' I know?" the maddened veteran
snarled as he struggled with his friends. "No! Yes! What? How in thunder
d' I know?" Upon the steps of the tavern the landlady sat, weeping
forlornly.
At last the major burst through the crowd, and went to the roadway.
There, as they all streamed after him, he turned and faced them. "Now,
look a' here, I don't know any more about this than you do," he told
them forcibly. "All that I know is that there's a rebel over in Smith's
woods, an' all I know is that I'm agoin' after 'im."
"But hol' on a minnet," said old Peter. "How do yeh know he's a rebel?"
"I know he is!" cried the major. "Don't yeh think I know what a rebel
is?"
Then, with a gesture of disdain at the babbling crowd, he marched
determinedly away, his rifle held in the hollow of his arm. At this
heroic moment a new clamour arose, half admiration, half dismay. Old
Peter hobbled after the major, continually repeating, "Hol' on a minnet."
The little boy who had given the alarm was the centre of a throng of
lads who gazed with envy and awe, discovering in him a new quality. He
held forth to them eloquently. The women stared after the figure of the
major and old Peter, his pursuer. Jerozel Bronson, a half-witted lad who
comprehended nothing save an occasional genial word, leaned against the
fence and grinned like a skull. The major and the pursuer passed out of
view around the turn in the road where the great maples lazily shook the
dust that lay on their leaves.
For a moment the little group of women listened intently as if they
expected to hear a sudden shot and cries from the distance. They looked
at each other, their lips a little way apart. The trees sighed softly in
the heat of the summer sun. The insects in the meadow continued their
monotonous humming, and, somewhere, a hen had been stricken with fear
and was cackling loudly.
Finally, Mrs. Goodwin said: "Well, I'm goin' up to th' turn a' th'
road, anyhow." Mrs. Willets and Mrs. Joe Peterson, her particular
friends, cried out at this temerity, but she said: "Well, I'm goin',
anyhow."
She called Bronson. "Come on, Jerozel. You're a man, an' if he should
chase us, why, you mus' pitch inteh 'im. Hey?"
Bronson always obeyed everybody. He grinned an assent, and went with
her down the road.
A little boy attempted to follow them, but a shrill scream from his
mother made him halt.
The remaining women stood motionless, their eyes fixed upon Mrs.
Goodwin and Jerozel. Then at last one gave a laugh of triumph at her
conquest of caution and fear, and cried: "Well, I'm goin' too!"
Another instantly said, "So am I." There began a general movement. Some
of the little boys had already ventured a hundred feet away from the
main body, and at this unanimous advance they spread out ahead in little
groups. Some recounted terrible stories of rebel ferocity. Their eyes
were large with excitement. The whole thing, with its possible dangers,
had for them a delicious element. Johnnie Peterson, who could whip any
boy present, explained what he would do in case the enemy should happen
to pounce out at him.
The familiar scene suddenly assumed a new aspect. The field of corn,
which met the road upon the left, was no longer a mere field of corn. It
was a darkly mystic place whose recesses could contain all manner of
dangers. The long green leaves, waving in the breeze, rustled from the
passing of men. In the song of the insects there were now omens, threats.
There was a warning in the enamel blue of the sky, in the stretch of
yellow road, in the very atmosphere. Above the tops of the corn loomed
the distant foliage of Smith's woods, curtaining the silent action of a
tragedy whose horrors they imagined.
The women and the little boys came to a halt, overwhelmed by the
impressiveness of the landscape. They waited silently.
Mrs. Goodwin suddenly said: "I'm goin' back." The others, who all
wished to return, cried at once disdainfully:
"Well, go back, if yeh want to!"
A cricket at the roadside exploded suddenly in his shrill song, and a
woman, who had been standing near, shrieked in startled terror. An
electric movement went through the group of women. They jumped and gave
vent to sudden screams. With the fears still upon their agitated faces,
they turned to berate the one who had shrieked. "My! what a goose you
are, Sallie! Why, it took my breath away. Goodness sakes, don't holler
like that again!"
