“MOTHER, TELL HIM NOT TO COME”
[Major Robert Stiles, in Four Years Under Marse Robert, pages 322-326.]
I sat in the porch, where were also sitting an old couple, evidently the joint head of the establishment, and a young woman dressed in black, apparently their daughter, and, as I soon learned, a soldier’s widow. My coat was badly torn, and the young woman kindly offering to mend it I thanked her and, taking it off, handed it to her. While we were chatting, and groups of men sitting on the steps and lying about the yard, the door of the house opened and another young woman appeared. She was almost beautiful, was plainly but neatly dressed, and had her hat on. She had evidently been weeping and her face was deadly pale. Turning to the old woman, as she came out, she said, cutting her words off short, “Mother, tell him if he passes here he is no husband of mine,” and turned again to leave the porch. I rose, and placing myself directly in front of her, extended my arm to prevent her escape. She drew back with surprise and indignation. The men were alert on the instant, and battle was joined.
“What do you mean, sir?” she cried.
“I mean, madam,” I replied, “that you are sending your husband word to desert, and that I cannot permit you to do this in the presence of my men.”
“Indeed! and who asked your permission, sir? And pray, sir, is he your husband or mine?”
“He is your husband, madam, but these are my soldiers. They and I belong to the same army with your husband, and I cannot suffer you, or any one, unchallenged, to send such a demoralizing message in their hearing.”
“Army! do you call this mob of retreating cowards an army? Soldiers! if you are soldiers, why don’t you stand and fight the savage wolves that are coming upon us defenceless women and children?”
“We don’t stand and fight, madam, because we are soldiers, and have to obey orders, but if the enemy should appear on that hill this moment I think you would find 199 that these men are soldiers, and willing to die in defense of women and children.”
“Quite a fine speech, sir, but rather cheap to utter, since you very well know the Yankees are not here, and won’t be, till you’ve had time to get your precious carcasses out of the way. Besides, sir, this thing is over, and has been for some time. The government has now actually run off, bag and baggage,—the Lord knows where,—and there is no longer any government or any country for my husband to owe allegiance to. He does owe allegiance to me and to his starving children, and if he doesn’t observe this allegiance now, when I need him, he need not attempt it hereafter when he wants me.”
The woman was quick as a flash and cold as steel. She was getting the better of me. She saw it, and, worst of all, the men saw and felt it, too, and had gathered thick and pressed up close all round the porch. There must have been a hundred or more of them, all eagerly listening, and evidently strongly to the woman’s side. This would never do. I tried every avenue of approach to that woman’s heart. It was congealed by suffering, or else it was encased in adamant. She had parried every thrust, repelled every advance, and was now standing defiant, with her arms folded across her breast, rather courting further attack. I was desperate, and with the nonchalance of pure desperation—no stroke of genius—I asked the soldier-question:
“What command does your husband belong to?”
She started a little, and there was a trace of color in her face as she replied, with a slight tone of pride in her voice: “He belongs to the Stonewall Brigade, sir.”
I felt, rather than thought it—but, had I really found her heart? We would see.
“When did he join it?”
A little deeper flush, a little stronger emphasis of pride.
“He joined in the spring of ’61, sir.”
Yes, I was sure of it now. Her eyes had gazed straight into mine; her head inclined and her eyelids drooped a little now, and there was something in her 200 face that was not pain and was not fight. So I let myself out a little, and turning to the men, said:
“Men, if her husband joined the Stonewall Brigade in ’61, and has been in the army ever since, I reckon he’s a good soldier.”
I turned to look at her. It was all over. Her wifehood had conquered. She had not been addressed this time, yet she answered instantly, with head raised high, face blushing, eyes flashing: “General Lee hasn’t a better in his army!” As she uttered these words she put her hand in her bosom, and drawing out a folded paper, extended it toward me, saying: “If you doubt it, look at that.”
Before her hand reached mine she drew it back, seeming to have changed her mind, but I caught her wrist, and without much resistance possessed myself of the paper. It had been much thumbed and was much worn. It was hardly legible, but I made it out. Again I turned to the men.
“Take off your hats, boys, I want you to hear this with uncovered heads”—and then I read an endorsement on an application for furlough, in which General Lee himself had signed a recommendation of this woman’s husband for a furlough of special length on account of extraordinary gallantry in battle.
During the reading of this paper the woman was transfigured, glorified. No Madonna of old master was ever more sweetly radiant with all that appeals to what is best and holiest in man. Her bosom rose and fell with deep, quiet sighs; her eyes rained gentle, happy tears.
The men felt it all—all. They were all gazing upon her, but the dross was clean, purified out of them. There was not, upon any one of their faces, an expression that would have brought a blush to the cheek of the purest womanhood on earth. I turned once more to the soldier’s wife.
“This little paper is your most precious treasure, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“And the love of him whose manly courage and devotion 201 won this tribute is the best blessing God ever gave you, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“And yet, for the brief ecstasy of one kiss, you would disgrace this hero-husband of yours, stain all his noble reputation, and turn this priceless paper to bitterness; for the rear-guard would hunt him from his own cottage, in half an hour, a deserter and a coward.”
Not a sound could be heard save her hurried breathing. The rest of us held our breath. Suddenly, with a gasp of recovered consciousness, she snatched the paper from my hand, put it back hurriedly in her bosom, and turning once more to her mother, said: “Mother, tell him not to come.”
I stepped aside at once. She left the porch, glided down the path to the gate, crossed the road, surmounted the fence with easy grace, climbed the hill, and as she disappeared in the weedy pathway I caught up my hat and said:
“Now, men, give her three cheers.”
Such cheers. Oh, God, shall I ever again hear a cheer which bears a man’s whole soul in it? For the first time I felt reasonably sure of my battalion. It would follow anywhere.