Jack’s eighteenth birthday was just past, and so he came in the second draft that included men between eighteen and forty-five. For the most part, this draft, like the first one, was met frankly and bravely. But if any one had observed carefully, which no one seemed to be doing, he might have found two little Village groups where sentiment seemed to drift away from the current of loyalty.
One was in the shed on The Back Way where Lincum had his cobbler’s bench. His father, Solomon Gabe, was there oftener than formerly; perhaps he was lonely now that his other son, Cæsar, had been drafted for service. The old man sat far at the back of the shed, mumbling to himself or throwing a sharp sentence into his son’s conversations with other negroes. They talked in lower tones and laughed less than usual; and when they went away, they sometimes let fall curious misstatements and misunderstandings about the war and the draft, like that of Emma’s, which the white people who heard them laughed at, tried to explain, and then forgot.
But one would have felt more disturbed at the other group that lounged on the Tavern porch on Saturday afternoons, chewing and smoking and whittling. Mr. Charles Smith was generally there, and the most ignorant and least public-spirited of the men about The Village.
“Now what do you fellows think—� Jake Andrew was saying fiercely one day. Mr. Smith nudged him, Jake turned, saw Black Mayo Osborne approaching, and concluded in an entirely different tone, “of—of the weather?�
Mr. Osborne laughed. “You fellows spend a lot of energy discussing—weather and crops,� he said, speaking lightly but glancing keenly about him, “Don’t you ever talk about public affairs, this great war we are in?�
There was a little embarrassed silence. Mr. Smith’s suave voice broke it. “We are poor and hard-worker farmers, Mr. Osborne. About crops and weather we are interested to talk. We have not the gentleman’s time to amuse with pretty little doves.�
The other men snickered or guffawed. Black Mayo seemed about to speak, then turned on his heel and walked away.
“Doves! He’ll send them to war; but he ain’t so ready to give his folks,� said Jake Andrews, who had done a deal of political wirepulling to get off his drafted sons.
“Or himself,� growled Zack Gordan, a young ne’er-do-well, who had made the widowed mother who supported him an excuse for evading war service. “What business have we got in this war anyway? What harm have them Germans ever done us?�
“Now what?� inquired Mr. Smith. He darted a look of pure venom after Black Mayo. “That fellow is a queer one. Can one believe he goes, comes, comes, goes about the little birds?� He gave a scornful, incredulous laugh. “And you say he had the years of absences? Where?� He made the question big and condemning.