A Lincoln Conscript

by Homer Greene

“Come, dearie, it’s long past bedtime. Say good-night to papa and Robert.”

After that, though Bob and his father sat long upon the porch, there was no resumption of conversation. Each was immersed in thought, each was depressed in spirit, and each went to his bed only to pass a restless and troubled night.

The next day but one was the Fourth of July. Early in the morning there came down to the Bannister homestead the dull echo of the firing of the little old village heirloom of a cannon, which the boys had dragged up to the top of a ledge back of the town, and with which they were accustomed, on Independence Day, to rouse their sleeping neighbors. There was to be a celebration at the village, of course. There had been a celebration on the Fourth of July at Mount Hermon from a time whereof the memory of the oldest inhabitant ran not to the contrary. There were to be speeches, the band was to play, the glee club was to sing. All day, in the basement of the town hall, the young ladies were to sell refreshments and fireworks for the benefit of the Soldiers’ Relief Fund.

Yet there was no spirit of cheerfulness or rejoicing in the air. The times were too tense. The strain of conflict was too great. The mightiest battle of the Civil War was on at Gettysburg. For two days, across the streets and up the heights of that quaint Pennsylvania village, the armies of Meade and Lee had clashed and striven with each other, until the uncovered dead lay by ghastly thousands, and every hollow in the hillside held its pool of blood. Rumors of victory and rumors of disaster crossed and recrossed each other on the way from the battle-field to the villages of the North. Mount Hermon hardly knew what to believe. She was positive only of this: that two score of her sons were down there in the Army of the Potomac, and that in all human probability some of them, many of them indeed, were wounded, dying, dead. Whose husband, son, brother, lover would it prove to be, whose eyes would never see Mount Hermon’s elms again? No wonder the spirit of anxiety and fearfulness outweighed that of jubilant patriotism on this day.

All the morning the news had been sifting little by little into the village. Toward noon it was certain that out of the stress and horror of a mighty battle had come distinct victory for the Union armies. Lee was crushed, there was no doubt of that. His broken ranks were already in retreat, that too was well assured. From some quarter also came a rumor that Grant, who had been for weeks thundering at the gates of Vicksburg, had broken them down at last, had occupied the city, and that Pemberton’s army was his. Yet Mount Hermon did no loud rejoicing. She waited impatiently for confirmation of the news, anxiously for the list of dead and wounded. At two o’clock the stage would come, bringing the mail and the morning papers. As the hour approached, the crowd about the post-office grew greater. Not a jubilant crowd, just a waiting, hoping, fearing, intensely earnest concourse of the people of Mount Hermon.

Into this gathering strode Rhett Bannister. It was imprudent and foolhardy for him to come, and he should have known it. Indeed, he did know it. But during the two nights and a day that had passed since the slight put on his boy, since the sons of his neighbors had insulted him at his own home, he had thought much. And the more he thought, the more deeply wounded became his pride, the more restlessly he chafed under the humiliating yoke that had been forced on him, the more defiantly he determined to assert his right to think for himself and to express such opinions as he saw fit concerning public affairs. He felt that he was as much of a patriot, that he had the interest of his country as deeply at heart as any resident of Mount Hermon. Why then should he submit tamely to humiliation and ostracism and maltreatment? And if he chose to go where he had a right to go, on the highway, through the village streets, to the government post-office, to the public gathering in celebration of a day which was as dear to his heart as to the heart of any citizen of the town, why in the name of liberty should he not go? Let the rabble say what they would, he felt that he could defend himself, by word of mouth, with his strong right arm, if necessary, against any blatant demagogue or blind political partisan who might choose to set upon him. In this frame of mind he started for the village, and in this frame of mind he strode into that group of tense, anxious, patriotic men and women waiting for the news.

There were few who greeted him as he pushed his way to the post-office window, and called for his mail. The postmaster handed out to him two papers and a letter. He tore off the end of the envelope, drew out the scrap of paper which had been inclosed, and looked at it. Then his face turned red with anger. Some mischievous, malicious busybody had sent him an anonymous epistle: a crudely penciled picture, a libelous scrawl beneath it, the whole a coarse thrust at his alleged disloyalty. If this had been intended as a joke, he could not have taken it as such. But it was no joke. To him, indeed, it was simply a coarse, brutal, wanton attack on his manhood and patriotism. It started the fires of rage burning with sevenfold heat in his heart. He lifted his blazing eyes to find half the people in the little room staring at him, some wonderingly, some exultingly. Out by the doorway there was a suppressed chuckle. No one spoke. If Bannister had been content to hold his peace, there would have been no trouble. But he could not do that. Only death could have sealed his lips in that moment. He held up the coarse cartoon, with its equally coarse inscription, for the crowd to look at. Then he said, speaking deliberately:—

“I observe that you have found a new way to fight the battles of your alleged country.”

For a moment no one replied. Then, from the farther side of the room came the voice of Sergeant Goodman, home on furlough, wounded.