“So,” he said, “the radicals have caught their prey at last. Such Lincoln bigots as Seth Mills and Henry Bradbury and Sarah Jane Stark have drilled into the boy’s mind their brand of pestilent patriotism till they have turned his head and sent him off on this wild-goose chase after glory. Little thought have they for his health or life or the peace of mind of his parents. And when he dies, as die he will, in that awful struggle, his blood will be on their heads. Oh, it’s horrible! horrible!”
He had not thought to give way, like this, to his passion, and the next moment he had repented himself of his anger. His wife had thrown herself into a chair, and, resting her head on a table, was sobbing hysterically. He went over to her and put his arms about her shoulders.
“There, Mary,” he said, “there, never mind. We’ll get him back somehow. He’s too young to enlist. They can’t hold him against his will or ours. We’ll get him back.”
And so, little by little, she was calmed and comforted.
Seth Mills had told her that Bob would write as soon as he reached his destination. But the day went by and the night wore away and no letter came. Another day and another night dragged their long hours out, and still there was no letter. Word reached Bob’s parents from those who had seen him on the way to Easton. Congratulations on their son’s patriotism and bravery came to them in almost every mail. Henry Bradbury wrote to Bannister:—
“If you are not proud of your boy, you ought to be. I saw him when he started. A braver boy never left this town. If you hang for treason, he will redeem your family from disgrace. Get down on your knees and thank God for him.”
And some of these darts sank deeply into Rhett Bannister’s sensitive soul. At times he was wild with rage, at other times he was bowed and silent with grief and despair. His own fate mattered little to him any more. His whole thought was as to when and by what method he could rescue his son from the hateful hands into which he had fallen. But, even as he pondered and grieved, there crept into his heart a softer feeling toward the boy, an almost unconscious sympathy with the enthusiasm, the ambition, the noble unselfishness which had governed the lad’s conduct, which had impelled him to seek his father’s welfare at peril of his own, which had led him willingly, gladly into the ranks of the Union armies. Indeed, he went so far as to wonder if he himself could by any possibility be mistaken in his attitude toward the Federal government, and his view concerning the conduct of the war. If, after all, there might not possibly be something back of all this attempt at coercion, back of all these vast fighting armies in blue, back of all this lavish expenditure of blood and treasure, some great principle, some high ideal, which his eyes had been too dim to see, but which appealed to the hearts and souls of large-minded men, and fervent patriotic youth, and led them into untold sacrifices that that principle might be upheld and that ideal maintained.
On the fifth day after Bob’s disappearance, the boy who brought mail from the post-office to the residents along the North and South Turnpike road, left a letter at the Bannister house, a letter which, at the first glance, Mrs. Bannister knew was from Bob. With trembling hands she tore the envelope apart and drew forth the sheet of paper inclosed. In her calmer moments she could have read the letter without difficulty. Now, the words, strangely twisted and distorted, swam before her eyes, and the whole page was an unsolved mystery. She ran to the door calling to her husband:—
“Rhett! Rhett! Here’s a letter—from Rob—come quick!”