“He’s a dumb-bell!” some one else shouted. “Put some clothes on the idiot.”
The next minute the symbol of man’s freedom from restrictions was being wrapped in a blanket and deposited in a berth, still protesting, in a voice growing feebler and feebler, his symbolism by a series of sym, sym, syms.
A few hours later, Hamilton was standing at the bow of the ocean liner, drinking in deep draughts of the cool air and peering through the gray fog. Far away, on the horizon, the cloud seemed blacker. The sun was just beginning to rise in the vessel’s wake, throwing huge shadows ahead. All about him other men were peering through the mist. There was an air of excitement, of eagerness and of expectation. There was a subdued buzz of conversation, through which brisk orders and the bustle of the sailors sounded. As it grew lighter, Hamilton saw men crowding the rails, in life-boats, swarming along the rigging, everywhere. It was vain to try to keep the land men in their place. There were heads at every port hole.
Hamilton’s eyes had become tired from peering into the west and from lack of sleep and he had fallen into a sort of doze. Battle scenes, pictures of Margaret, the hospital, training camp, were jumbled in his brain. He was happy and yet vaguely dissatisfied. He wondered whether any one would be at the pier to meet him. He wondered whether Margaret would be there and what she would say when they met. Would his father be there?
He wondered whether he would ever see Dorothy again. The unit to which Dorothy belonged had returned to America three weeks ago. Dr. Levin had returned on the same ship and, undoubtedly by this time, had gotten his discharge. Before leaving he had written Hamilton, telling him that he meant to spend a few weeks in New York before returning to Chicago. He had given his address at a hotel on Fifth Avenue, near Central Park, and had urged Hamilton and McCall to visit him there at their first opportunity. It would be good to see him again, perhaps spend a night or two together, as they had in Paris.
Hamilton aroused himself. The sun was growing warmer and brighter and—suddenly on the horizon, still far away, loomed New York—a shadowy mass out of which tall, slender towers aspired to the sky. Glittering Gothic cathedrals of a race of giants. Gigantic fairy palaces. And there, gleaming in the morning sunlight, a symbolic figure with torch extended.
Hamilton had come home again. Home to the land of Liberty, home to the land which had given lavishly of its treasure, of its very flesh and blood to bring a new conception of liberty and democracy to the old world. A fresh, strong, triumphant country, throwing spires of steel and huge smoke-stacks into the air, spanning rivers, tunnelling through mountains, girding waterfalls, building cities and binding them by bands of steel. The young giant among nations, deep-chested, long-limbed, athletic; the clean-minded, hard-fisted champion of democracy. The champion of down-trodden races and peoples. The one nation without a selfish claim at the peace conference. Hamilton felt proud that he was an American.
The morning dragged in routine. Tasks—roll calls, sick reports, personnel reports, final inspections. Hamilton made a little speech to his men, cautioning them to behave as soldiers even though they had returned, emphasizing certain instructions in regard to debarkation—the order in which they were to leave, how they were to entrain, and so forth. But principally he thanked them for their loyalty and expressed the conviction that they would continue to practise the lessons that they had all learned in the war—himself included, the unity of the nation, its strength, physical and moral, because it was a nation composed of many different human elements. A nation where each man was a citizen like any other man in spite of differences in race, color and religion.
At the close of his talk, a little Jewish corporal came up to him, saluted and asked timidly if he could shake his hand. Hamilton extended his hand with a smile.
“You know, captain,” the corporal’s eyes blinked with happiness, “I absolutely didn’t know it was in you. I thought, you’ll pardon me, captain, you was a damn fine officer, but a stuck-upper. Now, I see my mistake. It was all the time you was playing a game like—so we’d be better soldiers.”