# War; or, What happens when one loves one's enemy/Chapter 8

VIII
DAVE
AND, a little while afterward, who do you think walks in the house, entirely unexpected? Dave!
My! My old heart got stuck in my throat and nearly choked me to death. Dave laughs like a fiend and pounds me on the back, like they do children that are strangling.
"Now you better, daddy?" he laughs at last, setting me up careful, in a chair. "What was it? Meat or tobacco?"
"What do you want here," I says, "beating up the kindest and most unfortunate daddy in the world? Sit down!" and he sits down on top of me, nearly bursting me open. "Go right back where you came from, you Johnny Reb!"—just in fun, of course. I was so happy!
"I won't!" says Dave. "I ain't of age yet and you got to keep me till I am. You can be ​arrested and sent to jail for turning out such a nice son."
"Come along," says I. "We'll all be there sooner or later, anyhow—the way things are going. It'll be a fine place to keep a little boy out of mischief."
"Little boy!" says Dave, lifting me as easy, and carrying me around the room on his shoulder. "Now you behave!"
He slams me down in a chair and hugs me.
"Take notice," says he, "that I won't be crowded out of house and home by no second-hand female by-marriage cousin."
"Who told you about her?" asks I.
"Told me? Everybody along the road from Virginia to here. Ben Crider and she are good friends."
"Now, you don't say so," says I, a good bit soprized at that. "I wonder where she and Ben met."
"I don't know," says Dave, "but he thinks she's a noble woman!"
Dave laughs at that, as if he knew the sort ​of nobility that would appeal to Ben. But I says:
"Oh, of course! She s a little bit rebel. Ben's a good bit secessionist—when there are no soldiers in blue uniforms about. That accounts for it."
"I expect they sit together on the top rail of the fence, like a couple of crows," says Dave, "and talk large talk about the war—fix it all up their way—"
"Till the soldiers come," laughs I, "then they take to the woods. Well, Davy," I goes on, like I was distressed, "she's here, the second-hand by-marriage female cousin, I can not tell a lie, and, therefore and henceforth and moreover, I can't keep you. There's no room. Back you go to Dixie," and I turns him around like I was aiming him south.
"Ain't the second-hand female cousin by marriage a rebel?" asks Dave. "You—"
"A-yes," says I.
"Under this Union roof! Phew! What?"
"Just a female one," snickers I.
​"Down in Dixie they're more fighty than the male ones. Gosh—they kiss and run their sweethearts off to get shot. They hug their brothers—and push 'em in it. They make red-white-and-red flags out of their clothes and climb poles to put 'em up. If it was that way up here we'd lick 'em. But, as it ain't—they'll lick us. If it wasn't for the women Virginia wouldn't have seceded. But they got after the men and pushed 'em clean through it. If I hadn't got out between two days they was going to push me into something. I don't know what it was. Some of the boys say they smelled tar. Well—I hate tar except on an axle. Gosh! I saw three men hanging to trees as I took a walk northward in the moonlight. I was so scared that I forgot to go back and kept on here. I don't want anything to do with female rebels. They frighten me. They're too rebly. They ain't satisfied with just speeches and singing—like the men. They want to see and hear the real boom-a-lally-booms. I'll just keep on going till I get to ​Washington. I'll bet Father Abraham'll be gladder to see me than you are. He's glad to see most any one that's fighty like me nowadays. I guess they've all gone back on the poor old man, and he can't lick the South without help. And suppose I get shot full of holes—it'll be his fault—and how'll you like the wind blowing through a nice son of yours—woo!—all on account of a second-hand cousin?"
"I'd rather have you air-tight," says I, and we both laughed hearty, at the joke.
"Say, dad," whispers Dave, "if we can't get shut of one another, maybe we can get shut of the second-hand cousin by marriage. Not?"
"Maybe," says I. "How?"
"There's jobs for her all through Virginia," says Dave: "hospital, sewing cartridge bags, making coffee out of rye and chicory, molding bullets, making uniforms, talking devilish patriotic—to make the men fighty. She can have her choice. Whichever she does best. Virginia's really the place for her. They're mighty busy rebelling down there."
​"You ask her, Dave," says I.
"All right, I will," says Dave. "If she goes, I'll stay. If she stays, I'll go. I expect she has the usual requirements—store teeth, large hands and feet, whopper jaw, spectacles?"
"She has all of them," says I, "and others, too humorous to mention."
"Well, get out with the second-hand cousin," says Dave, after a while. "Why are we wasting time with her? Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Where's old Jon? He's worth several thousand second-hand cousins. I want to go fishing with him—so's he can catch 'em and I can carry 'em home. Observe!"
And he cut a pigeon wing, stamped hard on the floor, like nigger shows, and sung:
"—Police he came to mend the job— He ate the corn and all the cob— The same as any other hog— A-pulling off the green corn! O-pulling off the green corn! O-fetch along the demijohn! O-come along, my yellow gal, I'll meet you in the morning!
​"Can't you come? Oh, yes, I kin— Same as any other thing— Pulling off the green corn!"
Such foolishness! I'd have got mad at any body but Dave. And just then he was so handsome and ruddy that I was glad of him—glad that he was alive—happy—my son! Every time I looked at him I am reminded of David in the Bible. And I thought what a pity it was that such gay and handsome young fellows were going to war, North and South, to get shot, or cut with sabers or bayonets, maybe killed, maybe left to lie, bloating in the sun, like dead cattle. North or South—it was horrible.
"Dave," I says, thinking, too, of that night and Jon and Evelyn, "don't you think of going to war on either side. I want you here."
And Dave answers, smiling and soft:
"All right, daddy. I ain't in no hurry, if you ain't. I'll stay with you till I grow up."
​"Honest, Dave?" says I.
"Honest, daddy," says Dave. "Now that I'm out of Virginia I'll have a real good chance to finish growing. But I don't think that anybody who lives down there'll ever grow up, but be cut off—a good lot of 'em—in the days of their youth. When the war is over they'll have to start another population."
"Is it really as bad as that?" I asks.
"It's worse," says Dave. "Nothing but war and rumors of war—and a little eating and sleeping now and then, when they happen to think of it. No one farms or works or earns anything. Everybody lives on the others."
"Dave," I says, "I'm right glad you came up—and didn't obey me for once."
"Once!" laughs Dave. "When was that? I don't remember ever obeying you."
"That's so," says I, "and I'm not mad about it now. You'll promise not to go to war on either side?"
"Not either or both sides," laughs Dave.
​"Thank you, Davy," says I, pleased. "Shake hands on it?"
"You bet me I will," says Dave. "I'm not much of a fighter, anyhow. I expect I'm too lazy to lick or get licked. But I'm not going to war unless there's some one behind me pushing. Forget it. They can't make me. I'm not of age. I don't know what it's about. And where in hell's Jonthy? Here I come home to fish with him, and he don't come home and fish with me. It won't be like old times till Jonthy takes me on his back fishing—will it, daddy?"
"No," says I.
"And catches all the fish?"
"Yes."
"Daddy," says Dave, "you've heard of songs without words, I expect?"
"Yes, Davy."
"Well, daddy, when I fish, that's fishing without fish—not?"
And he sings another song—brought up from Virginia, I expect.
"Oh, so gaily we float, On the water so blue, In our tight little boat And our jolly good crew—"
"Daddy," he runs on, "there's no one in the whole of Virginia like old Jonthy—maybe not in the whole world. I have an idea that when the Lord got away from here—just here—on this farm—you know—the good stuff gave out and he had to adulterate it. Where is he, anyhow? Oh, tell me where my Jonthy's gone!"
"I expect he'll be around in a little. Can't you be satisfied with your father for a minute or two?" says I.
"Certainly, father!" says Dave, in fun, of course. "Ich liebe dich, du liebst mich, wir lieben den Jonathan—aber nicht die second-hand female cousin by marriage—ain't? Jonthy, Jonthy, Jonthy!" he yells, "ich bin dort—dei' Bruder von Virginia! Komm schwindt!"