# War; or, What happens when one loves one's enemy/Chapter 33

XXXIII
TO THE FRONT
THE next morning we got up early, Jon and I, and decided not to disturb Dave and Evelyn. It was too hard on 'em. But we listened again at Dave's door. Jon said he heard breathing. I didn't. In fact, I thought Jon mistook the breathing of Evelyn, next door, for that of Dave. He said he didn't hear that.
And soon everything was the war we were going to!
It looked really like war on the Square when we were assembled—that is, what I thought up to that time war was. There were new uniforms, glittering swords and bayonets, and enough gold lace to sink a ship. I suppose even the privates might have had as much gold lace as they could pay for. As for the ​officers—they looked like the sun, moon and stars, all mixed together. And, you know, Jonathan was captain! How handsome he looked! He wore yeller leggins, red baggy britches, a little blue jacket with the gold all over it, a red cap with a long white tassel, and a red flannel shirt all embroidered. He carried his sword in a big white sash around his waist.
Most of the uniforms was made by the zouaves' sweethearts and had everything but ruffles on 'em. But we hadn't had the courage to ask Evelyn to make ours—she was busy enough with her own clothes.
Well, we all stood up in two ranks, that way—straight as a tape line! Jon was out in front, with me and Kratz and three or four lieutenants, and so on. The privates was mighty lonely, sometimes, amongst all us officers, I expect. They were a good deal scared that they might call some one sergeant who was lieutenant and get court-martialed and shot. But they were careful and it never occurred.
Yes, it looked like war that morning! At ​least, more like it than anything I had seen up to that time. They were, mostly, youngsters with savage apple-cheek faces, thinking it all a grand picnic. And yet, God help us, I have seen some of those apple-cheeked boys come home with long whiskers and hair, pale and thin, on three legs, two of them wooden. And some I have seen come home to the Dead March. Some haven't come yet!
There is a poor old widow down the road here, whose only son, just cut from her apron string, stood beside me that Sunday morning at Chancellorsville, looking and behaving like a play soldier—just a red-cheeked, tow-headed chap, so high! She had told me to watch out for him and bring him back to her, that he was all she had to offer to Father Abraham. He was captain by then—for gallantry. Not in zouave uniform, but a faded one that might be any color. Well, the artillery opened and we were ordered forward. He went in at the head of his men, his little blue cap on the point of his sword, yelling like a young demon. The ​smoke of the cannons covered him from my sight—and I haven't seen him since. The poor old widow has his picture in the zouave uniform always by her.
It's a grown-up baby—long yellow curls, dimples, that smile the photographer puts on you, leaning on the back of a carved chair, with one leg across the other, his gun in the hollow of his arm, his red cap on the back of his head, as if he didn't care how soon they called on him to march to Richmond and put a stop to the war. This picture is all painted and it looks like a pretty toy soldier. I'm afraid to touch it when she shows it to me for fear I'll rumple him. Well, that morning at Chancellorsville he had a beard of yellow whiskers half a yard long, hiding the dimples, and all he had on wouldn't have made the ragman any richer. And, every now and then, she still asks me when I think he'll be home! You see, I was his keeper because I was older and wiser! But I suppose he was really wiser than I was. Come home! That's the trouble with others. Many! ​Come home! It's like a cannon ball in my breast. Why, she don't seem to know, like we do, that it's fifty years! Nor that, if he should come, he would be an old man. She thinks of him with that baby face and dimples, in that zouave uniform!
Sometimes I shake my head and say:
"Mother, it's a long, long time!"
But that doesn't phase her. She answers:
"Yes. But he'll come. He's a good boy. He knows I am waiting. He knows he is all I have. So I keep his bed ready made up, and his plate at the table, so that when he comes it will all be as it was—everything ready for him."
Only a little while ago she took to her bed. Then a little interrogation-point came in the dim blue eyes when she asked me. And the form of the question was:
"Don't you think he'll soon come?"
No, I don't. For I saw him disappear close upon the enemy's guns that Sunday morning. ​And it breaks my heart—but I tell her yes! For how do I know—who, also, wait?
Well—excuse me!—it was a flag presented to the company, and a sword to Jon; both of which he received like a soldier—with a few words. I never could think of those men down in Virginia, both Union and Confederate, who made long speeches and "proclamations" as real fighting soldiers.
"For the flag," says Jon, up on a store box they brought him, "I thank you, friends, more than for the sword. That is our country. I think I speak for every man behind me when I say that we shall do our best to keep it—and, when we are through with it, bring it back to you as it goes forth. With this over my head I feel, for the first time, my responsibility. As to this sword—I am frank to say that I shudder at thinking of my hand driving it through the living body of a fellow man and turning him into a corpse. I shall honestly try to bring it back unstained with blood. It is ​our brothers we are fighting. In the name of my company, I salute and thank you."
They didn't quite like that speech. Every one else had talked about hurrying to dye their flags and swords with blood. But here was old Jon telling them that he wanted to keep them from the stain of brothers' blood. I know he was thinking of Tankoo. So was I.
However, there was no time to think much. Jon gave the word to fall in—four ranks—and that looked so much like going, at last, that the cheering stopped, and after a silent solemn moment we were swamped by women. Every man had at least one woman hanging on him and crying—except just Jon and me.
The mothers were the most pitiful. Mostly they just held their red-cheeked boys off at arm's length and filled their eyes, as if they knew it might be the last, then hugged 'em close.
They couldn't get the women out of the ranks even to get our pictures taken. That's why that funny picture of the company seems all women and no soldiers.
​In fact, even as far as the train, you could hardly see the soldiers for the women running at the sides. And not all was sad. Some was gay and foolish. But not the sweethearts and wives and sisters and mothers! Mostly them that had no one in the company.
I pitied Jon, the way he looked toward the farm, and wished that Dave and Evelyn might wake up and miss us and come to give us good-by after all. I had the feeling, too, that maybe, we mightn't get back—and I wanted to see Dave and Evelyn once more.
Well, wishing makes things happen, don't it? By hokey, just then Evelyn rushes through the crowd and right up and flung her arms round Jon. Her eyes were red with crying and she was tired—half dead—having run all the way in from the farm—and not well yet. When she got her breath she says:
"Jon! Dave's gone! The black's gone! My uniform is gone! Dave knows!"
Jon seemed turned to stone—and it was as if he understood. But he could say nothing, not a word.
​"Jon, do you hear?" shrieks Evelyn. "The black is gone! Dave's gone! My uniform is gone! He knows. He's gone—South!"
"I—hear!" says Jonathan.
"This is for you—from Dave's room."
She handed him a letter.
"He's done just what you said he would—gone South as Mallory to save us!"
While Jon reads the letter she raves on:
"In some way he knows—he knows all. What am I to do—Jon, what am I to do?"
Jon just looked at her.
"Jonthy, help me! Help a sinner to stop the consequences of her sin."
"Into the fire goes the dross, out of it comes the pure gold," says Jon with his eyes closed. "Through sorrow to joy—always!"
Jon had finished reading the letter. He stood and smiled down on Evelyn. The leave-taking was still going on, and no one noticed Evelyn and the captain much.
"How beautiful you are to-day!" says Jon. ​"The beauty of truth! How much to be desired. This is our Evelyn!"
"I want you—I ask you—to stay with me—at home! I need—I must have some one—And then—and then—Dave will come back. He will always come where you are," says Evelyn". "But he will never again come where I am—unless you are there, too. And then—oh, and then—I'll keep you both! Please stay! I'm so lonely!"
Jon pushed the hair out of her eyes and looked long into her face.
"It is too late for that, sister, dear." And he points to his men. "Perhaps, God knows, that is His punishment upon both of us—that I must say and you must hear—that it is too late! Too late! For, in the great light which bursts upon me now, I see that we haven't played fair with Dave. He should have known all concerning himself that we knew. We are not his keepers. He is. And we should have left him to judge. Yes, this is God's own ​punishment. For with all of us together, with love and forbearance, all—everything was possible—all might have been mended. But, now, with hate and misunderstanding between us, and separated to the four corners of the world—don't you see how much harder God has let us make our problem?"
"I see, yes!" whispers Evelyn. "I see—I see it now! Oh, if I had only seen—guessed that this might happen before! Yes, it is too late! All is too late! Jon, before you return I shall die."
And nice old Jon, seeing her agony, stopped his own and comforted her.
"But it is not too late, dear sister, for much else that will now come to pass. At first I was shocked, too. But now—I believe I'm glad. I was not meant for a traitor. I see—I see so far and so much beyond! This was meant to be as it is. I was to be a Union soldier. Let us accept it—and follow on to happiness."
"Happiness?" moans Evelyn.
"Happiness," says Jon, solemn. "Don't you ​see that this was the only way to ultimate happiness? Dave knows—yes, now—but in a way that is easily capable of honorable correction. And the first step toward happiness is for me to go, precisely where I am going to-day—except that I go honestly—for that is toward Dave. It is fortunate that I must. Otherwise when you ask me to stay—ah! If I could I would. But these men—And you must not die, but live and hope and wait! For I am going now—not to fight—but to find Dave for you. To bring him home."
For a moment Evelyn could not say a word—only breathe hard. Then—
"Yes, go. Hurry!"
"Be happy," nods Jon. "I think God meant it so. God does work in a mysterious—yes, and beautiful—way His wonders to perform. Just think! All this sorrow, probably, that one woman may be made perfect! And that she might be my dear brother's wife, and my dear sister! That we may all be, finally, together. For, when I find Dave, and let him understand ​all and ask him to return to you—fetch him—he will come—"
"Yes, yes, yes!" she screams. "Tell him to kill me for my wickedness—but to let me die in his arms. Hurry! I'll wait—alone for Dave! Swear that you will find him! Not only search, but find!"
"I swear," says Jon, kissing his new sword. "Otherwise, how could I come home to you? For, now, I can come back to you, too. I need not slink in the byways of the world among those who have deserted the cause they swore to die for. Doesn't that mean something to you?"
"Yes," sobs Evelyn.
"Aren't you glad that I can go for the country I love?"
"Yes."
"And come back to you a soldier of the Union—no matter how much we differ about the North and the South?"
"Yes."
"Remember, that though Dave is as Union ​as I am, he hasn't enlisted and taken the oath, and he is really at liberty to join the Confederate side. Nothing can be said about it—except by us, who know that it isn't honest—done only for you—only for blessed you!"
Another long silence. Then Jon's soft voice went on—comforting:
"But, now, for the very last moment before we move on to the front, let us think of the home-coming! For the war is almost over. Why, we shall soon be all together again! And the scars of the war will heal, and we will all think alike before long, that it was good to preserve this Union! And you and Dave will be married! Think of it! There will be little Daves and Evelyns a-plenty! And we shall laugh—laugh at all we suffer to-day! Now, let me go! Send me forth to bring back our dear Dave! Smile! Let me remember that!"
She tried to do that. But such a sad old smile I never saw before.
"God bless you! And give him this—and this—and this straight from my lips!"
​She kissed Jon three times.
I have seen my son in battle—wounded—defeated—retreating—victorious—but I have never seen him as worked up as by those three kisses.
Thank God the train whistled for us just then. We were late.
That was too much for poor old Jon. He staggers back among his men, muttering:
"Attention!"
Evelyn followed him.
"The letter, Jon! The letter!"
Jon crushed Dave's letter, and putting it in his shirt, shakes his head no.
"Not to see it?"
"For God's sake, go!" says Jon, pushing her out of the ranks. "When I come back and all is peace—then!"
Then, savage as a bull of Bashan, Jon cleared the women out and double-quicked us to the train. There were no officers with their swords in both hands, stepping backward. There was no "By-the-right-wheel, ​Forward—March!" No turning like the spoke of a wheel. There was no spreading out all over the street. There was no left, left, left! The band had no time to finish The Girl I Left Behind Me. We raced off to war as if we were crazy to get there and the devil was behind us.