# War; or, What happens when one loves one's enemy/Chapter 34

XXXIV
THE PITY OF IT
JON tried to keep his word to Evelyn—poking into all the rebel places he came to—getting into no end of trouble and danger—shot at and missed—as if the Lord was on his side—inquiring of every prisoner he met—but we never heard anything of Dave—or Mallory.
I was discharged before my time was up because of the loss of my arm at Chancellorsville. Jon stayed in "for the war". But really, to find Dave. He had no heart for the fighting—though when he fought it was as he did everything else; like a man. Yet he always cried over the men he killed and wounded—both Union and Confederate. And he'd send such of them as was possible home all packed in flowers—if it was summer and enough could ​be found. Sometimes he'd send a little note in the coffin. Often it was nothing more than:
"This was a brave man!"
and sign his name and regiment.
And, more and more, as he saw the wonderful armies and organization of the Union, the pouring out of men and money from the North, the sure and steady march on to final victory in the war, did my old Jon want to stop it. Once I heard him talk to a young officer he had captured.
"I'm not going to keep you," he says. "You are too fine a boy to drag your life out at Fort Warren."
"Not going to keep me?" says the youngster, rubbing his handsome dark eyes. "Why, suh, you got the right to. You took me inside yo' lines. I don't demand, suh, to be let go."
"I'm going to let you go, all the same," says Jon. "Remember, I haven't put my hands on you yet, and, therefore, you are not precisely my prisoner. In a moment I will show you a ​safe way out. But, do you mind a little talk first?"
"Why, n—no, suh," says the handsome young rebel, "though you Yankees are rather queer, aren't you?—to let a man go who has been inside your lines and seen—"
"You are not going to tell what you have seen," says Jon.
"Why am I not, suh?" says the rebel, very haughty.
"Because you are a gentleman—as any one can see—as most of you are."
"I promise nothin', suh!" says the captive.
"Certainly not," says Jon. "But—look here, I hope you will not go back to the army. Do as you please, of course. But if you have a mother or a sister or a sweetheart, give me your parol, voluntarily, and go back to them. Every man killed and wounded in this war from now on, will be nothing less than murder—"
"Why, suh?" demands the young Confederate.
​"Because, from now on, it is absolutely certain that the Union will win."
"Excuse me, suh!" says the soldier.
"Why, my dear boy, we have twenty men to your one in the field now and more coming all the time. We have a thousand dollars to your one. We have now an army of more than a million of seasoned veterans instead of the greenhorns we began with. We have, at last, and the way has been long and fearful, found the right men to lead the armies."
"Suh," said the young soldier, "right is might and must prevail."
"My boy, even if you are right, you will be crushed, overwhelmed, by mere weight, if nothing else. And, if you are to be vanquished in the end, why not stop now and save the thousands upon thousands of young men like you who will yet be killed, for their mothers and wives and sweethearts? Go. Do as you like. I ask no promises. But, it would make me mighty glad to know that out of the slaughter which must yet be I had saved a fine boy like ​you and sent him back to his—waiting mother."
"Suh," said the young Confederate, "I have never thought of it like that. I have heard no one speak of it like that. Suh, let me say that if I could, I would do just what you ask—go home to my mother, sisters and sweetheart. I have all of 'em. I am tired of this wah. We get on too slowly. But what would be said if I should go home? Not a friend in the So'th would ever speak to me again. I should be ostracized. A leper. Suh, it is my duty to stand by my comrades, right or wrong, until the last ditch is reached, then to die there. Wouldn't you?"
"No," shakes old Jon. "I would go home to-morrow if I could, no matter what mistaken fools might think. But you—I see and know what you will do because you are a brave boy—and I am sorry for it. Good-by. Perhaps, after all, a time may come when you will not think as you do now, but as I do, that you will be serving your comrades and your ​country best by doing what you can to stop a struggle, useless, and deadly, and bloody. Good-by."
"Suh," said the youngster, "I didn't know there were such men in the No'th. If the time ever comes that I can, with honah, do as you suggest, I will do so—and thanks to you!"
So they shook hands and parted.
As for me, I had seen enough of war to be glad to go limping home, pale and sick, a neighbor on each side of me, almost as sick and crippled as I. Ah, there was nothing in war as glorious as those thrills on the common, and that leaving, on the Square! I used to imagine that if I were killed or wounded the band would meet me at the depot when I got home, and there would be a carriage or a hearse draped in flags and filled with flowers. Maybe I thought of this when I used up my last month's wages sending a despatch to Simon Corbin and John Alloway telling them that I was out of the hospital, less an arm, and was coming home honorably discharged.
​But if I did I was properly punished. There was no one to meet me but Simon and John and a few little boys. And, though we went through the town, three war-cripples, not more than a half dozen people came to their doors and looked at us. One or two came and shook hands.
I believe I was disappointed. I had taken in all the glory-talk, as well as the gratitude-notion, and I had thought, I am afraid, that I was doing something noble: first, in going to such a dangerous thing as war for my country and fellow men; second, in losing an arm for them—a material part of my body. But no one seemed to care very much. And I heard no one speak of courage, patriotism, or gratitude. All now cursed the war.
When the body has been fed too much of one kind of food it becomes indifferent to it. Perhaps the mind of our people had been fed too greedily upon the war. And, too, maybe there were too many who had paid more dearly than I for their devotion. Maybe, there were, now, ​so few left behind that enthusiasm was impossible.
It was good to see and then to reach the peaceful battered old place again, and to put my face under the pump-spout while John and Simon pumped. Even though the farm looked like a ruin! It had not been long, but the cattle and horses had been taken, and if I hadn't arranged to have the old Jerry-horse I rode in the army, sent home to me, I wouldn't have had anything to pull the plow—even though there was little enough to plow.
And, worst of all, Evelyn was gone—Betsy didn't know where—just disappeared—like Dave. Well, I didn't know the old house was so big, nor could be so lonely. Everybody was gone, there seemed nobody about even the neighborhood. I sat out there on the porch, where I could see some one going by, now and then, nearly always.
The land hadn't been farmed since I went away. No crops were in and it was too late to put any in. Anyhow, what could I do—with ​one arm and one cavalry horse? The hireland had been drafted and shot to death three days after being mustered in.
That was what the war meant to us—part of it—only a small part.