Part 41 (1/2)

”And I am yet,” said John Carrington, as he took his share. They were joined a little later by a gallant young Southern colonel, Philip Sherburne, who had led in many a cavalry attack, and then the equally gallant Northern colonel, Alan Hertford, came also, and as everybody was introduced to everybody else the good feeling grew. At last the hunger that had been increasing so long was satisfied, and as they leaned back, Lieutenant Colonel St. Hilaire turned to Julien de Langeais:

”Julien,” he said, ”take out your violin. There is no more fitting time than this to play. Julien, John, is a young relative of mine from Louisiana who has a gift. He is a great musician who is going to become much greater. Perhaps it was wrong to let a lad of his genius enter this war, but at any rate he has survived it, and now he will show us what he can do.”

De Langeais, after modest deprecations, took out his violin and played. Upon his sensitive soul the war had made such a deep impression that his spirit spoke through his instrument. He had never before played so well. His strings sang of the march, the camp, of victory and defeat, and defeat and victory, and as he played he became absorbed in his music. The people around him, although they were rapidly increasing in numbers, were not visible to him. Yet he played upon their hearts. There was not one among them who did not see visions and dream dreams as he listened. At last his bow turned into the old and ever young, ”Home Sweet Home.”

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain, Oh! give me my lowly, thatched cottage again.

Into the song he poured all his skill and all his heart, and as he played he saw the house in which he was born on the far Louisiana plantation. And those who listened saw also, in spirit, the homes which many of them had not seen in fact for four years. Stern souls were softened, and water rose to eyes which had looked fearlessly and so often upon the charging bayonets of the foe.

He stopped suddenly and put away his violin. There was a hush, and then a long roll of applause, not loud, but very deep.

”I hear Pendleton calling,” said Harry to d.i.c.k.

”So do I,” said d.i.c.k. ”I wonder what they're doing there. Have you heard from your father?”

”Not for several months. I think he's in North Carolina with Johnston, and I mean to go home that way. I've a good horse, and he'll carry me through the mountains. I think I'll find father there. An hour or two ago, d.i.c.k, I felt like a man and I was a man, but since De Langeais played I've become a boy again, and I'm longing for Pendleton, and its green hills, and the little river in which we used to swim.”

”So am I, Harry, and it's likely that I'll go with you. The war is over and I can get leave at once. I want to see my mother.”

They stayed together until night came over Appomattox and its famous apple tree, and a few days later Harry Kenton was ready to start on horseback for Kentucky. But he was far from being alone. The two colonels, St. Clair, Langdon, d.i.c.k, De Langeais, Colonel Winchester and Sergeant Whitley were to ride with him. Warner was to go north and Pennington west as soon as they were mustered out. d.i.c.k wrung their hands.

”Good-by, George! Good-by, Frank! Old comrades!” he said. ”But remember that we are to see a good deal of one another all through our lives!”

”Which I can reduce to a mathematical problem and demonstrate by means of my little algebra here,” said Warner, fumbling for his book to hide his emotion.

”I may come through Kentucky to see you and Harry,” said Pennington, ”when I start back to Nebraska.”

”Be sure to come,” said d.i.c.k with enthusiasm, ”and remember that the latch string is hanging out on both doors.”

Then, carrying their arms, and well equipped with ammunition, food and blankets, the little party rode away. They knew that the mountains were still extremely unsettled, much infested by guerrillas, but they believed themselves strong enough to deal with any difficulty, and, as the April country was fair and green, their hearts, despite everything, were light.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE FINAL RECKONING

They rode a long time through a war-torn country, and the days bound the young men together so closely that, at times, it seemed to them they had fought on the same side all through the war. Sergeant Whitley was usually their guide and he was an expert to bargain for food and forage. He exhibited then all the qualities that afterward raised him so high in the commercial world.

Although they were saddened often by the spectacle of the ruin the long war had made, they kept their spirits, on the whole, wonderfully well. The two colonels, excellent hors.e.m.e.n, were an unfailing source of cheerfulness. When they alluded to the war they remembered only the great victories the South had won, and invariably they spoke of its end as a compromise. They also began to talk of Charleston, toward which their hearts now turned, and a certain handsome Madame Delaunay whom Harry Kenton remembered well.

As they left Virginia and entered North Carolina they heard that the Confederate troops everywhere were surrendering. The war, which had been so terrible and sanguinary only two or three months before, ended absolutely with the South's complete exhaustion. Already the troops were going home by the scores of thousands. They saw men who had just taken off their uniforms guiding the ploughs in the furrows. Smoke rose once more from the chimneys of the abandoned homes, and the boys who had faced the cannon's mouth were rebuilding rail fences. The odor of gra.s.s and newly turned earth was poignant and pleasant. The two colonels expanded.

”Though my years have been devoted to military pursuits, Hector,” said Colonel Leonidas Talbot, ”the agricultural life is n.o.ble, and many of the hardy virtues of the South are due to the fact that we are chiefly a rural population.”

”Truly spoken, Leonidas, but for four years agriculture has not had much chance with us, and perhaps agriculture is not all. It was the mechanical genius of the North that kept us from taking New York and Boston.”

”Which reminds me, Happy,” said St. Clair to Langdon, ”that, after all, you didn't sleep in the White House at Was.h.i.+ngton with your boots on.”

”I changed my mind,” replied Happy easily. ”I didn't want to hurt anybody's feelings.”