The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (117 page)

“Where did you come from? Did — did you escape from the — the Yankees?” The girl still stammered and trembled. The three soldiers laughed. “No, m’m. No, m’m. They never cotch us. We was in a muss down the road yere about two mile. And Bill yere they gin it to him in the arm, kehplunk. And they pasted me thar, too. Curious. And Sim yere, he didn’t get nothing, but they chased us all quite a little piece, and we done lose track of our boys.”

“Was it — was it those who passed here just now? Did they chase you?”

The men in gray laughed again. “What — them? No, indeedee! There was a mighty big swarm of Yanks and a mighty big swarm of our boys, too. What — that little passel? No, m’m.”

She became calm enough to scan them more attentively. They were much begrimed and very dusty. Their gray clothes were tattered. Splashed mud had dried upon them in reddish spots. It appeared, too, that the men had not shaved in many days. In the hats there was a singular diversity. One soldier wore the little blue cap of the Northern infantry, with corps emblem and regimental number; one wore a great slouch hat with a wide hole in the crown; and the other wore no hat at all. The left sleeve of one man and the right sleeve of another had been slit and the arms were neatly bandaged with clean cloth. “These hain’t no more than two little cuts,” explained one. “We stopped up yere to Mis’ Leavitts — she said her name was — and she bind them for us. Bill yere, he had the thirst come on him. And the fever too. We — —”

“Did you ever see my father in the army?” asked Mary. “John Hinckson — his name is.”

The three soldiers grinned again, but they replied kindly: “No, m’m. No, m’m, we hain’t never. What is he — in the cavalry?”

“No,” said the girl. “He and my uncle Asa and my cousin — his name is Bill Parker — they are all with Longstreet — they call him.”

“Oh,” said the soldiers. “Longstreet? Oh, they’re a good smart ways from yere. ‘Way off up nawtheast. There hain’t nothing but cavalry down yere. They’re in the infantry, probably.”

“We haven’t heard anything from them for days and days,” said Mary.

“Oh, they’re all right in the infantry,” said one man, to be consoling. “The infantry don’t do much fighting. They go bellering out in a big swarm and only a few of ’em get hurt. But if they was in the cavalry — the cavalry — —”

Mary interrupted him without intention. “Are you hungry?” she asked.

The soldiers looked at each other, struck by some sudden and singular shame. They hung their heads. “No, m’m,” replied one at last.

Santo, in his stall, was tranquilly chewing and chewing. Sometimes he looked benevolently over at them. He was an old horse and there was something about his eyes and his forelock which created the impression that he wore spectacles. Mary went and patted his nose. “Well, if you are hungry, I can get you something,” she told the men. “Or you might come to the house.”

“We wouldn’t dast go to the house,” said one. “That passel of Yanks was only a scouting crowd, most like. Just an advance. More coming, likely.”

“Well, I can bring you something,” cried the girl eagerly. “Won’t you let me bring you something?”

“Well,” said a soldier with embarrassment, “we hain’t had much. If you could bring us a little snack-like — just a snack — we’d — —”

Without waiting for him to cease, the girl turned toward the door. But before she had reached it she stopped abruptly. “Listen!” she whispered. Her form was bent forward, her head turned and lowered, her hand extended toward the men in a command for silence.

They could faintly hear the thudding of many hoofs, the clank of arms, and frequent calling voices.

“By cracky, it’s the Yanks!” The soldiers scrambled to their feet and came toward the door. “I knowed that first crowd was only an advance.”

The girl and the three men peered from the shadows of the barn. The view of the road was intersected by tree trunks and a little henhouse. However, they could see many horsemen streaming down the road. The horsemen were in blue. “Oh, hide — hide — hide!” cried the girl, with a sob in her voice.

“Wait a minute,” whispered a gray soldier excitedly. “Maybe they’re going along by. No, by thunder, they hain’t! They’re halting. Scoot, boys!”

They made a noiseless dash into the dark end of the barn. The girl, standing by the door, heard them break forth an instant later in clamorous whispers. “Where’ll we hide? Where’ll we hide? There hain’t a place to hide!” The girl turned and glanced wildly about the barn. It seemed true. The stock of hay had grown low under Santo’s endless munching, and from occasional levyings by passing troopers in gray. The poles of the mow were barely covered, save in one corner where there was a little bunch.

The girl espied the great feed box. She ran to it and lifted the lid. “Here! here!” she called. “Get in here.”

They had been tearing noiselessly around the rear part of the barn. At her low call they came and plunged at the box. They did not all get in at the same moment without a good deal of a tangle. The wounded men gasped and muttered, but they at last were flopped down on the layer of feed which covered the bottom. Swiftly and softly the girl lowered the lid and then turned like a flash toward the door.

No one appeared there, so she went close to survey the situation. The troopers had dismounted and stood in silence by their horses. A gray-bearded man, whose red cheeks and nose shone vividly above the whiskers, was strolling about with two or three others. They wore double-breasted coats, and faded yellow sashes were wound under their black leather sword belts. The gray-bearded soldier was apparently giving orders, pointing here and there.

Mary tiptoed to the feed box. “They’ve all got off their horses,” she said to it. A finger projected from a knothole near the top and said to her very plainly, “Come closer.” She obeyed, and then a muffled voice could be heard: “Scoot for the house, lady, and if we don’t see you again, why, much obliged for what you done.”

“Good-bye,” she said to the feed box.

She made two attempts to walk dauntlessly from the barn, but each time she faltered and failed just before she reached the point where she could have been seen by the blue-coated troopers. At last, however, she made a sort of a rush forward and went out into the bright sunshine.

The group of men in double-breasted coats wheeled in her direction at the instant. The gray-bearded officer forgot to lower his arm which had been stretched forth in giving an order.

She felt that her feet were touching the ground in a most unnatural manner. Her bearing, she believed, was suddenly grown awkward and ungainly. Upon her face she thought that this sentence was plainly written: “There are three men hidden in the feed box.”

The gray-bearded soldier came toward her. She stopped; she seemed about to run away. But the soldier doffed his little blue cap and looked amiable. “You live here, I presume?” he said.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Well, we are obliged to camp here for the night, and as we’ve got two wounded men with us I don’t suppose you’d mind if we put them in the barn.”

“In — in the barn?”

He became aware that she was agitated. He smiled assuringly. “You needn’t be frightened. We won’t hurt anything around here. You’ll all be safe enough.”

The girl balanced on one foot and swung the other to and fro in the grass. She was looking down at it. “But — but I don’t think ma would like it if — if you took the barn.”

The old officer laughed. “Wouldn’t she?” said he. “That’s so. Maybe she wouldn’t.” He reflected for a time and then decided cheerfully: “Well, we will have to go ask her, anyhow. Where is she? In the house?”

“Yes,” replied the girl, “she’s in the house. She — she’ll be scared to death when she sees you!”

“Well, you go and ask her then,” said the soldier, always wearing a benign smile. “You go ask her and then come and tell me.”

When the girl pushed open the door and entered the kitchen, she found it empty. “Ma!” she called softly. There was no answer. The kettle still was humming its low song. The knife and the curl of potato skin lay on the floor.

She went to her mother’s room and entered timidly. The new, lonely aspect of the house shook her nerves. Upon the bed was a confusion of coverings. “Ma!” called the girl, quaking in fear that her mother was not there to reply. But there was a sudden turmoil of the quilts, and her mother’s head was thrust forth. “Mary!” she cried, in what seemed to be a supreme astonishment, “I thought — I thought — —”

“Oh, ma,” blurted the girl, “there’s over a thousand Yankees in the yard, and I’ve hidden three of our men in the feed box!”

The elder woman, however, upon the appearance of her daughter had begun to thrash hysterically about on the bed and wail.

“Ma,” the girl exclaimed, “and now they want to use the barn — and our men in the feed box! What shall I do, ma? What shall I do?”

Her mother did not seem to hear, so absorbed was she in her grievous flounderings and tears. “Ma!” appealed the girl. “Ma!”

For a moment Mary stood silently debating, her lips apart, her eyes fixed. Then she went to the kitchen window and peeked.

The old officer and the others were staring up the road. She went to another window in order to get a proper view of the road, and saw that they were gazing at a small body of horsemen approaching at a trot and raising much dust. Presently she recognised them as the squad that had passed the house earlier, for the young man with the dim yellow chevron still rode at their head. An unarmed horseman in gray was receiving their close attention.

As they came very near to the house she darted to the first window again. The gray-bearded officer was smiling a fine broad smile of satisfaction. “So you got him?” he called out. The young sergeant sprang from his horse and his brown hand moved in a salute. The girl could not hear his reply. She saw the unarmed horseman in gray stroking a very black mustache and looking about him coolly and with an interested air. He appeared so indifferent that she did not understand he was a prisoner until she heard the graybeard call out: “Well, put him in the barn. He’ll be safe there, I guess.” A party of troopers moved with the prisoner toward the barn.

The girl made a sudden gesture of horror, remembering the three men in the feed box.

III.

The busy troopers in blue scurried about the long lines of stamping horses. Men crooked their backs and perspired in order to rub with cloths or bunches of grass these slim equine legs, upon whose splendid machinery they depended so greatly. The lips of the horses were still wet and frothy from the steel bars which had wrenched at their mouths all day. Over their backs and about their noses sped the talk of the men.

“Moind where yer plug is steppin’, Finerty! Keep ‘im aff me!”

“An ould elephant! He shtrides like a schoolhouse.”

“Bill’s little mar — she was plum beat when she come in with Crawford’s crowd.”