XII.

THE ARMY MARCHES BY.

It was not long before the children saw another sight on that plantation. They forgot all about Mr. Thimblefinger and Mrs. Meadows and Mr. Rabbit. They forgot to talk to the animals. The war had been under way for some time, and one rainy day in November word came that two soldiers in blue had been seen riding along the road at a gallop. That was early in the morning. By noon the plantation fairly swarmed with the foragers in blue. The Union army was on its way from Atlanta to the sea.

Standing at the window and looking through the mist and rain, Buster John and Sweetest Susan could see the foraging parties running about collecting the cows and calves, the horses and the mules, and presently they saw the same men in blue driving the stock out through the avenue and into the public road. Sweetest Susan cried when she saw the old Gray Pony ambling along with the rest, but Buster John never thought about the Pony at all. He was watching to see the Black Stallion pass by, and wondering how the men would manage him.

The children also saw many of the negroes following the soldiers off. They saw Aaron dressed in his Sunday best, and they wondered whether he was going with the rest. But after awhile they heard Aaron talking to their grandfather in the next room. They heard him say that he had tried to hide the horses and mules in the swamp, but some of the negroes had carried the foragers in blue to the hiding-place. They heard Aaron say that he had carried Timoleon to another part of the plantation, and that the old horse was not likely to be found. They heard their grandfather tell Aaron that he was now free to go where he might—that he was no longer a slave. To which Aaron replied that if he was free to go or stay, he would stay.

[Illustration: TWO SOLDIERS RODE ALONG]

A little later the children, still standing at the window, or near it, heard a great clatter of hoofs in the avenue, mingled with the lowing of cattle, the neighing of horses, and the shouts and yells of drivers. At first Buster John and Sweetest Susan, looking through the mist, could see nothing but a dense and moving mass of animals and men. But in a few moments they were surprised to see that the foragers in blue were bringing back the horses and cattle they had driven off. There was the old pony, ambling back to the lot; there were the carriage horses; and there were the milk cows and dry cattle. Accompanying the foragers, who were on foot, were two or three mounted men, and one of these wore a sword and was giving orders.

The grandfather, attracted by the children’s cries of surprise, had come to the window, and he stood there gazing at the spectacle in a bewildered way. It was more surprising to him than it was to the children. He could make nothing of it. He could only rub his eyes and look. Here were his horses, his mules, and his cattle coming back in a hurry, driven by the soldiers in blue. He went to the rear porch to see what would be done with the stock, and there, to his further surprise, he saw a soldier on guard. The soldier saluted the white-haired old man with the utmost deference, standing at “present arms” until the gentleman, somewhat rusty in military etiquette, had returned the salute. Then the soldier resumed his march back and forth.

Looking across to the lot, the old gentleman saw Aaron showing the foragers where to put the horses, the mules, and the cows, and with Aaron were two or three negroes who had refused to go off with the rest.

“What is the trouble here?” the old gentleman asked the soldier. “Are we prisoners?”

“No, sir,” replied the soldier, laughing; “we are here to protect this house from the foragers and stragglers. I was thinkin’ may be you’re some close kin to Uncle Cump.”

“Uncle who?”

“Uncle Cump, Cump—Tecump. We march by that name.”

The white-haired gentleman, regarding this as a soldier’s joke, went into the house. The children, still at the window, called attention to a soldier marching back and forth. Going on the front piazza, he saw a soldier marching on that side, and but for the garden fence doubtless there would have been a fourth soldier marching behind the kitchen.

Later in the afternoon a squad of riders came galloping down the avenue. They drew up their horses at the yard gate, and one of them alighted, throwing his reins to one of the others. The children ran into the front parlor and peeped through the curtains. The soldier who had come into the yard had neither gun nor sword. He wore a heavy overcoat, and his spurs rattled as he stamped the mud and water from his boots. He removed his overcoat, lifted the knocker on the door and let it fall twice, and then walked back and forth on the piazza, with a quick, nervous step. He seemed to be restless and impatient.

The children’s grandfather went to the door and threw it open. The soldier lifted his hat with a gesture that was more familiar than deferential.

“Come in, sir,” said the grandfather. “We do not keep the door closed even on our enemies.”

“I am here,” remarked the soldier, curtly, “because I have a message for this house.”

He had a quick, nervous way of talking, and his eyes ran from the carpet on the floor to the pictures on the wall. One of these pictures was the portrait of a little boy, pale and wan, and the top of a crutch peeped from behind his shoulder. On this portrait the eyes of the soldier lingered, and he turned to it with a quick gesture. The children’s grandfather stood watching him. The old gentleman’s attitude was stiff and formal, and there was an expression of resentment on his face, for he recognized that the commander, the General of the Army of invasion, stood before him.

As for the soldier, his stiff red beard bristled, the lines in his weather-beaten face deepened, and his eyes sparkled. If he had noticed the attitude or expression of the other he ignored it.

“That is Little Crotchet,” he said, brusquely. “Where is he?”

The face of the children’s grandfather softened and his whole attitude changed.

“Little Crotchet is not here now,” he replied. He turned and walked to the window, which seemed to be blurred by the mist and the rain blown against it by the east wind.

The commander took a quick step forward and placed his hand gently on the grandfather’s shoulder.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I have a message for Little Crotchet.”

[Illustration: HIS EYES LINGERED ON THE PORTRAIT]

“If my son had lived,” remarked the children’s grandfather, by way of explanation, “he would be a grown man. As it is, he is still a little boy.”

“That is curious, too,” said the commander. “Since I heard of him, I have always thought of him as a little bit of a chap. Something like that.” He turned to the portrait on the wall almost impatiently.

“I am forgetting myself,” said the children’s grandfather, holding out his hand, which the soldier seized and pressed in his quick, nervous way. “Sit in this rocking-chair near the hearth and dry yourself. You and I are old acquaintances. Years ago you passed through this part of the country on horseback, and stopped here over night.”

“That is so,” replied the commander. “I was just beginning the business of life. You had already begun it.”

“To some extent. I was ahead of you, then, just as you have now outstripped me in the business of dealing out death and destruction.”

The commander rose from his chair quick as a flash, and again placed his hand on the old gentleman’s shoulder.

“My dear sir,” he said, “this is war, and war is the most serious business that men can engage in.”

He resumed his seat as suddenly as he had left it, throwing one leg across the other with an easy familiarity that was not at all displeasing to the elder man.

“You would think war was my business,” remarked the commander, after a pause, during which his keen, restless eyes tried to solve the mysteries of the glowing coals; “but it is not. I am a school teacher. I had rather be yonder in Mississippi, training my college boys, than to be leading this army. But war is the price of union and peace, and here I am. Where is Aaron?”

“Aaron?” The question was so sudden and unexpected that the children’s grandfather was taken by surprise.

“Wasn’t that the name of some queer negro you owned?”

“Certainly. I will call him,” replied the grandfather.

At that moment there was a rap at the door, and Aaron opened it. He bowed as he saw the uniformed and booted stranger, and then proceeded to make his report. He told his master that all the horses, mules, and cattle had been brought back, and some more besides. He stood, half smiling, in an easy and yet an expectant attitude.

“This is Aaron,” said the commander. “I must take him by the hand.” He stepped across the floor with arm extended and clasped Aaron’s hand in his. “You are a good man, Aaron,” he remarked, “a good man. I want to read you something.”

The commander fumbled in the breast pocket of his coat and drew forth a huge morocco memorandum book. From this he took a letter.

“This,” he said, “was sent to me in cipher from the War Department at Washington. I have had it translated and written out. Do you remember a man named Hudspeth?”

“Perfectly,” said the old gentleman.

“Mighty well,” said Aaron.

“Well, this man, Richard Hudspeth, is one of the most influential members of Congress. He is on the Military Committee of the House. Here is what he says:

“DEAR GENERAL,—As a member of the Committee on Military Affairs, it has come to my ears that you will before long swing loose from Atlanta and march across Georgia, either to Savannah or Augusta. Should my information be correct, I have a favor to ask of you. It is this: that, so far as is consistent with your duties as a soldier, you will protect the lives and property of the people whom you may find on the Abercrombie place in Middle Georgia. You cannot miss the place. Whether you go to Savannah or Augusta, it will be in your line of march. It is in the very heart of Georgia, and is known far and wide.

“I am not sure that the people I knew are living there now; but I am very sure that I spent some very happy and some very miserable days there. It was in the days of the years of my youth, and I should have been more miserable still but for the kindness of the people on that place.

“More than that, I owe them my life, which at one time I was on the point of losing at the hands of some of the neighborhood ruffians. Some day when we meet in Washington you shall have the particulars.

“You will find on that place, I trust—though he seemed too frail to live long—a youngster known as Little Crotchet. Say to him that I shall love him tenderly while life lasts. I hope you will also find there the kindly gentleman to whose patience and courtesy I owe many a pleasant hour. I hope, too, you will find Aaron there—Aaron the fugitive, who was and who remains a mystery.

“For the sake of these people and for the sake of old times, I venture to ask you to surround the place with such protection as may be consistent with duties which at this distance I can only have a vague conception of.

“Meanwhile, the few of us who have had hints of the adventure you are about to undertake are trembling with fear and hope. We confide in your genius, but we should be happier if we had already heard from you at the end of your journey.

“Faithfully yours,

“RICHARD HUDSPETH.”

The children’s grandfather gazed steadily in the fire without moving. The commander placed the letter in his pocket, and rose from his chair, pushing it away from him impatiently.

“And this is Aaron?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” replied Aaron.

“Well, Aaron, I want to shake your hand again.”

Aaron took the proffered hand and bowed his head over it, as if giving silent utterance to a prayer. The commander gave his hand to the White-haired Master, passed out upon the veranda, and so to where he had left his orderlies. He leaped into the saddle, turned and waved an adieu, and then the small cavalcade went clattering up the avenue.

Somewhere in the distance Buster John and Sweetest Susan heard a band playing a sweet tune, and so War passed out of their sight—passed out of their sight, let us hope, forever. But it should be recorded here that the spectacle of these slow-moving files of armed men, this vast procession of cavalry and artillery, with all their lumbering accompaniments, was far more amazing to these children than anything they had seen and heard in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country, or than any of their experience with the Son of Ben Ali.