The Burial of the Guns

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The next morning Mrs. Mills paid Mrs. Stanley the first visit she had paid
on that side the branch since the day, three years before,
when Cove and the boys had the row with Little Darby. It might have
seemed accidental, but Mrs. Stanley was the first person in the district
to know that all the Mills men were gone to the army. She went over again,
from time to time, for it was not a period to keep up open hostilities,
and she was younger than Mrs. Stanley and better off; but Vashti never went,
and Mrs. Stanley never asked after her or came.

II

The company in which Little Darby and the Millses had enlisted
was one of the many hundred infantry companies which joined and were merged
in the Confederate army. It was in no way particularly signalized
by anything that it did. It was commanded by the gentleman
who did most toward getting it up; and the officers were gentlemen.
The seventy odd men who made the rank and file were of all classes,
from the sons of the oldest and wealthiest planters in the neighborhood
to Little Darby and the dwellers in the district. The war was very different
from what those who went into it expected it to be. Until it had gone on
some time it seemed mainly marching and camping and staying in camp,
quite uselessly as seemed to many, and drilling and doing nothing.
Much of the time -- especially later on -- was given to marching
and getting food; but drilling and camp duties at first took up most of it.
This was especially hard on the poorer men, no one knew what it was to them.
Some moped, some fell sick. Of the former class was Little Darby.
He was too strong to be sickly as one of the Mills boys was,
who died of fever in hospital only three months after they went in,
and too silent to be as the other, who was jolly and could dance
and sing a good song and was soon very popular in the company;
more popular even than Old Cove, who was popular in several rights,
as being about the oldest man in the company and as having a sort of dry wit
when he was in a good humor, which he generally was. Little Darby was
hardly distinguished at all, unless by the fact that he was somewhat taller
than most of his comrades and somewhat more taciturn. He was only
a common soldier of a common class in an ordinary infantry company,
such a company as was common in the army. He still had the little wallet
which he had picked up in the path that morning he left home.
He had asked both of the Mills boys vaguely if they ever had owned
such a piece of property, but they had not, and when old Cove told him
that he had not either, he had contented himself and carried it about with him
somewhat elaborately wrapped up and tied in an old piece of oilcloth
and in his inside jacket pocket for safety, with a vague feeling that some day
he might find the owner or return it. He was never on specially good terms
with the Millses. Indeed, there was always a trace of coolness
between them and him. He could not give it to them. Now and then
he untied and unwrapped it in a secret place and read a little
in the Testament, but that was all. He never touched a needle
or so much as a pin, and when he untied the parcel he generally counted them
to see that they were all there.

So the war went on, with battles coming a little oftener
and food growing ever a little scarcer; but the company was about as before,
nothing particular -- what with killing and fever a little thinned,
a good deal faded; and Little Darby just one in a crowd,
marching with the rest, sleeping with the rest, fighting with the rest,
starving with the rest. He was hardly known for a long time,
except for his silence, outside of his mess. Men were fighting
and getting killed or wounded constantly; as for him, he was never touched;
and as he did what he was ordered silently and was silent when he got through,
there was no one to sing his praise. Even when he was sent out
on the skirmish line as a sharp-shooter, if he did anything no one knew it.
He would disappear over a crest, or in a wood, and reappear as silent
as if he were hunting in the swamps of the district; clean his gun;
cut up wood; eat what he could get, and sit by the fire and listen
to the talk, as silent awake as asleep.

One other thing distinguished him, he could handle an axe better than any man
in the company; but no one thought much of that -- least of all, Little Darby;
it only brought him a little more work occasionally.

One day, in the heat of a battle which the men knew was being won,
if shooting and cheering and rapid advancing could tell anything,
the advance which had been going on with spirit was suddenly checked
by a murderous artillery fire which swept the top of a slope,
along the crest of which ran a road a little raised between two deep ditches
topped by the remains of heavy fences. The infantry, after a gallant
and hopeless charge, were ordered to lie down in the ditch behind the pike,
and were sheltered from the leaden sleet which swept the crest.
Artillery was needed to clear the field beyond, by silencing the batteries
which swept it, but no artillery could get into position for the ditches,
and the day seemed about to be lost. The only way was up the pike,
and the only break was a gate opening into the field right on top of the hill.
The gate was gone, but two huge wooden gate-posts, each a tree-trunk,
still stood and barred the way. No cannon had room to turn in between them;
a battery had tried and a pile of dead men, horses, and debris
marked its failure. A general officer galloped up with two or three
of his staff to try to start the advance again. He saw the impossibility.

"If we could get a couple of batteries into that field for three minutes,"
he said, "it would do the work, but in ten minutes it will be too late."

The company from the old county was lying behind the bank
almost exactly opposite the gate, and every word could be heard.

Where the axe came from no one knew; but a minute later a man slung himself
across the road, and the next second the sharp, steady blows of an axe
were ringing on the pike. The axeman had cut a wide cleft in the brown wood,
and the big chips were flying before his act was quite taken in,
and then a cheer went up from the line. It was no time to cheer, however;
other chips were flying than those from the cutter's axe,
and the bullets hissed by him like bees, splintering the hard post
and knocking the dust from the road about his feet; but he took no notice
of them, his axe plied as steadily as if he had been cutting a tree
in the woods of the district, and when he had cut one side,
he turned as deliberately and cut the other; then placing his hand high up,
he flung his weight against the post and it went down. A great cheer went up
and the axeman swung back across the road just as two batteries of artillery
tore through the opening he had made.

Few men outside of his company knew who the man was, and few had time to ask;
for the battle was on again and the infantry pushed forward.
As for Little Darby himself, the only thing he said was, "I knowed I could
cut it down in ten minutes." He had nine bullet holes through his clothes
that night, but Little Darby thought nothing of it, and neither did others;
many others had bullet holes through their bodies that night.
It happened not long afterward that the general was talking of the battle
to an English gentleman who had come over to see something of the war
and was visiting him in his camp, and he mentioned the incident
of a battle won by an axeman's coolness, but did not know the name of the man
who cut the post away; the captain of the company, however,
was the general's cousin and was dining with his guest that day,
and he said with pride that he knew the man, that he was in his company,
and he gave the name.

"It is a fine old name," said the visitor.

"And he is a fine man," said the captain; but none of this
was ever known by Darby. He was not mentioned in the gazette,
because there was no gazette. The confederate soldiery had no honors
save the approval of their own consciences and the love of their own people.
It was not even mentioned in the district; or, if it was, it was only
that he had cut down a post; other men were being shot to pieces all the time
and the district had other things to think of.

Poor at all times, the people of the district were now absolutely without
means of subsistence. Fortunately for them, they were inured to hardship;
and their men being all gone to the war, the women made such shift
as they could and lived as they might. They hoed their little patches,
fished the streams, and trapped in the woods. But it was poor enough at best,
and the weak went down and only the strong survived. Mrs. Mills was
better off than most, she had a cow -- at first, and she had Vashti.
Vashti turned out to be a tower of strength. She trapped more game
than anyone in the district; caught more fish with lines and traps --
she went miles to fish below the forks where the fish were bigger than above;
she learned to shoot with her father's old gun, which had been sent back
when he got a musket, shot like a man and better than most men;
she hoed the patch, she tended the cow till it was lost, and then she did
many other things. Her mother declared that, when Chris died
(Chris was the boy who died of fever), but for Vashti she could not have
got along at all, and there were many other women in the pines
who felt the same thing.

When the news came that Bob Askew was killed, Vashti was one of the first
who got to Bob's wife; and when Billy Luck disappeared in a battle,
Vashti gave the best reasons for thinking he had been taken prisoner;
and many a string of fish and many a squirrel and hare found their way
into the empty cabins because Vashti "happened to pass by."

From having been rather stigmatized as "that Vashti Mills", she came to be
relied on, and "Vashti" was consulted and quoted as an authority.

One cabin alone she never visited. The house of old Mrs. Stanley,
now almost completely buried under its unpruned wistaria vine,
she never entered. Her mother, as has been said, sometimes went
across the bottom, and now and then took with her a hare or a bird
or a string of fish -- on condition from Vashti that it should not be known
she had caught them; but Vashti never went, and Mrs. Mills found herself
sometimes put to it to explain to others her unneighborliness.
The best she could make of it to say that "Vashti, she always DO
do her own way."

How Mrs. Stanley's wood-pile was kept up nobody knew, if, indeed,
it could be called a wood-pile, when it was only a recurring supply
of dry-wood thrown as if accidentally just at the edge of the clearing.
Mrs. Stanley was not of an imaginative turn, even of enough to explain
how it came that so much dry-wood came to be there broken up
just the right length; and Mrs. Mills knew no more than that "that cow was
always a-goin' off and a-keepin' Vashti a-huntin' everywheres in the worl'."

All said, however, the women of the district had a hungry time,
and the war bore on them heavily as on everyone else, and as it went on
they suffered more and more. Many a woman went day after day
and week after week without even the small portion of coarse corn-bread
which was ordinarily her common fare. They called oftener and oftener
at the house of their neighbors who owned the plantations near them,
and always received something; but as time went on the plantations themselves
were stripped; the little things they could take with them when they went,
such as eggs, honey, etc., were wanting, and to go too often
without anything to give might make them seem like beggars,
and that they were not. Their husbands and sons were in the army
fighting for the South, as well as those from the plantations,
and they stood by this fact on the same level.

The arrogant looks of the negroes were unpleasant, and in marked contrast
to the universal graciousness of their owners, but they were slaves and they
could afford to despise them. Only they must uphold their independence.
Thus no one outside knew what the women of the district went through.
When they wrote to their husbands or sons that they were in straits,
it meant that they were starving. Such a letter meant all the more
because they were used to hunger, but not to writing, and a letter meant
perhaps days of thought and enterprise and hours of labor.

As the war went on the hardships everywhere grew heavier and heavier;
the letters from home came oftener and oftener. Many of the men
got furloughs when they were in winter quarters, and sometimes in summer, too,
from wounds, and went home to see their families. Little Darby never went;
he sent his mother his pay, and wrote to her, but he did not even apply
for a furlough, and he had never been touched except for a couple
of flesh wounds which were barely skin-deep. When he heard from his mother
she was always cheerful; and as he knew Vashti had never even visited her,
there was no other reason for his going home. It was in the late part
of the third campaign of the war that he began to think of going.

When Cove Mills got a letter from his wife and told Little Darby
how "ailin'" and "puny" his mother was getting, Darby knew that the letter
was written by Vashti, and he felt that it meant a great deal. He applied
for a furlough, but was told that no furloughs would be granted then --
which then meant that work was expected. It came shortly afterward,
and Little Darby and the company were in it. Battle followed battle.
A good many men in the company were killed, but, as it happened,
not one of the men from the district was among them, until one day
when the company after a fierce charge found itself hugging the ground
in a wide field, on the far side of which the enemy -- infantry and artillery
-- was posted in force. Lying down they were pretty well protected
by the conformation of the ground from the artillery; and lying down,
the infantry generally, even with their better guns, could not hurt them
to a great extent; but a line of sharp-shooters, well placed behind cover
of scattered rocks on the far side of the field, could reach them
with their long-range rifles, and galled them with their dropping fire,
picking off man after man. A line of sharp-shooters was thrown forward
to drive them in; but their guns were not as good and the cover was inferior,
and it was only after numerous losses that they succeeded in silencing
most of them. They still left several men up among the rocks,
who from time to time sent a bullet into the line with deadly effect.
One man, in particular, ensconced behind a rock on the hill-side,
picked off the men with unerring accuracy. Shot after shot was sent at him.
At last he was quiet for so long that it seemed he must have been silenced,
and they began to hope; Ad Mills rose to his knees and in sheer bravado
waved his hat in triumph. Just as he did so a puff of white came from
the rock, and Ad Mills threw up his hands and fell on his back, like a log,
stone dead. A groan of mingled rage and dismay went along the line.
Poor old Cove crept over and fell on the boy's body with a flesh wound
in his own arm. Fifty shots were sent at the rock, but a puff of smoke
from it afterward and a hissing bullet showed that the marksman was untouched.
It was apparent that he was secure behind his rock bulwark
and had some opening through which he could fire at his leisure.
It was also apparent that he must be dislodged if possible; but how to do it
was the question; no one could reach him. The slope down and the slope up
to the group of rocks behind which he lay were both in plain view,
and any man would be riddled who attempted to cross it. A bit of woods
reached some distance up on one side, but not far enough to give a shot at one
behind the rock; and though the ground in that direction dipped a little,
there was one little ridge in full view of both lines and perfectly bare,
except for a number of bodies of skirmishers who had fallen earlier
in the day. It was discussed in the line; but everyone knew that no man
could get across the ridge alive. While they were talking of it Little Darby,
who, with a white face, had helped old Cove to get his boy's body
back out of fire, slipped off to one side, rifle in hand,
and disappeared in the wood.

They were still talking of the impossibility of dislodging the sharp-shooter
when a man appeared on the edge of the wood. He moved swiftly
across the sheltered ground, stooping low until he reached the edge
of the exposed place, where he straightened up and made a dash across it.
He was recognized instantly by some of the men of his company as Little Darby,
and a buzz of astonishment went along the line. What could he mean,
it was sheer madness; the line of white smoke along the wood
and the puffs of dust about his feet showed that bullets were raining
around him. The next second he stopped dead-still, threw up his arms,
and fell prone on his face in full view of both lines.
A groan went up from his comrades; the whole company knew he was dead,
and on the instant a puff of white from the rock and a hissing bullet told
that the sharp-shooter there was still intrenched in his covert.
The men were discussing Little Darby, when someone cried out
and pointed to him. He was still alive, and not only alive, but was moving --
moving slowly but steadily up the ridge and nearer on a line
with the sharp-shooter, as flat on the ground as any of the motionless bodies
about him. A strange thrill of excitement went through the company
as the dark object dragged itself nearer to the rock, and it was not allayed
when the whack of a bullet and the well-known white puff of smoke
recalled them to the sharp-shooter's dangerous aim; for the next second
the creeping figure sprang erect and made a dash for the spot.
He had almost reached it when the sharp-shooter discovered him,
and the men knew that Little Darby had underestimated the quickness of his
hand and aim; for at the same moment the figure of the man behind the rock
appeared for a second as he sprang erect; there was a puff of white
and Little Darby stopped and staggered and sank to his knees.
The next second, however, there was a puff from where he knelt,
and then he sank flat once more, and a moment later rolled over on his face
on the near side of the rock and just at its foot. There were no more bullets
sent from that rock that day -- at least, against the Confederates --
and that night Little Darby walked into his company's bivouac,
dusty from head to foot and with a bullet-hole in his clothes
not far from his heart; but he said it was only a spent bullet
and had just knocked the breath out of him. He was pretty sore from it
for a time, but was able to help old Cove to get his boy's body off
and to see him start; for the old man's wound, though not dangerous,
was enough to disable him and get him a furlough, and he determined
to take his son's body home, which the captain's influence enabled him to do.
Between his wound and his grief the old man was nearly helpless,
and accepted Darby's silent assistance with mute gratitude.
Darby asked him to tell his mother that he was getting on well,
and sent her what money he had -- his last two months' pay --
not enough to have bought her a pair of stockings or a pound of sugar.
The only other message he sent was given at the station just as Cove set out.
He said:

"Tell Vashti as I got him as done it."

Old Cove grasped his hand tremulously and faltered his promise to do so,
and the next moment the train crawled away and left Darby to plod back to camp
in the rain, vague and lonely in the remnant of what had once been
a gray uniform. If there was one thing that troubled him
it was that he could not return Vashti the needle-case until he replaced
the broken needles -- and there were so many of them broken.

After this Darby was in some sort known, and was put pretty constantly
on sharp-shooter service.

The men went into winter quarters before Darby heard anything from home.
It came one day in the shape of a letter in the only hand in the world
he knew -- Vashti's. What it could mean he could not divine --
was his mother dead? This was the principal thing that occurred to him.
He studied the outside. It had been on the way a month by the postmark,
for letters travelled slowly in those days, and a private soldier
in an infantry company was hard to find unless the address was pretty clear,
which this was not. He did not open it immediately. His mother must be dead,
and this he could not face. Nothing else would have made Vashti write.
At last he went off alone and opened it, and read it, spelling it out
with some pains. It began without an address, with the simple statement
that her father had arrived with Ad's body and that it had been buried,
and that his wound was right bad and her mother was mightily cut up
with her trouble. Then it mentioned his mother and said she had come
to Ad's funeral, though she could not walk much now and had never been over
to their side since the day after he -- Darby -- had enlisted; but her father
had told her as how he had killed the man as shot Ad, and so she made out
to come that far. Then the letter broke off from giving news,
and as if under stress of feelings long pent up, suddenly broke loose:
she declared that she loved him; that she had always loved him -- always --
ever since he had been so good to her -- a great big boy to a little bit
of a girl -- at school, and that she did not know why she had been
so mean to him; for when she had treated him worst she had loved him most;
that she had gone down the path that night when they had met,
for the purpose of meeting him and of letting him know she loved him;
but something had made her treat him as she did, and all the time
she could have let him kill her for love of him. She said she had told
her mother and father she loved him and she had tried to tell his mother,
but she could not, for she was afraid of her; but she wanted him to tell her
when he came; and she had tried to help her and keep her in wood
ever since he went away, for his sake. Then the letter told how poorly
his mother was and how she had failed of late, and she said she thought
he ought to get a furlough and come home, and when he did she would marry him.
It was not very well written, nor wholly coherent; at least it took some time
to sink fully into Darby's somewhat dazed intellect; but in time
he took it in, and when he did he sat like a man overwhelmed.
At the end of the letter, as if possibly she thought, in the greatness
of her relief at her confession, that the temptation she held out
might prove too great even for him, or possibly only because she was a woman,
there was a postscript scrawled across the coarse, blue Confederate paper:
"Don't come without a furlough; for if you don't come honorable
I won't marry you." This, however, Darby scarcely read. His being was in
the letter. It was only later that the picture of his mother ill and failing
came to him, and it smote him in the midst of his happiness
and clung to him afterward like a nightmare. It haunted him. She was dying.

He applied for a furlough; but furloughs were hard to get then
and he could not hear from it; and when a letter came in his mother's name
in a lady's hand which he did not know, telling him of his mother's
poverty and sickness and asking him if he could get off to come and see her,
it seemed to him that she was dying, and he did not wait for the furlough.
He was only a few days' march from home and he felt that he could see her
and get back before he was wanted. So one day he set out in the rain.
It was a scene of desolation that he passed through, for the country was
the seat of war; fences were gone, woods burnt, and fields cut up and bare;
and it rained all the time. A little before morning, on the night
of the third day, he reached the edge of the district and plunged into
its well-known pines, and just as day broke he entered the old path
which led up the little hill to his mother's cabin. All during his journey
he had been picturing the meeting with some one else besides his mother,
and if Vashti had stood before him as he crossed the old log he would hardly
have been surprised. Now, however, he had other thoughts;
as he reached the old clearing he was surprised to find it grown up
in small pines already almost as high as his head, and tall weeds
filled the rows among the old peach-trees and grew up to the very door.
He had been struck by the desolation all the way as he came along;
but it had not occurred to him that there must be a change at his own home;
he had always pictured it as he left it, as he had always thought of Vashti
in her pink calico, with her hat in her hand and her heavy hair
almost falling down over her neck. Now a great horror seized him.
The door was wet and black. His mother must be dead.
He stopped and peered through the darkness at the dim little structure.
There was a little smoke coming out of the chimney, and the next instant
he strode up to the door. It was shut, but the string was hanging out
and he pulled it and pushed the door open. A thin figure seated in
the small split-bottomed chair on the hearth, hovering as close as possible
over the fire, straightened up and turned slowly as he stepped into the room,
and he recognized his mother -- but how changed! She was quite white
and little more than a skeleton. At sight of the figure behind her
she pulled herself to her feet, and peered at him through the gloom.

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