The Burial of the Guns

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"Here again?" he asked, in a tone part pleasantry, part regret.

"Yes, your honor. Met an old soldier last night, and took a drop
for good fellowship, and before I knew it ----" A shrug of the shoulders
completed the sentence, and the shoulders did not straighten any more.

The tall officer who had picked him up said something to the justice
in a tone too low for me to catch; but "No. 4" heard it -- it was evidently
a statement against him -- for he started to speak in a deprecating way.
The judge interrupted him:

"I thought you told me last time that if I let you go you would not take
another drink for a year."

"I forgot," said "No. 4", in a low voice.

"This officer says you resisted him?"

The officer looked stolidly at the prisoner as if it were a matter
of not the slightest interest to him personally. "Cursed me and abused me,"
he said, dropping the words slowly as if he were checking off a schedule.

"I did not, your honor; indeed, I did not," said "No. 4", quickly.
"I swear I did not; he is mistaken. Your honor does not believe
I would tell you a lie! Surely I have not got so low as that."

The justice turned his pencil in his hand doubtfully, and looked away.
"No. 4" took in his position. He began again.

"I fell in with an old soldier, and we got to talking about the war --
about old times." His voice was very soft. "I will promise your honor
that I won't take another drink for a year. Here, I'll take an oath to it.
Swear me." He seized the greasy little Bible on the desk before him,
and handed it to the justice. The magistrate took it doubtfully.
He looked down at the prisoner half kindly, half humorously.

"You'll just break it." He started to lay the book down.

"No; I want to take the pledge," said "No. 4", eagerly. "Did I ever break
a pledge I made to your honor?"

"Didn't you promise me not to come back here?"

"I have not been here for nine months. Besides, I did not come
of my own free will," said "No. 4", with a faint flicker of humor
on his perspiring face.

"You were here two months ago, and you promised not to take another drink."

"I forgot that. I did not mean to break it; indeed, I did not.
I fell in with ----"

The justice looked away, considered a moment, and ordered him
back into the pen with, "Ten days, to cool off."

"No. 4" stood quite still till the officer motioned him to the gate,
behind which the prisoners sat in stolid rows. Then he walked dejectedly
back into the pen, and sat down by another drunkard. His look touched me,
and I went around and talked to the magistrate privately.
But he was inexorable; he said he knew more of him than I did,
and that ten days in jail would "dry him out and be good for him."
I told him the story of the battle. He knew it already,
and said he knew more than that about him; that he had been one of
the bravest soldiers in the whole army; did not know what fear was;
had once ridden into the enemy and torn a captured standard from
its captors' hands, receiving two desperate bayonet-wounds in doing it;
and had done other acts of conspicuous gallantry on many occasions.
I pleaded this, but he was obdurate; hard, I thought at the time,
and told him so; told him he had been a soldier himself, and ought
to be easier. He looked troubled, not offended; for we were friends,
and I think he liked to see me, who had been a boy during the war,
take up for an old soldier on that ground. But he stood firm. I must do him
the justice to say that I now think it would not have made any difference
if he had done otherwise. He had tried the other course many times.

"No. 4" must have heard me trying to help him, for one day,
about a month after that, he walked in on me quite sober,
and looking somewhat as he did the first day I saw him,
thanked me for what I had done for him; delivered one of the most impressive
discourses on intemperance that I ever heard; and asked me to try
to help him get work. He was willing to do anything, he said; that is,
anything he could do. I got him a place with a friend of mine
which he kept a week, then got drunk. We got hold of him, however,
and sobered him up, and he escaped the police and the justice's court.
Being out of work, and very firm in his resolution never to drink again,
we lent him some money -- a very little -- with which to keep along
a few days, on which he got drunk immediately, and did fall into the hands
of the police, and was sent to jail as before. This, in fact,
was his regular round: into jail, out of jail; a little spell of sobriety,
"an accidental fall", which occurred as soon as he could get a drop of liquor,
and into jail again for thirty or sixty days, according to the degree
of resistance he gave the police -- who always, by their own account,
simply tried to get him to go home, and, by his, insulted him --
and to the violence of the language he applied to them. In this he excelled;
for although as quiet as possible when he was sober, when he was drunk
he was a terror, so the police said, and his resources of vituperation
were cyclopedic. He possessed in this particular department an eloquence
which was incredible. His blasphemy was vast, illimitable, infinite.
He told me once that he could not explain it; that when he was sober
he abhorred profanity, and never uttered an oath; when he was in liquor
his brain took this turn, and distilled blasphemy in volumes.
He said that all of its energies were quickened and concentrated
in this direction, and then he took not only pleasure, but pride in it.

He told me a good deal of his life. He had got very low
at this time, much lower than he had been when I first knew him.
He recognized this himself, and used to analyze and discuss himself
in quite an impersonal way. This was when he had come out of jail,
and after having the liquor "dried out" of him. In such a state
he always referred to his condition in the past as being something
that never would or could recur; while on the other hand,
if he were just over a drunk, he frankly admitted his absolute slavery
to his habit. When he was getting drunk he shamelessly maintained,
and was ready to swear on all the Bibles in creation, that he had not
touched a drop, and never expected to do so again -- indeed,
could not be induced to do it -- when in fact he would at the very time
be reeking with the fumes of liquor, and perhaps had his pocket then
bulging with a bottle which he had just emptied, and would willingly
have bartered his soul to refill.

I never saw such absolute dominion as the love of liquor had over him.
He was like a man in chains. He confessed it frankly and calmly.
He said he had a disease, and gave me a history of it. It came on him,
he said, in spells; that when he was over one he abhorred it, but when
the fit seized him it came suddenly, and he was in absolute slavery to it.
He said his father was a gentleman of convivial habits (I have heard that
he was very dissipated, though not openly so, and "No. 4" never admitted it).
He was killed at the battle of Bull Run. His mother -- he always spoke of her
with unvarying tenderness and reverence -- had suffered enough, he said,
to canonize her if she were not a saint already; she had brought him up
to have a great horror of liquor, and he had never touched it
till he went into the army. In the army he was in a convivial crowd,
and they had hard marching and poor rations, often none. Liquor was scarce,
and was regarded as a luxury; so although he was very much afraid of it,
yet for good fellowship's sake, and because it was considered mannish,
he used to drink it. Then he got to like it; and then got to feel
the need of it, and took it to stimulate him when he was run down.
This want brought with it a great depression when he did not have
the means to satisfy it. He never liked the actual taste of it;
he said few drunkards did. It was the effect that he was always after.
This increased on him, he said, until finally it was no longer a desire,
but a passion, a necessity; he was obliged to have it. He felt then
that he would commit murder for it. "Why, I dream about it," he said.
"I will tell you what I have done. I have made the most solemn vows,
and have gone to bed and gone to sleep, and waked up and dressed
and walked miles through the rain and snow to get it. I believe
I would have done it if I had known I was going next moment to hell."
He said it had ruined him; said so quite calmly; did not appear to have
any special remorse about it; at least, never professed any; said it used to
trouble him, but he had got over it now. He had had a plantation -- that is,
his mother had had -- and he had been quite successful for a while;
but he said, "A man can't drink liquor and run a farm," and the farm had gone.

I asked him how?

"I sold it," he said calmly; "that is, persuaded my mother to sell it.
The stock that belonged to me had nearly all gone before.
A man who is drinking will sell anything," he said. "I have sold
everything in the world I had, or could lay my hands on. I have never got
quite so low as to sell my old gray jacket that I used to wear when I rode
behind old Joe. I mean to be buried in that -- if I can keep it."

He had been engaged to a nice girl; the wedding-day had been fixed;
but she had broken off the engagement. She married another man.
"She was a mighty nice girl," he said, quietly. "Her people did not like
my drinking so much. I passed her not long ago on the street.
She did not know me." He glanced down at himself quietly. "She looks older
than she did." He said that he had had a place for some time, did not
drink a drop for nearly a year, and then got with some of the old fellows,
and they persuaded him to take a little. "I cannot touch it. I have either
got to drink or let it alone -- one thing or the other," he said.
"But I am all right now," he declared triumphantly, a little of the old fire
lighting up in his face. "I never expect to touch a drop again."

He spoke so firmly that I was persuaded to make him a little loan,
taking his due-bill for it, which he always insisted on giving.
That evening I saw him being dragged along by three policemen,
and he was cursing like a demon.

In the course of time he got so low that he spent much more than half his time
in jail. He became a perfect vagabond, and with his clothes ragged and dirty
might be seen reeling about or standing around the street corners
near disreputable bars, waiting for a chance drink, or sitting asleep
in doorways of untenanted buildings. His companions would be one or two
chronic drunkards like himself, with red noses, bloated faces, dry hair,
and filthy clothes. Sometimes I would see him hurrying along
with one of these as if they had a piece of the most important business
in the world. An idea had struck their addled brains that by some means
they could manage to secure a drink. Yet in some way he still held himself
above these creatures, and once or twice I heard of him being under arrest
for resenting what he deemed an impertinence from them.

Once he came very near being drowned. There was a flood in the river,
and a large crowd was watching it from the bridge. Suddenly a little girl's
dog fell in. It was pushed in by a ruffian. The child cried out,
and there was a commotion. When it subsided a man was seen swimming for life
after the little white head going down the stream. It was "No. 4".
He had slapped the fellow in the face, and then had sprung in after the dog.
He caught it, and got out himself, though in too exhausted a state
to stand up. When he was praised for it, he said, "A member of
old Joe's company who would not have done that could not have ridden
behind old Joe." I had this story from eye-witnesses, and it was used
shortly after with good effect; for he was arrested for burglary,
breaking into a man's house one night. It looked at first
like a serious case, for some money had been taken out of a drawer;
but when the case was investigated it turned out that the house
was a bar-room over which the man lived, -- he was the same man
who had pitched the dog into the water, -- and that "No. 4",
after being given whiskey enough to make him a madman, had been put out
of the place, had broken into the bar during the night to get more,
and was found fast asleep in a chair with an empty bottle beside him.
I think the jury became satisfied that if any money had been taken
the bar-keeper, to make out a case against "No. 4", had taken it himself.
But there was a technical breaking, and it had to be got around;
so his counsel appealed to the jury, telling them what he knew of "No. 4",
together with the story of the child's dog, and "No. 4"'s reply.
There were one or two old soldiers on the jury, and they acquitted him,
on which he somehow managed to get whiskey enough to land him back in jail
in twenty-four hours.

In May, 1890, there was a monument unveiled in Richmond. It was
a great occasion, and not only all Virginia, but the whole South,
participated in it with great fervor, much enthusiasm, and many tears.
It was an occasion for sacred memories. The newspapers talked about it
for a good while beforehand; preparations were made for it
as for the celebration of a great and general ceremony in which
the whole South was interested. It was interested, because it was
not only the unveiling of a monument for the old commander,
the greatest and loftiest Southerner, and, as the South holds, man,
of his time; it was an occasion consecrated to the whole South;
it was the embalming in precious memories, and laying away in the tomb
of the Southern Confederacy: the apotheosis of the Southern people.
As such all were interested in it, and all prepared for it.
It was known that all that remained of the Southern armies would be there:
of the armies that fought at Shiloh, and Bull Run, and Fort Republic;
at Seven Pines, Gaines's Mill, and Cold Harbor; at Antietam, Fredericksburg,
Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg; at Franklin, Atlanta, Murfreesboro,
and Chickamauga, Spottsylvania, the Wilderness, and Petersburg;
and the whole South, Union as it is now and ready to fight
the nation's battles, gathered to glorify Lee, the old commander,
and to see and glorify the survivors of those and other bloody fields
in which the volunteer soldiers of the South had held the world at bay,
and added to the glorious history of their race. Men came all the way
from Oregon and California to be present. Old one-legged soldiers stumped it
from West Virginia. Even "No. 4", though in the gutter, caught the contagion,
and shaped up and became sober. He got a good suit of clothes somewhere --
not new -- and appeared quite respectable. He even got something to do,
and, in token of what he had been, was put on one of the many committees
having a hand in the entertainment arrangements. I never saw a greater change
in anyone. It looked as if there was hope for him yet. He stopped me
on the street a day or two before the unveiling and told me he had
a piece of good news: the remnant of his old company was to be here;
he had got hold of the last one, -- there were nine of them left, --
and he had his old jacket that he had worn in the war, and he was going
to wear it on the march. "It's worn, of course," he said, "but my mother
put some patches over the holes, and except for the stain on it
it's in good order. I believe I am the only one of the boys that has
his jacket still; my mother kept this for me; I have never got so hard up
as to part with it. I'm all right now. I mean to be buried in it."

I had never remarked before what a refined face he had;
his enthusiasm made him look younger than I had ever seen him.

I saw him on the day before the eve of the unveiling; he was as busy as a bee,
and looked almost handsome. "The boys are coming in by every train," he said.
"Look here." He pulled me aside, and unbuttoned his vest.
A piece of faded gray cloth was disclosed. He had the old gray jacket on
under his other coat. "I know the boys will like to see it," he said.
"I'm going down to the train now to meet one -- Binford Terrell.
I don't know whether I shall know him. Binford and I used to be
much of a size. We did not use to speak at one time; had a falling out
about which one should hold the horses; I made him do it, but I reckon
he won't remember it now. I don't. I have not touched a drop. Good-by."
He went off.

The next night about bedtime I got a message that a man wanted to see me
at the jail immediately. It was urgent. Would I come down there at once?
I had a foreboding, and I went down. It was as I suspected.
"No. 4" was there behind the bars. "Drunk again," said the turnkey,
laconically, as he let me in. He let me see him. He wanted me
to see the judge and get him out. He besought me. He wept. "It was all
an accident;" he had "found some of the old boys, and they had got to
talking over old times, and just for old times' sake," etc. He was too drunk
to stand up; but the terror of being locked up next day had sobered him,
and his mind was perfectly clear. He implored me to see the judge
and to get him to let him out. "Tell him I will come back here
and stay a year if he will let me out to-morrow," he said brokenly.
He showed me the gray jacket under his vest, and was speechless.
Even then he did not ask release on the ground that he was a veteran.
I never knew him to urge this reason. Even the officials who must have
seen him there fifty times were sympathetic; and they told me to see
the justice, and they believed he would let him out for next day.
I applied to him as they suggested. He said, "Come down to court
to-morrow morning." I did so. "No. 4" was present, pale and trembling.
As he stood there he made a better defence than any one else could have made
for him. He admitted his guilt, and said he had nothing to say in extenuation
except that it was the "old story", he "had not intended it; he deserved
it all, but would like to get off that day; had a special reason for it,
and would, if necessary, go back to jail that evening and stay there a year,
or all his life." As he stood awaiting sentence, he looked like
a damned soul. His coat was unbuttoned, and his old, faded gray jacket
showed under it. The justice, to his honor, let him off: let all offenders
off that day. "No. 4" shook hands with him, unable to speak, and turned away.
Then he had a strange turn. We had hard work to get him to go
into the procession. He positively refused; said he was not fit to go,
or to live; began to cry, and took off his jacket. He would go back to jail,
he said. We finally got him straight; accepted from him a solemn promise
not to touch a drop till the celebration was over, so help him God,
and sent him off to join his old command at the tobacco-warehouse on the slip
where the cavalry rendezvoused. I had some apprehension that he would not
turn up in the procession; but I was mistaken. He was there with the old
cavalry veterans, as sober as a judge, and looking every inch a soldier.

It was a strange scene, and an impressive one even to those whose hearts
were not in sympathy with it in any respect. Many who had been
the hardest fighters against the South were in sympathy with much of it,
if not with all. But to those who were of the South, it was sublime.
It passed beyond mere enthusiasm, however exalted, and rested in
the profoundest and most sacred deeps of their being. There were many cheers,
but more tears; not tears of regret or mortification, but tears of sympathy
and hallowed memory. The gayly decorated streets, in all the bravery
of fluttering ensigns and bunting; the martial music of many bands;
the constant tramp of marching troops; the thronged sidewalks,
verandas, and roofs; the gleam of polished arms and glittering uniforms;
the flutter of gay garments, and the smiles of beautiful women
sweet with sympathy; the long line of old soldiers, faded and broken and gray,
yet each self-sustained, and inspired by the life of the South
that flowed in their veins, marching under the old Confederate battle-flags
that they had borne so often in victory and in defeat -- all contributed
to make the outward pageant a scene never to be forgotten. But this was
merely the outward image; the real fact was the spirit. It was the South.
It was the spirit of the South; not of the new South, nor yet merely
of the old South, but the spirit of the great South. When the young troops
from every Southern State marched by in their fresh uniforms,
with well-drilled battalions, there were huzzas, much applause and enthusiasm;
when the old soldiers came there was a tempest: wild cheers
choking with sobs and tears, the well-known, once-heard-never-forgotten cry
of the battling South, known in history as "the rebel yell". Men and women
and children joined in it. It began at the first sight of the regular column,
swelled up the crowded streets, rose to the thronged housetops,
ran along them for squares like a conflagration, and then came rolling back
in volume only to rise and swell again greater than before. Men wept;
children shrilled; women sobbed aloud. What was it! Only a thousand or two
of old or aging men riding or tramping along through the dust of the street,
under some old flags, dirty and ragged and stained. But they represented
the spirit of the South; they represented the spirit which when honor
was in question never counted the cost; the spirit that had stood up
for the South against overwhelming odds for four years, and until the South
had crumbled and perished under the forces of war; the spirit that is
the strongest guaranty to us to-day that the Union is and is to be;
the spirit that, glorious in victory, had displayed a fortitude
yet greater in defeat. They saw in every stain on those tattered standards
the blood of their noblest, bravest, and best; in every rent
a proof of their glorious courage and sacrifice. They saw in those
gray and careworn faces, in those old clothes interspersed now and then
with a faded gray uniform, the men who in the ardor of their youth had,
for the South, faced death undaunted on a hundred fields, and had never
even thought it great; men who had looked immortality in the eyes,
yet had been thrown down and trampled underfoot, and who were greater
in their overthrow than when glory poured her light upon their upturned faces.
Not one of them all but was self-sustaining, sustained by the South,
or had ever even for one moment thought in his direst extremity
that he would have what was, undone.

The crowd was immense; the people on the fashionable street
up which the procession passed were fortunate; they had the advantage
of their yards and porticos, and they threw them open to the public.
Still the throng on the sidewalks was tremendous, and just before
the old veterans came along the crush increased. As it resettled itself
I became conscious that a little old woman in a rusty black dress
whom I had seen patiently standing alone in the front line
on the street corner for an hour had lost her position, and had been
pushed back against the railing, and had an anxious, disappointed look
on her face. She had a little, faded knot of Confederate colors
fastened in her old dress, and, almost hidden by the crowd, she was looking
up and down in some distress to see if she could not again get a place from
which she could see. Finally she seemed to give it up, and stood quite still,
tiptoeing now and then to try to catch a glimpse. I saw someone
about to help her when, from a gay and crowded portico above her,
a young and beautiful girl in a white dress, whom I had been observing
for some time as the life of a gay party, as she sat in her loveliness,
a queen on her throne with her courtiers around her, suddenly arose
and ran down into the street. There was a short colloquy.
The young beauty was offering something which the old lady was declining;
but it ended in the young girl leading the older woman gently up
on to her veranda and giving her the chair of state. She was hardly seated
when the old soldiers began to pass.

As the last mounted veterans came by, I remembered that I had
not seen "No. 4"; but as I looked up, he was just coming along.
In his hand, with staff resting on his toe, he carried an old standard
so torn and tattered and stained that it was scarcely recognizable as a flag.
I did not for a moment take in that it was he, for he was not in
the gray jacket which I had expected to see. He was busy looking down
at the throng on the sidewalk, apparently searching for some one
whom he expected to find there. He was in some perplexity,
and pulled in his horse, which began to rear. Suddenly the applause
from the portico above arrested his attention, and he looked toward it
and bowed. As he did so his eye caught that of the old lady seated there.
His face lighted up, and, wheeling his prancing horse half around,
he dipped the tattered standard, and gave the royal salute
as though saluting a queen. The old lady pressed her wrinkled hand
over the knot of faded ribbon on her breast, and made a gesture to him,
and he rode on. He had suddenly grown handsome. I looked at her again;
her eyes were closed, her hands were clasped, and her lips were moving.
I saw the likeness: she was his mother. As he passed me I caught his eye.
He saw my perplexity about the jacket, glanced up at the torn colors,
and pointed to a figure just beyond him dressed in a short, faded jacket.
"No. 4" had been selected, as the highest honor, to carry the old colors
which he had once saved; and not to bear off all the honors from his friend,
he had with true comradeship made Binford Terrell wear his cherished jacket.
He made a brave figure as he rode away, and my cheer died on my lips
as I thought of the sad, old mother in her faded knot, and of the dashing
young soldier who had saved the colors in that unnamed fight.

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