The Burial of the Guns

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All this reached Mrs. Stanley, and was no doubt sweet to her ears.
She related it in her drawling voice to Darby as he sat in the door
one evening, but it did not seem to have much effect on him;
he never stirred or showed by word or sign that he even heard her,
and finally, without speaking, he rose and lounged away into the woods.
The old woman gazed after him silently until he disappeared,
and then gave a look across to where the Mills cabin peeped
from among the pines, which was full of hate.

. . . . .

The fish-fry at which Darby Stanley had first fought the Mills boys
and then pulled one of them out of the river, had been given
by one of the county candidates for election as delegate to a convention
which was to be held at the capital, and possibly the division of sentiment
in the district between the Millses and Little Darby was as much due
to political as to personal feeling; for the sides were growing
more and more tightly drawn, and the Millses, as usual, were on one side
and Little Darby on the other; and both sides had strong adherents.
The question was on one side, Secession, with probable war; and on the other,
the Union as it was. The Millses were for the candidate who advocated
the latter, and Little Darby was for him who wanted secession.
Both candidates were men of position and popularity, the one a young man
and the other older, and both were neighbors.

The older man was elected, and shortly the question became imminent,
and all the talk about the Cross-roads was of war. As time had worn on,
Little Darby, always silent, had become more and more so,
and seemed to be growing morose. He spent more and more of his time
in the woods or about the Cross-roads, the only store and post-office
near the district where the little tides of the quiet life around
used to meet. At length Mrs. Stanley considered it so serious
that she took it upon herself to go over and talk to her neighbor,
Mrs. Douwill, as she generally did on matters too intricate and grave
for the experience of the district. She found Mrs. Douwill,
as always, sympathetic and kind, and though she took back with her
not much enlightenment as to the cause of her son's trouble or its cure,
she went home in a measure comforted with the assurance of the sympathy of one
stronger than she. She had found out that her neighbor, powerful and rich
as she seemed to her to be, had her own troubles and sorrows;
she heard from her of the danger of war breaking out at any time,
and her husband would enlist among the first.

Little Darby did not say much when his mother told of her visit;
but his usually downcast eyes had a new light in them,
and he began to visit the Cross-roads oftener.

At last one day the news that came to the Cross-roads was that
there was to be war. It had been in the air for some time,
but now it was undoubted. It came in the presence of Mr. Douwill himself,
who had come the night before and was commissioned by the Governor
to raise a company. There were a number of people there -- quite a crowd
for the little Cross-roads -- for the stir had been growing day by day,
and excitement and anxiety were on the increase. The papers had been full
of secession, firing on flags, raising troops, and everything;
but that was far off. When Mr. Douwill appeared in person it came nearer,
though still few, if any, quite took it in that it could be actual
and immediate. Among those at the Cross-roads that day were the Millses,
father and sons, who looked a little critically at the speaker
as one who had always been on the other side. Little Darby was also there,
silent as usual, but with a light burning in his blue eyes.

That evening, when Little Darby reached home, which he did somewhat earlier
than usual, he announced to his mother that he had enlisted as a soldier.
The old woman was standing before her big fireplace when he told her,
and she leaned against it quite still for a moment; then she sat down,
stumbling a little on the rough hearth as she made her way
to her little broken chair. Darby got up and found her a better one,
which she took without a word.

Whatever entered into her soul in the little cabin that night,
when Mrs. Stanley went among her neighbors she was a soldier's mother.
She even went over to Cove Mills's on some pretext connected with
Darby's going. Vashti was not at home, but Mrs. Mills was, and she felt
a sudden loss, as if somehow the Millses had fallen below the Stanleys.
She talked of it for several days; she could not make out entirely
what it was. Vashti's black eyes flashed.

The next day Darby went to the Cross-roads to drill; there was,
besides the recruits, who were of every class, quite a little crowd there
to look at the drill. Among them were two women of the poorest class,
one old and faded, rather than gray, the other hardly better dressed,
though a slim figure, straight and trim, gave her a certain distinction,
even had not a few ribbons and a little ornament or two on her pink calico,
with a certain air, showed that she was accustomed to being admired.

The two women found themselves together once during the day,
and their eyes met. It was just as the line of soldiers passed.
Those of the elder lighted with a sudden spark of mingled triumph and hate,
those of the younger flashed back for a moment and then fell beneath
the elder's gaze. There was much enthusiasm about the war,
and among others, both of the Mills boys enlisted before the day was ended,
their sister going in with them to the room where their names were entered
on the roll, and coming out with flashing eyes and mantling cheeks.
She left the place earlier than most of the crowd, but not until
after the drill was over and some of the young soldiers had gone home.
The Mills boys' enlistment was set down in the district to Vashti,
and some said it was because she was jealous of Little Darby
being at the end of the company, with a new gun and such a fine uniform;
for her hatred of Little Darby was well known; anyhow,
their example was followed, and in a short time nearly all the young men
in the district had enlisted.

At last one night a summons came for the company to assemble
at the Cross-roads next day with arms and equipment. Orders had come
for them to report at once at the capital of the State for drill,
before being sent into the field to repel a force which, report said,
was already on the way to invade the State. There was the greatest excitement
and enthusiasm. This was war! And everyone was ready to meet it.
The day was given to taking an inventory of arms and equipment,
and then there was a drill, and then the company was dismissed for the night,
as many of them had families of whom they had not taken leave,
and as they had not come that day prepared to leave, and were ordered
to join the commander next day, prepared to march.

Little Darby escorted his mother home, taciturn as ever. At first there was
quite a company; but as they went their several ways to their home,
at last Little Darby and his mother were left alone in the piney path,
and made the last part of their way alone. Now and then the old woman's eyes
were on him, and often his eyes were on her, but they did not speak;
they just walked on in silence till they reached home.

It was but a poor, little house even when the wistaria vine covered it,
wall and roof, and the bees hummed among its clusters of violet blossoms;
but now the wistaria bush was only a tangle of twisted wires hung upon it,
and the little weather-stained cabin looked bare and poor enough.
As the young fellow stood in the door looking out with the evening light
upon him, his tall, straight figure filled it as if it had been a frame.
He stood perfectly motionless for some minutes, gazing across
the gum thickets before him.

The sun had set only about a half-hour and the light was still lingering
on the under edges of the clouds in the west and made a sort of glow
in the little yard before him, as it did in front of the cabin
on the other hill. His eye first swept the well-known horizon,
taking in the thickets below him and the heavy pines on either side
where it was already dusk, and then rested on the little cabin opposite.
Whether he saw it or not, one could hardly have told,
for his face wore a reminiscent look. Figures moved backward and forward
over there, came out and went in, without his look changing.
Even Vashti, faintly distinguishable in her gay dress,
came out and passed down the hill alone, without his expression changing.
It was, perhaps, fifteen minutes later that he seemed to awake,
and after a look over his shoulder stepped from the door into the yard.
His mother was cooking, and he strolled down the path across
the little clearing and entered the pines. Insensibly his pace quickened --
he strode along the dusky path with as firm a step as if it were
broad daylight. A quarter of a mile below the path crossed the little stream
and joined the path from Cove Mills's place, which he used to take
when he went to school. He crossed at the old log and turned down the path
through the little clearing there. The next moment he stood face to face
with Vashti Mills. Whether he was surprised or not no one could have told,
for he said not a word, and his face was in the shadow,
though Vashti's was toward the clearing and the light from the sky was on it.
Her hat was in her hand. He stood still, but did not stand aside
to let her pass, until she made an imperious little gesture
and stepped as if she would have passed around him. Then he stood aside.
But she did not appear in a hurry to avail herself of the freedom offered,
she simply looked at him. He took off his cap sheepishly enough,
and said, "Good-evenin'."

"Good-evenin'," she said, and then, as the pause became embarrassing,
she said, "Hear you're agoin' away to-morrer?"

"Yes -- to-morrer mornin'."

"When you're acomin' back?" she asked, after a pause
in which she had been twisting the pink string of her hat.

"Don't know -- may be never." Had he been looking at her he might have seen
the change which his words brought to her face; she lifted her eyes
to his face for the first time since the half defiant glance she had given him
when they met, and they had a strange light in them, but at the moment
he was looking at a bow on her dress which had been pulled loose.
He put out his hand and touched it and said:

"You're a-losin' yer bow," and as she found a pin and fastened it again,
he added, "An' I don' know as anybody keers."

An overpowering impulse changed her and forced her to say:
"I don't know as anybody does either; I know as I don't."

The look on his face smote her, and the spark died out of her eyes
as he said, slowly: "No, I knowed you didn'! I don't know as anybody does,
exceptin' my old woman. Maybe she will a little. I jist wanted to tell you
that I wouldn't a' fit them boys if they hadn't a' pushed me so hard,
and I wan't afeared to fight your old man, I jist wouldn't -- that's all."

What answer she might have made to this was prevented by him;
for he suddenly held out his hand with something in it, saying, "Here."

She instinctively reached out to take whatever it was,
and he placed in her hand a book which she recognized as the little Testament
which she had won as a prize at school and had given him when
they went to school together. It was the only book she had ever possessed
as her very own.

"I brought this thinking as how maybe you might 'a'-wanted --
me to keep it," he was going to say; but he checked himself and said:
"might 'a'-wanted it back."

Before she could recover from the surprise of finding the book in her hand
her own, he was gone. The words only came to her clearly
as his retreating footsteps grew fainter and his tall figure faded
in the darkening light. She made a hasty step or two after him,
then checked herself and listened intently to see if he were not returning,
and then, as only the katydids answered, threw herself flat on the ground
and grovelled in the darkness.

There were few houses in the district or in the county where lights did not
burn all that night. The gleam of the fire in Mrs. Stanley's little house
could be seen all night from the door of the Mills cabin,
as the candle by which Mrs. Mills complained while she and Vashti sewed,
could be faintly seen from Little Darby's house. The two Mills boys slept
stretched out on the one bed in the little centre-room.

While the women sewed and talked fitfully by the single tallow candle,
and old Cove dozed in a chair with his long legs stretched out toward the fire
and the two shining barrels of his sons' muskets resting against his knees,
where they had slipped from his hands when he had finished rubbing them.

The younger woman did most of the sewing. Her fingers were suppler
than her mother's, and she scarcely spoke except to answer the latter's
querulous questions. Presently a rooster crowed somewhere in the distance,
and almost immediately another crowed in answer closer at hand.

"Thar's the second rooster-crow, it's gittin' erlong toward the mornin',"
said the elder woman.

The young girl made no answer, but a moment later rose and, laying aside
the thing she was sewing, walked to the low door and stepped out
into the night. When she returned and picked up her sewing again,
her mother said:

"I de-clar, Vashti, you drinks mo' water than anybody I ever see."

To which she made no answer.

"Air they a-stirrin' over at Mis's Stanley's?" asked the mother.

"They ain't a-been to bed," said the girl, quietly; and then,
as if a sudden thought had struck her, she hitched her chair nearer the door
which she had left open, and sat facing it as she sewed on the brown thing
she was working on a small bow which she took from her dress.

"I de-clar, I don't see what old Mis's Stanley is actually a-gwine to do,"
broke out Mrs. Mills, suddenly, and when Vashti did not feel called on
to try to enlighten her she added, "Do you?"

"Same as other folks, I s'pose," said the girl, quietly.

"Other folks has somebody -- somebody to take keer on 'em.
I've got your pappy now; but she ain't got nobody but little Darby --
and when he's gone what will she do?"

For answer Vashti only hitched her chair a little nearer the door
and sewed on almost in darkness. "Not that he was much account to her,
ner to anybody else, except for goin' aroun' a-fightin' and a-fussin'."

"He was account to her," flamed up the girl, suddenly; "he was account to her,
to her and to everybody else. He was the fust soldier that 'listed,
and he's account to everybody."

The old woman had raised her head in astonishment at her daughter's
first outbreak, and was evidently about to reply sharply;
but the girl's flushed face and flashing eyes awed and silenced her.

"Well, well, I ain't sayin' nothin' against him," she said, presently.

"Yes, you air -- you're always sayin' somethin' against him --
and so is everybody else -- and they ain't fitten to tie his shoes.
Why don't they say it to his face! There ain't one of 'em as dares it,
and he's the best soldier in the comp'ny, an' I'm jest as proud of it
as if he was my own."

The old woman was evidently bound to defend herself. She said:

"It don't lay in your mouth to take up for him, Vashti Mills;
for you're the one as has gone up and down and abused him scandalous."

"Yes, and I know I did," said the girl, springing up excitedly
and tossing her arms and tearing at her ribbons. "An' I told him
to his face too, and that's the only good thing about it.
I knowed it was a lie when I told him, and he knowed it was a lie too,
and he knowed I knowed it was a lie -- what's more -- and I'm glad he did --
fo' God I'm glad he did. He could 'a' whipped the whole company
an' he jest wouldn't -- an' that's God's truth -- God's fatal truth."

The next instant she was on her knees hunting for something on the floor,
in an agony of tears; and as her father, aroused by the noise,
rose and asked a question, she sprang up and rushed out of the door.

The sound of an axe was already coming through the darkness
across the gum thickets from Mrs. Stanley's, telling that preparation
was being made for Darby's last breakfast. It might have told more, however,
by its long continuance; for it meant that Little Darby was cutting his mother
a supply of wood to last till his return. Inside, the old woman,
thin and faded, was rubbing his musket.

. . . . .

The sun was just rising above the pines, filling the little bottom
between the cabins with a sort of rosy light, and making
the dewy bushes and weeds sparkle with jewel-strung gossamer webs,
when Little Darby, with his musket in his hand, stepped for the last time
out of the low door. He had been the first soldier in the district to enlist,
he must be on time. He paused just long enough to give one swift glance
around the little clearing, and then set out along the path at his old
swinging pace. At the edge of the pines he turned and glanced back.
His mother was standing in the door, but whether she saw him or not
he could not tell. He waved his hand to her, but she did not wave back,
her eyes were failing somewhat. The next instant he disappeared in the pines.

He had crossed the little stream on the old log and passed the point where
he had met Vashti the evening before, when he thought he heard something fall
a little ahead of him. It could not have been a squirrel,
for it did not move after it fell. His old hunter's instinct
caused him to look keenly down the path as he turned the clump of bushes
which stopped his view; but he saw no squirrel or other moving thing.
The only thing he saw was a little brown something with a curious spot on it
lying in the path some little way ahead. As he came nearer it,
he saw that it was a small parcel not as big as a man's fist.
Someone had evidently dropped it the evening before. He picked it up
and examined it as he strode along. It was a little case or wallet
made of some brown stuff, such as women carry needles and thread in,
and it was tied up with a bit of red, white and blue string,
the Confederate colors, on the end of which was sewed a small bow
of pink ribbon. He untied it. It was what it looked to be:
a roughly made little needle-case such as women use, tolerably well stocked
with sewing materials, and it had something hard and almost square
in a separate pocket. Darby opened this, and his gun almost slipped
from his hand. Inside was the Testament he had given back to Vashti
the evening before. He stopped stock-still, and gazed at it in amazement,
turning it over in his hand. He recognized the bow of pink ribbon
as one like that which she had had on her dress the evening before.
She must have dropped it. Then it came to him that she must have given it
to one of her brothers, and a pang shot through his heart.
But how did it get where he found it? He was too keen a woodsman not to know
that no footstep had gone before his on that path that morning.
It was a mystery too deep for him, and after puzzling over it a while
he tied the parcel up again as nearly like what it had been before
as he could, and determined to give it to one of the Mills boys
when he reached the Cross-roads. He unbuttoned his jacket
and put it into the little inner pocket, and then rebuttoning it carefully,
stepped out again more briskly than before.

It was perhaps an hour later that the Mills boys set out for the Cross-roads.
Their father and mother went with them; but Vashti did not go.
She had "been out to look for the cow," and got in only just before they left,
still clad in her yesterday's finery; but it was wet and bedraggled
with the soaking dew. When they were gone she sat down in the door,
limp and dejected.

More than once during the morning the girl rose and started down the path
as if she would follow them and see the company set out on its march,
but each time she came back and sat down again in the door,
remaining there for a good while as if in thought.

Once she went over almost to Mrs. Stanley's, then turned back
and sat down again.

So the morning passed, and the first thing she knew, her father and mother
had returned. The company had started. They were to march to the bridge
that night. She heard them talking over the appearance that they had made;
the speech of the captain; the cheers that went up as they marched off --
the enthusiasm of the crowd. Her father was in much excitement.
Suddenly she seized her sun-bonnet and slipped out of the house
and across the clearing, and the next instant she was flying down the path
through the pines. She knew the road they had taken, and a path
that would strike it several miles lower down. She ran like a deer,
up hill and down, availing herself of every short cut, until,
about an hour after she started, she came out on the road.
Fortunately for her, the delays incident to getting any body of new troops
on the march had detained the company, and a moment's inspection of the road
showed her that they had not yet passed. Clambering up a bank,
she concealed herself and lay down. In a few moments she heard
the noise they made in the distance, and she was still panting from her haste
when they came along, the soldiers marching in order, as if still on parade,
and a considerable company of friends attending them. Not a man, however,
dreamed that, flat on her face in the bushes, lay a girl peering down at them
with her breath held, but with a heart which beat so loud to her own ears
that she felt they must hear it. Least of all did Darby Stanley,
marching erect and tall in front, for all the sore heart in his bosom,
know that her eyes were on him as long as she could see him.

When Vashti brought up the cow that night it was later than usual.
It perhaps was fortunate for her that the change made by the absence
of the boys prevented any questioning. After all the excitement
her mother was in a fit of despondency. Her father sat in the door
looking straight before him, as silent as the pine on which
his vacant gaze was fixed. Even when the little cooking they had
was through with and his supper was offered him, he never spoke.
He ate in silence and then took his seat again. Even Mrs. Mills's
complaining about the cow straying so far brought no word from him
any more than from Vashti. He sat silent as before, his long legs
stretched out toward the fire. The glow of the embers fell on the rough,
thin face and lit it up, bringing out the features and making them
suddenly clear-cut and strong. It might have been only the fire,
but there seemed the glow of something more, and the eyes burnt
back under the shaggy brows. The two women likewise were silent,
the elder now and then casting a glance at her husband. She offered him
his pipe, but he said nothing, and silence fell as before.

Presently she could stand it no longer. "I de-clar, Vashti," she said,
"I believe your pappy takes it most harder than I does."

The girl made some answer about the boys. It was hardly intended
for him to hear, but he rose suddenly, and walking to the door,
took down from the two dogwood forks above it his old, long,
single-barrelled gun, and turning to his wife said, "Git me my coat,
old woman; by Gawd, I'm a-gwine." The two women were both on their feet
in a second. Their faces were white and their hands were clenched
under the sudden stress, their breath came fast. The older woman
was the first to speak.

"What in the worl' ken you do, Cove Mills, ole an' puny as you is,
an' got the rheumatiz all the time, too?"

"I ken pint a gun," said the old man, doggedly, "an' I'm a-gwine."

"An' what in the worl' is a-goin' to become of us, an' that cow
got to runnin' away so, I'm afeared all the time she'll git in the mash?"
Her tone was querulous, but it was not positive, and when her husband
said again, "I'm a-gwine," she said no more, and all the time
she was getting together the few things which Cove would take.

As for Vashti, she seemed suddenly revivified; she moved about
with a new step, swift, supple, silent, her head up, a new light in her face,
and her eyes, as they turned now and then on her father,
filled with a new fire. She did not talk much. "I'll a-teck care o' us all,"
she said once; and once again, when her mother gave something like a moan,
she supported her with a word about "the only ones as gives three
from one family." It was a word in season, for the mother caught the spirit,
and a moment later declared, with a new tone in her voice, that that was
better than Mrs. Stanley, and still they were better off than she,
for they still had two left to help each other, while she had not a soul.

"I'll teck care o' us all," repeated the girl once more.

It was only a few things that Cove Mills took with him that morning,
when he set out in the darkness to overtake the company
before they should break camp -- hardly his old game-bag half full;
for the equipment of the boys had stripped the little cabin of everything
that could be of use. He might only have seemed to be going hunting,
as he slung down the path with his old long-barrelled gun in his hand
and his game-bag over his shoulder, and disappeared in the darkness
from the eyes of the two women standing in the cabin door.

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