Chapter 5

For a moment Crittenden watched her. He never realized before how much simple physical beauty she had, nor did he realize the significance of the fact that never until now had he observed it. She had been a spirit before; now she was a woman as well. But he did note that if he could have learned only from Judith, he would never have known that he even had wrists or eyes until that day; and yet he was curiously unstirred by the subtle change in her. He was busied with his own memories.

"And I know it can never come back," he said, and he went on thinking as he looked at her. "I wonder if you can know what it is to have somebody such a part of your life that you never hear a noble strain of music, never read a noble line of poetry, never catch a high mood from nature, nor from your own best thoughts--that you do not imagine her by your side to share your pleasure in it all; that you make no effort to better yourself or help others; that you do nothing of which she could approve, that you are not thinking of her--that really she is not the inspiration of it all. That doesn't come but once. Think of having somebody so linked with your life, with what is highest and best in you, that, when the hour of temptation comes and overcomes, you are not able to think of her through very shame. I wonder if _he_ loved you that way. I wonder if you know what such love is."

"It never comes but once," he said, in a low tone, that made Judith turn suddenly. Her eyes looked as if they were not far from tears.

A tiny star showed in the pink glow over the west--

"Starlight, star bright!"

"Think of it. For ten years I never saw the first star without making the same wish for you and me. Why," he went on, and stopped suddenly with a little shame at making the confession even to himself, and at the same time with an impersonal wonder that such a thing could be, "I used to pray for you always--when I said my prayers--actually. And sometimes even now, when I'm pretty hopeless and helpless and moved by some memory, the old prayer comes back unconsciously and I find myself repeating your name."

For the moment he spoke as though not only that old love, but she who had caused it, were dead, and the tone of his voice made her shiver.

And the suffering he used to get--the suffering from trifles--the foolish suffering from silly trifles!

He turned now, for he heard Judith walking toward him. She was looking him straight in the eyes and was smiling strangely.

"I'm going to make you love me as you used to love me."

Her lips were left half parted from the whisper, and he could have stooped and kissed her--something that never in his life had he done--he knew that--but the old reverence came back from the past to forbid him, and he merely looked down into her eyes, flushing a little.

"Yes," she said, gently. "And I think you are just tall enough."

In a flash her mood changed, and she drew his head down until she could just touch his forehead with her lips. It was a sweet bit of motherliness--no more--and Crittenden understood and was grateful.

"Go home now," she said.

VII

At Tampa--the pomp and circumstance of war.

A gigantic hotel, brilliant with lights, music, flowers, women; halls and corridors filled with bustling officers, uniformed from empty straps to stars; volunteer and regular--easily distinguished by the ease of one and the new and conscious erectness of the other; adjutants, millionaire aids, civilian inspectors; gorgeous attachés--English, German, Swedish, Russian, Prussian, Japanese--each wondrous to the dazzled republican eye; Cubans with cigarettes, Cubans--little and big, war-like, with the tail of the dark eye ever womanward, brave with machétes; on the divans Cuban senoritas--refugees at Tampa--dark-eyed, of course, languid of manner, to be sure, and with the eloquent fan, ever present, omnipotent--shutting and closing, shutting and closing, like the wings of a gigantic butterfly; adventurers, adventuresses; artists, photographers; correspondents by the score--female correspondents; story writers, novelists, real war correspondents, and real draughtsmen--artists, indeed; and a host of lesser men with spurs yet to win--all crowding the hotel day and night, night and day.

And outside, to the sea--camped in fine white sand dust, under thick stars and a hot sun--soldiers, soldiers everywhere, lounging through the streets and the railway stations, overrunning the suburbs; drilling--horseback and on foot--through clouds of sand; drilling at skirmish over burnt sedge-grass and stunted and charred pine woods; riding horses into the sea, and plunging in themselves like truant schoolboys. In the bay a fleet of waiting transports, and all over dock, camp, town, and hotel an atmosphere of fierce unrest and of eager longing to fill those wooden hulks, rising and falling with such maddening patience on the tide, and to be away. All the time, meanwhile, soldiers coming in--more and more soldiers--in freight-box, day-coach, and palace-car.

That night, in the hotel, Grafton and Crittenden watched the crowd from a divan of red plush, Grafton chatting incessantly. Around them moved and sat the women of the "House of the Hundred Thousand"--officers' wives and daughters and sisters and sweethearts and army widows--claiming rank and giving it more or less consciously, according to the rank of the man whom they represented. The big man with the monocle and the suit of towering white from foot to crown was the English naval attaché. He stalked through the hotel as though he had the British Empire at his back.

"And he has, too," said Grafton. "You ought to see him go down the steps to the café. The door is too low for him. Other tall people bend forward--he always rears back."

And the picturesque little fellow with the helmet was the English military attaché. Crittenden had seen him at Chickamauga, and Grafton said they would hear of him in Cuba. The Prussian was handsome, and a Count. The big, boyish blond was a Russian, and a Prince, as was the quiet, modest, little Japanese--a mighty warrior in his own country. And the Swede, the polite, the exquisite!

"He wears a mustache guard. I offered him a cigar. He saluted: 'Thank you,' he said. 'Nevare I schmoke.'"

"They are the pets of the expedition," Grafton went on, "they and that war-like group of correspondents over there. They'll go down on the flag-ship, while we nobodies will herd together on one boat. But we'll all be on the same footing when we get there."

Just then a big man, who was sitting on the next divan twisting his mustache and talking chiefly with his hands, rolled up and called Grafton.

"Huh!" he said.

"Huh!" mimicked Grafton.

"You don't know much about the army."

"Six weeks ago I couldn't tell a doughboy officer from a cavalryman by the stripe down his legs."

The big man smiled with infinite pity and tolerance.

"Therefore," said Grafton, "I shall not pass judgment, deliver expert military opinions, and decide how the campaign ought to be conducted--well, maybe for some days yet."

"You've got to. You must have a policy--a Policy. I'll give you one."

And he began--favoring monosyllables, dashes, exclamation points, pauses for pantomime, Indian sign language, and heys, huhs, and humphs that were intended to fill out sentences and round up elaborate argument.

"There is a lot any damn fool can say, of course, hey? But you mustn't say it, huh? Give 'em hell afterward." (Pantomime.) "That's right, ain't it? Understand? Regular army all right." (Sign language.) "These damn fools outside--volunteers, politicians, hey? Had best army in the world at the close of the old war, see? Best equipped, you understand, huh? Congress" (violent Indian sign language) "wanted to squash it--to squash it--that's right, you understand, huh? Cut it down--cut it down, see? Illustrate: Wanted 18,000 mules for this push, got 2,000, see? Same principle all through; see? That's right! No good to say anything now--people think you complain of the regular army, huh? Mustn't say anything now--give 'em hell afterward--understand?" (More sign language.) "Hell afterward. All right now, got your policy, go ahead."

Grafton nodded basely, and without a smile:

"Thanks, old man--thanks. It's very lucid."

A little later Crittenden saw the stout civilian, Major Billings, fairly puffing with pride, excitement, and a fine uniform of khaki, whom he had met at Chickamauga; and Willings, the surgeon; and Chaffee, now a brigadier; and Lawton, soon to command a division; and, finally, little Jerry Carter, quiet, unassuming, dreamy, slight, old, but active, and tough as hickory. The little general greeted Crittenden like a son.

"I was sorry not to see you again at Chickamauga, but I started here next day. I have just written you that there was a place on my staff for you or your brother--or for any son of your father and my friend. I'll write to Washington for you to-night, and you can report for duty whenever you please."

The little man made the astounding proposition as calmly as though he were asking the Kentuckian to a lunch of bacon and hardtack, and Crittenden flushed with gratitude and his heart leaped--his going was sure now. Before he could stammer out his thanks, the general was gone. Just then Rivers, who, to his great joy, had got at least that far, sat down by him. He was much depressed. His regiment was going, but two companies would be left behind. His colonel talked about sending him back to Kentucky to bring down some horses, and he was afraid to go.

"To think of being in the army as long as I have been, just for this fight. And to think of being left here in this hell-hole all summer, and missing all the fun in Cuba, not to speak of the glory and the game. We haven't had a war for so long that glory will come easy now, and anybody who does anything will be promoted. But it's missing the fight--the fight--that worries me," and Rivers shook his head from side to side dejectedly. "If my company goes, I'm all right; but if it doesn't, there is no chance for me if I go away. I shall lose my last chance of slipping in somewhere. I swear I'd rather go as a private than not at all."

This idea gave Crittenden a start, and made him on the sudden very thoughtful.

"Can you get me in as a private at the last minute?" he asked presently.

"Yes," said Rivers, quickly, "and I'll telegraph you in plenty of time, so that you can get back."

Crittenden smiled, for Rivers's plan was plain, but he was thinking of a plan of his own.

Meanwhile, he drilled as a private each day. He was ignorant of the Krag-Jorgensen, and at Chickamauga he had made such a laughable exhibition of himself that the old Sergeant took him off alone one day, and when they came back the Sergeant was observed to be smiling broadly. At the first target practice thereafter, Crittenden stood among the first men of the company, and the captain took mental note of him as a sharpshooter to be remembered when they got to Cuba. With the drill he had little trouble--being a natural-born horseman--so one day, when a trooper was ill, he was allowed to take the sick soldier's place and drill with the regiment. That day his trouble with Reynolds came. All the soldiers were free and easy of speech and rather reckless with epithets, and, knowing how little was meant, Crittenden merely remonstrated with the bully and smilingly asked him to desist.

"Suppose I don't?"

Crittenden smiled again and answered nothing, and Reynolds mistook his silence for timidity. At right wheel, a little later, Crittenden squeezed the bully's leg, and Reynolds cursed him. He might have passed that with a last warning, but, as they wheeled again, he saw Reynolds kick Sanders so violently that the boy's eyes filled with tears. He went straight for the soldier as soon as the drill was over.

"Put up your guard."

"Aw, go to----"

The word was checked at his lips by Crittenden's fist. In a rage, Reynolds threw his hand behind him, as though he would pull his revolver, but his wrist was caught by sinewy fingers from behind. It was Blackford, smiling into his purple face.

"Hold on!" he said, "save that for a Spaniard."

At once, as a matter of course, the men led the way behind the tents, and made a ring--Blackford, without a word, acting as Crittenden's second. Reynolds was the champion bruiser of the regiment and a boxer of no mean skill, and Blackford looked anxious.

"Worry him, and he'll lose his head. Don't try to do him up too quickly."

Reynolds was coarse, disdainful, and triumphant, but he did not look quite so confident when Crittenden stripped and showed a white body, closely jointed at shoulder and elbow and at knee and thigh, and closely knit with steel-like tendons. The long muscles of his back slipped like eels under his white skin. Blackford looked relieved.

"Do you know the game?"

"A little."

"Worry him and wait till he loses his head--remember, now."

"All right," said Crittenden, cheerfully, and turned and faced Reynolds, smiling.

"Gawd," said Abe Long. "He's one o' the fellows that laugh when they're fightin'. They're worse than the cryin' sort--a sight worse."

The prophecy in the soldier's tone soon came true. The smile never left Crittenden's face, even when it was so bruised up that smiling was difficult; but the onlookers knew that the spirit of the smile was still there. Blackford himself was smiling now. Crittenden struck but for one place at first--Reynolds's nose, which was naturally large and red, because he could reach it every time he led out. The nose swelled and still reddened, and Reynolds's small black eyes narrowed and flamed with a wicked light. He fought with his skill at first, but those maddening taps on his nose made him lose his head altogether in the sixth round, and he senselessly rushed at Crittenden with lowered head, like a sheep. Crittenden took him sidewise on his jaw as he came, and stepped aside. Reynolds pitched to the ground heavily, and Crittenden bent over him.

"You let that boy alone," he said, in a low voice, and then aloud and calmly:

"I don't like this, but it's in deference to your customs. I don't call names, and I allow nobody to call me names; and if I have another fight," Reynolds was listening now, "it won't be with my fists."

"Well, Mister Man from Kentucky," said Abe, "I'd a damn sight ruther you'd use a club on me than them fists; but there's others of us who don't call names, and ain't called names; and some of us ain't easy skeered, neither."

"I wasn't threatening," said Crittenden, quickly, "but I have heard a good deal of that sort of thing flying around, and I don't want to get into this sort of a thing again." He looked steadily at the soldier, but the eye of Abraham Long quailed not at all. Instead, a smile broke over his face.

"I got a drink waitin' fer you," he said; and Crittenden laughed.

"Git up an' shake hands, Jim," said Abe, sternly, to Crittenden's opponent, "an' let's have a drink." Reynolds got up slowly.

"You gimme a damn good lickin,'" he said to Crittenden. "Shake!"

Crittenden shook, and seconds and principals started for Long's tent.

"Boys," he said to the others, "I'm sorry fer ye. I ain't got but four drinks--and--" the old Sergeant was approaching; "and one more fer the Governor."

Rivers smiled broadly when he saw Crittenden at noon.

"The 'Governor' told me," he said, "you couldn't do anything in this regiment that would do you more good with officers and men. That fellow has caused us more trouble than any other ten men in the regiment, and you are the first man yet to get the best of him. If the men could elect you, you'd be a lieutenant before to-morrow night."

Crittenden laughed.

"It was disgusting, but I didn't see any other way out of it."

Tattoo was sounded.

"Are you sure you can get me into the army at any time?"

"Easy--as a private."

"What regiment?"

"Rough Riders or Regulars."

"All right, then, I'll go to Kentucky for you."

"No, old man. I was selfish enough to think it, but I'm not selfish enough to do it. I won't have it."

"But I want to go back. If I can get in at the last moment I should go back anyhow to-night."

"Really?"

"Really. Just see that you let me know in time."

Rivers grasped his hand.

"I'll do that."

Next morning rumours were flying. In a week, at least, they would sail. And still regiments rolled in, and that afternoon Crittenden saw the regiment come in for which Grafton had been waiting--a picturesque body of fighting men and, perhaps, the most typical American regiment formed since Jackson fought at New Orleans. At the head of it rode two men--one with a quiet mesmeric power that bred perfect trust at sight, the other with a kindling power of enthusiasm, and a passionate energy, mental, physical, emotional, that was tireless; each a man among men, and both together an ideal leader for the thousand Americans at their heels. Behind them rode the Rough Riders--dusty, travel-stained troopers, gathered from every State, every walk of labour and leisure, every social grade in the Union--day labourer and millionaire, clerk and clubman, college boys and athletes, Southern revenue officers and Northern policemen; but most of them Westerners--Texan rangers, sheriffs, and desperadoes--the men-hunters and the men-hunted; Indians; followers of all political faiths, all creeds--Catholics, Protestants, Jews; but cowboys for the most part; dare-devils, to be sure, but good-natured, good-hearted, picturesque, fearless. And Americans--all!

As the last troopers filed past, Crittenden followed them with his eyes, and he saw a little way off Blackford standing with folded arms on the edge of a cloud of dust and looking after them too, with his face set as though he were buried deep in a thousand memories. He started when Crittenden spoke to him, and the dark fire of his eyes flashed.

"That's where I belong," he said, with a wave of his hand after the retreating column. "I don't know one of them, and I know them all. I've gone to college with some; I've hunted, fished, camped, drank, and gambled with the others. I belong with them; and I'm going with them if I can; I'm trying to get an exchange now."

"Well, luck to you, and good-by," said Crittenden, holding out his hand. "I'm going home to-night."

"But you're coming back?"

"Yes."

Blackford hesitated.

"Are you going to join this outfit?"--meaning his own regiment.

"I don't know; this or the Rough Riders."

"Well," Blackford seemed embarrassed, and his manner was almost respectful, "if we go together, what do you say to our going as 'bunkies'?"

"Sure!"

"Thank you."

The two men grasped hands.

"I hope you will come back."

"I'm sure to come back. Good-by."

"Good-by, sir."

The unconscious "sir" startled Crittenden. It was merely habit, of course, and the fact that Crittenden was not yet enlisted, but there was an unintended significance in the soldier's tone that made him wince. Blackford turned sharply away, flushing.

VIII

Back in the Bluegrass, the earth was flashing with dew, and the air was brilliant with a steady light that on its way from the sun was broken by hardly a cloud. The woodland was alive with bird-wing and bird-song and, under them, with the flash of metal and the joy of breaking camp. The town was a mighty pedestal for flag-staffs. Everywhere flags were shaken out. Main Street, at a distance, looked like a long lane of flowers in a great garden--all blowing in a wind. Under them, crowds were gathered--country people, negroes, and townfolk--while the town band stood waiting at the gate of the park. The Legion was making ready to leave for Chickamauga, and the town had made ready to speed its going.

Out of the shady woodland, and into the bright sunlight, the young soldiers came--to the music of stirring horn and drum--legs swinging rhythmically, chins well set in, eyes to the front--wheeling into the main street in perfect form--their guns a moving forest of glinting steel--colonel and staff superbly mounted--every heart beating proudly against every blue blouse, and sworn to give up its blood for the flag waving over them--the flag the fathers of many had so bitterly fought five and thirty years before. Down the street went the flash and glitter and steady tramp of the solid columns, through waving flags and handkerchiefs and mad cheers--cheers that arose before them, swelled away on either side and sank out of hearing behind them as they marched--through faces bravely smiling, when the eyes were full of tears; faces tense with love, anxiety, fear; faces sad with bitter memories of the old war. On the end of the first rank was the boy Basil, file-leader of his squad, swinging proudly, his handsome face serious and fixed, his eyes turning to right nor left--seeing not his mother, proud, white, tearless; nor Crittenden, with a lump of love in his throat; nor even little Phyllis--her pride in her boy-soldier swept suddenly out of her aching heart, her eyes brimming, and her handkerchief at her mouth to keep bravely back the sob that surged at her lips. The station at last, and then cheers and kisses and sobs, and tears and cheers again, and a waving of hands and flags and handkerchiefs--a column of smoke puffing on and on toward the horizon--the vanishing perspective of a rear platform filled with jolly, reckless, waving, yelling soldiers, and the tragedy of the parting was over.