Part 8

This is a fair instance of the hidden forces which sweep through the side-scenes of international European politics. In the preceding rapid summary of the present state of politics in the Old World, the conclusion must come irrefutably, and that is the ground of these remarks, that no war is in sight, nor will be for yet a long time. The Triple Alliance wishes, and necessarily wishes, peace. The young German emperor, from whom people have affected to anticipate some mad and irresponsible conduct, has no doubt uttered some imprudent words, but he has never committed any dangerous action. Really, his mouth seems a sort of safety-valve for the boiling steam within. So far he is satisfied with the conquests already secured. He is trying to bring back to him the Emperor of Russia. The meeting which he is now having with the pope is intended to bring about a formal _rapprochement_ between the Quirinal and Vatican. Leo XIII., in turning his face towards the democracy, disquiets all thrones; but he disquiets especially the throne of Italy, since he is showing the Italians that the Papacy is not only not an enemy of republics, but that it might be the protector of future republics in Italy, if the Italian fatherland, dreaming of the former brilliant prosperity, tried to found a democratic federation, with the pope as the centre and beneficent father. But at the same time Leo XIII. will whisper peace in the ear of William II. The young emperor wishes for a long era of peace. The new military law, with its far-reaching bearings, proves this. Even to-day he would never think of undertaking a war which left Prince Bismarck out of account, and he will never undertake a war which might cause his return.

So, too, the Emperor of Austria, King of Hungary; he too is inclined to peace. He cannot risk a war. The bonds which link the different portions of the empire are too fragile to be exposed to the rude strain of armed strife. Italy, perhaps, by a fortunate war might be a gainer; but it is not strong enough to provoke one, or even to carry one on. It would regard the Papacy at the Vatican as too great a danger at its back; and, with little hope of conquering anything without its borders, it might legitimately fear to find Rome no longer intact on its return.

As for the Emperor of Russia, he is moderate at once in his love for France and his hatred of Germany. So far, a man of genius has been wanting to cement the bonds of alliance between France and Germany. There is already an understanding, vague, platonic, and with no morrow assured to it. The French Republic will recoil before the thought of war, so long as Russian action does not precipitate an explosion. The Republic knows that war would be at its peril; that vanquished it is submerged under floods of anarchy, that victorious it brings forth a Caesar, and it wishes peace.

England, rich, industrial, devoted to its own internal problems, preserves an attitude which is an earnest of peace. So that, when one casts a steady glance over the Europe of the present hour, one is minded to say to the world about to repair to the great centre of industry, of letters, and of art, which Chicago is so soon to be: "Go in peace. War is distant. Gather in peace the fruit of your peaceful victories."

BLOWITZ.

THE COMEDY OF WAR.

by Joel Chandler Harris

Author of "Uncle Remus," "Plantation Fables," etc.

I. ON THE UNION SIDE.

Private O'Halloran, detailed for special duty in advance of the picket line, sat reclining against a huge red oak. Within reach lay a rifle of beautiful workmanship. In one hand he held a blackened brier-root pipe, gazing on it with an air of mock regret. It had been his companion on many a weary march and on many a lonely day, when, as now, he was doing duty as a sharp-shooter. But it was not much of a companion now. It held the flavor, but not the fragrance, of other days. It was empty, and so was O'Halloran's tobacco-pouch. It was nothing to grumble about, but the big, laughing Irishman liked his pipe, especially when it was full of tobacco. The words of an old song came to him, and he hummed them to himself:

"There was an ould man, an' he had a wooden leg, An' he had no terbacky, nor terbacky could he beg; There was another ould man, as keen as a fox, An' he always had terbacky in his ould terbacky box.

"Sez one ould man, 'Will yez give me a chew?' Sez the other ould man, 'I'll be dommed ef I do. Kape away from them gin-mills, an' save up yure rocks, An' ye'll always have terbacky in yer ould terbacky box.'"

What with the singing and the far-away thoughts that accompanied the song, Private O'Halloran failed to hear footsteps approaching until they sounded quite near.

"Halt!" he cried, seizing his rifle and springing to his feet. The newcomer wore the insignia of a Federal captain, seeing which, O'Halloran lowered his weapon and saluted. "Sure, sor, you're not to mind me capers. I thought the inimy had me complately surrounded--I did, upon me sowl."

"And I," said the captain, laughing, "thought the Johnnies had caught me. It is a pleasant surprise. You are O'Halloran of the Sharp-shooters, I have heard of you--a gay singer and a great fighter."

"Sure it's not for me to say that same. I sings a little bechwane times for to kape up me sperits, and takes me chances, right and lift. You're takin' a good many yourself, sor, so far away from the picket line. If I make no mistake, sor, it is Captain Somerville I'm talkin' to."

"That is my name," the captain said.

"I was touchin' elbows wit' you at Gettysburg, sor."

The captain looked at O'Halloran again. "Why, certainly!" he exclaimed. "You are the big fellow that lifted one of the Johnnies over the stone wall."

"By the slack of the trousers. I am that same, sor. He was nothin' but a bit of a lad, sor, but he fought right up to the end of me nose. The men was jabbin' at 'im wit' their bay'nets, so I sez to him, says I, 'Come in out of the inclemency of the weather,' says I, and thin I lifted him over. He made at me, sor, when I put 'im down, an' it took two men for to lead 'im kindly to the rear. It was a warm hour, sor."

As O'Halloran talked, he kept his eyes far afield.

"Sure, sor," he went on, "you stand too much in the open. They had one muddlehead on that post yesterday; they'll not put another there to-day, sor." As he said this, the big Irishman seized the captain by the arm and gave him a sudden jerk. It was an unceremonious proceeding, but a very timely one, for the next moment the sapling against which the captain had been lightly leaning was shattered by a ball from the Confederate side.

"Tis an old friend of mine, sor," said O'Halloran; "I know 'im by his handwritin'. They had a muddlehead there yesterday, sor. I set in full sight of 'im, an' he blazed at me twice; the last time I had me fist above me head, an' he grazed me knuckles. 'Be-dad,' says I, 'you're no good in your place;' an' when he showed his mug, I plugged 'im where the nose says howdy to the eyebrows. 'Twas no hurt to 'im, sor; if he seen the flash, 'twas as much."

To the left, in a little clearing, was a comfortable farm-house. Stacks of fodder and straw and pens of corn in the shuck were ranged around. There was every appearance of prosperity, but no sign of life, save two bluebirds, the pioneers of spring, that were fighting around the martin gourds, preparing to take possession.

"There's where I was born." The captain pointed to the farm-house. "It is five years since I have seen the place."

"You don't tell me, sor! I see in the Hur'ld that they call it the Civil War, but it's nothin' but oncivil, sor, for to fight agin' your ould home."

"You are right," assented the captain. "There's nothing civil about war. I suppose the old house has long been deserted."

"Sure, look at the forage, thin. 'Tis piled up as nately as you please. Wait till the b'ys git at it! Look at the smoke of the chimbly. Barrin' the jay-birds, 'tis the peacefulest sight I've seen."

"My people are gone," said the captain. "My father was a Union man. I wouldn't be surprised to hear of him somewhere at the North. The day that I was eighteen he gave me a larrupping for disobedience, and I ran away."

"Don't spake of it, sor." O'Halloran held up his hands. "Many's the time I've had me feelin's hurted wit' a bar'l stave."

"That was in 1860," said the captain. "I was too proud to go back home, but when the war began I remembered what a strong Union man my father was, and I joined the Union army."

"'Tis a great scheme for a play," said the big Irishman solemnly.

"My mother was dead," the captain went on, "my oldest sister was married, and my youngest sister was at school in Philadelphia, and my brother, two years older than myself, made life miserable for me in trying to boss me."

"Oh!" exclaimed O'Halloran, "don't I know that same? 'Tis meself that's been along there."

Captain Somerville looked at the old place, carefully noting the outward changes, which were comparatively few. He noted, too, with the eye of a soldier, that when the impending conflict took place between the forces then facing each other, there would be a sharp struggle for the knoll on which the house stood; and he thought it was a curious feat for his mind to perform, to regard the old home where he had been both happy and miserable as a strategic point of battle. Private O'Halloran had no such memories to please or to vex him. To the extent of his opportunities he was a man of business. He took a piece of white cloth from his pocket and hung it on the broken sapling.

"I'll see, sor, if yon chap is in the grocery business."

As he turned away, there was a puff of smoke on the farther hill, a crackling report, and the hanging cloth jumped as though it were alive.

"Faith, it's him, sor!" exclaimed O'Halloran, "an' he's in a mighty hurry." Whereupon the big Irishman brushed a pile of leaves from an oil-cloth strapped together in the semblance of a knapsack.

"What have you there?" asked Captain Somerville.

"Sure, 'tis me grocery store, sor. Coffee, tay, an' sugar. Faith, I'll make the devil's mouth water like a baby cuttin' his stomach tathe. Would ye mind comin' along, sor, for to kape me from swindlin' the Johnny out of all his belongin's?"

II. ON THE CONFEDERATE SIDE.

Three men sat in a gully that had once been a hillside ditch. Their uniforms were various, the result of accident and capture. One of them wore a very fine blue overcoat which was in queer contrast to his ragged pantaloons. This was Lieutenant Clopton, who had charge of the picket line. Another had on the uniform of an artilleryman, and his left arm was in a sling. He had come out of the hospital to do duty as a guide. This was Private John Fambrough. The third had on no uniform at all, but was dressed in plain citizen's clothes, much the worse for wear. This was Jack Kilpatrick, scout and sharp-shooter. Happy Jack, as he was called.

How long since the gully had been a ditch it would be impossible to say, but it must have been a good many years, for the pines had grown into stout trees, and here and there a black-jack loomed up vigorously.

"Don't git too permiscus around here," said Happy Jack, as the others were moving about. "This ain't no fancy spot." He eased himself upward on his elbow, and made a swift but careful survey of the woodland vista that led to the Federal lines. Then he shook down the breech of his rifle, and slipped a long cartridge into its place. "You see that big poplar over yonder? Well, under that tree there's a man, leastways he ought to be there, because he's always hangin' around in front of me."

"Why don't you nail him?" asked Fambrough.

"Bosh! Why don't he nail me? It's because he can't do it. Well, that's the reason I don't nail him. You know what happened yesterday, don't you? You saw that elegant lookin' chap that came out to take my place, didn't you? Did you see him when he went back?"

Lieutenant Clopton replied with a little grimace, but Fambrough said never a word. He only looked at Kilpatrick with inquiring eyes.

"Why, he was the nicest lookin' man in the army--hair combed, clothes brushed, and rings on his fingers. He was all the way from New 'leans, with a silver-mounted rifle and a globe sight."

"A which?" asked Fambrough.

"A globe sight. Set down on yourself a little further, sonny," said Happy Jack; "your head's too high. I says to him, says I, 'Friend, you are goin' where you'll have to strip that doll's step-ladder off'n your gun, an' come down to business,' says I. I says, says I, 'You may have to face a red-headed, flannel-mouthed Irishman, and you don't want to look at him through all that machinery,' says I."

"What did he say?" Fambrough asked.

"He said, 'I'll git him.' Now, how did he git him? Why, he come down here, lammed aloose a time or two, and then hung his head over the edge of the gully there, with a ball right spang betwixt his eyes. I went behind the picket line to get a wink of sleep, but I hadn't more'n curled up in the broom-sage before I heard that chap a-bangin' away. Then come the reply, like this--" Happy Jack snapped his fingers; "and then I went to sleep waitin' for the rej'inder."

Kilpatrick paused, and looked steadily in the direction of the poplar.

"Well, dog my cats! Yonder's a chap standin' right out in front of me. It ain't the Mickey, neither. I'll see what he's up to." He raised his rifle with a light swinging movement, chirruped to it as though it were a horse or a little child, and in another moment the deadly business of war would have been resumed, but Fambrough laid his hand on the sharp-shooter's arm.

"Wait," he said. "That may be my old man wandering around out there. Don't be too quick on trigger. I ain't got but one old man."

"Shucks!" exclaimed Kilpatrick, pettishly; "you reckon I don't know your old man? He's big in the body, an' wobbly in his legs. You've spiled a mighty purty shot. I believe in my soul that chap was a colonel, an' he might 'a' been a general. Now that's funny."

"What's funny?" asked Fambrough.

"Why, that chap. He'll never know you saved him, an' if he know'd it he wouldn't thank you. I'd 'a' put a hole right through his gizzard. Now he's behind the poplar."

"It's luck," Lieutenant Clopton suggested.

"Maybe," said Kilpatrick. "Yonder he is ag'in. Luck won't save him this time." He raised his rifle, glanced down the barrel, and pulled the trigger. Simultaneously with the report an expression of disgust passed over his face, and with an oath he struck the ground with his fist.

"Don't tell me you missed him," said Clopton.

"Miss what?" exclaimed Kilpatrick scornfully. "If he ain't drunk, somebody pulled him out of the way."

"I told you it was luck," commented Clopton.

"Shucks! don't tell me. Luck's like lightnin'. She never hits twice in the same place."

Kilpatrick sank back in the gully and gave himself up to ruminating. He leaned on his elbows and pulled up little tufts of grass and weeds growing here and there. Lieutenant Clopton, looking across towards the poplar, suddenly reached for the sharp-shooter's rifle, but Kilpatrick placed his hand on it jealously.

"Give me the gun. Yonder's a Yank in full view."

Kilpatrick, still holding his rifle, raised himself and looked.

"Why, he's hanging out a flag of truce," said Clopton. "What does the fellow mean?"

"It's a message," said Kilpatrick, "an' here's the answer." With that he raised his rifle, dropped it gently in the palm, of his left hand, and fired.

"You saw the hankcher jump, didn't you?" he exclaimed. "Well, that lets us out. That's my Mickey. He wants tobacco, and I want coffee an' tea. Come, watch me swap him out of his eye teeth."

Then Kilpatrick went to a clump of broom sedge and drew forth a wallet containing several pounds of prepared smoking tobacco and a bundle of plug tobacco, and in a few moments the trio were picking their way through the underwood towards the open.

III. ON NEUTRAL GROUND.

Matters were getting critical for Squire Fambrough. He had vowed and declared that he would never be a refugee, but he had a responsibility on his hands that he had not counted on. That responsibility was his daughter Julia, twenty-two years old, and as obstinate as her father. The Squire had sent off his son's wife and her children, together with as many negroes as had refused to go into the Union lines. He had expected his daughter to go at the same time, but when the time arrived, the fair Julia showed that she had a mind of her own. She made no scene, she did not go into hysterics; but when everything was ready, she asked her father if he was going. He said he would follow along after a while. She called to a negro, and made him take her trunks and band-boxes from the wagon and carry them into the house, while Squire Fambrough stood scratching his head.

"Why don't you make her come?" his daughter-in-law asked, somewhat sharply.

"Well, Susannah," the Squire remarked, "I ain't been a jestice of the peace and a married man, off and on for forty year, without findin' out when to fool with the wimen sek an' when not to fool wi' 'em."

"I'd make her come," said the daughter-in-law.

"I give you lief, Susannah, freely an' fully. Lay your baby some'rs wher' it won't git run over, an' take off your surplus harness, an' go an' fetch her out of the house an' put her in the buggy."

But the daughter-in-law treated the courteous invitation with proper scorn, and the small caravan moved off, leaving the fair Julia and her father in possession of the premises. According to human understanding, the refugees got off just in the nick of time. A day or two afterwards, the Union army, figuratively speaking, marched up, looked over Squire Fambrough's front palings, and then fell back to reflect over the situation. Shortly afterwards the Confederate army marched up, looked over the Squire's back palings, and also fell back to reflect. Evidently the situation was one to justify reflection, for presently both armies fell back still farther. These movements were so courteous and discreet--were such a colossal display of etiquette--that war seemed to be out of the question. Of course there were the conservative pickets, the thoughtful videttes, and the careful sharp-shooters, ready to occasion a little bloodshed, accidentally or intentionally. But by far the most boisterously ferocious appendages of the two armies were the two brass bands. They were continually challenging each other, beginning early in the morning and ending late in the afternoon; one firing off "Dixie," and the other "Yankee Doodle." It was "Yankee Doodle, howdy do?" and "Doodle-doodle, Dixie, too," like two chanticleers challenging each other afar off.

This was the situation as it appeared to Squire Fambrough and his daughter. On this particular morning the sun was shining brightly, and the birds were fluttering joyously in the budding trees. Miss Julia had brought her book out into the grove of venerable oaks which was the chief beauty of the place, and had seated herself on a rustic bench that was built around one of the trees. Just as she had become interested, she heard a rifle-shot. She moved uneasily, but fell to reading again, and was apparently absorbed in the book, when she heard another shot. Then she threw the book down and rose to her feet, making a very pretty centerpiece in the woodland setting.

"Oh! what is the matter with everything?" she exclaimed. "There's the shooting again! How can I read books and sit quietly here while the soldiers are preparing to fight? Oh, me! I don't know what to do! If there should be a battle here, I don't know what would become of us."

Julia, in her despair, was fair to look upon. Her gown of striped homespun stuff, simply made, set off to admiration her strong but supple figure. Excitement added a new lustre to her eye and gave a heightened color to the rose that bloomed on her cheeks. She stood a moment as if listening, and then a faint smile showed on her lips. She heard her father calling:

"Jule! Jule! O Jule!"

"Here I am, father!" she cried. "What is it?"

"Well, the Lord he'p my soul! I've been huntin' for you high an' low. Did you hear that shootin'? I 'lowed may be you'd been took prisoner an' carried bodaciously off. Didn't I hear you talkin' to somebody?"

Squire Fambrough pulled off his hat and scratched his head. His face, set in a fringe of gray beard, was kindly and full of humor, but it contained not a few of the hard lines of experience.

"No, father," said Julia, in reply to the Squire's question. "I was only talking to myself."

"Jest makin' a speech, eh? Well, I don't blame you, honey. I'm a great mind to jump out here in the clearin' an' yell out my sentiments so that both sides can hear 'em."

"Why, what is the matter, father?"

"I'm mad, honey! I'm jest nachally stirred up--dog my cats ef I ain't! Along at fust I did hope there wouldn't be no fightin' in this neighborhood, but now I jest want to see them two blamed armies light into one another, tooth and toe-nail."

"Why, father!" Julia made a pretty gesture of dismay. "How can you talk so?"

"Half of my niggers is gone," said Squire Fambrough; "one side has got my hosses, and t'other side has stole my cattle. The Yankees has grabbed my grist mill, an' the Confeds has laid holt of my corn crib. One army is squattin' in my tater patch, and t'other one is roostin' in my cow pastur'. Do you reckon I was born to set down here an' put up wi' that kind of business?"

"But, father, what can you do? How can you help yourself? For heaven's sake, let's go away from here!"

"Great Moses, Jule! Have you gone an' lost what little bit of common sense you was born with? Do you reckon I'm a-goin' to be a-refugeein' an' a-skee-daddlin' across the country like a skeer'd rabbit at my time of life? I hain't afeared of nary two armies they can find room for on these hills! Hain't I got one son on one side an' another son on t'other side? Much good they are doin', too. If they'd a-felt like me they'd a fit both sides. Do you reckon I'm a-gwine to be drove off'n the place where I was born, an' where your granpappy was born, an' where your mother lies buried? No, honey!"

"But, father, you know we can't stay here. Suppose there should be a battle?"

"Come, honey! come!" There was a touch of petulance in the old man's tone. "Don't get me flustrated. I told you to go when John's wife an' the children went. By this time you'd 'a' been out of hearin' of the war."

"But, father, how could I go and leave you here all by yourself?" The girl laid her hand on the Squire's shoulder caressingly.

"No," exclaimed the Squire, angrily; "stay you would, stay you did, an' here you are!"

"Yes, and now I want to go away, and I want you to go with me. All the horses are not taken, and the spring wagon and the barouche are here."

"Don't come a-pesterin' me, honey! I'm pestered enough as it is. Lord, if I had the big men here what started the war, I'd take 'em an' butt their cussed heads together tell you wouldn't know 'em from a lot of spiled squashes."

"Now, don't get angry and say bad words, father."

"I can't help it, Jule; I jest can't help it. When the fuss was a-brewin' I sot down an' wrote to Jeems Buchanan, and told him, jest as plain as the words could be put on paper, that war was boun' to come if he didn't look sharp; an' then when old Buck dropped out, I sot down an' wrote to Abe Lincoln an' told him that coercion wouldn't work worth a cent, but conciliation----"

"Wait, father!" Julia held up her pretty hand. "I hear some one calling. Listen!"

Not far away they heard the voice of a negro. "Marse Dave Henry! O Marse Dave Henry!"

"Hello! Who the nation are you hollerin' at?" said Squire Fambrough as a youngish looking negro man came in view. "An' where did you come from, an' where are you goin'?"

"Howdy, mistiss--howdy, marster!" The negro took off his hat as he came up.