Part 17

“You will have Lucindy to help you, you know; and that will make things easier for all.”

“Think so? ’Pears to me I couldn’t ask her to take care of three invalids for my sake. She ain’t no folks of her own, nor much means, and ought to marry a man who can make things easy for her. Guess I’ll have to wait a spell longer before I say anything to Lucindy about marryin’ now;” and a look of resolute resignation settled on Joe’s haggard face as he gave up his dearest hope.

“I think Lucindy will have something to say, if she is like most women, and you will find the burdens much lighter, for sharing them between you. Don’t worry about that, but get well, and go home as soon as you can.”

“All right, ma’am;” and Joe proved himself a good soldier by obeying orders, and falling asleep like a tired child, as the first step toward recovery.

For two months I saw Joe daily, and learned to like him very much, he was so honest, genuine, and kind-hearted. So did his mates, for he made friends with them all by sharing such small luxuries as came to him, for he was a favorite; and, better still, he made sunshine in that sad place by the brave patience with which he bore his own troubles, the cheerful consolation he always gave to others. A droll fellow was Joe at times, for under his sobriety lay much humor; and I soon discovered that a visit from him was more efficacious than other cordials in cases of despondency and discontent. Roars of laughter sometimes greeted me as I went into his ward, and Joe’s jokes were passed round as eagerly as the water-pitcher.

Yet he had much to try him, not only in the ills that vexed his flesh, but the cares that tried his spirit, and the future that lay before him, full of anxieties and responsibilities which seemed so heavy now when the strong right arm, that had cleared all obstacles away before, was gone. The letters I wrote for him, and those he received, told the little story very plainly; for he read them to me, and found much comfort in talking over his affairs, as most men do when illness makes them dependent on a woman. Jim was evidently sick and selfish. Lucindy, to judge from the photograph cherished so tenderly under Joe’s pillow, was a pretty, weak sort of a girl, with little character or courage to help poor Joe with his burdens. The old mother was very like her son, and stood by him “like a hero,” as he said, but was evidently failing, and begged him to come home as soon as he was able, that she might see him comfortably settled before she must leave him. Her courage sustained his, and the longing to see her hastened his departure as soon as it was safe to let him go; for Lucindy’s letters were always of a dismal sort, and made him anxious to put his shoulder to the wheel.

“She always set consider’ble by me, mother did, bein’ the oldest; and I wouldn’t miss makin’ her last days happy, not if it cost me all the arms and legs I’ve got,” said Joe, as he awkwardly struggled into the big boots an hour after leave to go home was given him.

It was pleasant to see his comrades gather round him with such hearty adieus that his one hand must have tingled; to hear the good wishes and the thanks called after him by pale creatures in their beds; and to find tears in many eyes beside my own when he was gone, and nothing was left of him but the empty cot, the old gray wrapper, and the name upon the wall.

I kept that card among my other relics, and hoped to meet Joe again somewhere in the world. He sent me one or two letters, then I went home; the war ended soon after, time passed, and the little story of my Maine lumberman was laid away with many other experiences which made that part of my life a very memorable one.

* * * * *

III.

SOME years later, as I looked out of my window one dull November day, the only cheerful thing I saw was the red cap of a messenger who was examining the slate that hung on a wall opposite my hotel. A tall man with gray hair and beard, one arm, and a blue army-coat. I always salute, figuratively at least, when I see that familiar blue, especially if one sleeve of the coat is empty; so I watched the messenger with interest as he trudged away on some new errand, wishing he had a better day and a thicker pair of boots. He was an unusually large, well-made man, and reminded me of a fine building going to ruin before its time; for the broad shoulders were bent, there was a stiffness about the long legs suggestive of wounds or rheumatism, and the curly hair looked as if snow had fallen on it too soon. Sitting at work in my window, I fell into the way of watching my Red Cap, as I called him, with more interest than I did the fat doves on the roof opposite, or the pert sparrows hopping in the mud below. I liked the steady way in which he plodded on through fair weather or foul, as if intent on doing well the one small service he had found to do. I liked his cheerful whistle as he stood waiting for a job under the porch of the public building where his slate hung, watching the luxurious carriages roll by, and the well-to-do gentlemen who daily passed him to their comfortable homes, with a steady, patient sort of face, as if wondering at the inequalities of fortune, yet neither melancholy nor morose over the small share of prosperity which had fallen to his lot.

I often planned to give him a job, that I might see him nearer; but I had few errands, and little Bob, the hall-boy, depended on doing those: so the winter was nearly over before I found out that my Red Cap was an old friend.

A parcel came for me one day, and bidding the man wait for an answer, I sat down to write it, while the messenger stood just inside the door like a sentinel on duty. When I looked up to give my note and directions, I found the man staring at me with a beaming yet bashful face, as he nodded, saying heartily,—

“I mistrusted it was you, ma’am, soon’s I see the name on the bundle, and I guess I ain’t wrong. It’s a number of years sence we met, and you don’t remember Joe Collins as well as he does you, I reckon?”

“Why, how you have changed! I’ve been seeing you every day all winter, and never knew you,” I said, shaking hands with my old patient, and very glad to see him.

“Nigh on to twenty years makes consid’able of a change in folks, ’specially if they have a pretty hard row to hoe.”

“Sit down and warm yourself while you tell me all about it; there is no hurry for this answer, and I’ll pay for your time.”

Joe laughed as if that was a good joke, and sat down as if the fire was quite as welcome as the friend.

“How are they all at home?” I asked, as he sat turning his cap round, not quite knowing where to begin.

“I haven’t got any home nor any folks neither;” and the melancholy words banished the brightness from his rough face like a cloud. “Mother died soon after I got back. Suddin’, but she was ready, and I was there, so she was happy. Jim lived a number of years, and was a sight of care, poor feller; but we managed to rub along, though we had to sell the farm: for I couldn’t do much with one arm, and doctor’s bills right along stiddy take a heap of money. He was as comfortable as he could be; and, when he was gone, it wasn’t no great matter, for there was only me, and I don’t mind roughin’ it.”

“But Lucindy, where was she?” I asked very naturally.

“Oh! she married another man long ago. Couldn’t expect her to take me and my misfortins. She’s doin’ well, I hear, and that’s a comfort anyway.”

There was a look on Joe’s face, a tone in Joe’s voice as he spoke, that plainly showed how much he had needed comfort when left to bear his misfortunes all alone. But he made no complaint, uttered no reproach, and loyally excused Lucindy’s desertion with a simple sort of dignity that made it impossible to express pity or condemnation.

“How came you here, Joe?” I asked, making a sudden leap from past to present.

“I had to scratch for a livin’, and can’t do much; so, after tryin’ a number of things, I found this. My old wounds pester me a good deal, and rheumatism is bad winters; but, while my legs hold out, I can git on. A man can’t set down and starve; so I keep waggin’ as long as I can. When I can’t do no more, I s’pose there’s almshouse and hospital ready for me.”

“That is a dismal prospect, Joe. There ought to be a comfortable place for such as you to spend your last days in. I am sure you have earned it.”

“Wal, it does seem ruther hard on us when we’ve give all we had, and give it free and hearty, to be left to knock about in our old age. But there’s so many poor folks to be took care of, we don’t get much of a chance, for _we_ ain’t the beggin’ sort,” said Joe, with a wistful look at the wintry world outside, as if it would be better to lie quiet under the snow, than to drag out his last painful years, friendless and forgotten, in some refuge of the poor.

“Some kind people have been talking of a home for soldiers, and I hope the plan will be carried out. It will take time; but, if it comes to pass, you shall be one of the first men to enter that home, Joe, if I can get you there.”

“That sounds mighty cheerin’ and comfortable, thanky, ma’am. Idleness is dreadful tryin’ to me, and I’d ruther wear out than rust out; so I guess I can weather it a spell longer. But it will be pleasant to look forrard to a snug harbor byme-by. I feel a sight better just hearin’ tell about it.” He certainly looked so, faint as the hope was; for the melancholy eyes brightened as if they already saw a happier refuge in the future than almshouse, hospital, or grave, and, when he trudged away upon my errand, he went as briskly as if every step took him nearer to the promised home.

After that day it was all up with Bob, for I told my neighbors Joe’s story, and we kept him trotting busily, adding little gifts, and taking the sort of interest in him that comforted the lonely fellow, and made him feel that he had not outlived his usefulness. I never looked out when he was at his post that he did not smile back at me; I never passed him in the street that the red cap was not touched with a military flourish; and, when any of us beckoned to him, no twinge of rheumatism was too sharp to keep him from hurrying to do our errands, as if he had Mercury’s winged feet.

Now and then he came in for a chat, and always asked how the Soldiers’ Home was prospering; expressing his opinion that “Boston was the charitablest city under the sun, and he was sure he and his mates would be took care of somehow.”

When we parted in the spring, I told him things looked hopeful, bade him be ready for a good long rest as soon as the hospitable doors were open, and left him nodding cheerfully.

* * * * *

IV.

BUT in the autumn I looked in vain for Joe. The slate was in its old place, and a messenger came and went on his beat; but a strange face was under the red cap, and this man had two arms and one eye. I asked for Collins, but the new-comer had only a vague idea that he was dead; and the same answer was given me at headquarters, though none of the busy people seemed to know when or where he died. So I mourned for Joe, and felt that it was very hard he could not have lived to enjoy the promised refuge; for, relying upon the charity that never fails, the Home was an actual fact now, just beginning its beneficent career. People were waking up to this duty, money was coming in, meetings were being held, and already a few poor fellows were in the refuge, feeling themselves no longer paupers, but invalid soldiers honorably supported by the State they had served. Talking it over one day with a friend, who spent her life working for the Associated Charities, she said,—

“By the way, there is a man boarding with one of my poor women, who ought to be got into the Home, if he will go. I don’t know much about him, except that he was in the army, has been very ill with rheumatic fever, and is friendless. I asked Mrs. Flanagin how she managed to keep him, and she said she had help while he was sick, and now he is able to hobble about, he takes care of the children, so she is able to go out to work. He won’t go to his own town, because there is nothing for him there but the almshouse, and he dreads a hospital; so struggles along, trying to earn his bread tending babies with his one arm. A sad case, and in your line; I wish you’d look into it.”

“That sounds like my Joe, one arm and all. I’ll go and see him; I’ve a weakness for soldiers, sick or well.”

I went, and never shall forget the pathetic little tableau I saw as I opened Mrs. Flanagin’s dingy door; for she was out, and no one heard my tap. The room was redolent of suds, and in a grove of damp clothes hung on lines sat a man with a crying baby laid across his lap, while he fed three small children standing at his knee with bread and molasses. How he managed with one arm to keep the baby from squirming on to the floor, the plate from upsetting, and to feed the hungry urchins who stood in a row with open mouths, like young birds, was past my comprehension. But he did, trotting baby gently, dealing out sweet morsels patiently, and whistling to himself, as if to beguile his labors cheerfully.

The broad back, the long legs, the faded coat, the low whistle were all familiar; and, dodging a wet sheet, I faced the man to find it was indeed my Joe! A mere shadow of his former self, after months of suffering that had crippled him for life, but brave and patient still; trying to help himself, and slow to ask aid though brought so low.

For an instant I could not speak to him, and, encumbered with baby, dish, spoon, and children, he could only stare at me with a sudden brightening of the altered face that made it full of welcome before a word was uttered.

“They told me you were dead, and I only heard of you by accident, not knowing I should find my old friend alive, but not well, I’m afraid?”

“There ain’t much left of me but bones and pain, ma’am. I’m powerful glad to see you all the same. Dust off a chair, Patsey, and let the lady set down. You go in the corner, and take turns lickin’ the dish, while I see company,” said Joe, disbanding his small troop, and shouldering the baby as if presenting arms in honor of his guest.

“Why didn’t you let me know how sick you were? And how came they to think you dead?” I asked, as he festooned the wet linen out of the way, and prepared to enjoy himself as best he could.

“I did send once, when things was at the wust; but you hadn’t got back, and then somehow I thought I was goin’ to be mustered out for good, and so wouldn’t trouble nobody. But my orders ain’t come yet, and I am doing the fust thing that come along. It ain’t much, but the good soul stood by me, and I ain’t ashamed to pay my debts this way, sence I can’t do it in no other;” and Joe cradled the chubby baby in his one arm as tenderly as if it had been his own, though little Biddy was not an inviting infant.

“That is very beautiful and right, Joe, and I honor you for it; but you were not meant to tend babies, so sing your last lullabies, and be ready to go to the Home as soon as I can get you there.”

“Really, ma’am? I used to lay and kind of dream about it when I couldn’t stir without yellin’ out; but I never thought it would ever come to happen. I see a piece in the paper describing it, and it sounded dreadful nice. Shouldn’t wonder if I found some of my mates there. They were a good lot, and deservin’ of all that could be done for ’em,” said Joe, trotting the baby briskly, as if the prospect excited him, as well it might, for the change from that damp nursery to the comfortable quarters prepared for him would be like going from Purgatory to Paradise.

“I don’t wonder you don’t get well living in such a place, Joe. You should have gone home to Woolwich, and let your friends help you,” I said, feeling provoked with him for hiding himself.

“No, ma’am!” he answered, with a look I never shall forget, it was so full of mingled patience, pride, and pain. “I haven’t a relation in the world but a couple of poor old aunts, and they couldn’t do any thing for me. As for asking help of folks I used to know, I couldn’t do it; and if you think I’d go to Lucindy, though she is wal off, you don’t know Joe Collins. I’d die fust! If she was poor and I rich, I’d do for her like a brother; but I couldn’t ask no favors of her, not if I begged my vittles in the street, or starved. I forgive, but I don’t forgit in a hurry; and the woman that stood by me when I was down is the woman I believe in, and can take my bread from without shame. Hooray for Biddy Flanagin! God bless her!” and, as if to find a vent for the emotion that filled his eyes with grateful tears, Joe led off the cheer, which the children shrilly echoed, and I joined heartily.

“I shall come for you in a few days; so cuddle the baby and make much of the children before you part. It won’t take you long to pack up, will it?” I asked, as we subsided with a general laugh.

“I reckon not as I don’t own any clothes but what I set in, except a couple of old shirts and them socks. My hat’s stoppin’ up the winder, and my old coat is my bed-cover. I’m awful shabby, ma’am, and that’s one reason I don’t go out more. I can hobble some, but I ain’t got used to bein’ a scarecrow yet,” and Joe glanced from the hose without heels that hung on the line to the ragged suit he wore, with a resigned expression that made me long to rush out and buy up half the contents of Oak Hall on the spot.

Curbing this wild impulse I presently departed with promises of speedy transportation for Joe, and unlimited oranges to assuage the pangs of parting for the young Flanagins, who escorted me to the door, while Joe waved the baby like a triumphal banner till I got round the corner.

There was such a beautiful absence of red tape about the new institution that it only needed a word in the right ear to set things going; and then, with a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together, Joe Collins was taken up and safely landed in the Home he so much needed and so well deserved.

A happier man or a more grateful one it would be hard to find, and if a visitor wants an enthusiastic guide about the place, Joe is the one to take, for all is comfort, sunshine, and good-will to him; and he unconsciously shows how great the need of this refuge is, as he hobbles about on his lame feet, pointing out its beauties, conveniences, and delights with his one arm, while his face shines, and his voice quavers a little as he says gratefully,—

“The State don’t forget us, you see, and this is a Home wuth havin’. Long life to it!”

[Written in 1867.]

WHAT THE BELLS SAW AND SAID.

“Bells ring others to church, but go not in themselves.”

NO one saw the spirits of the bells up there in the old steeple at midnight on Christmas Eve. Six quaint figures, each wrapped in a shadowy cloak and wearing a bell-shaped cap. All were gray-headed, for they were among the oldest bell-spirits of the city, and “the light of other days” shone in their thoughtful eyes. Silently they sat, looking down on the snow-covered roofs glittering in the moonlight, and the quiet streets deserted by all but the watchmen on their chilly rounds, and such poor souls as wandered shelterless in the winter night. Presently one of the spirits said, in a tone, which, low as it was, filled the belfry with reverberating echoes,—

“Well, brothers, are your reports ready of the year that now lies dying?”

All bowed their heads, and one of the oldest answered in a sonorous voice:—

“My report isn’t all I could wish. You know I look down on the commercial part of our city and have fine opportunities for seeing what goes on there. It’s my business to watch the business men, and upon my word I’m heartily ashamed of them sometimes. During the war they did nobly, giving their time and money, their sons and selves to the good cause, and I was proud of them. But now too many of them have fallen back into the old ways, and their motto seems to be, ‘Every one for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.’ Cheating, lying and stealing are hard words, and I don’t mean to apply them to _all_ who swarm about below there like ants on an ant-hill—_they_ have other names for these things, but I’m old-fashioned and use plain words. There’s a deal too much dishonesty in the world, and business seems to have become a game of hazard in which luck, not labor, wins the prize. When I was young, men were years making moderate fortunes, and were satisfied with them. They built them on sure foundations, knew how to enjoy them while they lived, and to leave a good name behind them when they died.

“Now it’s anything for money; health, happiness, honor, life itself, are flung down on that great gaming-table, and they forget everything else in the excitement of success or the desperation of defeat. Nobody seems satisfied either, for those who win have little time or taste to enjoy their prosperity, and those who lose have little courage or patience to support them in adversity. They don’t even fail as they used to. In my day when a merchant found himself embarrassed he didn’t ruin others in order to save himself, but honestly confessed the truth, gave up everything, and began again. But now-a-days after all manner of dishonorable shifts there comes a grand crash; many suffer, but by some hocus-pocus the merchant saves enough to retire upon and live comfortably here or abroad. It’s very evident that honor and honesty don’t mean now what they used to mean in the days of old May, Higginson and Lawrence.

“They preach below here, and very well too sometimes, for I often slide down the rope to peep and listen during service. But, bless you! they don’t seem to lay either sermon, psalm or prayer to heart, for while the minister is doing his best, the congregation, tired with the breathless hurry of the week, sleep peacefully, calculate their chances for the morrow, or wonder which of their neighbors will lose or win in the great game. Don’t tell me! I’ve seen them do it, and if I dared I’d have startled every soul of them with a rousing peal. Ah, they don’t dream whose eye is on them, they never guess what secrets the telegraph wires tell as the messages fly by, and little know what a report I give to the winds of heaven as I ring out above them morning, noon, and night.” And the old spirit shook his head till the tassel on his cap jangled like a little bell.

“There are some, however, whom I love and honor,” he said, in a benignant tone, “who honestly earn their bread, who deserve all the success that comes to them, and always keep a warm corner in their noble hearts for those less blest than they. These are the men who serve the city in times of peace, save it in times of war, deserve the highest honors in its gift, and leave behind them a record that keeps their memories green. For such an one we lately tolled a knell, my brothers; and as our united voices pealed over the city, in all grateful hearts, sweeter and more solemn than any chime, rung the words that made him so beloved,—

“‘Treat our dead boys tenderly, and send them home to me.’”

He ceased, and all the spirits reverently uncovered their gray heads as a strain of music floated up from the sleeping city and died among the stars.