At the first line of the daring parody Rhett Bannister and his son both sprang to their feet, the one white with sudden rage, the other stricken with indignation and alarm. With one step the man reached the edge of the porch, with the next he was down on the path on his way to the gate, to give physical expression to his wrath. What would have happened in the road can only be conjectured, had not Bob’s frightened little mother run to the porch-steps and called to her husband:—

“Rhett, dear! Rhett, don’t! Don’t mind them. Come back, Rhett, dear!”

The angry man stopped in his headlong passage down the walk. There had never been a time in all his married life when the pleading voice of his wife had not been sufficient to check any outburst of passion on his part. Daring and defiant to all the world beside when occasion prompted him, he had always been as tender and gentle with her as in the days of their courtship. She was down at his side now, one hand on his arm, trying to soothe his outraged feelings.

“They’re mere boys, Rhett. They don’t know any better. Some day, when they’re older, they’ll regret it. And now you’ll have nothing to regret, Rhett, dear, nothing.”

Up from the road came a defiant shout:

“Hurrah for Abe Lincoln!”

“Down with the copperheads!”

But, even at the height of his rage, with the taunts and threats of his tormentors ringing in his ears, Rhett Bannister turned and took pity on his wife, and led her back to the porch with reassuring words. The unterrified boys, taking up again their line of march, turned into the crossroad on their way back to the village, singing:—

“I suppose it isn’t worth while,” said the man, seating himself on the porch-steps and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. “The boys are not so much to blame. It’s their parents who instill into their minds that spirit of intolerance, who deserve to be chastened. Now you can see, Robert,” turning to the boy, “the extremes to which the Northern adherents of Lincoln’s cause carry their hate for those who will not agree with them.”

“I know, father, I know. It’s an outrage. They have treated me even worse than they have you. And yet—and yet I can’t believe Lincoln is to blame for it.”

For once the defense of Lincoln did not arouse Bannister’s ire. He was too deeply interested in what the boy had said of himself.

“And how have they treated you, Robert? What have they done to you?”

“Oh, nothing much. Only they say you’re a copperhead, and they—they—”

“Well?”

“They think I must be a copperhead, too.”

“So! Well, it’s not a pretty name, to be sure, but it stands for something in these days. And suppose you were a copperhead, what then?”

“But I’m not. And that’s how they hurt me.”

“What have they done to you, Robert? What have they said to you? How have they hurt you? I want to know.”

The pitch of anger was back in the man’s voice. He could stand persecution for himself, but to have his loved ones persecuted, that was unbearable.

“Oh, it don’t amount to much,” replied the boy; “they simply didn’t want me, that’s all.”

“Didn’t want you when? where? how? Tell me, Robert! I say, tell me!”

It was the last thing the boy would have told to his father voluntarily, the story of the slight put upon him that evening at the village. But, inadvertently, he had stumbled into the mention of it, and now there was no escape from telling the whole story. He had never learned the art of equivocation, and it did not take many questionings before the whole humiliating tale was in his father’s possession. But the outburst of wrath that the boy had feared did not come. Instead, for many minutes, the man sat silent, looking down at the gray footpath losing itself in the shadows of the trees. When at last he raised his head, he spoke slowly as if to himself.

“Poor, weak, wicked human nature! Poor, paltry, fluctuating popular sentiment! Utterly illogical, brutally oppressive, with no mind nor thought of its own, led hither and thither by charlatans and demagogues ‘clothed with a little brief authority.’ Ah! but those men who rule and ruin down there at Washington will have much to answer for some day! It may not be until the last great day, but the accounting is bound to come. Mary,” turning to his wife, “is it better that we should follow the lead of our own minds and consciences, and suffer humiliation and insult and ostracism; or shall we yield to popular pressure, and hide our sentiments, and go along with the shouting, cheering, mindless rabble, and shout and cheer with them?”

“I don’t know, Rhett, dear. I don’t know anything about it. I try to think it out sometimes, but I get all confused and I stop trying. You know Cousin Henry is fighting with Lee, and Cousin Charley is with Grant in Mississippi. So many Kentucky families are divided that way, and it isn’t strange that I should be at a loss to decide. But you’ve thought it all out, Rhett, and you must be right, and I’ll think just as you do, no matter what happens to us. Anyway, so long as I have you and Robert and Louise I shall try to be happy. Where is Louise? I forgot all about her. Louise!”

“Here, mother.”

The child had retreated to the corner of the porch when the first sign of trouble appeared, and, now that the excitement was over, she was tired and sleepy.

“Come, dearie, it’s long past bedtime. Say good-night to papa and Robert.”

After that, though Bob and his father sat long upon the porch, there was no resumption of conversation. Each was immersed in thought, each was depressed in spirit, and each went to his bed only to pass a restless and troubled night.

The next day but one was the Fourth of July. Early in the morning there came down to the Bannister homestead the dull echo of the firing of the little old village heirloom of a cannon, which the boys had dragged up to the top of a ledge back of the town, and with which they were accustomed, on Independence Day, to rouse their sleeping neighbors. There was to be a celebration at the village, of course. There had been a celebration on the Fourth of July at Mount Hermon from a time whereof the memory of the oldest inhabitant ran not to the contrary. There were to be speeches, the band was to play, the glee club was to sing. All day, in the basement of the town hall, the young ladies were to sell refreshments and fireworks for the benefit of the Soldiers’ Relief Fund.

Yet there was no spirit of cheerfulness or rejoicing in the air. The times were too tense. The strain of conflict was too great. The mightiest battle of the Civil War was on at Gettysburg. For two days, across the streets and up the heights of that quaint Pennsylvania village, the armies of Meade and Lee had clashed and striven with each other, until the uncovered dead lay by ghastly thousands, and every hollow in the hillside held its pool of blood. Rumors of victory and rumors of disaster crossed and recrossed each other on the way from the battle-field to the villages of the North. Mount Hermon hardly knew what to believe. She was positive only of this: that two score of her sons were down there in the Army of the Potomac, and that in all human probability some of them, many of them indeed, were wounded, dying, dead. Whose husband, son, brother, lover would it prove to be, whose eyes would never see Mount Hermon’s elms again? No wonder the spirit of anxiety and fearfulness outweighed that of jubilant patriotism on this day.

All the morning the news had been sifting little by little into the village. Toward noon it was certain that out of the stress and horror of a mighty battle had come distinct victory for the Union armies. Lee was crushed, there was no doubt of that. His broken ranks were already in retreat, that too was well assured. From some quarter also came a rumor that Grant, who had been for weeks thundering at the gates of Vicksburg, had broken them down at last, had occupied the city, and that Pemberton’s army was his. Yet Mount Hermon did no loud rejoicing. She waited impatiently for confirmation of the news, anxiously for the list of dead and wounded. At two o’clock the stage would come, bringing the mail and the morning papers. As the hour approached, the crowd about the post-office grew greater. Not a jubilant crowd, just a waiting, hoping, fearing, intensely earnest concourse of the people of Mount Hermon.

Into this gathering strode Rhett Bannister. It was imprudent and foolhardy for him to come, and he should have known it. Indeed, he did know it. But during the two nights and a day that had passed since the slight put on his boy, since the sons of his neighbors had insulted him at his own home, he had thought much. And the more he thought, the more deeply wounded became his pride, the more restlessly he chafed under the humiliating yoke that had been forced on him, the more defiantly he determined to assert his right to think for himself and to express such opinions as he saw fit concerning public affairs. He felt that he was as much of a patriot, that he had the interest of his country as deeply at heart as any resident of Mount Hermon. Why then should he submit tamely to humiliation and ostracism and maltreatment? And if he chose to go where he had a right to go, on the highway, through the village streets, to the government post-office, to the public gathering in celebration of a day which was as dear to his heart as to the heart of any citizen of the town, why in the name of liberty should he not go? Let the rabble say what they would, he felt that he could defend himself, by word of mouth, with his strong right arm, if necessary, against any blatant demagogue or blind political partisan who might choose to set upon him. In this frame of mind he started for the village, and in this frame of mind he strode into that group of tense, anxious, patriotic men and women waiting for the news.

There were few who greeted him as he pushed his way to the post-office window, and called for his mail. The postmaster handed out to him two papers and a letter. He tore off the end of the envelope, drew out the scrap of paper which had been inclosed, and looked at it. Then his face turned red with anger. Some mischievous, malicious busybody had sent him an anonymous epistle: a crudely penciled picture, a libelous scrawl beneath it, the whole a coarse thrust at his alleged disloyalty. If this had been intended as a joke, he could not have taken it as such. But it was no joke. To him, indeed, it was simply a coarse, brutal, wanton attack on his manhood and patriotism. It started the fires of rage burning with sevenfold heat in his heart. He lifted his blazing eyes to find half the people in the little room staring at him, some wonderingly, some exultingly. Out by the doorway there was a suppressed chuckle. No one spoke. If Bannister had been content to hold his peace, there would have been no trouble. But he could not do that. Only death could have sealed his lips in that moment. He held up the coarse cartoon, with its equally coarse inscription, for the crowd to look at. Then he said, speaking deliberately:—

“I observe that you have found a new way to fight the battles of your alleged country.”

For a moment no one replied. Then, from the farther side of the room came the voice of Sergeant Goodman, home on furlough, wounded.

“To whom are you speaking, Rhett Bannister?”

And the reply came, hot and swift:—

“To the coward who sent me this work of art; to you who aided and abetted him, and to all of you who take your cue from the Federal government at Washington, and persecute in every mean and malicious way those who do not believe in wholesale murder in the South and who are not afraid to say so in the North.”

“I don’t know anything about your letter and picture, Bannister,” said the sergeant, “but we who are doing the fighting believe in the Federal government at Washington, we believe that we are carrying on a just war, and we believe that if it were not for you and the rest of your backbiting, disloyal, copperhead crew here in the North, who are giving aid and sympathy to the rebels of the South, we would have had this war ended a year ago.”

“Give it to him, sergeant!” cried an enthusiastic listener; “let him understand that it ain’t healthy for traitors around here.”

“I’m no traitor,” responded Bannister hotly. “I think as much of my country as you do of yours. I’ll give more to-day, in proportion to my means, to secure an honorable peace between North and South than any other man in this room.”

“Hon’able peace!” shouted a gray-haired man indignantly. “Dishon’able surrender you mean. You want the govament to back down, don’t ye, an’ acknowledge the corn, an’ let Jeff Davis hev his own way, an’ make a present to ’em o’ the hull South an’ half the North to boot, don’t ye? An’ tell ’em they done right to shoot down the ol’ flag on Fort Sumter, an’ tell ’em ’at Abe Lincoln’s a fool an’ a fraud an’ a murderer, don’t ye? don’t ye?”

“That estimate of Abraham Lincoln is not far from right, my friend,” replied Bannister. “For it is only a fool and a knave, and a man with the spirit of Cain in his heart, that would plunge his country into ruin and keep her there; that would send you, Sergeant Goodman, and you, Henry Bradbury, and all of us who may be drawn in the accursed conscription that is coming, down to slaughter, without cause, our brothers of the South.”

“Look here, Rhett Bannister!”

This was the voice of Henry Bradbury. He stood against the wall with an empty sleeve hanging at his side, telling mutely of Antietam and Libby. “You can’t talk that way about Abe Lincoln here. We don’t want to hurt you, but there’s some of us who’ve been in the army, an’ who love old Abe, an’ who won’t stand an’ hear him slandered; do you hear!”

“Oh, lynch him!” yelled a shrill voice. “Lynch him, an’ have done with it. He deserves it!”

“No, tar an’ feather him an’ send him where Old Abe sent Vallandigham, down among his rebel friends!” cried another.

People were crowding into the little lobby of the post-office, attracted by the sound of angry voices, curious to see and hear, ready for any sensation that might befall. Up near the box-window, white with anger, not with fear, stood Rhett Bannister with clenched hands. In front of him were a score of indignant men, ready at the next instant, if wrought to it, to do him bodily harm.

Then old Jeremiah Holloway, the postmaster, puffing and perspiring with his three hundred pounds, came out from his side door and rapped against the wall with his cane.

“This won’t do, gentlemen!” he said. “I can’t have a riot in a govament post-office. You’ll have to git outside an’ have your fun if you want it. I ain’t protectin’ no copperheads. But I’m goin’ to protect my property an’ Uncle Sam’s if I have to knock down every one of you. Besides, the stage’s a-comin’ an’ you got to make way for the United States mail.”

Holloway’s appeal for the protection of his property might or might not have had the desired effect, but his announcement of the arrival of the stage called the attention of the crowd to the approach of a four-horse vehicle, already half-way down the square, and people surged out to meet it. For by the stage came papers, letters from the seat of war, sometimes soldiers on furlough, and this afternoon it brought also the speaker of the day, an eloquent young lawyer from the county town, who had already seen service at the front. The band struck up a patriotic air and marched, playing, across to the platform on the green, followed by the girls and boys. The older people remained at the post-office to get their mail. Passengers by stage confirmed the news of the victory at Gettysburg, hotly fought for, dearly bought, but a victory nevertheless. They also brought more definite rumors of Grant’s probable success at Vicksburg. The letters were distributed and delivered. There were few from the front. The boys who were with Meade had had no opportunity to write that week. But the newspapers were already in the hands of eager readers, men with pale faces, women with pounding hearts.

“Listen to this!” said Adam Johns, the schoolmaster. “Here’s what the Tribune says: ‘Pickett’s division of Longstreet’s corps crossed the plain in splendid marching order, driving our skirmishers before them. At the Emmitsburg road they met the first serious resistance. But they stormed the stone fence which formed our barricade, and swept on up the hill under a galling fire from our rifles in front and our artillery on their flank, closing in and marching over their thousands of fallen, up into and over our shallow rifle-pits, overpowering our troops, not only by the momentum, but as well by the daring of their desperate charge. And that charge was met by resistance just as stubborn, by bravery as great, by daring as magnificent. From this moment the fighting was terrible. They were on our guns, bayoneting our gunners, waving their flags above our pieces, yelling the victory they believed they had won. But now came the crisis. They had gone too far, they had penetrated too deeply into our lines. They had exposed themselves to a storm of grape and canister from our guns on the western slope of Cemetery Hill, and, Pettigrew’s supporting division having broken and fled, our flanking columns began to close in on their rear. Then came twenty minutes of the bloodiest fighting of the war. Gaylord’s regiment of Pennsylvania farmers struck Pickett’s extreme left and doubled and crushed it in a fierce encounter. But it was done at an awful sacrifice. Brackett’s company alone lost twenty-three of its men, and every sergeant, and Brackett himself was killed in a hand-to-hand encounter with a rebel rifleman—’”

The reader paused, lifted his eyes, and looked fearfully around the little room, peering into the strained faces turned toward him.

“She ain’t here,” said a voice from the crowd.

“God help Martha Brackett!” added another.

But there was a woman there, poorly dressed, pale and shrunken from recent illness, scanning, with dreading eyes, the lists of dead, wounded, missing, with which columns of the paper some one had given her were filled. In the midst of the confusion of voices following the announcement of Brackett’s heroic charge and fall, there was a shrill scream, the paper fell from the nerveless hand of the woman in poor clothes, and she fell, white and insensible, to the floor.

“She saw her boy’s name in the list of killed,” said one who had been looking over her shoulder as she read. Others lifted the poor, limp body and carried the stricken woman into the fresh air to await her sad return to consciousness.

And all this time Rhett Bannister, standing defiantly in his corner, holding his peace, watching the grim tragedies that were being enacted around him, dread echoes of that mighty tragedy of battle, felt the surging tide of indignation rising higher and higher in his breast, until, at last, unable longer to keep rein on his tongue, he cried out:—

“I charge Abraham Lincoln and the Abolition leaders at Washington with the death of George Brackett and the murder of Jennie Lebarrow’s son!”

Then, Sergeant Goodman, home on furlough, wounded, strode forth and grasped the collar of Bannister’s coat, and before he could shake himself free, or defend himself in any way, others had seized his hands, and bound his wrists together behind his back, and then they led him forth, helpless, mute with unspeakable rage.

“What shall we do with him?” asked one.

“Rush him to the platform!” cried another.

And almost before he knew it, Bannister had been tossed up on the speaker’s stand and thrown into a chair, and was being held there, an object of execration to the crowd that surrounded him. He was not cowed or frightened. But he was dumb with indignation that his rights and his person had been so shamelessly outraged. White-faced, hatless, with torn coat and disheveled hair, he sat there breathing hate and looking defiance at his captors and tormentors.

“If this had been in some countries,” said the young orator, looking scornfully down on him, “you would now be dangling at the end of a rope thrown over the limb of that big maple yonder, and willing hands would be pulling you into eternity.”

“And if this were in some communities,” retorted Bannister, “you would be tried and convicted and legally hanged for inciting an ignorant and brutal populace to riot and murder.”

A tall, dignified, white-haired old gentleman, who had been scribbling on a pad, now advanced to the edge of the platform, holding a sheet of paper in one hand, and resting the other easily in the bosom of his partly buttoned frock-coat.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said impressively, “I rise to offer the following resolution, which I hope will be adopted without a dissenting voice.

“Whereas, Rhett Bannister, a resident of Mount Hermon township, and an avowed enemy of Abraham Lincoln and the government at Washington, has publicly affronted the patriotism and decency of this community this day;

“Therefore, be it resolved that we, the citizens of Mount Hermon, hereby express our indignation and horror at his conduct, and declare that he has forfeited all right to his citizenship among us, and to any consideration on our part, and that henceforth he shall be and is hereby utterly ostracized, repudiated, and detested by the citizens of Mount Hermon, and that we use all legal measures to drive him in disgrace from our community.

“Mr. Chairman, I move the adoption of that resolution.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the chairman, “you have heard Judge Morgan’s resolution, and the motion for its adoption. Is the motion seconded?”

A hundred persons vied with one another for the honor of being first to second it, and a great, tumultuous chorus of “Aye!” indicated its passage by an overwhelming and unanimous vote.

“And now,” inquired the chairman, “what shall be done with the prisoner?”

“Drive him home with his hands tied, and let the band play him out of town to the Rogues’ March!” cried one.

Whereupon the crowd shouted its enthusiastic approval of the suggestion. And in another moment, helpless as he was, Bannister was pulled from his chair and from the platform, and a dozen willing hands turned his face toward home.

Then, suddenly, a woman stood beside him, and the resolute voice of Sarah Jane Stark was heard:—

“Gentlemen, don’t you think you’re going a little bit too far?”