Through all of the day following the breakfast at Sarah Jane Stark’s house, indeed through most of the succeeding night, the thought and ambition loomed large in Bob Bannister’s mind and heart, to lift, in some way, the dark cloud of disloyalty that rested upon the household he loved. His one hour with the soldiers of the United States had inspired and inspirited him to new and greater effort, to the making of any sacrifice, in order to uphold the honor of his country and his home.

In the night an idea came to him, suddenly, brilliantly—he wondered he had not thought of it before. To be sure, there were some details to be worked out, some difficulties to be overcome; but the plan was feasible, he knew that, and, if he could carry it into successful execution, his father would have the price lifted from his head, the honor of the family would be saved, and he himself would have the joy of serving his country.

So it was settled and he went to sleep. On the following morning he went up to Mount Hermon and drew from the bank half of his savings. The money was paid to him without question, as his father had long before made formal release of his legal right to it. It was money that he himself had earned, most of it in former years, by carrying the mail from the village post-office to Rick’s Corners, the next settlement to the east on the old North and South Turnpike road. But when his father’s pro-slavery and anti-war sentiments became pronounced, Bob lost his position as mail-carrier, and a boy whose father had been among the first to enlist as a soldier received the appointment.

As for his morning tasks at home that day, he did them with a vigor and spirit that surprised and pleased his father. In the afternoon he finished up little odds and ends of work that had been awaiting his leisure, and rearranged his small store of keepsakes, treasures, valuables, things that a boy of seventeen has accumulated and looks upon with sentiment. Some articles, outgrown by him or become useless, he destroyed. He appeared to be making ready for a long absence. But he did it all so quietly, with so little ostentation, that no suspicions were aroused on the part of any member of his family.

Then, when everything was done, doubts as to the wisdom of his contemplated course began to assail his mind. What would his father say? What would his mother do? What would his little sister think? The plan that had seemed so brilliant to him in the darkness of the night loomed shadowy and doubtful in the cold light of a dull October day. He began to wish that there were some one whom he could take into his confidence; to whom he could outline the project he had in mind, and from whom he could get good and seasonable advice. Well, there was some one. There was Seth Mills. He was old, to be sure; but he was absolutely honest, his judgment was still good, he had always been Bob’s father’s faithful friend, and his mother’s kindest neighbor. Besides, having no children of his own, the old man always had set great store by Bob, and the boy felt that, in any event, he would get sympathy and disinterested counsel. So he went to see Seth Mills. He walked down along the path by the spring-house, and across the meadow, and found his neighbor in the barn-yard milking his cows.

“Uncle Seth,” he said, “I’ve come to tell you what I’m going to do, and see what you think of it.”

The old man looked up but did not stop his milking.

“Well, Robbie, what is it ye goin’ to do?”

“I’m going to war.”

The rich streams that had been piercing the boiling white foam in the milk-pail suddenly ceased. The man’s hands relaxed without falling, and he gazed at the boy as if trying to comprehend his meaning.

“You—you goin’ to enlist?”

“Yes. I’ve thought it all out. You know my father. You know what he thinks about the war and about the draft. You know he’s been drafted and won’t go, and says the soldiers can’t take him alive. Well, Sergeant Anderson said that, defying the draft that way, he’s classed as a deserter, and when he’s caught he’s liable to be shot. Now you know that isn’t a nice thing to happen to your father. So I’ve decided to do this. I’m going to Easton to see this provost-marshal and offer to take my father’s place as a drafted man, and go wherever they choose to send me, provided they’ll let him off. I think they will, don’t you?”

For a moment the old man did not answer. He seemed to be trying fully to comprehend the situation. Then, suddenly, he took it in. Rising to his feet as quickly as his rheumatic legs would let him, kicking over his three-legged milking-stool in the operation, and barely saving his pail of milk from the same fate, he grasped Bob heartily by the hand.

“Jest the thing!” he exclaimed, “jest the thing! Here I’ve been layin’ awake nights fur a week tryin’ to think up some way o’ savin’ Rhett Bannister’s neck, an’ here you’ve gone an’ struck it the first time, by cracky!”

“You think the plan’s all right, do you, Uncle Seth?”

“Sound as a dollar, my boy, sound as a dollar. They’ll take ye an’ glad to git ye. To be sure, you’re a leetle mite under age, but that won’t make no difference; you’re big an’ strong, an’ you can carry a gun an’ fight with the best of ’em.”

“But, will they let father off?”

“Well, now I sh’d think they would. They don’t want no copperheads in the army, nor no deserters, nor—why, I sh’d think they’d be tickled to death to swap him for you, an’ call good riddance to him. That’s what I say.”

“It looks that way to me, too, Uncle Seth, and I do want to help father and save him if I can.”

“Yes, an’ they’s another thing about it, Robbie. S’posin’ ye git to go down there. S’posin’ ye git to be one of Uncle Sam’s soldiers a-fightin’ in the army. You think your father’s goin’ to set down to hum contented, an’ let his boy do the soldierin’? No, sir-ee! that ain’t him. You mark my words. In less’n ten days he’ll be down there a-tryin’ to git to take your place stid o’ your takin’ his’n. That’s what I say. Now, you mark my words!”

But Bob did not quite believe that. The most that he hoped to do was to relieve his father from the effect of the draft and the result of his disobedience to it. More than that, of course, it would give him the opportunity that he had longed for and waited for, to fight for his country and his country’s flag.

So they talked it over, the boy and the old man, and every moment they grew more enthusiastic over the project and what it was likely to accomplish.

“When ye goin’, Robbie?”

“Why, I thought—I thought I’d go to-morrow morning, Uncle Seth. You see I can’t very well let them know I’m going. That would spoil it all. So I thought I’d get up early to-morrow morning and slip away before anybody was up, and catch the early train at Carbon Creek. You don’t think I ought to tell them before I go, do you?”

“No, I s’pose not. But what’ll your ma think when she finds you ain’t to home? What’ll your pa say?”

“That’s the only thing about it that worries me, Uncle Seth. When I’m once in the army, and they know where I am and what to expect, it won’t be so bad. But how to ease their minds before they find out, I don’t know. I’ve thought over it a good deal, but I can’t quite make out how I’m going to do it. I might leave a letter, but then they’d know where I was going and likely stop me before I got there. I might—say, I’ll tell you what; I just happen to think of it. Suppose you kind o’ happen along there some time to-morrow forenoon, and say to them that you know where I am and where I’m going, and that it’s all right; and if I don’t come back in a day or two I’ll write and tell them all about it. That’ll do, won’t it?”

“Certain! I’ll put their minds to rest. Jest leave that to me. They’ll know’t when I tell ’em ye’re all right, ye air all right.”

Then, for a minute, the old man stood silent, chewing contemplatively on a straw.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, “as I’d ort to encourage ye in this thing. Mebbe it ain’t jest right. It’s a-goin’ ag’inst yer father’s wish an’ will. It’s a-makin’ yer mother an awful lot of anxiety. Mebbe it won’t amount to nothin’ anyway. Mebbe they won’t take ye. Mebbe they won’t leave him go free. Ef they do take ye, ye go to war, an’ ye know, or else ye don’t know, what war is. You’re jest a boy. You’ll hev to suffer. You’ll see some hard times. Ye ain’t use to it. Likely ye’ll git sick. Mebbe ye’ll git swamp fever, an’ that’s bad enough. Mebbe ye’ll git wounded, crippled for life. Mebbe ye’ll git killed, an’ yer body buried in a trench with a hundred others, like they buried ’em at Antietam an’ Gettysburg, an’ nobody never know where ye lay, nor how ye died. It’s awful, war is, it’s jest awful, an’ ye ortn’t to go, unless ye realize what’s likely to happen to ye; and I ortn’t to encourage ye in goin’ unless I’m ready to shoulder the responsibility fer what may happen, an’ I ain’t quite ready to do that.”

“And I don’t want you to do that, Uncle Seth. I know what I’m about. I’ve thought it all out. I’ve thought about every dreadful thing that can possibly happen to me. But before I get through thinking what may happen to me, I begin to think about what is pretty sure to happen to my father if things go on as they are. And then I can’t hesitate any more. To have my father shot as a deserter, why, that would be worse for me, and worse for my mother, and for my little sister all our lives, than it would be to have me tired, or hungry, or sick, or wounded, or shot to death in battle and buried in a trench. And besides that I want to go for the sake of going. I want to do something for my country. Abraham Lincoln wants more soldiers, and if he wants them he should have them. I’m ready to go, and I’m going. I’ve made up my mind; and you couldn’t discourage me, Uncle Seth, if you talked a thousand years!”

In the gray October twilight the boy stood erect, with flushed face and flashing eyes. The spirit of the time had entered his soul as it entered the souls of thousands of other boys in those soul-stirring days, and, like them, he was ready. Consequences were of no moment. His country was calling, his response rang fervent and true.

So Seth Mills spoke no more discouraging words. But he put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked up into his eyes, for the boy was the taller of the two.

“You’re right,” he said, “and I’m wrong. I hadn’t thought it was in ye. Go on. I’ll stand back o’ ye. God bless ye, I’m proud o’ ye!”

Tears came into the old man’s eyes as he spoke, and coursed down the furrows in his cheeks, and his own patriotic heart was roused to a new pitch of loyalty.

When, at last, the final arrangement with his old friend had been made, and the little details of his departure were settled, and the good-bys and hand-shaking were at an end, and Bob turned back into the meadow-path toward home, it was almost dark.

His father sat at the supper-table that evening with apparent unconcern. He knew that there were no provost-guards in the neighborhood, no one with authority to arrest or imprison him. For while it was true that, in a sense, he was isolated in the midst of an intensely patriotic community, he was, nevertheless, in more or less constant communication with friends and sympathizers who kept him well informed as to the dangers which surrounded or approached him. On this night he knew, for instance, that Sergeant Anderson, with his little squad of soldiers, had returned to Easton, and that no other detail of troops had as yet come into the county. He knew also that means would be found to warn him of the approach of an enemy long before that enemy could reach him. So he ate his supper with his family in peace, and sat quietly at his table reading his paper without apprehension of danger when Bob started to go upstairs to bed.

“Good-by, father!” said the boy, standing at the stair-door with his lamp in his hand.

“Good-by,” repeated his father, “what do you mean by that?”

“Did I say good-by? I meant to say good-night. But you know I never go to bed at night any more, father, without thinking that something may happen before morning to separate us—forever.”

His lip trembled a little as he spoke, and he still stood, hesitating, at the stair-door.

“Well, Robert, nothing will happen to-night, I know. You can go to bed without fear to-night. To-morrow, maybe, danger will come again, we cannot tell. But to-night, I believe we are safe.”

He saw that, for some reason, the boy’s emotions were deeply stirred, and he imagined it was due to a suddenly augmented fear of what might happen to his father.

“You don’t know anything, do you, Bob?” he inquired suddenly. “You haven’t heard of danger immediately at hand? Did Seth Mills tell you anything that would lead you to think—?”

“No, father, oh no! I was just—well, I won’t worry about you to-night, anyway. But if anything should happen that we don’t see each other again—for a good while—I’d like to have you think that while I believe in Abraham Lincoln, and in the Union, and in the war, I believe in you, too, and I wouldn’t want, ever, to do anything that would seem to be disloyal to you.”

“No, Bob, of course not. I believe that. I’m sorry these Northern notions of patriotism have entered so deeply into your mind. But, when you’re older and understand things better, you’ll think differently. There, go along to bed, now. You’re tired and nervous to-night. In the morning you’ll feel better.”

He held out his hand and Bob came over and clasped it tightly.

“Good-night, father!”

“Good-night!”

The boy went on to bed, and Rhett Bannister resumed his reading. But he could keep neither his mind nor his eyes on the printed page. He was thinking of his son upstairs. Once a sudden and startling thought came to him, more by way of intuition than suggestion. He dropped his book, rose to his feet, and stood staring at the door through which Bob had gone. But a sound of voices came to him faintly down the stairway, natural, reassuring voices, and after a minute he sat down again and took up his book, and whatever apprehensive thought it was that had so suddenly and strangely entered his mind, he dismissed it and resumed his reading.

Upstairs Bob had found his mother sitting with Louise, who had long been asleep, and sewing. It seemed to him that when his mother was not busy about something else she was always sewing. He entered the room where she sat, and looked at her a moment before speaking. The anxiety of the last few months, the harassing dread of the last few days, had worn her greatly and left her haggard and pale. Bob was almost shocked as he gazed on her face under the lamplight. He had never seen her look so before. Would his conduct of the morrow bring to her added sorrow, or intense relief? He dared not stop to think about it then. He knew simply that he was doing right and could not change his plans.

“Good-night, mother!” he said. “I’m going to bed.”

“Good-night, Robbie! Come here and kiss me.”

He went where she was, and leaned over, and she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him. He started to go away, but at the door of the room he turned back.

“Mother, if anything should happen to-night,—we don’t know what may happen these days,—but if anything should happen, and I had to do something, I don’t want you ever to think but that I felt I was doing the right thing.”

“Yes, Robbie, yes. I don’t know just what you mean, but I know you mean to do what is right. And these are dreadful days, and dreadful nights. I don’t know how it’s all going to end. I’m in terror all the time. I wish your father could do something, or you could do something, or somebody could do something to help us. If this keeps on I shall die! Oh, why don’t they stop this cruel, cruel war!”

Bob went back into the room and put his arms about his mother’s shoulders.

“There, mother, there. It’s terrible! I know it’s terrible. I wish the war would stop. I wish I could do something to stop it. Maybe I can, just a little. But the only way to stop it is to give Abraham Lincoln enough soldiers to defeat the Southern armies. We must do that. At any sacrifice, we must do it. And, mother, I shall do my part.”

She did not appreciate the significance of his words, but she wiped the tears from her eyes and said:—

“Don’t let’s think about it any more to-night, Robbie.” And she kissed him again, and again she took up her sewing.

Bob went over to Louise, who was stirring uneasily in her sleep, and kissed her gently, and went out into the hall. At the door he turned to look once more at his mother.

“Good-night, mother!” he said, “and good dreams. I think we shall all be happier soon.”

He went to his room, removed his working-clothes, put on his best suit, got together a few things and put them into a little hand-bag that had once belonged to his South Carolinian grandfather, put out his light, and threw himself down on the bed for a brief sleep. But he slept only fitfully, looking often at his watch by the light of the moon that shone in at his window; and at last, at four o’clock, he rose for the last time, took his satchel and shoes in his hands and crept softly downstairs. He went through by the kitchen, stopping there to bathe his face and hands, then, sliding back the bolt, he opened the door and stepped out on to the porch. The moon was shining brightly, and the night was very still. There were as yet no signs of morning in the east, nor any noise of stirring men or beasts. He bethought himself of food, but he feared lest, by moving around in the darkness of the pantry to seek it, he would arouse some of the inmates of the house. So he closed the door behind him, sat down on the porch-steps and put on his shoes, and then, satchel in hand, he started down the garden pathway to the kitchen gate. The windows of the sleeping-room occupied by Louise opened on this side of the house, but there was no possibility of his being seen by her. Once in the road, he turned his face toward Mount Hermon. When he reached the front gate, he stopped and looked up the path toward the house. From his mother’s window shone the faint light of her night-lamp. There were no other signs of life about the premises. Then, suddenly, there in the shadow of the trees, with his boyhood home in front of him, and in the dark west toward which his footsteps were pointing a fate which no man could fathom, a feeling of profound depression fell upon him, a sense of unutterable loneliness and desolation. For the time being all of his courage, all of his determination, all of his invincible patriotism, deserted him and left him weak and homesick and miserable. In another moment he would have turned back and sought the safety and protection which his dear home offered him; but, even as he hesitated, out of the darkness of the east there grew slowly and solemnly clear to his mental vision the tall, gaunt form, the sadly resolute and rugged face of Abraham Lincoln. And, with the vision, there came back into his mind, one by one and then all together, the overpowering reasons that had led him into taking this momentous step. So his judgment returned, his thought grew clear, courage came back to him, and strength, and deep determination, and he turned his face once more toward Mount Hermon, and plunged ahead into the shadows.