By the time Bob reached the village the sky was gray along the eastern horizon, and a faint tinge of pink, seen through a gap in the hill-range, announced the coming of the sun. In front of the gate of Sarah Jane Stark he stopped, and looked longingly up at her house. Light shone from two of her lower windows, and a wisp of blue smoke curled lazily from the southern chimney. He thought he would like to go in and tell Miss Stark what he was about to do. He wondered what she would say if she knew. He felt, in his heart, that she would approve his course and bid him God-speed. However, there was not time to visit her. He wanted to get through the village before daybreak, so that he should not be seen of many people. So he gripped his satchel and hurried on. At the next corner he turned out of the main street, and skirted the closely built portion of the town by an outlying way. He met no one whom he knew until he came in again to the main traveled highway beyond the town. This road led directly to the railroad station at Carbon Creek. It had been his purpose to wait here for the stage that left Mount Hermon every morning for Carbon Creek, carrying passengers and mail. But he was in no mood to stand still, and, besides, the chilly October air made exercise a necessity. So he walked quickly along, feeling that the farther from Mount Hermon he could get the safer he would be. It was broad daylight now, and the stage was likely to overtake him at any moment. He began to wonder whom he would have for fellow passengers. But, even as he wondered, a horse and buggy, coming up rapidly from behind, was about to pass him, when the man who was driving turned in his seat and looked back at Bob. When he saw who it was, he reined up his horse and called out:

“Why, Bob Bannister! is that you? Where are you going? Won’t you jump in and ride?”

It was Henry Bradbury who spoke, the crippled veteran who had left an arm at Malvern Hill in ’62, and who had declared that he would gladly have left both arms, or even his life, if only “Little Mac” could have taken Richmond as the climax of that unfortunate Peninsular Campaign. For, somehow, after that campaign, McClellan, whom he, with a hundred thousand other soldiers, had worshiped as the one splendid hero of the war, lost lustre in his eyes, and never regained it to that November night, when, at Warrenton, Virginia, he was relieved from the command of the Army of the Potomac. And yet, to this day, Henry Bradbury will not permit any one, in his presence, to speak harshly of McClellan.

“No, thank you, Mr. Bradbury,” replied Bob, very much confused. “I’m not going far. I was just waiting for the stage to come along.”

“Well, if you’re going to Carbon Creek you might just as well jump in and ride with me. I’ve got lots of room and you’ll save your stage fare.”

Bob hesitated for a moment. He did not know what embarrassing questions the veteran might ask. Then, suddenly, he made up his mind to accept the invitation.

“I will go with you, Mr. Bradbury,” he said. “I think I would a good deal rather go with you than in the stage.”

He climbed into the wagon and they started on, the old soldier driving with one hand with great ease and facility.

“I might as well be plain with you, Bob,” he said. “I don’t think much of your father, but I’ve got nothing against you. In fact, if what they tell me about your loyalty is true, you deserve a good deal of credit, and I wouldn’t be the last one to give it to you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bradbury! My father and I don’t quite agree about the war, and about—the draft, but I don’t want to set up my judgment as better than his, and I don’t want to criticise him, and I’d rather not hear anybody else do it.”

“That’s all right, my boy. I’m afraid his obstinacy is going to cost him his neck, but I don’t know as I’ve got any call to try to set his son against him. Let’s change the subject. Going up to the station, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Going to take the train?”

“Yes, I expect to.”

After that for a few minutes there was silence. Bradbury looked Bob over carefully to see if perchance there might be something about his dress or appearance to indicate his errand. But there was nothing. Finally his curiosity prevailed, and he said:—

“I don’t want to be inquisitive, but may I ask where you are going?”

“I want to go to Easton, Mr. Bradbury.”

There was another pause, followed by another question.

“I suppose it’s none o’ my business, but can I inquire if Rhett Bannister has decided to give himself up?”

“I think not, Mr. Bradbury. He don’t change his mind very easily after he’s once made it up.”

The veteran was puzzled. What was Bob Bannister going to Easton for? His visit there must in some way be connected with the provost-marshal’s office and the draft. He could have no other errand. Then, suddenly, a light broke in upon Henry Bradbury’s mind. He reined his horse up sharply and turned to face the boy.

“Look here, Bob Bannister! are you going to enlist?”

Bob hardly knew how to reply. He considered the question for a moment before he answered it.

“Well,” he said finally, “I thought one of us ought to go to the war, Mr. Bradbury.”

The man dropped his reins and grasped Bob’s hand.

“You’re all right!” he exclaimed. “I wish Abe Lincoln had a hundred thousand more just like you. Richmond would be ours in thirty days.”

“But, Mr. Bradbury, nobody knows what I’m going to do, and I wish you wouldn’t tell. Maybe I’ll not be able to do it, anyway.”

“Mum’s the word. Don’t your folks know?”

“No. I couldn’t have gone if they knew.”

“Certainly not. Well, my boy, Henry Bradbury says God bless you! Do you hear? God bless you!”

So, after the ice had been thus broken, Bob explained fully the project he had in mind; there were a score of things to be talked about, a hundred questions to be asked on either side, and a hundred answers to be given. And before they were quite aware of it they had reached the station at Carbon Creek. But the train would not be due yet for nearly an hour. Learning that Bob had not had his breakfast, the veteran compelled him to go across the road with him to the Eagle Hotel.

“Get up the best breakfast you know how for this young man and me,” he said to the landlord. “Ham and eggs and potatoes and biscuits and pancakes and coffee and all the fixin’s. I want you to remember,” he added to Bob, “I want you to remember, some morning when you’re eating hard-tack and salt pork, and drinking black and muddy coffee,—I want you to remember the breakfast Henry Bradbury bought for you at the Eagle Hotel at Carbon Creek the morning you started for the war.”

And Bob did remember it. Many times he remembered it in the days that were to come.

In due time the stage pulled up at the station, the train came in, and Bob said good-by to his veteran friend and stepped on board. He had but one change of cars to make, the one at Scranton, and, late in the afternoon, he reached Phillipsburg and walked across the river to Easton. The provost-marshal’s office was already closed for the day, and Bob had to content himself with finding a modest hotel where he could stay over night and wait patiently for what the morning might bring. After supper he strolled out into the street. Reaching the public square, he saw a hundred newly arrived drafted men formed into a company and drilled in military movements. They were very awkward, indeed. Bob thought that the company of boys at home could have done far better. But, later in the evening, when a body of seasoned veterans, belonging to the invalid corps, reached the city, and marched, with fine precision, up the street to the square, and stacked their arms and were dismissed, he looked upon them with deep admiration. This was something like. The moving ranks, the rhythmic tramp, the glistening arms, the stirring music of the fife and drum, all this had a fascination for the boy such as he had never experienced before. When the troops were dismissed one of the officers, meeting and greeting a comrade on the corner where Bob was waiting, stood for a moment and talked with him.

“Yes,” Bob heard him say, “we’ve got a little provost duty to do up in this end of the state. There were a good many in some sections who didn’t respond to the draft. Some of them are already in, the rest we’re going to round up. One of the most notorious of these fellows is a man by the name of Bannister. I’m going after him myself, when I get through around here. I’ll give him four days from now to make his peace with Uncle Sam, and if he don’t do it something will drop. I’m going after him and I intend to get him, dead or alive.”

The soldiers passed on, and Bob, pale of face and much troubled in heart, went back to his hotel more determined than ever to take his father’s place in the ranks if, by any possible means, so desirable a substitution could be made.

Notwithstanding his anxiety and the many noises in the streets, he slept fairly well, and at nine o’clock on the following morning he presented himself at the office of the provost-marshal. Many were already waiting to see that officer, and Bob had to take his place in line and await his turn. Most of those who swarmed about the marshal’s office were drafted men who were there to urge their claims for exemption from service on account of physical disability. Many were present with substitutes whom they had hired to serve for them. Some who had failed to respond to the notice of draft were being brought in by members of the provost-guard, to answer for their neglect or disobedience.

When Bob’s turn finally came and he was ushered into the provost-marshal’s office, he did not quite know how to state his errand. A man in captain’s uniform sat behind a long table, busily writing. There were two or three clerks in various parts of the room, and soldiers with side-arms stood guard at the door.

The provost-marshal looked up from his writing and saw Bob.

“Well,” he said, “what’s your case?”

“I haven’t any case,” replied Bob, “except that I want to enlist in place of my father, who has been drafted.”

“Go as a substitute, eh? Well, you want to see Lieutenant Morrison about that, in the next room. Your father is here, I suppose,” he added, as Bob turned away.

“No,” replied Bob, “he isn’t. That’s the trouble. Nor does he know I’m here.”

The captain laid down his pen and looked at the boy curiously.

“That’s strange,” he said. “What’s the reason he don’t know?”

Bob advanced a step closer to the marshal’s table.

“Well, he isn’t in sympathy with the war. And when he was drafted he wouldn’t report. And when the soldiers came to arrest him he—they couldn’t find him.”

“I see. And you—why did you come without his knowledge?”

“Why, he wouldn’t have let me come if he knew. And I, I believe in the war. I want to be a soldier. And I thought if I could just take his place so he could stay home with mother and I could go and fight—why, I thought it would be better all around.”

“What’s your father’s name?”

“Bannister. Rhett Bannister.”

The marshal’s face clouded.

“Bannister of Mount Hermon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sorry, my boy, but, figuratively speaking, there’s a price on your father’s head. He’s a notorious rebel sympathizer, a regular secession firebrand. He has declared that the government will never take him alive. Very well, then, we’ll take him dead. But we can’t afford to accept a price for his freedom. Our orders are to get him, and we shall do it if it takes a regiment of soldiers.”

The marshal took up his pen and made as if to resume his writing.

“Then it’s no use,” inquired Bob weakly, “for me to think about substituting for him?”

“Not the slightest, my boy. But if you really want to serve your country, I’ll tell you what you can do. You can enlist. We need men and we’ll be glad to have you. Any recruiting officer will take your application. That’s all, isn’t it?”

“I guess so; yes, sir.”

“Very well, good-morning! Let in the next man, corporal.”

Bob left the office in a daze. The hope that for two days had lain next his heart, was suddenly blasted. He hardly knew what to do or which way to turn. He walked out through the crowd of waiting men, but he scarcely saw them, nor did they notice him. It was too common a sight in these days to see disappointed men leaving the marshal’s office, for any one to comment on this particular boy’s downcast look or halting step. He went out into the October sunlight, and, threading his way through throngs of citizens and soldiers, he walked down the eastern side of the public square. Well, it was all over. He had failed. His errand had simply served to emphasize his father’s disloyalty. What now? Should he go home, or— The marshal had said something about his enlisting, anyway. How would that work? He had wandered into the street leading to the bridge across the Delaware. Suddenly he was aware that a man in soldier’s uniform, whom he had just met and passed, had stopped and turned and was calling to him. Bob faced about and looked. In an instant he recognized the soldier as Sergeant Anderson, who had arrested him and marched him off to Sarah Jane Stark’s house for breakfast.

“Are you Bob Bannister?” asked the sergeant.

“Yes,” replied Bob, “and you are Sergeant Anderson.”

“Exactly. But what in the world are you doing here?”

“Why, I came here last night to— Well, I might as well tell you; I thought they would let me substitute for my father.”

“Oh, no! I don’t believe you could do that. Have you seen Captain Yohe?”

“Yes, he wouldn’t let me.”

“I thought he wouldn’t. That’s too bad after you came all the way here for that purpose. It will be a disappointment to your father, too.”

“He don’t know I came.”

“Don’t know you came! Why—say, boy, did you work this thing out yourself? Were you willing to do this?”

“Willing! I’d ’a’ crawled from Mount Hermon on my hands and knees to be allowed to do it. I want to save my father, Sergeant Anderson. And I want to help my country. I thought I was going to do both, and now I can’t do either.”

“That’s too bad!”

“Say, do you suppose I could enlist? The marshal suggested that I might enlist.”

“Why, yes, I suppose you could. How old are you?”

“Seventeen my last birthday.”

“Well, that’s a little under age, but I guess you can get in. Uncle Sam needs soldiers pretty bad. I guess they’ll take you.”

“I believe I’ll try it. It looks this way to me. If I get to be a soldier and have a good record, then if they do get father, whatever happens to him it won’t be quite so bad for the rest of us if I’ve proved my loyalty.”

“That’s right! I don’t believe you’re going to help him by enlisting, but if worst comes to worst men are going to forget your father’s disgrace in thinking of your bravery. Will you do it? Will you enlist?”

“Yes, Sergeant Anderson, I will.”

“Then I’ll tell you what to do. You go with me. In an hour I shall start back to the South to join my regiment. I’ll take you along. I’ll get you into my company. I’ll get you into my mess. I’ll stand by you, and take care of you, and share with you, because you’re a hero already, and I’m proud of you!”

The sergeant’s eyes dimmed as he grasped the boy’s hand and shook it enthusiastically.

“Thank you!” replied Bob. “I’m no hero; and I may disgrace you; but I’ll go, and I’ll do the very best I can.”

“Good! Be at the depot across the bridge yonder in an hour, and I’ll meet you there. The train leaves at eleven o’clock.”

The sergeant hurried away, and Bob went back to his hotel to get his baggage. It occurred to him to write a brief letter to Seth Mills, and he did so, telling him what had happened at Easton and giving him permission to repeat to his father and mother so much or so little of the information as he saw fit. Then he hurried to the railroad station and there, promptly at the hour agreed upon, he met Sergeant Anderson. At eleven o’clock they boarded the train for Harrisburg, and from thence, with little delay, they went to Washington. It was late at night when they reached the capital city, and Bob was very tired. They passed through the jostling crowds at the railroad station and sought a rooming house, not far away, with which Sergeant Anderson was familiar, stopping on the way to get a meagre luncheon at a near-by restaurant. They were not long in seeking their beds, and they had no sooner laid themselves down than the young officer fell into a heavy and restful sleep.

But Bob was not so fortunate. The events of the day were still very fresh and vivid in his mind, and he could not readily dismiss the memory of them. It had all been so novel, so exciting, so nerve-racking, for this boy of seventeen, who never before in his life had been fifty miles distant from his native town. Yet he was not discontented or unhappy. On the contrary, so far as the wisdom of his course was concerned, his mind was perfectly at rest. His only anxiety was on account of his father and mother, who would be worrying about him at home. Yet he felt that he had done right. Whatever now might happen to his father, permanent escape from the Federal authorities, or arrest, imprisonment, and death, he knew that his own record as a Union soldier would help to save the family from complete disgrace. Moreover, the ambition of years was about to be realized, he was soon to be enlisted in the ranks of his country’s soldiers, and march and fight under the folds of the old flag. So, with this thought in his mind to temper the anxiety for his father in his heart, he fell into a calmer, deeper sleep than he had known before in many months.

It was late when they arose the next morning, and, after a hurried breakfast, went out into the streets. It was Bob’s first visit to Washington, and he was deeply impressed by the sights and sounds that surrounded him. There were many people moving to and fro. Small bodies of troops went marching by. Officers in uniform hurried here and there. Hospital wagons carrying sick and wounded men brought in from the front, went trailing through the streets. Everywhere was noise, bustle, activity, color. Yet nowhere was there gayety. There was no laughter, no lightness of look or word, no care-free expression on the face of any passer-by. For Washington was troubled. Meade, who had been driven back almost half-way from the Rappahannock to the capital, under the repeated onslaughts of Lee’s depleted but still daring and determined armies, was just now taking fresh courage, facing his troops about, and turning back once more from Centreville toward the Rapidan. Yet the shadow of unnecessary retreat and imminent danger still rested on the city, and complete confidence had not been restored in the commander and the army that had fought so splendidly and successfully at Gettysburg in July. Even Sergeant Anderson, usually buoyant and light-hearted, seemed to partake of the prevailing depression, and as he and Bob made their way down to the river and across Long Bridge, little was said by either of them.

At the end of the bridge a supply wagon going down to Alexandria came along, and the driver, who knew Sergeant Anderson, gave both men a ride with him to the Virginia city.

Early in the afternoon one of the trains that ran at irregular intervals from Alexandria to the front was made up, and Anderson, having the necessary passports, was able to procure a ride for his companion and himself. At Bristol station he made inquiry and learned that his regiment had gone on to Gainesville, and thence to Auburn, and so the two men followed after on foot. That night, as guests of the rear-guard, they slept, rolled in blankets, in an open field. It was not until late the next morning that they came up with Anderson’s regiment, camped under the shelter of a low hill-range near Auburn.

The sergeant, beloved by the men of his company for his bravery in battle, and his cheerfulness and gentleness in camp and on the march, was heartily welcomed back. And his recommendation of Bob was an open sesame for the boy into the good graces of the entire command. So it happened that, before nightfall, Bob Bannister, duly examined, passed, mustered, and clothed in uniform, became a soldier in the Army of the Potomac.