There was consternation in the house of Bannister. The son of the house had disappeared over night. His mother was distracted, his father was anxious and angry. The morning wore on and he did not return. No one had seen him nor could any trace of him be found. Toward noon Seth Mills came over. He was able to quiet, to some extent, the apprehension concerning the boy. But he would not tell where Bob had gone.

“The boy knows what he’s a-doin’,” said the old man, “and he’s perfectly safe. He won’t git back to-night. He may be back to-morrow night—I don’t know. Ef he don’t come till the day after, I’ll tell ye more about ’im. He’s on the right track an’ he’s able to take keer of ’imself, an’ some day ye’re a-goin’ to be proud o’ that boy, both of ye. That’s what I say.”

He stood up very straight and rapped his cane three times on the floor for emphasis and turned toward the door. With this statement and this promise the Bannisters had to be satisfied. They knew, from long experience, that the old man could not be forced to tell more than he chose. So the day dragged on. Rhett Bannister had not been so unhappy before in all his life. A dozen times he thought of starting out to find his son, and a dozen times he abandoned the idea. A dozen times he felt that he must go over and choke the truth out of old Seth Mills, and as often he restrained himself. He surmised something of what had happened, and what he surmised hurt and angered him.

The day went by, and the night, and the next day, and Bob did not return. The next night a candle shone all night from the porch-window, that the boy might be guided safely to his door, if haply he should come back, and all night Rhett Bannister lay sleepless and perplexed. The next morning he started out to find Seth Mills. It was the first time in two weeks that he had left his own premises. He met the old man in the road, hobbling toward the Bannister home.

“Seth,” he said, “I want you to tell me where Robert has gone, and I want you to tell me now. Do you hear? now!”

His voice rose in anger as he spoke, a look of determination was in his eyes, and the old man knew that the time had come when he must reveal his secret.

“Yes,” he replied deliberately, “I was jes’ comin’ over to tell ye. I think it’s time now ye ort to know. Well, sir, the night before he left, Bob come an’ told me ’at he was a-goin’ to Easton to try to pervail on the provost-marshal there to let him go as a substitute in your place. Ef he ain’t back to-day I expect they’ve let him do it. Now you’ve got it, Rhett Bannister, straight from the shoulder; make the most of it.”

For a moment Bannister did not reply. His worst fear had been realized. A great wave of indignation and anger swept over his soul. He stood over the bent form of his old neighbor, white-faced and quivering.

“And you!” he cried, “you of all men, to encourage him, to assist him in this rebellious, this disgraceful, this suicidal folly!”

And again the old man stood up very straight.

“I did encourage him,” he replied. “And I glory in his grit. And ef you hed one drop of human blood in your veins, you’d be the proudest father on the Lord’s footstool to-day.”

Then, lest in his wrath he should wholly forget himself, Bannister turned on his heel and strode away. But he did not go immediately to his home. He felt that he could not yet trust himself to tell his wife. And when, finally, he did go to her he found that she already knew. Seth Mills had been there and told her that since he had seen her husband he had received a letter from Bob, saying that he had been refused as a substitute, but that he was about starting to the front with Sergeant Anderson to enlist. Then Rhett Bannister lost entire control of his tongue.

“So,” he said, “the radicals have caught their prey at last. Such Lincoln bigots as Seth Mills and Henry Bradbury and Sarah Jane Stark have drilled into the boy’s mind their brand of pestilent patriotism till they have turned his head and sent him off on this wild-goose chase after glory. Little thought have they for his health or life or the peace of mind of his parents. And when he dies, as die he will, in that awful struggle, his blood will be on their heads. Oh, it’s horrible! horrible!”

He had not thought to give way, like this, to his passion, and the next moment he had repented himself of his anger. His wife had thrown herself into a chair, and, resting her head on a table, was sobbing hysterically. He went over to her and put his arms about her shoulders.

“There, Mary,” he said, “there, never mind. We’ll get him back somehow. He’s too young to enlist. They can’t hold him against his will or ours. We’ll get him back.”

And so, little by little, she was calmed and comforted.

Seth Mills had told her that Bob would write as soon as he reached his destination. But the day went by and the night wore away and no letter came. Another day and another night dragged their long hours out, and still there was no letter. Word reached Bob’s parents from those who had seen him on the way to Easton. Congratulations on their son’s patriotism and bravery came to them in almost every mail. Henry Bradbury wrote to Bannister:—

“If you are not proud of your boy, you ought to be. I saw him when he started. A braver boy never left this town. If you hang for treason, he will redeem your family from disgrace. Get down on your knees and thank God for him.”

And some of these darts sank deeply into Rhett Bannister’s sensitive soul. At times he was wild with rage, at other times he was bowed and silent with grief and despair. His own fate mattered little to him any more. His whole thought was as to when and by what method he could rescue his son from the hateful hands into which he had fallen. But, even as he pondered and grieved, there crept into his heart a softer feeling toward the boy, an almost unconscious sympathy with the enthusiasm, the ambition, the noble unselfishness which had governed the lad’s conduct, which had impelled him to seek his father’s welfare at peril of his own, which had led him willingly, gladly into the ranks of the Union armies. Indeed, he went so far as to wonder if he himself could by any possibility be mistaken in his attitude toward the Federal government, and his view concerning the conduct of the war. If, after all, there might not possibly be something back of all this attempt at coercion, back of all these vast fighting armies in blue, back of all this lavish expenditure of blood and treasure, some great principle, some high ideal, which his eyes had been too dim to see, but which appealed to the hearts and souls of large-minded men, and fervent patriotic youth, and led them into untold sacrifices that that principle might be upheld and that ideal maintained.

On the fifth day after Bob’s disappearance, the boy who brought mail from the post-office to the residents along the North and South Turnpike road, left a letter at the Bannister house, a letter which, at the first glance, Mrs. Bannister knew was from Bob. With trembling hands she tore the envelope apart and drew forth the sheet of paper inclosed. In her calmer moments she could have read the letter without difficulty. Now, the words, strangely twisted and distorted, swam before her eyes, and the whole page was an unsolved mystery. She ran to the door calling to her husband:—

“Rhett! Rhett! Here’s a letter—from Rob—come quick!”

At his bench in the shop he heard her, and hurried to her side. She thrust the letter into his hands.

“Read it!” she exclaimed. “Read it aloud!”

So he read it.

When he had finished reading the letter, the man held it in his hand and said nothing. Neither did he see anything in the room about him. His eyes were piercing the distance, gazing on a blue-coated stripling in Meade’s army down among the Virginia hills.

The woman was the first to speak. There was no longer in her face the strain of grief or anxiety, the steady look of pain. Her eyes were shining and tearless. Her hands were clasped.

“Rhett,” she said, “I’m proud of him. He’s the bravest boy in the world. What a splendid, splendid letter!”

For one moment the mother’s pride in her offspring asserted itself, the spirit of her Kentucky ancestors shone forth in her countenance, and she spoke the words that came straight from her heart to her lips. Then, suddenly realizing that for the first time in all their twenty years of married life, she had expressed a thought in direct antagonism to the opinion of the husband whom she honored and loved, she sank back into a chair, pale-faced and silent, and let her hands fall dejectedly to her side.

But there was no protest from him. Instead, with a look in his eyes which she could not quite fathom, he came over and sat down by her and kissed her and said:—

“We are both proud of his spirit, Mary, however mistaken his conduct. But he is too good a boy for us to permit him to be lost and destroyed in this awful whirlpool of war. We must get him back.”

Late in the evening of that day there came a knock at the kitchen door of the Bannister house. When the door was opened some one from the outer darkness thrust in a scrap of paper and disappeared. On the paper was scrawled:—

“Rounding-up squad expected at Scranton to-night. Look out!”

When Rhett Bannister read the warning, he said:—

“It makes little difference now. It simply hastens my departure. Doubtless the end will be the same.”

To his wife he added:—

“I start to-morrow morning to try to reach Robert. The probability is that I shall not succeed. But the least I can do is to make the effort.”

Then, gently, calmly, carefully, he outlined to his wife the plan that he had in mind, and explained to her why there was nothing left for him to do but to try to reach and save the boy. The effort might cost him his life, but to stay at home was likely also to cost him his life, and to attempt to escape from the Federal authorities was utterly useless. There was a wild possibility, the thousandth part of a chance, that he might get to Bob and be able to take the boy’s place in the ranks. That was all. And when it was all said, he did not find her nerveless, or hysterical, or in tears, as he had expected and feared, but, instead, in her eyes there was a look of resolution and bravery, across her gentle lips there was drawn a line of courage and determination such as, in all their married life, he had never seen there before.

“I am content,” she said. “I believe you are doing right. Rhett, dear, no matter what happens now, come life or death or desolation, I shall have two heroes to worship and dream of as long as I live.”

Strange it is, and divine, that in a woman so weak so strong a spirit will develop when the right hour strikes.

So, in the bleak darkness of the next morning, at the same hour on which his son had left home scarcely a week before, Rhett Bannister kissed his wife and his sleeping child good-by, and set forth on a mission which, even in his most hopeful moments, promised him only bitter and disastrous failure.

Up the dark road, in the face of the chill October wind, he hurried, into the streets of Mount Hermon, past the home of Sarah Jane Stark, making the same dÉtour around the village that Bob had made, coming out into the main road where he had come, hurrying on in the gray light of the morning, toward his hoped-for destination. But, farther on, he left the main highway and struck off across the country by a little-traveled road, expecting to reach a way station on the railroad a few miles beyond Carbon Creek, and there meet the morning train.

In this effort he was successful. He met no one on the way, nor did any one at the station recognize him. But he had no sooner boarded the train than that happened which he might have expected. Soldiers in uniform arose mysteriously and one stood guard at each door of the car, and another one, followed by an officer, came down the aisle and stopped at the conscript’s seat.

“Is your name Bannister?” inquired the officer.

“It is,” responded the man. “Rhett Bannister of Mount Hermon, at your service; drafted by the government, classed as a deserter, and on my way to join the Army of the Potomac in Virginia.”

“Good! you are our prisoner. Have you any arms about you?”

The officer hastily and skillfully examined the prisoner’s clothing.

“I am unarmed and defenseless,” replied Bannister. “I will go with you willingly. I am not disappointed nor surprised. I only ask to be heard by any officer in authority before whom you take me.”

The mode of capture had been simple enough. The provost-guard had only to follow the conscript’s trail, to board the train at Carbon Creek, and be ready to apprehend him when he should appear. They did not handcuff him. He was entirely in their power, and it was apparent that he would make no resistance.

And so the notorious copperhead, the man who had denounced Abraham Lincoln, who had ridiculed the draft, who had defied the Federal army, was at last a prisoner of the United States. Within five minutes the fact of his identity was known to every person on the train. Men hissed and jeered at him as he was taken into an adjoining car, and women looked on him with detestation. At a station where a change of cars was made, a sympathizer, with more zeal than discretion, attempted, in a loud voice, to argue justification for the prisoner. But his oratory was soon drowned in a storm of protest, and he himself was buffeted by the crowd till he was glad to escape.

So, all the way to Easton, the despised conscript was mocked and frowned upon. Accustomed as he had been to condemnation by his fellow men, the experience of this day was the most bitter and degrading that his life had thus far known. With little to eat, and no comfortable resting-place, he passed a sleepless night. In the morning he was brought before the provost-marshal.

“Captain Yohe,” said the officer in charge, “this is Rhett Bannister, the Mount Hermon deserter.”

The provost-marshal laid down his pen and looked the prisoner in the face.

“Your son,” he said, “was before me a few days ago seeking to be substituted in your place. Were you aware of that fact?”

“I have since learned it, sir.”

“I understand that he afterward enlisted and is now at the front. Is that true?”

“I believe it is.”

“How is it that so unpatriotic a father can have so patriotic a son?”

“I hold myself to be as much of a patriot, sir, as any man in this state. The boy and I take different views of the same matter, that is all. He is young, barely seventeen, and easily influenced by professions of loyalty and the glitter of arms. He has no business to be in the ranks. His place is at home with his mother. I am willing, I desire, to be substituted for him.”

“I see. The scheme is a pretty one, but we cannot permit you to purchase immunity from punishment in that way. Neither your son’s age, nor his patriotism, nor his bravery can serve to effect your release. You have the standing only of a deserter, you must be dealt with as such. I shall remand you to the officers of the division and regiment to which, as a drafted man, you were assigned. They may shoot you, or hang you, or do what they will with you. I am through with you. In my judgment no power on earth can save you from the extreme penalty meted out to deserters unless it be Abraham Lincoln himself. At any rate, I do not want you longer on Pennsylvania soil. Remove the prisoner.”

No wonder Rhett Bannister received little sympathy or consideration at the hands of his captors after that condemnation. Between two soldiers under orders to deliver him to the commander of the regiment to which he had been assigned, he was hustled and hurried on board train, and so off toward Washington.

The soldier guard, at the first opportunity, purchased a pack of cards and a bottle of whiskey. At the station where the next change of cars was made another bottle of whiskey was obtained. The smoking-car in which they sat, and up and down the aisle of which they reeled, was filled with the noise of their harsh orders, their rude quarreling with each other, and their coarse jests at the expense of their prisoner. To Rhett Bannister it was a bitter, a humiliating, a degrading night. But long before the train rolled into the station at Washington, both drunken soldiers had fallen into a heavy sleep. Nor did they awaken when the brakeman announced the station and cried, “All out!”

The few passengers remaining in the car rose to leave. Bannister rose with them. Not so much because he desired to escape from the custody of the Federal authorities, as because he wished to relieve himself of the odious and repellent society of his drunken and disreputable guards.

One man, looking at him askance, said:—

“He ought not to be allowed to get away like that.”

And another one replied:—

“Let him go. After such a night as he has had he deserves his freedom. But I hope his guards will be court-martialed and shot.”

After that no one attempted to detain him, and Rhett Bannister stepped down from the car, a free man. He walked leisurely up the train platform, across the lobby, through the waiting-room, and out into the street. Over the roofs of the houses to the east the sky was beginning to show the first faint streaks of morning gray. An all-night restaurant at the corner attracted his attention, and it occurred to him that he should be hungry. He knew that he was very tired. He entered, and the sleepy and sullen waiter served him with a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Refreshed, he went out once more into the street. It was very quiet in the city at this hour. Only a few stragglers were abroad and they did not notice him.

When he reached Pennsylvania Avenue he turned up toward the Treasury building and sauntered slowly on. Not that he cared particularly which direction he took. But, in other days, he had been familiar with the streets of Washington, and some trend of mind or instinct of memory led his steps that way. He knew that he could not permanently escape, that, sooner or later, he would be recaptured and put to his punishment, and that his punishment would be the more hasty and severe because of his temporary freedom.

The hope that he had dared to entertain on leaving home, that he might be permitted to take his son’s place in the ranks, had now quite vanished. Before him lay only disgrace and death and a stain on his family name in the North for generations. It was the darkest, most desolate hour his life had known. A small squad of soldiers, in command of an officer, approached him, marching up the street through the crisp morning air in brisk time, swinging their arms in unison as they came, and the thought entered his mind that the best thing he could do would be to surrender himself to them. But when he met them he passed without speaking, and they paid no attention to him. A little farther on a crippled veteran with crutches sat on the curb and asked alms as Bannister passed by. And this hater of the Federal blue thrust his hand into his pocket, drew forth a liberal sum, and gave it to the uniformed beggar, without a word. The man was probably a fraud, but what did it matter? It was doubtless a doomed man’s last opportunity to do a charitable deed. So he passed on, up around the Treasury building and along the front of the White House. It was almost daylight now, but the street-lamps had not yet been extinguished, and in the President’s mansion two windows were still brilliantly illuminated.

As Bannister reached the corner by the War Department building he turned and looked back at the White House. There lived the man whom he had ridiculed as a buffoon, whom he had denounced as a tyrant, whom he had decried as a malefactor. And the remark made by Captain Yohe the day before at Easton came back into his mind: “No power on earth can save you from the extreme penalty meted out to deserters unless it be Abraham Lincoln himself.”

So this man held also in his hands dominion over life and death. At his word, spoken or withheld, he, Rhett Bannister, would live or die. At his word, spoken or withheld, soldiers by the thousands had given and would still give their lives that his counsels and his judgments might prevail. What an awful responsibility! How it must weigh on a man’s soul! How it must sober him and search him, and drive from his heart all forms of avarice and selfishness and hatred and hypocrisy! How could this man Lincoln, by any human possibility, be anything but honest and humble and God-fearing, with such an awful load upon his mind and heart!

Involuntarily, as he pondered, Bannister had turned into the park lying between the White House and the War Department and was sauntering leisurely up the path. There was no purpose in it. Doubtless, his thoughts being upon Abraham Lincoln, he was drawn unconsciously toward the physical abiding-place of the man.

And then, suddenly, he became aware that some one was coming toward him down the walk. In the gray light of the morning, under the frost-bitten foliage, a man, tall, bent, with a high black hat on his head, and a gray plaid shawl thrown about his shoulders to protect him from the chill October air, came shuffling down the path. One glance at the uncouth figure, at the deep-lined, careworn face, into the sad and measureless depths of the never-to-be-forgotten eyes told Bannister that the man who approached him was Abraham Lincoln.