The war was over. Peace rested on the land. All men, North and South, were thankful that the shedding of human blood had ceased. June came, brighter, more beautiful, than any other June of which living men had memory. The world was filled with sunshine, with flowers, with the songs of birds, with the flashings of waters, with the gladness of nature and humanity. The last tired, tattered soldier of the South had gone back to his home to pick up the broken threads of destiny and to begin his life anew. And, slowly drifting up from camp and battle-field, the veterans of the Union army were coming by ones and twos and in little groups, some of them mere ghosts of the boys who had gone to the front when the war was on. But for every war-worn soldier thus returning there was one who would never come again. So there were tears as well as smiles, and heart-aches as well as rejoicings.

But the soldiers from Mount Hermon did not come until after the close of the Grand Review in Washington, in which they took part. Then they too turned their faces toward home. It was agreed that they should all come together. And Mount Hermon, that had sent them forth with its God-speed, that had rejoiced in their victories and sorrowed in their defeats, was ready to welcome them back. They were to come on a special car that would reach Carbon Creek late in the forenoon. There they were to be met by a committee of welcome, with a band of music and decorated wagons. The party would reach Mount Hermon about noon, and after the first greetings had been given, there was to be a dinner under a great tent on the public square, the finest dinner that the men of Mount Hermon could buy and the women of Mount Hermon could prepare. And after the dinner, from the platform at the end of the tent, there were to be addresses of welcome, and music, and every returning man and boy who had worn the blue was to be made to feel that the town was proud of him this day, and honored him for the service he had performed for his country and the lustre he had shed upon Mount Hermon.

So, on the day of the arrival, the committee of welcome was at Carbon Creek a full hour before the train was due, so fearful were they lest by some unforeseen delay they should be one minute too late. In due time the procession, half a hundred strong, started on its way to Mount Hermon, the band in the first wagon playing “Marching through Georgia.” All along the route there was, as the newspapers said next day, “a continuous ovation.” Farm-houses were decorated, flags were flying everywhere, groups of cheering citizens stood at every crossroad. When they reached the borough line, they all descended from the wagons and formed on foot to march to the village green. Not quite as they had formed in other days under Southern skies, for now there was no one in command; officers and privates alike were in the ranks to-day, marching shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm, in one long, glad, home-coming procession. But you couldn’t keep those ranks in order; no one could have kept them in order. One old veteran said that Ulysses Grant himself couldn’t have kept the men in line, there was so much cheering, so much hand-shaking, so many waiting wives and mothers and children to be kissed and hugged and kissed again. And long before the great tent on the green was reached there was no more semblance of order in those happy ranks, than you would have found among a group of schoolgirls out for a holiday.

Private Bannister and his son were both in the procession. Not that it was Rhett Bannister’s choice to be there. He had thought to make the journey back to his home quietly and alone, in much the same way that he had left it nearly two years before, and there await such welcome, good or ill, as the people of the community might see fit to give him. But his comrades simply would not have it so. Indeed, they refused absolutely to go together, or to partake in the ceremony of welcome, unless he would go with them. So he went, not without many misgivings, fearing the worst, yet hoping for the best. And the best came. His record in the ranks had preceded him long before. The story of his conversion by Abraham Lincoln was a story that his neighbors never wearied of telling. And if there was one thing more than another on which Mount Hermon prided herself, next to having as one of her own boys the youngest commissioned officer in the Army of the Potomac, it was on the fact that Rhett Bannister, the once hated, despised, and outlawed copperhead, had become one of the best and bravest and truest soldiers in the armies of his country.

And so Mount Hermon welcomed him. Nor could he for one moment doubt the sincerity of his welcome. The hearty handclasp, the trembling voice, the tear-dimmed eye with which old friends and neighbors greeted him, left no room for questionings.

One block from the public square Henry Bradbury came upon them. He put his one remaining arm around Bob’s shoulders and hugged him till he winced.

“You rascal!” he exclaimed. “You runaway! You patriot! God bless you!”

Then he released Bob, and grasped Bob’s father’s hand.

“Rhett Bannister,” he said, “I never took hold of but one man’s hand in my life before, that I was prouder to shake, and that was Abraham Lincoln’s.”

Then when he got his voice again, he added:—

“Fall out, both of you. Sarah Jane Stark wants to see you at her house before you go to the square.”

So they followed him three blocks around, and down to the house of Sarah Jane Stark. She was there in the hall, waiting for them.

“Bob Bannister,” she said, “I love you!” And she put her hands up on his broad shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. Then she turned to Bob’s father, and, without a word, and much to his amazement and confusion, she saluted him in the same way.

“There!” she exclaimed, “that’s the first time I’ve kissed a man in forty years. I never expect to kiss another, but—to-day—it’s worth it. There, not a word! I know what I’m doing. Go in there, both of you. March!”

She opened the parlor door, thrust them both into the room, and closed the door on them without another word. In that room were Mary Bannister and Louise. At the end of fifteen minutes, Sarah Jane Stark came back down the hall and knocked briskly.

“Come,” she said, “it’s time to go to the square. You needn’t think you can stay here and make love all day. And I won’t give you a thing to eat. You’ve got to go up to the tent and eat with the rest of us.”

On the way up she walked with Bob. She had a thousand questions to ask, nor could Bob get one quite answered before a new one would strike him squarely between the eyes. But when she said: “And where’s that dear sergeant who took breakfast with us one morning, and who couldn’t say grace; what became of him?” and Bob answered, “He was killed at Cold Harbor, Miss Stark,” she was silent for a full minute.

They were just ready to sit down to dinner in the big tent when the Bannisters arrived. A place had been reserved for them at the head of the table, two and two on each side of the master of the feast, with all the other veterans and their wives and daughters and sweethearts in line below, and the patriotic citizens of Mount Hermon filling up the rest of the long tables.

That was a dinner! In the whole history of Mount Hermon nothing had been known to equal it. And when it was over, and the tables had been partly cleared, the flag at the end of the tent was drawn aside, and there on the platform were the speakers, the singers, and the band. A chorus of girls, dressed in white, with little flags in their hands, sang “America.” There was a brief and fervent prayer by the old clergyman who had married nearly every one’s father and mother in Mount Hermon, and who knew all the middle-aged people by their first names. Then the burgess of the borough delivered the address of welcome, and the band played. After that the chairman of the meeting rose and rapped for order.

“Our young friends,” he said, “desire to participate, to a brief extent, in this programme of rejoicing. I will call upon Master Samuel Powers.”

So Master Samuel Powers made his way awkwardly and blushingly up between benches and tables, to the platform. At the steps he stumbled, recovered himself with a masterly jerk, and continued on his course. Turning to the audience, red-faced and frightened, he began to search in his pockets for something that he had evidently mislaid. Into his coat pockets and trousers pockets, each side in turn, outside and inside, he searched with increasing desperation, but in vain. Then he tried the pockets all over again, with the same result. The audience began to see the comical side of the boy’s embarrassment, and half-suppressed laughter was heard throughout the tent. Some one in the crowd yelled:—

“Cough it up, Sam! cough it up! You’ve swallered it!”

And a boy’s voice somewhere in the rear responded:—

“Aw, snakes! Let ’im alone. He’s got it in his head. Give it to ’em, Sammy, boy! Chuck it at ’em! Go it!”

Thus adjured, Sam advanced to the front of the platform.

“I had a paper,” he said, “to read from, but I guess I’ve lost it. Anyway, what I want to say is that two years ago us boys had a military company here. An’ we’ve got it yet. An’ we’re goin’ to keep it. Well, two years ago Bob Bannister tried to get in the company an’ we wouldn’t let ’im in because—” he gave a frightened glance at Rhett Bannister, sitting below him—“I might as well tell—because his father was a copperhead. Well, after what happened we got a little ashamed of ourselves, an’ when we heard how he was fightin’ down there in a real company, we were all sorry we hadn’t let him in. So when our captain moved away we elected Bob Bannister captain, with leave of absence till the war was over. But somehow or another that didn’t seem to be quite enough to do. An’ then when we heard about Five Forks we got together an’ chipped in, and our fathers helped us a little, and we bought him the best sword an’ silk sash that Henry Bradbury could find in New York, an’ we want to give it to him here to-day. Say, Bill Hinkle, bring that sword up here!”

Thunders of applause greeted Sam’s remarks. Some one took Bob by the arm and dragged him to the platform, and when he had received the sword, which was indeed a beauty, there were insistent calls for a speech. Bob looked down to his father for help and inspiration, and as he did so the audience saw on his head the long, red, ragged scar over which the hair had not yet grown, and then the applause was renewed with threefold vehemence.

Finally he managed to stammer out:—

“I can’t make a speech. I’m sure this tribute from the boys has touched my heart. I know I’m very grateful to you all for the way you’ve welcomed me. I’ll never forget this day, and—and I guess that’s all.”

He turned and made a rapid retreat from the platform, while the audience shouted itself hoarse with approval of his speech. There was more music by the band, and then Judge Morgan mounted the platform. He had aged much during the last two years of the war, and his hand trembled visibly as he thrust it, after the old fashion, into the breast of his tightly buttoned Prince Albert coat. But his voice, though quavering a little at the start, was still strong and penetrating, and no one in the audience could fail to hear him as he spoke.

“Mr. Chairman, returning soldiers of the Union armies, ladies and fellow citizens:—

“Some two years ago it was my fortune, or misfortune as you choose, to be present at a meeting of the citizens of Mount Hermon, held on the nation’s natal day, on this very spot. The great battle of Gettysburg had just been fought. Public feeling ran high, the spirit of patriotism was at white heat. It became my duty to draw and present to that meeting a set of resolutions condemnatory of one of our fellow citizens whose unpatriotic attitude and open disloyalty brought down upon his head our righteous wrath. I need not repeat those resolutions here. I need not call your attention further to the exciting incidents of that day. Many of you will remember them. I will hasten on to say that it has been my duty and my great pleasure to prepare another set of resolutions to be presented to this meeting to-day. They are as follows:—

“Resolved: First,—That the resolutions heretofore adopted by the citizens of Mount Hermon on the fourth day of July, A. D. 1863, denouncing as disloyal and unworthy of citizenship one Rhett Bannister, be and they are hereby absolutely suspended, revoked, and made void.

“Second,—That we welcome the said Rhett Bannister to his home as he returns to us from the war, bringing with him a record for loyalty and courage of which the best and bravest soldier might well be proud. And we congratulate him and his noble wife on the splendid service which their son Lieutenant Robert Barnwell Bannister has rendered to his country in her hour of need.

“Third,—That we welcome with open arms and thankful hearts all these soldiers of the Republic, who have returned to us this day bearing laurels of victory, and we extend our assistance and condolence to all sick and wounded veterans and to all widows and orphans through whose sufferings our country has been saved.

“Mr. Chairman, I move the adoption of these resolutions by a rising vote.”

And how they did vote! rising of course, standing on chairs, tables, anything; cheering, waving hats and handkerchiefs, to express their approval of the resolutions which Judge Morgan had so acceptably framed. Then there were shouts for “Bannister! Rhett Bannister! Rhett Bannister!”

At first he did not want to go. Then, as the second and wiser thought came to him, he mounted the platform and faced his fellow townsmen. In the beginning he could not quite control his voice, but it soon got back its old resonant ring, and then the audience sat in rapt attention, listening to his words.

“My friends and neighbors, I do not deserve this. I never dreamed of a welcome home like this. I thought to come back quietly, alone, and slip as easily as I might into the old grooves, and I hoped that some day, possibly, you would forget. But the boys who marched with me, fought with me, suffered with me, not one of whom but has been braver, truer, more faithful, and more deserving than I,—the boys, I say, would not listen to it. So here I am, with them—and you. And now that I am here I want to say to you what I have had it in my heart to say to you, night and day, for nearly two years. I am, as you know, descended from the men and women of the South. When the war came on I sympathized with my brothers there. If I had been resident among them then, and had failed to rally to their cause, I would have been more than a poltroon. I could not see that the environment of a lifetime here should have led me into wiser counsels and better judgment. You know the story of my folly. But, like Saul of Tarsus, breathing out threatenings and slaughter, I came one day into the presence of an overmastering soul. I went out from that presence changed, and utterly subdued. I saw things in a new light and with a larger vision. Not that I loved my people of the South any less, but that I loved my country more. By the grace and mercy of Abraham Lincoln, and the goodness of God, I was permitted to fight in the ranks of my country’s soldiers, side by side with my son whom you have just seen and heard. I never commended this boy publicly before, and it is not probable that I ever shall again; but I will say to-day, that no knight of old ever sought the Holy Grail with more persistent courage and deeper devotion than he has sought his country’s welfare. As for me, I am what I am to-day, I have done what I have done, because of Abraham Lincoln. If you had seen him as I saw him, if you had heard him as I heard him, you would have loved him as I loved him—yet not so deeply. For my love was greater because he loved my people of the South. Doubt me if you will, discredit me if you must, but I speak what I believe and know when I say that the men and women of the South have never had a better friend, a truer guide, a wiser counselor, than they lost when the foul assassin’s bullet sent this gentle spirit to its home. I have done what I could. I have been the best soldier I knew how to be. Now I am back with you, to take up once more the old life, and to try to prove to you through all the days and nights that are to come, that your flag is my flag, that your country is my country, and that this home among the Pennsylvania hills was never quite so dear to me before as it is to-day. I thank you. I am grateful to you all. Your welcome has touched me so deeply—so deeply”—and then his voice went utterly to pieces, and with tears of joy streaming down his face, he left the stand.

The meeting did not last long after that. There were more numbers on the programme indeed. But when Rhett Bannister had finished, so many were talking, so many were cheering, so many were crying, that the chairman simply let the people have their own way and finish as they would.

It was a happy supper-party at the Bannister home that night; so like the suppers in the summer days of old, in the years before the war. After it was over, Bob went down by the path across the meadow, as he used to go, to see Seth Mills. The old man had failed much of late. Age was resting heavily upon him, and he was too feeble to go far from home.

And in the beautiful June twilight Rhett Bannister sat upon his porch and looked out upon the old familiar scene: the fields, the trees, the road, the clear and wonderful expanse of sky. But when his eyes wandered, for a moment, to the shop and the windmill tower crowned by the motionless blades of the big wheel, he turned them away. There were things which, on this night of nights, he did not care to bring back to memory. And, as he sat there, holding in his own the hand of the happiest, proudest woman that the stars looked down upon that summer night in all the old Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, there came the well-remembered click of the front-gate latch, and, out of the darkness, hobbling slowly up the walk, came the bent figure of Seth Mills. Bannister leaped from the porch and hurried down the path to meet him. The old man stopped and looked him over in well-feigned dismay.

“Rhett Bannister,” he exclaimed, “you blamed ol’ copperhead! you skallywag deserter! you deep-dyed villyan! what ’a you wearin’ them blue soldier clothes fur?”

Then, as Bannister hesitated, in doubt as to how he should take this outburst, his visitor broke into a hearty laugh.

“Well, Rhett,” he said, “I forgive you. I forgive you. Where’s your hand? Where’s your two hands? I knowed what you’d do when the boy went. I told him so. God bless you, but I’m proud of you! I’m proud o’ both of you! Bob’s been down; splendid boy; said I mustn’t come up here; too fur to walk. I told him to mind his own business; that I was comin’ up to shake hands with Rhett Bannister ef it took a leg; ef it took both legs, by cracky!”

Bannister helped the old man up the steps, and made him comfortable in a big porch-chair, and told him a hundred things he wanted to know, and at last he told him about Abraham Lincoln.

“You know I saw the President?”

“I heard all about it, Rhett. You’ve been blessed above your fellow men.”

“But you didn’t know that he spoke to me of you?”

“Of me? Seth Mills?”

“Yes, of you. He told me that story about how you settled the spring controversy with Sam Lewis.”

“No!”

“Yes, he did. And then I told him that I knew you, that you were my nearest and best neighbor; and he said: ‘You tell Seth Mills for me, if you ever see him again, that Abe Lincoln remembers him, and sends him greeting and good wishes in memory of the old days in Sangamon County.’ I’ve carried that message in my heart for you through blood and fire, Seth, and now, to-night, it is yours.”

But the old man did not reply. Instead, his hand stole out and rested on his neighbor’s knee, and then, softly in the darkness, Bannister heard him sob.

But Seth Mills went home at last, and over the crest of the eastern hill-range the full moon came shining. And then something else happened. From the shadows of the roadway that fronted the house, suddenly, sweetly, jubilantly on the night air, came the music of a chorus of fresh young voices singing:—

They were the same boys who, two years before, had marched down the road at night singing songs of derision to the hated copperhead.

Ah! but those two years. What may not happen in a time like that? What change of thought, of heart, of life? What tragedy and transformation?

As the faint, sweet chorus of the boy-singers came back to him across the moonlit fields, Rhett Bannister turned his face to the star-strewn sky, and thanked God that after the storm and stress and trial, and through the ministry of one great man, he had fallen upon such glorious days.

The Riverside Press
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