THE DRUMS

WHEN, on the afternoon of a later day, Marcia Haddon and her ancient chaperone re-entered the long and straggling street at the forks of the river, they noted certain signs of excitement. A group of men was standing; others were hurrying to the open space in front of the big store.

A striking sound came to their ears—a sound not known in the Cumberlands for a generation—the throbbing of a drum, the shrilling of a fife.

Upon a staff, upheld by the hand of one of a little group of four men in uniform, was something which focussed the eyes of all. It was the Flag—the Flag for which the Cumberlands once had fought.

“Why, look-a-thar!” exclaimed Granny Williams, hurrying up her mule. “I know them boys, all four of ‘em! It’s Jimmy an’ Willy Sanders, Tom Carswell, an’ Grief Talley—all four of ‘em went out an’ ‘listed more’n eight year ago, an’ been in the Army ever sense. I’d like to know what fer they come in here now.”

Marcia Haddon could see posted up in the window a flaming poster whose letters of red spoke loudly enough to all who could understand them: “Your country needs you!”

Their country! Their country! It had forgotten them all these years—these men who once had saved the principle of freedom for a world—a world now gone mad once more with blood and crying aloud now again for aid in the salvation of that same principle.

“What is it, Ma’am?” demanded Granny Williams, as they hurried on down the street. “What’s the paper say?”

“It’s the war! They must be a recruiting party from the Army,” said Marcia Haddon. “The paper in the window says, ‘Your country needs you!’”

“It ‘pears to me I heerd some talk about thar bein’ fightin’ goin’ on Outside somewhar’s,” said Granny Williams. “But what’s that got to do with us down here? Ye don’t reckon the Government needs us, do ye?”

That was the message of this flaring placard hung up for these, so few of whom could read; that was the import of archaic drum and fife, and modern flag and uniform—here in the far-off and forgotten Cumberlands. “Your country needs you!”

Men came from all parts of the little settlement, attracted by the sound of the music. They gazed dumbly and vaguely at the sheet in the window, whose meaning they knew from what these soldier boys told them—a recruiting sergeant, a corporal, and two privates, sent in from the district recruiting station on the railroad, far away.

“Whar’s Davy?” asked old Absalom Gannt. “Someone go git Davy. We got to look into this thing.”

Before David Joslin could be found, the two women had turned in at Granny Williams’ home. Huddling like fowls, all the women had taken to cover at the alarm. The street was empty save for men and boys.

“What’s all this about, Davy?” asked old Absalom, when presently Joslin joined them in the street. “Is our Government in this here?”

“Yes,” said David Joslin. “It’s war! Our country’s in it. That’s what it says.”

Someone handed him a newspaper, and he read its headlines hurriedly, interpreting for them as he did so. These men well enough knew what war was, or had been—the traditions of their fathers told them. The faces about him were serious now; no light remark was ventured by any. Their eyes shifted from the gaunt, lean face of David Joslin, as he read, to this little fluttering emblem which stood driven in the mountain airs.

“They’ve fired on our Flag!” said David Joslin to them at last. “Our women and our children have been killed by these—the enemy.”

A low murmur, amounting to a growl in sum, rose from the group of men. Silently they gathered more closely about him.

“Shot at our flag?” said old Absalom Gannt—“an’ wimmern and children—that kain’t be! That hain’t right.”

“But it’s true,” said David Joslin. “We’ll have to fight.”

“Ye’re damn right we’ll have to fight!” said Absalom. “Our Government kain’t stand that.”

“The sergeant here will tell you,” went on David Joslin, after a time. “The Government wants volunteers, up to forty—that’ll let me in. It may be some of you boys will want to go along. Maybe it’s our time come at last!”

And now, all at once, swiftly, exultantly, gloriously unrestrained, the full gift of tongues fell upon David Joslin, as he stood there in the open street of a mountain village in a forgotten land! Suddenly the clouds cleared in front of him. He saw, and was content now with what he saw. Now he knew his life had not been in vain; that yet it might be of worth; that on ahead, if he should be spared to win it, lay the great, wide education of life and citizenship, and a share in the building and the keeping of a world! He spoke in such fashion that all his own longings, his own yearnings for his country and his people became apparent to them now, so that they listened in trust and awe and reverence; as well as in somber anger when he swung to the great summons. Had there been David Joslins throughout the land, the American Army had been a matter of a week, a day, and we had not been laggard in Freedom’s great day of peril.

“There’s goin’ to be a draft, a conscription,” said the sergeant in explanation after a time.

“Draft be damned!” said Absalom Gannt, and spoke the mind of all. “Thar kain’t nobody draft us, not even the Government. We’ll go ahead of ary draft.”

“They won’t let you go, Absalom. You’re too old,” said Sergeant Talley to him, smiling.

“Too old! Who—me? I’d like to see ary man tells me I’m too old to fight,” rejoined that stark citizen.

“Twenty-one to thirty-one,” smiled Sergeant Talley. “Up to forty, if you volunteer.”

“Well, that lets me in, anyway,” said Chan Bullock, and there were nods through the little crowd. Only the older men turned face to face, shaking their heads.

“It hain’t no ways reas’ner’ble to let the boys go alone,” said old Absalom Gannt. “It hain’t no ways right, an’ it wouldn’t do—we’ll all go out together, that’s what we’ll do! Davy Joslin, ye’ll have to go, too—I reckon ye’ll have to lead us—Outside.”

“Well, we could make up a band of men,” said Sergeant Talley, hesitating, “and go over to the examining officers at the station. A day’s march, maybe.”

“That’s the talk!” said Absalom. “We’ll all go out together. Davy, tell me,” and he turned to him suddenly, “who is it we’re a-fightin’ with?”

And David told him as well as he might, suiting what he said to the understanding of these who heard.

“Give us a day, Sergeant, to fix things up at home,” suggested Joslin now. “We’ll not keep you long.”

“Look at them old guys,” grumbled the smart sergeant to his corporal, aside. “We don’t want them along, but it don’t look like we could head them off.”

The color-bearer picked up his flag once more. The drummer pulled around his slings, and the fifer handled his instrument. The throb of the drum, the high note of the fife, passed down the street to yet another stand. And behind them, ragged, gaunt, unkempt, somewhat uncouth, fell in the band of the lost children, the men of the Cumberlands, now following the Flag, which had so long forgotten them.