American fiction -- 20th century; United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction
The lives of sixty million people had become suddenly full of drill,
organization, uniforms, military music, flags, hatred, love, and
self-sacrifice, and the nations of the Old World stood about, note-book
in hand, like so many medical students at a clinic: could a heart, cut
in two, continue to supply a body with blood after the soul had been
withdrawn? And the nations of the Old World hoped that there would be
enough fresh meat left on the carcass for them to feed on, when the
experiment should be at an end. Mother England was particularly hungry,
and dearly hoped to have the sucking of the eggs which she herself had
laid.
It was a great time for young men, and Margaret shed secret tears on
behalf of five of them. It had fallen upon her to tell the old man that
his three sons had enlisted, and that task had tortured her for an hour
before she had dared go and accomplish it.
“Papa,” she said, “Ham has enlisted, and so has Bul.”
The senator had not moved a muscle.
“It was only a question of time,” he said. “I wish that I had begotten a
dozen others.”
He had borrowed her well-marked Bible from old Mrs. Blankinship and read
Isaiah at a gulp. Then he had sought out his boys and bantered them on
their new clothes.
Margaret sat very still for a long time after the interview with her
father. She knew that Bul, whom she loved best of her brothers, was
going to be killed. She had never before seen his face so serenely
happy as when he came to tell her that he had sworn in, nor had she
ever before seen that unexplainable phenomenon, known variously as fate,
doom, numbered, Nemesis, written upon a face. And there were others who
might be taken.
Aladdin came in for a moment to give her the news. He was nervous with
enthusiasm, and had been working like a horse. His regiment was to leave
Friday for the front; he could stay but a minute; he had only dashed
in on his way to drill. Would she care to come? Quite right; there was
nothing much to look at. He talked as cheerfully and as rapidly as a
mountain brook runs. And then he gave his best piece of news, and looked
almost handsome as he gave it.
“Peter’s here,” he said. “He’s outside talking to the senator. He looks
simply stunning, and he’s a whole lot of things on a staff--assistant
adjutant-general with the rank of a colonel; and he’s floated up here on
a dash against time to say good-by to us.”
Aladdin’s face puckered.
“You and Peter and I, Margaret,” he said, “Lord, what a muddle!”
“I’m terribly blue, old man,” said Margaret, “and it hurts to have you
say things like that.”
Instantly Aladdin was all concern.
“You know I wouldn’t hurt you purposely,” he said, “but I’m terribly
blue, too, dear, and one tries to keep up and says asinine things,
and”--he smiled, and his smile was very winning--“is at once forgiven by
an old dear.”
She held out her hand and gave his a friendly squeeze.
“You old darling!” he said, and ran out.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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