An Unofficial Patriot

He drew the map toward him and indicated a spot by holding the point of his knife on it.

"There's a strip along here," he began, and Griffith arose and bent over the map, "that I can't make out. That seems to be an opening in the mountains; but – "

"No – no," said Griffith, taking up a pencil from the table. "No; the real opening – the road pass – Let me see; what's the scale of miles here? M-m-m! Four? No – Why, the road pass is at least five miles farther on." He drew a line. "You see, it's like this. There." He stopped and shook his head. "M-m-m! No, n-o-o; that map's all wrong. It ought to run along there – so. This way. The road – the wagon road – trends along here – so. Then you go across the ridge at an angle here – so. There ought to be a stream here.

"O pshaw! this map's – Where did you get this map? It's no account, at all. Why, according to this, there's at least seven miles left out right here, between – Why, right here, where they've got those little, insignificant-looking foothills, is one of the most rugged and impassable places in this world! Here, now!" He drew several lines and turned the map. "O pshaw! there's no place left now for the – Here, right a-b-o-u-t h-e-r-e – no, there, right there – is the Bedolph estate – fine old stone house, corn-fields, wheat, orchards – a splendid place. Then, as you go up this way, you pass into a sort of pocket – a little strip pretty well hedged in. You couldn't go with a carriage without making a circuit around here – this way – but a horseman can cut all that off and go – so. See? There is a mill – fine old mill stream – right here – runs this way."

Mr. Lincoln had followed every line eagerly, making little vocal sounds of understanding, or putting in a single word to lead Griffith on. Suddenly he said:

"You're a good Union man Morton tells me."

"I am, indeed, Mr. Lincoln. Nobody in the world could be more sorry than I over the present situation. I – "

"How sorry are you?"

"What do you mean?" asked Griffith, straightening up. Mr. Lincoln arose at the same time.

"How much of a Union man are you? – 'nough to help save it? How sorry are you? – sorry enough to act?"

Griffith had almost forgotten why he was here. It all came back to him. He began to breathe hard.

"I have acted, I have helped," he said, moving toward the window. "When you came in the room I was looking through those fine glasses of yours at that bridge, across which I came in fifty-three, self-exiled, hastening to escape from the bondage of ownership, and, at the last, from the legal penalty of leaving behind me two freed, runaway negroes." He had lifted the glasses to his eyes again. "I thought then that I had done my full duty —all of it. But since then I have given my three sons to you – to my country. They – "

Mr. Lincoln's muscular hand rested on Griffith's shoulder.

"Look at that bridge again. Do you see any dead men on it? Do you see young sons like your own dragging bleeding limbs across it? Do you see terror-stricken horses struggling with and trampling down those wounded boys? Do you see – "

Griffith turned to look at him, in surprise.

"No," he said, "nothing of the kind. There are a few soldiers moving about down this side, but there's nothing of that kind."

He offered the glasses to the President, who waved them away.

"I don't need them!" and an inexpressibly sad expression crossed his face. "I don't need them. I have seen it. I saw it all one day. I saw it all that night as it trailed past here. I heard the groans. The blood was under that window. I have seen it! I have seen nothing else since. If you have never seen a panic of wounded men, pray to your God that you never may!" The sorrowful voice was attuned now to the sorrowful, the tragic face. "Do you see that lounge over there?" He pointed to the other side of the room. "Men think it is a great thing to be a President of a great nation – and so it is, so it is; yet for three nights while you slept peacefully in your bed I lay there, when I wasn't reading telegrams or receiving messages, not knowing what would come next – waiting to be ready for whatever it might be."

He had not finished presenting the case in a light in which he felt sure it would touch the character of the man before him.

"Are your small personal needs paramount to those of your country? Have you no patriotism? Have you no mercy upon our soldiers? Must more hundreds of them suffer defeat and death for the lack of what you can give them? Are you willing to receive the benefits of a free country which you are not willing to help in her hour of greatest need? Can you – do you – want to leave your young sons and the sons of your neighbors on the far side of the dead line marked by that bridge?" The allusion was a chance one, but it struck home.

Griffith put out his hand.

"What do you want me to do?" he gasped, hoarsely.

The President grasped his hand and held it in a vice-like grip. "What – do – I – want – you – to – do?" he asked, with a deliberation strangely at variance with the passion of his words a moment ago. He looked down searchingly, kindly, pityingly into the troubled eyes before him. "What do I want you to do? I – want – you – to – follow – your – conscience – for – the – benefit – of – your – country – instead – of – for – your – own – personal – comfort, – until – that – conscience – tells – you – your – country – needs – you – no – longer; that you have, in deed and in truth, done your share fully! I want you to go with an advance guard down through that very country" – his long finger pointed to the disfigured map on the table – "and show our commander the real topography of that land. I want you to make him as familiar with it as you are yourself. I want you to show him where the passes and fords are, where supplies can be carried across, where water is plenty, and where both advance and retreat are possible without useless and horrible slaughter. I want you – " He was still holding Griffith's right hand. He placed his left on his shoulder, again. "No man has done his duty in a crisis like this until he has done all that he can to hasten the dawn of peace;" he lowered his voice, "and he that is not with us is against us," he said solemnly, the scriptural language falling from his lips as if their professions were reversed.

"How far do you want me to go?" asked Griffith, looking up with an appeal in every tense muscle of his miserable face. "It is my native State! They are my people! I love every foot of ground – I love those – " He was breathing so hard he stopped for a moment. "That we do not think alike – that they are what you call rebels to our common country – does not change my love. I – Mr. Lincoln – "

The President seemed to tower up to a greater height than even his former gigantic altitude. He threw both arms out in a sudden passion: "Forget your love! Forget your native State! Forget yourself! Forget everything except that this Union must and shall be saved, and that you can hasten the end of this awful carnage!" The storm had swept over. He lowered his voice again, and with both hands on the preacher's shoulders: "I will agree to this. When you have gone so far that you can come back here to me and say, 'I know now that I have done enough. My conscience is clear. My whole duty is done.' When you can come back here and say that to me – when you can say (if you and I had changed places) that you could ask no more of me – then I will agree to ask no more of you." Then, suddenly, "When will you start? To-night?"

"Yes," said Griffith, almost inaudibly, and sank into a chair.

Mr. Lincoln strode to the table and pushed aside the disfigured map. "I will write your instructions and make necessary plans," he said. "There is not much to do. The General and the engineer corps are ready. I hoped and believed you would go." His pen flew over the paper. Then he paused and looked at his visitor. "We must fix your rank. Will you volunteer, or shall I – ?"

"Is that necessary, Mr. Lincoln? I am a preacher, you know. I – Can't I go just as I am – just – as – ?"

The President had turned again to the table, and was writing. Griffith stepped to his side.

"Do you realize, Mr. Lincoln, that every man, woman and child in that whole country will recognize me – and – ?"

"Yes, yes, I know, I know. We must do everything we can to protect you from all danger – against assassination or – "

"It is not that," said Griffith, hoarsely. "Do you care nothing for the good-will – for the confidence – of your old neighbors hack in Illinois?"

The stroke went directly home.

"Do I care for it?" There was a long pause. The sunken eyes were drawn to a mere line. "I'd rather lose anything else in this world. It is meat and drink to me. I – "

"Look here, Mr. Davenport; don't make the mistake of thinking that I don't realize what I'm asking you to do – that I don't see the sacrifice. I do. I do, fully, and I want to do everything I can to – to make it up to you. I know you used to be greatly trusted and beloved down there. Morton has told me. He told me all about the pathos of that old negro following you, too, and how you made out to keep her. I know, I know it all, and I wouldn't ask you if I knew how to avoid it. I tell you that I'd rather give up everything else in this world than the good-will of those old friends of mine back there in Illinois; but if I had to give up the respect and confidence and love of every one of them, or forfeit that of Abraham Lincoln, who has sworn' to sustain this Union, I'd have to stick to old Abe! It would go hard with me – harder than anything I know of – but it would have to be done. We have got to sustain this Union! We'll save her with slavery at the South and with friends to ourselves, if we can; but, by the Eternal I we'll save her anyhow!"

He struck over and over the same chord – the Union must be saved. Every road led back to that one point. Every argument hinged upon it. Every protest was met by it. He hammered down all other questions.

"If we are Union men, this is the time and the place to show it. All other objects, motives, methods, private interests, tastes, loves or preferences must yield to the supreme test – What are we willing to do to save the Union?" Once he said:

"You don't suppose my position is particularly agreeable,'do you? Do you fancy it is easy, or to my liking?"

"No, no, Mr. President, of course not. I understand that; but you are holding a public office, and – "

"So are you," came like a shot. "In times like this all men who are or who have been trusted by their fellow men, are now, in a sense, leaders – are in a public position. Their influence is for or against this Union. There is no neutral ground. I've already been driven a good deal farther than I ever expected to have to go, and it looks as if I'd have to jump several more fences yet; but you'll see me jump'em when the time comes, or I'll break my neck trying it!" He wheeled back to the table. "Here, why not let me put you down as a chaplain? Carry you on the rolls that way? It – "

"No, Mr. Lincoln, that won't do. I won't agree to that. If I go it is not as chaplain. We know that, and there must be no pretense. I will not use my ministerial standing as a cloak. I – "

"You are right, too. I wouldn't, myself. Then you won't be with any one division long at a time. You'll have to transfer as the need comes. Let me see – m-m-m – "

"If I do this thing I will do it outright. I'll ask one thing of you – I don't want it known; for, of course, none of my friends can understand the way you look at it and the way you have made me see it. But when I go, I'll want a good horse, and I'll ride in the lead. I'll not stay back as a chaplain, nor sutler, nor as anything but as what I shall be, God help me! a guide!"

"Well, suppose we just call you that – Government Guide. But since it is to be such extraordinary service – so vital to our cause – we'll make your pay extraordinary, too. How does a colonel's pay strike you?"

Griffith was on his feet in a flash. He stood looking straight at the President, who had not turned as he asked the question. The hands of the preacher were grasping the back of his chair.

"On the pay-roll," began Mr. Lincoln, "you will appear as – "

"Pay-roll! Pay-roll!" burst from Griffith, and the President turned. The expression of the preacher's face was a complete surprise, but the astute man understood it instantly. Griffith was moving toward the door. "Mr. Lincoln, you do not understand me. You have mistaken your man! You – I – "

The President had followed him hastily and his own hand reached the door first.

"Stop!" he said kindly. "It is you who do not understand me. I – "

"I understood you twice to say – to offer to pay me to lead a hostile army – to take troops into – to the homes of – "

"No, no, don't look at it that way. It is right you should have some – some – rank – and – " He was going to utter again the word pay, but did not. Suddenly he thought of a way out of the dilemma.

"You see, it is like this. You've got to have grub – rations. Now, we can't issue rations to men who don't exist – ain't doing some sort of service, don't y' see? Then suppose you should be captured. I don't want to suppose anything of the kind, and of course we've got to take every possible precaution against such a disaster – but suppose you were captured, unless you are recognized as – unless you have some status – we can't require the rebels to treat you as a prisoner of war and exchange you for some officer. We've got to arrange so you will be treated as a regular, and an important prisoner of war – don't you see?" The dangerous shoals were being skilfully crossed. The sagacious lawyer and reader of men was retrieving his blunder. He passed his hand through Griffith's arm, and turned him from the door. "That was what I meant! We'll have to carry you, somehow, on the rolls – for rations and things. You'll mess with the General, of course, and we'll see that you have the very best horse in the army – you see, I know the circuit rider's weakness. The fact is – " He was leading Griffith back to the table where the great disfigured map lay – where he deftly slipped the paper containing the half-written instructions, upon which the subject of pay had been begun, under its edge, took another sheet in its stead, and began anew with the rank and the pay left out.

CHAPTER XVI

"Into the valley of death."– Tennyson.

It was arranged that the command with which Griffith moved should, so far as was possible, avoid collision with the enemy; move silently, swiftly or slowly as occasion demanded, but at all times do everything possible to give to the topographical engineers a clear, distinct and minute knowledge of the country, so that in future intelligent action could be sustained.

It was thought wise to take as few troops as safety would permit, and, wherever knowledge of the proximity of the Southern forces was obtained in time, take some other road or retire temporarily to the seclusion of the mountains. All fighting was, if possible, to be avoided. This was the plan of operations. At times they were far inside the enemy's lines, but at distant points from the opposing force.

At other times they were again camped for a night with some advance division of the federal troops farther northward. To those to whom their object was unknown, their movements would have seemed unaccountable, indeed.

In road or pass or village, many a familiar face did Griffith see, and his relief was intense, if no look of recognition came into it. His fatigue coat, from which the brass buttons had been taken, and broad-brimmed, cord-decorated military hat, served as something of a disguise with those who had never seen him in other than clerical garb. Often a sharp pain shot through his heart as he rode through some one of his old circuits, and a one time friendly face looked up at him, at first with simply the curiosity and dislike bestowed upon the staff officers of a hostile force, and then with a sudden flash of recognition, there would come, also, a look of bitter personal resentment, not meant for the staff, but for that son of the South, who, as they felt, was betraying his friends. What his position or rank was they did not know. His uniform was that of a civilian, excepting only the hat; but that he was in and with and of the invading army was enough. The information spread like wildfire.

"Griffith Davenport is with a brigade of Yankees! He knows every inch of this country!" What this meant to both sides, was quickly understood. Bitterness increased. That he should be shot at the first opportunity was universally conceded. Griffith saw and felt it keenly. It made his heart too heavy for words. At first he spoke to the General: "I knew that man, General. He recognized me. Did you see how he turned suddenly to look again? Did you see – ?"

"Yes, I noticed, and I saw the look of hate, damn him; but you needn't be afraid. The first time any assassination business is tried they will find who they have got to deal with. I'll burn every God-damned house I come to, and shoot several citizens in retaliation! Oh, I'm not half so mild as I look! Don't you be afraid! They'll all think hell has broke loose on earth, if they fire from ambush at you! They'll have to get you in open battle, if they want to be treated with soldierly consideration, and we don't intend you to be in any battle; so don't you be – "

"It is not that! It is not that, General," Griffith would say. He tried to explain.

"Well, heavens and earth! What did you expect? You didn't expect 'em to like it, did you?"

Griffith sighed and gave it up. No, he did not expect them to like it. He did not even hope that they could understand it fairly, and yet – The home-coming was indeed bitter, and Griffith ceased to sing. He saw maps made of the places he loved, and he saw in the distance the peaceful old haunts filled with contending armies. He looked at the trees that were still old and warm and loyal friends, in spite of difference of creed or politics, and he dreamed of them when they should be lopped of their branches and tom with shot and shell as they tried vainly to shield with their own sturdy limbs those who knew no better than to fight the battles of this life with sword and gun. One day, as he rode slowly in advance of the rest, he suddenly looked up toward the gnarled branch of a great tree, where he recalled that an old friend of his had lived. The heads of three tiny squirrels peeped out, and the mother frisked hard by. "Ah," he said, aloud, "how do you do, Bunnie? Still living at the old home-place. See! Is it you or your great-grandchildren? There's such a strong family likeness I can't tell." The little animal whisked nearer, and looked with curious eyes that were not afraid. "You do not blame me, and you do not hate me, and you do not fear me, Bunnie. You understand me better than men do, after all." He sighed and tossed a bit of cracker toward the nest. It fell far short, but the mother-squirrel whisked about here and there, and flipped her tail and posed; but at last snatched up the proffered gift and scampered up the tree. Griffith smiled.

"I've broken bread with one of my old friends at last," he said aloud.

"What did you say?" asked the General, halting suddenly. He had lowered his voice to the danger pitch, as he had mistaken Griffith's low tone for one of caution. He lifted his hand, and each of his officers down the line did the same. There was an instant halt.

"What was it?" he asked again, under his breath.

"A nest of squirrels right where they were fifteen or twenty years ago. I was renewing the acquaintance. They were the first old friends that have not been afraid of – who trusted me still. I was – "

A volley of oaths burst forth. "Attention! March!" he commanded, and as the line officers repeated the command, the General's wrath waxed furious. He did not dare to wreak it directly upon Griffith. He dashed back down the line, swearing with that lurid facility and abandon for which he was famous, at the astonished, but case-hardened and amused men.

"Halted an army to talk to a God-damned squirrel!" he ground out between his wrathful teeth, as he rejoined his staff. He whipped out a revolver and fired at the nest. The bullet flew wide of the mark, but the little heads disappeared in affright. The staff-officers looked at each other and smiled. The contrast between the two at their head was a source of constant, mild fun.

"Broken faith with even you, haven't I, Bunnie?" said Griffith, softly, as he rode on. "Do you think I threw you the cracker so that I could the better shoot you? I didn't, Bannie – but you will never know."

A half-mile further on Griffith halted. "General," he said, "this is the only place for some distance now that we can halt for the night under cover of a dense wood and still have water near. There is a creek just below that rise. It is good water. It curves around this way, and the horses can be picketed near it and still be hid. After this it will be open country for ten miles or more. If – "

"Halt! Throw out pickets! Dismount! Break ranks!"

The orders were given and repeated. The appearance of a camp grew up like magic. No fires were to be lighted until scout and picket reports came in, but the men went about feeding their horses and making ready for the fires and for "grub," as they called it. They were glad to stretch themselves. It had been a long day's ride.

"We will signal from the rise over there, General," Griffith said. "If from there we can see no camp-fires, there will be none near enough to detect ours. Shall I return here, General, or – "

"Return here. Pick your escort."

Griffith rode away with his three sharpshooters. The tired men watched eagerly for the signal, as they lay about on the ground. A shout went up when they saw it, and fires were lighted and rations brought forth. A young fellow with corporal's straps was humming as he lay on his back with both feet far up on the body of a tree. He had carried with him all day an empty tin can, and now he was making coffee in it. He turned from time to time to peer into the can or readjust the sticks as they burned.

     "We're tenting to-night on the old camp-ground."

His soft tenor rang out on the cool evening air as clear as the note of a bird, despite his recumbent position. He lifted himself on one elbow and peered again into the coffee, but the song ran on —

     "Give us a song to cheer."

A group near him was deep in a game of cards. "Here! It's Towsy's deal! Damned if I don't believe Jim would deal every hand if he wasn't watched. He – "

     "Our weary heart, a song of home – "

"Oh, dry up! Give us a rest!"

"Ouch! Stop that! If I don't – "

"Clubs again, by gad! Every time Stumpy deals, its clubs. I believe – "

    "And friends we love so dear.     Many are the hearts that are weary to-night,     Wishing – "

The clear tenor had risen into steady continuity as the young corporal sat half up to shake the tin can again. The card dealer joined in with a mocking bass, then suddenly, voice after voice took up the refrain and the very air seemed to come laden with it, from far and near. The volume of sound died with the last note of the refrain, and once more the clear tenor, lying on his back now, with both hands under his head, ran softly on alone:

     "We've been tenting to-night on the old camp-ground.     Thinking of days gone by – "

He drew a letter from his breast-pocket, and, as he unfolded it, stooped over and took one swallow of the coffee, and replaced the can on the fire. Some hard tack lay beside him, and one biscuit reposed on his stomach where he replaced it when he lay back again, and finished the verse slowly. When the refrain began again, the cards were held down, men in other groups straightened up from rekindling fires, others stopped short in a game of quoits played with horseshoes picked up on the banks of the creek. Water carriers set down their loads, or halted, with pails still in hand, and added their voices to the melody. The effect amongst the trees was indescribable. The picket in the distance half halted in his tramp, and turned to listen. The moon was beginning to swing up over the hill, from which the signal had come, and between the trees it touched the face of the delicate-featured young corporal of the sweet voice, and he turned the letter to catch the light from it, and add to the glow of the firelight, that he might the better re-read the treasured words. He was still humming softly, inarticulately, now. A stick burned in two, and the can of precious coffee was slowly emptying its overturned contents on the ground.