MY BOY CHARLIE.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 2734, 12 February 1910, Page 2 (Supplement)

MY BOY CHARLIE.

(By ORR KENYON, in “Munscy’s Magazine.”)

The tides of war were at the flood when the surge reached the home of Martha Wintihrop, away up in the Kennebec River in the old State of Maine. • Abner Winthrop called her ‘•mother” ever since their boy was born, and she had grown so used to it that she readily answered to the name, even some of the neighbors caught the habit from the father and son. Martha read in the weekly farm paper the call for volunteers, and gave a queer little gasp that caused the rather slow Abner to look up at hex in wonder.

“What is it, Mother?” he managed to ask, a.s his potato hung suspended on the three-tined steel fork. “Don’t you go an’ tell Charlie. You hear me, Abner M inthrop ?” “How kin I tell him, when I don’t know what’s up?” queried Abner co-

gently. “It’s the President,” said Martha, gravely. “What he says goes, you •know, Abner. An’ Charlie just worships the ground his feet stand on. “What does Mr. Lincoln say?” inquired Abner, helping nimself to another mess of savory country-fried potatoes. “I ain’t hitched on to your thread yet, Mother.” “The" President has issued a call for volunteers; wants ’em for three years. Think of it, Abner. Oh, sakes alive! If ”

The foreseen possibility was too muck for Martha Winthrop, and she threw her apron and rocked back and foith in her chair with a faint moan. This umn'iial demonstration was not lost upon Abner, but he never permitted any. thing seriously to interfere with his meals, and, therefore, calmly proceeded with that important function. “I’m ’inos’ certain he’ll go,” almost wailed Martha, taking her apron from her face. “Heavens above! Abner, what will I do?”

“Who’ll go? Our boy Charlie?” asked her husband in surprise. “They want men; they don’t want boys.”

Martha looked at him with curling lip. Sometimes Abner’s density got on her nerves.

“My soul! Abner Winthvop, can’t you recollect- telling Jennie Sykes last week that Charlie could Toiler the plough with any man in 'the country? Oh, I know what was runnin’ through your head. You was a-thinkin’ of Jennie’s Cynthy. You always was forward at match-ma'kin’. But that’s all a waste of time. Charlie don’t care for her. Not a bit. Ho thinks more of that city gal that was up last summer than he does of all the Cyntliys in the land. More 100 l him, I know, fer she’s likely forgot all about him long ago. An’ it don’t make a bit of difference now; he’ll go an’ volunteer for three years, sure’s ho knows Mr Lincoln wants him to.”

A quick step came up the garden path, and Martha turned eagerly to greet her son. Her fears were alert, and the glow of excitement in Charlie’s face struck her dumb. Her Ups moved thickly, but no words came. “Well Mother, have you heard the news? President Lincoln has called for volunteers. Lots of the boys are going, and I —” He stopped abruptly at the sight of his Mother’s face. Never had he seen such an ashen pallor on her florid cheeks.

“Why, Mother! What is it? What’s the matter?” he inquired anxiously. “You hain’t been so foolish, Charlie!. Tell me you hain’t.” The words were almost a cry. “No, Mother, I haven’t enlisted—yet.” / “Yet? Oh, Charlie! Then you’re going?” "“Not unless you say so, Mother.” The reply came clear and decided. M?rtha Winthrop clasped her baud% gratefully. “That’s like my boy!” she exclaimed. “But, Charlie, what mad© you think yon ought to go?” “Mr. Linciln wants me,” replied the youth, simply. < ‘How do you 'know that?” “Ho says the young men of the country should rally ' round the flag, and sweep the enemy from the field, and give peace to the land. I’m one of ’em, Mother, you know.’/’ “Don’t be a ’tarnal fool, Charlie,” broke in Abner, at last waking up to the seriousness of the situation. “You better stay at home and take car© of your Mother when—well, when I’m laid by.”

“Now, Father,” replied Charlie, brightly, “you ain’t laid by, not by a considerable. You’re here to take care of Mother. Somebody’s boy must answer that call from Mr. Lincoln; and it seems to me if I don’t do it I’ll be a sneak and a coward.” “Do you feel that way, Charlie ” usker Martha, in a hard, strained voice. “Yes, Mother, I do, for sure.” “An’ you won’t enlist unless I Bay so?”

“No, Mother, I won’t. But —, Mother, I—l think somebody’s mother ."has got to say go, or th© country’s 'lost.”

Martha Winthrop swallowed hard •and rose to her feet. Slfe laid one hand ■on her son’s shoulder and said calmfy: “All right, Charlie. I love you, my "boy, better’n/anything in this Wvirld; "but God’s given us this grand country of ours, and I ain’t goin’ to play rtraitor. If Mr. Lincoln wants you, ” —her voice caught, in a «ob—“I’ll let you go.”

Martha Winthrop and Abner never dforgot the last good-by© as the military d'jrain pulled out of.the station at the | State capital f the crowded cars, with soldier boys leaning from every wm-

dow and' crammed on tlie- platforms; the multitude of friends, relatives, and well-wishers at- the station; the waving flags; the rather- cracked horns attempting to play “The Girl I Left Be--hind Me;” th lV tear-dimmed eyes and the aching hearts With dry lips they tried to cry, “God bless you!” as their Charlie’s sad, but resolute face looked over the shoulder of a comrade on tlic rear platform, and his clear voice rang out in a final, “Good-bye, 1 Mother! Good-bye 1” The little home was very quiet and very desolute as the days dragged by. There-was no one to call in the upper room, though Abner caused Martha a sharp pang on the next morning, he went to the foot of the stairs and called out, “Charlie! Time —” He did not finish the familiar words. “Blamed if I ain’t forgot!” lie muttered apologetically, while Martha buried her face cut of’ human sight and wept many bitter tears. v

In tlie evening when the chores were done, Martha went out and watched Abner water the stock, drive the few sheep into the barn-yard, and put up the bars. This had been Charlie’s work for many a year, and the very animals missed him and gazed around with plaintive calls. "When old Robin, the large white horse, who had carried Charlie as a little boy on liis back, temporarily refused to notice his oats, raised liis head, and whinnied long and loud, Martha turned and went into the house, while Abner suspiciously wiped his eyes on his red cotton handkerchief before lie locked the stable door and followed his wife to the kitchen, where the two set silently, as Martha knitted, with many a smothered sigh. Day by day Martha bought a paper at the village, store, until the days turned into months and her frugal mind suggested the economy of subscribing to tlie daily “Argus” from the city. At first she had been unwilling to admit- that Charlie was to bo absent very long. It soon grew to bo a habit for the pair to spend’ the evening, after the supper dishes had been carefully washed and put away, in absorbing the- story of the great- war as given in the day’s dispatches from the front. Martha read and Abner listened, his mouth drawn in curious shapes as his emotions were stirred by the narrative. And so th c , second year added its months to the first, and Charlie’s regiment was with the Army of tlie Potomac in front of Fredericksburg. Letters came at very irregular intervals, though Charlie said he tried to write once every week, at least, and the old couple had come to recognise these delays as among the necessary incidents of war. But Martha always expected several at once whenever the time passed beyond a month, and, with patient finger on the big map of Virginia, she followed thc regiment ns best she could, leaving a little pointer laying constantly on the- spot that ITad been named in the last letter.

“Mother,” said Abner, slowly, “how long has it been?” , “Five weeks,” replied Martha, with a grave nod. “An’ there’s been a big battle nigh Fredericksburg,” continued her husband, uneasily. “Yes. The rebels have got the city.” “'So they have. H’m !”

Abner was silent for a few minutes, then he looked at his wife, across his “specks” and inquired:

“There’s been time since the battleto hear? Eh, Marthy?” “Yes, Abner.”

“What d’ye think, Marthy?” Of late Abner had called her by the eld name of their courtship. “The Lord is good, Abner.” “H’m!”

The dinner dishes waited Oil the. table. Abner rose and walked to tfce door, n Hellol” he called. *‘There comes the postman.” “For me, Jim? Yes? I don’t know ■the writin’.”

“Here, Abner Winthrop, let me see,” demanded Martha, taking the letter from bis trembling grasp. She tore it open hurriedly and read:

“Near Fredericksburg, Sunday morning,

“Mr. Winthrop,—There has been a big figlit. We’re whipped off for just now, but we’ll get in at them again. Charlie was, hurt ”

“Oh, oh!” The cry went- straight from Martha’s bursting heart. But she went bravely on : “Charlie was hurt in the last charge. We had to run, but I promised him to let his mother know. Tell my folk’s I’m all right.

“'James Barton.”

Abner’s voice failed him utterly when he tried to speak. He looked at his wife in dumb terror. But she only moistened.’ her lips and -Whispered hoarsely:

“My boy Charlie! My boy Charlie!”

Then she shook herself and began a hasty inspection of her wardrobe. From the closet she took down her best plum, colored dress and brushed it carefully. Then she reached up and brought out a big bandbox containing her Sunday bonnet; and then produced her knit gloves and her best shoes. Abner watched her with dilating eyes. “Mother!” he said at length, “what be yo goin’ to do?” “What am I goin’. to do, Abner Winthrop? I’m goin’,. of course.” “Goin’ Goin’?” repeated her husband. “Where?” “I’m goin’ to Charlie.” The thin lips, shut tightly, and Martha went into the. next room and shut the door upon herself and her preparations, while Abner sat in despairing wonder. Presently she returned attired for her journey.

Producing an old, thin “carpet-sack” from its hidden retreat in the attic, she said sharply:

“Abner, don’t set there gaping at me. Go down to thc store an’ buy me a place in the stage for Augusta. It starts at four, an’ it’s ’mos’ three now. D’ye hear?” Abner heard and obeyed. ’When he came back, his wife sat on the little porch, carpet-sack by her side, gazing down the road where the stage would first be seen. At last lie ventured * remonstrance.

“Mother!” She did not heed. “Mother! don’t you know it’s mighty far to Boston, an’ Charlie’s a long ways from Boston?”

“Yes, I know..”

“Mother!” after a minute. “Charlie’s a big piece from New York. Don’t ye know.” “Yes, Abner.’ ’ Her husband waited a while, and then mustered his forces. “Mother! I -reckon this here Fredericksburg’s a hundred miles from Washington, oven. It’s a terrible journey, an’ you’ve never been fifty miles from home in your life.” “My boy Charlie!” sighed Martha, apparently not hearing her husband’s voice.

Abner got- on his feet and wont over to her side. Putting a trembling hand on her shoulder, ho said, finally: “Mother, it costs a heap to go to Washington. An’ you can’t travel for nothin’.”

Martha looked at him sharply. Her voice had a ring in it that Abner know belonged only to special occasions. “I know it, Abner,” she said. “I’ve got all thc money in the old stocking that I’ve boon savin’ for a rainy day over sinco wo was married. Lord have mercy! I reckon it’s rainin’ as hard this day as it ever will.” Her lips closed tightly. Abner looked at her steadily.

“I hope the good Lord won’t let it rain any worse!” ho ejaculated JyThen the stage came.

On tlie way from the village to Augusta, Martha Wintlirop made the acquaintance of a kindly old gentleman, and naturally told him of her undertaking. Her new friend advised her to make some effort! to secure letters of introduction, and asked if she knew any one of influence in Portland or Boston.

“No, net one,” said Martha sadly. “Governor AndreAV has a big heart,” remarked the old man. “Suppose you try to see him in Boston. Just possible he may help you to see the President in Washington.” - Martha gasped. “That’s just Avhat I Avas a-dreamin’ about,” she confessed, “but I couldn’t see any Avay. I’ll try the GoA r ernor.”

Massachusetts’ famous “War Governor” was at breakfast next morning, when his bell rang decidedly. The butler, opening the door, saAV an elderly woman in very modest dress, and at once began to say formerly: “Governor’s at breakfast; can’t see—”

“My boy Charlie is dying down there in Virginia,” exclaimed the woman in a strained voice, pushing past the astonished butler. “I’ve got to see him!” “The wav to the dining room was straight ahead, and in another moment the door was flung open and Martini entered. The Governor sat with liis face turned partly toward her, and in an instant she spoke, holding out both hands, imploringly: “Governor Andrew, my boy is dying down there, by Fredericksburg, and I’ve’ come all the way from Augusta. I must go to him ; Governor, Won’t you help me?”

The sad 5 earnest face, the tearful byes, and the touching appeal in the*. broken voice went to the Governor’s heart.

“My dear madanle,” ho said, gravely, “if thero is anything I can do, I will do it. But, let me ask, is it wise for a lady of your years to undertake this journey?” “I am going, Governor, if I have to walk.”

Governor Andrew smiled approvingly. “I think you will get there,” he said. “All I can do is to give you a note to the President. If any one can help you to reach your son, Air. Lincoln, is the man.”

He rang for paper and ink and hastily wrote a brief letter, which he addressed to the President at Washington.

The thanks that Martha gave him were of the sort that are not so soon forgotten, and there was a mist before John A. Andrew’s eyes as lie sat down again to finish, his interrupted meal. From Boston to Washington seemed an endless distance to the troubled mother, but she pressed Governor Andrew’s precious letter in her hand, even while she tried to sleep through the tedious hours of the night. “I. must not get played out too soon,” she said, warningly, to herself. Washington was reached in the morning, and Martha soon found herself standing on the steps of the White House, a feeling of awe in her breast, but with courage undiminished. “Can’t see the President, madam. He is in a Cabinet- meeting.” the stately official waved* his hand with finality. But Martha pushed resolutely on, saying, in a high key: “My boy Charlie- is dying down there in Virginia, I will see the President. I—”

The first official and another had started forward and grasped the offender against rule, their voices raised in emphatic denial. A door opened at a short distance, and the President locked out enquiringly. In an instant Martha recognised the sad, kindly fur_

rowed face, and held exit an appealing hand.

“Oh, Mr. Lincoln !” she cried in terse t-ones. “My hoy Charlie is dying doAvn by Fredericksburg, and I’ve come all the Avay from Stag llolloav, in Maine, to save him. Won’t you help me?” The man of great and sorrowing heart stepped out into the corridor, and closed the door behind him. .

“Come Avitli me,” he said, kindly, taking her arm, and draAving her into another room. “The Cabinet can Avait a little.”

“Oh, Mr. Lincoln,” she gasped, while the tears floAved true? Can you help me to find my boy?”

“Where is lie, madam?” asked the President.

“He Avas hurt nigh Fredericksburg last week. Jimmy Barton wrote they had to leave him Avlien the rebels drove ’em back.”

Mr. Lincoln shook his head doubtfully. Martha saAV it, and cried: “Don’t say no, Mr. Lincoln! Charlie, Avouldn’fc enlist unless I said ho could; but lie kept a-tcllin’ me that Mr. Lincoln wanted him, an’ he said if somebody’s mother didn’t say go, the country Avas lost. Then I Aveakcned. I couldn’t stand that.”

The tears stood in the President’s eyes. He leaned his elbow on the mantel, towering far above his companion

“What did you tell him, then?” he asked.

“I said, ‘Charlie, if Mr Lincoln wants you, you can go.’ ”

The President’s hand covered his blow for half a minute. Then he sat down at a table, and wrote a brief note, and after that another, then tapped a bell. An orderly appeared, and Mr. Lincoln gave him one note, saying: “Forward that at once to General at tho front.”

Handing the. other to Martha, he said gravely:

“I am afraid, madam, that I cannot do all you wish; but I will do all I possibly can, and back you with the army of the Potomac, if necessary. I have written the general in command to get you as near yoor boy as he can, and this letter will pass you along to Fredericksburg. The ground where your son was wounded is now in possession of the enemy; but you shall go just as far as we can send you.” He paused a moment, while Martha’s thanks choked in her trembling throat. Then he added:

“God bless you! I wish there were more mothers like you. Give my love to the boy who was ready to go when I called for him.”

Another orderly led her away, and put her °n a train bound for the front. But Martha Winthrop saw nothing but a lined, grave face bending over her, and heard nothing for several hours but the echoes of that kindly voice.

“Halt, and give the countersign!”

The sharp command rang out on the quiet air. But Martha Winthrop pressed on, apparently unheeding. She had been conducted to the extreme outposts of the Union Army, and shown a hill in the distance as the probably place where her son had fallen. The officer accompanying her urged her not to go, stating that some exchange might be made in a few days, and her boy included among those sent back. But she would not listen. A moment’s delay was terrible to: her mother’s heart. So now, when the Confederate sentry challenged her, she pressed right on till his second order and levelled musket arrested her attention.

“Halt, woman, or I will shoot!”

Without slackening her pace, Martha cried, fis sh© waved one hand distractedly :

“I tell you, young mail, my boy Charlie is dying over there on yon hill. I’m going to him. You’ll have to shoot, if you will. Pin goin’ to my hoy.” “Why didn’t ye shoot, Randall?” queried a companion round the campfire, that night. “I just couldn’t, Tom,” answered Randall. “She looked too much like my old mother I left down there in Georgia. Blank it all! She couldn’t do any harm.”

On the crest of the hill Martha found an improvised hospital camp. Everywhere men lay thick, under slight shelters of boughs. Groans and cries of anguish saluted Martha’s straining ears as she eagerly scanned every face, but all were strangers. At length, a negro woman, acting as a'n attendant, answering her repeated request for nows of her boy by saying: “Mebbe he’s ober dar, down in dat comer, Missus. Dar’s a mighty sick sojer dat’s alius callin’ fer his mammy.”

Under a scrap of tent-cloth, in till© extreme corner of the rude camp, MarthaWVinthrop fell on her knees with a great hungering cry, grasping one thin, sunburned hand in both her own: “My boy Charlie! My boy Charlie!”

The light of reason conquered the fiercer fires of fover, the eyes turned upon the loved face, and the boy saw what-, in the twenty-five years of his subsequent life, he never forgot. Stretching up both feeble arms, he cried, with all his heart and soul in his voice:

“Mother! I 'knew you’d come..- I knew you’d come !”