CHAPTER XII. The War-Mother

THE WAR-MOTHER

I saw my old train friend again. It was the day that one of our regiments went away, and we were all at the station to bid the boys good-bye.

The empty coaches stood on a siding, and the stream of khaki-clad men wound across the common from the Fair buildings, which were then used as a military camp. The men were heavily loaded with all their equipment, but cheerful as ever. The long-looked-for order to go forward had come at last!

Men in uniform look much the same, but the women who came with them and stood by them were from every station in life. There were two Ukrainian women, with colored shawls on their heads, who said good-bye to two of the best-looking boys in the regiment, their sons. It is no new thing for the Ukrainian people to fight for liberty! There were heavily veiled women, who alighted from their motors and silently watched the coaches filling with soldiers. Every word had been said, every farewell spoken; they were not the sort who say tempestuous good-byes, but their silence was like the silence of the open grave. There were many sad-faced women, wheeling go-carts, with children holding to their skirts crying loudly for "Daddy." There were tired, untidy women, overrun by circumstances, with that look about them which the Scotch call "through-other." There were many brave little boys and girls standing by their mothers, trying hard not to cry; there were many babies held up to the car-window to kiss a big brother or a father; there were the groups of chattering young people, with their boxes of candy and incessant fun; there were brides of a day, with their white-fox furs and new suits, and the great new sorrow in their eyes.

One fine-looking young giant made his way toward the train without speaking to any one, passing where a woman held her husband's hands, crying hysterically--we were trying to persuade her to let him go, for the conductor had given the first warning.

"I have no one to cry over me, thank God!" he said, "and I think I am the best off." But the bitterness in his tone belied his words.

"Then maybe I could pretend that you are my boy," said a woman's voice behind me, which sounded familiar; "you see I have no boy--now, and nobody to write to--and I just came down to-night to see if I could find one. I want to have some one belonging to me--even if they are going away!"

The young man laid down his bag and took her hand awkwardly. "I sure would be glad to oblige you," he said, "only I guess you could get one that was lots nicer. I am just a sort of a bo-hunk from the North Country."

"You'll do me," said the old lady, whom I recognized at once as my former train companion,--"you'll do me fine. Tell me your name and number, and I'll be your war-mother,--here's my card, I have it all ready,--I knew I'd get some one. Now, remember, I am your Next of Kin. Give in my name and I'll get the cable when you get the D.S.O., and I'll write to you every week and send you things. I just can't keep from sending parcels."

"Gee! This is sudden!" said the boy, laughing; "but it's nice!"

"I lost my boys just as suddenly as this," she said. "Billy and Tom went out together--they were killed at Saint-Eloi, but Frank came through it all to Vimy Ridge. Then the message came ... sudden too. One day I had him--then I lost him! Why shouldn't nice things come suddenly too--just like this!"

"You sure can have me--mother," the big fellow said.

The conductor was giving the last call. Then the boy took her in his arms and kissed her withered cheek, which took on a happy glow that made us all look the other way.

She and I stood together and watched the grinding wheels as they began to move. The spirit of youth, the indomitable, imperishable spirit of youth was in her eyes, and glowed in her withered face as she murmured happily,--

"I am one of the Next of Kin ... again, and my new boy is on that train."

We stood together until the train had gone from our sight.

"Let me see," I said, "how many chickens did you tell me that Biddy hen of yours had when the winter came?"

"Twenty-two," she laughed.

"Well," I said, "it's early yet."

"I just can't help it," she said seriously; "I have to be in it! After I got the word about my last boy, it seemed for a few days that I had come to the end of everything. I slept and slept and slept, just like you do when you've had company at your house,--the very nicest company, and they go away!--and you're so lonely and idle, and tired, too, for you've been having such a good time you did not notice that you were getting near the edge. That's how I felt; but after a week I wanted to be working at something. I thought maybe the Lord had left my hands quite free so I could help some one else.... You have played croquet, haven't you? You know how the first person who gets out has the privilege of coming back a 'rover,' and giving a hand to any one. That's what I felt; I was a 'rover,' and you'd be surprised at all I have found to do. There are so many soldiers' wives with children who never get downtown to shop or see a play, without their children. I have lots to do in that line, and it keeps me from thinking.

"I want you to come with me now," she went on, "to see a woman who has something wrong with her that I can't find out. She has a sore thought. Her man has been missing since September, and is now officially reported killed. But there's something else bothering her."

"How do you know?" I asked.

She turned quickly toward me and said, "Have you any children?"

"Five," I said.

"Oh, well, then, you'll understand. Can't you tell by a child's cry whether it is hungry, or hurt, or just mad?"

"I can, I think," I said.

"Well, that's how I know. She's in deep grief over her husband, but there's more than that. Her eyes have a hurt look that I wish I could get out of them. You'll see it for yourself, and maybe we can get her to tell us. I just found her by accident last week--or at least, I found her; nothing happens by accident!"

We found her in a little faded green house, whose veranda was broken through in many places. Scared-looking, dark-eyed children darted shyly through the open door as we approached. In the darkened front room she received us, and, without any surprise, pleasure, or resentment in her voice, asked us to sit down. As our eyes became accustomed to the gloom, we wondered more and more why the sunshine was excluded, for there was no carpet to fade, nor any furniture which would have been injured. The most conspicuous object in the room was the framed family group taken just before "her man" went away. He was a handsome young fellow in his tidy uniform, and the woman beside him had such a merry face that I should never have known her for the sad and faded person who had met us at the door. In the picture she was smiling, happy, resolute; now her face was limp and frazzled, and had an indefinable challenge in it which baffled me. My old friend was right--there was a sore thought there!

The bright black eyes of the handsome soldier fascinated me; he was so much alive; so fearless; so confident, so brave,--so much needed by these little ones who clustered around his knee. Again, as I looked upon this picture, the horrors of war rolled over my helpless heart.

My old friend was trying hard to engage the woman in conversation, but her manner was abstracted and strange. I noticed her clothes were all black, even the flannel bandage around her throat--she was recovering from an attack of quinsy--was black too; and as if in answer to my thoughts, she said:--

"It was red--but I dyed it--I couldn't bear to have it red--it bothered me. That's why I keep the blinds down too--the sun hurts me--it has no right to shine--just the same as if nothing had happened." Her voice quivered with passion.

"Have you any neighbors, Mrs. C----?" I asked; for her manner made me uneasy--she had been too much alone.

"Neighbors!" she stormed,--"neighbors! I haven't any, and I do not want them: they would only lie about me--the way they lied about Fred!"

"Surely nobody ever lied about Fred," I said,--"this fine, brave fellow."

"He does look brave, doesn't he?" she cried. "You are a stranger, but you can see it, can't you? You wouldn't think he was a coward, would you?"

"I would stake everything on his bravery!" I said honestly, looking at the picture.

She came over and squeezed my hand.

"It was a wicked lie--all a lie!" she said bitterly.

"Tell us all about it," I said; "I am sure there has been a mistake."

She went quickly out of the room, and my old friend and I stared at each other without speaking. In a few minutes she came back with a "paper" in her hand, and, handing it to me, she said, "Read that and you'll see what they say!"

I read the announcement which stated that her husband had been missing since September 29, and was now believed to have been killed. "This is just what is sent to every one--" I began, but she interrupted me.

"Look here!" she cried, leaning over my shoulder and pointing to the two words "marginally noted"--"What does that mean?"

I read it over again:--

"We regret to inform you that the soldier marginally noted, who has been declared missing since September 29, is now believed to have been killed!"

"There!" she cried, "can't you see?" pointing again to the two words. "Don't you see what that means?--margin means the edge--and that means that Fred was noted for being always on the edge of the army, trying to escape, I suppose. But that's a lie, for Fred was not that kind, I tell you--he was no coward!"

I saw where the trouble lay, and tried to explain. She would not listen.

"Oh, but I looked in the dictionary and I know: 'margin' means 'the edge,' and they are trying to say that Fred was always edging off--you see--noted for being on the edge, that's what they say."

We reasoned, we argued, we explained, but the poor little lonely soul was obsessed with the idea that a deep insult had been put upon her man's memory.

Then my old friend had an idea. She opened her purse and brought out the notice which she had received of the death of her last boy.

We put the two notices side by side, and told her that these were printed by the thousands, and every one got the same. Just the name had to be filled in.

Then she saw it!

"Oh!" she cried, "I am so glad you showed me this, for I have been so bitter. I hated every one; it sounded so hard and cold and horrible--as if nobody cared. It was harder than losing Fred to have him so insulted. But now I see it all!"

"Isn't it too bad," said the old lady, as we walked home together, "that they do not have these things managed by women? Women would have sense enough to remember that these notices go to many classes of people--and would go a bit slow on the high-sounding phrases: they would say, 'The soldier whose name appears on the margin of this letter,' instead of 'The soldier who is marginally noted'; it might not be so concise, but it is a heap plainer. A few sentences of sympathy, too, and appreciation, written in by hand, would be a comfort. I tell you at a time like this we want something human, like the little girl who was put to bed in the dark and told that the angels would keep her company. She said she didn't want angels--she wanted something with a skin face!--So do we all! We are panicky and touchy, like a child that has been up too late the night before, and we have to be carefully handled. All the pores of our hearts are open and it is easy to get a chill!"

As we rode home in the car she told me about the letter which had come that day from her last boy:--

"It seemed queer to look at this letter and know that I would never get another one from the boys. Letters from the boys have been a big thing to me for many years. Billy and Tom were away from me for a long time before the war, and they never failed to write. Frank was never away from me until he went over, and he was not much of a letter-writer,--just a few sentences! 'Hello, mother, how are you? I'm O.K. Hope you are the same. Sleeping well, and eating everything I can lay my hands on. The box came; it was sure a good one. Come again. So-long!' That was the style of Frank's letter. 'I don't want this poor censor to be boring his eyes out trying to find state secrets in my letters,' he said another time, apologizing for the shortness of it. 'There are lots of things that I would like to tell you, but I guess they will keep until I get home--I always could talk better than write.' ... But this letter is different. He seemed to know that he was going--west, as they say, and he wrote so seriously; all the boyishness had gone from him, and he seemed to be old, much older than I am. These boys of ours are all older than we are now,--they have seen so much of life's sadness--they have got above it; they see so many of their companions go over that they get a glimpse of the other shore. They are like very old people who cannot grieve the way younger people can at leaving this life."

Then I read the boy's letter.

"Dear Mother," it ran, "We are out resting now, but going in to-morrow to tackle the biggest thing that we have pulled off yet. You'll hear about it, I guess. Certainly you will if we are successful. I hope that this letter will go safely, for I want you to know just how I feel, and that everything is fine with me. I used to be scared stiff that I would be scared, but I haven't been--there seems to be something that stands by you and keeps your heart up, and with death all around you, you see it is not so terrible. I have seen so many of the boys pass out, and they don't mind it. They fight like wild-cats while they can, but when their turn comes they go easy. The awful roar of the guns does it. The silent tomb had a horrible sound to me when I was at home, but it sounds like a welcome now. Anyway, mother, whatever happens you must not worry. Everything is all right when you get right up to it--even death. I just wish I could see you, and make you understand how light-hearted I feel. I never felt better; my only trouble is that you will be worried about me, but just remember that everything is fine, and that I love you.

"FRANK."

AT THE LAST!

O God, who hears the smallest cry That ever rose from human soul, Be near my mother when she reads My name upon the Honor Roll; And when she sees it written there, Dear Lord, stand to, behind her chair!

Or, if it be Thy sacred will That I may go and stroke her hand, Just let me say, "I'm living still! And in a brighter, better land." One word from me will cheer her so, O Lord, if you will let me go!

I know her eyes with tears will blind, I think I hear her choking cry, When in the list my name she'll find-- Oh, let me--let me--let me try To somehow make her understand That it is not so hard to die!

She's thinking of the thirst and pain; She's thinking of the saddest things; She does not know an angel came And led me to the water-springs, She does not know the quiet peace That fell upon my heart like rain, When something sounded my release, And something eased the scorching pain. She does not know, I gladly went And am with Death, content, content.

I want to say I played the game-- I played the game right to the end-- I did not shrink at shot or flame, But when at last the good old friend, That some call Death, came beckoning me, I went with him, quite willingly! Just let me tell her--let her know-- It really was not hard to go!