IV War Is Glorious at the Beginning but Not at the End
Then, one day, in ’61, they formed in the town a “soldier company” to go to the “front.” No one knew much about it—nor where the front was. No one doubted that it was to be a great frolic—no one but Betsy. And there, in the front rank, all together, as brothers should be, stood Betsy’s five boys. And, as if this were not enough, there was John, too! With yellow chevrons on his sleeves—and a sword at his side—brave as a lion and proud as a major-general. Company corporal! Alas! perhaps the privates, too, might have carried swords had there been enough to go around.
John stood it as long as he could. For more than a week he swore that he would stay at home and take care of Betsy. He was too old to frolic. But he went to the drill ground every day. Once or twice he drilled with them when some one was absent. He finally developed such a genius for military affairs that the captain went to Betsy and voiced John’s yearnings—it was for his country that he wanted to fight—it was his duty to fight—it was a privilege to fight—it was a wife’s duty to let him fight.
She let John go, too. For, after all, it was only a great frolic—they told her!
So they marched away to the tune of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” and the little mother went home to wait. It was very lonely from the first hour, and she willingly took up her work again. They scolded her when she wept, so she tried not to weep. They told her she ought not only to be willing to let them go, but be glad. She tried to think that she was glad. But in her heart she rebelled dismally. “We are coming, Father Abraham!” had been the cry—and her boys, too, had said, with a new light in their faces, which she, a woman, did not, could not, would not, understand, that they were going to fight for their country! Go and fight for their country when they might work for her—when they might have those Sunday feasts—when she could darn their stockings—mend their clothes—have her arms about them—theirs about her—give them warm beds—plenty of food—while the country would give them poor food—poor clothes—the ground to sleep on—and no Sundays at home! She could not understand it. No woman who is a mother can. She thought of possible wounds on their splendid bodies—of them lying stark in the night upon some shot-torn battle-field—of burial unknown in some vast trench—of fever—and terrors—of hospitals—and even of the coming home—no more her boys—no more! Soldiers, then, soldiers with rough beards and rough voices. She never once thought of them coming home dead.
Alas! her country was bounded by the Rhine. This was their country!
But still, as they went, she prayed blindly:
“God bless you and keep you, my boys, and send you back to me as you go—good boys. Father Abraham, they are my all—everything on earth I love. Send them back as you receive them.”