Chapter XXIX Home Again
Those terrible four years of war had been an anxious, sorrowful time for the pioneers on the Nebraska prairies.
Rumors reached even to the homestead of the unsanitary condition of the camps, of the thousands of deaths from fever, and the hearts of the parents were rent with anxiety for their two brave lads, lest even should they escape shot and shell they might fall a victim to disease.
With the two older boys, upon whom he had depended so much, away at war, Joshua Peniman found the labor thrown upon him almost more than he could bear. Sam, who was now a fine, well-grown lad of seventeen, full of fun and energy, had done his best to take Joe’s place, and Paul, whom the family had previously looked upon as “one of the little ones” was now a big boy of fourteen, strong and agile, intelligent beyond his years, and able to do a large part of the work that Lige had always attended to.
As the years of the struggle went on Hannah Peniman’s shining brown hair turned grey, and the deep blue eyes that gazed out over the lonely prairies came to have in them the look of those who wait and fear.
Nina and Ruth clung together as if some deep, unspoken bond of sympathy lay between them, and day after day pored over the newspapers, read the few letters that came together, and lingered over them with clasped hands and tearful eyes.
Mrs. Peniman noticed that many of these letters that Ruth watched and waited for so eagerly were addressed in a different hand from those of her brothers. Seeing that the postmark on them was the same as those on the letters of Lige and Joe she asked who they were from. Ruth blushed deeply and said they were from Herbert.
She was seventeen now, dark and slender, graceful as a young fawn, with soft, tender brown eyes and a color like a prairie rose. Between her and Nina there seemed to be an affection that was deeper and closer than that of sisters. Nina had not seemed cheerful or well of late. The horrors of war seemed to weigh upon her with crushing sorrow. She grew thin and pale, read the news of every battle with feverish intensity, and often went away alone, wandering by herself for hours over the loneliness of the prairies.
Mr. Peniman had long since set inquiries on foot both in New York and St. Louis in regard to the property the deeds to which had been found in the violated dispatch-box. But as yet nothing had come of them, and the girl was as much in the dark as ever in regard to her past and future.
Beatrice James came to the homestead often, and the three girls seemed to have much to talk about together, frequently banishing Sara and Mary, whom they considered too young to share their confidences.
“All they talk about is the soldiers, Mother,” indignantly protested Sara, who was now thirteen and resented the indignity of being shut out; “and they cry and snivel and get as sentimental as mush.”
Mrs. Peniman smiled. “Don’t mind, Sara, they’re at the sentimental age,” she comforted. “You and Mary and I have more sense, haven’t we?”
Mary, who was now ten, glanced up from her task of dressing Spotty in a gingham apron.
“They all want to be nurses,” she commented scornfully. “Huh! I’d like to see Beatrice—or Nina either—put on a bandage! They’d faint away, both of ’em. Ruth is the only one who would make a good nurse. I guess”—with a wise little nod of her curly head—“I guess they’d only want to take care of certain patients, don’t you think so, Mother?”
Mrs. Peniman laughed, though a bit sadly, her heart quailing at the mention of wounds. “You’re a wise little owl, Mary,” she said, thinking to herself that Mary was probably right.
There were periods of fearful anxiety, bitter disappointment and deep depression as the first year of the war went by, and times when the issue looked doubtful and the hearts of loyal Unionists grew sick with fear.
In the early spring of 1864: a terrible day dawned upon them. The Sioux, Cheyennes and other hostile Indian tribes united to exterminate the white settlers, and a great Indian outbreak ensued, during which the entire frontier was paralyzed with terror.
With the aid of Mr. James and Arthur a stockade about twelve feet high was erected about the house and dugout, made from the young timbers along the creek, which were driven into the ground so close together that no living creature could pass through them.
For days and many weary nights they feared to sleep, but with the whole James family as well as their own crowded into the house, watched and waited, fearing momentarily to hear the war-whoops that would mean their destruction. Dozens of settlers in the western part of the Territory were murdered, their homes laid waste and their women carried away by the savages, and the settlers from the Blue Valley, the Platte Valley, and Salt Creek left their homes and fled to more protected counties.
Many of their neighbors abandoned their newly located homesteads and fled for protection to the agencies or towns, but this Joshua Peniman refused to do.
“We have worked too hard and sacrificed too much to get what we have here, to abandon it,” he said. “If thee and the little ones think best to go into the town with the others, thee must do so, Hannah, but the boys and I, with Mr. James and Arthur, will stay here and protect our homes and property.”
“Then I will stay with thee, Joshua,” answered his wife. “I have never yet deserted thee in danger or trouble, and I will not do so now. The stockade is high and strong and will act as some protection, and we will trust in the One who never forsakes us to keep us safe from harm.”
For many days they lived in terror, with weapons ready to give battle at a moment’s notice from inside the stockade.
The Governor of the Territory had called out troops, and the First Nebraska Volunteer Cavalry company was assigned duty in that locality.
The Indians were no match for the United States troops, and after burning, destroying and massacring the homes and families of many settlers were finally overcome, and sent flying across the border, while peace settled down over the distracted frontier.
With April of the next spring came the glad news of Lee’s surrender, and then the letters which told them that the boys were coming home.
The boys were coming home!
The lads whom they had prayed for, wept for, feared for, agonized over all these weary four years, were safe—well—coming home!
The news ran like wildfire over the prairies. Every soddy, every dugout, every town and village and crossroads store was vibrant with it. In the Peniman household the joy was too great, too deep for words.
It was decided that the whole family should go to Omaha to meet the returning soldiers. And on a glad morning, when all Nature seemed to laugh with joy, when the very earth seemed to be rejoicing that the cruel war was over, they set out, Sam driving Kit and Billy, no longer young and skittish, but sobered by years and the exigencies of pioneer life on the plains.
The former trading-post had now developed into quite a city. Brick buildings were going up here and there, streets were laid out, and the “squatties” and shanties that had done service in the days of the trading-station for Indians and trappers were giving place to good shops and stores.
As the family passed through the little settlement on Salt Creek, at which Mr. Peniman and Sam had spent the night before the great blizzard, they were astonished to see its growth. It had developed from a straggling settlement into a town, was now called Lancaster, and not many years afterward was rechristened Lincoln, and made the capital of the State.
The troops were ferried across the Missouri, and as the Peniman family, with hundreds of others, stood watching the transports laden with the cheering, yelling, waving boys in blue, their emotions grew too strong to be controlled. The girls wept, the boys yelled, but Hannah Peniman could only gaze and gaze, her whole soul concentrated in her eyes.
They saw them at last. Lige, mounted on the railing of the ferry-boat, was waving his forage cap around his head and shouting himself red in the face, and Joe stood beside him. He was very thin, very white, and had a great scar across his cheek. Leaning against the railing his eyes were fixed intently on the shore.
When the eyes of the long-parted ones met there was a great shout, a tremulous, half-sobbing cheer, and discipline was utterly forgotten as mothers and sons, sisters and brothers, sweethearts and lovers rushed into each other’s arms.
Lige reached them first, in a rush that bore every one in the way before him, and caught his mother in his arms and held her to his breast. Joe was directly behind him, and grasped his father’s hand. There was no need for words between them now. Both knew that the war and its issues had answered all arguments, and as they held each other’s hands, gazed into each other’s eyes, both knew that the past was passed and over, and that there existed no differences of opinion between them now.
Lige rushed from one to another, kissing and hugging them all, laughing, sobbing, half beside himself with joy. But Joe was more quiet in his demonstrations. After he had held his mother in a long, close embrace, shaken hands with Sam and Paul, kissed and hugged little David, and kissed and embraced Sara and Mary and Ruth, he turned to Nina, and shook her hand.
It was not until long afterward, when the first excitement was over, that he asked himself impatiently why he could not greet her as he had greeted his other sisters.
Every one was too excited to notice her pallor, or to see that Ruth’s great brown eyes were wide and terror-filled, and her face white and drawn. She waited her opportunity, then clasping Joe’s arm, said tremulously: “Herbert, Joe—where is Herbert?”
Joe started and looked down into her face. For the first time he realized that Ruth was no longer a little girl. For the first time he realized the thing that had been in Herbert’s heart, that had drawn them so close together through the war.
With a quick, indrawn breath he bent and clasped his arm about her. “Oh, Ruth,” he said in a low voice, “oh, little Ruth!”
Every vestige of color faded from her face.
“Was he killed?” she whispered huskily. “We have not heard anything from him in so long——”
“No, no,” he hastened to assure her. “He was not killed. He was captured at Gettysburg, but I heard that he had escaped. I haven’t seen or heard from him since, but I think he’s all right. He will probably turn up soon. Perhaps he may come home as a casual. He never got back to our regiment.”
The boys had been granted a furlough of a week, and the journey back over the prairies was a happy one, every one talking at once, so much to see, so much to hear, so much to tell, so glad and thankful to be together once more that words would not begin to express it.
In the general hubbub of voices no one noticed that Nina was very silent, that the color had faded from her cheeks, and the light that had shone so transcendantly in her eyes since the news of the home-coming of the boys had faded, leaving them dark and still.
Joe, stealing a glance at her, thought that she had never been so beautiful; and when he turned to talk to her her laugh was so gay, her chatter so light and merry that he thought he had fancied the shadow in her eyes.
When they reached the homestead Joe leaped down and patted Spotty, who came leaping and barking about the wagon, as if he too knew that the boys had come home and was wild with joy. Then he went to the team and put his arms about Kit’s neck, laying his face against her smooth neck. Dear old Kit! Memories of all they had been through flooded over him and almost unmanned him.
Both the returned soldiers were amazed and delighted to see the changes about the place. It was a wilderness no longer. Vines grew up over the little sod house, shading its windows and throwing their green tendrils and shining new leaves over the door. Trees had been planted about the place, walks made, and the fertile fields were already green with winter-wheat.
Romeo and Juliet had departed for that bourn from which no piggy returns, but were succeeded by a large and thriving progeny, that were rapidly increasing in weight and value.
Cherry was the mother of a fine two-year-old calf, and Mother Feathertop and Dicky, the progenitors of the poultry yard, were no longer there to greet them, but had been succeeded by many fine broods of chickens, which had multiplied and accumulated wonderfully under Ruth’s tender care.
It was almost evening before the transports of rapture subsided and the boys went to their old place in the sod house to wash up and get ready for supper.
When Joe entered he found Lige making a careful and fastidious toilet.
“I suppose you are looking forward to a happy evening with Nina,” he said, trying manfully to keep the pain that was wringing his heart from sounding in his voice.
Lige was shining his shoes. He turned his head and looked up at his brother.
“Nina?” he said interrogatively, then going on with his shining with bent head. “Why—a—no, I—I thought I would go over to the Jameses—that is if I won’t be in the way. I—a—I thought I’d like to ask if they had heard anything about Herb.”
Joe stared at him.
“Go over to the Jameses? Your first evening at home! Why, Lige!”
Lige looked up with rather a red face.
“Well, why not? We’ve been with the family all day, and I haven’t seen Beatrice, and——”
“But Nina—what will she think—how will she feel——”
“Nina? What the deuce——” Lige suddenly suspended operations on his boots and straightened up, holding the brush extended and staring at his brother.
“Good Lord!” he ejaculated suddenly.
For a moment he continued to stare, then dropped the shoe-brush and caught Joe’s arm.
“What d’you mean—you don’t mean—you don’t think—that I—that Nina—that there is anything between us, do you?” he demanded.
Joe turned white to the lips.
“Why I—I——” he managed to stammer.
“Great Jehoshaphat!” ejaculated Lige. “That—that’s what’s been eatin’ you! I couldn’t understand it. I thought it was Beatrice——”
“Beatrice? What the dickens do I care about Beatrice!” panted Joe. “I thought you loved Nina—and that she loved you. I saw you kiss her——”
“Well, Lord A’mighty, why shouldn’t I kiss her? She’s my sister, isn’t she? I kiss Ruth and Mary and Sara; why shouldn’t I kiss her?”
Joe’s heart was pounding so he could hardly speak.
“Yes, but that’s different. She isn’t our sister, you know. I saw you together the night before we went away, and her arms were around your neck and she was——”
“And she was talking about you every minute of the time, you big booby, begging me to take care of you and bring you home safe and all that! Oh, gosh, this does beat all! Why here was me trying to do the noble brother act and forget all about little Beatrice because I thought you cared for her, while all the time you were hating me like the old Harry because you thought I’d cut you out with Princess! Why, Lord love you, boy, what’s the matter with you? Are you blind as a bat? Can’t you see how she feels toward you? Why, there never was any one else in the whole world for Nina but just you, ever since that first day when she refused to ride anywhere else in the wagons but beside you!”
Joe’s face was as white as chalk, his eyes fastened on his brother’s face, and his breath coming quick and short.
“Is it—is it true, Lige?” he asked after a little interval, in a strained whisper.
“True? Well, you are a duffer if you haven’t seen it yourself. Didn’t you see her face when you gave her that cold little hand-shake to-day? She could hardly keep from crying all the way home. I thought you didn’t care about her at all. I thought all the time you cared for Beatrice——”
“Beatrice! As if I could ever think of Beatrice when Nina was around! Do you really think she cares, Lige? That she doesn’t care for me just as a brother——”
“Go along and ask her, you old gosling,” cried Lige, busily adjusting a new tie. “As for me, I’m going over to the Jameses so fast you can’t see me for the dust. I’ve been afraid to even write to little Bee for fear I’d be making trouble for you, but now that I know what a goose you are——” He clapped on his soldier-cap and shot through the door, leaving Joe standing motionless beside the window with wildly beating heart.
Twilight was coming before he found courage to wander down to the river. He found Nina sitting in the little arbor alone. She had been with Ruth for the past hour, trying to comfort her, and her eyes were red and her heart cold as she sat gazing down at the water.
Joe came so quietly that she did not hear him. For a long moment he stood gazing at her, his very heart in his eyes. She was more beautiful than ever, startlingly, exquisitely lovely, as she sat with bent head, the sunlight flickering through the golden waves of her hair, the pure oval of her cheek and chin a little sharpened in the years he had been away.
He entered the arbor noiselessly and sat down by her side.
“Joe!” she cried, and started violently.
Very tenderly he took the little hand that lay trembling in her lap.
“Nina,” he said, bending his head close to hers, “are you really glad I have come home?”
“Glad!” The tears she had been trying to conceal rushed into her eyes. “Glad, Joe? There are no words that can tell how glad! Oh, we have all missed you so! Sometimes I have thought that Mother would die of grief and longing. And Father—oh, Joe, his patience, his gentleness, his suffering, his noble and generous admission of his mistake——”
“But you, Nina, you——”
She lowered her lashes and gently drew her hand away.
“I, Joe? Why, of course I am glad! Why shouldn’t I be glad? Both my dear brothers back from war——”
“But I am not your brother, Princess. I don’t want to be your brother.” Then suddenly the denial that he had so long set on his heart burst its bonds and cried to her, “Oh, Nina, Nina, dearest, sweetest, loveliest girl in all the world, I don’t want you for my sister. I love you, I love you! I want you for my love, my sweetheart, something nearer, dearer, sweeter than a sister—I want you for my wife!”
From Nina’s parted lips came a little smothered cry, and she covered her face with her hands.
Joe drew them down gently.
“I have always loved you, Princess. Ever since the day that I first saw you out there on the desolate prairies, lying on the graves of your father and mother. I have always loved you——”
Nina looked up at him, tears flooding the purple splendor of her eyes.
“Oh, Joe, Joe, why didn’t you tell me so before!” she cried. “You went away to the war—and I might never have known. I thought you cared for me only as a sister, and I have suffered—my God, how I have suffered—thinking that you did not care for me, while I—while I——”
He caught her in his arms and pressed her to his heart.
“While you—say it, darling, say it; my heart has been breaking for those words! I thought I should never hear them from your lips. I thought you loved Lige. I could not speak because I thought he loved you and you cared for him. The night before we went away I saw you in his arms, and I thought—I thought——”
She drew herself from his clasp and gazed into his eyes.
“You thought I cared for Lige?”
“Yes, dearest, yes, I truly, truly, did.”
“And you went away without a word! You gave up your own chance of happiness because you thought you were adding to mine—and his! But what about me, Joe? I almost broke my heart trying to make myself love you like a sister. Oh, Joe, Joe, how like you! And you never suspected about Beatrice? Oh, Joe, you dear, darling old simpleton, how could you think such a thing? Didn’t you know that there never was—never could be—any one else in all the world but you?”
Darkness had quite come when they went back to the house together. As they entered the kitchen hand in hand Hannah Peniman looked up, and a little cry escaped her lips.
Nina ran to her and hid her head on her breast. Joe took her hand and slipped his arm about her.
“I’ve been a great fool, Mother,” he said tenderly, “but I’ve come out of it better than I deserved. I thought that Lige cared for Nina, and I was going to just step aside and never let any one know how I felt. But I find I was mistaken, and that Princess cares for me. Are you glad, Mother? Tell us that you are glad she is really and truly going to be your daughter.”
“She could never be more truly my daughter than she is now,” said Mrs. Peniman, kissing the white brow that nestled against her shoulder. “But I am glad that she and you have found each other, for true love is the greatest thing in the world.”
It was long after midnight when Lige came home, bursting into the room where Joe lay in the darkness with a tumult in his heart too great for sleep.
Lige rushed up to the bed and grasped his hand.
“Congratulate me, old boy,” he cried; “by golly, I’m the happiest chap in all Christendom to-night. She loves me, Joe, she really loves me. I can hardly believe it even yet. And she’s loved me all the time I’ve been away. I’m so happy——”
“I’ll bet you’re not any happier than I am,” cried Joe, returning the grip of his hand.
“You are? Bully! Then you and Nina have fixed it up all right? Good! I’m mighty glad. Lord, Joe, I wish I’d suspected it sooner; it would have saved us both a lot of heartaches. But no matter, they’re all over now, and perhaps we fought all the better for feeling that we hadn’t so much to live for at home.”
And while the boys lay in their old bed exchanging confidences and talking in whispers of the happiness that was to be theirs, and Nina, glowing with a happiness she had thought to never know, kept watch and ward through the silent night, little Ruth lay at the other side of the curtain and wept for the boy who did not come home.