The Sword of Antietam: A Story of the Nation's Crisis by Joseph A. Altsheler (books you have to read .TXT) 📕

“Good morning, Mr. Watson,” said Dick politely.

“Ah, it is you, Lieutenant Mason!” said the contractor. “I thought so, but I was not sure, as you are thinner than you were when I last saw you. I'll just take this seat beside you.”

A man in the next chair had moved and the contractor dropped into it. Then he crossed his legs, and smoothed the upper knee with a strong, fat hand.

“You've had quite a trip since I last saw you, Mr. Mason,” he said.

“We didn't go so terribly far.”

“It's not length that makes a trip. It's what you see and what happens.”

“I saw a lot, and a hundred times more than what I saw happened.”

The contractor took two fine cigars from his vest pocket and handed one to Dick.

“No, thank you,” said the boy, “I've never learned to smoke.”

“I suppose that's because you come from Kentucky, where they raise so much tobacco. When you see a thing so thick around you, you don't care for it. Well, we'll talk while I light mine and puff it. And so, young man, you ran against Lee and Jackson!”

“We did, or they ran against us, which comes to the same thing.”

“And got well thrashed. There's no denying it.”

“I'm not trying to do so.”

“That's right. I thought from the first that you were a young man of sense. I'm glad to see that you didn't get yourself killed.”

“A great many good men did.”

“That's so, and a great many more will go the same way. You just listen to me. I don't wear any uniform, but I've got eyes to see and ears to hear. I suppose that more monumental foolishness has been hidden under cocked hats and gold lace than under anything else, since the world began. Easy now, I don't say that fools are not more numerous outside armies than in them—there are more people outside—but the mistakes of generals are more costly.”

“I suppose our generals are doing the best they can. You will let me speak plainly, will you, Mr. Watson?”

“Of course, young man. Go ahead.”

“Perhaps you feel badly over a disaster of your own. I saw the smoking fires at Bristoe Station. The rebels burned there several million dollars worth of stores belonging to us. Maybe a large part of them were your own goods.”

The contractor rubbed his huge knee with one hand, took his cigar out of his mouth with the other hand, blew several rings of fine blue smoke from his nose, and watched them break against the ceiling.

“Young man,” he said, “you're a good guesser, but you don't guess all. More than a million dollars worth of material that I supplied was burned or looted at Bristoe Station. But it had all been paid for by a perfectly solvent Union government. So, if I were to consider it from the purely material standpoint, which you imagine to be the only one I have, I should rejoice over the raids of the rebels because they make trade for contractors. I'm a patriot, even if I do not fight at the front. Besides my feelings have been hurt.”

“In what way?”

The contractor drew from his pocket a coarse brown envelope, and he took from the envelope a letter, written on paper equally coarse and brown.

“I received this letter last night,” he said. “It was addressed simply 'John Watson, Washington, D. C.,' and the post office people gave it to me at once. It came from somebody within the Confederate lines. You know how the Northern and Southern pickets exchange tobacco, newspapers and such things, when they're not fighting. I suppose the letter was passed on to me in that way. Listen.”

“John Watson, Washington, D. C.

“My dear sir: I have never met you, but certain circumstances have made me acquainted with your name. Believing therefore that you are a man of judgment and fairness I feel justified in making to you a complaint which I am sure you will agree with me is well-founded. At a little place called Bristoe Station I recently obtained a fine, blue uniform, the tint of which wind and rain will soon turn to our own excellent Confederate gray. I found your own name as maker stamped upon the neck band of both coat and vest.

“I ought to say however that after I had worn the coat only twice the seams ripped across both shoulders, I admit that the fit was a little tight, but work well done would not yield so quickly. I also picked out a pair of beautiful shoes, bearing your name stamped upon them. The leather cracked after the first day's use, and good leather will never crack so soon.

“Now, my dear Mr. Watson, I feel that you have treated me unfairly. I will not use any harsher word. We do not expect you to supply us with goods of this quality, and we certainly look for something better from you next time.

“Your obedient servant, ARTHUR ST. CLAIR, Lieutenant 'The Invincibles,' C. S. A.”

“Now, did you ever hear of another piece of impudence like that?” said Watson. “It has its humorous side, I admit, and you're justified in laughing, but it's impudence all the same.”

“Yes, it is impudence, and do you know, Mr. Watson, I've met the writer of that letter. He is a South Carolinian, and from his standpoint he has a real grievance. I never knew anybody else as particular about his clothes, and it seems that the uniform and shoes you furnished him are not all right. He's a gentleman and he wouldn't lie. I met him at Cedar Run, when the burying parties were going over the field. He was introduced to me by my cousin, Harry Kenton, who is on the other side. Harry wouldn't associate with any fellow who isn't all right.”

“All the same, if I ever catch that young jackanapes of a St. Clair—it's an easy name to remember—I'll strip my uniform off him and turn him loose for his own comrades to laugh at.”

“But we won't catch either him or his comrades for a long time.”

“That's so, but in the end we'll catch 'em. Now, Mr. Mason, you don't agree with me about many things, but you're only a boy and you'll know better later on. Anyway, I like you, and if you need help at any time and can reach me, come.”

“I'll do so, and I thank you now,” said Dick, who saw that the contractor's tone was sincere.