The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays Part 47

(POLLY _does so._)

G.o.d a'mighty!

That Wheatfield: wall, we flatted it down flatter than any pancake what you ever cooked, Polly; and't wa'n't no maple syrup neither was runnin', slipp'ry hot and slimy black, all over it, that nightfall.

POLLY Here's the road to Emmetsburg.

LINK No,'t 'ain't: this here's the pike to Taneytown, where Sykes's boys come sweatin', after an all-night march, jest in the nick to save our second day. The Emmetsburg road's thar.--Whar was I, 'fore I fell cat-nappin'?

POLLY At sunset, July second, sixty-three.

LINK (_nodding, reminiscent_)

The b.l.o.o.d.y Sundown! G.o.d, that crazy sun: she set a dozen times that afternoon, red-yeller as a punkin jack-o'-lantern, rairin' and pitchin' through the roarin' smoke till she clean busted, like the other bombs, behind the hills.

POLLY My! Wa'n't you never scart and wished you'd stayed t' home?

LINK Scart? Wall, I wonder!

Chick, look a-thar: them little stripes and stars.

I heerd a feller onct, down to the store,-- a dressy mister, span-new from the city-- layin' the law down: "All this stars and stripes,"

says he, "and red and white and blue is rubbish, mere sentimental rot, spread-eagleism!"

"I wan't' know!" says I. "In sixty-three, I knowed a lad, named Link. Onct, after sundown I met him stumblin'--with two dead men's muskets for crutches--towards a bucket, full of ink--- water, they called it. When he'd drunk a spell, he tuk the rest to wash his bullet-holes.--- Wall, sir, he had a piece o' splintered stick, with red and white and blue, tore'most t' tatters, a-danglin' from it. 'Be you color sergeant?'

says I. 'Not me,' says Link; 'the sergeant's dead; but when he fell, he handed me this bit o' rubbish--red and white and blue.' And Link he laughed. 'What be you laughin' for?' says I.

'Oh, nothin'. Ain't it lovely, though!'" says Link.

POLLY What did the span-new mister say to that?

LINK I didn't stop to listen. Them as never heerd dead men callin' for the colors don't guess what they be.

(_Sitting up and blinking hard_)

But this ain't keepin' school!

POLLY (_quietly_)

I guess I'm learnin' somethin', Uncle Link.

LINK The second day, 'fore sunset.

(_He takes the hoe and points with it._)

Yon's the Wheatfield.

Behind it thar lies Longstreet with his rebels.

Here be the Yanks, and Cemetery Ridge behind 'em. Hanc.o.c.k--he's our general-- he's got to hold the Ridge, till reinforcements from Taneytown. But lose the Wheatfield, lose the Ridge, and lose the Ridge--lose G.o.d-and-all!-- Lee, the old fox, he'd nab up Washington, Abe Lincoln, and the White House in one bite!-- So the Union, Polly--me and you and Roger, your Uncle Link, and Uncle Sam--is all thar--growin' in that Wheatfield.

POLLY (_smiling proudly_)

And they're growin'

still!

LINK Not the wheat, though. Over them stone walls, thar comes the Johnnies, thick as gra.s.shoppers: gray legs a-jumpin' through the tall wheat-tops, and now thar ain't no tops, thar ain't no wheat, thar ain't no lookin': jest blind feelin' round in the black mud, and trampin' on boys' faces, and grapplin' with h.e.l.l-devils, and stink o' smoke, and stingin' smother, and--up thar through the dark-- that crazy punkin sun, like an old moon lopsided, crackin' her red sh.e.l.l with thunder!

(_In the distance, a bugle sounds, and the low martial music of a bra.s.s band begins. Again_ LINK'S _face twitches, and he pauses, listening. From this moment on, the sound and emotion of the bra.s.s music, slowly growing louder, permeates the scene._)

POLLY Oh! What was G.o.d a-thinkin' of, t' allow the created world to act that awful?

LINK Now, I wonder!--Cast your eye along this hoe:

(_He stirs the chips and wood-dirt round with the hoe-iron._)

Thar in that poked up mess o' dirt, you see yon weeny chip of ox-yoke?--That's the boy I spoke on: Link, Link Tadbourne: "Chipmunk Link,"

they call him, 'cause his legs is spry's a squirrel's.-- Wall, mebbe some good angel, with bright eyes like yourn, stood lookin' down on him that day, keepin' the Devil's hoe from crackin' him.

(_Patting her hand, which rests on his hoe_)

If so, I reckon, Polly, it was you.

But mebbe jest Old Nick, as he sat hoein'

them hills, and haulin' in the little heaps o' squirmin' critters, kind o' reco'nized Link as his livin' image, and so kep' him to put in an airthly h.e.l.l, whar thar ain't no legs, and worn-out devils sit froze in high-backed chairs, list'nin' to bugles--bugles--bugles, callin'.

(LINK clutches the sides of his chair, staring. The music draws nearer. POLLY touches him soothingly.)

POLLY Don't, dear; they'll soon quit playin'. Never mind'em.

LINK (_relaxing under her touch_)

No, never mind; that's right. It's jest that onct-- onct we was boys, onct we was boys--with legs.

But never mind. An old boy ain't a bugle.

_Onct_, though, he was: and all G.o.d's life a-snortin'

outn his nostrils, and h.e.l.l's mischief laughin'

outn his eyes, and all the mornin' winds a-blowin' _Glory Hallelujahs_, like bra.s.s music, from his mouth.--But never mind!

'T ain't nothin': boys in blue ain't bugles now.

Old bra.s.s gits rusty, and old underpinnin'

gits rotten, and trapped chipmunks lose their legs.

(_With smouldering fire_)

But jest the same--

(_His face convulses and he cries out, terribly--straining in his chair to rise._)

--for holy G.o.d, that band!

Why don't they stop that band!

POLLY (_going_)

I'll run and tell them.

Sit quiet, dear. I'll be right back.

(_Glancing back anxiously,_ POLLY _disappears outside. The approaching band begins to play "John Brown's Body."_ LINK _sits motionless, gripping his chair._)