The Red Book Magazine/Volume 9/Number 4/Enos Atkins' Atonement

HE little circle about the hotel's dead fireplace pressed down the tobacco evenly and leaned back in grave content to listen. The fact that Enos Atkins had been telling the same stories for forty years detracted not a whit from the general interest, but rather inclined the audience to thrill with a certain sense of copartnership, as each listener anticipated the climax and evidenced approval by a slight nod or a hearty thumping of fist on knee.

Night after night Landlord Abel Farnum drew out his deep-cushioned chair to await the arrival of his friends. Enos, having no domestic duties to detain, as a rule was one of the first to drop in. Then the smoke would be puffed in silence until the circle was complete. The program vas ever the same: first, the stray news items, followed by a generous sprinkling of criticism and debate, and lastly, Enos in his personal reminiscences of the dark days of '61.

As his custom, he now approached the major event of the evening with a series of adomnitory “ahems!” intended to restrain indiscriminate conversation, and prefaced his opening with the often repeated statement, “Yas, fellers, that's how th' battle of Lookout Mountain was fit.”

To the uninitiated this observation might seem anomalous, but the loungers took it as a cue and settled into easier postures and paid the last attention to their pipes and waited complacently. The speaker paused for a few seconds and frowned at a poster of last year's county fair and then continued heavily:

“We swept up old Lookout in a drizzlin' rain. Th' lead was cheepin' about us like weepin' devvuls, but we kept on till a bank of rebs broke through th' smoke an' clouds an' lambasted our pantin' heroes like all git-out. 'Remember, we're Hook er's bravest,' I choked; but do what I could ter help th' officers we was drove back.”

Then another pause for the general situation to soak in, and after the usual tribute of muttered monosyllables had been paid Enos nodded his head in mute acknowledgment, and with his eyes still directed toward the poster again took up his narrative.

“An' down we was swept ter near th' foot of th' mountain, an' I made up my mind all was lost Yas, sirree! I tell ye, it all looked blacker'n th' clouds, as we tumbled back, but what d'ye think?”

“Go on, En, go on,” urged the landlord softly, as he leaned forward to hungrily catch each word.

“We was saved by a miracle an' my foresight,” added Enos solemnly. “Jest as all looked th' darkest we tumbled inter a trench that had been dug by the rebs, an' as we was jammin' each other inter it I had a inspiration, or somethin,' an' yelled, 'Be calm, men, an' lay snug.' Th' officers took up th' word, an' danged if th' rebs didn't sweep right over us an' keep on goin', thinkin' we was still ahead of them somewhere in th' fog. That was what I had figgered on their doin', an' like one man th' boys in blue rose up an' walloped it ter them in th' back. They was squelched, ye can safely warrant. An' that's how th' battle of Lookout Mountain was fit an' won.”

“I swan! but that's good,” cried a callow youth loudly. “How old was ye, Mister Atkins?”

“Jest a shade over fifteen, but big an' likely for my years. Had ter lie about my age before they'd let me enlist,” chuckled Enos.

“Now tell us about shootin' that man with a hunk of silver,” begged Landlord Farnum, his gaze dwelling on the historian's bearded face in unbounded admiration.

“Wal,” demurred Enos slowly, “I don't know as I feel in th' right fettle ter-night ter tell that. It always makes me feel depressed like an' solemn.”

“We know, Enos, but we're simply achin' ter hear it,” soothed Mr. Farnum.

“Did ye really kill a man once with a hunk of silver?” inquired a new voice on the edge of the circle.

All turned in mild amaze. For forty years the story had been enjoyed with no one deeming it necessary to put this query. The speaker was a tall, gaunt stranger, who had obtained his supper at the hotel that afternoon and the promise of a bed for services rendered in the woodshed.

Enos eyed him coldly for a moment, and then ended the scrutiny by knocking the heel from his pipe. As this was his signal for departing the circle scowled in deep displeasure, while the landlord, reaching out a detaining hand, voiced the disapproval of all by dryly informing:

“When Enos Atkins is good enough ter tell a bit of war hist'ry we usually keep shet an' count ourselves mighty 'ucky ter be allowed ter listen.”

“I didn't mean no harm,” apologized the offender meekly. “Only, it sounded so queer an' interestin' I couldn't help speakin'. I'm dyin' ter hear it; that is, if th' cap'en is willin'.”

Enos was unconsciously mollified by the title, while the thought of having new ears for his best effort was not at all displeasing. Yet appearances demanded that he rise haughtily and without replying begin to fumble with his coat. Only the stranger's repeated assurance that his remarks were purely ejaculatory and forced from him in the intensity of the moment, reinforced by the landlord's pleading, could induce the veteran to resume his chair. Even then his brows did not relax in fixity for several seconds. Finally he yielded a bit, and then as a chorus of beseeching voices assailed him, he repeated the customary “ahem!” and began:

“It was when we was before Petersburg. We'd been hammerin' an' ham merin' th' enemy till we was black in th' face, an' me in th' front trench pumpin' in lead day an' night, till I became a ragin', tearin', blood-thirsty devvul. 'Go as far as ye can,' our colonel use ter say, 'an' about a hundred yards farther on ye'll find En Atkins, if he aint been killed.'

“Wal, one day, near th' end of th' siege I run out of bullets. Jest as I was goin' ter sneak back for more I see a young chap dodgin' behind a house near-by an' actin' as if he was goin' ter cut an' run. Lawd! how many times I've wished I'd let th' poor devvul go! I'd give my farm ter know now I only wounded him.”

“Jumped from behind a house, an' en back again, kind of scared an' wild like?” broke in the stranger breathlessly

“That's what I said,” returned Enos ortly. Then to his old friends, and speaking sadly, “I guess, fellers, he was th' only man I killed durin' th' war that I t sorry for.”

“Go on! Oh, please do vO on.” urged the stranger eagerly, ignoring the circle of frowns.

Rhetorical effect now demanded that recognized, and in facing the stranger be recognized, and in facing him Enos displayed considerable amiability as he said, “Wal, I hate ter. It's a lack spot in my life. Ye see, it wa'n't necessary for me ter snuff out that young life. He was jest tryin' ter git away. But feelin' sorry don't help none. What I did is ter yank out a hunk of silver that one of th' Nevada boys had give me for a keepsake an' twist it inter a cartridge. Then—”

“Then ye shot him as he tried ter run, hittin' him, as near as ye can figger, in th' neck, or mebbe, th' right shoulder,” completed the stranger excitedly.

Enos lowered his pipe in a mixture of astonishment and anger. Then the first emotion slowly obliterated his resentment and he became dully conscious of a tinge of content as he realized the unexpected endorsement affecting the circle mightily, and he mildly observed, “I guess ye've've heard of this before, mister.”

“Heard of it!' cried the other exultantly; “I should say I had. An' ter think I should be th' means of bringin' th' good news ter ye.”

“What news?” gasped Enos weakly, bending low over his knees to search the stranger's face.

“That th' young man was not killed by th' bullet,” returned the stranger triumphantly.

“Not killed!” muttered the veteran duly.

“By Judas!” ejaculated Mr. Farnum; and then relapsing into wide-eyed silence.

“For forty years we've understood that feller was killed,” protested the man nearest the fireplace in a stupid monotone.

“Th' only man shot with a silver bullet in front of Petersburg was not killed,” repeated the stranger firmly. “Th' bullet was shaped like a thimble, wa'n't it; with a cross scratched on its base?”

“Y-a-s, I guess so,” choked Enos nervously, stealing a puzzled glance at the animated face of his questioner.

“Wal, that man lived for some time afterwards an' carried th' bullet in his pocket as a reminder of them grim days,” declared the stranger dramatically.

“But he died after all, eh?” remarked Enos in a more sprightly voice, his face clearing. “Wal, I'm sorry th' poor cuss is dead. I only wish I could have had a chance ter show him I regretted that deed.”

And his fingers were composed as he resumed filling his pipe.

“Th' best news is yet ter come,” informed the stranger gently. Then half-rising and impulsively stretching out his arms toward the veteran, while his voice was husky with unshed tears, he murmured, “Don't ye know me?”

Landlord Farnum pushed back his chair with a crash, while the others as noisily gained their feet, leaving the dazed narrator with sagging jaw to face the prolonged invitation of the lean arms.

“Know ye? Of course I don't,” he mumbled, mopping his glistening forehead.

“I'm William James Freeman, once a Southern soldier,” explained the stranger humbly and bowing his head.

“All news ter me,” gasped Enos, working his chair to the wall.

“Th' name, yes; but not th' man, when I say I'm that boy ye shot down in th' out skirts of Petersburg.”

And with this proclaimed in a loud, glad voice, Mr. Freeman hurled himself upon the crouching historian and embraced him hungrily.

“Ter think,” he cried, turning to the astounded group, but with his disheveled head still in loving proximity to the imprisoned and distorted face of the veteran, “that I should come here, weak an' lonely expectin' nothing, an' findin' you.”

“Great General Scott!” stuttered Landlord Farnum, finally recovering his voice; “after forty years th' man that Enos shot has turned up, fellers!”

“Yas, he's come an' found a friend in th' man who nearly killed him,” affirmed Mr. Freeman with a catch in his voice.

“I a-say, fellers; there must be some mistake. Th' man I—I shot wa'n't so tall by half a head,” protested Enos brokenly, now freeing himself and glaring wildly about the staring circle.

“He's grow'd since then, En,” suggested one in loud encouragement

“An' ter think I should live ter see this day,” murmured the landlord dreamily.

“I'm goin' ter send for that bullet,” continued Mr. Freeman joyously. “Oh, how glad I be I saved at least that from th' ruin that swept everything else an' left me with nothin'. An' we'll sit down of a evenin', dear friend, an' talk over old times. Yas, I wore th' gray. I was only a boy, mind ye; but we are brothers now.”

“Brothers, never ter part,” almost sobbed Mr. Farnum.

“I say, fellers,” spluttered Enos, staggering to his feet and plucking nervously at his beard, “he don't talk like a Southerner. I—I expected a Southerner.”

“I went south when very young,” explained Mr. Freeman, smiling tenderly and retaining his affectionate clasp on the other's arm; “but I come north right after th' war. I'm glad ter-night there aint no North or South an' that we are simply brothers.”

Enos leaned against the wall, searched the circle, face by face, and opened and closed his mouth spasmodically for the fraction of a minute before he could form the words, then he blurted desperately, “Wal, I'm goin' home.”

“Home!” echoed Mr. Farnum in mild ecstacy, turning to wring the stranger's hand. “How sweet th' word must sound ter ye, mister.”

Mr. Freeman gently brushed him aside, and with hands limply folded stood gazing intently at Enos who was shuffling backwards toward the door. He said nothing, but simply focused his eyes in a meek and hurt inquiry on the old veteran's perturbed face, and the loungers, struck by the same thought, became quiet and added their questioning stare as the distance to the threshold was slowly lessened. Would he speak? Soon it would be too late. Then Enos paused, brought to a halt by the impact of the unspoken chiding.

“Wal,” he grumbled doggedly, “ye've all heard Enos Atkins say a sartain man was welcome ter a home—if he needed it. Be ye comin,' Mister Freeman?”

“I knew it! I knew it!” cried the stranger exultantly. “No empty words could be spoke by that man, I told myself th' minute I sot eyes on his kindly face. Yas, I'm comin', dear friend, an' may we never, never be parted.”

The loungers, led by the landlord,drew a deep breath of relief as the situation was thus saved, and one voiced the sentiments of all, when he declared, “Better'n a story-book, better'n poetry. I knew En always meant every word of it.”

Beginning withthat night,creaking farm-wagon and dusty foot-passenger industriously spread the news, and the amazing dénouement lost nothing in the telling, and furnished a fruitful source of gossip long after the proverbial nine days had elapsed.

After the first effect had worn off a bit and the community found time to take note of the new conditions, two discoveries were made. First, that Mr. Freeman, in enjoving the comforts of Enos' snug bachelor home, was never detected in any manual labor. Time passed pleasantly for him as he strolled about the neighborhood, extolling his patron's many virtues, or in reading a book on the side-piazza. The second discovery was more important, and aused many of the old veteran's friends a twinge of regret. This was, that his marriage to Lurinda Speerin, spinster, was destined to be long deferred. As Enos had neglected to visit the hotel after the night of the stranger's arrival, and as he never ventured from his premises except in a stealthy manner and evinced an inclination to avoid all his old associates, nothing definite could be learned from him.

Yet the belief grew, when it was observed that he no longer accompanied Miss Speerin to prayer-meeting. As their farms joined, and as they were old neighbors, the prudent-minded had accepted with hearty approval the intimation that the boundary fence would soon be removed. Miss Speerin was his junior by some twenty years and alone in the world. She had given encouragement to the first rumors by smiling archly and observing that a man of Enos' habits and temperament was always young, and had even gone so far as to hint that the two farms would be merged in one before the first snow fell.

Now they seemed estranged.

“I guess th' stranger is th' cause,” observed one of th' loungers, after the circle had viewed the vacant chair silently and sadly “I hate like sin ter see th' match sp'iled, but ye can't expect Lorinda ter go there with Mister Freeman a member of th' fambly.”

“An En had been fixin' up his place so's she would have a rippin' good home,” reminded another. “But as Edgar says, he must choose between her an' th' man he shot in th' South.”

“Wal, unless she agrees ter Mister Freeman's stayin' there, I'll bet th' weddin' don't go,” declared the landlord glumly. “Ye see, En is so sot on what he thinks is his duty that he won't change none.

“Mebbe, if Mister Freeman would only do a few chores she wouldn't mind him. But he shies at a hoe like it was pizen. I asked him yesterday why he didn't pitch in an' work a little, an' he said En wouldn't let him.

'Then I went ter En, an' he kind of groaned an' said he wouldn't listen ter his guest workin'. Huh! called him his 'guest.' Prob'ly he'll leave him th' farm if he dies furst. But it's what I call carryin' duty too far.”

Then as minor happenings began to forge to the front and take up the public's attention gossip was given a new impetus by the fish-peddler's avowal he had observed Mr. Freeman deftly aiding the spinster in her flower-garden. It had been assumed that Enos' cloudy countenance was caused by his inability to marry without violating his stern sense of duty. He had sacrificed himself to a principle, was known, but the possibility of Lurinda even tolerating the cause of her deferred happiness had never been entertained. And now she was receiving him kindly; nay, often found occasion to be in the front yard, as if inviting his presence. Could it be, asked each amazed neighbor, that Enos believed complete atonement could be made only by stepping aside and allowing the stranger to win the object of his belated passion?

This query seemed to be fully answered when Mr. Freeman, attired neatly, if awkwardly, in his patron's best Sunday clothes, complacently escorted the blush ing and timorous-eyed spinster to church. No longer was there any doubt but that the stranger would soon leave the shelter of the Atkin's home to take up the management of the adjoining property. Land lord Farnum found but one touch of consolation in this conclusion; it might result in his old friend returning to the little circle, where, if the “silver bullet” could never again be rehearsed, the loungers might once more, at least, be regaled with the history of the battle of Lookout Mountain.

This anticipation so incited the landlord to action that he clapped on his hat and hurried away to affirm it by the lips of the delinquent.

As he entered the yard and turned the corner to gain the side porch he was halted by voices, one bitter and the other light with laughter.

“Tut, tut, Enos; remember th' wound what nearly killed me,” Mr. Freeman was chiding. “How can ye say ye'd be quit of me? Wal, see here: what'll ye give if I quit for good by ter-morrer? Come, make me a offer.”

“I'll—Yas, I'll give thurty dollars,” growled Enos.

Mr. Freeman paused, as if weighing the proposition carefully; then he said: “I'm yer man. Fork it over. I'm kind of tired of dawderin' around here, anyhow.”

But as the landlord was softly retracing his steps he heard him laugh uproarously and add, “An' now we've settled that, lemme tell ye some news: Ye won't lose me very far, as I'm goin' ter marry Lurinda.”

On the morrow, Miss Speerin herself rendered needless any secrecy on the landlord's part by confusedly confessing to his wife that she had favorably considered Mr. Freeman's advances.

“VYe see,” she explained, with a faint touch of pink in her cheeks, “I was vexed at his comin' at first, as Enos an' I had planned on bein' married this fall. We are old neighbors an' I hesitated a long while before I could decide,” and she sighed softly; “but Enos helped me make up my mind by keepin' away as if he'd give me up. Then William James came. He's nearer my age an' I am lonely. Then I learned he had been wounded by th' man I use to think I loved.”

And she sighed again

“It seems dretful, an' yet very romantic, to think he was shot in th' war. Only, it seemed horrible that Enos was th' one who shot him. I guess that's what drew me to him. I pitied him, an' th' more I pitied him th' more I got to thinkin' of what a violent man Enos has been.”

“He always seemed kindly,” protested Mrs. Farnum, her eyes looking troubled.

“But he was never wounded,” rejoined Lurinda gravely. 'An' he has wounded William James. Jest think of th' difference! William James is all heart an' tenderness in' never hurt nobody. But think of th' folks Enos has killed in th' war—always a—shootin' somebody. Of course, it was his duty, when th' flag was in danger, as he always says; yet it's disturbin'. An' William James has no blood on his hands, except as he was wounded, poor man.”

In conjunction with this announcement Mr. Freeman took up his quarters at the hotel as a boarder, pending the arrival of his wedding-day; and Enos, now entirely alone, seemed to shrink more within himself.

He found a slight surcease, in laboring on his farm from early until late, but when the day's work was done and he had lighted his lonely-pipe his thoughts would turn to the approaching nuptials with hateful persistency.

He had decided to sell his farm and lose himself in another community, only he could not bring himself to look for a purchaser until the wedding-ceremony had been performed.

Possibly it hurt him the most to learn, from chance conversations among his neighbors, how implacably she was set against him. She knew him as a man of violence, and after he had passed from out of her life she would always abhor him as such.

This disquieting line of thought gradually led him to a final determination. He would try and carry a more kindly memory with him. At first he did not believe he could make the requisite effort, yet Lurinda's good opinion was everything, the only desirable thing that might accompany him into exile. So he canvassed it by piecemeal and found it all cruelly hard to his old sense of pride. But at last, just as the rays of the afternoon-sun were laying a golden carpet over the dusty road, he conquered self, and jamming his hat over his eyes sought her for the last time in her home.

He found her working among the flowers in the old-fashioned garden, and he had stood with head and shoulders bowed for nearly a minute before she detected his presence.

“Mercy, Enos! how ye startled me! I thought ye was a ghost,” she cried. And as she noted the hollow, hopeless look about his eyes her own were touched with sympathy.

“That's jest it,” he muttered, stroking his beard slowly, “I'm a ghost. Th' En Atkins ye use ter know, an' who ye threw over fora younger chap, is dead. It's jest a mockery that ye see now.”

“I don't know what ye mean,” she faltered, falling away from him because of the miserable intensity of his demeanor. Ye don't mean to find fault with me because of my approachin' weddin', do ye? Why shouldn't I take up with a younger man, a man who is nearer my age, especially when a sense of pity draws me to him. Ye know, ye kept away from me for quite a while before I got to know him at all. It was really all over between us before I ever see him. Perhaps, Enos, ye're feelin' cut up because ye shot him. If that's so, yer feelin's do ye credit.”

'An' I had painted th' house an' bought some new furniture,” he groaned, looking vacantly over her head, as if apostrophizing a shade, 'an' now it's good-by ter thoughts of happiness in that home.”

She was bordering dangerously on pity and her slight figure trembled a bit; but clinching her hands, and holding herself loyal to the absent, she spoke as if not heeding him, and said,

“He is so meek an' forgivin'. Never speakin' harsh of th' man who shot him. Why, every time I think of his sufferin's th' tears come. Ah, Enos, ye can't understand, as ye've always been a man of violence, dotin' on them ye've killed. But a woman would understand an' appreciate why I smile on th' man of kindly feelin's.”

“I'd whitewashed th' stones borderin' th' driveway,” he continued dully; “an' had bought th' best lot in th' cemetery. But now, all them little arrangements I took so much comfort in makin' is knocked in th' head.”

“Who's to blame for it all?” she demanded, now on the verge of tears, tapping the ground with the rake to hold his attention and conceal her emotion. “Who's to blame for my choosin' him? I'll admit I'd come to think it would be yer name! was to take, an' I was willin' until ye neglected me. Then I come to see th' contrast in that poor, wounded man, an' the man always boastin' of his violence. Enos, ye must find yer satisfaction in bein' known when ve decided to be a hero, a shootin' bullets an' punks of silver into folks, ye said 'Good-bv' to woman's love.” And she sighed sadly For after all, Enos was one of the home-folks, and it came hard, she was finding, to brush him aside, even for the gentle personality of the stranger.

And he, as she said this, seemed to crumple up within himself, as he sank to a seat on a wheelbarrow and buried his face in his hands.

“Don't take on so,” she begged, her voice choking.

“I don't blame ye a bit, Lurinda,” he moaned “I don't know what kind of a husband this Southern hero will make; but no matter how he turns out, he aint such a fraud as I be.”

“Enos,” she cried, “ye mustn't talk like that

“I can't sleep till I've confessed ter ye,” he continued desperately. “I must have ye know all before I quit this neighborhood. I mean—I'm a humbug. Hero? I'm nothin' but a deceitful, bragegin' old fool. Oh, it's pesky hard ter confess it, Lurinda; but I've got ter ease my mind. I aint no warrior, nor never was.”

“For forty years—” she began timidly

“I know,” be broke in hurriedly, “for forty years I've been yarnin' about th' dead I've corded up down South. I guess I've planted a man for every rod of country down there, accordin' ter my say-so. It's desperate tough ter admit it, but don't know as I ever hurt a man durin' th' whole war, except by droppin' a camp kettle on one feller's foot an' came near lamin' him. I—”

“Enos,” she whispered, “remember th' silver bullet.”

“All rot,” he muttered, still hiding his face and speaking so low she was forced to bend over him to catch the words “All rot. I lied. I'm a fearful sinner If ever I shot any one it must have been in th' back, as I never faced a firin' line. When I wasn't guardin' th' sutler's wagon I was in th' hospital corps. It's terrible hard ter confess all this, Lurinda; but ye must know me jest as I am before I go.”

“Do ye mean ye never shot William James Freeman?” she whispered timidly.

“Never fired so much as a piece of hard tack at him. Never see him,” he replied brokenly. “Most of th' time of th' Petersburg siege I was in th' guard house for stealin' a hen from th' colonel's tent. Can't ye see, Lurinda,” and he staggered to his feet and threw out his hands as if to reveal all, “can't ve see I'm th' worst, dod-rotted coward an' humbug as ever come back from war unhurt? I'm tellin' ye this ter punish myself; I'm telling ye so's ye'll pity me, an' not detest me as a slaughterer. I never a butcher. I”m a poor, old fraud.”

She worked her hands, one in the other, convulsively, and stood staring at him intently for the fraction of a minute before her look of incredulity changed to one of amazement. Then her eves took in a different light and she advanced toward him slowly, saying:

“Enos, do ye mean that all these stories about yer bayonetin' people an' cuttin' an' slashin', is lies?”

“Every danged one,” he replied listlessly, turning to stumble down the path.

“An' ye never was a man of violence?” she pursued tremulously.

“Not even ter a rabbit,” he assured over his shoulder, now nearly to the gate.

“Enos, come back!” she cried softly. “To think of th' pity I've wasted on that other ly in' critter! Come back, I Say, Enos. To think of ye havin' th' courage to tell me all! Enos, at least, ye are a truthful man.”

“Ye can't mean ye've got any use for a old—”

“Not another word about that,” she commanded, gently placing one thin hand on his lips. “It'll never be mentioned, except as I say one word to Mister William James Freeman in partin', an' as I say now, ye'd better quit entertainin' Ab Farnum an' his friends. Ye can tell them yer wife objects to yer bein' away from home so much.”

“My wife!” he gasped, settling down limply beside her on the step.

“An' now,” she continued brightly, patting his rough hand and pretending there were no tears in her eyes, “tell me what color we shall paint th' barn.”