_"Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drank."_

Shakespeare.

When Griffith reported at the White House, the President expressed himself as entirely satisfied. "You have done all I asked;" he said.

"The maps sent, so far, are wonderfully fine and accurate, I can see that, and now that you have left a man who is able and willing to take your place, that is all I ask. If he should fail us I will send for you again; but I hope I shall not need to do that. If he is faithful, you have, indeed, done your whole duty, n.o.bly. I thank you! I thank you!

You are a silent hero--a war hero in times of peace and a peace hero in times of war! I am glad you can go home now. I--I happened to read--I always notice your name, now when I see it and--"

Griffith looked at him steadily. There was evidently something bearing on the mind of the President which had to do with Griffith. Mr. Lincoln was moving toward the table. "Have you read--I suppose you have not seen the papers lately?"

"Nothing," Griffith said, shaking his head. "What is the news, Mr.

Lincoln?"

"Glorious news! A great victory at s.h.i.+loh! A _great_ victory; but--"

He turned over several papers and took one up from among the rest.

"What regiments are your sons in?" he asked, looking down the columns.

Griffith put out his hand. "What is the name, Mr. Lincoln? Is he killed or----"

The President retained the paper and feigned to be looking for a name.

"No, no, missing--according to one account. The other--the news in too meager yet to--it is confused. We can't be sure, and then this paper is several days old beside. I've seen nothing since--nothing at all of him.

Here--Roy. Captain Roy Davenport of--"

"Roy is not a captain. That is his brother Beverly. Is Roy----"

"He was promoted on the field, just before he fell--or---- This paper----"

Griffith staggered toward the door.

"I must go home. Just before he fell! Poor Katherine! Poor Roy! I must go home. I must make haste. How long---- When did you say it was?

When----?"

"Wait," said Mr. Lincoln. "Let me try for a message--for accurate news for you. Wait." He rang. "Send that message, instantly--to s.h.i.+loh--to the Colonel of the ------ Indiana Infantry, and bring me the reply. Be quick--quick as you can," he said; and the secretary hastened away.

Silence fell between them. Griffith's hand reached out toward the paper Mr. Lincoln had let fall, but the long angular arm reached it first, and as if not noticing the movement of Mr. Davenport, he deftly slid it toward the pile of other papers, and then suddenly flung all into a confused heap as he searched for some article on the table.

"Would you like to go home that way?" They were both thinking of s.h.i.+loh, so why mention the name? "Perhaps if you did, you might find--you might take him home with you if---- Have you wired his mother that _you_ are safe, and here on your way home? That was right. That will help her to bear----"

He arose restlessly and placed both hands upon Griffith's shoulders.

"Mr. Davenport, I can't thank you enough for your services. I want you to understand that I _know_ what it all meant to you, and that I appreciate it at its full value. I hope the time will come when you will let a grateful country know what you have done and--and----" He held out his hand for the message as the door had opened for the secretary. He read and turned the other side up, and then re-read it. "Who is Beverly?

Colonel, of--Oh, your son? Oh, this is for you! I did not notice the address. I wondered who loved me!" Mr. Lincoln smiled as he handed the message to his guest. "Roy is wounded, but doing well. Have sent him to Nashville to the Wests. I am unhurt. I love you. Beverly," Griffith read. Then he took out his handkerchief and blew a great blast.

"Was there ever such a boy? To telegraph _that!_" He smiled up at Mr.

Lincoln through proud dim eyes. "That is my oldest son--the Captain."

The quaver in his voice and the smile in his eyes, drowned as it was in moisture, touched the great man before him, who took the message again and re-read it as Griffith talked.

"He is a good son. He----"

"He loves you he says, and the other one is doing well. _You_ ought to be satisfied. A good many fathers are not fixed just that way, to-day!"

Mr. Lincoln shook his head sadly from side to side, and the tragic face sank into its depth of gloom again. "Too many fathers have no sons to love them today--too many, too many," he said gloomily. "When will it all end? _How_ will it all end?" He held out the message as he suddenly turned to the table. "You will want to keep that. Do you want to go by way of Nashville, now? Or straight home?"

Griffith re-read the message. "Straight home," he said. "He is in good hands--and--and he is safe. Straight home." Then suddenly, as he folded the telegram and placed it in his in-side pocket, "Mr. Lincoln, did you know I am a deserter?"

"What?"

"Did you know I deserted? The General threatened to shoot me, and--"

"W-h-a-t!"

Griffith told the story of the threat simply, fully. The keen eyes watched him narrowly. There was a growing fire in them.

"Didn't you know he couldn't shoot you? Didn't you know you were under _me_? Didn't you know--"

"I didn't think of that at first, Mr. Lincoln. I thought he could, and--I thought he would, for a little while. I was----"

"If he had," said the President, rising and showing more fire than he had exhibited before, "well, if he had, all I've got to say, is that there'd a' been two of you shot!" Then, recalling himself he smiled grimly. "If he does his share as well as you've done yours, I'll be satisfied."

"Before I go, Mr. Lincoln, I wanted to speak to you about a little matter. You said something just now about a grateful country, and--but-- I recall that you--I understood you to-- The fact is, when I was here before, I somehow got the idea that you were willing to--to pay and to give a Colonel's commission! and--and emoluments--to one who could do this service, and----"

Mr. Lincoln dropped the hand he held, and an indescribable change pa.s.sed over the tall form and the face, which made both less pleasant to see.

But he smiled, as he pa.s.sed his hand over his face, and turning toward the table with a tired expression, reached for a pen.

"You've sort of concluded that the job is worth pay, have you?"

"Yes, it's worth all you can afford to pay, Mr. Lincoln; it is extremely dangerous business. Is the offer still open?"

The President gave an imperceptible shrug to his loose shoulders, and drew a sheet of paper toward him.

"Certainly. Commission?" he said as he began to write.

"Yes, if you will. A Colonel's commission and pay dating all back to the beginning of my service--if that is right."

Mr. Lincoln nodded, but there was a distinctly chilly air creeping into his tone. "Y-e-s. Of course.'Nything else?"

"I don't see hardly how you can date it back either, without----"

"Oh yes, I can date it back to the beginning of your service," he said wearily, "but I don't know----"

"I guess you'll have to just put it Col. L. Patterson, for I don't know his real name, the baptismal one. Known him all my life just as Lengthy, but of course that won't----"

"What!" the President had turned to face him, but Griffith was still looking contemplatively out of the window, and did not notice the sudden change of tone and position.

"It will give him a certain standing with the men--and with the General--that he will need--and deserve, and--and--and the rest is right too, for _him_, if--"

Mr. Lincoln thrust his fingers back and forth through his already disheveled hair, and at last burst out: "Can't say that I exactly get your idea. I understood you to say that you had changed your mind about--about wanting the rank of Colonel, and--and the pay for----"

He was looking full at Griffith, and the preacher's eyes traveled back from the distant hills and fell upon the face before him. It struck him that the face looked tired and worn. He pulled himself up sharply, for the dull way he had been presenting the case, and his reply was in a fuller, freer voice, with a brisker air of attention to business.