One of Ours
Book III: Sunrise on the Prairie
Chapter VIII
During the bleak month of March Mr. Wheeler went to town in his buckboard
almost every day. For the first time in his life he had a secret anxiety. The
one member of his family who had never given him the slightest trouble, his son
Bayliss, was just now under a cloud.
Bayliss was a Pacifist, and kept telling people that if only the United
States would stay out of this war, and gather up what Europe was wasting, she
would soon be in actual possession of the capital of the world. There was a kind
of logic in Bayliss' utterances that shook Nat Wheeler's imperturbable
assumption that one point of view was as good as another. When Bayliss fought
the dram and the cigarette, Wheeler only laughed. That a son of his should turn
out a Prohibitionist, was a joke he could appreciate. But Bayliss' attitude in
the present crisis disturbed him. Day after day he sat about his son's place of
business, interrupting his arguments with funny stories. Bayliss did not go home
at all that month. He said to his father, "No, Mother's too violent. I'd better
not."
Claude and his mother read the papers in the evening, but they talked so
little about what they read that Mahailey inquired anxiously whether they
weren't still fighting over yonder. When she could get Claude alone for a
moment, she pulled out Sunday supplement pictures of the devastated countries
and asked him to tell her what was to become of this family, photographed among
the ruins of their home; of this old woman, who sat by the roadside with her
bundles. "Where's she goin' to, anyways? See, Mr. Claude, she's got her iron
cook-pot, pore old thing, carryin' it all the way!"
Pictures of soldiers in gas-masks puzzled her; gas was something she hadn't
learned about in the Civil War, so she worked it out for herself that these
masks were worn by the army cooks, to protect their eyes when they were cutting
up onions! "All them onions they have to cut up, it would put their eyes out if
they didn't wear somethin'," she argued.
On the morning of the eighth of April Claude came downstairs early and began
to clean his boots, which were caked with dry mud. Mahailey was squatting down
beside her stove, blowing and puffing into it. The fire was always slow to start
in heavy weather. Claude got an old knife and a brush, and putting his foot on a
chair over by the west window, began to scrape his shoe. He had said
good-morning to Mahailey, nothing more. He hadn't slept well, and was pale.
"Mr. Claude," Mahailey grumbled, "this stove ain't never drawed good like my
old one Mr. Ralph took away from me. I can't do nothin' with it. Maybe you'll
clean it out for me next Sunday."
"I'll clean it today, if you say so. I won't be here next Sunday. I'm going
away."
Something in his tone made Mahailey get up, her eyes still blinking with the
smoke, and look at him sharply. "You ain't goin' off there where Miss Enid is?"
she asked anxiously.
"No, Mahailey." He had dropped the shoebrush and stood with one foot on the
chair, his elbow on his knee, looking out of the window as if he had forgotten
himself. "No, I'm not going to China. I'm going over to help fight the Germans."
He was still staring out at the wet fields. Before he could stop her, before
he knew what she was doing, she had caught and kissed his unworthy hand.
"I knowed you would," she sobbed. "I always knowed you would, you nice boy,
you! Old Mahail' knowed!"
Her upturned face was working all over; her mouth, her eyebrows, even the
wrinkles on her low forehead were working and twitching. Claude felt a
tightening in his throat as he tenderly regarded that face; behind the pale
eyes, under the low brow where there was not room for many thoughts, an idea was
struggling and tormenting her. The same idea that had been tormenting him.
"You're all right, Mahailey," he muttered, patting her back and turning away.
"Now hurry breakfast."
"You ain't told your mudder yit?" she whispered.
"No, not yet. But she'll be all right, too." He caught up his cap and went
down to the barn to look after the horses.
When Claude returned, the family were already at the breakfast table. He
slipped into his seat and watched his mother while she drank her first cup of
coffee. Then he addressed his father.
"Father, I don't see any use of waiting for the draft. If you can spare me,
I'd like to get into a training camp somewhere. I believe I'd stand a chance of
getting a commission."
"I shouldn't wonder." Mr. Wheeler poured maple syrup on his pancakes with a
liberal hand. "How do you feel about it, Evangeline?"
Mrs. Wheeler had quietly put down her knife and fork. She looked at her
husband in vague alarm, while her fingers moved restlessly about over the
tablecloth.
"I thought," Claude went on hastily, "that maybe I would go up to Omaha
tomorrow and find out where the training camps are to be located, and have a
talk with the men in charge of the enlistment station. Of course," he added
lightly, "they may not want me. I haven't an idea what the requirements are."
"No, I don't understand much about it either." Mr. Wheeler rolled his top
pancake and conveyed it to his mouth. After a moment of mastication he said,
"You figure on going tomorrow?"
"I'd like to. I won't bother with baggage—some shirts and underclothes in my
suitcase. If the Government wants me, it will clothe me."
Mr. Wheeler pushed back his plate. "Well, now I guess you'd better come out
with me and look at the wheat. I don't know but I'd best plough up that south
quarter and put it in corn. I don't believe it will make anything much."
When Claude and his father went out of the door, Dan sprang up with more
alacrity than usual and plunged after them. He did not want to be left alone
with Mrs. Wheeler. She remained sitting at the foot of the deserted breakfast
table. She was not crying. Her eyes were utterly sightless. Her back was so
stooped that she seemed to be bending under a burden. Mahailey cleared the
dishes away quietly.
Out in the muddy fields Claude finished his talk with his father. He
explained that he wanted to slip away without saying good-bye to any one. "I
have a way, you know," he said, flushing, "of beginning things and not getting
very far with them. I don't want anything said about this until I'm sure. I may
be rejected for one reason or another."
Mr. Wheeler smiled. "I guess not. However, I'll tell Dan to keep his mouth
shut. Will you just go over to Leonard Dawson's and get that wrench he borrowed?
It's about noon, and he'll likely be at home." Claude found big Leonard watering
his team at the windmill. When Leonard asked him what he thought of the
President's message, he blurted out at once that he was going to Omaha to
enlist. Leonard reached up and pulled the lever that controlled the almost
motionless wheel.
"Better wait a few weeks and I'll go with you. I'm going to try for the
Marines. They take my eye."
Claude, standing on the edge of the tank, almost fell backward. "Why,
what—what for?"
Leonard looked him over. "Good Lord, Claude, you ain't the only fellow around
here that wears pants! What for? Well, I'll tell you what for," he held up three
large red fingers threateningly; "Belgium., the Lusitania, Edith Cavell. That
dirt's got under my skin. I'll get my corn planted, and then Father'll look
after Susie till I come back."
Claude took a long breath. "Well, Leonard, you fooled me. I believed all this
chaff you've been giving me about not caring who chewed up who."
"And no more do I care," Leonard protested, "not a damn! But there's a limit.
I've been ready to go since the Lusitania. I don't get any satisfaction out of
my place any more. Susie feels the same way."
Claude looked at his big neighbour. "Well, I'm off tomorrow, Leonard. Don't
mention it to my folks, but if I can't get into the army, I'm going to enlist in
the navy. They'll always take an able-bodied man. I'm not coming back here." He
held out his hand and Leonard took it with a smack.
"Good luck, Claude. Maybe we'll meet in foreign parts. Wouldn't that be a
joke! Give my love to Enid when you write. I always did think she was a fine
girl, though I disagreed with her on Prohibition." Claude crossed the fields
mechanically, without looking where he went. His power of vision was turned
inward upon scenes and events wholly imaginary as yet.