Marching Men | Page 4

of his hands and looked over the
valley inch by inch like one seeking something lost. For ten minutes he
would look intently at a clump of trees or a spot in the river running
through the valley where it broadened and where the water roughened
by the wind glistened in the sun. A smile lurked in the corners of his

mouth, he rubbed his hands together, he muttered incoherent words and
bits of sentences, once he broke forth into a low droning song.
On the first morning, when the boy sat on the hillside with his father, it
was spring and the land was vividly green. Lambs played in the fields;
birds sang their mating songs; in the air, on the earth and in the water of
the flowing river it was a time of new life. Below, the flat valley of
green fields was patched and spotted with brown new-turned earth. The
cattle walking with bowed heads, eating the sweet grass, the
farmhouses with red barns, the pungent smell of the new ground, fired
his mind and awoke the sleeping sense of beauty in the boy. He sat
upon the log drunk with happiness that the world in which he lived
could be so beautiful. In his bed at night he dreamed of the valley,
confounding it with the old Bible tale of the Garden of Eden, told him
by his mother. He dreamed that he and his mother went over the hill
and down toward the valley but that his father, wearing a long white
robe and with his red hair blowing in the wind, stood upon the hillside
swinging a long sword blazing with fire and drove them back.
When the boy went again over the hill it was October and a cold wind
blew down the hill into his face. In the woods golden brown leaves ran
about like frightened little animals and golden-brown were the leaves
on the trees about the farmhouses and golden-brown the corn standing
shocked in the fields. The scene saddened the boy. A lump came into
his throat and he wanted back the green shining beauty of the spring.
He wished to hear the birds singing in the air and in the grass on the
hillside.
Cracked McGregor was in another mood. He seemed more satisfied
than on the first visit and ran up and down on the little eminence
rubbing his hands together and on the legs of his trousers. Through the
long afternoon he sat on the log muttering and smiling.
On the road home through the darkened woods the restless hurrying
leaves frightened the boy so that, with his weariness from walking
against the wind, his hunger from being all day without food, and with
the cold nipping at his body, he began to cry. The father took the boy in
his arms and holding him across his breast like a babe went down the

hill to their home.
It was on a Tuesday morning that Cracked McGregor died. His death
fixed itself as something fine in the mind of the boy and the scene and
the circumstance stayed with him through life, filling him with secret
pride like a knowledge of good blood. "It means something that I am
the son of such a man," he thought.
It was past ten in the morning when the cry of "Fire in the mine" ran up
the hill to the houses of the miners. A panic seized the women. In their
minds they saw the men hurrying down old cuts, crouching in hidden
corridors, pursued by death. Cracked McGregor, one of the night shift,
slept in his house. The boy's mother, threw a shawl about her head,
took his hand and ran down the hill to the mouth of the mine. Cold
winds spitting snow blew in their faces. They ran along the tracks of
the railroad, stumbling over the ties, and stood on the railroad
embankment that overlooked the runway to the mine.
About the runway and along the embankment stood the silent miners,
their hands in their trousers pockets, staring stolidly at the closed door
of the mine. Among them was no impulse toward concerted action.
Like animals at the door of a slaughter-house they stood as though
waiting their turn to be driven in at the door. An old crone with bent
back and a huge stick in her hand went from one to another of the
miners gesticulating and talking. "Get my boy--my Steve! Get him out
of there!" she shouted, waving the stick about.
The door of the mine opened and three men came out, staggering as
they pushed before them a small car that ran upon rails. On the car lay
three other men, silent and motionless. A woman thinly clad and with
great