CHAPTER XVIII
_Parole_
During the next week or two after Christmas the boys made notableprogress with their chopping, for even the Doctor had by this timebecome as expert as any of them in wielding an axe, while the otherboys, who could scarcely be more expert with that implement than theywere at the beginning, acquired a good deal of extra skill in theparticular work they were now doing. They more readily recognized theuse to which each piece of timber could be put; they acquired newdeftness in shaping railroad ties to their destined use, so that thework was done more quickly and with a smaller expenditure of time andforce; especially they learned and invented many devices to facilitatetheir handling of the great bridge timbers, of which they were nowsending many down the chute.
All of them except Ed chopped all day. Ed volunteered to take the dutyof camp guard upon himself all day every day, so long as his woundshould incapacitate him for the hard work of chopping. There was doubleguard duty to do now of course, for in addition to the guarding of thecamp there was the prisoner to watch. But now that the barricade withits platform was built in front of the hut, Ed was confident of hisability to watch both inside and outside, particularly as the woundedman was pretty nearly helpless still, and the boys took all the gunswith them when they went chopping, except the one that Ed was using assentinel. There was still another advantage in the fact that there wasnow nearly a foot of snow on the ground, and it would have been easy tosee a man toiling over its white surface at a great distance.
So Ed played cook and camp guard all through the days and was excusedfrom all night duty.
In the meantime there was no more trouble from the mountaineers, exceptthat the wounded one in camp continually bewailed his fate and indulgedin dismal forebodings of the long term he must serve in prison. Finallyone Sunday, when his wounds were nearly well again, he said:
"It ain't so much for myself I care. I kin stand purty nigh anything.What I'm thinkin' about, boys, is my wife an' my little gal. You see mywife she's consumptive like an' not much fit fer work, an' my littlegal, she's only six year old. So I don't know what's to become of 'emwhen I'm sent up, an' that'll be mighty soon now, as I'm gettin' wellenough to walk."
"Now listen to me a minute," said Tom in a voice as stern as he couldmake it with the tears that were in it--for the picture presented to hismind of that poor invalid wife and still more of that little six yearold girl left to struggle with that mountain poverty and starvationwhich he knew something about, had touched all that was tender in hisnature.
"Now listen to me! I'm going to have a plain talk with you. The onlyreason you are to go to prison is that you tried your best to kill Ed.Why didn't you think of your wife and little girl before you committedthat crime? Answer me honestly now!"
"Well, I will, Tom. You see I ain't much account. I ain't enough accountto own a little share in one o' the stills that does a purty poorbusiness up here in the mountings. So I has to live on odd jobs like,an' at best I barely manage to keep a little bread and meat in themouths of my wife an' little gal an' a calico dress on their backs. No,that ain't edzacly the truth nother, an' as you an' me is talkin' fairan' square now, I don't want to misrepresent nothin'. I'll own up thatoncet--just oncet I bought the little gal a doll down there in town,jest becase she seemed so lonely an' longin' like as she looked at it.It cost me five cents."
By this time all the boys had business with their handkerchiefs, whichthey felt it necessary to go out of doors to attend to.
After awhile Tom mastered himself sufficiently to say:
"Go on! Tell us why you shot Ed?"
"Well, as I wuz a tellin' you," resumed the mountaineer, "I ain't noaccount an' so I has to live by odd jobs. Well, when you fellers come uphere, the other fellers made up their minds that you must go back, an'so they decided like to have you persecuted till you did go. So, as theydidn't want to take the risk of the job theirselves, they come to me an'another feller--that feller what got his arm broke in your camp--"
"Yes, I remember him," said Tom; "go on and tell us all about it."
"Well, they come to us two no 'count fellers, him an' me, an' says, saysthey, 'ef you two fellers'll do the job we'll see as how you an' yourfamilies will have enough, meal an' meat, to last till blackberry time.'You see, we no 'count fellers always looked forrard to blackberry time.Ef we kin pull through till the blackberries is ripe, we're all rightfor a spell. Well, nuther on us liked the job, but we didn't see no wayout'n it. So he come fust an' twicet. The second time he got too badhurt like to go on with the job, an' so then I took it up. My pard hehad reasoned and argified with you an' you wouldn't listen. So thefellers what was hirin' of me says, says they, 'Bill, you've got toshoot. If you kin drap one o' them fellers without gittin' caughtthey'll quick enough git out'n the mountings.' That's why I shot Ed. Yousee yourselves as how I couldn't help it."
All that Tom had tried to tell his comrades about the squalid poverty ofthe poorer class of mountaineers had made no such impression upon theirminds as the prisoner's simple narrative. They were horrified at thedestitution which he pictured and shocked at the dullness and perversionof his moral sense, manifested by his confident assumption that theywould see that in trying to kill Ed he had done nothing wrong orunusual. Here was that degradation of mind and soul which franklyregards crime--even including the murder of innocent persons--as alegitimate means of livelihood--like the picking of blackberries--adegradation which nevertheless leaves the soul capable of emotions ofaffection and tender pity such as this man so manifestly felt for hisinvalid wife and his "little gal."
Unhappily this degradation, this perversion of the moral sense, is notconfined to mountain moonshiners. There is very much of it in our greatcities and it is the thing that gives the police force their hardestwork. It is also the source of the most serious danger that threatensall of us.
The man had evidently finished with what he had to say, and as for theboys, they had from the first left this man's case in Little Tom'shands. Their throats ached too badly now with a pained pity, for them tomake even a suggestion. So Tom took up the conversation.
"Now I want to say something to you," he said, "and I want you to try tounderstand me. You and I are talking, fair and square, as you said alittle while ago, aren't we?"
"That's what we is, Tom," answered the man; "an' whatever you say'll beright, I don't doubt; but you see may be I won't quite understand it,like. I'll do my best. But I ain't got no eddication like. All I know ishow to write my name, and may be print a few words on paper. Thesergeant major taught me that when I was in the army."
"Then you served in the army?" asked Tom, somewhat eagerly.
"Yes, I was conscripted, but after I was conscripted I thought I mout aswell be a good soldier as a bad one an' so I fought all I could. Inever did make it out quite clear in my head what they was a fightin'about, but I says to myself, says I, 'Bill,' says I, 'you're in for thisthing an' they's only one thing to do, an' that is fight as hard as youkin on the side yer on.'"
"Well if you were in the army," interposed Tom, "you know what a paroleis?"
"Oh, yes, I know that. I had one o' them things oncet. That's how I gotout'n the army. I was tooken pris'ner along with a lot of other fellers,an' after talkin' to us a lot, the officers what had us pris'ners sorto' explained the parole business to us, an' after we signed paperspromisin' not to fight no more, they let us go home, tellin' us that efwe was caught fightin' agin they'd hang us. Fur a long time I was afraidthe conscript officers would ketch me, an' make me fight again, but whenone on 'em did ketch me at last he tole me he couldn't make me fightagin, 'cause I was a prisoner on parole. So I know mighty well what aparole means, though at first we all thought it meant a pay-roll an'that we was to be paid for not fightin'."
"Well you understand it better now," said Tom. "You understand that whena man is paroled, he promises not to fight again, and if he does, and iscaught at it, he gets shot?"
"Oh, yes, I understand all that now. I was only tellin' y
ou how as Ididn't know fust off."
"Well, now that we're 'talking fair and square,' as you say, I want tosay that I think you ought to go to state prison for a long term forshooting Ed, and I intended at first to send you there. Perhaps I may doso yet. But now, if Ed will forgive you for shooting him--I'll ask himpresently--I'm going to put you on parole, just because of your sickwife and your little girl. You have been in our camp for several weeksnow. You know what we are here for. You know that we are not here tobother your friends or to interfere with them in any way."
"Oh, any fool could see that!" exclaimed the man.
"Very well, then. I am going to make you sign a parole and then send youhome, but mind, if you violate your parole I'll go down the mountain andbring enough soldiers up here to capture the last one of your gang andsend all of you to prison. I know where some of your stills are, and Ican find all the others. So you had better keep your parole, and yourfriends had better let us alone. Are you ready to sign the parole?"
The man rose from the chair on which he was sitting and threw his armsabout Tom.
His expressions of gratitude were rude in the extreme, but at leastthey were genuine, and he finished in tears as he exclaimed:
"Oh, thank goodness I can go back now an' look after the wife an' littleone, an' you kin bet your bottom dollar ef the other fellers makes anytrouble fer you fellers, Bill Jones'll be here to help you agin 'em. I'ma goin' to explain things to 'em. I'm agoin' to give it to 'em straight,an' then ef they make trouble fer you, I'll be with you."
Tom drew up the parole and Jones signed it with extraordinary pride inhis ability to write his own name in clumsy printing letters, with the"J" turned backwards. But strong man as he was, the tears kept cominginto his eyes as he said over and over again:
"You're mighty good to me, Tom! All you fellers is mighty good to me.An' I'm agoin' to teach that little gal o' mine when she says her 'now Ilay me' to wind it up with 'God bless Tom an' the other fellers.'"
With that he wiped away his tears with the back of his hand for lack ofa handkerchief.
The next morning the mountaineer insisted upon departing in spite of theDoctor's assurance that he was not yet well enough to make the journey.
"I must, Doctor," he said. "You see, I don't know what's happened to mywife an' my little gal while I've been gone."
"Very well," answered the Doctor, "only I want to add a promise to yourparole. I want you to promise me that if your wounds give you troubleyou'll either come here yourself, or if you can't do that, you'll sendfor me to go to you and dress them." Then seeing that the man was aboutsaying something emotional the Doctor quickly added:
"You see, I'm a Doctor, and it hurts my pride to have a case that Iattend go bad. So if you have any trouble with your hurts you are tocome to me or send for me at once."
Then after such rude adieus as the mountaineer could make, he startedoff up the mountain, the Doctor accompanying him a part of the way, uponpretense of wanting to see whether or not he was really fit to walk andcarry his gun, which had of course been restored to him. But the Doctorhad another purpose in view. Just before parting with the mountaineer hetook a twenty dollar bill from his pocket and pressed it into the man'shand.
"There!" he said. "Perhaps that will keep meat and bread in your cabintill the blackberries get ripe," and with that he suddenly turned on hisheel and rapidly strode back toward the camp, giving the man no chanceto refuse the gift or to thank him for it.
But while the Doctor had taken every possible precaution to prevent anyof his comrades from seeing what he did, the sentry on the platform sawand reported the facts. So when the Doctor returned to camp and set towork with his axe, the boys were quietly discussing a little plan oftheir own, talking in low tones, as they worked.
That night at supper Jack opened the subject, saying:
"Doctor, we shall be very sorry to part with you, but you have forfeitedyour right to remain in our camp. You have violated your parole."
"Why, how? What can you mean?" asked the Doctor in bewilderment.
"Why, you agreed to be one of us boys, and to 'share and share alike'with us in work and in everything else. Now, this morning you gave thatmountaineer some money out of your own pocket, basely trying to concealthe fact from us. Even yet we don't know the amount of your gift. Now,we have unanimously decided not to submit to any such proceeding."
"But my dear Jack," interrupted the Doctor--
"But my dear Doctor," broke in Jack, "hear me out. What we have decidedis to require you to tell us the amount of your benefaction to thatman, so that we may owe you our share of it until we go down themountain in the spring and collect our money. We are sharing and sharingalike in every thing or nothing, so out with it! How much money did yougive the man?"
"But Jack, permit me to explain," said the Doctor. "You see, if I gavethat fellow any money, it was of my own impulse and without anyconsultation with you. It was a bit of personal almsgiving in which Ihave no right to let you share. I did it solely to relieve my own mind,not yours. It wasn't a company transaction at all, and besides I couldwell afford it inasmuch as by coming up here with you boys and sharingyour camp life this winter I have cut off nearly the whole of mypersonal expenses and am actually saving money."
"Now listen!" said Jack. "We all wanted to give that poor fellow somemoney with which to feed his wife and little girl 'till blackberries getripe' next summer, and we should have done so if any of us had had anymoney. So in relieving your own mind you have relieved ours just asmuch. We all shared alike in the cost of fitting out this expedition. Wehave all shared alike in the building of our house and in all the othercamp work. We have all shared alike in guard duty, in danger and ineverything else, and we're going to do so to the end of the chapter. Sowe're going to share alike in this gratuity of yours, our shares to bepaid to you as soon as we collect our money down below. So you must tellus how much you gave the man, or else our whole partnership andcomradeship will be at an end. Come, Doctor, tell us all about it!"
"Well," said the Doctor, "I don't think it fair to let you boys share inwhat was a purely personal bit of almsgiving, done without any sort ofconsultation with any of you, but as you insist I will say that I gavethe man a twenty dollar bill."
"All right," said Tom. "That gives us a chance to impose upon you. It isthree dollars and thirty-three and a third cents apiece for us. We'llnever pay that third of a cent, doctor, and so you'll be out a cent andtwo-thirds besides your own share in the gift. That will help to buyanother doll for 'the little gal,' and I suppose you won't mind theexpense."
"No," said the Doctor, "but what can be done to relieve these people'swretchedness and lift them up?"
Not one of the boys could answer the question. Perhaps there was noanswer. There often is none to questions of that kind.