War; or, What happens when one loves one's enemy/Chapter 37
XXXVII
THE LETTER DAVE WROTE
DAVE, of course, was a prisoner. But there was little enough guarding. He seemed out of his mind. He said almost nothing to me, but would sit with his head in his hands and look at me till I got creepy and had to go away. And then, one morning, he was missing.
I am ashamed to say it, but, in some ways, I was glad. I could hardly bear it. Soon I couldn't have. It was not my Dave. It was a tortured, warped and silent spirit. One day I said that we were only one man between us, just in fun, because we had only two arms together. He didn't seem to understand.
"Where did you lose your arm, Dave?"
He looked down at the place a long time, trying to recollect, then he shakes his head, like he couldn't, and says:
"I—don't—know."
Wouldn't you know where you lost your arm?
"Davy," I says again, "does it hurt at the wound in your head?"
"Am I wounded in the head?" asks he.
"Yes," says I, "the day that—Jon died."
Dave nods and puts his hand to his head then, as if he really remembered.
"The—day—I killed—Jonathan!" he breathes, looking straight away at nothing at all. "My brother—Jonathan!"
Suddenly he starts up and hunts for his accoutrements.
"I must go. She's coming. Did you hear her singing?"
"Who?" asks I. "I hear no singing. Who?"
He didn't tell me who, but stops listening and sits down again.
"I always think I hear her coming. Even in battle I turn my head often, expecting to see her, thinking I hear her. I am always ready."
"Ready for what?" asks I.
"To fire," says Dave.
"On her—whoever it is?"
"Yes. I must kill her when she comes. She killed Jon. She made a traitor of me. She must do no more harm. I mustn't kill her here. No, there must not be two deaths on you, daddy. Maybe I couldn't—here! But I must—I will—kill her. She's a murderer."
That night he disappeared.
The letter Jon got that day, on the Square, from Dave, was in Jonathan's pocket when he died—all black and ragged, but in Dave's big handwriting—easy to read—very easy to read. Evelyn's got it in a little ivory box up-stairs—all alone. But we've read it so often, with so many tears, that I know it by heart—every word. It is the last testament of Jon and Dave together. For, as you will remember, after that they met but once—just long enough for one to shoot the other.
"Dear Old Jonthy:
"I heard you out under the trees. Don't you go. I am going as Mallory. If I'm to be saved I'd rather save myself—and thank myself for it. I won't do any more harm down there than I have to do to fill Evelyn's contract. Now, then, Jonthy, dear, she must love you. And you must marry her. Why, if I should hear, some day, that you were married, I'd go crazy with joy—so maybe you better not if you don't want a crazy brother. And if, further, I should hear—and I shall hear everything that goes on!—that there were a lot of lovely little dark-eyed Vonners running about the old place—the more the better—I should go more crazy—so perhaps you'd better not—unless you want a double-crazy brother. Anyhow, I shall never come back. Honest, Jonthy, I couldn't after this. Could I? Would you? And the minute I am out of sight I'll give up the dear old name. Maybe you'll hear of the prodigious deeds of Lucas Mallory some day. I wish you wouldn't go. But, if you must, go for your country, and for no woman—even Evelyn. Fight under the glorious old stars and stripes! Bring back honor enough to cover up the dishonor I shall bring—if they find out who I am. And then, for God's sake, come back safe. Evelyn needs you. Make her keep out of the spy business. Hoop la! It is done. It can not be undone. Jonthy, don't let it be in vain! Marry her. Beat her into it if there's no other way. I would.
"Jonthy—about Evelyn a little more—I didn't know that there had been anything between you till I heard you to-night. Dear brother, even though it was all for me, it wasn't right. You let me go about loading the agony on you day by day. I didn't see a thing then. I see it all all now! And I have that to think of to the end of my days. We have never lied to each other and you'll believe me now. If I had known— But what's the use? It's too late for that. I made her love me—just carried her off of her feet. Otherwise, she would have kept on loving you. No, no, no! That would be the first lie between us, and it shall not be—even for Evelyn. And it will not make things easier. But, Jon, I didn't know. That's the only thing I can say—both at beginning and end.
"This is the longest and most mixed letter I ever wrote, Jonthy, dear. And it makes my head and heart tired. But, just at the last, a word about the fishing. Somehow, when I think of that I am not tired any more. And it seems like you'd forgive me and smile again—if we could only go fishing! Think of the fishing, Jonthy, when you read this. And a little chap riding on your back, his arms close about your neck, you holding his little fat legs under your arms, harder and harder as you go from a trot into a gallop! I wouldn't have harmed you then for the universe. And, believe me, brother, I would no more do it now. An hour ago that time seemed a long way back. Now, it's right here, and I am smiling as I write of it. Smile, Jon! Think of the fishing! You catching them all. Me bothering. Are you doing it? Smiling? I know you are. And that's the best time to say farewell—forever and forever farewell! I love you like a brother. There is no greater love. I kiss your faithful feet!
"P. S. Two o clock, A. M.
"Jonthy, dear, it's awful hard to go. I am shivering. It is ninety degrees below zero with me. But, at last, I'm in Evelyn's uniform. It fits me—a little tight. I stole it when I came up-stairs to bed. There's a stain of blood on the right side. Her blood. Part of her. I shall wear that until—what? I wonder what? Please marry her, Jonthy. Don't you wish we were little again? And slept together in the trundle bed? And there were no beautiful Southern Evelyns? And we could go fishing? And didn't have to go to war—shivering?
"Ha, ha! Laugh, Jonthy, dear.
"P. S. S. Three o clock:
"I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan:
Very pleasant hast thou been unto me:
Thy love to me was wonderful—
Passing the love of women.
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"How are the mighty fallen!
And the weapons of war perished!
And his Bible was open and turned down on the letter at the story of David and Jonathan and how Jonathan saved David and was killed himself.