Three And One Are One

Categories: SOLDIER-FOLK
Scary Books: Present At A Hanging
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In the year 1861 Barr Lassiter, a young man of twenty-two, lived

with his parents and an elder sister near Carthage, Tennessee. The

family were in somewhat humble circumstances, subsisting by

cultivation of a small and not very fertile plantation. Owning no

slaves, they were not rated among "the best people" of their

neighborhood; but they were honest persons of good education, fairly

well mannered and as respectable as any family could be if

uncredentialed by personal dominion over the sons and daughters of

Ham. The elder Lassiter had that severity of manner that so

frequently affirms an uncompromising devotion to duty, and conceals

a warm and affectionate disposition. He was of the iron of which

martyrs are made, but in the heart of the matrix had lurked a nobler

metal, fusible at a milder heat, yet never coloring nor softening

the hard exterior. By both heredity and environment something of

the man's inflexible character had touched the other members of the

family; the Lassiter home, though not devoid of domestic affection,

was a veritable citadel of duty, and duty--ah, duty is as cruel as

death!



When the war came on it found in the family, as in so many others in

that State, a divided sentiment; the young man was loyal to the

Union, the others savagely hostile. This unhappy division begot an

insupportable domestic bitterness, and when the offending son and

brother left home with the avowed purpose of joining the Federal

army not a hand was laid in his, not a word of farewell was spoken,

not a good wish followed him out into the world whither he went to

meet with such spirit as he might whatever fate awaited him.



Making his way to Nashville, already occupied by the Army of General

Buell, he enlisted in the first organization that he found, a

Kentucky regiment of cavalry, and in due time passed through all the

stages of military evolution from raw recruit to experienced

trooper. A right good trooper he was, too, although in his oral

narrative from which this tale is made there was no mention of that;

the fact was learned from his surviving comrades. For Barr Lassiter

has answered "Here" to the sergeant whose name is Death.



Two years after he had joined it his regiment passed through the

region whence he had come. The country thereabout had suffered

severely from the ravages of war, having been occupied alternately

(and simultaneously) by the belligerent forces, and a sanguinary

struggle had occurred in the immediate vicinity of the Lassiter

homestead. But of this the young trooper was not aware.



Finding himself in camp near his home, he felt a natural longing to

see his parents and sister, hoping that in them, as in him, the

unnatural animosities of the period had been softened by time and

separation. Obtaining a leave of absence, he set foot in the late

summer afternoon, and soon after the rising of the full moon was

walking up the gravel path leading to the dwelling in which he had

been born.



Soldiers in war age rapidly, and in youth two years are a long time.

Barr Lassiter felt himself an old man, and had almost expected to

find the place a ruin and a desolation. Nothing, apparently, was

changed. At the sight of each dear and familiar object he was

profoundly affected. His heart beat audibly, his emotion nearly

suffocated him; an ache was in his throat. Unconsciously he

quickened his pace until he almost ran, his long shadow making

grotesque efforts to keep its place beside him.



The house was unlighted, the door open. As he approached and paused

to recover control of himself his father came out and stood bare-

headed in the moonlight.



"Father!" cried the young man, springing forward with outstretched

hand--"Father!"



The elder man looked him sternly in the face, stood a moment

motionless and without a word withdrew into the house. Bitterly

disappointed, humiliated, inexpressibly hurt and altogether

unnerved, the soldier dropped upon a rustic seat in deep dejection,

supporting his head upon his trembling hand. But he would not have

it so: he was too good a soldier to accept repulse as defeat. He

rose and entered the house, passing directly to the "sitting-room."



It was dimly lighted by an uncurtained east window. On a low stool

by the hearthside, the only article of furniture in the place, sat

his mother, staring into a fireplace strewn with blackened embers

and cold ashes. He spoke to her--tenderly, interrogatively, and

with hesitation, but she neither answered, nor moved, nor seemed in

any way surprised. True, there had been time for her husband to

apprise her of their guilty son's return. He moved nearer and was

about to lay his hand upon her arm, when his sister entered from an

adjoining room, looked him full in the face, passed him without a

sign of recognition and left the room by a door that was partly

behind him. He had turned his head to watch her, but when she was

gone his eyes again sought his mother. She too had left the place.



Barr Lassiter strode to the door by which he had entered. The

moonlight on the lawn was tremulous, as if the sward were a rippling

sea. The trees and their black shadows shook as in a breeze.

Blended with its borders, the gravel walk seemed unsteady and

insecure to step on. This young soldier knew the optical illusions

produced by tears. He felt them on his cheek, and saw them sparkle

on the breast of his trooper's jacket. He left the house and made

his way back to camp.



The next day, with no very definite intention, with no dominant

feeling that he could rightly have named, he again sought the spot.

Within a half-mile of it he met Bushrod Albro, a former playfellow

and schoolmate, who greeted him warmly.



"I am going to visit my home," said the soldier.



The other looked at him rather sharply, but said nothing.



"I know," continued Lassiter, "that my folks have not changed, but--

"



"There have been changes," Albro interrupted--"everything changes.

I'll go with you if you don't mind. We can talk as we go."



But Albro did not talk.



Instead of a house they found only fire-blackened foundations of

stone, enclosing an area of compact ashes pitted by rains.



Lassiter's astonishment was extreme.



"I could not find the right way to tell you," said Albro. "In the

fight a year ago your house was burned by a Federal shell."



"And my family--where are they?"



"In Heaven, I hope. All were killed by the shell."