Chapter 44

Nehemiah, whom I had known as John Trumbull, sat a long time
between his father and mother, holding a hand of each, and talking
in a low tone, while Hope and I were in the kitchen with Uncle Eb.
Now that father and son were side by side we saw how like they
were and wondered we bad never guessed the truth.

'Do you remember?' said Nehemiah, when we returned. 'Do you
remember when you were a little boy, coming one night to the old
log house on Bowman's Hill with Uncle Eb?

'I remember it very well,' I answered.

'That was the first time I ever saw you,' he said.

'Why, you are not the night man?'

'I was the night man,' he answered.

I stared at him with something of the old, familiar thrill that had
always come at the mention of him years agone.

'He's grown a leetle since then,' said Uncle Eb.

'I thought so the night I carried him off the field at Bull Run,' said
Nehemiah.

'Was that you?' I asked eagerly.

'It was,' he answered. 'I came over from Washington that
afternoon. Your colonel told me you had been wounded.

'Wondered who you were, but I could not get you to answer. I have
to thank you for my life.

Hope put her arms about his neck and kissed him.

'Tell us,' said she, 'how you came to be the night man.'

He folded his arms and looked down and began his story.

'Years ago I had a great misfortune. I was a mere boy at the time.
By accident I killed another boy in play. It was an old gun we were
playing with and nobody knew it was loaded. I had often
quarrelled with the other boy - that is why they thought I had done
it on purpose. There was a dance that night. I had got up in the
evening, crawled out of the window and stolen away. We were in
Rickard's stable. I remember how the people ran out with lanterns.
They would have hung me - some of them - or given me the blue
beech, if a boy friend had not hurried me away. It was a terrible
hour. I was stunned; I could say nothing. They drove me to the
'Burg, the boy's father chasing us. I got over into Canada, walked
to Montreal and there went to sea. It was foolish, I know, but I was
only a boy of fifteen. I took another name; I began a new life.
Nehemiah Brower was like one dead. In 'Frisco I saw Ben Gilman.
He had been a school mate in Faraway. He put his hand on my
shoulder and called me the old name. It was hard to deny it - the
hardest thing I ever did. I was homesick; I wanted to ask him about
my mother and father and my sister, who was a baby when I left. I
would have given my life to talk with him. But I shook my head.

'"No," I said, "my name is not Brower. You are mistaken."

'Then I walked away and Nemy Brower stayed in his