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 grave.
'Well, two years later we were cruising from Sidney to Van Dieman's Land. One night there came a big storm. A shipmate was washed away in the dark. We never saw him again. They found a letter in his box that said his real name was Nehemiah Brower, son of David Brower, of Faraway, NY, USA. I put it there, of course, and the captain wrote a letter to my father about the death of his son. My old self was near done for and the man Trumbull had a new lease of life. You see in my madness I had convicted and executed myself.
He paused a moment. His mother put her hand upon his shoulder with a word of gentle sympathy. Then he went on.
