Colonel Kenton and Harry avoided Louisville, which was now in the hands
of Northern sympathizers, and, travelling partly by rail and partly by
stage, reached Frankfort early in May to attend the special session of
the Legislature called by Governor Magoffin. Although the skirmishing
had taken place already along the edge of highland and lowland, the
state still sought to maintain its position of neutrality. There was
war within its borders, and yet no war. In feeling, it was Southern, and yet its judgment was with the Union. Thousands of ardent young men had drifted southward to join the armies forming there, and thousands of others, equally ardent, had turned northward to join forces that would oppose those below. Harry, young as he was, recognized that his own state would be more fiercely divided than any other by the great strife.
But Federal and Confederate alike preserved the semblance of peace as
they gathered at Frankfort for the political struggle over the state. Colonel Kenton and his son took the train at a point about forty miles from the capital, and they found it crowded with public men going from Louisville to Frankfort. It was the oldest railroad west of the Alleghanies, and among the first ever built. The coaches swung around curves, and dust and particles flew in at the windows, but the speed was a relief after the crawling of the stage and Harry stretched himself luxuriously on the plush seat.
A tall man in civilian attire, holding himself very stiffly, despite the
swinging and swaying of the train, rose from his seat, and came forward
to greet Colonel Kenton.
"George," he said, his voice quivering slightly, "you and I have fought
together in many battles in Mexico and the West, but it is likely now
that we shall fight other battles on this own soil of ours against each
other. But, George, let us be friends always, and let us pledge it here
and now."
The words might have seemed a little dramatic elsewhere, but not so
under the circumstances of time and place. Colonel Kenton's quick
response came from the depths of a generous soul.
"John," he said as their two hands met in the grip of brothers of the
camp and field, "you and I may be on opposing sides, but we can never be
enemies. John, this is my son, Harry. Harry, this is Major John Warren
of Mason County and the regular army of the United States; he does not
think as we do, but even at West Point he was a stubborn idiot. He and
I were continually arguing, and he would never admit that he was always
wrong. I never knew him to be right in anything except mathematics, and then he was never wrong."
Major Warren smiled and sat down by his old comrade.
"You've a fine boy there, George," he said, "and I suppose he probably
takes his opinions from his father, which is a great mistake. I think
if I were to talk to him I could show him his, or rather your, error."
"Not by your system of mathematical reasoning, John. Your method is
well enough for the building of a fortress or calculating the range of
a gun. But it won't do for the actions of men. You allow nothing for
feeling, sentiment, association, propinquity, heredity, climate and, and--"
"Get a dictionary or a book of synonyms, George."
"Perhaps I should. I understand how we happen to differ. But I can't
explain it well. Well, maybe it will all blow over. The worries of
today are often the jokes of tomorrow."
Major Warren shook his head.
"It may blow over," he said, "but it will be a mighty wind; it will blow
a long time, and many things for which you and I care, George, will be
blown away by it. When that great and terrible wind stops blowing, our country will be changed forever."
"Don't be so downcast, John, you are not dead yet," said Colonel Kenton, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "You've often seen big clouds go by without either wind or rain."
"How about that attack upon your house and you and your friends? The clouds had something in them then."
"Merely mountain outlaws taking advantage of unsettled conditions."