Thoughts of War ... And Peace

by Margaret Thomas Marchant

With an introduction by her niece, Renee Thomas Hawkley

Thoughts of war are seldom pleasant. From my Aunt Margaret Thomas Marchant’s life history comes this narrative of events surrounding World War I. The setting is Swan Lake, Idaho, where my grandparents operated the Thomas Mercantile, a general store that still serves Swan Lake today.

“It was January of 1917 . . . The North wind whistled over the Red Rock Valley. The snow lay crusty and glazed over its entirety. The world seemed to lie in silent terror, waiting. Waiting. Only the wind expressed openly its feeling of deep anxiety. War, fear, tanks, guns!

Ours was a little town whose young boys had volunteered - - boarded the local train mid tears and good-byes, and found themselves, homesick, frightened and alone in France. Tonight the wind howled the grief of a frightened world. Victory for America tottered - - but was there not yet a great ocean between us and our enemies?

The pins on the big map behind the pot-bellied stove in our general store had been arranged and rearranged. The town fathers had spoken sadly as their crusty hands had gently place the pins in their new positions. ‘This is where our boys probably are tonight,’ they had said wistfully.

There would be little news now until the local train arrived tomorrow or until a freight train went by. There was always a chance that a conductor or brakeman might drop in while passing through. Trains stopped often to take water, flush out the hoboes and readjust cargo. On occasion, the train men ran in to pick up a few dozen fresh eggs and leave a bit of recent war news.

Darkness fell with a foreboding heaviness. Feeble kerosene lamps struggled to lift the gloom. One by one the men of the village filed out into the icy night. Dad and I were left alone. We’d check the fire, turn out the lights, bolt the door and brace ourselves for the walk home.

We tucked our collars in, covered our ears, put on our gloves and left the dying embers of the tiny fire. As we faced the windows, we heard the distant whistle of a train. Quickly, Dad relit the lamps and turned them high.

‘Neither man nor beast must find our village without a gleam of light tonight,’ {Dad} said. I peered into the swirling white terror. From the north came the unmistakable rumble of wheels and the distant lights of a train. ‘Could be another load of our boys,’ said my father in a low voice.

Through the ferocious storm, a figure approached. The train came to a screaming halt. The flagman signaled with his faint lantern. There was another grinding lurch and still another, as if that great black demon were thrashing in pain. There was the sound of crashing steel—the water flowed, splashed and blew in the wind.

The store door opened, and in came a snow-covered man. He stomped his feet unceremoniously and said, ‘It is a terrible night. I haven’t seen a wilder one in all my experience. How about a few eggs and a bit of your fire?’ The eggs were packed carefully, padded with excelsior and tied with a heavy string. Hard to tell just how long their trip might be, or where they were to go.

The conductor warmed himself by the dying coals. He rubbed his hands, stomped his feet, and talked—serious talk. No, his train was not loaded with soldiers. This train carried a very precious cargo—coal for the war effort. It must keep moving, he said. Its destination was to remain a secret.

‘Mr. Bain,’ I heard my father say, ‘We are expecting a baby at our house any day now. I am very worried. Our doctor has the flu. We are going to have to depend upon whomever we can to help with the delivery. Worst of all, we have no coal.’

. . . ‘Mr. Thomas,’ said the thawing trainman. ‘I’d so like to help you, but I simply don’t know how I could do it—government property, the war effort, our boys in France, etc. Of course,’ he continued, ‘There’s no law that says a man couldn’t pick up a few lumps of coal that might just accidentally fall off the cars. The two back of the engine are the fullest.’

The train groaned and shifted its screeching weight. The door closed behind the trainman, letting in a swirling blast of snow.

‘Get those two burlap bags by the trap door,’ said my father as he blew out a light and closed the stove door. ‘Then get that new Flexible Flyer off the wall and bring the lantern. We’re going for a little walk,’ he said with a new sound in his voice. We closed and bolted the front door and dragged the shiny new sled and the burlap bags into the blustery night.

In the distance, the train moaned its lonely ‘Goodnight.’ We braced ourselves against the stinging cold. Across the tracks we hurried.

‘Why are we coming down here?’ I asked.

‘You’ll see,’ said my father in a muffled tone.

As we neared the empty bunk house, I knew. There was a neat pile of beautiful black lumps of coal. Quickly, we stuffed the bags. Their sides bulged. Dad filled his arms, and somehow, we dragged, pushed, and carried it all home.

How briskly Dad walked with his lantern. How buoyant were his steps. The shed door closed on its precious contents. The lock snapped shut. We were home at last. The wind whistled outside, but now we were safely inside, and there was a new peace on my father’s face.

The next day, mystery hung everywhere. Women went about our house with soft whisperings—washing little faces, changing clothing, and laying out caps and coats. We children (went to) . . . . Aunt Pauline’s (to wait). Time passed—night came. The little children fell asleep and were laid upon the bed. I struggled with heavy eyelids. I must be awake when Dad came for us. ‘Oh, please hurry,’ I thought, ‘we’ve waited such a long time.’

It was late when we got home. Disinfectant hung like a cloak over everything, and there were lights in rooms I had never seen lighted before. A certain reverence seemed to hover around our little home with its crisp, faded curtains and its tired furniture.

‘Speak softly,’ whispered my father, ‘Angels have been here.’ He stopped by the bedroom door, ‘Would you like to see one?’ he whispered. A single kerosene lamp burned on the bureau. The little round heater boasted a few dying embers so warm and cheerful. There lay my mother, her long braids over a white pillow—a tiny, wet curl upon her cheek—her eyes closed, mouth gently smiling and on her arm our new baby sister.

‘You may kiss her,’ whispered my father. I took a long, long look at my sleeping mother and the tiny pink face beside her, then silently bent over and planted a kiss. T’was then I felt as my father had said that the quiet, the peace, and the comfort and the joy of heaven were all there that night, and I could say as he had said, ‘Speak softly—angels have been here.’”