In his heart, he knew Scotty would go; despite his best efforts to turn the boy's head to other things. His grandson was going to war and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
Everything was a blur. He didn't remember eating breakfast that morning, yet Skimmerhorn must have brought him the usual two hard-fried eggs and dry toast. He didn't remember going over the Worthington contracts or putting on his coat and hat. He wasn't even sure he closed the door as they set off to the station. But he must have done those things because somehow, he was standing on the train platform, and his grandson was pressing a small beribboned box into his hands. Somehow, he really was leaving.
"Just the pair of leather gloves I knew you were admiring, Sir," Scotty said, motioning to the box.
"I'll be back before you know it, Grandfather," he added in a quieter voice, holding onto my hand like he hadn't done since he was a lad in short pants. "The South won't know what to make of us all!" Harlan glanced along the platform. The assembled looked like frightened young boys, not soldiers. "You'll hardly notice I'm gone before I'm back."
He wanted to believe his grandson. But too many hadn't come back.
He thought he needed to be strong, to tell Scotty how brave he was and how proud he was of him. But he didn't want to be proud. He wanted to wrap his arm around Scotty's shoulders and take him back to the carriage and the safety of home. Instead, he nodded and dredged up a smile.
A loud hiss of steam echoed down the platform, piercing the subdued quiet. The men started to file into the train. Embraces ended abruptly as hands were prized away. It was time to let go.
He reached up to clumsily grasp Scotty's shoulder; it was rushed and interrupted by the urgency of others telling his grandson to hurry up. He could hardly see Scotty's face through a blur of uncommon tears and too soon his grandson walked away.
Great clouds of smoke billowed around the station, and he covered his mouth with his kerchief as the pistons clanged to life. The train jerked to attention and Scotty was on his way.
All along the platform, men, women and children reached out to prolong the very last touch of a hand, a fingertip, or a waved handkerchief. Some ran alongside—faster and faster—until they had to fall back.
Scotty was gone.
He stood in the suffocating swirling smoke and felt his heart crack.