Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MAY 28, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVI.--NO. 813. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
HEROES OF AMERICA.
THE CHARGE AT GETTYSBURG.
BY THE HONORABLE THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
[Illustration: Decorative T]
he battle of Chancellorsville marked the zenith of Confederate good
fortune. Immediately afterwards, in June, 1863, Lee led the victorious
Army of Northern Virginia north into Pennsylvania. The South was now the
invader, not the invaded, and its heart beat proudly with hopes of
success; but these hopes went down in bloody wreck on July 4th, when
word was sent to the world that the high valor of Virginia had failed at
last on the field of Gettysburg, and that in the far West Vicksburg had
been taken by the army of the "silent soldier."
At Gettysburg Lee had under him some seventy thousand men, and his
opponent, Meade, about ninety thousand. Both armies were composed mainly
of seasoned veterans, trained to the highest point by campaign after
campaign and battle after battle; and there was nothing to choose
between them as to the fighting power of the rank and file. The Union
army was the larger, yet most of the time it stood on the defensive; for
the difference between the generals, Lee and Meade, was greater than
could be bridged by twenty thousand men.
For three days the battle raged. No other battle of recent years has
been so obstinate and so bloody. The victorious Union army lost a
greater percentage in killed and wounded than the allied armies of
England, Germany, and the Netherlands lost at Waterloo. Four of its
seven corps suffered each a greater relative loss than befell the
world-renowned British infantry on the day that saw the doom of the
mighty French Emperor. The defeated Confederates at Gettysburg lost
relatively as many men as the defeated French at Waterloo; but whereas
the French army became a mere rabble, Lee withdrew his formidable
soldiery with their courage unbroken, and their fighting power only
diminished by their actual losses in the field.
The decisive moment of the battle, and perhaps of the whole war, was in
the afternoon of the third day, when Lee sent forward his choicest
troops in a last effort to break the middle of the Union line. The
kernel of the attacking force was Pickett's division, the flower of the
Virginian infantry, but many other brigades took part in the assault,
and the attacking column, all told, numbered over fifteen thousand men.
At the same time Longstreet's Confederate forces attacked the Union left
to create a diversion. The attack was preceded by a terrific cannonade,
Lee gathering one hundred and fifteen guns, and opening a terrible fire
on the centre of the Union line. In response, the Union chief of
artillery gathered eighty guns along on the crest of the gently sloping
hill where attack was threatened. For two hours, from one to three,
there was a terrific cannonade, and the batteries on both sides suffered
severely. In both the Union and Confederate lines caissons were blown up
by the fire, riderless horses dashed hither and thither, the dead lay in
heaps, and throngs of wounded streamed to the rear. Every man lay down
and sought what cover he could. It was evident that the Confederate
cannonade was but a prelude to a great infantry attack, and at three
o'clock Hunt, the Union chief of artillery, ordered the fire to stop,
that the guns might cool to be ready for the coming assault. The
Confederates thought that they had silenced the Union artillery, and for
a few minutes their firing continued; then suddenly it ceased, and there
was a lull.
The men on the Union side who were not at the point directly menaced
peered anxiously across the space between the lines to watch the next
move, while the men in the divisions which it was certain were about to
be assaulted lay hugging the ground and gripping their muskets, excited,
but confident and resolute. They saw the smoke clouds rise slowly above
the opposite crest, where the Confederate army lay, and the sunlight
glinted again on the long line of brass and iron guns which had been
hidden from view during the cannonade. In another moment, out of the
lifting smoke there appeared, beautiful and terrible, the picked
thousands of the Southern army advancing to the assault. They advanced
in three lines, each over a mile long, and in perfect order. Pickett's
Virginians held the centre, with on their left the North Carolinians of
Pender and Pettigrew, and on their right the Alabama regiments of
Wilcox; and there were also Georgian and Tennessee regiments in the
attacking force. Pickett's division, however, was the only one able to
press its charge home.
The Confederate lines came on magnificently. As they crossed the
Emmetsburg Pike the eighty guns on the Union crest, now cool and in good
shape, opened upon them, first with shot and then with shell. Great gaps
were made every second in the ranks, but the gray-clad soldiers closed
up to the centre, and the color-bearers leaped to the front, shaking and
waving the flags. The Union infantry reserved their fire until the
Confederates were within easy range, when the musketry crashed out with
a roar; the big guns began to fire grape and canister.
On came the Confederates, the men falling by hundreds, the colors
fluttering in front like a little forest; for as fast as a color-bearer
was shot, some one else seized the flag from his hand before it fell.
The North Carolinians were more exposed to the fire than any other
portion of the attacking force, and they were broken before they reached
the line. There was a gap between the Virginians and the Alabama troops,
and this was taken advantage of by Stannard's Vermont brigade and a
demi-brigade under Gates of the Twentieth New York, who were thrust
forward into it. Stannard changed front with his regiments and attacked
Pickett's forces in flank, and Gates continued the attack. When thus
struck in the flank the Virginians could not defend themselves, and they
crowded off toward the centre to avoid the pressure. Many of them were
killed or captured; many of them were driven back: but two of the
brigades, headed by General Armistead, forced their way forward to the
stone wall on the crest, where the Pennsylvania regiments were posted
under Gibbon and Webb.
The Union guns fired to the last moment, until of the two batteries
immediately in front of the charging Virginians every officer but one
had been struck. One of the mortally wounded officers was young Cushing,
a brother of the hero of the _Albemarle_ fight. He was almost cut in
two, but holding his body together with one hand, with the other he
fired his last gun, and fell dead just as Armistead, pressing forward at
the head of his men, leaped the wall, waving his hat on his sword.
Immediately afterwards the battle-flags of the foremost Confederate
regiments crowned the crest; but their strength was spent. The Union
troops moved forward with the bayonet, and the remnant of Pickett's
division, attacked on all sides, either surrendered or retreated down
the hill again. Armistead fell dying by the body of the dead Cushing.
Both Gibbon and Webb were wounded. Of Pickett's command two-thirds were
killed, wounded, or captured, and every brigade commander and every
field officer save one fell. The Virginians tried to rally, but were
broken and driven again by Gates, while Stannard repeated at the expense
of the Alabamians the movement he had made against the Virginians, and,
reversing his front, attacked them in flank. Their lines were torn by
the batteries in front, and they fell back before the Vermonters'
attack, and Stannard reaped a rich harvest of prisoners and of
battle-flags.
The charge was over. It was the greatest charge in any battle of modern
times, and it had failed. It would be impossible to surpass the gallantry
of those that made it, or the gallantry of those that withstood it. Had
there been in command of the Union army a general like Grant, it would
have been followed by a counter-charge, and in all probability the war
would have been shortened by nearly two years; but no counter-charge was
made.
As the afternoon waned, a fierce cavalry fight took place on the Union
right. Stuart, the famous Confederate cavalry commander, had moved
forward to turn the Union right, but he was met by Gregg's cavalry, and
there followed a contest at close quarters with "the white arm." It
closed with a desperate melee, in which the Confederates, charging under
Wade Hampton and Fitz-Hugh Lee, were met in mid-career by the Union
Generals Custer and McIntosh. All four fought, sabre in hand, at the
head of their troopers, and every man on each side was put into the
struggle. Custer, his yellow hair flowing, his face aflame with the
eager joy of battle, was in the thick of the fight, rising in his
stirrups as he called to his famous Michigan swordsmen, "Come on, you
Wolverines, come on!" All that the Union infantry, watching eagerly from
their lines, could see was a vast dust cloud, where flakes of light
shimmered as the sun shone upon the swinging sabres. At last the
Confederate horsemen were beaten back, and they did not come forward
again or seek to renew the combat; for Pickett's charge had failed, and
there was no longer hope of Confederate victory.
When night fell the Union flags waved in triumph over the field of
Gettysburg; but over thirty thousand men lay dead or wounded, strewn
through wood and meadow, on field and hill, where the three days' fight
had surged.
MEMORIAL DAY.
Flutter of flag and beat of drum
And the sound of marching feet,
And in long procession the soldiers come
To the call of the bugles sweet.
And the marching soldiers stop at last
Where their sleeping comrades lie,
The men whose battles have long been fought,
Who dared for the land to die.
Children, quick with your gathered flowers,
Scatter them far and near;
They who were fathers and brothers once
Are peacefully resting here.
Flutter of banner and beat of drum
And the bugle's solemn call,
In grand procession the soldiers come--
And God is over us all!
THE CAT SHOW.
BY WALTER CLARK NICHOLS.
At last the cats have had a show of their own, and for the time being
their old enemies, the dogs, have been forced to take a back seat, and
sulk at the attention which the 250 and more pussies received from the
girls and boys and grown-up people at the Madison Square Garden in New
York. It has been a gala-time for the children, especially, and the
petting which the different tabbies received would have turned their
heads had they not been so well-bred and aristocratic. For the common
tramp cat, who knows no better than to give unwelcome concerts on the
back fence at night, or the scraggly kitten, whose one ambition is
rat-catching, had no place among the cats who made their first public
bow and mieuw a week ago. Only those whose great grandpapas or
grandmammas were distinguished people in the cat kingdom were allowed to
be exhibited.
After all, the cat kingdom isn't nearly so large as the dog kingdom. All
of our domestic cats are grouped under two distinct heads--the
short-haired European or Western cat, and the long-haired Asiatic or
Eastern cat. The tortoise-shell, white, black, blue, or slate-color
(Maltese), and the tabbies are embraced in the European, and the Asiatic
includes the Persian, Angora, Russian, and Indian. So that it is ever so
much easier to learn what class your cat belongs in than to know the
different kinds of dogs.
What an attractive sight the long rows of dainty cages, each fitted up
in royal fashion for its feline occupant, made! Here at the beginning of
the long row of wire houses, "Dick," a miniature tiger, slept with eyes
half closed (as every good cat always does), and his right paw
outstretched, as if in his dreams some poor little sparrow were within
clutching distance. Not far away "Charles Dickens," a very aristocratic
Maltese, was purring out his compliments to a little girl who was vainly
endeavoring to educate him to eat peanuts.
Then there was "Columbia" and her two kittens, "Yale" and "Harvard." The
readers of the ROUND TABLE never saw their older brothers wear their
college colors more bravely than these wee little kittens. Their
fawn-colored mother would get them quieted down after some merry romp,
and then they would suddenly begin another friendly fight, and roll over
and over again, till it was impossible to tell whether the blue or the
red was victorious. Near by was a "happy family" of short-haired spotted
cats from Elizabeth, New Jersey, consisting of a great-grandmother,
grandmother, mother, and seven kittens. And how proud gentle
great-grandmamma was when her granddaughter captured the second prize in
her class.
Perhaps our President would feel pleased were he to know how much
attention his namesake "Grover Cleveland" had at the show. He is a rich,
brown tabby, with wide black stripes, and was given a blue ribbon, the
mark of the first prize. He took it all very calmly, as much as to say,
"You couldn't do anything less for one with such a name as mine."
But even "Grover Cleveland" was not so aristocratic-looking as "Grover
B.," from Philadelphia. His short-haired coat was as white as the stone
door-steps of the houses in his native town, and--think of it--his
mistress values him at $1000! So well brought up is he that he sits at
the table with his master and mistress in a high chair and feeds himself
with his paw. His master says that he eats more quietly and gracefully
than their little nephew of five years, who, when he spills his bread
and milk, is told he can profit by "Grover's" example. So fond of him is
his master that his head appears on all his business paper and
envelopes, so that "Grover B." is known all over the world, and, through
his pictures on his master's envelopes, has travelled more extensively
than almost any other cat.
An even more wonderful short-haired cat was "Mittens," who has actually
been trained to love and live with birds. "Mittens" is a great deal of a
swell. His grandfather was a pure-blooded Maltese, and his
great-grandmamma was a very haughty Angora. All the traditions in his
family prompted him to consider birds as his natural prey and dogs as
his enemies. When he came to his present mistress, Mrs. M. L. Ponchez,
the latter had two Yorkshire terriers, a parrot, eight canaries, a
red-bird, and several chameleons, and of course she thought it would be
pretty difficult for "Mittens" to live in peace with all these other
pets. She thought she would try to teach him to be friendly to the birds
and dogs, and this is what she did.
She first kept all of her pets a day without food, and then the next day
placed the cat between the dogs while she fed him his breakfast. After
that the cat and the dogs became such good friends that they all slept
together. At the next meal she took one of the canaries, put him on her
finger, and petted him while she held "Mittens" in her lap and fed him.
This she did several times, and then let all of the birds fly around the
cat. The latter never attempted to touch one, and frequently to-day you
may see "Mittens" slumbering peacefully before the fire, with a canary
nestled on the soft fur of his back.
[Illustration: IN THE LONG-HAIRED CAT-ROOM.]
While there were many more short-haired cats on exhibition for prizes,
the long-haired ones created more attention because they are much less
common. They had a separate room to themselves upstairs, and a band of
music played for them lest they should forget that many of them were
descended from cat emperors and princes in the far-off East. There was
"Ajax," a white Angora, with firm mouth and keen eyes, his fluffy white
mane looking like a lion's, every inch of him a king. There was
"Paderewski," blue-ribboned, with longer and thicker hair than the
famous musician whose name he bears. Near by an interested crowd watched
"Ellen Terry" and her seven kittens. "Ellen" is a large white and orange
Angora, and very cozy were she and her kittens in a basket lined with
yellow silk and trimmed with dotted muslin. Her manners were perfect,
for whenever her cunning little kittens were caressed she showed no
surprise, but looked on with calm maternal pride.
Just to show by contrast how very aristocratic these long-haired cats
were, six or eight lost cats from the Shelter for Animals (where lost
and homeless cats are cared for) were exhibited near the haughty
Angoras. All but one looked sadly out of place. They were thin, their
fur was uneven, and the disdainful sniffs which their Persian and Angora
neighbors gave them made them feel very miserable indeed. But one of
them, though, a short-haired cat, looked as if his grandfather had been
a somebody in the cat kingdom, and he seemed to say,
"Though appearances are against me, please don't think that I belong to
this vulgar herd of tramp cats."
And he was vindicated, for the third day of the show a little girl came
rushing over to the cage with a glad cry of recognition, which the cat
immediately responded to by joyful purring. The cat had been lost for
over two weeks, and now as his young mistress took him away he looked
back at his proud long-haired neighbors with a smile, which meant,
"Ah, you see I'm somebody, after all!"
Perhaps the readers of the ROUND TABLE would like to know whether their
cats and kittens are "somebody" or not, whether they are pure-blooded
examples of the classes to which they belong. It is quite simple. A
prominent doctor, who knows more about cats than almost any other man in
the United States, says that in judging a cat the first thing to be
considered is its general symmetry.
"The body ought to be long and slenderly shaped, like that of a tiger.
The eyes should be of a correct shade; for instance, a cat that is white
should have blue eyes, a black cat yellow eyes, and so on. The eyes,
too, should be round and full. The color of a cat is important, and is
the key to its character. A cat of one color should have no other hue in
its coat. The most rarely marked cat is the tortoise-shell, uneven
patches of red, black, and yellow, equally distributed over the body. In
the tabbies the dark markings should be in direct contrast with the
light, gray or brown being marked with black, while blue is marked with
some darker shade, and yellow with red."
So successful was this first cat show that it is almost settled that
another one will be held next fall. A cat club is to be formed, as
exclusive as some of the kennel clubs to which the cats' canine enemies
belong. So that hereafter when a proud-looking Angora goes to call on a
Maltese friend, the question no longer will be: "How many birds have you
killed lately?" or, "How do you find your milk these days?" But as the
pussies purr in good-fellowship together, you will hear them ask each
other (if you can understand the cat language), "Are you going to the
club this evening?" and "Shall I see you at the 'show' next fall?"
JOYS OF THE STEAMSHIP HUNT.
BY WILLIAM HEMMINGWAY.
The sport of steamship-hunting is the finest I ever enjoyed. It has more
excitement in it than any other I have ever heard of. If you catch your
ship properly you are happier than the slayer of many lions; if you
don't catch her--well, there are some possibilities too shiverish to
think about.
Of course the kind of steamship-hunting I mean is the game instituted by
the big newspapers in such a case as that of _La Gascogne_, when
recently she was eleven days overdue from Havre because one of her
piston-heads broke down. This game is played with a tug-boat, a full
equipment of night-glasses, and a great amount of patience. Just think
of how important the results are! Within the circuit of New York,
Boston, Buffalo, and Washington--the territory wherein New York
newspapers are chiefly taken--there are at least ten millions of
readers, all anxious for every scrap of news of the missing ship.
Hundreds of these people have friends or relatives on board, but every
one of the vast number is equally eager to hear of the ship's safe
arrival, and all about the reason for her lateness.
If the lion-hunter's rifle misses fire he loses his life, but if the
steamship-hunter misses his game he loses most of his good name and all
of his employment. Imagine, then, the studious skill he devotes to
sweeping the wide field of ocean with his glasses. He knows that half a
dozen other tug-loads of reporters are out on the same errand, and that
if any of them "beat" him he'd better sail right down into Davy Jones's
locker and lock it from the inside.
The tug of a New York paper went down to the Quarantine Station at
Staten Island on that very cold Friday evening three days before _La
Gascogne_ was heard from. She was then eight days overdue. Three
reporters and an artist were aboard the tug. They called at the
telegraph office at Quarantine, and learned that nothing had been heard
of the French ship from Sandy Hook or Fire Island. The only thing to do
was to go down to the entrance of the Harbor and wait and
hope--especially hope. Just before the steamship-hunters left the snug
warm telegraph office the instruments began to sputter. The operator in
the Sandy Hook tower was saying,
"Wind blowing fifty-six miles an hour from the N. W."
Two wise men, who had been to sea a few times, insisted on staying
several miles inside of Sandy Hook, but the other man insisted a great
deal harder on going. Off we went after a very short debate. The wind
rattled the pilot-house windows, and if the door fell ajar a moment the
breeze nearly whipped it off and blew it away. The bay was covered with
floating ice. There were some cakes almost as big as a city block, and
some looked tiny enough to put in a glass of water; but most of them
were as long and wide as the deck of a big canal-boat. Every time one of
the big fellows crunched against our bow we couldn't help wondering
whether it was coming through. The moon flooded the vast field of white,
and made it look as if we were sailing over a great prairie. Now and
then we came to patches of clear blue water, and these danced in the
moon's rays like giant turquoises. The tug's condensed steam rolled and
bounded along, seeming like great masses of ivory. The intense cold
caused this curious effect. Everything was fairylike, except the harsh
grinding and cannonlike thumps of the ice.
Off the point of Sandy Hook we were almost clear of ice. Nobody could
see anything that looked like a steamship coming from the eastward. The
ice had kept the water quiet, but here in the open it was heaving and
pitching under the lash of the gale. We ran into the Horseshoe inside of
Sandy Hook, trying to get up to the landing, so that if we had very late
news to send we could telegraph it from Sandy Hook, instead of
Quarantine, which was an hour to the north of us. Ice was packed and
jammed so thick and tight inside the Horseshoe that not even an icicle
could be pushed into it. After our tug narrowly escaped being caught and
held fast for the night we backed out. No use trying to land.
"Mast-head light to the east'd!" sang out our skipper as we rounded the
point of the Hook. Has your heart ever begun to dance at the sight of a
school of bluefish when you were running down toward them with four
squids trailing from your cat-boat? Have you ever heard a deer come
crashing through the thicket toward your rifle? Imagine us, then, when
we heard those words. Every man whipped out a night-glass, or waited
eagerly for his neighbor's. A speck of yellow light on the horizon
crawled slowly up the blue sky.
"She's a liner," said our captain. "The ice and the hurricane have sent
all the channel buoys adrift" (you know the ship channel is lighted with
electric lamps like Fifth Avenue), "so her pilot will anchor outside."
Away went the tug at full speed. The yellow mast-head light kept growing
higher, like a meteor going backward. Soon we could distinguish the dim
white shape of a giant steamship. As she came nearer we saw that she was
ice-coated from the water-line to one hundred feet above the deck. The
lights glowed and twinkled out of the cabin ports like the candles
shining out of the white churches we used to have when we were little
boys. The big ship anchored not far from the Sandy Hook Lightship (six
miles out on the Atlantic). Our Captain knew her for the _Teutonic_ as
readily as you would know your father in the street. On account of the
high waves we dared not go within one hundred feet, for fear of being
dashed against the steamship's side. Our tug's bow swung up in the wind,
and we began a conversation with the officer on the _Teutonic_'s bridge,
our words shooting back and forth across fifty yards of icy wind that
sped between us at the rate of fifty-six miles an hour. The _Teutonic_
had no news of _La Gascogne_.
On that Monday afternoon when the telegraph-operator in Fire Island
tower reported the missing _Gascogne_ approaching his station, our tug
started out again. The many weary and fruitless nights of watching and
cruising were all forgotten. The searchers hurried through dinner in the
galley, and drank big mugs of coffee in gulps. Every one was too happy
to stay long at anything. I never knew the distance between the Battery
and the outer light-ship to be so long. From here, at last, we spied a
glimmer of red on the sky-line. If enthusiasm burned, there wouldn't
have been a lens left in one of those glasses. Men perched on the top of
the pilot-house to see better.
"That's the _Gascogne_--three red lights at the mast-head--going under
repairs," cried the mate, from the loftiest perch.
Every minute dragged outrageously until we got alongside of the
steamship. Nothing in her appearance except the three red lights
indicated that anything was wrong. She was moving slowly--only eight
miles an hour. We ran under her stern, and got alongside her lee bow.
Groups of passengers gathered along the rails, although it was now very
near midnight. They cheered the men who came so far to welcome them. An
officer on the bridge told of the accident in a dozen words. Through one
of the ports we could see a blue-jacketed steward polishing a plate.
"Has Faure formed a cabinet yet?" shouted one passenger.
The answer we gave him was lost in the chorus of cheers. Some one
weighted a copy of the ship's log, and threw it aboard our tug.
But while all this was very pleasant, it was not enough. The ship's
officers promised to lower a companion-ladder for our men to go aboard.
A long wait. No ladder. Our own skipper solved the problem by ordering
his men to throw up a twenty-foot wooden ladder--a fragile thing. Such
roars in English and counter-roars in French as there were while that
ladder was being arranged!
"Take a couple of bights of that line, and make it fast on the third
rung, you three-fingered blacksmith!" yelled our mate.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE NERVE-TICKLING DETAILS OF THE HUNT.]
The Frenchmen guessed what he meant. At last the ladder was up, resting
on our deck, and its end scraping the _Gascogne_'s side. There was great
danger that at any moment the top end might catch on an iron plate as
our rolling tug pushed it upward. Then the great weight of the tug would
crush the ladder into matchwood. No matter; that was one of the
nerve-tickling details of the newspaper steamship hunt. Up ran two
reporters and an artist, one after the other, while men stood by to
throw them life-buoys if the ladder should be smashed.
But they got aboard all right. Afterward came the interviewing, the
hurried writing of copy, the telegraphing from a secret place in Staten
Island out of the reach of news thieves; but all that is the mere
recital of how we carried home our game.
THE YOUNG BEACH-COMBERS OF MONMOUTH.
BY AGNES CARR SAGE.
"I say he sha'n't come in!"
"And I tell you he shall!"
The boys' voices rose high and angry; their attitude was threatening;
and at the sound of contention a bevy of other barefooted urchins came
scampering over the damp sand, shouting, "Hi! a scrap, a scrap!" and
eager to see fair play.
"What's it all about?" inquired Ned Eaton, a good-looking youth, rather
better dressed than his companions.
"It's about little Jem Ferguson," spoke up the shorter and stockier of
the belligerents. "Kit Bandy here says he oughtn't to be let into the
beach-combing, and I hold it's mean as cramp-fish to bar him out just
because he's weak and pindlin' and no account in a boat."
"So it is, so it is," chorused the listening youngsters.
But Kit put in quickly, "All right, let him in then; but if you do he'll
hoodoo every mother's son of us. Who killed the luck bird last June?"
"Not Jem," cried Herbert Woolley.
"No; but his daddy did, and if he had been drinking too much hard cider
at the time, that makes no difference, and the whole family has had a
powerful sight of bad fortune ever since. Jest two weeks after their cow
choked to death with a green apple; Jem's hip trouble grew worse; and
Jake Smithers told me that the smack in which Dan Ferguson sails is sure
to come back with a light haul. The men all look on him as a Jonah, for
fish don't come to the nets of those who take the life of a hawk."
"Well, but ill-luck can't be inherited, like consumption or the shape of
one's nose," protested Herbert, "and even if it could, Jem's having a
bit of sand to sift couldn't affect the rest of us."
Still the boys glanced at each other doubtfully, and one muttered.
"We'll each have more ground, and so more chance, if he isn't there,"
while Kit clinched his argument by declaring, "Oh, if Bert has his way
we all may as well give up all hope of winning that," pointing, as he
spoke, to a flaring yellow poster which adorned one of the
bathing-houses.
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS!!!
was the heading, in conspicuous capitals two inches long, and below this
amount was offered, in smaller type, as a reward for the return of a
diamond earring lost by one of the summer visitors in Benton, the pretty
New Jersey village where these lads lived, and which was a
quasi-fashionable seaside resort for three months of the year. Now,
however, the broad white beach was given into the hands of those young
natives who in the early fall make a business of going carefully over
it, rubbing the iridescent sand between their fingers, and seeking for
any articles there lost and hidden during the gay warm season.
In grim silence, then, the boys re-read the advertisement which all knew
by heart, and Ned Eaton suggested, "Let's take a vote. Those who want
Limpy Jem to have a show drop a white shell in my hat, and those who are
for freezing him out a purple one."
"Yes, yes, that is a good way; that will be fair." And the members of
this hastily formed Beach-Comber's Union turned aside with relief to
select their ballots from the deep-sea treasures cast up by the bobbing
foam-capped waves.
Five minutes later, then, the polls were open, and Kit looked triumphant
and Bert annoyed as both noted that the majority of the voters were
endeavoring to conceal dark mussel-shells in their brown little fists.
There was no doubt that Jem's fate was sealed, when suddenly a faint
shout attracted their attention, and all started at sight of a slender
auburn-haired lassie speeding toward them from the direction of the
village. "Gee whizz, but it's Eileen Ferguson!" shrieked small Teddy
Todd, "and her temper is as fiery as her curly mop."
Certainly there was a dangerous flash in her big gray eyes and a sharp
ring in her young voice as, coming nearer, she cried: "So, Kit Bundy,
you are playin' the snake in the grass again, are you? You never did
like my brother, and now I hear you are tryin' to have him put out of
the beach-combin'. Poor Jemmy, who is too sickly to go to the
fishin'-banks, and has so looked forward to the fall in hopes of earnin'
a few dollars for the mither! I should think ye'd be ashamed of
yourself! Dickson, the bathin'-master tould me how you were talkin' to
the others; but you won't mind him, will you, boys?" And there was that
in the appealing, half tearful glance which the earnest little sister
turned upon them that made most of her hearers look sheepish, and become
deeply absorbed in stirring up the sand with their toes.
But Kit, was furious. "What?" he roared; "be dictated to by a girl? Not
if I know our combers. Go on, fellows, and vote as you intended; while,
Miss Impudence, the sooner you take yourself off the better."
Instinctively, however, Eileen turned to young Woolley. "Oh, Bert,
Bert!" she wailed, "don't let them throw my Jemmy out. He has had such a
dreadful summer, and this--this will break his heart. We need the money
so much, and niver did he dream his old friends could treat him so."
Then all at once her wrath dissolved in a girlish burst of tears.
"Pepper me if I can stand that, bad luck or not," growled Ned, hurriedly
picking up a white shell and flinging it into the hat; and as boys, like
older people, are very much akin to a flock of sheep, the majority
followed suit, and Jem Ferguson was, as in former years, numbered with
the beach-combers, the three purple shells cast by Kit and two of his
chums not being sufficient to rule him out.
"A thousand thanks, boys! You are blissid darlints, ivery one of
ye--barrin' that trio," exclaimed Eileen, who, though American born, in
moments of excitement sometimes betrayed her ancestry by her speech.
When, then, on the morning of September 18th, the combers gathered to
commence operations, one of the happiest faces there was that of little
"Limpy," hopping briskly along on his crutches, and nodding gay
greetings to his old comrades. They found the beach evenly measured off
and divided by stakes. The plan of the lads of Benton was to draw lots
for their respective portions, a strict though unwritten law being that
no one should poach upon another's grounds.
"See, Kit, you and I are neighbors," said Jem, cordially, to young
Bundy. "And such fine sections as we have! right in front of the great
Naiad Hotel. We have a good chance for the diamond. Oh, but don't I wish
I could find it!"
But Kit only growled something about "luck-bird-killers" under his
breath, and strode away to his own preserve. Always rather a leader
among his companions, he was chagrined by his defeat, and felt injured
and annoyed by the cripple's presence.
As the day wore on, however, he found it difficult to keep up his
antagonism to cheery Jem, who ignored all rebuffs, and chatted away in
the most friendly as well as quaint manner--now about the sea, wondering
why it changed its hue from blue to green and green to gray; and now
about the fish-hawks circling overhead, and longing to be one of them,
that he too might fly off to some warm Southern land before the cold,
biting winter came on.
"What a queer un you are!" remarked Kit at length. "What makes you
think of such things? Why, I'd a heap rather be a boy than a bird."
"Yes, 'cause you are so big and strong. You can make your way in the
world, and your back isn't crooked, and your legs all drawed up. Now I,
you see, am neither flesh nor fowl nor good red herring," and Jem
cackled a feeble little laugh, but without a tinge of bitterness. How,
too, he enjoyed the lunch eaten on the beach, and insisted that every
one must taste the pie Eileen had made for him out of "two pertaties and
a bit of a lemon."
For three days the weather was perfect, and the combers "made hay while
the sun shone," gathering quite a profitable collection of old iron and
nails, children's toys, small coins, and inexpensive pins and pieces of
jewelry, while Bert Woolley had the good fortune to come upon a silver
watch little the worse for its sojourn in the damp sand.
But on the fourth morning there came a change. Heavy clouds obscured old
Sol from view, the sea roared with a low ominous undertone, and the wind
blew raw and chill from the northeast, making the lads shake and shiver,
and seeming to freeze weakly Jem to the very marrow and set his limbs to
aching. Then in the night the storm broke, one of those fierce September
gales which often sweep the coast, and for forty-eight hours roared and
raged without, while the impatient urchins grumbled and raged within.
It was an exceedingly wet world that at last emerged, bright and
glistening, after the deluge, but Kit Bundy was early astir and down on
the shore to see what havoc the tempest had made. Dead fish, drift-wood,
portions of wrecks, and other flotsam and jetsam strewed the beach, up
which he slowly sauntered, kicking before him a round stone that bounded
merrily across the sand. Presently, in front of the Naiad Hotel, a
particularly vigorous kick sent it high in air, and then landed it in a
deep hollow worn by the waves. Mechanically Kit paused to lift his
improvised plaything from the hole, when something beside it caused him
to fall on his knees with a low stifled gasp. Not another sound escaped
him, but there was a new and curious expression on his face when he
finally rose and almost ran to the boarding-house he and his father
called "home." Later in the day the long line of beach-combers were
electrified by the message that passed from mouth to mouth, "Kit is the
lucky one; he has found the diamond earring."
From far and near the boys hastened to behold the jewel, about which
there could not have been more interest had it been the Koh-i-noor
itself, and the finder had to point out just where he discovered it in
his section, deeply buried a foot from the surface.
"Not so dreadfully hoodooed after all, were you, Kit?" Bert could not
resist remarking; but most of the lads swallowed their own
disappointment, and congratulated him warmly, while Jem threw his hat in
the air, piping,
"Hip, hip, hurrah for Bundy, the prize-winner!"
But the hero of the hour did not appear particularly pleased with these
attentions. He grew very red, and turned away, muttering, "Oh, shut up,
fellows! It isn't worth makin' such a fuss over."
"Just hear the Rothschild," squeaked Teddy Todd. "One would think he
picked up gems every day in the year. I shouldn't be so grumpy if I had
had his luck."
"Which he don't deserve," said outspoken Eileen, who had come down to
gather drift-wood. "Oh dear! how unequal things are in this world! If
Jem had but drawn that side of the stake instead of the other, we would
be fairly spinnin' with the joy, and whiskin' him off to the best doctor
in the county. Poor lamb! he scarce slept a wink last night, with the
pain in his hip, and oughtn't to be out here to-day."
And the next morning Jem was missing, his sister coming to fill his
place, and, with her ready Irish wit, parrying all the boys' jokes on
"the first girl comber of Monmouth." But from that time the interest in
the beach-combing flagged, and the work soon came to an end.
One afternoon, not long after, a youth, conspicuously conscious of his
Sunday clothes and stiff collar, rang the bell of a handsome New York
residence, the shining door-plate of which bore the name, "J. C. Landon,
M.D." He was admitted by a supercilious colored boy in buttons, who,
ushering him into a luxuriantly furnished office, told him to "Wait, the
doctor was engaged at present." And he did wait a full half-hour before
the physician emerged from an inner apartment, accompanied by a lady who
gently supported a young girl, richly attired, and with long fair hair
floating on her shoulders, but who limped painfully, and in whose sweet
face was an expression of suffering that somehow reminded Kit--for Kit
it was--of Jem Ferguson.
"Yes, yes, Mrs. Graham," Dr. Landon was saying. "I see no reason why
Miss Ethel should not walk without crutches in time. Science works
wonders nowadays. She would get on faster if you could consent to let
her go to my sanitarium, but since you are unwilling, I will visit her
often and do the best I am able; while I can at least promise that there
will soon be no more of the neuralgia that causes such excruciating
agony." With which he bowed his visitors out, and, returning, asked
briskly, "Well, my lad, what can I do for you? You don't look like an
invalid."
"No, sir; I'm pretty hearty," responded Kit, with a grin. "I came
because--because I have found this," and without further words he
produced a small box and opened it.
"My wife's lost earring! Why, she will be overjoyed!" exclaimed the
physician. "But I shall have to turn you over to her, as I am due at the
hospital, and haven't a moment to spare. Here, Nero, ask Mrs. Landon to
step down to the office." And without more ado the busy man hurried off,
leaving the confused and stammering Kit to the tender mercies of the
mistress of the mansion.
But these proved very delightful, for not only did the lady shower him
with graceful thanks, but ordered up a dainty little collation for his
refreshment, which he ate to the sound of the surgeon's praises as sung
by Nero, who declared his master to be "De berry bestest doctah in all
de United States. Why, sah, he kin mos' raise de dead, and I 'low he
makes de lame to walk ebery day, and tinks nottin' ob it"; and, when he
finally left the house, it was with a fat roll of greenbacks snugly
tucked in his pocket.
This was the hour to which Christopher Bundy had been looking forward,
and he proceeded to make the most of it. Of course he went to the
theatre, and from a high gallery seat glowed and shivered in sympathy
with the hero on the boards, and he followed this up with an oyster-stew
in a gayly decorated and illuminated restaurant. But, strange to say, he
was not as happy as he should have been, and--it was very queer--the
features of "Limpy Jem" would keep rising before him, curiously
intermingled with those of the lame girl he had seen that day, while he
seemed to hear again a weak voice piping, "That's because you are so big
and strong, and your back isn't crooked and your legs all drawn up. I
must have the vapors," he concluded, as he tumbled into bed.
The following evening, when Kit stepped off the train at Benton, he was
met by a delegation of beach-combers, all shouting: "Hullo, old fellow!
Did you get the reward, sure enough? Goin' to stand treat now, ain't
yer? Ginger-pop and sodas for the crowd!" and insisted upon bearing him
off to drink his health at his expense.
"Wish poor Limpy was here too," remarked Ned Eaton, as he drained his
glass of sarsaparilla. "Does any one know how he is to-night?"
"Dreadful bad," answered Teddy Todd. "They think he's dyin'."
"What! Is he so sick as that?" and Kit's voice sounded sharp and
unnatural.
"Yes; he took cold that day before the storm; fever set in, and the
doctor says he won't get well."
* * * * *
It was nine o'clock, and the little seaside town was settling down to
sleepy repose, when a timid knock summoned Eileen to the Fergusons'
humble portal. Her eyes were red and swollen, as could be seen by the
blazing pine-knot she carried, and her lips quivered as she cried: "Kit
Bundy at this hour! What brings you here?"
"To see Jem. Stop, Eileen! Don't say I can't, for I must, indeed I must.
I know I've been mean to him and rude to you, but there is something I
must tell him before he dies."
There was so much wild anxiety in his manner and imploring in his tone
that the curt refusal on the girl's tongue was hushed, and instead she
said, "Come, then; only don't stay long," and led the way to the dreary
room where Jem lay. A wan smile flitted across his face at sight of his
guest, and he murmured:
"Howdy, Kit; do you know, I guess I'll get my wish, after all, and fly
away like the luck-birds."
With a low cry, however, the older lad threw himself down beside the
bed, and sobbed: "No, no, Limpy; don't say that. You must stop and be
comfortable and happy here, for see, this is yours, all yours"; and he
flung upon the patchwork quilt the roll of bills paid him by Mrs.
Landon.
Jem gasped. "What a big, big lot of money! It's the reward, isn't
it--the reward for the diamond? But you mustn't give it to me."
"It belongs to you. I never had any right to the diamond, for--for I
found it on your side of the stake, and buried it in my part of the
beach."
[Illustration: THEN JEM WHISPERED: "POOR KIT! BUT I'M GLAD YOU'VE TOLD
ME."]
After this confession there was dead silence for a moment. Then Jem
whispered: "Poor Kit! But I'm glad you've told me."
"So am I; though the beach-combers will hiss me out of their company
when they know. Here's the hundred and fifty dollars, however, every
penny of it; and you, Eileen, must spend it all for your brother"; and
he thrust the greenbacks into that astonished maiden's hands.
But Jemmy protested with all his feeble strength, "I cannot, I will not
take it all," he said. "You were the finder, even if it was in my
portion of sand. But we will divide, half for you and half for me, and
then the other fellows need never know. It shall be our secret." And as
he was growing dangerously excited, to this arrangement Kit had to
consent.
Before leaving, though, he told the sick boy and his sister of the
marvellous cures Dr. Landon was said to have made, and of the fair
cripple he had seen in his office, concluding with, "Now, Jem, if you
could go to his hospital, mebbe science would work some of those wonders
on you."
"Oh, if he could, if he only could!" sighed Eileen.
Hope, however, is a great restorative, and the following day Jem was
stronger than he had been for some time, which encouraged Kit to take
another trip to New York, where he astonished Dr. Landon by suddenly
appearing before him and demanding, "Tell me, sir, is seventy-five
dollars enough to put a chap in your hospital and get him cured.'"
"Well, that depends," laughed Dr. Landon, much amused. "Who is this
chap, and what is his trouble?"
As concisely as possible the boy told the story of lame Jem, but so
interesting the kindly physician that he ran down to Benton expressly to
see the case, and the result was the new year found the young invalid
established in a great airy ward, where the sunshine sifted in through a
beautiful lattice-work of window plants, and cheery, bright-faced
attendants were ready to answer every call and supply every want.
"It seems like Paradise," said Jem, nestling among the soft pillows, and
that proved a truly blissful winter, in spite of some pain and
discomfort he had to endure, while he made life-long friends of Mrs.
Landon and Mrs. Graham, who paid him frequent visits, and brought him
lovely flowers and delicious fruit from the fair-haired Ethel.
And at length, when the spring-time came over the land, Bert Woolley and
Kit Bundy one evening helped off the cars a very pale but very radiant
lad, while the former said,
"See, Limpy, there are all the beach-combers coming to welcome you
home."
Cordially the rough youths crowded about their young comrade, healed and
restored as though by a miracle, and shook him warmly by the hand,
wondering to see in a slight limp the only trace of his former lameness.
But the throng parted as an auburn head suddenly flashed through their
midst, and Eileen, throwing her arms around her brother, cried:
"Oh, Jem, Jem! this is the happy day for sure--to see you walking on
your own two feet, while the father has signed the pledge, and a pair of
luck-birds are building their nest in the big pine-tree right forninst
our door."
SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.
BY KIRK MUNROE.
CHAPTER XXV.
SERGE DISCOVERS A CURIOUS CAVERN.
At the point where our travellers had again struck the Yukon, nearly
1500 miles from its mouth, it was still a mighty stream two miles wide.
Above this they found it bounded on both sides by mountains that often
approached to its very waters, where, in sheer precipices hundreds of
feet high, they found gigantic palisades, similar to those of the
Hudson, which are known as the "Upper Ramparts." On the lower river the
sledge party had journeyed over a smooth surface, on which were few
obstructions. Their course from Anvik had at first been due north, then
northeast, then east, and was now due south, the source of the Yukon
towards which they were now travelling being some ten degrees south of
its great arctic bend.
Owing to this, they now found themselves confronted by the hardest kind
of sledging over rough hummocky ice that was often piled in chaotic
ridges twenty and thirty feet high. As the river freezes first at its
most northerly point, and this belt of solid ice is gradually extended
south, or back toward its source, the floating cakes of its upper
reaches, borne by the swift current, are piled on the ever-advancing
barrier in confused masses that stretch across the river like windrows.
In the spring, when the ice breaks up and is hurled irresistibly down
stream on the swollen current, the same effect is reproduced on a vastly
increased scale. Then the upper river breaks first, and a sudden rise of
water from some great tributary starts the ice over the still solid
barrier below. The huge cakes slide, jam, push, and crash over the still
unbroken ice sheet, until they are piled in a vast gleaming mass seventy
or eighty feet in height, from a quarter of a mile to one mile in
length, and extending from bank to bank.
This mighty gorge must give way at length, and when it does it goes with
a roaring fury that is terrifying and grand beyond description. After
grinding and tearing onward for several miles, or perhaps less than one,
the furious impulse is again checked by another solid barrier, which
must in turn be broken down and swept away, its added weight giving
increased energy to the mighty force.
So the ice crashes its resistless way down the whole Yukon Valley to
Bering Sea, two thousand miles distant, sweeping everything before it,
mowing down vast areas of forest, submerging islands, tearing out banks,
and leaving everywhere traces of its terrible progress in the shape of
huge ice cakes, weighing many tons, stranded high above ordinary water
level.
Although Phil Ryder and his companions were not to witness this grand
exhibition of one of nature's mightiest forces, they were sadly
inconvenienced and delayed by the uncomfortable fashion in which their
frozen highway had been constructed some months earlier. If they could
have left the river and followed along its banks, they would have done
so; but this was out of the question, not only on account of their
rugged character, but because on their timbered portions the snow lay
many feet in depth, while from the river it had been so blown by strong
north winds that for long stretches the ice was barely covered. This
enabled the sledge men to walk without snow-shoes, which was a great
comfort to all three, but especially to Jalap Coombs, who had not yet
learned to use the netted frames with "ease and fluency," as Phil said.
To this light-hearted youth the sight of his sailor friend wrestling
with the difficulties of inland navigation as practised in arctic
regions afforded a never-failing source of mirth. A single glance at
Jalap's lank figure enveloped in firs, with his weather-beaten face
peering from the recesses of a hair-fringed hood, was enough at any time
to make Phil laugh. Jalap on snow-shoes that, in spite of all his
efforts, would slide in every direction but the one desired, and Jalap
gazing at a frosty world through a pair of wooden snow-goggles, were
sights that even sober-sided Serge found humorous.
But funniest of all was to see Jalap drive a dog-team. This he was now
obliged to do, for, while they still had three sledges, they had been
unable to procure any Indians at Forty Mile to take the places of
Kurilla and Chitsah. So while Phil, who was now an expert in the art of
dog-driving, and could handle a six-yard whip like a native, took turns
with Serge in breaking the road, Jalap was always allowed to bring up
the rear. His dogs had nothing to fear from the whip, except, indeed,
when it tripped him up so that he tell on top of them, but they cringed
and whined beneath the torrent of incomprehensible sea terms incessantly
poured forth by the strange master, who talked to them as though they
were so many lubberly sailors.
"Port your hellum! Hard a-port!" he would roar to the accompaniment of
flying chunks of ice that he could throw with amazing certainty of aim.
Then, "Steady! So! Start a sheet and give her a rap full. Now keep her
so! Keep her so! D'ye hear! Let her fall off a fraction of a p'int and
I'll rake ye fore and aft. Now, then, bullies, pull all together. Yo-ho,
heave! No sojering! Ah, you will, will ye, ye furry sea-cook! Then take
that, and stow it in your bread-locker. Shake your hay-seed and
climb--_climb_, I tell ye. Avast heaving!" And so on, hour after hour,
while the dogs would jump and pull and tangle their "running rigging,"
as Jalap named the trace-thongs, and the two boys would shout with
laughter.
But while the journey thus furnished something of merriment, it was also
filled with tribulations. So bitter was the cold that their bloodless
lips were often too stiff for laughter or even for speech. So rough was
the way, that they rarely made more than eight or ten miles in a day of
exhausting labor. Several dogs broke their legs amid the chaotic ice
blocks of the ever-recurring ridges, and had to be shot. Along the
palisaded Ramparts it was difficult to find timbered places in which to
camp. Their dog feed was running low, and there was none to be had in
the wretched native villages that they passed at long intervals.
At length the setting sun of one evening found them at a point where the
river, narrowed to a few hundred yards, was bounded on one side by a
lofty precipice of rock, and on the other by a steeply sloping bank
that, devoid of timber, seemed to descend from an open plateau. They
halted beside a single log of drift that, half embedded in ice, was the
only available bit of firewood in sight. It was a bleak and bitter place
in which to spend an arctic night, and they shivered in anticipation of
what they were to suffer during its long hours.
"I am going to climb to the top of the bank," said Serge, "and see if I
can't find some more wood. If I do, I'll roll it down; so look out!"
Suiting his action to his words the active lad started with a run that
carried him a few yards up the steep ascent. It was so abrupt that he
was on the point of sliding back, and dug his heel sharply into the snow
to secure a hold. At the same instant he uttered a cry, threw up his
arms, and dropped from the sight of his astonished companions as though
he had fallen down a well.
Before they could make a move toward his rescue they were more astounded
than ever to hear his voice, somewhat muffled, but apparently close
beside them.
"I'm all right!" he cried, cheerily. "That is, I think I am, and I
believe I can cut my way out. Don't try to climb the bank. Just wait a
minute."
Then the bank began to tremble as though shaken by a gentle earthquake,
and suddenly a hand clutching a knife shot out from it so close to Jalap
Coombs that the startled sailor leaped back to avoid it, stumbled over a
sledge, and plunged headlong among his own team of dogs, who were lying
in the snow beyond, patiently waiting to be unharnessed. By the time the
yelling, howling mass of man and dogs was disentangled and separated,
Serge had emerged from the mysterious bank, and stood looking as though
he did not quite understand what had happened. Behind him was a black
opening into which Phil was peering with the liveliest curiosity.
"Of all the miracles I ever heard of this is the strangest!" he cried.
"What does it mean, old man?"
"I don't exactly know," answered Serge: "but I rather think it is a moss
blanket. Anyhow, that's an elegant place to crawl into out of the cold.
Seems to be plenty of wood too."
Serge was right in his conjecture. What appeared to be the river-bank
was merely a curtain of tough, closely compacted Alaskan moss, closely
resembling peat in its structure, one foot thick, and reaching from the
crest of an overhanging bank to the edge of the river. It had thus held
together, and fallen to its present position when the river undermined
and swept away the earth from beneath it. That it presented a sloping
surface instead of hanging perpendicular was owing to a great number of
timbers, the ends of which projected from the excavated bank behind it.
Serge had broken through the moss curtain, fallen between these timbers
to the beach, and then cut his way out. Now, as he suggested, what
better camping-place could they ask than the warm, dry, moss-enclosed
space from which he had just emerged.
"I never saw nor heard of anything so particularly and awfully jolly in
all my life," pronounced Phil, after the three travellers had entered
this unique cavern, and started a fire by which they were enabled to see
something of its strange interior. "And, I say, Serge, what a thoughtful
scheme it was on your part to provide a chimney for the fire before you
lighted it! See how the smoke draws up? If it wasn't for that hole in
the roof I am afraid we should be driven out of here in short order.
But, hello, old man! Whew--w! what are you throwing bones on the fire
for? It reminds me of your brimstone-and-feather experiment on Oonimak."
"Bones!" repeated Serge in surprise. "Are those bones? I thought they
were dry sticks."
"I should say they were bones!" cried Phil, snatching a couple of the
offending objects from the fire. "And, sure as I live, this log I am
sitting on is a bone too. Why, it's bigger than I am. It begins to look
as though this place were some sort of a tomb. But there's plenty of
wood. Let's throw on some more and light up."
"Toughest wood to cut I ever see," growled Jalap Coombs, who was hacking
away at another half-buried log. "'Pears to be brittle, though, and
splits easy," he added, dodging a sliver that broke off and flew by his
head.
"Hold on!" cried Phil, picking up the sliver. "You'll ruin the axe.
That's another bone you're chopping. This place is a regular giants'
cemetery."