THE 50TH REGIMENT, N. G. S. N. Y.
THE speed at which Myles was going when the accident happened was so
great that both he and the hand-car were flung clear off the track.
They landed in a pile of soft earth, but, as already related, Myles
lay beneath the car with his arms so pinned down by it that he was
perfectly helpless and unable to move. As he lay there half-stunned,
and panting for breath after his recent exertions, the roar of the
approaching train grew louder and louder, until it seemed close upon
him. He could hear the labored puffing of the locomotive as it toiled
up the long grade. Now it came so distinctly that he knew the head of
the train had rounded the sharp curve and was in sight of the place
where he lay.
Oh for one moment of liberty in which to spring up and warn them of the
danger so close at hand! Where were their eyes? Could they not see the
wreck of his car and be warned by it? Was he too late after all? Would
the train keep on until it, too, struck the treacherous rails that,
with every spike drawn, had spread beneath him?
In this agony of helpless apprehension the seconds seemed minutes and
the minutes hours. Suddenly came the short, imperative blast of the
whistle that said as plainly as words, “Danger ahead! Down brakes!”
It was instantly followed by the grinding sound of the powerful
air-brakes, and in another moment the train had stopped not fifty feet
from where Myles lay.
He was in time. His “fool-hardiness,” as the corporal at Mountain
Junction had termed it, had prevailed, and the long train, with its
precious human freight, was safe. With a great sigh of relief the
burden of anxiety that he had borne for hours passed from him. He
became aware of a feeling of faintness, and wearily closed his eyes.
He did not lose consciousness, for he heard a voice exclaim:
“Hello! here’s a man under this car.”
“Well, get him out,” said another, with a sharp tone of authority. “He
is probably one of the rascally strikers who planned this mischief,
and then got caught in his own trap. Carry him to the baggage-car and
see that he does not get away. I will investigate his case directly.
Now look lively here with those spikes and hammers.”
Myles was lifted by half a dozen active young fellows clad in a
close-fitting gray uniform and carried back to the train, where he
was laid on the floor of the baggage-car, with his head on a roll of
blankets. Even as they started with him he heard the ringing blows
of the spike-hammers, and almost as soon as they laid him down the
loosened rails were securely re-fastened and the train was ready to
proceed.
Myles was surprised to find that he did not suffer any pain denoting
broken bones. He wondered if he were able to sit up, and, by trying,
found that he was. In short, with the exception of feeling stiff and
sore and bruised, and lame in every joint, he was all right. He was
only a little shaky, and he next proceeded to stand up to assure
himself that he could do that also. Here the gray-jacketed soldier who
guarded him concluded that his prisoner was getting altogether too
active, and sternly ordered him to sit still and keep quiet.
Myles looked at him with indignant amazement. Was this the kind of
treatment a fellow had to expect in return for risking his own life
and limbs to save those of these chaps? He was about to express
himself pretty forcibly on the subject, when the car door was opened
and a soldierly-looking man, with an iron-gray mustache and wearing
the eagles of a colonel on his shoulder-straps, entered. The guard
presented arms and the colonel touched his cap in acknowledgment of the
salute. Then stepping briskly up to Myles he said:
“Well, sir, who are you? and what is the meaning of all this? Do you
know that you have committed a State-prison offense, and that hanging
would be no more than you deserve?”
“What is my offense?” asked Myles, quietly, still sitting on the roll
of blankets.
“Don’t bandy words with me, sir; but answer my questions at once. Who
are you?”
Myles gazed calmly into the colonel’s face, but remained silent.
“Will you answer me, sir, or will you not?” cried the colonel, flushing
angrily beneath the other’s steady stare.
“Perhaps I will and perhaps I will not,” replied Myles, whose very
calmness betrayed the tumult of his feelings. “It depends entirely upon
what authority you can show for asking them, and the manner in which
they are put. So long as you see fit to insult me I shall only answer
you with silence.”
The audacity of this speech fairly took away the colonel’s breath, and
he stared at Myles in speechless amazement. Before he could recover
himself the car door again opened. The figure that entered this time
was not clad in uniform, but the guard allowed it to pass without
hesitation.
Turning, and recognizing the new-comer, the colonel exclaimed:
“Here is a case that will interest you, sir. It will make a capital
paragraph for your paper. Of all the strikers, train-wreckers, and
other rascally characters I ever met this one has the most monumental
impudence and brazen assurance. Why, what do you think—”
But the colonel never finished his remark, for Myles, who had gained
his feet, here interrupted him with:
“Hello, Billings, old man!”
“Am I a Dutchman or am I not!” cried Billings, for it was indeed he,
as he sprang past the colonel and grasped his friend’s hand. “The voice
is that of Myles Manning, while the face and general get-up is that of
a mud-lark. What are you doing here? and what is the meaning of this
melancholy aspect?”
“That is what this military gentleman with the unfortunate manner has
been trying to find out,” replied Myles, with a grim smile.
“Military gentleman? Unfortunate manner?” repeated Billings, in a
perplexed tone. “Perhaps there is some misunderstanding between you
two. Colonel Pepper, allow me to present my friend, Mr. Manning, of the
_Phonograph_. Colonel Pepper is in command of the 50th Regiment, N. G.
S. N. Y. X. Z., etc., and, if I do say it to his face, as I shouldn’t,
is one of the best fellows to be found outside of a newspaper office.”
“A friend of yours, did you say, Mr. Billings?” asked the colonel,
doubtfully.
“Of course he is, and, what is more, a fellow-reporter. Why, he is out
here doing the strike for the _Phono_.”
“Well, Mr. Manning,” said the colonel, heartily, and extending his
hand, “I sincerely beg your pardon for mistaking you for a striker—and
a mischievous one at that—and treating you accordingly. But why in the
name of common-sense didn’t you disclose your identity at once?”
“Partly because you didn’t give me a chance, sir, and partly because I
felt hurt—”
“Felt hurt!” interrupted Billings, to whom the conversation seemed to
be taking altogether too serious a tone. “Well, your feelings must
correspond with your looks then. For a more torn, tattered, battered,
mud-bespattered, blood-stained, and generally seedy-looking individual
than you are at this moment I never saw.”
“Then you consider me excusable for mistaking Mr. Manning for a
striker?” asked the colonel, with a smile.
“Excusable, colonel? Certainly I do! You would be excusable for
mistaking him for any thing, from a relation to a politician,” answered
Billings, laughing. “But, look here, Manning, you haven’t told us a
word yet of how you happened to be a total wreck out here in the woods.
I heard something about a car off the track and a striker found under
it, but I was eating a sort of a make-believe ham-sandwich breakfast
just then. We have stopped so often for wrecked cars and missing rails
that I didn’t consider it worth while to let up on the Sam Handwich
just to look after it. Thus I only just this moment found time to come
and spy out the villain, and, behold, you are he.”
“Your mention of missing rails,” said Myles, “reminds me that two are
gone from the track just about where we now are. I passed over the
place not half an hour ago.”
“Then excuse me for a moment,” said the colonel, while I go and order a
sharp lookout.”
As he left the car the locomotive uttered its warning call for brakes.
In another minute the train was at a stand-still, and several men
were stripping off their clothing preparatory to diving in the stream
alongside the track to search for the missing rails.
“That’s the way it goes,” sighed Billings, resignedly. “We’ve done
nothing but make tracks for the last two days. But come, old man, now’s
the chance to spin your yarn; out with it. All communications with a
stamp enclosed regarded as strictly confidential, you understand.”
So Myles told his story in as few words as possible, beginning with
the capture of Lieutenant Easter’s command and ending with his own
thrilling ride of that morning.
As he finished Billings sprang to his feet, and, seizing his friend’s
hand, shook it warmly, exclaiming with a seriousness unusual to him:
“My dear fellow, you are a perfect trump; a full-fledged hero—with
wings and tail-feathers well developed! And to think that these duffers
should have taken you for a striker after what you did for them. It’s
no wonder you look tough after what you’ve gone through; but it’s an
honorable toughness, and every splotch of mud on your face is honorable
mud. You just wait till I tell the boys of the 50th what a _Phonograph_
reporter has done for them. If they don’t give you three fizz-booms and
a Bengal tiger, then I’m a brass monkey, that’s all.”
“Oh, no,” protested Myles, “don’t tell them. It isn’t any thing to make
a fuss about.”
“Isn’t it? Well, we’ll just give the boys a chance to express an
opinion about that,” laughed Billings, with a touch of his old drawling
manner as he left the car.
Myles still remained in the baggage-car, and the guard posted there
when he was first brought in, but not yet relieved, now stepped up to
him and said in a manly fashion:
“I could not help overhearing what you were talking about just now, Mr.
Manning, and, if you will let me, I shall be proud to shake hands with
you. It isn’t every day that I meet with the fellow who is willing to
risk his own life for mine, and when I do I like to know him.”
What Billings told of his exploits Myles never knew, but while he was
shaking hands with his guard the car door flew open and the “boys” came
rushing in. Privates and men with shoulder-straps, all were eager for a
look at and a word with the _Phonograph_ reporter who had rendered them
so great a service that morning.
They crowded the car almost to suffocation, and still not a tenth part
of those who wished to get in could do so. Everybody wanted to shake
hands with him. Everybody wanted in some way to thank him. Among them
were several old X—— College men, proud to claim him as a fellow.
They had been proud of Myles Manning, captain of the ’Varsity crew;
now they were still prouder of Myles Manning, the _Phonograph_ reporter.
Poor Myles was overwhelmed and bewildered. He knew not what to say nor
how to act. His embarrassment was becoming painful, when way was made
for the colonel. He said:
“Come, boys, this will do for the present. Clear out now and give the
brave fellow room to breathe. The 50th shall have a chance to show him
what they feel on this subject, I give you my word on it.”
When the last one had gone the colonel turned to Myles, and said:
“Mr. Manning, it would be useless for me to attempt to thank you for
your splendid action this morning, either on my own behalf or that of
the regiment I have the honor to command. There are no words to express
such a gratitude as we feel. What you did any soldier might be proud
to have done, and its results will follow you through life. You have
within an hour made a thousand life-long friends. Now, sir, if you will
honor the 50th by becoming its guest we shall be proud to entertain you
as such during our stay in this part of the country.”
Myles had no idea of what he said in reply to these kind words; but it
must have been the right thing, for the colonel thanked him and seemed
much pleased.
Then the whistle announced their approach to Mountain Junction, and the
colonel, exacting a promise from Myles that he would not leave the car
until he came for him, bowed and hurried away.
The town that had been so silent and deserted when Myles left it a
few hours before was now filled with people, and a great crowd of
sullen-faced strikers, grimy miners, men, women, and children, were
gathered about the railway-station to witness the arrival of the
famous New York regiment. As the train rolled slowly up to the station
it presented a fine sight, and one calculated to impress the boldest
strikers as a picture of disciplined force that was not to be trifled
with.
The locomotive seemed covered with erect, resolute-looking young
fellows in gray. They stood thick on the running-boards. They crowded
the cab, and each held his musket in a sturdy grasp, with its gleaming
bayonet pointed at an angle downward. The enemy need be many and bold
who would dare charge that thick-set hedge of prickly steel. Each
platform of every car in the long train was guarded in a similar
manner. It was, as Billings, who had returned to the baggage-car,
quaintly expressed it to Myles, “A sign that read, ‘No boarders need
apply.’”
Through the open windows the crowd could see that every seat was filled
with men in gray, each grasping a ready musket. It was fearful to
imagine what a withering, death-dealing sheet of flame and storm of
bullets might in an instant leap from those open windows at a single
word of command. The crowd instinctively recoiled from them, and a
great silence fell upon it.
As the train stopped a squad of men sprang from each car and cleared
spaces in which the companies might form. Then the gray columns poured
forth quietly, steadily, and without a break until the ten companies
were full and the regiment stood in line, rigid, motionless, and
expectant.
When all was in readiness the colonel came to the door of the car, from
a window of which Myles and Billings had watched the forming troops,
and said:
“Now, Mr. Manning, will you let me introduce you to my boys?”
[Illustration: THE NEXT MOMENT HE FOUND HIMSELF STANDING ON THE
PLATFORM BESIDE THE COLONEL. (_Page 227._)]
Myles hesitated. He had dared face death in the heat of that exciting
race against time; but to face a thousand men was quite another thing.
It was Billings who urged him on by saying:
“Come, old man, don’t keep the music waiting. They’ve got to toot or
burst.”
The next moment he found himself standing on the platform beside the
colonel, while on that of the adjoining car stood Billings, smiling
affably, and evidently prepared to receive any honors that might be
showered upon him.
“Men of the 50th,” said the colonel, in a loud, clear voice, that was
distinctly heard by every one of those before him, “I have the honor of
presenting to you a New York reporter who has rendered to us this day
the greatest service one human being may render unto his fellows. His
name is—” the colonel paused, lifted his hand, and with a mighty roar,
startling in its suddenness and volume, the thousand throats of the
regiment took the words from his mouth and shouted as one man.
“M-y-l-e-s M-a-n-n-i-n-g. Fizz-fizz-fizz, boom-boom-boom, Ti-_gah!_”
As the great shout rolled away among the listening mountains a sharp
word of command rang out, and was echoed from company to company along
the whole line. The band struck up “For he’s a jolly good fellow,”
and, marching as proudly as though under the eyes of the President of
the United States, the superb, glittering regiment passed in review
before bruised, ragged, mud-stained Myles Manning. Each company as it
passed him presented arms, and the gleaming sword of each officer was
raised in salute. It was not until they had all gone by that poor Myles
remembered that in his bewilderment he had not acknowledged a single
salute.
Billings had, though; and for whatever his fellow-reporter left undone
the little man’s appreciative smiles and graceful hat-liftings amply
atoned.