Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JULY 7, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 871. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
AN OUTLAW.
A STORY OF JIM-NED CREEK.
BY M. E. M. DAVIS.
The porch of Bishop's store--the heart, so to speak, of the Jim-Ned
Creek settlement--was deserted, for the November day was bleak and raw.
Half a score or more men lounged over the counters within, or sat silent
and ruminant around the smouldering fire. Gideon Bishop, half hidden by
his tall desk, was busy with his ledgers, but he glanced furtively and
frowningly now and again at his guests.
The Outlaw came up the road at a leisurely pace. She was a small mare,
blue-gray in color, with a flowing mane and tail of a fine glossy black,
much matted with cockle-burs. She tossed her small head coquettishly in
response to the neigh of welcome from the horses hitched to the saplings
about the store, and picked her way daintily to the very edge of the
porch, where she stood saucily expectant.
"Hullo! There's that blue _mus_tang o' yourn!" exclaimed Sam Leggett,
jumping down from the counter. "It's been nigh onto two year sence she
_vamoosed_, ain't it, Uncle Gid? Where _hez_ she been a-hidin' herse'f?"
Mr. Bishop picked up a wagon whip, took a lariat from its nail on the
wall, and stepped out upon the porch.
"So! You've come back, have you, Lady?" he said, with a grim smile. He
reached forward as he spoke and attempted to slip the rope over the
mare's neck. She shook her mane gently, and dipping her pretty head,
nipped his forearm with her strong white teeth.
At another time old Gid, stern and harsh as he was, might not have
resented this playful salute, for the skin on his brown wrist was barely
grazed, but he was in no mood for such fooling now. He started back with
a quick step; his brow reddened angrily, and the fire leaped to his
deep-set eyes. He lifted the whip; the long keen lash curled through the
air, and descended with a stinging sound upon the runaway's shining
flank. She reared violently, uttering a cry almost human in its
indignant protest; then she wheeled about, and galloped away in the
direction whence she had come.
The men who had trooped out upon the porch at Mr. Bishop's heels gazed
after her until she disappeared in the creek bottom; then they slouched
back to their seats.
"Jack broke that _mus_tang hisse'f," Joe Trimble presently remarked. "I
mind the first time he ever backed her. _Jing!_ how she bucked!"
"Speakin' o' Jack," Newt Pinson ventured, in an off-hand way, but not
daring to look at Jack's father--"speakin' o' Jack, 'pears to me it's
nigh about time we was huntin' that boy up."
"Gentle_men_," said Mr. Bishop, in a loud, angry voice, "you 'tend to
your own business, if--you--please. Jack Bishop is nineteen year old,
and full able to take keer of hisse'f."
These words penetrated through a half-open door into the family
living-room back of the store. On hearing them, Jack's mother burst into
a fresh fit of weeping, which the kindly neighbors hovering about her
tried vainly to soothe.
"He's just as oneasy about Jack as I am," she sobbed. "That onliest
child of ourn is the apple of his father's eye. But it's Gid's pride as
won't let him give up that a Bishop can get lost. And everybody's plumb
afraid of him. Oh, my boy, my boy!"
"Don't ye worrit yo'se'f into a spazzum, Susy Bishop," said Granny
Carnes. "_I_ ain't afeard o' Gid Bishop, ner no other male creeter. An'
I've give my orders to the boys a-settin' yander in the sto'. Ef Jack
Bishop"--here she raised her voice to its highest and shrillest
pitch--"ef Jack Bishop ain't inside this house befo' candle-lightin'
to-night, them boys has got to tromp out an' find him, an' fetch him
home, or not dassen to show their faces agin the len'th an' bre'th o'
Jim-Ned."
"Amen!" said Mrs. Leggett and Mrs. Trimble together.
"Double an' thripple Amen!" added Mrs. Pinson, solemnly.
There was indeed no small cause for anxiety. Early on a Tuesday morning
young Bishop had started out afoot, with dog and gun, for a few hours'
hunting in _The Rough_--a belt of savage woodland which stretched away
westward, with wide solitary prairies on either side, to the chain of
hills some fifteen miles distant. It was now Friday, past noon, and he
had not returned. Newt Pinson had met him at the crossing of Jim-Ned
Creek half an hour after he had left home; he had not been seen nor
heard of since. He had gone on alone; for the dog, a half-grown puppy,
had turned and trotted back, unnoticed, behind Mr. Pinson.
"Oh, if Josh was only with him!" moaned Mrs. Bishop, already alarmed, at
the close of the first day.
And Josh, the intelligent old hound, rubbed his head against her knee
and whined softly.
The lad--everywhere a favorite--had never absented himself from home
before; and when Wednesday, Thursday, Friday came and went without
tidings of him, the neighbors from up and down the creek began to gather
at the store.
They looked at the heavy sky, sunless and misty these four days past,
and shook their heads ominously, whispering among themselves. The poor
mother was wellnigh frantic with alarm. Uncle Gid alone maintained an
air of obstinate confidence, in the face of which no one dared venture a
move.
"Jack Bishop is full able to take keer of hisse'f," he repeated,
proudly, in answer to Mr. Pinson's timid suggestions. "Jack Bishop knows
every inch of ground betwixt Jim-Ned and Rattlesnake Gap."
"All the same, notwithstandin'," whispered Granny Carnes in Mrs.
Bishop's ear, "I've give my orders for candle-lightin', honey."
But before candle-lighting Mr. Bishop's assumed stoicism gave way. About
sunset he arose and took his rifle from the rack above the door. "Come
on, boys," he said, with a catch in his throat. And a moment later they
were hurrying down the rutty road.
At the Jim-Ned crossing the old man paused. "You go back, Susy," he
said, with rough kindness, to the frail little woman following a pace or
two behind him. "Go back, and stay with the women folks. You ain't
nowise fitten for this sort o' thing."
Jack's mother pulled the red knitted shawl closer about her head, and
moved steadily forward. "No, Gid," she said, quietly; "I'm not going
back--not without my boy."
He put an arm about her without another word, and husband and wife
presently entered together the mysterious gloom of _The Rough_.
II.
An hour or two later Jack Bishop was lying on the open prairie, where he
had thrown himself in a sort of dull despair. His loaded gun lay beside
him; his empty wallet hung from his shoulder; his face looked pinched
and wan in the vapory moonlight.
"I crossed Jim-Ned," he was saying to himself, mechanically, for the
thousandth time; "I crossed the creek and came into _The Rough_. I left
home Tuesday at sun-up.... That puppy ain't worth shucks; I wish I had
brought old Josh!... I killed three jack-rabbits in Buck-Snort Gully. By
the big cottonwood--what did I do by the big cottonwood? Oh, I ate my
corn pone. _Gee!_ how hungry I am!... Then I followed a deer and got
into the prairie. Why, I know this prairie 'most as well as I know
Jim-Ned! Yonder's Rattlesnake Gap, and yonder's _The Rough_.... And
before I knew it, it was plumb dark.... I went back into _The Rough_,
and tramped and tramped; and the first thing I knew I was out on the
prairie again.... I've been doing the same thing ever since, over and
over.... I haven't seen a soul.... If I could just glimpse the sun! But
seems like the sun never will shine again.... I reckon I'm lost....
Yonder's Rattlesnake Gap, and yonder's _The Rough_--"
He got up and staggered a few steps, then sank down again. He was a
manly lad, and he had borne with hopeful courage the hunger, cold, and
loneliness of the long days and nights. But he was exhausted with
fatigue, and weakened by want of food; and finally, overcome by a sense
of terror and desolation, he covered his face with his hands and groaned
aloud.
The painful throbbing in his ears sounded suddenly like the rhythm of
advancing footsteps. Something cold and moist touched his cheek; a warm
breath mingled with his own.
"Why, Lady!" he cried, springing to his feet. Weariness and hunger and
cold had vanished in a trice. Laughing and crying by turns, he clasped
his arms about the neck of the little mustang which he had fed and
petted as a colt--the wilful Outlaw who had disappeared into _The Rough_
two years before.
Fearful lest the mare should desert him again, he held her long mane
with one hand, while with the other he groped, stooping, for his rifle.
But the Outlaw apparently did not dream of flight. She stood quite still
until the gun was secured and he had climbed with some difficulty upon
her back.
"Now, Lady," he shouted, "take me to Jim-Ned! Carry me home!"
Lady threw up her head, neighed, and moved obediently forward. She went
at a swift walk, breaking at intervals into the long, swinging, restful
mustang _lope_.
"But--you are going in the wrong direction," remonstrated her rider, at
the end of a few moments. He tugged at her mane, and endeavored to
change her course. "You are carrying me _through_ the Gap. Jim-Ned is on
_this_ side. Back, Lady--back!"
The mare shook herself impatiently, and pushed on between the pyramidal
hills which loomed up on either side of the Gap, emerging into the open
prairie beyond just as the moon, scattering the clouds at last, filled
earth and sky with a flood of golden light.
"Well," said Jack, with a shiver of disappointment, "you'll take me
somewhere, I reckon, Lady. I can't be any more lost than I've been for
the last three days!"
After a while, however, things began to assume a strangely familiar
look. "I've never been west of the Gap before," he muttered,
"but--yonder looks like Comanche Mound. And, sure as shootin', here's
Matchett's Pond! Ah!" he added, after profound reflection, "I am east of
the Gap now. I must have been all this time, somehow, on the other
side."
His conjecture was correct. Stumbling unwittingly through the narrow Gap
in the darkness of the first night, and deceived by the prairie and
woodland beyond, he had there continued the incessant and bewildered
round into which he had fallen when he had first lost his bearings.
"It's all clear as daylight now," he cried, joyously. "You've got a heap
more sense than I have, Lady! Couldn't fool _you_ with roughs and
prairies! And now I think I will stretch my legs a little, and rest you,
my beauty."
He slid to the ground and limped along beside his four-footed friend,
leaning against her, and chattering boyishly as he went.
"Tain't more'n ten miles to Bishop's store now. And mother'll be on the
porch, late as it is, looking out for me. Poor mother, I know she's been
fretting! And she'll have the coffee-pot on the coals. And father'll be
pretending to scold. But, shucks! he won't mean a word of it. Seems
like"--a lump arose in the boy's throat--"seems like I never understood
father before, nor loved mother half enough!... Where have you been all
this time, anyhow, Lady? Why, what a scratch you've got on your side!
Run against a mesquit thorn, eh? It's all bloody. I'll doctor it the
minute we get home. Hello!--"
One of his legs seemed all at once to have grown shorter than the other,
a loud report rang in his ears, a thrill of intense agony racked his
whole body, and he dropped fainting to the ground. He came to himself a
moment later to find the blood pouring from a wound in his left
shoulder, and when he attempted to rise and draw his leg from the deep
rabbit-hole into which he had stumbled a sharp pain warned him that both
knee and ankle were sprained or broken. He ceased his efforts and fell
back, staring helplessly up at the sky.
The mustang, who had darted away at the discharge of the rifle, had
returned, and was standing beside him.
"Don't go, Lady," he implored, catching at her mane. "I've shot myself,
I reckon. I can't move my leg. Don't, _don't_ leave me, Lady."
The mare thrust her nose reassuringly against his face.
The blood, which he tried vainly to stanch with his free hand, oozed
from the gun-shot wound, and formed a red puddle about his head. He felt
himself growing dizzy and nauseated.
It was now about an hour past midnight, and the vast moonlighted prairie
was hushed and still. Suddenly a curious sound troubled the silence--a
trampling, tearing noise, accompanied by a hoarse confused roar. Jack
lifted his head a little and looked.
His heart stood still.
A small herd of cattle roving about the prairie, moved by the curiosity
inherent in animals, had drawn near, and excited by the smell of blood,
were pawing the earth, bellowing with rage, and circling ever closer and
closer about the helpless lad. He could see their wide horns glistening
in the moonlight. "Mother! Father!" he breathed; and dropping his head
back upon the cold turf, he closed his eyes in instant expectation of
death.
But he opened them again. For the Outlaw had whirled abruptly from her
post beside him, and charged, with a snort, first into one section and
then into another of the infuriated circle. Surprised and daunted, the
cattle retreated a short distance, stopped, and stood still, uncertain
and dumb.
Hardly, however, had the boy drawn a breath of thankfulness and relief,
when there was another mad rush upon him; and again the gallant little
mustang, plunging and snorting, held his assailants at bay.
Over and over this assault and repulse were repeated. The
half-unconscious lad turned his terrified eyes from side to side,
groaning with pain, and lifting his voice brokenly in encouragement of
his protector.
But she too was beginning to be spent and exhausted. He stroked her
trembling foreleg with his hand as she hovered over him in a moment of
respite. "Poor Lady!" he whispered, faintly: "it's mighty nigh over with
both of us, I think. You'd better save yourself now, Lady. You can't do
anything more for me. Don't cry, Lady. _Why, Lady, your eyes are just
like mother's!_"
And with a sob he lapsed into utter oblivion.
III.
The searching party came out of _The Rough_ in the early dawn, and stood
huddled together, forlornly silent, on the prairie ridge that sloped
gently away to Matchett's Pond. They were foot-sore and disheartened
after their long night's fruitless quest.
"Ain't that Matchett's bunch o' cattle rampagin' an' bellerin' aroun'
down yander?" demanded Joe Trimble, breaking the silence, and peering
forward curiously, "What are they up to? _Y-a-a-h!_"
He burst into a loud yell and set off running at the top of his speed,
discharging his pistol as he ran to scatter the herd.
Swift-footed as he was, however, a woman outstripped him; and by the
time the others came up, Jack's mother was kneeling in the grass, and
her arms were about her boy.
When Jack, after swallowing a mouthful of water, had revived a little,
and the color had begun to come back into his poor pale face, his wound
was dressed and his broken leg bandaged. Then he faltered out the story,
with his head on his mother's bosom, and his hand held close in his
father's strong grasp.
"I could feel the fire in their blazing eyes," he concluded. "I thought
I would never see you and mother again, father. And if it hadn't been
for Lady-- Don't cry, mother, I'm all right now. _Why, mother, your eyes
are just like Lady's!_"
* * * * *
Uncle Gid got up and walked over to where the Outlaw lay panting on the
dry grass. He reeled like a fainting man as he went. At his approach the
mare threw out her slender forelegs and tried to get up, but fell feebly
back, quivering with terror. The old man dropped on his knees beside
her, and laid his hand on the whelk that disfigured her flank. "Heaven
forgive me for a sinful man!" he cried. "I struck you in anger, Lady; I
struck you; and if it hadn't been for you, my son, my only son--" A sob
choked his utterance, and he could not finish. But Lady turned her head
toward him and whickered softly. She understood!
There was a moment of awed silence.
Then Mr. Pinson blew his nose, wiped his eyes, and stepped forward.
"Gentlemen _an'_ Mis' Bishop," he said, with an oratorical flourish.
"Lady is a honor to her sect! The female sect, gentlemen _an'_ Mis'
Bishop, is ever faithful an' ever true. Lady, notwithstandin' she air a
mare an' a Outlaw--"
"Three cheers for Lady!" interrupted Jack, with the old sparkle in his
eyes, though his voice was a bit unsteady. "Hurrah for Lady! Hip, hip,
hurr-a-a-h!"
And such cheers went ringing over the prairie and across _The Rough_
that old Granny Carnes afterward declared she heard them at Bishop's
store, ten miles away.
THE NEW MOTHER GOOSE.
There was a man in our town
Who was so wondrous wise,
He didn't try the bramble-bush
And scratch out both his eyes,
But sat him in a big arm-chair,
Upon a schooner-yacht,
And said to those who jeered at him,
"I'd rather see than not."
[Illustration: Queer Pets of Sailor Jack.]
BY LIEUTENANT-COMMANDER J. D. JERROLD KELLEY, U.S.N.
(_In Two Installments._)
In that happy hour or more after hammocks are piped down, and before
tattoo is sounded on board ships of war, the sailor has his season of
unvexed merriment. This leisure is a cherished one, and his pleasure
runs the gamut of many physical bouts. He boxes, gives play with
single-stick and quarter-staff, both vigorous, determined, and honestly
punctuated with resounding whacks and grinning acceptances of pain. The
bear is chased amid much license of noise, and Jack swims, dives, rows,
wrestles, and dances. And how he dances! Save on board flag-ships, bands
are extemporized affairs; for the sailor loves his music dearly, even
when he has to pay his piper, and is a prentice hand with various
instruments, though, I think, there is an unwritten law against the
wheezy and soul-envenoming concertina and a respected prejudice
concerning the piccolo.
I do not know that he hornpipes it so much as he jigs it, but when he
does go in for form and style his traditional performance is filled with
grace and honest delight.
It is at this hour, too, that the dumb pets of the crew have their
rarest frolic; for, by the association--by the inspiration perhaps--of
the same sentiment, this twilight season becomes to the sailor what the
children's hour is to the luckier landsman in homes where love is
sanctified by the tender witcheries of happy childhood. The isolation of
the sailor, the craving during long years of exile for something that
cares for him purely for himself, is a charm to conjure with, and lucky
indeed is the dumb brute whose life falls in the pleasant places of the
forecastle. Indeed, the fondness sailors show for their pets is
proverbial, and so intimately are these associated with certain famous
deeds of the sea that they have acquired a definite name and fame, and
are as well known and as fondly remembered and lamented as are the races
of bygone days by ancient jockeys and stable-boys.
With sailors this feeling often borders on a sincere affection, and in
the early twilight of a second dog-watch I have seen weather-beaten,
battle-scarred bluejackets fondling some pet as tenderly as a mother
would her first-born; and then, when darkness fell, stowing it in a
secure bed and bidding it a most affectionate good-night. The catalogue
of sea pets would read almost like the Homeric enumeration of the ships,
for these are of every description, from field-mice to bears. Those most
generally found are dogs, cats, monkeys, and parrots. The
accomplishments of the parrots are especially weird, and sometimes
uncanny, and there is a tradition that sailors teach them to talk by
feeding them with bread balls in which grains of red pepper are
secreted. When the parrots taste the pepper they begin to scream and
squawk most fiercely, and this is the apt season for their teachers to
repeat fast and furiously the words they seek to have learned. In their
rage the parrots repeat the words thus spoken, and by dint of mild
torture and bad temper acquire a vocabulary which sometimes becomes very
varied. Monkeys are usually dressed in ludicrous copies of foreign
soldiers' uniforms, are taught to drill, and especially to salute and
salaam profoundly at the word of command.
The west coast of Africa, Brazil, and the waters about the Asiatic
station are famous for the queerness, variety, and cheapness of pets,
and if the crews were not restrained the ship would soon become as
riotous as a bear-garden and as clamorous as a menagerie. Among the
animals that have been mustered among a ship's family are black pigs
from Hong-kong; silvery gray squirrels from Shanghai; long-haired
chrysanthemum-tailed dogs from Kobe; rabbits from Chin-kiang; bears, and
quaint little black chickens with feathers that stick out like porcupine
quills, from Nagasaki. From the mud shores of Yang-tse-kiang the sailors
get "miners," birds of the crow family, which with patience and care
soon learn to talk cleverly in the quaint dialect of the sea. At times
more than one of these pets claims the allegiance of its owner. I recall
an aged fore-mast-man of one of our sloops of war, the _Vandalia_, I
think, who had collected a most interesting family, consisting of a dog,
goat, cat, rabbit, hen, parrot, and monkey, all living in a harmony
which put to shame the quarrelsome members of like households in stuffy
museums. So well behaved and decorous were they that even the strictest
of first lieutenants, watchful for holy-stone decks and shining
paint-work, could not complain. Another of our war-ships mustered a pig,
a bear, and a dog in its books.
These had become thoroughly sailorized, going at drum-beat to quarters,
mustering with their divisions, and observing with a fine precision the
routine of the day. By an unexplained but accepted assumption of rank,
the pig took his station on the quarter-deck, the bear mustered
amid-ships, and the dog clung to the eyes of the ship, each in the wake
of his adopted guns' crew. Nothing was allowed to disturb this
ceremonial precedence, not even the riot and roar and the slaughter
sometimes when the ship was in action. At times the bear, with misty
recollections of pine woods and underbrush, would cut adrift from the
restraints of education and run _amook_ in the gangways, more or less
violently hugging members of the crew. He showed a fine discrimination
between friend and foe, cherishing for days the remembrances of an
affront, and never losing an opportunity of avenging it, as many a
madcap youngster had occasion to remember.
Of all pets, none is better suited for ship life than the wily goat, and
the traditions of the navy are jocund with quaint stories of this
animal. Once in the good old days of tarpauling hats and true-lover's
knots, a famous ship's company owned one that fell into evil ways, such
as chewing tobacco, drinking grog, and challenging the best men in the
ship to butting-matches. Indeed, he became a very rakish, swashbuckling,
timber-shivering goat, who lived long and not well, and died after a
prolonged debauch in a fit akin to what Jackie calls the "horrors."
Each day, by common consent, the men added a pint of water to the grog
tub, and regularly in his turn Bill came for his tot. At seasons, when
the master's mate of the spirit-room was disguised with over-much drink,
the goat, like his two-legged messmates, doubled on the tub, securing a
smuggled ration. He came to grief at last, for on an occasion when the
grog was stiff to his liking he got well to windward of the tub, charged
like a first boarder over a clear hammock rail at the mate and purser's
clerk, took possession of the marine bar, and got so gloriously fuddled,
so gloriously uncoo' fou, that he never recovered, but went overboard,
in a middle watch, through sheer despair and misery.
Another goat was the prized shipmate of one of our vessels wrecked on
the coast of India, fortunately in weather moderate enough to launch the
boats and rafts. Each man was detailed for his place, and allowed to
carry his bag of clothes or his hammock--no greater provision being
needed, as the shore was close aboard. As the men slowly lowered
themselves over the ship's side, the nanny-goat stood amongst the
waiting ones, watching her master, the ship's cook, who stood
irresolutely at the mast until his turn came. The cook was an old
sailor, and his kit was very valuable to him--it was probably all he
had in the world--but when his name was called, he dropped the bag, and
touched his hat, and said:
[Illustration: "IF YOU PLEASE, SIR, I CAN'T BEAR TO LEAVE NANNY
BEHIND."]
"If you please, sir, I can't bear to leave Nanny behind. I'll take her
instead of the bag, for there isn't room for both." And then,
appealingly, "Can I, sir?"
Nanny went over the side and landed with him, marched by him through the
desert, and when relief came bleated her enjoyment in a way that repaid
him for the sacrifice. For many years she browsed among the scrap-heaps
and rare grass-plots of the Brooklyn Navy-Yard, where, surrounded by a
numerous progeny, she doubtless told, with many butts, the yarn of the
day when her cook and master saved her up Mozambique way.
I remember some pets of my sea-going days, cherished in life and mourned
in death. One was a scraggy hen, of no known breed, raised in Polynesia,
and given to one of our officers by a native woman in Nukahiva. Her
abnormal thinness saved her from the steward's knife in the early days
at sea; but finally all hopes of fattening her failed, and she was
doomed for a ward-room ragout. One of the men, a queer character in his
way, who had made a study of chickens, begged permission to keep her,
and as we had fresh grub enough, Nell, as he called her, was saved. In a
little while it was more dangerous than a Grain Coast _fetich_ or a
Hawaiian _taboo_ to harm her, and Nell thrived and flourished.
She was carried through all the islands down to New Zealand and
Australia, and back to Chili and Peru, improving daily, and displaying
an intelligence that was marvellous. She was the queen-regnant of the
coop, when she deigned to enter it, and was as jealous of her
prerogatives as the King of Yvetot. Her cackle proclaimed the daylight,
and then there was a row if Jemmy Ducks, guardian and feeder of sea
poultry from time immemorial, didn't hobble aft to give her a morning
ramble to leeward. The first of the corn and water was hers, and having
the coigne of vantage beyond the coop bars, all the lesser chickens,
save some favored chanticleer, suffered.
She displayed a passion for bananas and yams, had strong marked personal
likes and dislikes, and though coquettish, manifested an affection that
was not hampered by official rank, but ran by a descending scale of
years--a white-haired quartermaster possessing more than a tender spot
in her capacious heart, while the ship's boys were held in a contempt
beyond expression. The men vowed by all the pet warrantees of their
profession that she whistled and talked, and I know she was as good a
storm-glass as any standard instrument on shipboard. Her favorite roost
was over the ward-room skylight, her chosen time the dinner hour, and
there she would perch, eying with respectful familiarity the senior
lieutenant. Her interest gradually increased as the dessert stage
approached, the appearance of the fruit awaking a cooing, beseeching
cackle that invariably brought her the ripest banana or the juiciest
mango.
She often kept the deck officers company in the middle watches, dozing
to leeward of the mast until the bell struck, when she would straighten
with an assertive air, as if she had never slept, and cooed a warning
hail to the lookouts.
Poor Nell died during the Darien survey, from indigestion and old age,
and when she was carried ashore for burial, in the neat coffin Chips,
the Scotch carpenter's mate, had fashioned for her, we all felt that she
had made a place in our lives and memories that some day deserved a
record.
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 868.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER IV.
Before daybreak the next morning George came down stairs, Billy following
with his portmanteau. Madam Washington, little Betty, and all the
house-servants were up and dressed, but it was thought best not to waken
the three little boys, who slept on comfortably in their trundle-beds.
The candles were lighted, and for the last time for two months--which
seems long to the young--George had family prayers. His mother then took
the book from him and read the prayers for travellers about to start on
a journey. She was quite composed, for no woman ever surpassed Madam
Washington in self-control; but little Betty still wept, and would not
leave George's side even while he ate his breakfast. There had been some
talk of Betty's going to Mount Vernon also for Christmas; and George,
remembering this, asked his mother, as a last favor, that she would let
Betty meet him there, whence he could bring her home. Madam Washington
agreed, and this quickly dried Betty's tears. Billy acted in a
mysterious manner. Instead of being in vociferous distress, he was
quiet, and even cheerful--so much so that a grin discovered itself on
his countenance, which was promptly banished as soon as he saw Madam
Washington's clear stern eyes travelling his way. George, feeling for
poor Billy's loneliness, had determined to leave Rattler behind for
company; but both Billy and Rattler were to cross the ferry with him,
the one to bring the horse back, and the other for a last glimpse of his
master.
The parting was not so mournful, therefore, as it promised to be. George
went into the chamber where his three little brothers slept, who were
not wide awake enough to feel much regret at his departure. The servants
all came out, and he shook the hand of each, especially Uncle Jasper's,
while Aunt Sukey embraced him. His mother kissed him and solemnly
blessed him, and the procession started. George mounted his own horse,
while Betty, seated pillion-wise behind him, was to ride with him to the
ferry. Uncle Jasper and Aunt Sukey walked as far as the gate; and Billy,
with Rattler at his heels and the portmanteau on his head, started off
on a brisk run down the road.
"And it won't be long until Christmas," said George, turning in his
saddle and pressing Betty's arm that was around him, as they galloped
along briskly; "and if I have a chance of sending a letter, I will write
you one. Think, Betty, you will have a letter all to yourself! You have
never had one, I know."
"I never had a letter all to myself," answered Betty. For that was
before the days of cheap postage, or postage at all as it is now, and
letters were precious treasures.
"And it will be very fine at Mount Vernon--ladies, and even girls like
you, wearing hoops, and dancing minuets every evening, while Black Tubal
and Squirrel Tom play their fiddles."
"I like minuets well enough, but I like jigs and rigadoons better; and
mother will not let me wear a hoop. But I am to have her white sarcenet
silk made over for me. That I know."
"You must practise on the harpsichord very much, Betty; for at Mount
Vernon there is one, and brother Laurence and his wife will want you to
play before company."
Mistress Betty was not averse to showing off her great accomplishment,
and received this very complaisantly. Altogether, what with the letter
and the white sarcenet, she began to take a hopeful rather than a
despairing view of the coming two months.
[Illustration: GEORGE BIDS BETTY GOOD-BY, AND STARTS FOR THE FERRY.]
Arrived within sight of the ferry, George stopped, and lifted Betty off
the horse. There was a foot-path across the fields to the house, which
made it but a short walk back, which Betty could take alone. The brother
and sister gave each other one long and silent embrace--for they loved
each other very dearly--and then, without a word, Betty climbed over the
fence and walked rapidly homeward, while George made for the ferry,
where Billy and the portmanteau awaited him. One of the small boats and
two ferrymen, Yellow Dick and Sambo, took him across the river. The
horse was to be carried across for George to ride to the inn where Lord
Fairfax awaited him, and Billy was to take the horse back again.
The flush of the dawn was on the river when the boat pushed off, and
George thought he had never seen it lovelier; but like most healthy
young creatures on pleasure bent, he had no sentimental regrets. The
thing he minded most was leaving Billy, because he was afraid the boy
would be in constant trouble until his return. But Billy seemed to take
it so debonairly that George concluded the boy had at last got over his
strong disinclination to work for or think of anybody except "Marse
George."
The boat shot rapidly through the water, rowed by the stalwart ferrymen,
and George was soon on the opposite shore. He bade good-by to Yellow
Dick and Sambo, and mounting his horse, with Billy still trotting ahead
with the portmanteau, rode off through the quaint old town to the
tavern. It was a long low building at the corner of two straggling
streets, and signs of the impending departure of a distinguished guest
were not wanting. Captain Benson, a militia officer, kept the tavern,
and, in honor of the Earl of Fairfax, had donned a rusty uniform, and
was going back and forth between the stable and the kitchen, first
looking after his lordship's breakfast, and then after his lordship's
horses' breakfasts. He came bustling out when George rode up.
"Good-morning, Mr. Washington. 'Light, sir, 'light. I understand you are
going to Greenway Court with his lordship. He is now at his breakfast.
Will you please to walk in?"
"No, I thank you, sir," responded George. "If you will kindly mention to
Lord Fairfax that I am here, you will oblige me."
"Certainly, sir, certainly," cried Captain Benson, disappearing in the
house.
The travelling-chariot was out and the horses were being put to it under
the coachman's superintendence, while old Lance was looking after the
luggage. He came up to George, and giving him the military salute, asked
for Mr. Washington's portmanteau. George could scarcely realize that he
was going until he saw it safely stowed along with the Earl's under the
box-seat. He then determined to send Billy off before the Earl made his
appearance, for fear of a terrible commotion, after all, when Billy had
to face the final parting.
"Now, Billy," said George to him, very earnestly, "you will not give my
mother so much trouble as you used to, but do as you are told, and it
will be better for you."
"Yes, suh," answered Billy, looking in George's eyes without winking.
"And here is a crown for you," said George, slipping one into Billy's
hand--poor George had only a few crowns in a purse little Betty had
knitted for him. "Now mount the horse and go home. Good-by, Rattler
boy--all of Lord Fairfax's dogs, of every kind, shall not make me forget
you."
Billy, without the smallest evidence of grief, but with rather a twinkle
in his beady eyes, shook his young master's hand, jumped on the horse,
and whistling to Rattler, all three of George's friends disappeared down
the village street. George looked after them for some minutes, and
sighed at what was before Billy, but comforted himself by recalling the
boy's sensible behavior in the matter of the parting. In a few moments
Lord Fairfax came out. George went up the steps to the porch, and making
his best bow, tried to say how much he felt the Earl's kindness. True
gratitude is not always glib, and was not with George, but the Earl saw
from the boy's face the intense pleasure he experienced.
"You will sit with me, Mr. Washington," said Lord Fairfax, "and when
you are tired of the chariot I will have one of my outriders give you a
horse, and have him ride the wheel-horse."
"Anything that your lordship pleases," was George's polite reply.
The Earl bade a dignified farewell to Captain Benson, who escorted him
to the coach, and in a little while, with George by his side and the
outriders ahead, they were jolting along towards the open country.
The Earl talked a little for the first hour or two, pointing out objects
in the landscape, and telling interesting facts concerning them, which
George had never known before. After awhile, though, he took down two
books from a kind of shelf in the front of the coach, and handing one to
George, said:
"Here is a volume of the _Spectator_. You will find both profit and
pleasure in it. Thirty years ago the _Spectator_ was the talk of the
day. It ruled London clubs and drawing-rooms, and its influence was not
unfelt in politics."
The other book, George saw, was an edition of Horace in the original. As
soon as the Earl opened it he became absorbed in it.
Not so with George and the _Spectator_. Although fond of reading, and
shrewd enough to see that the Earl would have but a low opinion of a boy
who could not find resources in books, what was passing before him was
too novel and interesting, to a boy who had been so little away from
home, to divide his attention with anything. The highway was fairly
good, but the four roans took the road at such a rattling gait that the
heavy chariot rolled and bumped and lurched like a ship at sea. So well
made was it, though, and so perfect the harness, that not a bolt, a nut,
or a strap gave way. The country for the first thirty miles was not
unlike what George was accustomed to, but his keen eyes saw some
difference as they proceeded towards the northwest. The day was bright
and beautiful, a sharper air succeeding the soft Indian-summer of the
few days preceding. The cavalcade made a vast dust, clatter, and
commotion. Every homestead they passed was aroused, and people, white
and black, came running out to see the procession. George enjoyed the
coach very much at first, but he soon began to wish that he were on the
back of one of the stout nags that rode ahead, and determined, as soon
as they stopped for dinner, to take advantage of Lord Fairfax's offer
and to ask to ride.
They had started soon after sunrise, and twelve o'clock found them more
than twenty-five miles from Fredericksburg. They stopped at a road-side
tavern for dinner and some hours' rest. The tavern was large and
comfortable, and boasted the luxury of a private room, where dinner was
served to the Earl and his young guest. When the time came to start
George made his request that he be allowed to ride a horse, and he was
immediately given his choice of the four bays. "Do not feel obliged to
regulate your pace by ours," said the Earl. "We are to sleep to-night at
Farley's tavern, only twenty miles from here, and so you present
yourself by sundown it is enough."
George mounted and rode off. He found the bay well rested by his two
hours' halt, and ready for his work. He felt so much freer and happier
on horseback than in the chariot that he could not help wishing he could
make the rest of the journey in that way. He reached Farley's tavern
some time before sundown, and his arrival giving advance notice of the
Earl, everything was ready for him, even to a fine wild turkey roasting
on the kitchen spit for supper. Like most of the road-houses of that
day, Farley's was spacious and comfortable, though not luxurious. There
was a private room there, too, with a roaring fire of hickory logs on
the hearth, for the night had grown colder. At supper, when there was
time to spare, old Lance produced a box, out of which he took some
handsome table furniture and a pair of tall silver candlesticks. The
supper was brought in smoking hot, Lance bearing aloft the wild turkey
on a vast platter. He also brought forth a bottle of wine of superior
vintage to anything in the tavern cellar.
The Earl narrowly watched George as they supped together, talking
meanwhile. He rightly judged that table manners and deportment are a
very fair test of one's training in the niceties of life, and was more
than ever pleased the closer he observed the boy. First, George proved
himself a skilful carver, and carved the turkey with the utmost
dexterity. This was an accomplishment carefully taught him by his
mother. Then, although he had the ravenous appetite of a
fifteen-year-old boy after a long day's travel, he did not forget to be
polite and attentive to the Earl, who trifled with his supper rather
than ate it. The boy took one glass of wine, and declined having his
glass refilled. His conversation was chiefly replies to questions, which
were so apt that the Earl every moment liked his young guest better and
better. George was quite unconscious of the deep attention with which
Lord Fairfax observed him. He thought he had been asked to Greenway out
of pure good-nature, and rather wished to keep in the background, so he
should not make his host repent his hospitality. But a feeling far
deeper than mere good-nature inspired the Earl. He felt a profound
interest in the boy, and was enough of a judge of human nature to see
that something remarkable might be expected of him.
Soon after supper occurred the first inelegance on George's part. In the
midst of a sentence of the Earl's the boy suddenly and involuntarily
gave a wide yawn. He colored furiously; but Lord Fairfax burst into one
of his rare laughs, and calling Lance, directed him to show Mr.
Washington to his room. George was perfectly willing to go; but when
Lance, taking one of the tall candlesticks, showed him his room, his
eyes suddenly came wide open, and the idea that Lance could tell him all
about the siege of Bouchain, and marching and starving and fighting with
Marlborough, drove the sleep from his eyes like the beating of a drum.
Reaching the room, Lance put the candle on the dressing-table, and
standing at "attention," asked,
"Anything else, sir?"
"Yes," said George, seating himself on the edge of the bed. "How long
will it be before my Lord Fairfax needs you?"
"About two hours, sir. His lordship sits late."
"Then--then--" continued George, with a little diffidence, "I wish you
would tell me something about campaigning with the Duke of Marlborough
and Prince Eugene, and all about the siege of Bouchain."
Lance's strong, weather-beaten face was suddenly illuminated with a
light that George had not seen on it before, and his soldierly figure
unconsciously took a more military pose.
"'Tis a long story, sir," he said, "and I was only a youngster and a
private soldier; it is thirty-five years gone now."
"That's why I want you to tell it," replied George. "All the books are
written by the officers, but never a word have I heard from a man in the
ranks. I have read the life of the great Duke of Marlborough, and also
of Prince Eugene, but it is a different thing to hear a man tell of the
wars who has burned powder in them."
"True, sir. And the Duke of Marlborough was the greatest soldier of our
time. We have the Duke of Cumberland now--a brave general, sir, and
brother to the King--but, I warrant, had he been at the siege of
Bouchain and in the Low Countries, he would have been licked worse than
Marshal Villars."
"And Marshal Villars was a very skilful general too," said George, now
thoroughly wide awake.
"Certainly, sir, he was. The French are but a mean-looking set of
fellows, but how they can fight! And they have the best legs of any
soldiers in Europe; and I am not so sure they have not the best heads. I
fought 'em for twenty-five years--for I only quitted the service when I
came with my Lord Fairfax to this new country--and I ought to know. My
time of enlistment was up, the great Duke was dead, and there had been
peace for so long that I thought soldiers in Europe had forgot to fight;
so when his Lordship offered to bring me, I, who had neither wife nor
child, nor father nor mother, nor brother nor sister, was glad to come
with him. I had served in his Lordship's regiment, and he knew me,
because I had once-- But never mind that, sir."
"No," cried George. "Go on."
"Well, sir," said Lance, looking sheepish, "I shouldn't have spoke of
it, but the fact is that once when we were transporting powder from the
magazine the wagon broke down and a case exploded. It was a miracle that
all of us were not killed; three poor fellows were marked for life, and
retired on two shillings a day for it. There were plenty of sparks lying
around, and I put some of them out, and we saved the rest of the powder.
That's all, sir."
"I understand," answered George, smiling. "It was a gallant thing, and
no doubt you saved some lives as well as some powder."
"Maybe so, sir," said Lance, a dull red showing under the tan and
sunburn of more than fifty years. "My Lord Fairfax made more of it than
'twas worth. So, when he had left the army, and I thought he had forgot
me, he wrote and asked if I would come to America with him, and I came.
Often, in the winter-time, the Earl does not see a white face for
months, except mine, and then he forgets that we are master and man, and
only remembers that he is my old commander and I am an old soldier. The
Earl was a young cornet in 1710-12, and was with the armies in the Low
Countries, where we had given Marshal Villars a trouncing, and he gave
Prince Eugene a trouncing back, in exchange. So, sometimes, of the long
winter nights, the Earl sends for me, and reads to me out of books about
that last campaign of the Duke of Marlborough's, and says to me, 'Lance,
how was this?' and, 'Lance, do you recollect that?' Being only a
soldier, I never did know what we were marching and counter-marching
for, nor so much as what we were fighting for; but when the Earl asks me
what we were doing when we marched from Lens to Aire, or from Arleux to
Bachuel, I can tell him all about the march--whether 'twas in fine or
rainy weather, and how we got across the rivers, and what rations we
had; we often did not have any, and the mounseers were not much better
off. But, Mr. Washington, a Frenchman's stomach is not like an
Englishman's. He can sup on soupe maigre and lentils after a hard day's
march, and then get up and shake a leg while another fellow fiddles. But
an Englishman has to have his beef, sir, and bacon and greens, and a
good thick porridge with beans in it. I think all the nourishment the
Frenchmen get goes into their legs, for they will march day and night
for their Grand Monarque, as they call him, and are always ready to
fight."
"I hope we shall not have to fight the French up in Pennsylvania to make
them keep their boundaries," said George, after a while, in a tone which
plainly meant that he hoped very much they would have to fight, and that
he would be in the thick of the scrimmage. "And now tell me how the Duke
of Marlborough looked in action, and all about Prince Eugene and the
siege of Bouchain, until it is time to go to the Earl. But first sit
down, for you have had a hard day's travel."
"Thank you, sir," said Lance, sitting down stiffly, and snuffing the
candle with his fingers.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
RICK DALE.
BY KIRK MUNROE,
AUTHOR OF "SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES," "THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH," "THE 'MATE'
SERIES," "FLAMINGO FEATHER," ETC.