ACCUSING LETTERS
For a week Miss Priscilla Sanford had been in a state of mind bordering
on the ecstatic. For months letters of portentous size, bearing the
stamp of a great and powerful organization of Christian women, had been
left at her door, and many an hour had that energetic maiden been
devoting to correspondence with boards, committees, secretaries, etc.,
adding much to the burden of the mail orderly, and not a little to his
malevolence. A dour and unsocial Scot was McPherson, as he called
himself, but there was wisdom in the selection, for Kennedy, his
predecessor, was as genial as Mac was glum, and Kennedy's fall from
grace was due mainly to his amiable weakness for the opposite sex, a
trait that had led to his lingering far too long in the early spring
mornings--and many a "storm house"--along the row, and to concomitant
complaint. Letters delayed, letters even diverted from their proper
destination, had been all too often charged to him, for more than one
housemaid, not to mention a mistress or two, was possessed of a devil of
curiosity as to the correspondence of many another, and Kennedy was too
much interested in all of them to be austere. Not so McPherson. There
was not another of his clan, there were but three of his nationality, in
the entire garrison, for seldom, save under the flag of Great Britain,
is the Scot in peace time a soldier. Mac had served his native country
in the "Forty Twa"; had come to the States a time-expired man; had met
his fate, married, and been bereft and deserted within two years, and,
like many another man, he had sought in the profession of arms the peace
denied him at the domestic fireside. Uncle Sam employs no recruiting
solicitors; he needs none, for the petticoat drives to his ranks more
men than he will take. Something of Mac's history was made known to his
colonel, and when Kennedy had to be replaced, although Mac had not been
a year in the regiment, Stone issued his mandate. "_There's_ the man for
the place," said he to the adjutant. "There'll be no peeping and prying
with that red-headed Sawny in charge."
Priscilla had not been slow to note the substitution, nor to divine the
cause. Priscilla had much disapproved of Kennedy, and Kennedy of her.
"That prayin', pryin', pesterin' old maid beyant," he described her to
the surgeon's becapped and bewitching Kathleen, the belle of the
non-commissioned officers' ball. Priscilla found in Presbyterian Mac a
far more promising subject, and was aggrieved and dismayed at her lack
of success. McPherson would only stand at salute, frigidly respectful,
but as icily impenetrable. Mac scented mischief at the outset. He had
heard much among the men about Miss Sanford's kindergarten, the Bible
class, the prayer meetings, and her persistent preachings against the
Canteen. Now, Mac himself disapproved of that institution, and hearing
of this--I fear me Sandy told her, and for motives altogether
mischievous--Miss Sanford had lain in wait for Mac, and held him one
brief moment in converse at the door. The story of that episode
delighted Minneconjou and the minority, let us say, when it was later
told in Congress.
"I'm so glad to hear, McPherson," said Miss Sanford, beaming upon him,
as she took from his hand the little packet of letters, "that you, too,
are one of the right sort of soldiers. Now, tell me why _you_ disapprove
of the Canteen," for Priscilla was sending that day another long letter
of experiences to the _Banner of Light_; and the reply came, prompt,
unflinching, uncompromising, but--most unsatisfactory:
"Because, mem, ye canna get a drap o' whusky."
And so saying McPherson was all simple sincerity. Bred to its use in the
raw fogs of his native glen, accustomed to his modest daily tot even
when on "sentry go" at the Castle, or the water gate at Gibraltar, he
and his comrades of the Black Watch had been reared in the broad faith
that teaches temperance, not intolerance. Their canteen sergeant set the
limit, not the pace, and doubtless Mac in 'listing for a soldier in the
land of liberty had looked perhaps for even greater license. Beer he
called "swipes," and despised. Rhine wine, tasted but once, set his grim
face awry, and presently townward. Mac's one peccadillo since joining at
Minneconjou was a rantin', roarin' drunk in Silver Hill that cost Uncle
Sam three days of his services, and the Highlander three months of his
pay. There were fines both military and municipal. In disgust Mac swore
off. He "had na use for a consairn that compelled a mon to walk three
miles to get a wee drappie--and lose three months' siller."
But Priscilla was undaunted still. She had written glowingly,
enthusiastically, unceasingly, of all her efforts to promote the cause
of temperance among the nation's soldiery. She had told much of her
converts to total abstinence, and little of their backsliding. She had
managed, through Blenke and others, to get a transcript of the daily
guard report, and the punishments awarded by the summary and general
courts-martial. Minneconjou had now a garrison of some eight hundred
men, with a big and bustling frontier town only a few miles away. Thanks
to the system of the post Exchange and the careful supervision, both of
its customers and its supplies, drunkenness had been reduced almost to a
minimum. Not one out of one hundred men was in confinement, either
awaiting or serving sentence. Not more than ten in two months had been
fined for minor breaches of discipline due to drink. Some old topers,
relics of the sutler-shop days of the army, were still to be found, men
whose stomachs could not be always appeased by mild measures, and
demanded the coarser stimulant--in bottles smuggled from town; but every
case, however mild, had been made, it seems, the text for one of
Priscilla's vivid letters descriptive of the depravity still rampant in
the army, and due entirely to the presence of that blot upon Christian
civilization--the Canteen.
And well had they served their purpose. In fancied security, knowing
that their methods had resulted in the greatest good to the greatest
number, the officers on duty with troops had read with smiling tolerance
marked copies of Eastern papers detailing the concerted efforts of the
crusaders against the post Exchange. Congress had been memorialized.
Congress had good naturedly listened to the successive readings of a
bill abolishing the system and forbidding the sale of either beer or
wine at any military post in the United States. Then, brimful, bustling
with excitement, and rejoicing, Priscilla read that her letters had been
largely instrumental in winning over certain of the opposition, and that
when the question came to a vote the noble leaders of a noble cause
would be present in force, and when the House sat, there--there would
they sit and watch, and woe betide the advocate of the arch fiend rum
that dare vote against their sacred measure. Before the army could
realize what was coming, the House sat in judgment on the bill, the
Society sat in judgment on the House; its members glanced casually at
the subject and fearfully at the galleries and--succumbed. "The Senate
will kill it, anyhow, so we might as well make ourselves solid,--it's
only the army, anyway," was the expression of one long-headed
legislator. Priscilla screamed--squealed rather--in ecstasy over the
telegram brought her at breakfast, threw the paper to Sandy and herself
into a _pas seul_ that fairly amazed Aunt Marion and scandalized the
cat. But, when a week or so later the Senate, too, quailed before the
basilisk eyes in the galleries, and the bill went to the President and
became at once a law, it is safe to say that, for one memorable day,
Miss Sanford not unwarrantably looked upon herself as of infinitely more
consequence than the commanding officer.
Then, in the midst of the amaze and bewilderment that fell upon the
fort, came sensation. Colonel Stone sent for Sandy Ray, nodded
"withdraw" to his adjutant, who closed the door behind him, and then
looked up with somber eyes at the pale-faced young fellow before him.
"Your occupation's gone, Sandy," said he sorrowfully. "They've pulled
from under us the best prop to order and discipline that ever we had. It
hasn't been a square deal. They won by methods we couldn't hope to meet,
and,"--drawing forth certain newspaper clippings,--"here are specimens.
For your father's sake, I liked you before I grew to like you for your
own; but if your father himself were here, and head of the house instead
of yourself, I'd have to hold him to account as I must hold you.
Read--that."
And Sandy, turning paler still, and quivering with mingled wrath and
shame, stood and read somewhat as follows:
At Fort Minneconjou the situation is even worse. We have it from
indisputable authority that, so far from seeking to check the evil
among their men, officers of the highest rank freely mingle with
them at the garrison saloon, and urge and incite them to drink. Is
it to be wondered at, therefore, that the sickening scenes depicted
by our correspondent are of almost daily occurrence?--that young
lads, fresh from the pure influences of peaceful homes, the
mother's blessing still echoing in their ears, the mother's kiss
still warm upon their brows, are forced to witness such revolting
crimes, to hear such ribald oaths, and gradually, through the
example of officers seeking doubtless to increase the revenue
derived from the sale of the vile poisons they purchase at
wholesale from equally vile distillers, and in the hope of winning
the favor of these all-powerful superiors, to forget the teachings
of home, the prayers of parents and kindred, and to yield to the
tempter and become in turn slaves of the soul-destroying habit,
helpless victims of rum? How long, O Lord, how long will the
representatives of a free and enlightened people continue to
sanction such infamy?
"That's one of a dozen editorials," said the colonel. "What most
concerns us is the one of a dozen letters on which it is based. Now,
look at this." And Sandy read.
FORT MINNECONJOU, S. D., _May 30, 19--_.
EDITOR BANNER OF LIGHT:
Since My Last, of a Week Ago, No Less Than Seven Soldiers, Men Who,
Could They Be Divorced From Drink, Would Be Ornaments To The
Service of Their Country, Have Been Thrown Into the Garrison
Prison, Or Hauled Before Their Judges,--these Latter the Very Men
who advocate and encourage the sale of intoxicants,--to receive
their punishment for various crimes and misdemeanors committed
while under the influence of drink. And so it goes. They, the
helpless victims, must suffer the consequences of the crimes of
their officers, who are able to divide each month the profits of
their nefarious traffic, and go utterly unwhipped of justice. Only
two days ago, speaking of this matter after morning service, one of
our veteran soldiers said, with tears in his eyes, "If the
Christian people of this land only dreamed what sins were being
committed under cover of the devil-inspired Canteen, they would
rise up as one man and demand its extinction." But, as I said
before, so long as their most popular officers are permitted
unrebuked to meet them, and carouse with them, and thereby teach
and inspire the young and thoughtless soldier to drink, what can we
accomplish? The sights and sounds, the fearful scenes and frightful
curses to which I have been witness here, all due to the demon that
lurks within that protected rum hole opposite my window, would
appall a Christian community--which this is not.
Sandy turned to the wrapper, his lips almost as gray as his young face.
It was the copy of a letter from the pastor of a church in a far Eastern
city, inclosing five newspaper clippings, and calling upon the Secretary
of War to order the instant court-martial and dismissal of the military
officers responsible for the abominable state of affairs existing at
Fort Minneconjou; which letter the Secretary had respectfully referred
to the Commanding General, Department of the Middle West, for
"investigation and report," which paper and inclosures that official had
respectfully referred to the commanding officer, Fort Minneconjou, with
similar demand. Stone had received, read, remarked and--sent for Sandy.
An hour later, as Miss Sanford was sallying forth on "an errand of
mercy," as she had usually heard such missions described,--she was going
to the post hospital with a fresh supply of temperance tracts and a
small box of cherries,--she encountered her cousin at the door, and
something in his face made her own lose color. The Dwights' phaeton came
bowling down the road at the moment, Mrs. Dwight bowing and smiling
bewitchingly, Captain Foster gallantly lifting his derby, for, when
others could not wear it, Foster favored civilian dress. Miss Sanford
responded vaguely, Sandy not at all. Possibly he did not wish to see.
Possibly, said Priscilla to herself, it is _that_ that has so upset him.
She hoped, indeed, it might be that, and not that which, almost
instantly, she feared. He said no word at all, merely motioned to her to
turn back. Priscilla was accustomed to dominate, not to domination, but
she saw the look of the father in the stern young face before her. Uncle
Will she knew was the mildest of men in his dealings with women, until
fully aroused. Then Uncle Will became dangerous, and looked very much as
did Sandy now. The first question as he practically backed her into the
little army parlor was, "Is mother home?"
Priscilla looked aloft. "In her room," she said.
"Then I cannot--speak to you now," said Sandy. "Colonel Stone has called
me to account for one of the five inclosures to this paper. Before I
answer we've got to have, you and I, a clear understanding, and before
we can have that you must read these, and think over what other slanders
you have written."
"I was going to the hospital," faltered Priscilla. "Sullivan's
worse--and Blenke's been so queer----"
"The hospital, Sullivan, and Blenke can wait," said Sandy firmly, though
his voice was shaking. "Colonel Stone and I cannot. I shall say nothing
to mother of this as yet. Be ready to see me here at twelve o'clock.
Mother will not be home."
So saying, and leaving in her hands the fateful packet, Ray turned
abruptly and left the house, Priscilla mounting slowly to her room.
It still lacked an hour to noon, and she had time to read and to think.
It was past the hour at which Jimmy Dwight generally came running in to
say good-morning to Aunt Marion, but Jimmy had not come. Out on the
sunlit parade a dozen garrison boys and girls were in the midst of a
shouting, shrieking, frolicsome game of "Pull-Away," and Jimmy, usually
one of the blithest and merriest, was not there. Priscilla had noted
this when, from the little veranda of the lieutenant's quarters but a
few minutes before, she had been disapprovingly watching the sport--it
was so uninstructive, thought Priscilla. She could not, from the window
at the side, see much of the parade. Over against it, midway along the
barrack line of the northeast front, she could see the Exchange
building, could see Sandy more than halfway across, walking even more
swiftly, stiffly, than ever. She saw the few loungers and convalescents,
sunning themselves on the southern benches, rising to their feet at the
approach of the young officer. She could hear the tramp of the two
battalions and the majors' ringing commands, exercising, one on the
plain to the south where Dwight's squadron disported itself before
breakfast, the other out on the parade. She could hear faintly the fine
band of the infantry practicing at the assembly room adjoining the
Exchange. From the open window of Sandy's room, across the hall, she
could have seen the deserted veranda of the officers' club. Half an hour
hence it would be swarming with thirsty and perspiring gentlemen in
khaki just in from a lively drill. She felt rather than saw what was
said in that relentless paper on her dressing table, and she shrank from
the opening and reading. Sandy's face had told her what to expect.
Sandy's tongue had spoken of slanders--slanders that well she realized,
like curses, had come home to roost. She could not say, even to herself,
that what she had written was never meant for public eyes. She had
hoped--she had meant--it should be published, and that all good
Christian men and women, readers of the _Banner of Light_, should
approve and applaud her righteous efforts in behalf of so great and
glorious a cause. But it had not occurred to her that the _Banner_
would ever find its way to so godless a community as this at
Minneconjou--where her statements might be challenged. She was stunned,
temporarily, by this most unlooked-for catastrophe. Uncle Will and Aunt
Marion had been her best friends and benefactors, and, even though duty
demanded that she should make clear to them how deeply they erred in
their attitude on so vital a question as that of the Canteen, she knew,
and well knew, that what she had written in the enthusiasm of her faith,
the intensity of her zeal, was far from warrantable by the cold facts in
the case. She followed Sandy with her eyes as he neared the
veranda,--saw the hands of the half dozen men go up in salute,--saw him
suddenly turn and, facing west, salute in turn, and then the colonel
marched into her field of vision, and the veteran of the Civil War and
the subaltern of a few skirmishes stood a moment in conference, then
strode away together toward the townward gate and the "auxiliary"
guard-house, the orderly following after.
And then she heard her aunt's voice at her door.
"Have you seen anything of Jimmy this morning, 'Cilla? It's strange he
has not come," and then cook from the kitchen appeared at the landing.
"That young man, mum, Mr. Blenke, would like to speak with Miss Sanford
a minute." And, leaving the papers on her bureau, glad of a respite,
Priscilla hastened down.
Blenke's big mournful brown eyes had of late been darker than ever, and
dark circles had sunk in beneath them. Blenke's sallow face had taken on
an even sallower hue. "Nothing but indigestion and lack of exercise,"
said the junior doctor, of whom Priscilla had made inquiries. "The man
spends his leisure hours moping or mooning around by himself. He ought
to be made to play ball, tennis, spar, ride, wrestle, or something. He's
a day-dreamer--maybe a pipe-dreamer," hazarded he, in conclusion, with a
queer look at Priscilla, who had flushed indignantly at the insinuation.
Blenke had sorrowfully and virtuously repelled that insinuation the
moment she brought it to his attention, but circumstances had been
combining to make her uneasy about her paragon. If not a "pipe-dreamer,"
Blenke was becoming odd and nervous, queer, and twitchy. To-day he came
with a plea she had never heard him make before. Blenke, who never
drank, gambled, smoked, swore, or otherwise misconducted himself, had
come to tell Miss Sanford in the best of language that he had urgent
need of ten dollars and two days' pass. The pass his captain had signed
on the spot, but he wouldn't stand for the ten dollars. Blenke would
tell Miss Sanford all about it on his return, but now there was not a
moment to lose unless he lose also the train to Rapid City. Would Miss
Sanford help him?
Priscilla had but ten dollars to her name, but swiftly she sped upstairs
to get it. The bugle was sounding the recall from drill as she entered
her little room, unlocked an upper drawer of the dressing-table, and
found the two bills in her slender _portemonnaie_. The batch of official
papers, with the portentous, red ink-lined, third indorsement uppermost,
still stared at her from the prim, white-covered top, and impatiently
she thrust it into the shallow pocket of the summer skirt and hastened
away downstairs. Blenke's eyes were eloquent with subdued sadness,
mystery, and gratitude as he received the money and turned away. The
children out in front on the parade, with shrill shouting and laughter,
had just gone racing away toward the eastward gate, and as their clamor
died in the distance Priscilla's quick ear caught the sound of sobbing
and a piteous wail for help.
Ever sympathetic with those in distress, she hurried through the
hallway, out through the gate and there, crouched at the foot of the
little shade tree at the edge of the parade, with blood streaming
through the clutching fingers from a slashing cut at the edge of the
left eye, was little George Thornton, son of a junior officer of
infantry. Priscilla in an instant was bending over him.
"What is it, Georgie, dear? Oh, how _did_ you get so cruel a hurt?"
Sobs and screams were at first the only answer. Clasping her kerchief to
the wound with her right hand, and leading the little fellow, half
running, with the left, she guided him homeward, where presently a badly
frightened brace of women, mother and housemaid, busily hindered her
skilled fingers in bathing and bandaging the cut. It was not long before
the bleeding was stanched, the patient soothed and comforted and the
maid had gone for the doctor. Meanwhile the mother, too, had made her
demand, "Who--who could have done this?" And to every such query there
was but one answer, "Jimmy Dwight."
"Surely not on purpose!" ventured Priscilla, in the interest of peace,
truth, and justice, only to receive with vehement emphasis the
to-be-expected answer of the stung, angered, and irresponsible child.
"He _did_, I tell you! We were racin', an'--an' when I was gettin' past
him, he just whacked me with all his might."
The boys had all disappeared, when presently Priscilla again came forth,
homeward bound. They had swarmed over to the stables, where some troop
horses had broken away from their herd, and were having a hilarious time
of it, but one or two little girls were slowly returning, and to the
foremost of these Priscilla addressed herself for information. Was Jimmy
Dwight with the other boys? Yes, he had only come out a few minutes ago.
Had they seen how Georgie Thornton was hurt? They had not. _They_ had
started with the foremost, and George and Jimmy had run back after a
ball, and so got behind. But presently came Kitty Blair, and Kitty _had_
seen. Tiring of the chase she had dropped out as the last boys went
bounding by her, and Jimmy Dwight was swinging his jacket, and he just
slashed Georgie Thornton right in the face with it. Yes, she was sure.
Millie Cross had seen it, too, and had run home to tell her mother.
Thoughtfully, with downcast eyes, Priscilla retraced her steps. Orderly
and mess call were sounding now, and with a start she remembered that
this was the moment set by Sandy for her explanation as to the clipping,
and, glancing up in sudden fright, she found standing at the doorway,
the accusing papers in hand, not her cousin, but her cousin's mother,
her hostess and her benefactress--Marion Ray.