When Vinton's flotilla drew out into that wonderful bay, and the crowded
transports rode at anchor on the tide, there came swarming about them
all manner of harbor craft, some laden with comforts for the departing
soldiery, some with curiosity seekers, some with contraband of war in
the shape of fruit and fluids, but all were warned to keep a cable's
length at least away.
The commanding general, with other officers of rank, was darting from
ship to ship in a swift steam launch, holding brief conference with the
colonel in command of each, and finally repairing to his own--the
flagship--where the final adieux were exchanged.
The general and his aides nimbly mounted the steep stairway to the
bridge, the launch swung loose, and then up to the mast-head flew a
little bunch of bunting that broke as it reached the truck, and there
fluttered in the strong salt wind whistling in from sea the eagerly
awaited signal to "up anchor and follow."
And then at the stern of the Vanguard the waves were churned into foam
as the massive screw began its spin, and slowly, steadily the flagship
forged ahead to the accompaniment of a deafening din of steam whistles
and sirens all over the bay. Promptly the other transports followed the
movements of the leader, and presently, in trailing column, five big
black steamships, thronged with cheering soldiery, were slowly ploughing
their way towards the grand entrance of that spacious harbor, the
matchless Golden Gate.
Coming abreast of rock-ribbed Alcatraz, still moving at less than half
speed, the flagship was greeted by the thunder of the parting salute,
and the commanding general, standing with his staff upon the bridge,
doffed his cap and bared his handsome head in acknowledgment.
"The next guns we're apt to hear will be the Spaniard's at Manila, and
shotted guns instead of blanks," said a staff officer to the tall,
fair-haired aide-de-camp. "What's the matter, Stuyvesant? Beginning to
feel wabbly already? There's no sea here to speak of."
"I was watching that boat," was the quiet reply, as the young officer
pointed to a small white steamer that appeared coming in pursuit,
carefully picking a way through the host of harbor craft still
screeching and steaming along as escort to the fleet.
There was an eager light in the bright blue eyes, but the high color had
fled. Stuyvesant looked as though he had not slept as much or as well of
late as perfect health required, and his questioner gazed keenly into
his face, then turned away with a smile.
Only three days before, on the register of the Occidental appeared among
the arrivals the entry "Mrs. William P. Ray, Miss Ray, Fort
Leavenworth," and that evening at least a dozen officers called and sent
up their cards, and Lieutenant Ray came in from the Presidio and was
with his mother and sister an hour or more.
The ladies held quite a little levee in the parlor of the familiar old
army hostelry, and Mr. Stuyvesant, after a long and fatiguing day's duty
at camp, accompanied his general to their very handsome apartments at
The Palace, and then falteringly asked if he might be excused awhile--he
had a call or two to make.
The evening papers had announced the arrival of the wife and daughter of
"the gallant officer so well known for quarter of a century gone by to
many of our citizens--Captain 'Billy' Ray, now colonel of the --th
Kentucky," and Stuyvesant had determined to make an effort to meet them.
But he was a stranger to the officers who called and sent up their
cards--all old regulars.
Lieutenant Ray was with the party in the parlor, and Stuyvesant felt a
strange shyness when striving to persuade himself to send his card to
that young officer and boldly ask to be presented. Surely it was the
proper thing to seek and meet her and thank her for her deft
ministrations the night of the fire. Surely a man of his distinguished
family and connections need not shrink from asking to be introduced to
any household in all our broad domain, and yet Stuyvesant found himself
nervous and hesitant, wandering about the crowded office, making
pretense of interest in posters and pictures, wistfully regarding the
jovial knots of regulars who seemed so thoroughly at home.
Over at The Palace, where so many of the general officers and their
staffs were quartered, he had dozens of friends. Here at this favorite
old resort of the regular service he stood alone, and to his proud and
sensitive spirit it seemed as though there were a barrier between him
and these professional soldiers.
There was the whole secret of his trouble. Absurd and trivial as it may
seem, Stuyvesant shrank from the enterprise, even at the very
threshold,--shrank even from sending his card and asking for Lieutenant
Ray, for no other or better reason than that he did not know how a
volunteer would be welcomed.
And so for nearly half an hour he hovered irresolute about the office,
unconscious of the many glances of interest and admiration from the keen
eyes of the officers gathered in laughing groups about the marbled
floor. Not one of their number was his superior in form and feature, and
his uniform was the handiwork of Gotham's best military tailor. _They_
saw that the instant he threw off his cape.
One of their number whispered that it was Mr. Stuyvesant, General
Vinton's aide, for everybody knew Vinton, and more than one would have
been glad to take the aide-de-camp by the hand and bid him welcome to
their coterie but for that same odd shyness that, once away from camp or
garrison and in the atmosphere of metropolitan life, seems to clog and
hamper the kindlier impulses of the soldier.
Presently, as Stuyvesant stood at the desk looking over the register, he
heard himself accosted by name, and turning quickly, hopefully, found to
his disappointment only a stocky little man in civilian dress. Yet the
face was familiar, and the trouble in the honest brown eyes looking up
to him, as though for help and sympathy, went right to his heart. Even
before the man could give his name or tell his need, Stuyvesant knew him
and held out a cordial hand:
"Why! You're our brakeman! I'm glad to see you. What's wrong?"
"I've lost me job, sir," was the answer, with a little choke. "They let
me out two days ago--for sayin' their rotten old car caught fire from
the boxes, I reckon."
"You don't tell me!" exclaimed Stuyvesant in honest indignation. "Now,
how can I help you? What shall we do?"
"Take me to Manila, sir. I don't need this place. There's no one
dependent on me--I can't soldier. They won't 'list a fellow with only
two fingers," and he held up a maimed hand. "Lost the others in a
freight smash-up six years ago. But there's a railway out there that'll
be ours in a few months. Then you'll want Yankee train-hands. Can you
do that much for me, lieutenant?"
"Come to me at The Palace at eight o'clock in the morning," answered
Stuyvesant. "I'll have had a chance to talk to my general by that time.
Meanwhile"--and with a blush he began drawing forth his purse.
The brakeman smiled. "I've got money enough, sir. They paid me off and I
had some put by. Thank you all the same, Mr. Stuyvesant.--Oh, yes, sir,
I'm ready," he broke off suddenly in addressing some other person, and
Stuyvesant, turning quickly to see, was confronted by Lieutenant Ray.
"Oh, how-de-do? Going to be here long?" promptly queried that young
gentleman. "Haven't seen you since the night at the Presidio. 'Scuse me,
will you, I've got to take--er--my sister wants to see the brakeman, you
know.--With you the night of the fire." And with that Mr. Ray hopped
briskly away to the elevator, the ex-trainman following, leaving
Stuyvesant standing enviously at the counter.
Even a brakeman could go to her and hear her pleasant words and receive
that beaming smile and perhaps a clasp of that cool, slender little
hand, while he who so longed for it all stood without the pale.
Then an impulse that had been spurring him for half an hour overmastered
him. The parlors were public. At least he could go and take a peep at
her.
He started for the elevator, then changed his plan, turned, and, with
his cape still thrown over his arm, ascended the stairs. The clerk at
the office desk glanced curiously at him, but the uniform was
sufficient. In a moment he found himself in the broad corridor and
almost in front of the door-way to the parlor. Half a dozen groups,
women and officers, were scattered about in merry conversation, but
Stuyvesant's eyes were riveted instantly on a little party close by the
elevator shaft. There, hat in hand, bowing and blushing, stood the
brakeman. There, with a bright, genial smile on her serene and happy
face, stood a matronly woman who, despite her soft blue eyes and fair
hair and complexion, was patent at once as the mother of the lovely,
dark-eyed girl and the trim young soldier who formed the other members
of the group.
Three or four officers, some of them past the meridian, others young
subalterns, stood looking on in evident interest, and Stuyvesant halted
spellbound, not knowing just what to do.
It was over in a moment. The railwayman, confused but happy, had
evidently been the recipient of kind and appreciative words, for his
face was glowing, and Miss Ray's fairly beamed with the radiance of its
smile. Then the door flew open as the elevator-car stopped for
passengers, and the ex-brakeman backed in and disappeared from view.
Then the mother twined an arm about her daughter's slender waist and two
young officers sprang forward to her side. Together they came sauntering
towards the parlor door, and then, all on a sudden, she looked up and
saw him.
There was no mistaking the flash of instant recognition in her beautiful
eyes. Stuyvesant's heart leaped as his eager gaze met the swift glance,
and noted with joy that she certainly saw and knew him: more than that,
that the sight gave her pleasure. But in another instant she had
recovered herself, and turned to ask some quick question of the young
gallant at her side, and Stuyvesant, who was almost at the point of
bowing low, found himself savagely hating those yellow straps and
stripes and wishing the cavalry in perdition. Somebody was speaking to
Mr. Ray, and he couldn't catch that young officer's eye. The party
stopped a moment at the threshold, one of the officers was saying
good-night, and then a voice at Stuyvesant's elbow said "Which is
Lieutenant Ray?" It was the bell-boy.
A sudden inspiration came to Stuyvesant. "What is it?" he said. "Have
you a message for him?"
"Yes," was the answer. "They're telephoning for him from the
Presidio,--want him to come at once."
"Tell me the whole message and I'll give it," said Stuyvesant. "Anything
wrong?"
"Yes, sir. The clerk's at the 'phone now, but I couldn't get the
trouble. Something's broke loose, as I understand it."
And that delay was fatal. Bounding up the steps, three at a stride, came
a young officer, breathless, and made straight for the group. Seeing
that Mrs. Ray and Miss Marion were close at hand, he paused one moment,
then with significant gesture called Ray to his side. Then Stuyvesant
could not but hear every word of the sudden and startling message.
"Ray, you're wanted at the barracks at once. Prisoners 'scaped and your
house is robbed!"
Stuyvesant ran beside him as Ray went bounding down the stairs and out
into Montgomery Street.
"Can I be of any service? Can I help you some way?" he urged, for he saw
the young officer was looking white and anxious. But Ray hurriedly
thanked him and declined. He could not imagine, he said, what his loss
might be, yet something told him if anybody had escaped it was that
hulking sinner Murray.
He sprang upon the first street-car at the corner, waved his hand in
parting, and was whisked away westward, leaving Stuyvesant standing
disconsolate.
How now could he hope to meet her? The clerk at the office seemed
friendly and sympathetic when Stuyvesant wandered back there, and gave
him such particulars of the situation at the Presidio as he had been
able to gather over the wire. It seemed that a rumor had reached the
commanding officer that a number of tools had been smuggled into the
guard-house by the prisoners, and by the aid of these they hoped to cut
their way out. Despite the fact that it was growing dark, a search of
the prison room and cells was ordered while the prisoners stood in line
in front awaiting the usual evening inspection. There was no one to tell
just who started it or how, but, all on a sudden, while many of the
guard were aiding in the search inside, the whole array of prisoners,
regular and volunteer, old and young, except those few in irons, made a
sudden and simultaneous dash for liberty, scattering in every direction.
Some had already been recaptured, but at least twenty-five were still at
large, and the post adjutant, telephoning for Ray, briefly added that
there was every evidence that his quarters had been robbed.
All this Stuyvesant heard with an absorbing interest, wondering whether
it might not be possible to make it a plea or pretext on which to
present himself to Mrs. Ray, and then ask to be presented to her
daughter. A second time he ascended the stairs and, sauntering by,
peered in at the parlor-door. Yes, there sat the charming matron looking
so winsome and kind as she smiled upon her circle of visitors, but,
alas, they were four in number and all officers of rank in the regular
service, and Stuyvesant's shyness again overcame him.
Moreover, his brief glance into the brightly lighted apartment, all
decorated as it was with flags and flowers, revealed Miss Ray seated
near the window with two young cavalrymen in devoted attendance--all
three apparently so absorbed in their chat that he, lonely and wistful,
escaped observation entirely until, just as he passed from view, her
lovely dark eyes were for an instant quickly raised, and though he knew
it not, she saw him, and saw too that he was wandering aimlessly about,
but, quick as woman's intuition, her eyes returned to the face of the
eager young trooper by her side, for Stuyvesant turned for one more
longing glance before descending, defeated, to the office floor.
It was his last opportunity, and fate seemed utterly against him, for
when on the following evening his general went to call upon Mrs. Ray and
took his handsome and hopeful aide, "The ladies are out," said the
bell-boy. They were dining at the adjutant-general's.
In desperation, Stuyvesant went over to a florist's on Post Street,
bought a box of superb roses, and sent them with his card to Miss Ray,
expressing deep regret that he had been denied opportunity to thank her
in person for her kindness to him the night of the fire. He wanted to
say that he owed his eyes to her, but felt that she knew better and
would be more offended than pleased.
He was to sail on the morrow, and he had not even seen her brother
again.
But the department commander had said he purposed coming out with a
party of friends to run alongside the flag-ship as she steamed slowly
out to sea, and that was why Mr. Stuyvesant stood so eagerly watching
the ploughing side-wheeler so swiftly coming in pursuit. Already he had
made out the double stars in the bunting at the jack-staff. Already he
could distinguish the forms of several general officers whose commands
were not yet ready for embarkation and the fluttering garments of a
score of women.
Something told him she would be of the party, and as the Vanguard slowed
down to let the head-quarters' boat run alongside, his heart beat
eagerly when his general said: "We'll go down, gentlemen, and board her.
It'll be much easier than the climb would be to them."
So it happened that five minutes later he found himself at the heels of
his chief shaking hands mechanically with a dozen officers, while his
eyes kept peering beyond them to where, on the after-deck, the smiling
group of women stood expectant.
And presently the general pushed on for a word of farewell with them,
the aides obediently following, and then came more presentations to
cordial and kindly people whose names he did not even hear, for just a
little farther on, and still surrounded by cavaliers, stood Mrs. Ray,
the handsomest and most distinguished-looking woman of the party, and
close beside her, _petite_ and graceful, her dark beauty even the more
noticeable in contrast with the fair features of her mother, stood
Maidie. And then at last it came, the simple words that threw down the
social barrier that so long had balked him.
"My aide-de-camp, Mr. Stuyvesant, Mrs. Ray,--Miss Ray," and with his
soul in his eyes he looked down into that radiant face, smiling so
cordially, unconstrainedly into his, and then found himself striving to
recall what on earth it was he was so anxious to say.
He knew that he was flushing to the peak of his forage-cap. He knew he
was trying to stammer something. He saw that she was perfectly placid
and at her ease. He saw, worse luck, that she wore a little knot of
roses on the breast of her natty jacket, but that they were not his. He
faltered something to the effect that he had been trying to see her ever
since the night of the fire--had so much to thank her for; and her
white, even, beautiful teeth gleamed as she laughingly answered that the
cherries had more than cancelled the score.
He asked for news of her brother, and was told that he had been too much
occupied to come in again. They were going out to the Presidio that
afternoon.
And then he ventured to hope Mr. Ray had sustained no great loss in the
robbery of his quarters, and saw at once that he was breaking news, for
the smile vanished instantly, the lovely face clouded with concern, and
he had only time to stammer: "Then, probably, there was no truth in the
story. I merely happened to hear two nights ago that Mr. Ray's quarters
had been robbed,--about the time the prisoners escaped." And then he
heard his general calling, and saw that the party was already clambering
back to the Vanguard.
"I--I--I hope I may see you when we get back from Manila, Miss Ray," he
said, as he bowed over her hand.
"I think you may see me--before that," was the smiling answer. And then
Captain Hawley grabbed him by the arm and rushed him to the side.
Two minutes more and he was on the deck of the transport. The lines were
cast off, the white side-wheeler, alive with sympathetic faces, some
smiling, some tearful, and a forest of fluttering kerchiefs, dropped
slowly astern, and all that long evening as they bored through the fogs
of the Farallones and bowed and dipped to the long swell of the sea, and
all the long week that followed as they steamed over a sunlit summer
ocean, Stuyvesant found himself repeating again and again her parting
words, and wondering what could have been the explanation of her knowing
nothing of the robbery of her brother's quarters, or what could have
been her meaning when she said "I think you may see me--before that."
Only once on the run to Honolulu was the flotilla of transports neared
by other voyagers. Three days out from San Francisco the "O. and O."
liner Doric slowly overhauled and gradually passed them by. Exchanging
signals, "All well on board," she was soon lost in the shadows of the
night long miles ahead.