Farnham and Temple walked hastily back to where they had left Kendall
with the rest of the company. They found him standing like a statute
just where he had been placed by Farnham. The men were ranged in the
shadow of the shrubbery and the ivy-clad angle of the house. The moon
shone full on the open stretch of lawn, and outside the gates a black
mass on the sidewalk and the street showed that the mob had not left
the place. But it seemed sluggish and silent.
"Have they done anything new?" asked Farnham.
"Nothin', but fire a shot or two--went agin the wall overhead; and once
they heaved a lot of rocks, but it was too fur--didn't git more'n half
way. That's all."
"We don't want to stand here looking at each other all night," said
Farnham.
"Let's go out and tell them it's bed-time," suggested Temple.
"Agreed!" said Farnham. He turned to his men, and in a voice at first
so low that it could not have been heard ten feet away, yet so clear
that every syllable was caught by his soldiers, he gave the words of
command.
"Company, attention! Eight, forward. Fours right. Double time. March!"
The last words rang out clear and loud, and startled the sullen crowd
in the street. There was a hurried, irresolute movement among them,
which increased as the compact little corps dashed out of the shadow
into the clear moonlight, and rushed with the rapid but measured pace
of veterans across the lawn. A few missiles were thrown, without
effect. One or two shots were heard, followed by a yell in the street--
which showed that some rioter in his excitement had wounded one of his
own comrades. Farnham and his little band took only a moment to reach
the gate, and the crowd recoiled as they burst through into the street.
At the first onslaught the rioters ran in both directions, leaving the
street clear immediately in front of the gates.
The instant his company reached the middle of the avenue, Arthur,
seeing that the greater number of the divided mob had gone to the left,
shouted:
"Fours left. March--guide right."
The little phalanx wheeled instantly and made rapid play with their
clubs, but only for a moment. The crowd began to feel the mysterious
power which discipline backed by law always exerts, and they ran at
full speed up the street to the corner and there dispersed. The
formation of the veterans was not even broken. They turned at Farnham's
order, faced to the rear, and advanced in double time upon the smaller
crowd which still lingered a little way beyond the gate.
In this last group there was but one man who stood his ground and
struck out for himself. It was a tall young fellow with fair hair and
beard, armed with a carpenter's hammer, with which he maintained so
formidable an attitude that, although two or three policemen were
opposed to him, they were wary about closing in upon him. Farnham,
seeing that this was all there was left of the fight, ordered the men
to fall back, and, approaching the recalcitrant, said sharply:
"Drop that hammer, and surrender! We are officers of the law, and if
you resist any longer you'll be hurt."
"I don't mind that. I was waiting for _you_," the man said, and made a
quick and savage rush and blow at Farnham. In all his campaigns, he had
never before had so much use for his careful broadsword training as
now. With his policeman's club against the workman's hammer, he
defended himself with such address, that in a few seconds, before his
men could interfere, his adversary was disarmed and stretched on the
sidewalk by a blow over the head. He struggled to rise, but was seized
by two men and held fast.
"Don't hit him," said Farnham. "I think I have seen this man
somewhere."
"Why," said Kendall, "that's Sam Sleeny, a carpenter in Dean Street. He
orter be in better business."
"Yes, I remember," said Farnham; "he is a Reformer. Put him with the
others."
As they were tying his hands, Sam turned to Farnham and said, in a
manner which was made dignified by its slow, energetic malice, "You've
beat me to-night, but I will get even with you yet--as sure as there's
a God."
"That's reasonably sure," said Farnham; "but in the meanwhile, we'll
put you where you can cool off a little."
The street was now cleared; the last fugitives were out of sight.
Farnham returned to his garden, and then divided his men into squads
for patrolling the neighborhood. They waited for half an hour, and,
finding all was still quiet, then made arrangements for passing the
night. Farnham made Temple go into the house with him, and asked Budsey
to bring some sherry. "It is not so good as your Santa Rita," he said;
"but the exercise in the night air will give it a relish."
When the wine came, the men filled and drank, in sober American
fashion, without words; but in the heart of each there was the thought
of eternal friendship, founded upon brave and loyal service.
"Budsey," said Farnham, "give all the men a glass of this wine."
"Not this, sir?" said Budsey, aghast.
"I said this," replied Farnham. "Perhaps they won't enjoy it, but I
shall enjoy giving it to them."
Farnham and Temple were eating some bread and cheese and talking over
the evening, when Budsey came back with something which approached a
smile upon his grave countenance.
"Did they like it?" asked Farnham.
"Half of 'em said they was temperance and wouldn't 'ave any. Some of
the rest said--you will excuse me, sir--as it was d---- poor cider,"
and Budsey went out of the room with a suspicious convulsion of the
back.
"I'll go on that," said Mr. Temple. "Goodnight. I think we will have
good news in the morning. There will be an attack made on those men at
Riverley to-morrow which will melt them like an iceberg in Tartarus."
Mr. Temple was not classical, and, of course, did not say Tartarus.
Farnham was left alone. The reaction from the excitement of the last
few hours was settling upon him. The glow of the fight and his success
in it were dying away. Midnight was near, and a deep silence was
falling upon the city. There was no sound of bells, of steam-whistles,
or of rushing trains. The breeze could be heard in the quiet, stirring
the young, soft leaves. Farnham felt sore, beaten, discomfited. He
smiled a little bitterly to himself when he considered that the cause
of his feeling of discouragement was that Alice Belding had spoken to
him with coldness and shyness when she opened her door. He could not
help saying to himself, "I deserved a kinder greeting than she gave me.
She evidently wished me to understand that I am not to be permitted any
further intimacy. I have forfeited that by presuming to love her. But
how lovely she is! When she took her mother in her arms, I thought of
all the Greek heroines I ever read about. Still, 'if she be not fair
for me'--if I am not to be either lover or friend--this is no place for
me."
The clock on the mantel struck midnight. "A strange night," he mused.
"There is one sweet and one bitter thing about it. I have done her a
service, and she did not care."
He went to the door to speak to Kendall. "I think our work is over for
to-night. Have our prisoners taken down to the Refrigerator and turned
over to the ordinary police. I will make charges to-morrow. Then divide
the men into watches and make yourself as comfortable as you can. If
anything happens, call me. If nothing happens, good-night."
He returned to his library, turned down the gas, threw himself on the
sofa, and was soon asleep; even before Alice, who sat, unhappy, as
youth is unhappy, by an open window, her eyes full of tears, her heart
full of remorse. "It is too wretched to think of," she bemoaned
herself. "He is the only man in the world I could ever care for, and I
have driven him away. It never can be made right again; I am punished
justly. If I thought he would take me, I believe I could go this minute
and throw myself at his feet. But he would smile, and raise me up, and
make some pretty speech, very gentle, and very dreadful, and bring me
back to mamma, and then I should die."
But at nineteen well-nourished maidens do not pass the night in
mourning, however heavy their hearts may be, and Alice slept at last,
and perhaps was happier in her innocent dreams.
The night passed without further incident, and the next day, though it
may have shown favorable signs to practised eyes, seemed very much, to
the public, like the day which had preceded it. There were fewer shops
closed in the back streets; there were not so many parties of wandering
apostles of plunder going about to warn laborers away from their work.
But in the principal avenues and in the public squares there were the
same dense crowds of idlers, some listless and some excited, ready to
believe the wildest rumors and to applaud the craziest oratory.
Speakers were not lacking; besides the agitators of the town, several
had come in from neighboring places, and they were preaching, with
fervor and perspiration, from street corners and from barrel-heads in
the beer-houses, the dignity of manhood and the overthrow of tyrants.
Bott, who had quite distinguished himself during the last few days, was
not to be seen. He had passed the night in the station-house, and, on
brief examination before a police-justice at an early hour of the
morning, on complaint of Farnham and Temple, had been, together with
the man captured in Mrs. Belding's drawing-room, bound over to stand
his trial for house-breaking at the next term of court. He displayed
the most abject terror before his trial, and would have made a full
confession of the whole affair had Offitt not had the address to convey
to him the assurance that, if he stood firm, the Brotherhood of
Bread-winners would attend to his case and be responsible for his safety.
Relying upon this, he plucked up his spirits and bore himself with
characteristic impudence in the presence of the police-justice,
insisting upon being called Professor Bott, giving his profession as
inspirational orator, his religion the divinity of humanity. When bound
over for trial, he rose and gained a round of applause from the idlers
in the court-room by shouting, "I appeal from this outrage to the power
of the people and the judgment of history."
This was his last recorded oration; for we may as well say at once
that, a month later, he stood his trial without help from any
Brotherhood, and passed away from public life, though not entirely from
public employment, as he is now usefully and unobtrusively engaged in
making shoes in the State penitentiary--and is said "to take serious
views of life."
The cases of Sleeny and the men who were taken in the street by
Farnham's policemen were also disposed of summarily through his
intervention. He could not help liking the fair-bearded carpenter,
although he had been caught in such bad company, and so charged him
merely with riotous conduct in the public streets, for which the
penalty was a light fine and a few days' detention. Sleeny seemed
conscious of his clemency, but gave him no look or expression of
gratitude. He was too bitter at heart to feel gratitude, and too
awkward to feign it.
About noon, a piece of news arrived which produced a distinct
impression of discouragement among the strikers. It was announced in
the public square that the railway blockade was broken in Clairfield, a
city to the east of Buffland about a hundred miles. The hands had
accepted the terms of the employers and had gone to work again. An
orator tried to break the force of this announcement by depreciating
the pluck of the Clairfield men. "Why, gentlemen!" he screamed, "a
ten-year-old boy in this town has got twice the sand of a Clairfield
man. They just leg the bosses to kick 'em. When they are fired out of
a shop door, they sneak down the chimbley and whine to be took on
again. We ain't made of that kind of stuff."
But this haughty style of eloquence did not avail to inspirit the
crowd, especially as the orator was just then interrupted to allow
another dispatch to be read, which said that the citizens of a town to
the south had risen in mass and taken the station there from the hands
of the strikers. This news produced a feeling of isolation and
discouragement which grew to positive panic, an hour later, on the
report that a brigade of regular troops was on its way to Buffland to
restore order. The report was of course unfounded, as a brigade of
regular troops could not be got together in this country in much less
time than it would take to build a city; but even the name of the
phantom army had its effect, and the crowds began to disperse from that
time. The final blow was struck, however, later in the day.
Farnham learned it from Mr. Temple, at whose counting-room he had
called, as usual, for news. Mr. Temple greeted him with a volley of
exulting oaths.
"It's all up. You know what I told you last night about the attack that
was preparing on Riverley. I went out there myself, this forenoon. I
knew some of the strikers, and I thought I would see if
the -- -- -- -- would let me send my horse Blue Ruin through to
Rochester to-morrow. He is entered for the races there, you know, and I
didn't want, by -- -- -- --, to miss my engagements, understand? Well,
as I drove out there, after I got about half way, it began to occur to
me that I never saw so many women since the Lord made me. The road was
full of them in carts, buggies, horseback, and afoot. I thought a
committee of 'em was going; but I suppose they couldn't trust a
committee, and so they all went. There were so many of 'em I couldn't
drive fast, and so I got there about the same time the head of the
column began to arrive. You never saw anything like it in your life.
The strikers had been living out there in a good deal of style--with
sentries and republican government and all that. By the great
hokey-pokey! they couldn't keep it up a minute when their wives came.
They knew 'em too well. They just bulged in without rhyme or rule.
Every woman went for her husband and told him to pack up and go home.
Some of 'em--the artful kind--begged and wheedled and cried; said they
were so tired--wanted their sweethearts again. But the bigger part
talked hard sense,--told 'em their lazy picnic had lasted long enough,
that there was no meat in the house, and that they had got to come home
and go to work. The siege didn't last half an hour. The men brazened it
out awhile; some were rough; told their wives to dry up, and one big
fellow slapped his wife for crying. By jingo! it wasn't half a flash
before another fellow slapped _him_, and there they had it, rolling
over and over on the grass, till the others pulled them apart by the
legs. It was a gone case from the start. They held a meeting off-hand;
the women stayed by to watch proceedings, and, not to make a long story
about it, when I started back a delegation of the strikers came with me
to see the president of the roads, and trains will run through to-night
as usual. I am devilish glad of it, for my part. There is nothing in
Rochester of any force but Rosin-the-Bow, and my horse can show him the
way around the track as if he was getting a dollar an hour as a guide."
"That _is_ good news certainly. Is it generally known in the city?"
"I think not. It was too late for the afternoon papers. I told Jimmy
Nelson, and he tore down to the depot to save what is left of his
fruit. He swore so about it that I was quite shocked."
"What about the mill hands?" asked Farnham.
"The whole thing will now collapse at once. We shall receive the
proposition of the men who left us to-morrow, and re-engage on our own
terms, next day, as many as we want. We shan't be hard on them. But one
or two gifted orators will have to take the road. They are fit for
nothing but Congress, and they can't all go from this district. If I
were you, Arthur, by the way, I wouldn't muster out that army of yours
till to-morrow. But I don't think there will be any more calls in your
neighborhood. You are too inhospitable to visitors."
The sun was almost setting as Farnham walked through the public square
on his way home. He could hardly believe so sudden a change could have
fallen upon the busy scene of a few hours before. The square was almost
deserted. Its holiday appearance was gone. A few men occupied the
benches. One or two groups stood beneath the trees and conversed in
under-tones. The orators had sought their hiding-places,
unnecessarily--too fearful of the vengeance which never, in this happy
country, attends the exercise of unbridled "slack jaw." As Arthur
walked over the asphalt pavement there was nothing to remind him of
the great crowds of the last few days but the shells of the pea-nuts
crunching under his feet. It seems as if the American workman can
never properly invoke the spirit of liberty without a pocketful of
this democratic nut.
As he drew near his house, Farnham caught a glimpse of light drapery
upon Mrs. Belding's piazza, and went over to relieve her from anxiety
by telling her the news of the day. When he had got half way across the
lawn, he saw Alice rise from beside her mother as if to go. Mrs.
Belding signed for her to resume her seat. Farnham felt a slight
sensation of anger. "It is unworthy of her," he thought, "to avoid me
in that manner. I must let her see she is in no danger from me."
He gave his hand cordially to Mrs. Belding and bowed to Alice without a
word. He then briefly recounted the news to the elder lady, and assured
her that there was no probability of any farther disturbance of the
peace.
"But we shall have our policemen here all the same to-night, so that
you may sleep with a double sense of security."
"I am sure you are very good," she said. "I don't know what we should
have done without you last night, _and_ Mr. Temple. When it comes to
ear-rings, there's no telling what they wouldn't have done."
"Two of your guests are in jail, with good prospects of their remaining
there. The others, I learn, were thieves from out of town; I doubt if
we shall capture them."
"For goodness' sake, let them run. I never want to see them again. That
ugly creature who went up with Alice for the money--you caught him? I
am so glad. The impudence of the creature! going upstairs with my
daughter, as if she was not to be trusted. Well," she added candidly,
"she wasn't that time, but it was none of _his_ business."
Here Alice and Farnham both laughed out, and the sound of the other's
voice was very pleasant to each of them, though they did not look
toward each other.
"I am beginning to think that the world is growing too wicked for
single women," Mrs. Belding continued, philosophically. "Men can take
care of themselves in so many ways. They can use a club as you do----"
"Daily and habitually," assented Arthur.
"Or they can make a speech about Ireland and the old flag, as Mr.
Belding used to; or they can swear like Mr. Temple. By the way, Alice,
you were not here when Mr. Temple swore so at those thieves. I was
scandalized, but I had to admit it was very appropriate."
"I was also away from the room," said Farnham; "but I can readily
believe the comminatory clauses must have been very cogent."
"Oh, yes! and such a nice woman _she_ is."
"Yes, Mrs. Temple is charming," said Farnham, rising.
"Arthur, do not go! Stay to dinner. It will be ready in one moment. It
will strengthen our nerves to have a man dine with us, especially a
liberating hero like you. Why, you seemed to me last night like Perseus
in the picture, coming to rescue What's-her-name from the rock."
Farnham glanced at Alice. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground; her
fingers were tightly clasped. She was wishing with all her energy that
he would stay, waiting to catch his first word of assent, but unable to
utter a syllable.
"Alice," said Mrs. Belding rather sharply, "I think Arthur does not
regard my invitation as quite sufficient. Will you give it your
approval?"
Alice raised her face at these words and looked up at Farnham. It was a
beautiful face at all times, and now it was rosy with confusion, and
the eyes were timid but kind. She said with lips that trembled a
little: "I should be very glad to have Captain Farnham stay to dinner."
She had waited too long, and the words were a little too formal, and
Arthur excused himself on the plea of having to look out for his
cohort, and went home to a lonely dinner.