understand? What do _we_ amount to? They have fired on the American
flag. Don’t you see what that means? It means war. A great
international war. And I am a war correspondent at last!” He ran up to
Stedman and seized him by the arm so tightly that it hurt.
“By three o’clock,” he said, “they will know in the office what has
happened. The country will know it to-morrow when the paper is on the
street; people will read it all over the world. The Emperor will hear
of it at breakfast; the President will cable for further particulars.
He will get them. It is the chance of a lifetime, and we are on the
spot.”
Stedman did not hear this; he was watching the broadside of the ship
to see another puff of white smoke, but there came no such sign. The
two row-boats were raised, there was a cloud of black smoke from the
funnel, a creaking of chains sounding faintly across the water, and the
ship started at half speed and moved out of the harbor. The Opekians
and the Hillmen fell on their knees, or to dancing, as best suited
their sense of relief, but Gordon shook his head.
“They are only going to land the marines,” he said; “perhaps they
are going to the spot they stopped at before, or to take up another
position further out at sea. They will land men and then shell the
town, and the land forces will march here and co-operate with the
vessel, and everybody will be taken prisoner or killed. We have the
centre of the stage, and we are making history.”
“I’d rather read it than make it,” said Stedman. “You’ve got us in a
senseless, silly position, Gordon, and a mighty unpleasant one. And for
no reason that I can see, except to make copy for your paper.”
“Tell those people to get their things together,” said Gordon, “and
march back out of danger into the woods. Tell Ollypybus I am going to
fix things all right; I don’t know just how yet, but I will, and now
come after me as quickly as you can to the cable office. I’ve got to
tell the paper all about it.”
It was three o’clock before the “chap at Octavia” answered Stedman’s
signalling. Then Stedman delivered Gordon’s message, and immediately
shut off all connection, before the Octavia operator could question
him. Gordon dictated his message in this way:--
“Begin with the date line, ‘Opeki, June 22.’
“At seven o’clock this morning, the captain and officers of the German
man-of-war _Kaiser_, went through the ceremony of annexing this island
in the name of the German Emperor, basing their right to do so on
an agreement made with a leader of a wandering tribe, known as the
Hillmen. King Ollypybus, the present monarch of Opeki, delegated his
authority, as also did the leader of the Hillmen, to King Tellaman, or
the Peacemaker, who tore down the German flag, and raised that of the
United States in its place. At the same moment the flag was saluted by
the battery. This salute, being mistaken for an attack on the _Kaiser_,
was answered by that vessel. Her first shot took immediate effect,
completely destroying the entire battery of the Opekians, cutting down
the American flag, and destroying the houses of the people--”
“There was only one brass cannon and two huts,” expostulated Stedman.
“Well, that was the whole battery, wasn’t it?” asked Gordon, “and
two huts is plural. I said houses of the people. I couldn’t say two
house of the people. Just you send this as you get it. You are not
an American consul at the present moment. You are an under-paid
agent of a cable company, and you send my stuff as I write it. The
American residents have taken refuge in the consulate--that’s us,”
explained Gordon, “and the English residents have sought refuge in
the woods--that’s the Bradleys. King Tellaman--that’s me--declares
his intention of fighting against the annexation. The forces of the
Opekians are under the command of Captain Thomas Bradley--I guess I
might as well made him a colonel--of Colonel Thomas Bradley, of the
English army.
“The American consul says--Now, what do you say, Stedman? Hurry up,
please,” asked Gordon, “and say something good and strong.”
“You get me all mixed up,” complained Stedman, plaintively. “Which am I
now, a cable operator or the American consul?”
“Consul, of course. Say something patriotic and about your
determination to protect the interests of your government, and all
that.” Gordon bit the end of his pencil impatiently, and waited.
“I won’t be anything of the sort, Gordon,” said Stedman; “you are
getting me into an awful lot of trouble, and yourself too. I won’t say
a word.”
“The American consul,” read Gordon, as his pencil wriggled across
the paper, “refuses to say anything for publication until he has
communicated with the authorities at Washington, but from all I can
learn he sympathizes entirely with Tellaman. Your correspondent has
just returned from an audience with King Tellaman, who asks him to
inform the American people that the Monroe doctrine will be sustained
as long as he rules this island. I guess that’s enough to begin with,”
said Gordon. “Now send that off quick, and then get away from the
instrument before the man in Octavia begins to ask questions. I am
going out to precipitate matters.”
Gordon found the two kings sitting dejectedly side by side, and gazing
grimly upon the disorder of the village, from which the people were
taking their leave as quickly as they could get their few belongings
piled upon the ox-carts. Gordon walked amongst them, helping them in
every way he could, and tasting, in their subservience and gratitude,
the sweets of sovereignty. When Stedman had locked up the cable office
and rejoined him, he bade him tell Messenwah to send three of his
youngest men and fastest runners back to the hills to watch for the
German vessel and see where she was attempting to land her marines.
“This is a tremendous chance for descriptive writing, Stedman,” said
Gordon, enthusiastically, “all this confusion and excitement, and the
people leaving their homes and all that. It’s like the people getting
out of Brussels before Waterloo, and then the scene at the foot of the
mountains, while they are camping out there, until the Germans leave. I
never had a chance like this before.”
It was quite dark by six o’clock, and none of the three messengers had
as yet returned. Gordon walked up and down the empty plaza and looked
now at the horizon for the man-of-war, and again down the road back of
the village. But neither the vessel nor the messengers, bearing word
of her, appeared. The night passed without any incident, and in the
morning Gordon’s impatience became so great that he walked out to where
the villagers were in camp and passed on half-way up the mountain, but
he could see no sign of the man-of-war. He came back more restless than
before, and keenly disappointed.
“If something don’t happen before three o’clock, Stedman,” he said,
“our second cablegram will have to consist of glittering generalities
and a lengthy interview with King Tellaman, by himself.”
Nothing did happen. Ollypybus and Messenwah began to breathe more
freely. They believed the new king had succeeded in frightening the
German vessel away forever. But the new king upset their hopes by
telling them that the Germans had undoubtedly already landed, and had
probably killed the three messengers.
“Now, then,” he said, with pleased expectation, as Stedman and he
seated themselves in the cable office at three o’clock, “open it up and
let’s find out what sort of an impression we have made.”
Stedman’s face, as the answer came in to his first message of greeting,
was one of strangely marked disapproval.
“What does he say?” demanded Gordon, anxiously.
“He hasn’t done anything but swear yet,” answered Stedman, grimly.
“What is he swearing about?”
“He wants to know why I left the cable yesterday. He says he has been
trying to call me up for the last twenty-four hours. Ever since I sent
my message at three o’clock. The home office is jumping mad, and want
me discharged. They won’t do that, though,” he said, in a cheerful
aside, “because they haven’t paid me my salary for the last eight
months. He says--great Scott! this will please you, Gordon--he says
there have been over two hundred queries for matter from papers all
over the United States, and from Europe. Your paper beat them on the
news, and now the home office is packed with San Francisco reporters,
and the telegrams are coming in every minute, and they have been
abusing him for not answering them, and he says that I’m a fool. He
wants as much as you can send, and all the details. He says all the
papers will have to put ‘By Yokohama Cable Company’ on the top of
each message they print, and that that is advertising the company,
and is sending the stock up. It rose fifteen points on ’change in San
Francisco to-day, and the president and the other officers--”
“Oh, I don’t want to hear about their old company,” snapped out Gordon,
pacing up and down in despair. “What am I to do? that’s what I want to
know. Here I have the whole country stirred up and begging for news. On
their knees for it, and a cable all to myself and the only man on the
spot, and nothing to say. I’d just like to know how long that German
idiot intends to wait before he begins shelling this town and killing
people. He has put me in a most absurd position.”
“Here’s a message for you, Gordon,” said Stedman, with business-like
calm. “Albert Gordon, Correspondent,” he read: “Try American consul.
First message O.K.; beat the country; can take all you send. Give
names of foreign residents massacred, and fuller account blowing up
palace. Dodge.”
The expression on Gordon’s face as this message was slowly read off
to him, had changed from one of gratified pride to one of puzzled
consternation.
“What’s he mean by foreign residents massacred, and blowing up of
palace?” asked Stedman, looking over his shoulder anxiously. “Who is
Dodge?”
“Dodge is the night editor,” said Gordon, nervously. “They must have
read my message wrong. You sent just what I gave you, didn’t you?” he
asked.
“Of course I did,” said Stedman, indignantly.
“I didn’t say anything about the massacre of anybody, did I?” asked
Gordon. “I hope they are not improving on my account. What _am_ I to
do? This is getting awful. I’ll have to go out and kill a few people
myself. Oh, why don’t that Dutch captain begin to do something! What
sort of a fighter does he call himself? He wouldn’t shoot at a school
of porpoises. He’s not--”
“Here comes a message to Leonard T. Travis, American consul, Opeki,”
read Stedman. “It’s raining messages to-day. ‘Send full details of
massacre of American citizens by German sailors.’ Secretary of--great
Scott!” gasped Stedman, interrupting himself and gazing at his
instrument with horrified fascination--“the Secretary of State.”
“That settles it,” roared Gordon, pulling at his hair and burying his
face in his hands. “I have _got_ to kill some of them now.”
“Albert Gordon, Correspondent,” read Stedman, impressively, like the
voice of Fate. “Is Colonel Thomas Bradley commanding native forces
at Opeki, Colonel Sir Thomas Kent-Bradley of Crimean war fame?
Correspondent London _Times_, San Francisco Press Club.”
“Go on, go on!” said Gordon, desperately. “I’m getting used to it now.
Go on!”
“American consul, Opeki,” read Stedman. “Home Secretary desires you to
furnish list of names English residents killed during shelling of Opeki
by ship of war _Kaiser_, and estimate of amount property destroyed.
Stoughton, Office of English consul, San Francisco.”
“Stedman!” cried Gordon, jumping to his feet, “there’s a mistake here
somewhere. These people cannot all have made my message read like that.
Some one has altered it, and now I have got to make these people here
live up to that message, whether they like being massacred and blown
up or not. Don’t answer any of those messages, except the one from
Dodge; tell him things have quieted down a bit, and that I’ll send four
thousand words on the flight of the natives from the village, and their
encampment at the foot of the mountains, and of the exploring party we
have sent out to look for the German vessel; and now I am going out to
make something happen.”
Gordon said he would be gone for two hours at least, and as Stedman did
not feel capable of receiving any more nerve-stirring messages, he cut
off all connection with Octavia, by saying, “Good by for two hours,”
and running away from the office. He sat down on a rock on the beach,
and mopped his face with his handkerchief.
“After a man has taken nothing more exciting than weather reports from
Octavia for a year,” he soliloquized, “it’s a bit disturbing to have
all the crowned heads of Europe and their secretaries calling upon you
for details of a massacre that never came off.”
At the end of two hours Gordon came back from the consulate with a mass
of manuscript in his hand.
“Here’s three thousand words,” he said desperately. “I never wrote more
and said less in my life. It will make them weep at the office. I had
to pretend that they knew all that had happened so far; they apparently
do know more than we do, and I have filled it full of prophesies
of more trouble ahead, and with interviews with myself and the two
ex-Kings. The only news element in it is, that the messengers have
returned to report that the German vessel is not in sight, and that
there is no news. They think she has gone for good. Suppose she has,
Stedman,” he groaned, looking at him helplessly, “what _am_ I going to
do?”
“Well, as for me,” said Stedman, “I’m afraid to go near that cable.
It’s like playing with a live wire. My nervous system won’t stand many
more such shocks as those they gave us this morning.”
Gordon threw himself down dejectedly in a chair in the office, and
Stedman approached his instrument gingerly, as though it might explode.
“He’s swearing again,” he explained sadly, in answer to Gordon’s look
of inquiry. “He wants to know when I am going to stop running away from
the wire. He has a stack of messages to send, he says, but I guess he’d
better wait and take your copy first; don’t you think so?”
“Yes, I do,” said Gordon. “I don’t want any more messages than I’ve
had. That’s the best I can do,” he said, as he threw his manuscript
down beside Stedman. “And they can keep on cabling until the wire burns
red hot, and they won’t get any more.”
There was silence in the office for some time, while Stedman looked
over Gordon’s copy, and Gordon stared dejectedly out at the ocean.
“This is pretty poor stuff, Gordon,” said Stedman. “It’s like giving
people milk when they want brandy.”
“Don’t you suppose I know that?” growled Gordon. “It’s the best I can
do, isn’t it? It’s not my fault that we are not all dead now. I can’t
massacre foreign residents if there are no foreign residents, but I
can commit suicide though, and I’ll do it if something don’t happen.”
There was a long pause, in which the silence of the office was only
broken by the sound of the waves beating on the coral reefs outside.
Stedman raised his head wearily.
“He’s swearing again,” he said; “he says this stuff of yours is all
nonsense. He says stock in the Y. C. C. has gone up to one hundred and
two, and that owners are unloading and making their fortunes, and that
this sort of descriptive writing is not what the company wants.”
“What’s he think I’m here for?” cried Gordon. “Does he think I pulled
down the German flag and risked my neck half a dozen times and had
myself made King just to boom his Yokohama cable stock? Confound him!
You might at least swear back. Tell him just what the situation is in
a few words. Here, stop that rigmarole to the paper, and explain to
your home office that we are awaiting developments, and that, in the
meanwhile, they must put up with the best we can send them. Wait; send
this to Octavia.”
Gordon wrote rapidly, and read what he wrote as rapidly as it was
written.
“Operator, Octavia. You seem to have misunderstood my first message.
The facts in the case are these. A German man-of-war raised a flag on
this island. It was pulled down and the American flag raised in its
place and saluted by a brass cannon. The German man-of-war fired once
at the flag and knocked it down, and then steamed away and has not
been seen since. Two huts were upset, that is all the damage done; the
battery consisted of the one brass cannon before mentioned. No one,
either native or foreign, has been massacred. The English residents
are two sailors. The American residents are the young man who is
sending you this cable and myself. Our first message was quite true in
substance, but perhaps misleading in detail. I made it so because I
fully expected much more to happen immediately. Nothing has happened,
or seems likely to happen, and that is the exact situation up to date.
Albert Gordon.”
“Now,” he asked after a pause, “what does he say to that?”
“He doesn’t say anything,” said Stedman. “I guess he has fainted. Here
it comes,” he added in the same breath. He bent toward his instrument,
and Gordon raised himself from his chair and stood beside him as he
read it off. The two young men hardly breathed in the intensity of
their interest.
“Dear Stedman,” he slowly read aloud. “You and your young friend are
a couple of fools. If you had allowed me to send you the messages
awaiting transmission here to you, you would not have sent me such a
confession of guilt as you have just done. You had better leave Opeki
at once or hide in the hills. I am afraid I have placed you in a
somewhat compromising position with the company, which is unfortunate,
especially as, if I am not mistaken, they owe you some back pay. You
should have been wiser in your day, and bought Y. C. C. stock when it
was down to five cents, as yours truly did. You are not, Stedman, as
bright a boy as some. And as for your friend, the war correspondent,
he has queered himself for life. You see, my dear Stedman, after I
had sent off your first message, and demands for further details came
pouring in, and I could not get you at the wire to supply them, I took
the liberty of sending some on myself.”
“Great Heavens!” gasped Gordon.
Stedman grew very white under his tan, and the perspiration rolled on
his cheeks.
“Your message was so general in its nature, that it allowed my
imagination full play, and I sent on what I thought would please the
papers, and what was much more important to me, would advertise the Y.
C. C. stock. This I have been doing while waiting for material from
you. Not having a clear idea of the dimensions or population of Opeki,
it is possible that I have done you and your newspaper friend some
injustice. I killed off about a hundred American residents, two hundred
English, because I do not like the English, and a hundred French. I
blew up old Ollypybus and his palace with dynamite, and shelled the
city, destroying some hundred thousand dollars’ worth of property,
and then I waited anxiously for your friend to substantiate what I
had said. This he has most unkindly failed to do. I am very sorry,
but much more so for him than for myself, for I, my dear friend, have
cabled on to a man in San Francisco, who is one of the directors of
the Y. C. C., to sell all my stock, which he has done at one hundred
and two, and he is keeping the money until I come. And I leave Octavia
this afternoon to reap my just reward. I am in about $20,000 on your
little war, and I feel grateful. So much so that I will inform you that
the ship of war _Kaiser_ has arrived at San Francisco, for which port
she sailed directly from Opeki. Her captain has explained the real
situation, and offered to make every amend for the accidental indignity
shown to our flag. He says he aimed at the cannon, which was trained
on his vessel, and which had first fired on him. But you must know, my
dear Stedman, that before his arrival, war vessels belonging to the
several powers mentioned in my revised dispatches, had started for
Opeki at full speed, to revenge the butchery of the foreign residents.
A word, my dear young friend, to the wise is sufficient. I am indebted
to you to the extent of $20,000, and in return I give you this kindly
advice. Leave Opeki. If there is no other way, swim. But leave Opeki.”
The sun, that night, as it sank below the line where the clouds seemed
to touch the sea, merged them both into a blazing, blood-red curtain,
and colored the most wonderful spectacle that the natives of Opeki had
ever seen. Six great ships of war, stretching out over a league of sea,
stood blackly out against the red background, rolling and rising, and
leaping forward, flinging back smoke and burning sparks up into the air
behind them, and throbbing and panting like living creatures in their
race for revenge. From the south, came a three-decked vessel, a great
island of floating steel, with a flag as red as the angry sky behind
it, snapping in the wind. To the south of it plunged two long low-lying
torpedo boats, flying the French tri-color, and still further to the
north towered three magnificent hulls of the White Squadron. Vengeance
was written on every curve and line, on each straining engine rod, and
on each polished gun muzzle.
[Illustration: To the North towered three magnificent hulls of the
White Squadron.]
And in front of these, a clumsy fishing boat rose and fell on each
passing wave. Two sailors sat in the stern, holding the rope and
tiller, and in the bow, with their backs turned forever toward Opeki,
stood two young boys, their faces lit by the glow of the setting sun
and stirred by the sight of the great engines of war plunging past them
on their errand of vengeance.
“Stedman,” said the elder boy, in an awe-struck whisper, and with a
wave of his hand, “we have not lived in vain.”
MIDSUMMER PIRATES.
The boys living at the Atlantic House, and the boys boarding
at Chadwick’s, held mutual sentiments of something not unlike
enmity--feelings of hostility from which even the older boarders were
not altogether free. Nor was this unnatural under the circumstances.
When Judge Henry S. Carter and his friend Dr. Prescott first discovered
Manasquan, such an institution as the Atlantic House seemed an
impossibility, and land improvement companies, Queen Anne cottages, and
hacks to and from the railroad station, were out of all calculation. At
that time “Captain” Chadwick’s farmhouse, though not rich in all the
modern improvements of a seaside hotel, rejoiced in a table covered
three times a day with the good things from the farm. The river back of
the house was full of fish, and the pine woods along its banks were
intended by nature expressly for the hanging of hammocks.
The chief amusements were picnics to the head of the river (or as near
the head as the boats could get through the lily-pads), crabbing along
the shore, and races on the river itself, which, if it was broad, was
so absurdly shallow that an upset meant nothing more serious than a
wetting and a temporary loss of reputation as a sailor.
But all this had been spoiled by the advance of civilization and the
erection of the Atlantic House.
The railroad surveyors, with their high-top boots and transits, were
the first signs of the approaching evils. After them came the Ozone
Land Company, which bought up all the sand hills bordering on the
ocean, and proceeded to stake out a flourishing “city by the sea” and
to erect sign-posts in the marshes to show where they would lay out
streets named after the directors of the Ozone Land Company and the
Presidents of the United States.
It was not unnatural, therefore, that the Carters, and the Prescotts,
and all the judge’s clients, and the doctor’s patients, who had been
coming to Manasquan for many years, and loved it for its simplicity
and quiet, should feel aggrieved at these great changes. And though
the young Carters and Prescotts endeavored to impede the march of
civilization by pulling up the surveyor’s stakes and tearing down the
Land Company’s sign-posts, the inevitable improvements marched steadily
on.
I hope all this will show why it was that the boys who lived at the
Atlantic House--and dressed as if they were still in the city, and had
“hops” every evening--were not pleasing to the boys who boarded at
Chadwick’s, who never changed their flannel suits for anything more
formal than their bathing-dresses, and spent the summer nights on the
river.