Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, AUGUST 11, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 876. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
AN AMERICAN THERMOPYLÆ.
BY KIRK MUNROE.
"My!" exclaimed Bryce Gordon, with a deep sigh, as he softly closed the
Greek history over which he had been intently poring for the last
fifteen minutes, "I want to go and see that place some time."
"What place?" asked his army uncle, Captain Frank Gordon, looking up
from the evening paper.
"The Pass of Thermopylæ," answered Bryce, who had just been reading of
Leonidas and his wonderful battle with the hosts of Xerxes. "That is the
kind of place I want to visit whenever I have a chance to travel," he
continued, with flashing eyes, "and I should think Greek boys would be
awfully proud of it. I only wish we had a Thermopylæ in this country;
but there doesn't seem to be any such thing nowadays."
"Doesn't there?" replied his uncle, laying down the paper. "Then I am
afraid you are better posted concerning old Greek history than in that
of the United States; for I know of a Thermopylæ in which, only sixty
years ago, a handful of Americans made as glorious and heroic a defence
against overwhelming numbers as was ever recorded."
"You do?" cried Bryce, excitedly. "Where is it? Tell me about it, quick!
Please do!"
"Yes, tell us," pleaded Jackanapes, May, and little Miss Blue, who,
scenting a story from afar, had made a magic appearance, and were now
clustered about Captain Gordon's chair like so many hungry bees about a
honeycomb.
"Well," laughed their uncle, good-naturedly, "I see that I am in for it,
and suppose I must do as my tyrants command. So here goes. To begin
with, did any of you ever hear of the Alamo?"
"Seems to me I have," answered Bryce; "but I can't remember what it
is."
The faces of the others were so blank that it was evident the word held
no meaning for them.
"I didn't much think you would know anything about it," continued their
uncle; "for it belongs to American history, which, of course, is not
half so important as that of the old Greeks and Romans. The Alamo, then,
is, or rather was, an old Spanish mission located in a cottonwood grove
that gave it its name--for Alamo means cottonwood--near the San Antonio
River in southwestern Texas. On an opposite bank of the stream stood the
Mexican town of San Antonio, built of low flat-roofed adobe or stone
houses, and containing at the time of my story very few Americans,
though in other parts of Texas these already formed an important part of
the population. Texas was then a Mexican state, and Mexico itself had
but recently thrown off the yoke of Spain. In its struggle for liberty
the American residents had rendered such splendid service, that when
freedom was finally gained they were granted many especial privileges by
the Mexican government. These were highly prized, and everything went
smoothly, until General Santa Aña headed a revolution, overthrew the
existing government, and made himself Dictator.
"Hating Americans, and jealous of their increasing power, Santa Aña
began to withdraw their privileges, and declared that Texas,
disappearing as a separate territory, should thereafter belong to the
older Mexican state of Coahuila. Worst of all, he replaced the civil
with a military government, and ordered that all citizens should be
disarmed. Of course the free-born sons of fathers who had fought at
Lexington and Yorktown--for these things happened in 1834--would not
submit to such oppression, and the first thing Santa Aña knew the state
of Texas was in open revolt, declaring itself to be an independent
republic. As San Antonio was its most important city, the Mexican
General Cos was ordered to fortify and hold it against the rebels; but
one thousand Texans under General Edward Burleson marched against him;
and three hundred of them, led by brave old Ben Milam, captured the
place after a three days' fight from house to house, and from street to
street. General Cos and his two thousand soldiers were allowed to retire
to Mexico as paroled prisoners of war, who solemnly promised never again
to take up arms against the Texans.
"Soon after this, General Burleson's army scattered to different points
where there seemed a chance of more fighting, until only eighty troops,
under command of Colonel James Bowie, inventor of the famous bowie-knife
and son-in-law of the Mexican Governor, remained to defend the city.
These troops had not received one cent of pay, were poorly clad, and
possessed but little ammunition. Early in February, 1835, Colonel Bowie,
worn out by his efforts to obtain re-enforcements and make adequate
provision for the defence of his important post, fell sick of a fever,
and Colonel William Travis, who had just arrived with thirty-five men,
assumed command. Soon afterwards the renowned David Crockett arrived
from Tennessee with thirty more men, so that the garrison now numbered
one hundred and forty-five.
"On the 22d of February the Mexican Dictator appeared before San Antonio
with an army of 4000 regular troops, and marched straight into the town,
the Texans crossing the river and retiring before him to the ruinous old
Alamo Mission, which they hastily barricaded, and so converted into a
rude fortress. They carried fever-stricken Bowie with them, and, as they
retreated, gathered up a few bushels of corn and a few beef cattle,
which formed their sole stock of provisions.
"From this place of refuge, when Santa Aña demanded its unconditional
surrender, Travis replied with a cannon-shot. He knew that the longer he
could hold the Mexican army in check the more time would be allowed the
men of Texas to gather and organize for the defence of their homes. Upon
receiving this defiant reply, Santa Aña displayed blood-red flags from
every church-tower in the town, to signify death without quarter to the
rebels, and began a furious bombardment of the Alamo. This was continued
almost without intermission, by night as well as by day, until the 6th
of March, or through two weary weeks. During that time Travis managed to
despatch several couriers in different directions, with urgent messages
imploring assistance. In every message he wrote, 'We are determined
neither to surrender nor retreat, but will maintain our position to the
bitter end.'
"Every now and then the little garrison made desperate sorties for the
destruction of some galling battery or to seize a few supplies, and
during those twelve fearful days whenever a Texas rifle was fired a
Mexican soldier fell dead. In the early morning of the 1st of March a
great shout of rejoicing rang out from the battered mission, for Captain
John Smith, who, with thirty men, had hastened from Gonzales to the
assistance of his friends, had succeeded in passing the enemy's line and
gaining the shelter of the fort. Now the bombardment became so fierce
that all the outlying walls of the mission were demolished, and only its
stout stone church remained standing. Into it the Texans retired,
barricading every entrance and repairing every breach.
"Shortly before sunset on the evening of the 3d the fire of the
batteries suddenly ceased. Two thousand fresh troops, the army of
General Cos, which had been captured and paroled at this very place, had
retraced their steps, and now, in violation of their pledged word, were
prepared once more to fight against their conquerors. While they were
being welcomed with acclamations and every form of rejoicing by the
Mexicans, the grim walls of the Alamo were witnessing one of the most
solemn and pathetic scenes of history. In their dim shadow Colonel
Travis paraded his handful of heroes in single file, and addressed them
in substantially these words:
"'My brave comrades, stern necessity compels me to employ the moments
afforded by this probably brief cessation of conflict in making known to
you the most interesting, yet the most solemn, melancholy, and unwelcome
fact that humanity can realize. Our fate is sealed. Within a few days,
perhaps a few hours, we must all be in eternity. Our provisions are
gone, our ammunition is nearly spent, and our strength is almost
exhausted. My calls for assistance remain unanswered, and the
probabilities are that our couriers have been cut off. The enemy
surrounds us in overwhelming and ever-increasing numbers. Then we must
die, and have only to choose such method of death as may best serve our
country. Shall we surrender, and be deliberately shot? Shall we try to
cut our way out through the Mexican ranks, and be butchered before we
can kill twenty of our adversaries? I am opposed to either plan, but
leave every man of you to his own decision. Should any one choose to
surrender, or attempt to escape, he is at liberty to do so. My own
choice is to remain in this place, and die for my country, fighting so
long as breath shall remain in my body. This will I do even if you leave
me alone. Do, then, as you think best; but remember that no one of you
can die with me without affording me comfort in the hour of death.'
"Here Colonel Travis drew his sword, and with its point traced a line on
the earthen floor extending the whole length of the motionless file.
Then resuming his position in front of the centre, he said:
"'Now let every man who is willing to remain here and die with me cross
to this side of that line. Who will be the first? Forward! March!'
"Tapley Holland leaped the line at a bound, exclaiming, 'I am ready to
die for my country!' And in another instant every man, save one, of that
heroic file had followed him and stood beside their gallant leader.
Every wounded man who could move crawled or tottered across the fatal
mark. Colonel Bowie, too weak to lift his head, called out feebly,
'Don't leave me behind, boys!' and in a moment four men had lifted his
cot over the line. The other helpless ones begged that they too might be
lifted across, and finally only Moses Rose remained behind. He stood
alone, with his face buried in his hands. Travis, Bowie, and Crockett
all spoke to him kindly, and asked him if he were afraid to die. When he
answered that he was, and believed in the possibility of an escape, they
bade him go in peace. So he left them, scaling a rear wall of the
church, dropping to the ground outside, and finally escaping, after
eluding innumerable dangers. It is from him alone that we have a
description of that memorable scene, for of all that devoted band whom
he left in that gloomy fortress no man was ever again seen alive beyond
its walls."
"Then he was the Aristodemus of your American Thermopylæ," interrupted
Bryce, who was listening with breathless attention to this tale of
modern heroism.
"Yes," replied Captain Gordon, "only he was more of a coward than
Aristodemus, for the latter did not escape until after his comrades had
been killed, and, if you remember, was himself killed in battle the
following year, after performing more valorous deeds than any of his
fellow Spartans."
"I suppose Moses Rose was more truly a coward," admitted Bryce; "but
lot's not stop to talk about him now, Uncle Cap. What became of the
splendid fellows he left in the fort? Did they finally surrender, or
were they captured, or what?"
"They neither surrendered nor were made prisoners, but fought with the
stubbornness of desperation for three days longer. At length, on the 5th
of March, Santa Aña, believing the Americans to be too exhausted to
offer a serious resistance, ordered the Alamo to be carried by assault
at daylight of the following morning. At that hour the thunder of
bombardment was again stilled, and as though the silence were a signal,
dark masses of Mexican infantry, provided with scaling ladders, and
driven to their deadly work by a pitiless cavalry pressing close on
their rear, rushed at the walls of the devoted church.
"Less than one hundred of the defenders were left to resist those
thousands; but three times did this handful of dauntless fighters repel
their swarming assailants, and three times did the furious Mexican
General drive them back to the assault. At length the defenders had
fired away their last grain of powder, the crowding Mexicans forced an
entrance, and after another hour of the most terrific hand-to-hand
fighting and awful slaughter, the Alamo was theirs. At nine o'clock two
murderous discharges of double-shotted grape and canister from a cannon
planted in the doorway of the room used as a hospital, and filled with
helplessly wounded Americans, ended the bloody tragedy, for of Travis's
noble band no man remained alive. So terribly had they fought that five
hundred and twenty Mexicans were killed in that final assault, and as
many more were wounded, while, including all who had fallen beneath the
unerring Texas rifles during the siege, the Alamo had cost Santa Aña
over two thousand men.
"In his rage at this stubborn resistance the Mexican General ordered the
bodies of the heroic defenders to be burned just outside the Alamo, and
so thoroughly was this work accomplished that by sunset of that dreadful
day naught was left of them save a mound of wind-blown ashes and an
undying memory."
"I think that is the very finest thing I ever heard of!" cried Bryce,
nearly choked with emotion; "and now I know that I am prouder of being
an American than any Greek boy can be of his country. But what happened
after that, Uncle Cap? Did Santa Aña keep right on and conquer the whole
of Texas?"
"How could he when the Texans had such a glorious example to follow as
that of Travis and Bowie and Crockett, and those who fell with them, and
such a battle-cry as 'Remember the Alamo'? No, indeed, he did not
conquer Texas, and I think your history will tell just how long it took
the Texans to sweep everything before them, and win an independence that
they maintained for nine years before joining themselves to the great
American republic, and becoming one of the United States."
"And what became of the Alamo?"
"It still stands, or rather the old church does, facing the principal
plaza of the beautiful, wide-spread city that has grown around it since
Travis and his men won for it a glorious immortality."
"Can any one see it, and go inside and touch its walls?"
"Certainly he may."
"Then," said Bryce, glowing with enthusiasm, "that is the very first
place in all the world that I mean to visit just as soon as I set out on
my travels."
THE PRESIDENT'S PRIVATE LIFE.
Aside from the arduous official duties of the President of the United
States, it is interesting to note some of the pleasure and profit that
accrue from his term of four years. With an income of $138 a day, or
$50,000 a year, paid by the strongest bank in the country, the United
States Treasury, he may or may not leave office with a snug fortune of
perhaps $100,000, depending on whether his expenditures have been of an
extravagant nature. Many Presidents have taken office as poor men, but
with the money they have saved during their term, and the influence that
the office has brought them in business pursuits afterwards, they have
died comparatively rich.
The country instals the President in the White House--a magnificent
residence--and surrounds him with every convenience. With an
appropriation that Congress makes every year most of the expenses of
this establishment are paid.
The following is a fair idea of the many incidentals that come free to a
President: Every bit of linen, bedding, towels, and such things is
furnished. He is shaved by the White House barber. His table is spread
with the finest, daintiest damask, set with the most exquisite china,
and bountifully supplied with flowers from the White House
conservatories. If he sends a telegram, it is done from an instrument in
the White House, for which the government pays. His stationery, postage,
etc., cost him nothing. Should he desire a game of billiards, there is a
beautiful table at hand; or if he wants to take a drive, his stables,
which the government pays the rent for and takes care of, are amply
equipped. When he enters his business office, a man is stationed at the
door to open and close it; and a private secretary, to whom the
government pays a salary of $5000 a year, assists him with his
correspondence. The services of a type-writer are also furnished. He is
protected from the curious by a number of private watchmen. Should he
want a cruise, a magnificent steam-ship from the navy is placed at his
disposal.
There are many other things that cost him nothing, such as the culinary
arrangements, his steward, who does the marketing, the many fancy
delicacies sent him by enterprising firms. This, by-the-way, is a sort
of nuisance, for it seems to be the desire of every manufacturer of some
new eatable or drinkable to get it into the White House. Things of value
that find their way there are never accepted.
Lately the bicycle manufacturers have tried to get President Cleveland
to ride a wheel, and have offered the most extravagant inducements to
both the President and Mrs. Cleveland. One firm said they would present
Mrs. Cleveland with a gold bicycle studded with gems if she would ride
it.
The President has to give state dinners and state receptions, but the
expenses of these yearly probably do not exceed $7000 or $8000. The
Marine Band always supplies the music, and the flowers come from the
conservatory. It is seldom necessary to decorate the reception-rooms of
the White House, so that these affairs, although of elaborate and
ceremonial nature, are still inexpensive.
Upon his retirement to private life, the influence that his Presidential
office has given him enables him to secure large sums in payment for
whatever he may do, such as a lecture, an article in a periodical, or,
if he practises law--which most of our ex-Presidents have done--such
fees as $10,000 are no uncommon thing.
AN EXPLANATION.
"I do not smile when I'm in bed,"
The little baby softly said,
"Because my smile's so very wide,
'Tis sure to fall out on one side,
And oh, how madly I should scold
To find my smile out in the cold!"
THE VOYAGE OE THE "RATTLETRAP."
BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.
I.
Perhaps we were pretty big boys--Jack and I. In fact, I'm afraid we were
so big that we haven't grown much since, though it was ten years or more
ago that it all happened. But Ollie was a boy, anyhow; he couldn't have
been more than a dozen years old, and we looked upon him as being a very
small boy indeed; though when folks saw us starting off, some of them
seemed to think that we were as boyish as he, because, they said, it was
such a foolish thing to do; and in some way, I'm sure I don't know how,
boys have got the reputation of always doing foolish things. "They're
three of a kind," said Grandpa Oldberry, as he watched us weigh anchor.
"Their parents oughter be sent fer."
Well, it's hard to decide where to begin this true history. We didn't
keep any log on this voyage of the Rattletrap. But I'll certainly have
to go back of the time when Grandpa Oldberry expressed his opinion; and
perhaps I ought to explain how we happened to be in that particular
port. As I said, we--Jack and I--were pretty big boys, so big that we
were off out West and in business for ourselves, though, after all, that
didn't imply that we were very old, because it was a very new country,
and everybody was young; after the election the first fall it was found
that the man who had been chosen for county judge wasn't quite
twenty-one years of age yet, and therefore, of course, couldn't hold
office; and we were obliged to wait three weeks till he had had his
birthday, and then to have a special election and choose him again.
Everybody was young except Grandpa Oldberry, and he really wasn't old.
But I was trying to account for our being in the port of Prairie Flower.
Jack had a cheese-factory there, and made small round cheeses. I had a
printing-office, and printed a small square newspaper. In my paper I
used to praise Jack's cheeses, and keep repeating how good they were, so
people bought them; and Jack used, once in a while, to give me a cheese.
So we both managed to live, though I think we sometimes got a little
tired of being men, and wished we were back home, far from thick round
cheeses and thin square newspapers.
One evening in the first week in September, when it was raining as hard
as it could rain, and when the wind was blowing as hard as it could
blow, and was driving empty boxes and barrels, and old tin pails and
wash-boilers, and castaway hats and runaway hats and lost hats, and
other things across the prairie before it, Jack came into my office,
where I was setting type (my printer having been blown away, along with
the boxes and the hats), and after he had allowed the rain to run off
his clothes and make little puddles like thin mud pies on the dusty
floor, he said,
[Illustration: "I'M TIRED OF MAKING POOR CHEESES."]
"I'm tired of making poor cheeses."
"Well," I answered, "I'm tired of printing a poor newspaper."
"Let's sell out and go somewhere," continued Jack.
"All right," I said. "Let's."
So we did.
Of course the Rattletrap wasn't a boat which sailed on the water, though
I don't know as I thought to mention this before. In fact, a water boat
wouldn't have been of any use to us in getting out of Prairie Flower,
because there wasn't any water there, except a very small stream called
the Sioux River, which wandered along the prairie, sometimes running in
one direction and sometimes in the other, and at other times standing
still and wondering if it was worth while to run at all. The port of
Prairie Flower was in Dakota. This was when Dakota was still a
Territory, and before it had been cut into halves and made into two
States, and left on the map like a green paving-stone lying on top of a
yellow paving-stone. So, there being no water, we of course had to
provide ourselves with a craft that could navigate dry land; which is
precisely what the Rattletrap was--namely, a "prairie schooner."
"I've got a team of horses and a wagon," went on Jack, that rainy night
when we were talking. "You've got a pony and a saddle. We've both got
guns. When we drive out of town some stray dog will follow us. What
more'll we want?"
"Nothing," I said, as I clapped my stick down in the space-box. "We can
put a canvas cover on the wagon and sleep in it at night, and cook our
meals over a camp-fire, and--and--have a time."
"Of course--a big time. It's a heavy spring-wagon, and there is just
about room in it behind the seat for a bed. We can put on a cover that
will keep out rain as well as a tent, and carry a little kerosene-oil
stove to use for cooking if we can't build a fire out-doors for any
reason. We can take along flour, and--and--and salt, and other things to
eat, and shoot game, and--and--and have a time."
We became so excited that we sat down and talked till midnight about it.
By that time the rain had stopped, and when we went out the stars were
shining, and the level ground was covered with pools of water.
"If it was always as wet as this around here we could go in a genuine
schooner," said Jack.
"Yes, that's so. But what shall we call our craft?"
"I think Rattletrap would be a good name," said Jack.
"I don't think it is a very pretty name," I replied.
"You wait till you get acquainted with that wagon, and you will say it's
the best name in the world, whether it's pretty or not. You don't know
that wagon yet. The tongue is spliced, the whiffletrees are loose, the
reach is cracked, the box is tied together with a rope, the springs
creak, and the wheels whobble, lean different ways, and never follow one
another."
"Do they all turn in the same direction?" I asked.
"I don't believe they do. It would be just like one to turn backward
while the other three were going forward."
"We'll call our craft the Rattletrap, then. Good-night."
"Good-night," said Jack; and we parted, each to dream of our approaching
cruise.
[Illustration: IN A WEEK WE WERE BUSY GETTING READY TO START.]
In a week we were busy getting ready to start. I found, when I looked
over the wagon as it stood back of the cheese-factory, that it was much
as Jack had described it, only I noticed that the seat as well as the
springs creaked, and that a corner was broken off the dash-board. But we
set to work upon it with a will. We tightened up the nuts and screws all
over it, and wound the broken pole with wire. We nailed together the box
so that the rope could be taken off, and oiled the creaking springs. We
had no trouble in finding a top, as half the people in the country had
come in wagons provided with covers only a year or so before. We got
four bows and attached them to the box, one at each end, and the other
two at equal distances between. These bows were made of hard-wood, and
were a quarter of an inch thick and an inch and a half wide. They ran up
straight on either side for two or three feet, and then rounded over,
like a croquet-wicket, being high enough so that as we stood upright in
the wagon-box our heads would just nicely clear them. Over this skeleton
we stretched our white canvas cover, and tied it down tightly along the
sides. This made what we called the cabin. There was an ample flap in
front, which could be let down at night and fastened back inside during
the day. At the rear end the cloth folded around, and was drawn together
with a "puckering-string," precisely like a button-bag. By drawing the
string tightly this back end could be entirely closed up; or the string
could be let out, and the opening made any size wanted. After the cover
was adjusted we stood off and admired our work.
"Looks like an elephant on wheels," said Jack.
"Or an old-fashioned sun-bonnet for a giantess," I added.
"Anyhow, I'll wager a cheese it'll keep out the rain, unless it comes
down too hard," said Jack. "Now for the smaller parts of our rigging,
and the stores."
On the back end we fastened a feed-box for the horses, as long as the
wagon-box was wide, and ten or twelve inches square, with a partition in
the middle. We put stout iron rings in the corners of this, making a
place to tie the horses. On the dash-board outside we built another box,
for tools. This was wedge-shaped, about five inches wide at the top, but
running down to an inch or two at the bottom, and had a hinged cover. We
put aboard a satchel containing the little additional clothing which we
thought we should need. Things in this line which did not seem to be
absolutely necessary were ruled out--indeed, for the sake of lightness
we decided to take just as little of everything that we could. We made
another box, some two feet long, a foot deep, and fourteen inches wide,
with a hinged cover, which we called the "pantry," for our supply of
food. This we stood in the wagon with the satchel. Usually in the
daytime after we started each of these rode comfortably on the bed back
of the seat. This bed was a rather simple affair, made up of some
bed-clothing and pillows arranged on a thick layer of hay in the bottom
of the wagon-box. Our small two-wick oil-stove we put in front next to
the dash-board, a lantern we hung up on one of the bows, and a big tin
pail for the horses we suspended under the wagon.
"Since you're going to be cook," I said to Jack, "you tend to getting
the dishes together."
"They'll be few enough," he answered. "I don't like to wash 'em. Tin
mostly, I guess; because tin won't break."
So he put a few knives and forks and spoons, tin plates and cups, a
frying-pan, a small copper kettle, and a few other utensils in another
box, which also found a home on the bed. Other things which we did not
forget were a small can of kerosene; two half-gallon jugs, one for milk
and one for water; a basket of eggs; a nickel clock (we called it the
chronometer); and in the tool-box a hatchet, a monkey-wrench,
screw-driver, small saw, a piece of rope, one or two straps, and a few
nails, screws, rivets, and similar things which might come handy in case
of a wreck.
"Now for the armament and the life-boat," said Jack.
For armament Jack contributed a double-barrelled shot-gun and a heavy
forty-five-calibre repeating rifle, and I a light forty-four-calibre
repeating rifle, and a big revolver of the same calibre (though using a
slightly shorter cartridge), with a belt and holster. This revolver we
stored in the tool-box, chiefly for use in case we were boarded by
pirates, while the guns we hung in leather loops in the top of the
cover. In the tool-box we put a good supply of ammunition and plenty of
matches. We also each carried a match-box, a pocket compass, and a stout
jack-knife.
"Now, how's your life-boat?" asked Jack.
I led her out. She was a medium-sized brown Colorado pony, well
decorated with brands, and with a white face and two white feet. She
wore a big Mexican saddle and a horse-hair bridle with a silver bit.
"She'll do," said Jack. "In case of wreck, we'll escape on her, if
possible. She'll also be very handy in making landings where the harbor
is poor, and in exploring unknown coasts."
All of this work took several days, but when it was done the Rattletrap
was ready for the voyage, and we decided to start the next morning.
"She's as prairie-worthy a craft as ever scoured the plain," was Jack's
opinion; "and if we can keep the four wheels from starting in opposite
directions we'll be all right."
But where was Ollie all this while? The fact is I had forgotten about
Ollie. And who was Ollie, anyhow? Ollie was Jack's little nephew, and he
lived back East somewhere--I don't remember where. The nearer we got
ready to start, the more firmly Jack became convinced that Ollie would
like to go along, so at last he sent for him to come, and he arrived the
night before our start. Ollie liked the idea of the trip so much that he
simply stood and looked at the wagon, the guns, the pony, and the
horses, and was speechless. At last he managed to say,
"Uncle Jack, it'll be just like a picnic, won't it?"
The next morning we started as early as we could. But it was not before
people were up.
"Where be they going?" asked Grandpa Oldberry.
"Oh, Nebraska, and Wyoming, and the Black Hills, and any crazy place
they hear of," answered Squire Poinsett.
[Illustration: "THEY'LL ALL BE SCALPED BY INJUNS," SAID GRANDPA
OLDBERRY.]
"They'll all be scalped by Injuns," said Grandpa Oldberry. "Ain't the
Injuns bad this fall?"
"So I was a-reading," said the Squire. "And in the hills I should be
afeared of b'ar."
"Right," returned Grandpa. "B'ar and sim'lar varmints. And more
'specially boss-thieves and sich-like cut-throats. I disremember seeing
three scalawags starting off on such a fool trip since afore the war."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 868.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER IX.
The remaining time of George's stay at Greenway Court sped on
rapidly--too fast for Lord Fairfax, who realized every day how close the
boy had got to his heart.
As for Lance, a real friendship had grown up between him and George, and
the old soldier thought with keen regret of the impending departure.
Black Bear had remained at Greenway until his wound was well on the way
to recovery, but, as Lance said, "an Injun can walk on a broken leg and
climb a tree with a broken arm," so that when Black Bear considered
himself recovered a white man would have thought his cure scarcely
begun.
Lord Fairfax found out that the Indian was the son of Tanacharison, one
of the few chiefs who were friendly to the English and unfriendly to the
French. On finding this out the Earl sent for Black Bear and had a long
talk with him. With most Indians the idea of sparing an enemy seemed the
extreme of folly; but Black Bear was of superior intelligence, and it
had dawned upon him long before that the white men knew more than the
red men about most things. And when he himself became the object of
kindness, when he recalled George's remembering to give him water in his
agony, and Lance's endeavors to cure his wound, the Indian's hard but
not ignoble heart was touched. His father was reported among the wisest
of the chiefs, and he had warned his tribe against taking either the
French or the English side, as it was not their quarrel. Lord Fairfax
found that in Black Bear, an uneducated savage who could neither read
nor write, he had a man of strong natural intelligence, and one worth
conciliating. He came to Greenway Court with blood and fire in his
heart, and he left it peaceably inclined, and anxious for the friendship
of the whits men. On the eve of his departure he said to George:
"White brother, if ever you are in the Indian land and want help, call
on Black Bear, or Tanacharison, the great chief who dwells on the other
side of the mountains where the two rivers come together, and you will
be heard as quickly as the doe hears the bleat of her young."
Next morning Black Bear had disappeared, and was no more seen.
The time came, about the middle of December, when George left Greenway
Court for Mount Vernon. It was in a mild spell of weather, and advantage
had to be taken of it to make the journey, as the roads were likely to
be impassable later in the season. He was to travel on horse-back, Billy
following him on a mule and carrying the portmanteau.
The night before he left he had a long conversation with Lord Fairfax in
the library. The Earl gently hinted at a wish that George might remain
with him always, and that ample provision would be made for him in that
event; but George, with tact and gratitude, evaded the point. He felt a
powerful attachment towards Lord Fairfax, but he had no mind to be
anybody's son except his father's and his mother's son. The Earl's last
words on parting with him that night were:
"I desire you to promise me that, in any emergency of any kind--and
there will be many in your life--you will call on me as your friend if
not your father."
George answered, with gratitude in his heart, "I will gladly promise
that, my lord; and it is great encouragement to me to feel that I have
such a friend."
Next morning, after an early breakfast, George's horse and Billy's mule
were brought to the door. All the negroes were assembled to bid him
good-by. Cæsar hoped he would come back soon, but not for any more
fights with Indians, and each had some good wish for him. After shaking
hands with each one, George grasped Lance's hand.
"Good-by, Lance," said he. "I never can thank you enough for what you
have taught me; not only fencing, but"--here George blushed a little at
the recollection of his first fencing lesson--"teaching me to control my
temper."
"You were the aptest scholar I ever had, Mr. Washington," answered the
old soldier; "and as for your temper, I have never seen you anything but
mild and gentle since that first day."
George then went to the library to find the Earl. He had meant to say
something expressive of gratitude, but all through his life words failed
him when his heart was overflowing. Lord Fairfax, too, was silent for a
moment; but taking down the smaller of the two swords over the
mantel-piece, he handed it to George.
[Illustration: "I CHARGE YOU NEVER TO DRAW IT IN AN UNWORTHY CAUSE."]
"This sword," he said, "I wore in the service of the Great Duke. I give
it to you as being worthy to wear it, and I charge you never to draw it
in an unworthy cause."
"I promise you, my lord," was all that George could say in reply; but
Lord Fairfax, who was a good judge of men, knew all that was passing in
the boy's heart. The two wrung each other's hand; and George, going out,
mounted his horse and rode off, with Billy trotting behind on the mule,
and Rattler running at his heels.
For the first few miles George felt the keen regret which every
sensitive young soul must feel at leaving a place and persons dearly
loved. At the point on the mountain-side where, on his way to Greenway,
the Earl had stopped and showed him his first view of the house, George
stopped again, and looked long and sadly. But once turned from it, and
out of sight of it, his mind recovered its spring. He remembered that he
was on the way to Mount Vernon, and would soon be with his brother
Laurence and his sister-in-law, whom he dearly loved. Then there was
little Mildred, a baby girl when he had been at Mount Vernon a year
before. He wondered how big she was then. And Betty would be there, and
he would hear from his mother, and see her soon after Christmas. On the
whole, what with these pleasant prospects, and fine clear December
weather, and a good horse to ride, George began to whistle cheerfully,
and presently called back to Billy:
"How do you like the notion of Christmas at Mount Vernon, Billy?"
"I likes it mightily, suh," replied Billy, very promptly. "Dee ain' no
Injuns at Mount Vernon, an' dee black folks git jes as good wittles in
de kitchen as de white folks gits--tuckey, an' graby, an' all de pudden
dat's lef over, an' plenty o' 'lasses, an' heap o' urr things."
George travelled much faster than the lumbering coach in which he had
made the best part of his first journey, and he had continuous good
weather. On the fourth day, in the afternoon, he shouted delightedly to
Billy, "There is the blue water, Billy!" and pointed to a silver line
that glittered in the wintry sun. It was the Potomac, and a few miles'
riding brought them to Mount Vernon.
As George rode up to the broad front porch a girlish figure flew out of
the door, and Betty clasped him in her arms. He knew he had always loved
Betty, but until then he did not fully realize how dear his only sister
was to him. Then there was his brother Laurence--a handsome,
military-looking man, but pale and slight in comparison with George,
who was a young Hercules in development--and his sister-in-law, a pretty
young woman of whom he was fond and proud. And toddling about was little
Mildred, whom Betty had taught to say "Uncle George," in anticipation of
his arrival. All were delighted to see him; and his brother Laurence,
telling him that Admiral Vernon, his old friend, for whom he had changed
the name of the plantation to Mount Vernon from Hunting Creek, was
visiting him, was for presenting him then and there to the Admiral. But
Betty interposed.
"Wait until George has changed his clothes, brother, for I am sure he
looks much better in his blue cloth jacket and his brocaded waistcoat,
made of our mother's wedding-gown; and I want the Admiral to think well
of him at first, and--oh, George has a sword! He thinks he is a man
now!"
George blushed a little, but he was very willing, boy like, to tell of
how Lord Fairfax gave him the rapier, and Laurence and Mrs. Washington
and Betty were all delighted, except that Betty wished it had been the
one with the diamond hilt, which caused George to sniff at her
ignorance.
"That was a sword that anybody could buy who had money enough; but this
is a sword that has seen service, as Lord Fairfax told me. He wore it at
Bouchain."
As Betty had never heard of Bouchain before, she very wisely held her
peace. But she soon dragged George off up stairs to the little room
which was his whenever he staid at Mount Vernon, and where Billy had
preceded him with the portmanteau. George was full of questions about
his mother and everybody at Ferry Farm, and Betty was full of questions
about Greenway Court and Lord Fairfax, so they made but little headway
in their mutual inquiries. Suddenly, as George glanced out of the window
towards the river, he saw a beautiful black frigate lying at anchor. It
was near sunset of a clear December evening, and a pale green light was
over the river, the land, and the sky. Every mast was clearly outlined,
and her spars were exactly and beautifully squared in true man-of-war
style. The union-jack flying from her peak was distinctly visible in the
evening light, and the faint echo of the bugle came softly over the
water, and died among the wooded hills along the shore.
George stood motionless and entranced. It was the first ship of war he
had ever seen, and the beauty and majesty of the sight thrilled him to
the core of his heart. Betty chattered on glibly.
"That is the frigate _Bellona_. The Captain and officers are here all
the time, and some of them are brother Laurence's old friends that he
served with at the siege of Cartagena. I expect some of them will be
here to supper to-night. Besides Admiral Vernon, who is staying here,
are Mr. William Fairfax and his son William," and Betty rattled off a
dozen names, showing that the house was full for Christmas.
After Betty went out, when George, with Billy's assistance, was putting
on his best clothes, he could not keep his eyes from wandering to the
window, through which the _Bellona_ was still seen in the waning light,
looming up larger as the twilight fell. Presently he saw a boat put off
with several officers, which quickly made the Mount Vernon landing.
When he was all dressed, with his fine white brocade waistcoat and his
paste knee-buckles, he dearly wished to wear his sword, as gentlemen
wore swords upon occasions when they were dressed for ceremony. But he
felt both shy and modest about it, and at last concluded to leave it in
his room. When he went downstairs he found the lower hall brightly
illuminated with wax candles and a glorious fire, and decked with holly
and mistletoe. It was full of company, several officers being present in
uniform, and one tall, handsome, gray-haired officer stood before the
hearth talking with Mrs. Laurence Washington. George guessed that to be
Admiral Vernon, and his guess was correct.
As he descended the last steps, and advanced to where Mrs. Laurence
Washington stood, every eye that fell upon him admired him. His journey,
his intercourse with a man like Lord Fairfax, and his fencing lessons
had improved his air and manner, graceful as both had been before. Mrs.
Washington, laying her hand on his shoulder, which was already on a
level with the Admiral's, said:
"Let me present to you my brother, Mr. George Washington, who has come
to spend his Christmas with us."
Admiral Vernon glanced at him keenly as he shook hands with him.
"My brother has just returned from a visit to the Earl of Fairfax, at
Greenway Court, my father's relative"--for Mrs. Washington had been Anne
Fairfax of Belvoir. "The Earl has been most kind to him, and honored him
by giving him the sword which he wore at the siege of Bouchain."
"I believe he entered the town," said Admiral Vernon. "I have often
heard of the adventure, and it was most daring."
"Why have you not the sword on, George?" asked his sister.
"Because--because--" George stammered, and then became hopelessly
embarrassed.
"Because he is a modest young gentleman," said the Admiral, smiling.
George was introduced to many other persons, all older than himself; but
presently he recognized William Fairfax, a cousin of his sister's, who
had been at Mount Vernon with him the Christmas before. William was a
merry youngster, a year or two older than George, but a foot or two
shorter. The two boys gravitated together, and, as young gentlemen in
those days were expected to be very retiring, they took their places in
a corner, and when supper was announced they made up the very tail of
the procession towards the dining-room. At supper the three young
people--George and Betty and William Fairfax--sat together. The
conversation was gay and sprightly until the ladies left, when it grew
more serious.
"Close up, gentlemen, close up!" cried Laurence Washington, cordially,
motioning them to take the seats left vacant by the ladies. George and
William Fairfax rose to leave the room then, as boys were not expected
to remain on those occasions, but Laurence stopped them.
"Stay, George and William; you are both old enough now to be company for
men; and especially I desire an account from you, George, of how affairs
are progressing at Greenway Court. I hear my Lord Fairfax had to repel
an attack from the Indians within the last month. That, Admiral," he
continued, turning to Admiral Vernon, "is one of the pleasures which
Lord Fairfax exchanged for a residence in England."
"How does he stand it, Mr. Washington?" asked Admiral Vernon. "Does he
remain in his eyrie among the mountains because he is too proud to
acknowledge his loneliness?"
"I think not, sir," answered George. "He has a very large, comfortable
house, much like a fortress. It is well furnished with everything,
including books; my Lord Fairfax is the greatest reader I ever saw. He
does not lead an idle life; on the contrary, he takes great interest in
public affairs, and is lieutenant of the county. Especially is he
concerned about our northwest boundary, and is preparing to have his
lands west of the Alleghany Mountains surveyed, I believe, as much in
the interest of the country as of his own, for the French are
encroaching on that side."
Although George spoke with the greatest modesty, it was evident that he
understood his subject. It was a deeply interesting one to all present,
as it was perfectly well known that the first serious collision between
the French and English in America would mean war between France and
England.
Admiral Vernon and the other officers asked many questions about the
temper of the Indians towards the English, the disposition of the French
forts, and other matters, to all of which George gave brief but
intelligent answers. After an hour spent in conversation at the table
the scraping of fiddles was heard in the hall.
"Come, gentlemen," cried Laurence, "the ladies are waiting for us; we
cannot be so ungallant as to remain here longer."
The large room to the right of the entrance had been cleared for
dancing, and there, too, were wax candles shining amid Christmas greens,
and a Christmas fire blazing on the hearth. On two planks placed across
two wooden "crickets" sat Yellow Jake and Lef'-hand Torm, the negro
fiddlers, tuning up their instruments and grinning from ear to ear. In
every window merry black faces peered with beady eyes and shining
ivories; for under the mild and patriarchal rule in Virginia in those
days the negroes were considered as humble members of the family, who
had a share in all its pleasures, as in all its sorrows. There were many
ladies present in hoops and powder, and with stiff brocades that rustled
as they walked, and great fans, which they used in dancing the minuet as
the gentlemen used their cocked hats. George, in his heart, thought his
sister Anne the handsomest of them all, and that in a year or two Betty
would be a charmingly pretty girl. As it was, Mistress Betty, in her
white sarcenet silk, looked a picture of modest and girlish beauty. She
loved to dance; and when George came up, as the gentlemen were selecting
their partners, and said, with a smile, "Come, Betty, nobody here wants
to dance with a girl and boy like you and me, so we will have to dance
together," Betty jumped for joy.
"If I had waited, William Fairfax would have asked me to dance," she
whispered to George; "but I would much rather dance with you, because
you are so much taller and older-looking, and William is _such_ a boy!"