That was a strange group that marched, three abreast, up the main
street of Fairweather that Sunday morning of the riot. Sergeant
Barriscale, with a rifle on each shoulder; on his right Corporal
Manning, hatless, with bandaged head; and on his left, shuffling weakly
along, General Chick.
“McCormack is going to get some glory out of this day,” said Manning.
“He deserves it,” responded Barriscale, sharply.
And Chick added: “I ain’t never seen nothin’ to beat it. Wasn’t that
great?”
Then, again, for a few minutes, they walked on in silence, save as they
were met and questioned by curious and excited people hurrying toward
the plaza.
Sarah Halpert came speeding down the street in her car. When she saw
the strange trio she ordered her driver to draw up to the curb.
“Tell me all about it, Ben!” she exclaimed. “Did you get hurt, Dick?
What’s the matter with you, Chick? Where’s Hal? Is he in command of the
company?”
“Yes, to everything, Miss Halpert,” replied Ben. “Dick got smashed
on the head with a brickbat, Chick isn’t feeling very well, and I’m
disgraced. We’re all going back to the armory.”
“But Hal? What’s he doing?”
“He’s driving the rioters out of town at the point of the bayonet, Miss
Halpert. He’s covering himself with glory.”
“Splendid!” She half rose in her seat, and clapped her hands together
vigorously. Apparently she forgot all about Manning’s wound, and
Chick’s illness, and Ben’s disgrace, for she turned quickly to her
driver, and ordered him to make haste ahead.
“I want to catch up with the company,” she said. “I want to see Hal
doing it.”
And the next minute she was out of sight.
When the three men started on again Manning’s footsteps were a little
more uncertain, and Chick dragged himself a little more wearily than
before.
In the middle of the next block Barriscale became suddenly aware that
the boy was missing from his side. He looked back and saw him lying in
a heap on the walk. He dropped his rifles and went and bent over him.
Chick was white and insensible but he was breathing.
“Poor fellow!” said Manning, “the thing’s been too much for him. What’s
to be done?”
Barriscale did not reply, but, looking up, he caught sight of a
passing car. It was empty save for the driver, and he hailed it and
commandeered it for his use. When it drew up to the curb he helped to
lift Chick into it, and he and Manning got in beside him.
[Illustration: HE HELPED TO LIFT CHICK INTO THE CAR]
“Drive to the City Hospital,” he ordered, “and break the speed law if
you want to.”
When they drew up under the porte-cochère at the hospital, two
orderlies came, lifted out the still unconscious boy, carried him in,
and started with him down the corridor.
“Where are you taking him?” asked Ben.
“To the men’s ward,” was the reply. “I suppose he’s one of the rioters
you’ve picked up.”
“Rioter!” Ben gazed at the orderly so fiercely that the young fellow
almost lost his grip on the boy’s shoulders. “Rioter nothing! He’s
General Chick. He’s a friend of mine. No men’s ward for him! He’s
to have a private room, a special nurse, and the best the hospital
affords.” He turned to the superintendent who had now come up. “I wish
you’d send the house surgeon to him at once. Give him everything he
needs. As soon as I can get in touch with Dr. Norton I’ll have him come
up and look after him. Send all bills to me.”
“Very well, Mr. Barriscale. We’ll do our best for him.”
The orderlies were already wheeling Chick to the elevator to take him
up-stairs.
Barriscale turned to Manning.
“Now, Corporal,” he said, “you can take me to the guard-house.”
“No,” replied Manning, “I think I’ll let you go by yourself. Now that
I’m here I believe I’ll stay and have this wound fixed up with a
permanent dressing. Besides, I want to see Captain Murray and tell him
what happened this morning.”
“That’s right! He’ll be glad to hear. Tell him the first lieutenant
played the soldier to perfection. Tell him the boys were heroes. And
tell him”--he hesitated a moment and then blurted it out: “that he’s
got a first sergeant who’s a natural born fool, a disgrace to his
company, and a blot on the National Guard.”
Without waiting to hear the corporal’s protest he turned on his heel,
strode down the hall, entered the waiting car, and directed that he be
driven at once to the armory.
At nine o’clock that morning Company E returned from its skirmish with
the mob. A belated squad of state constabulary had arrived and taken
charge of the situation, and there was no longer any occasion for the
Guardsmen to remain on duty. They marched up the main street, sturdy,
dusty and triumphant, followed by an admiring and applauding crowd. And
there was good reason for both admiration and applause. By reason of
the patience of the Guardsmen under great provocation, and of their
prompt obedience to orders, and by reason of the coolness, judgment and
skill of their commanding officer, Fairweather had undoubtedly been
saved from a disastrous and bloody experience. The citizens knew this
and they did not hesitate to say so.
At the armory, after the first lieutenant had turned the company over
to Sergeant Bangs for dismissal, he beckoned to Barriscale who, without
rifle or equipment, was standing at the side-wall, and the disgraced
officer stepped forward and saluted.
“You are suspended,” said Lieutenant McCormack to him, “from the
performance of any military duties, until your case can be taken up by
the proper authorities. In the meantime you are relieved from arrest
and may proceed about your ordinary business.”
Sergeant Barriscale, as became a soldier, said nothing in reply. He
saluted again and retired.
On the Tuesday following the riot the court martial reconvened to
proceed with the case against Lieutenant McCormack. The Barriscales
were not present, nor were any of their witnesses. Their counsel,
however, arose and said that in view of certain developments since the
last sitting of the court his clients did not care to prosecute the
case further. It would not have mattered much if they had so cared.
The verdict of the court was a foregone conclusion. The conduct of
the defendant on the preceding Sunday morning had served as a complete
refutation of the charges against him. Without the loss of a single
life, or the destruction of any valuable property, a riotous and
bloodthirsty mob had been quelled and dispersed. It was conceded that
this was due to the admirable way in which Lieutenant McCormack had
handled the situation. Moreover, the national emblem had been protected
against a rash and violent attack, and its would-be despoiler had
been summarily dealt with as he deserved to be. This was the dramatic
episode that made the young lieutenant’s vindication sure, and capped
the climax of his popularity.
So, on the application of Brownell, the court dismissed the charges
without hearing any witnesses for the defense, and, so far as could be
discovered, the defendant himself was the only person in the community
who was dissatisfied with the outcome of the trial. He knew that if the
charges were not true in letter they were at least true in spirit, and
that his own conduct had formed a sufficient foundation for them. He
knew also that it was only by the narrowest sort of a margin that he
had escaped being an ingrate to his country and a traitor to his flag.
That he should now come off scot free, and in a blaze of glory besides,
was deeply offensive to his sense of proportion, of propriety, and of
justice. But there was nothing that he could do without the risk of
bringing on further complications and disasters, save to accept the
ruling of the court and the verdict of the community, and to shape his
life accordingly.
With the rout of the mob that Sunday morning the backbone of the
strike at the Barriscale mills, and at other industrial plants in
Fairweather, was broken. Smoke again belched forth freely from the tall
stacks, the roar and clatter of machinery fell heavily on the air,
laboring humanity swarmed once more through the ways and byways of the
shops. Workmen were no longer heckled and abused on their way to and
from their homes. Many adherents of the radical labor organizations,
finding themselves on the losing side, dropped their open affiliation
with their destructive bodies, abandoned, for the time being at least,
their anarchistic principles, and returned to work on conditions
already accepted by union labor. Not that the backbone of anarchy had
been broken in Fairweather. Far from it. There were still those who,
cowed for the time being, were sullen and woeful, and awaited only
an opportune time to exhibit openly and forcibly their resentment.
Marie Brussiloff, from her cot in the hospital, and Gabriel from his
headquarters in the near-by city, still suffering from their wounds,
were “breathing out threatenings and slaughter.” Donatello alone,
of all the group, in the columns of _The Disinherited_, was mild
and conciliatory. He appeared to be grieved rather than outraged,
disappointed rather than angered. Meeting McCormack a few days after
the riot, he exhibited no bitterness nor resentment but he told him
that in his judgment he had missed the opportunity of a lifetime to do
a splendid service for humanity.
“I feel,” was Hal’s reply, “that I am doing a far greater service for
humanity by upholding the laws of my country than I could possibly do
by letting a mob work its will.”
“But those laws,” protested Donatello; “you know by whom they were
made.”
“I know; I have gone all over that phase of the matter a thousand
times. But it’s democracy; and, so far, democracy has proved to be
the best form of government that any peoples of the earth have ever
lived under. I tell you, Donatello,” he was growing eager and emphatic
now, “when Gabriel tried to cut down my flag that morning, a sudden
reverence for the ‘Stars and Stripes’ took hold of me, and I would have
dared anything to protect them. I am just as much of a humanitarian
as I ever was. I am just as much in sympathy with the toiling masses
of the world as ever. But since that moment I have felt that my first
duty is to protect my own. I believe I am not lacking in a sense of
chivalry, but my mother and my sisters are my first concern above all
other women in the world. Just so my own country must come first in my
loyalty and devotion.”
And never, after that, could any argument or appeal shake Halpert
McCormack’s conception of patriotism.
It was four days after the riot. Captain Murray was still at the
hospital, recovering but slowly from the shock and severity of his
wounds. There was no longer any doubt that his condition was the
result of a deliberate attempt to cripple the efficiency of the local
militia company on the eve of the proposed invasion of Fairweather. His
assailants were being held in the county jail without bail to await the
result of his injuries.
In the same hospital lay also General Chick. He was desperately ill.
The powers of disease had fastened upon his crippled and weakened
body with terrible avidity. It could not be denied that his grief and
anxiety over the anticipated fate of his beloved lieutenant had not
only hastened his illness but was mainly responsible for the ferocity
of the attack. Repeated and positive assurances had not been sufficient
to free his mind of the harassing belief that he, as an unwilling
witness, was to be the chief cause of the officer’s downfall.
It was on the morning of this fourth day that Miss Anderson, the
trained nurse who was caring for Chick, went into Captain Murray’s
room, as she had been requested to do, to make her daily report
concerning the boy’s condition.
“He is no better,” she said. “Of course we do not expect that he
will be any better. But if we could only get his mind relieved as to
Lieutenant McCormack’s fate--you know that is what he worries about
mostly--I am sure he would have less temperature, and be much more
comfortable.”
Captain Murray started to raise himself on his elbow, but fell back
with a gasp of pain.
“Why!” he exclaimed, “hasn’t he heard yet? Doesn’t he know about
McCormack?”
“He knows nothing new about him.”
“Well, you tell him that yesterday the court martial handed down
a decree dismissing the charges. Tell him that McCormack has been
acquitted; that he is free. Do you understand? Tell him that the
court-martial is all over, and that McCormack is free; absolutely free!”
When the nurse came in to make her afternoon report she had scarcely
crossed the door-sill before Captain Murray called out to her:
“Did you tell him, Miss Anderson?”
“Yes, I told him.”
“Did he understand? What did he say?”
“I think he understood. I never before saw such a rapturous look on a
human face. He--he lay very quiet for--a while. Then he said----”
Hardened as she was to pathetic sights and sounds, the lips of the
tender-hearted nurse trembled, her voice failed her, and, with tears
rolling down her cheeks, she turned and fled from the captain’s room.
But McCormack had still to deal with the case of Barriscale. He knew
that it was his duty to file charges with Captain Murray against the
first sergeant, and he knew what those charges should be. “Behaving
himself with disrespect toward his commanding officer, in violation of
the 20th Article of War.” “Disobeying a lawful command of his superior
officer, in violation of the 21st Article of War.” It was simple
enough; his duty was plain. Yet, day after day went by and he took no
action. He, himself, had been too near the verge of disloyalty and
insubordination to make the task of preparing and presenting charges
against a comrade an easy one.
But, when Captain Murray’s improvement made it no longer possible
to put forth the serious nature of his illness as a pretext for not
disturbing him, McCormack went down to the hospital one day, determined
to take the matter up and have an end of it.
“I hope,” said the captain, “that you’ve brought with you the charges
against Barriscale. It’s high time something was done.”
“No,” was the reply. “I haven’t drawn any charges. I’ve decided not to
present any.”
In his surprise Captain Murray thrust himself up on his elbow, but he
only winced now at the pain it gave him.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “Don’t you know that the man is guilty?”
“Perhaps he is. But I believe he was more than half justified in what
he did. As I think of it now, my only wonder is that any man in the
company had any confidence in me, or was willing to follow me or obey
my orders.”
The captain looked his first lieutenant in the eyes and was silent.
Evidently he was impressed with what McCormack had said. For when he
spoke again his manner was mild and he exhibited little impatience.
“But, if you don’t court-martial him what will you do with him?” he
asked. “It’ll never do to let such a breach of discipline go unnoticed.”
“I propose to turn him over to you for admonition under the Army
Regulations.”
“And what shall I do with him?”
“The most you could do in that case; the most you could do if you were
sitting as a summary court, would be to send him back to the ranks.”
“Then I’ll send him back to the ranks.”
“In my judgment that would be too severe a punishment.”
Up to this moment, save at the beginning of the conversation, Captain
Murray had repressed his impatience with admirable self-control. But
now it again got the better of him.
“Too severe!” he exclaimed. “Why, man! do you know that such an offense
as his, in the regular army, in time of war, would be punishable with
death?”
“I know. But we’re not in the regular army, and we’re not at war.”
“If I had my way about it,” was the captain’s reply, “we would be both
in the federal service and at war. That slaughter on the other side
will never stop until this nation goes in and stops it. The sooner we
get about it the better.”
“I agree with you. But, as to Ben, I hope you will be lenient.”
“And I promise you that I will punish him to the full extent of my
authority.”
The captain was resolute, so Hal had to let it go that way.
When he left the officer’s room he went up to the next floor to see
Chick. The boy gazed at him with unrecognizing eyes. Whether he saw him
at all or not is quite uncertain. But his shriveled and colorless lips
were incessantly moving.
“He babbles night and day,” said Miss Anderson, “mostly about Company E
and his duties at the armory. He boasts that he is now a regular member
of the company. He says you got him in. You are his hero, Lieutenant
McCormack. He never tired of talking about you when his mind was
clear. Even now yours is the name most frequently on his lips.”
“Poor fellow!” replied Hal. “I am glad he has the satisfaction of
believing that he has been admitted to membership in the company. It
was almost his lifelong ambition to be a Guardsman.”
“Well, he is one now to all intents and purposes. He says he must make
haste to get well in order that he may return to his duties. His great
fear and concern seem to be that the soldiers will go across the sea to
fight, and that on account of his illness he will be left behind. If
he were to believe that such a thing had happened it would absolutely
break his heart.”
Hal looked down on the gray face and unseeing eyes.
“It will never happen,” he said.
When he heard the sound of his own name issue feebly from the murmuring
lips he bent his head to listen.
“Yes, he got me in,” said the boy. “These are my khakis. That’s my gun.
I drill; I march--I’ll go with ’em across the sea--an’ fight. Yes,
that’s my flag; the ‘red, white an’ blue.’” He paused for a moment and
then continued: “Was that taps? Well, I’m ready--I’m tired.”
He turned his head on the pillow as if to go to rest. Hal took the
unresponsive hand and pressed it gently, gazed, for a moment, with wet
eyes, into the pinched, pathetic face, and came away.