Three days after Lieutenant McCormack’s interview with Captain Murray,
First Sergeant Barriscale, in pursuance of notice duly received,
presented himself before his commanding officer, in his room at the
hospital, for admonition and punishment in accordance with the Army
Regulations. There was no bravado in his bearing, no attempt at bluster
or denial.
“I suppose I may as well plead guilty to the charges,” he said, “and
take what’s coming to me.”
Captain Murray looked up at him in astonishment. What had become of the
boastful, self-satisfied scion of a wealthy family as he had known him
scarcely three weeks before? He had expected to deal with a stubborn,
defiant, aggressive offender; but here came a modest, pliant, soldierly
young fellow, freely acknowledging his offense, and willing to pay
the penalty. It was a strange circumstance. It changed materially the
aspect of affairs. It set the captain to thinking.
“But there are no charges,” he said at last. “McCormack refused to file
any.”
“Refused--to file any?”
Barriscale looked up at him with incredulous eyes. He could not
understand it. Why had not McCormack taken advantage of so rich an
opportunity, so just an occasion, to even up a score that had been
running lopsided for years?
“Yes. He doesn’t want you court-martialed. I’m not particularly eager
for it myself. We’ve had enough of court-martialing in Company E for
the present. So I decided to call you before me instead for admonition
and punishment under the Army Regulations.”
“But, Captain, mine was a court-martial offense, not a case for a
summary court. I’m not asking for any clemency. I’m guilty, and I’m
ready to take my medicine.”
“And I mean to give it to you. But I don’t quite understand your
attitude. I supposed you’d put up a fight. What’s come over you?”
“I don’t know, Captain Murray. I experienced a sort of change of heart
that Sunday morning. I looked around me, and realized what McCormack
had done; that our plant was saved, that the flag was still flying,
that the mob had been dispersed, and that through it all I had been
neither a patriot, a soldier nor a gentleman; but simply an unmitigated
fool. I think that was the end of one phase of my life, and the
beginning of another. Now I want to start right, and starting right
means adequate punishment for misdeeds.”
“I see. That’s splendid! That’s the right way to look at it. I
congratulate you!” The captain’s hand moved across the counterpane,
found Ben’s, grasped it and held fast to it. “But there’ll be no
court-martial. That’s settled. And as for the punishment, I had thought
to reduce you to the ranks. It’s the most I could do, anyway. But, in
your present state of mind, I--I think I’d rather have you on the right
of the line. So I’ll just order you back to your post.”
Barriscale sprang to his feet, his cheeks glowing and his eyes wide
with apprehension. Again it was the old fire of impetuosity that broke
out in him.
“I protest!” he exclaimed. “That wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair
to McCormack, nor just to the boys in the company. If I were to obey
such an order I’d do it at the loss of every vestige of self-respect.
Captain, don’t do that, I beg of you! At least reduce me to the ranks.”
Captain Murray, looking searchingly into his first sergeant’s face, saw
that he was both sincere and determined.
“Very well,” he said; “back to the ranks you go.”
As Barriscale turned to leave the captain’s room Miss Anderson entered
it. Her eyes were solemn but tearless, as befits the eyes of those who
have just witnessed the passing of a soul.
“General Chick,” she said, “is dead.”
He had died in the full belief that the great ambition of his life had
been fulfilled, that he was a soldier of the Guard, and that, in the
embarkation for the great war, he had not been left behind. And so his
death came joyfully. He had, indeed, gone “across the sea,” not to
fight under any earthly flag, but to march and sing forever under the
stainless banner of the Lord of Hosts.
In August following the annual July encampment the regiment to which
Company E belonged was mobilized at Mount Gretna, along with other
National Guard units, was mustered into the federal service, and, in
October, was sent to the Mexican border. It went into camp at Camp
Stewart, seven miles north of El Paso, and remained there during the
entire winter. The regiment saw no active service; it was not even
called upon to patrol the border.
Not that the men did not have their experiences, their pleasures
and their hardships. But, what with the daily drill, the camp
entertainments, the trips to the city, and the letters and parcels from
home, life on the sand plains of the Rio Grande valley did not become
especially monotonous. The troops would have preferred to march and
fight; they would have been delighted to be with Pershing’s regulars
in the heart of Mexico, but there was little murmuring and there were
few complaints. They were soldiers in the service of the federal
government; they were being well cared for, it was their business to
obey orders and be content.
This was especially true of the men of Company E. They spent no time
nor wasted any breath in useless murmuring. They performed their duties
as soldiers with skill and alacrity. Theirs became the crack company
in the regiment. Lieutenant McCormack, their commander, had not only
their respect but their affection. From the day of the riot his place
in their minds and hearts was fixed and unalterable. As for Barriscale,
the old prejudice against him had worn gradually away until he had
become in fact as well as in theory a comrade. As a private in the
ranks he performed every duty with painstaking care and fidelity. The
old sense of self-importance had disappeared; he was simply Private
Barriscale, in the service of his country, no better nor worse than
the men who surrounded him. As Brownell put it one day, he had become
“really human.”
The breach between him and McCormack had, apparently, not yet been
fully closed. It is certain that there was no familiar companionship
between them. Barriscale had made formal apology to the first
lieutenant, his apology had been accepted and his offense kindly
minimized, and there the matter had ended. They were soldiers and
gentlemen in their relations with each other, that was all. Whether
a bit of the old resentment still dwelt in the heart of each of them,
or whether it was a natural diffidence and hesitancy that prevented
them from approaching one another on what was of necessity a delicate
subject, perhaps neither of them could have told.
But an incident happened one day that in its consequences brought about
a change in the relations between the two men.
Plodding back from the city of El Paso to camp in the afternoon of a
December day, Barriscale was caught in one of the violent sandstorms
characteristic of that region. Swept, buffeted, blinded, drenched with
the terrific downpour of rain, he reached the camp battered, breathless
and exhausted. After three days of partial disability he developed a
full case of pneumonia. The disease was not of the most severe type,
however, and at no time was he considered to be desperately or even
critically ill.
But Lieutenant McCormack, the company commander, deemed it advisable to
telegraph to Barriscale’s father the fact of his son’s illness.
This he did on the third day after the nature of the disease had become
definitely established.
The telegram was an assuring one, but it brought Benjamin Barriscale,
Sr., to Camp Stewart within thirty-six hours after its receipt. He
found his son much improved, the crisis safely passed, and the young
man on the sure road to recovery. He remained with him three days.
It was on the afternoon of the second day, as he was sitting at the
side of Ben’s cot which had been partitioned off by screens from the
rest of the hospital ward, that the subject of their relations with
Lieutenant Halpert McCormack came up.
“I’ve nothing against him now,” said Ben. “I’ve seen him day in and day
out for months, and in my opinion he’s a soldier and a gentleman.”
The elder Barriscale sat for a moment in silence.
“I may have been rather harsh in my judgment of him before the riot,”
he said at last. “But I still think that his opinions and conduct
justify my attitude toward him up to that time.”
“That may be very true, father; but you’ll have to admit that he
handled the situation that day in a masterly manner.”
“Yes, I’ll admit that.”
“And that his patience and judgment and firmness not only saved our
property from destruction, but prevented much bloodshed and probably a
city-wide disaster.”
“I guess that’s true too.”
“Then why haven’t we got the moral courage to acknowledge it, and
tell him so, and put an end to this awkward restraint, and this
uncomfortable attitude on the part of all of us?”
Again the elder man hesitated.
“He may still be a radical,” he replied; “and I don’t care to humble
myself before a person of that type. When this ultra-socialist germ
once finds lodgment in a young man’s mind, it’s no easy task to
displace it.”
“Well, I guess he’s got rid of it all right now.” The invalid raised
himself on his elbow and added earnestly: “You know I believe
McCormack’s one ambition to-day is to serve his country faithfully as a
soldier.”
“That’s a laudable ambition, I’m sure.”
It was at this juncture that Lieutenant McCormack, having come to the
hospital to visit the two or three of his men who were invalids there,
was ushered by a nurse into the little apartment screened off for
Barriscale. When he saw that the sick man had company he would have
withdrawn, but Ben called to him.
“Come in,” he said. “Father’s here, and he wants to see you.”
So McCormack came in; not wholly at ease, to be sure, but with the
dignified and courteous bearing of a soldier. The elder Barriscale
reached out a friendly hand to him and he took it, and then passed
around to the other side of the cot.
“Ben is right,” said the elder man. “I did want to see you, and I
should not have left camp without having done so. I want to thank you
for having notified me of my son’s illness.”
“That is a duty,” replied the lieutenant, “which we owe to the parents
of our men when they are seriously ill. And I think your son has been
seriously, though not dangerously, ill.”
“Yes; I have talked with the surgeon, who thinks his escape from
something far worse than this was extremely fortunate.”
“And I am extremely glad,” added the lieutenant, “that he is so well on
the road to recovery, and will soon be back with us. We all appreciate
him and need him. He is an ideal soldier.”
The words came unconsciously, almost impetuously. If McCormack had
stopped to consider he might not have uttered them. Still he made no
attempt to modify them, for he knew that they were true.
But the heart of the father had been touched; and if any feeling of
prejudice or resentment against his son’s one time rival had remained
with him prior to his journey south, it vanished in this moment. Blunt
and direct in meeting opposition to his will, he was equally blunt
and direct in acknowledging his faults or mistakes, or expressing his
gratitude or approval.
“I want to thank you, sir,” he said, “for your generosity. Your
conduct toward my son since the day of the riot has been more than
magnanimous.”
“You are very kind to think so and to say so,” replied the lieutenant
modestly.
“And I want to say further,” went on the manufacturer, “that while
there was a time when I doubted your true Americanism, that time
has passed. Your conduct as an officer has proved your worth as a
patriot. You have lived up to the best traditions of the American
soldier. I admire your judgment, sir, and your patience and skill, and
broad-mindedness, and----”
What more Benjamin Barriscale, Sr., would have said had not a peculiar
choking sensation checked his speech, cannot be definitely known. It is
certain that his eyes were moist and his lips trembled. His enthusiasm
and his surroundings had betrayed him into an emotion such as he had
not experienced in years. And as for his son, two big tears escaping
from his eyes were coursing down his cheeks unheeded and undisturbed.
Lieutenant Halpert McCormack did not quite know what to say. He began
to stumble over some awkward expression of appreciation and thanks, but
the elder Barriscale cut him short.
“There,” he said, “the incident is closed. I want to go up and see the
boys of your company, and take home any messages they want to send. And
if there’s anything they need while they’re down here, they shall have
it if it’s in my power to get it to them.”
When Hal rose to go Ben reached out his hand to him.
“There’s not much left,” he said, “for me to say, except to assure you,
with all the heart and energy I’ve got, that my father’s sentiments are
mine.”
And in that moment the old breach between them was closed forever.
On the day that Private Ben Barriscale left the hospital, a committee
representing the enlisted men of Company E called on First Lieutenant
McCormack at company headquarters. There were three sergeants and two
corporals. The lieutenant received them graciously but wonderingly,
and waited for them to declare their errand. Manning, although only a
corporal, appeared to be the spokesman of the committee. He saluted
gravely and drew from his pocket a formidable looking paper.
“Lieutenant McCormack,” he said, “we are not sure whether or not we are
violating military rules and customs in appearing before you to make a
certain request, but we feel that our earnestness and good faith will,
in any event, be our sufficient excuse. I hand you a petition, signed
by every enlisted man in Company E but one, and as the matter concerns
him he was not asked to sign it.”
He handed the paper to McCormack, returned to his place and stood at
attention.
The company commander, with not a little misgiving, unfolded the paper
and began to read it. It ran as follows:
“_To First Lieutenant Halpert McCormack, Commanding Company E_:
“The undersigned, including the entire roster of your Company
with the exception of one name, respectfully pray you to fill
the vacancy now existing in the office of First Sergeant,
by reappointing thereto Private Benjamin Barriscale who has
heretofore filled the position with marked ability.
“_Signed_,”
McCormack ran his eyes down the long list of names, then folded the
paper and looked into the faces of his visitors.
“Are you aware,” he said, “that when Private Barriscale was returned to
the ranks he lost his grading, and, in accordance with military usage,
should begin again at the lowest round of the ladder to win promotions?”
“We are aware of that,” was Manning’s reply; “but we feel that the
circumstances surrounding Barriscale’s case warrant the waiving of this
custom. He has taken his punishment like a soldier. He has made himself
agreeable and helpful to his comrades. He is absolutely faithful in the
performance of every duty. It seems to us that he has paid in full the
penalty for his old offense.”
The company commander did not seem to be greatly interested in this
plea, but he turned to Acting First Sergeant Bangs, who stood at the
left of the group.
“Are you willing,” he asked, “to waive such right of appointment to the
first sergeantcy, as you may have by reason of your present position?”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” was the prompt and earnest reply; “I am not only
willing, but glad to do it. In my judgment Private Barriscale has
easily won the honor which we are asking for him.”
Still the company commander did not seem to be deeply impressed with
the sergeant’s plea.
He asked, of no member of the committee in particular:
“Does Barriscale know anything about this?”
Manning and Boyle replied with one accord, in the same words:
“Not a word!” And Manning added: “We have not taken him into our
confidence for fear he might disapprove and put a stop to it.”
Again Lieutenant McCormack looked into the faces of his visitors for a
moment without speaking. Then he said quietly:
“I do not think that, under the circumstances, you have been guilty of
any breach of military etiquette. I will accept your petition, consider
it, and consult with my lieutenants concerning it.”
They saluted him, he returned the salute, and then they turned on their
heels and left the commander’s tent.
Three days later orders were posted announcing the appointment of
Private Benjamin Barriscale to the office of First Sergeant.
Late in March Company E came home from the border.
As the boys marched up from the station, stalwart, bronzed, with
ringing steps and beaming faces, the citizenry of Fairweather lined
the curbs and hung from the windows to greet and acclaim them. As they
went by, Sarah Halpert, standing in her automobile, surrounded by the
McCormack family, waved her handkerchief, and shouted her enthusiastic
welcome. She had reason to be both proud and happy. For her old wish
had been fulfilled; Halpert McCormack was captain of Company E, and
Benjamin Barriscale was its first lieutenant. Captain Murray had
resigned his commission, and the new appointments had come down through
headquarters three days before the entrainment of the troops for home.
“Haven’t I told you times without number,” exclaimed Sarah Halpert,
“that the boy had the stuff in him? All that was needed to bring it
out was a Sabbath morning, and a howling mob, and a threat against Old
Glory.”
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
--Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
--Printer's, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
--Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
follow the text that they illustrate.