Young Lieutenant Claflin left the Brooklyn Navy-yard at an early hour,
and arrived at the recruiting-office at ten o'clock. It was the day
before Christmas, and even the Bowery, "the thieves' highway," had
taken on the emblems and spirit of the season, and the young officer
smiled grimly as he saw a hard-faced proprietor of a saloon directing
the hanging of wreaths and crosses over the door of his palace and
telling the assistant barkeeper to make the red holly berries "show
up" better.
The cheap lodging-houses had trailed the green over their illuminated
transoms, and even on Mott Street the Chinamen had hung up strings of
evergreen over the doors of the joss-house and the gambling-house next
door. And the tramps and good-for-nothings, just back from the Island,
had an animated, expectant look, as though something certainly was
going to happen.
Lieutenant Claflin nodded to Corporal Goddard at the door of the
recruiting-office, and startled that veteran's rigidity, and kept his
cotton-gloved hand at his visor longer than the Regulations required,
by saying, "Wish you merry Christmas," as he jumped up the stairs.
The recruiting-office was a dull, blank-looking place, the view from
the windows was not inspiring, and the sight of the plump and
black-eyed Jewess in front of the pawn-shop across the street, who was
a vision of delight to Corporal Goddard, had no attractions to the
officer upstairs. He put on his blue jacket, with the black braid down
the front, lighted a cigar, and wrote letters on every other than
official matters, and forgot about recruits. He was to have leave of
absence on Christmas, and though the others had denounced him for
leaving the mess-table on that day, they had forgiven him when he
explained that he was going to spend it with his people at home. The
others had homes as far away as San Francisco and as far inland as
Milwaukee, and some called the big ship of war home; but Claflin's
people lived up in Connecticut, and he could reach them in a few
hours. He was a very lucky man, the others said, and he felt very
cheerful over it, and forgot the blank-looking office with its Rules
and Regulations, and colored prints of uniforms, and models of old
war-ships, and tin boxes of official documents which were to be filled
out and sent to "the Honorable, the Secretary of the Navy."
Corporal Goddard on the stoop below shifted from one foot to the
other, and chafed his gloved hands softly together to keep them warm.
He had no time to write letters on unofficial writing-paper, nor to
smoke cigars or read novels with his feet on a chair, with the choice
of looking out at the queer stream of human life moving by below the
window on the opposite side of the Bowery. He had to stand straight,
which came easily to him now, and to answer questions and urge
doubtful minds to join the ranks of the government's marines.
A drunken man gazed at Ogden's colored pictures of the American
infantry, cavalry, and marine uniforms that hung before the door, and
placed an unsteady finger on the cavalry-man's picture, and said he
chose to be one of those. Corporal Goddard told him severely to be off
and get sober and grow six inches before he thought of such a thing,
and frowned him off the stoop.
Then two boys from the country asked about the service, and went off
very quickly when they found they would have to remain in it for three
years at least. A great many more stopped in front of the gay pictures
and gazed admiringly at Corporal Goddard's bright brass buttons and
brilliant complexion, which they innocently attributed to exposure to
the sun on long, weary marches. But no one came to offer himself in
earnest. At one o'clock Lieutenant Claflin changed his coat and went
down-town to luncheon, and came back still more content and in feeling
with the season, and lighted another cigar.
But just as he had settled himself comfortably he heard Corporal
Goddard's step on the stairs and a less determined step behind him.
He took his feet down from the rung of the other chair, pulled his
undress jacket into place, and took up a pen.
Corporal Goddard saluted at the door and introduced with a wave of his
hand the latest applicant for Uncle Sam's service. The applicant was
as young as Lieutenant Claflin, and as good-looking; but he was dirty
and unshaven, and his eyes were set back in the sockets, and his
fingers twitched at his side. Lieutenant Claflin had seen many
applicants in this stage. He called it the remorseful stage, and was
used to it.
"Name?" said Lieutenant Claflin, as he pulled a printed sheet of paper
towards him.
The applicant hesitated, then he said,
"Walker--John Walker."
The Lieutenant noticed the hesitation, but he merely remarked to
himself, "It's none of my business," and added, aloud, "Nationality?"
and wrote United States before the applicant answered.
The applicant said he was unmarried, was twenty three years old, and
had been born in New York City. Even Corporal Goddard knew this last
was not so, but it was none of his business, either. He moved the
applicant up against the wall under the measuring-rod, and brought it
down on his head.
So he measured and weighed the applicant, and tested his eyesight with
printed letters and bits of colored yarn, and the lieutenant kept
tally on the sheet, and bit the end of his pen and watched the
applicant's face. There were a great many applicants, and few were
chosen, but none of them had quite the air about him which this one
had. Lieutenant Claflin thought Corporal Goddard was just a bit too
callous in the way he handled the applicant, and too peremptory in his
questions; but he could not tell why Corporal Goddard treated them all
in that way. Then the young officer noticed that the applicant's white
face was flushing, and that he bit his lips when Corporal Goddard
pushed him towards the weighing-machine as he would have moved a
barrel of flour.
"You'll answer," said Lieutenant Claflin, glancing at the sheet. "Your
average is very good. All you've got to do now is to sign this, and
then it will be over." But he did not let go of the sheet in his hand,
as he would have done had he wanted it over. Neither did the applicant
move forward to sign.
"After you have signed this," said the young officer, keeping his eyes
down on the paper before him, "you will have become a servant of the
United States; you will sit in that other room until the office is
closed for to-day, and then you will be led over to the Navy-yard and
put into a uniform, and from that time on for three years you will
have a number, the same number as the one on your musket. You and the
musket will both belong to the government. You will clean and load
the musket, and fight with it if God ever gives us the chance; and the
government will feed you and keep you clean, and fight with you if
needful."
The lieutenant looked up at the corporal and said, "You can go,
Goddard," and the corporal turned on his heel and walked downstairs,
wondering.
"You may spend the three years," continued the officer, still without
looking at the applicant, "which are the best years of a young man's
life, on the sea, visiting foreign ports, or you may spend it marching
up and down the Brooklyn Navy-yard and cleaning brass-work. There are
some men who are meant to clean brass-work and to march up and down in
front of a stone arsenal, and who are fitted for nothing else. But to
every man is given something which should tell him that he is put here
to make the best of himself. Every man has that, even the men who are
only fit to clean brass rods; but some men kill it, or try to kill it,
in different ways, generally by rum. And they are as generally
successful, if they keep the process up long enough. The government,
of which I am a very humble representative, is always glad to get good
men to serve her, but it seems to me (and I may be wrong, and I'm
quite sure that I am speaking contrary to Regulations) that some of
her men can serve her better in other ways than swabbing down decks.
Now, you know yourself best. It may be that you are just the sort of
man to stand up and salute the ladies when they come on board to see
the ship, and to watch them from for'ard as they walk about with the
officers. You won't be allowed to speak to them; you will be number
329 or 328, and whatever benefits a good woman can give a man will be
shut off from you, more or less, for three years.
"And, on the other hand, it may be that there are some good women who
could keep you on shore, and help you to do something more with
yourself than to carry a musket. And, again, it may be that if you
stayed on shore you would drink yourself more or less comfortably to
death, and break somebody's heart. I can't tell. But if I were not a
commissioned officer of the United States, and a thing of Rules and
Regulations who can dance and wear a uniform, and a youth generally
unfit to pose as an example, I would advise you not to sign this, but
to go home and brace up and leave whiskey alone.
"Now, what shall we do?" said the young lieutenant, smiling; "shall we
tear this up, or will you sign it?"
The applicant's lips were twitching as well as his hands now, and he
rubbed his cuff over his face and smiled back.
"I'm much obliged to you," he said, nervously. "That sounds a rather
flat thing to say, I know, but if you knew all I meant by it, though,
it would mean enough. I've made a damned fool of myself in this city,
but nothing worse. And it was a choice of the navy, where they'd keep
me straight, or going to the devil my own way. But it won't be my own
way now, thanks to you. I don't know how you saw how it was so
quickly; but, you see, I have got a home back in Connecticut, and
women that can help me there, and I'll go back to them and ask them to
let me start in again where I was when I went away."
"That's good," said the young officer, cheerfully; "that's the way to
talk. Tell me where you live in Connecticut, and I'll lend you the
car-fare to get there. I'll expect it back with interest, you know,"
he said, laughing.
"Thank you," said the rejected applicant. "It's not so far but that I
can walk, and I don't think you'd believe in me if I took money."
"Oh, yes, I would," said the lieutenant. "How much do you want?"
"Thank you, but I'd rather walk," said the other. "I can get there
easily enough by to-morrow. I'll be a nice Christmas present, won't
I?" he added, grimly.
"You'll do," said the young officer. "I fancy you'll be about as
welcome a one as they'll get." He held out his hand and the other
shook it, and walked out with his shoulders as stiff as those of
Corporal Goddard.
Then he came back and looked into the room shyly. "I say," he said,
hesitatingly. The lieutenant ran his hand down into his pocket.
"You've changed your mind?" he asked, eagerly. "That's good. How much
will you want?"
The rejected applicant flushed. "No, not that," he said. "I just came
back to say--wish you a merry Christmas."