The review that morning had drawn a crowd to the drill grounds that
baffled the efforts of the guards. Carriages from camps and carriages
from town, carts from the suburbs, equestrians from the parks and
pedestrians from everywhere had gradually encroached within kicking
distance of the heels of the cavalry escorting the general commanding the
department, and that official noted with unerring eye that the populace
was coming up on his flanks, so to speak, at the moment when the
etiquette of the service required that he should be gazing only to his
immediate front and responding to the salutes of the marching column.
Back of him, ranged in long, single rank, was drawn up what the
newspapers unanimously described as a "brilliant" staff, despite the fact
that all were in sombre campaign uniform and several had never been so
rated before. In their rear, in turn, was the line of mounted orderlies
and farther still the silent rank of the escorting troop. Sentries had
been posted to keep the throng at proper distance, but double their force
could have accomplished nothing--the omniscient corporal could not help
them, and after asking one or two stray officers what they would do about
it, the sentries gave way and the crowd swarmed in. It was just as the
head of the long tramping column came opposite the reviewing point, and
the brigade commander and his staff, turning out after saluting, found
their allotted station on the right of the reviewing party completely
taken up by the mass of eager spectators. A minute or so was required
before the trouble could be remedied, for, just as the officers and
orderlies were endeavoring to induce the populace to give way--a thing
the American always resists with a gay good humor that is peculiarly his
own--a nervous hack driver on the outskirts backed his bulky trap with
unexpected force, and penned between it and the wheels of a newly-arrived
and much more presentable equipage a fair equestrian who shrieked with
fright and clung to her pommel as her excited "mount" lashed out with his
heels and made splinters of the hack's rearmost spokes and felloes. Down
went the hack on its axle point. Out sprang a tall officer from the open
carriage, and in a second, it seemed, transferred the panic-stricken
horsewoman from the seismatic saddle to the safety of his own seat and
the ministrations of the two young women and the gray haired civilian who
were the latest arrivals. This done, and after one quick glance at the
lady's helpless escort, a young officer from the Presidio, he shouldered
his way through the crowd and stood, presently, on its inner edge, an
unperturbed and most interested spectator. Battalion after battalion, in
heavy marching order, in the dark-blue service dress, with campaign hats
and leggings, with ranks well closed and long, well-aligned fronts, with
accurate trace of the guides and well-judged distance, the great
regiments came striding down the gentle slope, conscious, every officer
and man, of the admiration they commanded. Armstrong, himself commander
of a fine regiment of volunteers in another brigade, looked upon them
with a soldier's eye, and looked approvingly. Then, as the rearmost
company passed the reviewing point and gentlemen with two stars on each
shoulder extended their congratulations to the reviewed commander with
one, Armstrong also made his way among the mounted officers in his calm,
deliberate fashion, heedless of threatening heels and crowding forehands,
until he, too, could say his word of cordial greeting. He had to wait a
few minutes, for the general officers were grouped and talking earnestly.
He heard a few words and knew well enough what was meant--that quantities
of stores intended for the soldiers--even dainties contributed by the Red
Cross Society--had been stolen from time to time and spirited off in the
dead of night, and doubtless sold in town for the benefit of a pack of
unknown scoundrels enlisted for no better purpose. In his own regiment
his system had been so strict that no loss was discoverable, but in
certain others the deficit was great. Complaints were loud, and the camp
commander, stung possibly by comments from the city, had urged his
officers to unusual effort, and had promised punishment to the extent of
the law on the guilty parties whenever or wherever found.
Even as he was exchanging a word with the brigadier, Armstrong heard the
exclamation: "By Jove--they've caught another!" for with a grim smile of
gratification the camp commander had read and turned over to his
adjutant-general a brief dispatch just handed him by a mounted orderly
who had galloped part.
"One of _your_ irreproachables, Armstrong," said one of the staff, with
something half-sneer, half-taunt as he too read and then passed the paper
to the judge-advocate of the division.
Armstrong turned with his usual deliberation. There was ever about him a
quiet dignity of manner that was the delight of his friends and despair
of his foes.
"What is his name?" he calmly asked.
"One of those society swells of whom you have so many," was the reply.
"That does not give his name--nor identify him as one of my men," said
Armstrong coolly.
"Oh, well, I didn't say he belonged to your command," was the staff
officer's response, "but one of the kid-glove crowd that's got into the
ranks."
"If you mean the recruits in the --teenth Infantry, I should be slow to
suspect them of any crime," said Armstrong, with something almost like a
drawl, so slow and deliberate was his manner, and now the steel-gray eyes
and the fair, clear-cut face were turned straight upon the snapping eyes
and dark features of the other. There was no love lost _there_. One could
tell without so much as seeing.
"You're off, then! That commissary-sergeant caught one of 'em in the
act--he got wind of it and skipped, and to-day came back in handcuffs."
"All of which may be as you say," answered Armstrong, "and still not
warrant your reference to him as one of my irreproachables."
By this time much of the crowd and most of the vehicles had driven away.
The generals still sat in saddle chatting earnestly together, while their
staff officers listened in some impatience to the conversation just
recorded. Everybody knew the fault was not Armstrong's, but it was
jarring to have to sit and hearken to the controversy. "Don't ever twit
or try funny business with Armstrong," once said a regimental sage. "He
has no sense of humor--of that kind." Those who best knew him knew that
Armstrong never tolerated unjust accusations, great or small. In his
desire to say an irritating thing to a man he both envied and respected,
the staff officer had not confined himself to facts, and it proved a
boomerang.
And now, Armstrong's eyes had lighted for an instant on the alleged
culprit. Seated opposite Miss Lawrence as the carriage whirled across
Point Lobos Avenue, and watching her unobtrusively, he saw the sudden
light of alarm and excitement in her expressive face, heard the faint
exclamation as her gloved hand grasped the rail of the seat, felt the
quick sway of the vehicle as the horses shied in fright at some object
beyond his vision. Then as they dashed on he had seen the running guard
and, just vanishing within the portals of the corner building, the slim
figure of the escaping prisoner. He saw the quivering hands tearing at
their fastenings. He turned to the driver and bade him stop a minute, but
it took fifty yards of effort before the spirited horses could be calmed
and brought to a halt at the curb. To the startled inquiries of Mr. Prime
and his daughter as to the cause of the excitement and the running and
shouting he answered simply: "A prisoner escaped, I think," and sent a
passing corporal to inquire the result. The man came back in a minute.
"They got him easy, sir. He had no show. His hands were tied behind his
back and he couldn't climb," was the brief report.
"They have not hurt him, I hope," said Armstrong.
"No, sir. He hurt them--one of 'em, at least, before he'd surrender when
they nabbed him in town. This time he submitted all right--said he only
ran in for a glass of beer, and was laughing-like when I got there."
"Very well. That'll do. Go on, driver. We haven't a minute to lose if we
are to see the review," he continued, as he stepped lightly to his seat.
"I saw nothing of this affair," said Miss Prime. "What was it all about?"
"Nor could I see," added her father. "I heard shouts and after we passed
saw the guard, but no fugitive."
"It is just as well--indeed I'm glad you didn't, uncle," answered Miss
Lawrence, turning even as she spoke and gazing wistfully back. "He looked
so young, and seemed so desperate, and had such a--I don't know--_hunted_
look on his face--poor fellow."
And then the carriage reached the entrance to the reservation and the
subject, and the second object of Miss Lawrence's sympathies, evoked that
day, were for the time forgotten. Possibly Mrs. Garrison was partly
responsible for this for, hardly had they rounded the bend in the road
that brought them in full view, from the left, or southern flank, of the
long line of masses in which the brigade was formed, than there came
cantering up to them, all gay good humor, all smiles and saucy coquetry,
their hostess of the evening at the General's tent. She was mounted on a
sorry-looking horse, but the "habit" was a triumph of art, and it well
became her slender, rounded figure.
No one who really analyzed Mrs. Frank Garrison's features could say that
she was a pretty woman. No one who looked merely at the general effect
when she was out for conquest could deny it. Colonel Armstrong, placidly
observant as usual, was quick to note the glances that shot between the
cousins on the rear seat as the little lady came blithely alongside. He
knew her, and saw that they were beginning to be as wise as he, for the
smiles with which they greeted her were but wintry reflections of those
that beamed upon her radiant face. Prime, paterfamilias, bent cordially
forward in welcome, but her quick eyes had recognized the fourth occupant
by this time, and there was a little less of assurance in her manner from
that instant. "How _per_fectly delicious!" she cried. "I feared from what
you said yesterday you weren't coming, and so I never ordered the
carriage, but came out in saddle--I can't say on _horse_back with such a
wreck as this, but every decent horse in the Presidio had to go out with
the generals and staffs, you know, and I had to take what I could
get--both horse and escort," she added, in confidential tone. "Oh!--May I
present Mr. Ellis? He knows you all by name already." The youth in
attendance and a McClellan tree two sizes too big for him, lifted his cap
and strove to smile; he had ridden nothing harder than a park hack before
that day. "Frank says I talk of nothing else. But--where's Mr. Gray?
Surely I thought _he_ would be with you." This for Armstrong's benefit in
case he were in the least interested in either damsel.
"Mr. Gray was detained by some duties in camp," explained Miss Prime,
with just a trace of reserve that was lost upon neither their new
companion nor the colonel. It settled a matter the placid officer was
revolving in his mind.
"Pardon us, Mrs. Garrison," he said briefly. "We must hurry. Go on,
driver."
"Oh, _I_ can keep up," was the indomitable answer, "even on this
creature." And Mrs. Garrison proved her words by whipping her steed into
a lunging canter and, sitting him admirably, rode gallantly alongside,
and just where Mr. Prime could not but see and admire since Colonel
Armstrong would not look at all. He had entered into an explanation of
the ceremony by that time well under way, and Miss Lawrence's great soft
brown eyes were fixed upon him attentively when, perhaps, she should have
been gazing at the maneuvers. Like those latter, possibly, her thoughts
were "changing direction."
Not ten minutes later occurred the collision between the hack and the
heels that resulted in the demolition of one and "demoralization" of the
rider of the victor. While the latter was led away by the obedient Mr.
Ellis lest the sight of him should bring on another nervous attack, Mrs.
Garrison was suffering herself to be comforted. Her nerves were gone, but
she had not lost her head. Lots of Presidio dames and damsels were up on
the heights that day in such vehicles as the post afforded. None appeared
in anything so stylish and elegant as the carriage of the Prime party.
She was a new and comparative stranger there, and it would vastly enhance
her social _prestige_, she argued, to be seen in such "swell"
surroundings. With a little tact and management she might even arrange
matters so that, willy nilly, her friends would drive her home instead of
taking Colonel Armstrong back to camp. That would be a stroke worth
playing. She owed Stanley Armstrong a bitter grudge, and had nursed it
long. She had known him ten years and hated him nine of them. Where they
met and when it really matters not. In the army people meet and part in a
hundred places when they never expected to meet again. She had married
Frank Garrison in a hand gallop, said the garrison chronicles, "before
she had known him two months," said the men, "before he knew her at all,"
said the women. She was four years his senior, if the chaplain could be
believed and five months his junior if _she_ could. Whatever might have
been the discrepancy in their ages at the time of the ceremony no one
would suspect the truth who saw them now. It was he who looked aged and
careworn and harassed, and she who preserved her youthful bloom and
vivacity.
And now, as she reclined as though still too weak and shaken to leave the
carriage and return to saddle, her quick wits were planning the scheme
that should result in _her_ retaining, and his losing the coveted seat.
There was little time to lose. Most of the crowd had scattered, and she
well knew that he was only waiting for her to leave before he would
return. Almost at the instant her opportunity came. A covered wagon
reined suddenly alongside and kind and sympathetic voices hailed her: "Do
let us drive you home, Mrs. Garrison; you must have been terribly
shaken." She recognized at once the wife and daughter of a prominent
officer of the post.
"Oh, how kind you are!" she cried. "I was hoping some one would come.
Indeed, I _did_ get a little wrench." And then, as she moved, with a
sudden gasp of pain, she clasped Miss Lawrence's extended hand.
"Indeed, you must not stir, Mrs. Garrison," said that young lady. "We
will drive you home at once." Miss Prime and her father were adding their
pleas. She looked up, smiling faintly.
"I fear I must trouble you," she faltered. "Oh, how stupid of me! But
about Stanley Armstrong--I haven't even thanked him. Ah, well--_he_
knows. We've been--such good friends for years--dear old fellow!"