Before night three more telegraph boys found Yates, and three more
telegrams in sections helped to carpet the floor of the forest. The
usually high spirits of the newspaper man went down and down under the
repeated visitations. At last he did not even swear, which, in the
case of Yates, always indicated extreme depression. As night drew on he
feebly remarked to the professor that he was more tired than he had ever
been in going through an election campaign. He went to his tent bunk
early, in a state of such utter dejection that Renmark felt sorry for
him, and tried ineffectually to cheer him up.
“If they would all come together,” said Yates bitterly, “so that one
comprehensive effort of malediction would include the lot and have
it over, it wouldn’t be so bad; but this constant dribbling in of
messengers would wear out the patience of a saint.”
As he sat in his shirt sleeves on the edge of his bunk Renmark said that
things would look brighter in the morning--which was a safe remark to
make, for the night was dark.
Yates sat silently, with his head in his hands, for some moments. At
last he said slowly: “There is no one so obtuse as the thoroughly good
man. It is not the messenger I am afraid of, after all. He is but the
outward symptom of the inward trouble. What you are seeing is an example
of the workings of conscience where you thought conscience was absent.
The trouble with me is that I know the newspaper depends on me, and
that it will be the first time I have failed. It is the newspaper
man’s instinct to be in the center of the fray. He yearns to scoop the
opposition press. I will get a night’s sleep if I can, and to-morrow, I
know, I shall capitulate. I will hunt out General O’Neill, and interview
him on the field of slaughter. I will telegraph pages. I will refurbish
my military vocabulary, and speak of deploying and massing and throwing
out advance guards, and that sort of thing. I will move detachments and
advance brigades, and invent strategy. We will have desperate fighting
in the columns of the _Argus_, whatever there is on the fields
of Canada. But to a man who has seen real war this _opéra-bouffe_
masquerade of fighting----I don’t want to say anything harsh, but to me
it is offensive.”
He looked up with a wan smile at his partner, sitting on the bottom of
an upturned pail, as he said this. Then he reached for his hip pocket
and drew out a revolver, which he handed, butt-end forward, to the
professor, who, not knowing his friend carried such an instrument,
instinctively shrank from it.
“Here, Renny, take this weapon of devastation and soak it with the
potatoes. If another messenger comes in on me to-night, I know I shall
riddle him if I have this handy. My better judgment tells me he is
innocent, and I don’t want to shed the only blood that will be spilled
during this awful campaign.”
How long they had been asleep they did not know, as the ghost-stories
have it, but both were suddenly awakened by a commotion outside. It was
intensely dark inside the tent, but as the two sat up they noticed a
faint moving blur of light, which made itself just visible through the
canvas.
“It’s another of those fiendish messengers,” whispered Yates. “Gi’ me
that revolver.”
“Hush!” said the other below his breath. “There’s about a dozen men out
there, judging by the footfalls. I heard them coming.”
“Let’s fire into the tent and be done with it,” said a voice outside.
“No, no,” cried another; “no man shoot. It makes too much noise, and
there must be others about. Have ye all got yer bayonets fixed?”
There was a murmur, apparently in the affirmative.
“Very well, then. Murphy and O’Rourick, come round to this side. You
three stay where you are. Tim, you go to that end; and, Doolin, come
with me.”
“The Fenian army, by all the gods!” whispered Yates, groping for his
clothes. “Renny, give me that revolver, and I’ll show you more fun than
a funeral.”
“No, no. They’re at least three to our one. We’re in a trap here, and
helpless.”
“Oh, just let me jump out among ‘em and begin the fireworks. Those I
didn’t shoot would die of fright. Imagine scouts scouring the woods with
a lantern--with a _lantern_, Renny! Think of that! Oh, this is pie! Let
me at ‘em.”
“Hush! Keep quiet! They’ll hear you.”
“Tim, bring the lantern round to this side.” The blur of light moved
along the canvas. “There’s a man with his back against the wall of the
tent. Just touch him up with your bayonet, Murphy, and let him know
we’re here.”
“There may be twenty in the tent,” said Murphy cautiously.
“Do what I tell you,” answered the man in command.
Murphy progged his bayonet through the canvas, and sunk the deadly point
of the instrument into the bag of potatoes.
“Faith, he sleeps sound,” said Murphy with a tremor of fear in his
voice, as there was no demonstration on the part of the bag.
The voice of Yates rang out from the interior of the tent:
“What the old Harry do you fellows think you’re doing, anyhow? What’s
the matter with you? What do you want?”
There was a moment’s silence, broken only by a nervous scuffling of feet
and the clicking of gun-locks.
“How many are there of you in there?” said the stern voice of the chief.
“Two, if you want to know, both unarmed, and one ready to fight the lot
of you if you are anxious for a scrimmage.”
“Come out one by one,” was the next command.
“We’ll come out one by one,” said Yates, emerging in his shirt sleeves,
“but you can’t expect us to keep it up long, as there are only two of
us.”
The professor next appeared, with his coat on. The situation certainly
did not look inviting. The lantern on the ground threw up a pallid glow
on the severe face of the commander, as the footlights might illuminate
the figure of a brigand in a wood on the stage. The face of the officer
showed that he was greatly impressed with the importance and danger
of his position. Yates glanced about him with a smile, all his recent
dejection gone now that he was in the midst of a row.
“Which is Murphy,” he said, “and which is Doolin? Hello, alderman!” he
cried, as his eyes rested on one tall, strapping, red-haired man who
held his bayonet ready to charge, with a fierce determination in his
face that might have made an opponent quail. “When did you leave New
York? and who’s running the city now that you’re gone?”
The men had evidently a sense of humor, in spite of their bloodthirsty
business, for a smile flickered on their faces in the lantern light, and
several bayonets were unconsciously lowered. But the hard face of the
commander did not relax.
“You are doing yourself no good by your talk,” he said solemnly. “What
you say will be used against you.”
“Yes, and what you do will be used against _you_; and don’t forget that
fact. It’s you who are in danger--not I. You are, at this moment, making
about the biggest ass of yourself there is in Canada.”
“Pinion these men!” cried the captain gruffly.
“Pinion nothing!” shouted Yates, shaking off the grasp of a man who
had sprung to his side. But both Yates and Renmark were speedily
overpowered; and then an unseen difficulty presented itself. Murphy
pathetically remarked that they had no rope. The captain was a man of
resource.
“Cut enough rope from the tent to tie them.”
“And when you’re at it, Murphy,” said Yates, “cut off enough more to
hang yourself with. You’ll need it before long. And remember that any
damage you do to that tent you’ll have to pay for. It’s hired.”
Yates gave them all the trouble he could while they tied his elbows
and wrists together, offering sardonic suggestions and cursing their
clumsiness. Renmark submitted quietly. When the operation was finished,
the professor said with the calm confidence of one who has an empire
behind him and knows it:
“I warn you, sir, that this outrage is committed on British soil; and
that I, on whom it is committed, am a British subject.”
“Heavens and earth, Renmark, if you find it impossible to keep your
mouth shut, do not use the word ‘subject’ but ‘citizen.’”
“I am satisfied with the word, and with the protection given to those
who use it.”
“Look here, Renmark; you had better let me do the talking. You will only
put your foot in it. I know the kind of men I have to deal with; you
evidently don’t.”
In tying the professor they came upon the pistol in his coat pocket.
Murphy held it up to the light.
“I thought you said you were unarmed?” remarked the captain severely,
taking the revolver in his hand.
“I was unarmed. The revolver is mine, but the professor would not let me
use it. If he had, all of you would be running for dear life through the
woods.”
“You admit that you are a British subject?” said the captain to Renmark,
ignoring Yates.
“He doesn’t admit it, he brags of it,” said the latter before Renmark
could speak. “You can’t scare him; so quit this fooling, and let us know
how long we are to stand here trussed up like this.”
“I propose, captain,” said the red-headed man, “that we shoot these men
where they stand, and report to the general. They are spies. They are
armed, and they denied it. It’s according to the rules of war, captain.”
“Rules of war? What do you know of the rules of war, you red-headed
Senegambian? Rules of Hoyle! Your line is digging sewers, I imagine.
Come, captain, undo these ropes, and make up your mind quickly. Trot us
along to General O’Neill just as fast as you can. The sooner you get
us there the more time you will have for being sorry over what you have
done.”
The captain still hesitated, and looked from one to the other of his
men, as if to make up his mind whether they would obey him if he went to
extremities. Yates’ quick eye noted that the two prisoners had nothing
to hope for, even from the men who smiled. The shooting of two unarmed
and bound men seemed to them about the correct way of beginning a great
struggle for freedom.
“Well,” said the captain at length, “we must do it in proper form, so I
suppose we should have a court-martial. Are you agreed?”
They were unanimously agreed.
“Look here,” cried Yates, and there was a certain impressiveness in his
voice in spite of his former levity; “this farce has gone just as far as
it is going. Go inside the tent, there, and in my coat pocket you will
find a telegram, the first of a dozen or two received by me within the
last twenty-four hours. Then you will see whom you propose to shoot.”
The telegram was found, and the captain read it, while Tim held the
lantern. He looked from under his knitted brows at the newspaper man.
“Then you are one of the _Argus_ staff.”
“I am chief of the _Argus_ staff. As you see, five of my men will be
with General O’Neill to-morrow. The first question they will ask him
will be: ‘Where is Yates?’ The next thing that will happen will be that
you will be hanged for your stupidity, not by Canada nor by the State
of New York, but by your general, who will curse your memory ever after.
You are fooling not with a subject this time, but with a citizen; and
your general is not such an idiot as to monkey with the United States
Government; and, what is a blamed sight worse, with the great American
press. Come, captain, we’ve had enough of this. Cut these cords just as
quickly as you can, and take us to the general. We were going to see him
in the morning, anyhow.”
“But this man says he is a Canadian.”
“That’s all right. My friend is _me_. If you touch him, you touch me.
Now, hurry up, climb down from your perch. I shall have enough trouble
now, getting the general to forgive all the blunders you have made
to-night, without your adding insult to injury. Tell your men to untie
us, and throw the ropes back into the tent. It will soon be daylight.
Hustle, and let us be off.”
“Untie them,” said the captain, with a sigh.
Yates shook himself when his arms regained their freedom.
“Now, Tim,” he said, “run into that tent and bring out my coat. It’s
chilly here.”
Tim did instantly as requested, and helped Yates on with the coat.
“Good boy!” said, Yates. “You’ve evidently been porter in a hotel.”
Tim grinned.
“I think,” said Yates meditatively, “that if I you look under the
right-hand bunk, Tim, you will find a jug. It belongs to the professor,
although he has hidden it under my bed to divert suspicion from himself.
Just fish it out and bring it here. It is not as full as it was, but
there’s enough to go round, if the professor does not take more than his
share.”
The gallant troop smacked their lips in anticipation, and Renmark looked
astonished to see the jar brought forth. “You first, professor,” said
Yates; and Tim innocently offered him the vessel. The learned man shook
his head. Yates laughed, and took it himself.
“Well, here’s to you, boys,” he said. “And may you all get back as
safely to New York as I will.” The jar passed down along the line, until
Tim finished its contents.
“Now, then, for the camp of the Fenian army,” cried Yates, taking
Renmark’s arm; and they began their march through the woods. “Great
Caesar! Stilly,” he continued to his friend, “this is rest and quiet
with a vengeance, isn’t it?”