Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MAY 21, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVI.--NO. 812. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
HEROES OF AMERICA.
THE DEATH OF STONEWALL JACKSON.
BY THE HONORABLE THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
[Illustration: Decorative H]
orrible though the civil war was, heartrending though it was that
brother should fight against brother, there remains as an offset the
glory that has accrued to the nation by the countless deeds of heroism
performed by both sides in the struggle. The captains and the armies who
after long years of dreary campaigning and bloody, stubborn lighting
brought the war to a close have left us more than a reunited realm.
North and South, all Americans now have a common fund of glorious
memories. We are the richer for each grim campaign, for each hard-fought
battle. We are the richer for valor displayed alike by those who fought
so valiantly for the right, and by those who no less valiantly fought
for what they deemed the right. We have in us nobler capacities for what
is great and good because of the infinite woe and suffering, and because
of the splendid ultimate triumph. We hold that it was vital to the
welfare not only of our people on this continent but of the whole human
race that the Union should be preserved and slavery abolished; that one
flag should fly from the Great Lakes to the Rio Grande, that we should
all be free in fact as well as in name, and that the United States
should stand as one nation, the greatest nation on the earth; but we
recognize gladly that South as well as North, when the fight was once
on, the leaders of the armies, and the soldiers whom they led, displayed
the same qualities of daring and steadfast courage, of disinterested
loyalty and enthusiasm, and of high devotion to an ideal.
The greatest general of the South was Lee, and his greatest lieutenant
was Jackson. Both were Virginians, and both were strongly opposed to
disunion. Lee went so far as to deny the right of secession; while
Jackson insisted that the South ought to try to get its rights inside
the Union, and not outside; but when Virginia joined the Southern
Confederacy, and the war had actually begun, both men cast their lot
with the South.
It is often said that the civil war was in one sense a repetition of the
old struggle between the Puritan and the Cavalier; but Puritan and
Cavalier types were common to the two armies. In dash and light-hearted
daring Custer and Kearny stood as conspicuous as Stuart and Morgan; and,
on the other hand, no Northern general approached the Roundhead type,
the type of the stern religious warriors who fought under Cromwell, so
closely as Stonewall Jackson.
He was a man of intense religious conviction, who carried into every
thought and deed of his daily life the precepts and the convictions of
the faith he cherished. He was a tender and loving husband and father,
kind-hearted and gentle to all with whom he was brought in contact. Yet
in the times that tried men's souls he showed himself to be not only a
commander of genius, but a fighter of iron will and temper, who joyed in
the battle, and always showed at his best when the danger was greatest.
The vein of fanaticism that ran through his character helped to render
him a terrible opponent. He knew no such word as falter, and when he had
once put his hand to a piece of work he did it thoroughly and with all
his heart. It was quite in keeping with his character that this gentle,
high-minded, and religious man should early in the contest have proposed
to hoist the black-flag, neither take nor give quarter, and make the war
one of extermination. No such policy was practical in the nineteenth
century and in the American Republic; but it would have seemed quite
natural and proper to Jackson's ancestors, the grim Scotch-Irish who
defended Londonderry against the forces of the Stuart King, or to their
forefathers, the Covenanters of Scotland, and the Puritans who in
England rejoiced at the beheading of King Charles the First.
In the first battle, in which Jackson took part, the confused struggle
at Bull Run, he gained his name of Stonewall from the firmness with
which he kept his men to their work and repulsed the attack of the Union
troops. From that time until his death, less than two years afterwards,
his career was one of brilliant and almost uninterrupted success,
whether serving with an independent command in the Valley, or acting
under Lee as his right arm in the pitched battles with McClellan, Pope,
and Burnside. Few generals as great as Lee have ever had as great a
lieutenant as Jackson. He was a master of strategy and tactics, fearless
of responsibility, able to instil into his men his own intense ardor of
battle; and so quick in his movements, so ready to march as well as
fight, that his troops were known to the rest of the army as the "fool
cavalry."
In the spring of 1863 Hooker had command of the Army of the Potomac.
Like McClellan, he was able to perfect the discipline of his forces and
to organize them, and as a division commander he was better than
McClellan; but he failed even more signally when given a great
independent command. He had under him 120,000 men when, toward the end
of April, he prepared to attack Lee's army, which was but half as
strong.
The Union army lay opposite Fredericksburg, looking at the fortified
heights where they had received so bloody a repulse at the beginning of
the winter. Hooker decided to distract the attention of the Confederates
by letting a small portion of his force, under General Sedgwick, attack
Fredericksburg, while he himself took the bulk of the army across the
river to the right hand so as to crush Lee by an attack on his flank.
All went well at the beginning, and on the 1st of May Hooker found
himself at Chancellorsville face to face with the bulk of Lee's forces;
and Sedgwick, crossing the river and charging with the utmost
determination, had driven out of Fredericksburg the Confederate division
of Early; but when Hooker found himself face to face with Lee he
hesitated, faltered instead of pushing on, and allowed the consummate
general to whom he was opposed to himself take the initiative.
Lee fully realized his danger, and saw that his only chance was to
attempt, first to beat back Hooker, and then to turn and overwhelm
Sedgwick, who was in his rear. He consulted with Jackson, and Jackson
begged to be allowed to make one of his favorite flank attacks upon the
Union army; attacks which could have been successfully delivered only by
a skilled and resolute general, and by troops equally able to march and
to fight. Lee consented, and Jackson at once made off. The country was
thickly covered with a forest of rather small growth, for it was a wild
region, in which there was still plenty of game. Shielded by the forest,
Jackson marched his gray columns rapidly to the left along the narrow
country roads until he got square on the flank of the Union right wing,
which was held by the Eleventh Corps, under Howard. The Union scouts got
track of the movement and reported it at headquarters; but the Union
generals thought the Confederates were retreating; and when finally the
scouts brought word to Howard that he was menaced by a flank attack he
paid no heed to the information, and actually let his whole corps be
surprised in broad daylight. Yet all the while the battle was going on
elsewhere, and Berdan's sharpshooters had surrounded and captured a
Georgia regiment, from which information was received which showed
definitely that Jackson was not retreating, and must be preparing to
strike a heavy blow.
The Eleventh Corps had not the slightest idea that it was about to be
attacked. The men were not even in line. Many of them had stacked their
muskets and were lounging about, some playing cards, others cooking
supper, intermingled with the pack-mules and beef cattle. While they
were thus utterly unprepared Jackson's gray-clad veterans pushed
straight through the forest, and rushed fiercely to the attack. The
first notice the troops of the Eleventh Corps received did not come from
the pickets, but from the deer, rabbits, and foxes which, fleeing from
their coverts at the approach of the Confederates, suddenly came running
over and into the Union lines. In another minute the frightened pickets
came tumbling back, and right behind them came the long lines of
charging, yelling Confederates. With one fierce rush Jackson's men swept
over the Union lines, and at a blow the Eleventh Corps became a horde of
panic-stricken fugitives. Some of the regiments resisted for a few
moments, and then they too were carried away in the flight.
For a time it seemed as if the whole army would be swept off; but Hooker
and his subordinates exerted every effort to restore order. It was
imperative to gain time, so that the untouched portions of the army
could form across the line of the Confederate advance. Keenan's regiment
of Pennsylvania cavalry, but four hundred sabres strong, was accordingly
sent full against the front of the ten thousand victorious Confederates.
Keenan himself fell riddled by bayonets, and the charge was repulsed at
once: but a few priceless moments had been saved, and Pleasonton had
been given time to post twenty-two guns, loaded with double canister,
where they would bear upon the enemy. The Confederates advanced in a
dense mass, yelling and cheering, and the discharge of the guns fairly
blew them back across the works they had just taken. Again they charged,
and again were driven back, and when the battle once more began the
Union re-enforcements had arrived.
It was about this time that Jackson himself was mortally wounded. He had
been leading and urging on the advance of his men, cheering them with
voice and gesture, his pale face flushed with joy and excitement, while
from time to time as he sat on his horse he took off his hat and,
looking upward, thanked Heaven for the victory it had vouchsafed him. As
darkness drew near he was in the front, where friend and foe were
mingled in almost inextricable confusion. He and his staff were fired on
at close range by the Union troops, and, as they turned, were fired on
again, through a mistake, by the Confederates behind them. Jackson fell,
struck in several places. He was put in a litter and carried back; but
he never lost consciousness, and when one of his generals complained of
the terrific effect of the Union cannonade he answered, "You must hold
your ground."
For several days he lingered, hearing how Lee beat Hooker, in detail,
and forced him back across the river. Then the old Puritan died. At the
end his mind wandered and he thought he was again commanding in battle;
and his last words were, "Let us cross over the river and rest in the
shade." Thus perished Stonewall Jackson, one of the ablest of soldiers
and one of the most upright of men, in the last of his many triumphs.
THE SHIP WITHOUT A LIGHT.
BY EZRA HURLBURT STAFFORD.
"Well, my boy, what can I do for you?"
It was in the Custom-house, and the Chief was sitting at his desk
opening a letter. A boy of perhaps sixteen was standing awkwardly at the
door. He was dressed rather roughly, and the Customs Inspector thought
it would be a good idea to despatch the boy's business before he read
the letter, which he had by this time drawn from the envelope.
"Well?" he repeated; but the boy still hesitated, and glanced uneasily
across the room towards a tall lady, who was standing at the window with
her back towards him.
"Anything very particular?" the officer went on, with a touch of
annoyance.
"I guess I'd like to speak to you alone."
The lady evidently heard him, for without speaking she hurriedly drew
her veil down over her face, and noiselessly left the room by a door
which he had not noticed before. The boy caught a glimpse of her face as
she turned, and gave a little start, he hardly knew why. It was a
strange face.
"Now, then, we are quite alone, what have you to say? It's growing
late."
"I wanted to speak to you, sir, about something I saw last night out in
Puget Sound. I thought you ought to be told about it."
"Yes?"
"A boat, sir, that I think is smuggling opium in from the British
Columbia coast."
"What is your name?"
"Thomas Walton. I'm a fisherman."
"What makes you think the boat is smuggling opium?"
"Because she passed down the channel about two o'clock last night and
carried no light."
"What sort of a craft?" asked the customs officer, with a peculiar look.
"I should think she was a sailing sloop, sir-- I couldn't see noways
plain."
"When did you say?"
"Last night."
"Tell me all about it. Where do you live?"
"At my father's ranch on Padilla Bay; he's dead, and I live with my
mother and sister there. I fish during the salmon season."
"Were you alone last night?"
"No; an Indian boy and myself have a boat between us; it was Jo saw her
first."
"Well?"
[Illustration: "A MINUTE AFTER IT WAS LIGHT FOR AN INSTANT AND WE GOT
SIGHT OF HER."]
"We were tacking across the channel, and it was very dark. We had just
come about, and suddenly I heard a swish in the water and felt something
a yard or so off sweeping by. I couldn't see what it was at first. It
seemed to pass in the air. Jo heard it too, and we were both pretty
scared. A minute after it was light for an instant and we got sight of
her, a few yards to windward of us, bending under her sail. Jo pointed
her out to me, and the next moment she seemed to disappear. We got into
port this afternoon very late with our fish, and as soon as I could I
came to tell you."
"How many times have you seen this--this ship without a light?"
"Just the once. We don't carry a light ourselves, or we mightn't have
seen her this time."
"Where was this?"
"To the south of Fidalgo Island."
"In the outer channel?"
"No, right below the slough, to the inner side of the island and the
main shore."
"Where did the boat seem to come from?" the Inspector asked, looking
straight in the boy's face.
"Well, we couldn't exactly be sure; but Jo seemed to think that she had
come from the slough--that was what set us to thinking she must be a
smuggler."
"Have you told anybody about this?"
"No."
"Don't. How about this Indian boy, this Siwash?"
"He hasn't said a word about it to any one. I made him keep it quiet
till I had told you."
"Sure no one else knows?"
"No one; at least no one but the man in the outer office here."
"What did you tell him for?" the Chief asked, with sudden vexation.
"He wouldn't let me in till I told him what I wanted; he said you were
busy."
At this moment the door opened and a man in uniform entered.
"Ah," he said, glancing at the boy, "he's told you, then. Had we better
put any confidence in the tale? I've been speaking to the Captain of the
_Madrona_ about it. He is in the outer office now. He seems to think
there is something in it."
"You may go now," said the Chief, with a preoccupied look, to the boy;
"you had better go right home, and next time carry a light yourself.
Good-evening."
"I am sorry you let the boy go," the deputy began, as the door closed;
"we may need him for evidence. But here's the Captain."
A tall gentleman, in the uniform of the United States navy, entered the
room at this moment. "I've been having a word with your salmon-fisher,"
he said, "and I think he's telling the truth. I'll catch them to-night
when they're getting back north, and give them more light in Puget Sound
than they will find altogether convenient. Where was it he saw them
now?"
"I don't think the boy said," the deputy answered. "Did he tell you?"
and he turned to his superior.
"Yes, he did, now I recollect."
"Was it in the main channel, or below the slough to the inside of the
island?"
"In the outer channel; it was too large a boat to get through the
slough."
"Why, I thought he said it was a sailing sloop," mused the Captain,
turning to the deputy.
"So did I."
"No; the boy told me distinctly," the Chief replied, "that it was a much
larger vessel, and that she passed him in the outer channel; though
candidly, as to her carrying no light, we must remember that boys
sometimes have wonderful imaginations."
"Then we'll keep the main channel;" and the Captain left the room.
Down among the ships in the harbor a small boat was moored. It had all
the unmistakable signs of being a fishing-boat, and a youth with a large
round face of a heavy brown mahogany color was sitting lazily at the
edge of the wharf, when Thomas Walton made his appearance. They both got
into the boat and pushed from the dock. It was growing quite dusk. The
harbor lights were already lit.
"You told them, Tom?"
"Yes."
"What did they think?"
"I hardly know. I wish now I hadn't gone near them at all."
"Didn't they treat you white?"
"I don't know."
"You don't?"
"Well, they didn't seem to believe what I said, anyway. And there's
something else I don't like the looks of."
"What else?"
"Oh, nothing much. I think I was followed down to the wharf. Look over
there. Can you see? Is that a man or a woman in that boat there--the one
that just came around the stern of the _Umatilla_?"
"A man."
"No, the other. You can't see now. She got down low the moment she saw
me looking at her. Give her another haul. There; that'll do." The last
remark referred to the sail which the Indian had hoisted as Tom was
speaking.
"Why, Jo, where did that boat go?" he continued a moment afterward,
looking back among the shipping.
The skiff was gone.
A couple of hours later they were cutting across Puget Sound before a
fresh wind, with the slap and drench of the rising waves against their
bows. The timbered uplands were darkly visible a mile or so ahead, and
Tom called out to his companion in the bow:
"I say, Jo, I'm going to tack for the inner channel, and wait in the
slough. I have been thinking this thing out, and I've got an idea in my
head. I didn't tell the man at the Custom-house about the landing at the
rocks."
"You didn't?" came a sleepy voice from the darkness.
"No; I was too confused at first, and afterwards I thought I wouldn't,
anyway."
A mile up this narrow channel, or slough, as shallow places of the kind
are called on the Pacific coast, there was a small bay, almost hidden by
the vast overhanging fir-trees. On one side the shore was steep and
rocky, but on the other there was a small strip of very convenient
beach, where the boys had landed three or four times to mend their
seine. The last time they had been there, Jo, in the spirit of
exploration, had pushed his way into the thick woods, and a little way
back had come upon a faint trail, which, after making a detour, they
found led up to the steep rocks on the other side of the little bay.
They never took the trouble to follow it inland.
"Place where the lumbermen land," Jo had remarked upon this occasion,
pointing to the trunk of a cedar near the edge. There was a slightly
worn place in the bark where a ship's rope had been fastened.
Afterwards they had remembered that the island was part of an Indian
reservation, where no lumberman had any right to touch the timber.
Until the incident of the night before they had, however, given this no
thought. But it had occurred to Tom then that the mysterious trail in
the uninhabited island might possibly have some connection with the
strange vessel.
"What are the customs officers going to do?" Jo asked.
"From the little I could hear I expect that the _Madrona_ will keep
watch for the smugglers in the open waters of the Sound. The slough
won't be guarded at all, in that case, and I'm going to wait here till
towards morning; then, if nothing passes, we can put into the bay, and
see if there are any signs of anybody having been on the trail the last
few hours."
"Not likely."
"Well, I'm not so sure of that--at all events we'll wait here through
the night, and see if anything does happen."
"But if it isn't an opium smuggler at all; if it's a--a--"
"A what?" Tom asked shortly, familiar with the other's superstitious
nature.
"Have we the gun?" said Jo, changing the subject.
"I don't know."
"Yes, it's here," answered the Indian, rummaging for it among a lot of
odds and ends at the bow. "I wonder if it's--"
"Don't bang it off into me to find out if it is."
Some hours after midnight the boat of the boys was standing in for the
little bay spoken of. They had waited further up the slough, but Tom,
who of the two was the one who had kept awake, had heard nothing pass.
It was still quite dark.
Jo suddenly started.
"Say, did you see that? There--there it is again!"
The boys looked upwards, and a great white bar of light, like a comet,
swung across the sky above them. Then it swung slowly back again,
faltering here and there, and appearing to rise and fall in certain
places.
"It must be the _Madrona_'s search-light," said Tom, "and they are right
south of here."
They still had a full view of the open waters of Puget Sound.
"They seem to be coming this way," muttered the Indian; "there it goes
again!"
As he spoke, an intensely bright cone of light leaped forth suddenly
into the darkness, and moved from place to place along the high rocky
shores.
"I'm glad it isn't as dark as it was last night," Jo said, as they
rounded the point, and glided onward noiselessly upon the calm black
water. "Do you see anything in the bay?"
"No; drop the sail," Tom whispered, and he steered the boat slowly
through the suspicious inlet. It was quite dark in the shadow of the
gigantic trees. As the bow grated gently on the sand, Jo stepped out,
followed at once by his companion.
The next moment they were both appalled by an unexpected sound. It was
the soft flap of a sail. As their eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom
of the thick forest trees, they could see dimly a vessel of considerable
size, moored to the very rocks they had been thinking of. It was the
mysterious ship of the night before. It awed them too, to see it lying
so near to them with its white sails all spread, and yet not a sign of
life upon it. There was something weird about it all, and Tom could
hardly prevent the Siwash boy from making an immediate retreat.
They continued to listen for some moments, but all remained still upon
the vessel and upon the shore.
"I wonder is there any one aboard of her?" Jo said in an undertone.
"Keep still!"
In spite of this warning, Tom was himself the first to break the
silence.
"Perhaps they've abandoned her."
"Then where can they be?"
"Do you want to know real bad?" asked Tom.
"Yes!"
"Well, you're good at following a night trail; just you follow that one
back into the island, and you'll stand a fair show of seeing where they
are."
This was humor, and Jo grinned appreciatively.
"Where is the gun?" Tom asked, presently.
"I have it; what are we going to do?"
"We're going to get that sloop out into the Sound, and sail her up to
the city dock at daybreak. I'll show those customs inspectors--"
"They'll say you're the smuggler."
"Well, I'm going to risk it."
"Perhaps they're aboard now--asleep."
"Keep the gun ready, then!"
The boys were making their way towards the sloop along the narrow strip
of sand yet uncovered by the flood tide, but as they spoke, they stopped
with one accord, for they heard a sound from the trees near by.
"Cougar?"
"No," whispered the Indian, "a man!"
"Stand very still, then, and watch what happens."
They could hear the branches being pushed aside softly, and dull
footfalls upon the forest moss.
Presently two dark shapes emerged upon the neighboring rocks. They were
talking rapidly, but the boys could not catch what they were saying.
The _Madrona_ was moving to the south of the island, and standing in
towards the mouth of the slough. One of the new-comers saw the
search-light.
"They'll be upon us in half an hour," Tom could hear him say; "we must
steer around the point, and get up the slough, where a vessel of such
deep draught as theirs cannot follow us. We'll he done for if we stay
here."
The voice seemed familiar, but the boy was too excited to give the fancy
a second thought. What he saw, only too plainly, was the easy way in
which the supposed smugglers could make their escape, and, laying
prudence aside, he instantly called out in what he intended to be a very
commanding voice,
"Ahoy there! you can't go aboard till you say who you are, and what you
are doing here."
Hardly were the words spoken when Tom saw a bright red flash, and was
almost stunned by a loud report. He heard the crash of a rifle bullet
through the branches behind him, and heard the echoes running along the
opposite shores, growing fainter and fainter in the distance.
The shot was instantly returned, and there was a quick sharp cry from
the rocks. He turned and saw Jo at his side, lowering the gun from his
shoulder.
The next moment he heard a rustle in the trees near him, and hardly
thinking of the peril in which he was throwing himself, he turned in
swift pursuit. He struck the trail almost at once, and still heard the
same odd rustle a short distance ahead of him.
He guided himself as well as he could in the darkness, often stumbling
over the bared roots, or grazing his head against the low cedar
branches. At times he stopped to listen. It soon became evident that he
was catching up.
The pale light of the early morning was beginning to show dimly through
the trees. The person ahead tripped once or twice, and Tom knew that he
was now almost at hand. The unseen fugitive appeared to be moving with
great difficulty. A moment later the boy heard a heavy fall a few yards
in front of him, and running hastily forward was suddenly met by--a
woman!
At this mishap, speaking for the first time, she uttered a harsh sound
in a deep voice which there was no mistaking.
It was a man then, and not a woman, after all, Tom thought, and in his
heart he blessed the smuggler's awkward disguise, which had allowed him
to catch up.
But the smuggler, in the mean time, had drawn his revolver, and was on
the point of aiming it mercilessly at the unarmed lad, when the latter,
watching his motions with difficulty in the uncertain light, snatched
quickly at his hand. The weapon was thus turned at random as the trigger
was pressed, and Tom, deafened by a sudden report, drew back as the
revolver flashed in his face.
The disguised man fell to the ground. The boy watched him for a moment,
but he lay there quite still in the shadow.
A feeling of fear swept through the boy's heart, and he hurried back to
the shore to call for help. The man might not be dead. He was surprised
to find what a long distance it was back. He had not, in his first
excitement, thought he had gone more than a couple of hundred yards.
As he drew near to the water's edge he heard the sound of a number of
voices. The day was beginning to break. Coming out on the shore, he saw
the _Madrona_ lying at the mouth of the slough with the thick smoke
wreathing from her funnel.
On the rocks near by several men in uniform were standing in a group
about some object upon the ground. With a strange presentiment the boy
made his way around the shore and joined them. What he saw there was a
man lying upon his face. He did not need to see the features to
recognize who it was.
It was the Chief of the Customs Department.
"Where have you been, Tom?"
The boy turned around at these words, and saw the Captain of the
_Madrona_. The sight of his bluff honest face made the boy feel himself
again; and reminded him, too, of his errand, which he had forgotten for
the moment.
"I followed the man dressed up like a woman who was with him," Tom
answered, excitedly; "he's a mile back in the woods now-- I want to take
a surgeon along, for I think he's killed. I caught at his hand with it
in, and it went off somehow--the revolver, I mean--and I think it killed
him--but I didn't mean to; I couldn't see."
"I'll go back with you at once--who did you say it was?"
The boy told what had happened as they hurried back through the trees.
"That must be Tee Ling."
"Who?"
"Tee Ling; you've heard of him--the most notorious opium smuggler on the
coast-- I see it's a trail."
"Yes, all the way. So it's a China man, then?"
"Of course. There's not a more detestable scoundrel among all the
Chinese in America. He has a den some place on the British Columbia
coast, and probably we'll unearth his southern headquarters within a
mile or so of where we stand. He dresses as a woman simply as a
disguise. He has a hundred of them. You've had a terribly narrow escape
from him, my dear boy."
"I saw him at the Custom-house last night, when I was reporting what I
had seen."
"Where--in the office?"
"Yes."
"Who would have thought it! We knew that the Chinese gang were working
into the hands of one of our men, but we never thought it could be into
his. There it is, a man's sin will always find him out in the end!
What's the matter?"
"I--I feel kind of sick like. I guess I'm sort of a coward, but the
thought of him lying there dead that way! I suppose a man like you gets
used to it, but I--it makes me--"
"You needn't be ashamed to own to a feeling of humanity, my boy; no good
man ever gets _used_ to death or crime, though good men sometimes have
to see a deal of both."
"Here is the place; but--oh!--"
"Yes, Tee Ling has wisely departed, I see. I expected as much, for Tee
Ling is very sagacious. It's just as well we didn't bother about the
ship's surgeon. Besides, he is too good a Chinaman to take our medicine,
much less the dose of medicine the United States has ready for him. He's
wanted in 'Frisco, you know."
"Well, I'm mighty glad he's alive, all the same," Tom remarked, in a
tone of great relief. "I was dreadfully afraid he was dead, and I--I
never killed anybody!"
"We will be sure to catch him during the day, nevertheless, for he can't
get off the island, unless he disguises himself as a brown bear, and
I'll tell the boys to shoot all the brown bears."
Tom laughed at this mild drollery, and they returned to the shore
without seeing any trace of the Chinaman.
A lieutenant was standing on the deck of the smuggler's sloop. "There's
ten thousand dollars' worth of gum opium aboard of her, Captain."
"Yes, and very likely double that amount more hidden some place in the
island. Tom, what do you set your fortune at?"
"I guess about a hundred dollars would be more than I would ever know
what to do with."
"What extravagant ideas you have! I think we will be able to suit you,
though. Something like a hundred times over at the very least."
"Why, how do you mean?"
"Mean? Simply that this is to a great extent your 'find.' We heard your
gun, and our suspicions were aroused at once. If it hadn't been for your
nerve in the first place they would have got away. Are you willing to be
fired at twice for nothing?"
One of the _Madrona_'s men came up before the boy could answer, if,
indeed, he had any answer to make, and whispered a few words to the
Captain.
"Alive, is he?" the Captain exclaimed. "Get a stretcher and take him
aboard at once or he may die yet of his wounds. Perhaps that would be
the best thing he could do; but that's not for us to say."
To a boy of Tom's generous and manly nature it was a great relief to see
the unconscious Customs Inspector carried aboard the _Madrona_. But he
said nothing.
The Captain was silent also for a long time. Presently his attention was
attracted by something unusual on the beach, and, dismissing an
unpleasant train of thought, he broke out, "What have you there, men?"
Four of the _Madrona_'s men were seen at this moment coming around the
point on the shore with a very unwilling prisoner.
"There!" said the Captain. "I told you we would have him before the day
was out. The lost are found, and the dead are alive, sure enough. Where
did you get him?" he hailed, in a louder voice.
"Hiding on the shore."
"I'm afraid Tee Ling is getting childish," the Captain commented, in a
voice aside to Tom, "if he is going to venture down to the water when
things are as hot as they are now."
The men, who seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty, came
nearer, and Tom called out in surprise,
"Why, it's Jo."
"Jo?" echoed the Captain.
"Yes; that's not Tee Ling; it's Jo."
"Who's Jo?"
"Why, the Siwash Indian who fishes with me. Hello there, Jo! Where in
the world have you been?"
Jo's face was a pale fawn color with fear, but he did not answer.
"Let him go, boys," the Captain said, smiling. "It's all right. He's not
the one we are after."
"It's all right, Jo," Tom repeated; but the latter, though now at
liberty, was still silent and very serious. There were many cloudy
thoughts shaping in his bewildered mind. He had expected to be sent to
prison for being a smuggler, and hanged for shooting a man. It was
difficult for him to get rid of these ideas on short notice.
Indeed, it is hardly probable that he ever clearly understood the
strange turn which events took in the next few hours.
At any rate he was not heard to utter a single word for two whole days.
TURNING A TRIPLE SOMERSAULT.
"Whatever you do, don't join a circus," said John, the new stableman. He
was sitting on top of a feed barrel in the barn with a pipe in his
mouth, and his deliberate manner bore conviction that he knew what he
was talking about. The boys had always wondered where John had learned
so much about this big world and its ways, and it was only a few days
previous to the present occasion that Joe had admitted having at one
time in his career travelled for a year with a circus. Then nothing
would do but that he should tell the boys all sorts of circus stories.
To-day the conversation had turned on triple somersaults.
"That feat has been accomplished mighty few times," said John,
dogmatically, "and I know all about it. I saw John Worland do it in New
Haven in 1884, and he told me the whole history of the act, and of the
many men who have tried to do it. The first man to attempt to turn a
triple somersault was a performer in Van Amburgh's circus, in Mobile in
1842. He broke his neck. W. J. Hobbes made the attempt in London in
1845, and was instantly killed. The next one was John Amoor. He had been
successfully turning a double, and was the original in accomplishing it
over four horses. He tried to do a triple at the Isle of Wight in 1859,
turned twice, landed on his forehead, and broke his neck. Sam Reinhart,
while travelling with Cooper and Bailey's circus, became dissatisfied
with the double somersault feat, and was anxious to do a triple. He did
it at Toledo in 1870, making a high leap, turned twice and a half,
alighted on the broad of his back, and was disabled for some time. Billy
Dutton accomplished the feat at Elkhorn in 1860, but he never made
another attempt. Bob Stickney did it while practising in a gymnasium in
New York, but he alighted on a blanket, and never succeeded in landing
on his feet. Frank Starks tried to turn three times in Indianapolis, but
he fell on his head and died soon afterwards. The only man, living or
dead, that ever accomplished the feat successfully, was John Worland,
the man I saw. He threw a triple somersault six times from a
spring-board. The first time he attempted it was at St. Louis in 1874,
with Wilson's circus. He made three trials, twice over five horses,
landing on his back. At the third attempt he landed on his feet.
"The next time he tried it was also at St. Louis in 1876. He landed on
a mattress in a sitting posture. He did it again at Eau Claire, in 1881,
and at La Crosse a few days later. On this occasion all the members of
the company made affidavits to the fact. The last time he accomplished
the feat was when I saw him at New Haven in 1884. It was at the
Forepaugh show, and the Mayor of the city and many newspaper men were
present. First a performer ran down the board and turned a single
somersault; then another man followed and turned a double; after which
Worland ran down the board and threw a triple somersault, landing on a
bed on his feet as straight as an arrow It has seldom occurred that any
man has done a triple somersault before a circus audience after due
announcement, but there is no doubt about Worland's act. It was duly
announced by the ring-master, and hundreds of people saw him do it. For
years he practised the double, and never would turn a single, so that
when he attempted a triple he did not run as great a risk as others who
attempted the feat. But, nevertheless, boys, don't join a circus, and
never try the triple."
BOYS AND GIRLS OF NEW YORK STREETS.[1]
A DAUGHTER OF THE TENEMENTS.
BY EDWARD W. TOWNSEND.
In one of the Roosevelt Street buildings called "back tenements,"
because they are built in the spaces which were once the back yards of
the buildings in front of them, when those buildings, years ago, were
occupied by single, well-to-do, and sometimes fashionable, families,
Gabriella Moreno was born. Her parents were not the poorest, by any
means, of those who lived in that neighborhood, for her father, Antonio
Moreno (he was called "Tony" by all his English-speaking acquaintances)
was the proprietor of a fruit-stand, and did quite a prosperous
business. In fact, among the Italians of that neighborhood it was
somewhat a mark of rank to own a fruit-stand instead of a fruit
"push-cart." Tony Moreno had been a push-cart fruit peddler for years,
but some time after his only child was born he became the proprietor of
a little stand near the entrance of the Tivoli Theatre on the Bowery.
Part of the space his stand occupied was a broad entranceway which had
formerly been used as one of the entrances to the theatre, but which was
now closed for that purpose. Tony was one of the first Italians to
settle in the neighborhood of Cherry Hill, which is near Roosevelt
Street, and his knowledge of and influence over those of his countrymen
who followed him there made him useful to Mr. Kean, the proprietor of
the Tivoli, who was also in the business of politics.
That was the way Tony came to have the privilege of running a
fruit-stand in front of the Tivoli. His profits were so great that he
and his wife and Gabriella were able to keep their one tenement room,
and it was a large one, all to themselves, without taking in two or
three boarders, as most of their neighbors did, to help pay the rent.
This made Tony one of the aristocrats of the neighborhood, and when it
became known that Gabriella had a cot to sleep on, instead of sleeping
on the floor, as the children of other families did, the neighbors
looked up to Tony more than ever before as a man of high standing and
solid position.
Gabriella's little friends, however, were in the habit of calling her
"proud" and "stuck-up" on this account. When she was six years old
Gabriella was sent to Miss Barstow's Mission School, where many other
little Italian children also went, to learn to speak and read and write
in English. Most of the children left the school when they were eight,
and very few remained there after they were nine years old; for at that
age their parents thought them old enough to help at home, to care for
the younger children when both parents were away at work, and even to
learn to do sewing for the big clothing factories. Gabriella would have
been taken away, too, had it not been for Miss Barstow, who went to talk
with Tony and his wife. She told them that Gabriella was one of her best
scholars, and it would be to their interests, as well as their
daughter's, to let her remain at school until she was well enough
educated to do something better than sew on coarse clothing for wages
which would never support her decently. This pleased Mrs. Moreno, who
was ambitious for her pretty child, but Tony grumbled a good deal.
Gabriella was old enough, he said, to help earn bread, as the other
children of her age did. Had not her father and mother worked since they
were six years old? he asked. Then why should their child be kept in
idleness only to learn things out of books which were well enough for
the rich, but did the poor no good?
Miss Barstow was more interested in Gabriella than in any other child of
the tenements she had ever known, for the girl was really unusually
bright and pretty, and she was determined to keep her longer in the
school. She knew that Tony had his stand at the Tivoli by Mr. Kean's
permission, and to Mr. Kean she went for aid.
Miss Barstow's fashionable friends would have been surprised to learn
how often she went to Mr. Kean for aid and advice, and to know how often
he gave his aid, and how valuable his advice always was.
Mr. Kean smiled when Miss Barstow asked him if he could not help her
keep Tony's daughter in school, and said, with rough politeness,
"Yes, I guess so, miss."
What he did was simply to shortly order Tony to do just what Miss
Barstow wanted, if he knew what was good for him; and Tony obeyed
without question, as did every one else in that part of the city who
received orders from Mr. Kean.
That was the way Gabriella remained in the school until she was past
twelve years old, and until the time her mother, who helped Tony at the
fruit-stand, was taken sick. Then Gabriella took her mother's place, but
she too became ill, and Tony had to close his fruit-stand part of each
twenty-four hours, which caused that very penurious Italian great misery
of mind, for his was what is known as an "all-night" stand, and he
bitterly lamented his loss of trade during the hours of closing.
Gabriella, under the careful nursing of Miss Barstow, soon became well
and strong again; but the mother did not, and that was the reason it
became necessary for the girl to take her place at the stand part of the
time, dividing with her mother the hours when Tony went home to eat and
sleep.
Miss Barstow knew that if she interfered further to keep Gabriella off
the street and at school she might, with Mr. Kean's aid, succeed in
doing so; but her knowledge of tenement-house life made her realize that
such action would make the girl's home life unhappy. So she let her
favorite scholar go without protest, intending, however, to keep as
close a watch over her as she could, and to regain her for her school
later, if she found that the girl's mother became strong enough not to
need Gabriella's help.
Gabriella's "watches"--that is, the time she was on duty at the
fruit-stand--were always in the day-time, and Miss Barstow would stop
there frequently to speak to her on her way to the Mission House. She
did this to keep track of the girl, and to leave her a book now and
then. These were the only happy moments in the poor girl's life. She had
learned to love Miss Barstow, and to care very much for books and other
things Miss Barstow had interested her in, which now seemed far removed
from her life, except when they were recalled by these visits from her
teacher.
Every day now she went to the fruit-stand on the Bowery in the morning
to relieve her father. There it was her duty to keep the stacks and
pyramids of fruit in order, to dust them, to replace with fresh fruit
from the boxes underneath the stand the pieces which she sold, and to
keep a sharp look-out against the nimble hands of thievish youngsters.
Every piece of fruit was carefully counted by Tony before he went off
the watch, and when he returned Gabriella had to account for every sale
and every missing piece.
One day Gabriella stood by the side of the stand, thinking how much
happier her life had been when she went each day to the Mission School.
She was wondering, at the same time, where she could have ever before
seen the smartly dressed boy who stood in the doorway of the theatre
office smiling at her. Somehow he was associated in her mind with Miss
Barstow, yet where and when, if ever, she had seen him before was as
indistinct in her mind as the memory of a dream. For several days she
had seen him standing there, and from the first she had the impression
that she had seen him somewhere else. She could not place him; he was
much better and more stylishly dressed than any of the boys she had ever
seen about her home or the school. He always had a friendly nod and
smile for her, and she nodded and smiled in return; and although they
had never spoken, she had never given up trying to think where, if
anywhere, she had seen him besides there in front of the theatre.
As he stood there this day, looking somehow as if he owned the Bowery, a
rough young fellow loafed up to the stand and asked, in an impudent
manner,
"Say, sis, how much are dese bananas?"
"A cent each," answered Gabriella.
[Illustration: "WELL, JUST CHARGE DIS ONE," HE SAID, SEIZING A BANANA
AND STARTING TO RUN.]
"Well, just charge dis one," he said, seizing a banana and starting to
run.
As Gabriella began to cry out for the thief to stop, the smartly dressed
lad in the doorway flew out like a Skye terrier after a rat. He had
headed off the loafer with such surprising quickness that the latter was
more amazed than frightened when the boy demanded of him to give up the
stolen fruit. This demand only made the fellow laugh. The laugh soon
came to an end, though, because Danny Cahill--for that was the name of
the smaller boy--had not forgotten any of the quick and fierce methods
he had learned to use in fighting larger boys when he had been a street
arab. It was a very short struggle, and almost before the frightened
Gabriella knew what was happening Danny was standing before her smiling,
and her tormentor was skulking away, well thrashed for his meanness.
Danny's victory had been complete; he had not only vanquished the enemy
but recovered the stolen property; and as he put the banana carefully
back on the stand he said, good-naturedly,
"It's all right, little girl; what are you crying for?"
Gabriella stopped crying, and answered, "Because if that boy had got
away with the banana, and I did not have a penny for it, my father would
have whipped me."
Then to the great astonishment of Danny, Gabriella took a banana from
the stand and offered it to him. Danny laughed outright at this, and
exclaimed:
"Den if you haven't a penny t' show for de banana, your father will whip
you just de same wedder de banana is stolen or you give it away to me.
Won't he?"
Gabriella laughed too, now, and said, "Yes, but I'm willing to take a
whipping for you, because you whipped that boy for me."
But Danny said he guessed he would rather pay for the fruit, and they
were laughing and chatting over the adventure in the most friendly way
when Miss Barstow came up. They told her the story, and she seemed
greatly pleased. She told Gabriella that Danny was the boy who had
helped take care of her and her mother the first night they were both
sick with the fever.
"Then it was there I saw you before," Gabriella said to Danny, with
delight. "I was not sure whether I had really seen you or just dreamed
that I had."
"Well, you were doing a heap of dreaming dat night, sure," Danny
answered.
"But you were a messenger-boy then," Miss Barstow said to Danny. "How is
it you happen to be here and not in your uniform?"
"Oh, I'm Mr. Kean's office-boy now," answered Danny. "I'm to be his
clerk when I'm big enough."
This information seemed to give as much satisfaction to Miss Barstow as
it did to Danny.
"I like that," Miss Barstow said, "for now Gabriella will have some one
to look out for her when she is on watch."
"Dat's right; as long as I remember how t' fight she will. Sure," Danny
replied, earnestly.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The previous articles published in this series are "A Street-Waif's
Luck," No. 792, "Danny Cahill, Newsboy," No. 803, "A Messenger-Boy's
Adventure," No. 809.
SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.
BY KIRK MUNROE.
CHAPTER XXIII.
LAW IN THE GOLD DIGGINGS.
The latest comer to Camp Forty Mile was not particularly anxious to
attend the public meeting to which he was invited by Mr. Platt Riley.
Still he thought it better to do so rather than run the risk of
offending his host, who was evidently a man of influence in the
diggings. His overnight reflections having convinced him that this camp
was not such a place as he had expected, and also that he might find
greater safety elsewhere, his first act in the morning was to order his
Indian drivers to harness the dogs, and be prepared for a start within
an hour.
Kurilla, who was with them under instructions not to lose sight of them,
grinned when he heard this, for he had picked up an inkling of what was
going on, and felt pretty certain that the order need not be obeyed.
When Mr. Riley's reluctant guest entered the store of the Yukon Trading
Company, in which, on account of its size, the meeting was to be held,
he fully intended to take a back seat, and slip out as soon as he could
do so unnoticed. The place was so filled with miners, however, that
there were no back seats, and, to his surprise, the crowd pressed aside
as he and Mr. Riley entered, so as to leave a passage to the farther end
of the room. A moment later, without knowing just how it had been done,
he found himself seated beside Jalap Coombs's friend, Skiff Bettens, who
obligingly made a place for him. He noticed with some curiosity that
twelve men were seated on benches directly opposite to him, while all
the rest of the crowd were standing. Between him and these men was an
open space, at the upper end of which were a table and a chair raised on
a rude platform.
To this platform Mr. Platt Riley made his way, and seating himself in
the chair, rapped on the table for silence. Then, rising, he said:
"Gentlemen of the jury and fellow-citizens, this court is now open for
business, and I as its Judge, elected by your votes, am prepared to
administer justice in accordance with your laws, and such verdicts as
may be rendered by your jury."
"It is a court," thought Strengel, with a shiver.
"The case to be tried this morning," continued the Judge, "is one that
touches the pocket, the life, and the honor of every miner in the Yukon
Valley; for the prisoner at the bar is indicted on three separate counts
as a thief, a murderer, and an unmitigated scoundrel. He has come into
our camp under a false name and with a false story, after having
attempted the destruction of a steamer that is bringing goods and
machinery, of which we are greatly in need.
"He is charged with robbing and leaving helpless in the wilderness a man
whom we all know and respect, and also with robbing and deserting while
seriously ill his own companion who was on his way to visit us in behalf
of our old-established trading company."
Strengel listened to these terrible words with an ever-increasing
paleness and visible agitation. Finally, clapping a hand to his face as
though seized with a sudden illness, he started to rise and leave the
room.
"Sit down," ordered Skiff Bettens, in a low tone, at the same time
jerking him back to his seat. Then the man knew that he was indeed a
prisoner.
"To prove these serious charges," continued the Judge, "I am about to
call several witnesses. At the same time the prisoner will be given the
privilege of cross-questioning them and of pleading in his own behalf.
Mr. Philip Ryder."
At this summons Phil advanced from the farther end of the room, and the
prisoner regarded him with undisguised amazement.
After answering the usual questions regarding his personality and
business, Phil was asked if he knew the prisoner.
"I do," he answered.
"What is his name?"
"I understand that he now calls himself Bradwick; but a few months ago
he went by the name of Strengel."
[Illustration: "THAT'S A LIE!" SHOUTED THE PRISONER, HOARSELY.]
"That's a lie," shouted the prisoner, hoarsely.
"Silence!" commanded the Judge. "Now, Mr. Ryder, tell the jury what you
know concerning the accused from the time of your first meeting with him
up to the present."
This Phil did as briefly as possible, and when he had finished the
prisoner sprang to his feet, his face black with rage, and exclaimed:
"Why should this fellow's story be believed rather than mine? Who knows
anything about him, or even who he is? He was picked up in Bering Sea,
drifting about in a stolen canoe. At St. Michaels he was known as a
thief and brawler. I happen to know that he has been locked up in a
Victoria police station, and I demand that his evidence be thrown out."
"That will do, sir," said the Judge. "I happen to know this young man
and his family so well that I am willing to vouch for him if necessary.
Do you wish to question him? No. Then we will proceed. Mr. Serge
Belcofsky."
Serge, of course, identified the prisoner as Strengel, and corroborated
Phil's story in every detail.
"This ends the testimony on the first charge," announced the Judge, when
Serge had finished and the prisoner sullenly declined to question him.
"In proof of the second charge, that of robbery and desertion, I call as
a witness Mr. Jalap Coombs."
As the ex-mate of the _Seamew_ advanced to the stand the prisoner stared
at him as though he were a ghost, nor could he imagine by what miracle
this witness had reached Forty Mile in time to appear against him.
Jalap Coombs told his story in his own picturesque language, but in a
perfectly straightforward manner, and without the slightest hesitation.
When he finished, the Judge questioned him very closely as to the amount
of money given him by Mr. John Ryder, and the prices paid for various
articles of his outfit at St. Michaels.
As a defense against this charge the prisoner claimed that Jalap Coombs
had not been deserted by Simon Goldollar and himself, but had
voluntarily turned back, and that the dogs they had left with him had
run away to follow them much against their wishes. He also stated that
they had taken the dogs and sledge back to the place where they last saw
Jalap Coombs, but that they could not find him.
"They were not his dogs, anyway, Judge," he continued, "nor did he
furnish any of our outfit, except a few provisions, most of which he
traded to the Indians on his own account. This man Coombs was a sailor,
supposed to be a deserter from some ship, and was loafing around St.
Michaels half starved when we picked him up. He claimed to have some
friends on the river who would help him, so we brought him along out of
charity."
"May I toot a horn, Judge?" asked Mr. Skiff Bettens, rising as the
prisoner concluded his remarks.
"Certainly you may, Marshal."
"Waal, I only wanted to say that I've knowed Mr. Jalap Coombs off and on
for a good many years, and in all that time I've never knowed him to
tell a lie nor yet do a mean thing. Moreover I'm willing to stake my
life on his honesty agin that of any living man, for a better sailor, a
squarer man, and a truer friend never trod a deck."
This sincere tribute so affected the simple-hearted sailor-man that he
could only stare open-mouthed at the speaker as though he were talking
in some mysterious language, though in after-years he often referred to
this as the proudest moment of his life. The remainder of the audience
greeted the Marshal's little speech with an outburst of applause which
the Judge was finally obliged to check.
"Letting charge number two rest with the testimony taken," said the
Judge, when quiet was restored, "we will take up charge number three,
which is the most serious of all. We have already learned that the
accused, under the name of Strengel, passed old Fort Adams about a month
ago, bound for this place in company with a man named Goldollar, who
appears to be a pretty tough character himself, though that of course
has nothing to do with this case. The accused at that time had little,
or nothing of his own, either in the way of money or outfit, while
Goldollar appears to have been well fixed with both. Now this man turns
up in this place alone under the name of Bradwick, telling a story about
having come up the Porcupine, that he has since admitted to be false,
and in possession of the outfit formerly owned by Mr. Coombs and Simon
Goldollar. Of course, under the circumstances, the question naturally to
be asked is what has become of Goldollar?"
"He got sick of the trip and turned back from Yukon," explained the
prisoner, sulkily.
"Yes, we've heard he took sick," replied the Judge; "but whether he
turned back, or was left to die in an Indian rancheria is another
question. Mr. Coombs, will you please take the stand again?"
This time Jalap Coombs testified that he had carefully examined the
outfit brought into camp the night before by the prisoner, and found it
to contain the same number of sledges, the same number of dogs, and the
identical articles, with the exception of a certain quantity of
provisions that had composed it at old Fort Adams.
"We will now call on one other witness," announced the Judge, and the
prisoner started as though he expected to see Simon Goldollar himself
appear on the stand. What he did see was one of his native drivers from
Fort Yukon, with Kurilla to act as interpreter.
"Do you admit Injun testimony in this court?" he asked.
"Certainly we do," replied the Judge.
"If I'd known that," he muttered, "I'd have bought a dozen or so to
testify on my side."
The Indian's testimony was to the effect that this white man had left
another white man in a native hut at Fort Yukon so sick that all the
Indians thought he would die.
"Of course I can't buck agin Injun testimony," growled the prisoner;
"but I say it's a lie, all the same, and don't prove nothing."
"There is one thing that we must not neglect," said the Judge. "Marshal,
you may search the prisoner."
The latter struggled furiously, but was overpowered and held by strong
hands while the Marshal searched his pockets. From these were produced a
number of articles, including a wallet, which the Judge opened,
spreading its contents on the table before him.
"Do you recognize anything here?" he asked of Jalap Coombs.
"I can identify this as having been in Goldollar's possession," answered
the mate, picking up one of the articles that had dropped from the
wallet, and holding it so that all might see.
Both Phil and Serge uttered exclamations of amazement, for the object
thus exhibited was nothing more nor less than the mysteriously carved
and almost forgotten fur-seal's tooth that had exerted so great an
influence upon their fortunes.