The End
[Illustration]
Sam was indeed a sick man, and the journey to the East proved to be a
severe strain upon him. Cleary saw that it would be unwise to let him
travel alone with his wife, and accordingly he accompanied him to
Slowburgh, which was on the way to Homeville. They arrived in the
afternoon, and Sam could hardly walk to the carriage which awaited him.
He was put to bed as soon as he reached his uncle's house, and on the
advice of his uncle's doctor they sent at once to the county town for a
trained nurse to take charge of him, for it was out of the question for
him to travel farther. There was no train which Cleary could
conveniently take that evening to the metropolis, and he accepted the
urgent invitation of Congressman Jinks to spend the night. It so
happened that it was a gala day for Slowburgh. Four of her soldier sons
had returned a few days before from Porsslania and the Cubapines, and
this day had been set aside for a great celebration and a mass-meeting
at the Methodist church to welcome them. The procession was to take
place early in the evening, and after supper Cleary went out alone to
watch the proceedings, leaving his friend to the care of his relatives.
He took his place on the curbstone of the principal street and was soon
conversing with his neighbors on each side, one of whom was our old
friend, Mr. Reddy, and the other the young insurance agent whose
acquaintance Sam had made at the hotel.
"It's going to be a great show," said the former. "I wish I was spry
enough to parade too. It's going to be splendid, but it won't come up
to the time we had when I came back from the war. They've kept them
four boys drunk three days for nothing, but we was drunk a month."
"They've sobered them down for this evening, I believe," said the young
man.
"They've done their best," said Reddy, "and I think they'll go through
with it all right. It's a great time for them, but they'll have their
pension days all the rest of their lives to remind them of it, four
times a year."
"Who are going to take part in the procession?" asked Cleary.
"They're going to have all the military companies and patriotic
societies of these parts," answered Reddy, "and then the firemen too of
course; but they won't amount to much, for most of them are in the
societies, and they'd rather turn out in them."
"What societies are there?" said Cleary.
"Oh, there's the Grandsons of the Revolution and the Genuine Grandsons
of the Revolution, and the Daughters of Revolutionary Camp-Followers
and the Genuine Daughters, and then the Male Descendants of Second
Cousins of Heroes, and the Genuine Male Descendants, and the
Connections by Marriage of Colonial Tax-Collectors, and then the
Genuine Connections, and a lot of others I can't remember."
"The names seem to go in pairs," said Cleary.
"Well, you see, they always have a fight about something in these
military societies, and then they split, and the party that splits away
always takes the same name and puts 'Genuine' in front of it. That's
the way it is."
"I suppose these societies do a lot of good, don't they?" asked Cleary.
"These splits and quarrels remind me of the army. They must spread the
military spirit among the people."
"Yes, they do," said the young man. "It's what they call _esprit de
corps_. If fighting is military, they fight and no mistake, and the
women fight more than the men. I don't know how many lawsuits they've
had. Half of them won't speak to the other half. But they're all united
on one thing, I can tell you, and that is in wanting to put down the
Cubapinos."
"That they are," cried Reddy. "That's why they call 'em 'Patriotic
Societies.' It was our ancestors as fought for freedom that they made
the societies for. Our ancestors were patriotic and fought for freedom
oncet, and now we're going to be patriotic and stick by the government
just like they did."
"Yes, they fought for freedom, that's true. And what are the Cubapinos
fighting for?" asked the young man.
"Oh, shucks!" cried Reddy. "I ain't a-going to argher with you. What
were we talking about? Oh, yes. We were saying that them societies
fight together. They do fight a good deal, that's a fact, and there's
no end of trouble in our militia battalion too. They all want to be
captain, and they don't get on somehow as well as the fire companies.
But still it's a fine thing to see all this military spirit. I didn't
see a uniform for years, and now you can't hire a man to dig a ditch
who hasn't got a stripe on one leg of his trousers at any rate. Girls
like soldiers, I tell you, and they like pensions too. I've just got
married myself. My wife is seventeen. Now I've drawed my pension for
nearly forty years, and she'll draw it for sixty more if she has any
luck; that'll make over a hundred. That's something like. Why, if one
of these fellows is twenty now and marries a girl of seventeen when
he's ninety, and she lives till she's ninety, they can keep drawing
money for a hundred and fifty years, and no mistake. It's better than a
savings bank. Here they come!"
The procession had formed round the corner at the other end of the main
street, and now the band began to play, and the column could be seen
advancing. First the band passed with an escort of small boys running
along in the gutter on either side. Then came two carriages containing
the heroes, two in each. They held themselves stiffly and took off
their hats, and no one would have supposed that they had drunk too much
if the fact had not been universally understood by the public. Behind
them came a line of other carriages in which were seated the magnates
of the town, including the office-holders and the prominent business
men. They all had that self-important air which is inseparable from
such shows and which denotes that the individual is feeling either like
a great man or a fool. Then came the militia battalion, a rather
shamefaced lot of young men who seemed to be painfully aware that they
were not at all real heroes like the soldiers in the carriages, but
merely make-believe imitations. The patriotic societies followed,
genuine and non-genuine, resplendent in "insignia," sashes, and badges.
"There's my wife, she's a G.C.M.C.T.C.," said Reddy proudly, pointing
out a very plain young woman with gold spectacles. "And here come the
Genuine Ancestors of Future Veterans. See that old woman there on the
other side? She made all the fuss. You see when anybody wants to get
into a society and finds they can't get in they go off and start
another. And some people that hadn't any tax collectors or connections
or anything, they just got up the 'Ancestors of Future Veterans,' and
everybody in town wanted to get into that. And old Miss Blunt there,
she wanted to come in too, and she's over seventy, and they said she
couldn't be an ancestor nohow, and she said she could and she would,
and they voted forty-one to forty against her, and the forty went off
and founded the Genuine Ancestors, and they're twice as big as the
others now. Hear 'em applaud?"
The old lady walked along with a martial tread, and was loudly cheered
as she passed.
"Now we'd better get into the church if we want seats," said the young
man, and Cleary followed him, leaving the ancient warrior behind. The
church was very crowded and very hot, and Cleary had to sit on a step
of the platform, but it was an exhibition of patriotism worth
beholding. The band played with great gusto, and the whole audience was
at the highest pitch of excitement. The chairman made an address, and
Josh Thatcher responded in a few words for himself and his three
companions. Then flowers were presented to them, and a little girl
recited the "Charge of the Light Brigade," but the main feature of the
program was the oration of Dr. Taylor, the pastor of the church. He was
famed as an orator not only in his denomination and in the county but
in the National Order of Total Abstinence, of which he was a leading
light. In his address he welcomed the four heroes back to their hearths
and firesides. He thanked them for having conquered so many lands and
spread the blessings of civilization and Christianity to the ends of
the earth.
"We have been told, my friends, by wicked and unpatriotic scoffers,
that these wars have stirred up the passions of our people, that there
are more lynchings and deeds of violence than ever before, and that
negro soldiers returning from the war have shot down citizens from
car-windows. I have even been told that its effect is to be seen in the
attempts of worthy citizens, including a distinguished judge, to have
the whipping-post reestablished in our midst. I can only say for myself
that such traitors and traducers should be the first victims of the
whipping-post. (Cheers.) So far from crime having increased since the
departure of these young heroes, I can testify that there has been a
marked decrease in our community. Since they left, not a single barn
has been burned, not a chicken stolen. My friend, Mrs. Crane, informs
me that she keeps more chickens than ever before, and that she has not
missed one in over a year. I am also told that during the absence of
these young men the amount of liquor drunk in our town has sensibly
diminished. The war then has been a blessing to us and to our nation."
During these remarks Josh Thatcher, who was sitting in the front row,
gave sundry digs in the ribs to his cousin Tom, and they both laughed
aloud.
"We welcome our heroes back," continued the orator. "We open our arms
to them. All that we have is theirs. We applaud their manly courage and
Christian self-sacrifice. We shall never, never forget their services,
and we shall recite their noble deeds to our children and to our
children's children."
The meeting broke up with three cheers and a tiger for each of the four
heroes. For an hour later the crowds stood in the street talking over
the great events of the day, each of the young veterans forming the
center of an admiring group, Tom Thatcher being surrounded by a bevy of
pretty girls who seemed to find nothing objectionable in his pimpled
face and hoarse voice. Cleary stood for a long time watching them and
talking with the insurance man.
"It's their night," said the latter, "but it won't last long. We know
them too well. When the barns begin to burn again, folks'll all know
what it means. I wish they'd keep a war going a long way off forever
for these fellows. It would be a good riddance. And that's all talk of
old Taylor's anyway. He won't take them to his heart, not by a great
deal. I heard Dave Black ask him for a job to-day, and he wants a man
too, and he said, 'What--an ex-soldier? Not much!' The words were out
of his mouth before he knew what he'd said. He's a slick one."
When Cleary returned to Mr. Jinks' house, he found Sam much worse, and
the gravest fears were entertained as to his recovery. In the morning
he was a little easier, and Cleary was able to have a little talk with
him before he left. Sam had been told by the doctor that his condition
was serious, and he had no desire to get well.
"You must brace up, old man," said Cleary cheerily. "I'll come back in
a few days and we'll lay out our plans for the future. You're the
finest soldier that ever lived, and I haven't done with you yet."
"Don't say that, don't say that!" cried Sam. "I'm no soldier at all. I
wanted to be a perfect soldier, and I can't. It's that that's breaking
my heart. I don't mind the nomination for President nor anything else
in comparison. My poor wife! Why did I let her marry a coward like me?
I can't tell you now, but if I'm alive when you come here again I'll
tell you all."
"Nonsense, old man," said Cleary. "You've got the fever on you again.
It's in your blood. When it gets out, you'll be all right."
It was with tears in his eyes that Cleary bade his friend good-by, for
he could see that he was a very sick man. It was impossible, however,
for him to remain longer, and as Sam's wife and cousin were there to
nurse him, and his father and mother had been telegraphed for, he felt
that there was no necessity for him to remain.
After the lapse of three weeks Cleary received the sad news that Sam
had shown unmistakable signs of insanity and had been removed to an
insane asylum. His father wrote that while his insanity was of a mild
form, the doctors thought it best for him to be placed in an
institution where he could receive the most scientific treatment. Six
months later Cleary, who was now one of the editors of the _Lyre_,
went on a sad pilgrimage to see his friend. The asylum was several
hours away from the metropolis beyond East Point, and was none other
than the great building which they had described to the chief of the
Moritos. Cleary took a carriage at the station and drove to his
destination, and at last arrived at the huge edifice in the midst of
its wide domain. He went into the reception-room and explained his
errand. After a while a young doctor came to him, and told him that he
could have an interview with Captain Jinks at once, and offered to act
as his guide. It was a long walk through corridors and passages and up
winding stairs to Sam's apartment, and Cleary questioned the doctor as
they went.
"Captain Jinks is a dear fellow," said the doctor in response to his
inquiries. "We are all fond of him. At first he was a little
intractable and denied our right to direct him, but now that we've got
it all down on a military basis, he will do anything we tell him. I
believe he would walk out of the window if I ordered him too. But I
have to put on a military coat to make him obey. We keep one on
purpose. As soon as he sees it on anybody he's as obedient as a child.
He's such a perfect gentleman, too. It's a very sad case. Here's his
room."
The doctor knocked.
"Who goes there?" cried a husky voice, which Cleary hardly recognized
as Sam's.
"A friend," answered the doctor.
"Advance, friend, and give the countersign," said the same voice.
"Old Gory!" cried the doctor, with most unmilitary emphasis, and he
opened the door and they entered.
Cleary saw what seemed to be the shadow of Sam, pale, haggard, and
emaciated, sitting in a shabby undress uniform before a large deal
table. Upon the table was a most elaborate arrangement of books and
blocks of wood, apparently representing fortifications, which were
manned by a dilapidated set of lead soldiers--the earliest treasures of
Sam's boyhood, which had been sent to him from home at his request.
Sam did not lift his eyes from the table, and moved the men about with
his hand as if he were playing a game of chess.
"Here is a friend of yours to see you, Captain," said the doctor.
Sam slowly raised his head and looked at Cleary for some time without
recognizing him. Gradually a faint smile made its appearance.
"I know you," he said in the same strained voice. "I know you.
You're----"
"Cleary," said Cleary.
"Cleary? Cleary? Let me see. Why, to be sure, you're Cleary." And he
rose from his chair unsteadily and took the hand that Cleary offered
him.
"How are you, old man? I'm so glad to see you again," said Cleary.
"And so am I," said Sam, who now seemed to be almost his old self
again. "Sit down."
Cleary drew up a chair to the table, while the doctor retired and shut
the door.
"How are you getting on?" said Cleary. "You're going to get well soon,
aren't you?"
"I am well now," said Sam. "I was awfully ill, I know that, but it all
came from my mind. I think I told you that. My heart was breaking
because I couldn't be a perfect soldier. I had to face the question and
grapple with it. It was an awful experience; I can't bear to speak of
it or even think of it. But I won. I'm a perfect soldier now! I can do
anything with my men here, and I will obey any order I receive, I don't
care what it is."
As he spoke of his experience a pained expression came over his face,
but he looked proud and almost happy when he announced the result of
the conflict.
"They say I'm a lunatic, I know they do," he continued, looking round
to see that no one else was present, and lowering his voice to a
whisper. "They say I'm a lunatic, but I'm not. When they say I'm a
lunatic they mean I'm a perfect soldier--a complete soldier. And they
call those fine fellows lead soldiers! Lunatics and lead soldiers
indeed! Well, suppose we are! I tell you an army of lead soldiers with
a lunatic at the head would be the best army in the world. We do what
we're told, and we're not afraid of anything."
Sam stopped talking at this juncture and went on for some time in
silence maneuvering his troops. Finally he picked up the colonel with
the white plume, and a ray of light from the afternoon sun fell upon
it, and he held it before him, gazing upon it entranced. The door
opened, and the doctor entered.
"I fear you must go now, Mr. Cleary. He can't stand much excitement.
He's quiet now. Just come out with me without saying anything," and
Cleary followed him out of the room, while Sam sat motionless with his
eyes fixed on his talisman.
"He sits like that for hours," said the doctor. "It's a kind of
hypnotism, I think, which we don't quite understand yet. I am writing
up the case for _The Medical Gazette_. It's a peculiar kind of
insanity, this preoccupation with uniforms and soldiers, and the
readiness to do anything a man in regimentals tells him to."
"It's rather more common, perhaps, out of asylums than in them,"
muttered Cleary, but the doctor did not hear him. "Do you think he
will ever recover, doctor?" he continued.
The doctor shook his head ominously.
"And will he live to old age in this condition?"
"He might, if there were nothing else the matter with him, but there
is, and perhaps it's a fortunate thing. He's got a new disease called
filariasis, a sort of low fever that he picked up in the Cubapines or
Porsslania. There's a good deal of it among the soldiers who have come
back. We have a lot of lunatics from the army here and several of them
have this new fever too. It wouldn't kill him alone, either, but the
two things together will surely carry him off. He will hardly live
another half-year."
"I suppose his family is looking out for him?" said Cleary.
"His mother visits him pretty regularly, and his father comes
sometimes," said the doctor, "but I think his wife has only been here
twice. And she's living at East Point, too, only an hour or two away.
She's a born flirt, and I think she's tired of him. I'm told that
one of this year's graduates there, a fellow named Saunders, is paying
attention to her, and when the poor captain dies, I doubt if she
remains long a widow."
[Illustration: HARMLESS
"HE SITS LIKE THAT FOR HOURS"]
"Then I suppose there is nothing I can do for the dear old chap?" asked
Cleary, with tears in his eyes, as he took his leave of the doctor at
the door of the building.
"Nothing at all, my dear sir. He has everything he wants, and in fact
he wants nothing but his lead soldiers. He won't even let us give him a
new set of them. And he has all the liberty he wants on the grounds
here, and he can walk or even take a drive if he wishes to, for he is
perfectly harmless."
"Perfectly harmless!" repeated Cleary to himself, as he got into his
carriage. "What an idea! A perfectly harmless soldier!"
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes
For consistency the following changes have been made.
Page 3 firearms changed to fire-arms
10 field marshal changed to field-marshal
134 got here? changed to got here?"
168 out on at once on changed to out at once on
202 exclamed changed to exclaimed
202 out of it? changed to out of it.
219 you along.' changed to you along."
237 "'Im a changed to 'I'm a
273 exclamed changed to exclaimed
295 bomb-shells changed to bombshells
349 "'He stuck changed to 'He stuck
357 "and I!" And I!" changed to "And I!" "And I!"
382 denommination changed to denomination