Among the arts and sciences, the art of Sole Surviving is one of the most
interesting, as (to the artist) it is by far the most important. It is not
altogether an art, perhaps, for success in it is largely due to accident.
One may study how solely to survive, yet, having an imperfect natural
aptitude, may fail of proficiency and be early cut off. To the contrary,
one little skilled in its methods, and not even well grounded in its
fundamental principles, may, by taking the trouble to have been born with
a suitable constitution, attain to a considerable eminence in the art.
Without undue immodesty, I think I may fairly claim some distinction in it
myself, although I have not regularly acquired it as one acquires
knowledge and skill in writing, painting and playing the flute. O yes, I
am a notable Sole Survivor, and some of my work in that way attracts great
attention, mostly my own.
You would naturally expect, then, to find in me one who has experienced
all manner of disaster at sea and the several kinds of calamity incident
to a life on dry land. It would seem a just inference from my Sole
Survivorship that I am familiar with railroad wrecks, inundations (though
these are hardly dry-land phenomena), pestilences, earthquakes,
conflagrations and other forms of what the reporters delight to call "a
holocaust." This is not entirely true; I have never been shipwrecked,
never assisted as "unfortunate sufferer" at a fire or railway collision,
and know of the ravages of epidemics only by hearsay. The most destructive
_temblor_ of which I have had a personal experience decreased the
population of San Francisco by fewer, probably, than ten thousand persons,
of whom not more than a dozen were killed; the others moved out of town.
It is true that I once followed the perilous trade of a soldier, but my
eminence in Sole Surviving is of a later growth and not specially the
product of the sword.
Opening the portfolio of memory, I draw out picture after
picture--"figure-pieces"--groups of forms and faces whereof mine only now
remains, somewhat the worse for wear.
Here are three young men lolling at ease on a grassy bank. One, a
handsome, dark-eyed chap, with a forehead like that of a Grecian god,
raises his body on his elbow, looks straight away to the horizon, where
some black trees hold captive certain vestiges of sunset as if they had
torn away the plumage of a flight of flamingoes, and says: "Fellows, I
mean to be rich. I shall see every country worth seeing. I shall taste
every pleasure worth having. When old, I shall become a hermit."
Said another slender youth, fair-haired: "I shall become President and
execute a _coup d'etat_ making myself an absolute monarch. I shall then
issue a decree requiring that all hermits be put to death."
The third said nothing. Was he restrained by some prescient sense of the
perishable nature of the material upon which he was expected to inscribe
the record of his hopes? However it may have been, he flicked his shoe
with a hazel switch and kept his own counsel. For twenty years he has been
the Sole Survivor of the group.
* * * * *
The scene changes. Six men are on horseback on a hill--a general and his
staff. Below, in the gray fog of a winter morning, an army, which has left
its intrenchments, is moving upon those of the enemy--creeping silently
into position. In an hour the whole wide valley for miles to left and
right will be all aroar with musketry stricken to seeming silence now and
again by thunder claps of big guns. In the meantime the risen sun has
burned a way through the fog, splendoring a part of the beleaguered city.
"Look at that, General," says an aide; "it is like enchantment."
"Go and enchant Colonel Post," said the general, without taking his
field-glass from his eyes, "and tell him to pitch in as soon as he hears
Smith's guns."
All laughed. But to-day I laugh alone. I am the Sole Survivor.
* * * * *
It would be easy to fill many pages with instances of Sole Survival, from
my own experience. I could mention extinct groups composed wholly (myself
excepted) of the opposing sex, all of whom, with the same exception, have
long ceased their opposition, their warfare accomplished, their pretty
noses blue and chill under the daisies. They were good girls, too, mostly,
Heaven rest them! There were Maud and Lizzie and Nanette (ah, Nanette,
indeed; she is the deadest of the whole bright band) and Emeline and--but
really this is not discreet; one should not survive and tell.
The flame of a camp-fire stands up tall and straight toward the black sky.
We feed it constantly with sage brush. A circling wall of darkness closes
us in; but turn your back to the fire and walk a little away and you shall
see the serrated summit-line of snow-capped mountains, ghastly cold in the
moonlight. They are in all directions; everywhere they efface the great
gold stars near the horizon, leaving the little green ones of the
mid-heaven trembling viciously, as bleak as steel. At irregular intervals
we hear the distant howling of a wolf--now on this side and again on that.
We check our talk to listen; we cast quick glances toward our weapons, our
saddles, our picketed horses: the wolves may be of the variety known as
Sioux, and there are but four of us.
"What would you do, Jim," said Hazen, "if we were surrounded by Indians?"
Jim Beckwourth was our guide--a life-long frontiersman, an old man "beated
and chopped with tanned antiquity." He had at one time been a chief of the
Crows.
"I'd spit on that fire," said Jim Beckwourth.
The old man has gone, I hope, where there is no fire to be quenched. And
Hazen, and the chap with whom I shared my blanket that winter night on the
plains--both gone. One might suppose that I would feel something of the
natural exultation of a Sole Survivor; but as Byron found that
our thoughts take wildest flight
Even at the moment when they should array
Themselves in pensive order,
so I find that they sometimes array themselves in pensive order, even at
the moment when they ought to be most hilarious.
* * * * *
Of reminiscences there is no end. I have a vast store of them laid up,
wherewith to wile away the tedious years of my anecdotage--whenever it
shall please Heaven to make me old. Some years that I passed in London as
a working journalist are particularly rich in them. Ah! "we were a gallant
company" in those days.
I am told that the English are heavy thinkers and dull talkers. My
recollection is different; speaking from that, I should say they are no
end clever with their tongues. Certainly I have not elsewhere heard such
brilliant talk as among the artists and writers of London. Of course they
were a picked lot; some of them had attained to some eminence in the world
of intellect; others have achieved it since. But they were not all English
by many. London draws the best brains of Ireland and Scotland, and there
is always a small American contingent, mostly correspondents of the big
New York journals.
The typical London journalist is a gentleman. He is usually a graduate of
one or the other of the great universities. He is well paid and holds his
position, whatever it may be, by a less precarious tenure than his
American congener. He rather moves than "dabbles" in literature, and not
uncommonly takes a hand at some of the many forms of art. On the whole, he
is a good fellow, too, with a skeptical mind, a cynical tongue, and a warm
heart. I found these men agreeable, hospitable, intelligent, amusing. We
worked too hard, dined too well, frequented too many clubs, and went to
bed too late in the forenoon. We were overmuch addicted to shedding the
blood of the grape. In short, we diligently, conscientiously, and with a
perverse satisfaction burned the candle of life at both ends and in the
middle.
This was many a year ago. To-day a list of these men's names with a cross
against that of each one whom I know to be dead would look like a Roman
Catholic cemetery. I could dine all the survivors at the table on which I
write, and I should like to do so. But the dead ones, I must say, were the
best diners.
But about Sole Surviving. There was a London publisher named John Camden
Hotten. Among American writers he had a pretty dark reputation as a
"pirate." They accused him of republishing their books without their
assent, which, in absence of international copyright, he had a legal, and
it seems to me (a "sufferer") a moral right to do. Through sympathy with
their foreign confrères British writers also held him in high disesteem.
I knew Hotten very well, and one day I stood by what purported to be his
body, which afterward I assisted to bury in the cemetery at Highgate. I am
sure that it was his body, for I was uncommonly careful in the matter of
identification, for a very good reason, which you shall know.
Aside from his "piracy," Hotten had a wide renown as "a hard man to deal
with." For several months before his death he had owed me one hundred
pounds sterling, and he could not possibly have been more reluctant to
part with anything but a larger sum. Even to this day in reviewing the
intelligent methods--ranging from delicate finesse to frank effrontery--by
which that good man kept me out of mine own I am prostrated with
admiration and consumed with envy. Finally by a lucky chance I got him at
a disadvantage and seeing my power he sent his manager--a fellow named
Chatto, who as a member of the firm of Chatto & Windus afterward succeeded
to his business and methods--to negotiate. I was the most implacable
creditor in the United Kingdom, and after two mortal hours of me in my
most acidulated mood Chatto pulled out a check for the full amount, ready
signed by Hotten in anticipation of defeat. Before handing it to me Chatto
said: "This check is dated next Saturday. Of course you will not present
it until then."
To this I cheerfully consented.
"And now," said Chatto, rising to go, "as everything is satisfactory I
hope you will go out to Hotten's house and have a friendly talk. It is his
wish."
On Saturday morning I went. In pursuance, doubtless, of his design when he
antedated that check he had died of a pork pie promptly on the stroke of
twelve o'clock the night before--which invalidated the check! I have met
American publishers who thought they knew something about the business of
drinking champagne out of writers' skulls. If this narrative--which, upon
my soul, is every word true--teaches them humility by showing that genuine
commercial sagacity is not bounded by geographical lines it will have
served its purpose.
Having assured myself that Mr. Hotten was really no more, I drove
furiously bank-ward, hoping that the sad tidings had not preceded me--and
they had not.
Alas! on the route was a certain tap-room greatly frequented by authors,
artists, newspaper men and "gentlemen of wit and pleasure about town."
Sitting about the customary table were a half-dozen or more choice
spirits--George Augustus Sala, Henry Sampson, Tom Hood the younger,
Captain Mayne Reid, and others less known to fame. I am sorry to say my
somber news affected these sinners in a way that was shocking. Their
levity was a thing to shudder at. As Sir Boyle Roche might have said, it
grated harshly upon an ear that had a dubious check in its pocket. Having
uttered their hilarious minds by word of mouth all they knew how, these
hardy and impenitent offenders set about writing "appropriate epitaphs."
Thank Heaven, all but one of these have escaped my memory, one that I
wrote myself. At the close of the rites, several hours later, I resumed my
movement against the bank. Too late--the old, old story of the hare and
the tortoise was told again. The "heavy news" had overtaken and passed me
as I loitered by the wayside.
All attended the funeral--Sala, Sampson, Hood, Reid, and the
undistinguished others, including this present Sole Survivor of the group.
As each cast his handful of earth upon the coffin I am very sure that,
like Lord Brougham on a somewhat similar occasion, we all felt more than
we cared to express. On the death of a political antagonist whom he had
not treated with much consideration his lordship was asked, rather rudely,
"Have you no regrets now that he is gone?"
After a moment of thoughtful silence he replied, with gravity, "Yes; I
favor his return."
* * * * *
One night in the summer of 1880 I was driving in a light wagon through the
wildest part of the Black Hills in South Dakota. I had left Deadwood and
was well on my way to Rockerville with thirty thousand dollars on my
person, belonging to a mining company of which I was the general manager.
Naturally, I had taken the precaution to telegraph my secretary at
Rockerville to meet me at Rapid City, then a small town, on another route;
the telegram was intended to mislead the "gentlemen of the road" whom I
knew to be watching my movements, and who might possibly have a
confederate in the telegraph office. Beside me on the seat of the wagon
sat Boone May.
Permit me to explain the situation. Several months before, it had been the
custom to send a "treasure-coach" twice a week from Deadwood to Sidney,
Nebraska. Also, it had been the custom to have this coach captured and
plundered by "road agents." So intolerable had this practice become--even
iron-clad coaches loopholed for rifles proving a vain device--that the
mine owners had adopted the more practicable plan of importing from
California a half-dozen of the most famous "shotgun messengers" of Wells,
Fargo & Co.--fearless and trusty fellows with an instinct for killing, a
readiness of resource that was an intuition, and a sense of direction that
put a shot where it would do the most good more accurately than the most
careful aim. Their feats of marksmanship were so incredible that seeing
was scarcely believing.
In a few weeks these chaps had put the road agents out of business and out
of life, for they attacked them wherever found. One sunny Sunday morning
two of them strolling down a street of Deadwood recognized five or six of
the rascals, ran back to their hotel for their rifles, and returning
killed them all!
Boone May was one of these avengers. When I employed him, as a messenger,
he was under indictment for murder. He had trailed a "road agent" across,
the Bad Lands for hundreds of miles, brought him back to within a few
miles of Deadwood and picketed him out for the night. The desperate man,
tied as he was, had attempted to escape, and May found it expedient to
shoot and bury him. The grave by the roadside is perhaps still pointed out
to the curious. May gave himself up, was formally charged with murder,
released on his own recognizance, and I had to give him leave of absence
to go to court and be acquitted. Some of the New York directors of my
company having been good enough to signify their disapproval of my action
in employing "such a man," I could do no less than make some recognition
of their dissent, and thenceforth he was borne upon the pay-rolls as
"Boone May, Murderer." Now let me get back to my story.
I knew the road fairly well, for I had previously traveled it by night, on
horseback, my pockets bulging with currency and my free hand holding a
cocked revolver the entire distance of fifty miles. To make the journey by
wagon with a companion was luxury. Still, the drizzle of rain was
uncomfortable. May sat hunched up beside me, a rubber poncho over his
shoulders and a Winchester rifle in its leathern case between his knees. I
thought him a trifle off his guard, but said nothing. The road, barely
visible, was rocky, the wagon rattled, and alongside ran a roaring stream.
Suddenly we heard through it all the clinking of a horse's shoes directly
behind, and simultaneously the short, sharp words of authority: "Throw up
your hands!"
With an involuntary jerk at the reins I brought my team to its haunches
and reached for my revolver. Quite needless: with the quickest movement
that I had ever seen in anything but a cat--almost before the words were
out of the horseman's mouth--May had thrown himself backward across the
back of the seat, face upward, and the muzzle of his rifle was within a
yard of the fellow's breast! What further occurred among the three of us
there in the gloom of the forest has, I fancy, never been accurately
related.
Boone May is long dead of yellow fever in Brazil, and I am the Sole
Survivor.
* * * * *
There was a famous _prima donna_ with whom it was my good fortune to cross
the Atlantic to New York. In truth I was charged by a friend of both with
the agreeable duty of caring for her safety and comfort. Madame was
gracious, clever, altogether charming, and before the voyage was two days
old a half-dozen of the men aboard, whom she had permitted me to present,
were heels over head in love with her, as I was myself.
Our competition for her favor did not make us enemies; on the contrary we
were drawn together into something like an offensive and defensive
alliance by a common sorrow--the successful rivalry of a singularly
handsome Italian who sat next her at table. So assiduous was he in his
attentions that my office as the lady's guide, philosopher and friend was
nearly a sinecure, and as to the others, they had hardly one chance a day
to prove their devotion: that enterprising son of Italy dominated the
entire situation. By some diabolical prevision he anticipated Madame's
every need and wish--placed her reclining-chair in the most sheltered
spots on deck, smothered her in layer upon layer of wraps, and conducted
himself, generally, in the most inconsiderate way. Worse still, Madame
accepted his good offices with a shameless grace "which said as plain as
whisper in the ear" that there was a perfect understanding between them.
What made it harder to bear was the fellow's faulty civility to the rest
of us; he seemed hardly aware of our existence.
Our indignation was not loud, but deep. Every day in the smoking-room we
contrived the most ingenious and monstrous, plans for his undoing in this
world and the next; the least cruel being a project to lure him to the
upper deck on a dark night and send him unshriven to his account by way of
the lee rail; but as none of us knew enough Italian to tell him the
needful falsehood that scheme of justice came to nothing, as did all the
others. At the wharf in New York we parted from Madame more in sorrow than
in anger, and from her conquering cavalier with polite manifestations of
the contempt we did not feel.
That evening I called on her at her hotel, facing Union Square. Soon after
my arrival there was an audible commotion out in front: the populace,
headed by a brass band and incited, doubtless, by pure love of art, had
arrived to do honor to the great singer. There was music--a
serenade--followed by shoutings of the lady's name. She seemed a trifle
nervous, but I led her to the balcony, where she made a very pretty little
speech, piquant with her most charming accent. When the tumult and
shouting had died we re-entered her apartment to resume our conversation.
Would it please monsieur to have a glass, of wine? It would. She left the
room for a moment; then came the wine and glasses on a tray, borne by that
impossible Italian! He had a napkin across his arm--he was a servant.
Barring some of the band and the populace, I am doubtless the Sole
Survivor, for Madame has for a number of years had a permanent engagement
Above, and my faith in Divine Justice does not permit me to think that the
servile wretch who cast down the mighty from their seat among the Sons of
Hope was suffered to live out the other half of his days.
* * * * *
A dinner of seven in an old London tavern--a good dinner, the memory
whereof is not yet effaced from the tablets of the palate. A soup, a plate
of white-bait be-lemoned and red-peppered with exactness, a huge joint of
roast beef, from which we sliced at will, flanked by various bottles of
old dry Sherry and crusty Port--such Port! (And we are expected to be
patriots in a country where it cannot be procured! And the Portuguese are
expected to love the country which, having it, sends it away!) That was
the dinner--there was Stilton cheese; it were shameful not to mention the
Stilton. Good, wholesome, and toothsome it was, rich and nutty. The
Stilton that we get here, clouted in tin-foil, is monstrous poor stuff,
hardly better than our American sort. After dinner there were walnuts and
coffee and cigars. I cannot say much for the cigars; they are not
over-good in England: too long at sea, I suppose.
On the whole, it was a memorable dinner. Even its non-essential features
were satisfactory. The waiter was fascinatingly solemn, the floor snowily
sanded, the company sufficiently distinguished in literature and art for
me to keep track of them through the newspapers. They are dead--as dead as
Queen Anne, every mother's son of them! I am in my favorite rôle of Sole
Survivor. It has become habitual to me; I rather like it.
Of the company were two eminent gastronomes--call them Messrs. Guttle and
Swig--who so acridly hated each other that nothing but a good dinner could
bring them under the same roof. (They had had a quarrel, I think, about
the merit of a certain Amontillado--which, by the way, one insisted,
despite Edgar Allan Poe, who certainly knew too much of whiskey to know
much of wine, _is_ a Sherry.) After the cloth had been removed and the
coffee, walnuts and cigars brought in, the company stood, and to an air
extemporaneously composed by Guttle, sang the following shocking and
reprehensible song, which had been written during the proceedings by this
present Sole Survivor. It will serve as fitly to conclude this feast of
unreason as it did that: