[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1897, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JANUARY 12, 1897. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVIII.--NO. 898. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
FAMOUS CAVALRY CHARGES.
BY RICHARD BARRY.
COOKE'S CAVALRY AT GAINES'S MILL.
It was a strange fact that those in authority at Washington and those in
charge of the immediate conduct of the Union armies in the field did not
early in the war recognize the immense importance of a well-organized
cavalry.
The idea that cavalry should be used merely as an auxiliary arm of the
service was held by General Scott, and those who immediately followed
him in command seem to have held the same opinion.
The small bodies of troopers of both the regular and volunteer branches
of the mounted service were attached to various isolated army corps.
Their duties consisted mainly in taking the places of orderly
messengers, doing patrol duty, and acting as advance outposts. Their
duties were onerous, and were not calculated to bring them much chance
for glory or advancement. The cavalry Captains and leaders demurred
greatly against this false position, and it may be said that the lesson
that the Union Generals learned in regard to the uses of mounted troops
was gained from the experience of battle, when they had arrayed against
them the quickly moving, impetuous horsemen of Stuart and the younger
Lees.
But even before the North had developed the magnificent and well-ordered
brigades that figured so conspicuously in the latter years of the war,
there occurred not a few instances where the trooper with his pistol and
sabre distinguished himself before the enemy and under the eyes of his
countrymen. The first charge of any importance that took place before
the reform was inaugurated that gave the men in the saddles a worthy
position was at the battle of Gaines's Mill, on the 27th of June, 1862.
About the part that the cavalry played in this affair much bitter
controversy has arisen. Men whose names are well known, whose intrepid
bravery and worth have long been recognized, have taken stands upon this
question. It is not the place of an article so short as this to go into
this in detail. We have but to tell of the brave actions which occurred
that day, and to relate the facts and important happenings on the left
of the line of battle, where the small detachments of cavalry that made
the charge were placed.
All day long the Union batteries and the Confederate batteries had been
replying to one another. General Fitz John Porter had estimated that the
forces under his command were greatly overmatched. Early in the day he
had determined upon a battle of resistance, and made up his mind to hold
the enemy in check if possible. A long line of infantry that stretched
along the swampy bottom-lands and woody ravines were hardly enough to
guard and support the artillery which had been placed in positions more
or less exposed on the crests of the hills and the vantage spots south
of the Chickahominy. This river divided the Union army, making it almost
impossible to send re-enforcements to the right wing or to gather it
together on the right bank.
On June 14 the Confederate General Stuart had made a dashing raid around
McClellan's army. The slow-moving infantry had not had time to cut them
off.
General Porter had posted his batteries of artillery, and had been
employed all the morning in forming his lines to await the enemy's
attack. General P. St. George Cooke had been instructed to take his
position with the small body of cavalry at his disposal under the hills
in the valley of the Chickahominy. It was expected of him to support the
artillery stationed there and to guard the left flank of the long line.
The whole attitude of the Union forces, as we have said, was one of
defence. The battle opened on the left in the morning, and by two
o'clock in the afternoon had spread along the entire front. It was a
strange fact that all of the severe battles of the seven days' fight
before Richmond began after noonday.
From one o'clock until six Cooke's cavalry, consisting of two and
one-half squadrons of the Fifth Cavalry, belonging to the First Brigade;
three squadrons of volunteer lancers from Pennsylvania, under Colonel
Rush, belonging to the Second Brigade; and two skeleton squadrons of the
First United States Cavalry, under Colonel Blake, to which were added
the provost-guard under Lieutenant-Colonel Grier--had stood inactive in
a sheltered position a little to the rear of the artillery, that had not
begun firing until quite late in the afternoon.
A few minutes past six General Cooke observed that the infantry on the
left wing in front of him was giving way, and at this moment three
reserve batteries that had been silent the whole day opened fire upon
the enemy advancing through the underbrush at the bottom of the slope.
General Cooke ordered the Fifth and First Cavalry to the front, and
deployed them a little to the rear of and just filling the intervals of
the two right batteries. The Confederates had opened a hot fire of
musketry, and shells were falling all about as the men took up their
positions. Turning to Captain Whiting of the Fifth, General Cooke said,
"Captain, as soon as you see the advance-line of the enemy rising the
crest of the hill, charge at once without any further orders, to enable
the artillery to bring off their guns."
Then he instructed Colonel Blake to support the Fifth, and charge when
necessary. The three squadrons of lancers were placed on the right of
the third battery just at the moment that it was limbering up preparing
to retreat, as it was wholly unsupported. Upon the arrival of the
cavalry the artillerymen loaded their guns again and opened fire.
No sooner had General Cooke left the line of men in their short jackets
with yellow trimmings, who were sitting on their horses and sustaining
without any return the galling fire that was being poured in upon them,
than Captain Whiting rode ahead, and wheeling his horse, cried:
"Cavalry, attention! Draw sabres!"
The metallic clash of the blades ran along the eager line.
"Boys, we must charge in five minutes," said the Captain, over his
shoulder, as he stroked the neck of his big brown horse. But almost
before he had stopped speaking the bayonets of the advancing
Confederates were seen just beyond the cannon that were blazing away in
front. They were hardly fifty rods distant. Turning in the saddle,
Captain Whiting gave the order:
"Trot, march!" and as soon as the whole line had started, he shouted
"Charge!" at top voice. At once, with a wild cheer, in solid column, the
cavalry broke forward. It was the first big Union charge of the war.
There was not a man but what was determined to save those guns if
possible, and to emulate the bravery of the artillerists, who had won
for themselves long before this the names of heroes, in the North. As
they swept past the guns it was necessary for the line to deploy right
and left. As they ranged up, it was seen that at one of the pieces every
man had been shot down, and one of the troopers as he rode by noticed a
wounded man struggling by the aid of the spokes of the wheel of the gun
to gain his feet and pull the lanyard. "I'll bet he'll fire that gun,"
said the trooper to himself, and kept off to the right. That gun was
fired, and if it had not been for this trooper's quick thought it would
have swept him down as the charge cut a gap through the advance-line of
the enemy.
But now they were within striking-distance, charging an army. The sound
of the sabre strokes was heard on every hand; the smoke from the volley
that had been poured into them, mingled with the dust, in the fading
light, rendered everything obscure. Men fought through the lines and
fought back again; but the rebel onslaught was stayed, and just then,
not being able to tell friend from foe in the gloom, the Union artillery
opened up from the rear with shrapnel and canister. It fell amongst the
intermingled fighting crowd, bearing down the Union horsemen as well as
the advancing men of Hood's brave Southerners.
The remnant of the Fifth Cavalry crawled back, shattered and broken, to
the protection of the batteries on the left. It was a small and
much-misreported incident; but of the 250 men who were in action only
about 100 returned from that bloody field. Not a few were captured, but
the greatest number fell in the first few minutes of that terrible
charge. They had done their duty.
The third battery of the Second Artillery, which had been saved from
premature retreat by the appearance of the lancers, kept up its fire for
some few minutes, and then, under command of General Cooke, fell back
toward the rear, the lancers guarding it as it limbered up and
retreated. As they reached a place of safety it was found that the
enemy's advance had been stopped again at the crest of the hill, and on
looking back it was seen that a brave handful of not more than one
hundred infantrymen who had stood their ground--they were part of the
Ninth Massachusetts--were fighting there so desperately that many times
their numbers had been checked. At once the lancers and the First
Cavalry were ordered to take up the position on the left of this little
band; but unfortunately, by some misunderstanding of the orders, they
advanced close upon their rear. Just as they disappeared in the smoke, a
single squadron of the Fourth Pennsylvania, under Colonel Childs,
reported to General Cooke. Immediately they were sent to the front, and
"with a precision and bravery that would have honored veterans," the
volunteers went down the hill under a hot fire of infantry. The advance
of the enemy was checked now on the left flank of the line of battle;
but the bravely fighting infantry and the new-comers suffered from the
fire of their friends as the Fifth Cavalry had done, and turning, they
retreated in good order. The infantry retreated at the same time, and
both formed in the hollow, safe from the volleys of the enemy and the
misdirected fire of the batteries on the enshrouded hill-side.
The Pennsylvania lancers, under Colonel Rush, lost 9 officers killed,
wounded, and missing, 92 rank and file, and 128 horses. The Fifth
Cavalry lost all their officers but one.
AN ANGLING THOUGHT.
BY JIMMIEBOY.
Each day I go a-fishing
For bull-head or for trout;
As long as I catch something
I'm not at all put out.
It may be perch or blue-fish,
It may be mackerel,
It may be cod or halibut--
I like 'em all full well.
I may not land a fish, sir,
Save minnow or sardine;
If I get one I'm happy
As any boy has been.
But I will tell a secret
Quite close unto my soul:
When I have gone a-fishing
I've always had one goal,
And that's some day to hook one
On river, lake, or sea,
To make a fight if I catch him,
Or if he catches me!
THE BROTHER OF STEFANOS.
BY G. B. BURGIN.
He was a lad of fifteen, sinewy, lithe as a greyhound, with dancing blue
eyes and immensely strong shoulders. Under one arm he carried a long
gun, a game-bag slung beneath the other; his legs were encased in yellow
gaiters, and his slouch hat, with a peacock feather in the band, shaded
bronzed resolute features. "Permit me to make known myselfs," he said,
with an amiable smile, as he raised the slouch hat and disclosed a head
crisped over with short dark curls. "I am Oscar Van Heidsteyn. And you
are the good Smithsons of Constantinople, is it not so?"
I languidly admitted that I was "the good Smithsons," and looked with
interest at the picturesque crowd on Smyrna Quay as my boat pulled back
to the ship which had brought me from Constantinople. A brawny ruffian
stood beside Oscar Van Heidsteyn with a whole arsenal of weapons stuck
about his person. This was the kavasse. His mustachios protruded like
the whiskers of a truculent tomcat; but I felt reassured on noticing
that his pistols had flint-locks only, and were as harmless as pop-guns.
I was just in the convalescent stage after a sharp attack of typhoid
fever, and most of my thoughts were concentrated on getting something to
eat. No one ever would recover from typhoid if he ate all he wanted to
when beginning to reach the convalescent stage. In all the sixteen years
of my life I had never before lived in such a chronic state of
starvation.
Van Heidsteyn saw that I was very weak. At a sign from him, the kavasse
slowly unslung most of his ponderous weapons, picked me up in his arms,
and carried me, feebly kicking and expostulating, to the carriage.
"What the dickens is he treating me like a baby for?" I asked.
Van Heidsteyn wrapped the rug round me. "Oh, because you are one little
babies!" he said. "You must make yourselfs to shut ups, or you will be
ill again. Now here is the train. I will carry you into it like
leap-frogs if you prefer it."
I submitted to the indignity of being carried "like leap-frogs" into the
ramshackle train. Three-quarters of an hour after the proper time, to a
chorus of "Inshallahs" and "Mashallahs," we crawled out of the station
into the beautiful country, still fresh with spring verdure.
"Ah, that is betters!" said Van Heidsteyn, with a long breath of
enjoyment. "I cannot live in the town."
"Where did you learn your English?" I asked.
Van Heidsteyn was busily engaged in opening a parcel of chicken
sandwiches, and the odor thereof was as manna in my hungry nostrils. At
a sign from him, the kavasse again picked me up, whilst Van Heidsteyn
spread a rug on the seat of the carriage, and turned that gorgeous
functionary's silk jacket into a soft pillow for my weary head. "Now you
will feeds," said Van Heidsteyn, energetically. "Never mind my English
languages. I have read it in books; and don't gobbles. When you have
eaten, you shall have some wine and waters."
"You're awfully good," I said, shamefacedly. "I can't help being hungry
all the time. Perhaps your father didn't know how hungry I should be
when he wrote to my father asking him to let me come here to get well."
Oscar laughed. "Ah, that is betters! Now you enclose yourselfs--shut
ups," he added, explanatorily, "and I will make you comfortables."
For two hours and a half we dawdled along in an aimless leisurely sort
of way, which would have been infinitely exasperating to a man in a
hurry. But I was not in a hurry. Every now and again I had a short nap,
then another sandwich, and then a glance at the fertile valleys, not yet
parched by the heat. As we got nearer the station for Oscar Van
Heidsteyn's father's farm, I noticed the lad look to his pistols, see
that his knife moved easily in its sheath, and glance carefully out of
the carriage window.
"We will wait, my friends," he said, as the people began to stream out
of the carriages and to thank the station-master for such a prosperous
journey. (We were only two hours late; but that was partly owing to a
great man having planted his mounted servant on the line, and told him
to stop there until it suited the great man's convenience to follow. No
one dare run over the servant of a Turkish official, and so, by this
simple expedient, the Pasha caught his train without hurrying.)
"But why wait? And why are we in the last carriage?"
Oscar smiled. "Oh, I will tell you by-and-bys. Suppose there was a man
waiting in the station to stab or shoot you, wouldn't you stop here till
all the peoples had gone?"
"Of course."
"Very well, then. The station-master will come to make his salaam; then
I shall know it is all rights."
"But what is 'all rights'?"
"Ah-h! Brigand-d-d!" Oscar's rifle was at his shoulder as he leaped from
the carriage. "There is the brother of Stefanos behind the engine-sheds.
Tomasso, take care of the Effendi, and I will make the brother of
Stefanos 'gits.'"
He ran nimbly towards the engine-shed, but the man loitering there did
not wait for his coming. By the time Oscar reached the sheds the fellow
was half-way up the opposite hill. Then he stopped, flung up his long
gun, and took a deliberate shot at the lad. The peacock feather in Van
Heidsteyn's hat was cut in two, and the lad himself lay sprawling on the
ground.
Faint with horror and weakness, I tottered up against the kavasse, who
caught me in his arms with a paternal smile. When I opened my eyes,
Oscar was joyously regarding me.
"I have hit him in the shoulders," he said, modestly. "If I had not let
him fire first, for old friendship's sake, I should have killed him."
"Fire? Kill who? What does it all mean?"
"Oh, it is the brother of Stefanos, and he has sworn to kill me, because
the Greek priest did kill his brother Stefanos, and he thinks I helped.
Now we will hold you on the white pony, and you shall ride him like one
Cyclops."
Van Heidsteyn presumably meant a centaur, but I was too tired to argue
the point. He leaped into the saddle, and, with the aid of the kavasse,
hauled me up behind him. A stout strap was passed round our waists and
the ends securely buckled together. Oscar had already reloaded his
rifle. A nondescript animal, which he informed me was a splendid hound
for wild-boar (it did not look it), ran sniffing ahead on the right-hand
side of the track; and Tomasso, the kavasse, ancient matchlock in hand,
went off in advance on the left.
"W-what's all this for?" I gasped.
Oscar steadily started the old pony. "I make myselfs to sit in fronts,"
he cheerfully explained. "If the brother of Stefanos has one pot shots
at me the bullet will not go through us both, and you will be all
rights. Courage, _mon ami_! It is only two miles to my father's, and
when we get there you shall have ever so much more to eats."
It seemed to me that if the brother of Stefanos, whoever that mysterious
and bloodthirsty individual might be, succeeded in carrying out his
murderous intentions, there would not be any necessity for me to "have
ever so much more to eats." However, I was too weak to do anything
except to lean limply over Van Heidsteyn's shoulder as we splashed
through a brook and descended into the plain below.
"There are not many trees," said Van Heidsteyn, reassuringly. "We shall
soon get to my father's tchiftlik all right. Then I will tell you all
about the brother of Stefanos."
I was too tired and done up to remember much about the rest of the
journey. The brother of Stefanos might have shot us a dozen times
without disturbing me. The smooth pace of the pony gave a rhythmical
swing to my body, and I fell into a state of dreamy indifference, from
which I was roused by the animal suddenly coming to a stop. When I
looked up we were in a great yard filled with cows and excited dogs, one
of which was endeavoring to hang on to my leg.
Tomasso, driving away the dog, gently unbuckled the belt, and lifted me
off the pony in his great brawny arms. He said something musical to me
in Greek, with the cooing softness of a dove, and I felt that his
exterior had belied him. So mild and gentle mannered a man had doubtless
been endowed by nature with his fierce mustachios as a means of
protection. I was not surprised, when bedtime came, to find Tomasso
hovering round me with a sponge and hot water. He even undressed and
carried me to bed as easily as if I had been a child. Then he
benevolently tucked me up, put some biscuits in a dish by the side of
the bed, and recited a prayer to keep off the evil eye, moving about the
room the while, in spite of his huge bulk, as noiselessly as a cat.
Whenever I woke in the night, there was Tomasso sitting by the wood
fire, watching me with friendly solicitude.
"Oh yes, Tomasso is one very good old womans," said Van Heidsteyn, the
next afternoon, as we sat sipping our coffee in the quaint old garden
attached to his father's house. "His people have been with us for so
long times I cannot count. He has asked for a holiday to-day, and
borrowed my gun. Perhaps he is going to make you a present of one
wild-boar. He calls you the 'Little Yellow One,' because of your hair."
As we sat, sheltered from the heat of the sun by the branches of a big
plane-tree, the pure air put new life into my veins. At the back of the
house was a long range of hills, the haunt of the wild-boar.
"Isn't that range rather handy for sheltering brigands?" I asked Van
Heidsteyn.
He laughed. "Oh yes, but it is all the betters. Now, Little Yellow One,
before you go to sleep I will tell you about Stefanos. I expect to hear
from his brother soons, very soons."
"My father told me you had been captured by brigands and behaved very
pluckily," I said, leaning drowsily back and gazing up through the
spreading branches of the plane, the gorgeously hued anemones in the
garden beds dancing joyously as my glance returned to earth.
Oscar lit another cigarette and stretched his sinewy arms. "Oh, it was
nothings," he said, modestly. "I am fat now, nice and ploomps, but when
I have come back from the brigands, ah! I was of shadows, so thin--like
grey-hounds or Greek pigs."
He leisurely produced a photograph from his breast pocket. On a deal
table were piled the heads of several men in a ghastly heap.
"But I shall better begin at the begins," he said, quietly.
"Put that thing out of my sight immediately. Do you want to give me a
fit?" I shouted. "You are ruining the remains of my nervous system."
"Ah, but then I cannot explains," said Oscar. "You see, I was in the
entrails of the steam-ploughs, and somethings tickles me. When I come
out of the bowels of the ploughs there was Stefanos the brigand, and his
brother, and his uncles, and three nephews, and some friends. (Stefanos
always went about _en famille_.) 'Ohé, my little mans,' said Stefanos,
'you must come with me for some ransoms.' I did not want to go for some
ransoms. I have the steam-ploughs to put rights. I said to Stefanos, 'Go
away, you and your ransoms--_pezziwinkbashi_ (it is a very strong
Turkish words)! but he would not go away. He puts a pistol to my ear,
and so did the rest. 'Oh yes, you will comes, my little mans.' And so,"
ingenuously added Oscar, "I comes."
"And then?"
"The villagers come round with some screams. Stefanos (he was such a
nice mans, Stefanos. That is Stefanos, with the hole in his fronts," and
he pointed to the photograph) "puts his gun to the backs of my necks.
'Tell the villagers to go away.' I tell them to go away. When you have
guns down the smalls of your backs you are very anxious to do what you
are said," continued Oscar. "They shakes their fists at the brigands,
but I am marched off to the mountains, and we are soon great friends."
"Friends?"
"Yes, friends! If some ransoms not come they threaten to send my father
small bits of me to make him not forgets. First my ears and my fingers
and my toes; and then, if no ransoms, my trunks."
"You don't mean portmanteaus?" I interrupted. "Do you mean to say they'd
cut off your limbs and send your body home?"
"Yes, of course," said Oscar. "I mean my trunks--my chests, my bellies.
We wander about all night and steal sheeps for food. In the daytime we
sleeps or sing Greek songs, and I dance on a big stone till they call me
their brother."
"Did you never--eh--wash?" I asked.
Oscar mournfully shook his head. "What for? It was no goods."
I shuddered, but thought it well not to ask for further details.
"One day I did write a letter to my father," said Oscar. "Stefanos was a
little angry; for the soldiers come after us, and he has much exercise
with me in the mountains. 'My dear father,' I write, 'send me one big
Bibles and seventeen pairs of leather trousers. The Bibles is for my
soul; one trousers is for my body; and the others two each for my
friends. If some ransoms do not come in one weeks I shall be all in
little pieces. Take care of my dogs, and do not blame Stefanos, for it
is all businesses.' And the trousers and the Bibles and some ransoms
comes all in one heap. Stefanos embraces me; I kiss all the others; they
take me to the plains, and I find myself running homes. Then one old
woman sees me far off. She screams. Another old woman sees me. She
screams. Another old woman sees me. She screams. Whilst I did run home
the air was full of old womans and screams," continued Oscar,
meditatively. "And when I get to the ford, the old womans they all kiss
me. That was very painfuls; I do not like to kiss old womans. The old
womans takes me by the legs and the arms and the trunks to carry me over
the ford and up the hill, and whenever I tried to get downs they did
kiss me, so I did not try much more. Oh, it was very terribles, and I
had never so much before been kissed by anybodies. They take me home,
and my father comes to the door and he say, 'Welcome, my sons, which is
some more alives.' And more old womans kiss me, and I embrace my father,
and they asked me where the soldiers could find Stefanos and his brother
and his uncles and his nephews, but I would not tells."
"Why?"
"He was my friends," said Oscar, indignantly. "That is why. It was all
businesses, like some other businesses. Ah, those soldiers! Cowards!
Assassins!"
"What did they do?"
"Oh, it was very painfuls," said Oscar, with regretful melancholy. "Very
painfuls!"
"What was?"
"It was very painfuls. For three months the soldiers did hunt poor
Stefanos and his brother, and killed all the others. One day I was
sitting on a divan after shooting boars, and the Greek priest of the
village and his friends came in with the head of Stefanos in a bundle.
The brother of Stefanos had escaped. The Greek priest wore a purple
robe, which was some presents from the Governor of Smyrna."
"Well?"
"Oh, there is nothing more. They all sit round the floor, and I say,
'Who is this?' The Greek priest, he say: 'Effendi, I am a great man, a
very great man. I killed Stefanos.'
"They say: 'This is a great man, a very great man. He killed Stefanos.'
"The Greek priest say: 'I went up the hill in the heat of the sun, and
Stefanos sleeps himself in the vineyard. I took my gun, my very great
gun, and crept close to Stefanos.'
"They say, 'He took his gun, his very great gun, and crept close to
Stefanos.'
"'I put the muzzle to his ear, but he did not wake.'
"They say, 'He put the muzzle to his ear, but he did not wake.'
"'I shut my eyes and pull the triggers, for I am a great man, a very
brave man.'
"They say, 'He shut his eyes and pulled the triggers, for he is a great,
a very great man.'
"And that was the end of poor Stefanos. I did give the Greek priest some
kicks," said Oscar, reminiscently. "Oh yes, many kicks, but they did not
bring back poor Stefanos."
As Van Heidsteyn kicked an imaginary Greek priest, two shots rang out
almost simultaneously, and a bullet buried itself harmlessly in the
trunk of the tree.
"Sit still," said Van Heidsteyn, with a nonchalance I was far from
feeling. "Sit still, unless you are afraid, O Little Yellow One. Tomasso
will be here directly."
[Illustration: PRESENTLY TOMASSO APPEARED CARRYING A BUNDLE IN A
HANDKERCHIEF.]
Presently Tomasso appeared from the shelter of some out-buildings,
carrying a bundle in a handkerchief. The handkerchief was carelessly
tied up at the corners, and held something round. Tomasso came up to Van
Heidsteyn, made the customary salutation, and with his usual placid
smile, laid the bundle on the ground before us.
"Open the bundles, Little Yellow One," said Van Heidsteyn.
I did so, and out rolled the bleeding head of a man.
"Now we can go without any more pot shots. I will make a photographs of
him to put with the others. It is the brother of Stefanos," said Van
Heidsteyn, complacently rolling a cigarette.
THE MIDDLETON BOWL.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER I.
"It is shocking--positively shocking!"
The five Misses Middleton crowded about the window, if ladies so
punctilious, so precise, so ceremonious as were the five Misses
Middleton could be said to crowd.
"See her now, running as fast as any one of those boys," said Miss
Middleton the eldest.
"And without her hat!" said Miss Joanna, settling her spectacles.
"And her hair streaming!" added Miss Dorcas, as she clutched her
knitting-needles.
"And--and--I hardly like to say it, but, my dear sisters, do you notice
how she--well, how she thrusts out her feet?" murmured Miss Melissa,
with a look of embarrassment.
"But how happy she looks!" said Miss Thomasine, though in so low a voice
that it almost seemed as if she must be hoping that her sisters would
not hear her. But they did, and immediately they turned upon her in a
body.
"Thomasine, I am astonished! In the first place, you cannot possibly
tell whether she looks happy or not, and in the second place--" But no
one ever heard what came in the second place, for Miss Middleton's
sentence was broken short by an exclamation of added horror from her
four sisters.
"Oh, she has fallen down!"
A profound silence while they all looked.
"There, she is up again! Oh, my dear sisters, she is going to start
again! What shall we do with her, and why did this come upon us?"
The four elder Misses Middleton sank again into their chairs. Miss
Thomasine remained at the window until the subject of their remarks had
disappeared among the trees at the farther end of the lawn. Then she too
resumed her seat.
"Something must be done," said Miss Joanna, for at least the eleventh
time that morning.
The five Misses Middleton lived in Alden, in a large old-fashioned house
on the outskirts of the town. Here their grandfather had bought an
extensive tract of land and had built a stately mansion in the days when
rooms were made of spacious breadth and depth and ceilings were lofty.
The town at that time was busy and bustling enough. A large number of
the inhabitants were seafaring men, and not only commanded their ships,
but owned them too, and foreign vessels touching at the port brought
much stir of life and commerce, now long since passed away.
Old Captain Middleton sailed many a voyage in his own good ships, and
brought home not only plenty of money, but treasures from China and
Japan, and even from India. Among other things there was a quaintly
shaped yellow porcelain bowl decorated with odd Oriental colors, which
was made in China. It was not large, but its texture and workmanship
were exquisite, and it was said that there was no other like it in
America. In fact, there was but one other in the world, and that was in
the possession of a rich mandarin of Peking. This bowl had been
presented by old Captain Middleton to his daughter-in-law upon his son's
marriage, and it now belonged to their five daughters. It was always to
remain in the family, and it was known as the Middleton bowl.
Times had changed in Alden, as the saying is, and it was no longer a
commercial town, but a sleepy, slow-going place as far as business was
concerned. Its present inhabitants, however, most of whose ancestors had
lived there for generations, endeavored to keep up with modern life and
thought. There were reading-clubs and intellectual societies of all
sorts for the serious-minded, and balls, assemblies, and teas for the
more frivolous, but the five Misses Middleton were beyond it all. Behind
the massive stone walls which surrounded their grandfather's acres, now
their own, they lived in seclusion, as remote from outside life and
outside ideas as though they dwelt in some lonely castle in an enchanted
wood.
To be sure, they had frequent callers, for they were greatly respected
by their fellow-townspeople, and these calls were returned after the
proper interval of time had elapsed.
Into this quiet household of five maiden ladies was suddenly
precipitated a twelve-year-old niece. Their only brother, Theodore by
name, who was very much younger than themselves, had early in life left
the quiet old home in Alden, and gone to one of the large cities, where
he married and became a prosperous business man. Circumstances now
obliged him to go to South America for six or eight months, and rather
than subject their only daughter Theodora to the dangers of the climate,
Mr. and Mrs. Middleton had asked her aunts to take charge of her until
their return.
The five aunts were somewhat aghast at this proposition. Since Miss
Thomasine had given up her dolls and packed them tenderly away in the
attic many, many years ago, childhood was unknown to them, for
Theodora's home was far away, and she had never visited them before.
However, it was a girl--a boy would have been absolutely impossible--and
next to Theodore she was their nearest of kin. And Mrs. Middleton
herself had suggested a means of relief should her daughter prove to be
too much care for them.
"If you grow tired of her, or if she gives you any trouble, send her to
boarding-school. She will be happy at Miss Ford's, where I went, and I
have made every arrangement for her to go if she should be too much for
you. But I am sure no one could grow tired of my Teddy!"
At first all went well. The aunts felt so sorry for poor little Theodora
when she was left for the first time in her life without her parents
that they vied with one another in their efforts to make her happy. Miss
Thomasine unpacked her dolls and carried them carefully downstairs,
smelling strongly of camphor, and seeming to blink their round, unseeing
black eyes in the unaccustomed glare of day.
But Theodora only looked at them with a languid curiosity, spoke of
their being so "funny and old-fashioned," and then sneezed from the
fumes of the camphor, and turned away.
Miss Joanna unlocked the corner cupboard and brought out her own china
tea-set, unplayed with now these fifty years. But Theodora almost
laughed at the clumsy shape of the sugar-bowl, and then accidentally
broke it, upon which Miss Joanna locked them all up again with an air
which showed that Theodora had handled them for the last time.
Miss Melissa then produced some books, which her niece seized upon with
avidity. But she soon declared that she did not care for that kind of
story (they were some of Miss Edgeworth's tales), that Rosamond was a
perfect goose to think the purple vase was worth having. She, Theodora,
would have known better the moment she saw it. _She_ would have
discovered at once that it was filled with a purple powder, and was
really nothing but plain glass.
Had not her aunts any boys' stories? She liked them best. Upon which the
five Misses Middleton looked at one another, and mentally held up their
hands in horror and dismay. And soon, all too soon, was it discovered
that the only things which really made Theodora happy were boys and
boys' games and boys' books.
Miss Middleton herself, in the solemn conclave which took place upon the
morning when this story opens, was courageous enough to put the matter
into words.
"I verily believe," said she, "that our niece Theodora is what is called
a--a tomboy!"
"Sister!" cried they all, while four pairs of hands were uplifted and
then dropped into four silk laps; and Miss Middleton, having made this
statement, looked distinctly relieved.
"And the worst of it," said Miss Joanna, "is that I strongly suspect we
have brought it upon ourselves. In order to save ourselves the trouble
of providing entertainment for Theodora, we actually suggested--one of
us did--that she should be allowed to play with the Hoyt children."
Here she glanced severely at her sister Dorcas. Miss Dorcas made no
reply, but she looked guilty, and dropped a stitch in her knitting.
"Dorcas forgot that they were all boys, I have no doubt," said Miss
Thomasine, in her gentle voice. "We knew Ellen Hoyt when she was young,
Joanna, you remember. As gentle a girl as ever lived."
"Yes," rejoined Miss Dorcas, her courage returning when she found that
she had a champion. "It was natural that we should suppose her children
should be quiet and gentle too. I am sure I never dreamed that they were
all boys."
"It has been most disastrous," continued Miss Joanna.
"But there is one resource left," suggested Miss Melissa. "You know,
sisters, what Theodore's wife said--she spoke of it herself--I am sure
we should never have thought of it."
Miss Melissa had a vague, hurried manner which never failed to irritate
her sister Joanna, who was brisk, and in other conditions of life would
have been businesslike.
"If you mean the boarding-school plan, Melissa;" she said, "why do you
not say so in plain words? For my part, I think it would be the best
place for the child."
"Not if we can help it," pleaded Miss Thomasine. "She is our niece, you
know, and I do not like the idea of closing our doors against her."
"Thomasine, you are so extreme in your language," said Miss Middleton.
"I am sure no one dreams of closing our doors against Theodora; but if
we cannot control her, I quite agree with Joanna that it would be the
best place for her."
It was just at this point in the conversation that a startling clamor
was heard from downstairs. The ladies were sitting in the "spare
chamber" on the second floor, as they were apt to do of a morning. The
noise drew nearer. It was unmistakably a cry of mingled wrath and pain,
and it was accompanied by the sound of hurrying feet. Children's shoes
were scuffling up the old oak staircase. It sounded as if at least a
dozen pairs of feet were hurrying toward the live Misses Middleton.
The door opened with a burst, and into the room came Theodora. Blood was
streaming from her nose, tears from her eyes, and in her arms she
carried--was it? could it be? The five Misses Middleton looked, and
looked again. Their niece was bringing into their presence a dead
kitten! She was accompanied by two of her friends the Hoyt boys, but
they, dismayed by the sight of a circle of five ladies, retreated into
the hall, and peered through the crack of the half-open door. Still
another was at the foot of the stairs, not daring to come up higher.
"Theodora, what is it?" cried Miss Middleton, while Miss Melissa
shuddered and felt for her smelling-salts. She was afraid of cats, even
of dead ones.
"It's a dear little kitten, Aunt Adaline, and it is dead. It will never
breathe again. Oh, that horrible boy, that Andy Morse! I wish I had
killed _him_ dead! But I gave him a black eye, I know I did."
"A black eye! Theodora, I insist upon knowing the cause of this uproar.
And the blood! Have you been hurt?"
"Let me wash it away from your face," said Miss Thomasine; "but first,
if it is possible, Theodora, I think you had better get rid of
that--that cat."
"Poor little kitten! We are going to have a nice funeral to make up to
it for all its sufferings. And I am not really much hurt, Aunt Tom. It's
a nose-bleed, so it looks as if I were. The boy punched me right in the
nose. But I kicked and scratched him well, I can tell you."
The five aunts rose to their feet as one woman. They looked at Theodora,
and then they looked at one another. Finally they all sat down again.
"Give that animal to those boys in the hall to take away, and then give
an account of yourself," commanded Miss Middleton.
Theodora hesitated for a moment, and then she retired to the hall, where
she held a whispered conference with her waiting friends.
"As nice a box as you can find," were her last words, "and loads of
flowers. Dig it pretty deep. I'll be there as soon as I can."
Again there was the sound of clattering shoes upon the stairs, and
Theodora returned to her aunts. A maid was sent for, and the marks of
her recent conflict were washed away, to which proceedings she submitted
quietly, and then in a clean white apron she came back once more. She
closed the door into the hall at her aunts' request, and opened the
conversation at once.
"I'll tell you how it was," she said. "You see, I was playing 'I spy'
with the Hoyts, having the best time you ever heard of; and do you know,
I can run as fast as Arthur and Clem, and almost as fast as Ray! We were
playing the kind of 'I spy' where you have to hide, and then run in to
goal when It is not looking. Did you ever play that way, Aunt Tom?"
"No," murmured Miss Thomasine.
"Do not stop for such questions," said Miss Middleton; "and do not
address your aunt so disrespectfully."
"Why, I didn't mean to be disrespectful, Aunt Adaline. I call her that
because I love her, and I asked her last night, when she came to kiss me
good-night, if I might call her 'Aunt Tom,'and if she would please call
me 'Teddy' instead of hateful long Theodora, and she said I might, and
she would. Of course I shouldn't dream of calling you 'Aunt Ad,' or Aunt
Joanna 'Aunt Jo'; but Aunt Tom is different. She seems younger, and as
if she might be sort of jolly if you would only let her, so that is the
reason I asked her if she ever played that kind of 'I spy.' Of course I
don't suppose the rest of you ever played 'I spy' at all."
And she looked about upon the group with some scorn. Teddy spoke very
rapidly, so this speech did not consume much time.
"No, we never did," replied Miss Middleton, "and now we should be glad
to hear the remainder of your story."
"Oh yes, I'm going to tell you. I got away from the others somehow, and
I thought I'd reach goal by a shorter way if I climbed the stone wall
and went by the road a little way."
"Theodora!"
"What, Aunt Joanna?"
"Surely you did not climb the stone wall?"
"Why, yes; it is as easy as anything! I'm sure you could yourself, Aunt
Joanna, just in that place. You put your foot right on a stone that juts
out, and if I were there to give you a boost, you would go over as easy
as anything."
"Oh, my dear niece!" cried Miss Melissa; "I do hope, I really do hope
that your aunt Joanna-- She could not-- I am sure--"
"Melissa," exclaimed her sister, "if you think over the matter for a
moment you will realize that no power on earth could tempt me to climb
the stone wall."
"I hoped not, but--"
Awed by a wrathful glance from behind Miss Joanna's spectacles, Miss
Melissa subsided, and again sniffed her salts.
"Again I must ask you to continue," said Miss Middleton to her niece. "I
suppose you fell, which caused your nose to bleed?"
"No, I didn't. I didn't fall at all. But who do you suppose I found in
the road? That horrible Andy Morse! You know he is a great big
fellow--bigger than Ray Hoyt. You've seen him about, probably. And he
was throwing stones at that poor dear kitten." Theodora's eyes grew big,
and her words came more slowly now, and with great emphasis. "He had it
tied to a stump, and he was throwing stones at it, and the last one,
just as I came up, killed the kitten." She paused, and looked about for
sympathy. "I suppose you all feel just as I did," she said, presently.
"As if your throats were all choked up, and you couldn't speak, and your
hearts were going to fly right out of your bodies, and your heads were
going to burst. That is the way I felt, and I am sure you would have
done just as I did. I walked right up to that boy, and before he even
knew I was there, I kicked him and scratched him, and banged my fist
right in his eye. 'There, Andy Morse,' I said, 'that's what you get for
stoning a kitten! How do you like that?' And he banged back, and that's
what made my nose bleed. Then he ran off as hard as he Could. Great
coward!" she added, contemptuously. "Think of stoning a kitten and
being driven off by a girl! If there were not a commandment about
killing people, I should really be almost sorry I hadn't killed him. Why
isn't it just as wicked to kill a cat as to kill a bad boy, Aunt
Adaline?"
"I--I really cannot answer such a question, Theodora. You do not realize
what you are saying, I am sure. But you have done very wrong. I scarcely
know how to express my feelings at such conduct. I beg you will not do
so again. It was most unladylike, to say the least."
"But he was hurting that poor kitten, Aunt Adaline! How could I help it?
Don't you think I did right, Aunt Tom?" she asked, turning in despair to
her favorite aunt.
Miss Thomasine hesitated beneath the glare of eight sisterly eyes while
they awaited her reply. Theodora hoped for support, but she was
disappointed.
"No, Teddy, I do not think you did right," said her aunt. "The boy was
very cruel, I admit, and I do not wonder at your indignation; but it was
not for you to inflict pain upon a fellow-creature. I think you were as
cruel to the boy as he was to the cat. Besides, it was not the proper
thing for a lady to do. Would your mother do such a thing?"
Theodora was silent for a moment. "I don't suppose she would," she said,
presently; "and perhaps I ought not to have attacked Andy Morse the way
I did. I am not sorry yet about it, though, but perhaps I will be by
to-night. I will tell you if I am. And now may I go? They are waiting
for me to have the funeral."
"My dear Theodora, what do you mean?" exclaimed Miss Middleton.
"Why, you know what a funeral is, Aunt Adaline, don't you? We are going
to give the kitten a pleasant funeral to make up for its sad death."
"Do you think they ought?" asked Miss Middleton, looking helplessly
about upon her companions.
"It sounds very shocking, and I for one do not approve," said Miss
Joanna, with her customary decision.
"I do not like the idea," murmured Miss Dorcas.
"It seems--really, it seems--as if something ought to be done--to
correct. But I do not know--" faltered Miss Melissa.
"Suppose I go with her to the place and see what they intend to do?"
suggested Miss Thomasine.
"Do, sister!" said Miss Middleton. "It will ease my mind greatly if you
will."
So Miss Thomasine went to her room, and with much deliberation dressed
herself for a walk to the garden with her niece. She put on her head a
large sun-hat drawn down on both sides with a broad white ribbon. This
ribbon she crossed beneath her chin and tied on top of the hat, which
was unadorned with other trimming. She placed upon her shoulders a black
silk mantilla, and drew on her brown thread gloves, the fingers of which
were very long and remained empty at the tips. Then she took her
sunshade and descended the stairs, calling to her niece as she went.
[Illustration: ON THE WAY TO THE CAT'S FUNERAL.]
The door of the great drawing-room was slowly opened, and Theodora came
out. Her face was much flushed, and she held one hand concealed beneath
her apron. Together they walked out the side door and down the gravelled
path to the garden.
They had scarcely left the house before Miss Joanna went down to the
parlor to attend to her task of dusting the foreign treasures. They were
not intrusted to the house-maids, for the five sisters did it each in
turn. In a few moments she returned to the spare chamber and carefully
closed the door behind her.
"Sisters," she exclaimed, "look at this!"
She held up for their inspection a small piece of yellow Chinese
porcelain.
"This," said she, "is all that is left of the Middleton bowl."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A LOYAL TRAITOR.
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XII.
A PRISONER OF WAR.
I suppose that a man who has been almost drowned--to the limit that all
sense leaves him, at least--has drunk as deep of death as a person can
and talk of it afterwards. With a shifting light before my eyes, a
throbbing pain in my temples, and a sickness all through me, I found
myself knowing that I was breathing once more; but I was water-logged,
and when I attempted to move, I could feel that I was filled to the
throat with some gallons of brine. All at once I doubled up with a spasm
of choking, and in a minute I felt better.
I was lying in the bow of a boat, whose motion I could feel distinctly,
but owing to the thwart being immediately over my head, I could see
nothing but a succession of sturdy legs and bare feet pushing against
the stretchers as the men rowed.
Such an attack of hiccoughs racked me that it called attention to my
having regained my senses.
"'Ullo, Bill, 'ere's another one come back from Davy Jones," said a
black-whiskered man, leaning over with his face close to mine. "He's
swallowed a bloomin' volcano, from the looks of him."
"Where am I?" I murmured.
"Wot a question!" was the answer. "This is the same old world, and full
of trouble. Did ye take us for angels and me for St. Peter?"
"Help me up," I answered.
The man bent down and hauled me out by the shoulders to a sitting
position; then I saw how it was. _Prisonnier!_ I was captured, and here
was a fine ending to the glorious life that I had been anticipating.
I suppose now that if I had spoken all my thoughts since I had left
Belair, and asked even only a few of the many questions that my
common-sense prompted me to keep to myself, I should have been
considered stark, staring mad, let alone being a simpleton. It is almost
ridiculous to look back at it and think that I did not know certainly
who was the President of the United States, or anything about the
history of the last two years. If any one had told me that the British
killed their prisoners, I should not have doubted it, and what was to
become of me I had not the least idea, but I saw that I was not alone in
the strait. Out of the crew of nineteen men that were in the long-boat,
ten, including the wounded seaman, were sitting dejectedly in the bow
and stern-sheets. Together with the Englishmen, we crowded the barge
uncomfortably, but not dangerously.