deer-meat I was carrying. At any rate, they were soon snapping and
snarling over it and my snow-shoes. _Gobble-de-gobble, yip, yap, snap,
growl, snarl, gobble_--the meat was all gone in a moment, like little
Red Riding Hood."
"Why, grandpapa! The wolf didn't eat little Red Riding Hood. The boy
came in time--don't you remember?"
"Perhaps you never read _my_ Red Riding Hood, Jenny," said the old
gentleman, laughing. "At any rate, the wolves lunched at my expense;
yet I hoped they wouldn't be polite enough to look round for their
host. But they did inquire for me--not very politely, I must say. They
seemed in bad humor--perhaps there hadn't been enough lunch to go
round."
"The greedy things! A whole haunch of venison!" cried Jenny.
"Ah, but I had provided no currant jelly with it, and of
course they were vexed. If you ever give a dinner-party to wolves,
don't forget the currant jelly, Jenny. How they yelled for
it--_Cur-r-r-rant-jell-yell-yell-elly-yell!_ That's the way they went.
"And they also said,
_Yow--yow--there's--yow--no--desser-r-rt--either--yow--yow!_ Perhaps
they wanted me to explain. At any rate, they put their heads into the
opening--how many at once I don't know, for I could not see down; and
then they screamed for me. It was an uncomfortably close scream,
chickens. My feet must have been nearer them than I thought, for one
fellow's nose touched my moccasin as he jumped."
"O grandpapa! If he had caught your foot!"
"But he didn't, Jenny, dear. He caught something worse. When he
tumbled back he must have fallen on the other fellows, for there was a
great snapping and snarling and yelping all at once.
"Meantime I tried to go up out of reach. It was easy enough; but with
every fresh hold I took with shoulders, elbows, hands, and feet, the
dead old wood crumbled and broke away, so that thick dust filled the
hollow tree.
"I was afraid I should be suffocated. But up I worked till at last I
got to the upper hole and stuck out my head for fresh air. There I
was, pretty comfortable for a little while, and I easily supported my
weight by bending my back, thrusting with my feet, and holding on the
edge of the hole by my hands.
"After getting breath I gave my attention to the wolves. They did not
catch sight of me for a few moments. Some stood looking much
interested at the lower opening, as terriers do at the hole where a
rat has disappeared.
"Dust still came from the hole to the open air. Some wolves sneezed;
others sat and squealed with annoyance, as Bruno does when you close
the door on him at dinner-time. They were disgusted at my concealment.
Of course you have a pretty good idea of what they said, Jenny."
"No, grandpapa. The horrid, cruel things! What did they say?"
"Well, of course wolf talk is rude, even savage, and dreadfully
profane. As near as I could make out, one fellow screamed, 'Shame,
boy, taking an unfair advantage of poor starving wolves!' It seemed as
if another fellow yelled, 'You young coward!' A third cried, 'Oh, yes,
you think you're safe, do you?' A fourth, '_Yow--yow_--but we can wait
till you come down!'"
Grandpapa mimicked the wolfish voices and looks so effectively that
Jenny was rather alarmed.
"One old fellow seemed to suggest that they should go away and look
for more venison for supper, while he kept watch on me. At that there
was a general howl of derision. They seemed to me to be telling the
old fellow that they were just as fond of boy as he, and that they
understood his little game.
"The old chap evidently tried to explain, but they grinned with all
their teeth as he turned from one to another. You must not suppose,
chickens, that wolves have no sense of humor. Yet, poor things--"
"Poor things! Why, grandpapa!"
"Yes, Jenny; so lean and hungry, you know. Then one of them suddenly
caught sight of my head, and didn't he yell! 'There he is--look up the
tree!' cried Mr. Wolf.
"For a few moments they were silent. Then they sprang all at once,
absurdly anxious to get nearer to me, twenty-five feet or so above
their reach. On falling, they tumbled into several heaps of mouths and
legs and tails. After scuffling and separating, they gazed up at me
with silent longing. I should have been very popular for a few minutes
had I gone down."
Jenny shuddered, and then nestled closer to her grandfather.
"Don't be afraid, Jenny. They didn't eat me--not that time. After a
few moments' staring I became very impolite. 'Boo-ooh!' said I.
'Yah-ha-ha!' said I. 'You be shot!' I cried. They resented it. Even
wolves love to be gently addressed.
"They began yelling, snarling, and howling at me worse than
politicians at a sarcastic member of the opposite party. I imitated
them. Nevertheless, I was beginning to be frightened. The weather was
turning cold, night was coming on, and I didn't like the prospect of
staying till morning.
"All of a sudden I began laughing. I had till then forgotten my pistol
and pocketful of cartridges. There were seventeen nice wolves--"
"Nice! Why, grandpa!"
"They seemed _very_ nice wolves when I recollected the county bounty
of six dollars for a wolf's head. Also, their skins would fetch two
dollars apiece. 'Why,' said I, 'my dear wolves, you're worth one
hundred and thirty-six dollars.'
"'Don't you wish you may get it!' said they, sneering.
"'You're worth one hundred and thirty-six dollars,' I repeated, 'and
yet you want to sponge on a poor boy for a free supper! Shame!'"
"Did you say it out loud, grandpapa?"
"Well--no, Jenny. It's a thing I might have said, you know; but I
didn't exactly think of it at the time. I was feeling for my pistol.
Just as I tugged it out of its case at my waist, my knees, arms, and
all lost their hold, and down I fell."
"Grandpapa, _dear!_" Jenny nervously clutched him.
"I didn't fall far, pet. But the dust! Talk of sweeping floors! The
whole inside of the tree below me, borne down by my weight, had fallen
in chunks and dust. There I was, gasping for breath, and the hole
eight feet above my head. The lower entrance was of course blocked up
by the rotten wood."
"And they couldn't get at you?"
"No, Jimmy; but I was in a dreadful situation. At first I did not
fully realize it. Choking for air, my throat filled with particles of
dry rot, I tried to climb up again. But the hollow had become too
large. Nothing but a round shell of sound wood, a few inches thick,
was left around me. With feet, hands, elbows, and back, I strove to
ascend as before. But I could not. I was stuck fast!
"When I pushed with my feet I could only press my back against the
other side of the enlarged hole. I was horrified. Indeed, I thought
the tree would be my coffin. There I stood, breathing with difficulty
even when I breathed through my capuchin, which I took off of my
blanket overcoat. And there, I said to myself, I was doomed to stand
till my knees should give way and my head fall forward, and some day,
after many years, the old tree would blow down, and out would fall my
white and r-rattling bo-o-nes."
"Don't--_please_, grandpapa!" Jenny was trying to keep from crying.
"In spite of my vision of my own skull and cross-bones," went on
grandpapa, solemnly, "I was too young to despair wholly. I was at
first more annoyed than desperate. To be trapped so, to die in a hole
when I might have shot a couple of wolves and split the heads of one
or two more with my hatchet before they could have had boy for
supper--this thought made me very angry. And that brought me to
thinking of my hatchet.
"It was, I remembered, beneath my feet at the bottom of the lower
opening. If I could get hold of it, I might use it to chop a hole
through my prison wall.
"But to burrow down was clearly impossible. Nevertheless, I knelt to
feel the punky stuff under my feet. The absurdity of trying to work
down a hole without having, like a squirrel, any place to throw out
the material, was plain.
"But something more cheerful occurred to me. As I knelt, an object at
my back touched my heels. It was the brass point of my hunting-knife
sheath. Instantly I sprang to my feet, thrust my revolver back into
its case, drew the stout knife, and drove the blade into the shell of
pine.
"In two minutes I had scooped the blade through. In five minutes I had
my face at a small hole that gave me fresh air. In half an hour I had
hacked out a space big enough to put my shoulders through.
"The wolves, when they saw me again, were delighted. As for me, I was
much pleased to see them, and said so. At the compliment they licked
their jaws. They thought I was coming down, but I had something
important to do first.
"I drew my pistol. It was a big old-fashioned Colt's revolver. With
the first round of seven shots I killed three, and wounded another
badly."
"Then the rest jumped on them and ate them all up, didn't they,
grandpapa?"
"No, Jimmy, I'm glad to say they didn't. Wolves in Russian stories
do, but American wolves are not cannibalistic; for this is a civilized
country, you know.
"These wolves didn't even notice their fallen friends. They devoted
their attention wholly to me, and I assure you, chickens, that I was
much gratified at that.
"I loaded again. It was a good deal of trouble in those days, when
revolvers wore caps. I aimed very carefully, and killed four more. The
other ten then ran away--at least some did; three could drag
themselves but slowly.
"After loading again I dropped down, and started for camp. Next
morning we came back and got ten skins, after looking up the three
wounded."
"And you got only eighty dollars, instead of one hundred and
thirty-six, grandpapa," said Jimmy, ruefully.
"Well, Jimmy, that was better than furnishing the pack with raw boy
for supper."
"Is that all, grandpapa?"
"Yes, Jenny, dear."
"Do tell us another story."
"Not to-night, chickens. Not to-night. Grandpapa is old and sleepy.
Good night, dears; and if you begin to dream of wolves, be sure you
change the subject."
Grandpapa walked slowly up stairs.
"Can _you_ make different dreams come, Jimmy?" said Jenny.
"You goose! Grandpapa was pretending."
THE WATERLOO VETERAN.
Is Waterloo a dead word to you? the name of a plain of battle, no
more? Or do you see, on a space of rising ground, the little
long-coated man with marble features, and unquenchable eyes that
pierce through rolling smoke to where the relics of the old Guard of
France stagger and rally and reach fiercely again up the hill of St.
Jean toward the squares, set, torn, red, re-formed, stubborn, mangled,
victorious beneath the unflinching will of him behind there,--the Iron
Duke of England?
Or is your interest in the fight literary? and do you see in a pause
of the conflict Major O'Dowd sitting on the carcass of Pyramus
refreshing himself from that case-bottle of sound brandy? George
Osborne lying yonder, all his fopperies ended, with a bullet through
his heart? Rawdon Crawley riding stolidly behind General Tufto along
the front of the shattered regiment where Captain Dobbin stands
heartsick for poor Emily?
Or maybe the struggle arranges itself in your vision around one figure
not named in history or fiction,--that of your grandfather, or his
father, or some old dead soldier of the great wars whose blood you
exult to inherit, or some grim veteran whom you saw tottering to the
roll-call beyond when the Queen was young and you were a little boy.
For me the shadows of the battle are so grouped round old John Locke
that the historians, story-tellers, and painters may never quite
persuade me that he was not the centre and real hero of the action.
The French cuirassiers in my thought-pictures charge again and again
vainly against old John; he it is who breaks the New Guard; upon the
ground that he defends the Emperor's eyes are fixed all day long. It
is John who occasionally glances at the sky with wonder if Blucher
has failed them. Upon Shaw the Lifeguardsman, and John, the Duke
plainly most relies, and the words that Wellington actually speaks
when the time comes for advance are, "Up, John, and at them!"
How fate drifted the old veteran of Waterloo into our little Canadian
Lake Erie village I never knew. Drifted him? No; he ever marched as if
under the orders of his commander. Tall, thin, white-haired,
close-shaven, and always in knee-breeches and long stockings, his was
an antique and martial figure. "Fresh white-fish" was his cry, which
he delivered as if calling all the village to fall in for drill.
So impressive was his demeanor that he dignified his occupation. For
years after he disappeared, the peddling of white-fish by horse and
cart was regarded in that district as peculiarly respectacle. It was a
glorious trade when old John Locke held the steelyards and served out
the glittering fish with an air of distributing ammunition for a long
day's combat.
I believe I noticed, on the first day I saw him, how he tapped his
left breast with a proud gesture when he had done with a lot of
customers and was about to march again at the head of his horse. That
restored him from trade to his soldiership--he had saluted his
Waterloo medal! There beneath his threadbare old blue coat it lay,
always felt by the heart of the hero.
"Why doesn't he wear it outside?" I once asked.
"He used to," said my father, "till Hiram Beaman, the druggist, asked
him what he'd 'take for the bit of pewter.'"
"What did old John say, sir?"
"'Take for the bit of pewter!' said he, looking hard at Beaman with
scorn. 'I've took better men's lives nor ever yours was for to get it,
and I'd sell my own for it as quick as ever I offered it before.'
"'More fool you,' said Beaman.
"'You're nowt,' said old John, very calm and cold, 'you're nowt but
walking dirt.' From that day forth he would never sell Beaman a fish;
he wouldn't touch his money."
It must have been late in 1854 or early in 1855 that I first saw the
famous medal. Going home from school on a bright winter afternoon, I
met old John walking very erect, without his usual fish-supply. A dull
round white spot was clasped on the left breast of his coat.
"Mr. Locke," said the small boy, staring with admiration, "is that
your glorious Waterloo medal?"
"You're a good little lad!" He stooped to let me see the noble pewter.
"War's declared against Rooshia, and now it's right to show it. The
old regiment's sailed, and my only son is with the colors."
Then he took me by the hand and led me into the village store, where
the lawyer read aloud the news from the paper that the veteran gave
him. In those days there was no railway within fifty miles of us. It
had chanced that some fisherman brought old John a later paper than
any previously received in the village.
"Ay, but the Duke is gone," said he, shaking his white head, "and it's
curious to be fighting on the same side with another Boney."
All that winter and the next, all the long summer between, old John
displayed his medal. When the report of Alma came, his remarks on the
French failure to get into the fight were severe. "What was they
_ever_, at best, without Boney?" he would inquire. But a letter from
his son after Inkermann changed all that.
"Half of us was killed, and the rest of us clean tired with fighting,"
wrote Corporal Locke. "What with a bullet through the flesh of my
right leg, and the fatigue of using the bayonet so long, I was like to
drop. The Russians was coming on again as if there was no end to them,
when strange drums came sounding in the mist behind us. With that we
closed up and faced half-round, thinking they had outflanked us and
the day was gone, so there was nothing more to do but make out to die
hard, like the sons of Waterloo men. You would have been pleased to
see the looks of what was left of the old regiment, father. Then all
of a sudden a French column came up the rise out of the mist,
screaming, '_Vive l'Empereur!_' their drums beating the charge. We
gave them room, for we were too dead tired to go first. On they went
like mad at the Russians, so that was the end of a hard morning's
work. I was down,--fainted with loss of blood,--but I will soon be fit
for duty again. When I came to myself there was a Frenchman pouring
brandy down my throat, and talking in his gibberish as kind as any
Christian. Never a word will I say agin them red-legged French again."
"Show me the man that would!" growled old John. "It was never in them
French to act cowardly. Didn't they beat all the world, and even stand
up many's the day agen ourselves and the Duke? They didn't beat,--it
wouldn't be in reason,--but they tried brave enough, and what more'd
you ask of mortal men?"
With the ending of the Crimean War our village was illuminated. Rows
of tallow candles in every window, fireworks in a vacant field, and a
torchlight procession! Old John marched at its head in full
regimentals, straight as a ramrod, the hero of the night. His son had
been promoted for bravery on the field. After John came a dozen gray
militiamen of Queenston Heights, Lundy's Lane, and Chippewa; next some
forty volunteers of '37. And we boys of the U. E. Loyalist settlement
cheered and cheered, thrilled with an intense vague knowledge that the
old army of Wellington kept ghostly step with John, while aerial
trumpets and drums pealed and beat with rejoicing at the fresh glory
of the race and the union of English-speaking men unconsciously
celebrated and symbolized by the little rustic parade.
After that the old man again wore his medal concealed. The Chinese War
of 1857 was too contemptible to celebrate by displaying his badge of
Waterloo.
Then came the dreadful tale of the Sepoy mutiny--Meerut, Delhi,
Cawnpore! After the tale of Nana Sahib's massacre of women and
children was read to old John he never smiled, I think. Week after
week, month after month, as hideous tidings poured steadily in, his
face became more haggard, gray, and dreadful. The feeling that he was
too old for use seemed to shame him. He no longer carried his head
high, as of yore. That his son was not marching behind Havelock with
the avenging army seemed to cut our veteran sorely. Sergeant Locke had
sailed with the old regiment to join Outram in Persia before the
Sepoys broke loose. It was at this time that old John was first heard
to say, "I'm 'feared something's gone wrong with my heart."
Months went by before we learned that the troops for Persia had been
stopped on their way and thrown into India against the mutineers. At
that news old John marched into the village with a prouder air than he
had worn for many a day. His medal was again on his breast.
It was but the next month, I think, that the village lawyer stood
reading aloud the account of the capture of a great Sepoy fort. The
veteran entered the post-office, and all made way for him. The reading
went on:--
"The blowing open of the Northern Gate was the grandest personal
exploit of the attack. It was performed by native sappers, covered by
the fire of two regiments, and headed by Lieutenants Holder and Dacre,
Sergeants Green, Carmody, Macpherson, and Locke."
The lawyer paused. Every eye turned to the face of the old Waterloo
soldier. He straightened up to keener attention, threw out his chest,
and tapped the glorious medal in salute of the names of the brave.
"God be praised, my son was there!" he said. "Read on."
"Sergeant Carmody, while laying the powder, was killed, and the native
havildar wounded. The powder having been laid, the advance party
slipped down into the ditch to allow the firing party, under
Lieutenant Dacre, to do its duty. While trying to fire the charge he
was shot through one arm and leg. He sank, but handed the match to
Sergeant Macpherson, who was at once shot dead. Sergeant Locke,
already wounded severely in the shoulder, then seized the match, and
succeeded in firing the train. He fell at that moment, literally
riddled with bullets."
"Read on," said old John, in a deeper voice. All forbore to look twice
upon his face.
"Others of the party were falling, when the mighty gate was blown to
fragments, and the waiting regiments of infantry, under Colonel
Campbell, rushed into the breach."
There was a long silence in the post-office, till old John spoke once
more.
"The Lord God be thanked for all his dealings with us! My son,
Sergeant Locke, died well for England, Queen, and Duty."
Nervously fingering the treasure on his breast, the old soldier
wheeled about, and marched proudly straight down the middle of the
village street to his lonely cabin.
The villagers never saw him in life again. Next day he did not appear.
All refrained from intruding on his mourning. But in the evening, when
the Episcopalian minister heard of his parishioner's loss, he walked
to old John's home.
There, stretched upon his straw bed, he lay in his antique
regimentals, stiffer than At Attention, all his medals fastened below
that of Waterloo above his quiet heart. His right hand lay on an open
Bible, and his face wore an expression as of looking for ever and ever
upon Sergeant Locke and the Great Commander who takes back unto Him
the heroes He fashions to sweeten the world.
JOHN BEDELL, U. E. LOYALIST.[A]
"A renegade! A rebel against his king! A black-hearted traitor! You
dare to tell me that you love George Winthrop! Son of canting, lying
Ezra Winthrop! By the Eternal, I'll shoot him on sight if he comes
this side!"
While old John Bedell was speaking, he tore and flung away a letter,
reached for his long rifle on its pins above the chimney-place, dashed
its butt angrily to the floor, and poured powder into his palm.
"For Heaven's sake, father! You would not! You could not! The war is
over. It would be murder!" cried Ruth Bedell, sobbing.
"Wouldn't I?" He poured the powder in. "Yes, by gracious, quicker'n
I'd kill a rattlesnake!" He placed the round bullet on the little
square of greased rag at the muzzle of his rifle. "A rank
traitor--bone and blood of those who drove out loyal men!"--he crowded
the tight lead home, dashed the ramrod into place, looked to the
flint. "Rest there,--wake up for George Winthrop!" and the fierce old
man replaced rifle and powder-horn on their pegs.
Bedell's hatred for the foes who had beaten down King George's cause,
and imposed the alternative of confiscation or the oath of allegiance
on the vanquished, was considered intense, even by his brother
Loyalists of the Niagara frontier.
"The Squire kind o' sees his boys' blood when the sky's red," said
they in explanation. But Bedell was so much an enthusiast that he
could almost rejoice because his three stark sons had gained the prize
of death in battle. He was too brave to hate the fighting-men he had
so often confronted; but he abhorred the politicians, especially the
intimate civic enemies on whom he had poured scorn before the armed
struggle began. More than any he hated Ezra Winthrop, the lawyer,
arch-revolutionist of their native town, who had never used a weapon
but his tongue. And now his Ruth, the beloved and only child left to
his exiled age, had confessed her love for Ezra Winthrop's son! They
had been boy and girl, pretty maiden and bright stripling together,
without the Squire suspecting--he could not, even now, conceive
clearly so wild a thing as their affection! The confession burned in
his heart like veritable fire,--a raging anguish of mingled loathing
and love. He stood now gazing at Ruth dumbly, his hands clenched,
head sometimes mechanically quivering, anger, hate, love, grief,
tumultuous in his soul.
Ruth glanced up--her father seemed about to speak--she bowed again,
shuddering as though the coming words might kill. Still there was
silence,--a long silence. Bedell stood motionless, poised, breathing
hard--the silence oppressed the girl--each moment her terror
increased--expectant attention became suffering that demanded his
voice--and still was silence--save for the dull roar of Niagara that
more and more pervaded the air. The torture of waiting for the
words--a curse against her, she feared--overwore Ruth's endurance. She
looked up suddenly, and John Bedell saw in hers the beloved eyes of
his dead wife, shrinking with intolerable fear. He groaned heavily,
flung up his hands despairingly, and strode out toward the river.