HEROINES.
"What is so rare as a day in June?" sings the poet, and where can a day
in June be more beautiful than at this Highland Gate of the peerless
Hudson? It is June of the Centennial year, and all the land is ablaze
with patriotic fervor. From North, from South, from East and West, the
products of a nation's ingenuity or a nation's toil have been garnered
in one vast exhibition at the Quaker City; and thither flock the
thousands of our people. It is June of a presidential nomination, and
the eyes of statesmen and politicians are fixed on Cincinnati. It is the
celebration of the first century of a nation's life that engrosses the
thoughts of millions of hearts, and between that great jubilee and that
quadrennial tempest-in-a-teapot, the nomination, who but a few lonely
wives and children have time to think of those three columns far, far
out in the broad Northwest,--those three columns of regulars, cavalry
and infantry, rough-garbed, bronzed and bearded, steadily closing in
towards the wild and beautiful region along the northern water-shed of
the Big Horn Range, where ten thousand hostile Indians are uneasily
watching their coming? On the Atlantic seaboard comrades in full-dress
uniform, with polished arms, are standing guard over government
treasures on exhibition, and thoughtless thousands wonder at the ease
and luxury of the soldier's life. Out on the frontier, in buckskin and
flannel, slouch hats and leggings, and bristling prairie-belts, the
little army is concentrating upon an outnumbering foe, whose
signal-fires light the way by night, whose trail is red with blood by
day. From the northeast, up the Yellowstone, Terry of Fort Fisher fame,
the genial, the warm-hearted general, whose thoughts are ever with his
officers and men, leads his few hundred footmen, while Custer, whose
division has flashed through battery after battery, charge after charge,
in the great Rebellion, now rides at the head of a single regiment. From
the northwest, down the Yellowstone, with but a handful of tried
soldiery, comes Gibbon; he who led a corps at Gettysburg and Appomattox.
From the south, feeling his way along the eastern base of the Big Horn,
with less than two thousand troopers and footmen, marches the "Gray
Fox," the general under whom our friends of the --th so long and so
successfully battled with the Apaches of Arizona. He has met his match
this time. Cheyenne, Ogallalla, Brulé, Uncapapa, Minneconjou, Sans Arc,
and Blackfoot, all swarm over the broad and breezy uplands in his front,
or lurk in the deep shade of the lovely valleys. Twice have they sprung
upon him and checked his advance. Once only has he been forced to
hesitate, but now, as the longest days of the year approach and the
glistening dome of Snow Peak is yet warm with the flush of the setting
sun, when "morn, in russet mantle clad," tinges the eastern slopes with
glowing light; now, at last, the long-dreaded leaders of the border
warfare are being hemmed in between the encircling advance. Now may we
look for stirring work along the bluffs and boulders of the Big Horn.
And June, Centennial June, has come to West Point. Examinations are
going briskly on, four buoyant classes are all excitement with the
joyous prospects of the season: the seniors look forward to the speedy
coming of the longed-for diploma and the prized commission, for relief
from the restraint of academic life and for the broader field of the
army; the second, the juniors, to reaching the dignity of "first-class
camp," with the highest offices and honors to be achieved so long as
they shall wear the gray; the third, ah! they are the furloughmen, so
soon to be restored for two brief months to home and kindred after the
two years of rigid discipline and ceaseless duty; the fourth, to step at
once and for all from the meekness of "plebedom" and become the envied
"old cadet." June brings bliss for all,--for all but those who fail.
And June brings joy to sisters and sweethearts by the dozen, to fond
mammas, to proud paternals, who throng the hostelries of the Point and
the neighborhood, and swarm in lively interest all over the historic
spot, listening with uncomprehending but tireless patience to
examinations on fortification or grand tactics, mechanics or calculus;
gasping with excitement over dashing charges on the "cavalry plain,"
shuddering over the reckless daring in the riding-hall, stopping their
ears against the thunder of the great guns at the batteries, and beating
time with head and foot to the spirited quicksteps of the band.
Dress-parade, the closing ceremony of each day, concentrates the entire
assemblage along the shaded walk that borders on the west the beautiful
green carpet of the "infantry plain," and, at last, as the four gray and
white companies go dancing off in double-time through the grim
sally-port beneath the barracks, and the carriages and stages whirl away
the watching throngs, and the plumed cadet officers scurry off to
supper, and, group after group, the spectators saunter homewards, the
band disappears below the crest of the plain towards "Bumtown," and
little by little the light turns to violet on the wooded heights across
the swirling Hudson, and silence settles down upon the scene.
Gazing out from under the foliage of the great elms, watching these very
changes, two ladies are seated upon the piazza of the officers' quarters
opposite the southern half of the plain. One is a young matron, whose
eyes once seen are not soon forgotten,--so soft, so deep, so brown, so
truthful are they under the long curling lashes, under the low-arched,
heavy brows. Beautiful eyes were they when, in all their girlish
fearlessness and innocence, they first beamed upon our old friends of
the --th in the days of exile in Arizona. Lovelier still are they now in
that consummation of a woman's happiness,--a worshipped wifehood. It was
early in the previous winter when Captain Truscott brought his fair
bride to make her home among the scenes so dear to both, and her life
has been one song of unutterable gladness. If earth contained a thing to
wish for in those six months, Grace Truscott could not name it. Her
pretty army house is the gem of the military community, the envy of many
a wife. Her husband is a man whom all men honor and hold in deep esteem.
In strength, in dignity, in soldierly ability, and in his devotion to
her he is all her heart could ask. If she loved him dearly when they
were married, her love has developed into almost an idolatry,--"Jack" is
her world. Not that she talks or writes very much of that matter,
however; for quite a wise little head is that which is perched on Mrs.
Truscott's white shoulders. Once in a while in some letter to an old and
trusted friend she finds it more than she can do to utterly repress her
overwhelming sense of bliss, and then she lets slip some little
confession of which Jack is the subject. She never dreamed a man could
be so lovely, so delicate, so thoughtful, so considerate, so
_everything_ that was simply perfect, is the way she has once or twice
found herself constrained to clinch the matter in default of adjectives
sufficiently descriptive. "Every day he develops some new, lovely, and
unsuspected trait," she once confided to her friend Mrs. Tanner (with
whom she has corresponded quite regularly since her marriage, and to
whom we are indebted for some of these interesting details), and as Jack
Truscott was confessedly a man of many admirable qualities before his
matrimonial alliance, it may be conjectured that ere the waning of her
honeymoon Mrs. Jack's enumeration table was beginning to prove
inadequate. And bliss has been, and is, becoming to Grace. She has lost
none of the girlish delicacy of expression which was so marked a
characteristic of her youthful beauty a year before, still she has
rounded somewhat, and both mentally and physically has developed. The
slender white hand that rests upon the volume of Carlyle in her lap
looks less fragile than it did that day at old Camp Sandy when, in
Tanner's library searching for the children's books among the shelves,
it showed itself to Truscott's eyes without a certain ring. Mrs. Jack
does not fancy Carlyle. He is too crabbed by far, she thinks, and she
wonders how and where people get such distorted views of life, but the
captain has been reading him a great deal during the past two months,
and anything that interests him is food for her. Happy she is beyond all
question, happy as woman ever becomes in this world where happiness is
never perfect. If it were, where would be the use of heaven hereafter?
And as she sits here gazing out upon the soft lights and shadows
settling upon the distant hills, her sweet, mobile face is fit subject
for the brush of some inspired painter who seeks a model for an ideal
picture,--"I Ask No More."
It is twilight, too, the hour of all others when the faintest sorrow is
apt to assert itself upon reposeful features,--the hour when it takes a
very happy woman to look happy; yet Grace Truscott's eyes tell of only
one story,--love, peace, tranquillity; and at last the silence is broken
by the remark, which is naturally the result of a woman's undisturbed
contemplation of such a face,--
"I declare, Grace, it is enough to make one want to marry just to look
at you!"
Mrs. Truscott returns to earth with sudden bound, dropping her blissful
day-dream with a merry laugh and a blush that refuses to down at her
bidding. She holds forth her hand appealingly, leaning forward in the
great wicker rocking-chair in which, till now, she has been lazily
inclining.
"How absurd, to be sure! I wish you would seize me and shake me, Marion,
whenever you see me going off into dreamland like that. It is simply
detestable. Yet, I can't help it. Oh!" with sudden impulse, "wait till
you marry some one the least like Jack, and then see for yourself."
"But I never shall marry any one the least like Jack," replies Miss
Sanford. "To begin with, you would not be apt to admit any such man
could exist. Now, don't bristle all over, Grace; you are not in the
least absurd,--to ordinary people that is; you really behave very
creditably for so young a wife, but you are quite warranted in betraying
your admiration to me. I like it. It was simply mean of me to interrupt
your revery as I did, but the exclamation was involuntary. I had been
watching your face for several minutes, and thinking how few, how very
few women are blessed as you are."
Mrs. Truscott's eyes filled with tears, and her hand sought and clasped
that of her friend. A most unusual caress for her.
"Sometimes I fear I'm growing very selfish in it all, Marion, and I
blame myself more than I can tell you when these spells come over me. We
had planned to make your visit lovely,--Jack and I,--and here, the
moment we are alone together, I go mooning off and leaving you to be
entertained by the sight of my imbecility." Mrs. Truscott gave herself a
vigorous shake. "There! Now tell me about your walk. Was Mr. Ferris
pleasant?"
"Pleasant? Very! They all are for that matter, and I hate to think how
much I've lost in being away all May. Father insisted though, and so
those six weeks had to be spent at ---- with them. It is mockery to
call it home." And a deep trouble seemed to settle on her beautiful
face.
Mrs. Truscott leaned nearer to her friend, an eager tremor in her voice.
"Listen, Marion dear," she spoke; "I cannot allude to the subject except
when you do; but, much as your father loves you, he must see now that it
is next to impossible for you to live at home, and after her conduct
this spring,--first demanding that you should come instead of spending
May with us as was arranged, and then making it so wretched for you, and
finally almost driving you from the house,--it is useless to think of
going back this summer. _Do_ spend it with us. We both ask it, Jack and
I. It was such a disappointment to lose you in May, and now that we've
got you again,--though you said 'twas only for a week,--we talked it all
over last night, Maid Marion,"--and here Mrs. Truscott has recourse to
one of the pet names of their school-days,--"we talked it all over, Jack
and I, and that was one of the things he went to the city for to-day. He
had determined to ask your father to let you spend the summer here. I
want it so much, so does Jack, for he may have to go to Kentucky to buy
horses for the cavalry stables. Marion, _do_ stay if he will let you."
And both Mrs. Truscott's white hands now seized and clasped the
unresisting, passive members that lay, still gloved, in her companion's
lap.
For a moment there was no move. Two big tears were starting from Miss
Sanford's eyes; her sweet, sensitive lips were twitching nervously. She
glanced hurriedly up and down the broad road in front of the
quarters,--they were unobserved and alone,--and, leaning back in her
chair, she gently withdrew one hand and held her handkerchief to her
face. Mrs. Truscott quickly rose and bent over her, pressed her lips one
instant upon the luxuriant hair that fell thickly over the girl's
forehead; then, twining her arm around her head, nestled her own soft
cheek where she had pressed her lips. And there she hovered, saying
nothing more, waiting until the little rain-cloud had passed away.
Presently there came the sound of quick, springy footsteps along the
asphalt from the direction of the barracks. Mrs. Truscott raised her
head.
"It is Sergeant Wolf, Marion. I think he is coming here."
Miss Sanford started up, wiped her eyes and half turned her back, as a
young soldier in the undress uniform of a cavalry sergeant entered the
gateway, and, halting at the foot of the steps, respectfully raised hand
to his cap, and stood there as though addressing an officer.
"Pardon me, madame," he asked, with a distinctly German accent, but with
the intonation of a gentleman on every syllable. "The captain has not
yet returned?"
"Not yet, sergeant; I expect him on the eight-thirty train."
"It is about Corporal Stein, madame; he has overstayed his pass."
"I presume Mr. Waring should be told. Have you seen him?"
"Madame, the lieutenant is neither at his quarters nor the mess."
"Then there is nothing further to be done that I know of," said Mrs.
Truscott, whose girlhood had been passed in garrison at times, and
whose earliest recollections were of papa's dragoons. "I will tell the
captain as soon as he returns." And she stepped backward towards the
chairs.
The sergeant paused one moment. He was tall, lithe, of graceful and
muscular mould; his face was of the singular Saxon cast,--so very fair;
his eyes were blue and clear, his nose and mouth finely shaped; his
teeth were white and even, his hair crisp and curly, and the very color
of bleached straw, but redeemed from that dead, soda-dried effect by the
sheen of every lock; his face was oval; clean-shaved but for the upper
lip, whose long, blond moustache twirled trooper-fashion till the ends
almost swept his ears. He was a handsome fellow, and his manners and
language bespoke him a man of education. After the moment's hesitation,
he again touched his cap and quitted the little garden, walking with
quick, brisk steps and erect carriage away towards the upper end of the
row.
Mrs. Truscott stood silently looking after him a moment, then she
turned:
"Did you notice his hands, Marion?"
"Certainly; I did the first time I saw him, and he is always here. You
say Wolf is an assumed name?"
"Yes. Jack says there can be no question but that he is an educated
German officer who has had to quit the service there for some crime or
trouble. He came here just when I did, last December; and Jack says he
is the finest first sergeant he ever saw, though I believe the men don't
fancy him. He speaks French as well as he does English, and there is
apparently nothing he does not know about cavalry service."
"And how did he happen to be in the army?"
"I do not know; there was nothing else for him to do, I suppose. The old
first sergeant of the cavalry detachment here was discharged last fall,
and when a new one was needed, and there seemed to be no really good one
in the troop, Jack wrote to a recruiting officer in the city to send him
a first-class man. One day he got a letter saying that a young German
desired to enlist for cavalry service who was evidently a thorough
soldier, and that there was some mystery about him. He was dressed like
a gentleman, but had not a cent of money, and claimed to have arrived
only within three days from the old country. Next day the man himself
came here. Jack had told me nothing about the letter. The servant said
there was a gentleman in the parlor wanted to see the captain. Jack was
away at the riding-hall, and I went into the parlor, and there stood
this tall, fine-looking fellow. I thought, of course, he must be some
officer on leave,--some one whom Jack knew. It was a little dark,--one
of those rainy December days, and he had his back to the light,--but the
moment he spoke and I heard the German accent I saw there was a mistake.
He seemed greatly embarrassed, said he had been told he would find the
captain here, apologized for the intrusion, and started for the door,
when I saw his face was as white as a sheet and that he was staggering,
and the next thing I knew he had dropped like a fainting woman in the
big arm-chair. Something told me he was weak from want of food. I called
Mary, and got some wine and made him drink it, and pretty soon he
revived, and then Jack came, and I left them together. He said that he
had eaten nothing for three days and was exhausted.
"Well, Jack questioned him closely that evening after he had made him
rest and had fed him well, poor fellow! and the result was that in a day
or two he regularly enlisted. Jack really tried to induce him not to,
telling him that a man of his education would surely find something
better, but it was useless. He said that if he could not enlist here he
would go back to New York and enter for service on the frontier, so,
finally, it was settled. He was made a corporal in a few weeks, and now
he is first sergeant. He is invaluable in that respect; still, I do wish
there were no mystery. I hate mysteries. He is never seen with the men
at all, and when not on duty he is always reading. Jack lends him books
that no other soldier cares to look at and that they do not have in the
troop library. That is what brings him here so often. He comes every day
or two with a book he has read and wants another; but his name isn't
Wolf. Somewhere, he has a seal ring with a crest on it, and last
month--there had been some trouble among the men, and two hard
characters had laid in wait for the sergeant one dark night near the
stables and assaulted him, but he was too quick and powerful for them,
though they escaped--last month he brought Jack a sealed packet which he
asked him to keep, and if anything happened to him it was to be returned
to an address he gave in Dresden. It's really quite a romance, but I
wish----" And Mrs. Truscott broke off abruptly without saying what she
_did_ wish.
Miss Sanford was silent. She had recovered her self-control, and the
traces of recent tears were vanishing. Once more Mrs. Truscott seated
herself by her side.
"You will stay with us, won't you?" she said, with that uninterrogative
accent on the "won't" which is indicative of a conviction on part of the
questioner that denial is impossible.
"Yes, Grace, gladly, if Captain Truscott can win papa over to it. I
shall be far happier here, and he will at least have peace at home. She
will be satisfied and content if I am not there. How can I thank you
enough, Gracie? I had almost made up my mind to ask Mrs. Zabriskie to
take me back to Europe with her. You know she returns on the 'Werra' in
July."
"Indeed you shall not. I had counted on having you for bridesmaid, and
you would not come home. That was the only disappointment in my wedding;
but, after all, since Mr. Ray couldn't come, there would have been a
groomsman short if you _had_ been there."
"Why didn't he come? You never told me."
"Why? Poor Mr. Ray! He wrote one of his laughing letters to Jack to say
that he'd be switched if he was going to play hangman at his own
execution. You never knew such a queer fellow as he is. The real reason
was that he could not afford to come East from Kansas and give us a
wedding present too. Jack and I would have far rather had him drop the
present, but could not see how to tell him. He sent us that lovely
ice-cream set, you know,--one of the prettiest of all my presents.
Everybody thought Ray must have been studying up on art, it was so
graceful and pretty. Mr. Gleason, I believe it was, said that Ray wrote
to Colonel Thayer of the lieutenant-general's staff and had him buy it:
he was in Chicago when we were married,--you know that was Grandmother
De Ruyter's stipulation,--and that Colonel Thayer, not Ray, was entitled
to the credit for taste; but Jack says that there is far more to Ray
than most people give him credit for. He's a loyal friend anyway!"
"What was the name of that droll creature who was here last
April,--Drake? Blake?"
"Mr. Blake? Oh, yes! He is one of the characters of the regiment. He is
the book of nonsense on two very long legs, but he is full of fun and
full of goodness. He is not at all Mr. Ray's kind, however. Jack says
that Mr. Ray is the man of all others whom he would most expect to come
to the front in a general war, and that nothing could shake his faith in
him. Ray could never do or say a dishonorable thing."
"And wasn't it Mr. Ray who saved you when your horse was running away?"
"The very man. You glory so in daring horsemanship, Marion, I just wish
you could see Ray ride. Jack is splendid, of course, but he is so much
larger, heavier, you know. Ray rides as lightly as a bird flies; he
seems just part of a horse, as indeed Jack does, but then there's this
difference: Mr. Ray rides over hurdles and ditches and prairie-dog holes
and up and down hill just like an Indian, and the wonder is he isn't
killed. Jack is a fine horseman,--nobody looks better in the saddle than
he,--but then Jack rarely rides at top speed,--never, unless there's
some reason for it.
"See, Marion, it's almost dark. Shall we go in the parlor and light the
lamps?"
"Grace, wasn't Mr. Ray just a little bit in love with you once?"
"Honestly, Marion, no! I know he admired me, and I liked him, and had
reason to like him greatly, for he was a true friend to me when I wanted
one at Sandy. Once he was a wee bit sentimental," and even in the dusk
Grace could feel that Marion saw the flush that mounted to her very
brows, "but that was when I fainted after the runaway; never before,
never since. Don't talk nonsense, Maidie."
"I think I should like to know him," said Miss Sanford, as she rose to
enter the hall.
"I _know_ you would. Only--well, you might not like him entirely,
either. Jack should be here in less than half an hour now, then we'll
have tea. Oh, Marion! I'm so glad you will stay, so will he be."
On the parlor-table, as they entered, lay two letters. Turning up the
gas, Mrs. Truscott scanned the superscriptions. Both were addressed to
her husband. One was postmarked Fort Hays.
"This is the one Jack will open first," she said to her friend. "I don't
know whom the other comes from, but this is news from the regiment. It
is Mr. Billings's writing, and Jack is always eager for news from him."
"Mr. Ferris asked me this evening, while we were walking, if Captain
Truscott had any news from his regiment. He seemed unusually interested.
I could not tell why, but it was something about General Crook being
heavily reinforced by troops from somewhere. They were talking of it
down at the mess to-day, and Mr. Waring said that if his regiment were
ordered on that duty, he would apply by telegraph to Washington for
orders to join it at once. There was some embarrassment then, because
one of the gentlemen present--Mr. Ferris wouldn't say who--belonged to a
regiment already there on that very campaign, and he had not applied for
orders at all, and wasn't going to, and----Why, _Grace_! What is the
matter?"
With her face rapidly paling Grace Truscott had stood gazing piteously
at her companion, and then, seizing the letter in her trembling hands,
she stood glaring at the address. For a moment she made no reply, and
again Miss Sanford, alarmed, repeated her question.
"Marion! Marion! It means that I know now why Jack did not show me Major
Stannard's last letter. It means that this letter from the adjutant is
to tell Jack that the --th is ordered into the field. It means--it
means"--and she threw herself prone upon the sofa, clinching her hands
above her head--"it means that my dream of delight is shattered; they
will take my husband from me."
"But how--but why, Grace? I don't understand. Mr. Ferris said distinctly
that Captain Truscott would not be affected, that he had just begun his
detail here. If an officer doesn't _have_ to go when his regiment is
already in the field, how can your husband be required?"
"_My_ husband! Marion. You don't know him, neither does Mr. Ferris, if
that's his idea. My husband would never wait to be ordered to join his
comrades on campaign. If that letter says the --th is to go, that ends
it all, for Jack will start to-morrow."