“That’s the first intelligent military order I’ve heard yet,” I said.
Aiken scowled at me fearfully, and Reeder and Heinze gasped. General
Laguerre had caught the words, and turned his eyes on me. Like the real
princess who could feel the crumpled rose-leaf under a dozen mattresses,
I can feel it in my bones when I am in the presence of a real soldier.
My spinal column stiffens, and my fingers twitch to be at my visor. In
spite of their borrowed titles, I had smelt out the civilian in Reeder
and had detected the non-commissioned man in Heinze, and just as surely
I recognized the general officer in Laguerre.
So when he looked at me my heels clicked together, my arm bent to my hat
and fell again to my trouser seam, and I stood at attention. It was as
instinctive as though I were back at the Academy, and he had confronted
me in the uniform and yellow sash of a major-general.
“And what do you know of military orders, sir,” he demanded, in a low
voice, “that you feel competent to pass upon mine?”
Still standing at attention, I said: “For the last three years I have
been at West Point, sir, and have listened to nothing else.”
“You have been at West Point?” he said, slowly, looking at me in
surprise and with evident doubt. “When did you leave the Academy?”
“Two weeks ago,” I answered. At this, he looked even more incredulous.
“How does it happen,” he asked, “if you are preparing for the army at
West Point, that you are now travelling in Honduras?”
“I was dismissed from the Academy two weeks ago,” I answered. “This was
the only place where there was any fighting, so I came here. I read that
you had formed a Foreign Legion, and thought that maybe you would let me
join it.”
General Laguerre now stared at me in genuine amazement. In his interest
in the supposed spy, he had forgotten the loss of his guns.
“You came from West Point,” he repeated, incredulously, “all the way to
Honduras--to join me!” He turned to the two officers. “Did he tell you
this?” he demanded.
They answered, “No,” promptly, and truthfully as well, for they had not
given me time to tell them anything.
“Have you any credentials, passports, or papers?” he said.
When he asked this I saw Reeder whisper eagerly to Heinze, and then walk
away. He had gone to search my trunk for evidence that I was a spy, and
had I suspected this I would have protested violently, but it did not
occur to me then that he would do such a thing.
“I have only the passport I got from the commandante at Porto Cortez,” I
said.
At the words Aiken gave a quick shake of the head, as a man does when he
sees another move the wrong piece on the chess-board. But when I
stared at him inquiringly his expression changed instantly to one of
interrogation and complete unconcern.
“Ah!” exclaimed Heinze, triumphantly, “he has a permit from the
Government.”
“Let me see it,” said the General.
I handed it to him, and he drew a camp-chair from the tent, and, seating
himself, began to compare me with the passport.
“In this,” he said at last, “you state that you are a commercial
traveller; that you are going to the capital on business, and that you
are a friend of the Government.”
I was going to tell him that until it had been handed me by Aiken, I had
known nothing of the passport, but I considered that in some way this
might involve Aiken, and so I answered:
“It was necessary to tell them any story, sir, in order to get into
the interior. I could not tell them that I was _not_ a friend of the
Government, nor that I was trying to join you.”
“Your stories are somewhat conflicting,” said the General. “You are led
to our hiding-place by a man who is himself under suspicion, and the
only credentials you can show are from the enemy. Why should I believe
you are what you say you are? Why should I believe you are not a spy?”
I could not submit to having my word doubted, so I bowed stiffly and did
not speak.
“Answer me,” the General commanded, “what proofs have I?”
“You have nothing but my word for it,” I said.
General Laguerre seemed pleased with that, and I believe he was really
interested in helping me to clear myself. But he had raised my temper by
questioning my word.
“Surely you must have something to identify you,” he urged.
“If I had I’d refuse to show it,” I answered. “I told you why I came
here. If you think I am a spy, you can go ahead and shoot me as a spy,
and find out whether I told you the truth afterward.”
The General smiled indulgently.
“There would be very little satisfaction in that for me, or for you,” he
said.
“I’m an officer and a gentleman,” I protested, “and I have a right to be
treated as one. If you serve every gentleman who volunteers to join
you in the way I have been served, I’m not surprised that your force is
composed of the sort you have around you.”
The General raised his head and looked at me with such a savage
expression that during the pause which ensued I was most uncomfortable.
“If your proofs you are an officer are no stronger than those you offer
that you are a gentleman,” he said, “perhaps you are wise not to show
them. What right have you to claim you are an officer?”
His words cut and mortified me deeply, chiefly because I felt I deserved
them.
“Every cadet ranks a non-commissioned man,” I answered.
“But you are no longer a cadet,” he replied. “You have been dismissed.
You told me so yourself. Were you dismissed honorably, or dishonorably?”
“Dishonorably,” I answered. I saw that this was not the answer he had
expected. He looked both mortified and puzzled, and glanced at Heinze
and Aiken as though he wished that they were out of hearing.
“What was it for--what was the cause of your dismissal?” he asked. He
now spoke in a much lower tone. “Of course, you need not tell me,” he
added.
“I was dismissed for being outside the limits of the Academy without a
permit,” I answered. “I went to a dance at a hotel in uniform.”
“Was that all?” he demanded, smiling.
“That was the crime for which I was dismissed,” I said, sulkily. The
General looked at me for some moments, evidently in much doubt. I
believe he suspected that I had led him on to asking me the reason for
my dismissal, in order that I could make so satisfactory an answer. As
he sat regarding me, Heinze bent over him and said something to him in
a low tone, to which he replied: “But that would prove nothing. He might
have a most accurate knowledge of military affairs, and still be an
agent of the Government.”
“That is so, General,” Heinze answered, aloud. “But it would prove
whether he is telling the truth about his having been at West Point. If
his story is false in part, it is probably entirely false, as I believe
it to be.”
“Captain Heinze suggests that I allow him to test you with some
questions,” the General said, doubtfully; “questions on military
matters. Would you answer them?”
I did not want them to see how eager I was to be put to such a test, so
I tried to look as though I were frightened, and said, cautiously,
“I will try, sir.” I saw that the proposition to put me through an
examination had filled Aiken with the greatest concern. To reassure him,
I winked covertly.
Captain Heinze glanced about him as though looking for a text.
“Let us suppose,” he said, importantly, “that you are an
inspector-general come to inspect this camp. It is one that I myself
selected; as adjutant it is under my direction. What would you report as
to its position, its advantages and disadvantages?”
I did not have to look about me. Without moving from where I stood,
I could see all that was necessary of that camp. But I first asked,
timidly: “Is this camp a temporary one, made during a halt on the march,
or has it been occupied for some days?”
“We have been here for two weeks,” said Heinze.
“Is it supposed that a war is going on?” I asked, politely; “I mean, are
we in the presence of an enemy?”
“Of course,” answered Heinze. “Certainly we are at war.”
“Then,” I said, triumphantly, “in my report I should recommend that the
officer who selected this camp should be court-martialled.”
Heinze gave a shout of indignant laughter, and Aiken glared at me as
though he thought I had flown suddenly mad, but Laguerre only frowned
and waved his hand impatiently.
“You are bold, sir,” he said, grimly; “I trust you can explain
yourself.”
I pointed from the basin in which we stood, to the thickly wooded hills
around us.
“This camp has the advantage of water and grass,” I said. I spoke
formally, as though I were really making a report. “Those are its only
advantages. Captain Heinze has pitched it in a hollow. In case of an
attack, he has given the advantage of position to the enemy. Fifty
men could conceal themselves on those ridges and fire upon you as
effectively as though they had you at the bottom of a well. There are no
pickets out, except along the trail, which is the one approach the enemy
would not take. So far as this position counts, then,” I summed up, “the
camp is an invitation to a massacre.”
I did not dare look at the General, but I pointed at the guns at his
side. “Your two field-pieces are in their covers, and the covers are
strapped on them. It would take three minutes to get them into action.
Instead of being here in front of the tent, they should be up there on
those two highest points. There are no racks for the men’s rifles or
ammunition belts. The rifles are lying on the ground and scattered
everywhere--in case of an attack the men would not know where to lay
their hands on them. It takes only two forked sticks and a ridge-pole
with nicks in it, to make an excellent gun-rack, but there is none of
any sort. As for the sanitary arrangements of the camp, they are _nil_.
The refuse from the troop kitchen is scattered all over the place, and
so are the branches on which the men have been lying. There is no way
for them to cross that stream without their getting their feet wet; and
every officer knows that wet feet are worse than wet powder. The place
does not look as though it had been policed since you came here. It’s a
fever swamp. If you have been here two weeks, it’s a wonder your whole
force isn’t as rotten as sheep. And there!” I cried, pointing at the
stream which cut the camp in two--“there are men bathing and washing
their clothes up-stream, and those men below them are filling buckets
with water for cooking and drinking. Why have you no water-guards?
You ought to have a sentry there, and there. The water above the first
sentry should be reserved for drinking, below him should be the place
for watering your horses, and below the second sentry would be the water
for washing clothes. Why, these things are the A, B, C, of camp life.”
For the first time since I had begun to speak, I turned on Heinze and
grinned at him.
“How do you like my report on your camp?” I asked. “Now, don’t you agree
with me that you should be court-martialled?” Heinze’s anger exploded
like a shell.
“You should be court-martialled yourself!” he shouted. “You are
insulting our good General. For me, I do not care. But you shall not
reflect upon my commanding officer, for him I--”
“That will do, Captain Heinze,” Laguerre said, quietly. “That will do,
thank you.” He did not look up at either of us, but for some time sat
with his elbow on his knee and with his chin resting in the palm of his
hand, staring at the camp. There was a long, and, for me, an awkward
silence. The General turned his head and stared at me. His expression
was exceedingly grave, but without resentment.
“You are quite right,” he said, finally. Heinze and Aiken moved
expectantly forward, anxious to hear him pass sentence upon me. Seeing
this he raised his voice and repeated: “You are quite right in what you
say about the camp. All you say is quite true.”
He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and, as he continued
speaking with his face averted, it was as though he were talking to
himself.
“We grow careless as we grow older,” he said, “One grows less difficult
to please.” His tone was that of a man excusing himself to himself. “The
old standards, the old models, pass away and--and failures, failures
come and dull the energy.” His voice dropped into a monotone; he seemed
to have forgotten us entirely.
It must have been then that for the first time I saw the wistful look
come into his eyes, and suddenly felt deeply sorry for him and wished
that I might dare to tell him so. I was not sorry for any act or speech
of mine. They had attacked me, and I had only defended myself. I was not
repentant for anything I had said; my sorrow was for what I read in the
General’s eyes as he sat staring out into the valley. It was the saddest
and loneliest look that I had ever seen. There was no bitterness in
it, but great sadness and weariness and disappointment, and above all,
loneliness, utter and complete loneliness.
He glanced up and saw me watching him, and for a moment regarded me
curiously, and then, as though I had tried to force my way into his
solitude, turned his eyes quickly away.
I had forgotten that I was a suspected spy until the fact was recalled
to me at that moment by the reappearance of Major Reeder. He came
bustling past me, carrying as I saw, to my great indignation, the sword
which had been presented to my grandfather, and which my grandfather had
given to me. I sprang after him and twisted it out of his hand.
“How dare you!” I cried. “You have opened my trunk! How dare you pry
into my affairs? General Laguerre!” I protested. “I appeal to you, sir.”
“Major Reeder,” the General demanded, sharply, “what does this mean?”
“I was merely seeking evidence, General,” said Reeder. “You asked for
his papers, and I went to look for them.”
“I gave you no orders to pry into this gentleman’s trunk,” said the
General. “You have exceeded your authority. You have done very ill, sir.
You have done very ill.”
While the General was reproving Reeder, his eyes, instead of looking at
the officer, were fixed upon my sword. It was sufficiently magnificent
to attract the attention of anyone, certainly of any soldier. The
scabbard was of steel, wonderfully engraved, the hilt was of ivory, and
the hilt-guard and belt fastenings were all of heavy gold. The General’s
face was filled with appreciation.
“You have a remarkably handsome sword there,” he said, and hesitated,
courteously, “--I beg your pardon, I have not heard your name?”
I was advancing to show the sword to him, when my eye fell upon the
plate my grandfather had placed upon it, and which bore the inscription:
“To Royal Macklin, on his appointment to the United States Military
Academy, from his Grandfather, John M. Hamilton, Maj. Gen. U.S.A.”
“My name is Macklin, sir,” I said, “Royal Macklin.” I laid the sword
lengthwise in his hands, and then pointed at the inscription. “You will
find it there,” I said. The General bowed and bent his head over the
inscription and then read the one beside it. This stated that the sword
had been presented by the citizens of New York to Major-General John
M. Hamilton in recognition of his distinguished services during the war
with Mexico. The General glanced up at me in astonishment.
“General Hamilton!” he exclaimed. “General John Hamilton! Is that--was
he your grandfather?”
I bowed my head, and the General stared at me as though I had
contradicted him.
“But, let me tell you, sir,” he protested, “that he was my friend.
General Hamilton was my friend for many years. Let me tell you, sir,”
he went on, excitedly, “that your grandfather was a brave and courteous
gentleman, a true friend and--and a great soldier, sir, a great soldier.
I knew your grandfather well. I knew him well.” He rose suddenly, and,
while still holding the sword close to him, shook my hand.
“Captain Heinze,” he said, “bring out a chair for Mr. Macklin.” He did
not notice the look of injury with which Heinze obeyed this request.
But I did, and I enjoyed the spectacle, and as Heinze handed me the
camp-chair I thanked him politely. I could afford to be generous.
The General was drawing the sword a few inches from its scabbard and
shoving it back, again, turning it over in his hands.
“And to think that this is John Hamilton’s sword,” he said, “and that
you are John Hamilton’s grandson!” As the sword lay across his knees he
kept stroking it and touching it as one might caress a child, glancing
up at me from time to time with a smile. It seemed to have carried him
back again into days and scenes to which we all were strangers, and
we watched him without speaking. He became suddenly conscious of our
silence, and, on looking up, seemed to become uncomfortably aware of the
presence of Aiken and the two officers.
“That will do, gentlemen,” he said. “You will return with Mr. Aiken
after roll-call.” The officers saluted as they moved away, with Aiken
between them. He raised his eyebrows and tapped himself on the chest. I
understood that he meant by this that I was to say a good word for
him, and I nodded. When they had left us the General leaned forward and
placed his hand upon my shoulder.
“Now tell me,” he said. “Tell me everything. Tell me what you are doing
here, and why you ran away from home. Trust me entirely, and do not be
afraid to speak the whole truth.”
I saw that he thought I had left home because I had been guilty of some
wildness, if not of some crime, and I feared that my story would prove
so inoffensive that he would think I was holding something back. But his
manner was so gentle and generous that I plunged in boldly. I told
him everything; of my life with my grandfather, of my disgrace at the
Academy, of my desire, in spite of my first failure, to still make
myself a soldier. And then I told him of how I had been disappointed and
disillusioned, and how it had hurt me to find that this fight seemed so
sordid and the motives of all engaged only mercenary and selfish. But
once did he interrupt me, and then by an exclamation which I mistook for
an exclamation of disbelief, and which I challenged quickly. “But it
is true, sir,” I said. “I joined the revolutionists for just that
reason--because they were fighting for their liberty and because they
had been wronged and were the under-dogs in the fight, and because
Alvarez is a tyrant. I had no other motive. Indeed, you must believe me,
sir,” I protested, “or I cannot talk to you. It is the truth.”
“The truth!” exclaimed Laguerre, fiercely; and as he raised his eyes I
saw that they had suddenly filled with tears. “It is the first time I
have heard the truth in many years. It is what I have preached myself
for half a lifetime; what I have lived for and fought for. Why, here,
now,” he cried, “while I have been sitting listening to you, it was as
though the boy I used to be had come back to talk to me, bringing my old
ideals, the old enthusiasm.” His manner and his tone suddenly altered,
and he shook his head and placed his hand almost tenderly upon my own.
“But I warn you,” he said, “I warn you that you are wrong. You have
begun young, and there is yet time for you to turn back; but if you hope
for money, or place, or public favor, you have taken the wrong road. You
will be a rolling-stone among milestones, and the way is all down
hill. I began to fight when I was even younger than you. I fought for
whichever party seemed to me to have the right on its side. Sometimes I
have fought for rebels and patriots, sometimes for kings, sometimes for
pretenders. I was out with Garibaldi, because I believed he would give a
republic to Italy; but I fought against the republic of Mexico, because
its people were rotten and corrupt, and I believed that the emperor
would rule them honestly and well. I have always chosen my own side,
the one which seemed to me promised the most good; and yet, after
thirty years, I am where you see me to-night. I am an old man without
a country, I belong to no political party, I have no family, I have no
home. I have travelled over all the world looking for that country which
was governed for the greater good of the greater number, and I have
fought only for those men who promised to govern unselfishly and as the
servants of the people. But when the fighting was over, and they were
safe in power, they had no use for me nor my advice. They laughed, and
called me a visionary and a dreamer. ‘You are no statesman, General,’
they would say to me. ‘Your line is the fighting-line. Go back to it.’
And yet, when I think of how the others have used their power, I believe
that I could have ruled the people as well, and yet given them more
freedom, and made more of them more happy.”
The moon rose over the camp, and the night grew chill; but still we
sat, he talking and I listening as I had used to listen when I sat at
my grandfather’s knee and he told me tales of war and warriors. They
brought us coffee and food, and we ate with an ammunition-box for a
table, he still talking and I eager to ask questions, and yet fearful of
interrupting him. He told of great battles which had changed the history
of Europe, of secret expeditions which had never been recorded even
in his own diary, of revolutions which after months of preparation
had burst forth and had been crushed between sunset and sunrise; of
emperors, kings, patriots, and charlatans. There was nothing that I
had wished to do, and that I had imagined myself doing, that he had not
accomplished in reality--the acquaintances he had made among the leaders
of men, the adventures he had suffered, the honors he had won, were
those which to me were the most to be desired.
{Illustration: The moon rose over the camp ... but still we sat.}
The scene around us added color to his words. The moonlight fell on
ghostly groups of men seated before the camp-fires, their faces glowing
in the red light of the ashes; on the irregular rows of thatched
shelters and on the shadowy figures of the ponies grazing at the
picket-line. All the odors of a camp, which to me are more grateful than
those of a garden, were borne to us on the damp night-air; the clean
pungent smell of burning wood, the scent of running water, the smell of
many horses crowded together and of wet saddles and accoutrements. And
above the swift rush of the stream, we could hear the ceaseless pounding
of the horses’ hoofs on the turf, the murmurs of the men’s voices, and
the lonely cry of the night-birds.
It was past midnight when the General rose, and my brain rioted with the
pictures he had drawn for me. Surely, if I had ever considered turning
back, I now no longer tolerated the thought of it. If he had wished to
convince me that the life of a soldier of fortune was an ungrateful one
he had set about proving it in the worst possible way. At that moment I
saw no career so worthy to be imitated as his own, no success to be so
envied as his failures. And in the glow and inspiration of his talk, and
with the courage of a boy, I told him so. I think he was not ill pleased
at what I said, nor with me. He seemed to approve of what I had related
of myself, and of the comments I had made upon his reminiscences. He had
said, again and again: “That is an intelligent question,” “You have put
your finger on the real weakness of the attack,” “That was exactly the
error in his strategy.”
When he turned to enter his tent he shook my hand. “I do not know when I
have talked so much,” he laughed, “nor,” he added, with grave courtesy,
“when I have had so intelligent a listener. Good-night.”
Throughout the evening he had been holding my sword, and as he entered
the tent he handed it to me.
“Oh, I forgot,” he said. “Here is your sword, Captain.”
The flaps of the tent fell behind him, and I was left outside of them,
incredulous and trembling.