"To be hanged by the neck until dead." Well, no one was surprised. It
was a foregone conclusion. Desertion to the enemy in time of war is one
of the crimes military that cuts a man off from any chance for clemency.
When he lifts his hands against his former comrades, he is as one
already dead; that is, if he is caught. Private Wilson made the fatal
mistake of being caught. The result was inevitable.
Though Private Wilson was expecting these very words, the sound of them,
cutting the absolute silence, sent a cold contraction to his heart, and
his thick lips drew themselves over his white teeth. Doubtless, if it
had been possible, he would have turned pale; but since he was as black
as the proverbial ace of spades, this was out of the question. Private
Wilson belonged to the 19th Cavalry, which, as the initiated know, is a
negro regiment.
There was no movement in the still line of the squadron when the fatal
order was read, except a slight tremor, almost imperceptible, like the
first faint rustling of leaves in the dead quiet that precedes a storm.
Then from the right of "B" Troop there came a deep, indrawn breath, and
the first sergeant's horse sprang sideways, in amazement, against that
of the guidon. The animal was accustomed to being treated as tenderly as
an infant, and now, for no fault whatever, he had received a rough
pressure from his rider's knees, and a sharp dig from the spurs. The
first sergeant was old Jeremiah Wilson, and the prisoner, standing to
the "front and center" in the gathering dusk, and hearing his fate
pronounced, was Jeremiah's son.
Sergeant Wilson was the one man in the squadron who had hoped against
hope, and now that hope was dead. It died hard, and its death was
recorded in that contraction of the knees and dig of the spurs. The
guidon paid no attention. In his heart he believed that the sentence was
just; but his pity went out to the old soldier on his right. His eyes,
however, were fixed on Private Wilson, as were those of the rest of the
squadron. The prisoner had acquired a new status. Here was a human being
within two weeks of the solution of the greatest of all mysteries. He
was worth looking at. The condemned man saw the interest shown in him,
and, upheld by the feeling of self-importance inherent in the negro
character, and always brought to the surface by applause or other
manifestation of unusual attention, bore himself jauntily.
There was nothing of this to sustain his old father. He had participated
in executions before. For him there were no visions of walking to death
with a "firm tread," as the papers say, and "dying game" before the
admiring eyes of soldiers and natives. With him it was steel-ribbed
facts. He could hear the bang of the trap, the snap of the rope, and the
quivering creak of the scaffold. And afterward, the lonely, hopeless
years. Besides, the dishonor of it. What irony to parade with thirty
years of service chevrons on his sleeves, and be pointed out as the
father of a man hanged for deserting to the Filipinos!
The officers went to the front and center and the formation was over.
Private Wilson departed to his closely guarded prison, and old Jeremiah
took the troop to quarters and dismissed it. For the first time in
twenty years he forgot to "open chamber and magazine," and publish the
details for the next day. He wanted to be alone; away from the pitying
eyes of the black men of the troop.
He had honestly believed that there were grounds for hope. He could not
see now, in the face of the evidence, how the court could have given
"Buff" the extreme penalty. He thought he had explained the
circumstances so clearly. Hadn't he told the tribunal of the baleful
influence of Mercedes Martinez? how this _mestiza_, had lured his boy to
his downfall? He thought he had shown positively, by his testimony,
that this woman had terrible "voodoo" powers and had _conjured_ "Buff."
Hadn't they apparently listened with wonder while he related the charms
that had been brought to bear on his son? the devils that had pursued
him; the angels that had beckoned him away to the hills; the divine call
he had received to be the George Washington of the Filipinos, and lead
them to freedom?
[Illustration: "ALL DAY LONG OLD SERGEANT WILSON SAT IN THE CORNER OF
THE SQUAD ROOM, CLASPING AND UNCLASPING HIS STRAINING HANDS"]
The old soldier's pride in his son's physical perfection had always
blinded him to the fact that the private was constantly in trouble, and
was known as a "bad egg." If any one had told him that he was an object
of pity because of his boy's worthlessness, he would have sputtered with
indignation. He never realized that Buff escaped many a "bawling out"
because the officers respected the father's long years of faithful
service and did not want to humiliate him. He knew that his boy flew
high occasionally, but that was because he was "jess nachally sprightly
and full o' devilment." No one could deny that Private Wilson was one of
the finest animals, physically, that ever wore the uniform; or that he
had gained a wide reputation among his comrades and the Filipinos on
account of his terrible abilities in a hand-to-hand engagement. It was
this very notoriety that had attracted the insurgents' attention to him,
and led to his downfall.
[Illustration: "CABLE THE PRESIDENT! WHAT A JOKE!"]
The little brown men stood in awe of this black demon, and wanted him on
their side. His military training and reputation as a fighter would be
of inestimable value. With their usual craft the insurgent officials
went about to wean the soldier from his allegiance, and by the aid of
the _mestiza_ beauty, Mercedes Martinez, succeeded in their purpose.
Between retreat and reveille of one July night, Private Wilson, led by
visions of love and a brigadier-general's star, took to the hills. He
longed to emulate the black renegade, Fagan, but having none of Fagan's
"foxiness" or ability, he was soon laid by the heels. Men of his own
squadron took him. He demanded at first to be treated as befitted his
rank; but none of his self-importance went with his black captors.
"We'll brigidiale-gene'al yer, yer black scound'al," they remarked
cheerfully, as they stripped off his tinsel stars. "Yer oughter be
lynched."
They "Gen'al Wilsoned" him until he was sick of it and begged them to
stop. Then, when they got back to the station, they popped him into the
"jigger" along with privates charged with sassing the cook and other
heinous offenses--a most humiliating experience for a brigadier general.
Now he must die; and it came to him that it was as hard for a general
officer to die as ever it was for a private.
[Illustration: "THE CIRCLE CLOSED IN AS THE SEA SURGES UP UPON THE
LAND"]
When his son had disappeared, old Sergeant Wilson had borne himself
proudly, even in the face of rumors and insinuations. His boy would not
desert. That he might have gone outside the lines to see some "lady
friend" and been captured, yes; but no desertion. Even when tales of his
lurid doings out in the province began to come in, old Jeremiah had not
faltered in his faith. They were lies, all of them, or it was some other
man. Nor when Buff was taken, with his patent-leather boots and tin
stars, was the old man shaken; for the explanation that the private gave
as to how he had been conjured was easier for Wilson to believe than
that his "baby" had been false to his salt. But now the case was
different. The disgrace of being parent to a "bobtailed" and condemned
criminal was as the bitterness of death.
Up to now, for all his hard sixty years of life, he had carried himself
like a lance. The whiteness of age in his woolly hair was not reflected
in the iron spirit that upheld his wrinkled body. But the shame of those
words spoken on parade had undone that, as suddenly as ashes crumble
before the touch.
The days immediately following the publishing of Buff's sentence were
nightmares of pain and humiliation. The old negro could hardly bring
himself to go to headquarters at first sergeant's call. When he did go,
he moved heavily, like a man asleep, and with his eyes fixed on the
ground, that he might not meet the curious, pitying glances of his
fellow soldiers.
After a week of this, old Jeremiah began to make mistakes at drill and
mistakes in his troop papers; a thing hitherto unknown. Finally
Lieutenant Perkins, the troop commander, lost his patience at some bull
the old sergeant made, and called him down roughly, in the presence of
the troop.
"Look here, Sergeant Wilson, I won't have any more of this. I'll bust
you higher than a kite. I don't care if you've had fifty years of
service. If you are mooning about that worthless boy of yours, you had
better get over it. It's a damn good riddance, and you know it as well
as I do. You'll have to take a brace or something will drop."
If Perkins had not been born several degrees north of Mason and Dixon's
line he would have known better than that; as it was, he did not
understand these negroes. He hadn't the faintest conception of how to
handle these simple-hearted black men. He was not popular with them at
any time, and this unheard-of piece of cruelty cut every tender-hearted
trooper as deeply as if it had been aimed at him personally. This was
the first break, and, as a consequence, something did drop, in a way
that Perkins hardly expected.
The old sergeant made no reply to this reprimand, but simply stood at
attention, though his black, weazened face worked and his lips trembled.
It was the first time since he was a buck private that he had been
spoken to in such a manner. For the first time, the yoke of discipline
galled him. The bitterness of his inferiority and servitude was as
wormwood within him. The harsh injustice of such treatment in this, his
black hour, after years of faithful work, aroused in him a demon of
resentment that made him long to strike back.
The occurrence startled him from his lethargy. He suddenly realized that
his son's few remaining hours on earth were slipping by, and the boy had
not been comforted. When this came to him, his self-reproach cut him
sharply, and he resolved to make amends at once. He obtained permission
from the officer of the day, and that evening, after retreat, went to
see Buff.
He found the general plucked of his plumage. The prospect of death so
close to him had narrowed the black boy's perspective. "The worldly hope
men set their hearts upon" had turned ashes, and it were hard to find "a
man who looked so wistfully on the day" as this doomed soldier. He
wanted to live. Every atom of animal strength in his perfect body was
charged with a desire to exist. This living, day after day, in close
proximity to the grave had tended to a simplification of ideas. He had
harked back to childhood, and when his father came, the prisoner, in his
clanking irons, turned to him as a pickaninny might have done for
protection from some bugaboo.
Old Jeremiah sat on the cot, while Buff occupied a small stool directly
in front of him. They talked in low tones, of ordinary subjects, at
first; then gradually went back through the years. The white-haired old
negro and the young soldier both smiled as they recalled childish
escapades of the latter, 'way back in "God's country." They lost
themselves in reminiscence, and forgot the present, until the wan moon,
coming up, cast the shadows of the bars in the window across them. Then
with a shiver they remembered.
Suddenly the private began to talk of his death, and as he spoke the
terror of it grew on him. This man, known to have killed more than one
American soldier and to be absolutely fearless in battle, quaked with
abject fright. He would contend gladly in a contest against hopeless
odds; but at the thought of his end creeping on him thus, slowly,
inexorably his soul writhed in terror. He leaned forward and pressed his
face on his father's knees.
"Oh, paw, ain't yer gwine ter help me? Won't you do somethin' fer me? Ah
doan' wanter die yit. Tain't my time ter die. Ah nevah meant no hahm,
paw. Ef they'll just give me one moah chanst, ah'll do anything they
say. Honest, ah will. Gawd! paw, yer ain't gwine ter let 'em kill me, is
yer?"
The soldier raised his head and looked into the sergeant's black face as
though the latter were omnipotent, and only had to say the word to make
him free. Then, with a shivering sigh, he laid his head on his father's
knees again.
"Sh--sh," the old sergeant said softly, "Sh--sh"; and that was all he
could do; but his wrinkled hand wandered tenderly over the prisoner's
black, kinky hair, and tears rolled down his seamed face.
When Buff's panic wore off a bit, he was made to lie down, and Jeremiah,
sitting beside him, crooned softly, as the old black mammies do to the
little children. By the time call to quarters sounded, the condemned
man's quiet breathing told that his earthly troubles were forgotten, for
a time at least.
After this visit, Sergeant Wilson's apparent neglect of his duties
became more pronounced than ever. The simplest orders and directions
received from his troop's commander, he either forgot to perform or
executed in such a bunglesome manner as to drive Lieutenant Perkins'
irritable nature to the verge of hysteria. The latter, with his narrow
sympathies, could make no allowance for the old negro's state of mind,
and his "roasts" became more frequent and rougher with each repetition.
The sergeant took it all with apparent resignation; but within him the
troubled spirit was surging to and fro. How could he be expected to copy
troop returns and muster rolls, with that cry--"Gawd, paw, yer ain't
gwine ter let 'em kill me, is yer?" ringing in his ears, hour by hour?
It was the unfairness of it that aroused his resentment.
If the "ole Cap'n" were only here, all would be well. It was another
cruel stroke that he should be absent on detached service just when
Jeremiah needed him most.
Soldiers are a peculiar breed. They are more nearly like children in
certain characteristics than any other class of men. They are so
accustomed to being taken care of by their officers that they look to
the latter for everything. When they find one who they know will stand
up for them, and whom they can trust, their faith and confidence in him
are absolute. They will follow him through fire and flood, and obey any
order that he may give, in the blind belief that he knows what is best
for them. This is true of white soldiers, and much more so of the
darkies. This is the feeling that old Jeremiah and the men of the troop
held for Captain North, whom they all called the "ole Cap'n."
In all the years these two had served together, since the battle of the
Rosebud, when Lieutenant John T. North earned a medal of honor for
"bringing in Private J. Wilson, 19th Cavalry, who was wounded, under a
heavy fire from the Indians, at the imminent risk of his own life," the
sergeant had never received a harsh word or a rebuke that he did not
know was merited. But the sullen fury that this young prig aroused in
him was unbearable. He felt that his inherent subordination to
discipline was being torn to shreds.
This went on for three days. The discipline in the troop was growing
ragged with startling rapidity, and Perkins felt it. The men, under the
constant abuse heaped upon one whom they respected and pitied, were
growing sullen and restive. Each of these soft-hearted troopers was
gradually acquiring and nursing a personal grudge. They were forgetting
their ideas of the fitness of things. They lost sight of everything
except a clearly monumental piece of injustice.
Instead of meeting the issue fairly, and acknowledging the error of his
position, Perkins became obstinately harsher and harsher. Not only was
he unnecessarily abusive to old Jeremiah, but his treatment of the whole
troop was stern to a degree. Finally, on this third day, after a violent
harangue in presence of the troop, he reduced the old negro from first
sergeant to sergeant.
This was the second break, and when Perkins went that morning to inspect
the old church that served as quarters, he found the men congregated in
little groups in the squad room. There was not the usual loud-voiced
chatter and laughter, but a sullen murmur that dropped to quick silence
when he entered. This was bad. There was nothing specific, but he
instinctively felt that he was losing his hold. He chafed to do
something to "smash these niggers," but there was nothing to seize upon;
so he swore at a man loudly for not having his clothing arranged
properly, and ordered him to the guard-house. When the officer left, the
same ominous murmur arose in the quarters.
It was evident, also, that outside influences were beginning to
work--the sign of the Katapunan. There was hardly a man in "B" Troop but
had his _querida_ or sweetheart among the native women. As one of the
black soldiers remarked: "Ef de gem'men Filypinos had 'a' been as
complacent as de ladies, der nevah would 'a' bin no insurrecshun nohow."
In their off hours the men, in their grim anger, confided their troubles
to these dusky females, and the crafty women began to work upon the
spirit of rebellion amongst the simple colored soldiers.
Why did they submit themselves to such a wretch as this _Teniente_
Perkins? Why didn't they show him that they were men to be feared? Why
did they allow that magnificent black comrade, Wilson, to be hanged,
without making an effort to save him; when doing so would be the one
thing that would make _Teniente_ Perkins wild with rage? They were too
cunning to urge open mutiny, but the seed they sowed gave growth to
thought.
The darkies of "B" Troop were, first of all, soldiers. Subordination to
the wills of their superiors was ingrained in their natures. They did
not want to "buck," but it seemed as if the troop commander were trying
to force them to rebel. They endeavored to forget the words of the
Filipino women; but how could they, when all day long old Sergeant
Wilson sat in the corner of the squad room, clasping and unclasping his
straining hands; while on his sleeves were the marks where his first
sergeant's chevrons had been ripped off?
Two more days dragged by, and conditions in the troop grew worse.
Perkins had heard some loud-mouthed private baying forth incendiary, not
to say uncomplimentary remarks; had placed the troop on the straight
ration, and suppressed the pass list. The men wandered about the
quarters with a nervous, preoccupied air. They did not look at each
other. They felt that if they gave rein to their feelings, something
horrible would happen. They did not want it to happen; they wanted to be
good soldiers. But this man was forcing them; forcing their hands. There
is a limit to everything. What he had done was nothing if they had
deserved it. It was the rank injustice that made them furious. They felt
that they must have some escape for their feelings or they would burst
through the bonds. Consequently, when Sergeant Potter broached his
scheme, they hailed it with acclamation. A little conference was held in
one end of the quarters, and after it was over Potter went to speak to
old Jeremiah.
The ex-first sergeant had taken no part in the proceedings--in fact, he
knew nothing of them. He had stayed in his corner, where he had sat for
the last three days, with his eyes fixed on the floor, clasping and
unclasping his hands. Sergeant Potter sat down on a bunk beside him and
touched him on the shoulder. The old man started.
"Look a yere, sarge, yer oughter take a brace. Me and the res' of de
boys is mighty sorry fer yer--we showly is. But yer mussent grieve so,
cause yer showly gwineter be sick ef yer does."
"I'se obleeged to yer, Potter, you and de boys."
"Yes, suh, me an de boys feels mighty bad cause yer got busted, an'--an'
about the other things. Ef yer'll 'scuse me, sarge, fer talkin' about
it, we wondered ef dere wahnt somethin' yer could do fur--fur Buff."
Seeing the drawn look come back to the older man's face, Potter
continued hurriedly----
"Thar now, sarge, I'se powerful sorry ef I'se hu't yoh feelin's, but me
an' de boys thought ef yer'd telegraph to Division Headquatahs, dey
might do somethin'. 'Twon't do no hahm, nohow."
He then went on and talked in such a persuasive strain that, in spite of
his common-sense, a gleam of hope began to burn in Jeremiah's eyes. Yes,
it would cost something, but the boys had got together a little purse to
defray the expenses of the telegram. This could be turned over to the
Lieutenant, who would doubtless have no difficulty in getting the
necessary permission from the squadron commander. The old man had been
inactive and without hope for so long that the idea of any effort
embracing a chance of success aroused in him a fierce energy. Once
persuaded, he was impatient to be at work. If anything were to be done,
it must be done at once. In the next day and the next, Private Wilson's
sands would have run out.
It was apparently a good omen that Lieutenant Perkins should walk into
the quarters while they were talking. Potter and Jeremiah went to him
without loss of time and respectfully broached their request. The rest
of the men stood around at attention, trying to look as though they were
not listening, but straining their ears to catch every word. The officer
heard them through, and then burst out impatiently----
"Well, of all the wild-cat schemes I ever heard of, that is the worst.
The idea, Wilson, of a man of your length of service proposing such a
thing. Hanging is too good for that son of yours, and you know it. I'll
have nothing to do with this, and don't want to hear any more of it.
That'll do now."
The silence that followed these words was silence indeed. Every man in
the room caught them, and there was not one of the fifty present who did
not feel a hot, uncomfortable throbbing at his temples.
In the old sergeant, the last connecting link of discipline was strained
nearly to the breaking point. An angry gleam appeared in his eyes, and
he said in a low, shaking voice:
"Ve'ly well, Suh, I shall go to de commandin' officah."
"All right, you can do as you please about that; but you will hear from
it," and Perkins walked into the orderly room, where he proceeded to
make life miserable for the subdued wretch who was acting first sergeant
of the troop.
In a few minutes the commanding officer's orderly presented the
commanding officer's compliments to Lieutenant Perkins, and informed him
that the commanding officer would like to see him at the office.
Major Don Carlos Bliss, who was known throughout the service as a
splendid soldier, did not think much of Perkins. He had had his eye on
"B" Troop lately, and did not like the looks of things a little bit. He
was a man of strong convictions and never hesitated to express them. He
had known old Jeremiah Wilson for years, and when he learned of the
latter's reduction, his opinion that Perkins was a fool was duly
confirmed. He knew that much of the lieutenant's irritability was due to
"nerves" acquired by a steady and conscientious course of drinking, with
which procedure he had no patience.
Perkins, when he entered, found the sergeant standing at the desk.
"Mr. Perkins," the Major said shortly, "while Sergeant Wilson's request
is a little out of the ordinary, I have no objection to his sending a
telegram through this office. I can put no recommendation for clemency
in it, however, for I consider the sentence a just one. When you get
this message drafted the way Sergeant Wilson wants it, bring it to me,
and let me see it, and," he concluded, looking Perkins steadily in the
eye from under his bushy brows, "I advise you to do it at once."
The telegram went that afternoon. The plea for clemency was based,
principally, upon Sergeant Wilson's years of faithful service, and the
fact that his son was too young to appreciate the enormity of his crime.
Twenty-four hours passed, and there was no answer to the message. In
that time Sergeant Jeremiah Wilson drank deeply of the bitter cup. He
had aged suddenly in the last two weeks. Brooding in the hot, sticky,
tropical days is not good for a man, especially when that man is no
longer young. Shapes and shadows in the brain grow rapidly, and soon
assume enormous proportions. Now the fluctuating tides of hope and
despair gnawed steadily at the weakened foundation of his reason. The
men of the troop were more restless and ill at ease than ever. They had
lost sight of the fact that the prisoner's guilt was as black as the
mouth of the pit. All they saw was a darky soldier clinging tenaciously
to his life, and the agony of that darky's father. Each sympathetic
trooper had begotten a personal interest that ruled him completely.
Besides, the mad hatred they bore Perkins and the hope of backsetting
him led them on. Shapes and shadows were growing in their minds also.
Twenty-seven hours after the appeal was sent to Division Headquarters a
signal corps private walked into "B" Troop's barracks and asked for
Sergeant Jeremiah Wilson. When the latter was pointed out, the man
handed him the familiar yellow envelope, with the crossed signal flags
on the cover, and the burning torch. An instant quiet fell in the room,
as Jeremiah received the crackling paper. He took it deliberately, and
with trembling fingers fumbled for his glasses. Deliberately he put them
on, and deliberately abstracted the message from the envelope, while the
silent troopers watched him with fascinated gaze. He unfolded the paper
and stared at it, then, taking off his glasses, wiped them and stared
again; but it was no use, the mist dimmed the lenses.
"Heah, Potter, you read hit," he said finally with unsteady voice. "De
light's too bad. Ah can't see."
Sergeant Potter took the telegram and spelled it out slowly:
MANILA, P. I., OCT. 2, 1900.
5.30 P.M.
SERGEANT J. WILSON,
TR, "B," 19TH CAV.
(Thro the Commanding Officer Guinibongbong, P. I.)
The Division Commander will take no action nor grant any delay
in case of Private B. Wilson, Nineteenth Cavalry. Has no
objection to laying of case before President provided cable is
without expense to government. Upon receipt of cable through
this office indicating that such action is contemplated order of
suspension will be issued.
By order MAJOR GENERAL WHEATLEY,
CASTIN, ADJUTANT GENERAL.
So that was the end of it. The irony, the humor of giving permission to
lay the case before the President; by cable, too, with cable-grams only
costing fifty cents a word! What magnanimity, what sarcasm, in sending
such permission to a negro sergeant drawing twenty-six dollars a month!
It would have been better for Jeremiah's peace of mind if that part had
been left out. After it was over, and in the years to come, he would
never be able to escape the thought that one thing more might have been
done to save Buff's life--that once chance was left untried because of
the lack of a few paltry dollars. Potter handed back the telegram
slowly, and Jeremiah walked out into the darkness to fight his fight
alone.
The sergeant stopped on the small stone porch and looked out into the
town plaza. The clouds were low and dark in the late twilight, and as
he stood, a few big drops fell, slowly increasing until there was a
heavy down-pour. The rains had come, and soon the monotonous roar on the
metal roofs, steady as the beating of a giant heart, told that the earth
was receiving its semi-annual deluge.
Jeremiah stood in a small niche where he was partially exposed to the
rain. When it and the water from a broken gutter, striking a balustrade
beside him, splashed him with fine spray, he made no effort to move. Why
should he care? He was only a worthless old nigger. A little wetness
more or less would make no difference. A carelessness for all things
earthly and pertaining to his own worn-out old body grew upon him. Then
he suddenly ceased to think of himself. The sound of the rain in his
ears seemed to be boring into his brain. Steady, inexorable,
unanswerable as fate, it weighed upon him like a giant hand, and it came
to him that he was comparing that roar to the death that was approaching
his son.
* * * * *
When old Jeremiah left the squad room, there had been general silence
for a time, and then events began to move rapidly, as they continued to
do until the end of this peculiar episode. Sergeant Potter stood for a
moment, with his hands behind his back, gazing at the floor, then he
looked up, and cried out to the whole room:
"Look a heah, boys, is yer gwine ter be beat dis a way? Is yer gwine ter
tuck yer tails atween yer laigs, and say 'let 'er go!' as long as dere
is a chanst? Is yer goin' to 'low dat monkey-faced lootinint to grin at
yer sarcastic? Yer know me. I'se as strong fur discipline as any pu'son;
but dere's a eend to every man's patience." He jerked a hat off a bunk
near him, and threw it down. "Dis is all de dough I got in de worl'," he
said, holding up two silver dollars, "but she'll send fo' words to de
Presydent of dese United States, so heah she goes," and he tossed them
into the hat at his feet. "Come on, boys, dem as wants to be high-tone
and pass de time o' day with de Presydent, chip in."
As soon as they grasped the idea, the appeal was effectual. Out came all
the cash the black men had. It was mostly Mex. _medio pesos_ and
_pesetas_, for "pay day, pay day" had not sounded for over a month. The
silver jingled merrily into the hat, and the affair became a sort of
jollification, each man vying with the others to see how much more he
could "dig up." Their volatile natures, guided solely by impulse and an
undercurrent of generosity, led them to give all they had without
thinking. Man after man, in high good-humor, plunged his hands into
some corner of his box locker and raked up little hoards of cash that he
had saved for tobacco, soap, and such necessities. However, when the
silver was poured on the bed and counted, Sergeant Potter scratched his
woolly head.
"Tain't no kinder use, boys. Twenty-fo' dollars an' ten cents. Dat'll
sen' fo'ty-eight big words and one little 'un. Dat ain't nowhere near
a'nuf. He'd show'ly feel mightly slighted, de Presydent would, ef we
did'n sen' 'im no mo' talk dan dat. We gotter 'spress dis thing logical
an' ellygant, ur he won't take no notice uf it, none whatever. We
nacherally gotter have mo' uf de muzuma."
This was very discouraging, and produced more deep thought and head
rubbing, until Private Andy Smith broke out:
"Well, dis ain't no time fer tu back out. Damn de 17th Article uv
Wah[4]! Jess watch my smoke, niggers."
The rest of the men observed him curiously as he shouldered his way out
of the circle. He went to his gold medal cot, and jerking off one of the
fine, heavy army blankets, spread it on the floor. Then he rummaged
amongst the clothing in his locker, and taking out a pair of extra
shoes, a flannel shirt, and a white stable suit, rolled them into his
blanket. Throwing the bundle thus made over his shoulder, he stalked out
into the rain.
The effect of this eminently lawless example was instantaneous. The
splendid regulation blankets and flannel shirts were at a premium among
the natives, and the market was never dull. They could be coined into
_pesos_ on sight. There was a grand rush, and soon the blankets and
spare articles of clothing went forth into the night, lugged by their
respective owners. Shortly the darkies, wet and steaming, began to stamp
back into the quarters, and the "dobie dollars" again clinked into the
crown of Potter's old campaign hat.
* * * * *
Lieutenant Roger Williams Perkins was what is known as a solitary
drinker. They are the worst kind. They drink by themselves, and purely
for the effect. Doubtless their mental processes at such times are
curious indeed.
The rain was falling steadily outside. There was no chance that any of
the other men would come in to-night. Perkins sat alone at his table, as
he had sat since six o'clock. It was now eight, and as he reached to
take "another one," he heard two persons coming up the steps. He swore
to himself and set the glass down. Turning, he found Sergeants Potter
and Wilson at the head of the stairs, their dripping hats in their
hands. Their ponchos glistened in the lamp-light, and from them ran
little streams of water that gathered in globular pools, like
quick-silver, on the oiled floor.
Perkins, of course, had heard of the answer to the telegram, and had
thought the matter closed; but now these niggers had come to trouble him
again. They came forward, trailing their streams of water behind them.
He heard them through. He answered them craftily, smiling behind his
hand, with the cunning born of the fog in his brain. Shortly they went
away again, leaving on the table a pile of silver. Cable the President!
What a joke! and he chuckled aloud. He would teach them to come and
worry him with their foolishness.
Still the rain roared on the roof. Still he sat and drank, and drank
again, until the lamp-light grew sick and wan in the damp gray day.
The first sergeant, with the Morning Report, found Perkins seated in the
same place. Perkins signed the book in a sprawling scrawl, and the
sergeant went his way. The Chino cook brought the meals, and then came
and took them off again. The day dragged through, the gray evening fell;
the rain streamed down; and still the officer sat as before.
At eight fifteen he looked up to find Wilson and Potter before him.
There were the same glistening ponchos, the same little streams of
water, the same pools on the oiled floor. He himself sat in the same
place. The soldiers might have been gone ten minutes instead of
twenty-four hours, for all the change there was in the scene. Only the
pile of silver had disappeared.
No, no answer to the cablegram had been received, and Perkins could
hardly conceal his desire to roar with laughter, as the two turned and
trailed their streams of water back down the stairs.
At four o'clock he wobbled to the bed and threw himself down with all
his clothes on. He awoke at six, and, getting up uncertainly, went to
the window and looked out. Still rain and murky grayness everywhere. As
he stood, the assembly went; for when a man is to be hanged, a little
thing like rain does not interfere. Perkins turned from the window
quickly, and plunged his head into a basin of cold water. Then, in spite
of the early hour, he took a stiff "bracer," and throwing on his
slicker, went out. At the foot of the stairs he found the orderly with
the horses, and, mounting with suspicious care, he rode to the stables.
The troop was in ranks and waiting. Before the roll was called,
Sergeant Wilson, his face drawn and wrinkled like old parchment, came
forward and asked hesitatingly if there were any news from Washington.
The officer shook his head. The cords in the old negro's throat worked
convulsively, and he requested rather brokenly that he might be excused
from this formation, and be allowed to remain in charge of quarters.
"No," the Lieutenant replied thickly; "there is no reason why _you_
should be excused any more than any one else. The regular man will
remain in charge of quarters." The whole troop heard, as he intended
they should. The "bracer" was getting in its work, and Perkins was
feeling good again. The wily schemes, the shapes and shadows of the
previous night, were growing in his brain once more. He would teach
these niggers who was who.
And so they took Private Buff Wilson out into the falling rain and
hanged him. In the center of the square, formed by the squadron he had
disgraced, he paid the price. The solemn hills, shrouded in mist, looked
down, sadly, impassively. They were not more motionless on their
everlasting foundations than was Sergeant Jeremiah Wilson, sitting his
big bay like a granite statue, the tragedy of the ages and of his race
deep in the hollow sockets of his eyes. For is it not written: "_A
servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren_"?
The signal was given. The trap fell with a bang; the spray flew from the
snapping rope; and Private Wilson was jerked unceremoniously into the
presence of his Maker. Justice was satisfied, and the account was
balanced.
When a man is hanged, he must be buried. To bury a man it takes a detail
in charge of a non-commissioned officer. The non-commissioned officer is
designated by name from the sergeant-major's office. He is also chosen
by roster in his proper order. It happened to be Sergeant Jeremiah
Wilson's turn for duty. Consequently Sergeant Jeremiah Wilson was told
off to bury his own son.
There was no detachment, no ceremony, no firing squad--only an escort
wagon containing a black Q. M. coffin, upon which were perched four or
five wet, disconsolate troopers armed with picks and shovels. Old
Jeremiah followed, mounted, a feverish light in his eyes and drops of
moisture standing on his grizzled mustache. So he went forth and saw
them consign to earth the clod that had been his son--or rather, consign
to water, for the grave was half full when they reached it. He did not
see it, either; but he heard it.
He heard the splash as the casket was dropped into the half-filled
grave. He heard the grating of the bamboo poles used to hold it down
until the earth could be placed upon it. He heard the sucking and
bubbling as the water forced its way in and the air forced its way out.
He heard the splash of the muddy clay until the heaviness of it seemed
to descend upon his own heart. The shapes and shadows struggled to and
fro in his aching brain until they triumphed. Sergeant Wilson, to the
naked eye as sane as any man, was mad; mad as a hatter.
He went back to the quarters and to his old corner. There, as before, he
sat hour after hour, clasping and unclasping his hands. At times he
startled all in hearing by throwing back his head and laughing harshly.
The men regarded him furtively and with uneasiness.
The dreary night, with its drearier unending rain, had dropped once
more. Lieutenant Perkins was seated in his old place. He had been there
since the execution in the morning. This was the longest session he had
ever indulged in; but the moral fiber degenerates rapidly in the
tropics. Besides, the friendly rain had curtained him and kept away the
spoil-sports. All day he had sat communing with the shapes and shadows.
And it was very pleasant. He had triumphed.
Lately, however, an unpleasant idea had been flitting elusively through
his consciousness--a something that marred the full measure of his
achievement. Time and again he almost grasped it, only to have it slip
from him. What was it? What was it?
Ah, yes; he had it. They were, as yet, ignorant of how he had fooled
them! They must know it to make the joy complete. What sport to take
their money back to them and tell them to their faces what monkeys he
had made of them! Why not do it now? Yes; what a brilliant idea! He
would do it at once.
Just before call to quarters Perkins staggered into the main squad room.
The men stood to attention and observed him with wonder. He was soaking
wet, and the water was streaming down from his uncovered hair. Without
speaking, he walked to the end of the big nara-wood table in the center
of the room, and began to take silver coins from his bulging pockets. He
clawed out handfuls of them and planked them down in a pile; the smaller
ones leaking through his fingers and falling to the stone floor, where
they rolled away with musical tinklings, or hid themselves in the
cracks. Finally, when he had succeeded, with laborious care, in
extracting one last dime from the depths of his pocket, he said thickly,
waving his arms with an all-embracing oratorical gesture:
"All you men come here." The troopers moved close, and formed on three
sides of the table. They stepped quietly, some hint of what was to be
having come to them.
"Got somethin' to tell you. You think you are very smart, doncher? You
think you--" he rubbed his forehead reflectively and struggled for
words. What _was_ it he wanted to tell them? Oh, yes; that was it. "You
think you're smart, doncher?" and he leaned forward on the table,
peering around the circle; "but 'cher all damn fools. Me, I'm a smart
man," and he indicated the center button of his blouse with his thumb,
drawing himself up haughtily.
"You thought I cabled to the President, din'cher?" he continued, leaning
forward again, and returning to his confidential tone. "Not on your
life. See, there's the money. What a joke," and he burst into drunken
hilarity, reeling from side to side, while the tears ran down his face.
The quiet in the room was absolute, except for the officer's unholy
mirth, and the steady fall of the rain. At the sound of that laughter,
old Jeremiah, who had sat in his corner unmindful of the officer's
presence, got up and came forward to the opposite end of the table.
There was a dazed look in his face as though he were just waking from a
deep sleep. He glanced around at the other negroes, standing silently
with wide eyes, then at the drunken officer, and finally at the pile of
silver. Then he knew. As soon as Perkins saw the old soldier, he
chuckled with renewed glee.
"Hallo, sergeant, you ole fool. The joke's on you. Yessir, the joke's on
you. You thought I cabled to the President; but I did'n'. Nosir, I
did'n'." And he went off into renewed peals of laughter.
Suddenly he stopped short. He saw that there was no appreciation of his
witticisms; only a blur of blank black faces and white, rolling eyes.
"Why don't you laugh, you damn apes? You damn black idiots, why don't
you laugh? You----you----"
He ceased quickly, for another voice broke the silence. It was old
Sergeant Wilson speaking. No one could tell when he had begun. He stood
slightly crouched, with his hands on the edge of the table. His face was
absolutely blank and expressionless, while his eyes were fixed on the
officer with a tense, glassy stare. His voice was cold and monotonous,
without rise or fall, halt or intonation, and seemed to be more the wail
of the spirit rising from somewhere deep within him than the voice of
the flesh.
"You heah that, boys? You heah what he says? He calls us apes; us that
God made as well as him. 'Cause we ahr black he calls us apes. We ahr no
better dan de dirt undah his feet. He tooken ouh money an' fooled us,
an' now he is laughin' 'cause he fooled us. He tooken ouh money and
lied to us. An' while he wuz a-foolin' us, us apes, dey taken mah boy,
mah baby, out an' killed him. Out in de rain. An' ah heered de trap
fall, an' de rope snap. An' _he_ heered it, an' laughed when he heered
it!"
As he spoke, the sergeant never took his eyes from the officer's face,
and moved slowly around the table, crouching a little, and creeping
stealthily as a beast of prey might move upon an animal that it was
attempting to fascinate. And the officer was being fascinated. He stood
as though transfixed, his jaw hanging and his straining glance bent on
the approaching soldier.
The body of troopers was getting restless. Their eyes, too, had taken on
a peculiar shine, and were all focused upon the white face of the
officer.
The wail of that dead, monotonous voice was to these negroes as the call
of the wild. It touched a chord in them that antedated the deluge. They
moved closer, imperceptibly, and moistened their dry lips with their
tongues. There is something mortally appalling in that simple action.
The dead voice continued: "An' dey sent me out to bury him, my own baby.
An' _he_ laughed when ah went. Ah seen 'im laugh. An' dey tooken mah boy
and put 'im in a deep black grave; an' de col', col' watah wuz on 'im
an' raoun' 'im, an' ah heerd it splash when dey put 'im thar. An' he is
thar now, in de col' black grave, an' de watah is on 'im, an' ah kin
feel de watah; an' de dirt is a-weighin' me down. Heah on my ches'. An'
dis man is a-laughin' at us an' says hit is a joke!"
The old sergeant was now within three feet of the officer. The latter
was gray as putty, and sober. It did not take the inclosing circle, the
heavy breathing, the wild, staring eyes and tight-drawn lips to tell him
his danger. He felt the Presence. The air was pregnant with it. He took
a step backward and moved his stiff lips as though to speak; but there
was no sound. The voice went on:
"He laughed at us; but he won't laugh no moah. God done made 'im to look
lak a man; but he ain't no man. He is a snake an' creeps in de grass.
God sez in his book dat all snakes mus' be killed an'--" the sergeant
took another step; the officer took a step backward, and the crowd
surged forward with a quick, hoarse gasp. Then the terror gripped him,
and turning, the officer made a dash for the door.
Again the circle closed in as the sea surges up upon the land. There
were tossing arms; there was the hissing of breath through clenched
teeth, the sickening thud of blows, and a gurgling cry of mortal agony.
Then the sea surged out again, and there on the floor lay the thing
that had been Lieutenant Roger Williams Perkins.
The ring of negroes stood fast. Their shoulders rose and fell as their
convulsive breaths were indrawn and exhaled. They seemed to be wondering
what had happened. Several raised their hands and observed them
curiously, first one and then the other, as though they were strange
objects never seen before. One placed his fingers to his nose and smelt
them furtively. Another tried to rub off the thick, dark stain, but with
little success. The "moving finger" had written.
When the catastrophe occurred, five or ten of the weak-kneed had rushed
from the building, and even as these guilty ones stood there, there was
a clatter of arms outside. Some one yelled: "the guahd," and they knew
that their deeds had overtaken them.
In the momentary pandemonium that followed, old Sergeant Wilson was
heard calling above the din: "Out with dem lights! Pile de bunks agin'
de doahs an' winders!" They had learned to obey that voice before, in
many a tight place, and now it had its old-time ring. So they went and
did. A saber hilt rattled on the portal. "Open the door! This is the
officer of the guard."
"To hell wiff de officah of de guahd. Open hit yo'se'f!" was bellowed in
reply. The strain was relieved, and the sally was greeted with a wild
yapping from the rest, such as might have risen from a den of trapped
wolves. Several ran to the windows. There was a sputtering volley of
carbine shots, and Troop "B," 19th U.S. Cavalry, was in open mutiny.
Now when a troop of United States cavalry rises against those in
authority, incidents begin to occur at once. The times when such a thing
has happened can be counted on the fingers of one hand, with some digits
to spare. There was, in this case, no room for parley or exchange of
flags of truce. The thing with which the ants were already busy there on
the floor was an uncontrovertible fact. Consequently, there being no
grounds upon which to arbitrate the matter, the mutineers blazed away
cheerfully at anything that showed itself on the plaza. They had now
nothing to lose.
Then, shortly, there sounded from the guard-house, through the
rain-drenched night, the call that jerks the soldier out of his bunk,
all standing, from any sleep but that of death: the "call to arms."
In fifteen minutes "B" Troop's quarters were surrounded on all sides by
the other troops of the squadron, the men of which, from safe cover,
observed the carbine flashes and wild yells emanating therefrom with
mild surprise, and wondered "what de hell had broke loose."
Major Bliss sat under the smoky lantern at the guard-house, surrounded
by the officers of the station. He questioned sharply the men who had
escaped from "B" Troop's barracks. At intervals he swore mightily and
cursed the day that Roger Williams Perkins was born.
"And to think that old Wilson should be at the head of this! Old Wilson,
of all men! Why, he is worth fifty thousand Perkinses, dead or alive. I
am only sorry that Perkins didn't get away. I should like to have got
hold of him myself, damn him."
There was no hesitation in the makeup of Major Bliss. He intended to
suppress this outbreak in a manner that would tend to discourage any
such ebullitions in the future. Consequently, he made his dispositions
with grimness and determination. His plan was simple, his orders being
to "rush 'em and give 'em hell." His greatest regret was that the
interests of discipline should make such a step necessary, since he was
sure that a majority of the mutineers had acted upon impulse, and were
already excessively sorry for themselves.
In the midst of these untoward events, the "Tarlac," coastwise transport
blew into the bay through the murk and rain, and Captain North, of "B"
Troop, the "Ole Cap'n," returned to the station. Hearing the shots and
yells, he concluded that the Major was "shooting up the town," and
splashed hurriedly to his quarters for his saber and revolver. There in
the darkness he stumbled over his _muchacho_, who had deposited himself
at the foot of the steps and was earnestly beseeching his patron saint
to have him spared this once; promising an altar cloth and innumerable
candles if he should be allowed to exist long enough to secure them,
thus putting on that gentleman's intercession a premium that he trusted
would be effective. The Captain being naturally impulsive, the accident
did not improve his temper to any appreciable extent. Besides this, the
matches were wet, and there was no oil in the lamp. Consequently he had
to search for his weapons in the dark. After falling over his bunk and
numberless chairs, and upsetting his field desk, he found his saber and
revolver, only to discover that both, owing to the neglect of that same
sanctified _muchacho_ on the stairs, were covered with rust; that the
cylinder of the revolver would not revolve; and that at least two strong
men and a boy would be required to coax the saber from its scabbard!
All this while the shooting and yelling were going on, and by the time
he splashed out into the rain once more, the good Captain was what is
technically known as "mad as a hornet!" He started on a run to "B"
Troop's quarters, to take command of his men, only to be stopped by a
sentinel, who informed him that "B" Troop was in no mood to be taken
command of, and that he had "bettah go to de guahd-house." Being ordered
to the guard-house by a private did not tend to quiet his state of mind
any, even when the situation was explained. By the time he burst in on
the assembled officers at the post of the guard, Captain North was
madder than ever.
"What the devil is going on here, Bliss? What's this I hear about 'B'
Troop's busting loose? This is a hell of a state of affairs."
"That is just what I think, North, and very neatly expressed," the Major
replied dryly. "Lovely discipline you have in that band of Indians of
yours. They've mutinied, no less, and apparently they have got Perkins.
A nice----"
"Mutinied, have they? Why, the infernal black scoundrels," almost roared
the irate officer, striding up and down the room. "Mutinied, have they?
What the devil do they mean by doing a thing like that without saying
anything to me about it? I'll mutiny 'em! Don't you interfere with me,
Bliss," he continued, halting in his walk, "don't you interfere with me.
This is my troop, and I can handle them. Don't you interfere with me."
"My dear North, no one has shown any inclination to interfere with you,
has he?"
"That's right," and the Captain continued his march, "that's right. I
can attend to these gentlemen. This plan of rushing them, though, is all
wrong, all wrong"; and he stopped again. "They'll fight, fight like the
devil. I ought to know. I've seen them do it often enough. You'll lose
good men. In opposing them with force you recognize the strength in
them. What you need is moral force. One man power. Same principle in
training lions. Same principle. If a lion-tamer went into a cage of ten
lions with ten men, he'd have trouble on his hands from the jump; but he
can go alone and bluff 'em. Same principle here. If I could get into the
middle of that bunch over there without their seeing me until I _was_
there, I'd scare them out of ten years' growth. How to get there, that's
the question."
"Why, North, you are crazy. They'd get you, sure. They'd eat you up,
man."
"Eat _me_ up? Why, they'd as soon think of tackling the late Mr. Peter
Jackson. They know me. How to get there, that's the question. Walking
across the plaza they couldn't tell _me_ from any one else."
"Beg yoah pahdin', sah," and Private Massay of "B" Troop, who was the
commanding officer's orderly for the day, spoke up, "Ef de Cap'n could
git in through de little doah in de stoah-room, and go through de
kitchen, I speck he could git in widout bein' ketched."
"Right, Massay, the very thing. Somebody give me a lantern. Confound it,
one of you men get me a lantern, and be quick about it." A member of the
guard gave him the required article, and concealing it carefully under
his poncho, he went quickly out. The Major and other officers jumped up
and followed. All the way down the dreary, rain-swept street the Major
attempted to persuade the Captain to give up his foolhardy enterprise,
but without result. Finally, when they reached the cordon of surrounding
troops, the senior officer said:
"Well, North, this is absolutely absurd, and out of the question. If you
insist, I shall have to give you an order not to go."
"No, you won't do that, Bliss." The Captain's anger had left him now,
and he spoke quietly. "We have known each other a long time, and seen a
lot of service together. You won't take advantage of your rank to stop
me now. I am only doing what you would do in my place. It is my troop.
The shame and disgrace are mine. You won't stop me now."
The Major hesitated a moment and then spoke slowly, and with evident
feeling:
"Well--well. Have your way; but be careful, John, be careful."
They saw him move quietly along under the shadow of a wall, cross the
street, and disappear in a small side door of "B" Troop's quarters. He
was not discovered.
* * * * *
For the last half hour the silence and the blackness of the grave had
existed in "B" Troop's big squad room. The "shouting and the tumult" had
died a lingering death. One cannot yell and hurl challenge indefinitely,
and shouting up one's courage begins to lose its efficacy if long
continued. One big-lunged mutineer had held out with his firing and
bellowing until the nerves of the rest could stand it no longer. They
then rudely suppressed him. He sounded so absurdly and pathetically
foolish. He was typical of their own status. "One nigger shootin' a
bluff at de whole United States Army!" They realized that with fifty it
was no less idiotic.
If it had not been for old Wilson passing stealthily to and fro among
them, with that wild light in his eyes, and those crazy mumblings,
doubtless there would have, already, been breaks in the ranks. But no;
there was that other thing, lying over there where it fell. There was no
use now; there could be no looking back. Each turned wearily to his door
or window and renewed his wide-eyed effort to pierce the web of
blackness over the square. And the everlasting rain still fell.
A door swung cautiously somewhere. There was the sound of some one
moving with steady, determined step down the center of the room. Then,
without warning, their unaccustomed eyes were momentarily blinded by a
light taken suddenly from under a poncho; and there in the center of the
room stood a lone officer; in one hand a lantern, in the other a big
blue revolver.
For an instant there was no movement. Then there was a counter reaction.
With the snarl of wild animals, the fifty negroes sprang toward the
center of the room. Sergeant Wilson was first. With a cry of: "Kill him!
kill him!" he bounded over a bunk, and landed within three feet of the
officer, revolver upraised. As he did so, the officer lifted the lantern
to a level with his own face. The sergeant stopped. The whole circle
halted, as though Circe had transfixed them. They had recognized the
"Ole Cap'n."
"Well, Wilson." At the sound of the voice the old negro's countenance
changed instantly. It became the face of a man in mortal anguish, as
indeed he was. In that moment the scales had fallen from his vision. He
saw his position clearly in the light of the sorrowful glance from the
"ole Cap'n's" eyes. It was as though the main pillar of the heavens had
been pulled out, and the skies were thundering down about his dazed old
ears.
"Oh, Gawd, oh, Gawd!" he groaned, putting one hand to his head, and
rocking it from side to side, as though the pain there were more than he
could stand.
"Oh, Gawd, oh, Gawd." The revolver was lowered slowly from its upraised
position, and suddenly, before the officer could stop him, the sergeant
turned it against himself. There was a flash, an earsplitting report,
and the old soldier sank to the floor. There he stretched himself
wearily, as though for a long sleep, and Sergeant Jeremiah Wilson, of
the "old Army," was gathered to his fathers.
The Captain turned away abruptly. He knew that old Wilson was a good
shot.
"Open the doors," he said to the troopers, as though he had been telling
them good morning. Compliance to that voice, raised in command, was to
these soldiers a second nature. There was not the slightest hesitation.
With eager alacrity they hastened to obey, like children who had been
caught misbehaving.
In the first faintness of the dawn the tired-faced troopers cheerfully
filed out and formed in front of the quarters, each one, as he passed
through the door, depositing his arms at the officer's feet. Oh, but it
was good to be on the right side again; and the "ole Cap'n" would take
care of his own.