Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1895. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVI.--NO. 828. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
HOW REDDY GAINED HIS COMMISSION.
BY CAPTAIN CHARLES A. CURTIS, U.S.A.
Part I.
Guard-mounting was over. The commanding officer in the Adjutant's office
was occupied with the daily routine business of a frontier post. At
tables near him sat the Post-Adjutant, the acting Sergeant-Major, and a
soldier clerk, writing and making up the semi-weekly mail for the
post-office beyond the neighboring river.
Upon a bench outside the door, serving his tour as office orderly,
lounged a boy musician. He leaned listlessly against the wall of the
building, apparently oblivious to the grandeur of the views around him.
To the south, across an undulating plain, seventy miles away, were the
twin Spanish Peaks. To the west, the Cuerno Verde range let itself down
to the plain by a succession of lesser elevations, terminating in
rounded foot-hills, forty miles distant. Eighty miles to the northwest
the forest and granite clad form of Pikes Peak towered in majesty.
The fort was occupied by a troop of cavalry and a company of infantry,
the Captain of the infantry being in command. This officer was now
attaching his signature to various military documents. When the last
paper was signed the young orderly entered, and, standing at "attention"
before the Captain, said,
"Sir, my mother would like to speak to the commander."
"Very well, Maloney; take these papers to the quartermaster and the
surgeon, and tell your mother to come in."
The orderly departed, and soon after a ruddy-faced and
substantial-featured daughter of Erin entered, her sleeves rolled above
her elbows, and her vigorous hands showing the soft, moist, and wrinkled
appearance that indicates recent and long-continued contact with the
contents of the wash-tub. Dropping a courtesy, she said,
"Can the commanding officer spare me a few minutes of his toime?"
"With pleasure. Sergeant Major, place a chair for Mrs. Maloney," said
Captain Bartlett.
"Oi want to spake a worrud about me b'y Teddy, sor."
"What is it about your son? Does he need disciplining?"
Seating herself upon the edge of the proffered chair, the Irish woman
clasped her moist hands in her hip, and said, "Small doubt but he nades
dis_cip_lining, Captain: but it is of the great danger to his loife in
carryin' th' mail oi want t' spake."
"A mother's nervous fear, perhaps. He's an excellent horseman. You are
not afraid he will be thrown?
"Oh, not at ahl, at ahl, sor. He sthicks to the muel loike a bur-r-r. I
belave no buckin' baste can throw 'im. It's that roarin' river oi'm
afeared of. The min at the hay-camp, whose business it is to row the
mail acrass the strame, let Teddy and Reddy do it, do ye know, sor, and
oi fear in the prisint stage of the wather, and the dispisition of the
b'ys to be larkin' in the boat, they'll overset it, and be dhrowned."
"Are you quite sure the boys use the boat?" asked the Captain.
"Iv'ry mail-day for the last two wakes, sor."
"And you really think them in danger, Mrs. Maloney? I am sure they both
swim."
"That's jist it, sor! They're not contint to row quiately over loike
min, but they must thry all sorts of antics with th' boat. 'Rowin' aich
other round' is one of 'em. Whin oi spake about it they says they can
swim. Small chance aven a good swimmer would have in that roarin' river,
with its quicksands, its snags, and its bars."
"Well, I will order the hay-camp detail to do the boating hereafter,
Mis. Maloney; so you need have no further anxiety."
"Thank you, sor. It's no liss than oi expicted from a koindly and
considerate gintleman loike th' Captain. Oi hope you'll overlook a
mother's anxiety and worrimint over her only b'y. It's not mesilf would
be interfarin' with the commanding officer's duties, but oi knowed that
you niver mint for Reddy and Teddy to be rowin' that bit of a skift,
whin it belonged to the min at the hay-camp to do the same. Good-day,
sor, and many thanks for your kindness, Captain." And with much
ceremonious leave-taking the laundress backed out of the office and
hurried back to her tubs.
"Mr. Dayton," said the commanding officer, "write Corporal Duffey to
hereafter allow no person not a member of his party to row the mail-boat
across the river, unless he brings authority from this office."
"Yes, sir."
The letter had been written and sealed when Teddy returned, having
changed the full-dress coat and helmet of guard-mounting for a blouse,
forage-cap, and leather leggings. Nearly an hour before his drum had
rattled an exhilarating accompaniment to the fife, as the guard of
twelve privates and three non-commissioned officers marched in review
and turned off to the guard-house. Now he stood at the door with spurred
heels and gauntleted hands, ready to receive the mail-pouch and ride his
little zebra-marked mule to the crossing, two miles from the fort.
The Sergeant-Major handed him the pouch and the letter addressed to the
corporal, with this injunction:
"You are to deliver this letter to Corporal Duffey at the hay-camp, and
he will give you some instructions which you are to carefully obey."
Slinging the pouch over his shoulder, and tucking the letter under his
waist-belt, the boy went to his mule behind the office, mounted, and
rode away. Passing the quarter-master's corral, another boy, similarly
attired, and mounted on a piebald mustang, dashed out with a whoop, and
the two went cantering down the slope to the meadow below.
Arriving side by side at a soapweed which marked the southern limit of
the river-bottom, the boys put their beasts to the height of their
speed, and rode for a dead cottonwood which raised its bleached and
barkless branches beside the road three hundred yards beyond.
This stretch was raced over every mail-day, with varying victory for
horse and mule. To-day the mule reached the tree half a length ahead,
and Teddy was consequently in high glee.
"Ah, Reddy, my boy!" he shouted. "Eight times to your six! Better swap
that pony for a mule, if you want to stand any chance with Puss!"
"Pshaw! You were nearly a length ahead when we reached the soapweed, and
I almost made it up. Bronc can beat Puss any time when they start even."
"I should say so!" with great disdain. "How about that day when you got
off a length and a half ahead, and I led you half a neck at the
Cottonwood?"
"You mean the day Bronc got a stone in his shoe? Of course he couldn't
run then."
The two young soldiers rode on at an easy canter, warmly disputing, for
the hundredth time, over the merits of their well-matched animals.
Redmond Carter was the fifer, as Edward Maloney was the drummer, of the
infantry company. The latter, the son of a laundress, was a graceful and
soldierly boy, dark-complexioned, with black eyes and hair, who bestrode
his mule with easy confidence, riding like a Cossack. The other boy, a
blond-haired, blue-eyed lad of the same age, quite as tall, but more
delicately built, showed less reckless activity in the saddle, but he
was a fine and graceful equestrian nevertheless. He had enlisted a year
before, in Philadelphia, naming that city as his residence; but certain
peculiarities of speech led Captain Bartlett to believe him a
New-Englander. He used better language than his fellows, and it seemed
he had received good school advantages before entering the army.
For instance, one day when it was Carter's turn to be office orderly,
while sitting at the door he overheard Captain Bartlett, who was writing
a private letter, ask the Adjutant, "How does that Latin quotation run,
Dayton--'_Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes_,' or '_Danaos timeo et dona
ferentes_'?'"
"Blest if I know. We don't waste time on dead languages at the Point, as
you college men do. I can give you the equation of a parabola if you
want it."
Captain Bartlett did not ask for the equation, or explain his reason for
wanting the proper order of the Latin sentence, but, the morning's
office work concluded, and the orderly having departed, as he and the
Adjutant were passing out of the doorway the latter noticed a leaf of a
memorandum-pad lodged against the leg of the bench just vacated. A
drawing on its surface attracting his attention, he picked it up. It was
a very creditable sketch of a huge wooden horse standing within the wall
of an ancient city, and a party of Grecian soldiers in the act of
descending by a ladder from an opening in its side. Beneath the drawing
was written "_Quicquid id est, timeo Danaos et dona ferentes._--AEneid,
II., 49."
"Here, Captain," said Mr. Dayton, handing the paper to the post
commander; "here's the answer to your question."
"What--that boy Carter? How does a boy like that come to be a musician
in the army?"
"Can't tell. Probably for the same reason that an occasional graduate of
a foreign university turns up in the ranks--hard times and want in civil
life, and plenty of clothing and food in military life."
"He is indeed a bright boy, and I have noticed a certain refinement of
manner and precision of speech not common to men in the ranks. I must
inquire about him."
The two "music boys," Teddy and Reddy, were fast friends and constant
companions. They made common cause in all quarrels and disputes, and to
ill-treat one was to ill-treat both. Teddy was frequently in trouble,
and his friend often pleaded for him at headquarters. Indeed, the
Adjutant frequently declared that "but for that rampageous young Celt,
Carter would never be in trouble." He was quiet by nature, and
punctilious in the observance of the most exacting requirements of
discipline; while Teddy, through carelessness, was now and then
subjected to punishment. Mrs. Maloney, while bestowing a tender mother's
love upon her darling son, entertained a kindly regard mingled with
great respect for his friend, and looked after Reddy's clothing and
belongings quite as carefully as after Teddy's.
Reddy divided the duty of mail-carrier and office orderly with his
fellow-musician, yet it rarely happened that one rode without the
other's company. An indulgent corral-master had obtained the consent of
the quartermaster to allow two "surplus animals" to be used exclusively
by the boys, provided they would take care of them.
On reaching the river the boys drew up before two tents pitched in a
small grove of cottonwoods upon the grassy bank, and occupied by a
corporal and three privates, whose duty it was to keep the cattle of the
neighboring ranchmen from trespassing upon the meadows of the military
reservation.
The lads dismounted, Teddy going to the corporal's tent to deliver the
Adjutant's letter. But the corporal was not in, having gone with two of
his men to drive some cattle out of the bottom.
"I will take the letter to Corporal Duffey, Ted," said Redmond, "while
you row over with the mail-bag. Row well up stream before you attempt to
cross, so as not to get sucked into the rapids."
"All right," replied the orderly; "and when I come back we'll see which
can row the other round."
"That's already settled. I rowed you round the last two times," said
Reddy.
"Yes; one day when my wrist was lame, and the other when I had cut my
thumb."
"Anything ail you to-day?"
"I believe not."
"Then we will try it again; and be sure if I row you round, you are not
to lay your defeat to sprains, cuts, or rheumatism."
Redmond remounted his pony and started into the meadow, while Teddy,
having picketed his mule, stepped into a neat wherry tied to the bank.
He was not unconscious that he was disobeying orders, for his mother had
told him the result of her interview with the commanding officer; but
the order was not officially published, and he wanted to have one last
pull on the river.
It was in July, the season of freshets in streams having their sources
in the Rocky Mountains, when the warmer the weather the faster the snows
melt and the deeper and more rapid the stream. The silt-laden current
swept swiftly down the middle stream, swelling into rolling waves, which
caught the soldier boy's oars as the boat rose on their crests and sank
in their troughs.
Reaching the other side, he carried the mail-pouch to the overland stage
station, and returned to the boat. Repeating the precaution of rowing up
stream before venturing to cross, he arrived at the tents just as Reddy
returned from an unsuccessful search for the corporal.
The Adjutant's letter was left in the tent, Bronc picketed, and the boys
drew lots for the oars. Teddy won the choice, and selected the bow. The
contest was to maintain an even-time stroke, and see which could turn
the boat toward his opponent--"pull him round," as the phrase is.
Barefooted, barelegged, bareheaded, and coatless, the boys stepped into
the boat. Confident in their united strength, they did not row up the
eddy, but pulled directly from the shore, beginning the struggle from
the start. The wherry leaped ahead, refusing to turn to the right or
left. The boys were evidently as well matched as their mounts, Puss and
Bronc.
The boat rose and fell in the current waves, and the oars tripped and
splashed in the roily crests, until there suddenly came a sharp snap,
and Teddy fell backward, holding aloft the bladeless half of an oar.
Reddy ceased rowing; the skiff lost headway and floated down the river.
In the confusion of the accident neither boy saw a threatening danger.
In the middle of the river was the trunk of a dead cottonwood, standing
at an angle of forty-five degrees, its roots firmly anchored to the
bottom. The boat floated against the snag, striking amidships. Its
starboard side rose, its port side lowered, the water poured over the
gunwale, and in an instant Teddy was clinging to the trunk, and Reddy
swimming in the boiling current. The boat hung for a moment, as if
undecided whether to drop to the right or left of the snag, twisting and
struggling in the fierce tide, and at last slid off astern and floated
away down-stream.
A foot above the water was a large knot and a swell in the trunk of the
tree. Teddy climbed above this, and sat astride of it, clasping the
trunk in his arms. He was at first inclined to treat the accident with
bravado, and he waved a hand above his head and shouted; but the sight
of Reddy floating towards the rapids froze his utterance and paralyzed
his arm.
It was plainly impossible for his comrade to swim to the shore--he was
too near the dangerous fall--but he hoped he might reach the jam in the
middle of its crest.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
AT THE SEA-SIDE.
A Suggestion for a Summer Entertainment.
BY CAROLINE A. CREEVEY AND MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
_CHARACTERS:_
CHARLOTTE HOWARD. GRACE EVERTON.
VICTORIA MASON. HELEN SAYRES.
IDA MOORE. MISS SOMMERFIELD.
OLIVE BRANDON. MISS DAISY JAMES.
MADGE FULLER. CAPTAIN JAKE.
SCENE.--_A summer-house on the beach, in front of the Mattewan
Hotel._
OCCASION.--_A rehearsal for an entertainment to be given in the
hotel parlors for the benefit of the Sea-side Home._
PRESENT.--_Charlotte, Victoria, Ida, Olive, Grace._
_Victoria_. What a perfectly glorious afternoon, girls! The sunshine is
dazzling. The surf is music itself; the sails out yonder are so white;
and the air! I cannot breathe it into my lungs deep enough. There's no
place like the sea-side after all.
_Charlotte_. Mamma is begging papa to take her to the mountains.
_Ida_. Oh, what a shame! Just as we are getting so well acquainted, and
can plan so many nice things to do. It would be wicked for you to leave
us.
_Victoria_. Have you met that new arrival, Miss Daisy James? She's
English, you know. She talks about her boxes, not trunks.
_Olive_. She has luggage, not baggage.
_Ida_. Yes, I was talking to her. She's funny. She says there isn't any
Gulf Stream. Says the Captain of her steamer has sailed for thirty
years, and has never seen it. So, if you please, the Gulf Stream "is a
myth."
_Grace_. She's the most disdainful thing, and uses such queer words! She
says raw clams are "nasty," and she called bananas "those beans."
_Olive_. Perhaps she will improve on acquaintance. We mustn't be too
hard on her.
_Charlotte_. Where are all the girls? We ought to begin our rehearsal.
_Victoria_. There's Madge Fuller now. She has that sweet-looking young
lady who played so beautifully with her.
[_Enter_ Madge Fuller _and_ Miss Sommerfield.]
_Madge_. Halloa, girls! Am I late? I was reading, and I almost forgot
our rehearsal. But I have brought a new recruit. Miss Sommerfield,
girls. Miss Howard, Miss Mason, Miss Moore, Miss Brandon, and Miss
Everton.
_Grace_. Otherwise Charlotte, Victoria or Vic, Ida, Olive, and myself,
Grace. No airs, Madge.
_Olive_. We are so glad you asked Miss Sommerfield to help us, Madge
dear.
_Miss Sommerfield_. I will help, but don't let me intrude. What are your
ideas of an entertainment?
_Grace_. Ideas are just what we are after. The only settled thing is
that the tickets are to be fifty cents.
_Charlotte_. We thought we would each recite or read something. Original
preferred. The object is the Sea-side Home.
_Miss Sommerfield_. It is a lovely object. I went all over the one on
Seney Island.
_Victoria_. Oh, then you can tell us about it.
_Miss Sommerfield_. They take sick children and babies for two weeks.
The house is large and clean, and quite near the water. Verandas go
around three sides on every story. All the bedrooms open on to these
verandas, and there, in the open air, the babies are wheeled, or rocked,
or swung in hammocks. So they breathe that invigorating air day and
night. The older children, as soon as they are able, dig in the sand,
sheltered by tents. They have plenty of good milk to drink, bread and
biscuit, oatmeal and mutton broth. The mothers have, in addition, meat,
potatoes, tea, and coffee. The babies pick up surprisingly. They go away
rosy and hearty. Many a life is saved.
_Olive_. What a pity they must go away.
_Charlotte_. Well, a fortnight is better than nothing. Isn't it the
sweetest of charities? I am sure everybody in the hotel will come to our
entertainment.
_Miss Sommerfield_. I heard one of the nurses singing lullaby while
rocking some darling twin babies to sleep. I thought it so pretty I
have remembered it. Would you like to hear it?
_All_. Please do. Yes, indeed.
[Miss Sommerfield _repeats lullaby_.]
By-by, babies, hushaby,
Night and sleep are drawing nigh,
Little birdies seek the nest,
Tired lambkins drop to rest,
By-by, babies, hushaby,
Stars are lighting up the sky,
Angels come to watch your beds;
Slumber, little curly-heads.
[_Enter_ Helen Sayres _and_ Daisy James.]
_Helen_. Good-afternoon, girls. I am awfully late, but I met Miss James
and got talking to her, and didn't realize how time was passing. Miss
James, young ladies.
[_All nod rather stiffly._ Miss Sommerfield _extends her hand,
and_ Miss James _touches it with the tips of her fingers_.]
_Miss James_. So happy, I am sure. I was quite by meself, do you know,
and Miss Sayres kindly spoke to me. Do you not find it rather lonely
here?
_Olive_. Oh, not at all.
_Victoria_. It's simply perfect. We all know each other, and how could
we be lonely?
_Miss James_. You all know each other? Just fancy! A party of girls
travelling together. How very odd!
_Olive_. No, Miss James, we have made each other's acquaintance since we
came here. But American girls get acquainted easily.
_Miss James_. Only fancy that, now! It is truly a democratic country. In
England, you know, at the watering-places, I stay with mamma a whole
season, and we never speak to strangers. Mamma is very particular.
_Madge_. Well, Miss James, to make you feel easier about us, we will
give you references.
_Miss James_. I dare say you are all right. But in England it is so
different, so much more established, you know. This is the land of the
people.
_Grace_. Have you been to Chicago?
_Miss James_. No; but we are going there, of course.
_Grace_. Chicago is fine, when you get there; but it's dangerous
travelling. Great herds of buffalo wander on the plains, and bands of
Indians lie in ambush for the trains.
_Miss James_. Only fancy! How do the trains ever pass?
_Grace_. It all depends on your engineer. If he understands his
business, he shoots at lightning speed through Indians and buffaloes.
But you can't feel quite safe till you get there.
_Miss James_. I must tell mamma of this. I am sure she will not go.
_Miss Sommerfield_. We should go on with our preparations, girls. Has
anybody a suggestion to make?
_Helen_. I have an idea. We have among the hotel guests a fine pianist.
Perhaps he would play for us.
_Grace_. You mean that gloomy-looking man with such a name?
_Olive_. With a long mustache, and eyes with white in them?
_Helen_. Speak of him respectfully. He plays like an angel.
_Victoria_. What's his name?
_Helen_. Stradelerewsky.
_Charlotte_. Oh, horrors! Say it again slowly.
_Helen_. Strad-e- (_think of the Stradivarius fiddle_) le-rewsky (_think
of Paderewsky_). Now, say it altogether.
_All_. Strad-e-le-rew-sky.
_Charlotte_. That name alone on the programme would be worth the price
of admission.
_Victoria_. Well, who's going to bell the cat?
_Miss James_. Beg your pardon? What cat?
_Grace_. She means who is going to ask that scowling
ever-with-a-cigar-in-his-mouth musician to play for us.
_Miss James_. I prefer not to. I have not been introduced, and mamma--
_Grace_. Will you, Miss Sommerfield?
_Miss Sommerfield_. Oh yes, I have been introduced.
_Grace_. Is he French?
_Victoria_. No; unmistakably Italian.
_Helen_. Or Polish, or Russian, or some sort of a Slav.
_Miss Sommerfield_. Russian, I think. He speaks English and French.
_Ida_. Did you talk French with him?
_Miss Sommerfield_. Yes.
_Ida_. I wish I could speak French. I can't even conjugate avoir.
_Miss James_. It is easy: _j'ai, tu es, il_--
_Ida_. Oh, please, Miss Sommerfield, go now, there's a dear, and speak
English, so that you can report what he says.
_Miss Sommerfield_. All right. I go. There's no time like the present.
[_Exit._]
_Grace_. Madge, she's a darling.
_Madge_. I knew you would like her.
_Charlotte_. Girls, let's go on with our rehearsal. Has any one found a
poem, or written one, for this occasion?
_Olive_. I have found a dainty thing on sea-weeds. Will you hear it?
_Madge_. Please, dear.
_Olive_ (_reads_):
The violet gems the forest,
The daisy stars the field,
And every wayside bank and brook
Their fragrant treasures yield.
Oh, sweet the air of summer,
With thoughts of God in flowers!
For bloom and beauty hand in hand
Walk down the passing hours.
But naught, dear child, is fairer,
Nor lovelier tinting shows,
Than those fair things which cradled are
Where oft the storm-wind blows.
The sea-weed's hues are rarer
Than painter's art can trace;
And only fairy looms can weave
The sea-weed's floating lace.
_Helen_. Why, Olive, that's just sweet. Where did you find it?
_Olive_. In my mother's day-book. Mother writes a poem now and then, and
locks it up in her drawer. She says it isn't good enough to publish.
_Victoria_. It is good enough. The magazines print a lot of things not
so good as that.
_Olive_. Thank you.
_Victoria_. Girls, do you want anything funny? My brother Charlie dashed
off some rollicking lines for me last night.
_Charlotte_. Oh yes. Let's have something funny.
_Victoria_. It's arrant nonsense.
_Madge_:
"A little nonsense now and then,"
Said good old Dr. Lee,
"Is relished by the best of men.
That's just the case with me."
The doctor was jumping a rope when he said that.
_Victoria_ (_reads_):
ODE TO A CLAM.
Oh! clam at high-water,
Here's somebody's daughter
A sighing and crying your measure to take;
She cares for you only,
Poor bivalve so lonely,
Because you are good in a Yankee clambake.
Perhaps she'll shout louder
To see you in chowder.
Poor clam, for your sake
I've a dreadful heart-ache.
_Charlotte_. Capital. We wouldn't miss that for anything. Who else is
ready?
_Ida_. I have a little poem about a shell. [_Reads._]
What is the song you are singing forever,
Sad as the sound of a knell,
Deep as the tone of a bell,
Oh! sorrowful, murmuring shell,
Singing and singing forever?
_Grace_. Mine is about sweet charity. [_Reads._]
Of all things touched with heavenly clarity,
There's nothing can compare with sweet, sweet charity!
_Charlotte_. Girls, we ought to have some singing. Do you know that old
tune, "Home Again"? Why not sing that? It will please the older ones,
and seem a compliment to them. It might do for the last thing on the
programme.
_Ida_. That's beautiful.
_Madge_. Sing the tune, Charlotte, and let me catch the rhythm.
[Charlotte _and the others sing_.]
Home again, home again,
From a foreign shore;
And, oh! it fills my soul with joy
To see my friends once more.
[_Enter_ Miss Sommerfield.]
_All_. Oh, Miss Sommerfield! Did you see him? Will he? What did he say?
Did he hypnotize you?
_Miss Sommerfield_. One at a time, young ladies. Let me tell my story,
please. I found this wonderful man just where I had left him. I said,
"Professor." He started, kicked over a chair, threw away his cigarette,
stared at me, and said, "Pardon, mees, I was so rude." "Not at all,
Professor," I said; "I am sorry to interrupt your reading." "I am most
happy to be interrupted by a so charmant a young lady," he said,
gallantly.
_Grace_. That was nice in him.
_Miss Sommerfield_. So then I told him about you and your request, and
implored him to play for you. He listened, stroked his mustache, and
toyed with his big diamond ring. "It is for the poor sick little
children." "Ah!" he said, "America is von grand country for poor leetle
children. They are efer doing something. Very well; why should I not
play for these young ladies, and the poor sick little children?" "Then
you will?" I said. "With pleasure," he said. "I do not play to
eferybody. See? I do not become common. But this is different." "Oh,
Professor," I said, "how can I thank you enough? Dare I ask what you
will select?" And he said, "A thing from Chopin and one of my own
compositions."
_Miss Sommerfield_. But hear the rest, and see, you naughty girls, what
a position you have got me into. He said. "Do you not perform the piano,
mademoiselle?" "A little, a very little," I said. "We shall then give a
four-hand piece? Yes? Charmant! I have a nice thing, superb. We shall
close the parlor doors, and practise together."
_Madge_ (_hugging her_). The dear. See her blush. It will be simply an
elegant affair.
_Miss Sommerfield_. But I am afraid to play with such a big musician. My
heart will be in my mouth.
_Charlotte_. On no account, my dear. The practice will do you good. And
the honor will be overwhelming.
_Grace_. Indeed, you are a beautiful player, and think how your name
coupled with that of Skewsky will look. Everybody will turn green with
envy.
_Miss Sommerfield_. If I don't spoil everything.
_Ida_. Girls, I see Uncle Jake. He's an old sailor who is hired to keep
the grounds in order. He spins the most delicious yarns. I'm going after
him, and let's see if we can set him a-going. [_Exit._]
_Victoria_. What fun!
_Charlotte_. But we ought to let nothing interfere with our rehearsal.
_Helen_. Oh, bother the rehearsal! I have read these Old Sailor's yarns
in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, haven't you? But I never heard a real sailor
talk.
_Miss James_. I would better be going. If there's to be a man in the
party, mamma might not like--
_Miss Sommerfield_. You will not offend your mamma, I am sure. This old
sailor is a harmless, good-natured fellow.
_Grace_. How does Ida come to know Uncle Jake?
_Victoria_. Her brother follows the sea, and naturally she makes up to
sailors.
_Olive_. Ida is a darling.
[_Enter_ Ida _and_ Uncle Jake.]
_Ida_. I have fetched him, girls; but he says he's in a hurry, and can
only say how-de. (_Aside to the girls._) Do get him talking. His stories
are genuine sailors' yarns.
_Madge_. How-de-do, Uncle Jake!
_Charlotte_. We are right glad to see you. Do sit and rest awhile on
this bench.
_Miss Sommerfield_. We hope you are well, Uncle Jake?
_Uncle Jake_. Tol'able, ma'am, tol'able. My knees are stiff around the
j'ints.
_Ida_. Uncle Jake, we are getting up an entertainment to be given in the
hotel for the benefit of the Sea-side Home.
_Uncle Jake_. Now that's a good thing. Calc'late to fetch up there
myself one of these days.
_Victoria_ (_laughing_). But, Uncle Jake, this is not a home for old
sailors. It's for sick and poor babies. You see, they would die in their
overcrowded hot tenements; but they come to the home and get well.
_Uncle Jake_. Oh, land sakes! That must be what the old gentleman
referred to. Sick babies. Yes, that's it.
_Charlotte_. What old gentleman?
_Uncle Jake_. The one I met in the Saragossa Sea.
_Ida_. Elegant. Girls, he's going to spin a yarn. Uncle Jake, do please
tell us about that. Was it an adventure?
_Uncle Jake_. Quite so, miss. But I interrupt your proceedings.
_Several at Once_. Oh, go on. Do. Never mind the proceedings.
_Uncle Jake_. Well, that there was a tight scrape, and no mistake. I was
second mate of the _Blue Turquoise_. It was a first-class voyage till we
hove right inter the Saragossa Sea, and there we war becalmed and stuck
as fast as a fly in mucilage. That Saragossa Sea is a curus place.
Sea-weeds grow a mile long, with blossoms big as sun-flowers. Monsters
swim around, and squat on the branches and squint at the ships a-lyin'
becalmed. It made me kinder shiver to see them creturs' hungry looks.
They knew a ship would rot to pieces, only give her time. Our Capting
war powerful mad when he see he'd got inter the Saragossa Sea. But
gettin' mad arter a thing is done don't do no good. Waal, it war a red
and fiery ball of a sun. How I wished I could a set oncet more under a
tree. Truly I'd ha' given my bottom dollar to be a settin' under that
old oak that we had to hum, an' a breeze a-stirrin' the branches.
Somethin' to dry up the perspiration. Willie war cabin-boy, and homesick
and down in the mouth, poor youngster. The Capting's face warn't
reassuring. He was plumb beat out.
_Miss Sommerfield_. Girls, do you recall Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner"?
_Olive_. Yes.
"As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean."
Go on, Uncle Jake.
[Illustration: "WAAL, ONE NIGHT I WAR ON DECK ALONE."]
_Uncle Jake_. Waal, one night I war on deck alone. Willie he was thar
too. The Capting he come up. "Ain't no change, mate?" says he. "No,
sir," says I. "Bad business," says he. "Better soon, I hope," says I.
"We're in the oidentical spot we was in two weeks ago," says he. "Mate,
the perwisions is givin' out," says he, in a hoarse voice. "I know it,
sir," says I. It was the wust feature of the case. Thar war Willie
standin' by, mournful-like. I tried to hearten up the Capting a bit, but
'twarn't no use. "I'd ruther be in a whirlpool," says he, "than here.
I'm goin' below. If there's a change call me," says he. So he went
below, and pretty soon I heerd him and the rest of the crew snorin'.
There warn't a solitary blessed thing for the men to do, and they war
all turned in. Willie and me we staid up and watched the heavens of
brass. It might ha' been midnight when I sighted a speck a long ways
off. There warn't no wind, yet it came on wonderful fast. "D'ye see
that, Willie, my boy?" says I. "It are a curus craft." But Willie warn't
asleep. He seen it too. Come near, there war a 'nurmous shell with a
fine hearty old gentleman sittin' in it, and by his side the harndsomest
young lady (barrin' present company) that I ever seed. She war a
beautiful cretur, with black eyes shinin' like stars, and long golden
hair, which she war a-combin' out the snarls. The shell was drawed by
two white sea-horses. Their backs was like great fishes, and their tails
lay on top the water like fishes' tails. Their forrud part war like
horses, and their manes was like tossin' waves. Bless my soul, but they
made a putty pictur. When they was hove close to us the old gentleman
hauled up his horses, and "Helloh!" says he to me. "Helloh!" says I.
"What's the name of this ere wessel?" says he. The "_Blue Turquoise_,"
says I. "Jes so," says he. "Becalmed, ain't ye?" "You're right there,
sir," says I. "What may I call you, sir?" says I. "Oh, I'm Father
Neptune," says he.
_Miss James_. Oh, now, Uncle Jake. That's impossible.
_Ida_. Nothing is impossible. Don't interrupt.
_Uncle Jake_. I'm only tellin' ye what he said. He had a pitchfork in
his hand 'stead of a whip.
_Miss James_. That wasn't a pitchfork. It was a trident, which had three
prongs, and was a symbol of Neptune. Mamma--
_Victoria_. Miss James, you must be a realist. Now, please let the story
go on. Pitchfork it is, Uncle Jake.
_Uncle Jake_. Yes, ma'am, it war. "Well," says I, "that harndsome gal is
Miss Neptune, I suppose." With that the young lady laughed fit to kill.
"Not by a long shot," says she. "I am Miss Lorelei." Then she giv me one
of them piercin' glances of hern, and I shivered. Willie he felt oneasy
too. "I beg your pardon, ma'am," says I. "Be you the pusson what sits on
a rock and draws sailors to their own destruction?" "The very same,"
says she, and she kep' on laughin' and laughin'. "If you please, ma'am,"
says I, "I'd ruther not be drawed. Though 'twould be a change on staying
here." "You're safe," says she. "I ain't in the drawin' business now,"
says she. "Father Neptune and me's takin' a trip round the world."
Father Neptune he spoke up, and says he, "Ever been to America? They say
it's a fine country. We're goin' there. I want to see their big ships
that cross the ocean in five days, seven hours, and fifty-nine minutes.
That beats me. And then their life-savin' stations, and light-houses,
and sea-side homes for poor sick babies. I want to see them all. Sea-air
is good for babies, eh? Good enough for me. I've lived on it several
hundred years." "You're lookin' hale and hearty, sir, I'm sure," says I.
"Well, good-by, and good luck to ye," says he, pullin' at the reins.
"Hold on, your Honor," says I, for an idee had taken possession of me.
"Can't ye give us a pull out er this?" He talked low with Miss Lorelei,
and she didn't seem to object. "All right, throw us your hawser," says
he. I was all of atremble, but Willie and me got that there rope loose
in a hurry, and threw one end to Father Neptune, and made fast the
other. "Ain't you afraid?" says Willie. "No, my boy," says I. "The end
justifies the means." Miss Lorelei took hold of the hawser, and Father
Neptune give his horses a poke with his pitchfork, and my eyes! the old
thing groaned and started. The _Blue Turquoise_ was actually under way,
and them horses foamin' and prancin' for all they was wurth, 'twarn't
long before we was flyin' and churnin' the waves behind. Miss Lorelei
looked back with them wicked, beautiful eyes of hern, and tossed her
golding hair, and, "You see I am back again in the drawin' business,"
says she, with a laugh like the rattle of silver.
Up come the Capting. "Got a wind, eh?" says he. "Why, no, not a breath.
What in thunder makes her go?" Then he spied the hawser drawn tight over
the bow, and he turned pale, his knees knocked together, his teeth
chattered. You might have pushed him down with a straw. It war, no
mistake, a curus position, and I never blamed the Capting for feelin'
queer. "It's all right, sir," says I; "we're bein' tugged."
"Who's a-doin' the tuggin'?" says he. Father Neptune war nothin' more'n
a speck on the water by this time, and Capting couldn't make him out. I
told the facts to the Capting, and Willie, he j'ined in, and said it war
blessed Gospel truth. But the Capting's wind was clean out of his sails.
I set him a steamer-chair, and Willie fanned him with a newspaper before
he fairly come to. "Lord," says I, "Capting, what's the odds _how_ you
git out of this, s'long 's you only git out?" which I hold to be a
pretty good p'int.
We were pulled clear out of the Saragossa Sea, and the wind sprang up,
and we made port in a week arter.
_Victoria_. Did Father Neptune let go the hawser?
_Uncle Jake_. No, miss. Ye see, I had forgot to tell him we was bound
south, and nachelly he bein' headed for the Sea-side Home, was a-goin'
north. We cut the hawser. But I'll never forgit the good turn he did us.
_Ida_. My brother's name is Willie. He is a sailor.
_Uncle Jake_. What's his last name?
_Ida_. Willie Moore.
_Uncle Jake_. Bless my soul, if that warn't the identical chap.
_Ida_. But my brother's first voyage was on the _Porpoise_. She sailed
to the West Indies.
_Uncle Jake_. It _war_ the _Porpoise_. Beats all, how my memory fails.
The _Blue Turquoise_ war the next ship I sailed in.
_Ida_. Willie never spoke of that adventure at home, Captain Jake.
_Captain Jake_. Ask him, ask him. 'Mind him of the Saragossa Sea, and
how the _Blue_--I mean the _Porpoise_--war tugged. He'll recollect.
Mention Miss Lorelei with her golding hair. But good-day, young ladies.
Pleased to meet ye again.
_All_. Good-day, Captain Jake.
_Miss Sommerfield_. And many thanks for your pretty tale.
[_Exit_ Captain Jake.]
_Miss James_. I fear that old man does not always speak the truth.
Neptune is a pure myth.
_Helen_. Like the Gulf Stream.
_Miss James_. And I seriously doubt, Miss Moore, if that was your
brother Willie.
_Ida_. Don't you worry.
_Charlotte_. I see Madge has found the old lyric mamma loves. Read it,
Madge, two lines at a time, and we will sing it to the tune of "What
fairylike music steals over the sea."[1]
"What fairylike music steals over the sea,
Entrancing the senses with charm'd melody?
'Tis the voice of the mermaid, that floats o'er the main,
As she mingles her song with the gondolier's strain.
'Tis the voice of the mermaid, that floats o'er the main,
As she mingles her song with the gondolier's strain."
[Madge _reads, and the others sing_.]
When we have the entertainment, we'll let this be the last thing on the
programme.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Page 112, Vol. I., Franklin Square Library.
GREAT MEN'S SONS.
BY ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS.
THE SON OF NAPOLEON.
"Nineteen--twenty--twenty-one," the people in the Garden of the
Tuileries counted. Then, with open ears, they listened breathlessly.
"Twenty-two! Hurrah! hurrah!" they shouted. "A boy; it is a boy!" they
cried. "Long live the Emperor! Long live the King of Rome!"
It was the 20th of March, 1811. A baby had been born in the palace of
the Tuileries. The booming cannon announced the great event, and the
people knew that for a girl twenty-one guns would be fired; for a boy,
one hundred. So when the twenty-second gun boomed out there was no need
for further counting. All the people knew that an heir to the throne of
France had been born, and with loud acclamations they shouted "welcome"
and "long life" to the son of Napoleon.
[Illustration: "HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME."]
He was a bright, pretty little fellow, and his father loved him from the
start. At his very first cry Napoleon caught him up, and hurrying to the
great chamber in which the foremost men of the empire were waiting,
presented to them "his Majesty the King of Rome!"
It was at the height of Napoleon's power. All Europe lay at his feet.
Thrones and principalities were his to give away; but for his son he
reserved the title that would revive the greatness and glory of the
ancient days and recall the widespread sway of Charlemagne; the little
Napoleon was to be King of Rome, and heir to the Empire of France.
But a King must have a royal guard. So one day in September, 1811, a
brigade of boys, none of them over twelve years old, marched into the
Cour du Carrousel, where the Emperor was reviewing his army, and drew up
in line of battle opposite the famous Old Guard of the Emperor. And
Napoleon said: "Soldiers of my guard, there are your children. I confide
to them the guard of my son, as I have confided myself to you." And to
the boys he said: "My children, upon you I impose a difficult duty. But
I rely upon you. You are pupils of the guard, and your service is the
protection of the King of Rome."
There were days of splendor and ceremonial, of fete and display, in the
early life of the little King of Rome. His father was, literally, Kings
of Kings; he made and unmade sovereigns, he carved up nations, and cut
out states.
Suddenly came the collapse. All Europe arrayed itself against this
crowned adventurer--this man who, through a hundred years, has remained
at once the marvel and the puzzle of history. There came days of
preparation and leave-taking, of war and battle, of defeat and disgrace.
When the days of war and struggle came, the old-time fire and dash and
courage of the conqueror seemed to have left him; his hopes were with
his boy and that boy's future rather than in the rush and grapple of
armies.
So Napoleon's star set fast. With all Europe arrayed against him for his
overthrow, the great Corsican suddenly became little, and everything
went wrong.
On the 25th of January, 1814, the father saw his son for the last time.
Holding by the hand the boy, then nearly three years old, the Emperor
presented himself before the eight hundred officers of the National
Guard of Paris, assembled in the gorgeous Hall of the Marshals.
"Officers of the National Guard," he said, "I go to take my place at the
head of the army. To your protection I confide my wife and my son, upon
whom rest so many hopes. In your care I leave what is next to
France--the dearest thing I have in the world."
But disaster overwhelmed both the Emperor and the nation. The guards
were powerless to guard. The armies of Napoleon were defeated; he
himself was banished to Elba; and the little Napoleon with his mother
escaped to the court of his grandfather, the Emperor of Austria.
With a final burst of courage Napoleon escaped from Elba and roused
France once again to war. It was in vain. His power and his luck were
gone. Waterloo gave him his death-blow, and the lonely island of St.
Helena became his prison and his grave.
Four days after Waterloo, on the 22d of June, 1815, Napoleon issued his
last proclamation. "I offer myself in sacrifice to the hatred of the
enemies of France," he announced. "My political life is ended, and I
proclaim my son, under the title of Napoleon II., Emperor of the
French.... Let all unite for the public safety, and in order to remain
an independent nation. NAPOLEON."
But the nation was paralyzed by disaster. Union was impossible. The boy
thus proclaimed Emperor was far from France, held by the enemy. He was
never to see his native land again, never to see his father, never to
reign Emperor of the French.
For seventeen years the boy lived at the Austrian court, practically a
prisoner. His mother cared little for him, and for years did not see
him; his name of Napoleon was denied him; his titles of Emperor and King
were taken from him, and he was known simply as the Duke of Reichstadt.
His grandfather, the Emperor of Austria, was kind to him, and tried to
make an Austrian of him, but he grew from a bright, handsome little
fellow into a lonely, low-spirited, and brooding boy, who remembered his
former grandeur and the high position to which he had been born, and
fretted over the knowledge that he, the son of Napoleon, could inherit
no portion of his father's glory, and was denied even the empty honor of
his name.
At five he was a beautiful boy, who rebelled when his tutors tried to
teach him German, and delighted to play jokes on his royal grandfather;
it has even been solemnly asserted that he tied the imperial coat tails
to a chair, and filled the imperial boots with gravel. At seven he put
on the uniform of a private in the Austrian Royal Guard, and displayed a
liking for military life. His gayety began to change to reticence and a
love for solitude as he grew old enough to appreciate his position. One
of the Austrian Generals was discoursing to the boy one day on the
three greatest warriors of the world.
"I know a fourth," said the young Napoleon.
"And who is that?" the commandant asked.
"My father," replied the boy, proudly, and walked away from the
lecturer.
He was ten years old when his great father died in his exile at St.
Helena (on the 5th of May, 1821). The boy wept bitterly when he was told
the news, and shut himself up for several days. He put on mourning, but
the Austrians compelled him to put it off, and permitted him to show no
grief for his dead father.
After this he grew still more quiet and secretive; he took to his books,
became quite a student, and wrote an able treatise upon Caesar's
_Commentaries_. When he was fifteen he was permitted to read books about
his father and the history of France, and at sixteen he was instructed
in the forms of Austrian government, and the false theory known as "the
divine right of Kings."
When he was twenty he "came out" into society, and was made
Lieutenant-Colonel of infantry in the Austrian army, but he never
"smelled powder" nor saw war. Brooding and solitude weakened his
constitution; ill health resulted; his lungs were touched with disease:
and on the 22d of July, in the year 1832, having reached the age of
twenty-one, the son of Napoleon died in the palace of Schoenbrunn, of
consumption.
It seems hard, but death was the only solution of what might have been a
problem. Without the will, the energy, the genius, or the selfishness of
his remarkable father, the son of Napoleon had yet ambition,
persistence, and a reverence for his father's memory that amounted
almost to a passion. Without any special love for France, he cherished
that dream of empire that his father had made come true. Had he lived
and joined ability to strength, his name might have raised up armies,
and again drenched Europe in blood--the tool of factions or the prey of
his own ambitions. He died a lonely invalid, and Europe was spared the
horror of a possible "might have been."
On the plain bronze tomb that marks this boy's place of burial in the
Carthusian Monastery at Vienna--near to that of another unwise and
unfortunate Prince, the Austrian usurper Maximilian of Mexico--the
visitor may read this inscription, placed there by the Emperor, his
grandfather: To the eternal memory of Joseph Charles Francis, Duke of
Reichstadt, son of Napoleon, Emperor of the French, and Marie Louise,
Archduchess of Austria. Born at Paris, March 20, 1811, when in his
cradle he was hailed by the title of King of Rome; he was endowed with
every faculty, both of body and mind; his stature was tall; his
countenance adorned with the charms of youth, and his conversation full
of affability; he displayed an astonishing capacity for study, and the
exercise of the military art: attacked by a pulmonary disease, he died
at Schoenbrunn, near Vienna, July 22, 1832.
The epitaph tells but one side of this boy's story; the other side is
sad enough. A young life begun in glory went out in gloom; the Prince of
the Tuileries became the prisoner of Vienna: the dream of empire was
speedily dispelled, and death itself mercifully removed one who might
have been a menace and a curse to Europe.
What he might have been had his father remained conqueror and Emperor
none may say. But the star of Napoleon, that had blazed like a meteor in
Europe's startled sky, flickered, fell, and went out in disgrace.
Thenceforward the shadow of the father's downfall clung to the boy, and
the son of Napoleon had neither the opportunity, the energy, nor the
will to display any trace of that genius for conquest that made the name
of Napoleon great in his day, and greater since his downfall and his
death.
OAKLEIGH.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.