A BROKEN DRAW
Throughout the luncheon that followed aboard the yacht the major was
the life of the party. He had offered no apology either to Sanford or
to any member of the committee for his hasty conclusions regarding the
“damnable oligarchy.” He considered that he had wiped away all
bitterness, when, rising to his feet and rapping with the handle of
his knife for order, he said with great dignity and suavity of
manner:—
“On behalf of this queen among women,” turning to Mrs. Leroy, “our
lovely hostess, as well as these fair young buds”—a graceful wave of
his hand—(some of these buds had grandchildren) “who adorn her table,
I rise to thank you, suh,”—semi-military salute to General
Barton,—“for the opportunity you have given them of doing honor to a
gentleman and a soldier,”—a double-barreled compliment that brought a
smile to that gentleman’s face, and a suppressed ripple of laughter
from the other members of the committee.
In the same generous way he filled his own and everybody else’s bumper
for Sanford out of the bowl that Sam had rendered innocuous,
addressing his friend as that “young giant, who has lighted up the
pathway of the vasty deep.” To which bit of grandiloquence Sanford
replied that the major was premature, but that he hoped to accomplish
it the following year.
In addition to conducting all these functions, the Pocomokian
neglected no minor detail of the feast. He insisted upon making the
coffee after an especial formula of his own, and cooled in a new way
and with his own hands the several cordials banked up on Sam’s silver
tray. He opened parasols for the ladies and champagne for the men with
equal grace and dexterity; was host, waiter, valet, and host again;
and throughout the livelong day one unfailing source of enthusiasm,
courtesy, and helpfulness. With all this be it said to his credit, he
had never overstepped the limits of his position, as High
Rubber-in-Chief,—his main purpose having been to get all the fun
possible out of the situation, both for himself and for those about
him. These praiseworthy efforts were not appreciated by all of the
guests. The general and the committee had several times, in their own
minds, put him down for a charlatan and a mountebank, especially when
they deliberated upon the fit of his clothes, and his bombastic and
sometimes fulsome speeches.
All these several vagaries, however, of the distinguished Pocomokian
only endeared him the more to Sanford and his many friends. They saw a
little deeper under the veneer, and knew that if the major did smoke
his hostess’s cigars and drink her cognac, it was always as her guest
and in her presence. They knew, too, that, poor and often thirsty as
he was, he would as soon have thought of stuffing his carpet-bag with
the sheets that covered his temporary bed as of filling his private
flask with the contents of the decanter that Buckles brought nightly
to his room. It was just this delicate sense of honor that saved him
from pure vagabondage.
When coffee and cigars had been served, the general and his party
again crossed the gangplank to the tender, the mooring-lines were
thrown off, and the two boats, with many wavings of hands from yacht
and Ledge, kept on their respective courses. The tender was to keep on
to Keyport, where the committee were to board the train for New York,
and the yacht was to idle along until sundown, and so on into Medford
harbor. Captain Joe and Caleb were to follow later in the tug that had
towed out the Screamer, they being needed in Keyport to load some
supplies.
As the tender steamed away the men on the Ledge looked eagerly for
Carleton, that they might give him some little leave-taking of their
own,—it would have been a characteristic one,—but he was nowhere to
be seen.
“Buried up in the coal bunkers, jes’ ’s I said,” laughed Lonny Bowles.
* * * * *
With the final wave to the fast disappearing tender of a red
handkerchief, the property of the major, returned by the general
standing in the stern of his own boat, Mrs. Leroy’s party settled
themselves on the forward deck of the yacht to enjoy the afternoon run
back to Medford.
The ladies sat under the awnings, where they were made comfortable
with cushions from the saloon below, while some of the men threw
themselves flat on the deck cushions, or sat Turkish fashion in those
several sprawling positions only possible under like conditions, and
most difficult for some men to learn to assume properly. Jack Hardy
knew to a nicety how to stow his legs away, and so did Sanford. Theirs
were always invisible. Smearly never tried the difficult art. He
thought it beneath his dignity; and then again there was too much of
him in the wrong place. The major wanted to try it, and no doubt would
have done so with decorum and grace but for his clothes. It was a
straight and narrow way that the major had been walking all day, and
he could run no risks.
Everything aboard the yacht had been going as merry as a marriage or
any other happy bell of good cheer,—the major at his best, Smearly
equally delightful, Helen and Jack happy as two song-birds, and Mrs.
Leroy with a joyous word for every one between her confidences to
Sanford, when just as the gayety was at its height a quick sharp ring
was heard in the engine-room below. Almost at the same instant one of
the crew touched Sanford on the shoulder and whispered something in
his ear.
Sanford sprang to his feet and looked eagerly toward the shore.
The yacht at the moment was entering the narrow channel of Medford
harbor, and the railroad trestle and draw could be plainly seen from
its deck. Sanford’s quick eye had instantly detected a break in the
sky-line. The end of the railroad track placed on the trestle, and
crossing within a few hundred feet of Mrs. Leroy’s cottage, was
evidently twisted out of shape, while across the channel, on its
opposite end rested an engine and two cars, the outer one derailed and
toppled over. On the water below were crowded every conceivable kind
of small boat hurrying to the scene, while the surrounding banks were
black with people watching intently a group of men on board a scow,
who were apparently trying to keep above water a large object which
looked like a floating house.
Something serious had evidently happened.
A panic of apprehension instantly seized the guests on the yacht.
Faces which but a few moments before had been rosy with smiles became
suddenly anxious and frightened. Some of the ladies spoke in whispers;
could it be possible, every one asked, that the train with General
Barton and the committee on board had met with an accident?
Sanford, followed by Mrs. Leroy, hurried into the pilot-house to
search the horizon from that elevation and see the better. One
moment’s survey removed all doubt from his mind. A train had gone
through the draw; whether passenger or freight he could not tell. One
thing was certain: some lives must be in danger, or the crowd would
not watch so intently the group who were working with such energy
aboard the rescuing scow. At Sanford’s request three quick, short
bells sounded in the engine-room below, and the yacht quivered along
her entire length as she doubled her speed. When she came within
hailing distance of the shore a lobster fisherman pulled out and
crossed the yacht’s bow.
“What’s happened?” shouted Sanford, waving his hat to attract
attention.
The fisherman stopped rowing, and the yacht slowed down.
“Train through the draw,” came the answer.
“Passenger or freight?”
“’T ain’t neither one. It’s a repair train from Stonin’ton, with a lot
o’ dagos an’ men. Caboose went clean under, an’ two cars piled on
top.”
Sanford breathed freer; the Board were safe, anyhow.
“Anybody killed?”
“Yes. Some says six; some says more. None in the caboose got out. The
dagos was on the dirt-car an’ jumped.”
The yacht sped on. As she neared the railroad draw Jack took Helen’s
hand and led her down into the cabin. He did not want her to see any
sight that would shock her. Mrs. Leroy stood by Sanford; the yacht was
her house, so to speak; some one might need its hospitality and
shelter, and she wanted to be the first to offer it. The same idea had
crossed Sanford’s mind.
“Major,” said Sanford, “please tell Sam to get some brandy ready and
bring some of the mattresses from the crew’s bunks up on deck; they
may be useful.”
A voice now hailed Sanford. It came from the end of the scow nearest
the sunken house, now seen to be one end of a caboose car. “Is there a
doctor aboard your yacht?”
“Yes, half a one. Who wants him?” called Smearly, leaning over the
rail in the direction of the sound.
“We’ve got a man here we can’t bring to. He’s alive, but that’s all.”
The yacht backed water and moved close to the scow. Sanford jumped
down, followed by Smearly carrying the brandy and the major with a
mattress, and ran along her deck to where the man lay. The yacht kept
on. It was to land the ladies a hundred yards away, and then return.
“Hand me that brandy, quick, major!” exclaimed Smearly, as he dropped
on one knee and bent over the sufferer, parting the lips with his
fingers and pouring a spoonful between the closed teeth. “Now pull
that mattress closer, and some of you fellows make a pillow of your
coats, and find something to throw over him when he comes to; it’s the
cold that’s killing him. He’ll pull through, I think.”
Smearly’s early training in the hospital service while making sketches
during the war had more than once stood him in good stead.
The major was the first man in his shirt-sleeves; Leroy’s commodore
coat was beginning to be of some real service. Two of the scow’s crew
added their own coats, and then ran for an army blanket in the cabin
of the scow. The sufferer was lifted up on the mattress and made more
comfortable, the coats placed under his head, the army blanket tucked
about him.
The injured man gave a convulsive gasp and partly opened his eyes. The
brandy was doing its work. Sanford leaned over him to see if he could
recognize him, but the ooze and slime clung so thickly to the mustache
and closely trimmed beard that he could not make out his features. He
seemed to be under thirty years of age, strong and well built. He was
dressed in a blue shirt and overalls, and looked like a mechanic.
“How many others?” asked Sanford, looking toward the wreck.
“He’s the only one alive,” answered the captain of the scow. “We
hauled him through the winder of the caboose just as she was a-turnin’
over; he’s broke something, some’ers, I guess, or he’d ’a’ come to
quicker. There’s two dead men under there,” pointing to the sunken
caboose, “so the brakeman says. If we had a diver we could git ’em up.
The railroad superintendent’s been here, an’ says he’ll send for one;
but you know what that means,—he’ll send for a diver after they git
this caboose up; by that time they’d be smashed into pulp.”
The yacht had now steamed back to the wreck with word from Mrs. Leroy
to send for whatever would be needed to make the injured man
comfortable. Sam delivered the message, standing in the bow of the
yacht. He had not liked the idea of leaving Sanford, when the yacht
moved off from the scow, and had so expressed himself to the
sailing-master. He was Sanford’s servant, not Mrs. Leroy’s, he had
said, and when people were getting blown up and his master had to stay
and attend to them, his place was beside him, not “waitin’ on de
ladies.”
With the approach of the yacht Sanford looked at his watch
thoughtfully, and raising his voice to the sailing-master, who was
standing in the pilot-house, his hand on the wheel, said: “Captain, I
want you to tow this scow to Mrs. Leroy’s dock, so a doctor can get at
this wounded man. He needs hot blankets at once. Then crowd on
everything you’ve got and run to Keyport. Find Captain Joe Bell, and
tell him to put my big air-pump aboard and bring Caleb West and his
diving-dress. There are two dead men down here who must be got at
before the wrecking train begins on the caboose. My colored boy, Sam,
will go with you and help you find the captain’s house,—he knows
where he lives. If you are quick you can make Keyport and back in an
hour.”