that led up to his action happened at and near the harbor of Apia in the
beautiful Samoan Islands. Time and again have I and other writers asked
Leary to tell about it, and time and again has he resolutely refused,
saying that the sense of having done his duty was all the reward he
wanted. Consequently I have been forced to go to the public records and
to some of the men who were in Samoa at the time to get the details of a
long series of acts which resulted one day in an American man-of-war and
a German man-of-war lying side by side a short distance outside of Apia
Harbor, each cleared for action, and war between our country and Germany
depending upon whether the Captain of the German ship should fire upon
some native forts on the mainland. Such shots would have gone over the
deck of the _Adams_, which Leary commanded, and he practically, although
not literally, sent word to the German commander that the first shot on
the native forts would be answered by a broadside from American guns.
After almost an entire day of intense excitement on board both ships and
on the mainland, the German commander yielded--went back into port--and
a grave crisis in our history was safely passed--because of the
patriotism and pluck of one of our naval officers who to this day
refuses to talk about it.
To understand the story fully we must go into the causes of the trouble.
The Samoan, or Navigator Islands, have always been an object of envy by
nations which are known as "land-grabbers." The desire of the Germans to
secure control of those islands had caused most of the troubles of the
Samoans in recent years. It was the old desire for money and property
over again. The United States had long recognized the Samoans as a
civilized people, and had made a treaty with them. In time Germany and
England united with us in a joint treaty with the Samoans for their
protection and development. German residents there wanted control of
trade, and stirred up a rebellion against the High Chief, or King,
Malietoa. They took the side of Tamasese, a pretender to the throne. On
a pretext that property belonging to Germans--some pigs and some
cocoanuts--had been stolen by Malietoa's men, they declared war against
him, and finally made him give himself up to them to save his people
from slaughter. He was deported to Africa, and later to Germany. The
Samoans would not have Tamasese for King, and practically the entire
nation rallied around Mataafa, who succeeded Malietoa.
There was now a civil war between the two factions. The Americans did
not take sides, except to refuse to acknowledge Tamasese as King. The
Germans did take sides, notwithstanding the treaty of neutrality. They
bombarded villages on this and that excuse; they fired on unarmed
natives in boats; they gave aid openly to Tamasese; they assumed an air
of possession of the islands. Now it must not be supposed that all this
was done with the full approval of the German government, because the
Germans in time brought back Malietoa, and since then they have recalled
the one man who stirred up most of the trouble. In speaking, therefore,
of the matter, let it be understood that we have strict reference to
those Germans alone who were in Samoa.
[Illustration: THE GERMAN WAR-SHIP "ADLER."]
There was constant friction between the Americans and Germans in Apia,
and many letters passed between Captain Leary and the Captain of the
German war-ship _Adler_, stationed there at the time. This being a story
of Captain Leary's patriotic acts, we need go no further into the
details of Samoan history. One of the first of Leary's notable acts was
to send a letter, on September 6, 1888, to the Captain of the _Adler_.
The _Adler_, on the day before, had gone to the island of Manono to burn
the houses and villages of the natives who would not support Tamasese.
The war-ship took some of Tamasese's boats in tow, and soon the guns of
the war-ship were heard bombarding houses known to have been occupied by
defenceless women and children. The _Adler_ came back the next day, and
at once Captain Leary sent the German Captain a letter of protest. He
recited what he knew of the bombardment and what he had been told, and
then he added, with a firmness that does one good to read:
"Such action, especially after the Tamasese party having been
represented as a strong government, not needing the armed support
of a foreign power, appears to be a violation of the principles of
international law as well as a violation of the generally
recognized laws of humanity. Being the only other representative of
a naval power now represented in this harbor, _for the sake of
humanity I hereby respectfully and solemnly protest in the name of
the United States of America and of the civilized world in general_
against the use of a war-vessel for such service as was yesterday
rendered by the German corvette _Adler_."
[Illustration: THE UNITED STATES WAR-SHIP "ADAMS."]
This was the first open breach between the commanders of the two
war-ships. Leary based his action simply on the ground of humanity. One
of his next conspicuous acts was to uphold the honor of the American
flag. A body of Tamasese's men were encamped on Mulinuu Point, which the
Germans claimed was under the jurisdiction of their government because
Germans owned property there. Some of these natives saw an American flag
floating at the top of a tree not far away. It was placed there by a
half-breed who was an American citizen. It floated above his own
property. The Tamasese men tore it down and into strips. Then they
partly wrecked his house and threatened to kill him. Captain Leary soon
heard of it, and he sent a letter to the _Adler_'s Captain asking if the
natives were under the protection of the German war-ship. He wanted to
fix the responsibility for the insult to the American flag, because, as
he said, he was "obliged to furnish necessary protection to Americans in
jeopardy."
The German Captain made a non-committal reply, and the next day Leary
repeated his request, saying that the question at issue was not one of
diplomacy, but of military policy. He then showed his American spirit in
these utterances:
"Under the shadow of the German fort at Mulinuu atrocities have
been committed on American property, and the lives of the American
owners have been threatened and jeopardized by armed natives, who
appear to be sheltered by the naval force belonging to the vessel
under your command. My official obligations do not permit me to
negotiate with diplomatic or political representatives of foreign
powers, but with military or naval commanders interested in
official acts; and as the naval commander charged with the
protection of American citizens, I again have the honor
respectfully to request to be informed 'whether the armed natives
at Mulinuu Point are under the protection of the Imperial Naval
Guard belonging to the vessel under your command or are they not
under that protection.'"
Leary received an evasive reply to this, and the relations between the
two commanders became more strained. Leary did not stop with this. He
sent a letter to Tamasese demanding restitution. The Germans, who had
control of the local post-office, would not forward the letter, and
later Leary sent another, in which he said:
"I have the honor to inform your Highness that the articles
forcibly taken from the house of Mr. Scanlan by your people have
not yet been returned, and that they must be restored to Mr.
Scanlan without unnecessary delay, for which purpose I shall wait
until sunset, Wednesday the 14th, and if it be not reported to me
by that time that my demand has been complied with, I shall be at
liberty to take such action as will in future _enforce a wholesome
respect for the American flag_ and the laws and property under its
protection.
"A red flag hoisted at the foremast of an American war-vessel
simultaneously with the discharge of a blank charge will be the
signal for you to remove from your fort and vicinity to a place of
safety all women, children, sick, and wounded, for which purpose a
liberal time will be allowed before resorting to more serious
measures."
No second notice was required from Leary. Tamasese restored the property
to Mr. Scanlan, including the American flag, which floated secure from
insult on his property afterward.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE WRONG TRAIN.
BY SOPHIE SWETT.
The night telegraph operator at Orinoco Junction had the mumps. His name
was Samuel Dusenberry, and he was seventeen, which is young to have so
responsible a position; in fact it was Sam's first position, and he was
on trial. He was also the head of his family, and in that position Sam
had been heard to grumblingly remark that he was also on trial, for
Phineas and Mary Jane, and even little Ajax, thought they could manage
things as well as he could.
Although seventeen is young for such responsibilities as Sam's, it is
disgracefully old to have the mumps--or so Sam thought, and he persisted
in declaring that he hadn't, while his cheeks swelled and swelled, until
his watery smarting eyes were almost concealed; and he was extremely
cross when little Ajax assured him that if he felt just as if he were
not Sam at all, that was the mumps, because that was the way he felt
when he had 'em. Mary Jane, who attended to the family grammar, was
somewhat troubled because they all spoke of the disease as plural; but
Phineas stoutly maintained that this was proper when you had 'em on both
sides at once, like Sam.
He hadn't the mumps, and if he had, he was going to his work at the
station that night; that was what Sam insisted, although Mary Jane
begged him not to with tears in her eyes, and threatened to tell their
mother, from whom they carefully kept every worrying thing, because she
was a helpless invalid. It was only at the last moment, when he found
that things began to whirl around him and his knees to shake, when he
tried to get to the door, that Sam gave up, and said he supposed Phineas
would have to go in his place.
"It is so fortunate," said Mary Jane, "that Phineas knows how."
"But he's such a sleepy-head. I ought to have asked the company to
appoint a substitute. It's irregular, anyway, and if anything should
happen--!" groaned Sam.
He was one who felt his responsibilities, and mumps are not conducive to
cheerful views. As for Phineas, he felt that at last the boy and the
opportunity had met. Phineas had been repressed--kept in the background
all too long, in his own opinion, first by the supposed superior
"smartness" of Sam, and second by the continual tutelage of his twin
sister Mary Jane. Her whole attention seemed to be given to the subject
of what a boy ought not to do; after a time this becomes wearing upon
the boy. Perhaps Mary Jane had come to assume this unpleasant
superiority because a heavy twin-sisterly duty constantly devolved upon
her--keeping Phineas awake; in the history class, in the long prayer,
when Uncle Samuel came, periodically, to give them good advice, Mary
Jane found it always necessary to keep her eye on Phineas and the
sharpest elbow in Orinoco in readiness.
At first Mary Jane had said that he ought not to learn telegraphy,
because he could not keep awake; but when he persisted, she came to
share his optimistic belief that it would _keep_ him awake. But perhaps
Sam's groan was not without its excuse; certainly no one disputed that
Phineas was "a sleepy-head."
"I tell you it's hard for even an old stager to keep awake all night
long"--Sam had been an operator for two months--"even when he's had some
sleep in the daytime, as you haven't. It won't do for you to sit down at
all, you know; or if you get all tired out walking round, sit on the
tall three-legged stool out in the middle of the floor; if you get to
nodding, that will tip over. I've fallen asleep once or twice, but it
has waked me when my office has been called on the wire. It wouldn't
wake you!"
"It won't have a chance, because I sha'n't be asleep," said Phineas,
stoutly.
"Your eyesight is good, isn't it, Phin?"
"Well, I rather guess!" said Phineas, indignantly.
"You have to swing a red or a white lantern. I shall be glad when we
have the semaphore signals on our road." (Sam's easy use of learned
technical expressions always caused Mary Jane's mouth to open wide with
admiration.) "I say, Phin, what color are Mary Jane's mittens?" Sam
asked this question with sudden breathless eagerness. "A new operator,
who was color-blind, wrecked the Northern Express on the L---- road!"
"Red," said Phineas, with scornful promptness, and was then forced to
pass an examination in all the colors of Mary Jane's hooked rug.
"And if there's anything you don't understand, you can ask Lon Brophy in
the ticket-office." Sam fell back on the lounge, with a long sigh, as he
gave Phineas this parting assurance.
But Mary Jane ran out to the gate after him. "Don't sit down even on
the three-legged stool. It might go over and you wouldn't wake. Think of
the boy that stood on the burning deck, or the one that let the fox gnaw
him, whenever you feel sleepy." Along with this stern advice Mary Jane
forced upon Phineas a dainty lunch that she had prepared, and a can of
coffee, which he could heat upon the station stove.
After all, Mary Jane was a good sister, and perhaps she did not deserve
that Phineas should mutter, as he walked along, that it was a mistake
for a girl to think herself so smart.
As Phin walked toward the station in the bracing air of the November
night, he was hotly resentful of the distrust that had been shown of his
ability to take Sam's place for just one night.
The station at Orinoco Junction was a lively place when Phineas relieved
Tom Woolley, the day operator, at six o'clock. At that time many trains
stopped, and they were crowded, because there was a great political
gathering at L----, twenty miles farther on. The little restaurant was
filled with a jostling crowd. The sharp cries of the popcorn boys
mingled with political announcements and a running fire of boasts and
jokes.
Tom Woolley took down his overcoat from its nail with a sigh of relief.
"They've kept me at it all day," he said.
But at the door he turned, as if struck by a sudden misgiving, and
looked Phin over critically.
"It's going to quiet down by-and-by. Can you keep awake all night--a
youngster like you?"
It seemed as if Mary Jane must have been telling; she always did talk
and talk--a worse fault than being a little sleepy, if she had only
known it, thought Phin. Tom Woolley was nineteen, and had an incipient
mustache; he twirled its imaginary ends as he looked Phin over; and
Phin's blood boiled.
"Oh, well, sonny, don't fire up," said Tom, easily; "but you'd better
look sharp, you know," he added, with a grave nod. "There are a couple
of extra trains expected, and the president of the road is likely to be
on board of one of them; lives up at Ganges, you know--going home to
vote."
Phin muttered that he guessed he could take care of extra trains,
whether there were presidents on board or not, and when Tom Woolley had
taken himself off, his courage rose, and he felt himself master of the
situation.
By seven o'clock there came a lull; when the nine-o'clock bell rang from
the Baptist church steeple you would have thought all Orinoco had gone
to sleep. There were no trains between half past eight and ten. Nine
o'clock was Phin's bedtime; it's queer, but almost anywhere, unless it's
the night before the Fourth of July, a boy feels his bedtime; besides,
the room was close, and the clock ticked monotonously. Phin heated his
coffee and ate his luncheon; he wasn't hungry, but it was necessary to
do something to shake off drowsiness. There was chicken, and Nep
crunched the bones and barked for a cooky; after that he scratched the
door and whined so that Phin was forced to let him out; he thought the
dog only wanted to stretch his legs and breathe a little fresh air, but
Nep walked deliberately homeward, and refused to be whistled back. Nep
disliked irregular proceedings, and knew the comfort of one's own bed at
night.
"Of course I don't really need him to keep me awake," Phin said to
himself; but nevertheless his heart sank; he began to have a suspicion
that nights were long.
He pulled himself together and began to walk the floor; when he grew so
tired that he ached he drew the three-legged stool out into the middle
of the floor and perched himself upon it.
Suddenly--it seemed only a moment after he had brought out that
stool--he found himself in the office with his hand on the key; there
had been a call on his office; he had been asleep, and had been wakened
by it, as Sam boasted that he had been! A fellow might allow himself to
drowse a little when he could wake like that.
No, the Punjaub express had not passed; that was what they wanted to
know at Cowaree and all along the line. Presently uncomplimentary
epithets began to be hurled at him over the wire. Sam had complained
that the fellow at Cowaree had "the big head," but--the Punjaub express
had passed, so they said!
He must have slept very soundly; the three-legged stool _was_ tipped
over; he remembered vaguely that he had picked himself off the floor to
answer that call.
Drops of perspiration stood upon Phin's forehead when he returned to the
waiting-room after that Cowaree fellow and the others had exhausted
their eloquence.
He began a weary march around the room; it would not do to sit down
again, even upon the three-legged stool. Did any one ever know, who had
not tried it, what a terrible job it was to keep awake all night?
Another call! An order from the despatches to hold No. 39 express for
orders, and run downward trains against it. That was a responsibility,
for failure might involve serious accidents. There was no danger that he
would fall asleep now!
And yet, after a long hour had dragged by, there was a heaviness upon
his limbs, an oppression upon his brain. He forced himself to walk, but
he remembered that he had read that sentries sometimes walked while fast
asleep. Something must be done, and Phineas forced his wits to work;
they were the wits that had floored the schoolmaster and helped to
invent the skunk-trap.
He twined some cotton twine across the track at such a height that the
train would break it. He fastened it to the platform railing, then drew
it through the key-hole of the door; he tied a piece of zinc upon the
end, and his coffee-can and the poker, and all these articles he placed
upon the top of the stove. There were two trains to pass before the No.
39 express; there would certainly be a clatter that would awaken him to
report the first one.
He lay down upon the lounge; he was conscious of a blissful,
irresistible fall into a gulf of sleep, and then-- There was no clatter,
but a wild scream of pain and fright from the track. Phin sprang to his
feet, his heart beating wildly; he had slept, and the accident he had
dreaded had come! He rushed to the track. A man was scrambling to his
feet, begging for mercy, and piteously demanding a temperance pledge; it
was old Hosea Giddings, of Crow Hill, who never missed a night at the
Junction saloon. He had tripped upon the string and broken it. It was
evident that no train had passed, and Phin felt a thrill of relief. He
stood back and let the old man scramble up unaided; it was well that he
should find snares for his feet in the neighborhood of the saloon.
It grew still again, deadly still, after Hosea Giddings and his vows
were out of hearing, and Phin felt that sleep was again settling down
upon him. He found a ball of very stout linen twine--that was not a bad
scheme if the string were strong enough; but this time he tied the end
to his own wrist. A pull upon that would be more certain to awaken him
than any noise. Two trains before the No. 39 express; after they had
passed, a string would not serve, for that must be stopped with the red
lantern.
He lay down again upon the lounge; the last thing that he remembered was
feeling for the string about his wrist, to be sure that it was tight.
He was hurled violently across the floor; he felt an almost unendurable
pain; there was a crash, as if heaven and earth came together, and
then--was it a long time or only a moment afterwards that he saw Mary
Jane's face bending over him? She had put water upon his face, and
something redder than water was trickling from his wrist.
That twine had been strong enough to drag him, and it had cut his wrist
almost to the bone; his head had hit the stove, and all those things
that he had forgotten to take off it had come down and hit him.
"I had such a bad dream I just got up and came! I couldn't help it," he
heard Mary Jane say.
It all seemed to him like a bad dream; but he heard himself say eagerly,
although it sounded to him like a far-away voice, "No. 39 express, stop
it! stop it!"
There was in the distance the thunder of a train. Mary Jane seized the
red lantern from its nail and rushed out.
Though he was still half stupefied, Phin staggered to his feet and made
his way to the door; in the moonlight he could see the flutter of Mary
Jane's plaid shawl as she stood on the track.
The train slowed up, and came to a stop only a few feet from the plaid
shawl.
The conductor demanded an explanation in an excited voice; the engineer
and the brakeman were complaining in strong language that the train was
behind time, and shouldn't have been stopped unless for a matter of life
and death.
Phin had made his way to the track, although he was faint and dizzy; but
his voice failed him when he tried to speak, for he realized in a flash
that it was the Ganges branch train that Mary Jane had stopped!
"She--we meant to stop No. 39 express. I got hurt a little and mixed
up," he faltered at length.
The conductor and the engineer and the brakeman and several train-boys
and passengers expressed in chorus a strong though condensed opinion of
the Orinoco station, and of telegraph operators who fell asleep and left
girls to manage affairs. Perhaps it was as well for Phin's feelings that
he could not stop to hear it all; there was a call on his office, and he
hurried as well as he could to the instrument.
"Stop Ganges branch; tunnel bridge broken!" That was the message.
Phin seized the red lantern, which Mary Jane still held, as she sat,
mortified and miserable, upon the door-step, and rushed up the track.
The Ganges train had only just started on again, but there was evidently
a distrust of Phin's red lantern; by the hootings with which it was
greeted, Phin judged that they thought it a bad joke or another mistake.
They seemed to mean to run him down. Well, then, they might!
Phin set his teeth, held the lantern aloft, and stood as if he were
rooted to the track. He made ready to spring for the cow-catcher; it
actually grazed him as he stood before the train stopped.
"Tunnel bridge broken!" he screamed, hoarsely, as he had been screaming
incessantly above the rushing of the train and the din of angry voices;
but it was mechanically now, and they had to carry him back to Mary
Jane. His wrist had been bleeding all the time; the right wrist, too,
that swung the lantern; and his head was badly hurt; and--well, it is no
disgrace for a boy to faint sometimes.
[Illustration: "THERE WAS AN OLD GENTLEMAN WITH A FUR COLLAR TURNED UP
TO HIS EARS WHO MADE FRIENDS WITH MARY JANE."]
The passengers poured into the station; there was a great chorus of
thanksgiving, and they made what Phin called a great fuss over him and
Mary Jane. There was an old gentleman with a fur collar turned up to his
ears, who made friends with Mary Jane. He seemed to feel deeply what a
narrow escape the train had had, and he sharply rebuked the conductor
when he said that the night was so light that they might have seen that
the bridge was broken; he "did keep an eye on that bridge as soon as the
frost came, because it was old." (It proved to have been a gang of
discharged workmen who had wrecked the bridge.) The old man declared it
a providential mistake that had stopped the wrong train and let the
message arrive in time.
When they were relieved, in the early morning, after all the Ganges
passengers had gone on by such conveyances as they could find, Phin and
Mary Jane walked homeward together.
"You needn't say a word to Sam," warned Phin. "It would only worry him.
I mean about stopping the wrong train, and all that. I've just heard
that the old gentleman who talked to you was the president of the road.
I hope you didn't tell him anything!"
The president of the road! Phin turned and looked with severe suspicion
at Mary Jane, and Mary Jane turned so pale that the freckles stood out
like little mud spatters on her face.
"I only told him how anxious Sam was," she faltered, "and what you did
to keep awake--all about the zinc and poker and things, and how your
wrist was cut."
"You've told the president of the road that I'm a sleepy-head! Now I
hope you're satisfied!"