Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, AUGUST 4, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 875. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
HOW BRADDY'S BROTHER BROUGHT THE NEWS HOME.
BY JULIANA CONOVER.
"Slide! Slide! You'll make it! Hooray! Hooray! Tiger! Siss-boom-ah!"
"Wake up, Bingham, wake up!"
The boy opened his eyes with a start. "Mother! Why, what's the matter?"
"I've been shaking you for fully two minutes, dear. I want you to get
up."
"Oh, what made you wake me?" reproachfully. "I was in the middle of a
dream that I was playing second base in Tom's place, and was just making
the winning run for Princeton."
"Wouldn't you rather see the winning run made than dream about it?"
Bingham sat up; he was wide-awake now.
Mrs. Bradfield smiled. "Yes," she said, "I am going to let you go after
all. Tom is so unhappy about it, so feverish and restless, that I am
actually afraid of the consequences if he does not hear all about the
game, so I have promised him to let you ride to Princeton on your
bicycle; it is only twenty-five miles, and part of the way the road is
good. You will have to stay all night, but Tom says that you can sleep
in his room, and that Frank Porter will look after you."
"Tiger-tiger-tiger! Siss-siss-siss-boom-boom-boom-ah-ah-ah!" shouted
Bingo, and he pitched his pillow all across the room. "Trying a new
curve," he hastily explained.
In an incredibly short time he was dressed, had had his breakfast, and
was ready to start off. He went in to say good-by to his brother. Poor
Tom was down with an attack of rheumatic fever. He had come home to
spend Sunday, after playing a brilliant game against the Orange Athletic
Club, and had been taken ill.
"So unfortunate," his mother said, "just before examination."
"Such hard lack," said Bingo, "just before the Yale game."
Tom had not pitched since Freshman year, but he was fielding and batting
in splendid form, and his loss would seriously cripple the nine.
But try as he might to get well, the pain and fever clung to him
obstinately, and the day of the game found him, with his temperature at
103°, declaring that if he couldn't play some one must see the game for
him. His father was away, his mother couldn't leave him, so there was no
one but Bingham, who had sadly resigned himself to his fate, when, as we
have seen, his mother suddenly reversed her decision, and his world was
filled with sunshine again.
"Go to my room in Witherspoon," said Tom--"you know it--and tell Porter
I sent you. He'll take you to Ivy to lunch, and down to the game. Be
sure and telegraph, for I must hear, and they'll never get the news in
this little out-of-the-way place."
"Are you perfectly sure you know the road, dear, and that it will not be
too much for you?" asked Mrs. Bradfield, anxiously, as she watched her
youngest son examining his tire and fixing his brake. "I do wish the
trains made connections."
"I'd ride fifty miles through anything," said Bingham, his eyes
glistening, "to see a Yale game. Good-by, mother. Don't worry. I'll
surely telegraph, and will be home early to-morrow morning."
"Good-by, dear. Cheer for Tom, and may the orange and black win the
day."
* * * * *
It was a hilly, sandy road, one of the worst in New Jersey, washed out
in many places, and with ruts like trenches, but Bingo scorched and
coasted as though it were an asphalt pavement or cinder race-track, and
he scarcely slowed up through the whole twenty-five miles, but came into
Princeton, the perspiration rolling down his face and his shirt wringing
wet. On the campus he met Tom's room-mate.
"Why, if it isn't Braddy's brother," exclaimed Porter, "and steaming
like a kettle! Glad to see you, boy. How is poor old Tom?"
"A little better. He sent me up so as to tell him about the game."
"I see. Official reporter for the Redwood _Star_," laughed Porter. "It's
mighty hard lines that Tom is laid up. Woods is playing pretty well, but
he can't touch the ball--strikes out every time. But come up to the
room, little Brad. You'll spend the night, of course?"
Bingham followed Frank Porter up to the well-known room in Witherspoon
Hall, and there he washed off the stains of travel as well as he could
for asking questions and examining the groups on the wall.
"That's the '95 football team, isn't it? and there's Tom's Freshman
nine. I saw the game here with Harvard, which we won, and we had a fire,
don't you remember? What's that--the Glee Club? Tom has the picture of
the Mandolin Club. Do you think we're going to win to-day? Will Blake
pitch?" etc.
Porter answered when Bingo gave him time, for "Braddy's brother" was a
great favorite with Tom's friends, and they prophesied a brilliant
athletic future for him.
Before going to lunch Porter took him to see the ingenious invention of
one of the members of the faculty--of a cannon for shooting curved
balls. "It's going to be a great thing in baseball," Porter said. "It
will save the pitcher's arm, and give the nine splendid batting
practice."
Lunch over, Bingham began to get impatient. Carriages and omnibuses were
already rolling down to the grounds, and streams of people were
ploughing through the dust.
They stopped at the Athletic Club-house on their way, and all the nine
shook hands with Bingo and asked after Tom; but his cup of joy was quite
full when Blake, the Captain, told him to come with them and sit on the
'varsity bench.
Dave Hunter and the other Princeton boys looked enviously from the
bleachers upon the honored guest, who sat squeezed in between Jack
McMasters and Dr. Bovaird, his eyes glued to the diamond and his heart
thumping against his ribs.
Princeton came to the bat first, and Williams led off with a clean
single to left, and Shaw followed by another to centre.
It was a surprise that took every one's breath away, but they recovered
it in time to cheer.
Yale was too easy! They would pound her out of the box, even without the
aid of Tom's two and three baggers!
But Jackson flied out to second. Blake, who pitched, but couldn't hit a
drop, went out on strikes; and though Williams stole third and Field got
his first on balls, their innings closed with a beautiful spectacular
catch by Woodward in centre field.
Then Yale came to the bat, and her little handful of "rooters" made the
air shiver with their wild barbaric cheer: "Brek-ek-ek-ex! Ko-ax, ko-ax.
Brek-ek-ek-ex! Ko-ax, ko-ax. Oh-op, oh-op. Parabalou--Yale!"
In a moment there came a crack of the bat.
"Run it out! run it out!" cried the Yale coach.
Bingo held his breath. It was a hot grounder to second, and Tom wasn't
there. Woods fumbled it, and the first error was scored for Princeton.
The next man got his base on balls, all due to his "beautiful eye," the
Yale Captain seemed to think. Then Blake rallied and struck Jenkins out;
and though Watson brought Smith to third on a sacrifice, the little
shortstop fielded the next ball in fine style, and the runner was out.
But Yale proved to be anything but "easy," for though the crowd in white
duck trousers on the bleachers cheered themselves hoarse as directed
with unremitting energy by their appointed leaders, not a single safe
hit, or even an unearned run, was squeezed out of the next four innings;
while Yale went in, and by timely sacrifices and well-bunched hits ran
her score up to five. Five to nothing, and little Brad would have to
telegraph that to Tom.
The grand stand grew very quiet, though here and there were bunches of
blue ribbon waving amid the glowing mass of orange and black. The men
had stopped explaining the game to their sisters and friends. Let them
ask why the same ones who batted the ball had to run, and why they
changed sides so often. Their questions fell on the unresponsive air.
Princeton came to the bat for the sixth inning. As Blake walked in from
the pitcher's box, tired and discouraged, his eyes fell upon "Braddy's
brother" leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. The droop of the
strong young shoulders and the strained intense look gave him an added
pang. It seemed like wanton cruelty to so bitterly disappoint a boy, and
he knew that little Brad was feeling and suffering for two. Bingo tried
to smile as the Captain put his arm round him, but it was hard work. His
nerves were strung up to such a pitch that he could easily have cried,
but one does not often do that at fourteen.
"We'll beat them yet, little Brad," said Blake. "See if we don't."
"We'll have to do it in this inning, then," answered Bingo, "because
it's going to rain like everything."
Blake looked up. The clouds were piling on top of one another black as
night in the west, a tremendous wind had sprung up, and the dust was
blowing a mile a minute. "Whew!" he whistled, "it looks like a cyclone;
we _will_ have to do it this time--sure." And he walked over to coach.
Williams was at the bat; two balls were called, then a strike; another
ball. "Good eye--steady now--steady"--then a burst of applause, for his
eye had proved true, and he took his base to the stimulating strains of
the triple cheer.
"Lead off--lively--look out--now you're _off_!" yelled Blake, and he
was off, hurling himself at second with a reckless disregard of life and
limb.
"Safe!" declared the umpire, and the sky-rocket cheer broke loose again.
Shaw gritted his teeth and held his bat in a vise. He too was watching
the clouds, and knew that this might be their last chance. He had made
one hit. Why couldn't he make another? And he did--a short one to right.
And when Jackson followed by a foxy little bunt, the field almost went
wild. Three men on bases and none out.
Blake went to the bat, and as he did so he turned and looked at Braddy's
brother; and he said afterwards that if ever a man had been inspired by
a glance, he had been that day--"and it wasn't a girl, either." Such
eager hope and earnest faith shone in little Brad's face that no one
could have helped making a home run, and that's what happened to Blake,
and he only realized the miracle as he dived for the home-plate, while
the long cheer, and the short cheer, and the locomotive cheer, and the
distant thunder all combined to bring to his consciousness the
stupendous fact that he had made himself immortal.
It was surely Princeton's inning, for Field made his first two-bagger,
and was brought in on a bad overthrow. Then, with two men out, Green got
his base on balls, stole second and third, and reached home on another
single by Williams, and the score stood 6 to 5 when Yale came to the
bat.
Would the rain hold off for ten minutes more? It was doubtful. But Blake
was determined not to lose any time, and strike after strike was called
amid the wildest enthusiasm, and in one, two, three order the New Haven
men were retired, just as the storm, which had been gathering, so
ominously, burst.
There was a stampede from the bleachers, ladies crowding into the grand
stand and men making for the cage. The small boys dropped from trees and
fences, and the ripping thunder, blinding lightning, and pelting rain
had it all their own way for full fifteen minutes; and all that time
"Little Brad" glowed like a miniature sun on the 'varsity bench, where
the nine sat in cheerful resignation.
But the game wasn't over, for the sky cleared with the same violence it
had shown in clouding over, and though every one felt that _somewhere_
there must have been a fearful ravaging storm, Princeton had fortunately
only gotten the edge of it. The umpire declared himself ready, and
Princeton went to the bat, only, like Yale, to go out in one, two, three
order.
"The fatal seventh!" groaned the _alumni_, as they saw the Yale Captain
take his base on balls.
"The fatal seventh!" said Braddy's brother, under his breath, as Watson
took his base on a bad error.
Alas, the fatal seventh! For though the next man flied out to short
stop, and the next to third base, Atkinson made a clean two-bagger, and
the blue in the grand stand broke out as the patches of sky had done,
and the frog chorus held a jubilee, for Yale had tied the score, and
Yale luck would surely do the rest. But with Atkinson jumping about on
second, and Watson leading off daringly at third, Blake pitched three
straight strikes, and saved the day.
Neither scored in the eighth inning, and the ninth commenced in that
hushed suspense which makes one wonder whether a close game pays. But
Braddy's brother knew that Princeton would win; and when, with one out,
Blake took his base on balls, and Field made a safe hit, he moistened
his pencil to write the telegram to Tom on his score-card, but waited
long enough to see Woods, for the first time in the season, send the
ball over centre-field's head, and Blake and Field come home.
Yes, Princeton had won; for though Yale batted hard, the tigers fielded
the swift balls with a coolness born of confidence, and as the last man
went out on a foul fly, the crowd rushed on the diamond in a frenzy of
enthusiasm, and the faint "Brek-ek-ek-ex! Ko-ax, ko-ax!" came to an
abrupt end.
Bingo did not even stop to see the boys, but hurried out of the grounds
and tore uptown waving his score-card with the 8 to 6 telegram written
on it.
"I want to send this to Redwood," he panted, elbowing his way into the
office.
"Sorry," was the short answer, "can't do it; the storm has broken all
the wires down in that part of the State."
Bingo's face fell. What should he do? Tom was waiting for the news, and
would not be able to sleep until he heard. There was only one way of
getting it to him, and that was--_to ride home_. The road would be bad,
very bad;--he might be half the night getting there, but he had promised
to let Tom know, and he would keep his promise at all costs. Having made
up his mind, he was not going to let anything deter him. He would have
loved to linger and talk over the great game, but with that rough long
lonely ride before him it would not do to waste time. So he went for his
wheel, only stopping on the campus long enough to ask Billy Appleton to
tell Porter he had gone.
"Why, you're crazy!" exclaimed Appleton, "Stark, staring mad. The roads
will be in a fearful condition. Come, don't be an idiot, Brad. Tom can
wait till to-morrow morning."
But Braddy's brother shook his head. "You don't know how Tom feels, and
I promised to let him hear to-night. If I break my wheel or puncture my
tire I can walk; but I'll get there somehow, or bust."
"Well, you have sand, if you do lack sense," laughed Appleton, "and I
hope you'll make it. I'll tell Port. Give my love to old Tom. We missed
him to-day, of course; but didn't Blake play a magnificent game?"
Bingo nodded, and started off. For ten miles the road was comparatively
good, and as long as the light lasted he managed to avoid the man-holes,
and to steer clear of fallen trees and loose stones; but by eight
o'clock it was dark. His lantern kept going out, the hills seemed like
the Matterhorn, and the valleys were choked with the débris of the
storm.
"I _must_ have smashed my wheel that time!" exclaimed poor Bingo, as he
got up from his second header, badly bruised. "I've a great mind to go
back; the roads get worse and worse."
Then he thought of Tom, and how, not knowing the 8 to 6 score, he might
lie awake all night fancying that Princeton had been beaten.
That would never do, and though it took all the sand that the boy had in
his composition, he started off bravely again to carry the news home.
All the memorable night rides of history seemed to him pure fun in
comparison with this twenty-five-mile bicycle ride in the wake of a
cyclone, the object of which was just as important as was that of Paul
Revere, or Sheridan, or of the men who brought the news from Ghent to
Aix. It was "too easy to gallop." Here he took another header, and his
tire, which had sustained several slight punctures, suddenly collapsed.
Bingo sat down and actually laughed. The situation was hopeless to
absurdity. It must be nine o'clock, and he had started before six, and
there were still five miles to be gotten over somehow. But again the
thought of the 8 to 6 score spurred him on, and dragging the wheel,
which seemed to weigh tons, he trudged manfully through the sand,
splashing in and out of puddles and climbing up and down hills, until
the joyful sight of his own front gate at last rewarded him.
Then with a wild whoop he dropped the bicycle and sprinted up the road
to the house. Three or four windows opened simultaneously.
"Eight to 6, 8 to 6!" shouted Bingo. "Tiger-siss-boom-ah! 8 to 6."
"In Princeton's favor?" cried his mother.
"Sure!" screamed back the boy, and in another moment Bingo had rushed
upstairs into his brother's room to find Tom, flushed with fever, waving
an old Princeton banner and cheering like mad. And to show what college
spirit is, not until Bingo had described the whole game did his mother
have the heart to ask him about the storm and how he had gotten home.
Blake's home run was so much more important. Why, the ride seemed
nothing to him now.
"You really ought not to have done it, dear," said Mrs. Bradfield. "It
was a terrible risk--and to come all alone--after such a storm."
Bingo laughed, and said nothing.
THE MAKING OF CANNON PROJECTILES.
BY FRANKLIN MATTHEWS.
For twenty-five years the men who make material used in warfare have
been engaged in the sharpest kind of a contest between themselves. On
the one side they have been trying to make armor so tough and strong
that it could withstand the heaviest shots, and on the other side they
have been trying to make projectiles, which is another name for big
bullets, that will go through this armor. Sometimes the armor men have
been ahead, and sometimes the projectile men have been foremost. The
armor men have usually forced the fighting, and then the projectile men
have matched them. At present the projectile men say they are ahead, and
that the armor men must make armor tougher and harder or they will be
beaten.
[Illustration: TWO THIRTEEN-INCH SHELLS.
One having pierced and the other been stopped by armor plate.]
All this struggle grew out of the war between Germany and France a
quarter of a century ago. The experts noticed then that the cannons and
powder were wasting a great deal of force, because the projectiles they
threw couldn't begin to carry all the energy of the weapons. At once
scientific men began to make a study how to produce projectiles that
would do the full work of the guns, and year by year they have been
improving these enormous bullets, until now marvellous results have been
reached. A writer who made a study of these results said, not long ago,
that the weight of the projectiles in a broadside in 1779 from the
_Bonhomme Richard_, Paul Jones's famous flag-ship, which carried
forty-two guns, weighed only fifty-seven more pounds than the shot of
one of the 10-inch guns of our present second-class battle-ship _Maine_.
The broadside of the guns of our famous old _Constitution_, in her fight
in 1812 with the _Java_, weighed sixty-three pounds less than the shot
of one of the 12-inch guns on the _Monterey_ of the new navy. The
twenty-three guns of the well-known _Pensacola_, the ship that did
marvellous work in running by the batteries at New Orleans in 1862, in
our civil war, threw less in a single discharge than two of the 13-inch
guns of our first-class battle-ship _Indiana_ could throw to-day. There
is no use in having big guns and improved powder unless you have strong
and tough projectiles to convey the power of the guns and powder against
the target at which you are shooting. The experts put this in a
different way by saying that the projectile is "the vehicle of the
energy of the gun." This is a dry and scientific way of saying that
there is no use in having a giant's strength if you have only pebbles to
throw. We can all understand that.
There is no secret about the making of the big cannons in these days.
There are many secrets, however, in the making of the powder used in
these guns. There is much more secrecy in the way the projectiles are
made. In fact, so secret is the process by which these enormous bullets
are made that not even the naval officers, who are stationed at the
factories where they are produced to see that each projectile answers
the requirements, are allowed to witness the process of manufacture. The
naval officers are not supposed to know what goes into the make-up of
these bits of steel, except in a general way, nor how they are hardened
so that they may pierce thick plates of toughened steel. I am sure,
therefore, that those of you who read this will not expect me to reveal
these secrets. Even if I knew them--and I confess that I don't--I
couldn't be expected to tell them, and I am inclined to think that,
after all, as is the case with secrets usually, they wouldn't be of much
use to us after we did find them out. They would be as dry and as
uninteresting as the hardest kind of a problem in arithmetic or algebra.
When all would be told, we should probably find that they consisted of a
lot of strange letters and figures, such as they use in chemistry, and
there would be no pleasure in reading about that.
[Illustration: TESTING PROJECTILES ON ARMOR PLATE.]
Still there are many things about projectiles that are common property,
and we may talk about them freely. Every one must know that projectiles
are made from hardened billets of steel, and that they are heated and
rolled and pounded until they are of the desired shape and strength.
Certain chemicals are put into them to give the steel additional
strength, and the most careful adjustment, even to a one-thousandth part
of an inch, is made when the projectiles are shaped finally. The test of
the size and shape of these missiles is so thorough that the most
delicate work is necessary in finishing them. You look at a 13-inch
shell. It is probably three feet high, and weighs about 1100 pounds. It
is anything but a delicate-looking object, and certainly the work it is
intended to do is not delicate. A 13-inch shell, which is the largest
size made in this country, is about as robust an affair as human skill
has yet devised. To test such a shell two slender steel rings are used.
One is two-thousandth part of an inch larger in diameter than the
required size of the shell, and the other is two-thousandth part of an
inch smaller. The larger ring must pass freely over the projectile, and
the smaller ring must not pass over it. When one thinks of the
difficulty of pounding or rolling a heated piece of ordinary steel into
such a perfect shape, he can see what a delicate task it must be. But
think how much more difficult it must be when certain alloys are put
into the steel to make it so rough that it can be made to pass through a
plate of hardened armor, say seventeen inches thick. Probably no more
delicate mechanical work exists than in shaping these projectiles.
[Illustration: LOADING 13-INCH GUNS WITH 1100-POUND SHELLS AND POWDER
CHARGES.]
There are five places in this country where the projectiles for the
cannons of the army and navy are made. Most of them use processes which
are secured from Europe. The fewest possible number of persons, both in
this country and abroad, know the secret of their production. The
workmen in the factories do not know the various steps and compositions
of the metals they use. Aside from the owners of the process and the
chemists in their employ, almost no one else knows the secret. Each
workman only knows his own part, and if they should all get together and
each should tell what he knows, their combined knowledge would be of
little value to them in discovering the secret. The chief places of
manufacture in this country are at the Midvale Steel-Works, in
Philadelphia, where the famous Holtzer projectiles are made; the
Carpenter Works, at Reading, Pennsylvania, where the Carpenter
projectiles are produced; the Wheeler-Sterling Mills, in Pittsburg,
where the Sterling projectiles are made; the Johnson Works at Spuyten
Duyvil, New York; and the United States Projectile Company's Works in
Brooklyn. The three first named produce the larger projectiles used in
our guns. At the Midvale Works, through which I had the pleasure of
going by courtesy of the president, Mr. Harrah, before I wrote this
article, one may see many picturesque things in the manufacture of
steel, and it is possible that one may look upon some of the more
rudimentary processes of projectile-making without knowing it; but when
one comes to the place where the projectiles are really made, he finds
himself facing a big fence with a locked gate, and a sign saying that no
one, not even those employed in other work about the immense
establishment, is permitted to go inside the barrier. A big bell hangs
outside the gate, and if one wishes to speak with any one inside the
enclosure, he must ring that and call out the man. There is a big open
cistern outside, where the specially prepared water used inside the mill
is collected, but that is all one can see. Inasmuch as all this secrecy
is necessary to the welfare of our country, I am sure that the curiosity
of all patriotic persons should stop at this point, and we must all go
away satisfied and even pleased with all these precautions.
Projectiles are of three kinds: the armor-piercing, the
semi-armor-piercing, and the ordinary bursting projectiles, commonly
called shrapnel. We are confining most of our efforts at present to
making the armor-piercing and the semi-armor-piercing projectiles. The
armor-piercing shot are practically solid pieces of metal. The
semi-armor-piercing projectiles are hollow, and contain a bursting
charge, usually of ordinary powder. The solid shot are for use in the
large guns of ships, and are intended to pierce the armor of
battle-ships and wreck their machinery. They simply break up the armor
of a vessel. The semi-armor projectiles are for the same purpose, and
also especially for use in mortar guns. These guns are short-muzzled
affairs, and they throw their shells high in the air, so that they may
come down on a deck, burst, and pass clear through a ship's bottom. The
chief defences of New York harbor consist of a large battery of these
mortar guns in the trees and behind the sand hummocks at Sandy Hook. It
is estimated that only one out of two hundred shots that they fire into
the air with a high curve will strike a war-ship attempting to pass into
the harbor, but it is also known that one of these shots will pass
through any ship from top to bottom, and, bursting as it passes
through, will sink any vessel afloat. A 13-inch semi-armor-piercing
projectile carries about fifty pounds of powder inside, and it is
exploded by percussion--that is, by the shock of contact with a solid
substance. The shrapnel shells contain bullets of various sizes, and
they explode on percussion. Their object is to scatter bullets about a
ship's deck and clear it of men, rather than to sink the ship.
A projectile is useless, provided it is of the solid kind, if it breaks
in pieces when it hits its target. The energy of the gun and powder is
all used up in breaking itself to pieces. If it passes through armor
without injuring itself at all, the full energy of the gun is sent
against the target, and the projectile does its complete work. A
projectile is supposed to pass through armor one and one-eighth times
its own diameter in thickness--that is, an 8-inch projectile is supposed
to be a match for 9-inch armor, and so on.
[Illustration: THE PARTS OF A SHELL.]
There are five distinct parts to every projectile. They are the point,
the ogival, the bourrelet, the body, and the base. The point, of course,
is the extreme forward end; the ogival is the rounded part just behind
the point; the bourrelet is a bright band of steel where the rounded
part ends--it is intended to fit the bore of a gun closely, and with a
tight grip; the body is the long, straight part; and the base is the
flat end, with a band which grips the rifling of the gun, by means of
which a revolving motion is given to the projectile as it is hurled
against its target.
CROSSING THE XUACAXÉLLA.
BY CAPTAIN CHARLES A. CURTIS, U. S. A.
IV.
The boys were frightened. Their hearts rose in their throats, and it was
difficult to restrain an impulse to turn and run; but a soldierly
instinct brought them to a "ready," with eyes fixed upon the probable
enemy.
"Quick, Henry! Shoot!" exclaimed Frank, reserving his own fire.
The younger sergeant raised his double-barrelled shot-gun to his
shoulder and pulled both triggers. Down went the sixteen Indians as if
the bird-shot had been fatal to all. The plain became in an instant as
objectless as it was a moment before.
"Load, Henry, and backward march!" said Frank, ready to fire whenever a
head showed itself above the grass, and at the same time moving as fast
as possible toward the camp-fire.
"How! how! how!" was chorussed from the direction of the Indians, and
several naked brown arms were stretched upward, holding rifles
horizontally in the air.
"That means peace," said Henry. "They aren't going to fire. Let's
answer. How! how! how!"
"How! how! how!" Frank joined in, and at once the sixteen red men sprang
to their feet, apparently none the worse for Henry's double charge of
bird-shot at short range. They held their weapons above their heads, and
continuing to utter their friendly "How," rapidly advanced toward the
boys.
"They aren't playing us a trick, are they, Frank?" asked Henry, in an
anxious tone.
"No," replied the older boy, after snatching a glance to the rear. "The
Lieutenant and soldiers are saddling. The Indians dare not harm us on an
open plain in sight of a mounted force."
The boys stopped, and the red men approached and began shaking their
hands in the most friendly manner, over and over again, repeating "How"
many times. They were clad in loose and sleeveless cotton shirts, all
ragged and dirty, with no other clothing. The one who appeared to be
chief was distinguished by the possession of three shirts, worn one
above the other. Each man possessed several hares and field-rats, held
against his waist by tucking the heads under his belt.
The sergeants and their strange guests reached the camp-fire, and the
hand-shaking and exchange of friendly civilities went on for some time.
The chief approached me, and asked in mongrel Spanish:
"Usto Capitan?" (are you the Captain?)
I replied in the affirmative.
"Yo Capitan tambien, mucho grande heap Capitan." (I'm a Captain, too; a
very great heap Captain.)
He then asked where we were from and where we were going, and informed
us that they were Yavapais on a hunting expedition. We exchanged bread
with them for a few cotton-tails, and set Clary to making a rabbit stew,
the boys and I deferring our supper until it should be ready.
"Oh, Lieutenant!" shouted Henry from the direction of the Indians a
moment later. "Come and see what these creatures are doing!"
I left the ambulance, and joined the group of soldiers who stood in a
circle about an inner circle of seated Indians. Each Yavapais had
selected a rat from the collection in his belt, and had laid it on the
coals without dressing or in any way disturbing its anatomy. He rolled
the rat over once or twice, and took it up and brushed and blew off the
singed hair. He placed it again on the fire for a moment, and, taking it
up, pinched off the fore legs close to the body, and the hind legs at
the ham-joint. Replacing it on the coals, he turned it over and over a
few more times. Picking it up for the third time, he held it daintily in
the palm of his left hand, and with his right plucked off the flesh and
placed it in his mouth.
When we were making our beds ready for the night, Vic, whom we had
forgotten in the exciting events of the evening, trotted into camp and
laid a horseshoe in Henry's lap. The lad took it up, and exclaimed,
[Illustration: "ONE OF CHIQUITA'S SHOES! A LEFT HIND SHOE!"]
"One of Chiquita's shoes!--a left hind shoe!"
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Private Sattler always shaped the left heel of the left shoe like this,
to correct a fault in her gait."
"May I look at the shoe, sergeant?" asked Corporal Duffey, approaching
from the group of men near the guard's fire. "Shoes are like
handwriting; no two blacksmiths make them alike."
Henry passed the shoe to the corporal, who turned it over, examined it
closely, and handed it back, saying:
"I am a blacksmith by trade, and know all the shoes made by the smiths
in the regiment. This is one of Sattler's. He put a side-weight on it,
and here is the bevel-mark of his hammer."
"Then Chiquita certainly came this way, and Vic was on her trail when we
saw her, coming from the tanks," remarked Frank; "but there could have
been no scent after so long a time."
"Oh, she knows the ponies' tracks," asseverated Henry. "She knows their
halters and bridles, and will bring them when told to, without mistake.
Of course she knew Chiquita's shoe, and she knows Chiquita is my pony,
and I believe she knows we are going after her."
I repeat this, not because I think the dog so exceedingly wise, but to
show the boys' belief in her intelligence. She had brought in a shoe
which bore the government mark, and which had been fitted by the Fort
Whipple blacksmith.
The sentinel waked us the next morning at four o'clock, and informed us
that the Indians had left two hours before. The animals were driven to
the tanks, the vessels and canteens filled, and at six we started. Clary
warmed up the rabbit stew left over from supper, but the rat association
was still too strong, and the boys passed it over to the dog. All the
water was used in the preparation of breakfast except that in the
canteens. It would have been better if we had again gone to the tanks
and refilled the camp-kettles and coffee-pots; but the delay necessary
to do it, and the assurance that there was water at Hole-in-the-Plain
determined me to go on at once. The weather was a repetition of that of
the previous day, hot and windless.
The road proved generally smooth, but there were occasional long
stretches over which it was impossible to drive faster than a walk.
About four o'clock in the afternoon we reached the Hole-in-the-Plain,
and found nothing but a mass of thin mud. The water had dried up. Vic,
consumed with thirst, waded into the mud, and rolled in it until she
was the color of fresh adobe, and was, in consequence, made to ride on
the driver's foot-board in disgrace.
We had intended to pass the night at the Hole; but now we were obliged
to go on, when really in no condition to do so. The men and animals were
suffering much more than I have time or space to mention. The previous
day's experience and the poor water at the tanks had made our second day
on the desert more exhausting than the first. To be obliged to add
another day's journey to the one just finished was exceedingly
depressing.
Very gloomy, and doubtful of the outcome, we left the Hole-in-the-Plain.
The plain became undulating, and was frequently crossed by deep and dry
ravines, and loose stones obstructed the wheels. We were toiling slowly
up a slope when a horseman overtook us who proved to be Mr. Gray. He
slowed up, and asked how we were getting on. All the incidents of the
journey since parting with him the day before were related, and our
present plight explained.
He spoke encouragingly. Told us that Tyson's Wells were now not far
away, and that the road would soon improve.
"Keep up your courage, lads, and you will soon be there," he shouted
back as he galloped swiftly away in the darkness.
At midnight the road ascended a roll in the plain, and became once more
hard and smooth. The driver urged the team into a series of brief and
spasmodic trots, which lasted a couple of hours, when we again descended
to a lower level, where the wearily slow gait was resumed. With the
slower pace our hopes fell and our thirst increased. As Private Tom
Clary expressed it to the driver:
"In a place like this a gallon of Black Tank's water would be acciptible
without a strainer, and no riflictions passed upon the wigglers."
"That's so, Tom," called Henry from the depths of his blankets; "I could
drink two quarts of it--half and half."
"Half and half--what do you mean?" I asked.
"Half water and half wigglers," was the answer.
"I thought you were asleep."
"Can't sleep, sir; I'm too thirsty. Did drop off once for two or three
minutes, and dreamed of rivers, waterfalls, springs, and wells that I
could not reach."
"I've not slept at all," said Frank; "just been thinking whether I ever
rode over a mile in Vermont without crossing a brook or passing a
watering-trough."
"It's beginning to grow light in the east," observed the driver. "By the
time we reach the top of the next roll we can see whether we are near
the wells."
"You may stop the team, Marr," said I. "We will wait for the escort to
close up."
The carriage stopped, and we got out to stretch our legs while the
straggling soldiers slowly overtook us. The man on the wounded bronco
did not arrive until the edge of the sun peeped above the horizon, and I
ordered him to remove the saddle and bridle, hitch the animal behind the
ambulance, and take a seat beside the driver.
Just when we were about to start again, Frank asked permission to run
ahead with the field-glass to the rising ground and look for Tyson's
Wells. I consented, and told him to signal us if he saw them, and that
if he did not we would halt and turn out, and send the least worn of the
escort ahead for relief.
Frank started, and presently disappeared behind some brush at a turn in
the road. An instant later be shouted and screamed at the top of his
voice. Whether he was shouting with joy or terror, or had gone out of
his senses, we were unable to guess. It sounded like,
"Who-o-o-op!--water!--water!--water!"
Had the boy seen a mirage or gone mad? We could see nothing but the
broad hollow about us, barren and dry as ever. But still the boy
continued to shout, "Water!--water!" and presently he appeared round the
bend, running and holding up what appeared to be a letter. It was a
letter. When Frank reached the ambulance, tears were in his eyes as he
handed me a yellow envelope.
"Found it on the head of a barrel, over there, with a stone upon it to
prevent it from blowing away."
Breaking open the envelope with trembling fingers I read:
"Tyson's Wells.
"DEAR LIEUTENANT,--Please accept four barrels of water and four
bushels of corn, with my compliments.
"GRAY."
Need I confess the emotions with which we realized the service this
brave Arizona merchant had done us? Or need I mention that Mr. Gray--God
bless him, wherever he may be!--is always remembered with gratitude by
me?--for this is no idle incident invented to amuse a reader, but an
actual occurrence.
Water!--four barrels!--one hundred and sixty gallons! That meant two
gallons for each man and boy, and nearly ten for each animal. It meant
rest, speed, safety.
We moved across the ravine and found the four barrels by the road-side.
The animals were fastened to the ambulance and the acacia bushes, the
heads of the barrels removed, and after each person had satisfied his
thirst the camp-kettles were used until horses and mules had drunk the
contents of two each. The stock was then turned loose to graze.
We felt exceedingly grateful to our newly made friend for helping us in
our distress, and our gratitude found frequent expression while the men
prepared breakfast. When the coffee was poured, Private Tom Clary arose,
and holding up his tin cup, said to his comrades:
"B'ys, here's a toast to be drunk standing, and for many raysons, which
I think nade not be explained to this assimbly, I'm glad to drink it in
a decoction whose principal ingraydiant is wather. Here's to Mr. Gray,
whose conduct at Soldiers' Holes, at Date Creek, and on the Walkerhalyer
has won our admiration. May he never lack for the fluid he has so
ginerously dispinsed, nor a soft hand to smooth his last pillow, and
plinty of masses for the repose of his sowl!"
Frank and Henry sprang toward the circle of soldiers, raised their cups
as Clary finished his sentiment, and joined in the hearty response when
he closed.
At one o'clock the animals were caught up, given the remainder of the
water and their portion of the grain, and got ready for the road. Once
up the slope Marr cracked his whip, the mules started promptly into a
trot, the horses of the escort broke into a canter, and amid the
cheerful clatter of hoofs and the rattle of wheels we sped on our way as
fresh as if we were just leaving Fort Whipple. A ride of twenty miles
brought us to Tyson's Wells. These were two in number, sunk at the
intersection of several roads to settlements and mines, an accommodation
to trains, flocks, and herds, and a profit to the owner.
I learned from Colonel Tyson that immediately upon his arrival Mr. Gray
had hired a wagon to take water and grain to us. He had bargained for
the driver to go until he met us; but the man being prepaid may account
for his not fulfilling his agreement to the letter.
The rest of the day and night was spent at the Wells, the boys and I
taking our supper at the "Desert Hotel," kept by the Colonel. At the
table Henry asked if we should return the way we came.
"Yes, if I can find a few kegs in La Paz for water," I answered.
"But we cannot haul kegs enough to supply the animals."
"It will not be difficult to cross the desert now that we are acquainted
with it and know what to expect. We will follow the army rule in such
cases, and I think you will find it interesting to let experience answer
your question."
Just as we were going to bed Mr. Baldwin arrived from La Paz. He
informed me that Texas Dick and Jumping Jack were there, and in
possession of the black and cream colored ponies; that there was to be a
horse-race the following afternoon, and the ponies had been entered. At
this news the boy sergeants became much excited, and proposed a dozen
impracticable ways of going on at once and seizing their property.
Baldwin said he had talked the matter over with Mr. Gray, and the
merchant had advised that we give out a report in La Paz that we were
there on the transportation and storehouse business only, and make no
immediate attempt to capture the ponies. He said the town was full of
the friends of the horse-thieves, and that all our movements would be
closely watched and reported to them. If they became alarmed they would
probably run across the Mexican boundary at once. He thought that by
waiting a little and learning where the horses were kept we should be
more likely to regain them than by hurrying.
"But why cannot we attend the race, with the escort, as spectators, and
seize them?" asked Frank.
"That is a move they will be sure to be looking for. If any of you go to
the race, I believe neither of those men or the ponies will be there."
I was inclined to believe Baldwin right. I told him to return to La Paz
before daylight and circulate the report that I was coming, and for the
purpose he had mentioned. I also requested him to watch Jack and Dick,
and if he saw any signs of flight to come and meet me. He left for La
Paz a little after midnight, reaching there at four o'clock the
following morning. We were met on the out-skirts of the town by Mr.
Baldwin, who told us Mr. Gray expected us to be his guests during our
stay, and that his corral and store-rooms were at the service of the men
and stock.
Going directly to Mr. Gray's house, we were welcomed by the hospitable
trader to his substantial bachelor quarters. He stood upon his veranda
when we drove up, and conducted us in person to pleasant rooms,
assigning the boys one to themselves, in which were many evidences that
he had been looking forward to their visit and understood boyish needs
and pleasures.
Henry, after changing his travelling suit for a bright uniform, appeared
upon the veranda with glowing face and shining hair.
"Mr. Gray, how pleasant you have made that room for Frank and me? Have
you any boys of your own?" he asked.
"Only two nephews, Sandy and Malcolm, in the 'Land of Cakes,'" was the
reply.
"What a good uncle you must be to them!"
"Thank you, laddie. I hope the bairns are as fine boys as you and your
brother."
"You are very kind to say so, sir. May I ask you a question?"
"A dozen, laddie, if you choose."
"When you overtook us on the desert you said it was not far to Tyson's
Wells, and that we should soon be there?"
"Ah!--then you thought it a long way, Sergeant?"
"Perhaps my terrible thirst had something to do with it, but I thought
you had a queer notion of distances."
"Only a little deception to keep up your hearts. I saw you were in sorry
need of water, and I rode hard to send it to you; but I wanted you to do
your best to meet it. You would have found the distance longer without
it."
"I think I should, sir. The last twenty miles were just nothing after we
found your barrels."
After dinner we were told information had been dropped at the hotels and
business places that we were here to meet a director of the Colorado
Navigation Company. We also learned that the steamer _Cocopah_ had also
arrived from up-river the day before, and was now at her landing, two
miles below town, waiting the return of the director from Wickenburg.
Both Mr. Gray and Mr. Baldwin thought the horse-thieves were suspicious
of out presence, for they had not placed the stolen ponies in any of the
corrals or stables of the town. A horse-race was advertised to come off
in the afternoon, half a mile below the steamboat landing, and Texas
Dick and Juan Brincos had entered horses for the stakes.
Mr. Gray advised that none of our party should attend the race, saying
that our absence would give the thieves a greater sense of security, and
improve our chances of regaining the ponies.
Believing his convictions to be correct, I sent an order to the escort
not to go south of the town during the day, and telling Frank and Henry
to amuse themselves about the streets and the immediate vicinity of the
town, started with Mr. Gray to look up and rent a building for a
military storehouse.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 868.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER VIII.
Indians were not an entirely new sight to George, but the few who
occasionally came to Greenway were quite different from the thriftless,
lazy, peaceable individuals and remnants of tribes that remained in
remote parts of lower Virginia. There was an Indian village of forty or
fifty in a piece of wild country about ten miles from Ferry Farm, but
they were not dangerous, except to hen-roosts and pigsties; and although
the men talked grandiloquently of the time when their fore-fathers owned
the land and lived by hunting, they seemed perfectly satisfied
themselves to sit and bask in the sun, smoking tobacco of the squaws'
raising, and living upon grain raised by the same hard-working squaws.
But the first Indian that he saw at Greenway was altogether unlike
these, and in George's eyes vastly more respectable. He came one
morning, just as George and Lord Fairfax had walked out on the porch
after breakfast. He strode up the path, carrying on his shoulder the
dressed carcass of a deer. He was of medium height, but so superbly made
and muscular that the heavy carcass seemed as light as a feather. He
stalked up to the porch, and throwing the carcass down, folded his arms
with an air of supreme indifference, and waited to be addressed.
"For sale?" asked the Earl.
The Indian nodded his head without speaking. Lord Fairfax called to
Lance to bring his purse. Lance in a few minutes appeared, and the
instant his eyes fell upon the Indian his countenance changed. Not so
the Indian's, who stood looking him squarely in the eye with
characteristic stolidity.
The Earl counted out some money and offered it to the Indian, who took
it with a grunt of satisfaction.
"Now," said the Earl, "take the carcass to the kitchen, where you will
find something to eat if you wish."
The Indian showed his familiarity with English by picking up the carcass
and disappearing around the corner with it. As soon as he was out of
hearing, Lance said to the Earl: