of Captain Stone, who sat in the rear of the hall, began to look like
the back of a dog’s neck when the dog is not pleased. The captain took
down one leg that had been crossed over the other, and began sliding one
hand up and down the yellow stripe of his trousers. To his brother
officers and to his favorite sergeant, Jones, this hand sliding was
another sign, like the singular behavior of the mustache. Nobody knew
whether it was the hair itself that rose, or whether he did it with his
upper lip; but when the whole thing stood straight out beyond his nose,
everybody knew at a hundred yards’ range what it meant, no matter how it
was done. It was the hurricane signal and you steered your course
accordingly.
“You never’ll get a better captain, Jock,” Sergeant Jones would often
remark to Corporal Cumnor. “But you want to catch his profile at morning
stables. If the muss-tash is merely standing attention, clear weather’s
to be looked for. But if she’s deployed in extended order of
skirmish-line, don’t you go nowheres without your slicker.”
On the present occasion the sergeant was also in the hall listening to
the Secretary. To him had fallen the responsibility of conducting some
of the recruits to Fort Chiricahua in Arizona, to which post they had
been assigned. Captain Stone was on leave, and had no responsibilities
whatever until in a few weeks he should return to that same post after a
honeymoon which he and his bride were completing by a visit to the
lady’s parents. She was a pastor’s daughter and played the melodeon.
“We are comrades,” repeated the Secretary of War to the recruits, “and
that means you and I are going to stand by each other through thick and
thin.” It sounded so well that the recruits all cheered.
The captain’s mustache lifted a couple of hairs more, Sergeant Jones in
another part of the hall whispered to himself two words which I cannot
repeat, and the Secretary looked about to see if there was a flag
anywhere convenient for his popular climax about earnest faces and the
stars in Old Glory. But there was no flag, and he therefore selected
another of the many strings to his oratorical bow. He gave them his
great “What I am for” speech, the speech which had brought the gallery
down at Albany on Decoration Day, had caught the crowd at Terre Haute on
the Fourth of July, swept Minneapolis on Labor Day and turned Dallas,
Texas, hoarse on Washington’s Birthday. In it the Secretary asked, “What
am I for?” and then answered the question. He was to watch over the
enlisted man, he was to be his father and protect him from military
tyranny. Superior officers were to cease their despotic methods. Was
this not a republic where one man was as good as another? The very term
“superior officer” was repugnant to the American idea, and no offender
of any grade should hide behind it as long as he was Secretary of War.
To hear him you would have supposed that until he stepped into the
Cabinet the slave under the lash knew a better lot than the American
soldier. To be sure, he did not always say these remarkable things in
the same way. At Boston, for instance, he would draw it milder than at
Billings, Montana. At Boston he mentioned other duties of the Secretary
of War besides that of tucking the enlisted man in his bed every night;
but he seldom spoke in Boston, because he preferred a warm,
heart-to-heart audience.
He knew at sight that he had one here. His practised eye ran the
recruits over and read their wholesome vacant up-country faces, noted
their big rosy wrists, appraised their untrained juicy agricultural
shapelessness as they sat beneath him like rows of cantaloupes and
watermelons. With such innocence as this, he knew that he could spread
it thick; and very soon after the preliminary details about his always
having cherished a peculiar affection for this part of the country, and
how General Lee had had no warmer admirer than himself, he was spreading
it unmistakably thick. By the time he had informed them that it was not
colonels and generals to whom he bowed the knee, but the enlisted man,
the so-called common soldier, whose bleeding feet had blazed the trail
for liberty with fearless shouts of triumph, Sergeant Jones was
muttering to his neighbor, “How long more d’yu figure he’ll slobber?”
and the captain’s mustache was standing out from his face like a shelf.
“That is what I am for!” perorated the wet-nurse. “I am for the enlisted
man. The country looks to our beloved Purresident, but you look to me.
Go forth, young men, for I am behind every one of you. No so-called
military regulations shall insult your American manhood or grind you
down while I stand sentinel at my post. If you are troubled, come to me
and you shall have your rights. Go forth then, you who outshine their
vaunted Cæsars, their licentious Alexanders, their pagan Plutos and
Aspasias! Go forth to be the bulwarks and imperishable heroes of our
gullorious country!”
The watermelons cheered, the wet-nurse stepped down to let them shake
his hand, and Captain Stone went home with his bride, in a speechless
rage. He was able to speak presently.
“Still, Joshua,” she mildly insisted, “young soldiers have so many sad
temptations, I am glad he has their welfare at heart.”
“Nonsense, Gwendolen,” said the captain. “You’ll soon know the army, and
you’ll see then that such talk as his merely turns contented men into
discontented babies.”
“Nobody could ever be discontented with you, Joshua, I am sure,” the
bride, with sweet emotion, murmured.
She was nineteen, the captain was forty-five, and upon gazing at the
rosy cheeks of his Gwendolen he would frequently assert that a man was
always as young as he felt.
The Secretary, after inspecting the military post, dined with the mayor
of the neighboring town. At this meal, when a cold bottle had been
finished, the mayor went so far as to inquire: “Say, who was Aspasia?”
But the Secretary answered: “What a wonderful land is ours and what a
beautiful city is yours.”
II. THE ENERGY IS TRANSMITTED
The expectations of Sergeant Jones were entirely unfulfilled. Much
experience in taking charge of recruits upon long railway journeys had
taught him that their earnest faces were not always more stirring than
the stars upon Old Glory; he knew that you do not invariably find that
sort of face for thirteen dollars a month. He had generally been obliged
to watch their purchases at way stations, he had not seldom been forced
to remove bottles of strong spirits from their possession, and he had
almost always found it necessary to teach some of them a lesson in
obedience. Judge therefore of the sergeant’s amazement when, after the
first half day of journey, a long overgrown ruddy boy approached him and
asked in unsoiled Southern accents: “Please, sah, can we sing?”
“Sing?” said Jones. “Sing what?”
“‘Pull foah the shoah, sailah.’ We have learned to do it in parts back
in our home.”
“Yes,” said Jones, “I guess you can sing that--in parts or as a whole.”
“We sing it as a whole in parts, sah,” explained the recruit with
simplicity.
“Your name Anniston?” Jones inquired, abruptly suspicious.
“Bateau, sah. Leonidas Bateau. My cousin, Xerxes Anniston, sits over
yonder by the watahcoolah.”
“Oh,” said Jones.
“Yes, sah. Xerx he sings bass in our choir back in our home. Sistah
Smith--”
“Who?” said the sergeant.
“Sistah Smith, sah, the wife of our ministah, Tullius C. Smith.”
“Oh,” said the sergeant.
“She is leadah of our choir back in our home. She is our best soprano,
Sistah Mingory is our best alto, and Brother Macon Lafayette Young gets
two notes lowah than any of our basses. He keeps the choicest grocery in
town and is president of our Y. M. C. A. You’d ought to heard our
quartet in the prayer from ‘Moses in Egypt,’ arranged by Sistah Mingory
last Eastah Sunday.”
The thoroughly good heart of Jones now warmed to this recruit. (I cannot
hope that you will remember Jones. He was Specimen Jones long ago,
before he joined the Army. Some of his doings are chronicled elsewhere.
He is an old member of the family.) “Made Moses hum, did y’u?” said he.
“I’ll bet the girls would sooner have a solo from you than from Brother
what’s-his-name Lafayette.”
“Sistah Smith,” replied Leonidas, blushing like the innocent watermelon
that he was, “did say that she couldn’t see how they were going to get
along without my uppah registah.”
Jones settled back in his seat. “Sing away,” said he.
Many songs were sung through Alabama and Louisiana and Texas; virtuous
songs with no offending or even convivial word, and none so frequently
demanded by the passengers as a solo from Leonidas,
How little do I love this vale of tears,
through which the chorus crooned a murmuring accompaniment. West of San
Antonio, they played a game of riddles, and when Cousin Xerxes (who
seemed the wit of the party) asked, “Why is Dass’s solo like Texas?
Because it’s all in flats,” and the recruits were convulsed with
merriment by this, Sergeant Jones, listening to them in his seat behind,
muttered with compassion: “Their mothers could hear every word they
say.” And friendliness was established between him and the recruits.
They confided many things to him.
Yes; not a drop of vice’s poison flowed in them, but at El Paso, while
they waited, Leonidas, on saying to Jones, “What an elegant speech the
Secretary of War gave us!” was astonished to hear the sergeant burst
into strong language.
“That hypercrite!” exclaimed Jones. And the shocked Leonidas answered
him.
And now began to fall the first chill upon their friendliness. The
recruits were clean from vice, but the Secretary’s poison was at work,
the sugar of self-pity he had given them to swallow, the false sentiment
over themselves, the sick notion they were objects of special sympathy,
instead of stout young lads beginning life with about as many helps and
hindrances as other stout young lads.
“Yes, he did say so!” declared Leonidas. “Yes, he did, sah. He said he’d
take care we was treated like gentlemen. He said he was behind us. And I
guess he’s the man to back up his word.”
“Well,” said Jones, making a final try, “I’ll tell y’u.” And he laid a
hand on the young man’s shoulder. “A man enlists to be a
soldier--nothin’ else. Not to be a gentleman, but just a soldier who
obeys his orders--and nothin’ else. I obey the captain, and he obeys the
colonel, and he obeys the commanding general of the department, and so
it goes clean to the top, and we’re all soldiers obeyin’ the President
of the United States, and if bein’ a gentleman consists in makin’ things
as pleasant and easy for others as y’u can, why, the chap in the army
who obeys best is the best gentleman. There’s remedies for injustice all
right, but you keep thinkin’ about your duties and you’ll not need to
think about your remedies. Understand?”
“Yes, sah,” said Leonidas, without the faintest sign of comprehension.
“But the Secretary is at the top and it’s right in him to say the top
should nevah forget to recognize the onaliable rights of the bottom. He
said he was behind us.”
“Oh, go sit down and give us some of your upper register!” cried Jones.
Thus did friendliness give place to estrangement. The watermelons laid
their heads together and assured Leonidas that he had acted in a proper
and spirited manner. In Sergeant Jones they confided no longer, for
which he was man enough to lay the blame where it belonged. He
handsomely cursed the Secretary of War, but what good did that do?
Arrived at Fort Chiricahua, the recruits fell into safe hands, though
not perhaps entirely wise ones. The post chaplain was an earnest
preacher of the same denomination as the Rev. Tullius C. Smith, and
delighted to surround Leonidas and his band with the same customs and
influences which they had known at home. They were soon known throughout
the post as “The Shouters.” This epithet came from their choir singing,
which was no whit lessened by their new and not wholly religious
environment. If Sergeant Jones or Captain Stone had looked for
insubordination as a result of the Secretary’s speech, it was an
agreeable disappointment. The recruits were punctual, they were clean,
they were assiduous at drill, they showed intelligence, they were
model, both as youths and soldiers, and nothing kept them from a more
than common popularity in their various troops unless it was that they
were a little too model for the taste of the average enlisted man. The
parade-ground was constantly melodious with their week-day practising
for Sabbath exercises. Sister Smith had sent them much music from home,
and the post learned to admire “Moses in Egypt” as arranged by Sister
Mingory and interpreted by the upper register of Leonidas.
One person there was whom the strains of psalmody, as they floated from
the open windows of the school-room, did not wholly please. Captain
Stone disapproved of his Gwendolen’s spending so much time alone with
the melodeon and Leonidas. Almost as fittingly might a Senator’s wife
sing duets with her coachman, and all the ladies of the Post knew
this--excepting Gwendolen! But he could not forbid her, at least not
yet. Was she not his bride of scarce three months? In this new army
world, where he had brought her so far from everything that she had
always known, how could he deprive her of one great resource, he who had
cut her off from so many? Time would steadily teach her the conduct
suitable for an officer’s wife, and then of her own accord she would put
the proper distance between herself and the enlisted men.
“It is so unexpected, Joshua,” she said once, “such an unexpected joy to
be able to keep a good influence around those poor boys.”
“What do you call them poor boys for?” inquired the captain.
“To come into so many temptations so far from home!” she exclaimed.
“They’re not going to have you and the chaplain and the organ all their
lives, Gwendolen.”
“Now, Joshua, keep your mustache down! The Secretary of War--don’t swear
so dreadfully, darling! Don’t!” And the bride stopped her lord’s lips
with her hand. “I won’t mention him any more,” she promised. “I must run
now, or I’ll be late for practising next Sunday’s anthem with Leonidas
Bateau.”
Left on the porch of his quarters, the captain made the same remark
about next Sunday’s anthem that he had made about the Secretary of War;
but Gwendolen, having departed, did not hear him, and soon from the open
windows of the school-house floated the chords of the melodeon with a
chorus led by Cousin Xerxes, and a solo on an upper register,
How little do I love this vale of teahs.
Would Gwendolen have been so eager to redeem some dried-up middle-aged
sinner? I don’t know. At any rate, in her solicitude for the spotless
Leonidas, she was abreast with the advanced Philanthropy which holds
prevention better than cure. Of course, not even to the most evil-minded
could scandal arise from any of this. But when you see a wife of
nineteen playing the organ for a trooper of twenty-two, and a husband of
forty-five constantly remarking that a man is always as young as he
feels, why, then you are at no great distance from comedy, and the joke
draws nearer when the wife is anxious that the trooper should not feel
the want of his mother, and the trooper retains the limpid innocence of
the watermelon. The ladies of the Post tried to be indignant that an
officer’s wife should so much associate herself with enlisted men, but
they could only laugh--and hush when the captain came by, and the men in
barracks laughed--and hushed when the captain came by, and the poor
captain knew it all. Meanwhile, the melodeon played on, the watermelons
lifted their harmless hymns, and in the heart of Leonidas the
Secretary’s speech dwelled like honey but like gall in the heart of the
captain. Had Captain Stone dreamed what sweet familiarity the hymns were
breeding, he--but he did not dream, hence was his awakening all the more
pronounced.
The day it came had made an ill beginning with him. He had walked
unexpectedly into the kitchen before breakfast, and found there his
Chinaman putting a finishing crust on the breakfast rolls. He had never
been aware of such a process. He had always particularly enjoyed the
crust. The Chinaman had just reached the point where he withdrew the hot
rolls from the oven and sprayed them suddenly with cold water from his
mouth. There had ensued a dreadful time in the kitchen, and no rolls for
breakfast and no Chinaman for dinner, and even as late as five o’clock
the captain’s mustache had not completely flattened down. Leonidas
should have observed this as he came up the captain’s steps with a
message from the chaplain for the captain’s wife. They were waiting for
her to come over and play the melodeon for Sunday’s anthem.
“Is Sistah Stone here?” Leonidas inquired.
“WHO?” said the captain, rising from his chair, which fell backward with
the movement.
“Is Sistah Stone here?” repeated Leonidas, mildly. “The chaplain says--”
You will meet the most conflicting accounts of the spot where Leonidas
first landed on firm ground after leaving the captain’s boot. The
colonel’s orderly, who was standing in front of the colonel’s gate four
houses farther up the line, deposed that he “thought he heard a
something but didn’t see what made it.” Mrs. Phillips declared she was
sitting on her porch two houses down the line, and “it looked just like
diving from a spring-board.” These were the only two disinterested
witnesses. The afflicted Leonidas claimed that he had gone from the
porch clean over the front gate, and Captain Stone said that he didn’t
know and didn’t care, but that if the gate story was true, then he had
projected one hundred and sixty pounds forty measured feet and felt
younger than ever.
The version which Jones gave has (to me) always seemed wholly
satisfactory. “Don’t y’u go sittin’ up nights over it,” said Jones.
“Nobody’ll never prove where he struck. But what
[Illustration: “Is Sistah Stone heah?” Leonidas inquired]
I seen was the captain come ragin’ out of his gate. He went over to the
officers’ club and I knowed it was particular, for y’u could have stood
a vase of flowers on his muss-tash without spillin’ a drop. And next
comes Leonidas a-flyin’ by me, a-screechin’, ‘The Secretary shall hear
of this!’ And I seen the mark on his pants and he tells me. ‘Hard
brushin’ will remove it,’ I says to him, and he says, ‘The Secretary
shall hear of it!’ And I says, ‘Well, Leonidas, it sure ain’t your upper
register that’s damaged.’ ‘The Secretary,’ says he, but I got tired. ‘If
you was figuring to be the captain’s brother-in-law,’ I says, ‘you
should have bruck it to him gently.’”
III. THE VIBRATIONS SPREAD
And what did the afflicted Leonidas do now? Sunday’s anthem was dashed
from his mind. They waited for him, but he never came back, nor was the
melodeon again played by Sister Stone. Leonidas, without waiting to
brush off anything, hastened to his own troop commander, told of the
insult to American manhood and displayed the grievous traces upon his
trousers. When his captain found that he was not demented, he meditated
briefly and spoke.
“Bateau, this is unfortunate, but it seems to me out of military
cognizance.”
Leonidas mentioned the Secretary of War for the third or fourth time,
and asked permission to complain to the post commander.
“Think this over for a day,” said his troop commander, “and I’ll see
Captain Stone.” On the next day he resumed, “Captain Stone confirms
every statement that you make, except--er--the distance.”
“It was ovah the gate,” repeated Leonidas. “But I would feel just the
same if it was not.”
The troop commander was wise. “Very well. You have my permission to make
your complaint.”
Private Bateau stated his case in the Adjutant’s office at Fort
Chiricahua. The post commander duly investigated the affair, and private
Bateau was duly informed that his complaint was deemed out of military
cognizance. Private Bateau, thoroughly booked on the machinery, now
appealed to the Department Commander. He called in no clerk to draft his
grievance for him; with Cousin Xerxes to help, he wrote:
“FORT CHIRICAHUA, A. T., Nov. 30, 188-.
“THE ADJUTANT-GENERAL, Department of Arizona,
Whipple Barracks, A. T. (Through Military
Channels.)
“_Sir._--For the information of the commanding general of the
department, I wish to report Captain Joshua Stone of E Troop 4th
Cavalry for using brutal conduct toward me at 5 p.m. 26th inst., at
witch hour he insulted me with his foot behaiving like no officer
and gentleman in a way I will not rite down. All I did was bring
word our choir was waiting for Mrs. Stone to play like she always
done on the melodeum for church practiss wensday afternoons and
saturday nights.”
“Very respectfully, your obedient servant,
“LEONIDAS BATEAU Private, Troop I, 4th Cav’y.”
This document Leonidas handed to the first sergeant of his troop, who
took it with the daily morning report to the captain, who indorsed it,
“Respectfully forwarded to the Adjutant-General Department of Arizona
(through Post Commander). The facts in this case are as follows,” etc.,
and duly signed the indorsement, and forwarded it the next day to the
Post Commander, who indorsed it, “Respectfully forwarded to the
Adjutant-General Department of Arizona, Whipple Barracks, A. T. I find
upon investigation,” etc, “and I have cautioned Private Leonidas Bateau
that he ought to be more guarded in his language when referring to an
officer’s wife, and I recommend that no further action be taken in this
case.”
Do you perceive the wheels beginning to go round? The letter of
Leonidas, thus twice indorsed and signed by the captain of his troop and
the colonel commanding Fort Chiricahua, now flew forth and upward,
directing its course duly to the headquarters of the Department of
Arizona, and even while it was upon its way, a new song was heard among
the enlisted men on all sides at the post. It was fitted to the tune of
“Stables,” its author was unknown, and it went something like this:
SAY, have you seen my sister?
I GUESS that I must have missed her,
I’ll SHOW you a handsome blister, etc.
It went something like that (sing it and you will see how glove-like it
fits the tune), and it contributed nothing to the happiness of Leonidas;
but it made him glad that nobody save Cousin Xerxes knew of the long,
long letter which he had written to the Secretary of War and mailed
outside the post.
And now the wheels began to turn at Whipple Barracks while Private
Bateau was waiting for the Secretary of War to answer his private
letter, and stand behind him. The Department Commander knew all about
the Secretary of War; moreover, he was enlightened concerning this case
by his favorite staff-officer, Lieutenant Jimmy St. Michael, of Kings
Port, South Carolina. Jimmy received from a brother lieutenant at Fort
Chiricahua an intimate and spirited account of the whole deplorable
misadventure, describing Gwendolen at length, and Captain Stone at
length, and the melodeon, and the choir practices, not omitting a sketch
of Leonidas and Cousin Xerxes. This letter kept the young officers up
until past midnight, for Jimmy gave them a choir practice upon his
banjo, impersonating now Sistah Stone and now Leonidas. But, as I have
said, the Commanding General of the Department knew the Secretary of War
and therefore deemed a plentiful investigation into the affairs of
Leonidas the wisest course. He would not accept the views of the post
commander, as was his usual habit; there must be an inspector. Now his
Inspector-General was off inspecting something at Fort Apache; and so,
that time should not be lost, he summoned Jimmy St. Michael and directed
him to proceed to Fort Chiricahua. Jimmy departed with a valise, a
letter official to the colonel, a message unofficial to the same
officer, and his banjo, which he rarely left behind him. With the
solemnity proper to all inspectors, he arrived upon the scene of the
tragedy, and not even the joy of the club could unbend him. He was
implored to give at least “But he didn’t saw the wood,” that song which
had left a trail of gayety from Klamath and Bidwell to Meade and San
Carlos. Jimmy remained deaf to everything but duty. His slim figure
became every inch an inspector, his neat hair was severe, his black eyes
almost funereal. He made many inquiries, he investigated everybody, and
he seldom uttered any longer comment than “H’m, h’m!” He knew how rare
it is for an inspector to say more than this.
His old friends would have thought him engaged to be married or
otherwise grievously changed for the worse, had he not, on the night his
mission was ended, taken the cover off his banjo. He gave the second
entirely original poem which the misfortunes of Leonidas had inspired.
He sang it to a tune heard in a popular play, and here it is: