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A LITTLE DUSKY HERO
BY HARRIET T. COMSTOCK
_AUTHOR OF "CEDRIC THE SAXON," "TOWER OR THRONE," ETC._
NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & Co.
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1902,
By Thomas Y. Crowell & Company.
THIS LITTLE BOOK
IS
LOVINGLY DEDICATED
TO
Philip and Albert
BY
THEIR MOTHER
[Illustration: COLONEL AUSTIN STAGGERED TO HIS FEET, LEANING UPON THE
LITTLE SHOULDER.]
CONTENTS
I. George Washington McKinley Jones
II. The Box from up North
III. The Little Gauntlet and Sword
IV. Waiting in the Turret Chamber
V. The Boy up North
VI. "War, G. W.!"
VII. The Battle on the Hill-Top
VIII. The Colonel's Body-Guard
IX. "I'se Got de Colonel!"
X. In the Tent Hospital
XI. "It's all yours, G. W.!"
XII. A History-Evening at Oakwood
A LITTLE DUSKY HERO.
I.
GEORGE WASHINGTON MCKINLEY JONES.
Scratch! scratch! scratch! went Colonel Austin's pen over the smooth
white sheets of paper, sheet after sheet.
The dead heat of Tampa hung heavy within the tent; the buzz of the flies
was most distressing; but the reports must be got off, and after them
there were letters to be written to "the Boy and his Mother" up North,
telling them--especially the Boy--what a glorious thing it is to serve
one's country under _any_ circumstances. The present circumstances were
extremely trying, to be sure, but the firm brown hand glided back and
forth over the long pages in a determined manner that showed how Colonel
Austin believed in doing his duty.
Scratch! scratch! scratch!
Buzz! buzz! buzz!
"Good-mornin', sah!"
It was a soft little voice, and it droned away into the buzz of the
flies and the scratching of the pen so that the writer at the rough
table took no heed.
"Good mornin', sah!"
This time Colonel Austin turned. He was a firm believer in discipline,
and the unannounced arrival annoyed him. He swung around and gazed
sternly about six feet from the ground. There was nothing there! His
eyes dropped and finally rested upon the very smallest, dirtiest,
raggedest black boy he had ever seen. But the beautiful great eyes of
the forlorn mite looked trustingly up at the surprised officer, and
Colonel Austin noticed that the grimy cheeks were tear-stained though
the childish lips were smiling bravely.
"Good mornin', sah!" again piped the soft voice.
"Why, good morning to you!" the Colonel replied. He was always tender
with sick soldiers, women, and children, and the pathetic little figure
before him touched his sympathy. "Who are you, my small friend?"
"George Washington McKinley Jones, sah."
"Just so; and where are your folks?"
"No folks any more, sah. Daddy he done got put in prison fur life, sah,
'cos he killed a frien' of his, an' my mammy she done died yesterday. I
jus' come from her buryin', sah." Two slow tears fell from the soft
brown eyes and rolled over the stained cheeks.
Colonel Austin's throat grew dry, as it always did when he looked upon
suffering things bearing pain and trouble bravely.
"And why do you come here, my child?" he asked kindly.
"I likes de look ob your face, sah, an' I'se hungry--I'se starved, I
is--an' 'sides I want work!"
The boy certainly was not over nine, and was undersized and
childish-looking even for that.
"Work!" smiled the grave Colonel, "what in the world can you do?"
"Why, sah, I'se de best shot you ebber saw; I reckon I'se what you call
a real crack shot; dat's what I am, sah!"
The ring of pride in the piping voice reached the Colonel's heart. "Oh!
I see," he nodded. "You wish to be a soldier boy, is that it?"
The grimy little applicant drew himself up to his extreme height, and
replied with magnificent scorn. "No, sah! I does _not_ wish to be a
sojer boy. I wish ter be one ob dem heroes, sah!"
A joke was a rare thing in those dull, waiting days, and George
Washington McKinley Jones was delicious. The Colonel smoothed the smiles
from his mouth as best he could. But not a quiver of mirth ruffled the
dirt-stained countenance of the child. His severe stare sobered the
Colonel, and he asked in a gentle tone, "Do you know what a hero is, my
boy?"
George Washington drew his ragged coat about him with a gesture of
patient pity, then answered with a slow, pained dignity. "Co'se I knows
what a hero is, sah. How could I know dat I wanted ter be one if I
didn't? A hero is a pusson, sah, what ain't afraid to tackle a job too
big fur other folks, an' goes right froo wid it or dies a-doin' it!"
Something in the quiet words drove all desire to laugh for good and all
from the listening officer. "I have a character on my hands, evidently,"
he thought; aloud he said, "George Washington McKinley Jones, I presume
you haven't any particular job in heroism in sight at present?"
"No, sah. I jes' wants to go 'long wid de boys, an' watch out fur my
chance. Mammy done tole me heaps ob times dat if I jes' was wid sojers,
I was boun'ter be a hero some day, shore. She 'lowed she had visions."
"You shall have your chance, comrade!" The Colonel got up and took the
thin little hand in his. "If you have told me the truth, my boy, I will
take you along with my regiment and give you a show." He called to an
officer who was passing the tent. "Martin!"
The man stopped and touched his cap.
"Martin, we have a young volunteer here. He's no common soldier, please
understand; he's enlisted as a hero. Feed him up, give him all that he
can hold, and let him report to me later."
Lieutenant Martin's face never changed expression; he simply held out
his hand gravely to George Washington McKinley Jones, saluted his
superior officer, and led the volunteer out of the tent.
While George Washington ate, solemnly and long, investigations were made
as to the truth of his story. Colonel Austin made them himself. He
wished to make sure, for his sympathy was deeply enlisted, and he did
not intend to be deceived. He found the little fellow had not departed
from the facts in the least particular. He belonged to nobody; but every
one who knew him had a kindly word for him. He was known as an honest,
good-natured little waif, with a reputation for hitting the bull's-eye
every time any one would lend him a gun at a rifle-match.
Upon the evidence gathered the boy was taken into the army as the
"mascot of the Ninth," and before long he was the pet of the men in that
city of white tents, and became known as "G. W.," for who in that hot,
lazy place could waste time in calling him all of his various historical
national names? It was "G. W." here and "G. W." there. He danced for
them and sang for them, and was never weary, never ill-tempered.
When once he had had enough to eat--and for many days the men thought
that he never could get enough--he became the healthiest and ruggedest
of boys, and beyond doubt one of the happiest that ever breathed.
II.
THE BOX FROM UP NORTH.
One day a box came from the North. It was addressed to "George
Washington McKinley Jones, care of Colonel Austin;" but as G. W. was
incapable of reading he sharply questioned the messenger who delivered
it.
"How you know dis 'blongs ter me?" asked he.
"There's your name," said the messenger.
"Whar?"
The patient messenger traced the boy's illustrious name.
"What's dar 'sides my name?"
"Care of Colonel Austin."
"Oh!" said G. W., understandingly, "dat means I'se got ter take care ob
it fur my Colonel! I reckon dey needn't took all de trouble to write dat
foolishness out! Co'se I'll take care of it."
G. W. ran straight to Colonel Austin's tent. The officer was sitting
inside, and, as it happened, alone.
"Hello, G. W., what have you there?"
The boy held the big box out gravely. Colonel Austin read the address.
"It's for you, my boy," he said. "Open it and let us see what is inside.
Here, let us drop the tent-flap and keep the surprise to ourselves."
When the Colonel said the package was for him all doubt fled from G.
W.'s heart. Others might step from truth's narrow way--but his Colonel?
Oh, never! The exciting thought that the box was really for himself made
the sturdy little form quiver. His hands shook, and the big brown eyes
stood open, as round as full moons.
The heavy papers were off at last. Upon the box itself lay a square
white envelope, breathing forth a fragrance of violets, and stating as
plainly as could be, in delicate lettering, that the contents of the
envelope were also for G. W.
"There's something for you in the letter--open that first," said the
Colonel. He was eyeing the scene with a strange look upon his face.
"Shall I read it for you, G. W.?" he added.
"Yes, sah! I guess you'll have to, sah, sump-in' seems de matter wid my
eyes," said G. W. "You jes' read it, Colonel. Read it slow an' _exactly_
what it done say, kase I doan't want any mistake, sah, 'bout dis sort ob
thing."
"All right, old man,--just tell me if I go too fast."
Then the Colonel began:
"To George Washington McKinley Jones,
_private in the Ninth Infantry_:
"Dear Sir: The enclosed are for you. They were made in Uncle Sam's
workshop, just where all the brave boys have theirs made"--
"You reads too fast, Colonel!" gasped G. W., tiny drops of perspiration
standing out on his face.
The Colonel began again at the beginning, and then went on, reading
slowly:
"I am sure they will fit, because a little messenger brought me the
measurements. Accept them with our love, and wear them like the
hero you will certainly be some day. There is just one way you can
thank us; bring Colonel Austin home to us safe and sound, well and
strong. See that he obeys you where this is concerned. We wish him
to do his duty, but do not let anything happen to him.
"God bless you, little soldier! That is the daily wish of
"The Boy and his Mother."
There was silence in the tent.
Then said the Colonel, "Well, why don't you open the box, G. W.?"
The boy was kneeling before the box, but his eyes were fastened upon a
photograph on the rude table. It was a photograph of "the Boy and his
Mother," G. W. felt certain; and he was realizing that these two, far
away in the unknown, had spoken to him.
"Open it, G. W.," again the Colonel said.
"You do it, sah! I clar I doan't dare!"
The officer laughed, and cut the string. Within the box, neatly folded,
but in such a way as to hide none of their charms, lay trousers and
jacket of army blue resplendent with flashing buttons.
Colonel Austin took the garments out, and held them up at arms' length.
They were small, but perfect.
"Lawd!" gasped G. W.; "for de Lawd's sake!"
A moment of breathless silence followed; then Colonel Austin said, "They
are yours, G. W., try them on! You are 'one of the boys' now for sure
and certain, buttons and all! See, there is a '9' on every button!"
Slowly the surprise cleared away in G. W.'s brain. He gave a low
whistle, like the note of a bird, and struggled to his feet, for he was
still on his knees by the box.
"Colonel," he whispered, "you ain't never tole me a lie--but dis here
'sperience done tries my mind! Turn away yo' head, sah."
Colonel Austin turned away his head and waited.
Behind his back arose a rustling, with mutters of impatience, as buttons
refused to comply with the nervous efforts of awkward and trembling
fingers. Then came a long breath of content, as things began to run
smoother, and presently a sigh of superhuman bliss; then a voice, new
and deep, gasped forth:
"Look at me!"
The Colonel turned. There, his face and hands in a tremble, but all
exultant, stood G. W. in the uniform of the Ninth. The coat was buttoned
crooked, the cap, which G. W. had discovered at the bottom of the box,
was hind part before--but what of that? In all the army of the great
Republic was no manlier soldier than the little fellow who now faced his
Colonel with a look of rapture on his round, dusky face.
"Comrade, give us your hand!" There was a mistiness in the Colonel's
eyes, a queer chokiness in his voice. "You'll never disgrace the
uniform, my boy,--it isn't in you to do it!"
G. W. saluted, and then gravely placed his hand in Colonel Austin's.
"Dese clo'es," he said, "are jes' goin' to help make me a hero for sho!
An', Colonel, I'se goin' ter take care ob you jis' like de Boy an' his
Mother tole me. I is sho! Nothin' ain't goin' to happen 'long o' you
while George Washington McKinley Jones knows what hisself am about! I'se
goin' ter put dis letter in my breas'-pocket, an' it's goin' ter stay
right plumb ober my heart, till I take yer back to dem two all right!
Now, sah, let me show de boys. Lawd! I clar if my mammy"--the proud
smile quivered--"should see me, I jes' reckon de visions she'd have
would make her trimble!"
III.
THE LITTLE GAUNTLET AND SWORD.
The sunlight beat down upon Tampa until every man in camp shed his coat
in despair, but not one button did G. W. unfasten!
He strutted and sweltered, and complained not. He gave daily exhibitions
of his sharp-shooting--which, by the way, was an accomplishment truly
remarkable. For the first time in his life he was absolutely and
perfectly happy.
While all "the boys" felt a personal interest in the child, it was a
well-understood fact that he belonged to Colonel Austin. To that officer
alone did G. W. report, and from him alone did he accept orders as to
his outgoings and incomings.
As the long languid weeks dragged on, G. W. became the life of the camp.
His "break-downs," danced with wondrous grace and skill, set many a lazy
foot shuffling in sympathy. He sang songs to a banjo accompaniment which
made the listeners forget their pipes and cards, and set them to
thinking of home--and other things. He appeared to be singularly
innocent and child-like for such an uncared-for waif. He seemed to have
gathered only good nature and a love for the brave and noble from his
starved, cruel years. As Colonel Austin watched him from day to day he
became more interested in him, and began to wonder what he should do
with the odd little chap when the business with Spain was settled, and
life assumed its ordinary aspect once more.
Perhaps the Colonel's hunger for the Boy up North made him glad of the
companionship; perhaps it was only his noble heart always yearning over
the needy. Be that as it may, the little black boy and the handsome
young Colonel became daily closer comrades.
There was one regulation which Colonel Austin had insisted upon from the
first. G. W., who was to sleep upon a mattress in his tent, was to go to
bed early, as a child should. The men might bribe or coax him for a
dance or a song during the day; but the little soldier had his orders to
"turn in" at eight-thirty, and although G. W. often longed for an hour
more, he obeyed like the hero he meant some day to be. Love and a strong
sense of duty governed the heart beating faithfully under the hot,
trimly-buttoned uniform. He might wish to stay where the fun was, but he
never varied his obedience by an extra five minutes.
When it was possible the Colonel took a few moments from duty or
pleasure at the twilight hour, and followed G. W. into the tent. When
the flap fell to after the pair, not a soldier but knew that the Colonel
was not to be disturbed except upon the most urgent business. When the
Colonel came out of the tent the look in his eyes made more than one man
remember it.
Old General Wallace was once known to have taken off his hat as he came
face to face with G. W.'s Colonel at the tent door, after one of those
mysterious twilight talks. When the older man realized what he had done
he jammed his hat down over his eyes, and, with an impatient laugh,
said, "What in thunder is the matter with you, Austin? You look like a
Methodist camp-meeting!"
G. W.'s Colonel saluted and passed on.
One night when he went into the tent after G. W., he found the boy
divested of his splendid regimentals, kneeling in a very scant and
child-like costume before the table--which, by the way, was composed of
two soap-boxes covered with a flag--and scanning the faces of "the Boy
and his Mother." A strange yearning in G. W.'s eyes caused the officer
to speak very gently.
"What is it, old fellow? Surely you are not envying the Boy up North?
You, a full-fledged soldier of Uncle Sam!"
Envy! why G. W.'s heart just then was filled with pity for that boy
nearly as old as he, who was obliged to wear humiliating garments.
Actually there was lace on his collar. And the boy wore curls! not long
ones, but curls nevertheless. G. W. had by this time acquired tact
sufficient to forbid mention of these pitiful details, but he said
slowly, "I'se right sorry fur de Boy, Colonel, kase he's 'bliged to stay
away frum being wid you!"
G. W. was too sincere to be laughed at, and the Boy's father replied
gently:
"Well, you see, comrade, it is this way: the Boy is serving his country
as well as you. He'd like to be here first-rate,--a drum-call sets him
prancing like a war horse,--but there's the Mother, you know. It would
never do to leave her quite alone--he's taking my place by her side
until the country needs me no longer and I may go home. There are a good
many ways of serving, old man.
"G. W., once I was walking through a gallery of an ancient castle, and I
noticed among the armor and weapons which lined the walls a little
gauntlet and sword. So very small were they that I questioned the guide,
and he told me this story:
'In the dark days of long ago, when a man's castle had to be
defended from his foes, and every one was on guard against an
attack, there was a knight who had four sons and one fair daughter.
Three of the sons were great stalwart fellows, but the fourth was a
crippled lad who lay upon his bed in the turret chamber week after
week, dreaming his dreams and looking out across the wide parks
over which he was never to ride to wage war against a cruel foe.
The pretty sister sat much with him and wove wondrous stories from
her busy brain to help while away the weary hours; and she got the
father to have the slender gauntlet and sword made, so that the
patient soldier upon the bed might the better believe himself like
the strong, brave heroes of her tales.
'Now it came to pass that a very wicked lord of an adjoining
country wished to marry the pretty sister, and take her to his
gloomy castle. To that the father and brothers said, "No!" They
vowed that they would fight to the end rather than that the wicked
lord should have his way. And soon they saw that they must indeed
fight if they would keep her, for rumor reached them that the lord
had raised a mighty company and was nearing their castle. Then
every man prepared himself for battle, and in the turret room the
small warrior lay upon his bed with the gauntlet upon his hand, and
the keen sword ready in case the foe should enter. Day by day the
fair sister, white and full of fear, knelt beside him, and tried to
be brave for his dear sake.
'At length the day of conflict came. The two in the high room saw
the banners of the wicked lord advancing, and the little brother
said valiantly, "I will defend you!"
'The struggle came on. Long and nobly did the knight and his men
strive to keep back the terrible lord, and many fell in court-yard
and hall. But at last the wicked lord and his followers triumphed,
and with shouts of victory strode to the turret-room.
'There knelt the maid, her golden head bowed beside her brother.
His left hand pressed her fair curls, but his right hand was ready
for its task. The lord bent to grasp the prize for which he had
fought, little heeding the crippled boy; but as his fingers were
about to close upon the girl's arm the keen slender sword was
raised in a hand made strong for the deed, and a desperate blow
fell upon the wrist of the lord, and his hand was nearly severed
from the arm. An awed silence followed the doughty deed. Then out
spoke the lord: "Let no man touch the pair. Of all warriors this
cripple is the greatest, because in his weakness he has dared all
things for love!"'
"So you see, G. W., the poor young stay-at-home was a soldier, too!"
said the Colonel. "I have always loved to remember the story. And now I
often think of the Boy up North defending his mother from loneliness and
foreboding--he is doing his share, G. W."
G. W.'s soft, big, brown eyes were fixed upon his Colonel's face. The
great hero-tales of legend and history were new to his empty childhood,
and this one thrilled him to his heart's core.
"Dat's a mighty fine story!" he mused. "When you was telling me dat
story, Colonel, it done seem as if nothing was mean in all de world; it
seems like every one was brave!"
"Never reckon out any honest service, old man," the Colonel went on;
"very little things count in this world, and oftentimes the weakest do
the greatest deeds. That little hero of long ago stretches forth a hand
to every child who tries to do his part!"
A gleam of admiration flashed into G. W.'s eyes. "Well, I 'low dat de
Boy up North is a bigger soldier dan I 'magined. I knowed from de fust I
done got to take care ob _you_, Colonel, but now I jis' feel like I 'd
be glad to do something fur de Boy hisself!"
Colonel Austin seemed to understand. "Well," said he, "you and he are
both taking care of me. You are helping him and he is helping you, and
maybe some day you may tell each other all about it."
There was surely one thing the Colonel's two "boys" had in common: they
both had the same devouring passion for hero-stories.
During almost every spring evening of that year, by a bedside in a cool
Northern home, a pretty young mother had sat and told to an eager little
lad thrilling tales of bravery and courage. Always she began with the
one the Colonel had told to G. W.--the story of the crippled boy in the
old castle turret. There was something in that legend that stirred Jack
Austin in a wonderful manner.
It had been hard for Jack to be separated from his father from the
first; but now, whenever he heard from his father's letters about G. W.,
and realized that among war's perils there could be a place for a small
boy, his heart simply ached with longing. G. W., a boy little older than
himself, was there beside Daddy! But at this point Jack always recalled
the story of the gauntlet and the small sword, and stifled back the
tears and looked lovingly at his pretty mother. No matter how he envied
G. W., he would stay, patient, in his "turret chamber." His place was
beside his mother until Daddy came marching home. How many times his
father had sent him that message! Jack dreamed almost every night of his
father coming home, keeping step to the cheerful drum; so he had marched
away, and so he would return, with G. W. at his side!
Near his bed, at night, always lay Jack's own splendid suit of
make-believe soldier clothes. It was hard sometimes for him to think
that they were make-believe clothes, while the suit of blue his mother
had sent to G. W. were real, true ones, and worn by the dusky little
soldier who lived in his dear father's tent. There often seemed to him
an unendurable difference between G. W. and himself.
Poor little Jack! he was braver than he realized when he turned away
from this feeling and smiled up into his mother's face.
But Jack's mother knew all about this feeling.
"And so you see, dear," the stories for Jack always ended, "that though
you are but mother's obedient little boy now, your chance in the great
world's work will come!"
And in the tent, beneath the glorious sunsets of Tampa, at about the
same time "Daddy" would be sitting and smoking beside a small mattress
bed, urging the same line of conduct upon another boy "hero" with a
heart under the brown skin as pure and innocent as the one throbbing
beneath the snowy night-gown so far away.
"Your chance will come, G. W.!"
And both boys generally fell asleep with the resolve that they would do
the things and bear the things of the present, and "wait" without a
murmur, because heroes had done the same since the world began.
IV.
WAITING IN THE TURRET CHAMBER.
It was never clear to G. W. why the "boys" were always anxious to be
"going." For him the lazy, fun-loving life was never tedious or
unpleasant. From all that he could gather by endless questioning, war
was not half so agreeable, although he granted it must certainly be more
exciting.
"When will the order come for us to move?" That was the daily question
in camp.
At last it came! They were to sail at once. Of course the President of
the United States, whose illustrious name G. W. bore himself, meant all
the thousands who were encamped in Tampa; but to G. W. the order meant
that _he_ and "de Colonel" were to "pull up stakes" and sail away to
that strange, mysterious Cuba, and face war!
The little dusky fellow in blue suddenly felt that his hands were pretty
full.
He it was who packed all the Colonel's belongings, giving special care
to the photograph. He polished up the guns and swords, and even his own
buttons. He meant at least to command the respect of the foe. He often
grew hot and tired, during those days, but never made a complaint. And
when the hurried camp preparations were completed, it was G. W. and "de
Colonel" who marched down the long pier to the waiting transports. To G.
W.'s mind, it was for them the cheers rang out, and for them did the
band play the inspiring music that set his feet dancing. Oh, it was the
proudest moment of G. W.'s life so far. His buttons almost burst over
his swelling chest. He was marching straight into the glorious future.
He was going to be a hero without further delay. He saw "visions," like
his mammy. Somewhere, off in the misty distance, his "chance" was
waiting for him; he felt as certain of it as he was that under his
beloved uniform he was surely melting.
The days in the crowded transport put little G. W.'s endurance to the
test. But during the wretched hours one glance at the Colonel's face
gave him courage to suffer and be--still!
His Colonel saw it all.
"Bear up, old chap! Heroes grin--and conquer things," said the officer,
while his heart ached for the silent child; and in the end, through
sea-sickness and a longing for old easy days, G. W. did grin and
"conquer things."
Then they came to Cuba! Under the dark palms and cacti, once more the
white tents were pitched; and facing the fact of approaching battles,
the men made ready, but still lightened the heavy hours by song and
joke, and boisterously welcomed the old comradeship of G. W.
G. W. revived when once his feet touched solid land. "I doan't like de
water," he explained; "it's shaky an' onsartain an'--an'--wet! Dere's
too much ob it too, an' when it gets wobbly, whar are yo?"
So the boy cheerfully took up again his dancing and singing. War grew
again to seem to him a matter of some other day. The regiment seemed
merely to have shifted its pleasure-ground. To be sure, there were fewer
hours alone with the Colonel, for he was very busy, but G. W. followed
him about at a distance whenever and wherever he could. If love could
shield the young officer from harm, surely never was he safer.
But presently G. W. began to form new and more personal ideas of war;
his imagination, fed by the stories he had heard, sprang to life.
Perhaps war wasn't anything they would know about beforehand. That might
be the reason for the look of anxiety he had noticed upon the face of
his Colonel. Possibly war was like a great cloud hurled along by the
hurricane--G. W. knew how _that_ looked. They might all be sitting by
the camp-fire some night, when suddenly war would descend upon them and
find them unprepared. With that thought G. W.'s face took on an
expression of anxiety. He clung closer to his Colonel; he did not intend
that war should find his Colonel unattended by body-guard.
Colonel Austin often took heed of the faithful little shadow, and began
to fear anew for the time when he might be obliged to "go to the front"
and leave the boy behind.
"G. W., you must never go beyond that point alone," he said one day,
naming a hill a half mile or so distant. "These are not play-days,
comrade; I want to feel that you are safe. I cannot afford to worry
about you now. Obedience first, old man, you know, and then you are on
the way to being a hero."
"Yes, sah!" The small black hand gave the salute gravely. G. W. never by
any possible chance forgot his military training. "But, Colonel, you
goes furder dan de hill right often."
"That's true, G. W., but my duty calls _me_ beyond; _your_ duty bids you
stay this side of the hill--that's the difference, G. W."
"Yes, sah! but how is I goin' ter take care ob you, wid you trapesing
off de Lawd knows whar?"
Colonel Austin smiled. "You must try to be willing to trust me out of
your sight, my boy," he said, "just as I have to trust you when you stay
behind."
"But, Colonel, jes' 'spose war should attack you, wid me fur off? How
does yo' 'spec I 'se goin' ter report to de Boy an' his Mother?"
Colonel Austin saw trouble ahead unless he got G. W. into shape.
"Look here, old fellow," he replied, taking the young body-guard between
his knees. "War isn't going to catch us napping. We'll know at what
minute to point our guns at the enemy. We shall know and we shall obey
our orders. And you'll know, and _you_ must obey _your_ orders, comrade.
You must stay in your turret chamber, like the brave boy of old. You
mustn't follow me past that point. If you do, G. W.,"--Colonel Austin
had never threatened the boy before,--"unless you promise me, G. W.,
I'll tie the flaps of the tent upon you every time I leave it."
The childish lips quivered in an un-soldier-like way. "I'll promise,
Colonel!"
"All right, then, and give us your hand. Comrade, you've taken a load
from my mind."
The days following grew to be hard days for the boy, so long petted by
the regiment. Food was scarce, and when there was plenty it was often of
a kind that he turned from. The evenings in the tent were very long and
lonely before he fell asleep. No stories now. His Colonel's absences
grew more frequent and more prolonged. G. W.'s only solace was to gaze
at the picture of the Boy and his Mother.
The half-mile hill became more and more every day a dread landmark. From
that hated point of view he had to watch the Colonel's tall figure
disappear only too often, while he stayed behind to return ingloriously
to the tent. Where was the "chance" that was going to make him a hero if
he must always stay behind in the place of safety? Did the Colonel think
heroes were made on hill-tops a half mile from camp? G. W. grew
sarcastic. He kept his buttons bright and his uniform brushed and trim;
not because he loved it as when he expected to soon wear it as a hero,
but because the Colonel kept himself in order--his faithful G. W. could
at least follow him in that.
But at last came a thing that roused him from this mood. Fever broke out
in camp, and G. W. developed into a nurse of no mean order. He carried
water and bathed aching heads. Hot hands clung to him, forgetting how
very small and weak he was. "Sing to us, G. W.," often those weary,
suffering fellows said, "and don't give us the jig-tunes, old man, but
something soft."
With his brown, childish face upraised G. W. would sing the old
camp-meeting songs that his mother used to sing in the days of long ago
before he had dreamed of being a hero.
Was it the religious thought in the quaint words, or the tender quality
of the airs, or was it G. W.'s pathetic voice that had the power to
quiet the delirium and make it possible for the tired sick men to rest?
How can one tell? But as the boy sang stillness settled down over the
rough hospital, and many a "God bless you, G. W.!" came from thankful
lips.
Colonel Austin watched the little comforter bustling to and fro, and
with a grim smile he thought that the hero-side of G. W. was developing
fast.
The boy had grown thin, and an anxious, worn look made the small dusky
face very touching; but weariness, disappointment, and bodily discomfort
never dragged a complaint from the firm lips.
V.
THE BOY UP NORTH.
Just before the Colonel and G. W. had been ordered by President McKinley
to "move on," Colonel Austin had had the dear dusky little attendant
photographed, dazzling uniform and all and had sent it to little Jack
who was playing his harder part away up in the Northern home. Underneath
he had written, "My Body-Guard."
After Mrs. Austin had gazed long and searchingly at the radiant little
soldier, she had surprised her son by suddenly bursting into tears.
"Why, Mamma-dear!" cried Jack, "don't you like his looks?"
"Oh! I do indeed, Jack; I like his looks so well that it almost breaks
my heart--poor little fellow!"
"Poor little fellow?" Jack fell to pondering. He examined every detail
of the fascinating photograph--the suit of "real" soldier clothes, the
straight, proud wearer with that look of exultation upon his round face.
Why "poor little fellow"? Jacky would have given anything in the
world--except his mother--to have been in his place.
"Mamma-dear," he sighed at last, "I'd rather be G. W. than President of
the United States!"
Mrs. Austin laughed and wiped away her tears.
"That's because you are Daddy's boy," she replied; "but poor G. W. has a
hard way to travel through life, and your mother was wondering just
where he will fit in when heroes are not required."
"Heroes are always required," Jack answered sagely, "and I bet G. W.
will be brave anywhere. He's got brave eyes."
"I believe you are right, Jack," said his mother. "Put his photograph
upon your table, and try to be the same kind of boy you think he is. He
certainly is a dear little chap!"
So upon the table in Jack's room G. W.'s photograph was placed; and
often and often when he was quite alone Colonel Austin's son visited
with his father's small dusky body-guard until, on Jack's side at least,
the two became intimate friends.
Then into the Northern home came Daddy's letters telling of the approach
of battle and the change of scene. Nothing of G. W.'s doings was ever
omitted by the Colonel; he knew Jack's hunger for hero-news.
The little mother was less gay during those early days of summer; a
shadow rested upon her sweet face, and she clung to Jack with a sort of
passion. Jack was full of comfort and cheer when he was with her, but he
had his hours of unhappiness too, and then he used to go into his room
and stay with G. W.
One day Mrs. Austin went to drive with a friend, and Jack took that
opportunity for a private drill, with G. W. to look on. Up in his bright
sunlit room he put on his soldier suit and marched to and fro with
swelling chest and mighty stride.
Oh! if he were only to be with his father in the battles to come! He
might keep danger away if he were with him. No one would hurt a little
boy--he would go, in every battle, in front of his father!
At last he went to the table and kneeling down scanned the likeness of
G. W.--the boy who was filling his place, Daddy's body-guard! He grew
very unhappy as he looked at the small colored boy.
"I'm a toy boy," he faltered, "and G. W. is a live soldier!" Then he
thought of Daddy's last letter, in which he had written of the hill
which marked G. W.'s boundary.
"I bet that makes you turn hot and cold, G. W.," he mused. "Oh, I know
just how you feel!" The blue eyes searched deep into the pictured ones
of brown. "Oh! G. W., I wish you knew how to manage Daddy as Mamma-dear
and I do! Daddy'll let you do what's necessary always, if you just know
how, but he's awful particular about being obeyed. I wish you could make
him change his mind about that hill. Of course they won't fight a battle
_there_; if there was any danger of that Daddy'd set your limit at camp!
But, G. W., if you should go ahead and do a brave thing, like saving a
life, he'd forgive you; he'd punish you, I guess, but he'd forgive
you--Mamma-dear and I'd make him, anyway. If _I_ were in your place, in
the very clothes of the Ninth, I'd dare a good sound punishing to be by
Daddy's side. I'd just ask him what he called me a body-guard for."
The tears blinded Jack's eyes, and through their gleam G. W.'s face
seemed to grow rigid with disapproval.
"I know," half sobbed Jack, wiping his tears upon the sleeve of his blue
"make-believe" coat; "Daddy's trained you to think you _must_ obey; but,
oh, I wish that particular old hill wasn't in Cuba!
"I'm going to tell you something, G. W.," Jack went on. "Once, the
summer before Daddy went away, I had a 'sperience with him. I was a year
littler than I am now. He told me not on any account to go down to the
river without him. I wanted to, for Daddy had taught me how to swim and
I wanted to float about and practise. Every day I went near, to look at
the water, and every night Daddy would say, 'Now remember, Jack, for no
reason go to the river without me.' But I went nearer and nearer, until
one day I could see the other boys in, and then--I pulled off my clothes
and in I went, too! I hadn't been in long when Don Grover--he's my best
friend, but a year littler--got out further than any one else, and
suddenly he put his arms right up in the air and screamed that he was
a-drowning. We were all scared, and the other boys swam to the shore to
get help. I couldn't think of anything but Don, and I swam right out to
him, and he didn't grab hold of me or anything, but let me kind of tow
him in; and course it was awful far and we were nearly dead, and I kept
thinking how I had disobeyed Daddy, and seeing Mamma-dear's mournful
eyes. But Don and I didn't talk, only just swam. When we got to the
shore we crawled out and lay down and went to sleep, but when the boys
came back with some men I waked up and told them to take Don home and I
could go alone. G. W., I was terribly fearful to go, for you know how
particular Daddy is about obeying and waiting in your own place of duty.
"I ached, and my knees just fluttered. When I got there Daddy and
Mamma-dear were sitting on the piazza, and the minute I looked at Daddy
I was sure he knew I had disobeyed. 'Where have you been, Jack?' he
said, solemn. I said, 'Swimming.' He got up, and Mamma-dear began to
cry, but Daddy took me in the study and he--he whipped me, G. W., like
anything, for disobedience. I wouldn't cry, because I _had_ been
disobedient.
"That evening Don's father came over and told Daddy how I tugged Don in,
and I saw Daddy's eyes looking like two big steady stars, and the
whipping was just nothing, and Mamma-dear cried the same as if Don and I
were drowned dead. And, G. W., what do you think Daddy did? When Don's
father finished, Daddy came and said, 'You deserved the thrashing, Jack,
for not obeying, you know; but let me shake hands with you because you
are a brave fellow,' and I almost choked. I said, 'Don't mention it!'
but I shook his hand like anything. Oh, G. W., if only I could make you
know just how to be a true body-guard to Daddy! If you should go over
that hill he'd punish you for disobeying, sure, but if some time you
just _had_ to do it for a brave reason, he'd shake your hand, G. W."
The boy in the photograph seemed to be listening to Jack, and trying to
understand him, and to be thinking about it, as if he knew that Jack's
very heart was in what he said.
Presently a slow smile lit up the features of the make-believe boy in
blue. "G. W.," he whispered, "I'm not going to worry any more about
Daddy! You'll do the right thing by him, I'll bet! When you come home,
G. W., you shall have half of everything I own. We're going to be
brothers!"
Little Jack Austin ran down to meet his mother when she returned, with a
cheery smile, because he had in his heart a sure trust that G. W. would
save the day, no matter what the danger that threatened Daddy!
VI.
"WAR, G. W.!"
G. W.'s wanderings from camp became less and less frequent. He thought
no longer of going anywhere but to the hill-top; and that detested limit
became more hated as oftener and oftener the Colonel passed beyond the
faithful little guardian's gaze.
"I'd jes' like to know whar de Colonel goes _all_ de time!" sighed G. W.
Colonel Austin was not unmindful of the boy, but evidently he was deep
in business and anxiety. An occasional pat upon the little woolly head,
or a word of cheer, was all the devoted comrade received; yet, with only
that to feed upon, the childish devotion continually grew.
He took to talking aloud to the Boy and his Mother, in the long silent
hours of evening. They became as alive and intimate to him as he, all
unknown to himself, had become to Jack. He made solemn promises
regarding the Colonel which, had Jack heard, would have set to rest any
doubt as to G. W.'s capabilities of "managing the Colonel."
"Doan you-uns be frettin'," he whispered one night when his own heart
was like lead in his body; "you kin jes' keep on a-smilin' an'
a-smilin'--I 'low I can take care ob de Colonel. Dat hill gets de best
ob me, jes' fur de minute, but you min' I'm a-thinkin' 'bout dat ar
hill! I'se goin' git de bes' ob dat der hill, yit!"
One hot day when G. W. had smothered as usual his loathing for his
limit, and followed at a respectful distance the tall, well-beloved
figure of his Colonel, he had a hard fit of sighing. "I reckon if de
Colonel knew 'bout how I is feelin' dis minute," he said, wiping the
perspiration from his face, "he'd jes' holler back 'howdy' ter me." But
the Colonel not knowing of the faithful little henchman's nearness, sent
back no word of loving cheer--did not once turn.
The two were plodding along the road called the Santiago Road at the
time, and the long strides of the officer presently put him beyond G.
W.'s vision.
Suddenly G. W. sighed aloud. "He's gone!" There was a break in the soft
voice. "I clar ter goodness, he's always gone! I'm bressed if I doan't
wish de war would come an' be done wid! Dese days done w'ar me to
frazzles!"
A low, deep, rumbling sound made G. W. start. By instinct, he crouched
under some nearby bushes.
"What's dat?" he muttered, his eyes growing round and full of inquiry.
"Dat ain't thunder!" The ominous, threatening sounds were drawing
nearer, approaching over the road along which he had come, and along
which he must return to camp.
"Lawd!" gasped G. W.; "jes' 'spose dat is war a-comin' an' a-ketchin' me
alone by myself; good Lawd!" The small face became terror-stricken. He
clutched his hands in the pockets of his trousers.
The rumble grew louder. Suddenly the sun flashed upon a strange object
being drawn up the rough trail.
"Cannoneers, forward!" came a full loud cry that echoed and re-echoed in
G. W.'s brain. Then the boy perceived, as far as his gaze could travel,
soldiers and cannon filling the familiar road. He forgot his terror, and
thrilled and palpitated as he gazed from his leaf-covered hiding-spot.
Then a new thought made him reel backward. Was the entire American army
marching away from camp, leaving him behind who was bound to return
there?
The Colonel had left no orders for him; and the hill stood, as ever,
between him and any following of the soldiers. Then came a thought that
relieved him--there would be the sick in camp; surely they could not
join this rushing company and he would remain with them until the
Colonel remembered him.
Back toward camp he sped, keeping within the tangle of bushes and out of
sight of the oncoming men; pushing and tumbling, he made his way as fast
as his uniformed legs would carry him.
When he reached camp, panting and heated, he found a scene of great
excitement; and as far as he could judge, the men, both sick and well,
were all there! The Ninth, at least, had not gone over the hill-top!
"What's goin' ter happen?" G. W. gasped.
A boyish soldier who was writing a letter home looked up and answered,
"War, G. W.! that's what's going to happen, and mighty quick, too."
"And is us all goin' to de war?" G. W. sat down beside the soldier;
indeed, his legs could hold him up no longer.
"There are no orders yet, but I reckon we'll get our chance. Two more
transports are in, and a lot of guns."
"I saw dem," said G. W., thrilling again. "Miles ob dem an' millions of
men! Lawd, Corporal!" Then, after a pause, and very softly, he said,
"Say, Corporal Jack, if--if my Colonel don't send orders back fur me to
come ter him, an' if youse all get orders ter go on, will yer jes' fur
my sake try ter find de Colonel an' tell him a message? Jes' tell him
not ter fret 'bout me, cos I'se goin' ter remember de hill!" G. W. had
never humiliated himself by allowing any one to suppose he cared to go
beyond the hill-top. "An' jes' tell him I'll take care ob de picture!"
There were tears rolling down G. W.'s upturned face. Corporal Jack laid
down his pen and pad. "Well!" he cried, "you're a brick, G. W. But the
Colonel is not going to forget you, G. W. Brace up and hold on. And just
give us your hand, comrade!"
The two clasped hands gravely; then Corporal Jack went on with his
letter, and G. W. passed into Colonel Austin's tent, to have all things
ready in case there came an order to march.
Late that night, as G. W. lay upon his camp-bed (for he had been
promoted from the humble mattress) in the dismantled tent, Colonel
Austin entered. He was very weary, very pale. The boy upon the bed
watched him silently. The moonlight was streaming in the opening, and
the tall figure was distinctly outlined as the Colonel paused within the
doorway and glanced about the bare, disordered place. All at once he
seemed to understand; a smile flitted across his worn face. He went over
to the soapbox table, shorn of its gorgeous cover, the photograph alone
adorning it. He took the picture, looked long and tenderly at the two
faces, then slipping the card out of the frame he put it in his breast
pocket.
A moment later he came over to G. W.'s bed. The boy looked up
trustingly.
"I'se awake, Colonel."
"Good for you, comrade. I want to have a little talk with you."
A thin brown little hand slipped itself into the large firm one, and G.
W. sat up.
"G. W.," said the Colonel, "I'm going to the front. You know what that
means?"
"I 'low I does, Colonel. When does we start? I'se been a-workin' ter get
ready."
"But, comrade, _you_ are not to go!" The poor little body-guard had
feared this. In his misery he looked up into the Colonel's face and
gulped helplessly.
"Don't take it that way, my child," said the Colonel, smoothing the
little woolly head burrowing back in the pillow; "it would be impossible
for me to take a little fellow like you along. There's just a chance,
you know, G. W., that I may not get back. I've thought lately that I did
wrong to bring you from Tampa; but you had nothing there, and we have
had each other here, comrade, and _that_ ought to count for something."
A tightening of the little hand replied.
"If I shouldn't come back, my child," the Colonel continued, "I want you
to know that I have made all arrangements for you to be sent up to the
Boy and his Mother. They'll look out for you, comrade, for they know
that you are my little body-guard, and they will adopt you in their
home--for your own sake too, G. W.; there's the making of a man in you,
G. W., and you will not ever disappoint anybody, no matter what happens
to me. During the coming days here, keep within your limits, my boy.
Obey orders, and you will be a hero indeed, for I know how much you want
to go along to take care of me. By staying right here you are doing a
harder thing."
G. W. was sobbing forlornly. The Colonel got up and paced the tent for a
silent moment or two.
"You've been the best kind of a comrade, G. W.," he went on, as he came
back, while the listener drew his legs up and down under the coarse gray
blanket, in an agony of sorrow. "And you're not going to fail me now,
old fellow."
"Yes, sah! No, sah!" The pillow half stifled the words.
Presently poor G. W. sat up in bed again. "Colonel," he said, "you jes'
banish me out yo' mind! You do your work, an' be keerful to take keer ob
yo'self. I'se goin' ter do what yo want an' keep in dem limits--but if
yo' does _not_ come back frum dat front, I doan' think I can face dem
two up Norf! I'd jes' feel dat I hadn't done been no body-guard--fo de
Lawd, Colonel Austin, doan't ask me ter face de Boy an' his Mother
'thout you! I ain't goin' ebber ter forget what you don teach me, an'
I'se nebber goin' ter shame yer while I lib, but I can't go 'thout you
to dem--de Lawd knows I can't."
"Under those circumstances I'll be obliged to come back, G. W."
Something choked the soldier's voice. Then bending down he kissed the
boy's dusky brow, as often he had kissed the white one of his own little
son.
"God bless you, comrade!" he whispered. "You've lightened many a burden
for us all since you came among us. I trust you and I may be spared to
meet again."
Then G. W. saw the tall form of the best friend he had on earth pass out
of the tent, and fade away into the confusion and unreality of the
moonlit night.
VII.
THE BATTLE ON THE HILL-TOP.
A strange atmosphere hung over the camp, an air of expectant waiting.
The sick men tossed upon their beds bewailing their inability to be up
and doing, and calling feverishly for "news!" But no news came; nothing
to break the dismal monotony.