made him useful. The sick men smiled up at him as their only diversion.
It was well for the boy that his days were filled with labor, and that
he was too utterly weary at night to stay awake long. His dreams were
filled far oftener than his waking thoughts with visions of the Colonel.
His dreams were always happy ones--then the Colonel appeared well and
jolly as G. W. had first known him. The little fellow hailed bed-time as
the release from wretchedness.
"Now, then!" he would say to himself, as his lids grew heavy, "now I'se
goin' ter see my Colonel Austin!" Sometimes he would laugh aloud in his
sleep, so very jolly was he, but there was no one to hear the sound in
the empty tent. Little G. W. had no folks now. His only good-night was
the bugle-call, "All lights out!"
But in the trenches at the front a brave man always included G. W. in
his loving thoughts of home and dear ones; and up North the Mother and
the Boy ended their evening prayer, "God bless Daddy and G. W. Keep them
safe and bring them home to us very soon!"
No one questioned G. W.'s goings and comings. If any thought was given,
it was that he was probably obeying orders which Colonel Austin had
left, and that he was proving himself a blessing where most boys would
have been an annoyance and burden.
So one day when he sauntered away from the cluster of tents, no one
asked him where he was bound, or how soon he would be back. He passed
along walking very straight as became a uniformed soldier, whistling a
march-tune, now and then interrupting himself to introduce a clear
flute-like note.
Something had happened to G. W. The day was oppressively hot, but his
languor and sadness had vanished. He felt strong and happy; everything
was beautiful, life was full of keen interest.
"I 'low somethin' is goin' ter occur!" he said to himself; "I has
feelin's like my mammy used ter have. Sure's I'se a-walkin' here, the
front is off dere 'yond de hill! Dat's whar de Colonel always went, an'
dat's why he fix de top like a stun wall fur me. I 'clar I'se goin' up
ter jes' look. What's I worth if I doan't take some chances ter find out
news 'bout my Colonel Austin? Lawd! it seems like forty-seben years
since he done walk away like a dream!"
Now, strange to say, before G. W. had started on this tramp, besides
donning his entire uniform, he had taken his gun, a small but perfect
one that some of the officers had given him as a reward for excellent
target-shooting; and also he had filled his canteen with water in true
soldier fashion.
Under the blazing sun his hot coat and trousers became almost
unendurable, and except for his new feeling of strength and joyousness,
his precious gun would have become a burden.
Suddenly he stood still, and his face became rapt and eager. He gazed up
to the tall trees under which he stood.
"I'se clean forgot 'bout dat 'chance' ob mine fur ages; but, Lawd! jes'
s'pose it should come to-day!" he gasped. The remembrance that his mammy
had said that if he wanted to be a hero he would have the "chance"
filled him with a wild delight. For a moment he could not move, so great
was his glad feeling--then with a cheery whistle he plodded on straight
toward his hill-top. It was an unlikely spot for "chances." It was too
near camp for the foe to be there; but irresistibly G. W.'s feet carried
him forward.
Overcome at length by the heat, G. W. reached the summit, only to sink
down at once in the tangle of bushes and pant and puff. But after a
while he revived; and then peering through the undergrowth he gazed down
upon the plain below that stretched beyond his limit.
What had happened since last he had seen the spot? Was he dreaming, or
actually looking down upon something that was really taking place? G. W.
stood up and steadying himself against a tree continued to gaze and gaze
below.
There was a big rude tent, with all sides open. Within was a long table
around which figures moved restlessly or stood strangely still. Wagons
were rolling up to this tent bringing burdens which turned poor little
G. W. ill as he realized what they were. They were men! Sick or wounded
men! Ready hands lifted the limp forms from the carts and laid them in
long rows upon the ground; then, over and over again, as the fear-filled
little watcher on the hill strained his eyes, he saw a man singled out
from the lines and borne to the table. G. W. grew chill under the
blazing sun as he looked, not comprehending what it meant.
"I can't--think--what--dat--means!" he said aloud; "'pears like I am
habin' a dream standin' up out-doors wid my clo'es on. Lawd!
how--I--does--wish--I--knew--what--dat--dar--means!"
The poor little fellow rubbed his head in a hopeless, forlorn way, while
his heart beat fast and chokingly. Suddenly it came to him; like a flash
the meaning became clear.
There had been a battle! They were bringing in the dead and wounded from
the front to that fearsome spot below. Then G. W. shuddered as a new
thought broke upon his brain. Perhaps his Colonel was there! The sudden
idea took the form of a frenzy. He flung his arms up with a wild
gesture, and then, alone on the hill-top, there was a battle on for G.
W.--an exceedingly hard battle.
"Obey!" cried Honor; "'tis the thing you are called to do! 'Tis the
thing you have promised!"
"But the Colonel may lie in the long row," pleaded Love; "no one near
him to tend just him; no one to give him a drink or hold his head or his
hand; to follow him and stay by him. He is just one of a row!"
G. W.'s sad little face turned gray.
"You promised!" Honor admonished. "He trusted you, with no doubt of your
obedience!"
"But they may have forgotten him. He may be lying out on the
battle-field--and no one could find him as surely as you!" Love sobbed
in his ears.
With a pitiful moan, the little body-guard gave up his promise! A
disobedient, loving little black boy sped down from the hill-top, on the
forbidden side, sobbing and crying. He flung all but his love for the
Colonel to the hot winds. He might be shot, he might lose his way
endlessly, but he must go.
With a bitter cry he flung off his coat and cap as he ran. The honor of
a soldier's uniform was no longer for him. He paused only to take the
precious up-North letter out of the pocket and crush it into his shirt
front.
VIII.
THE COLONEL'S BODY-GUARD
Tossing his canteen across his shoulder, and seizing his gun, G. W. tore
on down the hill straight toward the gruesome place below, and right
into it. No one noticed him. The surgeons were too busy to look up as he
ran around the table scanning the faces upon the boards. The men
carrying the helpless burdens, or ministering to their wants, had no
time to question why a little black boy should suddenly be in among
them.
He made sure that he had looked into every face, and then, with a
feeling of relief, was about to turn away from the sad scene, when a
weak voice stopped him.
"G. W.! Thank God! Come here!"
G. W. turned; there upon a blanket under a tree waiting for his turn to
be taken to the table was the boy who but a few days before in camp had
told him that war was "mighty near." War had indeed drawn near in haste,
and poor young Corporal Jack had gone down before the enemy's fire.
"The Colonel," gasped Corporal Jack, as G. W. came and bent over him;
"he was shot, too. We fell side by side. We crawled back, but when the
wagon came he made them take me; there was only room for one. He's a
mile back on the roadside. G. W., get help and go for him, and tell him
God bless him!"
The weak voice ceased, for the men had come to carry him to the table.
He tried to wave cheerfully to G. W., but the effort caused him to
faint, and G. W. started away, trying to comprehend what he had heard.
"My Colonel's a mile back on the roadside!" That was all little G. W.
had for a guide. But had his Colonel been a hundred miles back, it would
have made no difference to his body-guard. There was but one aim in G.
W.'s heart: to reach his Colonel, and save him for the Boy and the
Mother up North!
On he ran, grasping his little gun in a rigid clutch. He forgot to
implore aid from those he met as he rushed. Over the rough trail he sped
like a deer. The fearful, ugly, swarming land-crabs scurried away from
before him. "Colonel!" he sobbed, "fore de Lawd, Colonel, where is you?
I'se a-comin', Colonel!--jes' you hold on!"
A wagon bearing another pitiful load came by.
"Is Colonel Austin in dar?" he cried.
Some one knew him and called an answer: "No, G. W., your Colonel isn't
here!"
On, on, again.
What was that? A roar of cannon! G. W. shuddered, but gripped his gun
and kept on, making forward.
Presently he began to meet more wounded men, singly, or in groups of two
or three, trying with what strength remained in them to reach the rear.
Occasionally a man knew the boy, and gave him a friendly smile; once one
asked him for a drink.
"Don't youse take much of it, Captain," G. W. pleaded, holding the
canteen to the parched lips, "cose dis is fur my Colonel Austin."
Be it to the man's eternal credit that, almost dying of thirst as he
was, he handed back all but a mouthful of the blessed water. "Thank you;
that will help me to the camp. Colonel Austin is to the right of the
road, a little further back, behind some bushes; he tried to come on
with me, but fell. I'll send you help, for he cannot walk. God bless
you, G. W."
On through awful scenes the little black boy went. No one looked upon
him with surprise. The small, familiar figure was part of the camp-life
and war.
Again the little rescuer dashed on. And oh, go quickly now, G. W.! Among
the tangled bushes is a slinking, leaf-covered figure running as rapidly
as you!
Hurry, tired feet! Steady, little dusky hand! there is a deed for you to
do which will make your name blessed up North, if only you are in time!
Ah, hist! A crackling among the bushes made G. W. pause.
What was it? With a sudden impulse the boy crouched in the jungle and
listened. After a moment a form, covered with leaves, half crawled, half
ran, near where he was hidden.
G. W. held his breath, and got his gun in position. He understood. He
had heard of the foes' trick of covering themselves with leaves to
escape attention, and he knew at once what he had to deal with. Never
was he calmer than he grew at that moment.
But oh, look! the crawling form, in the open now, stopped, raised his
gun, and took deliberate aim at something beyond. G. W. was as quick;
and before there was time for the leafy form to draw the trigger, his
own small sure hand had flashed forth a bullet! With a cry the wretched
creature flung up his arms and fell back.
G. W. stood up and wiped the perspiration from his cold, drawn face. His
eyes were blazing, but the strange new calmness still possessed him. He
pushed forward to find the object at which the Spaniard's gun had been
aimed.
That it was "one of our boys" little G. W. of course knew; but he was
_not_ prepared for the sight that presently rose before him.
A bit beyond, leaning against a tree, bloodstained, dirt-begrimed, and
faint, sat his Colonel.
At the first glimpse of him something like the ice of winter gave way in
G. W.'s breast. The blood began to flow through his veins; the past was
but a bad dream--he was once more a glad and loving little fellow.
"Colonel!" he whispered, like one coming out of sleep. "Colonel, I'se
here!"
But Colonel Austin took no heed of the tender voice.
IX.
"I'SE GOT DE COLONEL!"
G. W. stumbled onward and reached the tree, put his arm about the
officer, and carefully held the canteen to his lips. A gurgle, the water
was drained to the last drop; and then, oh, joy! the heavy eyes opened.
It did not seem strange to Colonel Austin to see G. W.'s dusky face. It
was but part of the troubled dream that held his heated brain.
"Hello, comrade!" he said. "Just tell them I couldn't see the little
Corporal die. There was only room for one. He was crying for his
mother, and he had been brave all day. The Boy and his Mother
will--understand--by and by."
"Now you see heah, Colonel," said poor little G. W. "You jes' stop dat
kind ob talk. Your laigs ain't hurt--it's your chist, an' you'se got ter
git up an' come along!"
G. W.'s voice was full of fright and determination combined.
"No use, G. W.," groaned the Colonel. "I tried it, and fell. Help will
be sent back, but it will be too late, my boy."
"You get up, sah!" persisted G. W. "You'se got ter make a move fur de
Boy an' his Mother! I'se goin' ter sabe yo' fur dem, sah, like I swar
to. Now stan' up, sah!"
Colonel Austin staggered to his feet, leaning upon the little shoulder.
The water had revived him, and G. W.'s words had recalled him to a
sacred duty.
The wound in his breast began to bleed again, and the crimson drops fell
upon G. W. The man's weight, too, almost bowed the little boy down. But
he set his teeth and smiled grimly. The undertaking seemed nearly big
enough for a hero to tackle--and here he was just a disobedient,
dishonored little black boy!
"You'se doin' fine!" G. W. said, whenever Colonel Austin's steps
flagged; "you'se done a mile _mos'_, Colonel; dere ain't but a step or
two furder. Lean heavy, Colonel,--yo' jes' ain't no heft at all!" And
all the while the keen eyes were searching the underbrush for another
leaf-clothed foe.
Once they stopped so that G. W. might tear his shirt in strips and bind
it roughly over the bleeding wound. The blessed letter from up North
fell out upon the ground. G. W. clutched it and put it in his trousers
pocket; the sight of it gave him fresh strength.
Stumbling and swaying, the two went on again. No help came along the
road. But dust-covered and near to death, the comrades at length reached
the field hospital.
It was growing dark when they came into the open space. Lanterns were
hanging around the great rough table, and the restless figures were
still moving about. With rising hope little G. W. made a last rally.
"Come on, Colonel," he panted; "you jes' hang on to me. We'se all right
now. Only you jes' come faster, Colonel! You jes' _run_ now,
Colonel,--dere ain't no call ter act so back'ard here,--you'se on de
road home!"
The fainting man heard the brave soft voice, and he braced up and
struggled yet again.
They were nearing the tent opening, the lanterns flashed, and the
moonlight fell full upon their faces. A soldier among the many who were
lying out under the stars saw them and cried out:
"Look, boys! It's Colonel Austin and G. W."
"Yes, sah!" the boy said simply. "I'se got de Colonel! here's de
Colonel!"
"Three cheers for G. W!" cried a weak voice. "G. W.'s saved the
Colonel!"
The crowd of sufferers took up the quivering cry, and all around the
tent spread the story of G. W.'s bravery.
A surgeon glanced up--then with an exclamation rushed forward.
"Austin!" he shouted. "Austin, let go of him, the boy is fainting! Here,
some one, lift G. W.! I've got the Colonel!"
That was all. For little G. W. the lights went out. The voices melted
into silence. The Colonel was safe! All was right.
X.
IN THE TENT HOSPITAL.
There were long, troubled dreams for little G. W.--dreams that were
unlike those which used to come and cheer him in camp before he had
given up his hopes of being a hero. These were full of terror--a longing
for water, and visions of his dear Colonel wounded and dying.
Sometimes a skulking figure, leaf-covered and terrible, stalked through
those pain-filled visions. Then he would shout for his gun. But always
when he cried aloud, a voice familiar but distant called upon him to be
calm and trust some one, whose name he had forgotten.
At last there came a day when the dreams began to fade. Voices not so
distant reached him. Then he tasted water, for the first time, he
thought, in years!
"Thank you!" he said to some one holding the glass to his lips, but did
not open his eyes. He was very tired.
"G. W. is coming around all right," said a grave, quiet voice. "Plenty
of nourishment, nurse,--all that you can get for him. That boy mustn't
slip through our fingers." The boy heard, but he did not stir.
A new voice broke in upon the strange calm. "Can't you speak to me, my
child?"
The simple question sent a thrill through the faithful heart. G. W.
faintly unclosed his eyes. He must see who was speaking in that dear,
dear voice.
"Colonel!" he whispered. "Oh! my Colonel!"
Then G. W.'s eyes opened wide. On the pillow of the bed next his
own--for they were both lying in the tent hospital--he saw the face of
Colonel Austin. The one face in the world that G. W. longed to see, and
the one that he had dreamed and dreamed and dreamed was gone forever!
Little G. W. opened his lips with a gasp and an effort to speak. But
memory rushed upon him. In that glance of recognition he remembered what
he had done.
"I done broke my word, Colonel!" was what he said. Two slow tears rolled
down the dusky cheeks.
"Yes, G. W."
"An' I follered you, Colonel, like you tole me not to."
"I know it--thank God!"
If poor little G. W. had not been so weak he would have sprung up; he
tried to, but fell limply back.
"G. W., my child," said the Colonel, moving a little nearer, "if you had
not disobeyed and come after me I would not have been here. You took
your orders from some one higher in command, G. W. We're going home
soon, going home together. Do you know what I am saying, G. W.? Just as
soon as we can travel we are going up North together to the Boy and his
Mother!"
Things happened for dear little G. W. in snatches after that.
Pain-filled pauses and unconscious lapses and short, sudden, sharp
throbs of happiness, made up life.
The Colonel gained his strength far sooner than G. W. He could have
travelled, but he would not leave his little comrade. "I'll stay by the
little chap until the end, or I'll take him home with me," he said to
the doctor who urged his departure. "I'll never desert him."
The "end" did not come to G. W., however. All at once he began to mend.
White and weak, his eyes too large for his face, for fever had worn him
to a shadow, Colonel Austin sat beside his bed retelling the old
hero-stories, while G. W. smiled with closed eyes. Sometimes the boy
roused and asked a series of questions.
"When is we goin' home, Colonel?"
"On the next transport, comrade."
"I s'pose we has ter live in jes a house when we goes home?" sighed the
boy.
"Why, G. W., a house isn't a bad thing--do you think so?"
"I likes tents mighty well, I does!" said G. W.
"Well, old man, don't lose heart; you're not going to live in a house
right away."
"I spect de uniform wasn't nebber found up on de hill-top, Colonel?"
"No, my boy. There was no time to hunt up lost uniforms; it was all the
boys could do to hunt up lost men."
"Colonel, what is I goin' ter do when dat transport comes in? No cloes,
no nothin'!"
Colonel Austin laughed, and many a sick man's face relaxed at the sound.
"The Colonel is laughing--G. W.'s better," murmured a weak voice, and
the good news travelled around the hospital tent.
"The Boy and his Mother are having a new suit made for you, G. W.," the
Colonel said. "The Boy thought of it the first thing."
When the transport came that was to carry the Colonel, G. W., and
several hundred others home, it had among its stores the new suit of
blue for the destitute little soldier. If anything, it was more splendid
than the first one, but it was wofully large for the poor little
body-guard. When he first appeared in it the men were about to laugh,
then grew suddenly silent as they saw the gray little dusky face, and
remembered _why_ G. W. had so shrunk. But even G. W. smiled after a
moment.
He stood up by his cot, and put his hands in the pockets and spread wide
the almost empty trouser-legs of the fine uniform.
"I clar," said he, "if you'se all didn't see me a standin' on my feet,
yo nebber would say dere were legs 'tached to my body!"
"Never mind, G. W.!" It was Corporal Jack who spoke. He, too, was going
home on the transport, and the knowledge had put a pound or so of flesh
on his bones. "Never you care, G. W.! Those shanks'll get you into God's
country; and your rightful legs will grow again up there. Lordy, G. W.,
if you only knew what is a-waiting for you!"
G. W. smiled inquiringly. Something was going to happen, as every one
seemed to know. It was evidently an army secret, and the gossip of all
the men, until G. W. drew near!
Then, smiling silence.
XI.
"IT'S ALL YOURS, G. W.!"
The cool air was sweeping, like a breath of Paradise, over the face of
little G. W. They had brought him up on deck, for the transport was
nearing home. Colonel Austin stood by, anxious; he did not like the look
upon the thin, drawn countenance.
"Take a brace, G. W.!" he said, while he laid his fingers upon the weak
pulse in the tiny wrist.
Sea-sickness had reduced the child to a mere skeleton. It had been worse
than the fever. Not even the thought that "up North" was within sight
could arouse him now.
"I see a long stretch of land, my boy," Colonel Austin went on, "and a
fine white light-house on the farthest point. G. W., I'll bet you don't
know what this light-house looks like!"
"I bet I doesn't!" G. W. spoke in a whisper, his eyes shut.
"In a few hours, G. W., we will swing into the bay." G. W. shuddered.
The idea of _swinging_ into anything made him ill afresh. "And then they
will put you on a litter, old man, and I will walk beside you up to--up
to--are you listening, G. W.?"
"Yes, sah!" Then a quiver passed over G. W.'s face. "I thought," he
whispered, "I done thought I smelled land!"
"And so you do, old fellow," said the Colonel, cheerily. "Here, let me
lift you up. Now, G. W., open your eyes! See the light-house shining
like a slim white finger? That's Montauk Point, comrade, stretching
along in the sea. They are going to land us here to rest a bit before we
go home. Are you understanding, my child?"
G. W. lay staring at the scene with his great, round, soft eyes. The
smell of the land was in his nostrils and presently he smiled a
beautiful, satisfied smile, and Colonel Austin whispered, "Thank God!"
under breath.
"Colonel," G. W. said, low, "you jes' fetch my clo'es! I'se goin' ter
land wid my soldier-clo'es all on. Dat smell done cure me for sure!
Dat's a mighty fine smell, Colonel, dat is!"
Some hours later the transport cast anchor in the lovely bay. In the
early morning, when the sunlight danced upon the shining waves, never
was there a fairer sight to greet sick, home-longing eyes.
At last it was G. W.'s turn to be carried up the gang-plank. Very gently
they placed him upon the litter, and his Colonel walked beside it and
held the small, weak hand. G. W. closed his eyes, for the excitement
made him tremble, and lately he had had trouble with growing tearful on
every possible occasion, and had had to squeeze his eyelids together
hard.
They were carrying him along up somewhere--G. W. felt the upward motion.
And now they were walking on even ground. Presently the shouting he had
noticed before began again. It came nearer and words became distinct.
Comrade was greeting comrade. There were welcomes for his Colonel, a
welcome to Corporal Jack--his mother was there, some one said; she was
up in the general's tent.
Suddenly a few words startled G. W. They seemed to him to ring out of
the confusion of greetings like an alarm:
"Oh, look! there are Colonel Austin and his little hero!"
It was a woman's voice.
The heavy brown eyes of the little fellow in blue on the litter opened.
The procession of sick men was passing between lines of sympathizing
people, but to G. W. they faded like visions. He turned his head and
fixed his solemn gaze upon the one face in all the world dear to him.
"Colonel!" he gasped, "did yo' hear dem words--dem hero-words? Yo'
better tell dem dat it ain't so!"
"Why, my child, they know all about it. You are as big a hero as ever
was brought home--didn't you know it?"
"No, sah!" Again the lids closed--the battle with tears was renewed.
The next stage of little G. W.'s journey was made in an army ambulance.
Over the hills and down the sandy valleys the big wagon went softly
until it stopped before the long hospital tent on the hill overlooking
the merry waves. Then G. W. was carried in and placed upon a bed, and a
woman with a wonderful face came and bent over him. She wore a blue gown
and a snowy cap and apron and kerchief. G. W. had never seen anybody in
the world in the least like her. She stood and smiled down at him, and
he smiled weakly up at her.
"Well, my little hero," she laughed in the most cheerful manner, as if
it were quite a joke to see heroes carried about like babies, "it isn't
so very bad! I think I can get you on your feet in--let me see--well,
three days at the farthest."
Three days! If she had said three years the boy would have felt
doubtful, for his legs were but waving strings.