Big with importance was Mrs. Captain Raymond when the mail from
Prescott finally came in on this hot September evening and there was
placed in her hands a letter from no less a personage than “Lady
Pelham,” as the —th was accustomed to designate the portly matron who
shared the joys, sorrows, name, and much more than shared the stipend
of the jolly colonel.
Seldom was it that her ladyship saw fit to honor the lesser lights of
the regiment with letters written in her august hand. “Never indeed,”
said Mrs. Wilkins, who was not one of her ladyship’s satellites,
“unless she has an axe to grind or wants chestnuts pulled out of the
fire.” Mrs. Wilkins was rich in metaphor, but limited in elegance, and
from the first had made an unfavorable impression on the new colonel’s
wife; but none the less was Mrs. Wilkins eager to hear the purport of
her ladyship’s communication, and so postponed her departure for tea,
barely restraining her impatience until Mrs. Raymond had finished the
eight closely-written pages and looked up, expectant of question. “What
does she say about Grace and Mr. Glenham?” was the first propounded.
“W—ell,” replied the recipient, slowly. “You mustn’t mention it to a
soul, because she says I’m not to allude to it; but, as you were here
when the letter came, why, I can’t see how she can expect me to say
that she did not mention the subject when she did; but you mustn’t
breathe it. They are _not_ engaged.”
“Oh, of course I knew that all along,” persisted Mrs. Wilkins; “but
what does she _say_?”
And so after much interchange of solemn promises never to tell a soul
or betray one another, Mrs. Raymond read to Mrs. Wilkins an extract
pretty much as follows from the last page of her ladyship’s letter:
“Oh, I knew there was something else I wanted to speak about. You know
Mr. Glenham, of course, and very probably you have heard some silly
rumor connecting dear Grace’s name with his. Now let me assure you, my
friend, there is absolutely nothing in it,—that is, of course, nothing
definite. He was perfectly devoted to her at West Point, and evidently
very much in love; but Grace is so young, you know, so perfectly
childlike, that his marked attention seemed to make no impression upon
her, and no child of mine shall ever be coerced in a matter of the
affections. Such things I look upon as criminal in a mother. Of course
with his fine character and attainments, not to mention his means,
it might not be a bad match for Gracie, though she _could_ look much
higher. You have no idea how lovely the child has grown, and only I can
say how utterly sweet and lovable a daughter she is; but she is very
sensitive, and with regard to Mr. Glenham is painfully nervous at times
about meeting him again. She gave him no encouragement at all, and
assured me that her heart was untouched, but, as I say, she was very
young and inexperienced, and no one can predict what may come of it.
Now with your known tact it will be an easy matter to give people to
understand (without letting it be known that I wrote you) that there is
no engagement, but that any allusion to the matter in Gracie’s presence
would be prejudicial”—“Yes, she has written prejudicial, then scratched
it out and written painful,” said Mrs. Raymond—“painful to her in the
last degree. Some women are so heedless and others so malicious that
it would be just like——” And here Mrs. Raymond stopped short with an
embarrassed cough and “Well, that’s about all,” which Mrs. Wilkins did
not at all believe, but went off homeward, confident that her ladyship
had made a most uncomplimentary allusion to herself in the very line
where Mrs. Raymond balked, which, in fact, she had.
“Don’t tell me any such stuff,” soliloquized the irate lady, as she
banged the door of her own domicile behind. “That woman will bow down
to and worship money wherever she sees it, and she’ll just make that
girl marry him. See if she don’t.” And at an early hour that evening
Lieutenant Wilkins made his appearance at the card-room down at the
store, a circumstance that by this time had become the generally
accepted signal at Sandy that the wind was in the east at “Castle
Wilkins,” as that subaltern’s quarters were dubbed by the “society” of
the post.
To just how many more of her intimates that and other portions of
her ladyship’s letter were read by Mrs. Raymond is not of sufficient
importance to relate. That she had revealed the chapter on Grace to
one was sufficient to insure its speedy transmission throughout the
garrison, not perhaps with strict accuracy as to detail, but with those
unavoidable embellishments with which the sex succeeds at most times
in quadrupling the proportions of any story.
Mid-October came, and the blazing sun disappeared at an earlier hour
behind the range to the west, and crimsoned and gilded the lofty
battlements of Squaw Peak down the valley even as the evening recall
from herd and fatigue duty was echoed from the mesa across the stream.
With each succeeding day old Pelham waxed more jolly and jubilant,
and huge were the preparations being made at the commanding officer’s
mansion for the reception of her ladyship and the sole daughter of his
house and name.
“They sail from San Francisco to-morrow!” he shouted one evening to
the knot of officers coming in from retreat roll-call, and waving the
brown envelope of his dispatch, the colonel soon gathered his adherents
about him. “They sail to-morrow. Come in everybody. Let’s drink their
health and wish them God-speed!” And the glad-hearted veteran set before
them the unaccustomed luxury of fruity Cucumungo wine, the nectar of
Californian vintage, and clinked his glass with one and all in joyous
recognition of their cordial good wishes.
“I go all the way to the Colorado to meet them,” said he. “They will
reach Yuma by Tuesday fortnight, and the general has given me his own
teams and ambulance to bring them to Prescott, and there all of you who
can must come up to the ball the staff are to give them. We’ll have
lots of good times, and escort them down here in style.”
Why was it that in his rejoicing the honest-hearted old fellow put
forth his hand and rested it kindly on young Glenham’s broad shoulder,
and that he looked into the boy’s flushed and eager face with eyes
suffused with unbidden tears? Every man in the party noted the fact,
and even there some smiled significantly.
That night Truscott turned over lazily in his bed, where he had lain
for some time listening for the regular breathing, placid as a baby’s,
that generally marked Glenham’s slumber. Then he hailed through the
open doorway, “Glenham, I wish you’d go to sleep and snore; I miss
my lullaby. I’ve fixed it all with Wilkins that he is to take your
duty for a week, so that you can have all that time in Prescott when
the Pelhams come. Now do go to sleep, and don’t toss about there any
longer.” And without another word or caring to hear Glenham’s confused
expression of thanks, Truscott turned his face to the wall again and
was lost in his own reflections.
Early in November the “Newbern” was telegraphed at the mouth of the
Colorado, and Colonel, Mrs., and Miss Pelham were the guests of the
commanding officer at Yuma. Six days more and, their long drive across
the desert completed, they would be at Prescott. It did not require
half an eye at Sandy to mark how eager, nervous, and absent-minded
Glenham had become. It had been arranged that six of the officers,
including Truscott and himself, were to leave for Prescott as soon
as the Pelhams arrived there, and that as many of the ladies of Camp
Sandy were to accompany the party to take part in the festivities
at headquarters Grand times were anticipated. The staff of the
commanding general were to give a ball in honor of the arrival of so
noted an army lady as Mrs. Pelham and so lovely an army girl as her
daughter. Then the infantry officers of Fort Whipple were to give
another, and there would be a series of dinner-parties, rides, drives,
picnics, and possibly hunts in the neighboring mountains. The band
of the infantry was daily practising the latest and most attractive
music, imported from New York expressly for the occasion, and their
energetically eccentric leader was grinning and capering and writhing
himself into the verge of convulsions in his efforts to make them
throw _espressione_ into the waltz composed and most respectfully
dedicated to her Excellenza Signora Colonel Pelham by her most humble
and admiring servant Paolo Bianchinnetti. Bandmaster Paolo was always
composing and dedicating waltzes to the ladies of the senior officers,
and trusting to luck to secure the kindly graces of the younger ones,
in which course he was wiser in his generation than many a native, for
while the dancing subalterns swore at him for his execrable time, the
elders swore by him, and they held the balance of power.
The time was fast approaching. Captains Raymond, Turner, and Tanner,
with their wives and the three young lady relatives who were to make
up the party, were to drive in two large ambulances over the mountain
roads to Prescott, while Truscott, Crane, and Glenham escorted them on
horseback. The command of the post in Pelham’s absence had devolved
upon Captain Canker, a martinet in his way, and a man whom a little
brief authority would transform into a nuisance. The party was to start
on Monday morning, and on Sunday night, after parade, Mr. Wilkins came
to Truscott with an air of profound embarrassment. “Jack, I’ve got
to go to Prescott after all. Mrs. Wilkins has set her heart on going
within the last ten days, and I cannot get out of it.” Truscott said
not a word, so Wilkins stumbled painfully on, “I never wanted to go,
and I know that it will disappoint Glenham, as I had promised to take
his duties.”
“You were to have taken his tour as officer of the day Tuesday, and
to have attended his stable and company duties during the week,” said
Truscott. “When did you decide to go?”
“Not until this morning.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
“Well, I thought Mrs. Wilkins would change her mind.”
“When did you tell Captain Canker?” asked Jack, and a set look came
into his face as he gazed straight into the eyes of the other.
“I told him this morning, and he said it was all right.”
“That’s all I want to know,” said Truscott, and turning abruptly,
he walked over to his office. Just as he expected, Captain Canker
was seated there overhauling some late muster-rolls, and as Truscott
entered, the temporary commander accosted him with, “Mr. Adjutant, you
will notify Mr. Glenham that he cannot go to Prescott to-morrow as Mr.
Wilkins is entitled to the preference, and he has decided to go.”
Truscott replied, quietly, “Very good, sir,” and seated himself at his
desk as though the matter were definitely settled.
Now, Canker hated his colonel, who had on several occasions interfered
with his harsh and arbitrary system as troop commander; he heartily
disliked, yet respected, Truscott, because he was the colonel’s loyal
and trusted staff-officer, and he was at all times as discourteous and
fault-finding with his second lieutenant, Glenham, as he dared be at
a post where the colonel was always ready to listen to any appeal for
justice, either from officer or man; but Canker was weak withal, and,
finding that Truscott would ask no questions or express no opinion as
to his action in Glenham’s case, he proceeded to do just what Truscott
was morally certain he would do, defend it. “You see, Jack,” said
Canker, “I must have at least two subalterns here this week. I would
be very glad to oblige Mr. Glenham by taking stables, recitations, and
the like, but we must have four officers for officer-of-the-day duty.
If anybody were here to take his place, I would be delighted to let
him go.” Truscott continued his calm occupation of conning over some
company returns, and merely bowed in acquiescence, so Canker continued:
“It is very disagreeable to me to have to interrupt so pleasant a
programme, but you see yourself that we ought to have four officers for
duty, do you not?”
“Undoubtedly,” says Truscott, imperturbably. “We ought to have a dozen.”
“I’m glad you agree with me,” says Canker. “Mr. Glenham is prone to
think me extremely exacting and capricious where he is concerned, and
will be more apt to complain than ever.”
“Doubtless he will be much disappointed,” says Jack; “but he will see
the real reason as quick as the rest of us, and, as he would not think
of asking any one else to give way in his favor, he will take it as it
is meant.” And the adjutant looks squarely at his superior as he says
it.
Canker doesn’t half like the ambiguity of the reply; but after
scrutinizing the features of his junior in a quick, furtive glance, he
says, hurriedly,—
“Of course, certainly; but if any of the subaltern officers who are
going were to remain here in his stead, then I would be willing to let
Glenham go. However, I suppose every man has set his heart on attending
those balls, and there will be no chance of that.”
“Every man, to my knowledge, _is_ very eager to go,” replies Jack, “but
I presume I may say to Glenham that if some one of the lieutenants will
stay and take his place, he can leave with the party at reveille.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly,” replies Canker. And with that and the
conviction that nobody will make any such quixotic offer, he presently
says “good-night,” and goes off homeward.
His footsteps are no sooner out of hearing than Truscott rises and
strolls out upon the piazza. The silence of night has fallen upon Camp
Sandy. The bright stars are twinkling aloft through the rare, cloudless
atmosphere. Here and there along the company quarters a gleam of
light streams out through open doorway or window upon the parade, and
some half-dozen of the men are droning a sentimental ditty in a style
uncultivated, but apparently satisfactory to themselves. Far across
the parade, along officers’ row, the lights are more frequent, and an
occasional burst of musical laughter, the soft tinkle of a guitar, and
the deeper voices of some of the garrison beaux, floating on the still
night-air, tell where the usual party has gathered on some one of
the broad piazzas for the evening’s ration of gossip and small talk.
Truscott sticks his hands deep in his pockets, and, fixing his eyes on
the toe of his boot, gives himself to solitary reflection. Two or three
of the greyhounds rise, stretch, yawn, then come up to their friend
and poke their cool muzzles against his wrists, and mutely plead for
recognition. He draws his hands from their ambush, and bestows a few
absent-minded pats upon their sleek heads, emboldened by which, two
of the lithe creatures place their paws upon his breast and strive to
lick his face. “Down, Hualpai! down, Verde!” he protests, as he brushes
them off; then seeing their crestfallen looks as they slink away, he
whistles them back, whereupon they come, bounding, and Truscott laughs
to himself, as he covers their heads and flanks with hearty slaps of
endearment. “Good boy, Wally! good boy, Verde! _You’d_ miss me, at any
rate. By Jove, I’ll do it!” Another minute and he stepped into the
telegraph-office, took a couple of blanks from the desk, placed them
in the ordinary brown envelope, closed it, then turned to the soldier
operator,—
“Corcoran, several officers will breakfast in the mess room at reveille
to-morrow. Address this envelope to me, and bring it to me there at
that time; do you understand?” and with that he left.
Long before the sun came peeping over the Mogollon range (locally known
as the Mogeyone) on the following morning, and even as the mellow
notes of the cavalry trumpets floated upward with the flag through
the balmy air, hailing the dawn with stirring reveille, a busy group,
horses, mules, and men, were preparing for the start from officers’
row. A large ambulance, with its frisky four-in-hand of sleek, well-fed
mules, was loading up with baskets, satchels, and trunks in front of
Captain Tanner’s quarters, another, similarly supplied and occupied,
stood at the Raymonds’ door. In front of bachelor’s hall were the
favorite “mounts” of Truscott, Glenham, and Crane, and those of the two
orderlies who were to accompany the party. The orderlies themselves
were busily strapping on the saddle-bags and ponchos of their leaders;
for while it rarely rained at Sandy, as has been said, it might pour in
torrents before they reached the Agua Fria. In the mess-room three or
four officers in riding dress were hastily sipping their coffee, when
Glenham, feverishly impatient as all could see, rose hurriedly from the
table, and bidding the others make haste, strode to the door, and there
bumped up against the telegraph operator.
“For the adjutant,” said the latter, saluting and answering the inquiry
in the lieutenant’s eye.
Truscott received the brown envelope without a word, slowly opened and
drew forth the contents, which he glanced over with a slight uplifting
of the eyebrow, and then silently rose and walked off towards his
office.
“_Now_, what’s up?” said Crane. “Two to one that means that a scout’s
to be sent out right away,—those cussed Tontos must be jumping the
reservation again.”
“If that were the matter the order would come to the ‘C. O.,’ not to
the adjutant,” said Glenham; “but we can’t wait; it’s time we were off.
I’ll hail Jack and see what’s the matter.” With that he called his
orderly, who came up leading the lieutenant’s horse. Glenham quickly
mounted, and cantered across the garrison after Truscott, overtaking
him at the office.
The adjutant turned, and, without giving his friend time to question,
held out his hand. “Glenham, you and Crane go ahead; I can’t leave now,
but I’ll follow as soon as it is possible for me to get away. Just tell
the orderly to leave my saddle-bags at the house and take ‘Apache’ back
to the stable. Off with you, old boy,” as Glenham hesitated, “and good
time to you; I’m going right to the telegraph-office.”
“One second, Jack: nothing serious, is it?”
“Nothing at all, Glenham; go ahead.”
The ambulances, with cracking whip and plunging mules, were rattling
out of the north gate; fluttering white handkerchiefs signalled “come
on;” Crane and his party were mounting; the hounds, leaping, yelping,
and excited, were rushing about the parade in anticipation of a chase
up the valley. So with one uneasy, half-dissatisfied glance at his
friend, Glenham suddenly struck spur to his horse, wheeled, and, with a
wave of his hand, galloped off in pursuit. Truscott stopped at the door
and gazed after the stout, bulky young knight, who “bobbed” clumsily
in his saddle as he rode. A smile half amused, half sorrowful, stole
over his face. “Poor Arthur, ten times three years in the riding hall
couldn’t have made him a horseman.”
Three hours later the commanding officer _pro tem._ sat in state
to receive the report of the officer of the day. The trumpets were
“turning off” the old guard, and two tall subalterns entered girt with
sabre and precise in dress. Acknowledging the salute of the first, and
reaching out his hand to receive the guard report book, Captain Canker
looked up in amaze at the familiar face and form of the adjutant, who
calmly raised hand to cap visor and remarked, “I report as new officer
of the day, sir.”
Canker reddened and stammered for a moment, then hurriedly stuttered,
“You are not required to perform guard duty, sir. It is Mr. Glenham’s
turn. Where is he, sir?”
“Well on his way to Prescott, captain. You were so good as to say that
he could go if any one of the subalterns would remain and take his
duties. I do that, sir.”