A DRAMA OF THE CIVIL WAR
"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?"
SHAKESPEARE
I.--AT THE TOP OF THE HILL
There wasn't a harder body of fighters in the army of the United
States than "Kirke's Lambs." The only resemblance between this modern
regiment and the famous body of horse which divided dishonors with
Jeffreys after Sedgemoor, nearly two hundred years before, was in the
name of their commander, for they were held under too iron a rule to
degenerate into brutal and ferocious excesses. Besides, Kirke and the
generals he served under always gave that body of hard riders plenty
to do, so that they found an easy vent for their superfluous energies
in legitimate fighting,--if any can be so called.
Kirke had grown up with the regiment from a subaltern to the colonel.
Drafts had restored its depleted members from time to time, but in the
spring of 1865 the Civil War was about over, and it was not considered
necessary to complete its quota by an infusion of new blood then.
There was but a handful of them left, therefore. The others--well,
they said the bodies of "Kirke's Lambs" blazed a pathway from the
Mississippi to the sea.
Kirke was an iron man everywhere and in everything,--in his business,
in his regiment, and in his family, which now consisted of one
solitary woman. The single child who had blessed the union had died
before the war. The woman had been left alone for over four years.
Kirke had never left the front and what he conceived to be his duty.
He was a reticent, self-contained, undemonstrative man, whose
affection made no show on the surface, though the current of it ran
very still and deep. He actually idolized the woman who bore his name
and had borne his son. On the death of that son he had made no great
display of grief, though it cut him to the heart; and in general he
gave little outward evidence of any strong affection to the poor, weak
wife left so much alone and pining, like every woman in a like case.
She was a nervous, high-strung little body, utterly unable to see
beneath the outward show; not strong enough to fathom Kirke's
depths,--her heart was too light a plummet,--and it was a wonder to
Jack Broadhead, who was Kirke's dearest friend and the second in
command of the "Lambs," how she ever inspired the devotion that he,
with better insight, divined that Kirke cherished for her.
Well, what was left of the regiment was out scouting. It had been
ordered to clear up the remains of a Carolina brigade of Confederates
which had been making things pleasant for the left flank of Sherman's
army all the way to the sea and afterwards. One morning in February a
party of some two hundred and fifty troopers, all that was left of the
"Lambs," galloped over a rough road up a narrow valley toward the base
of a buttress-like, tree-clad hill, upon the top of which lay
ensconced the remains of that brigade.
They called it a brigade in the Confederate army, but it was really no
more of a brigade than were some of Washington's during the
Revolution: it was a handful of perhaps one hundred and fifty
desperate, half-starved, ragged men, whose rifles and the bronzed,
tense look of the hunted veteran at bay alone proclaimed them
soldiers. They lay snug behind a hastily improvised breastwork on the
crest of the hill. And they had retreated just as far as they intended
to go. This was the limit.
Above them from an impromptu tree-trunk staff flapped and fluttered a
ragged and tattered Confederate flag,--their last. They might have
retreated farther, but to have gone northward would have thrown them
into the arms of a division ranging the country, which would mean
their annihilation or, if they scattered, their disintegration. Kirke
had been pursuing them for a day or two. They knew his detachment, and
in a spirit of reckless pugnacity they determined to have one good,
square, stand-up fight before they quit the game, which everybody now
knew was a losing one from the Confederate stand-point, with the
inevitable end in plain sight. They had fought together during four
years; they would fight together once more, let the end be what it
would. A dangerous crowd to tackle.
With a skill which should have been manipulating an army, Hoyle, the
brigadier-general in command of the remains, had disposed his men so
that there was only one practicable way to attack them, and that was
straight up the mountain. Their flanks were protected by ravines, and
their rear could not be come at save by a detour of many miles over
the mountains.
Kirke, halting his men at the foot of the hill, realized the situation
as soon as he saw it. Could they take the hill by a direct front
attack in the face of such a body of men, desperate old soldiers, who
could shoot as straight and as fast as the remnants of that brigade
could? Yet what else was there to do? He could not retire; he had been
directed to put that brigade out of action, capture, or destroy it. He
could not besiege it and starve it out. It was a problem.
While he was hesitating, Jack Broadhead, who had been left behind at
head-quarters for a day, came galloping up with a few troopers as his
escort. His quick, soldierly eye took in the desperate situation.
After the necessary salutes had been exchanged a little conversation
took place.
"That is a strong position, Bob."
"It is that, Jack."
"That fellow is a soldier, every inch of him."
"We knew that before."
"Yes. Well, what are you going to do about it?"
"I hardly know. Think we can take it?"
"Well, I don't know. Looks dubious. But we've got a crowd here that
will storm hell itself, if somebody leads, you know."
"I'll lead, but this is worse than hell."
"Oh, by the way," Broadhead burst out, as a flash of recollection came
to him, "I have a letter for you. It came just as I was leaving
head-quarters."
He fumbled in the breast of his jacket, and as Kirke stretched out his
hand indifferently he gave him the letter. The man's face changed
slightly. A look of softness mitigated the iron aspect of his visage.
"Ah," he said, in a rarely communicative moment, "from my wife."
He tore it open. A glance put him in possession of its contents. Again
his face changed. It was hard and grim at best, but never, thought
Broadhead, as he watched him, had he exhibited a grimmer and harder
look than at this moment. And there was a gleam almost of agony in the
man's eyes. His lips trembled,--and for Kirke's lips to tremble was a
thing unheard of! Broadhead saw him clench his teeth together and by a
mighty effort regain his self-control. During the struggle he had
crushed the letter in his hand.
After a minute he unclosed his fingers, smoothed out the paper, took
out his pencil, and wrote a brief endorsement upon the bottom of it,
signed his name, folded it up, and thrust it in the pocket of his
coat.
"If anything happens to me, Broadhead,"--and there was a harsher ring
than usual in his voice,--"this letter is to go back--to--to my--the
writer."
"Very good," said Broadhead, who knew his superior too well to
question him as to what had occurred. "I take it that you have decided
to attack?"
"Yes. Men," said Kirke, wheeling his horse and facing the iron
veterans who had come to love him as few soldiers were ever loved by
their men, "there is that rebel brigade on the top of that
hill,--what's left of them. You know what they are. We have tested
their mettle in a dozen fights. Now we have to wipe them out. It is
probable that a large part of us will be wiped out in the process, but
that's no matter. Dismount and tie the horses. We want every man in
action. Leave your sabres. We'll depend upon carbines and revolvers.
We'll go up and pull that flag off that hill. The trees will cover us
till we get near the crest. Halt there, form up, and make a rush for
it. Save your fire until you get to the top."
The cheer that came in response was more like the growl of an angry
animal. The men instantly followed the example of their leader and
dismounted. Their horses were tied to the trees and saplings in the
valley, and the men, circling the hill in a long line with Kirke in
the centre and well in the lead, followed by Broadhead a short
distance after, began to move up the slope through the trees.
It was still as death at the top. There was no sign of life there save
the flag which rippled and fluttered gayly in the breeze. It was a
bright, sunny morning. The cool touch of spring in the air made life
sweet to all that possessed it. In the grim silence the men clambered
up the steep slope and slowly neared the crest. Suddenly there was a
puff of white smoke from the little log breastwork on the top. A
moment later the crack of a rifle rolled down the hill, and the man
nearest Kirke fell on the slope, rolled against a tree, and lay still.
He had rashly exposed himself, and he was gone. They were good shots,
those Johnnies.
The men as they advanced sought instinctively such cover as they
could, skipping from tree to tree. Every once in a while, however, one
of them would expose himself in the open, and the exposure was always
followed by a shot which more than once caught its mark. The crest was
bare of trees, and the command arrived at the edge of the clearing
with some loss, and cautiously concentrated, hesitating a moment
before breaking out into the open and rushing the hill.
"Now, men," said Kirke, "you see what we have to do. The quicker we do
it the better for us. Give me that flag," he added, turning to the
color-bearer. "Gibson,"--to his bugler,--"stand by to sound the charge
when I give the signal."
There was nothing dramatic about Kirke, it was all a matter of pure
business with him; but the men thought they had never seen so splendid
a figure as he when he tore off his cap, jerked his revolver from his
belt, seized the flag with his left hand, and stepped out in the open.
He nodded his head to the alert Gibson, and the shrill notes of the
charge echoed through the hills. Ere it had died away the men heard
their colonel say, "Come on!"
It was always Kirke's way to say "Come" rather than "Go."
With a mighty roar they sprang from the shelter of the trees and
dashed for the ridge. A terrific volley greeted them. With a crash
like thunder, which echoed and re-echoed through the hills, the
Confederate fire was poured upon them. Had it not been that most of
the men, firing down the hill, overshot the mark, the "Lambs" would
have been blown into eternity. As it was, many of them fell, but the
rest plunged dauntlessly into the smoke through which the red of the
flag could dimly be discerned waving in the advance.
Again the rifles of the brigade cracked out, and this time sent their
messengers of death crashing full into the face of Kirke's men. This
time the carnage was terrible; there were many dead, but the blood of
the living was up: they would have charged a moving express train.
They tore recklessly through the smoke toward the top, following the
flag.
Before the rifles could be reloaded the "Lambs" were at the
breastwork, Kirke still in the lead. To leap the log walls was the
work of a moment. The brigade was ready for them. The carbines cracked
again and again; there was a grim, ghastly, awful struggle on the top
of that hill around the foot of the Confederate flag-staff--then
silence.
When the fighting stopped the few "Lambs" who were left leaned panting
on their carbines, blood dripping from the gunstocks, surveying the
tangled mass of dead and dying. The brigade had been annihilated.
Broadhead sprang to the staff to haul down the flag. He was nonplussed
to find that there were no halliards, and that some one had evidently
climbed a tree, which had been denuded of its limbs for the purpose,
and nailed the flag there. He turned to look for Kirke, when, in the
smoke that yet covered the field, he distinctly saw the man lift his
revolver, pull its trigger, and blow out his brains.
In the confusion after the little battle, fortunately, no one noticed
the action but himself. He was utterly at a loss to fathom the meaning
of the suicide, but he quickly resolved that no one should know of it.
They buried the brigade with the dead "Lambs" around the foot of the
staff, and Broadhead left the flag flying above them. He might have
chopped down the tree and taken it, but it seemed fitting that the men
who had defended it should have that last honor. The wind would whip
it out in a day or two at best. Taking their wounded, they retraced
their steps as they could, thinking that Kirke had been killed in the
action, an opinion which Broadhead's report sedulously fostered.
Broadhead carefully preserved Kirke's revolver, which he took from his
dead hand, the letter, which he found in his breast pocket, his watch
and sword, and a lock of his black curly hair.
II.--IN THE ROOM IN THE NIGHT
When the war was over, and they were mustered out soon afterwards,
Broadhead hastened to Philadelphia and drove immediately to Kirke's
house. It was empty. There was no sign of life about it. As he stopped
on the doorstep in the late afternoon, wondering vaguely what had
happened and what he should do next, the door of the adjoining house
opened and a woman came out, of whom he made inquiry for Mrs. Kirke.
"Mrs. Kirke!" said the woman, in surprise. "And who may you be, may I
ask?"
"I am--I was--Colonel Kirke's dearest friend."
"Is Colonel Kirke dead?"
"Yes."
"And a good thing, too," said the woman.
"Madam," cried Broadhead, indignantly, "do you realize what you say?"
"Certainly I do. Don't you know about Mrs. Kirke?"
"No. Is she dead?"
"It would be better if she were," she answered. "She ran away two
months ago with a man named Allen, and after she left she sent me a
letter enclosing the key of her house and requesting that I give it to
Colonel Kirke when he returned from the war. So long as he is gone, I
guess you might as well have it. Wait; I'll fetch it."
The woman turned back into the house as she spoke. This, thought
Broadhead, sadly, was the explanation of it all. That letter. He had
never examined it. He had held it sacred, but now he felt that he must
open it. It might give him some clew as to the whereabouts of the
woman. Yet he hesitated.
When the woman gave him the key he entered the lonely house. He went
upstairs and sat down in Kirke's study, and there, overcoming his
hesitation, he read the letter. It was the letter of a weak,
hysterical woman, reproaching her husband for his lack of love, his
seeming neglect, for her loneliness, and ended by saying that she had
gone off with a man who loved her, and that he should never see her
again. Kirke's endorsement was brief and as terse as the man's
character.
"I have been to blame," he had written. "I did love you. I do. God
only knows how much. I hope you may be happy. We are about to attack a
strong position. I feel sure that after it is over I shall trouble you
no more. You can marry the man--damn him!--and be happy."
How characteristic that was, thought Jack Broadhead, as he read,--that
last touch! He cursed the man yet spared the woman. For a long time
Broadhead sat there in that house, thinking, thinking, thinking. He
wondered if he were the only mourner for poor Kirke. The twilight and
then the darkness came stealing over the town, and still he sat there.
By and by he heard a step--a hesitant, faltering step--in the hallway.
He remembered now that he had left the street door open. He sat still
and listened. The step mounted the stairs. It came along the short
hall and stopped at the entrance of the library. He sat by the open
window. The wandering figure was that of a woman. She saw the soldier
silhouetted in the darkness against the light from the street lamp
outside.
"Robert! Robert!" she cried. "You have come back! Thank God!"
Broadhead rose to his feet.
"No," he said, quietly, "it is not Colonel Kirke."
"Mr. Broadhead!" exclaimed the woman.
"Yes, Mrs.--Mrs.--er--Allen, is it not?"
"No, no!" she shrieked, shrinking back. "My--my husband?"
"Do you mean Colonel Kirke?"
"Yes. I have no other."
"And Allen?"
"He has cast me off, turned me away."
"Haven't you heard?"
"I have heard nothing. I have been blind--in hell--since----"
"Yes, I know."
"But Robert?"
"He is dead."
The woman sank into a chair, shuddering.
"When? How? Did he get my letter?"
"Yes. He was killed at the capture of a little hill in North Carolina
on the day he received your letter. Here it is."
"Did he say anything before----"
"There is a message written in it."
"Give it me."
Striking a light at the gas-bracket, Broadhead handed her the letter.
She read it through dry-eyed while he watched her. She had been a
pretty, sweet, dainty, attractive-looking little woman, now she was a
haggard, broken wreck.
"And he was killed by the enemy?" she asked at last.
"Madam," said Broadhead, sternly, "you shall hear the truth. He shot
himself on the top of the hill the day of the battle with this
revolver," laying the weapon on the table. "Here is his sword and his
watch and a lock of his hair. I suppose you don't care for them."
"I care for everything that belonged to him more than Heaven itself."
"You are free now," said Broadhead; "you can marry
your--your--friend."
"Never! He has driven me away, cast me off, and I hate him! I hated
him from the very moment--I shall be free, anyway. He said nothing
before he died?"
"Nothing."
"And this is all you can tell me?"
"All."
"Will you leave me now?"
"What? Alone in this empty house?"
"It's my house, isn't it? I am still Mrs. Kirke, am I not?"
"Yes, of course, but--I----"
"Will you go, please? You have discharged your errand. You have told
me the dreadful truth. For God's sake, leave me!"
"May I not do something----"
"Nothing,--nothing. You may come back to-morrow morning and advise
what to do. I am alone now, you see."
Broadhead stood uncertainly before her.
"Go, go!" she pleaded. "Don't you see that I wish to be alone for a
little? You have been very good to me. I thank you."
She hesitatingly put out her hand to him.
"Won't you shake hands with me?" she pleaded. "I did very wrong. I
fell very low. But I am very sorry."
Upon an impulse for which he rejoiced ever after, Broadhead clasped
the thin, tiny hand in his own, held it a moment, bent low over it,
and, with old-fashioned gallantry, kissed it,--that soiled, wasted
hand!
"I forgive you," he said, and the voice of the dead seemed to speak to
the woman through his lips.
He turned and left her alone,--alone in the darkness, alone with her
memories, alone with her sorrow, alone with her repentance, alone with
the weapon.
She lifted the heavy revolver with trembling hand. There was a single
cartridge left in the chamber.
The next morning, in great anxiety, Broadhead came back to the house.
He found the woman sitting quite white and still where he had left
her, and the revolver was empty!
THE CAPTAIN OF H. B. M. SHIP DIAMOND ROCK
THE TALE OF A STRANGE SHIP OFF MARTINIQUE
"Come one, come all! this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I."
SCOTT
I.--THE CONDITION
"I am a passed midshipman now, Dorothy dear, and I'm certain to get my
swab----"
"Swab, Mr. Maurice?" interrupted the young lady, archly.
"Yes, my epaulet--a lieutenant's commission--this year; you know what
I mean, Miss Venour. And, oh, I do love you so! With my pay and what
father will allow me and what your grandfather will allow you we can
get along,--that is, if you love me well enough to try it."
There was a long pause. The young lady looked down at her feet, while
the arm of the young man stole around her waist. Tired at last of
waiting, though the position was a charming one, the young officer
recalled her to herself by a slight squeeze, which was answered by a
delightful little shriek from the girl.
"What was it you were saying?" she asked, hurriedly drawing away.
"I was telling you that I loved you," he answered with dignity,
releasing her, "and asking you to marry me when I got to be a
lieutenant, if you love me. You do, don't you, Dorothy?" abandoning
his stateliness and bending toward her entreatingly.
"Ye--es, I--I--I think so, Mr. Maurice--James, then," she continued,
in compliance with a deprecatory wave of his hand, "or Jim--or--" she
hesitated a moment and added the word "dear."
His face brightened. He sprang toward her in boyish delight; but she
checked his rush with a pretty little motion, and continued, calmly,--
"You are a very nice boy indeed, but you are so young, you know----"
"Young!" he replied; "I am nineteen, and you are only seventeen
yourself! You are scarcely old enough to be married."
"I am," she said, promptly; "I am old enough for anything."
"Old enough for me, Dot? Say, 'Yes!' You know I'm sure to come out a
lieutenant from this cruise, and then you will be a year older, too,
you know, and--oh, Dot, do take me! You'd better take me now, you
know; you might not have a chance next year. I've been wounded once,
and something tells me----"
He paused gloomily.
"Oh, Jim," she cried, "don't speak of it! But grandfather will never
consent. You know perfectly well a lieutenant's pay does not amount to
anything, and----"
"You are right there, Dot," broke in a deep voice, as a stout,
red-faced old man in the uniform of a captain in the navy came
strolling out upon the beach from behind a clump of rocks.
"Captain Venour!" exclaimed the young officer, starting back in
dismay.
"Oh, grandfather, you have been listening! How shocking!" cried
Dorothy.
"Listening!" snorted the old man, contemptuously, with a nice mixture
of metaphors; "why, this young calf here has been roaring out his love
like the bulls of Bashan."
"Sir--sir!" exclaimed Maurice, flushing painfully, "I love your
granddaughter----"
"Stale news, lad. Everybody within half a mile of this knows it now,"
said the old man. "Why, the smack of your----"
"Grandfather!" interrupted Dorothy, promptly, emulating her lover's
blush.
"And I want to marry her, sir, with your permission."
"Marry her!" shouted Captain Venour. "On the pay of a midshipman! You
young----"
"I'm a passed midshipman now, sir," interrupted Maurice, "and I'm sure
to be a lieutenant when I come back from this cruise to the West
Indies,--and she says she loves me and that she will wait; didn't you,
Dot?"
"Miss Venour, sir!" roared the old man, "in my presence! Did you make
any foolish promises to this young man, Dorothy?"
"I--ye--es, sir; I said I--I'd--I'd wait," answered Dorothy,
reluctantly.
"Yes? Well, you will; you'll wait until he gets to be a captain. A man
isn't fit to be married until he has had command of a ship and three
or four hundred men; he doesn't know how to manage a wife. Look at me!
I married when I was a midshipman and--and--I know."
"But, sir, it will be fifteen years before I am a captain! Why, you
weren't a captain yourself until you were forty, and I can never hope
to equal your record."
"No more you won't," said the old man, somewhat mollified by the
adroit compliment.
"Oh, grandfather, not forty years! We couldn't wait until then! Why,
I'm only seventeen now, sir, and James--Mr. Maurice--is only nineteen.
Please, sir----"
Dorothy dropped on her knees on the sand before him, and at a motion
of her hand Maurice did likewise.
"Get up, get up, you young fools!" said the old man; "suppose some one
should see us!"
"No, sir," said Dorothy, grasping the skirts of his coat tightly; "not
until you modify your terms. You know he loves me, and--and--and I am
so sorry for him," she added, ingenuously.
"Well," said the captain, to whom Dorothy was as the apple of his eye,
"I'll knock off a little. He can marry you when he has command of a
ship. If he is lucky, he might be made a lieutenant-commandant in five
years. Now, up with you!"
The young people struggled to their feet and looked sadly at each
other.
"Five years!" ejaculated the midshipman, mournfully.
"It's better than twenty, Jim," said Dorothy, cheerfully. "Can't you
wait?"
"Wait! I will wait forever, Dot, I love you so----"
"Waugh!" roared the old captain, "are you going on with these
proceedings before my very eyes, at my age? It's indecent! There," he
added, turning his back to them and walking away a few steps, at the
same time pulling an old silver watch from his pocket, "I'll give you
just five minutes; and take my advice, youngster, when you cut out a
prize under convoy of a ship-of-the-line, don't make so much noise
about it."
"I'll get a command inside of a year, Dot darling, or die in trying,"
whispered the young man.
"I would rather have you alive without a command than dead with one,
Jim," remarked Dorothy through her tears as the old captain came back
toward them.
"Now, I take it, you have just about time to make the harbor around
yonder point where your ship is waiting for you," he said. "You've
said your good-bys, and you've got your answer, so you'd better up
anchor and make a run for it. I'll take care Dot keeps her word, and
mind you keep yours! Good-by and good luck to you. If you are half as
impudent in the face of the enemy as you have been to me here, you
will get the ship in a week."
The young midshipman clasped the proffered hand of the retired old
sea-captain, wrung it warmly, looked longingly at Dorothy dissolved in
tears on her grandfather's shoulder, and then turned and made his way
slowly down the beach toward the town and the harbor.
II.--THE UNDERTAKING
H. B. M.'s ship-of-the-line _Centaur_, 74, Captain Murray Maxwell,
flying the broad pennant of Commodore Samuel Hood, was cruising to and
fro off the island of Martinique, in front of Fort Royal Bay, to
blockade the port and capture in- and out-bound vessels. One afternoon
in the month of January, 1804, the commodore and the captain were
standing at the break of the poop discussing a problem. They had just
been in chase of a fast-sailing French frigate, which had escaped them
by boldly running under the lee of Diamond Rock, whither, through
ignorance of the channel and want of pilots, they dared not follow.
The thing had happened half a dozen times in the past month, and the
commodore naturally was exasperated.
The rock itself was a huge mass of naked stone, about a mile in
circumference at the base, and towering out of the water to a height
of some six hundred feet, in shape resembling a rounded haystack. On
the southward side the rock, sloping precipitously down to the water's
edge, was absolutely unscalable. The east and southwestern sides were
so broken as to be equally inaccessible, and the breakers, smashing
with tremendous force on the western end, made landing difficult or
impossible. The officer of the watch that afternoon, who happened to
be our quondam midshipman, James Wilkes Maurice, who had, by a series
of fortunate accidents and some gallantry as well, been appointed a
lieutenant a month since, could not help overhearing the conversation.
"It's too bad!" said the commodore. "The scoundrels get under the lee
of that rock every time and make a harbor, and I don't see how we can
prevent it unless we get a battery of heavy guns up on the rock; but
there appears to be no way up."
"If you please, sir," said Maurice, turning about and saluting in
great trepidation, for the junior lieutenant was a very small man
indeed beside the commodore, "there is a way up, sir. When I was a
reefer on the _Cerberus_ she was cruising around here, and one calm
day a party of us received permission to go ashore on that pile of
stone, and we managed to reach the top."
"Oho!" exclaimed the commodore, his eyes brightening. "And could you
take a gun up?"
"Not the way we went, sir."
"Well, then, I am afraid your experience will not be of service."
"But, sir, if I might make so bold, sir----" continued the junior
lieutenant, hesitatingly.
"Heave ahead! Out with it!" said the commodore.
"In calm weather, sir, there is no surf on that point, and it would be
quite possible, I should think, to take the _Centaur_ in close to the
shore, and then with a hawser and a traveller from the main-topmast
head we might make shift to land some guns."
"Capital!" exclaimed the commodore. "What do you think of it,
Maxwell?"
"It is for you to say, sir," replied the cautious captain. "The
weather is fine enough to-day, and we might try it. It will be risking
His Majesty's ship, though, sir," he remarked, gravely.
"Fetch me a glass," said Sir Samuel, turning to the midshipman of the
watch. When it was brought to him he took a long look at the base of
the cliff, observing a little stretch of sandy beach, upon which the
breakers usually tumbled with tremendous fury. This morning,
fortunately, it seemed calm.
"I will answer, sir, that there is deep water under the cliff,"
ventured Maurice at this moment.
"Will you answer for the flag-ship, too, sir?" asked the commodore,
keenly.
"No, sir, I----"
"I shall have to answer for that myself," he continued. "We'll try it,
Captain Maxwell; the wind's off shore, the sea smooth as a mill-pond.
We'll anchor the _Centaur_ close under the lee of the rock off the
west side there. Call away a boat. Let Mr. Maurice go in charge, and I
myself will accompany him. We'll examine into the situation."
The investigation under the commodore proved the practicability of the
bold scheme proposed by the young lieutenant. The _Centaur_ was
anchored close under the lee of the cliff, and with incredible labor
five of her big guns--three long twenty-four-pounders and two
eighteen-pounders--were landed on the rock. One end of a heavy cable
was fastened to the main-topmast and the other was secured to the top
of the cliff. Up this by means of a traveller the heavy guns were
dragged. One of the twenty-four-pounders had been fitted upon a
circular carriage commanding the landing-place, another was mounted on
the northeast side, and the third upon a platform about midway up the
rock. The two eighteen-pounders were planted on the very summit and
commanded an immense distance. When the commodore had decided to
undertake the manning of the rock, Maurice had sought an interview
with him and explained his reason for aspiring to the command of the
landing party, which would, in the natural course of events, be given
to a much older man.
"So your marriage with little Dot Venour depends on your commanding
something with a pennant fluttering above, does it? Lord!" roared the
commodore, bursting into deep sea laughter, "and you want to hoist
your juvenile broad pennant on this rock, and then you'll want to
claim all sorts of privileges, you young dog! I didn't think that baby
was old enough to be married yet, nor you either. Get along with you!
I don't know what my old friend Venour would say if I'd be a party to
this mad purpose of yours by giving you the command of this
expedition. There, lad, go to your duty; I'll think about it," added
the commodore, exploding with mirth again.
He thought so well about it, however, that when all preparations had
been made, to the very great disgust of the older officers of the
ship, he detailed Maurice to the command of the party. On account of
his lack of rank, his junior officers were all midshipmen. He and the
four midshipmen and one hundred and twenty men and boys, including
some of the best seamen, composed the landing party, with four months'
supply of provisions and ammunition. As the _Centaur_ got under way
and beat up toward Fort Royal, Maurice tore open an envelope the
commodore had handed him when he bade him good-by. It was a commission
and orders to command H. B. M.'s sloop-of-war _Diamond Rock_, five
guns and one hundred and twenty men! He almost fell over the precipice
in surprise and delight at the situation.
The rock was entirely barren except on the north-west side, where a
little depression existed in which there was a group of stunted wild
fig-trees. There were two or three caves half-way up to the summit,
dry and airy, the floors covered with fine sand, of which the officers
chose the smallest, the men another, and all hands made themselves
very much at home. The crew was divided into watches, a station bill
made out, lookouts appointed, and the regular routine of a man-of-war
begun.
They had not long to wait to demonstrate their usefulness. Two days
after the departure of the _Centaur_ the lookout on the top of the
rock saw a frigate under a tremendous press of canvas endeavoring to
run between the rock and the shore and make for Fort Royal. Far away,
and coming along like a gigantic white cloud, was a ship which was
presently made out to be the _Centaur_. A drummer-boy, not the least
important member of the crew of the _Diamond Rock_, beat to quarters,
the men sprang to their stations, and the huge guns were loaded and
carefully trained on the unsuspicious French ship. She came booming
along at a terrific pace. Maurice, with a coolness remarkable in one
so young, waited until she was well in range, and then, taking careful
aim, with the long twenty-four half-way up the summit, ignited the
priming.
With a terrific roar the ball sped straight to its mark. They were too
far away to hear the crash as it struck the fore-topmast, but the fall
of the mast and the confusion on the ship were plainly visible. With
hearty British cheers the rest of the battery let drive at the
oncoming frigate. One of the eighteens carried away the jib-stay and
the jib-halliards. There was great consternation on the French
frigate. No one had dreamed of an enemy in that quarter, and before
they could make up their minds what to do a second broadside was
poured upon them from the rock. Clearly the pass was untenable. The
captain of the frigate was a good seaman, and he promptly turned about
and made for the sea again. He hoped to escape the _Centaur_ by his
speed, but the old ship-of-the-line had the wind and heels of him now
and she came rushing down upon the frigate. After a long pursuit and
a gallant endeavor the French captain found himself under the
_Centaur's_ guns. There was nothing to do but to surrender. Throwing
a prize crew on board, the _Centaur_ ran off toward the rock. When
near enough to be seen a string of flags fluttered out from the
mizzen-topgallant yard-arm, and the delighted youngsters on the rock
read the following:
"Well done, Captain Maurice!"
The men on the _Centaur_ might have almost heard the cheers with which
the men and boys on the rock greeted the signal. It had leaked out
somehow that the young lieutenant whom they all loved, and to whose
forethought the manning of the rock was due, was in some way fighting
for his sweetheart as well as his country, and, above all men, the
sailor loves a lover.
Scarcely a week passed without a brush with the enemy, and some months
elapsed before the French learned that the passage which they had used
with so much skill and success was finally closed to them, and, save
at night, no vessels attempted the channel--not many then. There had
been plenty of excitement during this period, but now all was changed.
The _Centaur_ and other ships sailed away, and the crew on the rock
had little or no communication with the shore for over a year longer.
Their provisions and water were replenished every quarter by a
frigate, which was despatched for the purpose. Otherwise they seemed
to have been forgotten. The novelty of the situation had worn off, and
the monotony had begun to pall upon them dreadfully. Maurice and his
young officers were at their wit's end to find employment for the men
and keep them in good spirits. The discipline was, of course, sternly
maintained, but, sailor-like, the men tired of the shore and pined for
the unsteady deck of a ship; in addition, Maurice longed for Dorothy.
He had not been able to send a word, nor had he received a line from
that young lady. He was too proud to write to the commodore by one of
the provisioning ships, and ask for relief.
One evening about the middle of May, 1805, when the provision-ship was
about due on its quarterly trip, the watchers on the rock saw a great
fleet of sixteen sail-of-the-line, seven frigates, three corvettes,
and a number of smaller vessels, all flying the French flag, running
through the channel toward Fort Royal. With joy in their hearts at the
opportunity for action, the five guns on the stony sloop-of-war
promptly opened fire upon the great French and Spanish fleet of M. de
Villeneuve, who was prosecuting his attempt to befool Nelson by giving
him that mad chase across the Atlantic and back which ended at
Trafalgar.
The French ships returned the fire as they came within range of the
rock, and their tremendous broadsides kicked up a deal of noise and
cut up the face of the rock somewhat, but did no other damage. The
crew of the rock made excellent practice, and, considering their
force, rendered the passage interesting to the French. The ennui of
the intervening months was forgotten. Villeneuve was furious. Never
before had one lieutenant, four midshipmen, and one hundred-odd men
(some of them had died during the sojourn) engaged successfully a
splendid fleet of line-of-battle-ships. Toward evening one belated
Spanish ship unsuspiciously attempted to anchor near the rock, but she
was soon driven off with much loss. The elated Englishmen saw the
fleet anchor at Fort Royal, now called, in deference to the republican
form of government of France, Fort de France. Villeneuve, who was
furiously angry, learned from the French at Fort de France that the
formidable barrier was held by a handful of men, so he determined to
capture the rock, and for that purpose, on the 29th of May, he
detached a squadron consisting of the _Pluton_ and _Berwick_, 74's,
the frigate _Sirene_, 36, the _Argus_, 16, an armed schooner, and
eleven gun-boats under the command of Commodore Cosmao, of the
_Pluton_, with four hundred troops-of-the-line.
The rock had been blockaded ever since the arrival of the fleet at
Martinique. When Maurice saw the ships bearing down upon him at break
of day on the 31st of June, 1805, he knew what to expect. Owing to the
fact that the supply-ship, which was due, had not arrived,--because of
the blockade, doubtless, and the presence of the great French
fleet,--Maurice unfortunately found himself with but a scanty supply
of powder and shot. He determined to abandon two of the lower guns and
concentrate his force about the eighteen-pounders and the
twenty-four-pounder half-way up. Spiking the lower guns, thus
destroying the battery, he withdrew to the summit of his command. For
two days the ships were anchored near by, the mild weather permitting
them to come close in. During this period the French poured an
unremitting hail of shot upon the stone batteries of the rocky vessel.
Maurice and his men answered the fire slowly but with great precision
from their three remaining guns. Three of the gun-boats and two other
small boats were sunk, and the larger ships were much cut up. The
young captain might have protracted his defence indefinitely had not
his powder entirely failed him. Observing the English fire to slacken,
the French finally landed their troops on the beach at the foot of the
rock. The last charge of the twenty-four hurled its iron missive of
death among the Frenchmen huddled on the beach. Then, like a flock of
goats, they sprang at the cliffs and clambered up the steep sides of
the rock, which the fire of the ships cleared with showers of
grape-shot. A feeble musketry-fire, for the small cartridges had been
torn to contribute powder for the great guns, met them, but they came
boldly on. As they swarmed over the rock Maurice and some of the older
men struck at the advancing French with their swords. The two men
nearest him were killed and he himself was badly wounded. There was
nothing left but surrender. A French officer hauled down the English
flag. The young captain had lost his first command. H. B. M.'s
sloop-of-war _Diamond Rock_ had passed into the hands of Admiral
Villeneuve.
When the young captain recovered his senses in the cabin of the
_Bucentaur_, the flag-ship of the French admiral, bound for Europe
again, he did not know whether or not he had won Dorothy Venour.
III.--THE REWARD
Early in November, a week or so after the great battle of Trafalgar,
which the young captain witnessed from the deck of the French ship,
from which in the confusion he escaped to the _Victory_, where he did
good service until the close of the action, he was landed at
Portsmouth once more. In his pocket he bore two documents, one dated a
year and a half back, and the other but yesterday. Led by an instinct
which he could not explain, instead of going up to Captain Venour's
house on the hill, he made his way through the town and along the
beach toward that sheltered little cove from which he had taken his
departure two years before. As he turned the point of rocks he saw a
lonesome little figure seated on the sand, resting her chin in her
hand and looking mournfully out over the sea. It was Dorothy. He stole
up behind her, caught her under the arms, lifted her to her feet, and
kissed her before she could utter a scream. When she recovered,
however, she made up for her startled silence.
"Oh, Jim dear!" she cried, precipitating herself into his arms with a
shriek of delight, "you look like a real man now!"
"I am a man, Dot darling," he replied, his eyes brightening as he saw
her radiant face peeping out from the brown curls near his shoulder.
"Well, sir," exclaimed the deep voice of Captain Venour, coming down
the beach,--singular how he always happened to be around at
inopportune moments,--"you may be a man, but have you a command?"
"Oh, grandfather, he has command of me," cried Dorothy, archly,
breaking away from her lover. "Won't I do?"
The old captain whistled.
"I've had command of a ship-of-the-line and I've tried to command one
woman, but give me the ship-of-the-line," he answered, reflectively.
"No, you won't do."
"Captain Venour," remarked the young man, gravely, "I have had a
command, sir, and in accordance with your agreement I have come to
claim your granddaughter."
"What was your command, my lad?" asked the captain, facetiously, "a
dinghy or a jolly-boat?"
"Neither, sir."
"A cutter, then?"
"No, sir."
"A brig or a sloop-of-war?"
"No, sir."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed the captain; "you don't mean to say you have
been in charge of a frigate or a ship-of-the-line, a boy like you?"
"No, sir, not quite," said the young man.
"Well, what did you command? Did it have two masts?"
"It didn't have any masts, sir."
"No masts!"
"No, sir; it was a rock."
"Good Lord!" ejaculated the old man, sitting down feebly and staring.
"A rock? What do you mean? Are you trifling with me? That is no way to
gain the lass."
"Well, sir," answered Maurice, gravely, "here are my orders
authorizing me to command His Majesty's sloop-of-war _Diamond Rock_,
five guns and one hundred and twenty men. It's a great stone hill off
Martinique. I commanded it for one year and six months, at the end of
which we beat off M. de Villeneuve's great fleet, and were only
captured when our powder gave out, by a heavy squadron which bombarded
us for two days. I was wounded----"
"Oh, Jim, wounded!" cried Dorothy, with a shriek of alarm, rushing
toward him, while the dazed old man made no movement to prevent her.
"It is nothing, Dot darling," said the young fellow, manfully, but not
making the slightest effort to avoid the caress. "I was wounded and
taken on board the French flag-ship _Bucentaur_, from which I escaped
to the _Victory_ at Trafalgar, where Nelson beat the French fleet."
"Hey? What?" cried the old man. "Beat the French? But, of course, we
always do that."
"I saw him killed, sir," added young Maurice.
"Who killed?" exclaimed Captain Venour, in astonishment.
"Lord Nelson, sir; right in the height of the battle."
"Good God!" cried Captain Venour. "Nelson gone? He was a reefer under
me on the _Hinchinbrook_. It can't be possible!"
"Yes, sir, it is," replied the young captain.
There was a long pause.
"What next, sir?" asked Captain Venour.
"Well, sir, I swung myself on board the _Victory_ in the action.
Captain Hardy recognized me and gave me a gun division whose
lieutenant had been killed, and--and that's all. No, sir; here's a
paper from Lord Collingwood, who succeeded to the command after Lord
Nelson died, recommending me to be appointed post-captain,
and--and--that's all, sir. May I have Dorothy now, sir?"
"You may," answered the captain, feebly, utterly overcome by the
astonishing recital. "Any man who has commanded a six-million-ton rock
and fought at Trafalgar can have anything he wants,--if Dorothy is
willing."
Dorothy signified unmistakably that she was willing.
"Poor Nelson!" continued the old captain. He rose slowly to his feet
and turned away again, saying,--
"I will turn my back once more, young people, and mind, do it softly!"
"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY"
THE FATE OF A COQUETTE OF 1815
"When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?"
GOLDSMITH
Marian Fletcher was certainly beautiful enough to excuse the jealousy
of any man who loved her,--which, by the way, most men who knew her
did! She was sufficiently a woman also to realize her own
beauty--indeed, did ever daughter of Eve possess a charm of which she
lacked knowledge? Even the most absolute _ingenue_ is conscious that
she is an _ingenue_, and Marian Fletcher was by no means that. And her
wit and humor were not the least of her charms. She was gayety
personified, light-hearted, healthy and red-cheeked, and joyous--quite
a new woman for 1815, in fact; and that, too, in an artificial age in
which languor and pallor, megrims and vapors were the fashion, "Nice
customs curt'sy to"--beautiful women, and Marian had a fashion of her
own. One word described the sum of her qualities,--fascination!
Even her best friends were forced to admit that she was a bit of a
coquette, however. Indeed, if the truth were told, from the crown of
her black hair, which brought to mind the usual simile of the raven's
wing, down to her beautiful little feet, she was all of a coquette.
She loved liberty, she loved love, she loved lovers. In addition to
all of these things it might be said that, in her secret heart, she
loved Robert Gardner. Whether she loved him more than she did the
other three was a question which she had not settled to her own
satisfaction, and about which Gardner himself was fearfully undecided.
She had said--but then she made many perjuries before the laughing
Jove. She had permitted him to enjoy the fleeting and most
unsatisfying pleasure of pressing his lips upon her brow. He believed
that this was a step farther--he would have resented furiously any
suggestion to the contrary--than any other suitor had gone. It was.
She had allowed him to persuade her into a sort of an engagement, but
the tie resulting was about as indefinite as could be imagined. With
him--he was a sailor and his similes were nautical--it was a hempen
cable which held him to her like a ship to a bower anchor. With her it
was a daisy chain, ready to part at the first strain, and the strain
was near at hand.
To celebrate the closing of the war of 1812, Colonel Fletcher, an old
Revolutionary veteran and the father of the fair Marian, had assembled
a house-party at his fine old place on the Hudson. He was a widower
with a son and a daughter. The son had been an officer in Scott's
army--a major--who had greatly distinguished himself in the Niagara
campaign. Among others who had gladly accepted the veteran colonel's
hospitality were two friends of young Major Fletcher, who had been
college-mates with him at Harvard. One was Robert Gardner, a young
lieutenant in the navy, and the other was John Mason, a young
Virginian, who was a captain in the army. The young men had been
guests of Colonel Fletcher before the war, and they had known Marian,
whom they both loved, for several years. Their wooing, interrupted by
the demands of the service, was at once renewed under the favorable
circumstances of their meeting. Gardner was a gay, athletic, dashing
young sailor,--blue-eyed, curly-haired, sunny in disposition; Mason,
on the contrary, was tall and very slender, dignified and quiet, with
a temper as dark as his complexion. One was impulsive, bold,
impetuous; the other cool and determined, with an undercurrent of
sleeping passion in his being; both were in the highest sense
gentlemen.
The relations between the two men, at first friendly, had become
markedly strained as their courtship proceeded, though no open rupture
had yet occurred. Mason could not but be aware of Marian's preference
for Gardner; yet, as she had not allowed the latter to announce their
engagement, with dogged persistency the Virginian continued to proffer
his attentions. Truth to say, these latter were not so unwelcome to
the fair Marian as might be imagined. She had entered into a
quasi-engagement with Gardner, yet she was by no means averse to the
devotion of her melancholy yet handsome suitor, and her conduct
between the two was not altogether above reproach. It was a joyous and
delightful game,--also a dangerous!
On the evening in question it seemed that she had gone quite too far,
and that even the hempen cable would not stand the strain which
tautened it. During the day a pretty little lover's quarrel, which she
had wilfully brought about to test her power, had culminated in an
open rupture. Laughing at Gardner's pleas, she had devoted herself to
Mason,--or had allowed Mason to devote himself to her, rather,--raising
that young man to the seventh heaven of delight. She had ridden with
him in the afternoon, gone to supper with him at night, and danced
with him most of the evening at the party which had been arranged.
Manoeuvring her out on the porch toward the close of the evening,
Gardner unwisely endeavored to take her to task. Goaded beyond his
power of restraint by her flirtation, he assumed an authority over her
for which he had no warrant. Where he should have pleaded and
entreated, he threatened and commanded. Miss Marian snapped her
fingers at him metaphorically--she was too well bred to do such a
thing physically. Rendered desperate by her obduracy, his anger passed
all bounds and his words followed suit. The mock quarrel on her part
became a real one. She repudiated him entirely, broke her engagement
flatly, declared frankly that she did not love him,--and in the act of
declaration she was convinced that she did,--and with her head high in
the air, a brilliant flush on her cheek, and a sparkle of defiance in
her eye, left him. He leaped from the porch and disappeared under the
trees; she ran right into the arms of John Mason coming out of the
house to seek her.
He saw her agitation, of course, and in her anger she let slip words
which gave him a perfect clew to the cause of it. Before she realized
what she did, she said that which she would have given worlds to
recall--afterwards; then she was too much excited and indignant to
care. Gardner had insulted her. She hated him.
"I hate him, too," said Mason, bending his head, his black eyes aflame
in the shadow of the porch, "and the depth of my hatred is
proportioned by my love for you, Marian. Give me leave, dearest, to
make your cause mine."
His voice with its soft Southern tones was very persuasive and
thrilling in the moonlight; there was such passion and yet such
respect and adoration in its accents. He bent before her so
deferentially and so pleadingly. There was such a contrast in his
gentleness to the hectoring she had just undergone, that she yielded
in spite of herself. With bent head she murmured words--she hardly
knew what. Faintly resisting him, he swept her to his breast and
pressed a kiss, not upon her forehead, but upon her lips.
At the instant a step on the porch interrupted them. Marian, already
repentant, sprang from Mason's encircling arms and turned to see
Gardner coming toward them. He had wandered about the grounds
miserably after they had parted and had returned to sue for pardon,
but what he had just seen had changed his mind. His face was convulsed
with passion. Disregarding Marian, he stepped toward Mason, his hand
upraised as if he would strike him down. There was murder in his
heart. The girl screamed and then turned and fled in dismay. She had
broken her engagement with a man whom she now realized she loved with
all her heart, and she had promised herself to a man whom she knew she
did not love. She had been bitterly unjust, in her folly, to both men.
The dancing for the evening was already over. The women of the party
were retiring to their rooms, and Marian, sick at heart, slipped away
and sought her chamber also. Throwing herself dressed upon her bed,
she thought it over. Nothing would happen until the morning, she
reasoned, and then she would make a clean breast of it to her father.
He would extricate her from her difficulties.
Mason on the porch was already master of himself.
"Don't strike me!" he said to Gardner, "or I shall kill you where you
stand! Besides, 'tis not necessary. I understand your feelings and I
intend to give you satisfaction, but the cause of our quarrel must not
be known. The reputation of the woman--I intend to make my wife must
not be the subject of public comment. Control yourself, sir, I beg of
you," he added, smiling triumphantly, as the other stamped his foot.
"Let us repair to the house. The ladies will have retired, and we can
easily manufacture sufficient public cause for a quarrel. I will take
it upon myself. Come no nearer!" he said, thrusting his hand into the
pocket of his coat as Gardner swayed toward him. "I warn you that I am
armed. On my word, I will shoot you like a mad dog! I will submit to
nothing from you. I am giving you a chance for your life and affording
you every satisfaction as it is."
Gardner controlled himself with a mighty effort.
"You are right," he gasped; "'tis not through fear that I do not
strike you, but, as you say, Miss Fletcher's name must not become the
subject of gossip. You shall never marry her! I intend to kill you!"
"That's as may be," answered the other; "let us not come to blows
about it. I am not used to such. 'Tis vulgar brawling. Control
yourself. I take your arm, so. Though 'tis hateful to both of us, we
must appear to be on friendly terms."
Arm in arm the two rivals entered the hall and no one dreamed of the
deadly hatred which sundered them. After the departure of the women
Colonel Fletcher and his guests sat down to spend the rest of the
evening--morning rather--between cards and the bottle. Chance, or
their own contrivance, made Mason and Gardner partners. Neither of the
two partook of the wine. As the heat of Gardner's passion abated, he
realized the necessity for acquiring his wonted calmness. He was a
famous shot with the pistol, a weapon with which Mason was not so
familiar, and he believed that if he had an opportunity he could kill
him. He fully intended to do so.
It was an age in which duels were common and life was cheap. Mason was
to afford the provocation and give the challenge. He said he would do
so and he was a man of his word. Then, as the challenged party,
Gardner would have the choice of weapons. As the game proceeded,
Mason, who had made several irritating remarks upon his partner's
playing, finally remarked, sneeringly:
"That's a cowardly deal, Gardner. Why don't you play more boldly,
sir?"
"Cowardly!" cried Gardner, rising.
"That's what I said. But then what could you expect from a man who had
been an officer on the _Chesapeake_?"
The allusion, of course, was to the capture of the American frigate
_Chesapeake_ by the British frigate _Shannon_, which was almost the
solitary instance of English naval success in the war, but for which
Gardner was in no way responsible.
"By gad, sir!" shouted Gardner, "if I play like a coward, you play
like a booby! Your tactics are what one would naturally expect from a
soldier whose chief exploit was in leading the flying troops from
Bladensburg!" another American defeat and a disgraceful one at that,
although Mason had there fought bravely until wounded.
"You shall wipe out this insult, sir!" responded Mason, rising in his
turn.
"Yes," said the other, "in the only possible way."
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" interrupted some of the others.
"What's this?" exclaimed the colonel, leaving his table and
approaching them. "Brawling in my house among my guests? I will have
none of it!"
"Sir," cried Gardner, "you are a soldier. You are all soldiers here; I
alone am a sailor. This person called me a coward, taunted me with the
loss of the _Chesapeake_. By heavens, he shall apologize!"
"What?" said the colonel. "Did you make use of such intemperate
language, Captain Mason?"
"I did, sir," responded the other, coolly, "and I may add that he
accused me of leading the retreat at Bladensburg, which is a damnable
lie, sir! I challenge him instantly!"
"He but anticipates my own desire," said Gardner. "You see, sir, the
matter must be arranged. As the challenged party I name pistols, and
if the time is agreeable I appoint this moment for the encounter.
Major Fletcher will perhaps honor me by acting as my second."
"And Captain Lee," said Mason, turning to one of the others, "will, I
am sure, act for me."
"Gentlemen," said the colonel, retiring with the seconds, "cannot this
unhappy affair be arranged?"
"It is impossible, sir," replied Lee and his son, who had consulted a
moment or two with their respective principals.
"There must be more behind this than appears."
"That's as may be, colonel; there is enough on the surface, anyway;
the two men have deliberately insulted each other, and the duel must
go on," replied Captain Lee.
"I entirely agree with Lee, father," assented Major Fletcher.
The preliminaries were soon arranged. The party had assembled in the
dining-room. The long table was pushed to one side of the room. The
colonel's duelling pistols had been loaded under the supervision of
the seconds and each contestant had received his weapon. At one side
of the apartment the men of the party were gathered; one of them held
a lighted candelabrum high in the air to light both men equally. All
other lights in the room had been extinguished. Pistol in hand at the
table stood Colonel Fletcher. Six paces were measured in the centre of
the room by the seconds, and marked off by two playing-cards laid on
the floor. Mason and Gardner were placed opposite each other, each one
with his right foot touching the card marking his station. It had been
agreed between the seconds that the colonel should pronounce the words
"one, two," and then "fire!" and that after the word "fire!" the
combatants should fire at pleasure.
As is often the case, in the moment of danger Gardner's coolness came
back to him. He believed that Marian had permitted herself to be
inveigled into an engagement to Mason because of the quarrel and his
behavior toward her. He felt confident that she loved him, and he
intended to solve the dilemma in which she had placed herself by
killing the other man. No feeling of pity, no intention to spare his
rival, found even a momentary lodgment in his heart. As he stood
thinking hard while the arrangements were being completed, he marked
the very spot where the lace of Mason's coat crossed his heart, into
which he intended to send his bullet. The soldier wore his usual
uniform, and the frock coat loosely buttoned about his spare form gave
him a stouter appearance than his proportions warranted.
It was Gardner's purpose to fire instantly upon the giving of the
word, trusting to his quickness of movement and his accuracy of aim to
kill his opponent before he had time to pull the trigger. As he looked
at Mason standing so cool and so quiet before him, he felt that he
would have need of all his skill and address to win the game, in which
not only love, but life, were the stakes.
On Mason's part, while his desire to kill his opponent was as great as
Gardner's, his tactics were different. Though ordinarily familiar with
his weapon and able to give a good account of himself if he had his
own time for firing, he knew that he would be at a tremendous
disadvantage in a quick exchange of shots. He realized also that with
his usual impetuosity Gardner would fire instantly the word was given.
He determined, therefore, to submit to the fearful risk of receiving
the hasty shot which he felt would come, and if he were then unharmed,
deliberately take his time in returning it. He had no suspicion but
that the acceptance of his suit had been genuine, and he longed to
live with a double intensity on account of the depth of his passion.
All preparations having been made, the colonel took his place. The
seconds removed a little distance away from their principals to be out
of range.
"Are you ready, gentlemen?" said the colonel.
"Ready, sir!" answered both men, promptly.
They both stood slightly turned, their right sides presented, their
arms depending, with the cocked pistol in the right hand.
"You know the conditions. I shall count 'one, two,' and then give the
word 'fire!'" continued the colonel. "After the order is given you may
discharge your weapons at will."
The colonel had a third pistol in hand, for what purpose no one quite
understood. The silence was absolutely breathless.
[Illustration: "One!" said the old soldier, his voice ringing hollow
through the apartment]
"One!" said the old soldier, his voice ringing hollow through the
apartment.
"Two!" he said, more strongly.
"Fire!" he snapped out at last.
Instantly there was a flash of light, a cloud of smoke, a crashing
report from Gardner's pistol. Mason's second, closely watching his
principal, thought he saw a flick of dust rise from his coat. The
Virginian staggered slightly, raised his left arm and laid it across
his breast, but still stood erect, his pistol in his half-extended
hand.
"Great God!" cried Gardner, hoarsely, as he saw his rival standing
before him apparently unharmed. "Have I missed him?"
He put his hand in bewilderment to his head and staggered back from
his position.
"Back to the card, sir!" thundered the colonel, cocking and raising
his pistol and pointing it directly at Gardner.
"Of course, sir," returned the sailor, dauntlessly, stepping back to
the card as he spoke. "I trust no gentleman here will think I shrank
from the return bullet. 'Twas but surprise. Take your shot, I beg of
you, Captain Mason."
His face was deadly pale, yet he forced a smile to his lips.
"You still have a shot, Captain Mason. Take it. We acquit Lieutenant
Gardner of any timidity whatever," said the colonel, lowering his
weapon.
Mason, who had grown as white as his rival, deliberately raised his
pistol and took long and careful aim. The men in the room gazed
breathlessly. They shifted about uneasily. Gardner stood with the
smile petrified upon his face. Mason at last pressed the trigger, but
the pistol missed fire and there was no discharge. The soldier lowered
his arm and recocked his weapon.
"By heavens, it looks like murder!" burst forth one of the men.
"Silence, gentlemen!" shouted the colonel, handling his pistol again;
"the man is entitled to his shot, and he shall have it. I'll kill the
first man that interferes!"
"I beg him to take it," cried Gardner, with splendid courage, for if
ever man could read his death-warrant in another's face, he saw it in
the countenance of his antagonist.
Once more Mason raised his pistol. This time nothing prevented the
discharge. His deliberate aim had been successful, and Gardner fell
dead instantly, the bullet in his heart.
Mason, with the smoking pistol clenched in his hand, and with his left
arm still pressed against his heart, walked over to the table and
stood by it, leaning heavily upon it as he stared at the little group
bending over his dead rival. At that moment the door was flung open
and Marian, dressed as she had been at the dance, but with
tear-stained face, frightened looks, and dishevelled hair, burst into
the room. She happened to face Mason, and, her back being turned to
the other end of the room, she did not see the body of Gardner.
"I heard shots," she cried; "have they--where is he?"
"Colonel and gentlemen," said Mason, faintly, coming forward with that
left hand still pressed against his breast, "'tis an unseemly moment
to announce it, but Miss Fletcher has honored me with a promise of
herself to me to-night. We are----"
The girl turned to him with a look of abject horror and repulsion. She
screamed faintly. The man was half blind apparently; he did not seem
to realize.
"Have no fear for me, Marian dear," he went on, softly, "I am----"
"What have you done?" she shrieked. "Where is Robert Gardner? 'Tis he
I love, not you!"
Her eyes instinctively followed the glances of those about her.
"Oh!" she cried. "What is that? Robert! Oh, my God, and I have killed
you!"
Her voice rang through the room in such an awful note of agony that
every man's heart stood still. The colonel moved toward her, but her
living lover was quicker. He caught her arm.
"Don't touch me!" she cried, shrinking away from him. "There is blood
on your hand! His blood! You are a murderer!"
Her bitter words recalled him in a measure to himself.
"No, madam," he answered, smiling faintly, "'Tis my own."
He tore open his coat, showing the bosom of his shirt and waistcoat
stained with blood. He had been hit, but the loose coat had deceived
his opponent's aim, and the bullet had missed the heart. He had so
controlled himself that no one suspected that he was wounded, and he
had almost bled to death in the effort.
The woman, the roses all shuddered out of her cheeks, a ghastly
picture, stared from the dead to the living with dazed, terrified
glances.
"You," continued Mason, swaying as he spoke,--"you have trifled with
two honest men, and from your cursed coquetry one lies dead yonder and
one--and one--dies--at your feet!"
He suddenly collapsed before her, caught feebly at her white satin
skirt with his bloody hands as he lay upon the floor and strove to
carry it to his lips.
"He loved you," he murmured, "and I, too--we were fools--for a woman."
That was all.
SAVED BY HER SLIPPER
A ROMANCE OF THE BORDER
"When greater perils men environ,
Then women show a front of iron;
And, gentle in their manner, they
Do bold things in a quiet way."
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH
I.--IN FORT PATRICK HENRY
The Indians were out again!
The sharp rattling of a drum frantically beaten rolled through the
little hamlet. The silent, pine-clad hills rising above the clearing
on the bank sent the echoes clattering back over the river.
Scarcely had the peacefulness of the evening been broken by the first
note of the clamor when from every door of hut or cabin the excited
people poured out into the clearing and ran toward the stockade.
First came half-grown boys and girls, yelling half in terror, half in
sport; then frightened mothers clasping crying babies to their
troubled breasts with one hand, and with the other dragging stumbling
little children. Then the men of the settlement, coatless, hatless,
clad as they were in the various occupations in which they had been
engaged at the moment, brought up the rear.
Some of the men endeavored to drive a few bewildered cattle; others
helped to bring the younger children; but, whatever his action, each
one carried a long, deadly rifle, as with grim, set faces they hurried
toward the open gate of the fort on the shore. A panting horse stood
by the gate, his drooping head giving evidence of the exhaustion
following a desperate ride.
Inside the fort a young man, dressed in the usual fringed
hunting-shirt and leggings, eternal garment of the Western pioneer,
leaned upon his tall rifle and with eager gestures poured out the
details of that message which had started the rolling of the drum.
The Indians were out,--the fierce Wyandotte, the bloody Mingo, the
ruthless Shawnee. A huge war-party accompanying a band of British
rangers from Detroit had been discovered in the woods early that
September morning in 1777. They were marching toward Fort Patrick
Henry on the banks of the Ohio, a rude white-oak stockade some sixteen
feet high, extending along the river where now the mighty furnaces of
Wheeling toss smoke and flame high into the air.
The Indians were yet some distance away; but the messenger, young Hugh
McCullough, the bravest, most daring, most gallant young man among the
thirty families clustered about the fort, and the one surest to hit
his mark with the rifle, could not tell how soon they might be there.
But they might appear at any moment; and Colonel Sheppard, the
commander, deemed it best to bring all of the settlement people into
the fort at once. Hence the sudden alarm and call to arms.
Presently the little enclosure was filled with crying children,
boastful boys, frightened girls, serious women, and thoughtful men.
The gates were shut; the younger children, under the care of the older
women, sent to the safest room in the four corner block-houses, while
the matrons set about preparing food, moulding bullets, making
cartridges, and lending to the contemplated defence such other
assistance as they could. The men and youths fell in with their
respective companies and repaired immediately to their several
stations, long practice and frequent alarms having made them familiar
with the duties expected of them.
A long time they watched that evening, but no plumed, painted, savage
figure could be seen through the trees, no sound broke the wonted
stillness of the hills. Some of the little band of frontiersmen looked
askance at young McCullough. Had he given a false alarm? himself
deceived, taken them from their needed labors only to array them
against some imaginary peril?
But no; he was the keenest scout and best woods-man in the settlement.
A long row of sinister notches on the stock of his rifle marked the
red marauders he had sent to their last account. It could not be; yet,
if the Indians were coming, why did they not present themselves?
Old Colonel Sheppard and Major Ebenezer Zane, his second, did not
hesitate; they trusted the young man. Requests to return to their
homes were refused, the gates were kept closed, and by and by the
women and children who could do so disposed themselves for the
troubled sleep of an anxious night. There were keen watchers on the
walls, but nothing broke the usual stillness.
The morning was dull and gray. Clouds of mist and fog dropped silently
from the crest of the hills, sending down long, ghostlike arms
writhing through the treetops over the town; still no sign of the
enemy.
Smarting under the curious glances and sneers of some of the men,
McCullough at last volunteered to go out and reconnoitre. Colonel
Sheppard accepted his offer. While some one saddled his magnificent
black horse, he broke from the group surrounding him and walked across
the parade toward the farthest block-house, a room in which had been
allotted to the family of Major Zane.
A tall, striking-looking young woman stood in the door-way. Most of
the women in the fort wore linsey-woolsey frocks of the plainest cut,
and, while some had Indian moccasins on their feet, the majority were
barefoot. This girl was dressed in the fashion of, say, some six
months before. There was a touch of brightness and color in her smart
frock, albeit a few months of frontier wear had sadly dimmed its
gayety. Shining silver buckles overspread her small, daintily shod,
arched instep. Her short sleeves, extending only to the elbow, left
bare her young brown arms, which had been white when she came to the
settlement. The kerchief, crossed over her breast, but open at the
neck, afforded a ravishing glimpse of her beautiful throat. Under her
fair hair blue eyes sparkled, lighting, in spite of herself, with
feeling as she comprehended the manly figure of young McCullough.
He was fluent enough in speech ordinarily; but now he blushed,
hesitated, and stumbled awkwardly, as he dragged off his coonskin cap
and bowed low before her.
"Good-morning, Mistress Elizabeth," he at length managed to stammer
out; "how passed you the night?"
"As well, sir, as one could on a hard floor 'twixt crying children,
frightened mothers, and quarrelling lads."
"'Tis not like Philadelphia, mistress?"
"No, indeed. To think that six months gone I was there, a girl in
school, and now----"
"Now you are a teacher yourself, Mistress Zane, and we be all learning
from you."
"Learning what, pray?"
"The game of hearts."
"Faith, Master McCullough, if rumor belie you not, I think you must
have been a past master at that game before I came upon the scene."
"Nay, not so. Dame Rumor does me wrong, but----"
"Well, let it pass, Master McCullough. You brought the alarm, I
believe. Was it real? Are there any Indians about?"
"We have not seen any as yet in the valley, but----"
"And was it you, sir, who tramped all night on the block-house over
our heads?"
"I did, indeed, watch over--you, but----"
"Could you not have done it more softly, sir, and not add to the
confusion the clatter of your feet and the thud of your gunstock? I
knew it was you."
"Knew you my step, Mistress Elizabeth?" he queried eagerly, flushing
with hope.
"Nay, sir," she answered, coolly; "none other had been so foolish; but
the Indians?"
"I go to seek them now and would fain say good-by."
"What!" cried the girl, breathlessly, dropping her mood of airy
banter, her face gone white in a moment. "What! you leave the
stockade?"
"Ay, Mistress Elizabeth, and I am come to beg you--to wish you--to bid
me good-speed."
"Where are you going and why?"
"Up the valley to beat up the red devils; to find them if they be not
gone."
"Why, sir, you will be in danger!" cried the girl, piteously, stepping
from the door-way and coming nearer to him.
"I am in more danger from your bright eyes than from any Indian that
walks."
"A truce to this trifling, sir!"
"Nay, 'tis no trifling. My heart's gone to you. You have known it long
since. Is it not so?"
She stopped with downcast head before him.
"They--they did not teach us things--like that--in Philadelphia."
"Nay, 'twas Mother Eve taught you, I'm thinking; and, as I may be--"
he hesitated, and then continued softly, "a long time in coming back,
I thought I must tell you now or you might never hear it. I love you."
He turned away. "That's all."
She sprang toward him and grasped him by the arm.
"Go not," she whispered, her eyes brimming. "Stay." Her head sank
forward; she trembled as if she would fall. Unmindful of all others,
he slipped his arm around her waist. "Stay," she continued so softly
that he could scarce hear her words, though he bent his head eagerly
to catch them. "Stay--for me."
"Then you love, too, thank God!" he cried. "Nay, I must go; but I go
for you."
II.--THE MAN'S DARING
His horse was ready at the gate now. The place was filled with men;
yet, reckless of all who might note, he bent his head low and kissed
her unresisting. Then he tore himself away and sprang to the saddle.
With a wave of his hand toward the assemblage, a long glance at the
girl who stood with clasped hands and white, upturned face staring
after him, he struck spur to his horse and dashed out through the
gate. They followed him with their gaze for a short distance up the
road until he was lost in the trees which covered its winding course.
And so the morning wore on. About noon the watchers saw three or four
Indians in the trees. The little band halted out of rifle range on the
edge of the clearing, and scanned the deserted settlement and the fort
with its starry banner drooping idly from its staff. The mist was
heavier now; it was almost a fog.
Two men were ordered to go out the postern gate under cover of the
river bank, creep along the shore until they gained the trees, and
then endeavor to discover whether or not there were more Indians
there. A little party of twelve, under Captain Mason, was assembled
near the gate, ready to dash out and attack the Indians in sight if it
were deemed advisable. It often happened that such a swift, sharp blow
diverted a more serious attack.
Nothing had as yet been heard of McCullough. Elizabeth Zane had passed
a morning of agonized apprehension. She was a motherless girl, who
lived with her brother, the major; but she had spent most of her life
in quiet Quaker Philadelphia at school. Only recently had she come to
the frontier; this was her first experience in war--or love.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the sharp crack of a rifle. One of
the Indians was seen to fall. The scouts had evidently attacked them.
The fire was returned by the group of savages. There was a sharp
fusillade in the woodland. Captain Mason and his comrades tore out of
the fort and ran toward the sound of the firing. A wave of mist rolled
down and shut them in.
The eager watchers on the walls could hear the rattle of the rifles
and see the dark shadows cast by the forest shot with flashes of fire.
The engagement seemed to be getting heavier. What was happening? They
were not able to tell. The fog completely hid from their view the
ravine in which the firing was going on.
Presently a man broke out of the mist and ran toward the fort. He was
hatless; his gun was gone. He was bleeding from several wounds. His
face was ghastly pale.
"Help!" he cried, brokenly. "The Indians are on us, hundreds of 'em!"
As he spoke he pitched forward and fell dead on his face just outside
the gate. The fort was filled with excitement. The wife of the man who
had just fallen shrieked with anguish, while the other women strove to
comfort her and to hush the whimpering of the children.
Colonel Sheppard turned to another officer.
"Captain Ogle," he said, quickly, "take your company of twelve men,
deploy them to the edge of the woods, and try to cover the retreat or
bring off Mason and his men. Be careful, and do not be ambushed. We
are but eleven men left here after you go to defend this post and one
hundred women and children."
Again the gates were opened and a little band of determined hunters
stole noiselessly toward the clearing. The rifle shots had ceased by
this time, but they had been superseded by fierce Indian yells and a
chorus of shrieks and cries from struggling men. Ogle's company stole
rapidly forward, but before they could reach the place of conflict
they were met by a fire which seemed to come from every direction. Out
of the fog and smoke appeared the Indians, tomahawk in hand.
There was a fierce, wild _melee_ for a moment, and then silence. A
sudden breeze blew down the valley, lifting the fog; and the dismayed
garrison saw the ground strewn with the bodies of their friends and
neighbors, while just out of range the Indians danced, yelling
frantically, jumping high into the air, and flourishing gory scalps,
which they had wrenched from the heads of the fallen while some of
them were yet alive. Four or five desperately wounded men gained the
fort under a rattling rifle fire.
As the day cleared the Indians sought cover in the deserted houses on
the edge of the woods and opened fire on the stockade. A perfect storm
of bullets was hurled upon the fort; but the defenders, well
protected, suffered no loss, and, firing slowly and deliberately in
return, strove to make every shot tell and with good effect. The
Indians could not expose themselves for a moment without being hit.
Presently down the mountain came a party of rangers under the British
flag, militia from Canada. With drums beating and fifes squealing they
marched up the road, dragging a small cannon, with which they opened
an ineffectual fire upon the fort. After a while, however, wearying of
this fruitless duel, the assailants withdrew out of range and the roar
of the battle died away, although the investment of the place was
still vigorously maintained.
About four o'clock a burst of yells and shouts attracted the attention
of the garrison to the top of the hill overlooking the fort. A single
horseman suddenly appeared on the brink above the clearing, his tall
figure plainly silhouetted against the sky-line. The hill where he
overlooked it was some three hundred feet high and almost
perpendicular, although the rough slope was broken here and there by
drifts and ledges. He reined in his horse abruptly on the very brink
and gazed backward.
Elizabeth Zane stood by her brother on the roof of one of the
block-houses. With eyes lighted by affection, she knew McCullough
instantly. Presently others recognized him also. They could hear the
yelling drawing nearer. They saw McCullough look to the right and the
left and shake his head; they saw him turn and discharge his rifle at
his unseen pursuers.
They realized the situation at once. There was a lost man on the brink
of that hill, his gun discharged, weaponless, surrounded by Indians,
who were closing in upon him to take him alive and torture him. Death
at the stake! There was no salvation for him!
What could he do? Would he dismount and face them? Would he try to
ride over them? A moment would tell. Elizabeth closed her eyes, and
her anguished lips strove in vain to form the words of a prayer.
"He is going to try the hill!" cried Major Zane, suddenly.
The bold hunter shortened the bridle, backed his horse away from the
hill a few feet, and then launched him into the air. The cry of
defiance that he gave as he dropped down the steep slope could have
been heard for miles around. Scarcely had he vanished from the crest
of the hill when the faces of the Indians appeared over it. The edge
of the bluff was instantly ringed with fire.
"He falls!" cried one from the fort.
"He is down!" screamed another.
"No, he makes it!"
"They've hit him!"
"He's reached the ground safe!"
"They've got him!"
"No, he's up again!"
"He's coming here!"
"To the gate! to the gate!"
The bold hunter had actually leaped, scrambled, fallen down that
mighty precipice; and horse and man apparently were both unharmed at
the bottom. It was a feat of daring horsemanship which has been the
pride of the vicinity ever since.
Between him and the fort, however, lay the Indians. Startled and
surprised by the hardihood and success of the descent, they stood
dazed for a moment. Grasping his rifle by the barrel, with the butt
up, McCullough swept down upon them. The first man who laid hand upon
the bridle he brained with the rifle-butt. Dropping the rein, he cut
at the next with his hunting-knife. The excited horse struck out
savagely and beat out the brains of a third. The rest gave back for a
moment. He was through!
In another second, bending low over the saddle, he was galloping madly
toward the fort. Again the rifles cracked around him. They saw him
falter in the saddle, sway uneasily. At the same time his horse gave a
great bound forward. They had both been hit, then.
The Indians in their excitement ran after him, forgetting they were
within range until the riflemen on the walls sent bullet after bullet
straight to the mark. The brave horse staggered and fell outside the
gate, pitching the man heavily on his head.
Under cover of the rifle fire, two men ran out of the open gate, and
one woman, Elizabeth Zane, followed after. They picked up McCullough
and brought him within the stockade and laid him on the ground. The
young girl, white-faced, despairing, dropped by his side and took his
head in her arms. Her kisses and piteous pleadings seemed to revive
him, and a draught of spirits restored him.
"Safe, safe, Elizabeth!" he murmured. "Keep up a good heart, all," he
added as soon as he could speak clearly. "Colonel Sheppard, I found
the Indians out there."
"I see you did, my boy," said the colonel, smiling grimly. "What
then?"
"I rode off to Colonel Swearingen and told him you were beleaguered,
sir."
"Yes, and what did he say?"
"He'll raise a force and be with you in the morning. Where are the
rest of the men?" he cried, looking around at the little handful of
people. "Why are the women using the rifles?" he went on, noticing
that the weakness of the garrison had compelled some of the women to
take the places of the dead soldiers. "I'm needed here, I see. I am
not hurt," he continued; "let me up!"
"But you are wounded!" cried Elizabeth. "You cannot."
"Nay, 'tis nothing," he exclaimed; "a flesh wound in the arm and a
graze along the chest. When the horse fell he threw me so heavily that
it stunned me. When my arm is bound up I'll be all right."
"Water here," called the colonel, "and some linen!"
"We have none in the fort, sir," answered Major Zane.
"A woman's petticoat, then."
"Take mine," cried Elizabeth, rising and lifting her outside skirt and
tearing a strip off her underskirt.
"Nay, not your city finery, Mistress Elizabeth," protested McCullough,
sitting up as well.
"Nothing is too fine for a brave man, sir," she answered, smiling
proudly down at him.
"Not even Elizabeth Zane?" he questioned, cunningly.
"Not even Elizabeth Zane," she replied, bravely, in spite of her
blushes.
"Thank God!" he whispered, as she bent down and bound up the wound.
"Zane," said the colonel, laughing at the oblivious pair, "did you
ever know a peril so deadly that it could prevent two young people
from making love?"
The wound, from which he had lost much blood, would have incapacitated
a modern man from further fighting; but that little handful could not
afford to lose a single member if they hoped to stand off the three
hundred savages around the fort, so McCullough took his place on the
walls with the rest. For some little time the interchange of fire was
kept up, with further loss on the part of the Indians, but none at all
to the Americans; but it was evident that some plan was being matured.
The rangers were seen manoeuvring through the trees; the cannon was
dragged to a point where it could do greater execution.
Meanwhile Colonel Sheppard and Major Zane, with McCullough to second
their efforts, were looking carefully to their defences. Every rifle,
musket, and ancient pistol was brought out, charged, and laid at hand,
ready for use. At this moment, however, a startling discovery was
made: the powder had all but given out! Without powder they would be
helpless to resist the assault which would apparently be delivered in
a short time.
III.--THE WOMAN'S HEROISM
As the news spread among the men and the women, a panic filled their
hearts. Was that crowded enclosure, filled with women and children, to
be delivered to the ruthless passions of those ferocious Indians and
the half-breed rangers? God forbid! Yet what was to be done?
"Oh, that we had some powder! I'd give my life for a keg of it!"
exclaimed Colonel Sheppard, in despair. "Has every recess been
searched?"
"We ransacked the fort, sir; there is none here," was the reply.
"I know where there is some," suddenly cried Major Zane. "In my cabin
yonder there is a small keg of it; enough for us all. I had forgotten
it until this moment. I'll go and get it."
The cabin was some sixty yards from the gate, and within easy rifle
range of the busy enemy.
"'Tis sure death to venture there," cried the colonel; "besides, you
are next in charge here. I cannot let you go."
"Let me go!" cried McCullough.
"Nay, you've done enough, and with your wounded arm you could not
carry it. Besides, we need you."
"Let me!"
"I'll go," cried one and another, as the old colonel looked about him
in an agony of indecision.
"We need you all; I can't spare a man," he muttered, hoarsely. "I
don't see how we can hold the walls against another assault, as it is,
with but a dozen able men here. Was ever man in such a position?"