NAPOLEON JONES
On an afternoon early in the following week, Jimmy Toppan, Ed Mason,
and I were seriously engaged at the frog pond. We had discovered, in
the morning, an outlet, through which all the water was in danger of
escaping. The town authorities seemed to have overlooked this channel,
but we could not let their neglect cause public suffering.
To have the pond run dry was too serious to contemplate!
"The water wouldn't _all_ go out," asserted Ed Mason, "'cos there's a
place, back of the Court House, where there ain't any bottom."
"That ain't in _this_ pond," Jimmy corrected, "it's over in
Davenport's."
But Ed stuck to his opinion.
"It _is_ here. An' there was a volcano here once, an' when the volcano
dried up, the pond came."
We looked with considerable interest toward the site of the extinct
crater. But all was placid blue water now, and whatever might be
concealed beneath the surface remained a secret.
Our duty was not the less clear, and we set out to build a dam that
should keep in the water, volcano or no volcano, bottomless pit or not.
On the terrace above us sat an old man, who watched our proceedings,
chewed tobacco vigorously, and whittled small sticks. We had seen him,
sitting on the same bench, in the morning. Indeed, he had been there
for days, perhaps weeks, past, until he had become a fixture in the
landscape.
Ed Mason climbed the terrace to get another armful of stones for the
dam. As he was returning, the old man called Ed to him, and offered, as
a gift, a little musket whittled out of soft pine. The stones were laid
down promptly, the gift accepted, and the two engaged in conversation.
Jimmy and I could not hear what was being said, but we observed the
incident of the little musket, and our interest in the dam waned.
We went up the terrace to see if there were any more muskets to be
distributed.
But when we arrived, the old fellow pointed at Ed with his jack-knife,
and addressed us.
"He wants to know if I ever was in a battle!"
Evidently the question had been an absurd one. We gathered this from
the tone of derision with which it was repeated, and we promptly showed
our appreciation of its absurdity by grinning. We marvelled at Ed's
obtuseness. Not to recognize this round-faced old man in the dark-blue
suit as the very incarnation of war could only be downright stupidity.
"Was I ever in a battle?" he inquired with deliberate sarcasm. "Well,
I don't know what _you_ call a battle, but what do you think of a
hundred an' thirty guns on one hill an' eighty guns on another hill,
all blazing away at each other like Sancho?"
We thought well of it. It seemed to us a very respectable battle. But
Ed Mason was destined to put his foot in it again. He held up the
little pine musket.
"Guns like this?" he queried.
The old fellow looked at Ed for a moment. Then he turned his gaze
toward Jimmy and me and shook his head sorrowfully.
"No, not guns like that. Them's what the infantry has. A hundred an'
thirty of them against eighty wouldn't be no battle. 'Twould be a
squeamish. An' a darned small one at that. I mean _guns_. Don't you
know what guns be?"
Jimmy Toppan spoke.
"Oh, I know! Cannons. Like the one they fired last Fourth of July, down
at the foot of River Street."
"Yes, that's the kind, I guess. I wa'n't there. Dave Hunt was doin'
that. I see in the paper they called him 'Gunner David Hunt.' I nearly
bust over that. 'Gunner David Hunt'!"
He rocked forward and back on the bench, chuckling and repeating,
"_Gunner_ David Hunt!" from time to time.
"Why, where do you think he was durin' the whole war?"
We could not imagine.
"Down in Boston Harbor--that's where he was. Why, he never smelled
powder in his life!"
This seemed extraordinary to me. I had seen "Gunner David Hunt" on that
Fourth of July, and if he hadn't smelled powder that day, he must have
been suffering with a fearful cold. I had smelled it distinctly; even
kept, as I was, at a discreet distance. For Mr. Hunt, working with the
greatest activity in the midst of clouds of smoke, not to have detected
the odor struck me as amazing. I was incautious enough to point out my
impressions to the old fellow in blue.
He rewarded me with another such look of scorn as that with which he
greeted Ed's mistake about the guns.
"He never smelled powder, I tell yer. That means he never heard a
shot fired in anger. He may have fired some of them guns down in that
fort in Boston Harbor, at a hogshead floatin' in the water, jus'
for practice. But he never stood up against the enemy an' give 'em
back shot for shot. An' the paper called him '_Gunner_ Hunt'! Oh, my
Chris'mas!"
He rocked forward and back again, and laughed long and heartily. As it
seemed to be the proper thing to do, all three of us laughed, as well
as we could, over the presumption of Mr. Hunt.
Then the soldier became serious. He took his walking-stick, held it out
at arm's length, and pointed across the pond.
"Do you see that Court House over there?"
As it was the most prominent object in the landscape, and hardly one
hundred yards distant, we instantly admitted that we did see it.
"An' do you see George Washin'ton over to the right?"
Yes; George Washington was plainly visible. There he stood, on his
pedestal, with his arm stretched out at his side, as if to smack any
small boy who walked on the grass.
"Well, over beyond George Washin'ton was where the enemy's batteries
lay--they stretched from there up to Joe Peabody's house."
"When was this?"
We all spoke at once, and in great excitement. _Enemy's batteries_ on
Elm Street!
The old man looked at us solemnly, and chewed with great deliberation.
"That's to give you an idea how they lay on the field. This is on a
small scale, you see. Our guns were right along this bank, from here
to the fourth tree. No, the fifth. And that graveyard back there," he
turned around and pointed, "was 'bout in the same position, only it run
down nearer where we are now. Down there where the pond is, was near a
mile of open--wheat-fields and so on. Everything was mighty quiet 'bout
the middle of the morning, 'cos we'd been fightin' for two days, you
see. We could see the rebels plain enough, an' knew they was up to some
deviltry. But we knew the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte had his eye on 'em
all right."
Napoleon Bonaparte! Our eyes opened at this. "Was Napoleon Bonaparte in
this battle?" I asked.
"_Was_ he?" returned the soldier, with great energy. "I guess he come
pretty near bein'. He was in command of the whole army. Who did yer
think was, excep' him?"
I had not given the matter much thought. But I replied weakly that I
supposed Napoleon had lived in France.
"You did? Well, you got that out of a book, I s'pose?"
I admitted, with some embarrassment, that I did get it from a book.
"I thought so. Well, if you're so smart with your books, why don't you
tell this instead of me? P'r'aps you was in this battle, hey?"
My face became uncomfortably warm. I could not think of anything to
say. After waiting a little, the soldier continued.
"If this young feller, that knows so all-fired much, ain't goin' to
tell us how this battle was fought, I might as well go on. As I says
before, we could see their guns, an' we could see the rebels movin'
about 'round 'em. Some of their guns was in a little patch of woods,
over where that team is standin' now. It kep' on quiet for more'n two
hours--no one firin' a shot. Then we see the rebels was gettin' ready.
They moved some of their batteries. An' then the Emperor Napoleon
Bonaparte rode up to me on his white hoss, an' he says, 'Bring out yer
guns!' An' so I brought 'em out!"
My doubts vanished. That white horse was conclusive.
Ed Mason spoke in an awed voice:--
"What did you say?"
"What did I say? I says, 'All right, yer Majesty.' An' I fetched the
guns round to the northwestward."
"What did Napoleon do then?" asked Ed.
"What did he do? He just sat there on his white hoss an' he watched to
see if we did it all right. An' we lined 'em up smart, an' unlimbered,
an' back went the hosses, an' there we was, all ready in no time. The
Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte he says, 'First-rate, boys; you did that
slick as grease!'"
"An' then the rebels let off two guns for a signal, an' then their
whole hundred an' thirty began to once, an' so did our eighty. An'
that kep' up for an hour."
"Did any of their shots hit you?" inquired Jimmy.
"Not to speak of. They fired too high. Their shells went plumb over our
heads, an' over the infantry, who was lyin' on the ground behind us,
an' bust in the cemetary. Some of the gravestones was broke. Some of
our men was killed when the caissons blew up."
We had no idea what caissons were; but they blew up--that was enough
for us.
"Then the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte ordered us to cease firin', one
battery at a time. That was where he was foxy. He wanted to make the
rebels think our guns had been dismounted, or that we was out of
ammunition, so's they would charge. And he fooled 'em, sure enough, for
pretty soon they did charge!"
He paused, and bit off some more tobacco, while we jumped up and down
with excitement. Then he pointed again with his cane.
"Do you see them three trees to the left of the white house? Well,
bearin' a little to the right of them is a clump of bushes. There was
some woods at that p'int of the enemy's position, an' they come outer
them. We could see 'em plain as day, a long line of infantry, an' the
officers on hosses. Some of 'em was in gray uniforms, but not all. We
could see their flags, an' the sun shinin' on the bayonets. First one
long line come, an' then another, an' then another. There was close to
fifteen thousand of 'em--more than all the folks in this town!"
We followed his gaze across the pond, across the mall, to that clump
of bushes. At any moment we expected to see the gray-clad lines break
out from behind them and start toward us with loud yells. But we had
forgotten how securely we were planted behind the old man's batteries.
"It didn't take us a minute to open on 'em. We had our guns trained in
no time, an' we made it mighty hot for 'em as they come across that
valley. One bunch come right for my guns, but we had loaded with grape
an' we just blew 'em to smithereens. They turned round, what was left
of 'em, an' run back like Jesse. There was a rebel general on a brown
hoss, an' his hoss went down, an' we nearly got _him_."
He stopped. After waiting a moment, we all burst out:--
"What happened then?"
"Why, nothin'. The battle was over. The rebels had skedaddled. But
the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, he called me 'round to his tent that
night, an' he give me this cane."
"What, _that_ one?"
"This one. He says, says he: 'I like the way you worked your guns
to-day, an' I want you to keep this stick to remember me by. I cut it
myself.'"
He let each boy of us take the stick in his hand and examine it
reverently. It was a cane of some brown wood, with a round knob at the
top, made of ivory or bone.
Then he took a fat silver watch out of his pocket, and looked at that.
"It's pretty nigh supper-time, an' I'm goin' along."
He rose from the bench and walked slowly away, limping slightly, and
leaning on the cane--the cane that Napoleon had given him!
We walked toward our homes, maintaining a profound silence. On the
other side of the pond we met Rob Currier, who was catching hornpouts.
He addressed us derisively.
"Was that old Napoleon Jones you were talking with? He been giving you
some of his yarns? My father says he's cracked. He was in the Civil
War, but some one got him all worked up about Napoleon, till he thinks
he has seen him."
If Rob had hit each one of us in the face with a wet hornpout, the
effect would have been more agreeable. We encountered a realist for the
first time when we met Rob that afternoon. We were walking through a
golden haze of romance, when he suddenly drew this leaden-gray cloud
across the sky.
"You make me sick!" declared Ed Mason; "didn't he show us the very cane
that Napoleon gave him?"
"Of course he did!" replied Jimmy Toppan.
And "Of course he did!" I chimed in.
So we fell on Rob Currier, dragged him down on the turf, and stuffed
grass and clover down the back of his neck until he yelled:--
"I take it all back!"
Then we let him up.