[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JANUARY 14, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 846. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
FOR KING OR COUNTRY.
A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XIII.
"RICHARD BLOUNT," OF ALBANY.
It was a dark, murky night when George reached the headquarters at West
Point. He had been delayed often in the journey, having been forced to
hide in the woods to avoid meeting stragglers from the guerilla forces,
and once he saw a man ride to the top of a hill behind him and shadow
his eyes with his hat. His horse was almost worn out when he had reached
the American outposts. Here, however, there was no detention. He had
passports that would take him across the river, where the forces that
were making feints of threatening the British defences above the city
were stationed.
After leaving the protection of the American arms he was to proceed on
foot and enter the British lines as best he could, and there demand to
be brought before the officials to whom he had despatches.
It is a strange thing that even the strongest and frankest natures often
have the gift of dissembling when confronted with danger or necessity. A
half-dozen times as George had ridden through the woods he had thought
of giving up the project. General Washington knew nothing of it, he
felt sure, and Colonel Hewes was known more for his brilliancy and dash
than for his caution. It seemed hardly possible that any scheme of such
tremendous importance as the capture of the British General could be
successful; the plotting could not go on under the very eyes of the
English; they would surely suspect something, and he knew what the fate
of a spy would be. He remembered the brave Nathan Hale, but was animated
none the less by the memory of this hero's last words, and the sorrow
that he had expressed at having "but one life to give for his country."
The question of right or wrong involved George did not weigh long in his
mind, and, to tell the truth, the mystery of the adventure had strongly
tempted him from the first.
No one would have recognized our young Lieutenant as he stepped from the
boat into the glare of a lantern on the eastern shore of the Hudson--for
he had been ferried across the river, the very night of his arrival at
West Point. His brown hair was dyed black and straggled about his
shoulders. Instead of his long blue coat, he wore a gray jacket and a
short plum-colored waistcoat buttoned tightly to the throat; his legs
were encased in heavy riding-breeches, and stiff leather gaiters came up
to his knees. The big pouch in his pocket was filled with the precious
English guineas, and sewed on the inside lining of his waistcoat were
the despatches.
The story of supposed hardships that he had faced in coming down from
Albany he had learned by heart, but it was hard for George to change the
soldierly carriage of his shoulders. He was stamped with the imprint of
military service. However, by placing a button in the sole of his left
boot, he reminded himself of the limp which Richard Blount was supposed
to have.
The next day, at early dawn, he began his trip, and late in the
afternoon he rested at a farm-house, keeping out of sight as much as
possible. When darkness came on, under the guidance of a Lieutenant Peck
of a Connecticut regiment, he rode away once more southward toward the
city.
It was almost four o'clock in the morning when Lieutenant Peck stopped.
The latter, out of delicacy, had asked no questions, and George had felt
in no mood for conversation. Their journey had been made in silence.
"Here is the lone oak," said the Lieutenant, "and here I am to leave you
and take back the horses. This road will carry you to the British lines.
I wish you all success in your dangerous enterprise, for I can guess,
sir, what hardships and sacrifices you will have to make. God speed
you."
George had dismounted. He shook the other's hand, thanked him, and
hastened down the road. The papers that were sewed inside his clothes
crinkled as he walked. He almost felt as if his courage would give out.
What was he going to face? Was he not being made the victim of a wild,
reckless enthusiast?
Nevertheless he would not back out. It was not in the Frothingham blood
to turn. The family motto was "Onward." He would be true to it.
As he walked ahead he kept making up his mind what he would say and how
he would appear. He was supposed not to be a country bumpkin, but a
youth of some education and appearance. He was not to go into hiding
when he reached the city, but to live openly, and to spend money
lavishly on the soldiers. He was not to talk overly much, but to listen
carefully, and to await the orders that he would receive, and act, when
the time came, with promptness and fearlessness. He had been going over
for the hundredth time the tale of his imaginary and wonderful passage
through the American lines; and had traversed perhaps eight or ten miles
from the spot where he had separated from Lieutenant Peck, when he saw
some men with guns on their shoulders crossing from the woods to the
left of the road.
It was growing light, and it was evident from their movements that they
had detected him. Now a strange fear came into his mind. If they were
English, all would be right and well; but if they were Americans, it
would be hard for him to explain. It was good that this idea came to
him, for it made him act as a fugitive naturally would. He walked on as
if he had discovered nothing until he had placed the big trunk of a tree
between himself and the strangers standing on the hill-side, two of whom
were advancing toward him. Then he backed carefully away, still keeping
the tree between him and the approaching figures, until he reached the
stone wall at the road-side. He cleared this at a bound, and falling on
his hands and knees, crawled along in the direction he had been
pursuing. At last he found a patch of underbrush, and worked his way
into it cautiously as a skulking Iroquois might. Peering out through the
branches of a small pine he could clearly see the men that were walking
toward the tree behind, which he apparently had taken shelter, up the
road. He could see their surprised gestures when they found no one was
there. He saw them searching the ground for footprints, as there had
been a slight snow-fall, and of course his having walked backwards did
not betray him at first glance. He hoped that they were Englishmen, but
could not tell, for their uniform was a nondescript one like the
Americans. Suddenly, as he watched the slope from his hiding-place, he
saw the flash of a red coat, and then another. The man near the road
shouted something back to the top of the hill. It was evident that
George had come across an English outpost, and as it was now quite
day-light, he could see, down the road, a number of horses being led out
of a weather-beaten gray barn.
So Lieutenant Frothingham, now "Richard Blount," of Albany, stepped from
his hiding-place, and walked boldly out to the road-side and seated
himself on the stone wall.
For some reason the party who was searching the bushes further up had
not discerned him, but the man in the red coat had, and was seen coming
swiftly down the hill. The other joined him also, and soon the two were
within speaking distance.
"Stand and deliver!" said the first, with his hand upon the butt of a
large pistol that he carried in his belt.
"If you will pardon me," returned George, affecting a careless air, "I
had just as lief sit for awhile; and as to delivering, I have come a
long way to do it."
"What mean you?" said the man, stepping across the road and coming
closer. The others had by this time come down also, and our young hero
found himself confronted by a group of curious faces. The nondescripts
had proved to be Tory irregulars.
"I mean just this," said George: "you are English--John Bulls, are you
not? I am Richard Blount, of Albany. I have some letters for General
Howe and his Lordship; and I have crawled, walked, and stolen through
the American lines, and it is my desire to reach New York. Anything that
you can do for me I am sure will be appreciated by my family and the
gentlemen I wish to see."
The officer laughed and advanced. "I am happy to meet you, sir," he
said. "How did you do it?"
"I kept to the woods mostly, and used some Indian tactics, doubtless,"
answered George.
"He knows them well," broke in a voice. "See how he escaped us up the
road."
"I feared you were Yankees," was "Mr. Blount's" rejoinder. "I will be
grateful to you, sir, if you will bring me to where I can get a
Christian meal, for I am half famished, and no dissembling."
He descended from his perch on the stone wall and approached the
officer.
"Here are my credentials, sir," he said, unbuttoning his coat and showing
the letters sewed into the lining. "If you can hasten me on my way to
the city and recommend me to a tailor, for I am a stranger there, I
shall be greatly in your debt."
"'Twill be a pleasure, sir," said the officer, glancing at the first
paper George had extended. "Will you give us the honor of breakfasting
with our mess? We are quartered in the farm-house yonder."
George accepted, and the two young men walked down the road.
To his surprise, George had sunk his own individuality. He had no idea
that it would be so easy or so interesting. He seemed to feel that he
was Richard Blount. He limped beside the officer down the road, and
chatted freely about the difficulties of his trip from Albany. There's a
difference between lying and acting, and our young Lieutenant, though he
did not know it, or perhaps had but discovered it, was an actor through
and through.
He had caution enough not to embroider his narrative too freely, but
stuck closely to the main idea that he had memorized; and he found that
it was very easy to answer questions with questions--a common trick in
America, the subtlety of which had not seemed to penetrate the English
mind.
He found also, to his surprise, that he entertained the others by his
assumption of a dry vein of humor.
"I might as well have Richard amuse them," he thought to himself, and
made some remark about one of the thin horses which was being groomed in
the front yard.
The officer laughed and ushered him into the little room.
A handsome young man in his shirt sleeves was bending over the open
fireplace cooking something in a frying-pan. He looked over his shoulder
as George and the party entered.
The young spy started. He remembered where he had seen this young man
before; he had dined with him at Mr. Wyeth's.
"What have we here?" asked the officer.
George's heart beat once more quite freely.
"A hungry man," he responded, before any one could speak, "who would
stand you a bottle of Madeira for your mess of pottage."
The other laughed, and soon Richard Blount was introduced. They inquired
over and over again concerning the strength of the American forces, and,
to tell the truth, the numbers did not suffer curtailing at George's
hands.
"Why, for three days," he said, "I appeared to be crawling through the
midst of an army."
"You did it well," responded one of the officers; "but, by the Dragon,
you look a little like an Indian."
"'Tis no disgrace, sir," George answered quickly, affecting to be
angered at the other's tone. "'Tis an honor to be allied to the chiefs
of our Northern tribes. Perhaps you did not know--" He stopped.
"Pardon me," said the one who had last spoken. "I did not mean it as you
have taken it. It was through my ignorance I spoke, as you assume."
After the meal, which gave some excuse for shortening the conversation,
George asked to be sent down to the city.
"Can't you send me with a guard of honor?" he asked. "I will pay well
for it."
"I cannot spare the men," answered the first officer, politely, who
appeared to be in command of the picket, "but your neighbor on the right
is going to town. He will accompany you, and save you the trouble of
explaining and drawing out your papers at every cross-road."
"Thank you for the offer," said George. "And can you recommend the best
inn that has a good cellar and table? for it seems to me that I have
lived on parched corn for the last twelvemonth."
In a short time he was mounted on a spare horse, and was plying his
conductor with questions as they traversed the streets of the town of
Harlem and passed over the undulating hills dotted with handsome
residences that adorned Manhattan Island. As they came into the city the
ravages of the fire were visible to the westward; almost one-third of
the town had suffered. There appeared to be soldiers, soldiers
everywhere. They were quartered in every house, barracked in every large
building. They passed a gloomy-looking structure that had once been "The
City Farms."
"For what do they use that?" inquired George.
"'Tis jammed to the top with 'rebel' prisoners," replied the officer. "I
wish they could tow it out into the river and sink it there."
George flushed hotly, but said nothing, and they made their way from the
King's Road into one of the cross streets.
"You had best stop at the 'City Arms,'" said the officer. "I will come
to-morrow myself to conduct you to General Howe."
"Thank you most kindly," said George. "But I must get some clothes
first. I could not appear before the honorable gentlemen in this
costume."
"Do you intend seeking an appointment?" inquired his companion.
"No," answered George; "I am lame."
The officer reddened, for he was a gentleman. "I hope I shall see you
to-morrow then," he said. "Good-rest to you."
They had halted before the inn with the broad verandas. The whole scene
looked very natural. Some church bell struck the hour, and a finely
emblazoned coach came bowling down Broadway. Red and the mark of the
crown were everywhere. George walked into the inn and called for the
landlord. Taking the handsomest room in the house, and kept to it,
feigning fatigue, the rest of that afternoon; how odd it seemed to Mr.
Richard Blount! When he came down for his dinner he noticed that the
landlord was unusually polite, and called him at once by name. He could
not help but smile, for he remembered how he had watched this fat
palm-rubbing individual stand in his doorway when he and his brother
William had gone on that well-remembered walk about the city only a few
years before.
"Ah! Mr. Blount," said the landlord, "we are glad to have you here. I
know your family in Albany well, and your father has often been a guest
under my roof. My humble regards to him."
"Indeed!" said George. "Have you seen any of my people lately?"
"Your uncle, of course," the landlord responded.
George's heart almost stopped beating. What if this uncle were in New
York at present? How foolish it was for him to have undertaken any
venture so certain of detection and surrounded with so many obstacles!
"Oh, yes, yes!" went on the landlord. "He told me you were coming."
"I wish I could see him," said George--adding to himself, "From a place
where he could not see me."
"He will be away for some time. He has gone to Connecticut," said his
host.
"Ah! indeed!" quoth young Frothingham, with a sigh of relief. Then he
added, below his breath, "I wish it were Kamchatka. I forgot that I had
an uncle. This will never do." But the humor of the situation struck
him, and he smiled.
Sitting near a window he watched the groups passing up and down the
street. How easy it had been; no danger had confronted him as yet.
Everything seemed to fall into his hands. He began to whistle softly to
himself; then suddenly stopped and fairly shivered. The air he had been
whistling was "The White Cockade." He remembered how that tune and
"Yankee Doodle" had stirred the half-starving soldiers on the banks of
the Delaware. And this reminded him of something else.
"Take care, Richard Blount, take care," he said, "or your Yankee blood
will get the better of you."
He wrinkled his forehead in a perplexed way for a minute, and placed his
hand inside his coat. Yes, there it was, sewed up with the rest--the
letter of poor Luke Bonsall to his mother. It would be a sad thing to
break the news, but it was a trust. At last he went up stairs to his
room, and ripped the letters from his waistcoat lining. He had pasted
the cipher alphabet on a stiff bit of leather which hung from a cord
around his neck. Tacked loosely over it, so as to hide it carefully, was
a miniature of none other than Aunt Clarissa in her days of youth and
beauty. It was the only one he could procure, and a safe hiding-place it
would have made, for no one would have thought of looking back of a
lady's portrait, and especially Aunt Clarissa's, for an important Yankee
cipher. The magnifying-glass was covered with snuff in his small round
snuff-box. He lit a candle, and began to write carefully and
laboriously. It was late at night when he had finished. His chamber
window opened upon a sloping roof which was bordered by a high stone
wall. It was but the work of a moment to slip from the wall to the
ground. He found himself in Waddell Lane. The despatch which he had
written with the aid of the hieroglyphics was safe in his pocket, and
now for the post-box of the conspirators.
A group of drunken soldiers reeled by him. One was singing at the top of
his voice. From the light of a window at his elbow George saw that it
was Corporal McCune, whom he remembered as the tall soldier to whom he
and his beloved brother had asserted their loyalty to the King when on
their first trip to the city.
What surprised George the most as he walked along was the smoothness
with which everything had worked. Perhaps Colonel Hewes's reputation for
rashness was entirely undeserved. Though he did not know exactly as yet
what the project was in which he was to be a factor, yet, inflamed by
the excitement, he could not doubt its successful accomplishment.
What the morrow would bring forth it was hard to tell. In the letter
which he had written, or, better, printed, he had told his name, who had
sent him, what he had come for, where he was stopping--in fact, had
given an accurate description of himself and his supposed individuality.
The letter added that he was waiting for his course of action to be
determined upon by any orders he might receive.
It had again commenced to snow, and the board sidewalk was already
covered with the downy film of white. How well he remembered everything!
He knew the little shop across the way with the tops and candy jars in
the window. And here was the blacksmith's, where he had stood in the
doorway, with his arm around William's shoulder, and watched the sparks
fly, and heard the anvil sing and clang. Oh, what good times they were!
Would he ever have his arm around his brother's shoulder again, or would
he ever feel the comforting touch of William's arm about his own?
Thoughts began to rush through his mind, and the harder he thought the
faster he walked.
But here he was at the orchard; here was the picket-fence. Now he
recalled the signal, for he bent down and picked up a branch. He broke
it into three pieces, and placed the first piece behind the third
picket, the second behind the sixth, and the third behind the ninth.
Colonel Hewes had instructed him to do this as a signal to the others of
his safe arrival. Then he walked to the turn-stile and stopped for a
minute, his heart beating fast. Even in the darkness, although objects
at a distance were most indistinct, he could see that footprints had
been lately made in the snow ahead of him. He stepped through the
turn-stile, keeping his eyes on the footprints ahead of him; they ran to
the second tree and stopped! Now, strange to say, the tracks ahead led
directly to the trunk of the second tree, and instinctively George felt
that whoever it was that made them was not far off. Without apparently
raising his head, he glanced up with his eyes, stumbling at the same
time in a way that might account for the slight halt. Yes, he had seen
it plainly. There was a figure sitting cross-legged on the lower branch,
so close that he could have touched it with a stick. On an occasion like
this thoughts must be quick, and George did the best thing that he could
have done, for he hastened across the orchard as if nothing had
occurred. When he reached the other side and the little lane that ran
from some farm buildings, he turned about the corner of a hay-stack.
It was not hard for him to work himself a little way into the damp,
yielding hay. He waited patiently, and his patience was rewarded, for,
following the footprints that he had made, came a thick-set, muffled
figure in a voluminous cape. How a man as large as that could ever hoist
himself up on the branch of an apple-tree seven feet from the ground so
easily and so noiselessly he could not see, nor could he make out the
stranger's features. He was muffled to the eyes. When he had passed, the
young spy drew himself cautiously out of the hay, and walked after the
retreating footsteps, bending over, and keeping well behind the piles of
hay and fodder. But the other's hearing must have been acute, for he
paused.
"What's that, I say?" came an intense voice.
George thought he detected a sharp metallic clicking. It was the cocking
of the hammer of a pistol.
The only answer to the man's hail, however, was the quick,
half-frightened barking of a dog.
"Get out, you beast!" said the voice, and a bit of stick struck the
ground where George was crouching on all-fours.
Further down the street the man passed by a lighted window. He turned
down his collar, and if George had been there, he would have been most
astounded.
It was Rivington, the King's Printer!
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
SAMUEL A. ANDRÉE, THE NORTH-POLE BALLOONIST.
BY WILFRID DE FOUVIELLE.
The year 1881 was a great date in North Pole exploration. The most
influential civilized nations sent out a dozen scientific parties to
study the peculiarities of those desolate regions as accurately as can
be determined without paying a visit to the centre of that mysterious
territory.
The Swedish explorers made their headquarters at Cape Thorsden, on the
southeastern island of the Spitzberg archipelago. This expedition, led
by Mr. Elkholm, a distinguished physicist attached to the celebrated
Upsal University, achieved considerable success. The members returned
home in good condition, after having wintered in an excellent
observatory, collected a large number of important readings, and
carrying back hundreds of photograms, minerals, and specimens of
vegetable and animal life in that far northern land.
The youngest member of this party was Mr. Samuel A. Andrée, son of an
apothecary in business near Stockholm, and a graduate of the Swedish
Polytechnic School. At that moment Mr. Andrée had not completed his
twenty-fifth year. He had been appointed a member of the scientific
staff through the influence of the Baron Nordenskjöld, the greatest
living Scandinavian polar explorer, and an intimate friend of the
Swedish King. Mr. Andrée's special duty on this first expedition was to
keep track of Sir William Thomson's (now Lord Kelvin) electrometers, and
to report on other scientific peculiarities.
Mr. Andrée is a genuine offspring of the famous sea-kings. He is very
tall, powerfully built, with a prominent forehead, blue eyes, and a
forest of fair early hair, and is endowed with great muscular strength.
As for his mental capacities, he is a talented writer and speaker, and
can converse in German and English as fluently as in his native tongue,
while he speaks French well enough to make himself easily understood by
an audience. Mr. Andrée's practical education has not been neglected,
and he knows how to use a hammer, a file, or a chisel as well as any
trained workman. On account of his manual acquirements he was selected
by the chief of the exploring party to keep the registering apparatus in
order, a difficult and painful operation during the terrific cold of the
dreary polar nights.
Before he had attained his thirtieth year Mr. Andrée received the
appointment of chief engineer of the Swedish Patent-Office. It is
probable that he would have devoted the whole of his life to the
performance of these attractive official duties had he not felt, during
his wintering in the northern regions, the irresistible spell of a more
risky and enticing vocation. When he visited me in Paris last summer on
his way to the International Geographical Congress, held in London, he
confessed that it was in the presence of those grand and impressive
scenes he had resolved to win for his native country the fame of having
reached the North Pole first.
It was in 1889 that Mr. Andrée decided to make balloon ascensions.
Receiving aid from a Swedish scientific fund and from the Stockholm
Academy of Sciences, he had the _Swea_ built in Paris, under the
supervision of the Swedish Minister. (_Swea_ is the poetic name for
Sweden.) This balloon measured 30,000 cubic feet. Mr. Andrée's first
ascension took place from Stockholm on July 15, 1893. He was quite alone
in the car, and this enabled him to reach an altitude of 11,000 feet,
after having passed successively through two layers of clouds,
accurately ascertained the direction of the wind prevailing at several
levels, and studied other important scientific matters, which have
proved valuable to students in all branches of science the world over.
He published a graphic account of his first experiences in the
_Aftonbladet_, one of the most influential papers in Sweden, to which he
had previously been a popular contributor. In this account he described
his sensations as soon as he had lost sight of land, and also when he
perceived that he would be immersed in the sea unless he found a
serviceable breeze that would carry him towards land. Fortunately the
breeze came in time.
[Illustration: ANDRÉE'S GUIDING SAIL.]
On October 19th of the same year Mr. Andrée made another ascension, in
the course of which almost any inexperienced aeronaut would have been
lost. As soon as he had passed through a layer of clouds, which up to
that moment had entirely concealed the earth from view, he saw that he
was passing at an immense distance from land over the very centre of the
Baltic. With a calm hand he gently lowered his guide-rope, and observed
that the friction on the water was greatly diminishing the velocity with
which the wind was carrying the Swea away from the sea-ports, where he
could reasonably expect to be rescued by casual ships. Then he tried to
reduce the velocity even more by attaching two sacks of ballast to the
end of his guide-rope. This simple combination, conceived under the
pressure of a great danger, led him to a discovery. He found that he
could make the balloon turn slightly to the right or left by using a
sail when lowering the guide-rope, not only on sea, but on a vast
expanse of land. Mr. Andrée tried this important experiment during an
ascension made on July 14, 1894, at Gottenburg. The change of course
that he obtained with a moderate-sized sail and a heavy guide-rope was
estimated from ten to thirty degrees, not only as shown by his compass,
but also according to the testimony of competent persons who had
witnessed this extraordinary ascension, when, for the first time, a man
had made a balloon sail on the wind.
[Illustration: IN THE CAR OF THE SWEA.]
An eventful ending was reserved for this ascension, during which the
young Swedish engineer had so cleverly combined the force of the wind
with the friction it generates, and utilized both for varying at will
the direction of the balloon to the right or left from the air current.
The sun was fast declining when Mr. Andrée conceived for the first time
this great idea, which may prove so useful for reaching the North Pole.
He soon observed a small island straight ahead in the direction he was
then following, and at once threw out a sack of ballast. His guide-rope
was freed from the waves in an instant, and the Swea darted forward at a
rapid rate for the desired land. Ten minutes had not elapsed when Mr.
Andrée saw, with a feeling of deep satisfaction and even rapture, the
shore lying about a hundred yards directly under his feet. Then he threw
his whole weight on his valve-rope, hundreds of cubic feet of gas
instantly escaped, the Swea struck land with a shock, and the car was
overturned. Our aeronaut, to his great satisfaction, was thrown, at full
length on the ground.
Being young in the art of balloon management, Mr. Andrée could not
imagine how quickly events happen in aerial navigation. Before he could
grasp a rope the Swea had vanished in the air, and he was left alone on
the island, without any food or covering, exposed to the cold of those
latitudes during a long and dismal October night. Naturally enough, he
found in his pocket a box of matches, for the manufacture of these
useful objects is a specialty in his native country. He gathered a few
dry weeds and dead shrubs and lighted a fire. While warming his tired
and hungry body he had plenty of time to meditate over the hardships of
his unenviable position. The island, which seemed allotted to him by
fate, was not two furlongs long and one wide, and had no water. It was
one of the thousand rocky and barren islets composing the Finnish
archipelago, and there was but slight possibility that any vessel sent
from Sweden could discover his retreat in time to save him from the most
terrible of fates, death from hunger and thirst.
As soon as the sun was up on the following morning Mr. Andrée ran to the
crest of a little rocky eminence, and kept screaming at the top of his
voice for more than an hour. Then he sat down exhausted and burst into
tears. Finally his swollen eyes perceived a cloud of smoke upon the
horizon. Surely it must be a steamer! No doubt the steamer was rapidly
nearing the island! The unfortunate aeronaut wrecked from the skies was
about to be rescued! In his joy he danced and resumed his screamings.
For a while he was elated. He had some right to believe that he had been
seen from the deck, as the ship was steering straight towards the
island. But the vessel changed its course, and in spite of the
balloonist's piercing cries, disappeared.
This unlucky departure would have driven many a resolute man to despair.
For Mr. Andrée it was a lesson. He at once understood that it was
impossible for any one on a vessel to see a human figure on this
desolate island, and that he must contrive a more showy signal than his
body, notwithstanding he was tall and strongly built. After having
meditated for half an hour--an eternity under the circumstances--he made
a sort of stout stick by tying together with weeds a lot of branches
torn from the shrubs. At the end of this stick he attached his trousers,
and waved them wildly over his head, after having mounted to the top of
the hill.
[Illustration: ANDRÉE'S ESCAPE FROM THE ISLAND.]
This unnamed island where Mr. Andrée was left is situated a few miles
from Brunskär, which has two houses. One of the two is owned by a
tailor, who goes around once or twice a week in a boat to visit his
customers, who are dispersed over the archipelago. Of course the
tailor's eyes were attracted by the sight of a pair of trousers floating
in the air, and he rowed to the spot to see what such a signal meant.
And this is how Mr. Andrée was restored to life, and thus enabled to
pursue his grand idea of reaching the North Pole in a balloon.
Having given some idea of Mr. Andrée's career, and shown a few traits of
his energetic character, I purpose, as soon as possible, to tell my
young readers the story of the preparations he is now making for this
great aerial voyage, which is attracting the interest of scientific
people all over the world. Mr. Andrée will start on this perilous voyage
some time this year, probably in July, if he can get all things ready by
that time. His friend, Mr. Elkholm, will accompany him, and it is not
impossible that the explorers may land somewhere in America, after
having passed, perhaps, over the North Pole, or at least very near it.
[Illustration: SAMUEL A. ANDRÉE.]
A BATTER THAT WORKS THREE WAYS.
With very slight change one may convert the same material into several
varieties of fancy bread. Southern cooks understand this so well that
they frequently set aside a mixture, after having supplied the
breakfast-table with griddle-cakes, only to have it reappear at luncheon
in quite different guise--as "pone," muffins, egg-bread, or "pop-overs."
If kept in a cool place an ordinary batter will remain sweet for
twenty-four hours, and the addition of an egg or a spoonful of
baking-powder will quickly restore its lightness.
By way of proving the many-sidedness of certain mixtures, let us see how
the use of muffin-cups, waffle-irons, and frying-pan will alter results,
and turn out for us "Virginia puffs," "Aunt Sally's waffles," and "bell
fritters." The necessary ingredients for all three dainties are: 1 quart
of milk; 1-1/2 pints of flour (half a pint to be set aside for fritters,
which require more than puffs or waffles); 4 eggs; a table-spoonful of
butter and lard combined; a heaping teaspoonful of baking-powder; a
small teaspoonful of salt.
The Virginia puffs will require everything except the half-pint of flour
reserved for fritters.
Set aside a coffee-cup of milk, and put the rest in a farina-kettle over
a brisk fire.
Sift a pint of flour into a bowl. Gradually pour over it the coffee-cup
of cold milk, heating until it becomes a smooth paste. By this time the
remainder of the milk will be hot enough (it must not boil) to stir
little by little into the paste. Next add the butter, lard, and salt,
then the baking-powder mixed in a little dry flour.
Now beat, beat, beat with a big spoon and plenty of muscle, for the
success and puffiness of your puffs depend largely on the amount of
energy expended on them.
Whisk the whites of two eggs to a stiff froth. Beat the whites of two
and yolks of three together, very light, and beat them into the batter,
the frothed whites last.
Have your muffin-cups hot and well buttered. Pour in the mixture, and
bake twenty to twenty-five minutes in a quick oven. Serve the moment
they are up to the top of the cups and a nice brown color, otherwise
they will fall and grow sodden.
The same receipt, minus baking-powder and lard, makes excellent waffles.
If you like them thick and soft, fill the irons well with batter. If
they are preferred thin and crisp, use less. Should they still seem too
solid, thin with a little milk.
The secret of good waffles is the cooking. The irons must be constantly
turned over a steady fire to prevent blistering or scorching and to give
to both sides an appearance of evenness. Never wait to bake a quantity,
but serve as fast as the iron turns them out.
When you have reached the point mentioned in directions for Virginia
puffs where the quart of milk has been stirred into a pint of flour,
leave the paste to grow cold. Before dinner beat in the four eggs and a
half-pint of dry flour.
These fritters are delicious with a hot sauce for dessert, but may be
metamorphosed into an entrée by the addition of bananas, apples, or
apricots, cut small and stirred lightly into the batter at the last
moment before frying.
Put a pound or more of best leaf lard in a deep iron skillet, and let it
come to a boil. Dip the fritter mixture up in a large kitchen spoon.
Hold over the skillet, and cut it from the spoon with a knife. It will
fall into the hot lard somewhat in the form of the bowl of the spoon.
The name "bell" implies that they should not be flat and shapeless, but
nicely rounded.
AN AWAKENING.
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.
I used to think that Fido was a most exciting pet;
He'd come up in the morning and beneath the bed-clothes get,
And play that he was savage, and go biting at my toes;
But now he doesn't scare me--little Fi no longer goes.
I used to think our gardener a hero great and grand,
The biggest man of all the big in all our great big land;
But now I take no stock in him; he doesn't interest,
Although to make a wonder he just tries his level best.
You see, somebody gave me, not so very long ago,
A little book of fairy tales--it's wonderful, you know,
To read about the fearful things they do in books like that.
And it's what's made old Fido and the gardener seem flat.
I want a dragon for a pet--a dragon big and fierce--
That feeds on fire and powder, with a glance that seems to pierce,
I sort of don't get wrought up by old Fido when I read
Of how that fierce old dragon takes in lions for his feed.
And as for John the garden man, he doesn't seem to me
One half the hero that one time I thought that he must be,
For he don't kill off giants, like Hop o' my Thumb and Jack,
And all my liking for his tales is growing very slack.
So, daddy, get a dragon that will jump into my bed
Each morning when the sun comes up, and sniff about my head
The way old Fido does, and let the market garden go
To some real ogre-killer, like Great Jacky was, you know.
A BLOW FOR CUBA.
BY WILLIAM BANKS, JUN.
It was a very hot day even for Cuba. Every living thing moved listlessly.
The great Spanish flag, hanging from the tall slender staff just inside
the gate of the fort, drooped like the wings of a tired bird. The
sentries were almost gasping for breath. In the barracks the men
grumbled and railed at the fate which had brought them from home and
friends to fight in a country where fever thinned their ranks far more
effectively than did the bullets of the insurgents.
On a slight hill about a mile from the fort a man and a youth were
lolling lazily on the ground. The lad was about eighteen years of age,
tall, well-built, and unmistakably an American. His companion, a native
Cuban, was at least thirty years old, short, but with a frame denoting
immense strength.
They had been watching the fort for an hour or more through a powerful
field-glass, and following closely the movements of the sentries on the
wall nearest them.
"Pah!" said the lad at last, "they're only a lot of boys."
The man smiled at him meaningly, and the lad blushed.
"I know," he continued, hesitatingly, "that you're thinking I'm just a
boy too; but," proudly, "I'm an American."
"So," answered the man, softly; "and had I a few score such lads as you
in my command I'd strike a great blow for Cuba to-day."
"How, Captain Marto?" was the eager question.
"By taking yonder fort by storm," was the quiet reply.
The youth's father was a prisoner in the fort, and the incidents which
led up to his capture may be here described. For five years Mr. Hinton,
a native of Pennsylvania State, had resided with his son Ben in Havana,
where he carried on business as a general merchant. His wife had died
while on a visit to her old American home. Among Cubans Mr. Hinton was
well known as a sympathizer in their cause. Immediately on receipt of
the news in Havana that General Antonio Maceo had taken the field he
decided to lend his active aid to the Cuban leader. Not wishing his son
to share in the dangers of a struggle in which he knew that the
Spaniards would show no mercy to any who took up arms against them, Mr.
Hinton had suggested that Ben go back to relatives in America. This
proposition the lad stoutly opposed. Ben knew by heart the stories of
the brave efforts which the Cubans had so often made in their attempts
to throw off the Spanish yoke. The names of Maceo, Gomez, Marto, and
other revolutionists were held in high estimation by him, and, with that
intense love of freedom inherited by every American boy, he had
determined, long before he knew his father's views on the subject, to
strike a blow in the coming struggle for Cuban independence. His father
was at last compelled to consent to Ben's accompanying him.
Accordingly, one evening Mr. Hinton, Marto, and Ben left Havana
secretly. By travelling at night, and lying concealed during the day in
the huts of natives, and sometimes in the woods, they reached the
outskirts of the province of Puerto Principe. Here, at the little
village in which Marto was born, thirty natives joined them. Marto was
elected captain of the band. Feeling somewhat secure, on account of
their numbers, the band travelled through the country by day, taking the
most direct route for Maceo's camp. But one morning they were suddenly
surrounded by an overwhelming force of Spanish soldiers. With desperate
courage, Captain Marto, Ben, and some twenty-five men cut their way out
of the cordon of soldiers and sought safety in flight.
It was not until the Spaniards gave up the chase that any one noticed
that Mr. Hinton was not with the party. Poor Ben was in a frenzy, and,
but for Captain Marto and a couple of men restraining him by force,
would have rushed back to the scene of the conflict to seek for his
father. Wiser counsel prevailed, however, and towards evening a man who
joined the party brought comparative happiness to Ben by the report that
he had watched from the woods a party of Spanish soldiers marching along
with an American prisoner in their midst. The description of the
prisoner tallied so closely with that of Mr. Hinton as to leave no doubt
of his identity.
Then Marto, who loved Mr. Hinton as a brother, had determined that, at
whatever cost, his American friend must be rescued.
"Why," he had said to Ben, "I dare not go to Maceo without him, and I
would not if I could. Tho General is expecting him, and will give him a
command as soon as he arrives at the camp."
"Which," Ben had answered, gloomily enough, "will never be."
"Which," Marto had retorted, somewhat testily, "must and will be."
Two days after the fight they located the fort which was the
headquarters of the soldiers who had attacked them, and it was this Ben
and Captain Marto were watching when our story opens. The band had spent
three days in the neighborhood, but as yet had not even succeeded in
letting the prisoner know that his friends had not totally deserted him.
The fort was a very rude affair, the walls being constructed of two
thicknesses of logs with earth packed between. An earthen embankment ran
around the inner side of the walls, and at such a height that when the
soldiers appeared on it their bodies from the waist up offered a
splendid target to an enemy. Some two hundred and fifty men formed the
garrison, and they were quartered in a huge two-storied log barracks in
the centre of the enclosed ground. In front of the barracks, and about
twenty feet from it, was a small hut, in which Ben and Captain Marto, by
the aid of the field-glass, had learnt Mr. Hinton was confined.
Continuing their conversation, Captain Marto and Ben had decided that
the attempted rescue must be made that night. They knew that the great
heat would have a depressing effect on the Spaniards, and they knew also
that after nightfall not more than three sentries patrolled the walls of
the fort. Many plans were discussed whereby success might reasonably be
expected to attend their venture, but the one upon which it was finally
decided to act was suggested by Ben.
[Illustration: MARTO GRASPED THE SENTRY AND THREW HIM OVER THE WALL.]
In accordance with that plan, after the night was well advanced, Captain
Marto and Ben, with eight men, lay in the shadows under the eastern wall
of the fort. They listened until they heard the sentry walk past the
position they occupied, and then Marto, mounting upon the shoulders of
two of the men, scrambled to the top of the wall. He dropped softly to
the embankment, and lay as close to the logs as he possibly could.
Shortly the sentry came along on his return patrol, humming a Spanish
song. He did not notice the prostrate form until he almost trod upon it.
It was then too late to give a warning, for Marto sprang up, and with
all the strength of which he was capable, struck the man full on the
mouth, and followed this up immediately by grasping him around the waist
and fairly throwing him over the wall. Here a dozen hands quickly
grasped the soldier, who was gagged and bound before he could utter a
cry.
Then one by one the Cubans with Ben scrambled up, and the whole ten made
a rush for the small hut. Three sleepy guards were cut down in a few
seconds, the door of the building was forced open, and Mr. Hinton was
led out by his son.
"Dad! dear old Dad!" cried Ben.
"Ben! my boy!" was the answer, and the voices of father and son betrayed
deep emotion.
At this moment a shot was fired, and a sentry on the western wall fell.
Instantly a tremendous hubbub arose within the barracks, and the
Spaniards, some of whom had already been aroused by the scuffle with Mr.
Hinton's guards, began to pour out of the building. All were armed,
though many were only half dressed; but before they had time to load
their rifles the remaining Cubans, who had got into the ground by way of
the western wall, joined Captain Marto and those with him, and the
little band of twenty-five flung themselves on the Spaniards.
While the fighting was going on Ben suddenly found himself thrust
against something, which proved to be the flag-pole, and, looking up,
discovered the Spanish flag waving overhead. The idea at once occurred
to him to take advantage of the laxity of discipline among the Spanish
troops. He hauled on the ropes, but for some reason they would not work.
Placing his clasp-knife between his teeth, he climbed the staff, until
he clasped the folds of the flag with his left hand; then he was
compelled to sever the halyards with his knife.
From his airy perch Ben turned his eyes in the direction of the
struggle. He could barely distinguish the outlines of the surging mass
of men. But high above the din of oaths and cries in Spanish, the clash
of bayonet, sword-blade, and the favorite Cuban weapon, the machete,
arose the exulting cry: "Cuba libre! Cuba libre!"
The lad's soul was thrilled. "Surely," he muttered to himself, "Cuba for
the Cubans will soon be a fact and not a dream. But they must retire."
Even as the word left his lips, a single long shrill note from a whistle
pierced the air. It was a prearranged signal, and it came none too soon;
for now, somewhat recovered from the suddenness of the attack, the
Spaniards, realizing the small force opposed to them, were driving the
Cubans back by sheer weight of numbers.
At the signal, however, the Cubans retired with surprising swiftness,
carrying with them the bodies of several of their comrades who had
fallen. As they passed the staff Ben slipped down amongst them, the flag
bundled up under his left arm. The gate had already been opened by two
Cubans, who had been assigned that duty. The whole band rushed through,
three or four men in mere bravado lingering to pull the gate to after
them.
As they fled several Spaniards mounted the embankment and sent a volley
after them, one bullet striking Ben's left arm. A little cry of pain
escaped him, but he clinched his teeth, and grasping the flag still
tighter, hurried on.
No pursuit was made, and after placing two miles between themselves and
the fort, a halt was called. Torches were lit, and by their fitful glare
it was found that of the Cubans who had to be carried away none were
dead, although in some cases the wounds were serious. When Ben produced
the flag, all stained with his own blood, the impulsive Cubans showered
such praise upon him that the lad felt almost shamed. His father said
very little, but Ben knew by the silent hand-shake and the care for the
wounded arm that Mr. Hinton was proud of his son.
The rest of the journey to Maceo's camp partook of the nature of a
triumphal procession. The news of the gallant deeds of Marto's little
band roused the whole countryside, and in a few weeks' time what had
formerly been a quiet district was in arms against the Spaniard.
When Maceo's camp was reached Mr. Hinton, Marto, and Ben were at once
conducted into his presence. He began to compliment Marto, but the
latter interrupted respectfully.
"Sir, it was my gallant comrade here," pointing to Ben, "who planned the
affair and captured the flag. To him the honor is due."
General Maceo stepped up to Ben and clasped the lad's right hand warmly
in his own.
"What can I do for you, my hero?" he asked.
"Let me continue to fight in your cause," was the modest answer.
And, under the immediate command of his father, Ben Hinton is still
fighting for Cuba.
THE MIDDLE DAUGHTER.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
CHAPTER II.
AT WISHING-BRAE.