The Reporter Who Made Himself King
by
Richard Harding Davis
The Old Time Journalist will tell you that the best reporter is the one
who works his way up. He holds that the only way to start is as a
printer's devil or as an office boy, to learn in time to set type, to
graduate from a compositor into a stenographer, and as a stenographer
take down speeches at public meetings, and so finally grow into a real
reporter, with a fire badge on your left suspender, and a speaking
acquaintance with all the greatest men in the city, not even excepting
Police Captains.
That is the old time journalist's idea of it. That is the way he was
trained, and that is why at the age of sixty he is still a reporter.
If you train up a youth in this way, he will go into reporting with too
full a knowledge of the newspaper business, with no illusions
concerning it, and with no ignorant enthusiasms, but with a keen and
justifiable impression that he is not paid enough for what he does.
And he will only do what he is paid to do.
Now, you cannot pay a good reporter for what he does, because he does
not work for pay. He works for his paper. He gives his time, his
health, his brains, his sleeping hours, and his eating hours, and
sometimes his life, to get news for it. He thinks the sun rises only
that men may have light by which to read it. But if he has been in a
newspaper office from his youth up, he finds out before he becomes a
reporter that this is not so, and loses his real value. He should come
right out of the University where he has been doing "campus notes" for
the college weekly, and be pitchforked out into city work without
knowing whether the Battery is at Harlem or Hunter's Point, and with
the idea that he is a Moulder of Public Opinion and that the Power of
the Press is greater than the Power of Money, and that the few lines he
writes are of more value in the Editor's eyes than is the column of
advertising on the last page, which they are not.
After three years--it is sometimes longer, sometimes not so long--he
finds out that he has given his nerves and his youth and his enthusiasm
in exchange for a general fund of miscellaneous knowledge, the
opportunity of personal encounter with all the greatest and most
remarkable men and events that have risen in those three years, and a
great fund of resource and patience. He will find that he has crowded
the experiences of the lifetime of the ordinary young business man,
doctor, or lawyer, or man about town, into three short years; that he
has learned to think and to act quickly, to be patient and unmoved when
everyone else has lost his head, actually or figuratively speaking; to
write as fast as another man can talk, and to be able to talk with
authority on matters of which other men do not venture even to think
until they have read what he has written with a copy-boy at his elbow
on the night previous.
It is necessary for you to know this, that you may understand what
manner of man young Albert Gordon was.
Young Gordon had been a reporter just three years. He had left Yale
when his last living relative died, and had taken the morning train for
New York, where they had promised him reportorial work on one of the
innumerable Greatest New York Dailies. He arrived at the office at
noon, and was sent back over the same road on which he had just come,
to Spuyten Duyvil, where a train had been wrecked and everybody of
consequence to suburban New York killed. One of the old reporters
hurried him to the office again with his "copy," and after he had
delivered that, he was sent to the Tombs to talk French to a man in
Murderers' Row, who could not talk anything else, but who had shown
some international skill in the use of a jimmy. And at eight, he
covered a flower-show in Madison Square Garden; and at eleven was sent
over the Brooklyn Bridge in a cab to watch a fire and make guesses at
the losses to the insurance companies.
He went to bed at one, and dreamed of shattered locomotives, human
beings lying still with blankets over them, rows of cells, and banks of
beautiful flowers nodding their heads to the tunes of the brass band in
the gallery. He decided when he awoke the next morning that he had
entered upon a picturesque and exciting career, and as one day followed
another, he became more and more convinced of it, and more and more
devoted to it. He was twenty then, and he was now twenty-three, and in
that time had become a great reporter, and had been to Presidential
conventions in Chicago, revolutions in Hayti, Indian outbreaks on the
Plains, and midnight meetings of moonlighters in Tennessee, and had
seen what work earthquakes, floods, fire, and fever could do in great
cities, and had contradicted the President, and borrowed matches from
burglars. And now he thought he would like to rest and breathe a bit,
and not to work again unless as a war correspondent. The only obstacle
to his becoming a great war correspondent lay in the fact that there
was no war, and a war correspondent without a war is about as absurd an
individual as a general without an army. He read the papers every
morning on the elevated trains for war clouds; but though there were
many war clouds, they always drifted apart, and peace smiled again.
This was very disappointing to young Gordon, and he became more and
more keenly discouraged.
And then as war work was out of the question, he decided to write his
novel. It was to be a novel of New York life, and he wanted a quiet
place in which to work on it. He was already making inquiries among
the suburban residents of his acquaintance for just such a quiet spot,
when he received an offer to go to the Island of Opeki in the North
Pacific Ocean, as secretary to the American consul at that place. The
gentleman who had been appointed by the President to act as consul at
Opeki was Captain Leonard T. Travis, a veteran of the Civil War, who
had contracted a severe attack of rheumatism while camping out at night
in the dew, and who on account of this souvenir of his efforts to save
the Union had allowed the Union he had saved to support him in one
office or another ever since. He had met young Gordon at a dinner, and
had had the presumption to ask him to serve as his secretary, and
Gordon, much to his surprise, had accepted his offer. The idea of a
quiet life in the tropics with new and beautiful surroundings, and with
nothing to do and plenty of time in which to do it, and to write his
novel besides, seemed to Albert to be just what he wanted; and though
he did not know nor care much for his superior officer, he agreed to go
with him promptly, and proceeded to say good-by to his friends and to
make his preparations. Captain Travis was so delighted with getting
such a clever young gentleman for his secretary, that he referred to
him to his friends as "my attache of legation;" nor did he lessen that
gentleman's dignity by telling anyone that the attache's salary was to
be five hundred dollars a year. His own salary was only fifteen
hundred dollars; and though his brother-in-law, Senator Rainsford,
tried his best to get the amount raised, he was unsuccessful. The
consulship to Opeki was instituted early in the '50's, to get rid of
and reward a third or fourth cousin of the President's, whose services
during the campaign were important, but whose after-presence was
embarrassing. He had been created consul to Opeki as being more
distant and unaccessible than any other known spot, and had lived and
died there; and so little was known of the island, and so difficult was
communication with it, that no one knew he was dead, until Captain
Travis, in his hungry haste for office, had uprooted the sad fact.
Captain Travis, as well as Albert, had a secondary reason for wishing
to visit Opeki. His physician had told him to go to some warm climate
for his rheumatism, and in accepting the consulship his object was
rather to follow out his doctor's orders at his country's expense, than
to serve his country at the expense of his rheumatism.
Albert could learn but very little of Opeki; nothing, indeed, but that
it was situated about one hundred miles from the Island of Octavia,
which island, in turn, was simply described as a coaling-station three
hundred miles distant from the coast of California. Steamers from San
Francisco to Yokohama stopped every third week at Octavia, and that was
all that either Captain Travis or his secretary could learn of their
new home. This was so very little, that Albert stipulated to stay only
as long as he liked it, and to return to the States within a few months
if he found such a change of plan desirable.
As he was going to what was an almost undiscovered country, he thought
it would be advisable to furnish himself with a supply of articles with
which he might trade with the native Opekians, and for this purpose he
purchased a large quantity of brass rods, because he had read that
Stanley did so, and added to these, brass curtain-chains, and about two
hundred leaden medals similar to those sold by street pedlers during
the Constitutional Centennial celebration in New York City.
He also collected even more beautiful but less exensive decorations for
Christmas-trees, at a wholesale house on Park Row. These he hoped to
exchange for furs or feathers or weapons, or for whatever other curious
and valuable trophies the Island of Opeki boasted. He already pictured
his rooms on his return hung fantastically with crossed spears and
boomerangs, feather head-dresses, and ugly idols.
His friends told him that he was doing a very foolish thing, and argued
that once out of the newspaper world, it would be hard to regain his
place in it. But he thought the novel that he would write while lost
to the world at Opeki would serve to make up for his temporary absence
from it, and he expressly and impressively stipulated that the editor
should wire him if there was a war.
Captain Travis and his secretary crossed the continent without
adventure, and took passage from San Francisco on the first steamer
that touched at Octavia. They reached that island in three days, and
learned with some concern that there was no regular communication with
Opeki, and that it would be necessary to charter a sailboat for the
trip. Two fishermen agreed to take them and their trunks, and to get
them to their destination within sixteen hours if the wind held good.
It was a most unpleasant sail. The rain fell with calm, unrelentless
persistence from what was apparently a clear sky; the wind tossed the
waves as high as the mast and made Captain Travis ill; and as there was
no deck to the big boat, they were forced to huddle up under pieces of
canvas, and talked but little. Captain Travis complained of frequent
twinges of rheumatism, and gazed forlornly over the gunwale at the
empty waste of water.
"If I've got to serve a term of imprisonment on a rock in the middle of
the ocean for four years," he said, "I might just as well have done
something first to deserve it. This is a pretty way to treat a man who
bled for his country. This is gratitude, this is." Albert pulled
heavily on his pipe, and wiped the rain and spray from his face and
smiled.
"Oh, it won't be so bad when we get there," he said; "they say these
Southern people are always hospitable, and the whites will be glad to
see anyone from the States."
"There will be a round of diplomatic dinners," said the consul, with an
attempt at cheerfulness. "I have brought two uniforms to wear at them."
It was seven o'clock in the evening when the rain ceased, and one of
the black, half-naked fishermen nodded and pointed at a little low line
on the horizon.
"Opeki," he said. The line grew in length until it proved to be an
island with great mountains rising to the clouds, and, as they drew
nearer and nearer, showed a level coast running back to the foot of the
mountains and covered with a forest of palms. They next made out a
village of thatched huts around a grassy square, and at some distance
from the village a wooden structure with a tin roof.
"I wonder where the town is," asked the consul, with a nervous glance
at the fishermen. One of them told him that what he saw was the town.
"That?" gasped the consul. "Is that where all the people on the island
live?"
The fisherman nodded; but the other added that there were other natives
further back in the mountains, but that they were bad men who fought
and ate each other. The consul and his attache of legation gazed at
the mountains with unspoken misgivings. They were quite near now, and
could see an immense crowd of men and women, all of them black, and
clad but in the simplest garments, waiting to receive them. They
seemed greatly excited and ran in and out of the huts, and up and down
the beach, as wildly as so many black ants. But in the front of the
group they distinguished three men who they could see were white,
though they were clothed, like the others, simply in a shirt and a
short pair of trousers. Two of these three suddenly sprang away on a
run and disappeared among the palm-trees; but the third one, when he
recognized the American flag in the halyards, threw his straw hat in
the water and began turning handsprings over the sand.
"That young gentleman, at least," said Albert, gravely, "seems pleased
to see us."
A dozen of the natives sprang into the water and came wading and
swimming toward them, grinning and shouting and swinging their arms.
"I don't think it's quite safe, do you?" said the consul, looking out
wildly to the open sea. "You see, they don't know who I am."
A great black giant threw one arm over the gunwale and shouted
something that sounded as if it were spelt Owah, Owah, as the boat
carried him through the surf.
"How do you do?" said Gordon, doubtfully. The boat shook the giant off
under the wave and beached itself so suddenly that the American consul
was thrown forward to his knees. Gordon did not wait to pick him up,
but jumped out and shook hands with the young man who had turned
handsprings, while the natives gathered about them in a circle and
chatted and laughed in delighted excitement.
"I'm awfully glad to see you," said the young man, eagerly. "My name's
Stedman. I'm from New Haven, Connecticut. Where are you from?"
"New York," said Albert. "This," he added, pointing solemnly to
Captain Travis, who was still on his knees in the boat, "is the
American consul to Opeki." The American consul to Opeki gave a wild
look at Mr. Stedman of New Haven and at the natives.
"See here, young man," he gasped, "is this all there is of Opeki?"
"The American consul?" said young Stedman, with a gasp of amazement,
and looking from Albert to Captain Travis. "Why, I never supposed they
would send another here; the last one died about fifteen years ago, and
there hasn't been one since. I've been living in the consul's office
with the Bradleys, but I'll move out, of course. I'm sure I'm awfully
glad to see you. It'll make it so much more pleasant for me."
"Yes," said Captain Travis, bitterly, as he lifted his rheumatic leg
over the boat; "that's why we came."
Mr. Stedman did not notice this. He was too much pleased to be
anything but hospitable. "You are soaking wet, aren't you?" he said;
"and hungry, I guess. You come right over to the consul's office and
get on some other things."
He turned to the natives and gave some rapid orders in their language,
and some of them jumped into the boat at this, and began to lift out
the trunks, and others ran off toward a large, stout old native, who
was sitting gravely on a log, smoking, with the rain beating unnoticed
on his gray hair.
"They've gone to tell the King," said Stedman; "but you'd better get
something to eat first, and then I'll be happy to present you properly."
"The King," said Captain Travis, with some awe; "is there a king?"
"I never saw a king," Gordon remarked, "and I'm sure I never expected
to see one sitting on a log in the rain."
"He's a very good king," said Stedman, confidentially; "and though you
mightn't think it to look at him, he's a terrible stickler for
etiquette and form. After supper he'll give you an audience; and if
you have any tobacco, you had better give him some as a present, and
you'd better say it's from the President: he doesn't like to take
presents from common people, he's so proud. The only reason he borrows
mine is because he thinks I'm the President's son."
"What makes him think that?" demanded the consul, with some shortness.
Young Mr. Stedman looked nervously at the consul and at Albert, and
said that he guessed someone must have told him.
The consul's office was divided into four rooms with an open court in
the middle, filled with palms, and watered somewhat unnecessarily by a
fountain.
"I made that," said Stedman, in a modest, offhand way. "I made it out
of hollow bamboo reeds connected with a spring. And now I'm making one
for the King. He saw this and had a lot of bamboo sticks put up all
over the town, without any underground connections, and couldn't make
out why the water wouldn't spurt out of them. And because mine spurts,
he thinks I'm a magician."
"I suppose," grumbled the consul, "someone told him that too."
"I suppose so," said Mr. Stedman, uneasily.
There was a veranda around the consul's office, and inside the walls
were hung with skins, and pictures from illustrated papers, and there
was a good deal of bamboo furniture, and four broad, cool-looking beds.
The place was as clean as a kitchen. "I made the furniture," said
Stedman, "and the Bradleys keep the place in order."
"Who are the Bradleys?" asked Albert.
"The Bradleys are those two men you saw with me," said Stedman; "they
deserted from a British man-of-war that stopped here for coal, and they
act as my servants. One is Bradley, Sr., and the other Bradley, Jr."
"Then vessels do stop here occasionally?" the consul said, with a
pleased smile.
"Well, not often," said Stedman. "Not so very often; about once a
year. The Nelson thought this was Octavia, and put off again as soon
as she found out her mistake, but the Bradleys took to the bush, and
the boat's crew couldn't find them. When they saw your flag, they
thought you might mean to send them back, so they ran off to hide
again; they'll be back, though, when they get hungry."
The supper young Stedman spread for his guests, as he still treated
them, was very refreshing and very good. There was cold fish and
pigeon-pie, and a hot omelet filled with mushrooms and olives and
tomatoes and onions all sliced up together, and strong black coffee.
After supper, Stedman went off to see the King, and came back in a
little while to say that his Majesty would give them an audience the
next day after breakfast. "It is too dark now," Stedman explained;
"and it's raining so that they can't make the street-lamps burn. Did
you happen to notice our lamps? I invented them; but they don't work
very well yet. I've got the right idea, though, and I'll soon have the
town illuminated all over, whether it rains or not."
The consul had been very silent and indifferent, during supper, to all
around him. Now he looked up with some show of interest.
"How much longer is it going to rain, do you think?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know," said Stedman, critically. "Not more than two
months, I should say." The consul rubbed his rheumatic leg and sighed,
but said nothing.
The Bradleys returned about ten o'clock, and came in very sheepishly.
The consul had gone off to pay the boatmen who had brought them, and
Albert in his absence assured the sailors that there was not the least
danger of their being sent away. Then he turned into one of the beds,
and Stedman took one in another room, leaving the room he had occupied
heretofore for the consul. As he was saying good-night, Albert
suggested that he had not yet told them how he came to be on a deserted
island; but Stedman only laughed and said that that was a long story,
and that he would tell him all about it in the morning. So Albert went
off to bed without waiting for the consul to return, and fell asleep,
wondering at the strangeness of his new life, and assuring himself that
if the rain only kept up, he would have his novel finished in a month.
The sun was shining brightly when he awoke, and the palm-trees outside
were nodding gracefully in a warm breeze. From the court came the odor
of strange flowers, and from the window he could see the ocean
brilliantly blue, and with the sun coloring the spray that beat against
the coral reefs on the shore.
"Well, the consul can't complain of this," he said, with a laugh of
satisfaction; and pulling on a bath-robe, he stepped into the next room
to awaken Captain Travis. But the room was quite empty, and the bed
undisturbed. The consul's trunk remained just where it had been placed
near the door, and on it lay a large sheet of foolscap, with writing on
it, and addressed at the top to Albert Gordon. The handwriting was the
consul's. Albert picked it up and read it with much anxiety. It began
abruptly--
"The fishermen who brought us to this forsaken spot tell me that it
rains here six months in the year, and that this is the first month. I
came here to serve my country, for which I fought and bled, but I did
not come here to die of rheumatism and pneumonia. I can serve my
country better by staying alive; and whether it rains or not, I don't
like it. I have been grossly deceived, and I am going back. Indeed,
by the time you get this, I will be on my return trip, as I intend
leaving with the men who brought us here as soon as they can get the
sail up. My cousin, Senator Rainsford, can fix it all right with the
President, and can have me recalled in proper form after I get back.
But of course it would not do for me to leave my post with no one to
take my place, and no one could be more ably fitted to do so than
yourself; so I feel no compunctions at leaving you behind. I hereby,
therefore, accordingly appoint you my substitute with full power to
act, to collect all fees, sign all papers, and attend to all matters
pertaining to your office as American consul, and I trust you will
worthily uphold the name of that country and government which it has
always been my pleasure and duty to serve.
"Your sincere friend and superior officer,
"LEONARD T. TRAVIS.
"P. S. I did not care to disturb you by moving my trunk, so I left it,
and you can make what use you please of whatever it contains, as I
shall not want tropical garments where I am going. What you will need
most, I think, is a waterproof and umbrella.
"P. S. Look out for that young man Stedman. He is too inventive. I
hope you will like your high office; but as for myself, I am satisfied
with little old New York. Opeki is just a bit too far from
civilization to suit me."
Albert held the letter before him and read it over again before he
moved. Then he jumped to the window. The boat was gone, and there was
not a sign of it on the horizon.
"The miserable old hypocrite!" he cried, half angry and half laughing.
"If he thinks I am going to stay here alone he is very greatly
mistaken. And yet, why not?" he asked. He stopped soliloquizing and
looked around him, thinking rapidly. As he stood there, Stedman came
in from the other room, fresh and smiling from his morning's bath.
"Good-morning," he said, "where's the consul?"
"The consul," said Albert, gravely, "is before you. In me you see the
American consul to Opeki.
"Captain Travis," Albert explained, "has returned to the United States.
I suppose he feels that he can best serve his country by remaining on
the spot. In case of another war, now, for instance, he would be there
to save it again."
"And what are you going to do?" asked Stedman, anxiously. "You will
not run away too, will you?"
Albert said that he intended to remain where he was and perform his
consular duties, to appoint him his secretary, and to elevate the
United States in the opinion of the Opekians above all other nations.
"They may not think much of the United States in England," he said;
"but we are going to teach the people of Opeki that America is first on
the map and that there is no second."
"I'm sure it's very good of you to make me your secretary," said
Stedman, with some pride. "I hope I won't make any mistakes. What are
the duties of a consul's secretary?"
"That," said Albert, "I do not know. But you are rather good at
inventing, so you can invent a few. That should be your first duty and
you should attend to it at once. I will have trouble enough finding
work for myself. Your salary is five hundred dollars a year; and now,"
he continued, briskly, "we want to prepare for this reception. We can
tell the King that Travis was just a guard of honor for the trip, and
that I have sent him back to tell the President of my safe arrival.
That will keep the President from getting anxious. There is nothing,"
continued Albert, "like a uniform to impress people who live in the
tropics, and Travis, it so happens, has two in his trunk. He intended
to wear them on State occasions, and as I inherit the trunk and all
that is in it, I intend to wear one of the uniforms, and you can have
the other. But I have first choice, because I am consul."
Captain Travis's consular outfit consisted of one full dress and one
undress United States uniform. Albert put on the dress-coat over a
pair of white flannel trousers, and looked remarkably brave and
handsome. Stedman, who was only eighteen and quite thin, did not
appear so well, until Albert suggested his padding out his chest and
shoulders with towels. This made him rather warm, but helped his
general appearance.
"The two Bradleys must dress up, too," said Albert. "I think they
ought to act as a guard of honor, don't you? The only things I have
are blazers and jerseys; but it doesn't much matter what they wear, as
long as they dress alike."
He accordingly called in the two Bradleys, and gave them each a pair of
the captain's rejected white duck trousers, and a blue jersey apiece,
with a big white Y on it.
"The students of Yale gave me that," he said to the younger Bradley,
"in which to play football, and a great man gave me the other. His
name is Walter Camp; and if you rip or soil that jersey, I'll send you
back to England in irons; so be careful."
Stedman gazed at his companions in their different costumes,
doubtfully. "It reminds me," he said, "of private theatricals. Of the
time our church choir played 'Pinafore.'"
"Yes," assented Albert; "but I don't think we look quite gay enough. I
tell you what we need,--medals. You never saw a diplomat without a lot
of decorations and medals."
"Well, I can fix that," Stedman said. "I've got a trunkful. I used to
be the fastest bicycle-rider in Connecticut, and I've got all my prizes
with me."
Albert said doubtfully that that wasn't exactly the sort of medal he
meant.
"Perhaps not," returned Stedman, as he began fumbling in his trunk;
"but the King won't know the difference. He couldn't tell a cross of
the Legion of Honor from a medal for the tug of war."
So the bicycle medals, of which Stedman seemed to have an innumerable
quantity, were strung in profusion over Albert's uniform, and in a
lesser quantity over Stedman's; while a handful of leaden ones, those
sold on the streets for the Constitutional Centennial, with which
Albert had provided himself, were wrapped up in a red silk handkerchief
for presentation to the King; with them Albert placed a number of brass
rods and brass chains, much to Stedman's delighted approval.
"That is a very good idea," he said. "Democratic simplicity is the
right thing at home, of course; but when you go abroad and mix with
crowned heads, you want to show them that you know what's what."
"Well," said Albert, gravely, "I sincerely hope this crowned head don't
know what's what. If he reads 'Connecticut Agricultural State Fair.
One mile bicycle race. First Prize,' on this badge, when we are trying
to make him believe it's a war medal, it may hurt his feelings."
Bradley, Jr., went ahead to announce the approach of the American
embassy, which he did with so much manner that the King deferred the
audience a half-hour, in order that he might better prepare to receive
his visitors. When the audience did take place, it attracted the
entire population to the green spot in front of the King's palace, and
their delight and excitement over the appearance of the visitors was
sincere and hearty. The King was too polite to appear much surprised,
but he showed his delight over his presents as simply and openly as a
child. Thrice he insisted on embracing Albert, and kissing him three
times on the forehead, which, Stedman assured him in a side-whisper,
was a great honor; an honor which was not extended to the secretary,
although he was given a necklace of animals' claws instead, with which
he was better satisfied.
After this reception, the embassy marched back to the consul's office,
surrounded by an immense number of the natives, some of whom ran ahead
and looked back at them, and crowded so close that the two Bradleys had
to poke at those nearest with their guns. The crowd remained outside
the office even after the procession of four had disappeared, and
cheered. This suggested to Gordon that this would be a good time to
make a speech, which he accordingly did, Stedman translating it,
sentence by sentence. At the conclusion of this effort, Albert
distributed a number of brass rings among the married men present,
which they placed on whichever finger fitted best, and departed
delighted.
Albert had wished to give the rings to the married women, but Stedman
pointed out to him that it would be much cheaper to give them to the
married men; for while one woman could only have one husband, one man
could have at least six wives.
"And now, Stedman," said Albert, after the mob had gone, "tell me what
you are doing on this island."
"It's a very simple story," Stedman said. "I am the representative, or
agent, or operator, for the Yokohama Cable Company. The Yokohama Cable
Company is a company organized in San Francisco, for the purpose of
laying a cable to Yokohama. It is a stock company; and though it
started out very well, the stock has fallen very low. Between
ourselves, it is not worth over three or four cents. When the officers
of the company found out that no one would buy their stock, and that no
one believed in them or their scheme, they laid a cable to Octavia, and
extended it on to this island. Then they said they had run out of
ready money, and would wait until they got more before laying their
cable any farther. I do not think they ever will lay it any farther,
but that is none of my business. My business is to answer cable
messages from San Francisco, so that the people who visit the home
office can see that at least a part of the cable is working. That
sometimes impresses them, and they buy stock. There is another chap
over in Octavia, who relays all my messages and all my replies to those
messages that come to me through him from San Francisco. They never
send a message unless they have brought someone to the office whom they
want to impress, and who, they think, has money to invest in the Y.C.C.
stock, and so we never go near the wire, except at three o'clock every
afternoon. And then generally only to say 'How are you?' or 'It's
raining,' or something like that. I've been saying 'It's raining,' now
for the last three months, but to-day I will say that the new consul
has arrived. That will be a pleasant surprise for the chap in Octavia,
for he must be tired hearing about the weather. He generally answers,
'Here too,' or 'So you said,' or something like that. I don't know
what he says to the home office. He's brighter than I am, and that's
why they put him between the two ends. He can see that the messages
are transmitted more fully and more correctly, in a way to please
possible subscribers."
"Sort of copy editor," suggested Albert.
"Yes, something of that sort, I fancy," said Stedman.
They walked down to the little shed on the shore, where the Y.C.C.
office was placed, at three that day, and Albert watched Stedman send
off his message with much interest. The "chap at Octavia," on being
informed that the American consul had arrived at Opeki, inquired,
somewhat disrespectfully, "Is it a life sentence?"
"What does he mean by that?" asked Albert.
"I suppose," said his secretary, doubtfully, "that he thinks it a sort
of a punishment to be sent to Opeki. I hope you won't grow to think
so."
"Opeki is all very well," said Gordon, "or it will be when we get
things going our way."
As they walked back to the office, Albert noticed a brass cannon,
perched on a rock at the entrance to the harbor. This had been put
there by the last consul, but it had not been fired for many years.
Albert immediately ordered the two Bradleys to get it in order, and to
rig up a flag-pole beside it, for one of his American flags, which they
were to salute every night when they lowered it at sundown.
"And when we are not using it," he said, "the King can borrow it to
celebrate with, if he doesn't impose on us too often. The royal salute
ought to be twenty-one guns, I think; but that would use up too much
powder, so he will have to content himself with two."
"Did you notice," asked Stedman, that night, as they sat on the veranda
of the consul's house, in the moonlight, "how the people bowed to us as
we passed?"
"Yes," Albert said he had noticed it. "Why?"
"Well, they never saluted me," replied Stedman. "That sign of respect
is due to the show we made at the reception."
"It is due to us, in any event," said the consul, severely. "I tell
you, my secretary, that we, as the representatives of the United States
Government, must be properly honored on this island. We must become a
power. And we must do so without getting into trouble with the King.
We must make them honor him, too, and then as we push him up, we will
push ourselves up at the same time."
"They don't think much of consuls in Opeki," said Stedman, doubtfully.
"You see the last one was a pretty poor sort. He brought the office
into disrepute, and it wasn't really until I came and told them what a
fine country the United States was, that they had any opinion of it at
all. Now we must change all that."
"That is just what we will do," said Albert. "We will transform Opeki
into a powerful and beautiful city. We will make these people work.
They must put up a palace for the King, and lay out streets, and build
wharves, and drain the town properly, and light it. I haven't seen
this patent lighting apparatus of yours, but you had better get to work
at it at once, and I'll persuade the King to appoint you commissioner
of highways and gas, with authority to make his people toil. And I,"
he cried, in free enthusiasm, "will organize a navy and a standing
army. Only," he added, with a relapse of interest, "there isn't
anybody to fight."
"There isn't?" said Stedman, grimly, with a scornful smile. "You just
go hunt up old Messenwah and the Hillmen with your standing army once
and you'll get all the fighting you want."
"The Hillmen?" said Albert.
"The Hillmen are the natives that live up there in the hills," Stedman
said, nodding his head toward the three high mountains at the other end
of the island, that stood out blackly against the purple, moonlit sky.
"There are nearly as many of them as there are Opekians, and they hunt
and fight for a living and for the pleasure of it. They have an old
rascal named Messenwah for a king, and they come down here about once
every three months, and tear things up."
Albert sprang to his feet.
"Oh, they do, do they?" he said, staring up at the mountain-tops.
"They come down here and tear up things, do they? Well, I think we'll
stop that, I think we'll stop that! I don't care how many there are.
I'll get the two Bradleys to tell me all they know about drilling,
to-morrow morning, and we'll drill these Opekians, and have sham
battles, and attacks, and repulses, until I make a lot of wild, howling
Zulus out of them. And when the Hillmen come down to pay their
quarterly visit, they'll go back again on a run. At least some of them
will," he added, ferociously. "Some of them will stay right here."
"Dear me, dear me!" said Stedman, with awe; "you are a born fighter,
aren't you?"
"Well, you wait and see," said Gordon; "maybe I am. I haven't studied
tactics of war and the history of battles, so that I might be a great
war-correspondent, without learning something. And there is only one
king on this island, and that is old Ollypybus himself. And I'll go
over and have a talk with him about it to-morrow."
Young Stedman walked up and down the length of the veranda, in and out
of the moonlight, with his hands in his pockets, and his head on his
chest. "You have me all stirred up, Gordon," he said; "you seem so
confident and bold, and you're not so much older than I am, either."
"My training has been different; that's all," said the reporter.
"Yes," Stedman said, bitterly. "I have been sitting in an office ever
since I left school, sending news over a wire or a cable, and you have
been out in the world, gathering it."
"And now," said Gordon, smiling, and putting his arm around the other
boy's shoulders, "we are going to make news ourselves."
"There is one thing I want to say to you before you turn in," said
Stedman. "Before you suggest all these improvements on Ollypybus, you
must remember that he has ruled absolutely here for twenty years, and
that he does not think much of consuls. He has only seen your
predecessor and yourself. He likes you because you appeared with such
dignity, and because of the presents; but if I were you, I wouldn't
suggest these improvements as coming from yourself."
"I don't understand," said Gordon; "who could they come from?"
"Well," said Stedman, "if you will allow me to advise--and you see I
know these people pretty well--I would have all these suggestions come
from the President direct."
"The President!" exclaimed Gordon; "but how? What does the President
know or care about Opeki? and it would take so long--oh, I see, the
cable. Is that what you have been doing?" he asked.
"Well, only once," said Stedman, guiltily; "that was when he wanted to
turn me out of the consul's office, and I had a cable that very
afternoon, from the President, ordering me to stay where I was.
Ollypybus doesn't understand the cable, of course, but he knows that it
sends messages; and sometimes I pretend to send messages for him to the
President; but he began asking me to tell the President to come and pay
him a visit, and I had to stop it."
"I'm glad you told me," said Gordon. "The President shall begin to
cable to-morrow. He will need an extra appropriation from Congress to
pay for his private cablegrams alone."
"And there's another thing," said Stedman. "In all your plans, you've
arranged for the people's improvement, but not for their amusement; and
they are a peaceful, jolly, simple sort of people, and we must please
them."
"Have they no games or amusements of their own?" asked Gordon.
"Well, not what we would call games."
"Very well, then, I'll teach them base-ball. Foot-ball would be too
warm. But that plaza in front of the King's bungalow, where his palace
is going to be, is just the place for a diamond. On the whole,
though," added the consul, after a moment's reflection, "you'd better
attend to that yourself. I don't think it becomes my dignity as
American consul to take off my coat and give lessons to young Opekians
in sliding to bases; do you? No; I think you'd better do that. The
Bradleys will help you, and you had better begin to-morrow. You have
been wanting to know what a secretary of legation's duties are, and now
you know. It's to organize base-ball nines. And after you get yours
ready," he added, as he turned into his room for the night, "I'll train
one that will sweep yours off the face of the island. For THIS
American consul can pitch three curves."
The best laid plans of men go far astray, sometimes, and the great and
beautiful city that was to rise on the coast of Opeki was not built in
a day. Nor was it ever built. For before the Bradleys could mark out
the foul-lines for the base-ball field on the plaza, or teach their
standing army the goose step, or lay bamboo pipes for the water-mains,
or clear away the cactus for the extension of the King's palace, the
Hillmen paid Opeki their quarterly visit.
Albert had called on the King the next morning, with Stedman as his
interpreter, as he had said he would, and, with maps and sketches, had
shown his Majesty what he proposed to do toward improving Opeki and
ennobling her king, and when the King saw Albert's free-hand sketches
of wharves with tall ships lying at anchor, and rows of Opekian
warriors with the Bradleys at their head, and the design for his new
palace, and a royal sedan chair, he believed that these things were
already his, and not still only on paper, and he appointed Albert his
Minister of War, Stedman his Minister of Home Affairs, and selected two
of his wisest and oldest subjects to serve them as joint advisers. His
enthusiasm was even greater than Gordon's, because he did not
appreciate the difficulties. He thought Gordon a semi-god, a worker of
miracles, and urged the putting up of a monument to him at once in the
public plaza, to which Albert objected, on the ground that it would be
too suggestive of an idol; and to which Stedman also objected, but for
the less unselfish reason that it would "be in the way of the pitcher's
box."
They were feverishly discussing all these great changes, and Stedman
was translating as rapidly as he could translate, the speeches of four
different men--for the two counsellors had been called in--all of whom
wanted to speak at once when there came from outside a great shout, and
the screams of women, and the clashing of iron, and the pattering
footsteps of men running.
As they looked at one another in startled surprise, a native ran into
the room, followed by Bradley, Jr., and threw himself down before the
King. While he talked, beating his hands and bowing before Ollypybus,
Bradley, Jr., pulled his forelock to the consul, and told how this man
lived on the far outskirts of the village; how he had been captured
while out hunting, by a number of the Hillmen; and how he had escaped
to tell the people that their old enemies were on the war-path again,
and rapidly approaching the village.
Outside, the women were gathering in the plaza, with the children about
them, and the men were running from hut to hut, warning their fellows,
and arming themselves with spears and swords, and the native bows and
arrows.
"They might have waited until we had that army trained," said Gordon,
in a tone of the keenest displeasure. "Tell me, quick, what do they
generally do when they come?"
"Steal all the cattle and goats, and a woman or two, and set fire to
the huts in the outskirts," replied Stedman.
"Well, we must stop them," said Gordon, jumping up. "We must take out
a flag of truce and treat with them. They must be kept off until I
have my army in working order. It is most inconvenient. If they had
only waited two months, now, or six weeks even, we could have done
something; but now we must make peace. Tell the King we are going out
to fix things with them, and tell him to keep off his warriors until he
learns whether we succeed or fail."
"But, Gordon!" gasped Stedman. "Albert! You don't understand. Why,
man, this isn't a street-fight or a cane-rush. They'll stick you full
of spears, dance on your body, and eat you, maybe. A flag of
truce!--you're talking nonsense. What do they know of a flag of truce?"
"You're talking nonsense, too," said Albert, "and you're talking to
your superior officer. If you are not with me in this, go back to your
cable, and tell the man in Octavia that it's a warm day, and that the
sun is shining; but if you've any spirit in you--and I think you
have--run to the office and get my Winchester rifles, and the two
shotguns, and my revolvers, and my uniform, and a lot of brass things
for presents, and run all the way there and back. And make time. Play
you're riding a bicycle at the Agricultural Fair."
Stedman did not hear this last, for he was already off and away,
pushing through the crowd, and calling on Bradley, Sr., to follow him.
Bradley, Jr., looked at Gordon with eyes that snapped, like a dog that
is waiting for his master to throw a stone.
"I can fire a Winchester, sir," he said. "Old Tom can't. He's no good
at long range 'cept with a big gun, sir. Don't give him the
Winchester. Give it to me, please, sir."
Albert met Stedman in the plaza, and pulled off his blazer, and put on
Captain Travis's--now his--uniform coat, and his white pith helmet.
"Now, Jack," he said, "get up there and tell these people that we are
going out to make peace with these Hillmen, or bring them back
prisoners of war. Tell them we are the preservers of their homes and
wives and children; and you, Bradley, take these presents, and young
Bradley, keep close to me, and carry this rifle."
Stedman's speech was hot and wild enough to suit a critical and
feverish audience before a barricade in Paris. And when he was
through, Gordon and Bradley punctuated his oration by firing off the
two Winchester rifles in the air, at which the people jumped and fell
on their knees, and prayed to their several gods. The fighting men of
the village followed the four white men to the outskirts, and took up
their stand there as Stedman told them to do, and the four walked on
over the roughly hewn road, to meet the enemy.
Gordon walked with Bradley, Jr., in advance. Stedman and old Tom
Bradley followed close behind, with the two shot-guns, and the presents
in a basket.
"Are these Hillmen used to guns?" asked Gordon. Stedman said no, they
were not.
"This shot-gun of mine is the only one on the island," he explained,
"and we never came near enough them before to do anything with it. It
only carries a hundred yards. The Opekians never make any show of
resistance. They are quite content if the Hillmen satisfy themselves
with the outlying huts, as long as they leave them and the town alone;
so they seldom come to close quarters."
The four men walked on for half an hour or so in silence, peering
eagerly on every side; but it was not until they had left the woods and
marched out into the level stretch of grassy country that they came
upon the enemy. The Hillmen were about forty in number, and were as
savage and ugly-looking giants as any in a picture-book. They had
captured a dozen cows and goats, and were driving them on before them,
as they advanced farther upon the village. When they saw the four men,
they gave a mixed chorus of cries and yells, and some of them stopped,
and others ran forward, shaking their spears, and shooting their broad
arrows into the ground before them. A tall, gray-bearded, muscular old
man, with a skirt of feathers about him, and necklaces of bones and
animals' claws around his bare chest, ran in front of them, and seemed
to be trying to make them approach more slowly.
"Is that Messenwah?" asked Gordon.
"Yes," said Stedman; "he is trying to keep them back. I don't believe
he ever saw a white man before."
"Stedman," said Albert, speaking quickly, "give your gun to Bradley,
and go forward with your arms in the air, and waving your handkerchief,
and tell them in their language that the King is coming. If they go at
you, Bradley and I will kill a goat or two, to show them what we can do
with the rifles; and if that don't stop them, we will shoot at their
legs; and if that don't stop them--I guess you'd better come back, and
we'll all run."
Stedman looked at Albert, and Albert looked at Stedman, and neither of
them winced or flinched.
"Is this another of my secretary's duties?" asked the younger boy.
"Yes," said the consul; "but a resignation is always in order. You
needn't go if you don't like it. You see, you know the language and I
don't, but I know how to shoot, and you don't."
"That's perfectly satisfactory," said Stedman, handing his gun to old
Bradley. "I only wanted to know why I was to be sacrificed instead of
one of the Bradleys. It's because I know the language. Bradley, Sr.,
you see the evil results of a higher education. Wish me luck, please,"
he said, "and for goodness' sake," he added impressively, "don't waste
much time shooting goats."