Along about the first of September last year, my cellar supply gave out
and on the second day I had a look of languor like a homesick bum. Then
it was that I met my old “Turk” friend, Casey, who immediately shanghaied
me while he was cockeyed on a mixture of fusel oil, barbed wire,
turpentine, tuba, rotgut, red-eye, wood alcohol, ether and dynamite. In
fact, his mixture would make the Dove of Peace challenge the American
Eagle to mortal combat.
Casey is a vagrant minstrel of human interest and I was only too glad to
accept of an invitation to join him at his country home in Golden Valley.
But here it is necessary to explain that Golden Valley is different than
most communities in these good old dry United States. In Golden Valley it
doesn’t appear to be necessary to distill the corn. Nearly every shock
contains its gallon jug hidden away in the darkened recesses. The farmers
merely leave the empty receptacle and come back later to find it has been
mysteriously filled.
Well, friends and fellow-countrymen, Casey and I surely worked hard
that night in the corn fields and about the last thing I can remember
was Casey mumbling a story about a colored family in St. Paul named
Henderson—man, wife and two grown daughters, who had been suspected of
bootlegging for some time.
“There is also a coon in St. Paul named Johnson,” Casey explained, “who
got very drunk and was placed under arrest.”
To the police judge’s inquiry as to how and where he obtained the liquor,
the negro replied:
“I found it in a corn-field, your honor.”
“Did you ever get anything from Henderson?” asked the magistrate.
“No, sah. Nevah got nothin’ from him.”
“From Mrs. Henderson?”
“No, sah, not from Mrs. Henderson.”
“Nor from Miss Henderson?”
“Jes’ a minute, jedge—is you’ all still talkin’ ’bout booze?”
* * * * *
New Year’s morning, bright and early, Gus, the hired man, wanted to start
off right, so he whispered to my 8-year-old son to go and find something
with whiskey in it. The lad, in boyish innocence, replied: “Just a
minute, Gus, an’ I’ll go and wake up father.”
* * * * *
I remember the only time I ever was in New York. I was still a
commissioned officer in the army and had registered at a Broadway hotel
as “Captain Gunn.” I immediately got loaded; dreamed I was discharged and
awakened to find myself shot to the devil. My brother Harvey, who was a
buck private in the tank corps at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, met me at
the Marlborough hotel while he was A. W. O. Ling in New York. Evidently
on account of the lack of tanks in the tank corps, Harvey decided to
bring one back to Gettysburg. And, believe me, boys, it was a mogul tank
he had when last I saw him. Of course, he’ll say the same about me—in
fact, he accused me of being so rash as to pat a colonel on the back in
the Pennsylvania depot with the salutation of “Hello, old trapper, this
is a heluva war.” But I really don’t believe I did anything of the kind.
At least I can’t remember having done so.
On the return to Camp Lee, I carried along a goodly supply of medicine.
Somehow or other, I managed to land in an upper berth and when I awoke in
Richmond next morning, my faithful satchel and contents were safely in
bed beside me. I cannot recall having ever awakened with a more pleasant
companion than that old grip. I carefully peeked through the curtains to
see if the coast was clear before partaking of a morning’s nip.
I shall always have a good word for New York. After all, our likes or
dislikes for a city depend entirely on how we enjoy ourselves and the
friends we are fortunate enough to meet. I was treated with a reckless
abandon and true western spirit of congeniality. At first, their language
was difficult to fathom, but later I became used to the lack of the
letter “R.” If it ever happens that Ford cars go up in price so I can
sell my 1915 model, I’ll surely sneak away from friend wife for a week or
two of bright lights and green witches.
_The Vampire’s Fool_
Hello, Tom! Glad to see you. What was that crowd I saw as I came aboard
ship? Looked to me like an accident. Suicide! Young Parmerly killed
himself, and for a woman!
_“A Fool there was, and he made his prayer,_
_Even as you and I,_
_To a rag, and a bone, and a hank of hair;_
_We called her the Woman who did not care,_
_But the Fool, he called her his Lady Fair—_
_Even as you and I.”_
Good God. Here I am back in New York, alone, alone; wife and child and
friends, all gone; disgraced, dishonored, and for that woman!
_“A Fool there was, and his goods he spent,_
_Even as you and I,_
_Honor, Faith, and a sure Intent;_
_But it wasn’t the least what the Lady meant,_
_And a Fool must follow his natural bent—_
_Even as you and I.”_
Age comes, the body withers, the brain grows dull, the blood becomes
thin, the soul grows weary; and the power to live, as once we lived, is
taken from us. We sit, white-haired, blue veined, drinking in the sun,
through shriveled pores, to drive the chill from our shrunken frame. It
will come to you, to me, to all of us, and neither man nor God may stop
it.
You, Tom, you here? Before you begin, let me tell you that it is useless;
nothing that you can say to me will change me in the slightest; I’ve made
up my mind and my decision is unalterable. Gone, gone! Tell me what you
think, Tom; tell me what every one thinks; put into words the scorn and
contempt I see in every eye that looks into mine and every mirror that I
look into. Gone, gone! Tell me something of your own; tell me the things
that lie here and burn in my brain, and burn and burn, tell me something!
Alas, not that; I know that by heart! Don’t, Tom, don’t try to save me!
What is there left to save—nothing but memories, nightmares!
I drink to you, gentlemen; I drink to you, Parmerly; I drink to you,
Rogers, and to you, Van Dalm; I drink to you, even as you drink to me!
Bumpers, gentlemen, bumpers! Bumpers? Good God, what has come over me?
I thought from the beginning it was too late—the loss of honor, and
dignity, and manhood, and self-respect were all new to me, Tom, and I
couldn’t understand. I cursed myself and swore to God that I would not
become the thing I am. Look at me, The Honorable John Schuyler!
I prayed to God, Tom, but he didn’t help me. He didn’t, he didn’t; and
I couldn’t help myself. I tried, oh, I tried and tried, but it was no
use; there was something, I don’t know what it was! It was her eyes, Tom,
it was her eyes, and I couldn’t help myself. I tried to kill myself as
Parmerly did, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t, and the only forgetfulness lay
in drink.
Drink that sapped my strength and raised my veins, and shriveled up my
brain. Don’t hate me, Tom!
Pity me, for the love of God, pity me, pity me!
_“The Fool was stripped to his foolish hide,_
_Even as you and I,_
_Which she might have seen, as she threw him aside;_
_But it wasn’t on record the Lady tried,_
_So some of him lived—but the most of him died—_
_Even as you and I.”_
* * * * *