_that_ time--but when, after being in executive session for more than
an hour, the Conference of the Powers adjourned, he had been appointed
"Company Kid" for "A"; and on the Monday night following he duly was
introduced to the men, and was installed formally in office.
From that day until now his popularity steadily has grown
greater--"and for good cause." He has an inexhaustible fund of Irish
wit, by but one generation removed from The Sod, and sharpened to
the keenest edge by the sort of life he has led. He is a tower of
strength in his command of modern Arabic, that weird _patois_ which
reaches its full power and beauty only in the streets of a great
city. He can sing, after a fashion, and his ability to "do a dance
act" is unquestioned, for when he executes the steps it is with an
air of impressive earnestness and solemnity that never fails to bring
down the house. In fact, since his advent, when we in the staff-room
hear a yell of delight come echoing down the stairs and along the
corridors, we grin sympathetically one to another, and say, "Larry's
at it again--the little devil!"
He is clever, too, at all sorts of things over which the volunteer
hates to fuss, and many a dime comes his way in return for his skill
in polishing buttons and brasses for the lazy men of the company--and
"A," with fifty-eight enlisted men upon its rolls, boasts of an
aggregate of fifty-seven who always are "in fatigue," the remaining
one being the tireless first-sergeant.
Yes, it was a great and ruby-lettered day for "A"--the day when
Larry came to it--and in all its long history its quarters never
were kept so neat and clean, and its officers and men never were
entertained so well as they have been since he began his genial reign.
And it was a great day for the regiment when our "seventh major"
joined--for Stearns' nickname of "Major" Callahan has been adopted
officially--because Larry's fame has gone abroad in the land, and his
deeds have added new lustre to the name of the Third.
Larry had been with us a little over a year when his great opportunity
came to him. It was on a certain night when "A" had made arrangements
for a smoke-talk, up in quarters--for Captain Stearns had met at his
club one Lieutenant Hackett, of the regular cavalry, whom he had
induced, after much patient persuasion, to come over to the armory and
informally talk to the boys on the delights and discomforts of chasing
Indians around through the Bad Lands.
Now, much as Larry respected his own corps, he held the regulars in
even higher esteem, for he always had heard "The Army" held up as
a pattern of all that is, in a military sense, good-and-holy and
generally worthy of imitation by the hard-working and much-cursed-at
volunteer. So when it came to his ears that a regular officer--and
one, too, who actually had seen holes shot through people!--really
was going to honor his domain by his presence, he went to work with
even greater energy than he had displayed at inspection time, and
accomplished a house-cleaning such as would have warmed the heart of
any New England matron to witness.
First he swept the floor, and then he dusted from the furniture the
dust which had been raised by that operation, and then he swept
up again the dust which the dusting had caused to return to the
carpet--and then he paused, reflecting that, in the nature of things,
he might continue this alternation forever unless he stopped. So,
after a final dusting, he bent his energies to the arrangement of the
chairs, marshalling them in ranks of military rigidity, and squinting
critically along each row--muttering, "Back in de center, dere!" or
"Up on de left, dad-gast-yer-shoulder-blades!" as he rectified the
alignment. Then he polished the glasses of the pictures which form
the nondescript art-gallery of the company; and finally he put the
crowning touch to his afternoon's work by brushing the plush cushions
of the great, carved chair in which the captain seats himself on
occasions of state and ceremony.
He had been so busy that he had allowed his supper-hour to slip by
unheeded, and when he happened to glance up at the clock he gave a low
whistle of surprise, and said to himself, "Quarter pas' sev'n? _Wow!_
how de time's be'n humpin' along? Well, I s'pose I might's well skip
me grub now: de boys'll be showin' up in less 'n a shake."
He had given one last critical glance around the room and was turning
towards the door, when his eye fell upon the great, wrought-iron lamp
which the company rifle-team had won, a couple of years before, in a
match with "K," of the Fourth, and suddenly he remembered that the oil
in it nearly had been burned out. Now, the boys of "A" regard that
lamp with particular affection, because it was won in a contest to
which they had been egged-on by a series of peculiarly exasperating
events; and it has become a time-honored custom of the company to have
the lamp a-glow on every occasion when its members are assembled by
night. So Major Larry, knowing that the absence of its cheerful rays
would rouse the wrath of the company kickers, picked up the heavy mass
of iron, and lugged it into the equipment-room.
Here he filled the lamp, polished the chimney, trimmed the wick,
lighted it, and had raised his burden to carry it back to its
place--when, in some unexplained way, he lost his grip upon it,
and the whole heavy affair went crashing down upon the floor. In
an instant the scattered oil was in a blaze, and as Larry stood
there, horrified at his mishap, he saw the creeping tongues of flame
beginning to lick their way up the varnished woodwork of the nearest
lockers. In two jumps he was at the door: a dozen steps more brought
him, yelling "Fire!" at the top-pitch of his voice, out into the
corridor--and then there came to him a thought that almost stilled the
beating of his heart.
"Good Gawd!" he gasped, stopping short in his tracks, "dey's five
hundred round o' ca'tridge an' a ten-pound canister o' powder in de
nex' locker to de one dat's burnin'--an' de door's locked! Oh, what'll
I do--_what'll_ I do!"
Well, here's what he did do--and we have fallen into the way of
believing that no man could have done much better work. On the wall of
the company room, in the midst of a collection of flint-lock muskets
and other antiquated contrivances for achieving wild shots, hung a
heavy axe, a relic of the _ante-bellum_ days when "A"--at that time
an independent company--added dignity to its parades by maintaining
a small but ferocious-looking pioneer corps. Rushing in from the
hallway, Larry tore this long-disused implement from its hooks, and
dashed with it back into the equipment-room. By this time the flames
had gained a fair start, and the blazing woodwork was crackling
merrily, while the air was heavy and suffocating from the smoke of the
burning oil and varnish.
With a single blow of the axe Larry sent the flimsy locker-door
crashing from its hinges, and then, stooping down, he felt around for
the powder can. _The locker was empty!_
"Yah! yer jay," he snarled at himself, as the smoke choked him; "yer
poor, dam' jay--it's de _nex'_ one!" and he snatched up the axe, swung
it again, and splintered the burning door of the adjoining locker.
This time he hit his mark, for after an instant of frantic groping
in the thick smoke, he got his hands upon the canister and flung it
far from him, out into the room beyond. Then, by an effort almost
superhuman, he dragged out the heavy, wooden case of cartridges,
staggered with it through the flame and smoke--and fell in a dead
faint across it, just as he cleared the threshold. And there, not
five seconds later, the armorer found him, when he came rushing into
the room with a line of stand-pipe hose, by the agency of which the
blaze speedily was conquered.
Poor little major! His hands and face were cruelly burned, his thick
crop of curly, red hair was wofully singed, and he had inhaled smoke
enough to demoralize utterly his breathing-machinery. The firemen--for
whom, upon hearing Larry's shout of alarm, the armorer had stopped
to telephone--tenderly bore the lad downstairs to the staff-room;
and just before the first of "A's" men strolled into the building an
ambulance rolled away from the door, bearing the still unconscious
form of the company kid.
Around the armory, that night, conversation was carried on in rather
quiet tones, and nobody talked much except of Larry and his heroism.
As soon as Stearns came in he was told of what had happened, and
sending immediately for a cab he drove off post-haste to the hospital,
leaving his lieutenants to receive his Army guest. In half an hour
he was back again, with word that Larry, though badly burned and in
great pain, was in no immediate danger--at which bit of news there
came an audible sigh of relief from the men who had crowded around
him. And then some one sung out "Hooray!" and the rest came in with a
shout that set the window panes to rattling.
Lieutenant Hackett was unfortunate in his audience that evening,
for the boys--though they listened with studied politeness to his
remarks--had something else upon their minds. But he got as much
applause as any one could wish, when--at the close of his talk--he
said, "Congress awards a Medal of Honor to those in the Army who
perform deeds of exceptional bravery, and I can recall a long list of
those who have received the decoration; but I wish to say that I can
call to mind no instance of purer grit than that displayed today by
your unlucky little comrade."
It certainly seemed a long time before Larry came back to us, but one
night he turned up in our midst, as happy as ever and nine or ten
degrees prouder than a colonel on the Governor's staff--for Stearns
had fitted him out with a complete drum-corps uniform, made expressly
for him, and Colonel Elliott had used his influence to make for his
especial benefit a vacancy at the advance-end of the big drum. The
affairs of the regiment ran more smoothly after his return, and I can
remember the change in the aspect of "A's" men--for Larry was himself
again, and funnier than ever.
But there was still more glory awaiting him. About two weeks after he
had "re-joined," we had a battalion-drill in the big hall, and after
it a dress parade. The companies had got wind of what was coming,
and the ranks were full. It was Larry's first appearance with the
drum-corps, and when the field music "sounded-off" along the line, the
air with which he stepped out lacked little of being superb.
The adjutant had received the reports and published the orders, when
the colonel, in a low tone, said a word or two to him which caused him
to face about and walk along the front of the battalion to the spot
where Larry was standing, stiff as a post, among the musicians. In a
moment he returned, bringing the bewildered lad with him, and then
the colonel stepped a pace forward to meet him, and pinned upon his
breast a bronze Maltese cross, inscribed:
"A" Co., 3rd Infantry
TO
Larry Callahan
FOR
DISTINGUISHED BRAVERY.
And beside this simple decoration he fastened the regimental badge,
brilliant with its glittering gold and bright enamel--a tribute from
the officers of the field and staff.
Of course the colonel made a little speech, but it was a short one and
the words were simple. As he finished he shook hands with the boy, and
then brought the battalion to a "carry," after which he called out,
"Present: _arms!_"
Up with a snap came the long line of rifles; down drooped the colors
until their golden fringes touched the floor; the flashing blades of
the officers rose and fell--and little Larry Callahan had been saluted
by the crack regiment of the Old Commonwealth!
"Now, adjutant," said Colonel Elliott, when the line again stood at
attention, "just take Major Larry to the left of the line and march
him along the front to the right, so that all the men can see him.
Chin in, Larry, my boy--and keep a stiff upper lip!"
The boy said never a word, but saluted and then started off with the
adjutant. For a time discipline went into eclipse: the men yelled
"_Hi! Hi!_" and thumped their rifle-butts upon the floor, until the
great hall shook to its very foundations--while the officers not only
neglected to check the uproar, but even went so far as to help in
swelling it.
Larry stood it all like a Spartan, tramping along with eyes to the
front and head well up, until he came abreast of the center, where "A"
stood in line, with the colors. But here he broke down, hid his face
behind the adjutant's arm, and sobbed as though his heart would burst,
when the sixty men--his friends and comrades, every one of them--broke
into a wild yell of applause as he came before them.
Well, that ended the ovation; for Captain Stearns, seeing at a glance
that the strain had been too heavy for the boy to bear, raised his
hand in a warning gesture to his men, picked up the little hero, swung
him up upon his shoulder, and marched with him straight along the
line and then out of the hall, leaving his company to take care of
itself as best it might. And yet, so far as my knowledge goes, Colonel
Elliott never has taken the slightest notice of this most un-military
proceeding of the captain's!
CONCERNING
THE
VALUE OF SLEEP
CONCERNING
THE
VALUE OF SLEEP.
Over the mantel in Major Pollard's smoking-room, in a heavy,
elaborately carved frame, there hangs a colored photogravure of De
Neuville's "_Une Pièce en Danger_," that terrible group--outlined
against a gray background of battle-haze--of rearing, plunging horses,
and of fiercely fighting German cavalrymen and French gunners, surging
in desperate struggle around a limbered gun. Many a time I've sat and
looked up at it, idly wondering whether the troop of Cuirassiers,
dimly visible in the drifting smoke at the right, would come rushing
into the rumpus in time to save the battered handful of artillerymen
and the piece to which they so grimly and absurdly cling. But
all this is neither here nor there: for the picture tells its own
story--while the story I have in mind to tell is quite another one.
It's not a very thrilling story. In fact, I doubt if it will have much
interest for any one outside the regiment; but it will please Pollard
to see it in cold, black type, and I'm indebted to him for so many
comfortable hours, passed in the fragrant atmosphere of that same
smoking-room of his, that I gladly take this opportunity to even up in
the matter of obligations.
It so happens that these are times of peace, and--though there are a
few of us who childishly consider that the very peacefulness of the
times affords a most excellent opportunity to prepare for war--the
tranquillity of everything bids fair to continue undisturbed. But even
in quiet days something in the blood of the Anglo-Saxon craves rivalry
and contention, and so from year to year we of the volunteers get
together and shoot--projecting much lead at remote bullseyes, in order
to find out who are the most disgracefully erratic marksmen.
Now, in these days the soldier who cannot shoot--however pleasing to
the eye he may be--is of no earthly sort of use. Pollard can shoot.
On battalion drill he sometimes may find himself at a loss for just
the proper command; and once, in earlier days, I heard him direct his
astonished company to execute "Right forward, fours _left_!"--but
there is no denying that he can shoot.
To the scroll-work on the bottom of the great carved frame enclosing
the picture of which I have spoken, there is fastened a bevelled,
gilded panel, very modestly lettered in black, "LAST SHOT, 1890:"
and this ideally simple inscription commemorates a shot which--if
not "heard 'round the world"--has not yet ceased to be remembered
whenever, in the company-rooms of the Third, men drift into rifle-talk.
Pollard was not always a major. It was only last October, when, in
the nature of things, leaves were falling freely, that two pairs of
bright, golden ones found a resting-place upon his broad shoulders.
Back in '90, he was captain of "M" Company; and one night, early in
September of that year, he found himself badly out of sorts at the
news that one of the best men on his company rifle-team had slipped,
fallen, and gone into temporary retirement with a broken wrist.
"It's too blistering bad!" said Pollard, as, late that night, he stood
upon the steps of the armory and scowled out into the darkness. "Even
with Harvey on the team, we had no sure thing--'H' is shooting so like
sin!--but now I don't know _where_ we are. Well, Johnny, you'll have
to do your cleverest, and perhaps we'll get there in spite of you."
"Thanks!" said the younger officer, thus addressed. "You're mighty
encouraging, aren't you? Well, I've always said that I ought to have
been put on the team, and to-morrow I'll prove it. Wow! how it blows!"
"Yes, it's breezy," assented Pollard, listening to the lively
rat-a-tat played by the loose flag-halliards upon the tower-staff,
"and later it'll rain. To-morrow, though, will be a good enough day;
see if it isn't. Come along, my son, it's high time we were getting
bedward."
"Now, see here, Johnny," he observed, a moment later, stopping at the
head of the street, "I've got to make good time to catch my train,
but I'll pause to remark that you must go home _now_! Don't color any
pipes to-night; don't take a pencil and go to figuring on the scores,
for matches aren't won in that way; and go to sleep early. _Sleep_
is the all-important thing, and without it you'll not do anything
to-morrow. Got all that? Good-night," and, tossing to his shoulder the
rifle he carried, he rapidly strode away.
"Humph! he thinks I can't hold up my end," thought the lieutenant,
glancing at the receding figure of his superior officer; "I'll show
him! I'm sorry for Harvey, but I'm inclined to think that his place
will be filled tolerably well. Pollard's right, though, about the
sleep question. I'd like to play a game or two of billiards, but,"
heroically, "but--I'll go home."
Meanwhile Pollard was hastening towards his train. As he came in
sight of the illuminated clock-dial upon the station his rapid walk
quickened into a trot; and the trot, in its turn, gave place to a run
when, as he passed in through the wide doorway, he heard the clang of
the last gong. However, by a spirited dash down the long platform,
he caught the handrail of the last car in the moving train, and swung
himself, panting but triumphant, upon the steps.
"Enemy behind us?" inquired the brakeman, pausing in his task of
knotting the dangling bell-cord, and glancing down at the uniformed
figure below him.
"Didn't have time to see," said Pollard, laughing at the aptness of
the question. "I ran without waiting to find out," and, as the train
swung around a curve and rattled over a switch, he lurched through
the doorway, and dropped into the nearest empty seat. Fifteen minutes
later he found himself at his destination, and leaving behind him the
oasis of brightness formed by the lights of the little station he
plunged into the desert of suburban gloom lying beyond.
It certainly was not a cheerful night to be abroad. The sky was black
as a hat, and the wind swept by in gusts that threatened to extinguish
the street lamps which, at rare intervals, twinkled along the lonely
way. It was early in September, and many of the houses still were
closed; while the lateness of the hour made those that were occupied
seem dark and untenanted.
Half unconsciously Pollard began to whistle "The White Cockade,"
and his step fell as naturally into the cadence of the air as if he
were following the regimental drum-corps. A short walk brought him
to his own house,--standing shadowy and silent among the surrounding
trees,--and, dropping upon the floor of the porch the butt of his
rifle, he fumbled in his pocket for his keys. He threw open the door,
stepped into the yawning blackness of the unlighted hall, and groped
his way along the wall to the electric button which should light the
chandelier. He pressed it, but no blaze of light followed the sharp
click. Once more he touched the button, and then, when again the light
failed to respond, cautiously felt his way along the floor until he
stood beneath the chandelier, and, reaching up his hand, found that
the gas was turned off.
"Hello!" he said to himself. "That's funny--altogether _too_ funny!
I certainly left the gas turned on, ready for the spark," and
instinctively he fell back a pace, and then stepped out upon the
porch.
"_Did_ I leave the burner like that?" he queried, as he stood peering
into the dense shadow before him. "Blessed if I can remember! Somehow,
though, it seems queer," and, unbuttoning his military great-coat,
he slipped his hand beneath its lapel and drew a cartridge from the
canvas belt which hung from his shoulder diagonally down across his
chest.
"I'm not sure that this is a very sandy proceeding," he thought,
pushing home the cartridge, and with a vicious snap locking behind
it the breech-block of his rifle; "but if anybody's in the house I'm
going to have an even show with him."
Balancing his piece in his left hand, he again entered the hall,
turned on the gas, touched the button, and when the jet of flame
flared up, glanced quickly into the empty rooms on either side. All
was as he had left it in the morning; and after intently listening for
a moment he closed and bolted the hall door, and went upstairs to his
own rooms.
Once in the room he called his Den, he took off his great-coat,
drew the cartridge from his rifle, and returned it to its place
in the long row of leaden-tipped, shining copper cylinders in his
ammunition-belt, and tossed the belt upon the lounge. Then he went
over to the mantel, picked out from the litter upon it a short, dark
briarwood, and proceeded to comfort himself with smoke.
"Humph! that was a pretty weak exhibition," he grunted, stooping
over to unlace his shoes. "Come to think of it, when I went out this
morning I found that I'd left the light burning all night, and--I
remember it now clearly enough--turned off the gas to save the bother
of going over to punch the button."
He tossed aside his shoes, put on a pair of easy slippers, and lighted
a candle. "May as well see that all's tight," he soliloquized,
starting on a tour of the silent house; "here goes for 'grand rounds'!
It is lonesome, with the family across the water. Wish they'd come
home! Can't say I blame the servants for packing up and leaving; but
mother'll be wild when she gets my letter telling that they've gone."
From room to room, trying the fastenings of doors and windows, he
went his rounds. All was secure; so, pausing on his way to touch the
button extinguishing the hall light, he slowly climbed the stairs
again, locked the door of his Den, and with a yawn flung himself into
his easy-chair.
For a few minutes he quietly sat thinking; then, taking from his
pocket a pencil, he began to jot down upon the back of an old envelope
a series of figures--his estimate of the scores likely to be made in
the match of the morrow.
"Perhaps we can pull it out," he muttered, eying the columns of
figures upon the crumpled bit of paper; "_perhaps_ we can; but it'll
be cruelly close! 'H' is good for almost anything up to five points
over centres, and--unless I can get more than I think I can out of
Johnny--we're not liable to run much above that. Confound Harvey! Why
couldn't he pick out a more convenient time for breaking himself?"
Here Pollard guiltily started, sprang to his feet, and hastily began
to throw off his garments, for the clock in the hall outside had
begun to sound off the first of the twelve slow strokes of midnight.
"I'm better at preaching than at practising," he thought, grinning
at the remembrance of his parting injunctions to his junior; "I've
broken two-thirds of the rules I laid down for Johnny. Well, I'm an
old hand at this business, and even if I've wasted a half-hour or so
I shall get enough sleep to put me into shape," with which consoling
reflection he took a long, parting pull at his pipe, shook the ashes
from it, put out the light in the Den, and went into his bedroom
adjoining.