HOPKINS’S EXPERIENCE.
“Boys, I am delighted to see you home again, safe and sound,” said
Hopkins, putting his cane under his arm and shaking hands with both his
friends at once. “I tell you we have been troubled about you, for some
of us who returned the second day after the fight, heard the rioters say
that you would never leave the city alive.”
“We heard them say so, too,” replied Curtis. “But we’re here all the
same. Hallo, Bert. And there’s Egan. How’s your hand, old fellow? Lost
that little finger yet?”
“No; and I don’t think I’ll have to. Why didn’t you let us know that you
were coming?”
“You did know it, or else you couldn’t have met us at the depot,”
answered Don, after he had returned his brother’s greeting.
“I mean that you ought to have sent us word this morning,” said Egan.
“The ladies would have got up a good supper for you if they had had time
to do it.”
“We should have done full justice to it, for we had an early breakfast
and no dinner,” Curtis remarked. “But you have not yet told us what is
the matter with you, Hop. I hope you were not shot.”
“Oh, no. It is nothing more serious than a sprained ankle,” replied
Hopkins.
“And ‘thereby hangs a tale,’” added Egan. “I’ll tell you all about it
when we get up to the academy. Hop showed himself a hero if he did run
out of the back door.”
“How did you get back to Bridgeport?” inquired Don.
“I went home with the doctor on the morning that you fellows started
for Hamilton, you know,” replied Egan. “Well, as soon as he had dressed
my hand and the wounds of some of the other boys who were able to walk,
we went up the track to the next station, and there we telegraphed for
a carriage. To tell the truth I never expected to get home, for the
rioters were scouring the country in search of us. We heard of them at
every house along the road, and everybody cautioned us to look out for
ourselves.”
During a hurried conversation with their friends, Don and Curtis learned
that the people of Bridgeport knew as much about the fight as they did
themselves. Perhaps they knew more, for they had heard both sides of the
story. The students who came home the day after the fight—the missing
ones had all reported with the exception of three, whose wounds were so
severe that they could not be brought from the city—had given a correct
version of the affair and described the part that every boy took in it.
All those who had done their duty like men were known to the citizens,
and so were those who gave up their guns when the strikers demanded them.
The boys who did the fighting, however, had not a word to say regarding
the behavior of their timid comrades. They had an abundance of charity
for them.
“We don’t blame them for being frightened,” Don and Curtis often said.
“There isn’t a boy in the company who wouldn’t have been glad to get
out of that car if he could. When you have been placed in just such a
situation yourselves, you will know how we felt; until then, you have no
business to sit in judgment upon those who are said to have shown the
white feather.”
The fifteen minutes allotted for hand-shaking having expired, the
students fell in and set out for the academy. As they marched through the
gate the bell in the cupola rung out a joyful greeting, the artillery
saluted them, and the boys in the first, second and fourth companies
presented arms. They moved at once to the armory, and after listening
to a stirring speech from the superintendent the ranks were broken, and
their campaign against the Hamilton rioters was happily ended.
“And I, for one, never want to engage in another,” said Captain Mack, as
he and Don and Curtis set out in search of Egan and Hopkins. “Have you
heard some of the fellows say that they wish they had been there?”
Yes, they and all the returned soldiers had heard a good deal of such
talk from boys who would have died before giving up their guns, and who
were loud in their criticisms of Mr. Kellogg, who ought to have stopped
the train at least half a mile from the mob, and fired upon it the moment
it appeared. What a chance this would have been for Lester Brigham, if he
had only been in a situation to improve it! If he had never known before
that he made a great mistake by feigning illness on the night the false
alarm was sounded, he knew it now. He could not conceal the disgust he
felt whenever he saw a third-company boy surrounded by friends who were
listening eagerly to his description of the fight. Such sights as these
made him all the more determined to get away from the academy where he
had always been kept in the background in spite of his efforts to push
himself to the front. And worse than all, there was Don Gordon, who had
come home with the marks of a rioter’s knife on his coat and belt, who
had behaved with the coolness of a veteran, and showed no more fear than
he would have exhibited if he had been engaged in a game of snow-ball.
“I’ll bet he was under a seat more than half the time, and that nobody
noticed him,” said Lester, spitefully.
“Oh, I guess not,” said Jones. “Gordon isn’t that sort of a fellow. Well,
they have had their fun, and ours is yet to come. There will be a jolly
lot of us sent down at the end of the term. What do you suppose your
governor will say to you?”
“Not a word,” replied Lester, confidently. “He didn’t send me here to
risk life and limb by fighting strikers who have done nothing to me, and
when he gets the letters I have written him, he will tell me to start for
home at once.”
“But you’ll not go?” said Jones.
“Not until we have had our picnic,” replied Lester.
“Perhaps your father won’t care to have Jones and me visit you,” remarked
Enoch.
“Oh, yes he will. He told me particularly to invite a lot of good fellows
home with me, and he will give you a cordial welcome. I haven’t got a
shooting-box, but I own a nice tent, and that will do just as well. I
will show you some duck-shooting that will make you open your eyes.”
“All right,” said Enoch. “I’ll go, according to promise, and you must be
sure and visit me in my Maryland home next year. Both the Gordons and
Curtis will visit Egan at that time, and unless I am much mistaken, we
can make things lively for them.”
“Nothing would suit me better,” returned Lester. “I hate all that crowd.
Don and Bert went back on me as soon as they got me here, and I’ll never
rest easy until I get a chance to square yards with them.”
(Lester learned this from Enoch. He remembered all the nautical
expressions he heard, and used them as often as he could, and sometimes
without the least regard for the fitness of things. He hoped in this way
to make his companions believe that he was a sailor, and competent to
command the yacht during their proposed cruise.)
The conversation just recorded will make it plain to the reader that
Lester and some of his particular friends, following in the lead of Don
and Bert Gordon and _their_ friends, had made arrangements to spend a
portion of their vacation in visiting one another. They carried out their
plans, too, and perhaps we shall see what came of it.
When Mack and the rest found Hopkins and Egan, they went up to the
latter’s room, where they thought they would be allowed to talk in peace;
but some of the students saw them go in there, and in less time than it
takes to write it, the little dormitory was packed until standing-room
was at a premium. The boys were full of questions. What one did not think
of another did, and it was a long time before Don could say a word about
Hopkins’s experience, which Egan related substantially as follows:
To begin with, Hopkins did not leave the car because he wanted to, but
because he couldn’t help himself. When the rioters voted to disarm the
young soldiers, half a dozen pairs of ready hands were laid upon his
musket, but Hopkins wouldn’t give it up. Threats, and the sight of
the revolvers and knives that were brandished before his face, had no
effect upon him; but he could not contend against such overwhelming
odds, with the least hope of success. He was jerked out into the aisle
in spite of all he could do to prevent it, and dragged toward the door.
When the students turned their bayonets and the butts of their pieces
against their assailants, the latter made a frantic rush for the door,
and Hopkins was wedged in so tightly among them, that he could not get
out. His gun was pulled from his grasp, and Hopkins, finding his hands
at liberty, seized the arm of the nearest seat in the hope of holding
himself there until the mob had passed out of the car; but the pressure
from the forward end was too great for his strength. He lost his hold,
was carried out of the door by the rush of the rioters, who, intent
on saving themselves, took no notice of him, and crowded him off the
platform.
“But before I went, I was an eye-witness to a little episode in which
our friend Egan bore a part, and which he seems inclined to omit,”
interrupted Hopkins.
“Now, Hop, I’ve got the floor,” exclaimed Egan, who was lying at his ease
on his room-mate’s bed.
“I don’t care if you have. There’s no gag-law here.”
“Go on, Hop,” shouted the boys.
“It will take me but a moment,” said Hopkins, while Egan settled his
uninjured hand under his head with a sigh of resignation. “When the mob
went to work to disarm us, one big fellow stepped up to Egan and took
hold of his gun. ‘Lave me this; I’m Oirish,’ said he. ‘I’m Irish too,’
said Egan. ‘Take that with me compliments and lave me the gun;’ and he
hit the striker a blow in the face that lifted him from his feet and
would have knocked him out of the front door, if there hadn’t been so
many men and boys in the way. That fellow must have thought he had been
kicked by a mule. At any rate he did not come back after the gun, and
Egan was one of the few who got out of the car as fully armed as he was
when he went in.”
Hopkins could be irresistibly comical when he tried, and his auditors
shouted until the room rang again. They knew that his story was
exaggerated, but it amused them all the same. Egan _did_ say that he was
Irish (Hopkins often told him that if he ever denied his nationality his
name would betray him), and it was equally true that he floored the man
who demanded his gun, and with him one or two of his own company boys who
happened to be in the way; but he said nothing about “compliments” nor
did he imitate the striker’s way of talking. Among those who felt some of
the force of that blow, was Captain Mack.
“That explains how I got knocked down,” said he. “The rioters were trying
to drag the professor out of the car, and we were doing all we could to
protect him, when all at once some heavy body took me in the back, and
the first thing I knew I was sprawling on the floor. I thought I should
be trampled to death before I could get up.”
When Hopkins struck the ground he stood still and waited for some of the
mob to come and knock him on the head; but seeing that they were looking
out for themselves, and that some of his comrades were making good
time up the track in the direction of Bridgeport, he started too, doing
much better running than he did when he stole farmer Hudson’s jar of
buttermilk, and passing several of the company who were in full flight.
The bullets sang about his ears and knocked up the dirt before and behind
him, and Hopkins began looking about for a place of concealment. Seeing
that some of his company ran down from the track and disappeared very
suddenly when they reached a certain point a short distance in advance of
him, Hopkins stopped to investigate. He found that they had sought refuge
in a culvert, which afforded them secure protection from the bullets; but
Hopkins was inclined to believe that in fleeing from one danger they had
run plump into another. There were strikers as well as students in there;
and as he halted at the mouth of the culvert he heard a hoarse voice say:
“You soldier boys had better not stop here. You have made the mob mad,
and as soon as they get through with those fellows in the car, they
are going to spread themselves through the country and make an end of
everybody who wears the academy uniform. I heard some of them say so,
and I am talking for your good.”
“And I will act upon your advice,” said Hopkins to himself. “It is a
dangerous piece of business to go along that railroad-track, but I don’t
see how I am going to help it.”
It proved to be a more dangerous undertaking than the boy thought it
was. Death by the bullets which constantly whistled over the track, was
not the only peril that threatened him now. Believing that the main body
of their forces could keep the professor and his handful of students in
the car until their cartridges were expended, after which it would be an
easy matter to drag them out and hang them as they fully meant to do, the
rioters had sent off a strong detachment to look after the boys who had
escaped from the rear of the car. Hopkins could see them running through
the fields with the intention of getting ahead of the fugitives and
surrounding them.
“That’s a very neat plan, but I don’t think it will work,” said Hopkins,
as he drew himself together and prepared for another foot-race. “I wish I
had known this before I left the culvert so that I could have told—I’ll
go back and tell them if I lose my only chance for escape by it.”
Hopkins turned quickly about, but saw at a glance that there was no need
that he should waste valuable time by going back to the culvert. The boys
were leaving it in a body and making their way across a field. They were
going to join their comrades who had left the car, but Hopkins did not
know it, for he could not see the company, it being concealed from his
view by some thick bushes which grew on that side of the track.
“They’re all right,” said Hopkins, “but it seems to me they are taking
a queer way to get home. I’ll stick to the track, because it leads to
Bridgeport by the most direct route. Now then for a run! Hallo, here!
What’s the matter with you, Stanley?”
While Hopkins was talking in this way to himself, he was flying up the
track at a rate of speed which promised to leave the fleetest of the
flanking party far behind; but before he had run a hundred yards, he came
upon a student who was sitting on the end of one of the ties with his
head resting on his hands. As Hopkins drew nearer he saw that the boy had
bound his handkerchief around his leg just above his knee, and that it
was stained with blood.
“What’s the matter?” repeated Hopkins.
“I’m shot and can’t go any farther,” was the faint reply.
“When did you get it?”
“Just as I jumped from the car.”
“Well, get up and try again. You must go on, for if you stay here you are
done for. Look there,” said Hopkins, directing the boy’s attention to the
rioters who were trying to surround them.
“I can’t help it. I ran till I dropped, and I couldn’t do more, could I?
I am afraid my leg is broken. Take care of yourself.”
“I will, and of you, too,” replied Hopkins. “Get up. Now balance yourself
on one foot, throw your arms over my shoulders and I will carry you.”
The wounded boy, who had given up in despair, began to take heart now. He
did just as Hopkins told him, and the former walked off with him on his
back as if his weight were no incumbrance whatever. He did not run, but
he moved with a long, swinging stride which carried him and his burden
over the ground as fast as most boys would care to walk with no load at
all. The mob followed them until they came to the creek which was too
wide to jump and too deep to ford, and there they abandoned the pursuit.
At all events Hopkins and Stanley saw no more of them that night.
“Look out,” said Stanley, suddenly. “There’s one of them right ahead of
us.”
Hopkins looked up and saw a man standing on the track. The manner of
his appearance seemed to indicate that he had been hidden in the bushes
awaiting their approach.
“You had better put me down and save yourself,” whispered Stanley, as
Hopkins came to a halt wondering what he was going to do now. “If you get
into a fight with him I can’t help you.”
“I didn’t pick you up to drop you again at the first sign of danger,” was
the determined reply. “I wish I had a club or a stone. You don’t see one
anywhere, do you?”
“Say, boss,” said the man, in guarded tones.
“Bully for him; he’s a darkey,” exclaimed Hopkins. “We have nothing to
fear.”
“Say, boss,” said the man again, as he came down the track, “Ise a
friend. Don’t shoot.”
“All right, uncle. Come on.”
“What’s de matter wid you two?”
“There’s nothing the matter with me,” answered Hopkins, “but this boy is
shot. Can you do anything for him?”
“Kin I do sumpin fur de soldiers?” exclaimed the negro. “’Course I kin,
kase didn’t dey do a heap fur me when de wah was here? I reckon mebbe I’d
best take him down to de house whar de women folks is.”
“Handle him carefully,” said Hopkins. “He’s got a bad leg.”
The negro, who was a giant in strength as well as stature, raised the
wounded boy in his arms as easily as if he had been an infant, and
carried him up the track until he came to a road which led back into
the woods where his cabin was situated. Here they found several colored
people of both sexes who had gathered for mutual protection, and who
greeted the boys with loud exclamations of wonder and sympathy.
“Hush yer noise dar,” commanded the giant, who answered to the name of
Robinson. “Don’t yer know dat dem strikers is all fru de country, an’ dat
some of ’em was hyar not mor’n ten minutes ago?”
“Not here at this house?” exclaimed Hopkins, in alarm.
Yes, they had been there at the house, and in it and all over it, so
Robinson said, looking for the boys who had escaped by the rear door.
They might return at any moment, but he (Robinson) would do the best
he could for them. He couldn’t fight the mob, as he would like to, but
perhaps he could keep the boys concealed.
“What do you think they would do with us if they found us?” inquired
Stanley.
Robinson couldn’t say for certain, but the men who came to his house were
angry enough to do almost anything. They were all armed, and some of them
carried ropes in their hands. This proved that their threat to hang the
young soldiers was no idle one.
The first thing Robinson did was to look at Stanley’s wound. A bullet
had plowed a furrow through the back of his leg just below his knee,
and although the artery had not been cut and the bone was uninjured,
everybody saw at a glance that it was impossible for him to go any
farther. Hopkins inquired where he could find a surgeon, but the negro
wouldn’t tell him, declaring that if he set out in search of one he
would never see his friends again.
While Hopkins was trying to make up his mind what he ought to do, he
suddenly became aware that there was something the matter with himself.
One of his boots seemed to be growing tighter, and he limped painfully
when he tried to walk across the floor.
“I declare, I believe I have sprained my ankle,” said he; and an
examination proved that he had. His ankle was badly swollen and inflamed,
and after he took his boot off he could not bear the weight of his foot
upon the floor.
“I reckon you’ns has got to put up at my hotel dis night, bofe of you,”
said Robinson. “You can’t go no furder, dat’s sho’.”
“Perhaps you had better let us lie out in the woods,” said Hopkins. “If
the strikers should return and find us here, they might do you some
injury.”
The negro said he didn’t care for that. Soldiers had more than once
put themselves in danger for him, and it was a pity if he couldn’t do
something for them. At any rate he would take the risk. He bustled about
at a lively rate while he was talking, and in five minutes more the
disabled boys had been carried up the ladder that led to the loft and
stored away there on some hay that had been provided for them. After that
Stanley’s leg was dressed with cold coffee, which Robinson declared to be
the best thing in the world for gunshot wounds. Hopkins’s ankle was bound
up in cloths wet with hot water, a plain but bountiful supper was served
up to them, and they were left to their meditations. Of course they did
not sleep much, for they couldn’t. They suffered a good deal of pain, but
not a word of complaint was heard from either of them. Hopkins acted as
nurse during the night, and shortly after daylight sunk into an uneasy
slumber, from which he was aroused by a gentle push from Stanley, who
shook his finger at him to keep him quiet.
“They’ve come,” whispered his companion.
“They! Who?” said Hopkins, starting up.
“The mob. Don’t you hear them?”
Hopkins listened, and his hair seemed to rise on end when he caught the
low hum of conversation outside, which grew louder and more distinct as a
party of men approached the house. Enjoining silence upon his companion
Hopkins drew himself slowly and painfully over the hay to the end of the
loft, and looked out of a convenient knot hole. Stanley, who watched all
his movements with the keenest interest, trembled all over when Hopkins
held up all his fingers to indicate that there were ten of them. He also
made other motions signifying that the rioters were armed and that they
had brought ropes with them. Just then there was a movement in the room
below, and Robinson opened the door and stepped out to wait the mob.
“Say, nigger,” exclaimed one of the leaders, “where are those boys who
were here last night?”
Robinson replied that he didn’t know where they were. They had been taken
to the city early that morning, and he thought they were in the hospital.
“Were they both hurt?” asked one of the rioters.
“Yes; one had a bullet through his leg, and the other had been shot in
the foot.”
“We wish those bullets had been through their heads,” said the leader.
“It’s well for them that they got away, for we came here on purpose to
hang them.”
“Dat would serve ’em just right,” said Robinson. “Dey ain’t got no call
to come down hyar an’ go to foolin’ wid de workin’ man when he wants his
bread an’ butter. No, sar, dey ain’t.”
The boys in the loft awaited the result of this conference with fear and
trembling. They fully expected that the rioters would search the house
and drag them from their place of concealment, but the negro answered all
their questions so readily and appeared to be so frank and truthful, that
their suspicions were not aroused. When Stanley, who kept a close watch
of his friend, saw him kiss his hand toward the knot-hole, he drew a long
breath of relief, for he knew that the rioters were going away.
This visit satisfied both them and their sable host that they were not
safe there, and Robinson at once sent his oldest boy to the nearest
farm-house to borrow a horse and wagon. When the vehicle arrived the boys
were put into it, and Robinson took the reins and drove away with all the
speed he could induce the horse to put forth.
“How do you suppose those men knew that we were at your house?” said
Hopkins.
“One of dem no account niggers dat was dar las’ night done went an’ tol’
’em,” replied Robinson, angrily. “I’ll jest keep my eye peeled fur dat
feller, an’ when I find him, I’ll make him think he’s done been struck by
lightnin’. I will so.”
Robinson took the boys to the house of the nearest surgeon, who received
and treated them with the greatest kindness and hospitality. As Hopkins
and Stanley were boys who never spent their money foolishly they always
had plenty of it, and consequently they were able to bestow a liberal
reward upon the negro, who volunteered to drive to the nearest station
and sent off a despatch for them. The next day a carriage arrived from
Bridgeport and Hopkins went home in it, but Stanley, much to his regret,
was ordered to remain behind, the surgeon refusing to consent to his
removal; but he could not have been in pleasanter quarters or under
better care.
There were half a dozen other boys in the room who told stories of
escapes that were fully as interesting as this one. They could have
talked all night, but the supper-call sounded, and that broke up the
meeting.