[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1897, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MARCH 9, 1897. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVIII.--NO. 906. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
HOW TOM RODMAN JOINED THE GERMAN ARMY.
BY POULTNEY BIGELOW.
"Thomas," said Professor Schinkel, as they were in the midst of supper,
"run down and see what all the noise is about."
Tom Rodman was only fifteen years old; but like most Yankee boys of his
age, he was pretty quick at getting news. He knew that the French
Emperor had declared war against the Germans; he knew that soldiers were
being marched from every village of the father-land, and he knew also
that the Rhine was near to the frontier of France. He was just
then--this was in 1870--living in the family of Professor Schinkel, at
Slaugenstein on the Rhine, and quickly made up his mind that the noise
he heard in the street was made by troops marching to the war. So, with
a big piece of brown-bread in his hand and another in his mouth, he
sprang down stairs two steps at a time, and opened the front door. The
street was full of soldiers who wore helmets of black leather on their
heads, and who looked very brown and strong. They all seemed to be
looking for something; they had been marching all day, and each soldier
carried a knapsack that weighed quite as much as a very heavy child.
As Tom Rodman was wondering what these soldiers wanted, a big corporal
with a straw-colored beard and blue eyes came up, measured the house
with his eyes, counted the windows, then pulled out a piece of chalk,
and wrote on the door,
"One corporal and seven men!"
Tom now noticed that other doors in the street were being treated in the
same way, and quickly learned why; the whole town was to become night
quarters for the troops marching to the war.
"Is the Herr Professor at home?" asked the corporal.
"Yes; come this way," said Tom, now very much excited.
The corporal knocked at the professor's door, and walked in with a sharp
military tread. He then stood bolt-upright, put one hand to the side of
his helmet, after the soldier fashion, and said, in a voice that could
be heard all over the house,
"I beg to tell you most respectfully, Herr Professor Schinkel, that it
is my duty to bring here for this night one corporal and seven men!"
"You are heartily welcome, Herr Corporal," said the professor. "I am
glad that I am able to do a little good at this time for the brave men
who are going to war for the sake of our common country."
All was now bustle in the Schinkel family. The seven soldiers came
tramping up stairs, and were made as comfortable as was possible. Tom
ran out to the baker's and the butcher's, and came running back with
bread and meat. The soldiers had laid aside their guns, knapsacks, and
coats, and each did his share in getting supper ready.
Corporal Kutchke was invited to eat at the professor's table; and he
made the evening pass rapidly by telling stories about life in the army.
Tom liked the corporal, for he was a big, healthy, strong man, full of
enterprise. The professor found that Kutchke had been in the same
university as himself, and they had many friends in common. Tom thought
he would give anything if he could only be a soldier like Kutchke, and
go to the war. The corporal noticed Tom's excitement, and said, "Herr
Professor, why don't you send your son there to fight for his country?"
The professor laughed. "My son? Why, he's not my son. He's not German.
Tom is an American boy. His name is Tom Rodman. His mother is the widow
of a distinguished American artillery officer, and she has sent him here
to learn German in my family."
"Well," said Corporal Kutchke, "you do surprise me! The boy speaks such
good German that I never thought he could be a foreigner. But of course
foreigners don't care about fighting for us!"
II.
The door was pushed open with much force, and one of the soldiers
marched into the room, knocked his heels together, stood very stiff and
still, then said, with a very clear but yet rather sad voice,
"Private Rothmann has been taken very ill."
"Hulloo!" thought Tom, "that is a funny name for a German; it sounds
like mine."
Corporal Kutchke ordered the private to run and inform the army surgeon,
while he himself went up stairs to learn what he could. Rothmann was
very pale and weak. The heat of the day had affected him on the march,
and he was now tossing about in a feverish manner. The surgeon came and
said that Rothmann was wholly unfit to march, and must be left behind.
He was at once taken to the hospital. As soon as Rothmann was gone, Tom
Rodman went up to help the corporal about getting bedding for his men.
He found Kutchke seated on a drum rubbing his nose with a drum-stick.
"Million Schock Donnerwetter!" said Kutchke. "What will my Captain say?
I shall be blamed because he fell ill. And it's not my fault. It's the
fault of all the people along the road, who keep giving the soldiers
cigars and sausage, and make them useless for hard work."
III.
When Tom went up to his room that night he felt very sore at not being
allowed to go and fight with Corporal Kutchke, and he feared lest people
might think him a coward. He sat down on the edge of his bed, and began
to make plans for running away and joining the army in spite of the
professor. Just then he noticed the uniform which Rothmann had left
behind when they had so hastily taken him to the hospital. He jumped up,
quickly stripped off his coat and trousers, and dressed himself in the
uniform of a Prussian foot-soldier. The fit was not perfect, but as he
looked at himself in the glass he felt his shoulders straighten up and
his chest swell out with pride, and when he had finally put on the
knapsack and the cartridge-belt, and the warlike helmet with the brass
spike on top, he looked as though he had been made for this particular
uniform. He was just about reaching for Rothmann's gun, which had been
hung against the wall, when the door was thrown open, and Corporal
Kutchke stood facing him, looking as though he had seen a ghost.
"What is it? Who are you? Are you Rothmann?"
Tom burst into a hearty laugh, and the corporal was so delighted at
finding that Tom was not the ghost of Rothmann that he too joined.
Suddenly Corporal Kutchke slapped Tom on the back and said: "I have a
grand idea. Do you want to be a soldier?"
"Yes, indeed," said Tom.
"Will you march with us to-morrow at daybreak?"
"Certainly," said Tom.
"Then," said Kutchke, "I will take good care of you. It is against the
regulations, but in war-time we cannot be so strict. Your name is
Rodman, and you must make believe that you are the man Rothmann whom we
have left behind. You are both about the same size, and the Captain is
not likely to notice anything amiss, for I will drill you so that you
will soon be as good as any of the recruits. You are very big for your
age, and you will have splendid stories to tell when you come back from
the war."
"But what about the professor?" said Tom.
"Oh, that is simple enough," said the corporal. "Just write him a few
lines telling him that you have gone to defend the father-land against
the French, and he will forgive you in the end, even if he is angry for
the moment."
IV.
There was hard marching for poor Tom, and his knapsack weighed very
heavily on his young shoulders, and now and then he would gladly have
gone back to his comfortable bed at the professor's, had he not been
anxious to show his German comrades that an American could make a good
soldier--for Tom was a very patriotic boy. One night, as they were
cooking their supper at the camp-fire, Kutchke whispered in Tom's ear
that some of their scouts had seen French uniforms in the distance, and
that there would soon be a fight.
At about two o'clock in the morning his company was drawn up ready to
march, although it was pitch-dark. The Captain made them a short speech,
telling them they must make no noise, for they hoped to get very near to
the enemy before being seen, and if they fought well, many of them might
hope to get the Iron Cross, which is the most highly prized war medal in
the German army.
Then each soldier held his hand carefully against his side so as to
prevent the rattling of his tin water-bottle against his
bayonet-scabbard, and thus they marched for about an hour in silence,
keeping a sharp lookout to right and left.
Suddenly was heard ping-ping-ping, the sound of rifle-bullets whizzing
over their heads, and soon commenced a clatter of infantry fire, for the
French had discovered the movements of this company in the faint light
of the dawning day. But it was too late for effective resistance on the
part of the enemy, who were taken by surprise, and had to retreat up the
slopes of a gentle hill, on the top of which stood six cannon in a row;
but, curiously enough, they were pointing in the opposite direction from
Tom. As soon as the noise of the firing was heard, Tom heard the bugles
blowing, and knew from this that the French would soon be firing off
their big guns at them. Then the Captain roared out to them to run as
hard as they could and capture these six pieces of cannon before they
could be turned round and fired off; so they all started with a great
hurrah, and arrived at the guns just as the French artillerymen were
trying to move them into proper positions. Tom could not tell exactly
what happened, excepting that there seemed to be hundreds of swords
waving in the air and a constant rattling of infantry fire. Now and then
a man dropped, but Tom was too excited to notice why he dropped. His
blood was aroused, and he thought only of keeping near Kutchke and
winning the Iron Cross. There was one cannon which was just about to be
fired, when Kutchke sprang at the man in charge and knocked him down
with the butt of his rifle; but no sooner was this done than another man
sprang forward to fire the gun, and three Frenchmen attacked Kutchke at
once. Then Tom sprang forward like a wild-cat and smashed the gun of a
Frenchman who was just about sticking his bayonet through Kutchke's
back, and at this the other two ran away. Then the Captain, who was
fighting close to them, shouted out, "Well done, Rodman; you have saved
Kutchke's life!" And the soldiers near by shouted "Hurrah!" still more
vigorously, and looked at Rodman as though they were proud of him.
But now the Captain commenced to be anxious for the safety of his
company, and ordered the men to harness up the horses to the French
cannon so as to get them back as trophies, for there were signs in the
distance that large forces of French were coming up. They had no sooner
brought the horses up to be harnessed, than a regiment of French cavalry
was seen galloping towards them in a cloud of dust. On they came with
loud shouts, and there was no time to waste. Tom's company was ordered
to lie down beneath the guns and not to fire until the horses were close
to them, and then to give them a volley all together. This plan worked
splendidly, for the French were so surprised by this sudden response
that there was much confusion amongst them, and they hesitated. Tom
noticed a French officer carrying a flag, which in war is considered a
very precious trophy. When that Frenchman saw the effect of the first
volley, he looked about him as though ready to run away, and when a
second volley was fired, which killed more Frenchmen, he wheeled round
with the flag in his hand and put spurs to his horse. But Tom did not
wait for orders in the presence of such an opportunity. He seized the
nearest artillery horse, jumped into the saddle in the twinkling of an
eye, and made straight for the flying French officer. The race was an
exciting one, and Tom soon discovered that it was likely to be a
dangerous one; for they soon left the battle-field behind them, and he
had before him the prospect of fighting a desperate man. Tom had no
weapons, for he had thrown away his gun, and at the same time he had
cast off his knapsack and cartridge-belt. Tom shouted to the Frenchman
that he must surrender, but the Frenchman paid no attention to it; so
Tom took off the stirrup leathers from the saddle while his horse kept
up his furious pace. He hung the two stirrups on to one leather, and
joined the two leathers together so that they would stretch a long
distance. Then he swung this around his head as though it had been a
long sling, and waited for a time to use it. The Frenchman was not a
very good rider, and the country over which he rode was rather rough, so
that he did not dare to turn round in the saddle, excepting just enough
to point his pistol at Tom, and fire it off without hitting anything.
Tom was gaining inch by inch, and at last was ready for a blow. A narrow
and rapid river was close ahead of them, and the Frenchman no doubt felt
that escape was hopeless without a struggle; so he drew his sword,
wheeled his horse, and attacked Tom for the purpose of running him
through the body. Tom kept cool, swung his long leather gently around
his head, and just at the moment when the Frenchman was ready to make
his lunge he gave all his strength to a final swing that brought the
stirrups together against the left cheek of the Frenchman, who fell to
the ground stunned and bleeding. One blow was enough, and Tom sprang
from his horse, seized the flag and sword from the enemy and then
fetched water from the river and bandaged up the Frenchman's wound. Tom
would have staid longer with this French officer had it not been that
French troops made their appearance over the tops of the ridges.
V.
With the sabre of a French cavalry officer in one hand, and the standard
of a French cavalry regiment in the other, Tom ran as hard as his legs
could carry him towards the rapid stream which was not more than fifty
yards from where he had had the short fight. It was no use trying to
escape on horseback, for his retreat was cut off by French cavalry;
indeed, it seemed to Tom as though Frenchmen had started up out of the
ground all around him, and he realized that he was now cut off entirely
from his comrades, and must make good use of his wits if he wished to
avoid being killed or made prisoner. Along the edges of this stream were
clumps of overhanging bushes, and into the thickest of them he sprang,
where he lay effectually concealed. Pretty soon a detachment of
Frenchmen passed close to him, and he heard one of them say:
"Oh, that sacré Prussien! How I should like to catch him and get back
the standard of our regiment! But I don't see how he could have knocked
our Captain off his horse; it is most mysterious. However, I suppose he
has drowned himself in the river, and so I ought to be satisfied."
Tom did not know the name of this river, or where it led to, but he knew
enough of geography to know that if he kept on it long enough he should
arrive at the Rhine. He was an expert swimmer, and made up his mind that
the only way open to him was to travel by water and avoid the land. Of
course he did not dare move by daylight, but as soon as the sun was set
he launched himself upon the stream and struck out with the current. The
sabre and standard he had wrapped round and round with small branches
cut from the bushes, and this served him not only as a means of
concealing his trophies, but also as a help, for it supported him when
he was tired. His uniform he had to leave behind, for it would have been
in his way, and he wore nothing but his shirt and a sort of
bathing-drawers, which he made by cutting off the lower part of his
uniform trousers. The water was, fortunately, warm, and Tom was prepared
for a good long swim. He had gone about an hour, and already he had
begun to feel that he could not stand very much more of this kind of
work, when he noticed ahead of him something black. He struck out for
it, and found that it was a massive door, which had been broken off from
some peasant's barn and probably thrown into the river out of mischief
by some prowling band of soldiers. To the great delight of Tom this barn
door was so big that he could lie upon it and find most welcome rest as
he floated on down stream at the rate of five or six miles an hour. Tom
had nothing to eat with him, but he tightened his belt and tried to
think of other things, and soon he fell asleep, with his head resting in
the water on one side of the raft, and his legs in the water on the
other side.
As he lay sweetly dreaming, he was suddenly awakened by a sound of
voices and by the fierce light of a huge camp-fire on the bank. The
voices were French, and Tom could understand this much.
"Look out there! I see something suspicious on the river."
"It is a corpse," said another Frenchman, and then Tom heard a laugh.
"Be careful there," cried another, "or he will float down upon us and
poison our soup;" and then Tom heard foot-steps coming down to the
water's edge; then he felt a push against his raft and the scraping of a
bayonet-point against one of his legs. So near was he that he could
smell the fragrant supper--the onions, the beef, and the smoke of the
wood fire.
About half an hour from where he had left the Frenchmen cooking their
soup he rounded a bend in the river, and saw ahead of him another
camp-fire, with soldiers about it wearing German forage-caps. He
recognized the big straw-colored beard of Kutchke, and knew at once that
he was amongst friends. He floated close to the bank where the corporal
stood, and pretended to be a corpse. No one noticed him until he was at
their very feet, and then he heard some one say: "Ach, there is a
corpse! Push it away quickly!" And then he heard Kutchke call out: "No;
wait until I see it. Perhaps it is Tom Rodman." Then he heard the heavy
tread of Kutchke, and presently the corporal's voice could be heard
breaking out into loud lamentation.
"Ah, yes," said he, "it is poor Rodman who saved my life from the
Frenchmen! How dreadful that I should have brought him to the war! What
can I do?"
"Why, you can give me something to eat!" came from the raft; and with
these words Tom Rodman sat bolt-upright and laughed in Kutchke's face.
Then there was a loud hurrah in the camp, and all the soldiers flocked
down to see the miracle of Rodman coming to life and asking for
something to eat. Kutchke embraced him, and kissed him several times,
and called him his savior. All the men shook hands with him, and he was
at once put into a good warm uniform, and given the most comfortable
seat by the fire, where he was provided with a big tin full of
well-cooked cabbage, sausage, and bread, which tasted exceedingly well
after the hardships of the last twenty-four hours.
In the midst of it arrived the Captain, who wanted also to hear the
story of Tom's escape, and why he had chased after the French officer.
Tom told his adventures, and then produced the French cavalry standard,
and the sabre of the officer whom he had knocked from his horse with the
pair of stirrups.
All were delighted at the result of Tom's courage, and Kutchke said that
Tom deserved three Iron Crosses--one for saving his life, another for
capturing the standard, and another for bringing home the sabre. Tom was
very popular with his comrades, and the news of his adventures soon
reached the ears of the Colonel of his regiment, and he was soon
afterwards informed that he was to receive the Iron Cross. The whole
regiment was formed into three sides of a square, and the Colonel called
out the name of Tom Rodman, who stepped forward, and stood very stiff
while the Colonel asked after him and his family. Tom could not any
longer conceal the fact that he was not a German, but an American boy,
and the Colonel promised to say nothing about it, in order that Kutchke
should not be punished. So this is how Tom Rodman joined the German
army, and was the first American to wear the famous Iron Cross. The
Colonel cabled to his mother in America, so that she might not be
alarmed, and the Professor easily forgave his pupil for all the anxiety
that Tom had caused him.
A JAPANESE PICTURE-STORY.
BY BARNET PHILLIPS.
The stories that have been written about pictures are to be divided into
two general categories--those indicating the skill of the artist, and
those relating to the performances of the pictures themselves. Both of
these merge, since they attest the ability of the artist. There is a
third kind of story, dwelling on the mishaps of painters, which
accidents, however, in the long-run, invariably aid the artist.
The supernatural must have been called into play at the dawn of
civilization, when the first artist scratched with splinter of flint an
animal form on a bone. Pygmalion, who carved a woman so lifelike that he
prayed to Venus to give Galatea flesh, blood, and a soul, must in an
earlier form have been a story of the most remote antiquity. We find
traces of this myth in Egyptian worship. To a South Sea Islander carved
idols are not stocks nor stones, but living gods. The most acute
Hindostanee does not separate his brazen images from the personalities
of his deities.
Nothing is older than the stories of the supreme skill of the artist
which the old Greek repeated. The common type of this legend is the
picture with the figs painted on it, which were so natural that the
birds pecked at them. The modern Orientals have embellished this story
in many ways. The Persians will tell you that the birds actually carried
a pomegranate out of a picture and fought over the fruit. One of the
pomegranates slipped from the beak of a bird and tumbled down to a
garden below. The over-ripe fruit broke, the seeds were scattered, and
where they fell a pomegranate-tree grew, which will be shown you to-day
in a court-yard in Ispahan.
We have the very old joke about the slab of stone painted so exactly
like a log of wood that it floated. The Japanese have worked up the idea
in many ingenious ways. They had a painter of the tenth century who drew
a crystal ball so perfectly that when the sun shone on it, it behaved as
would a lens, and would light tinder.
The Greeks tell of an artist who was dissatisfied with the flecks of
foam in the mouth of the dog he was painting, and in anger threw a
sponge at his picture, and, lo! where the sponge had struck the painting
there was the froth required.
[Illustration: THE BRONZE WAS HURLED TO THE GROUND.]
This is told of a bronze artificer who never could be satisfied with the
ocean he was making up, into which his hero was wading. He set his work
on a window. A storm arose, there was a blinding flash of lightning, and
the bronze was hurled to the ground. When the artist picked up the
bronze a portion of the metal representing the water had been fused, and
there was the rolling, undulating sea, such as no mortal hand could ever
have produced.
Another story is about a second bronze-worker, who was a great artist,
but an intemperate one, for he drank too much saki. The man had
fashioned a deity in bronze which did not satisfy him, though he had
worked on it for ten years. Do what he would, the figure showed traces
of the long toil he had lavished on it. Though given to his cups, he was
apparently a conscientious artist. Putting his bronze in his pocket or
up his sleeve, the artist determined to commit suicide, and so plunged
into a great tub of fermenting rice, from which saki is distilled. When
the saki-maker emptied his tubs there was the artist dead, and his
bronze, but the work had been perfected. The fermenting rice had
smoothed down the hard lines. The bronze was admirable, and so the
artist's death conferred on him a certain amount of heroism--that is,
according to Japanese ideas of heroism.
The neatest story of artistic performance and of higher criticism is
Japanese, and for the lesson it conveys has its value. There was a
Shogun of the fourteenth century who was the art critic of his time,
because he never saw a screen or a bronze or a china decoration without
finding some fault. In his court all his retainers followed the Shogun
in deprecating whatsoever was shown to them.
In the court of the great man was a painter, the most distinguished of
his time, and this artist became very tired of the adverse criticisms
passed on his work. The Shogun ordered a screen, leaving the choice of
the subject to the artist.
"As you are very slow," said the Shogun, "you may take a year to paint
your screen. Time enough, I think, to assure us that there will be
nothing careless in your work."
The artist accepted the commission, and asked for leave of absence,
which was granted to him. He was away for eleven months, and it was
within three days of the end of the year when he paid his respects to
the Shogun.
"Exhibit at once your so-called work of art," said the Shogun.
"I have not yet commenced it, may it please your Dignity," answered the
artist.
"And in three days do you expect to show me a picture worth my looking
at?" inquired the Shogun.
"I have travelled all over the country for that work which it has
pleased you to commit to my care, and it will be ready on time," replied
the artist, humbly.
When the last day had come the artist said his screen was ready, and
that it was hanging in a particular room in the Shogun's palace. The
high dignitary and his court were present, and examined the picture.
What was painted was simplicity itself. There was a river, and in the
stream a boat was moored, with a furled sail. The banks of the river
were lined with rushes. There were a few trees, with a bird here and
there perched on the boughs. A rabbit was nibbling the grass. In the
distance was a high mountain.
"That is supposably water, if I am not mistaken," said the Shogun.
"It's very sluggish," remarked the pipe-bearer.
"Those rushes--ahem!" interposed a courtier--"are they not absurdly
stiff?"
"And, dear me," chimed in the secretary, "what birds! Stuffed birds on
boughs are too preposterous!"
"The boat--such a boat as that never could float! Is it meant for a boat
or a rock?" inquired the master of the robes.
"The fact is," said the Shogun, "it is an idiotic performance. It wants
life, go, dash, imagination. It is dulness personified. It is nothing
but 'prentice work, and entirely unfitted to grace our elegant abode.
Treasurer, pay this man for his trouble. A full year's wages, such as
you would give to a weeder of rice."
"Your Highness always was a liberal patron of the arts," said the
treasurer.
"And though generous, most discriminating, for really the picture is
overpaid," said the courtiers.
[Illustration: THE ARTIST PLUNGED HEAD FOREMOST INTO HIS WORK.]
The painter smiled, slowly walked to where the screen was hung, and
plunged head foremost into his work. Then, to the great amazement of the
Shogun and his court, a splash was heard. Now the water rippled and the
boat began to rock. The rushes on the bank of the stream nodded and bent
and swayed, as if with a passing breeze. The birds flew from bough to
bough. The rabbit scampered away. There was a figure in the boat, and
presently the anchor was hauled up and the sail was set, and the little
craft, heeling over with the wind, sped up the stream, and now a landing
was made at the foot of the mountain.
Next a little man was seen slowly climbing up the mountain, and when the
mountain-top was reached the figure bowed respectfully to the Shogun and
the court and disappeared, as if descending on the other side of the
mountain.
Then a loon came to the immediate foreground of the screen, and flapped
his wings, and said, in very courtly Japanese, these words, which may be
rather carelessly translated into English in this way:
"You are all a set of ninnies, for you don't know a good thing when you
see it. Ta, ta!"
The courtiers were so enraged that they drew their two swords and wanted
to hack the loon and the screen to pieces. But when they looked at the
screen, they saw a big tear in it, with falling flaps of silk, on which
the work had been painted. It was where the artist had made his exit.
This is the Japanese fable for critics.
A LOYAL TRAITOR.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 888.
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XX.
AN EXCHANGE AND A ROBBERY.
"Come, lads," I said at last, "don't give up. Give way together. We'll
make for that old castle rock, and go ashore."
In a few minutes we had beached both boats in a little cove hardly
twenty feet across. I had an idea in my mind of leading the crew to the
top of the rock, for it appeared to me that five or six men from the
summit could hold a score or more at bay with nothing but stones for
weapons.
But to my astonishment I saw that the spit of land which ran out to the
tall rock was not more than thirty feet in width, and that it was
rounded, as if at some time the sea washed over it. Dugan and Chips had
followed me up the slope. When we reached the top, which was not more
than ten feet above the beach, we could see the cutter plainly. Through
the glass I made out she had come to anchor, and that they were loading
some casks into a boat alongside of her:
I handed the glass to the carpenter, who was next to me, and asked him
to take a look through it.
"Halloa!" cried Dugan, suddenly, "there are the prisoners on the beach.
Now let's see what they're going to do. I wonder if they'll think it is
a Yankee trick," he added, with a half chuckle, "scuttling that rotten
old junk?"
I took the glass from him without answering, for I saw no humor in the
situation. A boat put off from the cutter and brought back two of the
men from shore, and now, hidden behind a rock, we watched the
proceedings in turn. The idea of getting water was apparently abandoned.
The boat rowed to shore again, picked up the rest of the Englishmen, and
then I saw that they were getting out the quarter-boat from the other
side.
In a few minutes both were loaded. I caught the glint of steel as they
handed muskets and cutlasses into them, and then they pulled off to the
northward to go around the farther end of the island.
But an idea had seized me that set my blood tingling!
"How many men does such a craft as that carry?" I croaked, hoarsely.
"Twenty-five to thirty," responded Chips, sullenly.
I had counted twenty men besides the prisoners in the two boats that had
put off from the cutter. It would take probably two hours to row around
to the north shore of the island.
It would do no harm to broach the subject in my mind to the others, and
I did so in a few short words, speaking in hoarse whispers.
"Why not roll one of our boats across the neck of land, and then row
down and take the cutter by surprise?"
I did not know how this plan would be received by the others, but when I
finished they were looking at me eagerly.
"Captain, I admire ye!" said Dugan, with a trace of Irish in his tone.
Chips grasped my hand.
"By Solomon! we can do it, sir!" he said, and we hurried across to where
the men were seated, a dejected-looking group, on the sand.
In twenty minutes the boats from the cutter were out of sight around the
north shore cape, and we set to work getting the largest of our own over
the barrier.
We broke the oars from the boat we had discarded into rollers, and in
five minutes, or a little over, we had made a launching on the western
shore.
The men muffled their oars with their shirts, and with a sensation of
hunters stalking some dangerous animal, we rowed slowly along against
the tide. Truly it was as if the quarry were asleep, and we feared
awakening it before we got within striking distance.
Now we were right under her stern, and I read the name, _Bat_, in gold
letters.
She was a tidy little craft, more like a gentleman's yacht than a vessel
of war, and from two small ports on her sides poked the muzzles of brass
six-pounders.
It was but the hoist of a foot to get on board; and, behold! there was
no one there to receive us! But we had no arms; and, picking up a
hand-spike and handing it to the carpenter, I led the way down the
little hatch, followed by the other eight men, with their closed fists
for weapons.
Now if any two people were surprised it was the two Irish sailors who
sat there eating with their knives from tin plates they held on their
knees.
[Illustration: "SURRENDER!" I CRIED, POINTING THE TELESCOPE AT THEM.]
"Surrender!" I cried, pointing the telescope at them as if I had but to
touch a trigger to blow out their brains. Before they knew what had
happened, or could raise their voices, two of the privateersmen had them
pinioned by their wrists.
"Cut that cable; make all sail and get out of this!" I roared, pushing
up again.
The jib and foresail went chock-a-block with one heave. Never did men
leap to their work so quickly.
Now as it was but a stone's-throw to the shore, I ordered the two
sailors overboard into the water, and gave them one of the empty casks
to help them make it safely. They were glad of the chance to go.
The mainsail was up by this time, the rope hawser had been severed by
the blow of an axe, and we were making out to sea. The crew, all on
deck, burst into three hearty cheers, and I led them.
But if they were surprised, and truly they must have been, a greater
surprise was in store for me, and I would that I could dwell on my
sensations, which I shall but outline. I did not leave the deck to make
any investigations of the little sloop until we had covered some five
miles, and I had found out that she sailed like a witch, and that there
was no sail after us.
The cabin was very handsomely furnished, with a long couch down one
side, a handsome table under a fine swinging lamp in the centre, and a
desk with many drawers off in a corner, lighted by a handsome sconce. A
number of books were thrown about on the couch, and suspended from hooks
against the white panels were a half-dozen beautifully executed
miniatures; the door to a little cupboard was open, and I saw, hanging
up inside, a number of uniforms.
I walked over to the desk and picked up a leather-covered volume that
had "Log-book of the _Bat_" on the cover in red letters, very
beautifully done. I turned to the first page, and here is where I got my
surprise.
"A journal kept on board H. M. Revenue Cutter _Bat_, of four guns,
commanded by Lieutenant _John Hurdis_, R.N."
There was my own name staring me in the face. I did not know that
Hurdiss was a name well known in the English navy. But I recovered my
wits at last, and regarded the coincidence of names as a very lucky
omen. I had to take but one step up the little ladder to have my head
above the level of the deck. Standing there I called Chips to me, and
showed him the entry in the book.
"It's witchcraft," he said, "and nothing less."
The cutter was a little bit larger than our single-gun boats, and
perfectly able to go across the Atlantic, or to sail anywhere, provided
her provisions held out. We found by an inspection of the hold that
there was more than enough to last ten men for a month and a few days
over, although we would have to go light in the drinking line.
At once Chips and I set about preparing a routine. The crew were divided
into three watches, and I laid out a course that would fetch us
somewhere in the vicinity of Boston. On we sailed; everything was fine.
For three days I had a most delightful experience, reading the
well-chosen books in the cabin, and seeing that the men were kept
employed polishing the brass-work and overhauling the forward hold, and
so forth.
On the fourth day the fine breeze, that had held from the same direction
almost continually, stopped as suddenly as if it had been shut off by
the intervention of a great wall.
Before dawn a slight wind came out of the west, dead against us; and at
five bells a large ship was seen coming down before the wind with all
sail set. I got upon the opposite tack to that I had been holding, and
at this the large vessel changed her course, evidently intending to
speak me. There was no way of my escaping, for if I had started to run
she would soon have overhauled us in two hours. I could see her ports
and make out she was a 44-gun frigate, and was not surprised when she
displayed the English flag.
I answered in the same manner, and at Chips's suggestion I got out the
signal-book that I had found, and the little flags also, hoping that
this would be all that it would amount to.
But she did not signalize us, and in a quarter of an hour we were near
enough to see the faces of a group of officers leaning over the rail,
and to notice that one of them held a trumpet in his hand.
Soon the hail came, "What cutter is that?"
I answered.
"What are you doing out here?"
For an instant I was nonplussed. "Chasing a Yankee privateer," I
answered, with an air of bravado.
"Where is she?"
"Got away to the south'ard."
"I'll send a boat on board of you."
This was exactly what I did not wish to happen. "Don't trouble, sir.
I'll come on board of you myself," I replied, at the same time ordering
out the only boat we had left, a little dingy swung over the stern.
"Now, Chips," said I, "this is a case of must obey. We are edging up to
windward, and it's going to thicken. If you can get away, do so; but be
cautious. You know the cost. I leave it all to you. Get up to windward
without exciting suspicion, and if you don't hear from me in two hours,
clear away for home."
This conversation was held under the lee of the frigate; in fact we were
so close to her that she shadowed us completely, and although we were
both hove to, I knew that we could swing off before she could get the
weather-gage. I feared doing this myself, but I knew that my coming on
board would disarm all suspicion, and that Chips might be able to carry
out the plan.
From the southwest a fog-bank was approaching--I had made note of
it--and the air was filled already with fine particles of moisture. It
was no easy job to bring the little dingy alongside. But at last we were
able to do so, thanks to the good oarsmanship of Caldwell, and at last I
grasped the rope-ladder that had been lowered from the gangway, and came
on deck. The boatswain shrilled his whistle, and the side-boys touched
their caps. A fine-looking officer stepped forward to meet me, saluting
and extending his hand.
"Your name, sir?" he inquired.
It would not do to hesitate. I was running risks, of course, but no
half-way measures would suffice.
"John Hurdiss, Lieutenant, commanding the cutter _Bat_," I replied.
"Will you come with me to my cabin, Mr. Hurdiss? I'm Mallet, of the
_Cæsar_."
I followed him at once.
"Isn't it rather a strange thing for you to be in this latitude and
longitude, when your station is on the coast?" he continued, severely.
"Not when you understand the circumstances, Captain Mallet," I replied.
And forthwith I began a story of how I had chased a small Yankee
privateer for the last three days, and that she had given me the slip
but the night before.
"I shall make a report of this affair, and it shall be looked into," he
said. "Go back on board your vessel, and return to your
cruising-grounds."
I was sorely tempted to ask what business all this was of his, but I
held my tongue, and we went on deck together. The fog-bank was all about
us. The _Bat_ was nowhere to be seen. I could not help showing my
impatience. A gun was fired, and then another, and a third, but there
was no response.
All eyes were upon me, and in the group of officers I noticed an old man
in civilian's dress. He was a distinguished-looking figure, and I
overheard some one address him as Mr. Middleton.
"Middleton?" I repeated to myself. "Where have I heard that name
before?" I could not place it, but somehow it had staid in my
recollection.
"What's the explanation of this, Mr. Hurdiss?" asked Captain Mallet,
folding his arms and stepping in front of me.
"That's more than I can tell you," I replied.
As I spoke there came the sound of a shot off to windward.
"There's my vessel," I replied. "Might I ask you to set me on board of
her, or shall I consider myself under arrest, sir?"
"You shall consider yourself ordered on board your vessel, with
instructions to report to your superior at Dublin at once, to whom you
will give this letter."
Scarcely had the boatswain finished shrilling the call for the cutter
when the old gentleman in citizen's dress spoke up.
"As Dublin is my destination, Sir John, would it be possible for us to
be transferred to this young gentleman's vessel? It would save us much
time and trouble."
"I cannot order him to take you," replied the Captain, "but if he
chooses--"
The old man looked at me.
"My granddaughter and I," he began, "are very anxious to reach Ireland.
If you would do us the favor--"
I was anxious to get away without more parleying, as the boat was now
rocking at the foot of the ladder.
"Our quarters are not so large as those of the frigate," I began.
"I hope that this is not asking too much," went on Mr. Middleton,
earnestly, interrupting before I had finished.
I glanced over my shoulder, and I saw standing there the figure of a
tall young girl dressed in deep mourning.
I went hot and cold from my heart to my finger-tips. The shock came near
to paralyzing me.
"I think I can make you comfortable," I said, "if you will allow me to
row off and bring my vessel up while you are getting your luggage."
"Thank you very much," said Mr. Middleton; "we'll set about it."
I descended the ladder, jumped into the boat, and gave the orders to
pull out into the fog. When we had gone some four or five hundred yards,
I made a trumpet of my hands, and shouted:
"Oh, Mr. Chips! Where are you?"
"Here we are, sir!" came the reply close to us.
In another moment we were alongside, and the carpenter, in the uniform
of a British quartermaster, helped me on board.
"Mr. Chips," I said, hurriedly, "there will soon be some passengers come
off from the frigate. It is supposed that we are bound for Dublin."
"It is a roundabout way we'll take to get there, sir," he said,
grinning. "Who are they?"
"Never mind as to that," I answered. "Treat them with all courtesy, and
show them to my cabin."
When Mr. Middleton and his granddaughter, whose name the reader has
guessed by this time, were put on board of us, I made myself very
scarce, hiding in the fore-castle luckily, I thought it better to start
to the eastward and sail down to the frigate to allay any suspicion that
might still linger in Captain Mallet's mind. It was the best thing I
could have done, for we came up to her, finding her yet hove-to.
"Follow in our wake," came the order through the trumpet, as she rounded
off on the same course we were holding.
"Ay, ay, sir," I replied; and as soon as she had passed us and was out
of sight, I came about and headed to the west through the rain, with the
wind bearing the little cutter on, with (to me) the most precious cargo
in the world.
The passengers did not come on deck that afternoon; but late in the
evening the fog cleared away, and so far as we could see by searching
the horizon with a glass not a sail was in sight. I was leaning with my
back to the companionway, talking to Mr. Chips, who was at the tiller
(the _Bat_ had no wheel), when I heard the sound of a voice that
thrilled me through and through. My own talking apparatus was almost
normal by this time, I should have stated, although I now could sing
bass instead of tenor.
"Give the order to haul up that flag," I said to the carpenter, in an
undertone.
It was still bright light, and the sun had not dipped full below the
edge of the sea, and clear and bright in all its beautiful colors up
went to the peak the stars and stripes.
Mary had seen it first. "What does this mean, grandfather?" she said.
The old man could not reply.
"It means," said I, turning, "that Captain John Hurdiss has come in his
own vessel to get you, Mistress Tanner."
I did not know exactly what would be the result of this speech, but if I
had had any idea that it was to produce a sensation, the result
certainly proved the correctness of my surmisings. Mary gave a gasp and
stamped her foot upon the deck. The flash of her eye had more kinds of
feeling in it than one can describe.
"Traitor and coward!" she hissed, extending her clinched hands at her
sides with the knuckles upward in a rigid gesture. Then she gave a
half-inarticulate cry of rage, and turning, stepped down the
companionway into the cabin.
Before me was standing Mr. Middleton; his arms were folded, and his
fingers clasping and unclasping nervously.
"What in the name of Satan have we here?" he said. "What does this mean?
Who are you, and what are you?"
"I am John Hurdiss, the commander of this vessel," I answered in return,
folding my arms also, but keeping as quiet as I could. "I am a plain
American seaman. You are my guest, sir, and believe me that no harm will
come to you."
"You addressed my granddaughter just now as though you had some claim on
her. We are in your power, but--"
"Stay," I cried, lifting my hand. "My words may have been ill chosen,
but mark this--I would put a pistol to the man's head whose touch might
look to harm her, as I would to my own if my thoughts could threaten
treachery. Both you and she are safe, I pledge my honor!"
This speech, which really came from the depths of my heart, had the
effect of causing the old gentleman to relax his features somewhat.
"Thank you for this assurance," he said. "Will you tell me whither we
are bound, and why you inveigled us, pray, to come on board this
skipjack? What plot is this?"
"Oh, pardon me," I laughed; "it was your suggestion, and not mine. Every
moment that I spent on board that frigate I was in great danger, and not
only I, but these brave fellows who have stood by me so nobly. Besides I
had hoped, or at least supposed, that affairs might have turned out
differently."
"How so?" inquired Mr. Middleton, raising his eyebrows.
"The necessity for explaining my thoughts, sir, has passed," I answered,
tersely. "I was mistaken."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE PAINTED DESERT.
A STORY OF NORTHERN ARIZONA.
BY KIRK MUNROE,
AUTHOR OF "RICK DALE," "THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH," "SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES,"
"THE MATE SERIES," ETC.