by Charles King
CHAPTER III.
In the hot July sunshine, up the long vista of the street the flags hungdrooping, every one, with a single exception, at half staff. Over thebuilding where hearts were heaviest the colors soared highest; thegeneral commanding, until ordered from Washington, being debarred amanifestation of mourning which the sovereign citizen adopts as a matterof course. It was bitter disaster that had befallen the national armsand involved so popular a commander with scores of his gallant men; thestars and stripes that had been saluted all over town in honor of theever-glorious Fourth were now set at mid-height or draped with black.The crowds that had gathered about the newspaper offices and departmenthead-quarters all the previous day were scattered, in the convictionthat little remained to be told, but there was a gathering at therailway station to bid adieu to the battalion of infantry from theneighboring fort, leaving by special train for the seat of war. They hadcheered the dusty fatigue uniforms as the cars rolled away, and many ayoung fellow would gladly have gone with the boys in blue could he havefaced the social ban which a misguided public has established againstits most loyal servants, holding enlistment in the regular army asvirtual admission of general worthlessness. And now the crowds stilllingered under the glass roof of the big passenger shed, for word hadgone out that another train coming across the bridge was loaded withmore troops, and there was a fascination in watching these prospectivevictims of the stake and scalping-knife. It had been a fierce campaignthus far, and one in which the losses and vicissitudes both (there areno honors to speak of) had been borne principally by the cavalry, butnow the "doughboys" with their "long toms" were being pushed to thefront. "Wait till Emma Jane gets her eye on ould Squattin' Bull," saidan Irish private, patting the butt of his rifle, as with head andshoulders half-way out of the car window he confidentially addressed thecrowd. "It'll be the last spache he'll ever ax to hear."
"That'll do there, Moriarty; get that gun inside," said a lieutenant,briefly. And as Moriarty obeyed, with a grin and wink at the throng, thelaugh and cheer that went up were evidently for Private Pat and not forhis superior. It is the smiling face, not official gravity, that winsthe great heart of the people. The band which had headed the column onthe march in from the post, but was not to accompany it to the field,was still waiting to give the next comers a fitting "send off." Two orthree staff officers in civilian dress stood in earnest talk with thesuperintendent of the railway, a knot of curious citizens surroundingthem, eager to pick up any point with reference to the troops or theirtransportation. Expectant eyes were cast towards the east where thetowers of the great bridge loomed in the shimmer and glare of the hotnoontide. "She ought to be here now," said the railway-man with animpatient snap of his watch-case. "What keeps No. 5, Gus?" he asked ofan assistant hurrying by.
The man hauled up short and touched his hat. "This just came at thetrain-despatcher's office, sir," said he, as he handed up a slip ofpaper, which the superintendent quickly read, a queer look coming intohis face as he did so.
"Hu-m-m, gentlemen. This is something _you_'ll have to straighten out.It doesn't seem to be in my line." And he handed the paper to MajorLudlum, chief quartermaster of the department, who in turn read it, hiseyes filling with grave concern.
"Recruits on No. 5 broke loose at Bluff Siding,--drunk--raiding thesaloon. Can't get 'em on train again. Can guards or police be sent?" Itwas signed by the conductor.
"Well," said Ludlum, disgustedly, "we might have known that wouldhappen. The idea of sending three car-loads of raw recruits with onlyone officer, and that one old Muffet. It's tempting Providence."
"Why, I thought he had a lieutenant with him. Somebody said so at theoffice this morning," said the department engineer officer.
"Not even a lieutenant,--a cadet, if you like; graduated not a monthago,--not yet commissioned. Some young cub just out of school, withabout as much idea how to handle drunken recruits as I have of dressinga doll. Home on graduating leave and thought it his duty to volunteer isall I can make out of it."
"Well, bully for him!" spoke up the superintendent. "The boy's got theright stuff in him if that's the case."
"What's his name?" asked the engineer officer. "I knew most of thisyear's class when I was there on duty."
"Davies," said the quartermaster, consulting a notebook. "Remember him?"
"Why,--yes,--vaguely. He was not in the section I had charge of," saidCaptain Eustis. "One of the last men to attract attention,--ParsonDavies they called him, I believe. He was one of the Bible-class. Don'tthink anybody knew him outside of the Sunday-school."
"No wonder the recruits jumped the traces with no one but old Muffet anda parson," said the quartermaster, disdainfully. "Now the question is,what's to be done? Somebody's got to go over and pull them out of thehole."
The situation was indeed serious. Many of the commands now suddenlyordered to take the field were so short of men that, after the manner ofdoing things in the 70's, a detachment of undrilled recruits, onehundred and eighty strong, was hurriedly tumbled aboard the cars at thecavalry depot on the Mississippi, while others were shipped from the farEast for the Foot. Only one officer--a semi-invalided old trooper--couldbe spared from Jefferson Barracks to accompany the batch. There was notime to wait, and just an hour before the detachment started therearrived at the office of the depot commander a tall, slim, solemn youngman in brand-new fatigue uniform,--that of the infantry,--who introducedhimself as Mr. Davies of the graduating class, who said he was not yetassigned to a regiment, but having read that all officers were hasteningto join their commands before they got beyond communication in theIndian country, thought it possible that he might be assigned to somecompany in the field and didn't wish to be left behind. That night hewas seeing his first service. Colonel Cooper, the post commander, shookhim by the hand and presented him to old Muffet, who was in a devil of astew and glad of professional help, and then wired on ahead to thegeneral commanding across the Missouri, or to his representatives athead-quarters,--he being in the field. All went well enough early in thenight, but, towards morning, whiskey had been smuggled aboard insufficient quantity to start the devil of mischief, and finally, atBluff Siding, just before reaching the Missouri bridge, overpowering theunarmed and perhaps sympathetic sentries at the car doors, and defyingthe orders of their sergeants, the half-drunken crowd swarmed out andmade a swoop upon a saloon across the side-track. In less time than ittakes to tell it every cubic foot of space of the bar-room was packedwith rioting humanity in grimy blue flannel. The proprietor, who hadstood his ground at the instant of initial impact, was now doubled upunderneath the counter; his shrieking family--Hibernians all, andsomewhat used to war's alarms, though hardly to the sight of raidingboys in blue--had taken refuge in the privacy of their own apartmentsabove and behind the saloon itself, while within the reekingestablishment pandemonium had broken loose. Bottles, glasses, and rawliquor were liberally besprinkling the heads and shoulders of thesurging throng. A brawny Irishman, mad with the joy of unlimited riotand whiskey, was on top of the counter impartially cracking the heads ofall men within reach with the blows of a big wooden bung-starter. Fouror five who had found the trapdoor leading presumably to the supplies inthe cellar were furiously fighting back the crowd so as to admit oftheir raising it and forcing a passage down the wooden flight. PoorMuffet, vainly pleading and swearing, was scouting on the outskirts ofthe crowd about the door-way, occasionally turning and shrieking ordersto some bewildered lance sergeant to find the lieutenant and tell him hemust get in there and do something, but the lieutenant was nowhere to beseen. At a respectful distance the neighbors were looking curiously on,half a dozen roustabouts from the wharf-boat moored under the bank, alittle batch of railway employes, a number of slatternly women, notentirely unsympathetic, and perhaps half a dozen hands from aneighboring saw-mill, but all these, combined with the townsfolkhurrying to the scene, would have been powerless as opposed to thesixscore drink-maddened "toughs." Of the recruits, perhaps a dozen hadremained in the cars; of their non
-commissioned officers, perhaps half adozen were trying to do something, but having no directing head or hand,accomplishing little. It looked as though nothing but the burstingasunder of that ramshackle building would liberate its human charge, foreven those who, battered, bleeding, and suffocated, would gladly haveescaped into outer air, were packed in, sardine-like, and incapable ofself-extrication. To the appeal of the conductor that he should regaincontrol of his men and prevent destruction of property, the lucklessMuffet plaintively responded, "My God, what can I do? I've done my best,and nobody else has done anything. The only officer I've got hasdeserted me."
But even as he spoke, accompanied by a jutting and hissing and spraying,by outburst of yells, jeers, maudlin laughter, there came suddenvomiting forth of drenched and dripping forms. Over the heads of thethrong within, into the hot faces of the throng without the double door,hurling them back from the battered entrance in sudden panic, a powerfulstream of cold water, shooting from unseen nozzle, broke up anddemoralized the drunken barrier. Skilfully directed into the heart ofthe crowd at the door-way, then into the ruck and tumult within, itfirst cleared a passage, then, torrent-like, swept away into it,tumbling and swearing and cursing, but going, the last able-bodiedinvader of saloon sanctity, bestowing upon its foul interior the firstthorough washing it ever received, driving the despoilers before it withthe force of a battering-ram, yet even then, unsatisfied, following upits victory. With perhaps half a dozen soldiers and as many mill-handshauling on the slack of the hose behind him, through a north window camethe tall, slender, serious-faced person of Mr. Davies, a laughing younglance corporal manning the butt with him, and, aiming low and drivingdiscipline and punishment at the rate of a gallon a second, _aposteriori_, at the now drenched and scattering mob, and shouting, "Backto the train! Back to your seats!" never did they cease their delugeuntil the last laggard capable of locomotion took shelter within thecars. Muffet, recoiling in time to escape both rush of men and muddywater, stood shouting confirmatory orders from the platform the while.Many a mob will face the shock of charging steel and hissing lead thatmelts away before ridicule and squirted water. The _emeute_ was endedlong before the police arrived, and Muffet had regained some measure ofhis accustomed presence of mind. "Oh, we simply manned the saw-millhose," said he, in complacent acknowledgment of the congratulation ofthe staff officials first to meet him. "It didn't take long to sousethem to their sober senses."
Indeed, the three car-loads of dripping and bedraggled humanity, meeklyside-tracked under the guarding bayonets of the one company of infantryleft at the fort, found not a sympathetic eye among the lookers-on. Anambulance had carted off to the hospital four or five, whose batteredskulls bore witness to the hammering powers of big Milligan and hisbung-starter. That redoubtable giant himself, weak from the shock ofhaving involuntarily gulped more water in a second than ever before hehad swallowed in weeks, was flattened out in a baggage-car. Two more ofthe arriving reinforcements failed to appear to the public eye at thescene of congratulation, and, as sometimes happens in even so wellregulated a family as our little army, these were the two who mostdeserved any honors that were being bestowed,--Mr. Davies and hisassistant pipeman.
Just as the last prostrate victim of that powerful combination--rum andriot--had performed the frog's march to the baggage-car, the ravingsaloon-keeper had been instructed to send his bill of damages to thechief quartermaster across the bridge, the conductor had signalled "Goahead," and the young officer, ruefully scanning the wreck of his newfatigue uniform, was clambering on the platform of the sleeper, when hesaw that the blood was dripping from the corporal's hand, despite thebig handkerchief wrapped about it.
"Come in here, corporal," said he. "Let me look at that. How did ithappen?" And he led the way into the men's toilet-room of the sleeper.
"I must have cut it with some of that broken glass at the window," wasthe answer.
He was paling now, drooping evidently from loss of blood. Quickly Mr.Davies unrolled the bandage, and there, beside a little jagged gash,disclosed a deep cut from which the blood was oozing. "Why, man," saidhe, "that's as clean as though done with a razor. Did any one try toknife you?"
But the soldier made no answer. He sank limp upon a seat. Two civiliantravellers, in prompt sympathy, tendered flasks, and a stiff cup ofbrandy brought back some vestige of the flitting color. Then a younglady came forward from the interior of the car. "Please let me helpyou," she said. "My father was a surgeon and I know something aboutthese wounds." Davies gratefully gave way to her, and found himselfwatching the swift, skilful touch of her slender white hands as she bentover the work. It was finished in a minute, and then with calm decisionthe girl spoke again. "I will take him back to our section. He needsquiet for a while," said she, standing erect now and addressing herselfto Mr. Davies, and rather pointedly ignoring the younger civilian, whoseinterjected remarks fell upon ears that were dainty but deaf. "I am withMrs. Cranston," said she, "whose husband is among the wounded. Do youknow him?--Captain Cranston?"
"Only by reputation," answered Davies, raising his cap. "You are verygood to our men. Go with this young lady, corporal. I'll come as soon asI can wash my hands."
Hardly waiting, however, for his reply, the girl had passed her handunderneath the soldier's arm and led him rearwards as the train slowlyrounded the long curve to the bridge embankment. Davies slipped out ofhis sack coat and plunged his hands in the basin. "Would you mindpumping for me?" he said to the nearest civilian, who with his companionstood gazing admiringly after the girl. "My hands are covered with thatpoor fellow's blood."
"Certainly," was the prompt answer, as one of them grasped thenickel-plated lever. The other and younger man turned to the ice-watertank, rinsed the tumbler that had just been used to such good purpose,poured out another stiff load of spirits, and with confident kindlinessheld it out to the young officer.
"Thank you," said Davies, shaking his head, "I never use it."
"You don't?" was the surprised answer. "Why, I thought all army officersdrank."
"That seems to be the general idea," was the quiet answer. "Much moregeneral than the practice, I hope. Thank you," he continued, as, dryinghis hands, he quickly donned his coat and went on through the car. Theywatched him a moment as he was presented to the elder of the two ladies,one whose face, though still young, bore traces of grief and tears andanxiety. They saw her look up and clasp his proffered hand, evidentlyglad to meet one of her husband's cloth.
"Now, if I'd only known about her husband's being one of the wounded, Icould have rung in there all right," said the younger of the twotravellers. "I haven't seen a prettier girl in all my wanderings,--butshe stood me off even on a dodge I never knew to fail."
"You were too transparent, so to speak, Willett," said the elder. "Shecouldn't help seeing you were trying to scrape acquaintance. All younggirls don't take to frivolity any more than all officers to whiskey."
Willett, nettled at this palpable hit, spoke resentfully. "Oh, I daresay they'd make a good team,--one's a prude and the other a prig."
"Perhaps not a very bad team, as you put it, my boy," was the answer, asthe elder thoughtfully regarded the two now in earnest conversation."But a girl who won't flirt isn't necessarily a prude, nor a man whowon't drink a prig. If I were marrying again, I should be glad of a girllike that for a wife. If I were soldiering again, I'd like that boy fora sub."
And just before leaving the train on its arrival at the Omaha stationthe speaker went to Davies and held out his hand. "Lieutenant," said he,"my name is Langston. I met and knew a number of West Pointers duringthe war, and I am glad to have met you. If ever I can be of service toyou in my way,--and my duties carry me out here on the frontier veryoften,--let me know."
Never dreaming how it might be needed, Davies accepted the proffer ofservices with all that the proffer implied.
