by Charles King
CHAPTER XIX.
There came a time of something more than anxiety and worry for all whoknew Gerard Stuyvesant,--for those who loved Marion Ray,--and Sandy wasa sorrow-laden man. Vinton could not stand between his favoriteaide-de-camp and the accusation laid at his door. Frank and his mostgifted fellow-surgeons were powerless to prevent the relapse that cameto Marion and bore her so close to the portals of the great beyond thatthere were days and nights when the blithe spirit seemed flitting awayfrom its fragile tenement, and November was half gone before the crisiswas so far past that recovery could be pronounced only a question oftime. Oh, the strain of those long, long, sleepless days of watching,waiting, hoping, praying, yet days wherein the watchers could nurse andhelp and _act_. Oh, the blackness, the misery of the nights of watching,waiting in helplessness, well-nigh in despair, for the coming of thenext "cable!" the consciousness of utter impotence to help or to do! therealization that a priceless life is ebbing away, while they who gaveit--they to whom it is so infinitely precious--are at the very oppositeends of the earth! Oh, the tremulous opening of those fateful messages,the breathless reading of the cipher, the awful suspense of the searchthrough Cable Code pages that dance and swim before the straining eyes!Oh, the meek acceptance of still further suspense! the almost piteousthankfulness that all is not yet lost, that hope is not yet abandoned!Strong men break down and add years to those they have lived. Gentlewomen sway and totter at last until relief comes to them throughGod-given tears.
In a fever-stricken camp in Southern swamplands a father waked nightafter night, walking the hospitals where his brave lads lay moaning,seeing in their burning misery, hearing in their last sigh, thesufferings of a beloved child. By the bedside of her youngest, her babyboy as she would ever call the lad, who lay there in delirium, knelt amother who, as she nursed and soothed this one, prayed without ceasingfor that other, that beloved daughter for whom the Death Angel crouchedand waited under the tropic skies of the far Philippines. Ah, there weresuffering and distress attendant on that strange, eventful epoch in thenation's history that even the press said nothing about, and that thosewho knew it speak of only in deep solemnity and awe to-day. It wasmid-November before they dared to hope. It was December when once againMaid Marion was lifted to her lounging-chair overlooking the Bagumbayan,and little by little began picking up once more the threads that were sonearly severed for all time, and as health and strength slowly returned,hearing the tidings of the busy, bustling world about her.
Others too had known anxiety as sore as that which had so lined the faceof Colonel Ray and trebled the silver in the soft hair of Marion, hiswife. Well-nigh distracted, a mother sped across the continent to thePacific, there to await the coming of her son's remains.
From the night of Walter Foster's disappearance at Carquinez no word ofhis existence came to give her hope, no trace of his movements until,late in August, there was brought to her the cabled message:
"Alive, well, but in trouble. Have written."
And this was headed Yokohama. Not until October did that longed-for,prayed-for letter come,--a selfish letter, since it gave no reallyadequate excuse for the long weeks of silence, and only told that theboy had been in hiding, almost in terror of his life. While still dazedby the shock of the fire and smarting from his burns, wrote Walter, hehad wandered from the cars at Port Costa. He had encountered "mostuncongenial persons," he said, among the recruits, and never realizingthat it was desertion, war-time desertion at that, had determined to getback to Sacramento and join some other command. Yes. There was anotherreason, but--one "mother couldn't appreciate." Unknown to all but one ofhis comrades on the train, he had abundant money, realized from the saleof horses and cattle at the ranch. It was in a buckskin belt about hiswaist, and this money bought him "friends" who took him by water toSacramento, found him secret lodgings, procured suitable clothing, andlater spirited him off to San Francisco.
But these money-bought friends showed the cloven hoof, threatened togive him over to the military authorities to be tried for his lifeunless he would pay a heavy sum. They had him virtually a prisoner. Hecould only stir abroad at night, and then in company with his jailers.
There was a man, he wrote, who had a grudge against him, a mandischarged from the ranch, who followed him to Denver and enlisted inthe same party, a man he was most anxious to get rid of, and the firstthing he knew that fellow, who, he supposed, had gone on to Manila,turned up in disguise and joined forces with his tormentors. That drovehim to desperation, nerved him to one sublime effort, and one night hebroke away and ran. He was fleet of foot, they were heavy with drink,and he dodged them among the wharves and piers, took refuge on a coaststeamer, and found himself two days later at Portland.
Here he bethought him of an old friend, and succeeded in finding a manhe well knew he could trust, despite his mother's old dislike for him, aman who knew his whole past, of his desertion, of his danger,--a man whowas himself about enlisting for service in the Philippines, and whopersuaded him that his surest way to win exemption from punishment wasto hasten after the detachment, beat it, if possible, to Manila, andjoin it there at his own expense.
He still had some hundreds left. They went to San Francisco, whereWalter took steamer at once for Honolulu to await there the coming ofthe recruit detachment. The infantry finally came, his friend with them,but no sign of more cavalry. To Walter's dismay he had seen among thepassengers landed from the Doric the disguised rough whom, as Sackett,he had so unfavorably known before, who as Murray had followed him intothe army. It would never do to fall into his clutches again: the manwould betray him instantly. Walter kept in hiding until he heard thatSackett was accused of stabbing a staff officer of General Vinton andhad fled the island.
Later, when the next troop-ship came, bringing his friend with it, heagain took counsel. As the lad fully admitted, his friend was the sameold chum of Freiburg days--the friend to whom his parents had so muchobjected. The fortunes of war had thrown them together, Willard asimpecunious as ever, and the Damon and Pythias, the Orestes and Pylades,the two Ajaxes of the old days were in close and intimate touch oncemore, Damon, as of old, the banker for the twain. The troop-ships wereto proceed as soon as coaled. There were reasons now why Walter wishedto stay in Honolulu, but Willard urged his moving at once on to HongKong and there awaiting the result of his negotiations at Manila. AtHong Kong it was his hope to receive the word "Come over. All is well,"and, finally, as his funds would soon run out, he closed his letter withthe request that his mother cable him five hundred dollars through theHong Kong and Shanghai Bank.
The money she cabled at once, then in dread she had wired ColonelMartindale, who was gadding about with old army chums when most sheneeded him at home, and that gentleman, with a sigh, again wentsisterward, saying he knew the boy was sure to turn up to torment him,and wondering what on earth young Hopeful had done now. He looked graveenough when he read the letter, asked for time to communicateconfidentially with a chum at Washington, and was awaiting reply whenall on a sudden the papers came out with this startling despatch tellingof the murder of Private Walter Foster while on his post as sentry atManila, and then came weeks of woe.
Despite Drayton's cable from Manila that the identification of theremains was not conclusive to him, at least, Mrs. Foster was convincedthat the murdered lad was her only boy, and all because of thatheartless flirt, that designing--that demoniac army girl who hadbewitched him and then brought his blood upon her own head.
"If it isn't Walter who lies there slain by assassin rival, the innocentvictim of _that creature's_ hideous vanity, would I not have heard fromhim? Do you suppose my blessed boy would not _instantly_ have cabled totell me he was alive if he wasn't dead?" And, indeed, that was a hardquestion to answer.
And so the remains of Private Willard Benton, that had been viewed bymany a genuinely sorrowing comrade and stowed away with solemn militaryhonors in a vault at Paco Cemetery, were sealed up as best they could doit at Manila, and, though unconvinced as t
o their identity despite theconvictions of others in authority, the commanding general yielded tocables from the War Department and ordered their shipment to SanFrancisco. They were out of sight of all signals from Corregidor whenMartindale's cable came suggesting search for Private Benton Willard.
Zenobia Perkins sniffed contemptuously and scoffed malignantly when toldthat the doubting Thomases were gaining ground and numbers, that thoughMr. Stuyvesant might be brought to trial for killing a man, it would notbe for killing Foster until more was ascertained regarding the actualvictim. Private Connelly, recovered from his fever, was forever huntingup Farnham, the brakeman, and devising schemes for the capture of thatblackguard Murray. Day and night, he maintained that Murray was the manwho had accosted Clarke and Hunter at the battery, that it was probablyhe who, with his pals, had waylaid and robbed the lone recruit returningfrom his quest in East Paco, that it was he who must have struggled withhim again before firing the fatal shot; but not a trace of Murray or hissailor mates could the secret service agents find, and matters were inthis most unsatisfactory state when at the end of November came theQueen of the Fleet, despatched several weeks before to fetch along thetroops "sidetracked" at Honolulu, just as the commanding general and hischief surgeon were in consultation as to what on earth to do withZenobia Perkins--the woman had become a public nuisance.
It seems that the Patriotic Daughters of America were now out ofpatience and the vice-president out of funds. It seemed that her briefascendancy had carried the lady to such an altitude as to dizzy herbrain and rob her of all sense of proportion. It seems that the surgeonsin charge of three hospitals had complained of her meddling, thatcolonels of several regiments had discovered her to be the author ofletters to the home papers setting forth that neglect, abuse, andstarvation were driving their men to desertion or the grave. It seemsthat the Red Cross had protested against her as the originator ofmalignant stories at their expense, and it was evidently high time toget rid of her, yet how could they if that case was to be tried? ZenobiaPerkins knew they could not and conducted herself accordingly. She camethis day to the Ayuntamiento to demand pay for what she termed her longdetention at Manila.
"You compel me to remain against my will because I'm an indispensablewitness," said she to the saturnine adjutant-general, beyond whom shenever now succeeded in passing. She was volubly berating him, to hisgrim amusement, when the lattice doors from the corridor swung open andtwo officers entered.
For nearly two minutes they stood waiting for a break in her tempestuousflow of words, but as none came, the senior impatiently stepped forwardand the adjutant-general, looking up, sprang from his chair just as thechief himself came hurrying out from the _sanctum sanctorum_ and greetedthe newcomers with cordially clasping hands. The lady too had risen.This was another of those stuck-up star-wearers who at San Francisco asmuch as told her she was a nuisance, and who wouldn't send her bytransport to Manila. Yet here she was in spite of them all, and the mostimportant woman on the island! Zenobia's face was flushed with triumphthat the star-wearer should be made to feel and see before she wouldconsent to leave the room.
"Well, I shall have to interrupt you gentlemen," said she, "for _my_business won't keep if you propose to keep _me_. I want to know righthere and now, General Drayton, whether I'm to get my pay or not; if not,I don't propose to wait another day in Manila, and you can get out ofthe scrape the best way you know how. No one here but me could swearthat young man Foster was dead, and you know it."
"You've sworn to what isn't so, madame," interposed the new arrivalplacidly. "Here's that young man Foster!" and as he spoke the latticedoors again swung open, and, very pale, a tall youth in civilian dresswas ushered in, at sight of whom Major Farquhar fairly shouted.
--------------------
"How'd I get him?" said the new-comer five minutes later. "Found himaboard the Coptic when she met us as we were pulling out from Honolulu.He was going back to the States. Left Hong Kong before the story waspublished. Didn't want to come, of course, but had to."
"Wasn't there time to write his mother? They surely would have cabled,and the Coptic must have got into San Francisco a week ago."
"Certainly! Letter was sent right on by the steamer, addressed toCincinnati."
"O Lord!" said Drayton. "And she was at 'Frisco all the time. Colonel,"he added to his chief-of-staff, "what's the first transport home?"
"Zealandia, sir; to-morrow."
"Sorry for the Zealandia, but Zenobia must go with her."
CHAPTER XX.
Of course we had not heard the last of her. Honolulu correspondents ofthe press had little to write of in those days, but made their littlelong, and Zenobia's stories were the biggest things yet brought fromManila. Those stories were seven days getting from Honolulu to SanFrancisco, which was less than half the time it took their author tobring them to listening ears. Anybody aboard the Zealandia could havetold the scribes the lady was a fabricator of the first magnitude, butwhat live correspondent wants to have a good story spoiled? In justtwenty-seven days from that on which Zenobia bade farewell to Manila herwinged words were flashed all over the States, and by thousands were thestones swallowed that death, disease, pestilence and famine, bribery andcorruption, vice and debauchery, desertion and demoralization ran riotin the army at Manila, all due to the incapacity, if not actualcomplicity, of officers in high position. But mercifully were theyspared the knowledge of these astonishing facts until the papersthemselves began to reach the Eighth Corps some ten weeks after Zenobiahad left it to its fate, and by that time every fellow had his handsfull, for the long-looked-for outbreak had come at last, and the long,thin Yankee fighting line was too busy making history to waste ink ortemper in denying yarns that, after all, were soon forgotten.
Then, too, we had been hearing stories that could not be denied rightthere in the southern suburbs, and having excitement that needed noZenobia to enhance it. To begin with, Walter Foster's tale was of itselfof vivid interest, and, though only the general and Farquhar and Rayactually heard it, and only two or possibly three staff officers weresupposed to see it after it had been reduced to writing, every steamerand transport now was bringing officers' families, and men must telltheir wives something once in a while, otherwise they might never knowwhat _is_ going on and so will believe all manner of things that arenot.
Walter Foster's mother learned by cable that the remains she awaited,and that reached port almost the day she got the despatch, were notthose of her only son, but of one who had practically died for him. Andeven in the joy of that supreme moment the woman in her turned, afterall, in pity to weep for the motherless lad who had been her boy'swarmest friend in his hours of doubt and darkness and despair.
A weak vessel was "Wally," as Farquhar had intimated, and so easilycowed and daunted that in the dread of the punishment accorded thedeserter he had skulked in disguise at Hong Kong, leaving all the burdenof scouting, pleading, and planning for him to Willard, his old-timechum, who had even less knowledge and experience of army official lifethan himself. Willard's early letters to Hong Kong gave Foster littlehope, for at first the only people the recruit could "sound" wereprivate soldiers like himself. Then Foster read of the arrival of theSacramento at Manila, of the presence there of Maidie Ray, and then hewrote urging his quondam chum to endeavor to see her, to tell her ofhis desperate straits, to implore her to exert influence to get himpardoned, and, in order that she might know that his envoy was dulyaccredited, he sent Willard his chief treasure, that little_carte-de-visite_, together with a few imploring lines.
Then not a word came from Willard for three mortal weeks, but Foster'sdaily visits to the bank were at last rewarded by a despatch from homebidding him return at once by first steamer, sending him abundant means,and assuring him all would be well.
And when the news of his own murder was published in the Hong Kongpapers, without the faintest intimation to the officials of the bank asto his intentions, he was homeward bound, and never heard a word
of itall until recognized by an officer aboard the Queen as the Copticfloated into Honolulu Harbor. There he was arrested and turned back.
Among "Billy Benton's" few effects no letters, no such picture, had beenfound, nothing, in fact, to connect him with Foster. Colonel Brent knewwhat had become of the _carte-de-visite_, but--how happened it in otherhands than those of Benton? That too was not long to be a mystery.
One day in late December a forlorn-looking fellow begged a drink of thebartender at the Alhambra on the Escolta--said he was out of money,deserted by his friends, and took occasion to remind the dispenser offluid refreshment that a few weeks ago when he had funds and friendsboth he had spent many a dollar there. The bartender waved him away.
"Awe, give the feller a drink," said boys in blue, in the largeness oftheir nature and the language of the ranks. "What'll you take, Johnny?Have one with us," and one of the managers hastened over and whisperedto some of the flannel-shirted squad, but to no purpose.
The "boys" were bent on benevolence, and "beat" though he might be, thegaunt stranger was made welcome, shared their meat and drink, and,growing speedily confidential in his cups, told them that he could tella tale some folks would pay well to hear, and then proceeded to stiffenout in a fit.
This brought to mind the event on the Bagumbayan, and somebody said itwas "the same feller if not the same fit," and it wouldn't do to leavehim there. They took him along in their cab and across to their barracksby the Puente Colgante, and a doctor ministered to him, for it was plainthe poor fellow was in sore plight, and a few days later a story worththe telling was going the rounds. The good chaplain of the Californianshad heard his partial confession and urged him to tell the whole truth,and that night the last vestige of the crumbling case against GerardStuyvesant came tumbling to earth, and Connelly, from the Cuartel deMeisic, nearly ran his sturdy legs off to find Farnham and tell him thetale.
"My real name," said the broken man, "is of no consequence to anybody. Isoldiered nearly ten years ago in the Seventh Cavalry, but that fight atWounded Knee was too much for my nerve, and the boys made life a burdento me afterwards. I 'took on' in another regiment after I skipped fromthe Seventh, but luck was against me. We were sent to Fort Meade, andthere was a gambler in Deadwood, Sackett by name, who had been a fewmonths in the Seventh, but got bob-tailed out for some dirty work, andhe knew me at once and swore he'd give me away if I didn't steer fellowsup against his game after pay-day. I had to do it, but Captain Ray gotonto it all and broke up the scheme and ran Sackett off the reservation,and then he blew on me and I had to quit again. He shot a man overcards, for he was a devil when in drink, and had to clear out, and wemet again in Denver. 'Each could give the other away by that time,' saidhe, and so we joined partnership."
The rest was soon told. Sackett got a job on young Foster's ranch andfell into some further trouble. But when the war came all of them wereenlisted, Foster and Sackett in the regulars and he in the FirstColorado, but they discharged him at Manila because he had fits, andthat gave him a good deal of money for a few days, travel pay home, andall that. Then who should turn up but Sackett with "money to burn" and ascheme to make more. They hired a room in Ermita, and next thing he knewSackett and some sailor men held up and robbed a soldier, and Sackettwas in a tearing rage because no money-belt was found on him. They onlygot some letters, that little photograph, and perhaps forty dollars"Mex." The photograph he recognized at once,--his former captain'sdaughter,--and he begged for it and kept it about him until one eveninghe was taken with another fit, and when he came to the picture was gone.
That night he found Sackett nearly crazy drunk at their lodgings inErmita. They had a Filipino boy to wait on them then, and Sackett hadtold the boy where he could find money and jewelry while the family wereat dinner around at Colonel Brent's. The boy was willing enough; he wasan expert. But he came back scared through; said that the soldiers wereclose after him. He had some jewelry and a pretty revolver. Sackett toldhim to keep the jewelry, but took the watch and pistol, and that nightthe sentries and patrols were searching everywhere, and Sackett and thesailors said they must get away somehow. They drank some more, andfinally thought they had a good chance just after the patrol left, andthe sentry was talking to an officer on the Calle Real.
They sneaked downstairs and out into the Faura, and there Sackett ranright into the soldier's arms. There was a short, terrible battle, thesoldier against Sackett and his sailor friend. The sailor got thesentry's gun away, and Sackett and he wrestled as far as the corner,when there was a shot; the soldier dropped all in a heap and Sackett andthe sailor ran for their lives around the corner,--the last he had everseen or heard of them up to this moment.
So that was how poor Maidie's pistol happened to be picked up on theCalle Real and why one or two assertive officers lately connected withthe provost-marshal's and secret-service department concluded that itmight be well for them to try regimental duty awhile. That was how ithappened, too, that Lieutenant Stuyvesant was prevailed on to take ashort leave and run over to Hong Kong. But he came back in a hurry, forthere was need of every man and trouble imminent "at the front."
The dawn of that memorable February day had come that saw Manila girdledby the flame of forty thousand rifles and shrouded in the smoke thatdrifted from the burning roofs of outlying villages from whose walls,windows, and church towers the insurgent islanders had poured theirpitiless fire upon the ranks of the American soldiery.
In front of a stone-walled enclosure bordering the principal street inan eastward suburb two or three officers were in earnest consultation.From the ambulance close at hand the attendants were carefully liftingsome sorely wounded men. Up the street farther east several littleparties coming slowly, haltingly from the front, told that the incessantcrash and rattle of musketry in that direction was no mere _feu-de-joie_,while every now and then the angry spat of the steel-clad Mauser on thestony road, the whiz and whirr about the ears of the few who for duty'ssake or that of example held their ground in the highway, gave evidencethat the Tagal marksmen had their eyes on every visible group ofAmericans.
In the side streets at right angles to the main thoroughfare reservebattalions were crouching, sheltered from the leaden storm, and awaitingthe longed-for order to advance and sweep the field at the front. Fromthe grim, gray walls of the great church and convent, which for weekshad been strictly guarded by order of the American generals against allpossible intrusion or desecration on part of their men, came frequentflash and report and deadly missile aimed at the helpless wounded, thehurrying ambulances, even at a symbol as sacred as that which toweredabove its altars--the blood-red cross of Geneva.
It was the Tagal's return for the honor and care and consideration shownthe Church of Rome. As another ambulance came swiftly to the spot, itsdriver swayed, clasped his hands upon his breast, and, with the bloodgushing from his mouth, toppled forward into the arms of the hospitalattendants. It was more than flesh and blood or the brigade commandercould stand.
"Burn that church!" was the stern order as the general spurred on to thefront, and a score of soldiers, leaping from behind the stone walls,dashed at the barricaded doors. A young staff officer, galloping downthe road, reined in at sight of the little party and whirled about bythe general's side.
"It's perfectly true, sir," said he. "Right across the bridge in frontof the block-house you can hear him plainly. It's a white man givingorders to the Filipinos." The general nodded.
"We'll get him presently. Do they understand the orders on the left?"
"Everywhere, sir. All are ready and eager," and even the native ponyridden by the aide seemed quivering with excitement as, horse and rider,they fell back and joined the two officers following their chief.
"Hot in front, Stuyvie?" queried the first in undertone, as a Mauserzipped between their heads to the detriment of confidential talk, and agreat burst of cheers broke from the blue line crouching just aheadacross the open field. "Why, d--n it, man, you're hit now!"
"Hush!" answ
ered Stuyvesant imploringly, as he pressed a gauntleted handto his side. "Don't let the general know. I want to join Vinton in amoment. It's only a tear along the skin." But blood was soaking throughthe serge of his blue sack-coat and streaking the loose folds of hisriding-breeches, and the bright color in his clear skin was giving wayto pallor.
"Tear, indeed! Here! Quick, orderly! Help me there on the other side!"and the captain sprang from saddle. A soldier leaped forward, turningloose his pony, and as the general, with only one aide and orderly, rodeon into the smoke-cloud overhanging the line, Gerard Stuyvesant,fainting, slid forward into the arms of his faithful friends.
A few hours later, "lined up" along the river-bank, a great regimentfrom the far West, panting and exultant, stood resting on its arms andlooking back over the field traversed in its first grand charge. Here,there, everywhere it was strewn with insurgent dead and sorely wounded.Here, there, and everywhere men in American blue were flitting aboutfrom group to group, tendering canteens of cold water to the wounded,friend and enemy alike.
Far back towards the dusty highway where the ambulances were hurrying,and close to the abutments of a massive stone bridge that crossed atributary of the Pasig, three officers, a surgeon, and half-a-dozensoldiers were grouped about a prostrate form in the pale blue uniform,with the gold embroidery and broad stripes of a Filipino captain, butthe face was ghastly white, the language ghastly Anglo-Saxon.
With the blood welling from a shothole in his broad, burly chest and theseal of death already settling on his ashen brow, he was scowling upinto the half-compassionate, half-contemptuous faces about him. Herelay the "_Capitan Americano_" of whom the Tagal soldiers had beenboasting for a month--a deserter from the army of the United States, acommissioned officer in the ranks of Aguinaldo, shot to death in hisfirst battle in sight of some who had seen and known him "in the blue."
Lieutenant Stuyvesant, revived by a long pull at the doctor's flask, hisbleeding stanched, had again pressed forward to take his part in thefight, but now lay back in the low Victoria that the men had run forwardfrom the village, and looked down upon the man who in bitter wrath andhatred had vowed long months before to have his heart's blood,--the manwho had so nearly done him to death in Honolulu. Even now in Sackett'sdying eyes something of the same brutal rage mingled with the instantgleam of recognition that for a moment flashed across his distortedfeatures. It seemed retribution indeed that his last conscious glanceshould fall upon the living face of the man to whom he owed his rescuefrom a fearful death that night in far-away Nevada.
But, badly as he was whipped that brilliant Sunday, "Johnny Filipino"had the wit to note that Uncle Sam had hardly a handful of cavalry andnowhere near enough men to follow up the advantages, and hence the longcampaign of minor affairs that had to follow. In that campaign Sandy Raywas far too busy at the front to know very much of what was going on atthe rear in Manila. He listened with little sympathy to Farquhar's briefdisposition of poor Foster's case. "They could remove the desertion andgive him a commission, but they couldn't make Wally a soldier. He wenthome when the fighting had hardly begun." Somebody was mean enough tosay if he hadn't his mother would have come for him.
There was no question as to the identity of the soldier who died inFilipino uniform. Not only did Stuyvesant recognize him, but so did Rayand Trooper Mellen, and Connelly, fetched over from the north side tomake assurance doubly sure. It was Sackett-Murray, gambler, horse-thief,house-robber, deserter, biter, murderer, and double-dyed traitor. He hadfled to the insurgents in dread of discovery and death at the hands ofBenton's comrades.
And perhaps it was just as well. Foster knew of his hapless end beforehe took steamer homeward; knew, too, of Stuyvesant's wound,and--possibly it had something to do with his departure--of thedisposition made of that fortunately wounded officer. Miss Ray, itseems, was regularly on duty now, with other Red Cross nurses, andStuyvesant went to the "First Reserve" and stayed there a whole week,and even Dr. Wells came and smiled on him, and Miss Porter beamed, andstill he was not happy--for Maidie came not. She was busy as she couldbe at the farther end of the other wards.
And so Stuyvesant grew impatient of nursing, declared he was well, andstill was far from happy, for at that time Foster was still hoveringabout the premises, and Stuyvesant could see only one possibleexplanation for that. They moved him back to his breezy quarters atMalate. But presently a trap was sprung, mainly through Mrs. Brent'scomplicity, for once or twice a week it was Maidie's custom to go to herold friend's roof for rest and tea. And one evening, seems to me it wasValentine's Day, just before sunset, they were in the veranda,--thecolonel and his kindly wife,--while Maid Marion the Second was in herown room donning a dainty gown for change from the Red Cross uniform,when a carriage whirled up to the entrance underneath, and Mrs. Brent,leaning over the rail, smiled on its sole occupant and noddedreassuringly.
Stuyvesant came up slowly, looking not too robust, and said it wasawfully good of Mrs. Brent to take pity on his loneliness and have himround to tea. Other nice women, younger, more attractive personally thanMrs. Brent, had likewise bidden him to tea just so soon as he felt able,but Stuyvesant swore to himself he couldn't be able and wouldn't if hecould. Yet when Mrs. Brent said "Come," he went, though never hoping tosee Marion, whom he believed to be engrossed in duties at the FirstReserve, and on the verge of announcement of her engagement to "thatyoung man Foster."
Presently Brent said if Stuyvesant had no objection he'd take his trapand drive over _Intra muros_ and get the news from MacArthur'sfront,--for Mac was hammering at the insurgent lines aboutCaloocan,--and Stuyvesant had no objection whatever. Whereupon Mrs.Brent took occasion to say in the most casual way in the world:
"Oh, you might send a line to Colonel Martindale, dear. You know Mr.Foster goes home by the Sonoma--oh, hadn't you heard of it, Mr.Stuyvesant? Oh, dear, yes. He's been ready to go ever since the fightingbegan, but there was no boat."
And then she too left Stuyvesant,--left him with the New York _Moon_bottom topmost in his hand and a sensation as of wheels in his head. Sheproceeded, furthermore, to order tea on the back gallery and Maidie tothe front. But tea was ready long before Maidie.
Far out at the lines of San Pedro Macati Dyer's guns had sighted swarmsof rebels up the Pasig, and with placid and methodical precision weresending shrapnel in that direction and dull, booming concussions in theother. An engagement of some kind was on at San Pedro, and Stuyvesanttwitched with nervous longing to get there, despite the doctors, and satwondering was another engagement off at Manila. Just what to do he hadnot decided. The _Moon_ and his senses were still upside-down when Singcame in with the transferred tea things and Mrs. Brent with the lastthing Stuyvesant was thinking to see--Maid Marion, all smiles,congratulation, and cool organdie.
Ten minutes' time in which to compose herself gives a girl far too greatan advantage under such circumstances.
"I--I'm glad to see you," said Stuyvesant helplessly. "I thought youwere wearing yourself out at nursing."
"Oh, it agrees with me," responded Maidie blithely.
"I suppose it must. You certainly look so."
"_Merci du compliment, Monsieur_," smiled Miss Ray, with sparkling eyesand the prettiest of courtesies. She certainly did look remarkably well.
It was time for Stuyvesant to be seated again, but he hovered thereabout that tea-table, for Mrs. Brent made the totally unnecessaryannouncement that she would go in search of the spoons.
"You had no time--I suppose--to look in on anybody but your assignedvict--patients, I mean," hazarded Stuyvesant, weakening his tentative bypalpable display of sense of injury.
"Well, you were usually asleep when I cal--inquired, I mean. One or twolumps, Mr. Stuyvesant?" And the dainty little white hand hovered overthe sugar-bowl.
"You usually chose such times, I fancy. One lump, thanks." There wasanother, not of sugar, in his throat and he knew it, and his fine blueeyes and thin, sad face were pathetic enough to move any woman's hearthad not Miss Ray been so concerned
about the tea.
"You would have been able to return to duty days ago," said she,tendering the steaming cup and obviously ignoring his remark, "had youcome right to hospital as Dr. Shiels directed, instead of scampering outto the front again. You thought more of the brevet, of course, than thegash. What a mercy it glanced on the rib! Only--such wounds are ever somuch harder to stanch and dress."
"You--knew about it, then?" he asked with reviving hope.
"Of course. We _all_ knew," responded Miss Ray, well aware of the factthat he would have been unaccountably and infinitely happier had it beenshe alone. "That is our profession. But about the brevet. Surely youought to be pleased. Captain in your first engagement!"
"Oh, it's only a recommendation," he answered, "and may be as far awayas--any other engagement--of mine, that is." And in saying it poorStuyvesant realized it was an asinine thing. So, alack, did she! Aninstant agone she was biting her pretty red lips for letting the wordescape her, but his fatuity gave her all the advantage in spite ofherself. It was the play to see nothing that called for reply in hisallusion. So there was none.
A carriage was coming up the Luneta full tilt, and though still sixhundred yards away, she saw and knew it to be Stuyvesant's returning.But he saw nothing beyond her glowing face. Mrs. Brent began to sing inthe salon, a symptom so unusual that it could only mean that shecontemplated coming back and was giving warning. Time was priceless, yethere he stood trembling, irresolute. Would nothing help him?
"You speak of my--engagement," he blundered blindly on. "I wish you'dtell me--about yours."
"Mine? Oh,--with the Red Cross, you mean? And shame be to you, MaidieRay, you knew--you well knew--he didn't."
"I mean--to Mr. Foster. Mrs. Brent has just told me----"
"Mrs. Brent!" interposes Miss Ray in a flutter of amaze. That carriageis coming nearer every instant, driving like mad, Brent on the back seatand a whip-lashing demon on the box. There will be no time forlove-tales once that burly warrior returns to his own. Yet she isfencing, parrying, holding him at bay, for his heart is bubbling overwith the torrent of its love and yearning and pleading.
What are bullet-wounds and brevets to this one supreme, sublimeencounter? His heart was high, his voice rang clear and exultant, hiseyes flashed joy and fire and defiance in the face of a thousand deathstwo weeks ago. But here in the presence of a slender girl he can donaught but falter and stammer and tremble.
Crack, crack, spatter, clatter, and crash comes the little carriage andteam whirling into the San Luis. He hears it now. He knows what it meansto him--Brent back and the pent-up words still unspoken! It nerves himto the test, it spurs him to the leap, it drives the blood boundingthrough his veins, it sends him darting round the table to her side,penning her, as it were, between him and the big bamboo chair. And nowher heart, too, is all in a flutter, for the outer works were carried inhis impetuous dash, the assailant is at the very citadel.
"Marion!" he cried, "tell me, was there--tell me, there _was_ noengagement! Tell me there _is_ a little hope for me! Oh, you are blindif you do not see, if you _have_ not seen all along, that I've loved youever since the first day I ever saw you. Tell me--quick!"
Too late. Up comes Brent on the run, and Marion springs past thewould-be detaining arm. "Where's Mrs. B.?" pants the warrior. "Hullo,Stuyvie! I was afraid you'd got the news and gone out in a cab. M'ria, Iwant my belt and pistol!"
"_Where_ you going?" bursts in the lady of the house--the spoonsforgotten.
"Out to San Pedro! It's only three miles. Our fellows are going to drive'em out of Guadaloupe woods. Ready, Sty? Of course you want to see it.Drive'll do you good, too. Come on."
"Indeed, you don't stir a step, Colonel Brent!--not a step! Whatbusiness have you going into action? You did enough fighting forty yearsago." Brent, deaf to her expostulation, is rushing to the steps,buckling his belt on the run, but "M'ria" grabs the slack of the Khakicoat and holds him. Stuyvesant springs for his hat. It has vanished.Marion, her hands behind her, her lips parted, her heart pounding hard,has darted to the broad door to the salon, and there, leaning againstthe framing, she confronts him.
At the rear of the salon Thisbe has grappled Pyramus and is being pulledto the head of the stairs; at the head, Beatrice, with undaunted front,concealing a sinking heart, defies Benedick.
"My hat, please," he demands, his eyes lighting with hope and promise ofvictory.
"You have no right," she begins. "You are still a patient." But now,with bowed head, she is struggling, for he has come close to her, soclose that his heart and hers might almost meet in their wild leaping,so close that in audacious search for the missing headgear his hands arereaching down behind the shrinking, slender little form, and his long,sinewy arms almost encircling her. The war of words at the back stairs"now trebly thundering swelled the gale," but it is not heard here atthe front.
His hands have grasped her wrists now. His blond head is bowed down overhers, so that his lips hover close to the part of the dusky hair. "Myhat, Maidie," he cries, "or I'll--I'll take what I want!" Both handstugging terrifically at those slender wrists now, and yet not gaining aninch. "Do you hear?--I'll--I'll take----"
"You sha'n't!" gasps Miss Ray, promptly burying her glowing face in thebreast of that happy Khaki, and thereby tacitly admitting that she knowsjust what he wants so much more than that hat.
And then the long, white hands release their hold of the slim, whitewrists; the muscular arms twine tight about her, almost lifting her fromher feet; the bonny brown head bows lower still, his mustache brushingthe soft, damask-rose-like cheek. "I must go, Maidie,--darling!" hewhispers, "without the hat if need be, but not without--this--andthis--and this--and this," and the last one lingers long just at thecorner of the warm, winsome, rosy lips. She could not preventit--perhaps she did not try.
THE END.
