In another camp, the chief was a fierce and profane old black-smith of sixty and he had furnished his twenty recruits with gigantic, home-made bowie-knives, to be swung with two hands like the machetes of the Isthmus. It was a grisly spectacle to see that earnest band practising their murderous cuts and slashes under the eye of that remorseless old fanatic.
The last camp which we fell back on was in a hollow near the village of Florida where I was born, in Monroe County. Here we were warned one day that a Union Colonel was sweeping down on us with a whole regiment at his heels. This looked decidedly serious. Our boys went apart and consulted; then we went back and told the other companies present that the war was a disappointment to us and we were going to disband. They were getting ready themselves to fall back on some place or another, and we were only waiting for General Tom Harris, who was expected to arrive at any moment, so they tried to persuade us to wait a little while but the majority of us said no, we were accustomed to falling back and didn’t need any of Harris’s help, we could get along perfectly without him and save time too. So, about half of our fifteen men, including myself, mounted, and left on the instant; the others yielded to persuasion, and stayed—stayed through the war.
An hour later we met General Harris on the road, with two or three people in his company, his staff probably, but we could not tell; none of them were in uniform; uniforms had not come into vogue among us yet. Harris ordered us back, but we told him there was a Union colonel coming with a whole regiment in his wake and it looked as if there was going to be a disturbance, so we had concluded to go home. He raged a little bit, but it was of no use, our minds were made up. We had done our share, killed one man, exterminated one army, such as it was; let him go and kill the rest and that would end the war. I did not see that brisk young general again until last year; he was wearing white hair and whiskers.
In time I came to learn that the Union colonel whose coming frightened me out of the war and crippled the Southern cause to that extent; General Grant. I came within a few hours of seeing him when he was as unknown as I was myself; at a time when anybody could have said, “Grant—Ulysses S Grant? I do not remember hearing the name before.” It seems difficult to realize there was once a time when such a remark could be rationally made, but there was, I was within a few miles of the place and the occasion too, though proceeding in the other direction.
The thoughtful will not throw this war paper of mine lightly aside as being valueless. It has this value; it is not an unfair picture of what went on in many a militia camp in the first months of the rebellion, when the green recruits were without discipline, without the steadying and heartening influence of trained leaders, when all their circumstances were new and strange and charged with exaggerated terrors, and before the invaluable experience of actual collision in the field had turned them from rabbits into soldiers. If this side of the picture of that early day has not before been put into history, then history has been, to that degree incomplete, for it had and has its rightful place there. There was more Bull Run material scattered through the early camps of this country than exhibited itself at Bull Run. And yet, it learned it’s trade presently and helped to fight the great battles later. I could have become a soldier myself if I had waited. I had got part of it learned, I knew more about retreating than the man that invented retreating.
WITHOUT THE BLUE, by Johnston McCulley
I.
Down on the street again, Jimmie Brooks stood for a few minutes at the curb and strove to control his emotions. Being a secret service operative, and a good one, he knew that anger netted a man nothing in the way of success; and just now Jimmie Brooks was angry.
He couldn’t blame the chief, he told himself. Washington was burning up the wires telling the chief just what it thought of him and the men who looked to him for orders. This branch of the secret service that had its headquarters in an unpretentious little office in an old office building in “a Pacific port” was failing to make the good record it should. More than that, it was fast gaining with the department heads a reputation that was far from enviable. A short distance from the city was a huge cantonment where the young men of America learned to be soldiers; and as their training was finished they were moved toward the Atlantic—and France. It was necessary, of course, to keep all troop movements secret. There lurked, here and there, alien fiends who resorted to dynamite and torn and twisted bridges and demolished tracks to prevent regiments being transported safely and with speed. That strong men died among twisted steel and splintered wood instead of dying from bullet wounds with their faces toward the enemy made small difference to the plotters. Three times within as many weeks troop trains had been wrecked within a few hours after leaving the cantonment. Information regarding the movements of the trains was being conveyed to the enemy. In the offices of the great railroad company that had charge of troop transportation every man was being watched. Men suspected of being enemy spies—and women, too—were shadowed constantly. Yet the knowledge got out with disastrous results.
Jimmie Brooks had just come from the dingy office where the division chief had his desk. He had been the recipient of a tirade. It was not the usual tirade of a disgusted man. The chief had a way of speaking in a low, even voice that could be scathingly sarcastic. His words seemed to burn into a man’s brain. And Jimmie Brooks, for once had lost control of himself, had become angry. Now he stood at the curb and fought for self-control. The chief had been no more than just, he knew. A dozen good men worked out of that office, specializing on the case, in addition to ordinary operatives who shadowed those under suspicion. And yet they had not found the slightest clue to the guilty persons.
“You’ve got to stop it!” the chief had said to Jimmie Brooks and some of the others. “Each of you work independently for a time. It’s up to you men. Your failure is causing good boys to go down to death in railroad wrecks, and it is delaying the government’s plans. Get out of here—and get results!”
Jimmie Brooks shrugged his shoulders and turned up the street. The factory whistles were screeching out the midday hour. Brooks turned into a side street and walked rapidly in the direction of a small café where he took his meals.
“Get results! Get results!” rang in his brain. He admitted to himself that he didn’t know which way to turn to get results. Every man who could know the orders for troop movements was being watched. The railroad men, even officers at the army post, were under suspicion. And there was not the slightest clue.
At the curb before the little café Brooks paused a moment to let the throng pass before he cut across the walk and entered. A small piece of cardboard fluttered lazily from a window above struck the brim of Brooks’s hat and dropped to his shoulder. Brooks caught it and favored it with a glance. It was a peculiar sort of thing—some advertising dodge, he supposed.
c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c
RED AND WHITE
c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c.c
Brooks tossed the bit of cardboard aside and went on into the little café. He nodded to the cashier, a young woman he admired in a way, and sat down at a table near the window. Having given his order he glanced out at the walk and the passing throng.
From the main entrance of the building adjoining the café there darted a hatless, breathless man, who looked to be about forty-five. He was short, heavily built, and gave a suggestion of great strength. He stood just in front of the café window and glanced about the walk; then suddenly darted forward, disregarding the rights of pedestrians, stooped and picked up the bit of cardboard Brooks had read and dropped. There was a look of keen satisfaction on the man’s face as he turned and hurried into the entrance again.
“Who is the excited gent?” Brooks asked the cashier carelessly, turning his head and looking up at her.
“Freak!” she explained, reaching for a fresh stick of chewing gum. “Name’s Professor Kenderdine. Eats here now and then. And he’s fussy about his grub. What he’s professor of I don’t know. Lives in a suite of rooms up-
stairs. Looks like a clairvoyant, or some sort of crook. Professor of gettin’ the dough without workin’, I suppose. Funny what grafts get by in this burg!”
“It is at that,” Brooks assented, and gave his attention to his meal.
But he couldn’t forget the bit of cardboard and the fact that the “professor” had hurried out bareheaded to regain it.
“Red and white; eh?” he mused. “Tain’t right. Red and white without the blue isn’t exactly proper in this day and age. Like a man showing only half his colors! Huh!”
He didn’t enjoy that luncheon. The sarcastic words of the chief had disturbed him greatly, and he still was a bit angry. He paid his check, joked a moment with the pretty cashier, and went out upon the street.
He walked rapidly, his head bent slightly, intending to go to the offices of the railroad company and search for the elusive clue. At the first corner he collided with a young woman.
Brooks generally was a cool and calm man, but now he was the victim of confusion. Going carelessly around the city streets and bumping into young women—especially pretty young women—wasn’t exactly the proper thing. He felt sure it wasn’t being done this season.
He stammered his embarrassed apologies, and saw that the young woman was smiling.
“I—er—I was thinking,” he mentioned.
“I’m glad some men take time to think,” she replied, dimpling. “It is all right, I assure you.”
“But you must think me—confound it!—you must think I’m a sort of—er—”
“Roughneck?” she suggested.
“Er—yes!”
Brooks had regained his composure, only to have it shaken again. On the left lapel of her coat the young woman wore two carnations—one red and one white. Red and white again—without the blue!
“Er—you’ve lost one of your colors,” Brooks said, trying to be pleasant.
“I beg pardon?”
“Ought to have a blue carnation too—” he said.
“Oh! That isn’t possible, I’m afraid. But it is a good suggestion. After this I’ll put a tiny bow of blue ribbon with them.”
She smiled at Jimmie Brooks again and walked on down the street. Jimmie knew that young women usually did not wear flowers in just that manner. Why only two carnations, and why were they pinned to the lapel of her coat? Was there any connection between the red and white carnations and the card that had dropped on his hat and bore the words “Red and white”?
“I’ll be looking for a clue in the gutter next!” Brooks muttered to himself in huge disgust. “If we don’t solve this little mystery pretty soon I’ll be a candidate for a sanatorium!”
A hand fell upon his shoulder. He whirled around to face a city detective he knew.
“What’s the idea, Jimmie,” the detective asked, “going around assaulting young women these days? I saw you. Why didn’t you knock her down and walk over her—and be done with it? Or is it just a way you have of making an acquaintance?”
“Accident! Was thinking!” Jimmie explained.
“Don’t try to flirt with that young beauty, Jimmie. That girl hasn’t any time to waste. Some beauty, eh? And she’s a mighty good girl. Supports a mother and kid brother.”
“Works, eh?”
“You bet she does! Gets about a hundred and twenty-five a month at that. She is private secretary to Hamlin, traffic manager for the X.
Z. and Y.” “She—what?” Brooks asked. “Private secretary to Hamlin. Got more brains than he has, I guess. Plucky little girl! Sends her brother to school and keeps her mother in a dandy little flat.”
“Must be a good girl,” Brooks admitted. “See you again, Joe. I’m in a hurry now.”
“On your way?” the detective said, laughing; and they separated.
Jimmie Brooks was thinking in earnest now. Private secretary to Hamlin, traffic director of the railroad that moved the troops! And she wore red and white carnations!
II.
It was about seven o’clock that evening when Jimmie Brooks entered the little café again—this time for dinner.
He had spent an afternoon of futile endeavor. He had made a nuisance of himself around the railroad offices, and had discovered nothing worthy of notice. He had met the young woman again, had learned that her name was Betty Burns, and had apologized for about the tenth time for the collision of the noon hour.
Across the street from the little café was a drug store, and in its window an electric display sign alternately flashed a red and white light. Jimmie Brooks started when he saw it; and then told himself that he was all sorts of a fool. That sign had been there for a year, at least, and probably for longer than that. He had watched it scores of times while sitting in the little café and waiting for food to be carried to him. There was nothing particularly attractive about the sign, except perhaps to a stranger.
It appeared that the waiter was unusually slow to-night, and Brooks spent the time watching the street. He was sitting in his usual place, near the cashier’s cage, but she was busy checking up accounts and Brooks did not bother her with conversation.
And then he saw the professor again. Kenderdine passed before the window and turned in at the entrance of the building. And almost at the same moment Brooks saw Hamlin, traffic manager.
Brooks suddenly was alert. Hamlin was across the street. At this hour the man should have been in his pretentious home eating his dinner. The traffic manager stopped before the drug-store and inspected some Kodak supplies in the window. Presently he entered the store.
Brooks saw him engage the proprietor, Baker, in conversation. It appeared that the two men were well acquainted. Two or three customers who were in the store completed their purchases and left. Baker and Hamlin walked toward the rear end of the establishment, where the store owner took down something from a shelf, wrapped it up, handed it to the traffic manager and rang up the sale on the cash-register.
Nothing particularly suspicious in that, Brooks thought. Yet he continued to watch even after his dinner had been placed before him. And suddenly he saw Hamlin walk around behind the prescription-case.
Brooks ate dinner leisurely, yet watching the drug-store continually meanwhile. Half an hour passed and Hamlin did not emerge.
Something seemed to attract Brooks’s attention to the electric display light again. And then he forgot his dessert and bent forward in his chair, watching intently.
For the electric sign was not working in the usual manner. There came no longer alternate flashes of red and white. At times there would be several red flashes in succession, then several white ones, and now and then a pause when the sign flashed neither red nor white.
“Ah! A little more red and white—without the blue!” Brooks muttered. “I’ll just make little note of this!”
Pencil and note-book came from his pocket. The sign across the street was dark for a time, and then the flashes began again. If it was a message, Jimmie Brooks had lost a considerable part of it, but perhaps he could catch enough yet to give him an inkling of its import.
He wrote rapidly in the note-book, making a check for a red flash and a cross for a white one, in indicating the pauses. This is what he got:
Red, red, red. Red. Red, red, red, white. Red. White, red, white, white. Red, red. Red, white, red, red. Red. Red, red, red, red, red. Red, white, red, red. Red, white. White, red. White, red, red. White. Red, white, white. Red. Red, white, red. red. Red, red, red, white. Red. White. White, white, white. White, red. Red, red. White, white, red. Red, red, red, red. White.
Jimmie Brooks scarcely spoke to the cashier when he paid his check, which surprised that young woman considerably. He hurried up the street to his rooms, dashed to the desk, sat down before it, and contemplated the note¬book.
After a quarter of an hour of thought, Brooks reached for a United States Army signal-book. He turned to the Morse code. An attempt to make sense of the red and white syllables he had written failed. Here and there would be a letter that ruined what otherwise might have been
a perfectly good word.
Then be turned to the Continental code. There is a small difference between the two codes, but Brooks found enough to make a message where there had been nonsense before. Three minutes later Brooks closed the signal-book and got up from the desk.
At last he had it. From those peculiar flashes of red and white in the window of the drug-store he had deciphered in the Continental code a message of five words. The red represented a dot and the white a dash. It read:
Seven Mile Island twelve to-night.
Jimmie Brooks felt a thrill as he read the message, and he fumed because of the part of it that he had lost. He knew Seven Mile Island well. It was down the river from the sea about the distance that gave it its name. There were only two ways of reaching it, by water direct and by taking a trolley-car to a way station and crossing from there in a rowboat.
The island itself was very small. Near the south end of it, about a hundred yards from the river and practically hidden from view by a thick growth of large trees, stood an old cabin. Formerly it had been occupied by an old fisherman. But it had been vacant now for several years, the doors and the windows had been removed, and the floor was rotten with age.
Brooks thought for a time of the island as he knew it, and then read the message again. A clock near by struck the hour of nine. On the street below newsboys were crying extras. He could hear the words:
“Another troop-train wrecked! Extra!”
Brooks set his lips in a thin, straight line, put the note-book and message in his pocket, and went out. Seven Mile Island at midnight, eh? Well, he’d be there! Possibly there was nothing to it, since he had not got the first part of the message, but he would have to find out.
The Military Megapack Page 45
