Far, far to the east this still Sabbath afternoon, seeking shelter from the glare of the same blazing sun, seeking sympathy from each other's words, seeking hope and comfort from Him who alone can aid, a little group of women gather at the frontier fort on the banks of the Missouri. They are the wives of the officers who that morning ride "into the Valley of Death" with their soldier leader. Fair young matrons and mothers, whose thoughts have little room for the glad jubilee in the still more distant East, whose world is with that charging column. Only a few days since there came to them the evil news that the Indians had forced back the soldiers of the southern Department,—that meant harder work, fiercer fighting for their own. And this dread anxiety it is that clusters them here, lifting up sweet voices in their hymn of praise to the Heavenly Throne, pleading, pleading for the life and safety of those who are their all in all. Oh, God! there is prophecy in the very words of their mournful song, though they know it not. Pitying Father, listen, and be merciful.
"E'en though it be a Cross
That raiseth me."
Vain the trembling hope, vain the tearful pleading. Far out on the slopes of the Little Horn those for whom these prayers are lifted have fought their last battle. God has, indeed, asked of these women that henceforth "they walk on in the shadow and alone."
* * *
CHAPTER XI.
THE WOLF AND THE SHEEPFOLD.
The glorious Fourth has come and gone. The Centennial anniversary has had its completed category of parade and picnic; speech and song; fun and fireworks. The thronging cities of the East have rejoiced with unusual enthusiasm, especially Philadelphia, whose coffers are plethoric with the tribute of visiting thousands. Out on the frontier we have celebrated with modified éclat, since the national celebrants are mostly absent on active service, and have no blank cartridges to dispose of. The big garrison flags have been duly hoisted and saluted. The troops have been paraded where there were any to parade, as only a few infantrymen remain to take care of the forts and the families. The Declaration of Independence has been read in one or two of the bigger posts, where enough remains of defenders to make up a fair-sized demonstration. One of these is far up on the Missouri, where the cavalry ladies are all invited to hear the infantry orator of the day—and go. No news has come for some time from husbands and lovers on the war-path, and it is best to be hopeful and cheery. They make a lovely picture, a dozen of them in their dainty white dresses, their smiling faces, their fluttering fans and ribbons. They applaud each telling point with encouraging bravos and the clapping of pretty hands. How free from care, how joyous, how luxurious is army life! How gleeful is their silvery laughter! How beaming the smiles with which they reward the young gallant who comes among them for their congratulations! Vanitas, vanitatum! They are nearly all widowed, poor girls, but they don't know it—not yet. The steamer laden with the wounded and the fell tidings of disaster is but a few hours away. Before the breaking of another day there will be none to smile in all their number. Verily, "In the midst of life we are in death."
And Russell, too, has had its jubilee—on a more extensive scale, for here are Webb and Truscott with their fine troops of horse, the band, the infantry companies, and a brace of old howitzers, with which they make the welkin ring. No tidings of any account have come from the front. The Gray Fox is puzzled at the situation. The Indians are out there somewhere, as he finds every time a scout goes forth, but they appear to be engrossed in some big council over at the Greasy Grass. One thing is certain, he can get no word through to Terry on the Yellowstone, and he cannot afford another tussle with such force as they show when he does come out. The —th is still down near the Black Hills. Busy? Oh, yes. Busy is no word for it! They are scampering all over the south Cheyenne country after small bands of Indians, whose fleet ponies keep them just out of range of the carbines and just out of reach of the horses, who, grain-fed all winter, are now losing speed, strength, and bottom on the scant and wiry grass they find in the sandy valleys. Truscott and Webb are eager to go forward, but orders say wait. Mrs. Truscott is again almost in heaven. Jack has been with her nearly a fortnight. They are domiciled in their new quarters. Mrs. Stannard is their next-door neighbor; much of their furniture has come, and the army home is beginning to look lovely. Mrs. Whaling and Mrs. Turner can never see enough of it, or say enough.
Large numbers of recruits have been sent to the post to be drilled and forwarded to the cavalry at the front. They are having riding-school all hours of the day, and the cavalry officers are in saddle from morn till night teaching them. Mr. Gleason is assiduous in this duty. Whatever Captain Truscott has heard to the gentleman's discredit in the past, he admits to himself that it has prepared him for agreeable disappointment. No lieutenant could be more attentive or subordinate, more determined to please. Captain Truscott cannot but wish that Mr. Gleason were less attentive to Miss Sanford, but that young lady is evidently fully able to keep him at a very pleasant distance. It excites the captain's admiration to see how perfectly lady-like, how really gracious is her manner to the aspiring widower, and yet—how serenely unencouraging. No one understood this better than Mr. Gleason himself. Finding her deeper, less impressionable than he at first supposed, he simply changed his tactics. He avoided the store, he shunned conversations on dangerous topics, he cultivated the society of Colonel Whaling, and deeply impressed that veteran with the depth of his information on dogs, horses, and military affairs. He dexterously lost small sums to the post commander at pool and billiards; enough to keep the old gentleman in cigars—and good-humor. He became "serious" in his conversation with the colonel's amiable wife, whose exemplary habit it was to be always found seated at a little table behind a very big Bible when visitors called; though the garrison did say, as garrisons will, that occasionally they had to knock or ring half a dozen times before the summons could be heard; not because the good lady was so deeply plunged in religious meditation, but because the clatter of angry tongues made all demonstration from without simply inaudible.
The long-suffering and short-serving domestics who successively reigned in the Whaling kitchen and chambers were wont to say that it was nag and scold from morn till dewy eve,—sometimes later,—and that in the midst of wrathful tirade the lady of the house would only be brought to instant silence by the announcement of "some one at the door." A certain Miss Finnegan, who served a brief apprenticeship in the household, acquired lasting fame in the garrison for the mimetic power which enabled her to portray "Mrs. Gineral's" instantaneous change from a posture of fury to one of rapt devotion. She could look like Hecate Hibernicized, and in one comprehensive second drop into a chair, "smooth her wrinkled front" and side curls, shake out her rumpled draperies, and rise from an instant's searching of the Scriptures with features expressive of the very acme of Christian peace and benediction. "Mrs. General" was a pet-name the lady had won from a wifely and lovable trait that prompted her to aggrandize her placid lord above his deserts. Him she ever addressed (in public), and of him she ever spoke, as "the general," irrespective of the fact that the rank was one he never had or never would attain, even by brevet, for the Senate drew the line at the man who had been in the army through three wars and never heard a hostile bullet whistle. His regiment had not been required in the Florida business. He himself was put on other duty when they went to Mexico, and, finally, in the great war of the Rebellion, there was constant need of regulars to act as mustering and disbursing officers at the rear. Such had been old Whaling's career, and, so long as he himself was utterly unpretentious,—never claimed to have done any war service, and was content to drift along and draw his pay,—nobody would have said much in detraction had it not been for his wife's persistent pushing. He was merely second in command of his regiment, but the lady spoke of him as "the general" on all occasions, and alluded to his immediate superior, who had led corps and divisions in his day, as Colonel Starr. Others—of equal rank and with the brevets of major-generals—she similarly belittled. They were merely field-
officers. She admitted the existence of no greater man than "the general," her husband, and whatever might be the sorrows of other parents with their children, or housewives with their servants, Mrs. Whaling pitied,—even condoled,—but could not sympathize. With uplifted eyes she would thank the Giver of all good that He had blessed her with sons so noble and distinguished, with daughters so lovely and so dutiful, with servants so singularly devoted. In the various garrisons in which the good lady had flourished, what mattered it that her boys were known to be graceless young scamps whom cudgelling could not benefit, or that her gentle daughters squabbled like cats and flew to the neighbors to spread the tales of their wrongs and mamma's injustice? What mattered it that her paragons of servants left her one after another and swore they couldn't stay in a house where there was so much spying and fault-finding? There was no shaking Mrs. Whaling's Christian determination to run with patience the race thus set before her.
Gleason found in converse with her so much that reminded him of the mother he had lost, alas! so many years ago, and Mrs. Whaling welcomed him to the consolations of her sanctified spirit. Together they deplored the frivolity and vices of the younger officers (Ray came in for a good showing-up just there, no doubt), and together they projected the reformation of some of her favorites in the garrison. A wise man was Gleason. She and her meek and lowly husband could be useful—very useful in time of need. And did he abandon his devotions to Miss Sanford? No, indeed! but they were modified as became the subject. He called less frequently; he became less personal, less aggressive in his talk; he had naught but good, or silence, for his comrades, and charity for the world. He threw into his every look and word a deference and a respect that made his manner proof against criticism; and yet, one and all, they could not welcome him. Truscott, his captain, had never yet dropped the "Mr." before the surname of his subaltern,—that well-understood barrier to all army intimacy,—and Gleason, who stood among the very first on the lineal list of lieutenants, hated him for the restriction, but gave no sign.
It was necessary that some one of the cavalry officers should be placed in charge of the newly-arrived recruits, and this duty fell to Gleason's lot. It relieved him from service with his troop and made him independent of his captain. Webb and Truscott, if consulted, would have named a far better instructor among their lieutenants, but Colonel Whaling issued the order from post headquarters, and there was nothing for it but obey. Gleason lent his best efforts to the work, and he and his drill sergeants were ceaseless in their squad instruction. Several old cavalrymen had come among the dozens of green hands, so had a small squad transferred by War Department orders from West Point. Among these men were competent drill-masters, and among the drill-masters the most active and efficient was the Saxon soldier, Sergeant Wolf.
Mr. Gleason had invited the ladies to walk out on the prairie east of the post one lovely morning late in June, that they might see the skirmish drills of the two cavalry troops. Often as she had been a spectator before, Mrs. Truscott never tired of watching Jack and his men, and Miss Sanford was greatly interested at all times in the martial exercises, especially the mounted. Strolling homeward about ten o'clock, having been joined by one of the young infantry officers, Mr. Gleason suggested their stopping at the store and refreshing themselves with a lemonade. Miss Sanford would have declined with thanks, but silently waited for her hostess to speak; and Mrs. Truscott, who remembered how papa had sometimes called her into the club-room when she was a child, and who knew that the garrison ladies frequently accepted such invitations, hesitatingly assented. It must be confessed that Mrs. Truscott sometimes acted before she thought, and this was one of the times. Truscott himself rarely, if ever, entered the club-room, and had never thought it necessary to say anything to his wife on the subject. The door stood invitingly open; the attendant was lolling thereat in his shirt-sleeves admiringly scanning the approaching group. As soon as he saw they were heading for the club-room instead of the gate, he slipped behind the bar and put on his coat. Miss Sanford hung back as Mr. Gleason threw open the portals, and called out encouragingly,—
"Come right in, ladies; there's no one here but the bar-keeper."
Mrs. Truscott stepped lightly over the threshold, and glanced with smiling curiosity around. The first thing that caught her eye was a placard hanging at the entrance of a little alcove-like space beyond the rusty old billiard-tables. Within were two or three green baize-covered card-tables and rude wooden chairs. On the placard, roughly stencilled, was the legend,—
"He who enters here leaves soap behind."
Mrs. Truscott's eyes expressed wonderment and mirth commingled.
"How utterly absurd! Who did that, Mr. Gleason?"
"That? Oh! That's some of Blake's work, I believe! Ah—are you not coming in, Miss Sanford?"
"Thanks, no, Mr. Gleason; I believe I'll wait here," was the reply, pleasant but decided.
"Why, Marion! Do come in!" cried Mrs. Truscott, hastening to the door.
Miss Sanford's face was flushing slightly, but her voice was gentle as usual.
"I'll wait for you, Grace; but I do not care for a lemonade, and—would rather not go in."
"Indeed, I don't care for one either. I only said yes because I thought, perhaps, you would like it—or would care to see the club-room," Mrs. Truscott protested, as she hurriedly came forth. "We are just as much obliged to you, Mr. Gleason, but—not to-day." And with that they resumed their homeward stroll. Once through the gate Mr. Gleason slackened the pace, so as to detain his fair companion a moment.
"Why would you decline my invitation?" he asked, in a tone of what was intended to be tender reproach.
"I prefer not to visit—the club-room, as I believe it is called."
"You would soon get used to it if you were in the Army," he ventured awkwardly.
"But I am not in the Army," she began, self-restrainedly enough; then, as though she could not repress the words, "Nor would I be if, as you say, I had to get used to that."
She has a temper then, quoth Gleason to himself, ruefully noting that he had made a bad move. It gave him an opportunity of putting in what was generally considered a pretty effective piece of work, however,—one that had been often employed on somewhat similar occasions, and will be again.
"Ah, Miss Sanford, were there more women like you, there would be fewer places like that."
But to this she made no reply whatsoever. If anything, its effect was to quicken her pace.
Arriving near their quarters, a small party of enlisted men, apparently recruits, were observed clustered about a wagon loaded with boxes. A spruce, handsome, blond-moustached young soldier stepped suddenly into view from behind the wagon, where he had been superintending the unloading of some of the goods. At sight of him Miss Sanford stopped short. Looking wonderingly at her, Mr. Gleason saw that her face had paled, and that she was gazing intently on the approaching soldier and on Mrs. Truscott, who, absorbed in laughing talk with her escort, had apparently not observed him. As he halted and saluted, Mr. Gleason could not but note that she started, then that she had flushed crimson. He glanced quickly from one to the other,—the pale girl by his side, the startled young matron in front, and the statuesque soldier, respectfully standing with his hand at the cap visor.
"Pardon, madame; the quartermaster sends me to unload these boxes at Captain Truscott's quarters, if madame will designate the room to which they shall be carried."
"The captain will be here in a moment," she replied, hurriedly, and moving into the gate as though eager to avoid the very presence of the soldier. "Oh! may I ask you in, gentlemen?" she added, glancing over her shoulder, and still evidently discomposed.
And Gleason followed.
The parlor was cool and pleasant after the hot sunshine without. Mrs. Truscott threw herself into a chair, then rose as hastily and went into the dining-room beyond. Miss Sanford's eyes followed her anxiously as she stood at the sideboard pouring out a glass of water.
"That man—er—Wolf,
who came with this batch of recruits, tells me he was first sergeant of Captain Truscott's troop at the Point," he said, tentatively.
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