“As it was he answered the helm capitally: gave us Mirsky’s address on the envelope, and wrote the letter that was to have got him out of the way while I committed burglary, if that disgraceful expedient had not been rendered unnecessary. On the whole, the case has gone very well.”
“It has gone marvelously well, thanks to yourself. But what shall I do with Ritter?”
“Here’s his stick—knock him down-stairs with it, if you like. I should keep the tube, if I were you, as a memento. I don’t suppose the respectable Mirsky will ever call to ask for it. But I should certainly kick Ritter out of doors—or out of window, if you like—without delay.”
Mirsky was caught, and, after two remands at the police-court, was extradited on the charge of forging Russian notes. It came out that he had written to the embassy, as Hewitt had surmised, stating that he had certain valuable information to offer, and the letter which Hewitt had seen delivered was an acknowledgment, and a request for more definite particulars. This was what gave rise to the impression that Mirsky had himself informed the Russian authorities of his forgeries. His real intent was very different, but was never guessed.
“I wonder,” Hewitt has once or twice observed, “whether, after all, it would not have paid the Russian authorities better on the whole if I had never investigated Mirsky’s little note factory. The Dixon torpedo was worth a good many twenty-ruble notes.”
A CURIOUS EXPERIENCE
MARK TWAIN
OFTEN REGARDED AS America’s greatest humorist, and possibly its greatest writer, Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1835–1910) took the pseudonym Mark Twain, a term used to describe water’s depth that he heard while working as a pilot on the Mississippi River.
Although he described and commented on serious events of the day in his work, he generally employed humor to soften his often-controversial positions. It is seldom acknowledged, but Mark Twain played a major role in the development of detective fiction. His first published book, The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County and Other Sketches (1867), tells the story of a slick stranger who filled Jim Smiley’s frog with quail shot to win a bet—an early and outstanding tale of a confidence game.
More important is Twain’s Life on the Mississippi (1883), in which chapter thirty-one is a complete, self-contained story, “A Thumb-print and What Came of It,” which is the first time in fiction that fingerprints are used as a form of identification. Twain used the same device in The Tragedy of Pudd’nhead Wilson (1894), in which the entire plot revolves around Wilson’s courtroom explanation of the uniqueness of a person’s print.
Most of Twain’s contributions to the mystery genre are humorous. “The Stolen White Elephant” (1882) is an out-and-out parody, as is A Double-Barrelled Detective Story (1902), which has Sherlock Holmes in its cross-hairs. Tom Sawyer, Detective (1896) is a classic tale of the humorous consequences of leaping to conclusions. Less successful are A Murder, a Mystery, and a Marriage (1945), unpublished at the time of Twain’s death and issued in an unauthorized sixteen-copy edition, and Simon Wheeler, Detective (1963), an unfinished novel published more than a half century after the author’s death by the New York Public Library.
“A Curious Experience” was originally published in the November 1881 issue of Century Magazine; it was first collected in The Stolen White Elephant, Etc. (Boston, James R. Osgood and Company, 1882).
A CURIOUS EXPERIENCE
MARK TWAIN
THIS IS THE STORY which the Major told me, as nearly as I can recall it:—
In the winter of 1862–3, I was commandant of Fort Trumbull, at New London, Conn. Maybe our life there was not so brisk as life at “the front”; still it was brisk enough, in its way—one’s brains didn’t cake together there for lack of something to keep them stirring. For one thing, all the Northern atmosphere at that time was thick with mysterious rumors—rumors to the effect that rebel spies were flitting everywhere, and getting ready to blow up our Northern forts, burn our hotels, send infected clothing into our towns, and all that sort of thing. You remember it. All this had a tendency to keep us awake, and knock the traditional dullness out of garrison life. Besides, ours was a recruiting station—which is the same as saying we hadn’t any time to waste in dozing, or dreaming, or fooling around. Why, with all our watchfulness, 50 percent of a day’s recruits would leak out of our hands and give us the slip the same night. The bounties were so prodigious that a recruit could pay a sentinel three or four hundred dollars to let him escape, and still have enough of his bounty-money left to constitute a fortune for a poor man. Yes, as I said before, our life was not drowsy.
Well, one day I was in my quarters alone, doing some writing, when a pale and ragged lad of fourteen or fifteen entered, made a neat bow, and said—
“I believe recruits are received here?”
“Yes.”
“Will you please enlist me, sir?”
“Dear me, no! You are too young, my boy, and too small.”
A disappointed look came into his face, and quickly deepened into an expression of despondency. He turned slowly away, as if to go; hesitated, then faced me again, and said, in a tone which went to my heart—
“I have no home, and not a friend in the world. If you could only enlist me!”
But of course the thing was out of the question, and I said so as gently as I could. Then I told him to sit down by the stove and warm himself, and added—
“You shall have something to eat, presently. You are hungry?”
He did not answer; he did not need to; the gratitude in his big soft eyes was more eloquent than any words could have been. He sat down by the stove, and I went on writing. Occasionally I took a furtive glance at him. I noticed that his clothes and shoes, although soiled and damaged, were of good style and material. This fact was suggestive. To it I added the facts that his voice was low and musical; his eyes deep and melancholy; his carriage and address gentlemanly; evidently the poor chap was in trouble. As a result, I was interested.
However, I became absorbed in my work, by and by, and forgot all about the boy. I don’t know how long this lasted; but, at length, I happened to look up. The boy’s back was toward me, but his face was turned in such a way that I could see one of his cheeks—and down that cheek a rill of noiseless tears was flowing.
“God bless my soul!” I said to myself; “I forgot the poor rat was starving.” Then I made amends for my brutality by saying to him, “Come along, my lad; you shall dine with me; I am alone to-day.”
He gave me another of those grateful looks, and a happy light broke in his face. At the table he stood with his hand on his chair-back until I was seated, then seated himself. I took up my knife and fork and—well, I simply held them, and kept still; for the boy had inclined his head and was saying a silent grace. A thousand hallowed memories of home and my childhood poured in upon me, and I sighed to think how far I had drifted from religion and its balm for hurt minds, its comfort and solace and support.
As our meal progressed, I observed that young Wicklow—Robert Wicklow was his full name—knew what to do with his napkin; and—well, in a word, I observed that he was a boy of good breeding; never mind the details. He had a simple frankness, too, which won upon me. We talked mainly about himself, and I had no difficulty in getting his history out of him. When he spoke of his having been born and reared in Louisiana, I warmed to him decidedly, for I had spent some time down there. I knew all the “coast” region of the Mississippi, and loved it, and had not been long enough away from it for my interest in it to begin to pale. The very names that fell from his lips sounded good to me—so good that I steered the talk in directions that would bring them out. Baton Rouge, Plaquemine, Donaldsonville, Sixty-mile Point, Bonnet-Carre, the Stock-Landing, Carrollton, the Steamship Landing, the Steamboat Landing, New Orleans, Tchoupitoulas Street, the Esplanade, the Rue des Bons Enfants, the St. Charles Hotel, the Tivoli Circle, the Shell Road, Lake Pontc
hartrain; and it was particularly delightful to me to hear once more of the R. E. Lee, the Natchez, the Eclipse, the General Quitman, the Duncan F. Kenner, and other old familiar steamboats. It was almost as good as being back there, these names so vividly reproduced in my mind the look of the things they stood for. Briefly, this was little Wicklow’s history:—
When the war broke out, he and his invalid aunt and his father were living near Baton Rouge, on a great and rich plantation which had been in the family for fifty years. The father was a Union man. He was persecuted in all sorts of ways, but clung to his principles. At last, one night, masked men burned his mansion down, and the family had to fly for their lives. They were hunted from place to place, and learned all there was to know about poverty, hunger, and distress. The invalid aunt found relief at last: misery and exposure killed her; she died in an open field, like a tramp, the rain beating upon her and the thunder booming overhead. Not long afterward, the father was captured by an armed band; and while the son begged and pleaded, the victim was strung up before his face. [At this point a baleful light shone in the youth’s eyes, and he said, with the manner of one who talks to himself: “If I cannot be enlisted, no matter—I shall find a way—I shall find a way.”] As soon as the father was pronounced dead, the son was told that if he was not out of that region within twenty-four hours, it would go hard with him. That night he crept to the riverside and hid himself near a plantation landing. By and by the Duncan F. Kenner stopped there, and he swam out and concealed himself in the yawl that was dragging at her stern. Before daylight the boat reached the Stock-Landing, and he slipped ashore. He walked the three miles which lay between that point and the house of an uncle of his in Good-Children Street, in New Orleans, and then his troubles were over for the time being. But this uncle was a Union man, too, and before very long he concluded that he had better leave the South. So he and young Wicklow slipped out of the country on board a sailing vessel, and in due time reached New York. They put up at the Astor House. Young Wicklow had a good time of it for a while, strolling up and down Broadway, and observing the strange Northern sights; but in the end a change came—and not for the better. The uncle had been cheerful at first, but now he began to look troubled and despondent; moreover, he became moody and irritable; talked of money giving out, and no way to get more—“not enough left for one, let alone two.” Then, one morning, he was missing—did not come to breakfast. The boy inquired at the office, and was told that the uncle had paid his bill the night before and gone away—to Boston, the clerk believed, but was not certain.
The lad was alone and friendless. He did not know what to do, but concluded he had better try to follow and find his uncle. He went down to the steamboat landing; learned that the trifle of money in his pocket would not carry him to Boston; however, it would carry him to New London; so he took passage for that port, resolving to trust to Providence to furnish him means to travel the rest of the way. He had now been wandering about the streets of New London three days and nights, getting a bite and a nap here and there for charity’s sake. But he had given up at last; courage and hope were both gone. If he could enlist, nobody could be more thankful; if he could not get in as a soldier, couldn’t he be a drummer-boy? Ah, he would work so hard to please, and would be so grateful!
Well, there’s the history of young Wicklow, just as he told it to me, barring details. I said—
“My boy, you are among friends, now—don’t you be troubled any more.” How his eyes glistened! I called in Sergeant John Rayburn—he was from Hartford; lives in Hartford yet; maybe you know him—and said, “Rayburn, quarter this boy with the musicians. I am going to enroll him as a drummer-boy, and I want you to look after him and see that he is well treated.”
Well, of course, intercourse between the commandant of the post and the drummer-boy came to an end, now; but the poor little friendless chap lay heavy on my heart, just the same. I kept on the lookout, hoping to see him brighten up and begin to be cheery and gay; but no, the days went by, and there was no change. He associated with nobody; he was always absent-minded, always thinking; his face was always sad. One morning Rayburn asked leave to speak to me privately. Said he—
“I hope I don’t offend, sir; but the truth is, the musicians are in such a sweat it seems as if somebody’s got to speak.”
“Why, what is the trouble?”
“It’s the Wicklow boy, sir. The musicians are down on him to an extent you can’t imagine.”
“Well, go on, go on. What has he been doing?”
“Prayin’, sir.”
“Praying!”
“Yes, sir; the musicians haven’t any peace of their life for that boy’s prayin’. First thing in the morning he’s at it; noons he’s at it; and nights—well, nights he just lays into ’em like all possessed! Sleep? Bless you, they can’t sleep: he’s got the floor, as the sayin’ is, and then when he once gets his supplication-mill agoin’, there just simply ain’t any let-up to him. He starts in with the band-master, and he prays for him; next he takes the head bugler, and he prays for him; next the bass drum, and he scoops him in; and so on, right straight through the band, givin’ them all a show, and takin’ that amount of interest in it which would make you think he thought he warn’t but a little while for this world, and believed he couldn’t be happy in heaven without he had a brass band along, and wanted to pick ’em out for himself, so he could depend on ’em to do up the national tunes in a style suitin’ to the place. Well, sir, heavin’ boots at him don’t have no effect; it’s dark in there; and, besides, he don’t pray fair, anyway, but kneels down behind the big drum; so it don’t make no difference if they rain boots at him, he don’t give a dern—warbles right along, same as if it was applause. They sing out, ‘Oh, dry up!’ ‘Give us a rest!’ ‘Shoot him!’ ‘Oh, take a walk!’ and all sorts of such things. But what of it? It don’t phaze him. He don’t mind it.” After a pause: “Kind of a good little fool, too; gits up in the mornin’ and carts all that stock of boots back, and sorts ’em out and sets each man’s pair where they belong. And they’ve been thronged at him so much now, that he knows every boot in the band—can sort ’em out with his eyes shut.”
After another pause, which I forebore to interrupt—
“But the roughest thing about it is, that when he’s done prayin’—when he ever does get done—he pipes up and begins to sing. Well, you know what a honey kind of a voice he’s got when he talks; you know how it would persuade a cast-iron dog to come down off of a doorstep and lick his hand. Now if you’ll take my word for it, sir, it ain’t a circumstance to his singin’! Flute music is harsh to that boy’s singin’. Oh, he just gurgles it out so soft and sweet and low, there in the dark, that it makes you think you are in heaven.”
“What is there ‘rough’ about that?”
“Ah, that’s just it, sir. You hear him sing
“ ‘Just as I am—poor, wretched, blind’
“—just you hear him sing that, once, and see if you don’t melt all up and the water come into your eyes! I don’t care what he sings, it goes plum straight home to you—it goes deep down to where you live—and it fetches you every time! Just you hear him sing:—
“ ‘Child of sin and sorrow, filled with dismay,
Wait not till to-morrow, yield thee to-day;
Grieve not that love
Which, from above’
“—and so on. It makes a body feel like the wickedest, ungratefulest brute that walks. And when he sings them songs of his about home, and mother, and childhood, and old memories, and things that’s vanished, and old friends dead and gone, it fetches everything before your face that you’ve ever loved and lost in all your life—and it’s just beautiful, it’s just divine to listen to, sir—but, Lord, Lord, the heart-break of it! The band—well, they all cry—every rascal of them blubbers, and don’t try to hide it, either; and first you know, that very gang that’s been slammin�
� boots at that boy will skip out of their bunks all of a sudden, and rush over in the dark and hug him! Yes, they do—and slobber all over him, and call him pet names, and beg him to forgive them. And just at that time, if a regiment was to offer to hurt a hair of that cub’s head, they’d go for that regiment, if it was a whole army corps!”
Another pause.
“Is that all?” said I.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, dear me, what is the complaint? What do they want done?”
“Done? Why, bless you, sir, they want you to stop him from singin’.”
“What an idea! You said his music was divine.”
“That’s just it. It’s too divine. Mortal man can’t stand it. It stirs a body up so; it turns a body inside out; it racks his feelin’s all to rags; it makes him feel bad and wicked, and not fit for any place but perdition. It keeps a body in such an everlastin’ state of repentin’, that nothin’ don’t taste good and there ain’t no comfort in life. And then the cryin’, you see—every mornin’ they are ashamed to look one another in the face.”
“Well, this is an odd case, and a singular complaint. So they really want the singing stopped?”
“Yes, sir, that is the idea. They don’t wish to ask too much; they would like powerful well to have the prayin’ shut down on, or leastways trimmed off around the edges; but the main thing’s the singin’. If they can only get the singin’ choked off, they think they can stand the prayin’, rough as it is to be bully-ragged so much that way.”
I told the sergeant I would take the matter under consideration. That night I crept into the musicians’ quarters and listened. The sergeant had not overstated the case. I heard the praying voice pleading in the dark; I heard the execrations of the harassed men; I heard the rain of boots whiz through the air, and bang and thump around the big drum. The thing touched me, but it amused me, too. By and by, after an impressive silence, came the singing. Lord, the pathos of it, the enchantment of it! Nothing in the world was ever so sweet, so gracious, so tender, so holy, so moving. I made my stay very brief; I was beginning to experience emotions of a sort not proper to the commandant of a fortress.
The Big Book of Espionage Page 111
