CHAPTER XXI.
There is not room in this brief chronicle to tell the story of Shorty Prime's sensations this eventful day. Wrath, amazement, burning shame, and indignation, all were struggling for utterance, but, above all, at the moment the youngster felt the importance of the despatch of which he was bearer, the need for its immediate forwarding to general head-quarters. His steaming, hard-panting horse had been led one way and he himself, to his unspeakable rage, had been hustled, protesting, through a grimy hall, past groups of grinning soldiery, a burly sergeant fairly rushing him into the square court beyond, never loosing his hold on the collar, and then, as Shorty still kicked, struggled, and protested, reinforcing that grasp by nipping the boy's left ear with thumb and forefinger of the other hand. The precious despatch had been torn from his grasp, despite his stout resistance. Even in his rage he had sense enough to refrain from any denunciation of the lieutenant, but against the laughing Irishman who had dared to address him as Tom Thumb Shorty launched a torrent of threat and invective. It was only with the utmost difficulty that he could repress the flood of passionate tears that a year before would have overcome him. The storm of sobs that seemed imminent would only have made him ridiculous and rejoiced his captors the more, so with all his strength he fought against it. He demanded his release. He declared again that he had only obeyed his orders. He gave his name and that of his general, and insisted that every man who had treated him with indignity would suffer for it. At first they only laughed the more, as he was led across the stone-flagged, sunlit court, on three sides of which were heavily barred and latticed "cells," or rather alcoves, many of them occupied by disconsolate stragglers. But, even as a corporal was unlocking one of these and throwing open the gate, there came stalking majestically over from a little office on the east side a tall man whose upper lip, chin, and cheeks were shaved after the fashion of the Mexican war days, who still wore the high black leather stock at the throat, whose buttons glistened, every one in its place, and whose sleeves were decorated with the chevrons of a first sergeant.
"Let go that ear," he said, in quiet tone, and jeer and laughter ceased. "Who ordered this?" he asked.
"The lieutenant, sir," answered Shorty's conductor, obeying instantly, and speaking with a deference much exceeding that which he had shown to the suckling subaltern commanding the guard.
"Who did you say you were?" asked the veteran regular, professionally grave, his steely blue eyes seeming to penetrate beneath the mud with which Shorty's face and dress were smeared.
"Mounted orderly at brigade head-quarters, Chain Bridge," came Shorty's quick answer, as he stifled his rising sobs. "Ordered to get my despatches to General McClellan and stop for nothing. The river's washed away the pontoons——"
"Where is the despatch? Let go that collar, Sergeant Hanley," and Shorty stood released.
"Stolen from me by these——" And Shorty gulps. Even now he knows it won't do to call names. "I told them my orders. I begged them, and the officer of the guard, to let me——"
"What did you do with them?" interrupted the sergeant, glowering at Hanley.
"Sure I don't know, sergeant. The lootenent ordered him into the cells. He was sassin' everybody."
"I never said a wrong word to the lieutenant," burst in Shorty, indignant that he should be accused of disrespectful language to an officer, no matter how much contempt he might feel for the individual.
"What became of the despatch, I say?" demanded the first sergeant, frowning around upon the now silent circle.
"Corcoran took it, sir," ventured a young soldier, presently.
"Go you and fetch Corcoran," were the sergeant's instant orders to Hanley, and the big Irishman lunged away. Here was a power indeed! the majesty of the discipline of the old army as exemplified in the first sergeant of thirty years' service. "Bring that bench, and water, soap, and towel," was the next order, short and crisp, and two young recruits jumped to obey. In a minute the bench, with a tin basin, a bucket with fresh water, and towel and soap were placed before the bedraggled lad.
"Wash," said the sergeant, and Shorty pulled off his jacket and flannel shirt and tossed them, with his natty cap, to the pavement. "Pick those up and clean 'em," said the sergeant, and a soldier whipped them off the flags, while the lad buried his hot face in the brimming bowl. It cooled and steadied him and gave him time to think,—time to recover breath and wits and self-control. Corporal Corcoran was marched in by Hanley, looking queer. The tall sergeant gazed about at the circle of listening private soldiers. Non-commissioned officers, said the regulations, must never be rebuked in presence of the men. It weakens their authority. "Get you out of this, all of you!" was his order, and they stood not on the order of their going, but were gone in less time than it takes to tell it.
"Where's the papers you took from this—young man?"
"Sure I put 'em on the officer of the guard's table, sir."
"Where's he?"
"Gone to breakfast, sir."
If the sergeant had then and there ordered Corcoran to "go and fetch the lieutenant," Corcoran would have gone and tried, and it wouldn't have surprised Shorty. "Fetch me my cap," he said instead; then turning to the prisoner, now rubbing hard with the towel, he continued in the same crisp, curt tones.
"Obey orders. Sit in there," and he pointed to the open cage, "till I come back. I'll see to the despatches."
And though still raging over his misfortunes, measurably relieved, Shorty saw him stride away through the dark hall, saw how the soldiers' eyes followed him, how at the outer gate the loungers stood up as he passed by. Then, without a word to the Irishmen or another word from them, Shorty stepped into the wooden-barred cage and sat him down upon the wooden bench, still rubbing with the now grimy towel. A change had come over the situation. Corcoran presently slipped away and speedily reappeared with a clean towel, which he handed to Shorty with a queer mingling of anxiety and bravado in his manner, and as silently took the soiled one away. Hanley, after a minute's perturbed pondering over the matter, scratched his head and slunk—there is no other word for it—into the neighboring barrack-room. Over in one of the other cells a drunken soldier had set up a maudlin song, and it was a relief to the big sergeant's soul to stop and tell him to shut up. Four or five other prisoners, each in his own barred cage on the west side, were standing or sitting and peering out into the court, curious spectators of the scene. The cages or cells to Shorty's right seemed to be empty. But presently there came a soft knocking and scratching on the boards that separated him from the occupant of the one on his right. Lumber was bought in a hurry that summer, much of it only half seasoned. The planks had warped and shrunk. There was a wide crack, and at that crack appeared an eye, and through that crack came the whisper of "Shorty, Shorty. Don't ye know me?"
Some of our brigade, thought the lad, as he edged up to the wooden wall. Some poor fellow overstaying pass. "Who is it?" he asked.
"Don't ye remember Desmond, 28's Engine?"
"Desmond! Of course. Why, what brought you here?"
"The same squint-eyed, pasty-faced pup that did you, I s'pose. Sa-ay, Shorty, you're all right. They can't keep you 'soon as they know who you are. The officer of the day comes at nine o'clock and you'll be let off all right. But I'm in a hole. Say a good word for me. Help me out, and I can tell you things about that school you'd give a heap to know. Remember the day of the fire in Twenty-fifth Street?—the day the peeler wasn't going to let you pass, and I pulled you through?"
How could the lad forget it! A policeman had tried to drive him back when he would have worked his way up along 28's line of hose, and Desmond gave him the big nozzle to take forward to the pipeman. Of course he remembered it, and how proud he was that when it came to "soaking down," and the big nozzle was screwed on in place of the three-quarter inch, the wearied pipeman let him take hold. Of course he remembered.
"But how'd you get here?" he asked. "How'd you know me so quick?"
"Lord! I seen you every day for a week when we were camped near you up there at Kalorama. Second Fire Zouaves I'm in,—Major Moriarty. We was down here on a frolic the other night, an' could 'a' got back all right, but there was a fire on the avenue, an' we piled out onto an engine, an' when the fire was out the fellers took us round to their house and salooned us to the best in the market, an' the next thing the patrol got us, and this shanghai lieutenant out here shoved us into the cells for offerin' to lam him in front of the guard. Sa-ay, ain't I seen that feller smokin' cigarettes round the stable next the school? If 'tain't him, it's like enough to him to be his twin brother. If 'tis him, you get me out of this and I can tell you things you and Snipe ought to know. Lay low, Shorty; here comes that big shanghai sergeant. Sa-ay, ain't he a rooster? Do what you can for us, boy, will you?"
And there was no time for more. Straight to the cage the sergeant stalked, and for the life of him Shorty couldn't help standing attention, as he did to his brigadier-general.
"I got those despatches," said the sergeant, "and sent them right on, and I've sent word to the officer of the day, and he'll be here presently. Better let me explain. You're too excited yet."
And under ordinary circumstances such might, indeed, have been the wiser course, but there were other surprises in store for Shorty and his guardians too. Even while the tall sergeant was asking certain questions there came the hoarse cry of the sentry in front of the building, "Turn out the guard! Officer of the day!" There was a scurry of feet, a banging of musket-butts, a word of command, a clash of steel, and after a moment or two of parley without there came through the dark hallway an officer whom Shorty saw to be a captain of infantry. His sash was old and weather-stained, his uniform a trifle shabby, but in every move there was the ease and swing of the old soldier. Hurrying after and ranging up beside him came another, an officer whose sash, belt, and dress were as spick and span, new and glossy as those of the officer of the guard, an officer who looked a trifle less at home in them than did the veteran on his right, but at sight of his face the light danced up in Shorty's eyes, and, forgetful of discipline, of regulation, of martial etiquette, propriety, he sprang forward with a cry of joy. Barely four months earlier, from his perch on the lamp-post and through blinding tears, the boy had marked him striding down Broadway at the head of a famous company of a famous regiment. Now here again he appeared, in the garb of the regular army.
"Mr. Winthrop—Captain Winthrop! Don't you know me? Regy Prime!"
And another of Pop's old boys, another Columbiad, another of New York's National Guardsmen, turned regular soldier,—the new captain threw aside his book and grabbed the youngster's hands.
"In the name of all that's preposterous, Regy, what are you doing here?"
And then, unnerved and overcome at last, fearful of breaking down, the lad looked imploringly at the big sergeant, and in twenty words the story was told.
"Who ordered him confined? Who took his despatches away?" demanded the older captain, the old officer of the day, with threatening eyes.
Not for the wealth of India would Sergeant Brennan sully the unimpeachable record of thirty years by a word of even inferential disapproval of the deed of a superior officer.
"Call Sergeant Hanley," said he, and Hanley came. The question was repeated.
"The officer of the guard, Lieutenant Hoover," said he, in answer.
"My compliments to the lieutenant, and say I wish to speak with him," said the veteran captain; and there was painful silence as, a moment later, the junior officer came clinking in, his black eyes flitting nervously about, his blue lips twitching. "This way, if you please, Mr. Hoover," said the senior captain. "Captain Winthrop, will you favor me?" And ushering them both into the little guard-room, the captain closed the door.
Less than four minutes lasted that interview. Meanwhile there was silence in the sunny court-yard. Brennan paced majestically up and down. Hanley stood uncomfortably a moment or two, then tiptoed back to the guard still standing in ranks in front of the building, and Shorty was left practically alone. There was a delighted whisper behind. "Sa-ay, Shorty, just wouldn't I rather be here than in that feller's shoes! Get us out of this now, and you'll see."
Presently the glass door opened and Hoover came forth, slinking, crestfallen, twitching, but if he had been a conquering hero Brennan could no more magnificently have saluted. Halting, facing him, his white-gloved hand snapped up to the polished visor of his cap, and there it stayed unnoticed, until the dismayed officer was swallowed up within the hall.
Two minutes more and two soldiers were sent on the run to clean the orderly's horse and equipments. A little darky was set to work on his besplashed leggings. "I'll see you in a few minutes again," said Captain Winthrop, as he and his predecessor hastened away to report to their commanding officer. The guards changed on the pavement outside. A new lieutenant came in and looked curiously at Shorty, now being regaled with soldier coffee and a huge crust of "Capitol Bakery" bread. Fifes squeaked and drums banged on the avenue as the old guard turned off, but Hoover came no more.
When Winthrop reappeared in course of half an hour, "Badger" was ready in front and Shorty was once more in trim for a ride. A receipt for his despatches was stowed in his belt, and then as the captain would have led him forth, the lad thought of Desmond, and briefly he told the story. Winthrop nodded, went back, spoke a few words to the Zouave, and rejoined the lad. Desmond waved his hand. Winthrop grasped Shorty's and shook it warmly.
"Now don't let this mishap trouble you, Regy. No harm has been done. Good will come of it. Now, good luck to you."
How much good was to be the result of that mishap Winthrop could never have guessed at the time. How much poor Shorty had lost through that storm, that morning mud ride, that arrest and incarceration and the consequent fatigue, he was to learn within another day.
