AN AMERICAN THERMOPYLÆ.
BY KIRK MUNROE.
"My!" exclaimed Bryce Gordon, with a deep sigh, as he softly closed the Greek history over which he had been intently poring for the last fifteen minutes, "I want to go and see that place some time."
"What place?" asked his army uncle, Captain Frank Gordon, looking up from the evening paper.
"The Pass of Thermopylæ," answered Bryce, who had just been reading of Leonidas and his wonderful battle with the hosts of Xerxes. "That is the kind of place I want to visit whenever I have a chance to travel," he continued, with flashing eyes, "and I should think Greek boys would be awfully proud of it. I only wish we had a Thermopylæ in this country; but there doesn't seem to be any such thing nowadays."
"Doesn't there?" replied his uncle, laying down the paper. "Then I am afraid you are better posted concerning old Greek history than in that of the United States; for I know of a Thermopylæ in which, only sixty years ago, a handful of Americans made as glorious and heroic a defence against overwhelming numbers as was ever recorded."
"You do?" cried Bryce, excitedly. "Where is it? Tell me about it, quick! Please do!"
"Yes, tell us," pleaded Jackanapes, May, and little Miss Blue, who, scenting a story from afar, had made a magic appearance, and were now clustered about Captain Gordon's chair like so many hungry bees about a honeycomb.
"Well," laughed their uncle, good-naturedly, "I see that I am in for it, and suppose I must do as my tyrants command. So here goes. To begin with, did any of you ever hear of the Alamo?"
"Seems to me I have," answered Bryce; "but I can't remember what it is."
The faces of the others were so blank that it was evident the word held no meaning for them.
"I didn't much think you would know anything about it," continued their uncle; "for it belongs to American history, which, of course, is not half so important as that of the old Greeks and Romans. The Alamo, then, is, or rather was, an old Spanish mission located in a cottonwood grove that gave it its name—for Alamo means cottonwood—near the San Antonio River in southwestern Texas. On an opposite bank of the stream stood the Mexican town of San Antonio, built of low flat-roofed adobe or stone houses, and containing at the time of my story very few Americans, though in other parts of Texas these already formed an important part of the population. Texas was then a Mexican state, and Mexico itself had but recently thrown off the yoke of Spain. In its struggle for liberty the American residents had rendered such splendid service, that when freedom was finally gained they were granted many especial privileges by the Mexican government. These were highly prized, and everything went smoothly, until General Santa Aña headed a revolution, overthrew the existing government, and made himself Dictator.
"Hating Americans, and jealous of their increasing power, Santa Aña began to withdraw their privileges, and declared that Texas, disappearing as a separate territory, should thereafter belong to the older Mexican state of Coahuila. Worst of all, he replaced the civil with a military government, and ordered that all citizens should be disarmed. Of course the free-born sons of fathers who had fought at Lexington and Yorktown—for these things happened in 1834—would not submit to such oppression, and the first thing Santa Aña knew the state of Texas was in open revolt, declaring itself to be an independent republic. As San Antonio was its most important city, the Mexican General Cos was ordered to fortify and hold it against the rebels; but one thousand Texans under General Edward Burleson marched against him; and three hundred of them, led by brave old Ben Milam, captured the place after a three days' fight from house to house, and from street to street. General Cos and his two thousand soldiers were allowed to retire to Mexico as paroled prisoners of war, who solemnly promised never again to take up arms against the Texans.
"Soon after this, General Burleson's army scattered to different points where there seemed a chance of more fighting, until only eighty troops, under command of Colonel James Bowie, inventor of the famous bowie-knife and son-in-law of the Mexican Governor, remained to defend the city. These troops had not received one cent of pay, were poorly clad, and possessed but little ammunition. Early in February, 1835, Colonel Bowie, worn out by his efforts to obtain re-enforcements and make adequate provision for the defence of his important post, fell sick of a fever, and Colonel William Travis, who had just arrived with thirty-five men, assumed command. Soon afterwards the renowned David Crockett arrived from Tennessee with thirty more men, so that the garrison now numbered one hundred and forty-five.
"On the 22d of February the Mexican Dictator appeared before San Antonio with an army of 4000 regular troops, and marched straight into the town, the Texans crossing the river and retiring before him to the ruinous old Alamo Mission, which they hastily barricaded, and so converted into a rude fortress. They carried fever-stricken Bowie with them, and, as they retreated, gathered up a few bushels of corn and a few beef cattle, which formed their sole stock of provisions.
"From this place of refuge, when Santa Aña demanded its unconditional surrender, Travis replied with a cannon-shot. He knew that the longer he could hold the Mexican army in check the more time would be allowed the men of Texas to gather and organize for the defence of their homes. Upon receiving this defiant reply, Santa Aña displayed blood-red flags from every church-tower in the town, to signify death without quarter to the rebels, and began a furious bombardment of the Alamo. This was continued almost without intermission, by night as well as by day, until the 6th of March, or through two weary weeks. During that time Travis managed to despatch several couriers in different directions, with urgent messages imploring assistance. In every message he wrote, 'We are determined neither to surrender nor retreat, but will maintain our position to the bitter end.'
"Every now and then the little garrison made desperate sorties for the destruction of some galling battery or to seize a few supplies, and during those twelve fearful days whenever a Texas rifle was fired a Mexican soldier fell dead. In the early morning of the 1st of March a great shout of rejoicing rang out from the battered mission, for Captain John Smith, who, with thirty men, had hastened from Gonzales to the assistance of his friends, had succeeded in passing the enemy's line and gaining the shelter of the fort. Now the bombardment became so fierce that all the outlying walls of the mission were demolished, and only its stout stone church remained standing. Into it the Texans retired, barricading every entrance and repairing every breach.
"Shortly before sunset on the evening of the 3d the fire of the batteries suddenly ceased. Two thousand fresh troops, the army of General Cos, which had been captured and paroled at this very place, had retraced their steps, and now, in violation of their pledged word, were prepared once more to fight against their conquerors. While they were being welcomed with acclamations and every form of rejoicing by the Mexicans, the grim walls of the Alamo were witnessing one of the most solemn and pathetic scenes of history. In their dim shadow Colonel Travis paraded his handful of heroes in single file, and addressed them in substantially these words:
"'My brave comrades, stern necessity compels me to employ the moments afforded by this probably brief cessation of conflict in making known to you the most interesting, yet the most solemn, melancholy, and unwelcome fact that humanity can realize. Our fate is sealed. Within a few days, perhaps a few hours, we must all be in eternity. Our provisions are gone, our ammunition is nearly spent, and our strength is almost exhausted. My calls for assistance remain unanswered, and the probabilities are that our couriers have been cut off. The enemy surrounds us in overwhelming and ever-increasing numbers. Then we must die, and have only to choose such method of death as may best serve our country. Shall we surrender, and be deliberately shot? Shall we try to cut our way out through the Mexican ranks, and be butchered before we can kill twenty of our adversaries? I am opposed to either plan, but leave every man of you to his own decision. Should any one choose to surrender, or attempt to escape, he is at liberty to do so. My own choice is to remain in this place, and die for my country, fighting so long as breath shall remain in my body. This will I do even if you leave me alone. Do, then, as you think best; but remember that no one of you can die with me without affording me comfort in the hour of death.'
"Here Colonel Travis drew his sword, and with its point traced a line on the earthen floor extending the whole length of the motionless file. Then resuming his position in front of the centre, he said:
"'Now let every man who is willing to remain here and die with me cross to this side of that line. Who will be the first? Forward! March!'
"Tapley Holland leaped the line at a bound, exclaiming, 'I am ready to die for my country!' And in another instant every man, save one, of that heroic file had followed him and stood beside their gallant leader. Every wounded man who could move crawled or tottered across the fatal mark. Colonel Bowie, too weak to lift his head, called out feebly, 'Don't leave me behind, boys!' and in a moment four men had lifted his cot over the line. The other helpless ones begged that they too might be lifted across, and finally only Moses Rose remained behind. He stood alone, with his face buried in his hands. Travis, Bowie, and Crockett all spoke to him kindly, and asked him if he were afraid to die. When he answered that he was, and believed in the possibility of an escape, they bade him go in peace. So he left them, scaling a rear wall of the church, dropping to the ground outside, and finally escaping, after eluding innumerable dangers. It is from him alone that we have a description of that memorable scene, for of all that devoted band whom he left in that gloomy fortress no man was ever again seen alive beyond its walls."
"Then he was the Aristodemus of your American Thermopylæ," interrupted Bryce, who was listening with breathless attention to this tale of modern heroism.
"Yes," replied Captain Gordon, "only he was more of a coward than Aristodemus, for the latter did not escape until after his comrades had been killed, and, if you remember, was himself killed in battle the following year, after performing more valorous deeds than any of his fellow Spartans."
"I suppose Moses Rose was more truly a coward," admitted Bryce; "but lot's not stop to talk about him now, Uncle Cap. What became of the splendid fellows he left in the fort? Did they finally surrender, or were they captured, or what?"
"They neither surrendered nor were made prisoners, but fought with the stubbornness of desperation for three days longer. At length, on the 5th of March, Santa Aña, believing the Americans to be too exhausted to offer a serious resistance, ordered the Alamo to be carried by assault at daylight of the following morning. At that hour the thunder of bombardment was again stilled, and as though the silence were a signal, dark masses of Mexican infantry, provided with scaling ladders, and driven to their deadly work by a pitiless cavalry pressing close on their rear, rushed at the walls of the devoted church.
"Less than one hundred of the defenders were left to resist those thousands; but three times did this handful of dauntless fighters repel their swarming assailants, and three times did the furious Mexican General drive them back to the assault. At length the defenders had fired away their last grain of powder, the crowding Mexicans forced an entrance, and after another hour of the most terrific hand-to-hand fighting and awful slaughter, the Alamo was theirs. At nine o'clock two murderous discharges of double-shotted grape and canister from a cannon planted in the doorway of the room used as a hospital, and filled with helplessly wounded Americans, ended the bloody tragedy, for of Travis's noble band no man remained alive. So terribly had they fought that five hundred and twenty Mexicans were killed in that final assault, and as many more were wounded, while, including all who had fallen beneath the unerring Texas rifles during the siege, the Alamo had cost Santa Aña over two thousand men.
"In his rage at this stubborn resistance the Mexican General ordered the bodies of the heroic defenders to be burned just outside the Alamo, and so thoroughly was this work accomplished that by sunset of that dreadful day naught was left of them save a mound of wind-blown ashes and an undying memory."
"I think that is the very finest thing I ever heard of!" cried Bryce, nearly choked with emotion; "and now I know that I am prouder of being an American than any Greek boy can be of his country. But what happened after that, Uncle Cap? Did Santa Aña keep right on and conquer the whole of Texas?"
"How could he when the Texans had such a glorious example to follow as that of Travis and Bowie and Crockett, and those who fell with them, and such a battle-cry as 'Remember the Alamo'? No, indeed, he did not conquer Texas, and I think your history will tell just how long it took the Texans to sweep everything before them, and win an independence that they maintained for nine years before joining themselves to the great American republic, and becoming one of the United States."
"And what became of the Alamo?"
"It still stands, or rather the old church does, facing the principal plaza of the beautiful, wide-spread city that has grown around it since Travis and his men won for it a glorious immortality."
"Can any one see it, and go inside and touch its walls?"
"Certainly he may."
"Then," said Bryce, glowing with enthusiasm, "that is the very first place in all the world that I mean to visit just as soon as I set out on my travels."
[THE PRESIDENT'S PRIVATE LIFE.]
Aside from the arduous official duties of the President of the United States, it is interesting to note some of the pleasure and profit that accrue from his term of four years. With an income of $138 a day, or $50,000 a year, paid by the strongest bank in the country, the United States Treasury, he may or may not leave office with a snug fortune of perhaps $100,000, depending on whether his expenditures have been of an extravagant nature. Many Presidents have taken office as poor men, but with the money they have saved during their term, and the influence that the office has brought them in business pursuits afterwards, they have died comparatively rich.
The country instals the President in the White House—a magnificent residence—and surrounds him with every convenience. With an appropriation that Congress makes every year most of the expenses of this establishment are paid.
The following is a fair idea of the many incidentals that come free to a President: Every bit of linen, bedding, towels, and such things is furnished. He is shaved by the White House barber. His table is spread with the finest, daintiest damask, set with the most exquisite china, and bountifully supplied with flowers from the White House conservatories. If he sends a telegram, it is done from an instrument in the White House, for which the government pays. His stationery, postage, etc., cost him nothing. Should he desire a game of billiards, there is a beautiful table at hand; or if he wants to take a drive, his stables, which the government pays the rent for and takes care of, are amply equipped. When he enters his business office, a man is stationed at the door to open and close it; and a private secretary, to whom the government pays a salary of $5000 a year, assists him with his correspondence. The services of a type-writer are also furnished. He is protected from the curious by a number of private watchmen. Should he want a cruise, a magnificent steam-ship from the navy is placed at his disposal.
There are many other things that cost him nothing, such as the culinary arrangements, his steward, who does the marketing, the many fancy delicacies sent him by enterprising firms. This, by-the-way, is a sort of nuisance, for it seems to be the desire of every manufacturer of some new eatable or drinkable to get it into the White House. Things of value that find their way there are never accepted.
Lately the bicycle manufacturers have tried to get President Cleveland to ride a wheel, and have offered the most extravagant inducements to both the President and Mrs. Cleveland. One firm said they would present Mrs. Cleveland with a gold bicycle studded with gems if she would ride it.
The President has to give state dinners and state receptions, but the expenses of these yearly probably do not exceed $7000 or $8000. The Marine Band always supplies the music, and the flowers come from the conservatory. It is seldom necessary to decorate the reception-rooms of the White House, so that these affairs, although of elaborate and ceremonial nature, are still inexpensive.
Upon his retirement to private life, the influence that his Presidential office has given him enables him to secure large sums in payment for whatever he may do, such as a lecture, an article in a periodical, or, if he practises law—which most of our ex-Presidents have done—such fees as $10,000 are no uncommon thing.
[AN EXPLANATION.]
"I do not smile when I'm in bed,"
The little baby softly said,
"Because my smile's so very wide,
'Tis sure to fall out on one side,
And oh, how madly I should scold
To find my smile out in the cold!"
[THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."]
BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.
I.
Perhaps we were pretty big boys—Jack and I. In fact, I'm afraid we were so big that we haven't grown much since, though it was ten years or more ago that it all happened. But Ollie was a boy, anyhow; he couldn't have been more than a dozen years old, and we looked upon him as being a very small boy indeed; though when folks saw us starting off, some of them seemed to think that we were as boyish as he, because, they said, it was such a foolish thing to do; and in some way, I'm sure I don't know how, boys have got the reputation of always doing foolish things. "They're three of a kind," said Grandpa Oldberry, as he watched us weigh anchor. "Their parents oughter be sent fer."
Well, it's hard to decide where to begin this true history. We didn't keep any log on this voyage of the Rattletrap. But I'll certainly have to go back of the time when Grandpa Oldberry expressed his opinion; and perhaps I ought to explain how we happened to be in that particular port. As I said, we—Jack and I—were pretty big boys, so big that we were off out West and in business for ourselves, though, after all, that didn't imply that we were very old, because it was a very new country, and everybody was young; after the election the first fall it was found that the man who had been chosen for county judge wasn't quite twenty-one years of age yet, and therefore, of course, couldn't hold office; and we were obliged to wait three weeks till he had had his birthday, and then to have a special election and choose him again. Everybody was young except Grandpa Oldberry, and he really wasn't old.
But I was trying to account for our being in the port of Prairie Flower. Jack had a cheese-factory there, and made small round cheeses. I had a printing-office, and printed a small square newspaper. In my paper I used to praise Jack's cheeses, and keep repeating how good they were, so people bought them; and Jack used, once in a while, to give me a cheese. So we both managed to live, though I think we sometimes got a little tired of being men, and wished we were back home, far from thick round cheeses and thin square newspapers.
One evening in the first week in September, when it was raining as hard as it could rain, and when the wind was blowing as hard as it could blow, and was driving empty boxes and barrels, and old tin pails and wash-boilers, and castaway hats and runaway hats and lost hats, and other things across the prairie before it, Jack came into my office, where I was setting type (my printer having been blown away, along with the boxes and the hats), and after he had allowed the rain to run off his clothes and make little puddles like thin mud pies on the dusty floor, he said,
"I'M TIRED OF MAKING POOR CHEESES."
"I'm tired of making poor cheeses."
"Well," I answered, "I'm tired of printing a poor newspaper."
"Let's sell out and go somewhere," continued Jack.
"All right," I said. "Let's."
So we did.
Of course the Rattletrap wasn't a boat which sailed on the water, though I don't know as I thought to mention this before. In fact, a water boat wouldn't have been of any use to us in getting out of Prairie Flower, because there wasn't any water there, except a very small stream called the Sioux River, which wandered along the prairie, sometimes running in one direction and sometimes in the other, and at other times standing still and wondering if it was worth while to run at all. The port of Prairie Flower was in Dakota. This was when Dakota was still a Territory, and before it had been cut into halves and made into two States, and left on the map like a green paving-stone lying on top of a yellow paving-stone. So, there being no water, we of course had to provide ourselves with a craft that could navigate dry land; which is precisely what the Rattletrap was—namely, a "prairie schooner."
"I've got a team of horses and a wagon," went on Jack, that rainy night when we were talking. "You've got a pony and a saddle. We've both got guns. When we drive out of town some stray dog will follow us. What more'll we want?"
"Nothing," I said, as I clapped my stick down in the space-box. "We can put a canvas cover on the wagon and sleep in it at night, and cook our meals over a camp-fire, and—and—have a time."
"Of course—a big time. It's a heavy spring-wagon, and there is just about room in it behind the seat for a bed. We can put on a cover that will keep out rain as well as a tent, and carry a little kerosene-oil stove to use for cooking if we can't build a fire out-doors for any reason. We can take along flour, and—and—and salt, and other things to eat, and shoot game, and—and—and have a time."
We became so excited that we sat down and talked till midnight about it. By that time the rain had stopped, and when we went out the stars were shining, and the level ground was covered with pools of water.
"If it was always as wet as this around here we could go in a genuine schooner," said Jack.
"Yes, that's so. But what shall we call our craft?"
"I think Rattletrap would be a good name," said Jack.
"I don't think it is a very pretty name," I replied.
"You wait till you get acquainted with that wagon, and you will say it's the best name in the world, whether it's pretty or not. You don't know that wagon yet. The tongue is spliced, the whiffletrees are loose, the reach is cracked, the box is tied together with a rope, the springs creak, and the wheels whobble, lean different ways, and never follow one another."
"Do they all turn in the same direction?" I asked.
"I don't believe they do. It would be just like one to turn backward while the other three were going forward."
"We'll call our craft the Rattletrap, then. Good-night."
"Good-night," said Jack; and we parted, each to dream of our approaching cruise.
IN A WEEK WE WERE BUSY GETTING READY TO START.
In a week we were busy getting ready to start. I found, when I looked over the wagon as it stood back of the cheese-factory, that it was much as Jack had described it, only I noticed that the seat as well as the springs creaked, and that a corner was broken off the dash-board. But we set to work upon it with a will. We tightened up the nuts and screws all over it, and wound the broken pole with wire. We nailed together the box so that the rope could be taken off, and oiled the creaking springs. We had no trouble in finding a top, as half the people in the country had come in wagons provided with covers only a year or so before. We got four bows and attached them to the box, one at each end, and the other two at equal distances between. These bows were made of hard-wood, and were a quarter of an inch thick and an inch and a half wide. They ran up straight on either side for two or three feet, and then rounded over, like a croquet-wicket, being high enough so that as we stood upright in the wagon-box our heads would just nicely clear them. Over this skeleton we stretched our white canvas cover, and tied it down tightly along the sides. This made what we called the cabin. There was an ample flap in front, which could be let down at night and fastened back inside during the day. At the rear end the cloth folded around, and was drawn together with a "puckering-string," precisely like a button-bag. By drawing the string tightly this back end could be entirely closed up; or the string could be let out, and the opening made any size wanted. After the cover was adjusted we stood off and admired our work.
"Looks like an elephant on wheels," said Jack.
"Or an old-fashioned sun-bonnet for a giantess," I added.
"Anyhow, I'll wager a cheese it'll keep out the rain, unless it comes down too hard," said Jack. "Now for the smaller parts of our rigging, and the stores."
On the back end we fastened a feed-box for the horses, as long as the wagon-box was wide, and ten or twelve inches square, with a partition in the middle. We put stout iron rings in the corners of this, making a place to tie the horses. On the dash-board outside we built another box, for tools. This was wedge-shaped, about five inches wide at the top, but running down to an inch or two at the bottom, and had a hinged cover. We put aboard a satchel containing the little additional clothing which we thought we should need. Things in this line which did not seem to be absolutely necessary were ruled out—indeed, for the sake of lightness we decided to take just as little of everything that we could. We made another box, some two feet long, a foot deep, and fourteen inches wide, with a hinged cover, which we called the "pantry," for our supply of food. This we stood in the wagon with the satchel. Usually in the daytime after we started each of these rode comfortably on the bed back of the seat. This bed was a rather simple affair, made up of some bed-clothing and pillows arranged on a thick layer of hay in the bottom of the wagon-box. Our small two-wick oil-stove we put in front next to the dash-board, a lantern we hung up on one of the bows, and a big tin pail for the horses we suspended under the wagon.
"Since you're going to be cook," I said to Jack, "you tend to getting the dishes together."
"They'll be few enough," he answered. "I don't like to wash 'em. Tin mostly, I guess; because tin won't break."
So he put a few knives and forks and spoons, tin plates and cups, a frying-pan, a small copper kettle, and a few other utensils in another box, which also found a home on the bed. Other things which we did not forget were a small can of kerosene; two half-gallon jugs, one for milk and one for water; a basket of eggs; a nickel clock (we called it the chronometer); and in the tool-box a hatchet, a monkey-wrench, screw-driver, small saw, a piece of rope, one or two straps, and a few nails, screws, rivets, and similar things which might come handy in case of a wreck.
"Now for the armament and the life-boat," said Jack.
For armament Jack contributed a double-barrelled shot-gun and a heavy forty-five-calibre repeating rifle, and I a light forty-four-calibre repeating rifle, and a big revolver of the same calibre (though using a slightly shorter cartridge), with a belt and holster. This revolver we stored in the tool-box, chiefly for use in case we were boarded by pirates, while the guns we hung in leather loops in the top of the cover. In the tool-box we put a good supply of ammunition and plenty of matches. We also each carried a match-box, a pocket compass, and a stout jack-knife.
"Now, how's your life-boat?" asked Jack.
I led her out. She was a medium-sized brown Colorado pony, well decorated with brands, and with a white face and two white feet. She wore a big Mexican saddle and a horse-hair bridle with a silver bit.
"She'll do," said Jack. "In case of wreck, we'll escape on her, if possible. She'll also be very handy in making landings where the harbor is poor, and in exploring unknown coasts."
"THEY'LL ALL BE SCALPED BY INJUNS," SAID GRANDPA OLDBERRY.
All of this work took several days, but when it was done the Rattletrap was ready for the voyage, and we decided to start the next morning.
"She's as prairie-worthy a craft as ever scoured the plain," was Jack's opinion; "and if we can keep the four wheels from starting in opposite directions we'll be all right."
But where was Ollie all this while? The fact is I had forgotten about Ollie. And who was Ollie, anyhow? Ollie was Jack's little nephew, and he lived back East somewhere—I don't remember where. The nearer we got ready to start, the more firmly Jack became convinced that Ollie would like to go along, so at last he sent for him to come, and he arrived the night before our start. Ollie liked the idea of the trip so much that he simply stood and looked at the wagon, the guns, the pony, and the horses, and was speechless. At last he managed to say,
"Uncle Jack, it'll be just like a picnic, won't it?"
The next morning we started as early as we could. But it was not before people were up.
"Where be they going?" asked Grandpa Oldberry.
"Oh, Nebraska, and Wyoming, and the Black Hills, and any crazy place they hear of," answered Squire Poinsett.
"They'll all be scalped by Injuns," said Grandpa Oldberry. "Ain't the Injuns bad this fall?"
"So I was a-reading," said the Squire. "And in the hills I should be afeared of b'ar."
"Right," returned Grandpa. "B'ar and sim'lar varmints. And more 'specially boss-thieves and sich-like cut-throats. I disremember seeing three scalawags starting off on such a fool trip since afore the war."