CHAPTER IX.
A few days later Ida was once more back at the old farm; and how different now did everything look to her. The days of grumbling and complaint were past forever. She was no longer annoyed by her old aunt's unwitting offences against etiquette; and she found a new and strange pleasure in simple things which she had once regarded with indifference or aversion. She fed the fowls, learned to harness the old horse, and insisted on helping with the work of the dairy. And how proud she was of her first pat of delicious butter!
"It really seems a pity to eat it," she said, as she exhibited it in triumph to Aunt Patty.
One day she took the horse and light wagon and drove to Bell's Falls. She said she had some shopping to do there, and several errands to which she must attend.
"One of them is a commission from Doctor Stone," she said, trying not to smile, but failing signally.
Lately she had received several letters from the old doctor, but she never read them to her aunt and sister.
"Some day you may read them," she said to Aunt Patty, "but not now. Doctor Stone and I have a secret which you and Cynthia are not to know just yet."
"It seems to make you very happy, whatever it is," said Cynthia.
"Well, I am more anxious than happy just now," returned Ida. "But I can't explain why."
About a week after her trip to Bell's Falls, Ida entered the farm-house kitchen late one afternoon with two letters in her hand. Her face was glowing from her brisk walk to and from the village post-office, and her bright eyes were dancing in anticipation of some rare enjoyment.
"One of those letters for me?" asked Cynthia, who was busy at a table making rolls for supper.
"No; both for me," answered her sister, "and great news in both. One is from Aunt Stina, who says she will be home by the 1st of November, and wants me to be ready to live with her again."
"Oh, Ida!"
It was a simultaneous exclamation from Aunt Patty and Cynthia. They both looked blank, and Cynthia dropped her rolling-pin and sat down in the nearest chair, as if she felt suddenly weak.
Ida laughed. She looked wonderfully radiant and happy. "Calm yourselves," she said. "I have other plans in my head. Listen to this." She tossed Aunt Stina's letter into the wood-box back of the stove, and opened the other—a business document—which announced that Miss Ida Worley had been appointed a teacher in the grammar school at Bell's Falls at a salary of seven hundred and fifty dollars per annum, her duties to begin the following Monday. "And as Bell's Falls is only fifteen miles off, I can come home every Friday night," said Ida.
"How'd you ever get the place?" asked Cynthia, when she and Aunt Patty had exhausted their vocabulary of exclamations of delight and astonishment.
"Through Doctor Stone's influence. He knows all three of the trustees. Dear old man! He was so ready to help me!"
"Aunt Stina will be dreadfully disappointed that she isn't to have you again, Ida."
"Perhaps so, just at first. But she will hire a companion—some one who will suit her much better than I. She won't approve of my teaching, and will wonder that I prefer it to a life of idleness in her house. But I am longing to feel that I am of some use in the world—not a drone in the hive."
"You dear child!" said Aunt Patty. "Your kind and unselfish act in helping that poor fever-stricken woman has brought a great reward. Had you passed her by you would never have known Doctor Stone, and wouldn't now have a chance to show what a busy bee you can become."
"My first month's salary shall be spent in fitting out my dear Aunt Patty with everything she needs in the way of comfortable dress," said Ida, with her arms around her aunt's waist, "and the month after that every cent shall go to Cynthia. Oh, I can hardly wait to begin! How thankful I am that I came here last June. It was the beginning of a new life. And to think how I mourned and made myself utterly miserable because I couldn't go abroad with Aunt Stina!"
Cynthia's plain little face fairly beamed with joy. "And now Aunt Stina is never to have you again," she said.
"Never again! I belong now to you and Aunt Patty."
THE END.
[THE CAPTURE OF THE SLAVER.]
BY AN OLD SHIPMASTER.
I had run away to sea, and was serving as cabin-boy on the Flying Scud. But by the time we got to Cienfuegos, Cuba, I had suffered so much from ill-treatment, that I resolved to desert before the ship sailed. I had an afternoon ashore, and while amusing myself with the sights I went into a restaurant for dinner.
At a table opposite mine was a fine-looking sailorly man, dressed in a white duck suit and a broad-brimmed Panama hat. While he sipped his coffee, and lazily smoked his long, black Cuban cigar, he appeared to take considerable notice of me. When I was ready to depart he called me to him, and asked the name of the ship I belonged to, the treatment and wages I received, and so on. He seemed so friendly and interested that I made free to tell him of my troubles, and stated that I longed for the termination of the voyage. At this he said:
"It seems, my boy, that Providence has sent me to deliver you. I am Captain of a fine ship, and am in need of a cabin-boy on account of mine having met with an accident that will keep him on shore for some time. What do you say to shipping with me? I will promise you good treatment and much better wages than the Flying Scud pays you."
Here was a golden avenue of escape for me. I was young and trustful, and Captain Ward of the Dragon—for such he told me were the names of himself and vessel—seemed so sympathetic and kindly that I gladly signified my willingness to desert to him.
"Very well," he answered, seemingly well pleased; "I am going on board now, for we are to sail immediately, and you can come right along with me."
As we made our way to the landing-stage through the fast growing darkness, Captain Ward kept up an easy, friendly flow of talk, and by the time that we were seated in the handsome long boat belonging to the Dragon I had, in the impulsiveness of youth, become strongly attached to him. When we reached the latter vessel it was too dark to observe anything more about her than the fact that she was fore-and-aft rigged, with a long yard on her foremast for bending a big square sail to when running before the wind, and had a broad, clean sweep of deck, with high bulwarks, through whose port-holes several cannon looked out. The Captain was received at the gangway by his chief mate, to whom I was pointed out with the half-laughing remark, "this is our new cabin-boy, who had the good taste to prefer the Dragon to the big ship over yonder." I went below with him, and he pointed out a tidy little state-room, which he told me I was to occupy, and said that whatever clothes I might need would be supplied to me out of the stock kept in the slop-chest. Immediately after this Captain Ward went on deck, and we lifted the anchor and put to sea.
Well, to make a shorter story of it, I will explain right here that I soon learned I had shipped on board of the most notorious slaver in the trade, and that she was commanded by a man who was acknowledged to have no rival in the way of daring and success. I heard some time later that he had been a buccaneer in the Gulf of Mexico before going into the slave trade, and that the Dragon had once flown from her masthead the fearful black flag. All this may have been, and probably was true; but this I claim freely, that during the month that I served on board I received the kindest treatment from him. It fretted me, however, to think of serving on such a vessel, and I determined to leave as soon as we returned to Cuba. But I was not to wait even that length of time, as you will soon learn.
Several days later, in a river on the African coast, we loaded the Dragon with four hundred poor wretches, who had been captured to serve as slaves to the civilized Christian white men across the wide Atlantic. Our lading had been much hurried, owing to a report that the American man-of-war Dale had been seen cruising off the mouth of the river the day before we arrived. Her cutters had a habit very distasteful to the slave-traders of pulling up the river at unexpected times in search of contraband cargoes. The penalty that the officers and crews of slave-ships were obliged to pay in the way of death or lengthy imprisonment, and the confiscation of their vessel and effects, often drove the slavers to open warfare with the naval forces when in tight corners. If they were captured, after warlike resistance or with slaves on board, they were considered as pirates, and suffered accordingly.
The slaves had been fed and chained securely between decks, and everything made ready for slipping out to sea by sunset, as the lookout reported the coast clear; but Captain Ward waited until the off-shore wind began to blow, about eight o'clock, before getting up his anchor. At that time, under the jib and mainsail, the Dragon commenced to work slowly down the river, the negro pilot standing on the forecastle and conning the vessel through the channel. We had almost reached the mouth of the stream. I heard the Captain say to his mate that by daylight the land would be leagues astern, and all danger from station cruisers would be at an end.
Just as we approached the last turn, where the river narrowed to about one hundred feet, the Dragon stopped suddenly, brought up against a stout hawser stretched from tree to tree on either bank, then swung around until she lay directly across the stream, and at the same instant two boats dashed alongside filled with naval sailors, who were prepared to sweep down all resistance with their cutlasses, drove the crew into the forecastle, and secured the door. I had been standing on the quarter-deck when the schooner was captured, and as the men-of-war's men forced the Captain and mate below the former picked me up in passing and carried me into the cabin with him. No sooner had we entered this than the companion-way slide was pulled over and we were prisoners, while overhead sounded the tramp of many feet as the sails were lowered and the vessel brought to an anchor.
"Quick, open one of the stern-ports!" said the Captain to the mate; then he ran into his room, from which he reappeared almost immediately and thrust a sheet of paper into my hand, exclaiming, "Show this to the naval officer when he comes below."
In another instant he and the mate had pulled off their shoes and clothes and slipped noiselessly into the dark flowing river through the open port. I entered the master's berth, in which a candle-lamp was burning, and looked at the paper that the Captain had given me. It read:
"My cabin-boy was innocent of the character of the Dragon when he signed articles.
"Roland Ward, Master."
Slaver, pirate, or any other hard name you may call him, there was something noble in the man who could think of others at such a time, and sacrifice even a few precious, fleeting moments to insure the safety of a poor little cabin-boy.
A few minutes later a naval officer, followed by several blue-jackets well armed, descended the companion-way and asked for the Captain. In order to gain time for the two men, whom I knew to be at that instant swimming for their lives, I handed him the note. He glanced over it, thrust it in his pocket, and exclaimed:
"This will keep for the present. Where is the Captain?"
I answered that he was not in the cabin.
"WHERE IS THE CAPTAIN?" HE REPEATED, IMPATIENTLY.
"Where is the Captain?" he repeated, impatiently.
I knew that the swimmers must have reached shore, and were safe from pursuit in the darkness of the night, so I pointed to the open port. The officer stamped his foot in rage, to think that he should have been outwitted so cleverly, and ran up to the deck, where I heard him shouting to burn a blue light, and for some of his men to tumble into the boats and pull about in search of the escaping slavers.
The seamen had their trouble for nothing, as the Captain and mate succeeded in making their way back into the country, where they remained in hiding until they found an opportunity of getting back to Cuba.
During the next day the Dale made her appearance, and received the transfer of the prisoners. Although I was sent with them, the Captain's note was accepted as proof of my innocence, and I was restored to liberty and made a messenger-boy on board the man-of-war, in which capacity I served until the Dale was relieved by the sloop-of-war Vincennes, and returned to the United States a few months later.
The lieutenant who had been left in ambush and who had captured the slaver was placed on board of her in command, and she was afterwards employed successfully as a decoy for bringing a number of other slave-ships within the clutches of Uncle Sam's officers.
My advent in the village was all that I could have wished for. The local paper published my picture in man-of-war uniform, together with a history of my voyage; and I was heroized by the girls, and looked upon with sufficient admiration and burning jealousy on the part of my former school-fellows to make even my cup of satisfaction and happiness full to the brim.
[STORIES OF PRESENCE OF MIND.]
IN REPORTING THE "VICTORIA" DISASTER.
BY DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS.
The newsman at Piccadilly and St. James's Street had his bill of news wares pasted on the pavement. Even he who ran by means of a swift hansom-cab might read the huge black letters. There was but one article on the bill. Black type, three inches long, shouted:
HORRIBLE DISASTER!
H.M.S. "VICTORIA" RAMMED AND SUNK!
FOUR HUNDRED LIVES LOST!
As Fabian Wendell, London correspondent of the New York Intelligence, and his friend Carter, just from New York, were whirled out of St. James's Street into Piccadilly, Wendell's eye caught the announcement. He lifted the trap in the top of the cab and told cabby to pull into the pavement and hail the newsman.
"ALL THE PAPERS," SAID WENDELL.
"All the papers," said Wendell, and straightway had the afternoon rainbow—the pink Star, the yellow Globe, the white Pall Mall, the pale gray Standard, and the green Westminster.
"What is the matter?" asked Carter.
"Great news," replied Wendell, opening the Pall Mall, and pointing to a "scare head" half a column long. Under the head-lines was this short despatch:
Tripoli, June 23d.—H.M.S. Camperdown rammed H.M.S. Victoria yesterday five miles out at sea. The Victoria sank at once. Rear-Admiral Tryon, most of his officers, and over three hundred men were lost.
"The Mediterranean fleet," went on Wendell, talking to arrange his thoughts rather than to inform his friend, "has been cruising in the Levant. Victoria was the biggest and most formidable battle-ship in the world. Camperdown is almost as big. Tripoli is on the north coast of Africa—"
"No," interrupted Carter, who was looking at the Standard. "This paper says it is Tripoli, on the coast of Asia Minor."
"That's bad—small place—poor telegraph," Wendell was muttering, his forehead wrinkled so that it suggested sixty rather than twenty-three. Up went the trap in the top of the cab. "Drive to the Eastern Telegraph Company, Old Broad Street. And you get an extra fare if you do it quickly."
"What are you going to do there?" Carter inquired, as the cab began a mad dash down St. James's Street on its way to the City and Old Broad Street.
"Why, a very simple thing. I'm going to try to get a full account of this disaster, and print it in New York before an account is printed in England. Tripoli is miles away from nowhere at all. These English papers are very slow. I propose to show them what American enterprise is."
"But they are sure to be first with such a story as this, about their own navy. You have no correspondent there."
"Neither have they. I have a scheme, and the beauty of it is that even if these English fellows think of it they will dismiss it without a trial as too absurd."
"Then you admit there is practically no chance?"
"Chance? I don't admit that there is such a thing as chance. I know that it is my duty to do something. This is the only thing I can think of. The others will be hopeless and will do nothing."
At the Eastern Telegraph Building Wendell stopped in the office on the first floor long enough to write this despatch:
To the telegraph agent, Tripoli, Syria.—The New York Intelligence will pay the telegraph tolls and £200 ($1000) for two thousand words full describing the Victoria disaster. Send at once to Wendell, London.
Then he went up stairs, straight to the general manager. That important person read the despatch with increasing derision, which he did not take the trouble to conceal.
"The rate from Tripoli to London is a shilling a word," he said. "Two thousand words will cost you a hundred pounds, five hundred dollars. The operator or agent at Tripoli is an ignorant Turk, who, without doubt, knows not a word of English. Tripoli is on the Turkish government lines, and we cannot send the money to him to pay for the despatch. He never heard of the New York Intelligence. You practically ask him to spend a hundred pounds with no prospect of ever seeing it again."
"Very true," said Wendell, and he took the despatch and added to it. "Will start money as soon as despatch is received." Then he gave it back to the manager, saying: "No harm to try. If I fail, I shall be out only the eleven dollars this telegram will cost me. If I win—"
He laughed, and the manager relented. "I'll mark it so that it shall be rushed through, and I'll add my own guarantee," he said, with abrupt courtesy. "As soon as an answer comes, if an answer does come, I'll see that you get it."
Wendell thanked him, and went away with Carter. He spent the rest of the day getting and sending all he could find bearing in any way upon the disaster. All England was waiting for the fuller news. The Admiralty and the Foreign Office were besieged by crowds of those who had relatives or friends in the fleet. But no further news came. The Saturday morning papers had nothing but rumors. Even the long reach of the Times could not get at that obscure Syrian village.
Wendell watched impatiently for the early editions of the Saturday afternoon papers. There was still no story. The whole civilized world was waiting. Carter was despondent over the failure of Wendell's scheme, and Wendell had almost ceased to hope. The Sunday morning papers had nothing. Sunday afternoon came a telegram in an Eastern Telegraph envelope. Wendell's hands trembled as he read:
Tripoli, Syria.—Send soon as can raise money. Old subscriber Intelligence.
Harris.
Wendell laughed hysterically as he gave it to Carter, who was really faint with excitement. "The manager said they don't know the Intelligence in Syria," he laughed, as Carter was reading and rereading. "I wonder what he will think of that?" And he hurried away a cheering telegram to the unknown Harris, who was helping him to beat the world on the news story.
"If Monday morning's papers pass it," he went on, "we're safe. But that's a slim chance."
He waited up until six o'clock Monday morning to see. The only further news was a partial list of the saved, and a formal announcement from the Commander of Camperdown that the disaster had happened. To Wendell this fortune seemed incredible.
Two thousand miles away, Harris, a medical missionary at Tripoli, was in a more agitated state than was Wendell. He was the only English-speaking person in that squalid little Asiatic port. He came from Kentucky, and got his news of America through the weekly edition of the Intelligence, for which he was a subscriber. The day after Wendell sent his despatch he was passing the telegraph office. Abdallah Gazi, the Turkish operator, called him in, and asked him to translate it. As Harris read it, he saw the whole situation.
Abdallah had been the despair of the survivors of the disaster. As he hated the English, he had pretended to be more stupid than he really was. Harris was fired with ambition to help the paper he took, published by his countrymen, in his native land. But to get together the five hundred dollars necessary was no easy thing in that miserably poor village. He gave no heed to the furious Syrian sun; he toiled and wrestled with friends and acquaintances. By Monday afternoon he had the money, and began dictating two thousand English words, letter by letter, to the operator, who spoke only Arabic. It was a long and dreary task, and not until midnight was it done.
The first sheet of the great special, telling the pitiful story of Tryon's mistake, and its horrible result, was in Wendell's hands at five o'clock that Monday afternoon. Thanks to the difference of time, the last sheet reached him at ten o'clock, two hours earlier than the time at which Harris sent it. Wendell had the wires to New York open, and had warned the Intelligence of what was coming. As New York is five hours earlier than London, the editor of the Intelligence was reading the great beat on all the newspapers in the world at half past six o'clock. At seven an extra afternoon edition of the Evening Intelligence was on the streets of New York.
Next morning Wendell slept late. When his man awakened him, he was straightway at the bundle of morning papers. Every great London daily had its first story of the Victoria disaster, in large type, with huge head-lines. The eager British people had the news at last. But the date line of the story was not Tripoli. Every despatch began: "New York, June 26th.—The Intelligence has the following special from Tripoli."
"I wish I had been in the editorial rooms of the great London Times when that special from New York came," said Fabian Wendell.
[THE LAST LITTLE LEAF.]
The last little leaf has fluttered down,
The trees are standing all bare and brown;
But the winter long, if you could see,
There are wee little elves in each brown tree
Spinning the dress, so green and fair,
That will one day wave in the soft spring air.
Good-by, little leaf; you did your best;
So curl away, it is time to rest.
M. E. S.
[HOW TO ENTER THE ARMY.]
BY GENERAL O. O. HOWARD, U.S.A.
(In Two Papers.)
I.—ENLISTMENT.
THE PREPARATION NEEDED.
Our boys are familiar with the United States flag, with its historic stars and stripes, as it floats over public buildings and is carried in street parades. How many know it is used for a sign or a sign-board? Passing through any one of our large cities, we often see the flag drooping from a protruding staff over a common office doorway. Considering what it means, we go up to the door, and see on one side a flaming poster printed in colors, surmounted by a picture of many soldiers standing well grouped, in their bright attractive uniforms. On reading we find this to be an advertisement or an invitation on the part of the United States government to all able-bodied men so desiring to join the ranks of the army as private soldiers. It states that the man so volunteering to serve his government in this capacity will be well clothed, fed, and, besides, receive $13 per month in cash, less certain small sums retained from time to time by the government to be surrendered to the soldier upon his discharge from service. He must agree to serve faithfully, take an oath of fidelity to the United States, and to obey all superior officers for a period of three years. It was formerly five years. While reading the poster we have noticed, either leaning in the doorway or pacing up and down with erect carriage, in a neat tight-fitting blue uniform, a man who, upon being accosted, replies that he is a private, or, if we noticed a V-shaped braid upon his arm, a sergeant, belonging to some regiment of the army stationed at a distance. He is here to get men to enlist, and go back with him to his regiment and become soldiers. He enlarges upon the pleasures of the service—if cavalry, the riding, the scouting, the excitements of chasing Indians; if infantry, the enjoyments of camp life, the practice marches, the Indian campaigns, where deeds of gallantry and brave acts will be rewarded by medals and certificates of honor; if artillery, the use of heavy ordnance in defending our sea-coasts, with their pleasant stations.
In glowing terms he thus pictures to a young man the life of a soldier, such as we are familiar with in history. But to have him know more fully he invites him to go into a room within, called a Recruiting Office. On coming in, his soldier friend touches his cap to a gentleman sitting at a desk writing. He reports that his companion is desirous of entering the army. This gentleman then, in a brisk businesslike way, which proves him to be an officer accustomed to command, draws from the young man an account of his past life, finds out his habits, his age, and then determines from his answers whether or not he would make a good soldier. He also shows him that soldiering is not all play, pomp, and ceremony, but work like that in any other profession, that implicit obedience is necessary, and willingness to do well the work in hand. Only in such a way could he expect to rise in the estimation of his superiors in rank and obtain promotion and reward. The officer satisfies himself that his candidate is a good one, filling the requirements of law as to a good moral character, able to read and write, and within the ages of sixteen and thirty-five; or, if under twenty-one, that he has his parents' or guardians' consent; then he will administer to him the oath of allegiance to the United States. Now, after signing a contract to serve the United States government as a soldier for the required period, our young civilian has become a recruit. Before, however, he is finally admitted, he must undergo a careful physical examination, made by a surgeon. The accepted recruit has his choice of entering the artillery, the cavalry, or the infantry.
The foregoing is all the preparation needed, but if our recruit is anxious to advance beyond the position of a private soldier, and to fill places of responsibility, it is needless to say he must prepare himself.