RECAPTURED.
A STORY OF THE APACHE DAYS IN ARIZONA.
BY CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U.S.A.
There was a boy at old Camp Sandy once upon a time when white men were scarce in Arizona, and from the day he was ten years old this boy's consuming desire was to help "clean out," as he heard the soldiers express it, a certain band of mountain Apaches that had surprised and slaughtered a small party of people in whose welfare he felt especial interest, for the reason that there was with them a little fellow of his own age. They had sojourned at Sandy only three days, and then, deaf to remonstrance, had gone on their way up into the mountains "prospecting"; but during those three days the two youngsters had been inseparable. "Sherry" Bates, the sergeant's son, had done the honors of the post for Jimmy Lane, the miner's boy; had proudly exhibited the troop quarters, stables, and corrals; had taken him across the stream to the old ruins up the opposite heights, and told him prodigious stories of the odd people that used to dwell there; had introduced him personally to all the hounds, big and little, and had come to grief in professing to be on intimate terms with a young but lively black bear cub at the sutler's store, and was rescued from serious damage from bruin's claws and clasping arms only by the prompt dash of by-standers. It took some of Sherry's conceit out of him, but not all, and the troopers had lots of fun, later on, at the corral, when he essayed to show Master Jim how well he could ride bare-back, and mounted for the purpose one of Mexican Pete's little "burros" by way of illustration. All the same, they were days of thrilling interest, and Sherry wept sorely when, a week later, a friendly Indian came in and made known to the officers, mainly by signs, that the party had been killed to a man, that their mutilated bodies were lying festering in the sun about the ruins of their wagon up near Stoneman's Lake in the pine country of the Mogollon.[1] The Major commanding sent out a scouting party to investigate, and the report proved only too true. The bodies could no longer be identified; but one thing was certain: there were the remains of four men, hacked and burned beyond recognition, but not a trace of little Jim.
"It was Coyote's band beyond doubt," said the Lieutenant who went in command, and for Coyote's band the troopers at Sandy "had it in," as their soldier slang expressed it, for long, long months—for over a year, in fact—before they ever got word or trace of them. They seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. Meantime there had been chase after chase, scout after scout. General Crook had been transferred long since to an Eastern field, and was busy with the Sioux and Cheyennes. Another commander, one who lacked Crook's knowledge of Indian tricks and character, had taken charge in Arizona, and the Apaches had quickly found it out. They made it lively for small parties, and easily kept out of the path of big ones. And this was the way things were going when, one autumn night, signal fires were discovered ablaze away up in the Red Rock country, and Major Wheeler sent a troop post-haste to see what it meant; and with this troop went Sergeant Bates, and on its trail, an hour later, unbeknown to almost everybody, went Sherry.
Indians rarely ventured into the deep valley of the Sandy. The boy had hunted jack-rabbits and shot California quail and fished for "shiners" and other inconspicuous members of the finny tribe along its banks, and he knew the neighborhood north, south, and west for miles. Eastward, out of sight of the flag-staff he had never ventured. That was towards the land of the Apache, and thither his father had told him no one was safe to go. An only son was Sherry, and a pretty good boy, as boys go, especially when it is considered that he had been motherless for several years. The old sergeant, his father, watched him carefully, taught him painstakingly, and was very grateful when any of the officers or their wives would help with the lessons of the little man. He had had a pony to ride, but that pony was old when his father bought him from an officer who was ordered to the East, and Sherry soon declared him too old and stiff for his use. What he craved was a horse, and occasionally the men let him mount some of their chargers when the troop went down to water at the river, and that was Sherry's glory; and on this particular October night he had stolen from his little bed and made his way to the corral, and had got Jimmy Lanigan, the saddler sergeant's son, now a trumpeter in "F" Troop, to saddle for him a horse usually ridden by Private McPhee, now sick in hospital of mountain fever. As Mac couldn't go, his horse would not be needed, and Sherry determined to ride in his place.
But some one gave old Bates the "tip," and he caught the little fellow by the ear and led him home just before the troop started, and bade him stay there; and Sherry feigned to be penitent and obedient, but hugged his father hard, and so they parted.
But boys who own dogs know the old dog's trick. Sometimes when starting for a day's pleasuring where Rover would be very much in the way, the master has sternly ordered him home when, with confident joy, the usually welcome pet and companion came bounding and barking after. You have all seen how sad and crestfallen he looked, how dumbly he begged, how reluctantly he skulked homeward when at last he had to go or be pelted with stones; and then, time and again, he finally turned and followed, a long distance behind, never venturing to draw near, until, so very far from home that he knew he couldn't be sent back, he would reappear, tail on high and eyes beaming forgiveness and assurance, and the battle was won.
And Sherry had learned Rover's little game, and he lay patiently in wait until he knew the troop was gone, then over to the corral he stole, easily coaxed the stable sentry into giving him a lift, and in half an hour he was loping northward along the winding Sandy under the starry skies, sure of overtaking the command before the dawn if need be, yet craftily keeping well behind the hindermost, so that his stern old father could not send him back when at last his presence was discovered.
For, long before daybreak, the soldiers were trailing in single file, afoot and leading their horses up the steep, rocky sides of the Mogollon, taking a short-cut across the range instead of following the long, circuitous route to Stoneman's Lake, and only a hundred feet or so behind the rear-most of the pack-train followed keen-eyed, quick-eared little Sherry, still clinging to his saddle, for his light weight made little difference to such a stocky horse as McPhee's Patsy, and trusting mainly to Patsy's power as a trailer to carry him unerringly in the hoof-prints of the troop.
When at last the sun came peering over the pine crests to the east, the little command was deep down in a rocky cañon, and here the Captain ordered halt, lead into line, and unsaddle. The horses and the pack-mules were quickly relieved of their loads, and the men were gathering dry fagots for little cook-fires—fires that must make no smoke at all, even down in that rocky defile, for Indian eyes are sharp as a microscope; but before marching on again men and horses both had to have their bite and the men their tin mug of soldier coffee, and here it was that some one suddenly exclaimed,
"Well, I'm blessed if here ain't Sherry!"
It was useless for the old sergeant to scold now. The officers promptly and laughingly took the boy's part and declared him "a chip of the old block," and bade the sergeant bring the boy along. It was safer, at all events, than sending him back.
And so, secretly proud of him, though openly declaring he would larrup him well the moment they got back to the post, Sergeant Bates obeyed his Captain, and thus it happened that Master Sherry was with "F" Troop the chill October morning, just at dawn, when they found out, entirely to their satisfaction, just what those signal-fires meant.
They were not visible from Camp Sandy, you must understand. Indians are too sharp for that. They were started in certain deep clefts in the Red Rocks which permitted their glare to be seen only from the southeast or the east, the direction from which the roving bands approached when seeking to steal their way back to the old reservation after some bloody foray, sure of food and welcome at the lodges of their friends and fellow-savages, provided they came not empty-handed. Coyote's band had not been near the reservation since their exploit of the year before. A price was on the leader's head, but scouting parties away down to the southeast in the Chiricahua country had learned that recently Coyote with some forty followers had crossed to the north of the Gila, and seemed to be making his way back to his old haunts in the Mogollon. All this was wired to Major Wheeler, and Wheeler sent some trustworthy Apache-Mohave scouts out towards the head-waters of Chevelon's Fork to the east, with orders to watch for the coming of Coyote. It was one of these runners who brought in the tidings that the signal-fires were burning, and that meant, "Come on, Coyote; the coast is clear."
And Apache confederates, watching from the reservation, twenty miles up-stream, would have said the coast was still clear, for the road to Stoneman's Lake was untrodden. A day later, to be sure, they got word that a whole troop of horse had gone by night up into the mountains, but it was then too late to undo what they had done—lured Coyote many a mile towards his enemies. They sent up "smokes" in the afternoon to warn him, but by that time Coyote's people, what was left of them, knew more than did their friends at the reservation.
For, early that morning, just at dawn, while some of them were sound asleep in their brush shelters, or "wicky-ups," away on top of a rocky pinnacle that overlooked the country for miles, this is what happened:
Following the lead of three or four swart, black-haired, beady-eyed Apache scouts, the soldiers came stealthily climbing the steep. Away down in a rocky cañon they had left the horses and pack-mules, their blankets and, many of them, their boots, and in moccasins, or even stocking feet in a few cases, they noiselessly made their way. Officers and all carried the death-dealing little brown cavalry carbine, and thimble belts of copper cartridges were buckled about their waists. "Find um top," the leader of the little squad of scouts muttered to the Captain, as he pointed the evening before to this distant peak, and well he knew their ways, for only three years before he himself had been a "hostile," and was tamed into subjection by General Crook. And so it proved. Relying on the far-away night fires, Coyote and his weary band had made their brush shelters on the old Picacho. The few squaws with them had filled their water-jars at the cañon. Two trusty runners had gone on westward to the reservation, and the rest to sleep. Coyote thought the white soldiers "too heap fool" to think of making a night march through the mountains instead of coming away around by the old road. With the troop-horses was left a small guard, and with the guard a little boy—Master Sherry Bates—fretting and fuming not a little as he lay there among the rocks, wrapped in his father's blanket, and listening with eagerness unspeakable for the crash of musketry away up on that dimly outlined peak that should tell that his father and the boys had found their foemen and the fight was on. Presently, as the eastern sky began to change from crimson to gold, the lofty summit seemed slowly to blaze with glistening fire. The light, still dim and feeble in the jagged ravine, grew sharp and clear along the range, and one of the guard, peering through the Captain's binocular, swore he could "see some of the fellers climbing close to the top"; and Sherry, though shivering with cold and excitement, rolled out of his blanket and scrambled to his feet. An instant more and, floating on the mountain breeze, there came the sudden crash and splutter of distant musketry, and Sherry could control himself no longer. Mad with excitement, he began dancing about the bivouac. The men were all listening and gazing. The horses were snorting and pawing. There was no one to hinder the little fellow now. Half shrouded by the lingering darkness in the gorge, he stole away among the stunted pines and went speeding as though for dear life up the cañon.
The fight itself was of short duration. Surprised in their stronghold, the Indians sprang to their arms at the warning cry of one haplessly wakeful sentinel. It was his death-song, too, for Sergeant Bates and the veteran corporal at his side, foremost with the guides, drove their almost simultaneous shots at the dark figure as it suddenly leaped between them and the sky, tumbling the sentry in his tracks, and then, before the startled band could spring to the shelter of surrounding bowlders, the soldiers with one volley and a ringing cheer came dashing in among them. Some warriors in their panic leaped from the ledge and were dashed upon the rocks below; some, like mountain-goats, went bounding down the eastward side and disappeared among the straggling timber; some, crouching behind the bowlders, fought desperately, until downed by carbine butt or bullet. Some few wailing squaws knelt beside their slain, sure that the white soldiers would not knowingly harm them; while others, like frightened doe, darted away into the shelter of rock or stunted pine. One little Indian boy sat straight up from a sound sleep, rubbing his baby eyes, and yelling with terror. Another little scamp, with snapping black eyes, picked up a gun and pulled trigger like a man, and then lay sprawling on his back, rubbing a damaged shoulder, and kicking almost as hard as the old musket. And then, while some soldiers went on under a boy Lieutenant in charge of the fleeing Indians, others, with their short-winded Captain, counted up the Indian losses and their own, and gave their attention to the wounded; and all of a sudden there went up a shout from Sergeant Bates, who was peering over the edge of a shelf of rock.
"Here's more of 'em, sir, running down this way!" followed by a bang from his carbine and a yell from below, and men who reached his side were just in time to see a brace of squaws, dragging two or three youngsters by the hand, darting into the bushes, while their protecting warriors defiantly faced their assailants, fired a shot or two, and then went plunging after. "I know that Indian," almost screamed old Bates. "It's Coyote himself!"
"After 'em, then!" was the order, and away went every man.
Two minutes later, out from under a shelving rock came crawling a trembling squaw. Peering cautiously around, and assuring herself the troopers were gone, she listened intently to the sound of the pursuit dying away down the mountain-side; then in harsh whisper summoned some one else. Out from the same shelter, shaking with fear, came a little Apache boy, black and dirty, dragging by the hand another boy, white and dirtier still, and crying. Seizing a hand of each, the woman scurried back along the range, until she reached the narrow trail by which the troopers had climbed the heights; then, panting, and muttering threats to the urchins dragging helplessly after, down the hill-side she tore; but only a hundred yards or so, when, with a scream of fright and misery, she threw herself upon her knees before the body of a lithe, sinewy Apache just breathing his last. And then, forgetting her boy charges, forgetting everything for the moment but that she had lost her brave, she began swaying to and fro, crooning some wild chant, while the boys, white and black, knelt shuddering among the rocks in nerveless terror.
And this was the scene that suddenly burst upon the eyes of Sherry, the sergeant's boy, as he came scrambling up the trail in search of his father. And then there went up a shrill, boyish voice in a yell of mingled hope and dread and desperation, and the dirty little white savage, screaming "Sherry! Sherry!" went bounding to meet the new-comer. And the squaw rose up and screamed too—something Master Sherry couldn't understand, but that drove terror to the white boy and lent him wings. "Run! run!" he cried as he seized Sherry by the hand, and, hardly knowing where they were going, back went both youngsters tearing like mad down the tortuous trail.
Five minutes later, as some of the men, wellnigh breathless, came drifting in from the pursuit, and Corporal Clancy, running up from the cañon in pursuit of the vanished "kid," both parties stumbled suddenly upon this motley pair, and the rocks rang with Clancy's glad cry.
"Here he is, sergeant! all right, and Jimmy Lane wid him."
And that's why Sherry didn't get the promised larruping when they all got back to Sandy.
[DEPORTMENT.]
Half this windy day I've watched them,
In the breeze,
Those long slender tasselled branches
On the trees,
Bowing, courtesying politely,
Doing their deportments rightly,
As modestly, as brightly
As you please.
Why, I never saw such manners,
Not till now,
Such beautiful deportment;
But I vow
All the people that I see
Are as rude as they can be,
Not to stop before each tree
And make a bow.
Arthur Willis Colton.
he following morning we left the village at daylight, each one carrying about twenty pounds of boiled smoked elephant meat. We were soon in the forest, and tramped and tramped along without seeing any game. Towards four o'clock we met a great many fresh elephant tracks. The animals seemed to be just ahead of us. The footprints after a while began to be so plentiful that evidently there had been several herds of elephants. At about five o'clock we came to a beautiful prairie which seemed like a lovely island on that big sea of trees. There were many fields of plantain-trees along the borders of the forest, growing in the midst of trees that had been felled and burned.
Okili said to me: "We have seen, Moguizi, many elephants' tracks on our way here. I am almost certain they will come here to-night, for they are fond of plantains."
So we resolved to go no further that day, for we were on good elephant-hunting ground, and made preparations to spend the night on the border of the forest and wait for the huge beasts. We only spoke in whispers, for we thought the elephants might not be far off.
Okili then said, pointing to a spot where the forest advanced on the prairie, forming, so to speak, a cape:
"It would be wise, I think, for some of us to go to that place, for there also is another large field of plantain-trees, and the chances are that some of the elephants will go there, for there are very many."
Then Ogoola, pointing to another field of plantain-trees south of us, said, "To make sure, some of us ought to go there also."
We all assented.
"We have chosen," said I, "three places where we are going to lie in wait for elephants, so we must divide ourselves into three parties."
I had hardly said these words than they all cried with one voice, "I am going with you, Moguizi."
I replied, "Hunters, if you all go with me, then there will be only one party, and we will be too many together."
"That is so," they all answered. There was a pause.
Okili got up and said, "The Moguizi, Okili, and Niamkala will make one party. You know that the King said that I must be always by the side of the Moguizi."
"Yes," they all answered. "The King said so."
Then Okili spoke again, and said, "Obindji, Mbango, and Macondai will make the second party. Ogoola, Makooga, and Fasiko will make the third party."
Okili, who had much experience in hunting elephants, said, "Now listen to what I am going to tell you, and act accordingly. The great thing in elephant-hunting is for one to have a cool head, otherwise he had better stay at home. Often elephants, when wounded, charge those who fire at them. In that case, if the hunter runs away, he is lost, for the elephant is sure to overtake him, tramp over him, and one of his feet upon the hunter's body is quite enough to kill him instantly. The elephant may prefer to impale him on one of his tusks, or seize him with his trunk and dash him to the ground or against a tree.
"The only way to escape the elephant when he makes his furious charge upon you is to keep perfectly calm, then when you are sure of the direction of the huge beast, instead of facing him, move sideways; then when he is five or six yards from you, take three steps backward as quickly as you possibly can. His pace is then so rapid that he cannot deviate from his course, and he passes by you, and you are safe."
"Yes, Okili, you are right," I said. "I have been three times in the same predicament, and I did exactly what you tell us to do, and there are no other ways to escape the fury of the elephant."
"We will do so," all the hunters said, with one voice, "but we hope to kill the elephants on the spot," and as they said this they looked at the charms which hung on their guns.
We separated, as we had agreed, into three separate parties, but not before we had taken our dinner of elephant meat. Each party went into the prairie to reach the fields, and one and all disappeared in the midst of them.
I had just looked at my watch for the tenth time, which marked one o'clock, when lo! I saw through the dim moonlight, emerging from the forest on the opposite side of the prairie, something like a big black spot, which was moving. Soon I saw it was a huge bull elephant. He walked for a while, then stood still and looked all around, as if to see if there was danger ahead.
Okili and Niamkala had their backs turned to me, and were watching in another direction. I gave the cluck of danger—cluck, cluck! They turned toward me, and I pointed the bull elephant to them. Then the big bull gave a shrill, piercing trumpeting, which evidently meant there was no danger, for immediately afterwards elephant after elephant emerged from the forest into the prairie. I counted one, two, five, seven, ten, thirteen, seventeen, twenty, twenty-three, twenty-seven, when appeared behind them all a cow followed by a baby elephant. No more elephants came out of the forest; the herd was all there. They all came by the bull elephant and stood still in a bunch. Were they mistrustful of danger, or were they taking counsel together before moving?
Fortunately for us the wind blew in the right direction; it blew from the elephants towards us, so they could not possibly detect our scent.
After a while the herd nearest to us, headed by the big bull, marched in our direction. Their keen eyes had evidently detected the plantains. They walked slowly. We could hear their heavy footsteps.
Soon they entered the plantation not one hundred yards from us, and then the destruction began. Plantain-tree after plantain-tree was brought down by them. They were making such a havoc!
Before we moved from our hiding-place we waited until they were so far in among the trees that they could not possibly see us when we crossed that bit of the prairie that stood between us.
The time came at last when we left our place. Okili gave the small cluck, to draw our attention, and made the sign to follow him. We left our hiding-place, and as soon as we reached the grass we lay low, creeping towards the place where the beasts were. We entered the plantation; tree after tree had been pulled down. Fortunately they were making such a noise continually pulling down the trees that they could not hear us.
We three were close together, and advanced slowly towards the game, when, to our consternation, the wind shifted suddenly; if it shifted two or three more points of the compass, then the elephants would be aware of our presence.
After emerging from a cluster of plantain-trees, Okili suddenly stood still, put his finger on his mouth—a sign of danger. Looking around, we saw within twenty yards of us the bull elephant feeding on a bunch of plantains. How big he looked!
Niamkala, Okili, and I looked at one another, as if to say, now danger is before us; let our hearts not fail us. Then slowly we pressed forward towards the big bull.
Of course he was the most dangerous of the whole herd. It was certain that he would charge if we did not kill him on the spot. Then we must look out for our lives. Okili looked at his old-fashioned gun once more; Niamkala did likewise. I gave a look also at Bull-dog, and I said to myself, "Paul, if you let this elephant tramp on you or toss you or impale you, it will be all over with you; you will never see home again."
We were getting dangerously near. Niamkala had left us, and crept towards the elephant in such a manner that he could send a shot behind his left shoulder without the danger of his iron plug coming in our direction if it missed the animal. There was no danger of that, for Niamkala was a splendid shot, but then he might only wound him.
THE ATTACK ON THE BULL ELEPHANT.
Okili and I had approached within twelve or fifteen yards; we were facing each other; circumstance had favored us. The moon was hidden under a cloud, and just as the cloud disappeared we raised our guns. We were to fire between the elephant's eyes. Niamkala also raised his gun, and we all fired at the same time. We were upon our feet at once, and waited for the effect of our shots. The elephant seemed to stagger, then suddenly he made a plunge towards Okili and me, charging at full speed. We turned instantly sidewise to let him pass in front of us. In a moment he was near; we made three steps backwards and he passed us. I fired another shot; we heard a thumping noise on the ground; the big beast had fallen dead.
Of course the whole herd decamped after we had fired. They went through the jungle, breaking every small sapling that came in their way and barred their flight. For quite a while we could hear them, until the noise gradually died away in the distance.
Then we left the dead bull and went on the prairie, and saw some men running in our direction. As they came in sight they shouted, despite their being out of breath, "We have killed two elephants and wounded one that has run away."
We shouted back, "We have killed the big bull elephant."
We embraced one another, and shouted in the wildest manner, "We are men! We are men!" Then they all danced round the bull elephant, and exclaimed, "You wanted to kill our people; you charged them, but you got killed instead." And they had a war-dance round the dead animal, after which we went to their camp and saw the two cow elephants. They danced round them, after which they cut a piece off each elephant, and took these into the wood and left them there upon large leaves, for the spirits Mombo and Olombo, who ruled over the hunting, to feed upon.
One of the bull elephant's tusks weighed sixty-nine pounds, the other one sixty-one. The four tusks of the cow elephants weighed one hundred and eleven pounds.
The following morning, Mbango, Macondai, Niamkala, and Fasiko left us to go back to the village to fetch people to carry the elephant meat and the tusks of ivory.
After they had left, we eagerly followed the tracks the elephants had made during their flight. For hours we followed these. Fortunately Okili was well acquainted with this part of the forest. A number of peculiar-shaped trees were his landmarks. During the day we crossed over several hunting-paths.
"The elephants must have gone far away," said Okili. "Their leader, the big bull elephant we have killed, is not with them to direct them. The other bull elephants in the herd were too young. Some big bull elephant will scent them, and then become their leader. We had better leave their tracks and follow one of the hunting-paths. I know the path will lead us to the place where we are to meet Ogoola and Niamkala."
We slept in the woods, surrounded by big blazing fires. The following day, towards evening, after walking without intermission for twelve hours, with the exception of half an hour for our noon meal, we reached the shore of a little river, and came to the big koola-tree where we were to meet Ogoola and Niamkala. Okili and I were delighted to see so many koola nuts on the ground, for both of us were very fond of koola nuts.
We built our camp at some distance from the big koola-tree, and lighted big fires, then lay upon our backs and put the soles of our sore and lame feet as near the fire as we could. It is wonderful how this great heat takes away the soreness.
The next morning I thought I would take a stroll by myself and look for elephants, as Okili was not feeling very well.
One hour after I left our camp, and as I was walking along the bank of the river, I spied, on the opposite side, a big bull elephant by himself, evidently old, and the kind that is called by the natives a "rogue elephant." The big beast was looking at the water, as if he had not made up his mind to cross the river or not, or to take a bath. After some hesitation he plunged into the river. The sun was very hot. He threw water with his trunk in the air. He took his bath leisurely, then began to swim across to a sandy island, upon which he landed, then stood still for a few moments. He had all the appearance of a "rogue elephant." I did not like his looks, and I was sure he would charge if not killed on the spot. I looked at Bull-dog carefully, and made sure that the steel-pointed bullets were near. I kept watching the beast, hidden by the thick jungle, when suddenly he lay down and began to roll himself in the sand. This was his sand bath, and he seemed to enjoy it thoroughly. Then he got up, stood still for a while, and suddenly plunged into the water and swam in my direction. I saw that he would land about opposite to where I stood. "Goodness gracious!" said I to myself, "I am in a pretty fix; I have no choice of position; I have to face the huge beast, and I must aim right between his eyes before he lands."
"I TOOK AIM RIGHT BETWEEN HIS EYES AND FIRED."
I placed myself by a big tree, which could protect me in case the elephant charged.
I took aim right between his two eyes, and fired, reserving the other shot. When I fired he was on the point of landing. As the bullet struck him he gave a shrill cry; then he landed and charged. I dodged by going to the other side of the tree, and well I did, for as he passed the tree he moved his trunk in my direction. Then he disappeared, and I heard a big crash in the jungle, and all became silent. I went in that direction, but looked very sharp, and then I saw the huge beast breathing his last. I approached very carefully, for I was not sure that he had not strength enough at sight of me to get up and charge. I did not want to waste more of my steel-pointed bullets. I waited for a while; the elephant kept still; then I ventured nearer and I found that he was dead.
Okili, who had heard the report of the gun, started down the stream with a raft he had made, and gave a war-whoop when he saw me by the shore. Soon after he was in sight of the big rogue elephant. We cut his tail off as a trophy, and went back to the camp, for Ogoola and Niamkala were to be with us that day.
There was great rejoicing with the animal. They were hardly seated when Okili said to them, "We have great news to tell you."
"What is it?" they said, with great eagerness.
"The Moguizi has killed this morning a rogue elephant; there is his tail."
Paul du Chaillu.
[A SCHOOL OF SHARKS.]
BY CHARLES LEWIS SHAW.
A boy—that is, the ordinary every-day sort of boy, which is, after all, the best kind—is supposed to cause sufficient mischief not only to keep himself but his parents and guardians and a large circle of relatives in considerable hot water. And when you mix up two healthy boys and a school of sharks, and incidentally throw in a ship's boat, a heavy sea, and a sudden squall, there is bound to be trouble. And there was.
Philosophers to the contrary notwithstanding, there is such a thing as luck in this world. It was pure unadulterated luck when the firm of Henderson, Burt, & Co., let us call them, manufacturers of fire-arms, had turned out 5000 rifles of what they supposed was the most improved pattern, at a time when the market was dull, that an obscure German chemist should invent a gunpowder requiring a cartridge which relegated those rifles to the catalogue of ancient weapons. And it was luck that the Captain of the schooner Hecuba happened to be asleep one afternoon off the coast of Cuba, and his son and the ship's apprentice were boys, and had a boyish desire to catch a shark, or the firm of Henderson, Burt, & Co. would have been bankrupt, and a considerable portion of General Maceo's army would have had to struggle for freedom this summer with their fists. And even Spanish conscripts cannot be beaten with fists. This is how it happened:
When the news of that German's discovery reached us, for I was the junior partner—the "Co." part—of the firm of Henderson, Burt, &. Co., it looked very much like ruin. The Orient, our hoped-for market, was not only too far away and uncertain, but our agent in Alexandria had already advised us that the Oriental was becoming more and more fastidious regarding his fire-arms. In our desperation I thought of Cuba, which, on account of the poverty of the insurgents, we had hitherto not considered. The details of the transaction do not matter. Sufficient to say that in a few days after the suggestion was made, an agreement was entered into with the Cuban agents that if 2000 stand of arms were delivered at a specified point on the coast of Cuba at a certain time, we would be paid in gold then, and not before. It was a strange contract. The sale was illegal, as the belligerency of the insurgents was not recognized, and the risk of total loss by capture either by our own revenue-boats or Spanish cruisers was great. To me was assigned the entire conduct of the affair.
I didn't relish the task. All halcyon dreams about the Spanish main, coral islands, and hidden treasures, all latent admiration for picturesque pirates, low raking schooners with tapering masts, snow-white decks, and "Long Toms" secreted under the long-boats had evaporated. I was a business man, and assuming the rôle of the filibustering blockade-runner wasn't exactly in my line. And as the Hecuba, favored at last by a land breeze, crept out of the harbor of Tampa, Florida, in the darkness of the June night, I watched the lights of the revenue-steamer ahead, and thoughts of capture, jail, the disgrace of a trial, either in an American court or before a Spanish court martial, possessed me, and I wondered why it was that ten years ago I had a wild longing to pace quarter-decks arrayed in a slashed doublet, a velveteen cloak, and a pair of uncomfortable big jack-boots, and yell in a voice of thunder, "Man the tops'l yards. Port your helm. Run out Long Tom and send a shot across her bows." It occurred to me that there was just a little bit too much eighteenth-century Captain Kidd, Sir Henry Morgan sort of romance being mixed up in this business transaction. I confessed to myself that I had outgrown all interest in the blockade-running business beyond seeing 2000 rifles safely delivered to a customer, and $40,000 received therefor. But in the words of the ship's boy, a runaway street arab from New York, there were others. And he and the Captain's son, for they were sworn friends by this time, discussed the chances of the trip from the vantage-ground of the ship's boat, into which they had clambered.
"D'ye t'ink they'll see us, Chimmie?" asked the Bowery boy, anxiously, for it had been impossible to conceal the object of the trip from the crew.
"I don't know. I hope they do," answered the youngster, who had often been on voyages with his father, and knew the sailing-qualities of the Hecuba. "This breeze is going to freshen, and we're nearly out of the bay. Father will show those revenue-steamers a thing or two."
"If dey catch us, will we be hung to de yard-arm, way dey say in de books?" inquired the street arab, whose first voyage it was.
"Perhaps," cheerfully answered Jimmie; and with a son's unbounded faith in his father, he continued: "But they won't catch us. The worst is that they may get close enough to see who we are, and then there will be trouble when we come back."
"Den yer old man had better be a pirate. Dat's de way dey allus does—get into trouble in dere own country, and den go piratin' in de Spanish main after gold gallons," suggested the ex-newsboy.
Jimmie said, in an apologetic tone, as if it were a blight on the character of his parent, that the skipper, as he called his father, in imitation of the sailors, wasn't exactly cut out for a pirate. He wasn't blood-thirsty enough, and mentioned several other drawbacks, much to the credit of Captain Wade. And then there was an intense discussion as to what they would do if they were captain and mate of the schooner Hecuba. How they would get a beautiful coral island with only savages on it, whom they would first kill, and then utilize the island for burying treasure, imprisoning captive maidens of ancient Castilian lineage, and holding rich grandees for ransom. The blood-thirsty little wretches had just determined that I should be their first prisoner, and was to be held for a ransom that would have bankrupted half the arms factories of Connecticut, when the voice of the Captain could be heard in sharp command:
"Ease her off and lay low. Cover up the binnacle light!" And in the darkness we could see the point of the land we were hugging over the port bow.
"They see us. They see us!" excitedly said Jimmie.
I looked, and felt a sick feeling in my heart as I saw the lights of the revenue-steamer slowly moving toward us.
"We're right at the mouth of the harbor," I could hear Jimmie whisper. "With this wind, she's a good one if she catches us."
In a few seconds I could feel the heavy swell of the Gulf of Mexico; and the Hecuba, with her canvas spread like huge wings that looked weirdlike in the darkness, sped before the wind. I felt, indeed, that Jimmie was right—the steamer would be a good one if she caught us. And she didn't catch us. But Yankee revenue-steamers are not easily run away from, and it was only after we had steered a course that led the government boat to believe that we were making for Jamaica did she abandon the chase. We were then far out of our course, and I now had the additional anxiety as to whether we would be able to make Cuba in the appointed time. Slowly we beat up against adverse winds, practically retracing our course for miles, until at last we sighted the war-stricken island, with only two days left to make the little bay named as the rendezvous with the Cuban agents. The elements then seemed to rise up against us, for a storm came up in the evening with tropical vehemence, and the sturdy little Hecuba was compelled, with infinite peril, to seek the shelter of one of the numerous bays along the Cuban coast. For two days and nights the storm raged with such fury that it would have been madness to venture forth. We saw on the second night far out to sea an ironclad, which the Captain's night glass showed to be one of the fastest of the Spanish cruisers guarding the coast. We took the small crumb of comfort that it was an ill wind that blew nobody good.
'Twas the afternoon of the second day. The violence of the gale had spent itself that morning, and by noon had moderated into a gentle breeze, although a heavy sea was still running. It was the day that I was to have met the Cuban agents, and it was maddening to think that the place of meeting was only a few hours' run from where we were idly lying. I begged the Captain to venture forth, but he gravely handed me his powerful glass and pointed to a speck on the horizon. I looked, and saw the funnels of the Spanish cruiser that had passed us the night before.
"We shall have to wait for darkness," he said. "It would be worse than folly to try it now. I must turn in for a spell. I haven't had a wink of sleep for forty-eight hours," and he disappeared into his cabin.
I was not the only discontented being on board the Hecuba. The two boys resented the delay also, and having been kept below during the storm like prisoners, longed for action. They soon had excitement enough, however, to suit even their temperaments.
"Sharks!" screamed Jimmie, disturbing the drowsy sailor of the dog-watch, as he eagerly looked over the rail at a lot of plashing fins and swaying tails.
"S' help me!" said his companion. "Is dem de t'ings dat follies ships and swallers people?"
"No," said the sailor, coming up and contemptuously looking at the school of sharks, whose long tails were making the water boil and bubble as if a submerged volcano were in active operation. "They're just thrasher sharks, and they're playin'."
"But they'd eat a fellow," said the ship's boy, and he threw a piece of wood at one under the bow.
"No, they won't," said the sailor. "A swingle-tail, as some calls 'em, won't hurt anybody. Though some says a whole school will sometimes tackle a whale and kill it; but I don't believe it. A thrasher shark is all play. The only trouble they make is when they get into fishermen's nets, and with those long tails of theirs slash around and tear and tangle everything up. They look big, but, you see, they run mostly to tail. Tail and all, they're between twelve and fifteen feet long, and weigh about 400 pounds. They make a good fight if caught on the hook."
It must have been half an hour afterwards when my absorbing thoughts about the affairs of Henderson, Burt, & Co., the undelivered rifles, and impending ruin were interrupted by a sudden splash at the stern. I looked over and saw that the two young scapegraces, taking advantage of the Captain's absence and the sleepiness of the watch, had lowered one of the Hecuba's boats.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Going to fish for sharks," answered Jimmie. "They are over there"—pointing a few hundred yards away. "We've got a shark hook and line, and the cook gave us a piece of pork for bait." And he held up a most portentous-looking hook, with about three feet of chain attached to prevent the teeth of the shark from severing it. In my ignorance of the ways of the sea, I didn't realize the danger. The big rolling waves made the Hecuba roll and pitch as she tugged at her anchor-chains, and I anxiously watched the daring young fishermen. When clear of the schooner they shipped the mast, and in a few minutes they were in pursuit of the sharks under full sail. I saw Jimmie throw out the line, but still they scudded on in the heavy sea. What happened then will never be accurately known. Whether it was that the tremendous tug at the line when the shark swallowed the hook made the youngsters lose their heads and forget everything—sail, sea, and a sudden puff of wind that came up—in their intense desire to secure it, neither can say. The probabilities are that the tiller being abandoned, as both boys held on to the line, the boat swung into the trough of the sea, the sheet got caught in some way, and the sudden puff of wind capsized the boat in the midst of the exciting struggle.
I had watched the accident, and soon Captain and crew were on deck. As I looked into the pale, tense features of the Captain as he quickly gave his orders, I thought he was going on a hopeless errand. But no! Two figures appeared on the bottom of the capsized boat, and a cheer went forth from every throat. They would be saved yet. As if to add intensity to the scene, the wind rose in fitful gusts and a huge bank of clouds rolled up in the sky. Something had gone wrong with the gearing or tackle of the second boat, which was seldom, if ever, used; and I fairly trembled with anxiety as the valuable minutes passed, and looked at the boys clinging to the bottom of the boat as it was tossed on a huge wave. But, in Heaven's name! what were the boys doing? What did it mean? Were they mad? By everything that was sane, they were still holding on to the line.
OUT OF THE GATHERING DARKNESS CAME A YAWL MANNED BY TWO MEN.
"Cut away the tackle!" at last roared the Captain, maddened by the delay, and noting the actions of the boys. It was done, and with a rush the boat went down almost stern first, and half filled with water. I felt that the fate of the boys was now sealed. With a water-logged boat in that sea it would be impossible to cover the four hundred yards to where the boys were still clinging tenaciously to the line. Jimmie was standing up holding the line with both hands, in the position almost of "the anchor" in a tug-of-war, and the ship's boy, extended on his stomach along and astride the boat, held the line with his right hand, while his left grasped the keel. Shark-fishing may be exciting, but that the excitement was so great that one should court certain death was hard to understand. I could hardly believe the evidence of my eyes, and I screamed at the top of my voice, "Let go! Let go!" in the vain hope that I might be heard. It was only a few minutes, but it seemed hours, as the crew alongside bailed out the water. It would be too late. The positions of the two lads showed they were almost exhausted. They couldn't hold out much longer. If they let go there was yet time, but they seemed to hold on as if their lives depended upon it. The end couldn't be far off. The eyes of every one on deck were fixed on the boys, when off to the left we saw, coming out of the gathering darkness, a yawl manned by two men. It seemed almost ghostlike. But with split-sail bellowing out before the wind, she raced on. The men bailing in the boat relinquished their efforts as they watched the yawl steer straight for the capsized boat. As they approached we saw one man move forward to the bow. There was some weapon in his hand. And as the boys apparently gave one last despairing tug at the line, the thrasher shark in its agony gave a leap out of the water, but before its somersault was completed a harpoon quivered in its side. Almost at the same time the sail was lowered, the yawl was run alongside the capsized boat, and men and boys helped to manage the dying struggles of the shark. Instead of making immediately for the Hecuba, the Cubans, for such we could see they were, seemed to be questioning the lads as they anxiously pointed to the schooner. In a few minutes one of the men threw his cap in the air, and a cry that sounded like "Cuba libre!" was wafted on the breeze. It was too heavy a sea to tow the capsized boat, so, hoisting sail, they ran under the stern of the Hecuba.
"Well, we got the shark," said Jimmie, in a more cheerful tone than his dilapidated appearance warranted, as the boys and one of their rescuers clambered on deck. Captain Wade walked up to the Cuban, and there was a moist look in his eyes as he took his hand. "He is my only child," we heard him say, and everybody understood.
"Oh!" said Jimmie, turning to me as he went below. "That gentleman from Cuba says he knows you. He wanted to know all about the Hecuba before he would come on board. You see, the Spanish flag we're flying made him nervous like," and Jimmie and his accomplice in trouble-making disappeared. When Captain Wade presented me to the Cuban—who seemed by his bearing to be a man of consequence—as the agent of the patriots whom I was to meet, I thought that if there was such a thing as luck in the affairs of Henderson, Burt, & Co., it was not all necessarily bad. And I inwardly blessed troublesome boys and distinguished Cuban rebels who would run risk of capture and execution by rescuing a pair of youngsters from drowning in sight of what they supposed was a Spanish revenue-schooner. They told me that what with the presence of the Spanish cruiser and no sign of our schooner, they had thought that further waiting at the rendezvous was both useless and dangerous, and it explains their appearance at such an opportune moment.
When the arms were landed and hidden in a dense jungle, and several bags of gold were snugly lying in the Captain's locker, my views on blockade-running, boys, and things in general underwent a radical change. I even began to have a tender feeling towards sharks, particularly thrasher sharks who lure boys into getting rescued by Cuban officers. And I mentally retracted all the then harsh things I had thought about the folly of holding on to a shark from the bottom of an upturned boat in a heavy sea. I asked the ragged young ship's boy why he held on so long.
"Hold on!" he said. "Why, I couldn't help it. When we upset, Chimmie's foot got tangled in de line, and it tied round his ankle. Hold on? Guess I did. Chimmie'u'd be voyagin' round after dat shark now as dead as a Baxter Street herrin' if we hadn't. Course I held on!"
[A LOYAL TRAITOR.]
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER II.
A DEFERRED SOLUTION.
It was very early the next morning when we started northward along the turnpike. The doctor and I were driving in a tall chaise that swayed on its hinges like a small-boat in a tide-rip.
Mr. Edgerton followed on horseback. The sun had not risen when I had been awakened, and the morning chill was in the air; a mist hung low over the marshes, and the waters of the bay looked dull and cold. I had begun to shiver, and the kind physician threw a heavy cape around me, and tucked me in carefully beside him.
We had not spoken, except for a morning's greeting, but now he began a fire of questions, and I could not answer even the simplest. I had never heard that my mother was a widow before her marriage to the man whose name I bore; I did not know her maiden name, nor where she came from; and if I was not born at the plantation on the Gunpowder, my birthplace was a mystery to me; for, as I have said, my first recollection was the warm day on the beach.
My mother had told me nothing from which I could formulate a suggestion or give a reply that would throw any light upon my family history. What was to become of me I did not know. Apparently my mother had left no will, and my appearance upon the day of her conversation with Mr. Edgerton had interrupted, probably, any disclosures which she had intended making.
The lawyer had ridden alongside of the chaise as we slowly ascended a slight hill.
"Know you anything, Master Hurdiss, of a large iron-bound chest in a room on the second story of Marshwood House?" (I have forgotten to say that the estate upon which we lived was known in the neighborhood as the "Marshwood plantation," whether from the name of a previous owner or its location, I have never been able to ascertain.)
To the lawyer's question I could only reply that I had often seen the box and had once caught a glimpse of the interior, that it was full of papers, and I had noticed it must have contained some money, for I saw my mother take some gold pieces from a heavy leather bag that she had afterwards replaced.
"Never mind; we will solve it all," continued the man of law, "so soon as we get there. I have the keys. Come, doctor, press ahead!"
The horses lurched forward into a trot—we had now reached the top of the hill—and tired and sleepy, I leaned back on my kind friend's shoulder and fell asleep.
When I awakened the sun was high, but the chill was yet in the air, and a damp breeze had sprung up from the eastward that presaged rain. Aloft against the heavy clouds a V-shaped line of wild-geese were winging their way to the south; their coarse honking fell down to us. The sound caused me to look upward, and I followed the steady flight. I have always been well versed in the signs of nature, and there is nothing so sure to judge by as the flight of wild-fowl.
"We are going to have cold weather," I remarked to the doctor.
"Yes, the old gander is setting a pace for them as if the snow were after him," he replied.
To my surprise, as I gazed about near to hand, I saw that we were almost at the cross-roads, where it was our intention to stop and procure something to eat, as we had had nothing since the gray of morning.
Two or three new houses had been added to the group that lined the road-side, and a new sign-post waved its arms at the corner. A number of negroes hurried out and took the horses.
As we entered the low-ceilinged front room of the tavern I overheard the talk that the doctor and lawyer were having together. "It was certainly most careless to leave such property unguarded," the latter was saying. This made me listen.
"But no one would suspect anything in the way of treasure, and they are honest people hereabouts," returned the doctor reassuringly.
For some reason I could scarcely swallow a mouthful of the meal that was served for us, although it smelt most savory. As a special honor the landlord himself insisted upon waiting upon the table, and I shrewdly suspect, putting things together, that he was of a curious nature, and longed for a chance to listen to the conversation; but if this was his desire, it was not gratified, as the doctor and the lawyer were most reserved in his presence.
At last, however, we were on the move again, a fresh horse having been placed in the shafts of the old rattle-trap (upon the possession of which, by-the-way, I found that the doctor prided himself most mightily). Well, off we went at a tremendous pace, the new horse charging down the road in a clumsy, heedless fashion, and the chaise rocking behind him fit to capsize us.
The doctor at last succeeded in pulling the nag down to a steadier gait, and Mr. Edgerton, coughing and choking, came trotting up beside us through the trailing cloud of dust that, despite the damp, hung in our wake. For two miles we drove on in silence, and then turned from the main road into the lane that led to Marshwood. The old-fields on either hand were grown breast-high with brambles, and the lane wheel-rucks were almost hidden in the tall grass that swished softly and quietly under the box of the chaise.
Marshwood House was built partly of brick and partly of wood. The brick had come from England at the time when the colonies, because of the tax on industries mayhap, brought even their building material from over the water. It had once been very handsome, but during the Revolution the outbuildings had been destroyed, and the right wing of the house had fallen into sad decay. By the expenditure of some not inconsiderable sum, however, the whole estate could have been restored to the beauty it must once have possessed (but alas! that never has or never will happen, I suppose). Now, at the time of which I speak, ruin was writ on everything.
When the horses had been tied to two rusty staples driven into the trunk of an oak-tree that stood before the door, we all stepped up on to the piazza. The boards were sagged so badly that they had fallen away from the body of the house, and even the stone-work had crumbled along the foundations.
It appeared like the old place, and yet it was not; but there was the same hornets' nest that I had watched building up (ages and ages ago, it seemed to me); and there, hanging on a nail, was a fishing-rod with a rusty iron hook dangling from a bit of rotten fish-line. I had stood on tiptoe and put it there; now I could touch it with my elbow.
The lawyer had some difficulty in opening the door. However, at last he succeeded, and gave a sigh of relief as he saw that there were no traces of any one having preceded him.
"Come in, doctor," he said, cheerily, his voice echoing oddly down the empty hallway.
"Come on, John, my son," reiterated the physician to me.
I turned, before I crossed the threshold, and looked out over the sloping meadow and the stretch of yellow marsh to the blue-gray waters of the Chesapeake. The rain that had been threatening all the morning had begun to fall with that depressing, sun-filtered drizzle that promises hours of it.
It was on such a day that I used to lie with my head in my mother's lap while she read to me. I remembered this with a certain calmness, for there had settled upon me a firmly assured belief that I should never be happy again, and I accepted the feeling with a stoicism that now I wonder at. But my pen runs from the main task of putting facts on paper. To return:
I entered the house, and insensibly caught the doctor's great hand in mine.
There was a musty, locked-up odor greeting us that checked full breathing. The big room on the right smelt like a cellar, dank and unhealthy.
The doctor drew aside a chair, and, opening a window and the shutters, admitted some light. Dust was all about, everywhere; the heavy oak centre table was littered with dead, starved flies; the whole place was so chill and unhomelike that I shuddered. The doctor closed the window.
"By Jove, it grows cold!" he said.
The lawyer, who had deposited a pair of large empty saddle-bags on the floor, stamped his feet.
"Heigho!" he cried, "let's cheer things up a bit. Here's a fire all ready for the lighting; that's a godsend."
In the wide fireplace were some good-sized logs and a handful of fat-wood. Drawing a flint and steel, he struck a light, and soon a tiny blaze crept up the old chimney, and broadened with a burst of flame at last into a cheerful, roaring, warming glow. It cleared the room of its unhealthiness, and all three of us spread our hands out to it as if it had been winter.
"I think the look of things has made us exaggerate the weather," said the doctor, with an attempt at a laugh. "Come, let's set to work."
The lawyer drew from his pocket a small bunch of keys. "We will have to try for it—they're not numbered," he replied, thrusting one into the keyhole of the desk in the chimney-corner.
He tried them all before he found one that would fit. Then he turned the bolt with a sharp click, and lowered the lid. I began to feel excited, and I could see that the others were and did not conceal it.
"Ah, no one has been here, that's evident!" exclaimed the doctor.
Plain to view in a neat pile were some French coins, a shining little tower of gold. The lawyer opened one of the drawers on the left. It was empty. Then another, with the same result. In the bottom one, on the right hand, however, was a paper and a miniature on ivory. I remembered the last—the side face of a large, heavy man in a white wig. His nose was very prominent, and despite the massive jowl he had an air that suggested the effect of a noble presence. His costume was magnificent. From beneath a broad sash that crossed his breast peeped a great diamond star, and lace and jewels decked him.
"An excellent likeness, I judge," said the doctor, looking at the portrait with one eye shut.
"I should know it across the room," replied the lawyer.
"Who is it?" I asked, for I had seen it once in my mother's hands.
"It is the French King who lost his head by the guillotine," answered the doctor—"Louis the Sixteenth."
"Did your mother never speak to you about this portrait?" asked the lawyer, who was untying the ribbon with which the paper had been fastened.
"Once I saw her looking at it," I replied, "and I asked her. But I never did so again, because she began to talk so fast and in such strange words that I could not follow. Then she began to weep, and her hair fell down all about her. Aunt Sheba came running in and held her in her arms. It was a long time before she grew calm again. She never told me who it was."
By this the lawyer had spread the document on his knee. He gave a grunt of vexation.
"This is Greek to me," he muttered. "See what you can make out of it."
He handed the paper to the doctor. The latter wrinkled his brows and shrugged his shoulders.
"I give it up," he replied, half smiling.
I peeped beneath his elbow.
"Why, it's French," I said, "and my mother's writing, sir!"
"Can you read it?" asked the doctor, spreading it out on the desk lid.
In reply I began without hesitation:
"'To Monsieur Henri Amedee Laralle de Brienne.
"'Dear Brother,—Although I have not written you and have received no word from you, I am writing these lines, trusting and intending that they will meet your eye should you survive me. My husband, whose memory I cherish, is dead—lost at sea. Despite the injustice with which you have treated him, and me also since my second marriage, I recommend to you my son, who bears the name of his step-father.'"
I started and read the last words over twice.
"Go on!" interjected the lawyer, rapping the mantelpiece sharply with his knuckles.
I continued, with my face burning and my lips atremble:
"'For the sake of the name that he might claim, and all that it may mean, you may receive him. I have told him little of the past. In my judgment it was not needed, nor could it now produce anything to his favor. If circumstances should alter, you may divulge the secret; but I pray you not to do so unless this happens. This I beseech you for the sake of her whom you have loved. My son will bear with him the chest that contains the papers that I brought from the château at A. They will be unopened and addressed to you. There is enough money in the two bags to pay for my Jean's education. I have never been able to bring myself to talk about the dreadful happenings. I cannot even think of them, or I should go mad. Somehow it has appeared that silence has been the better part; but to your discretion I leave this, and to you I intrust my son's future. May God watch over him and direct you! It is evident to me from your letter that you were uncertain which one of your sisters was writing to you. I am H. de B., who inscribes here what will be carved upon her tombstone, "Madam John Hurdiss, widow of Captain John Hurdiss, merchant and trader, of Cornwall, England."'"
This was all the letter contained. It did not seem to lessen any mystery that existed, and for some minutes neither the doctor nor Mr. Edgerton spoke a word. Suddenly the latter kicked back one of the logs in the fireplace with his foot.
"Confound the fire, it smokes like a smudge!" he grumbled. "So we are not to open the papers, after all! But there may be something lying loose. Let us up."
"HARK! WHAT NOISE IS THAT?"
All at once the doctor raised his hand. "Hark! What noise is that?" he exclaimed.
A roaring crackling sound came from overhead. Something fell heavily on the floor of the hallway outside. The two men sprang to the door and pulled it open. The hall and the other rooms were filled with stifling smoke. The old portrait (the one with the long brown curls) had fallen, and a blazing bit of wainscoting burned through the canvas that had smouldered to the frame.
"The strong-box!" shrieked the lawyer, and he plunged up the stairs.
"It's in the room on the right!" I cried, as the doctor and I followed him, feeling our way with the aid of the banisters.
[to be continued.]
[TYPICAL ENGLISH SCHOOLS.]
BY JOHN CORBIN.
WINCHESTER.
The English public schools are not what we should call public schools at all—that is, they are not kept up at the public expense, and you can't go to them without paying. What we call public schools the English call free schools, and only poor children go to them. The kind of schools I am going to write about are attended by the sons of the richer people and of the nobility. They are not unlike the big American schools which prepare fellows for college—Exeter, Andover, St. Paul's, St. Mark's, Groton, and others—though they are all much older, and have many quaint and interesting customs inherited from the Middle Ages. I shall give an article to each of three of these schools—Winchester, Eton, and Rugby—and then shall add an article on athletics at public schools in general.
The oldest of all the schools is Winchester. Fellows at Andover sometimes tell you that their fathers and grandfathers went there before them. At Winchester this is a common case; and since the quadrangles of the college were built, there has been time not for one grandfather but for fifteen in a line. The prim and charming buildings look every day as old as they are; but if you were to go into the dormitories and see the rows of little iron bedsteads, each with a boy sleeping in it, you would find it hard to realize that grandfathers of these boys have slept at Winchester for five hundred years back, and that all our grandfathers began by being young and small enough to sleep in these cots.
The founder of the school was William of Wykeham, Bishop of the See of Winchester, who was not only a great bishop and a great statesman, but one of the greatest builders of the Middle Ages. His purpose in founding a school was to prepare boys to enter a college he had just founded at Oxford—New College, as it was called, and is still called after more than five hundred years. At both Winchester and New College the scholars are proud to call themselves Wykehamists; and when a fellow has been through both he is apt to tell you that he is a Wykehamist of the Wykehamists—which means more than you can ever understand until you hear and see a man say it. The first result of preparing boys to enter the university was to make them too far advanced for the teaching they found when they got there. To carry on their education Wykeham had to have a special body of tutors at New College. This was the beginning of the English custom of having a complete set of teachers at each of the score of colleges that make up a university. Thus Winchester is not only the father of all preparatory schools, but of the English university system of instruction by colleges.
Wykeham intended that all his scholars should be too poor to pay for their own education, and left funds to support them. Within the last generation, however, the masters have changed this. In order to get the cleverest possible pupils, they examine all boys between twelve and fourteen, and admit the best ones each year. About eight usually fail for one who gets in. The boys who succeed are, of course, those who have had the best training; and thus the fellows who get the benefit of Wykeham's money are usually sons of university graduates, and are often rich. Many people object strongly to this, and with good reason; yet the method has one great virtue. Fellows get almost as much credit in school for being studious and able, as for playing football; so that many of the richest fellows study hardest. In our schools, and even in our universities, there is still a stupid prejudice against being a first-rate scholar.
Within the school also there is keen competition. The five or six best students each year get scholarships at New College, which enable them to go through the university without expense to themselves. This is called "getting New," and is perhaps the greatest achievement of a Wykehamist. That such has been the case for at least two hundred years may be seen in the epitaph of a boy who died in 1676 from being hit by a stone, "In this school he stood first, and we hope he is not the last in heaven, where he went, instead of Oxford." When such is the case, there would seem to be little need of the motto on the wall of the old school, which Wykehamists translate, "Work, walk, or be wopped."
Beside the members of the "college" Wykeham founded, another kind of pupils has grown up, called commoners, who pay for lodging, board, and tuition—about $700 a year. These, at first few and unimportant, have increased so greatly of late that they are usually regarded as the characteristic kind of school-boy. They live in nine communities, or houses, of about thirty-five each, under separate masters. The life of the commoners is almost exactly the same as that of the collegians; but the division into those who are and those who are not supported by the college is worth remembering, for a similar distinction exists not only in all public schools, but in the colleges at Oxford and Cambridge. It does not happen everywhere, however, that the best scholars all live together; and many Wykehamists maintain that both scholars and commoners would gain by being mingled. Before many years the old college will doubtless be broken up, and the "scholars" proportioned among the various "houses."
The discipline is not so strict as at many public schools, yet quite strict enough, according to American standards. The boys—or men, as they are always called—are not allowed to enter the town, and have to get special "leave out" to go far into the country. The school day begins at seven o'clock, and bed-time comes at nine or ten. Constant attendance at prayers is required, morning and night; and there are four services on Sunday. For breaches of discipline the boys are still flogged. One is tempted to say that such a system is not modern; but as a matter of fact, it did not exist, among the commoners, at least, until the present century; and no true Wykehamist would think of changing it. Even the boys like it sincerely, in spite of some few breaches of discipline. Certainly the strictness has no more faults than the great freedom granted by certain of our large preparatory schools; and though we should hardly want to live just as English boys do, we can learn a great deal from them.
The main idea of the discipline of an English school is that as much of it as possible shall be carried on by the boys themselves. At Winchester it was ordained from the beginning that eighteen of the older boys should, in Wykeham's own words, "oversee their fellows, and from time to time certify the masters of their behavior and progress in study." These eighteen are called Prefects, and are chosen from the men who stand highest in studies. To an American boy, I am afraid, it wouldn't seem much fun to have to take care of his schoolmates' behavior. He would probably look upon himself more or less as a spy. Yet everything I saw at Winchester went to prove that to be a Prefect was almost as great an honor as to be an athlete. Five of the Prefects have special titles, such as Prefect of Chapel, Prefect of Hall, etc. These are generally chosen from the five best scholars. The Prefect of Hall has charge not only of his special duties, but of the other Prefects. If any disturbance takes place, he quells it. If the boys have any favors to ask, he is their spokesman. He is thus the head of the whole school, and a far more important person, I should say, than the Captain of the cricket team.
An incident occurred in 1838 which well illustrates the power of a Prefect. A peddler insisted on bringing various contraband articles, among them liquor, to sell to the boys on their recreation-grounds. The Prefects remonstrated time and again, with no effect. At last five of them seized him and threw him, basket and all, into the river. The peddler had the Prefects arrested and tried for assault with intent to kill, and the magistrate fined them fifty dollars each. This fine the college paid willingly, complimenting the Prefects for their zeal and common-sense. The spirit which prompted both masters and pupils exists to-day, not only at Winchester, but at all public schools. The result is that not only is order maintained without ill feeling between masters and pupils, but the eighteen Prefects of each year learn to fill posts requiring unusual tact, common-sense, and courage.
The duty of a Prefect which an American would least envy is that of inflicting bodily punishment—"tunding," as it is called in Winchester slang. This consists in beating the culprit across the back of his waistcoat with a ground-ash the size of one's finger. The art of "tunding," an old Prefect of Hall informed me, was to catch the edge of the shoulder-blade with the rod, and strike in the same spot everytime. In this way, he said, it was possible to cut the back of a waistcoat into strips. In the early part of the century flogging was of more than daily occurrence. An old Wykehamist states that on the day of his arrival at school there were 198 boys in residence and 279 names reported for punishment. Nowadays, however, only a score or so of cases occur each year; and many boys go through the school without being tunded.
A characteristic case occurred during my stay at Winchester. A party of small boys had been invited to a strawberry feast in the rooms of one of the dons, and seeing a group of Prefects in the court below, had been unable to resist the temptation. First a rotten strawberry splashed on the flint at the feet of the Prefects, and then a storm descended. This was too much for Prefectorial dignity to bear. The good don's strawberry feast ended in a general tunding. The Prefect of Hall described this to me next day with quiet satisfaction; and, later, the don spoke of the case as characteristic of the best effects of the Prefectorial system. As host, he said, he had not been able to interfere; and except for school-boy discipline, the culprits would have escaped. The wife of one of the masters, however, said it was a brutal shame, and that if she had her way with those Prefects, she would throw strawberries at them.
Such a system leaves little for the masters to do, yet a boy sometimes carries his case to the higher court, though he does it at the risk of great unpopularity. Some years ago two Seniors, having a grudge against another boy, employed two Juniors, at ninepence a head, to give him a beating. The Prefects very naturally objected to this method of doing one's dirty work, and ordered all four to be tunded. One of the Senior culprits lost courage when he found how hard it was going with his companion, and appealed to the master on the plea that the ground-ash was too large. The master declared that the ground-ashes were "proper good ground-ashes," and proceeded to wear them out on him.
A DORMITORY.
A STUDENT'S STUDY.
"HORSE-BOXES" AND "WASHING-STOOLS."
AT THE GATE OF CHAMBER COURT.
CHAPEL AND PART OF DORMITORIES.
The details of daily life at Winchester are not easy to understand. The "college," as, in fact, each of the "houses," is divided into chambers or "shops," as the boys call them. In each of these lives a community of say a dozen boys, over which three Prefects preside. The sleeping-rooms are locked up, except at night. In the study-room each boy has a desk, which he calls his "horse-box." The Prefects have tables, placed in commanding positions. These are called "washing-stools." In the college there are seven chambers, occupying "Chamber Court," the main quadrangle; and all about are ranged the domestic buildings belonging to the college—the slaughter-house, the bake-house, the kitchen, and the brew-house. In Chamber Court also are the rooms occupied by the masters and their families, and the magnificent college dining-hall and chapel. All these buildings stand to-day almost precisely as they were built five hundred years ago—that is, a hundred years before Columbus discovered America—with this difference, that the flint walls are so stained by time that they reflect the sunshine in many subdued and mellow shades.
There are, however, a few relics of dead customs. At one side of the court you will find the remains of the ancient conduit. Here, on the stone pavement and in the open air, five centuries of boys have taken their morning baths, summer and winter. Bathing could not always, however, be as regular as in these days when travelling Englishmen pack their clothes in leather-covered bath-tubs instead of in a trunk. A dozen years ago bath-rooms were fitted up within-doors, in rooms formerly occupied by learned Fellows of the College. On a wall is the painting of the "Trusty Servant," with its verses.
The old lavatory of the college was called "Moab," while the shoe-blacking place was called "Edom." I wonder how many American school-boys are as familiar as those old English boys must have been with the Psalm that says "Moab is my wash-pot; over Edom will I cast out my shoe." The ancient brew-house in outer court is still used, but when I took luncheon in Hall with the Prefects they rather sniffed at the beer made in it. Under King William, however, it inspired this song:
Now let us all, both great and small,
With voice both loud and clear,
Right merrily sing, Live Billy our King!
For 'bating the tax upon beer.
For I likes my drop of good beer;
For I likes my drop of good beer.
So whene'er I goes out I carries about
My little pint bottle of beer.
To my taste the beer was very good, and not too strong. Perhaps it is a sign of the good sense of Wykehamists that they preferred water or milk.
One might also class fagging, with which all readers of Tom Brown are familiar, with the dead and dying customs. It is limited to a few simple offices. A Senior still sends small boys on errands, and sometimes makes him cook and wash bottles at private feasts in chambers. Every evening, too, when the post comes in, the porter of the college brings it to Chambers Court, and at a signal the junior of each chamber to get what belongs to his fellows. In olden times, in order to accustom the fags to handling hot dishes, the Seniors would sometimes score their hands with glowing fagots. This provided them with "tin gloves." A more amusing bit of barbarity was the "toe fittee," pronounced tofy-tie. This consisted in tying a string about a boy's great toe while he lay asleep. Then the string was violently pulled, and the boy was drawn out of his bed to his tormentor's side. Sometimes two or three would be brought from different parts of a chamber to the same point. In America I have often known a boy to tie a string about his own toe, and hang it out of the window so that a friend might wake him up to go out fishing; but that is a different thing.
For pure ingenuity the so-called "scheme" bears the palm. It was always the duty of a certain luckless Junior to wake the Prefect at an early hour every morning, and if he overslept he was of course tunded. Noticing that the night candle always burned to a certain point at this hour, some nameless fag invented the plan of hanging a hat-box over his head by a string, and connecting the string with this point of the candle by a rude fuse. He thus made sure that the hat-box would fall on his head at the required hour. Under this sword of Damocles he could, of course, sleep in peace without fear of flogging.
The terrible stories of flogging and fagging, however, really belong to the past. Unless I am very much mistaken, life at Winchester, in spite of an occasional tunding, is much pleasanter and better regulated than in most of our schools. The fact that the Prefects enforce most of the discipline makes it possible for the masters to get very near to the hearts of their pupils; and, above all, the English boys are fortunate in the fact that the wives and daughters of the Masters live with them in the same quadrangle. To speak of Winchester without telling about the wife of the second Head Master, and how fond of her big boys and little boys, good boys and bad boys are, would be to leave the part of Hamlet out of the play. Many are the gawky boys whom she has put at ease among people, and many the bad boys whom she has set right. One of the pleasantest things I saw at Winchester was a lot of Oxford men who had come back to her during vacation just to hear her call them Smith, Brown, and Robinson.
The stamp of men Winchester produces is as distinct from all others as a St. Paul's man is different from one from Exeter. The ideal toward which the school is working was well expressed by one of the Head Masters. "I consider that those boys who issue from the top of the school—i.e., those upon whom the highest influences of the school have been brought to bear—are boys who ... carry into life a stamp, not of a very showy kind, but distinguished by a self-reliance, a modesty, a practical good sense, and strong religious feeling—that religious feeling being of a very moderate traditional and sober kind which, in my judgment, is beyond all price."
[HOW TO USE A PIANO.]
BY W. J. HENDERSON.
"As we journey through life, let us live by the way," is a very old saying to which many interpretations have been given. To me its pleasantest significance is that we should try to make life a constant delight. There is nothing better for this purpose than kindly intercourse with friends, but as we grow older we find that a circle of agreeable acquaintances cannot be maintained simply on a conversational basis. We must offer our friends inducements to come and see us; in other words, we must entertain in some form. Most boys and many girls are alarmed by the word "entertain." The girls are less afraid of it than the boys, because they have an inborn desire and a natural talent for social pleasures. But they are often puzzled as to the best means of arranging entertainments. Everything seems so difficult for a girl to undertake without a great deal of assistance from her mother, and frequently that assistance robs her of all feeling of personal proprietorship in the entertainment.
"It was called my party," she says, "but really mamma did everything."
Now I wish to offer a suggestion or two to girls about a form of entertainment which is easily arranged. There are very few homes in this civilized land which do not contain pianos, and there are very few girls who cannot play a little. Even if you cannot play difficult music you can give a musical, and make it a really artistic and enjoyable entertainment. In the first place, then, let us talk about the piano. Two or three days before your musical is to take place you should have the instrument tuned, for you cannot make music agreeable to your guests if the piano is out of tune. And here let me offer a few suggestions about keeping it in tune. The most important requirement is equality of temperature. Therefore your piano should not stand where the heat of a grate or a steam radiator will affect one end of it more than the other, nor should it be so situated that a draught from a leaky window will blow on one end. It ought to be placed so that it will be affected only by the general temperature of the room, and that ought not to have an extreme range. If you hear loud cracks coming from your piano at times, as if something had snapped, lookout; the chances are that the sounding-board is warping, or something equally undesirable is happening, and it is probably due to the influence of temperature. If you wish to keep a piano in the very best order, do not pile books or music or any other heavy objects on its lid.
When preparing for your musical, bear these suggestions in mind. You will in all likelihood be obliged to move your piano out of its customary position, for nine times out of ten that is one which would make you sit with your back squarely to your audience. You should not do this; but when you move the instrument, do not put it where it will be injured. In giving a musical, bear in mind that the player is to be the centre on which all eyes are focussed. If the piano is a grand, place it so that its right side will be toward the audience, but running a little obliquely, so that the keyboard will be visible, or partly so, to those on the right side of the room. The position of a square or an upright should be similar, but you may with advantage turn an upright so that the keyboard is more in view. If the room is very large, you may raise the lid of a grand half-way. Do not raise it all the way just because you have seen concert performers do so. That is necessary only in a large public hall. If your drawing-room is small, do not raise the lid at all.
Now you must have light for your music. The prettiest way is to set a tall standing-lamp a little to your left and a little behind you. Never place it on your right, because that would be between you and the audience. If you have not a standing-lamp, a pedestal or a table with an ordinary lamp will do quite as well. Do not set a light on the piano. It does not look well, in the first place, and in the second it is likely to rattle. It will add much to the effect of the picture if you surround the base of your lamp with roses and smilax, and it is also pretty to have some smilax twined around the scroll-work of the music-stand. In arranging the seats for your guests, you will naturally have to be guided by consideration of the number you expect. I should advise you not to have too many, for that would make it look too much like a public performance. In placing the seats, try to avoid all appearance of stiffness, yet endeavor to arrange them so that as many as possible of your guests will be in front of the piano—by which I mean facing its right side. But whatever you do, do not set chairs in rows as if it were a public hall. It looks badly, and it prevents freedom of movement among your friends between the selections.
And this leads me to another important suggestion. Whatever your programme may be, it should be short, and it should have at least one intermission. Two would be better. In those intermissions you should encourage conversation, and try to induce your guests to move about and change their seats. You might have lemonade served in one intermission. Let the boys pass it around. That starts both movement and conversation. I suppose I need hardly suggest that, if the words of your friends are too complimentary to your playing, you can lead them to comment on the beauty of the music. But I do believe that the girls will forgive me if I say "dress plainly." A musician should never do anything to attract attention to his person at the expense of his art. Wear a simple gown, and avoid all mannerisms or affectations in playing.
But now I hear some girl saying, "I can't play well enough to give a musical." That depends on what you regard as good playing. If you think it means performing difficult and showy pieces, you are mistaken. That kind of playing may astonish your friends, but it will not give them such genuine pleasure as the performance of a few comparatively easy compositions of real beauty in a sympathetic manner. Here the majority of girls will meet with their greatest difficulty, for I am sorry to say that many music-teachers ignore the easy pieces of the great masters, and give their pupils as studies the cheap rubbish which litters the counters of the average music-store. It is a mistake to suppose that the immortals among composers never wrote anything easy. There are compositions by Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schumann, and others which can be performed by players of very moderate ability, and there are easy and attractive compositions by less ambitious composers, even such as Johann Strauss, which have much more merit than the brilliant runs and arpeggios of Sidney Smith, H. A. Wollenhaupt, and that class.
There are several ways in which you can make a programme so as to give it a special interest beyond that of the music alone, and I should advise you to adopt some one of these plans. If you are not a brilliant player, all the more reason for adding interesting features to your entertainment. If you are an accomplished performer, your musical will still gain in artistic dignity by an intelligent arrangement of the programme. Of course there is one thing always to be borne in mind: you must compose your list of selections so that there will be constant variety. Do not, for instance, put three or four slow and plaintive pieces one after the other. As a rule, too, it is well to avoid a succession of compositions in the same form, such as sonatas, nocturnes, or valses. Eminent artists make mistakes in these matters. One of the most distinguished conductors in this country once gave an orchestral concert consisting of nine overtures. The effect was very bad indeed, for in spite of the fact that they were all by different composers, they were not sufficiently dissimilar in form to produce variety.
Keeping in mind, then, the necessity of variety, you can arrange your programme chronologically—that is, beginning with a very early writer and coming down to the most recent. Secondly, you can arrange it by schools, taking some pieces from the polyphonic, some from the classic, and some from the romantic. Thirdly, you may arrange it according to nations, giving examples of German, Russian, French, Italian, English, and American. Fourthly, you may make it representative of one nation; and fifthly, representative of one composer. The last-named way is not advisable for any except accomplished performers, because you will find it practically impossible to make up even a short list of good pieces by one composer and have them all easy. A programme representative of one nation may also be chronological, and if you intend to give more than one musical—say a series of three—this will probably be the most attractive way. But undoubtedly the neatest way for a single recital would be the arrangement according to nations, for you will have no trouble at all in finding a single composition from each country that is pretty and easy to play. In making out the programme, be careful to give the full title and, if possible, opus number of the composition, and I think it always adds to the interest of a programme for young people to put in the dates of the births and deaths of the composers. If you will permit me, I will now submit a sample programme on the plan of representation of nations just to show you how attractive it looks:
| German. | |
| 1. Sonata No. 33 E-flat (composed when eleven years old) | Beethoven (1770-1827). |
| Russian. | |
| 2. Melody in F | Rubinstein (1829-1894). |
| Polish. | |
| 3. "Chant du Voyage" | Paderewski (1860——). |
| French. | |
| 4. "Funeral March of a Marionette" | Gounod (1818-1893). |
| Italian. | |
| 5. Gavotte (from violin sonata in F) | Corelli (1653-1713). |
| English. | |
| 6. Nocturne in E-flat | J. Field (1782-1837). |
| American. | |
| 7. "Wood Idyl," from Opus 19 | MacDowell (1861——). |
I wish to submit for your consideration one more programme, representing the great schools of music, simply to show you that such a list can be made of pieces well within the powers of an amateur of ordinary technical ability.
| Polyphonic School (1500-1750). | |
| 1. Canzona in seto tono | Girolamo Frescobaldi (1588-1645). |
| 2. Prelude No 1 from the "Well-tempered Clavichord" | J. S. Bach (1685-1750). |
| Classic School (1750-1827). | |
| 3. Andante and Finale from Sonata No. 1 | W. A. Mozart (1756-1791). |
| 4. Sonata No. 37 | L. van Beethoven (1770-1827). |
| Romantic School (1821 to the present). | |
| 5. Slow Waltz (from "Album Leaves") | R. Schumann (1810-1856). |
| 6. "Marche Hongroise" | Franz Schubert (1797-1828). |
The compositions embraced in this programme are well within the power of an amateur of moderate ability.
If, however, you can play more difficult music, your choice will be extended. Nevertheless, I adhere to my first assertion that it is not at all troublesome to make up a programme of compositions which may be classed as easy. And here let me give you some final advice. Select for a musical at which you are to be the performer music somewhat easier than that which you are accustomed to study under your teacher. The reason for doing this is so plain that it is hardly necessary to mention it. If you are unaccustomed to formal piano-playing before an audience, you will undoubtedly be nervous. Now if you go to the piano knowing that the music before you is going to tax your utmost powers, you will be still more nervous, and the probabilities are that you will not only not play the music effectively, but that you will play it badly and make many technical slips. The more you make, the more nervous you will become, till it would not be surprising if you should break down altogether. On the other hand, if you are conscious that the music is well within your powers—that you have technical facility enough and to spare—you will not be harassed by fears of making blunders, but will lose all your nervousness as soon as you begin to play and to realize how easy your work is. Thus instead of being constantly on the watch for fear of making mistakes, you will be able to devote your entire attention to giving every phrase the right expression. If you have carefully studied the musical beauties of each composition, you will no doubt surprise yourself as well as your friends by the intelligence and sentiment of your playing. Bear in mind the fact that such great artists as Paderewski frequently charm and move an audience more by the amount of color and expression which they throw into easy compositions like Chopin's E-flat nocturne, while in their more brilliant playing, as in one of Liszt's Hungarian rhapsodies, they gain applause rather as the result of amazement at their conquest of technical difficulties than as the demonstration of sincere delight in the music itself. And now I shall leave the rest to the girls. I am sure that among the readers of this paper there must be hundreds and hundreds of girls who can play the piano well enough to get up such musicals as I have suggested.
THE PYROTECHNIC DISPLAY FROM THE FLOATS.