THE END.
[TILL THE GAME IS DONE.]
BY SEELYE BRYANT.
Captain "Reddy" Alden, of the Blackwood Academy football team, was not handsome. He was not even graceful. But his chin "meant business," and there was a serene look in his eyes which was likely to make a bully think twice before taking hold of him. His nickname sufficiently indicated the color of his hair, which grew back from his forehead in a "cowlick," and showed a tendency, when of approved football length, to drop in straggling masses down either side of his freckled face.
Reddy—or more properly Mark—was nineteen years old, tall, and long-armed, with a very slight outward bend of the legs, and a chest not broad but deep. He looked wiry rather than muscular.
As he started toward the village, one Thursday afternoon, his hands were in his pockets, his leather cap was on the back of his head, and the collar of his heavy sweater fell over his shoulders above his double-breasted coat.
He walked slowly down the hill, as if waiting for some one, and occasionally turned to look back toward the academy. Soon a clear quick call stopped him entirely. "Hold on there, Reddy!" it came, and the next moment "Buck" Harris darted down the hill and caught him by the arm.
The two settled into a brisk walk, and Buck remarked, "I saw Billy Hurd just now. His knee'll keep him off the field for a month."
"Too bad!"
"Well, what are you going to do?"
"Going to do?"
"Yes. Saturday comes in two days, and with Hurd gone there's no one on the team safe enough to kick twenty yards."
The Captain smiled grimly, "We'll run, then!"
"Why not give up playing Winston this year? It's an extra game, and they're too heavy for us, anyway. Think what a strain it's going to be to face that rush-line for the two halves. And if they know enough to keep Mellen kicking, he'll about kill us before the end of the first half, making us chase the ball. Besides, he's dead sure to drop a goal from the field, if he gets any sort of an angle within decent distance of the posts."
Reddy straightened up, and his blue eyes gleamed.
"That game's no picnic for either side!" he jerked out. "The Blackwood boys'll play it for all that's in it! Our tricks are good, and I shall save you for the second half. As for me—well, I was never killed yet, and I never saw a Blackwood eleven go back on its Captain!"
This was a long speech for Mark Alden, and it had its effect upon his chum.
Seton Harris was short, thick-set, and very muscular, although his fashionable clothes and perfect grace of movement might at first deceive you in regard to his "solid contents."
He had regular features, and clear, glowing cheeks, with handsome eyes, and dark hair, whose clustering waves even the exigencies of football could not persuade him to wear at more than conventional length. He was two years younger than Alden, and a class below him in school.
Their intimacy had been the surprise of the year. When the principal heard of it he said, "Well, if anything can make a man out of Seton Harris, it is to room with Mark Alden. I am delighted with the arrangement, though I confess I do not understand it."
Others felt in the same way, and perhaps the most thoroughly astonished person in the whole academy was Seton Harris himself!
He had come to Blackwood the year before with an obliging disposition, no strongly settled principles, and more spending-money than was good for him. As a natural result, the sort of boys who voted him "a jolly good fellow," and with whose doings he soon became identified, was not the sort most likely to make his academy career a success in the eyes of his teachers.
His great lack was persistence. He hated to face opposition or to keep steadily at work on anything that was disagreeable.
Still he had plenty of energy when he chose to exert it, and everybody liked him, even the principal.
He was the fastest short-distance runner in school, and when they made him "half-back" on the football team he became the "star" of the eleven.
His occasional fits of application had results sufficiently brilliant to save him from hopeless disgrace in his studies.
But he lived under a chronic state of reprimand for general conduct, his miscellaneous offences ranging from noisiness in his room during study hours to absence from the building after proper time at night.
In fact, he had so many executive sessions with the principal that new-comers were usually informed he was "Doctor Walker's private secretary." Rumor stated that a member of the entering class was accustomed to lift his hat when Seton spoke to him!
Even at football the boy could not be depended upon.
In practice and in minor games his play was wonderful. But he was likely to lose his nerve in a close struggle. It was not that he was actually afraid. He had physical courage, only his confidence did not meet the requirements of a "forlorn hope." Once start him with the ball, and he was all right, seemed perfectly reckless of himself, made those "phenomenal rushes" that capture a grand stand by storm.
But he seemed unwilling to run after he had failed once or twice to gain ground. When sharp work was needed, he was not sure of catching the ball, and might even trip himself up in getting under way.
Besides, the managers continually complained that he was irregular about training.
This was Buck Harris at the time when steady-going, self-contained Mark Alden first showed an interest in him. Buck never told exactly how it happened, and no one ventured to ask Reddy.
But it came to pass, after one of Buck's numberless escapades, near the beginning of the fall term, that he moved his personal effects into the large corner room on the second floor where Alden had planned to reign alone during Senior year.
The escapade in question was unusually serious. The "wild set" had destroyed some abandoned buildings belonging to a farmer in the lower village. The owner did not love the Blackwood boys, and vowed to push the case to the extreme of the law.
"Jest let me git one o' them pesky young villyuns behind the bars 'nd I'll be satisfied!" he told the postmaster.
Now it chanced that Seton Harris was identified as the particular "villyun" whom he was most anxious to prosecute. Money would not satisfy the man, and matters looked black for the culprit.
But, to the surprise of the town, the case did not come to trial.
All that the public knows about it is that Mark Alden walked down to the lower village with Seton one afternoon, and that when they came out of the farmer's house, an hour after, the owner was seen to shake hands with both the boys.
The public does not know what took place as Seton and Mark sat under the academy maples waiting for supper.
"Reddy, not one of my set would do as you've done for me to-day. I believe I'd like to cut the whole tough outfit!"
"Why don't you?"
"Too hard work; besides, there's nobody else much that I know very well."
"Room with me."
Seton gasped, and turned around to look his companion squarely in the face. "Do you mean it? Wy, I'd drive you crazy!"
"I mean it."
And so it was brought about.
Saturday afternoon, and one o'clock. The old "Elm House" barge drew up promptly at the academy door. "Pete" Marston had driven that barge for the boys on every athletic occasion in the last fifteen years. No one enjoyed the successes or mourned the defeats of Blackwood Academy more sincerely than Pete.
"I vum, boys, ye look 's if ye cal'lated to start for the north pole this trip, with all them duds wound round ye!" he called back as the players tumbled in.
Sweaters, ulsters, toboggan caps, and padded suits made it difficult to tell where woollen goods left off and the boys began. Buck Harris had wrapped a huge Turkish towel around himself on top of everything else, "by way of ornament," he remarked. Buck's dark eyes were the only visible portion of him, but from the continual "chaff" he kept flying, the rest knew that somewhere was an open passage to his mouth. Everybody was talking except Mark Alden. Some were excited, and a few were gayly indifferent. Mark did not look at all worried; he simply kept quiet.
Half past three o'clock on the grounds of the Winston Normal Institute. The game with Blackwood was in progress. Mark Alden had just "tackled" a Winston player in his decided way, which left no doubt as to where the ball was "down."
"That Captain of yours is an ugly customer, I judge," said the Winston storekeeper to Pete Marston, who had put up his horses and was leaning against the fence.
"Waal no, Reddy ain't ugly 'xac'ly. He's square 's a meetin'-house—ain't afraid 'f th' inside o' one neither; only when football's on he plays the game, that's all. Don't believe he sees anythin' but the ball, or knows there's anybody here but them players. He's jes so in ev'rythin' else. 'Twouldn't be no diff'rent if 'twas drawin' trygomertry figgers on that there blackboard up 't Blackwood school. He wouldn't hev nothin' in his red head then but rules 'nd chalk-marks. He ain't jest what I call a chromo fer looks, but he's all pluck, 'nd I hain't seen no cleaner-talkin', perliter boy in the last ten years."
It was a disheartened group that gathered in the Blackwood dressing-room for the intermission when the game was half over. Winston had five points, Blackwood none. Buck Harris had fumbled the ball almost in front of his own goal. A Winston man immediately dropped on it, and in the play that followed Mellen had kicked a clean goal from the field at twenty-eight yards.
As the last man came in and shut the dressing-room door Harris dropped on the bench and groaned out:
"It's all my fault, boys, but we're beaten now. We're all worn out. The next half'll be a regular procession."
"Buck, that's enough."
The boys stared. Mark Alden seldom spoke like that, but he was stern enough now.
"Set won't fumble again, I'll answer for that. Get rubbed down, all of you, and then rest till time is called. This game is young yet."
And loosening his jacket Mark pulled a towel from the rack.
It was evident in the last "half" that Winston was on the defensive. Its players merely tried to keep Blackwood from scoring. They made some pretense of running with the ball for the sake of using up time; but their real work was done by their brilliant full-back, Mellen, whose sure kicks carried the ball far down the field whenever their goal-line was in danger.
These tactics succeeded until a few minutes of time remained. Buck Harris was doing nobly, and had nearly succeeded in getting a touch-down, but the next play gave Winston the ball. The two elevens were lining up for Mellen's inevitable kick, when Barstow, of the Winstons, passed near the Blackwood Captain.
Alden's hair was flying wildly about his face. His cheeks were flushed. He was dark under the eyes and pale about the mouth and forehead. His lips were tightly closed, and his nostrils wide apart. One stocking was half-way down his leg, his canvas jacket was torn in several places, and, in spite of the chill air, perspiration soaked him through and through.
Ned Barstow knew him well, and could not resist a bantering word.
"How d'you like it, Reddy?"
"Blackwood's never beaten till the game is done!" came through Mark's set teeth.
The ball was kicked on along slant, more across than down the field, and as the players scattered to follow it, Mark and Seton found themselves running together off at one side away from the rest. The ball, which had gone over their heads, was still in the air, but very near. Directly behind them there was almost a clear field to the Winston goal-line.
"I'll catch it, Buck," Mark whispered. "You be all right to start when I give it to you. Keep behind me when I turn around; we can't afford a foul pass!"
It was on the ground before they reached it, but Mark snapped it up and shot it under his arm to his chum, who darted up the field behind him. The two were fairly started before the others saw what had happened.
Fleet-footed Buck Harris, plus a clear field and Reddy Alden for interference!
BUCK'S BLOOD WAS UP, AND HE TURNED THE FULL-BACK COMPLETELY OVER."
No wonder the Blackwood crowd yelled with delight. Winston men started across the field to head off the runners, but only two reached Harris. Barstow dodged Alden, and threw himself straight for Buck's knees. With a surprising wriggle the boy jumped clear over him, and left him sprawling. He was fairly caught, though, by Mellen, about a yard from the line. But his blood was up now, and by a supreme muscular effort he turned the full-back over, and together they rolled across. A touch-down!
Score: Winston, 5 points; Blackwood, 4.
Of course pandemonium reigned for a few minutes! Then the spectators calmed down, and the ball was brought out for the kick. Time was up, but the rules allowed the try for goal.
Captain Alden walked steadily toward the ball, which was held by the quarter-back, and just as it touched the ground his foot struck it fairly and drove it over the bar between the posts. A goal! Two points more.
Score: Blackwood, 6; Winston, 5.
It was Seton Harris who got the credit of saving the game, but Mark Alden did not care.
"Buck was really the only man who could make that run," he said to himself, "and it'll do him lots of good to have kept his nerve in one tight place."
Besides, Blackwood was not beaten, and the game was done!
[A RACE WITH DACOITS ON MY BICYCLE.]
BY DAVID GILMORE.
I believe I was the first man to ride a bicycle in Rangoon. I know I was the cause of much wonder to the natives, who would stare in open-eyed astonishment to see a white man scorching by on a little iron carriage with two wheels. When I chanced to dismount, they would gather around and take a look at the machine, finger the tires, ask how much it cost, and finally grunt out some such remark as "Teh goundy, naw?"—Pretty good, isn't it? It was pleasant to be the centre of all this admiration, but not so pleasant when I turned the admiration into amusement by coasting boldly down a steep hill, making a sharp turn just in time to avoid a deep ditch, and driving full speed into a most unyielding fence. It is peculiarly mortifying to be laughed at by those whom you regard as your social inferiors.
When I arrived in Rangoon, it was just after the "dacoit times." Dacoits are the highway-robbers of India. They work in gangs, and travel over the country plundering, murdering, and sacking and burning the villages in the jungle. They carry guns when they can get them; but as the English are very careful to confiscate guns found in the possession of natives, the dacoits are generally armed with dahs, as the Burmese swords are called.
Shortly before I arrived in Burmah, the country had been infested with dacoits, so that even in the outskirts of Rangoon houses were barricaded at night, and the employment of private watchmen, always common in Burmah, became almost universal. By the time I arrived there, however, the gentle custom of dacoity had been pretty thoroughly broken up. Now and then a lonely village in the jungle might be looted and burned, or an English official living in some remote town might be murdered, but we who lived in Rangoon were safe. No dacoit dared to show himself there. At least, so I was assured.
Now I had a sweetheart in those days; and have her still—no less sweet now that she shares my home. But then she lived in Kemendine, a considerable village about two miles from my own home in Rangoon. I believe that technically Kemendine lies within the municipal limits of Rangoon, but practically it is a separate community, being cut off from Rangoon proper by a considerable stretch of unimproved land. Kemendine is distinctively a native community, having a large population of Burmans, but not half a dozen white inhabitants.
I was in the habit of using my bicycle when I went out to spend an evening with my fiancée. The road was lonely, but I considered it perfectly safe.
One night, after the good-byes had been said, I started for home a little after nine o'clock. A minute or so of easy pedalling brought me to the railway track which bounded Kemendine village. The gates at the crossing were closed, in anticipation of the Prome mail-train, which was due there in a quarter of an hour. I dismounted while the Hindoo gateman opened the gates just enough to let me through. Then I walked my wheel across the track and remounted, receiving, as I rolled away, the beautiful Oriental salutation, "Salaam, sahib"—Peace be with you, sir—a pious wish strangely in contrast with the scene which was almost immediately to follow.
On crossing the railway tracks I had left behind me the lights in the village street, and the road before me was illuminated only by the waning moon, which had just risen, affording me light enough to pick my way, though not as much as I wanted before I got safely home. On my left was the Burmese cemetery, on my right the ample grounds of a kyaung—a Buddhist monastery. Of these two, the proximity of the latter was much the more legitimate cause of anxiety, as the indiscriminate hospitality of the kyaungs makes them favorite lurking-places for bad characters. But all I thought about the kyaung just then was that the bells of its pagodas jingled sweetly in the night wind. About half-way down the hill the road turned at right angles from the cemetery, and skirted along the other side of the kyaung. On the left was a little village called Shan-zu. It was as still as the grave; the villagers were evidently all asleep. Here the road began to be bordered with bushes and bamboos, which grew denser as the road left the kyaung and the village behind and began to cross the waste-land between Kemendine and Rangoon. At the foot of the hill the road passed over a little bridge.
Of course I didn't coast down the hill, lest I should come to grief at the corner. But after turning the corner the road lay straight before me clear into the town, and I let my machine go, keeping my feet on the pedals, however, that I might have control of the wheel in case anything should happen.
AS I SHOT AHEAD AN AWFUL YELL AROSE BEHIND ME.
As I left the kyaung behind and was making for the bridge, I heard a few notes whistled softly just behind me. The sound seemed to come from the bushes skirting the kyaung. I should not have thought anything of this, however, if the same notes had not been whistled again, this time apparently from the fields just ahead. This was evidently a call and an answer; and it made me a little nervous, especially if the danger (if danger there were) menaced me both in front and in the rear. I looked around, but saw nothing more than I had seen many a night on that same road. Not knowing anything else to do, I went steadily ahead, keeping myself and my wheel well in hand, so as to be ready for any emergency which might arise. Passing by some gaps in the shrubbery, I saw some figures in the fields near the road making stealthily for the narrow bridge which I should have to cross before I could get into the town. I thought I could see some dahs under their arms. Then I saw the danger which threatened me. The dacoits evidently planned to intercept me at the bridge, and cut me to pieces when I should be at a disadvantage. I couldn't go back; for even if I had not had reason to think that some of the gang were lurking behind me, the time I should have lost in turning around would have put me at the mercy of my pursuers. There was only one thing to do, and it didn't take me long to decide upon it. My wheel was under pretty good headway, and I crowded on all the power I could to try and reach that bridge before the dacoits got there. As I shot ahead an awful yell arose behind me. I had been sharply watched. Immediately my ears were greeted by a chorus of shouts from the fields on both sides of the road.
My recollections of the next few minutes are not very clear. All I remember is, pedalling with all my might, with those bloodthirsty cries ringing in my ears, and my mind making incessant calculations as to the chance of getting a bullet through my body next moment. But I heard no shots, and probably the dacoits had no guns. I rolled on the bridge just as they swarmed up from the fields into the road behind me.
But I was not out of the woods yet. Before I got into town I had a long hill to climb. Now the Burman is a lightning sprinter when he chooses to sprint, and that's just what those fellows did. Racing them down hill I had the advantage, especially as they were running over the rough ground in the fields. But when it came to racing up hill they rather had the best of it, especially as they were now on the road. On a steep hill I would have had no chance at all; but the slope was gentle, and I had a start. I had a chance, therefore, for my life, and I made the best of it. The thought of those dahs put strength into every stroke I made. The worst of it was, I could not tell whether I was holding my own or not. My pursuers had stopped shouting, needing all their wind for running; and their bare feet didn't make much noise on the ground. I was bending low over my handle-bar, and didn't dare to risk diminishing my speed by straightening up to look behind me even for an instant.
But when I got to the head of the hill, and was passing the grounds of the Chief Commissioner, where there are always soldiers on guard, I felt that I could venture to take a backward glance. Then I saw that my pursuers had all disappeared.
Next day I wrote a letter to the Chief of Police, reporting my adventure in detail, and having "the honor to be, sir, his most obedient servant," according to the prescribed formula, which whosoever observeth not shall not gain the ear of the government of Burmah. In due course I received a reply, in a big brown envelope, assuring me that the matter should be promptly investigated, and having "the honor to be, sir, my most obedient servant." This was polite. The Indian government is great on politeness. But nothing ever came of it. I suppose the Superintendent did his best to ferret the matter out, but he had to work through native policemen, and they may have had reasons of their own for not being too anxious to catch the dacoits.
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[2]
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER XX.
George returned to Alexandria, where his regiment awaited him. He was mad with rage and chagrin. He could have taken censure with humility, feeling sure that whatever mistakes he had made were those of inexperience, not a want of zeal or courage. But to be quietly supplanted, to be asked—after all the hardships and dangers he had passed through, and the exoneration from blame by his countrymen—to take a humiliating place, was more than he felt he ought to bear.
When he reached Alexandria he informed his officers of the resignation of his commission, which would be accepted in a few days; and their reply was an address, which did what all his cares and griefs and hardships had never done—it brought him to tears. A part of the letter ran thus:
"Sir,—We, your most obedient and affectionate officers, beg leave to express our great concern at the disagreeable news we have received of your determination to resign the command of that corps in which we have, under you, long served. The happiness we have enjoyed and the honor we have acquired, together with the mutual regard that has always subsisted between you and your officers, have implanted so sensible an affection in the minds of us all that we cannot be silent on this critical occasion.
"Your steady adherence to impartial justice, your quick discernment and invariable regard to merit, first heightened our natural emulation to excel. Judge, then, how sensibly we must be affected with the loss of such an excellent commander, such a sincere friend, such an affable companion. How great the loss of such a man! It gives us additional sorrow, when we reflect, to find our unhappy country will receive a loss no less irreparable than our own. Where will it find a man so experienced in military affairs—one so renowned for patriotism, conduct, and courage? Who has so great a knowledge of the enemy we have to deal with? Who so well acquainted with their situation and strength? Who so much respected by the soldiery? Who, in short, so well able to support the military character of Virginia? We presume to entreat you to lead us on to assist in the glorious work of extirpating our enemies. In you we place the most implicit confidence. Your presence only will cause a steady firmness and vigor to actuate in every breast, despising the greatest dangers, and thinking light of toils and hardships, while led on by the man we know and love."[3]
Deep indeed was the conviction which made George resist this letter; but his reply was characteristic, "I made not this decision lightly, and all I ask is that I may be enabled to go with you in an honorable capacity; but to be degraded and superseded, this I cannot bear."
The Governor was very soon made aware that the soldiers bitterly resented his treatment of their young commander; but he had gone too far to retreat. George, as soon as his resignation was accepted, retired to Mount Vernon; and about the time he left his regiment at Alexandria two frigates sailed up the Potomac with General Braddock, and landed two thousand regular troops for the spring campaign against the French and Indians.
George spent the autumn and winter at Mount Vernon, where, until then, he had spent but one night in fifteen months. After getting his affairs there in some sort of order he visited his sister at Belvoir, and his mother and Betty at Ferry Farm. All of them noticed a change in him. He had grown more grave, and there was a singular gentleness in his manner. His quick temper seemed to have been utterly subdued. Betty alone spoke to him of the change she saw.
"I think, dear Betty," he answered, gently, "that no one can go through a campaign such as I have seen without being changed and softened by it. And then I foresee a terrible war with France and discord with the mother-country. We are upon the threshold of great events, depend upon it, of which no man can see the outcome."
The winter was passed in hard work at Mount Vernon. Only by ceaseless labor could George control his restlessness. The military fever was kindled in his veins, and do what he could, there was no subduing it, although he controlled it. Torn between the desire to serve his country as a military man and the sense of a personal and undeserved affront, he scarcely knew what to do. One day, in the fever of his impatience, he would determine to go to Alexandria and enlist as a private in his old corps. Then reason and reflection, which were never long absent from him, would return, and he would realize that his presence under such circumstances would seriously impair the discipline of the corps. And after receiving the officers' letter, and hearing what was said and done among them, he was forced to recognize, in spite of his native modesty, that his old troops would not tolerate that he should be in any position which they conceived inadequate to his deserts. Captain Vanbraam told him much of this one night when he rode from Alexandria to spend the night with George.
"General Braddock is a great, bluff, brave, foolish, hard-drinking, hard-driving Irishman. He does not understand the temper of our soldiers, and has not the remotest conception of Indian fighting, which our enemies have been clever enough to adopt. I foresee nothing but disaster if he carries out the campaign on his present lines. There is but one good sign. He has heard of you, Colonel Washington, and seems to have been impressed by the devotion of your men to you. Last night he said to me, 'Can you not contrive to get this young Colonel over to see me? I observe one strange thing in these provincial troops: they have exactly the same confidence in Colonel Washington now as before his disastrous campaign, and as a soldier I know there must be some great qualities in a commander when even defeat cannot undo him with his men, for your private soldier is commonly a good military critic; so now, my little Dutch Captain'—bringing his great fist down on my back like the hammer on the anvil—'do you bring him to see me. If he will take a place in my military family, by gad it is his.' And, my young Colonel," added Vanbraam, in his quiet way, "I am not so sure it is not your duty to go, for I have a suspicion that this great swashbuckler will bring our troops to such a pass in this campaign that only you can manage them. So return with me to-morrow."
"Let me sleep on it," answered George, with a faint smile.
Next evening, as the General sat in his quarters at the Alexandria Tavern, surrounded by his officers, most of them drinking and swaggering, the General most of all, a knock came at the door, and when it was opened Captain Vanbraam's short figure appeared, and with him George Washington, the finest and most military figure that General Braddock ever remembered to have seen. Something he had once heard of the great Condé came to General Braddock's dull brain when he saw this superb young soldier: "This man was born a captain."
When George was introduced he was received with every evidence of respect. The General, who was a good soldier after a bad pattern, said to him at once:
"Mr. Washington, I have much desired to see you, and will you oblige me by giving me, later on, a full account of your last campaign?" The other officers took the hint, and in a little while George and the General were alone. They remained alone until two o'clock in the morning, and when George came out of the room he had entered as a private citizen he was first aide-de-camp on General Braddock's staff.
As he walked back to Captain Vanbraam's quarters in the dead of night, under a wintry sky, he was almost overwhelmed with conflicting feelings. He was full of joy that he could make the campaign in an honorable position; but General Braddock's utter inability to comprehend what was necessary in such fighting filled him with dread for the brave men who were to be risked in such a venture.
Captain Vanbraam was up waiting for him. In a few words George told what had passed.
"And now," he said, "I must be up and doing, although it is past two o'clock. I must bid my mother good-by, and I foresee there will be no time to do it when once I have reported, which I promised to do within twenty-four hours. By starting now I can reach Ferry Farm by the morning, spend an hour with her, and return here at night; so if you, Captain, will have my horses brought, I will wake up my boy Billy"—for although Billy was quite George's age, he remained ever his "boy."
That morning at Ferry Farm, about ten o'clock, Betty, happening to open the parlor door, ran directly into George's arms, whom she supposed to be forty-five miles off. Betty was speechless with amazement.
"Don't look as if you had seen a rattlesnake, Betty," cried George, giving her a very cruel pinch, "but run, like a good child as you are, though flighty, and tell our mother that I am here."
Before Betty could move a step in marched Madam Washington, stately and beautiful as ever. And there were the three boys, all handsome youths, but handsomer when they were not contrasted with the elder brother; and then, quite gayly and as if he were a mere lad, George plunged into his story, telling his mother that he was to make the campaign with General Braddock as first aide-de-camp, and trying to tell her about the officers' letter, which he took from his pocket, but, blushing very much, was going to return it had not Betty seized it as with an eagle's claw.
"Betty," cried George, stamping his foot, "give me back that letter!"
"No, indeed, George," answered Betty, with calm disdain. "Do not put on any of your grand airs with me. I have heard of this letter, and I mean to read it aloud to our mother. And you may storm and stamp and fume all you like—'tis not of the slightest consequence."
So George, scowling, and yet forced to laugh a little, had to listen to all the compliments paid to him read out in Betty's rich, ringing young voice, while his mother sat and glowed with pride, and his younger brothers hurrahed after the manner of boys; and when Betty had got through the letter her laughing face suddenly changed to a very serious one, and she ran to George and kissed him all over his cheeks, saying,
"Dear George, it makes me so happy that I want to both laugh and cry—dear, dear brother!"
And George, with tender eyes, kissed Betty in return, so that she knew how much he loved her.
When Madam Washington spoke it was in a voice strangely different from her usually calm, musical tones. She had just got the idol of her heart back from all his dangers, and she was loath to let him go again, and told him so.
"But, mother," answered George, after listening to her respectfully, "when I started upon my campaign last year you told me that you placed me in God's keeping. The God to whom you commended me then defended me from all harm, and I trust He will do so now. Do not you?"
Madam Washington paused, and the rare tears stole down her cheeks.
"You are right, my son," she answered, presently. "I will not say another word to detain you, but will once more give you into the hands of the good God to take care of for me."
That night, before twelve o'clock, George reported at Alexandria to General Braddock as his aide.
On the 20th of April, near the time that George had set out the year before, General Braddock began his march from Alexandria in Virginia to the mountains of Pennsylvania, where the reduction of Fort Duquesne was his first object. There were two magnificent regiments of crack British troops and ten companies of Virginia troops, hardy and seasoned, and in the highest spirits at the prospect of their young commander being with them. They cheered him vociferously when he appeared, riding with General Braddock, and made him blush furiously. But his face grew very long and solemn when he saw the immense train of wagons to carry baggage and stores which he knew were unnecessary, and the General at that very moment was storming because there were not more.
"These," he said, "were furnished by Mr. Franklin, Postmaster-General of Pennsylvania, and he sends me only a hundred and fifty at that."
"A hundred too many," was George's thought.
The march was inconceivably slow. Never since George could remember had he had so much difficulty in restraining his temper as on that celebrated march. As he said afterwards, "Every mole-hill had to be levelled, and bridges built across every brook." General Braddock wished to march across the trackless wilderness of the Alleghanies as he did across the flat plains of Flanders, and he spent his time in constructing a great military road when he should have been pushing ahead. So slow was their progress that in reaching Winchester George was enabled to make a detour and go to Greenway Court for a few hours. The delight of Lord Fairfax and Lance was extreme, but in a burst of confidence George told them the actual state of affairs.
"What you tell me," said the Earl, gravely, "determines me to go to the low country, for if this expedition results disastrously I can be of more use at Williamsburg than here. But, my dear George, I am concerned for you, because you look ill. You are positively gaunt, and you look as if you had not eaten for a week."
"Ill!" cried George, beginning to walk up and down the library, and clinching and unclinching his fists nervously. "My lord, it is my heart and soul that are ill. Can you think what it is to watch a General, brave but obstinate and blind to the last degree, rushing upon disaster? Upon my soul, sir, those English officers think, I verily believe, that the Indians are formed into regiments and battalions, with a general staff and a commissary, and God knows what!" And George raved a while longer before he left to ride back to Winchester, with Billy riding after him. This outbreak was so unlike George, he looked so strange, his once ruddy face was so pallid at one moment and so violently flushed at another, that the Earl and Lance each felt an unspoken dread that his strong body might give way under the strain upon it.
George galloped back into Winchester that night. Both his horse and Billy's were dripping wet, and as he pulled his horse almost up on his haunches Billy said, in a queer voice:
"Hi, Marse George, d'yar blood on yo' bridle. You rid dat hoss hard, sho 'nough!"
"Hold your tongue!" shouted George, in a tone that Billy had never heard from him before; and then, in the next minute, he said, confusedly, "I did not mean to speak so, but my head is in a whirl; I think I must be ill."
And as he spoke he reeled in his saddle, and would have fallen had not Billy run forward and caught him. He staggered into the house where he had lodgings, and got into his bed, and by midnight he was raving with fever.
Billy had sense enough to go for Dr. Craik, George's old acquaintance, who had volunteered as surgeon to General Braddock's staff. He was a bright-eyed, determined-looking man, still young, but skilled in his profession. By morning the fever was reduced, and Dr. Craik was giving orders about the treatment as he sat by George's bedside, for the army was to resume its march that day.
"Your attack is sharp," said the doctor, "but you have an iron constitution, and with ordinary care you will soon be well."
George, pale and haggard, but without fever, listened to the doctor's directions with a half smile. The troops were already on the move; outside could be heard the steady tramp of feet, the thunder of horses' hoofs, the roll of artillery-wagons, and the commotion of an army on the move. In a few moments the doctor left him, saying,
"I think you will shortly be able to rejoin the army, Colonel Washington."
"I think so too," answered George.
As soon as the doctor was out of the room George turned to Billy, and said,
"Help me on with my clothes, and as soon as the troops are well out of the town fetch the horses."
When the soldiers halted at noon, General Braddock, sitting under a tree by the road-side, was asking Dr. Craik's opinion of the time that Colonel Washington could rejoin, when around the corner of a huge bowlder rode George with Billy behind him. He was very pale, but he could sit his horse. He could not but laugh at the doctor's angry face, but said, deprecatingly, to him,
"I would have fretted myself more ill had I remained at Winchester, for I am not by nature patient, and I have been ill so little that I do not know how to be ill."
"I see you don't," was the doctor's dry reply.
For four days George kept up with the army, and managed, in spite of burning fevers, of a horrible weakness and weariness, of sleepless nights racked with pain, to ride his horse. On the fifth he was compelled to take to a covered wagon. There, on a rough bed, with Billy holding his burning head, he was jolted along for ten days more, each day more agonizing than the one before. In that terrible time master and man seemed to have changed places. It was George who was fretful and unreasonable and wildly irritable, while Billy, the useless, the lazy, the incorrigible, nursed him with a patience, a tenderness, a strange intelligence that amazed all who saw it, and was even dimly felt by George. The black boy seemed able to do altogether without sleep. At every hour of the day and night he was awake and alert, ready to do anything for the poor sufferer. As the days passed on, and George grew steadily worse, the doctor began to look troubled. In his master's presence Billy showed no sign of fear, but he would every day follow Dr. Craik when he left, and ask him, with an ashy face, "Marse doctor, is Marse George gwi' die?"
"I hope not. He is young and strong, and God is good."
"Ef he die, an' I go home, what I gwin' say when mistis come out and say, 'Billy, wh'yar yo' Marse George?'" And at that Billy would throw himself on the ground in a paroxysm of grief that was piteous to see. The doctor carefully concealed from the soldiers George's real condition. But after four or five days of agony a change set in, and within the week George was able to sit up and even to ride a little. The wagons had kept with the rear division of the army, but George knew that General Braddock, with twelve hundred picked men, had gone ahead and must be near Fore Duquesne. On the fourteenth day, in the evening when the doctor came he found his patient walking about. He was frightfully thin and pale, but youth and strength and good habits were beginning to assert themselves. He was getting well.
"Doctor," said he, "this place is about fifteen miles from Fort Duquesne. I know it well, and from this hour I emancipate myself from you. This day I shall report for duty."
The next morning, the 9th of July, 1755, dawned beautifully, and the first long lances of light revealed a splendid sight on the banks of the Monongahela. On one side flowed the great river in majestic beauty. Following the shores was a kind of natural esplanade, while a little way off the rich woods, within which dwelt forever a purple twilight, overhung this charming open space. And along this open space marched, in exquisite precision, two thousand of England's crack troops—cavalry, infantry, and artillery—and a thousand bronzed Virginian soldiery, to the music of the fife and drum. Often in after-years George Washington was heard to say that the most beautiful sight his eyes ever rested on was the sight of Braddock's army at sunrise on that day of blood. Officers and men were in the highest spirits; they expected within a few hours to be in sight of Fort Duquesne, where glory, as they thought, awaited their coming. Even George's apprehensions of the imprudence of this mode of attack were soothed. He rode by General Braddock's side, and was by far the most conspicuous figure there for grace and nobility. His illness seemed to have departed in a night, and he was the same erect, soldierly form, fairly dwarfing every one contrasted with him. As the General and his first aide rode together, General Braddock said, confidently:
"Colonel Washington, in spite of your warning, see how far we have come upon our way without disaster. The danger of an attack by Indians is now passed, and we have but to march a few miles more and glory is ours."
Scarcely were the words out of his month when there was one sharp crack of a gun, followed by a fierce volley, and fifty men dropped in their tracks. But there was no enemy visible. The shots were like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky.
"The Indians," said George, in a perfectly composed voice, reining up his horse.
"I see no Indians," cried General Braddock, excitedly. "There is disorder in the ranks; have them closed up at once, and march in double-time. We will soon find the enemy."
But the firing from the invisible foe again broke forth, this time fiercer and more murderous than before. General Braddock, riding to the head of the first regiment, which had begun to waver, shouted the order for them to reform and fire. The veteran troops, as coolly as if on parade, closed up their ranks and gave a volley, but it was as if fired in the air. They saw no enemy to fire at. Meanwhile the Virginia troops, after the first staggering effect of a terrific musketry fire poured into them by an unseen enemy, suddenly broke ranks, and, each man running for a tree, took possession of the skirts of the woods. On seeing this General Braddock galloped up to George.
"Colonel Washington," he cried, violently, "your Virginia troops are insubordinate! They have scattered through the woods, and I desire them formed again in column of fours to advance."
"Sir," answered George, in agony, "the ravines are full of Indians—many hundreds of them. They can slaughter us at their pleasure if we form in the open. The Virginians know how to fight them."
"You are an inexperienced soldier, sir, and therefore I excuse you. But look at my English veterans—see how they behave—and I desire the Virginians to do the same."
At that moment George's horse fell upon his knees, and the next he rolled over, shot through the heart. The English regiments had closed up manfully, after receiving several destructive volleys, returning the fire of their assailants without seeing them and without producing the smallest effect. But suddenly the spectacle of half their men dead or wounded on the ground, the galloping about of riderless horses, the shrieks of agony that filled the air, seemed to unman them. They broke and ran in every direction. In vain General Braddock rode up to them, actually riding over them, waving his sword and calling to them to halt.
The men who had faced the legions of Europe were panic-stricken by this dreadful unseen foe, and fled, only to be shot down in their tracks. To make it more terrible, the officers were singled out for slaughter, and out of eighty-six officers in a very little while twenty-six were killed and thirty-seven wounded. General Braddock himself had his horse shot under him, and as he rolled on the ground a cry of pain was wrung from him by two musket-balls that pierced his body. Of his three aides, two lay weltering in their blood, and George alone was at his side helping him to rise.
Rash and obstinate as General Braddock might be, he did not lack for courage, and in that awful time he was determined to fight to the last.
"Get me another horse," he said, with difficulty, to George. "Are you too wounded?"
"No, General, but I have had two horses shot under me. Here is my third one. Mount!" And by the exertion of an almost superhuman strength he raised General Braddock's bulky figure from the ground and placed him in the saddle.
"I am badly wounded," said General Braddock, as he reeled slightly; "but I can sit my horse yet. Your Virginians are doing nobly, but they should form in column."
Besotted to the end, but seeing that the Virginians alone were standing their ground, General Braddock did not give a positive order, and George did not feel obliged to obey this murderous mistake. But General Braddock, after a gasp or two, turned a livid face towards George.
"Colonel Washington, the command is yours. I am more seriously wounded than I thought." He swayed forward, and but for George would have fallen from his horse.
GEORGE DID ALL THAT MORTAL MAN COULD DO TO RALLY THE PANIC-STRICKEN MEN.
The panic was now at its height. Men, horses, wagons, all piled together in a terrible mélée, made for the rear; but there, again, they were met by a hail of bullets. Staggered, they rushed back, only to be again mowed down by the hidden enemy. The few officers left commanded, begged, and entreated the men to stand firm; but they, who had faced death upon a hundred fields, were now so mad with fear that they were incapable of obedience. George, who had managed to have General Braddock carried to the rear with the aid of Dr. Craik, had got another horse, and riding from one end of the bloody field to the other, did all that mortal man could do to rally the panic-stricken men, but it was in vain. His clothes were riddled with bullets, but in the midst of the carnage around him he was unharmed, and rode over the field like the embodied spirit of battle.
The Virginians alone, cool and determined, fought steadily and sold their lives dearly, although picked off one by one. At last, after hours of panic, flight, and slaughter, George succeeded in bringing off the remnant of the Virginians, and, overtaking the fleeing mob of regular troops some miles from the scene of the conflict, got them across the ford of the Monongahela. They were safe from pursuit, for the handful of Frenchmen could not persuade their Indian allies to leave the plunder of the battle-field for the pursuit of the enemy. The first thing that George did was to send immediately for wagons, which had been left behind, to transport the wounded. General Braddock, still alive but suffering agonies from his wounds, was carried on horseback, then in a cart, and at last, the jolting being intolerable, on a litter upon the shoulders of four sturdy backwoodsmen. But he was marked for death. On the third day of this terrible retreat, towards sunset, he sank into a lethargy. George, who had spent every moment possible by his side, turned to Dr. Craik, who shook his head significantly—there was no hope. As George dismounted and walked by the side of the litter, the better to hear any words the dying soldier might utter, General Braddock roused a little.
"Colonel Washington," he said, in a feeble voice, "I am satisfied with your conduct. We have had bad fortune—very bad fortune; but"—here his mind began to wander—"yonder is the smoke rising from the chimneys; we shall soon be home and at rest. Good-night, Colonel Washington—"
THE BURIAL OF GENERAL BRADDOCK.
The men with the litter stopped. George, with an over-burdened heart, watched the last gasp of a rash but brave and honorable soldier, and presently gently closed his eyes. At daylight the body of General Braddock, wrapped in his military cloak, was buried under a great oak-tree in the woods by the side of the highway, and then the mournful march was resumed.
The news of the disaster had preceded them, and when George, attended only by Captain Vanbraam and a few of his Virginian officers, rode into Williamsburg on an August evening, it was with the heaviest heart he had ever carried in his bosom. But by one of those strange paradoxes ever existing in the careers of men of destiny, the events that had brought ruin to others only served to exalt him personally. His gallant conduct in battle, his miraculous escape, his bringing off the survivors, especially among the Virginia troops, and the knowledge which had come about that had his advice been heeded the terrible disaster would not have taken place—all conspired to make him still more of a popular hero. Not only his own men adored him, and pointed out that he had saved all that could be saved on that dreadful day, but the British troops as well saw that the glory was his, and the return march was one long ovation to the one officer who came out of the fight with a greater reputation than when he entered it. Everywhere crowds met him with acclamations and with tears. The streets of the quaint little town of Williamsburg were filled with people on this summer evening, who followed the party of officers, with George at their head, to the palace. George responded to the shouts for him by bowing gracefully from side to side.
Arrived at the palace, he dismounted, and just as the sentry at the main door presented arms to him he saw a party coming out, and they were the persons he most desired to see in the world and least expected. First came the Earl of Fairfax with Madam Washington, whom he was about to hand down the steps and into his coach, which had not yet driven up. Behind them demurely walked Betty, and behind Betty came Lance, carrying the mantles of the two ladies.
The Earl and Madam Washington, engaged in earnest conversation, did not catch sight of George until Betty had rushed forward, and crying out in rapture, "George, dear George!" they saw the brother and sister clasped in each other's arms.
Madam Washington stood quite still, dumfounded with joy, until George, kissing her hand tenderly, made her realize that it was indeed he, her best beloved, saved from almost universal destruction and standing before her. She, the calmest, the stateliest of women, trembled, and had to lean upon him for support; the Earl grasped his hand; Lance was in waiting. George was as overcome with joy as they were.
"But I must ask at once to see the Governor," said he, after the first rapture of meeting was over. "You, my lord, must go with me, for I want friends near me when I tell the story of sorrow and disaster."
Four days afterwards, the House of Burgesses being in session, Colonel Washington was summoned by the Speaker to read his report of the campaign before it, and to be formally designated as commander-in-chief of the forces. The facts were already known, but it was thought well, in order to arouse the people to the sense of their danger, and to provide means for carrying on the war in defence of their frontiers, that Colonel Washington should make a public report, and should publicly receive the appointment of commander-in-chief of the next expedition. The House of Burgesses, then as ever proudly insistent of its rights, had given the Governor to understand that they would give him neither money nor supplies unless their favorite soldier should have the command in the next campaign—and, indeed, the attitude of the officers and soldiery made this absolutely necessary. Even the Governor had realized this, and, disheartened by the failure of his much-heralded regulars, was in a submissive mood, and these haughty colonial legislators, of whose republican principles Governor Dinwiddie already complained much, took this opportunity to prove that without their co-operation but little could be done.
The large hall of the House of Burgesses, but dimly lighted by small diamond-paned windows, was filled with the leading men of the colony, including Lord Fairfax. Ladies had been admitted to the floor, and among them sat in majestic beauty Madam Washington, and next to her sat Betty, palpitating, trembling, blushing, who with proud, bright eyes awaited the entrance of her "darling George," as she called him, although often reproved for her extravagance by her mother.
At last George entered this august assembly. His handsome head was uncovered, showing his fair hair. He wore a glittering uniform, and his sword, given him by Lord Fairfax, hung at his side. He carried himself with that splendid and noble air that was always his characteristic, and, quietly seating himself, awaited the interrogatory of the president. When this was made he rose respectfully and began to read from manuscript the sad story of Braddock's campaign. It was brief, but every sentence thrilled all who heard it. When he said, in describing the terrible story of the 9th of July, "The officers in general behaved with incomparable bravery, for which they suffered, upwards of sixty being killed or wounded," a kind of groan ran through the great assemblage; and when he added, in a voice shaken with emotion, "The Virginia companies behaved like men and died like soldiers; for, I believe, out of three companies on the ground that day scarce thirty men were left alive," sobs were heard, and many persons, both men and women, burst into tears.
His report being ended, the president of the House of Burgesses arose and addressed him:
"Colonel Washington, we have listened to your account of the late campaign with feelings of the deepest and most poignant sorrow, but without abandoning in any way our intention to maintain our lawful frontiers against our enemies. It has been determined to raise sixteen companies in this colony for offensive and defensive warfare, and by the appointment of his Excellency the Governor, in deference to the will of the people and the desire of the soldiers, you are hereby appointed, by this commission from his Excellency the Governor, which I hold in my hand, commander-in-chief of all the forces now raised or to be raised by this colony, reposing special confidence in your patriotism, valor, conduct, and fidelity. And you are hereby invested with power and authority to act as you shall think for the good of the service.
"And we hereby strictly charge all officers and soldiers under your command to be obedient to your orders, and diligent in the exercise of their several duties.
"And we also enjoin and require you to be careful in executing the great trust reposed in you, by causing strict discipline and order to be observed in the army, and that the soldiers be duly exercised and provided with all necessaries.
"And you are to regulate your conduct in every respect by the rules and discipline of war, and punctually to observe and follow such orders and directions as you shall receive from his Excellency the Governor, and this or other House of Burgesses, or committee of the House of Burgesses."
A storm of applause broke forth, and George stood silent, trembling and abashed, with a noble diffidence. He raised one hand in deprecation, and it was taken to mean that he would speak, and a solemn hush fell upon the assembly. But in the perfect silence he felt himself unable to utter a word, or even to lift his eyes from the floor. The president sat in a listening attitude for a whole minute, then he said:
"Sit down, Colonel Washington. Your modesty is equal to your valor, and both are above comparison. Your life would not have been spared, as if by a miracle, had not the all-wise Ruler of the heavens and the earth designed that you should fulfil your great destiny; and one day, believe me, you shall be called the prop, the stay, and the glory of your country."