The Guardsman

by Homer Greene

“No,” replied Manning, “I think I’ll let you go by yourself. Now that I’m here I believe I’ll stay and have this wound fixed up with a permanent dressing. Besides, I want to see Captain Murray and tell him what happened this morning.”

“That’s right! He’ll be glad to hear. Tell him the first lieutenant played the soldier to perfection. Tell him the boys were heroes. And tell him”—he hesitated a moment and then blurted it out: “that he’s got a first sergeant who’s a natural born fool, a disgrace to his company, and a blot on the National Guard.”

Without waiting to hear the corporal’s protest he turned on his heel, strode down the hall, entered the waiting car, and directed that he be driven at once to the armory.

At nine o’clock that morning Company E returned from its skirmish with the mob. A belated squad of state constabulary had arrived and taken charge of the situation, and there was no longer any occasion for the Guardsmen to remain on duty. They marched up the main street, sturdy, dusty and triumphant, followed by an admiring and applauding crowd. And there was good reason for both admiration and applause. By reason of the patience of the Guardsmen under great provocation, and of their prompt obedience to orders, and by reason of the coolness, judgment and skill of their commanding officer, Fairweather had undoubtedly been saved from a disastrous and bloody experience. The citizens knew this and they did not hesitate to say so.

At the armory, after the first lieutenant had turned the company over to Sergeant Bangs for dismissal, he beckoned to Barriscale who, without rifle or equipment, was standing at the side-wall, and the disgraced officer stepped forward and saluted.

“You are suspended,” said Lieutenant McCormack to him, “from the performance of any military duties, until your case can be taken up by the proper authorities. In the meantime you are relieved from arrest and may proceed about your ordinary business.”

Sergeant Barriscale, as became a soldier, said nothing in reply. He saluted again and retired.

On the Tuesday following the riot the court martial reconvened to proceed with the case against Lieutenant McCormack. The Barriscales were not present, nor were any of their witnesses. Their counsel, however, arose and said that in view of certain developments since the last sitting of the court his clients did not care to prosecute the case further. It would not have mattered much if they had so cared. The verdict of the court was a foregone conclusion. The conduct of the defendant on the preceding Sunday morning had served as a complete refutation of the charges against him. Without the loss of a single life, or the destruction of any valuable property, a riotous and bloodthirsty mob had been quelled and dispersed. It was conceded that this was due to the admirable way in which Lieutenant McCormack had handled the situation. Moreover, the national emblem had been protected against a rash and violent attack, and its would-be despoiler had been summarily dealt with as he deserved to be. This was the dramatic episode that made the young lieutenant’s vindication sure, and capped the climax of his popularity.

So, on the application of Brownell, the court dismissed the charges without hearing any witnesses for the defense, and, so far as could be discovered, the defendant himself was the only person in the community who was dissatisfied with the outcome of the trial. He knew that if the charges were not true in letter they were at least true in spirit, and that his own conduct had formed a sufficient foundation for them. He knew also that it was only by the narrowest sort of a margin that he had escaped being an ingrate to his country and a traitor to his flag. That he should now come off scot free, and in a blaze of glory besides, was deeply offensive to his sense of proportion, of propriety, and of justice. But there was nothing that he could do without the risk of bringing on further complications and disasters, save to accept the ruling of the court and the verdict of the community, and to shape his life accordingly.

With the rout of the mob that Sunday morning the backbone of the strike at the Barriscale mills, and at other industrial plants in Fairweather, was broken. Smoke again belched forth freely from the tall stacks, the roar and clatter of machinery fell heavily on the air, laboring humanity swarmed once more through the ways and byways of the shops. Workmen were no longer heckled and abused on their way to and from their homes. Many adherents of the radical labor organizations, finding themselves on the losing side, dropped their open affiliation with their destructive bodies, abandoned, for the time being at least, their anarchistic principles, and returned to work on conditions already accepted by union labor. Not that the backbone of anarchy had been broken in Fairweather. Far from it. There were still those who, cowed for the time being, were sullen and woeful, and awaited only an opportune time to exhibit openly and forcibly their resentment. Marie Brussiloff, from her cot in the hospital, and Gabriel from his headquarters in the near-by city, still suffering from their wounds, were “breathing out threatenings and slaughter.” Donatello alone, of all the group, in the columns of The Disinherited, was mild and conciliatory. He appeared to be grieved rather than outraged, disappointed rather than angered. Meeting McCormack a few days after the riot, he exhibited no bitterness nor resentment but he told him that in his judgment he had missed the opportunity of a lifetime to do a splendid service for humanity.