Stories by American Authors, Volume 6 by Various

V >> Various >> Stories by American Authors, Volume 6

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

"Men," said he, "in a few minutes the Perry gang, which you will
remember, are going to try to run this train off the track, wound and
kill the passengers, and rob the cars and the United States mail. It is
our business to prevent them. Sergeant Wilson" (a gray-bearded
non-commissioned officer stood up and saluted), "I am going on the
engine. See that my orders are repeated. Now, men, aim low, and don't
waste any shots." He and Sinclair climbed over the tender and spoke to
the engine-driver.

"How are the air-brakes working?" asked Sinclair.

"First-rate."

"Then, if you slow down now, you could stop the train in a third of her
length, couldn't you?"

"Easy, if you don't mind being shaken up a bit."

"That is good. How is the country about the--xth mile-post?"

"Dead level, and smooth."

"Good again. Now, Lieutenant Halsey, this is a splendid head-light, and
we can see a long way with my night glass, I will have a--"

"--2d mile-post just passed," interrupted the engine-driver.

"Only one more to pass, then, before we ought to strike them. Now,
lieutenant, I undertake to stop the train within a very short distance
of the gang. They will be on both sides of the track no doubt; and the
ground, as you hear, is quite level You will best know what to do."

The officer stepped back. "Sergeant," called he, "do you hear me
plainly?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have the men fix bayonets. When the train stops, and I wave my sword,
let half jump off each side, run up quickly, and form line _abreast of
the engine_--not ahead."

"Jack," said Sinclair to the engine-driver, "is your hand steady?" The
man held it up with a smile. "Good. Now, stand by your throttle and your
air-brake. Lieutenant, better warn the men to hold on tight, and tell
the sergeant to pass the word to the boys on the platforms, or they will
be knocked off by the sudden stop. Now for a look ahead!" and he brought
the binocular to his eyes.

The great parabolic head-light illuminated the track a long way in
advance, all behind it being of course in darkness. Suddenly Sinclair
cried out:

"The fools have a light there, as I am a living man; and there is a
little red one near us. What can that be? All ready. Jack! By heavens!
they have taken up two rails. Now, _hold on, all_! STOP HER!!"

The engine-driver shut his throttle-valve with a jerk. Then, holding
hard by it, he sharply turned a brass handle. There was a fearful
jolt--a grating--and the train's way was checked. The lieutenant,
standing sidewise, had drawn his sword. He waved it, and almost before
he could get off the engine, the soldiers were up and forming, still in
shadow, while the bright light was thrown on a body of men ahead.

"Surrender, or you are dead men!" roared the officer. Curses and several
shots were the reply. Then came the orders, quick and sharp:

"_Forward! Close rip! Double-quick! Halt_! FIRE!"

It was speedily over. Left on the car with the men, the old sergeant had
said:

"Boys, you hear. It's that ---- Perry gang. Now, don't forget Larry and
Charley that they murdered last year," and there had come from the
soldiers a sort of fierce, subdued _growl_. The volley was followed by a
bayonet charge, and it required all the officer's authority to save the
lives even of those who "threw up their hands." Large as the gang was
(outnumbering the troops), well armed and desperate as they were, every
one was dead, wounded, or a prisoner when the men who guarded the train
platforms ran up. The surgeon, with professional coolness, walked up to
the robbers, his instrument case under his arm.

"Not much for me to do here, Lieutenant," said he. "That practice for
Creedmoor is telling on the shooting. Good thing for the gang, too.
Bullets are better than rope, and a Colorado jury will give them plenty
of that."

Sinclair had sent a man to tell his wife that all was over. Then he
ordered a fire lighted, and the rails relaid. The flames lit a strange
scene as the passengers flocked up. The lieutenant posted men to keep
them back.

"Is there a telegraph station not far ahead Sinclair?" asked he. "Yes?
All right." He drew a small pad from his pocket, and wrote a despatch to
the post commander.

"Be good enough to send that for me," said he "and leave orders at
Barker's for the night express eastward to stop for us, and to bring a
posse to take care of the wounded and prisoners. And now, my dear
Sinclair, I suggest that you get the passengers into the cars, and go on
as soon as those rails are spiked. When they realize the situation, some
of them will feel precious ugly, and you know we can't have any
lynching."

Sinclair glanced at the rails and gave the word at once to the conductor
and brakemen, who began vociferating, "All aboard!" Just then Foster
appeared, an expression of intense satisfaction showing clearly on his
face, in the firelight.

"Major," said he, "I didn't use to take much stock in special
Providence, or things being ordered; but I'm darned if I don't believe
in them from this day. I was bound to stay where you put me, but I was
uneasy, and wild to be in the scrimmage; and, if I had been there, I
wouldn't have taken notice of a little red light that wasn't much
behind the rear platform when we stopped. When I saw there was no danger
there, I ran back, and what do you think I found? There was a woman, in
a dead faint, and just clutching a lantern that she had tied up in a red
scarf, poor little thing! And, Major, it was Sally! It was the little
girl that loved me out at Barker's, and has loved me and waited for me
ever since! And when she came to, and knew me, she was so glad she 'most
fainted away again; and she let on as it was her that gave away the job.
And I took her into the sleeper, and the madam, God bless her!--she knew
Sally before and was good to her--she took care of her, and is cheering
her up. And now, Major, I'm going to take her straight to Denver, and
send for a parson and get her married to me, and she'll brace up, sure
pop."

The whistle sounded, and the train started. From the window of the
"sleeper" Sinclair and his wife took their last look at the weird scene.
The lieutenant, standing at the side of the track, wrapped in his cloak,
caught a glimpse of Mrs. Sinclair's pretty face, and returned her bow.
Then, as the car passed out of sight, he tugged at his mustache and
hummed:

"Why, boys, why,
Should we be melancholy, boys,
Whose business 'tis to die?"

In less than an hour, telegrams having in the mean time been sent in
both directions, the train ran alongside the platform at Barker's; and;
Watkins, inperturbable as usual, met Sinclair, and gave him his letters.

"Perry gang wiped out, I hear, Major," said he "Good thing for the
country. That's a lesson the 'toughs' in these parts won't forget for a
long time. Plucky girl that give 'em away, wasn't she. Hope she's all
right."

"She is all right," said Sinclair, with a smile.

"Glad of that. By-the-way, that father of her'n passed in his checks
to-night. He'd got one warning from the Vigilantes, and yesterday they
found out he was in with this gang, and they was a-going for him; but
when the telegram come, he put a pistol to his head and saved them all
trouble. Good riddance to everybody, I say. The sheriff's here now, and
is going east on the next train to get them fellows. He's got a big
posse together, and I wouldn't wonder if they was hard to hold in, after
the 'boys in blue' is gone."

In a few minutes the train was off, with its living freight--the just
and the unjust, the reformed and the rescued, the happy and the anxious.
With many of the passengers the episode of the night was already a thing
of the past. Sinclair sat by the side of his wife, to whose cheeks the
color had all come back; and Sally Johnson lay in her berth, faint
still, but able to give an occasional smile to Foster. In the station on
the Missouri the reporters were gathered about the happy superintendent,
smoking his cigars, and filling their note-books with items. In Denver,
their brethren would gladly have done the same, but Watkins failed to
gratify them. He was a man of few words. When the train had gone, and a
friend remarked:

"Hope they'll get through all right, now," he simply said:

"Yes, likely. Two shots don't 'most always go in the same hole." Then he
went to the telegraph instrument. In a few minutes he could have told a
story as wild as a Norse _saga_, but what he said, when Denver had
responded, was only--

_"No. 17, fifty-five minutes late."_

THE MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY.

By LINA REDWOOD FAIRFAX.

He is our office-boy and messenger, and, my senior tells me, has been
employed by the firm in this capacity for about thirty years. He is a
negro, about sixty years old, rather short and stout, with a mincing,
noiseless gait, broad African features, beautiful teeth, and small,
round, twinkling eyes, the movements of which are accompanied by little
abrupt, sidewise turns of the head, like a bird. His manner is a curious
mixture of deference and self-importance, his voice a soft, sibilant
whisper, and as he was born and bred in Alexandria, Virginia, it seems
almost superfluous to add that he and the letter "r" are not on speaking
terms.

He has a prominent characteristic, which always attracts attention at
first sight. This is the shape of his head, which is immensely large in
proportion, very bald, and so abundant in various queer, knobby
excrescences about the forehead and sides, and so unnaturally long and
level on top, that for some time after I made his acquaintance I could
never see him without finding myself forming absurd conjectures as to
whether his cranium and the hydrostatic press could ever have become
acquainted at some early period of his life; and so strong is this
association of ideas that, even now, his sudden appearance invariably
suggests to me the study of natural philosophy. Poor fellow! his chagrin
was great when this peculiar conformation of his skull was first brought
to his notice. He had been telling me for some time past of the
"splendid piccha" he had had "took," and I had been promised a sight of
it just as soon as it arrived from the photographer's. I confess I had
not been sanguine as to the result, although I knew a handsome portrait
was confidently expected by the sitter. One morning he deposited the
photograph before me.

"Hello!" I cried, taking it in my hand; "here you are, hit off to the
life."

"Do' say _that_, Mist' Dunkin, _do_' say hit, seh," he replied, in a
tone of deep mortification. Then, catching a glimpse of the picture, his
ire broke forth: "Nevvah wuz like _me_ in de wueld," he cried, in an
elevated key; "nevvah _wuz_ ha'f so ugly ez that. I'm--I'm a
bettah-lookin' man, Mist' Dunkin. Why, look at de color of de thing,"
contemptuously. "Cain' tell de face f'om de coat I nevvah set up to be
what you'd call _faih_-cumplectid, but disha things iss same is that
thaih ink; jess iss same. My hade do' look that a way, neitha. Naw,
_seh_, 'taint s' bad 's that."

"Why, Thomas," said I, "_I_ think it a very good likeness--the
complexion _is_ a little dark to be sure, but do you know I particularly
admire the head. Look at that forehead; any one can see that you are a
man of intellect. I tell you it isn't every one who can boast of such a
forehead."

"The--the 'mahk you make 'bout me, has been made 'fo'; I may say, has
been made quite frequent--quite frequent; on'y lass Tuesd'y fohtni't,
Sistah Ma'y Ann Jinkins--a promnunt membeh of ouh class (that is, Asba'y
class, meets on Gay Street), Sistah Ma'y Ann Jinkins, she ups an' sez,
befo' de whole class, dat she'd puppose de motion, dat Bro' Thomas
Wheatley wuz 'p'inted fus' speakah in de nex' 'Jug-breakin' an'
Jaymiah's Hamma,' by de i-nanemous vote of de class. I'm clah to say I
wuz 'stonished; but ahta class wuz ovvva, Bro' Moss tole me de
'p'intment wuz made jes' f'on de 'peahunce of my hade, ''Cause,' he sez,
'no man cain't be a po' speakah with sich a fine intellec' which we see
expressed in de hade of Bro' Thomas Wheatley--but, same time, I knowed
all time de fus' motion come f'om Sistah Ma'y Ann Jinkins--she's a ve'y
good friend o' mine, Sistah Ma'y Ann Jinkins--thinks a sight o' me; I
'scohts heh to class ev'y Tuesd'y--ev'y Tuesd'y, sine die."

"You do? What does your wife have to say to that?" I asked,
maliciously.

He stared at me an instant, then replied:

"My wife!--oh--oh, Law bless yoh soul, seh, _she_ do' keeh. Bro'
'Dolphus Beam, _he_ sees ahta heh: you see, seh, she's I-o-n-g way
'moved f'om Asba'y class; 'twont admit none but fus'-class
'speience-givvahs in Asba'y, an' my wife she wa'n't nevvah no han' to
talk; haint got de gif' of de tongue which Saul, suhname Paul, speaks of
in de Scripcheh--don't possess hit, seh."

"She must be a very nice person to live with," I remarked.

"Well, y-e-es, seh," replied Thomas, after reflecting awhile. "I hain't
got nuth'n' 'g'in' Ailse; she's quite, an' ohdaly, a good cook, an'
laundriss, an' she's a lady,[1] an' all that, but sh' ain't not to say
what you'd call a giftid 'oman."

"Like Sister Mary Ann Jinkins, eh?"

"_Egg_-zac'ly, seh. Mist' Dunkin, you put hit kehrec', seh. Ailse hain't
possessed with none of the high talence, cain't exhoht, naw sing with
fehveh, naw yit lead in praieh; heh talence is mos'ly boun' up in
napkins--as Scripcheh say--mos'ly boun' up in napkins; foh I do' deny
she kin do up all kines o' table-linen, she kin indeed. Naw, seh, I
cain't say I got nuth'n' 'g'in' Ailse."

He was, I think, the worst manager of finances that I have ever known.
He cleaned all the offices in our building, and earned, as near as I
could estimate, about thirty-five dollars a month. Three of his four
children were self-supporting, and his wife was honest and industrious,
taking in washing, and getting well paid for her work. Yet, he was
perpetually in debt, and his wages were always overdrawn. Whenever I
came into the office after my two-o'clock lunch, and found him seated on
his wooden chair, in the corner, gazing absently out at the dingy
chimneys opposite--apparently too abstracted to observe my entrance, I
knew I had only to go to my desk to find, placed in a conspicuous
position thereon, a very small, dirty bit of paper, with these words
laboriously inscribed upon it: "Mr. Dunkin Sir cen you oblidge me with
the sum of three dolers an a half [or whatever the sum might be] an
deduc thee same from mi salry i em in grate kneed of thee same yours mos
respecfull thomas wheatley."

The form was always the same, my name in imposing capitals and the
remainder in the very smallest letters which he could coax his stiff old
fingers to make, and all written on the tiniest scrap of writing-paper.
I think his object was to impress me with his humiliation,
impecuniosity, and general low condition, because as soon as he received
the money--which he always did, I vowing to myself each time that this
advance should be the last, and as regularly breaking my vow--he would
tip-toe carefully to the mantel-piece, get down his pen and ink, borrow
my sand-bottle, and proceed to indite me a letter of acknowledgment.
This written, he would present it with a sweeping bow, and then retire
precipitately to his corner, chuckling, and perspiring profusely. He
usually preferred foolscap for these documents, and the capitals were
numerous and imposing. Like the others, however, they were invariably
word for word the same, and were couched in the following terms:

"MR. DUNKIN
"SIR I have Recieved thee Sum of Three Dolers an a half
from Your hans an I Recieve thee same with Joy an Grattetude.
"Yours respecfull
"THOMAS WHEATLEY."

I said his applications for money were always granted. I must, however,
make an exception, which, after all, will only go to prove the rule. One
bright morning he met me at the office-door, his face as beaming as the
weather. He hardly waited for me to doff my overcoat and hat, when he
announced that he had bought a second-hand parlor organ the evening
before, on credit, for seventy-five dollars, to be paid in instalments
of twelve dollars and a half each. He had been very hard up for a month
past, as I had abundant occasion to know, and it was therefore with a
feeling rather stronger than surprise, that I received the announcement
of this purchase.

"But you haven't fifty cents toward paying for it. And what on earth can
you possibly want with a parlor organ? Can you play?--can any of your
family play?"

"Well, naw, seh," scratching his head reflectively. "I cain't s'ay they
_kin_ not to say _play_"--as if they were all taking lessons, and
expected to become proficient at some not far distant day. "In fac',
seh, none on um knows a wued o' music. I didn't mean, seh, I didn't
'tend the--the instrument fu' househol' puhpasses--I--I 'tended hit as a
off'in' to ouh Sabbath-school. We--we has no instrument at present,
an'--"

I am afraid I uttered a very bad word at this juncture. Thomas started,
and retired in great discomfiture, and I thought I had made an end of
the matter, but that afternoon I found the small scrap of paper on my
desk--really, I think, with a little practice, Thomas might hope to
rival the man who goes about writing the Lord's Prayer in the space of
half a dollar. My name was in larger capitals, the rest in smaller
letters, than usual, and I was requested "to oblidge him with the sum of
twelve dolers an' a half." I knew then that the first organ-instalment
was due, but I think it needless to add, his application was refused.
About a week afterward, I learned that the Sabbath-school was again
without a musical instrument, the organ having been pawned for twenty
dollars, Thomas paying ten per cent a month on the money. It was so with
everything he undertook. Once he gave me elaborate warning that I must
furnish myself with another messenger at once, as he was going to make
a fortune peddling oranges and apples. Accordingly, he bought a barrel
(!) of each kind of fruit, sold half at reasonable rates, and then, the
remainder beginning to decay on his hands, he came to me, offering
really fine Havana oranges at a cent apiece.

"I'm driffin' 'em off et coss--driffin' 'em off et coss," he whispered,
speaking rapidly, and waving his hands about, oriental fashion, the
palms turned outward and the fingers twirling; this peculiar gesture
seemed intended to indicate the cheapness of his wares. "Dey coss me
mo'n that; heap mo', but I'm faih to lose um all now, en I'm driffin'
'em off, sine die."

After that, some dozen or more of the large wholesale houses engaged him
to furnish their counting-rooms with lunch, and he began with brilliant
prospects. He brought his basket around to me for first choice.
Everything was very nice; a clean new basket, covered with a white
cloth, wherein lay piles of neatly arranged packages done up in
letter-paper, with a strange-looking character inscribed upon each.

"What do these letters mean?" I asked, taking up one of the packages,
and trying in vain to decipher the cabalistic sign upon it.

Thomas chuckled.

"Oh, that's to show de kine of san'wich dey is, Mist' Dunkin. You see,
seh, I got th'ee kines--so I put 'B' on de beef, 'H' on de _hahm_, an' I
stahtid to put 'H' on de hystehs too, but den I foun' I couldn't tell
de _hystehs_ f'om de _hahm_, so den I put 'H I' on de hystehs."

"Oh, I see," said I, opening one of the "hysteh" packages. It was very
good; an excellent French roll, well spread with choice butter, and two
large, nicely fried oysters between. I ate it speedily, took another,
and, that disposed of, asked the price.

"Ten cents, seh."

"For two!"

"Yes, seh; fi' cents 'piece."

"Why, Thomas," I exclaimed, "you mustn't begin by asking five cents
apiece; you'll ruin yourself. These things are _worth_ at least twice as
much money. Why, I pay ten cents for a sandwich at an eating-house, and
it doesn't begin to have as good materials in it as yours. You ought to
ask more."

"Naw, seh; naw, seh; Mist' Dunkin; as' less, an' sell mo'--that's my
motteh. I have all dese yeah clean sole out 'fo' two 'clock--clean sole
out 'fo' two 'clock."

I interrupted him, asking the cost of each article, and then proving to
him by calculation that he lost money on each sandwich he sold at five
cents. But I could not convince him--he received the twenty-five cents
which I insisted on paying him with many expressions of gratitude, but
he left me reiterating his belief in "quick sales and small profits."
"Be back yeah clean sole out by two 'clock, sine die," he exclaimed,
brightly, as he departed.

This venture brought him six dollars in debt at the expiration of a
fortnight, and after that, by my advice, he abandoned peddling,
condemning it as a "low-life trade," and agreeing to stick to legitimate
business for the future.

One of his famous expressions, the most formidable rival of _sine die_
(which, as the reader has doubtless discovered, he intended as an
elegant synonym for _without fail_), was entirely original--this was
"Granny to Mash" (I spell phonetically), used as an exclamation, and
only employed when laboring under great mental excitement.

As I was proceeding homeward one evening, I spied him standing on a
street corner, holding forth to a select assemblage of his own color,
who were listening to him with an appearance of the profoundest respect.
His back was toward me, and I stopped and caught his words without
attracting observation. He had assumed a very pompous, hortatory manner,
and I could well believe he held a prominent position in Asbury class.
"Yes, gentlemun; yes," he was saying, "ez Brotheh Jones 'mahks, I _do_
live in a ve'y _su_-peeiaw at-mos-pheeh--suh-roundid by people of
leahnin', with books, pens, blottehs, letteh-pess, _en_ what not, ez
common ez these yeah bricks which I see befo' me. But thaih hain't no
trueh wued then ev'y station has its hawdships, gentlemun, en mine ah
not exemp', mine ah _not_ exemp'.

"Fus'ly, thaih's the 'sponsebility. W'y, this yeah ve'y mawnin' I banked
nigh on to a thousan' dollehs fu' de young boss. En w'en I tell you
mo'n two hundred stamps is passed my mouth this yeah blessid evenin', 't
will give you some slight idee of the magnitude of the duties I has to
puffawn. W'y, gentlemun, I is drank wateh, an' I is drank beeh, but my
mouth hain't got back hits right moistuh yit."

The day of the 20th of July, 1877, was very quiet We had heard, of
course, of the "strikes" all over the country, and the morning papers
brought tidings of the trouble with the Baltimore and Ohio railroad
employes at Martinsburg, but no serious difficulty was apprehended in
Baltimore.

That afternoon I was detained very late at the office. I intended
beginning a three weeks' holiday next morning, and was trying to get
beforehand with my work. My senior was out of town, and Thomas and I had
been very busy since three o'clock--I writing, he copying the letters.
After five, we had the building pretty much to ourselves, and a little
after half past five, the fire alarm sounded. The City Hall bell was
very distinctly heard, and Thomas--who had finished his work and was
waiting to take some papers to the office of the Baltimore and Ohio
Railroad for me--took down a list of the different stations, to
ascertain the whereabouts of the fire.

"1--5," he counted, as the strokes fell; "that makes fifteen, and that
is," passing his finger slowly down the card, "that is Eastun Po-lice
station, cawneh--naw, _on_ Bank Street. On Bank Street, seh."

I listened an instant.

"1--5--1," I said, "151; it isn't fifteen."

Another five minutes elapsed, while he searched for "151" I busily
writing the while.

"Hit's--w'y, Lawd-a-massy! Mist' Dunkin, hit's fu' de milinte'y."

"Let me see," said I. "Yes, so it is; but they only want them to go to
Cumberland. There's a strike there, and the strikers are getting
troublesome."

He made no reply, and as the bells ceased ringing soon afterward, I
resumed my work, which kept me busy until seven o'clock. I then placed
the papers in an envelope, and took up the letters.

"Be sure you see the Vice-President himself, Thomas," I said. "You know
him, don't you?"

Receiving no reply, and turning to ascertain the cause of his silence, I
saw he was leaning out at the open window, gazing earnestly northward
toward Baltimore Street.

"Thomas! Thomas!" I shouted.

He heard me at last, and withdrawing his head, apologized for his
inattention.

"I thought--I heehed sup'n nutha like a hollehin' kine of a noise,
an'--some guns, aw sup'n, an' I wuz look'n' to see, but thaih don't
'peah to be nuthin' goin' on."

"They're mending the railroad on Baltimore Street," I said. "I suppose
that is what you heard." And I gave the papers into his hand repeating
my directions: "If the gentleman is not there, don't leave them on any
account. I'll wait here until you get back--but go first to the
post-office and mail these."

He wrapped the papers carefully in his handkerchief, placed them in his
vest-pocket, and started off.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9