Stories by American Authors, Volume 6 by Various
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Various >> Stories by American Authors, Volume 6
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After he left, I leaned my elbow on the dusty window-sill and lounged
there awhile, watching him as he trotted busily down the deserted
street; then, rousing myself, I stretched my weary limbs and set about
arranging my desk, closing the safe, etc. At last everything was put in
order, and I seated myself in an arm-chair, rubbing my cramped fingers
and wrist, and afterward consulting my watch, more for something to do
than to ascertain the time, which the clock on the mantel-piece would
have told me.
Only quarter past seven, and he might be detained until, half-past
eight. I leaned back and closed my eyes. How still and hot it was! I
believe I was the only human being in that whole long block of big
buildings on that July evening. Everything was as quiet as the typical
country churchyard. I had a lethargic sense now and then of the far-off
tinkle of a car-bell. I could catch a distant rumble from a passing
vehicle a block or two away. And, yes, I _did_ observe the presence of a
dull, continuous drone, which proceeded from the direction of Baltimore
Street, but just as I sat up to hearken, some one passing whistled,
"Silver Threads among the Gold," the melody tracing itself upon the
stillness like phosphoric letters in a dark room. I listened with vivid
interest, but the tune presently grew fainter, faded, and was dissolved
into the dusk, leaving me lonelier than before, and too sleepy to give
my attention to the strange hum, of which I again became dully
conscious. It is tiresome work waiting here with nothing to do, was my
last drowsy thought, as I folded my arms on the desk, and rested my head
upon them, to be aroused by a knocking at my door.
"Come in," I called.
The door creaked on its hinges, and somebody entered. I waited an
instant, when an adolescent voice of the colored persuasion asked:
"Do somebody name Mist' Dunkin live here?"
"Yes. I'm here; what do you want?"
"Dey wan's you down-y street."
I stretched myself, reached mechanically for a match, and lighted the
gas, which disclosed a small yellow boy, standing in the doorway, some
fright and a good deal of excitement in his aspect. I then detected that
he had something important to tell, and that his errand was a source of
gratification to him.
"Well, what is it?" I asked, after we had stared at one another.
"Ain't yer yeared nuth'n' 'tall?" a shade of contempt in his tone.
"No, what is there to hear?" I asked, rather irascibly.
"Dey's a big fight down-town; de folks dey done tore de Six Reggimen'
all ter pieces, an' dey's wuk'n 'long on de Fif now."
"Whereabouts?"
I started up, and got on my hat in an instant.
"Dey's et Camd' Street depot, now. Ole colored gentlemun he's been
hurtid, an' sent me atter you."
It did not take half a minute to lock the door and we proceeded
down-stairs together.
"He's down yere on Eutaw Street," continued my informant. "Dey's
fightin' all 'long dere--I come nigh gittin' hit myself--_he_ gimme ten
cents to come tell yer--maybe he's done dade now," he added, cheerfully,
as we gained the street, and began to walk.
"Dey fet all 'long yere," was his next breathless remark, made some time
later. We were now proceeding rapidly up Baltimore Street, as rapidly,
at least, as people can who are pushing against a steady stream of
agitated humanity. "Dey fawr'd a bullet clean through de Sun-paper
room," pursued the boy, "an' dey bust up dem dere winder-glassis--"
Pausing involuntarily to look, I caught stray scraps of additional
information.
"Twenty-five people killed."
"As many as that?"
"Oh, yes; fully, I should say. The Sixth fired right into the crowd,
all along from Gay to Eutaw Street."
"Well, I hear the Sixth are pretty well cleaned out by this time, so
it's tit for tat."
Then--
"The Fifth must be there now--"
"The Fifth?--what are they--two hundred men against two thousand?--Lord
knows how it will end. I hope this old town won't be burnt, that's all."
The boy, listening, turned fearfully around, looking with distended eyes
into mine. "Come on," I responded, and we spoke no more until we reached
Liberty Street. Then, all at once, above the street noises--the rumbling
of fugitive vehicles, the jingle of street-cars, and the hum of excited
voices--rose a deep, hollow roar; a horrible sound of human menace in
it, which was distinguishable even at that distance. The boy pressed
closer, clutching timidly at my hand.
"Is yer--is yer gwine ter keep on?" he faltered.
"De ole gentlemun, he 'lowed puticler you wa'n't to run no resk 'count
o' him."
"Where _is_ he?" I asked. "In the thick of it?"
"No, sir; he's lay'n' down in a little alley--clean off d' street."
"Come on, then; you'll have to show me where it is. I won't let you get
hurt."
When we first wheeled into South Eutaw Street, I was conscious of an
almost painful stillness, more noticeable after the tumult of confused
sounds from which we had just emerged. The houses either side were fast
closed, doors and windows Some of them were even unlighted, and not
vehicle was in sight. The street was partially unpaved, where new
gas-pipes had been laid, and piles of paving-stones were heaped on the
edge of the sidewalks. The place seemed deserted.
But presently, far down in the immediate vicinity of the depot, I
perceived accumulated a dense, dark mass, like a low-hanging cloud, from
which a low hoarse murmur seemed to proceed. It swayed slightly from
side to side, with the inevitable motion of a large crowd, while at the
same time it kept well within certain bounds. We walked quickly along,
block after block, without encountering a single soul. I had been so
engrossed with the dark, muttering pulsation in front, that I failed to
attend to the sounds from behind, until the boy, jerking my hand, bade
me listen to the drum. I heard it then plainly, as soon as he spoke, and
the approaching tramp of disciplined feet was soon after distinctly
audible. I turned and looked. The Fifth Regiment was marching down the
middle of North Eutaw Street, having not yet crossed Baltimore Street,
the drum corps in front, the colors flying, and crowding the sidewalks
on either hand was a motley van and bodyguard, consisting of street
loafers and half-grown boys, who had come along to see the "fun," and
whose sympathies were plainly with the rioters. The foremost of these
soon reached the spot where I stood, and as I drew aside to let them
pass, I heard a _gamin_ say to his neighbor:
"I say, Bill, these yere putty little soldier-boys hadn't better make
ther las' will an' testyment--ain't it?'"
"I dunno 'bout that," replied the other, a veteran of fourteen, who was
chewing tobacco, and whom I recognized as a certain one-eyed newsboy.
"These yere men hez fought in the late war, yer see, plenty of 'um, an'
you bet they don't carry no bokays on _ther_ bayonits."
As the column advanced, I glanced anxiously toward the human sea down
yonder. At first, no additional movement could be detected, then, as the
drums approached nearer, a quick stir, like a sudden gust, struck its
troubled waters; the hoarse, horrible cry tore raggedly through the
summer air. And then I hastily drew the terrified child with me into the
shade of a receding doorway--for the mad flood came raving over its
bounds toward us.
The mob was mostly composed of men in their working-clothes, with bare
arms and gaunt, haggard faces. There were some women among
them--wretched, half-starved creatures--who kept shrieking like furies
all the time. As the regiment, still moving resolutely onward,
approached within a few yards of them, there fell the first volley of
stones, accompanied with hoots and jeers of derision.
"Thuz only two hundred of 'um, boys," shouted a rough voice. "They'll
run quick enough if you give it to 'um good," and a second shower of
missiles fell into the ranks, the mob arming themselves with the
paving-stones at hand.
But the little band of soldiers did not once falter, although here and
there in their ranks you could discover a man leaning against a comrade,
who gave him support as they moved on together. The crowd seemed a
little dashed. The dispersion of the Sixth Regiment had been such a mere
bagatelle, and their own number had, since then, been re-enforced by
half the professional rowdies in town. They redoubled their cries,
which, from jeers, now became shouts of rage and mortification.
"Wot are you 'bout? Give it to 'um _good_, I tell yer. They daresn't
fire," howled the same brawny giant who had spoken before.
As they continued the attack, a pistol-shot could be heard now and then
from the crowd. The regiment did not return the fire, but as the mob
pressed closer, an order from the front was passed along the line.
"Fix bayonets."
The opposing parties were now only a few feet apart, and a rain of
stones was falling so thick and fast as to darken the air, when all at
once I saw the colonel's sword flash out, the blunt edge striking one of
the rioters who was pressing on him.
"Clear the way, there!" he cried.
Then, wheeling and facing his command, his voice rang out, clear as a
bugle;
"A--r--m--s, 'port! Double-time, march! Ch--ar--ge, bayonets! Hurrah!
Give 'em a yell, boys, and you can do it," added the colonel.
I cannot describe the shout which followed--a clear, ringing, organized
whoop; fresh and vibrant; of a perfectly distinct quality from the
hoarse, undisciplined howl of the mob--sounding cool and terrible, like
the cry of an avenging angel.
The mob turned and fled, appalled, melting away like wax before the blue
flame of the glittering bayonets, and the regiment entered the depot.
Then I took time to breathe, and remembered Thomas.
"He ain't fur f'om yere," said the boy. "Right 'roun' d' corner."
And we passed out of the shelter of the doorway to a small, dirty alley,
about twenty-five yards distant, where I found the old man resting
against a lamp-post, the blood streaming down his face from a ghastly
wound in the head, and his eyes closed. I made the boy get some water,
and after bathing his face for a few moments, I succeeded in rousing
him.
"Is that you, Mist' Dunkin?" he asked, faintly.
"Yes. How do you feel, Thomas?"
"Dey's tuhibul times down-street," he gasped. "I like to got kilt."
A pause.
"Dey 'lowed dey wanted dem daih papehs--an'--dey didn't git
'um--an'--den--den dey hit me side de hade--with a brickbat--an' I come
'long tell I git yeah--an' den, disha boy he come 'long--"
His voice was very faint and his hands very cold
"Don't talk any more now," I said, chafing them in mine, while I
wondered perplexedly how I should get him home. Presently he spoke
again:
"But de papehs is all right, seh. I hilt on to 'um, sho'. Dey--dey
couldn't git 'um nohow, wid all de smahtniss," he said, with feeble
triumph. "Dey's right yeah in my wescut pocket." Then he added, with a
sudden change of tone: "But I'd like to go home, Mist' Dunkin; Ailse'll
be oneasy 'bout me."
I had to leave him with the boy while I went for a doctor and a vehicle,
neither of which was easy to be had, but finally a milk-wagon was
pressed into service, and although the mob had gathered together again,
and were besieging the depot, yet, after some delay, we succeeded in
conveying him to his home. I saw him safe in bed, his hurt dressed;
then, after bestowing a reward upon the colored boy, who had rendered me
such efficient service, I left him in charge of the doctor and his wife.
The latter was a small, plump yellow woman, with large, gentle black
eyes, and the soft voice so often found among Virginia "house" servants.
After watching her as she assisted the surgeon to dress the wound, I
came to the conclusion all of her talents were by no means "bound up in
napkins," and I went home assured my faithful old messenger was left in
very capable hands.
Next morning, directly after breakfast, I sallied forth to inquire
concerning his condition. After passing along the crowded thoroughfares,
where everybody was occupied with the riot, it was a relief to find
myself turning into the obscure little street where he lived.
"Here, at least, everything seems peaceful enough," I said, aloud, as I
approached the house. I was just in the act of placing my foot on the
one door-step, when the door was thrown violently open, and a tall black
woman bounced out, colliding with me as she passed, her superior
momentum thrusting me backward across the narrow pavement into the
street. She was too excited to heed my exclamation of astonishment. I
don't think she saw me, even, for she turned immediately and faced some
one standing in the doorway, whom I now perceived to be Ailse, looking
dreadfully frightened.
"_Good_-mornin', Mis' Wheatley," said the Amazon, with withering
sarcasm; "_good_-mornin', madam. I _think_ you'll know it the nex' time
I darkens your doors, I _think_ you will. Served me right, though, we'en
I _demeaned_ myself to come; I might 'a' knowed what treatment I'd
'eceive from _you_. Ef I hadn't ben boun' by solemn class-rules to pay
some 'tention to Brother Wheatley's immortal soul "--these words were
uttered at the very top of her voice--"you wouldn't 'a' caught _me_
comin'; but I'll never come ag'in, never; so make yourself easy, Mis'
Wheatley."
A shade of relief passed over Ailse's features as this assurance was
repeated, and I coming forward at this moment, the representative of the
church militant betook herself off, while I entered and spoke to Ailse,
who, fairly dazed, sank into a chair, and stared me helplessly in the
face. There was a moment's silence, when she suddenly rose and offered
me a seat, remarking, as she did so, that "Sisteh Ma'y Ann Jinkins
ca'in' on so" made her forget her manners.
"What is the matter?" said I.
"I dunno, seh, 'cep'n' she's mad 'cause docteh won't leave heh stay and
talk to Mist' Wheatley; _he_ made heh go, an' I s'pose hit kindeh put
heh out."
"What was she doing?"
"Talkin', seh; jiss talkin' and prayin'."
"And exciting the man into a fever," said the doctor, entering at that
moment. "I came here half an hour ago," he continued, turning to me,
"and found this woman--who really is a good nurse--turned out of her
husband's room by that termagant who has just gone, and whom I found in
the act of preparing the man for death, _she_ having decided his hours
on earth were numbered; in fact, I actually chanced in upon a species of
commendatory prayer, which, if continued another half hour--and I have
every reason to think it would have been--would almost inevitably have
ended the man's life."
"I suppose I had better not see him this morning, then," said I.
"Oh, yes; _you_ can see him; he's doing well now, and if he doesn't talk
too much, I think the sight of a cheerful face will do him good," and I
left him giving some directions to Ailse, while I proceeded up-stairs to
the room where Thomas lay. He was awake, so I walked up to his bedside,
and asked him how he felt.
"I'm tollubul, thankee, seh; de medicine makes me kind o' sleepy, that's
all."
I seated myself beside him, there was a moment or two of silence, then
he asked, fretfully:
"Whai--whaih's Ailse? I like to see the 'oman 'roun'; s'haint got no
speshul great gif', but she's kind o' handy wen a body's sick."
"You don't seem to care so much for gifted women in a sick-room,
Thomas?" I remarked, somewhat mischievously, after I had summoned his
wife from down-stairs.
"Well, naw, seh," a little shamefacedly. "Not so much. You see, seh,
dey--dey's mos' too much fu' a body, sich times. Dey _will_ talk, you'se
dey will, an' 'livah 'scouhcis, an' a sick man he hain't got de strenth
to--to supplicate in kine, an' hit kind o' mawtifies him, seh."
Once more there followed a silence, when I asked:
"Thomas, why didn't you give up those papers to the mob, when they
attacked you last night? Your retaining them might have cost you your
life. I didn't mean you to endanger your life for them."
He smiled slightly, as his glance met mine.
"I dunno, seh," he replied, with his old reflective air. "You tole me
mos' pehticaleh to hole on to 'um, an' 'twouldn't be doin' my duty
faithful to let 'um go 's long ez I could hole on to 'um."
"But suppose they had killed you?"
"Well, Mist' Dunkin, ef dey had, I hope I'd been ready to go. I ben
tryin' to lead a godly an' Chris'chun life, ez Scripcheh sez, fu' fawty
yeahs, now, an' I hope I'd a foun' dyin' grace at de las'. You see, seh,
thing hoped me mos' was de thoughts of a tex' Bro' Moss preached on las'
Sund'y; 'peached like hit hep' on jinglin' in my hade all time dey was
jawin' an' fightin' with me."
"What text was it?" I asked.
But he was almost asleep, and his wife signalled me not to wake him. So
I was stealing away toward the door, when he opened his eyes and
murmured, drowsily:
"De tex', oh yes, seh. I fo'got--'twas a Scripcheh tex'--'Be thou
faithful unto--'"
He then turned over, settling himself comfortably in his pillows, and in
a moment dropped asleep.
In due course of time, he made his appearance in the office again, being
anxious to "resume his duties," he said. But that blow on the head has
proved to be a serious affair, affecting the old man's memory
permanently, and giving a violent shock to his system, from which it
will never entirely recover. He is no longer the clear-headed messenger
he was, when he was wont to assert--no idle boast either--that he could
"fetch an' cai' eq'il to any man." Now and then, in these latter days,
he confuses things a little, always suffering the keenest mortification
when he discovers his mistakes. As I said in the beginning, he is still
our office-boy and messenger, although a smart young mulatto is hired to
come betimes, make things tidy, and leave before the old man gets down,
so his feelings mayn't be hurt. He sometimes remarks on our being the
"cleanis' gentlemun in de wueld," but we contrive that no whisper of the
real state of the case ever reaches his ear, and he is allowed to sweep
and dust a little to satisfy his mind.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: A virtuous woman.]
THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO.
By LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.
"It is a cameo to break one's heart!" said Mrs. Dalliba, as she toyed
with the superb jewel. "The cutting is unmistakably Florentine, and yet
you have placed it among your Indian curiosities. I do not understand it
at all."
Mrs. Dalliba was a connoisseur in gems; she had travelled from one
extremity of Europe to the other; had studied the crown jewels of nearly
every civilized nation, haunted museums, and was such a frequent visitor
at the jewellers' of the Palais Royal, that many of them had come to
regard her as an individual who might harbor burglarious intentions. She
was a very harmless specialist, however, who, though she loved these
stars of the underworld better than any human being, could never have
been tempted to make one of them unfairly her own, and she seldom
purchased, for she never coveted one unless it was something quite
extraordinary, beyond the reach of even her considerable fortune.
Meanwhile few of the larger jewelry houses had in their employ
lapidaries more skilled than Mrs. Dalliba. She pursued her studies for
the mere love of the science, devoting a year in Italy to mosaics,
cameos, and intaglios. And yet the Crevecoeur cameo had puzzled wiser
heads than Mrs. Dalliba's, adept though she was. It was cut from a solid
heart-shaped gem, a layer of pure white, shading down through exquisite
gradations into deep green, and representing Aphrodite rising from the
sea; the white foam rose gracefully, with arms extended, scattering the
drops of spray from her hands and her wind-blown hair; the foamy waves
were beautifully cut with their intense hollows and snowy crests; it was
evidently the work of a cultivated as well as a natural artist; it was
not surprising that Mrs. Dalliba should insist that it could not have
been executed out of Italy.
But Prof. Stonehenge was right too; it was a stone of the chalcedonic
family, resembling sardonyx, except in color; others, similar to it both
in a natural state and wrought into arrow-heads, had been found along
the shores of Lake Superior. This seemed to have been brought away from
its associates by some wandering tribe, for it had been discovered in
Central Illinois. The nearest point at which other relics belonging to
the same period had been found was the site of Fort Crevecoeur, near
Starved Rock, Illinois. After all, the stone only differed from the
arrow-heads of Lake Superior in its beautiful carving and unprecedented
size--and, ah, yes! there was another difference, the mystery of its
discovery. No other skeleton among all the buried braves unearthed by
scientific research at Crevecoeur had been found with a gem for a
heart--a gem that glittered not on the breast, but within a chest hooped
with human bone. Mrs. Dalliba had just remarked that she had never felt
so strong a desire to possess and wear any jewel as now; but when Prof.
Stonehenge told how the uncanny thing rattled within the white ribs of
the skeleton in which it was found, she allowed the gem to slip from her
hand, while something of its own pale green flickered in the disgusted
expression which quivered about the corners of her mobile mouth. The
cameo was a mystery which had baffled geologist, antiquarian, and
sculptor alike, for Father Francis Xavier had gone down to his grave
with his secret and his cameo hidden in his heart. He had kept both well
for two centuries, and when the heart crumbled in dust it took its
secret with it, leaving only the cameo to bewilder conjecture.
Its story was, after all, a simple one. On the southern shore of
Michillimackinac, in the romantic days of the first exploration of the
great lakes by the Courreurs de Bois and pioneer priests, had settled
good Pere Ignace, a devoted Jesuit missionary. The old man was revered
and loved by the Indians among whom he dwelt. His labors blossomed in a
little village, called from his patron saint the mission of St. Ignace,
that displayed its cluster of white huts and wigwams like the petals of
a water-lily on the margin of the lake. Just back of the village was a
round knoll which served as a landmark on the lake, for the shore near
St. Ignace was remarkably level. On the summit of this mound the good
father had reared a great white cross, and at its foot the superstitious
Indians often laid votive offerings of strongly incongruous character.
Here he had lived and taught for many years, succeeding in instructing
his little flock in the French tongue, and in at least an outward
semblance of the Catholic religion. Even the rude trappers, who came to
trade at regular intervals, revered him, and lived like good Christians
while at the mission, so as not to counteract his teaching by their
lawless example. Here Pere Ignace was growing old, and even this
grasshopper of a spiritual charge was becoming a burden. His superior,
at Montreal, understood this, and sent him an assistant.
Very unlike Father Ignatius was Pere Francois Xavier, a man with all the
fire and enthusiasm of youth in his blood--just the one for daring,
hazardous enterprises; just the one to undergo all the privation and
toil of planting a mission; to undertake plans requiring superhuman
efforts, and to carry them through successfully by main force of will. A
better assistant for Father Ignatius could not have been found. It was
force, will, and intellect in the service of love and meekness; only
there was a doubt if the servant might not usurp the place of the
master, and the sway of love be not materially advanced by its new ally.
Indeed, if the truth had been known, even the Bishop of Montreal had
felt that Father Francis Xavier was too ambitious a character to reside
safely in too close proximity to himself; and engrossing employment at a
distance for him, rather than the expressed solicitude for Father
Ignatius, prompted this appointment. The results of the following year
approved the arrangement. The mission received a new accession of life;
its interests were pushed forward energetically.
Father Francis Xavier devoted himself to an acquisition of the various
Indian dialects, and to excursions among the neighboring tribes.
Converts were made in astonishing numbers, and they brought liberal
gifts to the little church from their simple possessions. Father
Ignatius had never thought to barter with the trappers and traders, but
his colleague did; large church warehouses were erected, and the mission
soon had revenues of importance. Away in the interior Father Xavier had
discovered there was a silver mine; but this discovery, for the present,
he made no attempt at exploiting. He had secured it to the church by
title deed and treaty with the chief who claimed it; had visited it and
assured himself that it would some day be very valuable, and he
contented himself with this for the present, and even managed to forget
its acquisition in his yearly report sent to Montreal. Father Francis
Xavier was something of a geologist; his father was a Florentine
jeweller, and the son had studied as his apprentice, not having at first
been destined for the church. Even after taking holy orders, Father
Francis Xavier had labored over precious stones designed for
ecclesiastical decoration. His specialty had been that of a gem
engraver, and his long white fingers were remarkably skilful and
delicate. This northern region, with all its wealth of precious stones,
was a great jewel casket for him, and he became at once an enthusiastic
collector.
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