Over the mantel in Major Pollard's smoking-room, in a heavy, elaborately carved frame, there hangs a colored photogravure of De Neuville's "Une Pièce en Danger," that terrible group—outlined against a gray background of battle-haze—of rearing, plunging horses, and of fiercely fighting German cavalrymen and French gunners, surging in desperate struggle around a limbered gun. Many a time I've sat and looked up at it, idly wondering whether the troop of Cuirassiers, dimly visible in the drifting smoke at the right, would come rushing into the rumpus in time to save the battered handful of artillerymen and the piece to which they so grimly and absurdlycling. But all this is neither here nor there: for the picture tells its own story—while the story I have in mind to tell is quite another one.
It's not a very thrilling story. In fact, I doubt if it will have much interest for any one outside the regiment; but it will please Pollard to see it in cold, black type, and I'm indebted to him for so many comfortable hours, passed in the fragrant atmosphere of that same smoking-room of his, that I gladly take this opportunity to even up in the matter of obligations.
It so happens that these are times of peace, and—though there are a few of us who childishly consider that the very peacefulness of the times affords a most excellent opportunity to prepare for war—the tranquillity of everything bids fair to continue undisturbed. But even in quiet days something in the blood of the Anglo-Saxon craves rivalry and contention, and so from year to year we of the volunteers get together and shoot—projecting much lead at remote bullseyes, in order to find out who are the most disgracefully erratic marksmen.
Now, in these days the soldier who cannotshoot—however pleasing to the eye he may be—is of no earthly sort of use. Pollard can shoot. On battalion drill he sometimes may find himself at a loss for just the proper command; and once, in earlier days, I heard him direct his astonished company to execute "Right forward, foursleft!"—but there is no denying that he can shoot.
To the scroll-work on the bottom of the great carved frame enclosing the picture of which I have spoken, there is fastened a bevelled, gilded panel, very modestly lettered in black, "LAST SHOT, 1890:" and this ideally simple inscription commemorates a shot which—if not "heard 'round the world"—has not yet ceased to be remembered whenever, in the company-rooms of the Third, men drift into rifle-talk.
Pollard was not always a major. It was only last October, when, in the nature of things, leaves were falling freely, that two pairs of bright, golden ones found a resting-place upon his broad shoulders. Back in '90, he was captain of "M" Company; and one night, early in September of that year, he found himself badly out of sorts at the news that one of the best men on his companyrifle-team had slipped, fallen, and gone into temporary retirement with a broken wrist.
"It's too blistering bad!" said Pollard, as, late that night, he stood upon the steps of the armory and scowled out into the darkness. "Even with Harvey on the team, we had no sure thing—'H' is shooting so like sin!—but now I don't knowwherewe are. Well, Johnny, you'll have to do your cleverest, and perhaps we'll get there in spite of you."
"Thanks!" said the younger officer, thus addressed. "You're mighty encouraging, aren't you? Well, I've always said that I ought to have been put on the team, and to-morrow I'll prove it. Wow! how it blows!"
"Yes, it's breezy," assented Pollard, listening to the lively rat-a-tat played by the loose flag-halliards upon the tower-staff, "and later it'll rain. To-morrow, though, will be a good enough day; see if it isn't. Come along, my son, it's high time we were getting bedward."
"Now, see here, Johnny," he observed, a moment later, stopping at the head of thestreet, "I've got to make good time to catch my train, but I'll pause to remark that you must go homenow! Don't color any pipes to-night; don't take a pencil and go to figuring on the scores, for matches aren't won in that way; and go to sleep early.Sleepis the all-important thing, and without it you'll not do anything to-morrow. Got all that? Good-night," and, tossing to his shoulder the rifle he carried, he rapidly strode away.
"Humph! he thinks I can't hold up my end," thought the lieutenant, glancing at the receding figure of his superior officer; "I'll show him! I'm sorry for Harvey, but I'm inclined to think that his place will be filled tolerably well. Pollard's right, though, about the sleep question. I'd like to play a game or two of billiards, but," heroically, "but—I'll go home."
Meanwhile Pollard was hastening towards his train. As he came in sight of the illuminated clock-dial upon the station his rapid walk quickened into a trot; and the trot, in its turn, gave place to a run when, as he passed in through the wide doorway, he heard the clang of the last gong. However,by a spirited dash down the long platform, he caught the handrail of the last car in the moving train, and swung himself, panting but triumphant, upon the steps.
"Enemy behind us?" inquired the brakeman, pausing in his task of knotting the dangling bell-cord, and glancing down at the uniformed figure below him.
"Didn't have time to see," said Pollard, laughing at the aptness of the question. "I ran without waiting to find out," and, as the train swung around a curve and rattled over a switch, he lurched through the doorway, and dropped into the nearest empty seat. Fifteen minutes later he found himself at his destination, and leaving behind him the oasis of brightness formed by the lights of the little station he plunged into the desert of suburban gloom lying beyond.
It certainly was not a cheerful night to be abroad. The sky was black as a hat, and the wind swept by in gusts that threatened to extinguish the street lamps which, at rare intervals, twinkled along the lonely way. It was early in September, and many of the houses still were closed; while the lateness ofthe hour made those that were occupied seem dark and untenanted.
Half unconsciously Pollard began to whistle "The White Cockade," and his step fell as naturally into the cadence of the air as if he were following the regimental drum-corps. A short walk brought him to his own house,—standing shadowy and silent among the surrounding trees,—and, dropping upon the floor of the porch the butt of his rifle, he fumbled in his pocket for his keys. He threw open the door, stepped into the yawning blackness of the unlighted hall, and groped his way along the wall to the electric button which should light the chandelier. He pressed it, but no blaze of light followed the sharp click. Once more he touched the button, and then, when again the light failed to respond, cautiously felt his way along the floor until he stood beneath the chandelier, and, reaching up his hand, found that the gas was turned off.
"Hello!" he said to himself. "That's funny—altogethertoofunny! I certainly left the gas turned on, ready for the spark," and instinctively he fell back a pace, and then stepped out upon the porch.
"DidI leave the burner like that?" he queried, as he stood peering into the dense shadow before him. "Blessed if I can remember! Somehow, though, it seems queer," and, unbuttoning his military great-coat, he slipped his hand beneath its lapel and drew a cartridge from the canvas belt which hung from his shoulder diagonally down across his chest.
"I'm not sure that this is a very sandy proceeding," he thought, pushing home the cartridge, and with a vicious snap locking behind it the breech-block of his rifle; "but if anybody's in the house I'm going to have an even show with him."
Balancing his piece in his left hand, he again entered the hall, turned on the gas, touched the button, and when the jet of flame flared up, glanced quickly into the empty rooms on either side. All was as he had left it in the morning; and after intently listening for a moment he closed and bolted the hall door, and went upstairs to his own rooms.
Once in the room he called his Den, he took off his great-coat, drew the cartridge from his rifle, and returned it to its place inthe long row of leaden-tipped, shining copper cylinders in his ammunition-belt, and tossed the belt upon the lounge. Then he went over to the mantel, picked out from the litter upon it a short, dark briarwood, and proceeded to comfort himself with smoke.
"Humph! that was a pretty weak exhibition," he grunted, stooping over to unlace his shoes. "Come to think of it, when I went out this morning I found that I'd left the light burning all night, and—I remember it now clearly enough—turned off the gas to save the bother of going over to punch the button."
He tossed aside his shoes, put on a pair of easy slippers, and lighted a candle. "May as well see that all's tight," he soliloquized, starting on a tour of the silent house; "here goes for 'grand rounds'! It is lonesome, with the family across the water. Wish they'd come home! Can't say I blame the servants for packing up and leaving; but mother'll be wild when she gets my letter telling that they've gone."
From room to room, trying the fastenings of doors and windows, he went his rounds. All was secure; so, pausing on his way totouch the button extinguishing the hall light, he slowly climbed the stairs again, locked the door of his Den, and with a yawn flung himself into his easy-chair.
For a few minutes he quietly sat thinking; then, taking from his pocket a pencil, he began to jot down upon the back of an old envelope a series of figures—his estimate of the scores likely to be made in the match of the morrow.
"Perhaps we can pull it out," he muttered, eying the columns of figures upon the crumpled bit of paper; "perhapswe can; but it'll be cruelly close! 'H' is good for almost anything up to five points over centres, and—unless I can get more than I think I can out of Johnny—we're not liable to run much above that. Confound Harvey! Why couldn't he pick out a more convenient time for breaking himself?"
Here Pollard guiltily started, sprang to his feet, and hastily began to throw off his garments, for the clock in the hall outside had begun to sound off the first of the twelve slow strokes of midnight. "I'm better at preaching than at practising," he thought, grinning at the remembrance of his partinginjunctions to his junior; "I've broken two-thirds of the rules I laid down for Johnny. Well, I'm an old hand at this business, and even if I've wasted a half-hour or so I shall get enough sleep to put me into shape," with which consoling reflection he took a long, parting pull at his pipe, shook the ashes from it, put out the light in the Den, and went into his bedroom adjoining.
Taking a revolver from the drawer of the bureau, he tucked it under his pillow; and after locking the door, leading from the chamber into the hall, kicked his slippers across the room, finished his disrobing, and tumbled into bed. "There it comes!" he drowsily murmured, as a stronger gust of wind was followed by a few scattering drops, and then by a driving dash of rain. "Well, it'll rain itself out before morning; to-morrow'sgotto be a good day. H'm! it's pretty quiet out here! I'm sick and tired of this suburban business; think I'll have to set up bachelor-rooms in town, after the family gets back." And with this resolve—which he later carried into effect—he fell asleep, with the fingers of one hand lightly and comfortably resting upon the butt of his pistol.
For more than an hour the rain fell heavily; then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ceased. With it the wind died away, leaving a silence so intense that when the hall clock gave out two resonant strokes the sound echoed and reëchoed through the house. Ten minutes later the deep quiet was broken by a sharp crack, as of splintering wood, and then, for a time, all again was still.
Now, Pollard sleeps lightly, and the unusual sound, insignificant though it was, started him up upon his elbow, with eyes wide open and ears strained to catch the slightest creak or jar. Three minutes passed. He was about to relax his motionless position of listening, when there came to his ear a muffled noise that made him slip cautiously, revolver in hand, from bed.
"Shoving up a sash, by thunder!" he said to himself. "It's lucky that I came out, instead of going to a hotel as I thought of doing. Let's see what's going on."
He crept to the door, pressed his ear to the thin panel, and listened; but after a few seconds he straightened up, and disgustedly addressed himself thus: "See here, Pollard—CaptainPollard!—what sort of soldier areyou? Your heart's thumping so that you can't hear anything else, and your knees are about as near wobbling as they well can be without doing it! I know you're not afraid—but whatisthe matter with you?" Again he put his ear to the door, and this time distinctly heard from below sounds which plainly indicated that some one was at work in the dining-room.
"Now, I'd give something," thought the silent listener at the door, "to know just how my side of this campaign ought to be conducted. In the first place, I'd be a heap sight more courageous if I had on my trousers and shoes. I'm no Highlander; I'm just an ordinary citizen-soldier—and if I've got to go into action I'd much prefer to form for the attack in less light-marching-order than this. But if I leave the door—confound it all!—I'll lose touch with the enemy. I want my clothes, but Imustknow what's being done down there."
Still keeping to his post at the door he noiselessly cocked and uncocked his weapon, in order to make sure that the cylinder freely revolved. Below, for a moment, all was quiet; then came a sound which Pollard interpretedto be the metallic clink of hastily gathered silverware. "That'll keep 'em busy for a moment," he thought, leaving the door, "and I'll have time to put on my armor. There isn't much stuff in the sideboard—only a few spoons and forks. Lucky that we sent the bulk of the silver in to the vaults! Here are my trousers—and here's one slipper—where in glory's the mate to it? Oh, if I only find it I'll make a vow to put my foot-gear, after this, under my pillow every night!" For an instant longer he cautiously pawed around in the darkness, but the missing slipper refused to be found, and so, half-shod, he crept back to the door to resume his listening.
The startled feeling that had come upon him when so suddenly awakened had gone, and he was perfectly cool and determined. "Well, what's the next move?" he asked himself, as he stood listening to the faint sounds below. "So long as I stay here I'm safe enough, but it seems a trifle white-feathery to let 'em have full swing down there, without lifting a finger to spoil their sport. Of course I can scare 'em out of the house easily enough—a couple of thumps on the floor would do it—but I want ashotfor my money. What sort of good were old Bones' 'Emergency Lectures'? I went to 'em all, last winter, and yet here's an emergency—and I don't know exactly what to do with it!"
For a time there had been a cessation in the noises below stairs, but suddenly Pollard became aware of stealthy footfalls, and then the stairs lightly creaked under an ascending tread.
"They're coming up!" he said to himself; "more than one of 'em, too—I can tell by the sound! Well, this campaign's planned itself out now. I'm going to fight on inside lines," and gently disengaging his slippered foot from its encumbrance, he stole barefooted into the outer room, and took his station at the door.
"Now, this is going to be almosttooeasy; and all because the inspired architect who planned this house saw fit to locate a push-button in the wall, just outside!" thought Pollard, as there came to his ear a subdued whispering which indicated that the intruders had reached the head of the stairs, and had paused for a short consultation. "I'll just try a pot-shot at these gentlemen from insidehere; and then—when they break for downstairs—step out, touch up the light in the lower hall, and halt 'em where they stand."
Softly falling back a couple of paces, he pointed his pistol towards the door, and fired. In the confined air of the closed room the report was deafening, and Pollard's ears rang merrily, when—taking it for granted that his visitors must be in full retreat—he sprang to open the door and put into execution the remaining part of his plan of operations. In clumsy haste he groped in the darkness for the key; but at that instant a shot rang out in the hall, and a bullet tore its way through the panel of the door and embedded itself in the opposite wall, making a most unexpected interruption in the programme that he had laid out for himself to follow.
"Stay where y' are—d' yer hear?—stay where y' are," commanded a hoarse voice from without, "while we're gettin' clear, or I'll blow yer blasted head off, yer—" here came a burst of abusive profanity that sent Pollard's blood to the boiling-point.
"All right; but get out lively!" said he, still keeping his hand upon the key, but swinging to one side in order to be out ofdirect range of the frail door. At the words, a second bullet came splintering through the wood, as if to give emphasis to the remarks which so had annoyed him, and then there followed a noisy rush of feet down the stairs.
Without an instant's hesitation Pollard wrenched open the door, jumped into the hall, and calling, "Up with your hands!" set ablaze the gas in the chandelier below. Midway of the stairs, as he stood in the shadow of the upper landing, he saw the two marauders, who had been checked in their flight by the unexpected burst of light.
"Come—up with those hands!" said Pollard sternly, levelling his weapon, "or I'll blowyourblasted—" but the sentence was left incomplete, for with cat-like swiftness one of the men turned and fired at him. But Pollard, heavily built though he is, can be quickness itself when occasion demands, and at the flash of the other's revolver his own weapon spoke sharply, sending a cruel bit of lead ploughing its way through flesh and sinew and bone. With a gasp of pain the man at whom he had fired reeled over against the balusters, and, as his shatteredarm fell helplessly at his side, his smoking pistol dropped from his grasp and went clattering down the stairway.
"Have you got enough?" said Pollard, swinging over his weapon, and covering the unwounded burglar. "There's more of the same sort where that came from—if you want it!"
"Don't shoot again!" said the second man, throwing up his hands. "We give in!"
"Thereby showing more sense than you've shown yet," returned the barefooted master of the situation, coming forward a few steps. "Now, listen to me. Take your pal down to that big leather chair in the corner of the hall—and don't make any fatal mistake by trying to pick up that gun on the stairs!"
"And now," he went on, following the doleful procession downstairs, "get his coat off, and see how badly he's hit. Bone's broken, eh? H'm! that's pretty bad! Well, get to work to stop the bleeding; I'll tell you how," and under his directions the wounded arm was bandaged up in a rough, though effective fashion.
"And what'll I do with younow?" said Pollard reflectively, as he stood lookingat the two crestfallen intruders. "What's that? 'I shot first!' Well, that's so; but I also shot last—and best. It's no use; I've got to turn you over, much as I dislike to do it."
Here there came heavy footsteps upon the porch outside, followed by a sharp pull at the door-bell, and Pollard, keeping one eye upon his two bad men, edged to the door and opened it.
"Come in," he said politely, as he caught the glitter of a policeman's buttons; "come in; but don't feel obliged to club me. In fact, you needn't club anybody; the row's all over, and we're all friends here."
"I'd have been here sooner," said the panting patrolman, reaching into his pocket for his handcuffs, "only when I heard the shooting I ran to the box, and rang in the wagon-call. The team'll be along in a minute. Well, you've done a good job here, sir, and I guess you didn't need much help about it, judging by the looks of things."
"No, I suppose I didn't," admitted Pollard, shivering slightly as the damp air of the early morning found its way through the thin, white garment which modestly drapedthe upper portion of his person; "I daresay I didn't; but ten minutes ago, all the same, I wouldn't have refused a small amount of assistance Br-r-r! Chilly, isn't it? If you'll stay here and entertain my guests for me, I'll run upstairs for a minute and throw on some more cloth."
Stooping to pick up the burglar's revolver, which still lay where it had fallen upon the stairs, he ran up to his room, struck a light, and without bothering over the matter of hosiery, slipped on his shoes. Then he struggled into his warm, military coat, lighted a cigar, and descended to the hall, just in time to hear the rapid beat of hoofs and the crunching sound of wheels that told of the patrol-wagon's approach.
In a few minutes more all was over; Pollard had told his story to the officers and the few excited neighbors who had ventured out to investigate the cause of the tumult, and the wagon had rumbled away with its two unwilling passengers and their guards.
"Well, that's over with and out of the way," said Pollard to himself, after he had made secure the window through which, by forcing off the catch, the burglars had gainedentrance; "out of the way for the present, at least: to-morrow, I suppose, I'll have to go through all manner of fuss at the station—and later I'll be summoned to court to help jug those poor devils for ten years or so apiece. Confound 'em! why couldn't they have gone to some house where the people were away, instead of stirringmeup?"
He yawned, and slowly made his way up to his Den, pausing for a minute to inspect the perforated panels of the door. Of the three holes in the woodwork, two were clean-cut and smooth, showing that the lead had gone through from without; the third, ragged and surrounded by splinters, told of the shot that he had fired.
"I'll have to get that door patched up before mother comes home," he reflected, as he passed into the room, "or she'll have a most awful attack of nerves when she sees it. Hello! it's well along towards three o'clock, and—Great Jupiter's thunderbolts! I'd forgotten about that match!"
He dropped into a chair, and stared blankly at the carpet. How on earth could he manage to be in two places at once? He hadpromised to report in the morning at the police-station, and yet hemustleave town on an early train with his company team!
"Phew! Iamlet in for it!" he thought. "Here's another 'emergency' not provided against in Bones' lectures. I've ordered the team to report to me at eight o'clock, and if I go over to see the police I can't get to the armory in time. On the other hand, if I fail to show up at the station I'll more than likely succeed in mixing myself up in some unholy legal mess. Now,howcan I surround the situation?"
It certainly was a perplexing problem: but Pollard is not of those who are prodigal of time in the making up of their minds, and his decision was reached in short order.
"I don't know much about law," said he to himself, as for the second time that night he pulled off his shoes; "but, for the present, the police will have to go to Halifax! Perhaps I'm showing contempt of court, or something else of the sort that will get me into calamity. I can't help it if I am! I'm going out with the team, even if I land in jail for doing it. Lord! I'm in fine, fat form for shooting! To-morrow'll find me—to-day'llfind me, I mean—asnervous as a Salem witch," and groaning dismally at his hard luck, he hunted up an alarm-clock, set it for an early hour, and prepared to snatch what little sleep he yet might be able to get.
With a vivid recollection of recent experiences he carefully assembled his slippers at the foot of the bed, and then crawled between the sheets. "I mustn't let the boys know anything about this," he reflected, as he lay waiting for sleep to come to him; "it would break 'em up. Let me see, the morning papers go to press somewhere about two o'clock, so the story can't leak out in that way. Well, it's tolerably certain thatI'mout of the race. It would take a wooden man to go through a night like this without getting the quivers. I'll be satisfied if I can put my ten shots anywhere on the target."
Rolling over upon his side he closed his eyes, murmuring, "Glad I winged that fellow, after all; he did his best to lay me out, and his remarks were extremely ungentlemanly. Take it all together, it was a pretty lively fray while it lasted. Can't say I'd care to go through another like it—not just yet, anyway."
After an hour of turning and tossing, Pollard succeeded in dropping into a troubled sort of doze; but, as it seemed to him, he hardly had lost consciousness when the merciless little bell of the alarm-clock began to rattle out its diabolical reveille, compelling him, heavy-eyed and in a most villainous frame of mind, to struggle out from beneath the tangled bedclothes. A plunge into a tub of cold water did something towards freshening him up a bit, but when he buckled on his ammunition-belt and picked up his rifle he swore softly to himself at the day's prospect. However, a quick walk in the crisp air of the September morning sent the blood jumping cheerfully through his veins; and after he had made, at an in-town hotel, a halt long enough for the total destruction of a thick and generous tenderloin of steak, he strode over to the armory in a more confident mood.
And the match? Well, it was much like a hundred other matches that have been shot over the same stretch of level, close-cropped greensward: but "H" shot like sin, and itwasa cruelly close thing—as Pollard had thought it would be—from the time when the firstbullet was sent singing on its way towards the distant targets, until the last disk had been pushed up from the marking-pit.
According to his custom, Pollard coached his team until, except himself, all had fired; then, with a coolness at which he found himself wondering, he took his place at the firing-point and prepared to shoot his own score. Shot by shot the sergeant at the blackboard chalked up the results: three centres; a bullseye; another lone centre; two more bullets in the black; a fifth centre; a fourth bullseye—and one shot yet to be fired!
With his eyes upon the target, Pollard was slipping a cartridge into the chamber when he felt a touch upon his sleeve, and turning, saw Lieutenant Johnny, flushed with excitement, standing beside him. "Polly," whispered the youth, with utter forgetfulness of rank and title, "Polly, 'H' has finished! I'd never think of doing this with anybody besides you—but, to win, you'll have to get a 'bull.' A 'four' isn't going to do the trick, for we'd be outranked on a tie.You've got to land in the black!"
"Yes?" said the captain, dryly. "Well, Johnny, fall back—the gun might explode,you know," and with a last glance at the drooping wind-flags, he stiffened himself into position, gently lined the sights upon the far-off speck of black, and fired.
For five breathless seconds, while the little puff of pungent smoke lazily floated away, there was silence; and then, when the white disk went slowly creeping up over the face of the target to find its resting-place upon the bull's eye, there came from the watching men of "M" a sharp gasp of relief, followed by an exultant yell of victory.
"Steady!" commanded Pollard, swinging around upon his heel. "What's the matter with you, boys? Do you want to make people think we've never won before?" and, bending over to pick up his lightened cartridge belt, he walked towards the tents.
Late that afternoon, as the members of Pollard's team sat together in the smoker, on their way back to town, a newsboy entered the car. Pollard beckoned him to his side, bought an afternoon paper, and after rapidly running his eye down the columns of the outer page, handed the sheet to his lieutenant.
"Holy Smoke!" said that young man, catching a glimpse of the bold type heading the story of his captain's night adventure, "Isthatthe way you slept last night? Well, I'll be—"
"You'll be asked to 'send in your papers,' Johnny," interrupted Pollard, with an awful yawn, "if you ever again speak to me when I'm at the firing-point in a match. You came pretty close to queering my score for me, this afternoon. Yes, that's the way I slept last night, and I think I'm beginning to feel it a trifle," whereat he again yawned, and then settled himself more comfortably upon the dusty cushions of the seat.
Well, that's all there is to the story. About the picture in Pollard's smoking-room? Oh, the men of his team gave that to him, thinking that he would like to have something by which to remember the cleverest shot he ever fired. Over in the big armory, in the company-room of "M," there hangs another picture, just like that one—the trophy awarded by the Commonwealth to the team winning the championship of the regiment.
Transcriber's NotesRetained hyphenated and unhyphenated versions of "to-day" and "to-morrow" used in the original book.Page 44: changed "sittting" to "sitting."(Orig: He was sittting alone upon the bench,)Page 207: Changed "beween" to "between" and "must'nt" to "mustn't."(Orig: then crawled beween the sheets. "I must'nt let the boys know)