0093
Miss Sylvy,” asked Joe, rather solemnly, “would you be so kin’ as ter tell me whar you hail from?”
“Do you mean where I was born?” Joe nodded. “Well, I’m very sorry, but I can’t tell you,” and the colour surged perceptibly under her dark skin.
“H’m,” said Joe, pressing his lower lip over the upper one, as he had a habit of doing when he considered any matter required careful thought. Then after a pause, “Well, your las’ name, Miss Sylvy, will you tell me dat? I don’ rightly remember eber to have heard it.”
“Sylvester, Joe, but it’s a name I chose for myself. I do not know what name I was born to.”
“Why, however, Miss Sylvy, did dat happen?” and Joe showed such deep and tender interest that Sylvia, who cared to talk on the subject with very few, gladly entered into a full explanation. She told him, as she hadtold Courage that summer night so many years before on Larry’s lighter, how she had found herself landed in the orphan asylum, with no name as far as any one knew, excepting just Sylvia, and how she had named herself Sylvester after one of the ladies who came to the asylum to teach. And then she continued, giving a brief outline of her life since that time, all of which proved most absorbing to Joe, because with the telling of Sylvia’s story he learnt so much of interest about Miss Courage as well.
“But, Honey,” he asked at the end of the story, with a sigh as of one who has listened with an intentness bordering upon fatigue, “who put you in dat ’sylum?”
“Some one just left me at the asylum at night, with a card pinned on to my dress with ‘Sylvia’ written on it, and saying that I had neither father nor mother, and then ran away in the darkness, but I don’t believe any one related to me would have treated me like that. I would rather you would not say anything about all this, Joe. It is only because you are one of my own people and seem so kind and interested that I have told you.”
“Thank you bery much for de confidence, Miss Sylvy, for my ole heart went right out to you from de day you done come walkin’ up depath at Little Homespun, but I’ll keep it safe, Miss Sylvy, never you fear.”
Joe and Sylvia had been busy washing dishes and clearing up after the luncheon, and it was when their work was finished and they were waiting under the chestnut tree for the others to come back, that they had had their little talk. It reached its natural conclusion just as Colonel Anderson came strolling up from the river, blowing a shrill whistle between two fingers, the signal previously agreed upon to call the children together.
“Now, do you know,” he said, when the little company had bestowed itself in much the same fashion as in the morning, “I have an idea that you will have to let Joe and me do all the talking now. We have only a short afternoon before us, and there is a great deal to tell.”
No one looked as though that would be the least hardship, and Joe explained that he himself would rather listen than talk, “less’n de. Colonel disremembered somethin’ very important.”
“Likely as not I shall, Joe, but it seems the point at which to commence this afternoon is with General Lee. At the time that he married Miss Mollie Custis he was a lieutenant in the United States Army, but he had graduated at the head of his class at West Point only two years before. After he was married, as you know, he made his home at Arlington, but he had to be away from it much of the time because of his duties in the army. He was a fine fellow, I can tell you, and held one responsible position after another. He was right in the thick of our war with Mexico, and won rapid promotion for his courage and daring. After a brilliant charge at Chapultepec, when he was severely wounded, he was made a brevet-colonel by General Scott. It seemed after that as though he was everywhere where a brave, fearless man was needed. He was in command in Texas when the Indians were attacking the settlers there; and was in many a bloody engagement. Later on, he was the commanding officer when the house was charged at Harper’s Ferry, where John Brown had taken refuge. I wish there was time, children, to stop and tell you about John Brown. You know the old song about ‘John Brown’s body lies a mouldering in the grave, but his soul goes marching on.’ Get Joe here to sing it for you some day, if you don’t. Well, you see by all this that General Lee had done a great deal for his country; but there came a day when he felt it his duty to turn against it, that is, to take up arms against theUnited States. You all know how the great civil war finally came about; how the Northern States thought the Southern States should not hold slaves, and how the Southern States thought they had the right to decide whether they should or not without any interference from the North, and so banded themselves together and said they would secede from the United States and form a confederacy of their own. This Virginia, whose air we are breathing this minute, was one of those states, and was General Lee’s native state as well; and when the time came to choose between his state and his country, he decided to side with the Confederacy. Then, of course, there was nothing for him to do but to resign from the United States Army. He sent his letter of resignation to General Scott on the twenty-second of April, 1861, and then at once left Arlington with his wife and children, for it was quite too near to Washington for him to stay now that he had taken a stand against the Government, and the very next day he was made commander-in-chief of the army in Virginia. A few days before this, that is, on the fifteenth of April, President Lincoln had called for seventy-five thousand volunteers, and three days after the Lees had left, the great army of the North came pouring into Washington and all thecountry round about. Camp-fires crackled among the oaks at Arlington, and the house itself was taken possession of by the officers, When the troops first arrived at Arlington they tramped through the deserted rooms, remaining just as the Lees had left them, and concluding that ‘all’s fair in love and war,’ they simply helped themselves to the forsaken treasures.
“Oh, but dose were drefful days!” said Joe, as though he must give vent to the thoughts Colonel Anderson’s words had stirred: “I neber can forgive dose Union soldiers, neber. Seems as dough dey might done have respect for a gentleman’s place, but not a bit of it. Seemed as dough dey could not be spiteful ‘nuff ’gainst de General. Des fancy seein’ things dat had belonged to Washington himself carried out of de house, and sol’ in de streets up dere in de city of Washington, and some of de negroes—shame on ’em!—ran away with things an’ sol’ ’em for more money dan dey themselves would have sol’ for ’fo’ de wah. Oh, it was pitiful to see the flower beds and lawns tramped over, as dough dey had been so much rubbish, and it wa’n’t long befo’ de smooth green terraces were just ragged mud-banks. You’d have thought I’d have gone away, wouldn’t you? But I couldn’t bring myself to leave de ole place, until I ’listed an’ went down to Alabama wid a coloured regiment. Dere, Colonel, I done interrupt you, didn’t I? But really, I was des thinkin’ aloud more dan talkin’, for I des can’t keep my thoughts to myself, when I grows ’stracted over de troublousness of dose times.”
“I don’t blame you, Joe, I don’t blame you,” said Colonel Anderson; “but, as for me, I was feeling pretty hot against General Lee those days. I didn’t see how he could make up his mind to regularly take up arms against his country, and I have an idea that I felt for awhile that he was treated no worse than he deserved; but that’s all bygones now, as well as the dear old Arlington home, that will never be a home again. You see, almost at the commencement of the war, children, Washington, with all the country immediately about, became the hospital centre, and soon a surgeon’s staff was quartered in the house yonder, in addition to the officers already there; and at the same time long canvas shelters were constructed in those woods, to which the poor sick and wounded soldiers were brought from camp and battlefield—and sadly enough many of them died here. At first all who died were taken to the Soldiers’ Home Cemetery on the other side of Washington to beburied, but the day came, as you know, when this very place was turned into a cemetery, and this was how it came about. One afternoon as President Lincoln was starting for his usual drive, which seemed to be the only way by which he could gain any relief from the burdens of that anxious time, he met General Meigs (who was Quarter-master General then of the United States Army) walking in the White House grounds. Noticing how tired and worn out the General looked, the President invited him to drive with him, and General Meigs accepted. It was the President’s purpose to drive out to Arlington, and when they reached there, the President started off for a quiet stroll; but General Meigs, whose thoughts were very busy just then as to what should be done with the poor soldiers, dying in such numbers in and about Washington, was soon deep in conference with the surgeons in charge. You see there would soon have been no more room in other cemeteries, and it was for the Quarter-master General to decide what was to be done in the matter. Now they say that General Meigs indulged in very bitter feelings toward his old friend General Lee, and that when he rejoined the President he said, ‘Lee shall never return to Arlington, no matter what the issue of the war may be,’feeling evidently that he should be fully punished in any case for the stand he had taken. Just at that moment a sad little procession came that way. The bodies of several poor fellows, who had died in the hospital tents, were being carried on canvas stretchers to a spot from whence they could be taken to the Soldiers’ Home Cemetery.
“‘How many men are awaiting burial?’ asked General Meigs of the Sergeant in charge of the squad.
“‘Altogether a dozen, sir,’ the Sergeant answered.
“‘Bury them there,’ ordered the General, pointing to a low terrace bordering the garden.”
“But did General Meigs have any right to turn General Lee’s place into a cemetery?” asked Courage, a little warmly, feeling that an interruption was excusable under the circumstances. To be fair always, if possible, to everybody, was a working principle with Courage, and this proceeding of General Meigs’s did not seem to her quite fair.
“Yes, I think he had a perfect right, Miss Courage. In time of war the Government certainly has a right to take possession, if necessary, of property belonging to any one in open rebellion against it; and besides, fivemonths before Arlington was converted into a cemetery, the place had been put up at public sale and bought by the Government. It was not, I believe, until 1873, however, that the Lees received any money for the estate, and that I admit does not seem fair at all. And there is another right of which I am certain, and that is that the brave fellows whose bodies rest in these graves had a right to the most beautiful spot anywhere in these United States of ours for their last resting-place. No, I think it was fitting that Arlington should become one of our national cemeteries, and I believe even Joe yonder, thinks so too.”
“Yes I do, Colonel Anderson,” Joe answered, solemnly. “Much as I love General Lee, I can’t forget what de war cos’ de country in de loss of human life, and General Lee done took a great ’sponsibility ’pon him, when he help de war on by takin’ command of de Southern troops. Yes, I’m glad dat de fine ole place has been pressed into de service of de country, in des de way it has been.”
Colonel Anderson’s question put to Joe and Joe’s reply seemed to loosen the tongues of the little company. Almost every one from Brevet up had some question or other to ask of the Colonel, and he was quite willing that they should, for they had all listened so attentively that the story had been told more quickly than either Joe or the Colonel had thought possible.
“And now, children,” said Brevet, with the air of a little grandfather, “do you wonder that I love to come and spend the day with Joe? Why, there isn’t a minute when I’m here, that he isn’t telling me something ‘bout before the war, or since the war, and when we go back to the cabin and Joe makes the hoe-cake and broils a chicken for luncheon, and I get the china down from the cupboard and set the table, with both of us talking most interesting all the time, and the smell of the cooking just filling all the cabin,—well, there isn’t ever such a happy time, is there, Joe?” Brevet had made his way to Joe’s side as he spoke, and reaching up, put one chubby little arm around his neck.
“No, bless yo’ little white heart, dere never is quite such a happy time!” and Joe drew the little fellow into his lap and held him close, as though he would love to keep him there forever.
“Is being in the cabin and having Joe cook the hoe-cake and the chicken nicer than having luncheon out here in the grass like this?” asked Allan Bennett, a whole world of envy in his tone.
"A heap nicer,” was Brevet’s not uncertain reply.
“Do you really t’ink so, Honey?” asked Joe, smiling from ear to ear. “Well, den, all you little Bennetts is invited on de spot, to take Fo’th of July dinner wid me in my cabin, an’ if Miss Courage will honour me wid her presence, an’ de Colonel will come out from Washington, an’ Miss Sylvy will lend me a hand wid de preparations, strikes me we might hab a good time sure nuff.”
Everybody accepted Joe’s invitation with alacrity, and there could not have been a happier ending to a perfect day than to have just such another perfect day planned for at its close. It simply took all the bitterness out of the parting that followed soon after.
“Miss Lindy,” whispered Joe importantly, as he helped Grandma Ellis into the carriage, “I ’spects you and Mars Harry for de Fo’th of July dinner, but as dere won’t be no room for Mammy I didn’t make no public mention of your two names. Seemed as dough it might make her feel a bit uncomfortable if she was de only one not mentioned; but you understan’, Miss Lindy, de cabin am small an’ Mammy large, an’” (putting his hand to his mouth and speaking in a still lower whisper) “seems like Mammy gettin’too old to be of much use to anybody. You un’erstan’, Miss Lindy?”
“Oh, yes, I understand perfectly,” Grandma Ellis answered, very much amused, “and I’ll make it all right with Mammy.” But from Grandma Ellis’s point of view Mammy did not seem to be growing old one whit more rapidly than old Joe himself.
Between one happy time and another the summer passed on at Little Homespun. Not that there was not occasionally an unhappy time—if everything had moved perfectly smoothly for three whole months together, in a house where there were four irrepressible children, with many of the faults common to the average child the world over, it simply would have been a miracle outright. No, indeed; there were times now and then when Courage quite lost her patience and would have liked to box and ship those four little Bennetts straight back to their mother, and there were days when even good-natured Mary Duff lost her patience completely, and declared she would chastise the first one of them that dared to cross the threshold of the kitchen; but then, to be quite fair, I have more than a glimmering notion that Courage and Mary Duff had their naughty moods too, as well as the children. You can’t feel perfectly right, you know, and always behave just asyou should every minute simply because you happen to be grown up. It would be very fine if you could, and there is no doubt that with both grown-ups and children, trying hard to get the best of the naughty moods will in time accomplish wonders.
But taken as a whole the unhappy times at Homespun were nothing more than motes in the Homespun sunshine. Most of the time merry, happy voices rang through and about the house from dawn till sunset. Peals of happy laughter, that made any one laugh who heard them, echoed everywhere. Bits of childish song floated down stairs and up stairs or came in at the open windows—“I’se a little Alabama Coon” always the burden of the refrain when Brevet was down for the day. Then, toward twilight, or more often a little later, when it had really grown quite dark, the same dear childish voices blended in a sweet evening hymn would float out at the open windows, and the little people whose whole minds had been given to play the long summer day through, would quiet down and then go contentedly off to bed, their childish hearts full of a sweet peace that they hardly understood, and which was not strange at all, for it was simply the peace that “passeth all understanding.”But not all the days by any manner of means were spent in or about Little Homespun. Joe’s Fourth of July dinner had been a great success, and there had followed several all-day excursions carefully planned in all their details by Uncle Harry, and every one of them voted a great success. The fall that had broken Uncle Harry’s arm had proved a veritable “windfall” for the children, if a windfall means something very pleasant that comes in your way quite by accident, like apples strewn by the wind unexpectedly at your feet. It had not been altogether an unpleasant experience for Uncle Harry either, notwithstanding, though it was now late in August, the arm was still in a sling. Twice it had had to be reset, and that had of course been very trying; and yet but for that arm he would have been delving away the whole summer through in a hot office up at Washington, and the children, without knowing of course what they were missing, would in fact have foregone half the delight of the summer. In Uncle Harry’s profession, no right arm to use meant nothing to do whatever, and so he was thankful enough that Courage and the Bennetts had found their way down to old Virginia, and that he had been able to plan and carry out so many delightful excursionsfor their enjoyment. But the summer’s crown of pleasure, as far as the Bennetts were concerned, had been the days spent at Ellismere with Brevet on his island.
I half believe I have not mentioned this island before, for which omission I am perfectly confident Brevet would never forgive me. The idea of trying to write anything whatever about him and not tell about that island the very first thing! It was altogether a wonderful place, I assure you. It lay about a hundred feet out from the shore, just in front of the Ellismere homestead; and as there was not another island within sight of it, Brevet always gratefully cherished the belief that it had been placed there just for him. It was about seventy feet long, and almost as wide, and it boasted a steep little ledge of rock on the side near the shore and two very respectable little pine trees. But it was what the hand of man had achieved upon this little island that made it the wonderful place it was, and that hand none other than old black Joe’s. It was he who had said one sunshiny May morning: “Brevet, I’ll build a camp for you over on that island,” and true to his word Joe had driven up to Ellismere every day that summer that he could spare from his not very arduous duties at Arlington, and he had workedaway as zealously as though he had assumed the work under contract.
As a result it had been finished the October previous, and Brevet had had several weeks to enjoy it before the cold weather obliged him to break camp for the winter. Grandma Ellis’s contribution to the scheme had been a cedar row-boat and a pair of spoon oars, by which to have communication with the island, but for everything else Joe was to be thanked. He had cut and sewed the tent, to say nothing of a canvas cot. He had manufactured tables and chairs, and best of all a soldier’s chest, with
burned in clear-cut letters upon the lid. There was even a little desk of rude contrivance upon which Brevet, after the successful conclusion of most exciting battles, would write cheering letters home to his grandmother. Outside of the tent hung a good-sized kettle over a bed of ashes, that bore witness to many a good meal cooked within it, while on the rocky ledge above, a toy brass cannon commanded the harbour, making the island quite invulnerable from any assault that might be attempted from the side near the shore.Was it strange then that to the Bennetts, and especially to the boys Teddy and Allan, this unique little spot, with its perfect equipment, offered more possibilities of good times than anything they themselves could in any way concoct or invent?—and they had lived up to their possibilities, though that had involved living at Ellismere most of the time. However, Grandma Ellis assured Courage they were not a bit of trouble, and Courage took her at her word, for the sake of what it meant to the children.
But, of all the wildly-exciting and happy days, none had seemed quite so exciting and happy as the day to which we have now come in this story. Perhaps the fact that there could not by any chance be many more of these times, lent its own specially brightening charm to the blessings that must soon take their flight; for it was the 27th of August by the calendar, and by the middle of September Little Homespun would be closed, and Courage and the Bennetts have taken their departure. Joe had been with the children all day, and he was the one to be thanked for most of its wildly exciting features. Single-handed, but supposed to represent a whole regiment, he had tried in a score of ways to effect a landing on the island; but by dint of unceasing vigilance the children had succeeded in keeping him at bay, until at last, despairing and exhausted, he had beaten a retreat to the main land. Indeed, so hard and unremitting had been the labours of the children, that about the middle of the afternoon Courage, who had been having an all-day chat with Grandma Ellis and was afraid the children would quite wear themselves out, succeeded in coaxing them to the shore, under promise of a story, and it was not to be any ordinary, made-up story either. Naturally in her daily contact with the children, Courage had alluded now and then to her own childhood, and with the result that they had extracted from her the pledge that she would tell them all about it some day. But as yet Courage’s “some day” never had dawned, although they had repeatedly begged for the story—now they concluded the time had come to take a stand.
“Will you tell us the story about yourself if we come over?” Teddy called from the island. “We are all agreed we cannot think of laying down our arms unless you will.”
“Agreed,” Courage called back, glad to commit them to an hour of quiet at any cost; and so the children embarked and rowed over, and Grandma entreated so hard that she might be allowed to listen too, that Courageyielded, and the little group gathered itself about her big rocking-chair on the gallery. Joe was also permitted to form one of the party; but there was another listener, who would not have been tolerated for a moment if his whereabouts had been known. He was stretched full length on the hair-cloth sofa just between the windows in the living-room, and, knowing it would be quite impossible for him to gain permission to be a hearer, he was just sufficiently unprincipled to listen without so much as saying “by your leave.”
You know the story that Courage told—if not you may read it if you have a mind, in the little book to which this is a sequel. At the outset, of course, she told how she had come by her unusual name, which was the greatest relief to Joe and Brevet. They had wanted so much to have that explained the whole summer through and yet had not quite liked to ask. The remainder of the story was new to all save Grandma Ellis, and Courage, now that she had really started, tried to be faithful to every detail that could possibly have any interest, from the day of her christening to the night when the draw was open and she took her wild leap in the darkness. When she had finished every one sat perfectly still for a minute. Courage told her own story much betterthan any one else has told or could tell it, and her great absorbing love for Miss Julia shone out like a golden thread all through the telling. Grandma Ellis was the first to draw a long breath and break the silence.
“Oh, but I wish I might have known your Miss Julia,” she said.
“You know somebody who is just exactly like her,” said Mary Bennett, putting her arm about Courage; “just exactly!” and this she said very slowly and firmly, as though she thought Courage might be inclined to differ with her, but Courage only said, “Dear child,” in a low whisper, so grateful was she for the most blessed praise that could possibly come to her.
“Let us see Miss Julia’s picture now, please,” urged the children, and Courage drew from her dress an exquisite miniature, set in pearls, and attached to a violet ribbon worn about her neck. They had all seen it many a time before, but it seemed to take on a new beauty in the light of all they had been hearing. It was when the picture had been passed slowly from hand to hand, and the natural thing seemed to be for the little party to break up, that Allan was the first to discover that one of the party had disappeared.
“Why, where is Brevet?” he exclaimed, asthough part of his personal belongings had given him the slip.
“Why, sure ‘nuff, where is dat chile?” queried Joe, getting up from his chair a little stiffly and peering up to the gallery roof and to the branches of the trees, as though the most unlikely spot imaginable was precisely the spot in which to expect to find his little Captain. “Seems to me it looks a little ugly over there toward Fort Meyer,” he added, stepping to the end of the porch and shading his eyes with his hand.
At these words Harry, who had been thinking over all he had heard, rose noiselessly from the lounge and slipped away to the rear of the house. There he saw at a glance that it did indeed look more than “a little ugly” over toward Fort Meyer. A large, funnel-shaped cloud of a dark brown color loomed high on the horizon and Harry’s heart sank within him. He had seen and known during a summer’s surveying in the West, the wreck and ruin that may follow in the train of such a cloud, and he knew that everything should be gotten into shape as quickly as possible. Hurrying quickly to the front porch he said, with as much composure as he could muster:
“You would better go directly into the house, Grandma, we may be going to havequite a storm. Send the children through all the rooms and have every shutter drawn to, and every window closed and fastened.”
“But Brevet,” said Grandma, trying her best to keep her voice steady, “no one knows where Brevet is. No one saw him go, or has any idea where he went.”
“Oh, he can’t be far away,” Harry answered, cheerily. “Joe and I will find him in a jiffy. Now you do as I say, Grandma,” gently pushing her toward the door, “and, children, whisk these chairs into the house, and then make for the doors and windows and close them tightly. Don’t stop to look, or lose a single minute.”
Harry succeeded in speaking calmly, but his manner showed how urgent he deemed the need of haste, and try as she would Grandma found herself unequal to the occasion. Her limbs refused to support her, and once inside the house she sank into the nearest chair, and, burying her face in her hands, broke into an agony of sobs and tears. To have little Brevet missing at such an anxious moment was more than her over-strained nerves could bear. Courage saw instantly it was for her to take command of the situation, and sending the children hither and thither through the house as Harry had directed, she herself hurriedaway for the stimulant of which Grandma Ellis so sorely stood in need.
Meanwhile poor old Joe, who in his alarm for Brevet’s safety had lost his head completely, had been wasting precious moments in looking in the most impossible places.
“Oh, Mars Harry, whar can dat blessed child be?” he said, coming up to Harry with the tears streaming down his face.
“Have you looked over on the island, Joe?”
“Oh, I never thought of dat, Mars Harry,” but the misery that was in Joe’s voice showed that he took in instantly all the dreadful possibilities, if the storm should break with Brevet alone on the island. They hurried as fast as they could to the shore, and there, sure enough! was Brevet, hard at work, getting his little camp into shape for the coming storm he had evidently been the first to discover. At that precise moment he was busy hauling down the little camp flag, but that he was not in the least disconcerted was perfectly evident. In the awful ominous hush preceding the storm, they could even catch the familiar strain of “I’se a little Alabama Coon.”
“We must not frighten him, Joe,” Harry said, his breath coming short and fast, “we must just call to him to come right back.But where is the boat, Joe?Whereis the boat?”
“Oh, Mars Harry! Mars Harry! look dere,” and now the fear in Joe’s voice had turned to veriest anguish; and Harry looking, saw the precious boat in mid-river, the oars still resting in the oar-locks, but as hopelessly beyond reach as though in mid-ocean.
“Oh, Joe!” cried Harry, looking down at the helpless arm bound firmly in the splints. Then, crying, “I will get a man from the stables; stay right where you are, Joe,” he was gone in a flash. A man from the stables! Joe knew how long that must take. No, there was just one thing to be done, and stripping off boots and jacket, in the next second he was breast deep in the water, and in the next striking out bravely for the island. It was a hard tug for the old man, for the current was strong; but Brevet, still unmindful of his danger, sang away with a will, and the words came distinctly over the water,—
“I’se a little Alabama Coon,
I hasn’t been born very long.”
“Bless your heart, no you hasn’t,” muttered Joe, keeping his head well above water. “You hasn’t been born long ‘nuff ter go out dis worl’ yet awhile, I’m thinkin’,” and nerved bythe little fellow’s unconscious calmness, Joe put all his strength in four or five more good strokes, and reached the camp, but he had no breath left with which to speak when he reached it. It was dreadful to waste the precious moments, but his breath was still too laboured from the strenuous effort he had been making for him to voice a single Word. Just at that moment Brevet turned to hurry down from the camp, and then stood riveted to the spot, his face white with terror. He did not see Joe in the dismay of his discovery.
“Oh, my boat is gone!” he cried, lifting his two little clenched hands in helpless consternation.
0121
“But here’s your Cap’ll,” rang out a dear familiar voice, and Joe thanked God that he was able to instantly dispel the little fellow’s fears. One bound, and Brevet was at Joe’s side.
“Did you swim over for me, Captain?” his two arms locked about Joe’s neck in his joy.
“Yes, I done swim ober for you Honey, an’ now we done goin’ ter swim back again. Des get on my ole back, dis a-way, Honey, only have a care not ter choke me an’ don’ be a-feared for a moment.”
It was hardly necessary for Joe to have added that, for on Joe’s back Brevet felt assafe as any of the rest of us on the deck of an ocean steamer. Besides, it was such fun to be carried ashore in that fashion. Only once it seemed to cross his little mind that it might perhaps be rather hard work for Joe.
“If I’m too heavy, I think I could swim all right. Shall I leave go?”
“No,” gasped Joe, fearing the dauntless little fellow might put his suggestion immediately into practice, “for Heben’s sake, no, Brevet!” and then Brevet tightened his hold as though realising there might be some danger. How great the danger only Joe himself knew, and he feared more than once that he would have to give up—that he could not save Brevet after all.
Harry’s search for help had been futile, and, rushing back to the shore, what was his joy to discover that Joe had dared to disobey orders and had safely crossed to the island! But what a terrible risk the old man was running, and, oh, the chagrin, young man that he was, of not being able himself to attempt the rescue! With bated breath he watched Joe’s start for the mainland, and then saw instantly how even the first return strokes taxed his strength to the full. At the point for which he was making the far-spreading limbs of two old live-oaks extended out over the river, and Harry, plunging into the water and clinging by his good arm to the heavier of two parallel branches, was able to make his way to its extreme end, quite a distance from the shore.
“Steer right for me, Joe,” he called, in a voice of earnest entreaty. “See where I am, Joe, I can help you from here.” But a sudden blackness had come before Joe’s eyes, and he could see nothing.
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Meantime Courage had hurried from the house the first moment she could be spared; had reached the river’s edge and instantly took in the situation. It would be little enough Harry could do even if poor Joe succeeded in reaching him—it was for her to gain some point as near him as possible, and be ready to lend a hand as well. Throwing aside a cloak she had caught up for protection, she strode into the water, and by aid of the same strong limb to which Harry was clinging, was able to take her place close behind him. Meantime not for one instant did Harry intermit his calls of encouragement, until at last the overhanging branch was almost reached.
“Joe,” he then called, in a voice of commanding entreaty, “one stroke more! Now lay hold of me and you’re safe.” Joe had hardly consciousness enough left to obey, but he made one stroke more, and then his armsgrasped something, he hardly knew what, with an iron grip, and barely keeping his head above water, his body dragged helplessly down the river with the current.
“And what shall I do?” gasped Brevet quickly, for he had at last fully realised the struggle of the crossing and knew that Joe’s strength was all but gone.
“You lay hold of my arm, Brevet,” cried Courage; “now let go of Joe; now cling to me and pull yourself up here on this limb. Quick, quick, Brevet, don’t lose a moment—there—now lie flat down and keep perfectly still with your arms firm around the branch under you. Now what?” in a voice of bewildered appeal to Harry.
“Can you shift yourself to that other limb and bend it within Joe’s reach? I am helpless.” Harry spoke through teeth clenched with the effort of supporting Joe and his own dead weight by that one arm’s hold on the branch beside him.
It was not an easy thing that Harry asked, but retreating toward the shore a little way, to a point where the branches came more closely together, she safely swung to the other limb, but in making her way out into the water again, she felt the ground fall gradually away beneath her feet,"Careful, careful,” called Harry; “don’t get beyond your depth.”
“I am all right,” Courage answered calmly, though she knew for a certainty that she was already beyond her depth—but what did that matter in the imperative need of the moment? All this while Joe, with closed eyes, still realised that the one thing for him to do was to hold on. Notwithstanding the deeper water Courage succeeded in working out along the branch until near enough to Joe to bend it by her weight within his reach. Then she cried peremptorily, with what little breath was left her:
“Joe, open your eyes.” Joe mechanically obeyed. “Now see this branch, Joe; reach for it and get upon your feet. The water is not deep.”
Harry felt Joe’s grasp relaxing from his body, but at the same time it was apparent that he was too weak and dazed to fully take in the situation, and was not about to make the effort necessary to seize the overhanging limb.
“Brevet,” cried Harry, under his breath, “speak to Joe. He is not going to try to save himself——”
“Joe! Joe!” called Brevet, an agony of appeal in his voice. Joe’s eyes opened again."Reach for that branch, Joe, and try to get ashore. I want you, Joe, I want you———”
Brevet’s dearly loved voice, with its deep sob of entreaty, seemed to reach some inner consciousness of Joe’s. If Brevet needed him, he must make one last effort; and, letting go his relaxed hold of Harry, he reached for the branch; struggled to his feet, stumbling heavily against Courage; took the necessary steps to reach the shore, and then fell utterly unconscious.
Meantime the storm had broken in all its fury. A great yellow whirl of dust and sand came sweeping down upon them, carrying broken twigs and larger branches, in a twinkling, past them; then came the rain in torrents, and vivid flashes of lightning. Brevet clung terrified to the limb, but, manly little fellow that he was, made no outcry. Harry, with but one arm at his service, hung where he was; the water serving to buoy his body up, and to sustain his weight, but he was powerless to alter his position. Courage, by the aid of the limb, made her way to the shore. Then calling back to Harry, “I will bring help at once,” she dropped on to her hands and knees, for it was impossible to stand against the wind and rain, and began creeping up the embankment. But fortunately for them all, help wasat hand. Teddy Bennett, fairly blown along by the wind, appeared on the ledge above her. Courage, leaning heavily upon one hand, pointed down the river, and Teddy in another minute was in the water and close at Harry’s side. It was the work of but a moment, strong young swimmer that he proved himself, to help Harry ashore, and then throwing themselves flat upon the ground and calling out every minute to Brevet to “Hold on and keep a brave heart!” they waited for the terrible storm to pass over.