“The farm won’t be the same for any of us after you go away. I never had any boys of my own; I always wanted them and it seems to me now I feel the want of them more than ever, because I see how nice a nice boy really is.”
“I never was accused of being a nice boy by my best friends,” cried Brydell, laughing but pleased. “Ask Aunt Emeline what she thinks of me.”
As for Minna, every mention of Brydell’s leaving was met by her throwing her arms around his neck and pleading, “You won’t go away and leave me?” Brydell partially gained her consent to go, on promising that he would send her chests full of magnificent things and a dolly as big as herself.
Toward the last of the summer he got a letter from his father. It was very kind and affectionate, and almost humble in tone.
“I feel that I have erred through my tenderness for you,” he wrote; “but I hope that you have experienced the worst you will have to undergo of the effects of my fondness. I do not know what you are doing now, and shall wait eagerly to hear, but I rely upon your manliness and uprightness to carry you through.”
Brydell’s reply to this letter was a very cheerful one.
One day in the autumn, as Brydell in his blue overalls was driving an ox-wagon loaded with fodder down the lane, he suddenly caught sight of a trim military old figure standing at the gate, with another rather slouchy one, and the next minute he recognized Admiral Beaumont’s hearty laugh.
The admiral was highly amused at the spectacle his young friend presented, mounted on a load of hay, while Billy Bowline grinned appreciatively at the sight. Brydell was delighted to see his old friend and, noticing that his employment as teamster seemed to afford the admiral great diversion, he cried out:—
“Delighted to see you, admiral! Just let me get my team through this gate and I’ll jump down and shake hands with you. Gee, buck!”
“Ha, ha!” roared the admiral. “You haven’t sea room enough, my young friend, in which to manœuvre that craft. You’ll foul that gatepost as sure as a gun.”
“No, I won’t; whoa!” shouted Brydell in reply. The oxen made a sudden turn that really did threaten to foul the gatepost.
“Keep your luff,” called out the admiral, waving his stick excitedly, “and keep your head to the wind.”
“Can’t,” replied Brydell, who was not an expert ox-driver by any means; “you see she yaws about so there’s no keeping her head to the wind.”
At last, after the expenditure of much lung power, both by Brydell and the admiral, the wagon got through, and Brydell, jumping down, shook hands heartily with his old friends.
“Bless my soul!” cried the admiral, “I never saw a fellow grow like you. Why, you are about a foot taller and two feet broader than you were last year—eh, Bowline?”
“He do grow amazin’ fast,” said Billy solemnly, “and I reckon as how he’ll be the finest-lookin’ feller in the sarvice when he gits there. But, Mr. Brydell, beg your parding, sir, you ought not to risk your life, sir, in no sich a craft as that. Horses is bad enough, but oxen is the most dangersome thing alive. Like as not they run away with you or kick your head off, sir. Now, sir, aboard ship you ain’t never in no danger. That’s the beauty of the sarvice, sir, ain’t no horses for to kick you, nor no oxen for to run away with you; jist nothin’ to hurt you; and when the wind blows, all you’ve got to do, sir, is to make everything snug and git to sea, and there you is, sir, safe and sound.”
“The old dunderhead is right,” chuckled the admiral highly pleased, while Brydell in his heart really thought a ship was the safest thing under heaven, particularly a United States ship.
Brydell took his two old friends up to the house, where Mrs. Laurison received them, as she did everybody, kindly and graciously. The admiral, struck by her gentle and refined manner, bowed over the hand of the farmer’s wife as if she were the greatest lady in the land, while Billy Bowline stood just outside the door, twiddling his cap, and could not be induced to sit down even in the hall.
“For ’tain’t for the likes o’ me to be sittin’ down afore ladies,” said Billy. “But I’d like mightily to have a word with that little ’un as looks like a angel.”
Minna, after having made friends with the admiral, was quite willing to make friends with the old sailor. Presently they saw her put her chubby hand in his and lead him out under a tree, where they both sat down on the grass, and through the window floated in scraps of a thrilling narrative that Billy was telling her: “The prin-cess, she then give orders, ‘Bring up my palankeen,’ and she climbed over the side and then she trimmed the palankeen, and it’s a mighty onhandy thing to trim, my dear”—
Mrs. Laurison invited the admiral to stay to dinner, and he accepted frankly. Brydell slipped upstairs and washed and changed his clothes; then the admiral went upstairs, too, and had a long talk with him. He took Brydell’s books and gave him a pretty sharp examination, which Brydell stood remarkably well; he had not wasted his time.
When dinner was ready they found Mr. Laurison dressed in his best clothes, and Mrs. Laurison had put on a pretty gown for the admiral. The dinner was very jolly, and Brydell was glad that the admiral saw what excellent quarters he had fallen into.
After dinner, when it was time for the train, Mr. Laurison wanted to send the admiral to the station in the old carriage that was used on great occasions, but the admiral preferred to walk. He and Brydell started off, therefore, in the autumn evening to walk, with Billy Bowline rolling along after them.
“I have waited to write to your father until I should see you,” said the admiral; “but now I can write with a cheerful heart. Zounds, sir, you are in luck; a year of hard study, hard work, and independence will make a man of you. I thought your failure in your examination the worst thing that could befall you. But don’t you see, youngster, that what seems to be the worst may sometimes be wrested to make the very best?”
Brydell was not quite prepared to admit that his two mortifying failures were the best things that could have happened to him; but he rightly considered himself a fortunate fellow in the way his resolve to earn his living had turned out. He told the admiral of the letter he had received from his father, and what he had replied. And then he spoke of Grubb and Esdaile.
“I have heard of that Esdaile fellow, and mark my words, he’s a scamp. It’s well enough to elevate himself; poor Grubb is an honest, sensible fellow, though uneducated; but I hear that his boy would have nothing to do with him, except on the sly, and actually has been heard to deny that Grubb is his father. I say that fellow is a pernicious, unqualified, and unmitigated scamp and scalawag; and I don’t care if he passes No. 1 in his class, I’d fire him out of the navy in short order, if I had my way.”
Presently out of the darkness came the roar and thunder of the train, the admiral wrung Brydell’s hand as did Billy Bowline, Billy saying, “Good-by, Mr. Brydell, I hopes as how you’ll git through and be a ornament to the sarvice, sir, afore I trips my anchor and sets out for the other coast.”
Brydell went back wonderfully encouraged. The admiral believed in him, and that belief of others in us does wonders. Even Billy Bowline’s appreciation was not lost on Brydell.
The autumn and winter passed rapidly. Lieutenant Brydell’s ship was still cruising in the Pacific, stopping occasionally for letters that were months in reaching their destination. Brydell received several letters from his father, all encouraging in tone, especially after Admiral Beaumont’s letter.
The spring came on apace, and at last one day in May, exactly a year from the time Brydell had gone to Annapolis before, he was notified to present himself before the examining board.
Brydell felt reasonably confident. Not only had he worked hard, but, forced to depend upon himself and to solve his own difficulties, he felt that he stood a better chance of making a four years’ course than if he had been crammed by a tutor to get through his examinations and then make a flat failure afterward.
It was hard on him to say good-by to the Laurisons, and Minna was so distressed at the idea of parting from him that Mrs. Laurison and he agreed that it would be better for him to slip off early in the morning before sunrise, so that the child would be spared the pain of parting. Both Mr. and Mrs. Laurison were up to give him his breakfast and see him off. Mrs. Laurison said to him:—
“If ever your Aunt Emeline said you were a disagreeable boy, I think she must have been a very disagreeable woman, for in the year you have lived with us I don’t think I could have found fault with you if I had tried.”
“Dear Mrs. Laurison, it was because you were all so good to me,” answered Brydell with tears in his eyes.
The farewells were said, and Brydell struck off in the path that led through the field to the little roadside station. Just as he shut the gate that led from the path to the farm enclosures a childish figure, topped by a ruffled dimity sunbonnet, rose from beside the gate.
“I heard you get up,” said Minna, “and I knew you were going to-day, so I slipped out of bed and dressed myself, for I heard mamma say something to you about not telling me good-by because I would cry so; and I’m not a cry-baby, and I want to say good-by too.”
Brydell kissed her and promised to write to her, and although she evidently wanted to cry she did not shed a tear. Brydell started her back to the house and Minna trotted off obediently, but he saw her stop once or twice and put her apron to her eyes.
In a few hours he was at Annapolis and in a few days he had passed a splendid examination and was formally notified that he was a naval cadet at last.
Esdaile was a third-class man, of course, and he was almost the first person that Brydell ran across. Bearing in mind what the admiral had said about Esdaile being ashamed of his father, it was not without a wish to make Esdaile ashamed of himself that Brydell, the first time they met alone, said carelessly:—
“By the way, Esdaile, I believe you are the son of one of the best friends I have in the world—Private Grubb, of the marines. I nearly killed him once, when I was a kid, and after that we came to be tremendously fond of one another.”
Esdaile’s face turned crimson.
“I’d—I’d rather you wouldn’t mention about my father,” answered Esdaile. “You know my mother’s people, the Esdailes, were altogether different from my father’s. My grandfather Esdaile was an ambitious man—the Esdailes are a good family—and left me some money on condition I changed my name, and it would be awkward for me when I’m an officer to have it known that my father is a private of marines.”
“Very awkward for Grubb,” said Brydell coolly; “I should think your father would be awfully ashamed of you. Grubb, you know, is a fine man; every officer he ever served under thinks highly of him; and you are evidently a cad of the most pronounced description. No, I won’t mention the relationship, for Grubb’s sake.”
Now this was highly insubordinate talk from a plebe to a third-class man. Esdaile straightened himself up.
“Do you know that you are speaking to your superior, sir?”
“Oh, come off!” answered Brydell carelessly. “This isn’t any class question; it’s a mere private matter between us two. I say your father, if heisan uneducated man, is twice as much of a gentleman at heart as you are, for all your education and your money and your fine name, because Grubb respects himself, and that’s the first thing about a gentleman, so I’ve been told.”
Esdaile walked off in silent fury. He did not care to undertake to discipline Brydell on such a matter, as it would only be proclaiming what he earnestly desired to conceal, so he swallowed his chagrin and determined to get even with Brydell some other way.
Although hazing is strictly prohibited by act of Congress, the milder form of it, known as “running,” is not wholly unpractised, and Brydell had his experience of singing the clothes list to the tune of “Hail Columbia,” chewing soap, standing on his head, for the amusement of the Third Class, and various other of the boyish tricks that seem to afford such intense satisfaction to the third-class men. Brydell, being a very good-tempered fellow, took it all in good part.
Esdaile had no share in it, but avoided Brydell as much as possible. Brydell soon found out that Esdaile’s reputation for straightforwardness was none of the best. The code of truth-telling is absolutely rigid at the Naval Academy, and a fellow caught in a lie would undoubtedly be forced to leave, whether the wrongdoing came to the ear of the authorities or not.
Now, Esdaile had not actually been caught in a falsehood by any of his classmates, but there was a general sinister impression that he would just as soon lie as tell the truth, provided he was not caught. His recitations had been admirable, and he had very few demerits and stood well with the instructors, but he did not stand so well with his own class. Apparently no one knew of his relationship to the marine, and Brydell was quite above the meanness of telling it.
Early in June the graduating exercises were held, and Lieutenant Brydell’s ship having got to San Francisco a few weeks before, Brydell was delighted one day to get a dispatch from his father, saying he would be at Annapolis before the cadets sailed on their summer cruise.
Oh, the happiness that Brydell felt one June day when he once more hugged his “dear old dad”! Brydell himself had grown and improved so much, and the brief “setting up” process he had gone through with had made him look so much more mature, that he and his father looked more like two brothers than ever.
The lieutenant felt perfectly happy in his boy. He had all along been conscious of the weak points in the boy’s training, and when young Brydell had of his own accord cast aside all indulgence and worked manfully in the face of heart-breaking disappointments, his father’s joy in him knew no bounds. Brydell showed his hands, which were rough and sunburned, to his father, with pride.
“Just look at ’em, dad!” he cried with a natural boyish conceit; “got that by holding the plow and tossing hay and feeding the cattle and chopping wood. You ought to have heard the admiral laugh when he saw me trying to drive the ox-team through the gate. I’m not exactly a first-class farm hand,—I wasn’t worth more than ten dollars a month,—but I didn’t shirk, I can tell you. And you don’t know how much better it was working in the fresh air, with a plenty of wholesome country food to eat, than drudging in an office; and the horses and cows were excellent company. I pity the poor fellows that have to work in city offices. Give me the country every time.”
The lieutenant gazed at him while a mist gathered in his eyes. He could only say: “My brave boy! My brave boy!”
Brydell told his father that he must go out to see the Laurisons, and the lieutenant, nothing loth, went and spent the day. He came home delighted with the kind people, for whom he felt sincere gratitude, and he brought back a large nosegay from little Minna and a childish letter written in a big, round hand to young Brydell.
Before the Constellation sailed, Brydell sent her a cap ribbon with “U. S. S. Constellation” on it in gold letters and a set of cadet buttons for her jacket. Of course every cadet had his “best girl” and perhaps half a dozen other “girls,” generally young ladies older than themselves. But Brydell maintained a mysterious silence about his “best girl,” only admitting that her name was Minna and she had long light hair.
One lovely morning in June the Constellation, that had been lying at anchor in Annapolis Roads for several days, set her white sails and with a fair wind took her majestic way to the open sea. She has never had steam in her, and, except for being frequently repaired and even rebuilt, she is very much the same as in the times when she was one of the crack frigates of the nation and when she made her glorious record as a fighting ship. From the days when she had come off victorious in two fights against ships that were her superiors, and had remained uncaptured, although blockaded by a great fleet for years, in 1812-15, she had been always classed as a lucky ship, and lucky she proved.
To Brydell every moment at sea was happiness. He took to seamanship and navigation as a duck takes to water, much to Admiral Beaumont’s delight, who was not wholly reconciled to the new-fashioned ships, where, as he disgustedly declared, “The chief engineer is captain, and the ship is no better than an iron kettle with an engine inside of her.”
They made their way along the coast leisurely. Every morning the cadets were made to go aloft and over all the rigging for exercise, and they did it like cats. Brydell excelled at this from the first with the utmost smartness. Esdaile, on the contrary, although his class rank was high, did not do at all well in the practical exercises of seamanship. He was growing more unpopular every day with his class, and among the sailors he was hated.
The blue jackets who worked side by side with the cadets on the summer’s cruise were generally fine seamen and honest fellows, and a pleasant feeling existed between them and the cadets, although the distance between an embryo officer and a sailor was necessarily strictly preserved. Brydell enjoyed nothing more than his turn at the wheel, when, with a foremast man, he had his watch.
All sailors can tell plenty of interesting things, and as they all liked Brydell they made the watch pass quickly enough. Not so was it with Esdaile. He treated the sailors with a superciliousness and selfish indifference that made them hate him, and they sometimes took a sly revenge on him by letting things go wrong, for which he was responsible, without telling him.
When he was sharply called to account by the officer of the deck or the executive, there was a universal grin in the fok’sle. With the other cadets the sailors were only anxious to shield them, if anything did go awry. Brydell and Esdaile were upon the most distant terms, and neither showed any disposition to change them.
After a leisurely cruise along the coast they reached Portsmouth, New Hampshire. It was a soft July evening, and the wind was fair for them to enter the difficult harbor. Brydell, with Atkins, a very smart sailor, was at the wheel when they were weathering the Point.
It requires skilful seamanship for a sailing vessel to weather this dangerous point, where the slightest mistake in the moment to put the helm up or down will place a ship on the rocks. The captain trusted nobody but himself to bring the frigate in. The ship, with all her light canvas set, floated lightly on almost like a phantom ship.
The Piscataqua is one of the most beautiful rivers on the Atlantic coast, and in the pale sunset glow the water shimmered like a sea of opal. The white-winged Constellation came on and on, without tacking, and seemed literally rushing upon her doom as the rocky point reared itself menacingly in her way. But when so near that her bowsprit almost touched the rock, the captain, who stood at the steersman’s side, gave the word, and the ship, answering her helm beautifully, came about like magic and rounded the dangerous point.
In a little while she reached her anchorage, and came to anchor in true man-of-war style, her sails being furled and her anchors dropped in an inconceivably short time.
Brydell was at that happy age when every change seems delightful, and he was just as glad to get ashore at Portsmouth as if he had not enjoyed every moment when he was actually cruising.
He looked forward with the greatest pleasure to seeing his old friend Grubb, and only regretted the forms which must be observed between an officer and a private. Grubb was such a sensible, self-respecting fellow that he was not at all likely to let Brydell’s natural generosity lead him beyond the right point with a subordinate.
Brydell made up his mind that Grubb would keep off the ship if possible, and determined the first time he got leave to go ashore to hunt up his humble friend. But the very next morning, happening to go on deck, he ran across Grubb delivering a message to the officer of the deck.
Grubb touched his cap respectfully to Brydell, but his pleasure was evident in his handsome sunburned face. The officer was just handing him a note. Brydell could not help shaking hands with the marine, saying to the officer, “Private Grubb and I are old friends. I have known him ever since I was a little lad. He got me the very worst wigging I ever had, for almost killing him with my parlor rifle.”
The officer smiled and said:—
“Private Grubb must be a good man to have remained in the service so long.”
“I dunno about that, sir,” answered Grubb, blushing. “I’ve been in the sarvice twenty-four years, now going on twenty-five. I ain’t never asked for promotion, because I ain’t a eddicated man, and I’m very well satisfied with my increased pay, but I reckon I’ll stay Private Grubb as long as the government’ll let me.”
Just then Esdaile appeared, strolling along the deck. The instant Grubb caught sight of him the marine’s face changed and hardened. The officer detained him a moment to add something to the note he had written, and Brydell stood talking with the marine. Esdaile’s face did not show the slightest recognition.
No one on the ship except Brydell knew of the relationship, and as he had not thought fit to mention it, Esdaile in his selfish soul hoped that it would not be suspected. Certainly it would not be from the manner of either father or son.
The officer had come back then, and giving his note to Grubb, and civilly returning his salute, the marine went over the side and was soon being pulled away in the boat.
Brydell remained talking with the officer, who was very friendly to him, and telling the story of the parlor rifle which came so near being a tragedy instead of a comedy.
“And my father and Admiral Beaumont both say that Grubb is one of the most deserving men they ever knew, and he could have had promotion lots of times, except that he is a timid sort of an old fellow about some things, although as brave as a lion in others.”
“Those men are very valuable,” answered the officer, “and you youngsters ought to treat them with the highest consideration.”
“Indeed, Grubb and I have always been the greatest chums in the world,” said Brydell, showing his boyish dimples in a smile. “The only thing I regret in being a cadet is that I can’t go and spend the day with Grubb at his quarters as I used to when I was ten years old, and eat salt pork and boiled onions; how good it tasted then.”
Brydell had despised Esdaile before, but after that utter ignoring of his father, Esdaile became even more contemptible than ever in his eyes. Nor did he ever see the slightest recognition afterward between the two. They constantly met on shore, but never exchanged a word or a sign, except the conventional salute.
Brydell indeed could not go to Grubb’s quarters as he had done as a little boy, but when he had leave, he would sometimes get a boat and he and Grubb would go fishing as in the old days, and be very happy together. Everybody on the ship knew of the old association between them, and the fondness of the smart young cadet for the grizzled marine was perfectly understood.
Esdaile avoided Brydell more than ever at Portsmouth, and as they were in different classes it was easy for them to see but little of each other. One night, though, Brydell having come on board, after a day’s leave spent fishing with Grubb, was met by a third-class man as soon as he had got on board and reported. This was his old acquaintance Cunliffe, who had turned out a remarkably quiet and level-headed young fellow and belonged to the section in every class which keeps up the tone and discipline of the class.
“Brydell,” said he, “will you come into the steerage with me? Something very important is on hand, and we want your testimony.”
Brydell went, quite ignorant of what was up, except the surmise that some infringement of the code of cadet ethics was under discussion, and he knew from Cunliffe’s manner it was something serious. For among these cadets there is a rigid code of ethics which is carried out with a stern impartiality that would do honor to much older men.
Uncontaminated by the influences of self-interest, which are learned later in life, these young fellows insist upon certain points of honor so tenaciously that they can practically drive any cadet out of the academy who does not live up to them. And the greatest of these is truthfulness.
Any failure to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, is regarded as unfitting a cadet for any association with his fellows, and so well understood is this that there are few offences against truth. Two things, lying and tale-bearing, are treated as crimes, and a cadet convicted of them is not only put in Coventry, but every other cadet makes it his business to load the offender down with demerits, so that the class may be relieved of his presence. It is stern, but the effect is indescribably good.
Brydell followed Cunliffe to the steerage and sitting around the table were about a dozen of the oldest and steadiest members of the third class, while others were grouped about as listeners. Esdaile, looking deadly pale, sat in a chair a little way off.
“Mr. Brydell,” said the oldest of them, Maxwell,—known as “Old McSwell,” because of his elegant appearance, but who was one of the most reliable young fellows in the class,—“we want your testimony in regard to a question affecting Mr. Esdaile’s honor. It has been whispered about the ship that Mr. Esdaile is the son of Private Grubb of the marines, whom you say you have known nearly all your life. The difference in their names is explained by Mr. Esdaile taking another name. Some days ago Mr. Esdaile went to call on the captain’s wife at the hotel, and in the course of conversation complained that this report, which he considered injurious to him, was going about. He denied flatly that Private Grubb was his father, and said he was the son of Thomas Esdaile. The captain’s wife thereupon denied it and has been very much embarrassed by hearing from the very best authority that Private Grubb really is Mr. Esdaile’s father. Can you give us any facts in the case?”
The first idea that occurred to Brydell as he looked at the culprit was, “What a fool!” Esdaile had stood near the top of his class; still he lacked the good sense that almost invariably goes with good morals and had told a lie which, like all lies, must in the end be detected. Brydell could feel no sympathy for Esdaile, but the idea of poor Grubb’s distress shook him. He hesitated a moment or two before he spoke.
“I know all the facts, I think,” he said in a low voice. “Private Grubb is Mr. Esdaile’s father. I have known it ever since I knew Private Grubb, seven or eight years ago. Mr. Esdaile’s grandfather gave him some money on condition that he should take the name of his mother’s family, Esdaile. I want to say right here that Private Grubb is one of the best men in the world. Admiral Beaumont and my father have both said so a hundred times in my presence, and although he is a plain, uneducated man, not one of us here need be ashamed to own him.”
At this there was a long and painful pause. Esdaile’s face, that had been pale, turned a greenish hue; he had still enough sense left to feel the accumulated scorn of his classmates. It was a solemn moment for those young judges. Esdaile had not been popular among them, but they fully realized that they were branding him in a way he would probably retain as long as he lived.
“Have you anything to say, Mr. Esdaile?” asked Maxwell.
Esdaile’s lips formed the word “Nothing,” but no sound was heard.
“It is the opinion of your class,” continued Maxwell after a pause, “that it would be best for you to resign at once. If you think differently, you may depend upon it that the class will take every means of making the academy too hot to hold you. Some liars and tale-bearers have been found who tried to stick it out, but there is no instance recorded of any one of them succeeding. You may go now.”
In a few minutes they had all scattered. Most of them went on deck, where in little groups they discussed the matter gravely and with heavy hearts, for the presence of meanness and dishonor is among the most painful things in the world.
The officers said no word to the cadets about it, nor did the cadets speak of it to the officers. It was within their own province to maintain the standard of probity in their class, and they had a stern and effective way of doing it. Therefore when for the next few days no cadet spoke to Esdaile except when absolutely required in the performance of duty, the officers saw plainly enough what was in the wind.
Within another week Esdaile received an imposing document from the navy department, and everybody knew that his resignation had been accepted. He formally announced it to the captain, who asked no questions. The officers bade him a distant good-by, and in two hours from the time Esdaile received the notification he was off the ship and, as his classmates supposed, forever out of the navy.
Brydell had been almost broken-hearted over the effect of Esdaile’s disgrace upon poor Grubb. He wanted to go to see the marine at once, but could not get leave for a day or two. Then he was suddenly taken down with a violent cold and fever. He managed to write a few agitated lines to Grubb, but got no answer. It was nearly ten days before he was well enough to leave the ship and go in search of his friend.
It was about dusk of the midsummer evening when Brydell, rather pale from his recent illness, was going toward Grubb’s quarters. Halfway there he met the surgeon, Dr. Wayne, a kindly, elderly man, who Brydell knew had known the marine for many years.
“Can you tell me, sir, anything about Private Grubb of the marines?” asked Brydell without mentioning Esdaile at all.
“I don’t know whether he can be called Private Grubb of the marines any longer,” answered the doctor with solemn eyes. “His time was up the very day he heard of his son’s disgrace. He was on his way to the office ready to reënlist when he heard it. He walked straight to the office,—you know what a fine, erect fellow he was,—asked for his discharge without a word of explanation, except to know when he could get his papers, and turned away. He had not got a block before he fell. People ran and picked him up,—he had on his uniform,—and they were going to carry him to the hospital, but he wouldn’t let them. He said he was out of the service, and he had no right to go, and no wish to go, nor could they make him go. I happened to be near by and went to him. I said: ‘You must go to the hospital.’ You see, he was such a sort of institution that I couldn’t quite take in why he shouldn’t obey orders. He tried to touch his cap and managed to say: ‘I’ve worn this uniform twenty-four years and I have never disobeyed an officer, but I can’t go to the hospital.’ He became so excited over it that for fear it would kill him I let them take him into a little tavern at hand, a respectable sort of a place patronized by workingmen. I saw he had had a stroke, and that it was a mortal one. He asked to be left alone with me, and then that poor fellow begged and pleaded with me not to send him to the hospital, where everybody would know him and know of his son’s disgrace—he told me all about it. I couldn’t have forced him to go after that, if it had cost me my commission. He’s going to die, and as he is a good and faithful man he shall die in as much peace as I can give him.”
Brydell grew a little faint at the words, and in an instant he was carried back to that day so long ago when old Capps the boatswain had been carried out of the navy yard gate on a caisson. He had not been brought face to face with majestic Death since.
“But mightn’t he get well?” Brydell began and halted.
“No—he can’t get well,” answered the doctor quietly. “Poor honest Grubb is dying of grief and shame over his son’s disgrace. I and the other surgeons here have worked over him faithfully; if he had been the ranking officer in the marine corps, we couldn’t have done any more. But when a man is sick of life it is an incurable disease.”
“I’d like to see him,” said Brydell with pale lips.
“Go to see him, by all means. If you can rouse him, you will do him more good than all the doctors in the world can.”
Brydell walked rapidly through the fast-closing evening to the little tavern in a back street. The proprietor, in his shirt sleeves, answered his inquiries civilly enough.
“We’re doin’ all we can for poor Grubb,” he said, “but I never see a man so hopeless.”
Brydell stumbled up the narrow stairs to the little back room where, in response to his knock, Grubb’s voice weakly answered: “Come in.” Brydell entered.
On the narrow bed Grubb’s gaunt figure, only a little while ago so trim and soldierly, was stretched out. His skin had lost its ruddy glow and was quite grayish, and his eyes had sunk back into his head until they seemed cavernous. Brydell advanced to the bed and took his hand. He was not prepared for the change in poor Grubb, and his boyish face wore a startled look.
“I knowed you would come as soon as you could,” the marine began. “I asked for you right after—right after—it happened. They told me you was sick. I got that note you wrote me. It’s a mighty comfort to me to know there’s one honest boy in the world.”
Brydell could not say a word. He sat down in a chair by the bed, and in spite of every effort to control himself tears started from his eyes and fell on Grubb’s thin hands.
“Now, Mr. Brydell, what are you a-cryin’ for? You don’t want me to live in this here world where things is so hard. And you see I’m to blame some about that boy. I give him all I had, and I didn’t require nothin’ o’ him in return. When he first began to be ashamed of me, instead of makin’ him see as how I was to be treated with respect, because I was his father and a respectable man to boot, I let it go and sneaked out of his way. But I think he must ’a’ been born a liar, ’cause your father the leftenant indulged you just as much as I did my boy, but you allers was a up and down truthful boy.”
“Have you heard anything of—of Esdaile?”
“No, sir, and I don’t count on hearin’, neither. He’s got some money, and as long as that holds out it’s all he cares for. And besides, I ain’t got no pay now. You see I just felt it like a flash, the minute I heard o’ that boy’s disgrace, as if I didn’t want to wear this here uniform unless I could walk down the main street lookin’ folks square in the eye. I had worn that uniform twenty-four years and there wasn’t no commissioned officer as kep’ himself straighter nor cleaner nor prouder than Grubb the marine.”
“That’s true, Grubb.”
“Well, Mr. Brydell, I couldn’t look anybody in the face after that, so I asked for my discharge papers instead of reënlistin’, and then I dropped down in the street and it give me sort o’ relief to know that I couldn’t git over it, because them doctors,—they’re mighty kind and attentive, and they sets where you’re settin’ and tries to skeer me into gittin’ well,—and I know I can’t git well, and I don’t want to git well.”
Brydell could not say a word. There was something imposing in the fierce, simple honor of the man who preferred dying to living because he “couldn’t look anybody in the face again.” Presently Grubb spoke again feebly: “I hope you’ll give my respectful compliments to the leftenant and Admiral Beaumont, and tell ’em as how I hope I’ve did my duty to their satisfaction.”
“I will,” said Brydell.
He sat there and talked a long time with Grubb—talked with him until he had barely time to catch the ship’s boat, and had to run every step of the way to the dock.
All the night and the next day Brydell’s heart was heavy for his old friend. The next evening at the same time he got leave. The officers knew of Brydell’s affection for Grubb, and he had no difficulty in getting off when they knew where he wished to go.
Walking rapidly along the street from the wharf, whom should Brydell almost run over but Admiral Beaumont with Billy Bowline as always rolling along behind him.
“I was just thinking about you, boy!” shouted the admiral. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”
“Going to see poor Grubb, sir,” answered Brydell, shaking hands with the admiral and nodding pleasantly to Billy Bowline. And then with the admiral’s hand upon his shoulder, standing in the narrow, fast-darkening street, Brydell told of Esdaile’s disgrace and of the terrible blow it was to poor Grubb.
His story was punctuated with explosions of wrath from the admiral, such as “Infamous cad, the boy! Shoot me, but I’d like to get that young villain on a ship of mine! Why didn’t you lick him, sir? Why didn’t you lick him when you found the rascal out? Poor old Grubb—one of the best men I ever knew; ten good men like him will keep a whole ship’s company in order.”
Billy Bowline’s indignation was expressed by sundry snorts, sniffs, and angry hitchings up of his trowsers, but was not the less emphatic because not expressed in the admiral’s vigorous language.
“Come along, sir,” cried the admiral when Brydell had finished his brief account. “I’m going to see Grubb with you.”
The admiral mounted the rickety stairs with his quick step, as alert as Brydell’s. Billy Bowline remained below because, as he whispered to Brydell:—
“There ain’t no love lost between sailors and jirenes, and Grubb, he were the best jirene I ever see; but I don’t reckon as how he keers about seein’ sailor men when he is in trouble.”
After knocking at the door the admiral and Brydell entered Grubb’s little room. By the light of the small lamp they could see him distinctly, and he looked more gaunt, more ashy, and nearer death than the evening before. But he was feebly delighted to see them.
“How’s this, Grubb?” began the admiral in his “quarterdeck voice.” “You must get up. You must get well. You were the best orderly I ever had, and it never occurred to me that you intended getting out of the service like this.”
“Thankee, sir, for your good opinions,” answered Grubb, a light appearing in his sunken eyes, “but I can’t git well.”
“Nonsense, nonsense. You’ve had trouble with your boy; but you must bear up—bear up, sir.”
“Ah, sir, askin’ your pardon, you don’t know what it is to have trouble with your own flesh and blood! I couldn’t abear to be p’inted out as Grubb, the feller whose son was drove out of his class for lyin’. I’m a plain man, sir, and maybe that’s why I hold on to be respectable so hard—I ain’t got nothin’ else. I didn’t think, though, ’twould go so hard with me. I made up my mind in a minute to git out o’ the corps and take off this uniform as I respects and loves. But I didn’t think to fall down in the street, and I know I’ve got a shock as I’ll never get over.”
The admiral could not but believe him. For three or four days Brydell and the admiral went to see Grubb regularly, and so did Dr. Wayne, and it was plain to the most inexperienced eye that the marine was traveling fast out of this world. At last one evening about the usual hour of dusk, when Brydell went in the room he saw that Grubb had started on the great journey. His face was slightly flushed and his eyes bright, and occasionally his mind would wander.
“I’ve been a-waitin’ for you, Mr. Brydell,” he cried in a weak voice. “There’s two things as I want done. One is, I want you to git that little Bible out o’ my haversack hanging up yonder and read them promises about them as believes in Jesus Christ shall live though they die. And the other is, to put my best uniform on me. You see, sir, something’s goin’ to happen; it’s a inspection, seems to me, but my head ain’t clear—yes, it’s a inspection sure. And Private Grubb ain’t never been reported at inspection in twenty-four, goin’ on twenty-five years, as long as I’ve been in the service.”
“Don’t you think you’d better wait until the doctor comes, Grubb?” asked Brydell soothingly.
“Lord, no, sir! I’ve got to be on time—there’s the bugle now, sir”—and indeed a faint echo of the bugle came through the open windows from the Constellation lying out in the harbor, half a mile away. He was so insistent that Brydell went to the closet and took out a new private’s uniform that hung there. He brought it to the bed and laid it down. Grubb began to finger it, and his face changed and his manner calmed.
“I know what ’tis, sir,” he said. “It ain’t no inspection here on earth I’m in for; it’s a inspection by the Great Captain as to how we’ve did our duty. But all the same, Mr. Brydell, I want this here uniform on—because I always said I wanted to die in it. Howsomever, do you think it’s right, as I might get my discharge papers any day, for me to be wearin’ it and bein’ buried in it?”