We had a cap in our corpsWho left us years ago,Who never said a manly wordNor struck a manly blow.He never faced when he could dodge,He only spoke to slur,And now he is a colonel,But the accent's on the cur.
We had a cap in our corpsWho left us years ago,Who never said a manly wordNor struck a manly blow.He never faced when he could dodge,He only spoke to slur,And now he is a colonel,But the accent's on the cur.
And that was Devers's requiem in the Eleventh Horse as well as in the house of Congress. He never vexed them more.
One of the old names was lacking on the list thataccompanied the remonstrance,—that of the man of whom, nearly a decade before, Devers "only spoke to slur." Lieutenant Davies would not sign. He was with the regiment too, but, just as of old, eschewed the club-room and all gatherings of the kind. They had taken the paper to him and he read, pondered, and said no. Gray it was, now captain of "I" Troop, with which Davies was on duty as first lieutenant, who draughted the paper, and confidently presented it to his subaltern. "Why not?" said he, in surprise. "No man ever did more to injure you except perhaps——" And here Gray broke off short in sudden confusion.
"Perhaps that is why I prefer not to be quoted against him," said Davies, quietly. And mentally kicking himself, as he expressed it, for making such a "break" as in his bungling half allusion to the exception, Gray hastened away to tell of it. His story came to unsympathetic ears.
"In my opinion," said Sanders, "if you mean that other fellow, he didn't injure Parson half as much as he hurt himself."
That, too, was an old story in the Eleventh by this time. Six long months was Davies absent from the regiment on his map-work at division head-quarters. Then came the customary call to the field for another season of scouting and campaigning, and he rejoined his troop, somewhat pallid and graver looking, the result probably of long days of toil over his drawing board. He was only a few hours at Ransom before they marched, but the ladies wanted to know all about Mrs. Davies and what she was to do in his absence.Mrs. Davies would remain at Urbana, said he, where her father and sister dwelt, and those were indeed his injunctions to her, and for a month after his departure she observed them, then repaired to Chicago and Aunt Almira's roof. Davies by this time was with his troop scouting near Yellowstone Park, far beyond reach of telegrams or letters. Society was unusually gay that summer. There was dancing, boating, dining, summer resorting, and one of the loveliest of summer resorts within an hour's run of the great city was Forest Glen, the seat of the famous seminary where Agatha Loomis was enjoying the quiet of her vacation, and one night, strolling with Mrs. Forrester over to the hotel to watch the dancers and hear the lovely music, she came face to face in the soft moonlight with a couple so absorbed in their conversation that not until they were actually brushing by did they look up, and even Mrs. Forrester saw the sudden confusion and dismay in their faces. The man turned white and made a hurried movement as though to lift his hat. The woman flushed, almost angrily. Miss Loomis bowed calmly and coldly and passed on without a word.
The next day, however, she called at the Glen House, where the two Almiras, aunt and niece, were spending the week, and asked for Mrs. Percy Davies. Mrs. Davies was out. Miss Loomis wrote a few words in pencil, slipped them into an envelope, sent that up, and the next day called again, and Mrs. Davies begged to be excused. Miss Loomis sadly went home, penned a long letter to Mrs. Davies, and on the following morning sent it. In half an hour her messenger andnote returned. Mrs. Davies had left for home that morning. Urbana was not far away, and two days later Miss Loomis was there inquiring for Mrs. Davies on her native heath. She had not returned. She was visiting her aunt at Forest Glen, and then Agatha knew she had come too late. She had striven to prove to the poor empty-headed, empty-hearted girl that she had at least one friend. She had hoped to plead, to point out the right, and, if possible, save her from herself and the impending step, but all to no purpose. Two years later, among the papers of her unhappy boy, a sorrowing mother found two little notes written, like Beatrix Esmond's, to lure her lover on. One was dated Fort Scott in the summer of '77. "We are desolate again with all our soldiers in the field, but we pray for happier days. Have you no new waltz music for us?" And this reached him at the sea-shore. The second was posted on the railway and addressed to his club in New York. "I am even more desolate than last year. Shall I never hear from you again?" It contained a self-addressed envelope. And that was why her boy postponed until later in the summer the voyage his physician had advised, and why he lived apart from friends and kindred, in Paris most of the time, until the death of his wretched companion within a year of their flight. Then Langston, at his mother's prayer, went over and fetched him home. It had been a year soon given over to recrimination, bitter reproaches, and frequent and increasing estrangement. Willett was but the moody wreck of his old self when restored to the one faithful friend who clung to him as only mothers will, in spite of all.
The Eleventh was a thousand miles or so away the summer of poor Mira's final escapade, and not until she was across the sea did the news reach her husband. She wrote a few words of farewell such as would be expected of her. "You never loved me," she said, "never understood me, and in every way I was made to feel that I was only a burden, only a doll. You have mured me here in prison, where I have no soul to sympathize with me, and I can bear it no longer. You will not miss me. Indeed, I know too well how soon you will find solace, and where. Henceforth I dedicate my life to one who adores me, whose soul responds to every thought of mine. Adieu."
It was predicted about this time that Davies would resign, shoot Willett, or study for the ministry. Many men thought that he bore his wrongs so meekly that he had mistaken his calling. One man, a sergeant, said as much in Corporal Brannan's presence, and the result was a scene that called for the intervention of the guard and the adjudication of a court-martial. Brannan lost his chevrons, but gained an enthusiastic friend and champion in Cranston, who sifted out the cause of the fight,—a matter scrupulously hidden from the court. Brannan went into the Ute campaign the following year a sergeant, and out of the army with an Indian bullet through his arm and into his chest, where the doctors couldn't find it. Little by little the doting mother at home began to learn how very far away that longed-for commission might be. Her boy himself flouted the idea. "I haven't the education," he said, "and would be ill at ease and out of place among them." And so the magnate wassteadily importuned, and when at last the young fellow came home after the Milk River campaign, and generals like Sheridan and Crook praised his pluck and devotion, and the doctors said he simply couldn't go back to service, they got him his discharge,—a medal of honor came later,—and presently in the long list of railway officials of the Q. R. and X. appeared his name as assistant general passenger agent, and for a couple of years the way that great corporation dealt out passes to the army was a matter that finally came up at directors' meeting and led to a preliminary to the Interstate Commerce Law of '87, and a restriction of the powers of the assistant. But there was no longer any hitch in the maternal schemes for elaborate dinners to generals and staff. They enjoyed meeting "the sergeant," as he rejoiced in being called, as much as he could wish, and if they did not quite look upon him as she did, as the central figure, the one Prince Paramount of the late campaign, there was at least warmth and cordiality and comradeship enough to gratify even a mother's heart.
But the Parson did not resign. He was away from the regiment again a long month after Mira's flight, and again after her death, returning suddenly on each occasion because of the imminence of Indian hostilities which for a time seemed breaking out in new spots with every spring. Between Cranston and himself there was ever the same firm and steadfast friendship. He sought no intimacies anywhere, but in the same calm, grave, consistent way he went about his duties in garrison, waking up to something like enthusiasm or excitement only when "on the trail." For threeyears after his brief absence in the summer of '79 he never left his troop a day. A wonderfully good drill officer was the Parson, with a powerful, ringing voice. "Make a splendid exhorter," said some of the boys. He was an accurate tactician, too, and a man who had the faculty of getting admirable results out of his command "without ever a cuss word," said Truman, a thing which that old-time troop leader could not understand. Davies lived hours in the open air, but read and studied much. Popular he was not, and never cared to be; but, honored and respected by one and all and loved by little children, he went his earnest way, and little by little Margaret Cranston found herself leaning more and more upon his opinions as to the pursuits and studies of her boys, and would sit with her needle-work listening to the long discussions between him and her husband, who read not much outside the papers, and presently it got to be the established thing for the Parson to read aloud to them when he came, and though Wilbur scandalized her by going to sleep and snoring on two occasions, he soon began to wake up and talk and discuss, and others, dropping in, either stayed to take part in Cranston's impromptu lyceum or took their chatter elsewhere. The second and third winters at old Laramie were some of the loveliest, said Margaret afterwards, she ever knew, and Mr. Davies had become one of themselves. His promotion to "I" Troop and transfer to a different post was nothing short of a domestic calamity.
But not until that promotion and transfer occurred—though who shall say there was significance in the fact?—was Mrs. Cranston able to induce Miss Loomisto visit the frontier again. They were together all the summer of '81, at the sea-shore with the boys, while Captain Cranston and Davies and others were scorching on the plains, and Miss Loomis evidently needed rest and salt air and water. The next winter she gave up her duties at the seminary and joined the Cranstons on a trip down the Mississippi, eventually returning with her cousin to Wyoming, for her health seemed to have suffered from the long confinement at the school. Bob Gray, with "I" Troop, was away up at Fort McKinney then, but an important court met at the old station down on the Platte, and, as luck would have it, Lieutenant Davies was sent in as judge-advocate.
Just why Mrs. Cranston should have made no mention to Miss Loomis of his coming is a matter only a woman can explain, but she kept the matter to herself until the evening of his arrival. It was their first meeting in four years. The court was in session a month, and three evenings out of four Davies spent as of old at Cranston's fireside. Sanders suggested that the Parson seemed to be "taking notice" again. But Davies went back to his station and Miss Loomis went on about her daily avocations, reading aloud while Margaret's busy needle flew, or playing sweet old melodies at the piano. The young officers were rather afraid of her. She was "a somewhat superior old maid," said a youngster whom she had found it expedient to repress. Some women declared her a trifle unapproachable, unsympathetic perhaps, but even that did not seem to disconcert her. Something happened ere long that did, however, for a few months afteradjournment of the court Davies reappeared at Laramie. He had actually taken a leave of absence, and now he was at Cranston's six evenings out of seven, and garrison gossip began in good earnest. Was the Parson seeking solace where poor Mira always said he would? If so, he had little to build on by way of encouragement. The Cranstons missed him sorely when he went back to Gray, and Miss Loomis frankly referred to him as "most instructive" and much broadened and improved. She missed him as any one must miss so well-informed a companion. Four years before she used to exasperate Margaret by standing up for him no matter what he did; now she vexed her by refusing to see anything remarkable in him whatever. Davies wrote with increasing frequency from Fort McKinney to Mrs. Cranston, and Margaret always wanted to read the letters aloud, which was bad generalship in a would-be match-maker.
Then one day came the tidings that head-quarters and six troops were to be stationed together, "C" and "I" among them, and Miss Loomis returned to Chicago. "I'll never forgive you as long as I live," said Margaret. "I know just why you won't stay, and you needn't have worried yourself,—he's far too proud to importune a woman who won't listen to—to reason."
But Mrs. Cranston meant love, not reason, and the two are miles or oceans apart. Mr. Davies might be too proud to worry a woman who couldn't appreciate reason, but a woman worth the winning was worth the wooing, and not a little of it. Business called him to Urbana several days the following winter, and something kept him several weeks. He resumed duty inthe spring, steadfast as ever, but even less disposed to take part in garrison affairs. Mrs. Cranston wrote fiercely and frequently to Agatha, and, for aught I know, called her opprobrious things. For another year she refused to return to them. Then came a winter indeed of discontent, and the Eleventh was ordered to far away, burning, blistering Arizona, all but Cranston's troop, excepted at the last moment and detailed for service at the School of Application. Agatha again came to stay with them, and here at last Margaret Cranston learned the momentous fact that, after all these years, something had happened: they were actually corresponding.
She learned more within the fortnight that followed. One exquisite May evening just as the sunset gun had fired and all the bordering walks and piazzas were thronged with gayly-dressed groups, women and children mainly, watching the scene on the parade, there was some stir among the clerks and orderlies and a gentle movement over on the porch of the colonel commanding. The long line of officers dispersed as usual at dismissal of parade, and Cranston came strolling over homeward chatting with his friend and next-door neighbor, Captain Blake, of the —th. Blake's lovely wife was even then on Cranston's veranda, for she and Miss Loomis seemed to have taken a fancy to each other from the moment of their meeting. Margaret, as usual, met her hero at the steps, just as a young officer came excitedly and hurriedly down the brick walk from the colonel's. It was Blake who heard him calling some tidings to other households and who hailed him as he neared them and was bustling by.
"What's the row, Tommy?"
"Big fight in Arizona," was the startling answer. "Captain Hastings and Parson Davies killed."
And Nannie Blake saw in amaze the light go out of her companion's eyes and every vestige of color from her face. Her arms were about her in an instant, and none too soon. Oh, the blessing of those clinging, clustering vines! No one else saw how they had to fairly carry her within doors, but Agatha's secret was revealed.
There was little exaggeration in the first story of that savage battle in the cañon. Many a gallant fellow lay stripped and bloated when the relief party reached the scene a few days later, but Davies, though pierced through and through, still lived, and was moved and borne away weeks later to bracing mountain air, and found many a reason for wanting to live for many a year. Two men had gone to him fast as trains could speed, Cranston and our old friend the chaplain. It was the former who within the week that followed that engagement announced another. It was the latter who within the fortnight joined her hand in his, white, feeble as it was, and poured out his very heart and soul in the fervent prayer for blessing on this man and this woman now at last made one.
That seems a long time ago. The regiment is famous now for its troop commanders,—stalwart fellows in the prime of life who have brought the training of men and mounts to a point of excellence such enthusiasts as Cranston only dreamed of in the old campaigning days, when there was little opportunity for experimentor practice in any other branch of the trooper's art than that developed on the trail of savage foe. Already the men who were stripling soldiers in '76 are wearing patriarchal—long since they assumed patronizing—airs towards those who came too late to learn campaigning when the Indian was not hemmed in by railways, but ruled the Plains, proud monarch of all he surveyed. Already silver threads are streaking the beards and temples of even such rollicking spirits as Sanders, while Boynton is gray as the chargers of the troop he commands. Cranston's squadron was cheered to the skies when it marched away from Chicago after its month of riot duty, and on the plains of Evanston during the manœuvres the visitors thronged to see the feats in horsemanship displayed by the men of Davies's troop. Even in the Eleventh he was held to be the most brilliant instructor as well as the most judicious and successful troop commander. Old-time dragoons simply couldn't understand it. Here was a man who would neither drink, swear, nor flare up and boil over when things went wrong on drill, but preserved a calm, even-tempered, dignified bearing at all times. True, he had native gifts which were not shared by all his kind,—a deep, resonant voice, a ringing word of command, a fine physique, an admirable seat, and an easy, practised hand, all of which were combined with a consummate knowledge of his art. He was equally at home in saddle or squad-room, and at all times was friend and almost father to his men. "A" Troop, once the worst-drilled in the Eleventh, and universally known as the "Differentials," is now called "the Parson's Flock," but there is no irreverence in the term,for soldiers honor men like him whose faith is backed by courage long tried on many a field. There isn't a man in Cranston's squadron who would not resent an affront to their pet troop commander, as they would were the major himself the object of aspersion, and as for Agatha, his wife,—Florence Nightingale was not more beloved.
They were talking of it all the other evening, seated among the tents on the broad, level prairie just before the separation for the winter stations was announced. The old chaplain was there to say farewell to his own stalwart son, now wearing his first shoulder-straps in the regiment his father had known so long and well. "Sometimes," said the dominie, "I look back almost wistfully on those old days with all their danger and privation, and while the life our fellows lead to-day knows little of the temptation and trial encountered twenty years ago, it seems to lack its vim and vigor. Sometimes I almost wish my boy could have begun—with you."
Davies was silent a moment. "It was a hard experience," said he, finally. "It seems odd to think that to some of us there was more peace on the war-path than at home, more rest in the field than in the fort. Perhaps the reason why one's sterner qualities were so constantly called into play was that not only in action but in all the surroundings of our daily life we seemed forever 'under fire.'"
Under Fire.Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25.The Colonel's Daughter.Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25.Marion's Faith.Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25.Captain Blake.Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25.Foes In Ambush.Cloth, $1.25.Kitty's Conquest.Cloth, $1.00.Starlight Ranch,andOther Stories.Cloth, $1.00.Laramie; or, The Queen of Bedlam.Cloth, $1.00.The Deserter,andFrom The Ranks.Cloth, $1.00.Two Soldiers, andDunraven Ranch.Cloth, $1.00.A Soldier's Secret, andAn Army Portia.Cloth, $1.00.Waring's Peril.Cloth, $1.00.
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