Kitabı oku: «A Soldier's Trial: An Episode of the Canteen Crusade», sayfa 8
CHAPTER X
A GATHERING STORM
Minneconjou that afternoon was the vortex of a revolving storm of sensation, speculation, and excitement. The few men at the Club spoke with bated breath and shrugging shoulders, with hands thrust deep in side pockets and with occasional semi-hysterical giggle. Men at the Canteen retailed in whispers, and with possibly unconscious editorialisms of their own, the story of the encounter at the office as heard through the partition in their own premises. Women along the line of officers' quarters and women among the humbler homes of the married soldiers went flitting from door to door gathering in wide-eyed, gossiping groups,
"For the colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady
Are sisters under their skins."
There were three women, however, prominent in this chronicle and others not individually mentioned, who kept within doors and bounds until the sun was well down behind the Sagamore and the line was formed for parade. Even then Mrs. Dwight did not appear, but Mrs. Ray sat for a while with Sandy on the little veranda, and a very red-eyed Priscilla went forth, as she said, for needed exercise. Just what had passed between her aunt and herself was never referred to outside of the family. Mrs. Ray, it seems, had also heard the childish wail of distress, had come down to inquire the cause, but not until Priscilla had succeeded in leading the little sufferer home. Then in the hall, probably, Marion had picked up the official batch of papers; thought it something of Sandy's, for open official wrappers of newspaper clippings are not privileged communications and he who runs upon them may read. Presumably Mrs. Ray had read, and, if so, the meekest, mildest of women in her place would have had a rod in pickle for Priscilla when that energetic maiden returned. It had at least one point in favor of Sandy. It relieved him from the necessity of "interviewing" his cousin. But for the life of him Sandy Ray could not be kind or cordial to Priscilla for many a day. She wrote to him, at her aunt's demand, a letter to be shown to the colonel commanding, and a portion of this letter appeared in his returned indorsement. She admitted that the only instance of officers "carousing" with and tempting the men to drink was when Uncle Will took her to see the Canteen and sipped his glass of Rhenish when the sergeants drank his health. "But," was the ingenuous argument, "if Uncle Will, who is so abstemious and conscientious, could do that much, I naturally reasoned that others whom I knew to be neither abstemious nor, in such matters conscientious, would do infinitely more, and therefore considered my statement justifiable in view of the vital importance of the matter under discussion." As to the other points in her allegation, Priscilla had no better or broader foundation. It was one of those instances of "justifiable vericide" wherein many a worthy woman, and man, has soothed a protesting conscience with "the end justifies the means."
But Priscilla had to promise also to write full confession to the Banner of Light, and it was sent registered. Aunt Marion saw to that; and duly received but never, even in part, was it published – that would be doing violence to editorial ethics.
At three o'clock that afternoon the colonel's adjutant had called ceremoniously at the quarters of Major Dwight, and at four o'clock the colonel's ambulance had followed. Half a thousand eyes, probably, followed that official vehicle as it whirled away townward, a raging captain of cavalry being the sole occupant of the interior, the driver and an orderly conversing in low tones at the front. Major Dwight had come forth with his guest, escorted him down the steps to the waiting wagon, had ostentatiously shaken hands with him twice – thrice; had even held him in conversation as though reluctant to part, and had then gone stalking over to the colonel's quarters with twitching lips and fingers to demand an explanation of this summary expulsion of his guest. If Captain Foster was to be ordered off the post because of a personal encounter with Lieutenant Ray, what was to be done with Mr. Ray? was what the major wished to know, and Colonel Stone, instead of snubbing, censuring or sending him back in arrest, went halfway down the steps to meet him, took him by the hand and said, "I've been expecting you, major, and have much to tell you," beckoned the adjutant to follow and led on into an inner room. The post surgeon was also there, by invitation.
"Major Dwight," said Stone, "I have asked these gentlemen to be present as witnesses to what I have to tell you, and if there's any man of your own corps you'd like to have present, my orderly will fetch him at once. No? Then I'll proceed. I assume you wish to know why Captain Foster was formally invited to proceed on his way this afternoon. You fancy, I believe, and he possibly – probably – told you, it was for attacking Lieutenant Ray at the Canteen. It was not. There are several reasons, and the moment I have told you enough I wish you to say stop. I do not like your fr – your guest, but I desire to say no more at his expense than may be absolutely necessary. Do you understand?"
Dwight bowed gravely. "I think I do, sir," was his answer, and the party settled into chairs and for the moment into silence.
Then Stone began again:
"When Captain Foster arrived here he took occasion to tell me he had just dropped in for a day or two – that he was expecting his orders any moment. Connor, lieutenant-colonel commanding the – th, is a classmate of mine, and in writing me two weeks ago he spoke of the shortage of officers. He said that Foster's application for a month's delay had been negatived by him and that he was then expecting him any moment. Thursday last came another letter. Short as he was of officers, three of his best had been taken away for court-martial duty. Foster's troop was commanded by a sergeant, and going to seed. Foster was apparently lost, for a copy of his order to report without delay had been there a week. His adjutant had wired to Foster's address and got no answer. That evening, as it happened, I met Foster again, and he went out of his way to tell me he couldn't imagine what had become of his orders. He had left directions with his home people to open everything that came and wire him here at once, and nothing had come, at least to him. This was queer. Friday he repeated it. That afternoon at the telegraph office in town the operator asked me if a Captain Foster was at the post. Three messages had come for him, two calling for reply, and he had sent by wire, at least, no answer. Two, said the operator, were from New York, saying important orders were there, and what should they do with them? Now, I don't like double dealing, Dwight. I at once wired Connor that his lost captain was found – here – claiming to be without orders. Connor probably wired the War Department, and on Monday noon came this." Saying which, the colonel took from his desk and held forth a telegram, which Dwight solemnly received and read, then sat one moment in silence. It was from the War Department, Washington, and as follows:
Commanding Officer,
Fort Minneconjou.
If Captain Stanley Foster, – th Cavalry, is still at your post notify him that his orders were sent June – to his address, New York City. Secwar directs that he proceed at once to Fort Wister and report to his regimental commander for duty. Acknowledge receipt and report action.
"Secwar" being the official telegraphic abbreviation for Secretary of War, that order was beyond appeal. Without a word Dwight carefully refolded the message, arose, and handed it to the post commander. Then, after a moment's pause, straightening up, he spoke.
"I have been wrong, sir, and I – beg your pardon. I, too, had been led to suppose he was awaiting orders. Moreover, he led me to suppose his virtual expulsion was due to his resenting insulting language from Lieutenant Ray. I – will you? – have I your permission, sir, to be absent from parade and the post this evening?"
The surgeon bent quickly forward, his eyes on Stone. The colonel started, faltered, then, pulling himself together, arose, once more extended his hand, which Dwight took mechanically, and then, after a moment's reflection, spoke:
"Major Dwight, I have the highest respect for you as a soldier and as a man, but I ask you to withdraw that request. Frankly, sir, it is my desire that you do not quit the post – to-night."
A moment later when the door had closed upon the tall, spare, almost angular form, the colonel mopped his brow and said: "If I let that man go he'll follow Foster to the station and throttle him – he so hates a liar and a lie."
"I thought Foster got away in time for the Flyer," said the doctor, after a pause. He had been intently watching Dwight's every move and gesture.
"In plenty of time," answered the colonel, "though he planned it otherwise, and don't know it even now. He was scheming to miss to-day's Overland and so wait until to-morrow, but I sent the adjutant, with a man to help him pack, and the word that the ambulance would call for him at four. He could decline the help, but he couldn't the ambulance. Now, as luck would have it, they wire me that the Flyer's five hours late."
"If that's the case at Valentine," said the adjutant, "she'll be six behind by the time she strikes Minneconjou."
"Then," said Dr. Waring, "we may not have seen the last of Stanley Foster. Is Ray, too, confined to the post?"
"No," said the colonel, "I hadn't thought about that at all."
CHAPTER XI
DEEPER IN THE TOILS
Dress parade went off that evening in somewhat perfunctory fashion. Even the alert and soldierly adjutant had a preoccupied air. Stone rejoiced in his three battalions, as they really were – the cavalry squadron consisting, like the infantry units, of four companies – and ordinarily loved to hold them quite a while at the manual, and later for the march past. This evening he ordered but a few casual shifts and dispensed entirely with the review. Almost every piazza had its little group of spectators. The walk was lined with visitors, the roadway with vehicles from town, and Stone had never seemed to notice them. What he did notice was that Dwight, standing stark and alone in front of the center of his squadron, began swaying before the sergeant's reports were rendered, and was obviously faint and ill. It was on his account entirely that Stone curtailed the stately ceremony, and thereby disappointed spectators. He took the major by the arm and walked with him to his door and left him there with promise to send the surgeon without delay. Dwight declared the doctor unnecessary, but thanked most earnestly his commanding officer. A pert young woman in cap and ribbons met them at the threshold with the information that Madame had partaken of a tisane and begged that she might not be intruded upon, as it was Dr. Wallen's mandate that she should sleep, if a possible thing. Stone looked queerly, sharply, at her and turned away. The major made no reply to her remarks, but desired that Master James be sent to him as soon as he returned. It seems that Jimmy had accompanied Sergeant French, a keen angler, to a trout stream up in the Sagamore Range early in the afternoon. It might be late before they returned. "Lucky thing, that!" thought the colonel, as he hastened homeward to lay aside his full uniform, the orderly, meantime, speeding over to the post surgeon's.
"What do you make of him?" asked the colonel, an hour later, as the senior medical officer came lumbering up the steps.
"He seems, physically, all right now," was the answer. "There is no functional disorder. He's sound as a dollar as far as our tests can determine, but Dwight has been under a strain, as we know, and then – there's that Luzon sunstroke. Any time, almost, that may lead to such symptoms as you noted at parade."
"Lucky Dwight isn't a drinking man," said Stone grimly. "There won't be any more Banner of Light descriptions of our depravity for a time, anyhow; but – fancy the story that would make in expert hands – and a Prohibition sheet. God grant no worse scandal come to us," he added piously, and in guarded tone, as the surgeon took his leave.
It was barely nine o'clock when, some garrison callers having departed, Mrs. Stone picked up a light wrap and said she believed she would stroll down the line and see Mrs. Ray. Everybody by this time had heard of the fracas at the office of the post Exchange at noonday, and the few who had caught sight of the left side of Foster's face bore testimony to the fact that Sandy Ray had lost little, if any, of one science he picked up at the Point. Mrs. Ray would surely be feeling anxious and distressed, said Mrs. Stone, even though everyone assured her, in manner if not in words, that public sympathy was all with Sandy.
"I believe I'll go, too," said Stone. "I'm feeling woozy to-night." So, arm in arm, this Darby and Joan of the frontier betook themselves down the row, past many an open casement and doorway, softly lighted, with whispering couples in the shadows and laughing, chatting groups upon the steps, with the tinkle of mandolin and guitar to mingle with the soft murmur of voices, despite many a hospitable bid to "Come and join us," the couple kept sturdily on and found, just as they expected, that other sympathetic souls had been before them, that Mrs. Ray was still holding quite a reception, Priscilla and Sandy being conspicuous by their absence, Priscilla having retired with a throbbing headache, Sandy, still tingling and nervous, having sent for his horse but a short time before and gone for a ride. They stayed quite a while, did the Stones, and Mrs. Ray seemed gladdened and comforted by their coming. It meant so much just then. Indeed, the bugles were sounding the ten o'clock call when finally they took their leave, and Sandy had not returned. True, he had then been gone little over an hour, and he could ride but slowly, though he declared he had neither strained a muscle nor started anew the trouble in the old wound. Perhaps it was too soon to be sure, but at all events a ride, a gentle amble on a nimble, easy horse over the elastic turf in the soft, summer moonlight would soothe and quiet him more than anything else, so, wisely, Marion had interposed no objection.
Taps sounded and the lights were lowered in the barracks and the sentries called off half-past ten o'clock, and still there had come no sign of the westbound Flyer, far over the southward waves of prairie, slowly breasting the long upgrade to the Pass. The big compound engine of the Midland Pacific had a deep-toned, melodious, flute-like signal, utterly different to the ear-piercing shriek of the old-fashioned railway whistle, and on still evenings the sharp, rhythmical beat of the exhaust, the steady rumble of the heavy Pullmans, and the occasional blast, rich and mellow, of the misnamed whistle could be followed westward for many a mile, until at last the echoes of the signal died away among the cliffs and cañons of the frowning Sagamore.
Some distance out across the rolling prairie, a mile or more beyond the Minneconjou, was the siding of a deserted station, once built there by the quartermaster's department with the idea of making a much shorter haul for supplies than that afforded by the broad and fairly level road from town. The wear and tear on mules, harness and running gear consequent upon the up-hill and down-dale character of the road, and the unprecedented volume of blasphemy supposedly necessary to successful fording of the Minneconjou, within earshot of the pious-minded at the post, led to eventual abandonment of that route in favor of the far longer but undeniably safer line to Silver Hill. It was a fine sight on clear evenings to see the long trail of electric lights gleaming white against the darkness, come rounding a distant bluff to the east, and then, skirting for a mile or so the south bank of the Minneconjou, go alternately burrowing and bridging the prairie divides and hollows until finally lost behind the sharp spur known as Two-Mile Ridge. The Flyer had a way of waiting at Omaha for the last of the express trains of five great railways bringing their loads from Chicago and St. Louis, all scheduled to reach Council Bluffs about the same hour, and some one or more of them being frequently behind. The Midland could make up no time between the Missouri and the Minneconjou, so light was the roadbed, so heavy the traffic, so many the stops. It was not until beyond the Sagamore the Flyer began to deserve its name. Due at Silver Hill this year of which we write as early as 5:30, the Flyer not infrequently stopped for supper as late as eleven, and not until eleven this night did the sentry on the southward front hear the big compound tooting for the crossings at Bonner's Bluff, and see the long line of electrics come gleaming into view far down the eastward valley.
Private O'Shea, sentry on No. 3, overlooking the flats whereon stood the stables, was straining his ears to catch the expected call of eleven o'clock from No. 2, and watching the distant trail of lights, and was able to say next morning that the Flyer was just shoving its nose behind Two-Mile Ridge as the second call, that of eleven o'clock, started round. The moon in its first quarter, though bright and clear, was then dipping low in the west and objects were by no means as distinct as they had been when he came on post soon after nine and saw Lieutenant Ray set forth, mounted, up the Minneconjou. O'Shea remembered that Hogan, who took care of the lieutenant's horse, had come back across his post, and they had had a brief talk about him, Hogan saying the lieutenant wasn't half satisfied with having blackened the eyes of a bigger man. "He was that savage and snappy he rowed me for keeping him so long waiting, when, dear knows, he couldn't have stood at the back gate ten minutes." O'Shea owned that he and Hogan, "all the fellers, for that matter," had wished their little bantam of a canteen officer could have had two minutes more at "the big feller." Foster had no friends among the enlisted men at the fort. It presently became a question whether or no he had not enemies. Hogan was just saying the lieutenant told him not to sit up for him when they became aware of someone approaching, heard the rattle of a sword, and saw the officer of the guard barely forty yards away, whereat Hogan skipped for the stables. Then came the next important point in O'Shea's statement. Just as the tail lights of the big train disappeared behind the ridge he heard the sudden single blast of the whistle sounding the old-time signal "down-brakes," noted the instant change from the loud, pulsing exhaust to the scream of escaping steam, heard even the squeal and grind of the tightly clamped wheels as the Flyer slowed down to a standstill. He was wondering what had happened when the third relief came round and Private Schmitz took his place on post, as subsequently he replaced O'Shea on the stand.
Schmitz was an honest Teuton, but by no means brilliant. Schmitz told a straightforward tale, and one that had strange and significant bearing on the case that became presently of paramount interest at Minneconjou. Schmitz said that he heard the train going on westward after the relief had disappeared, and that, just after the call of 11:30, he walked way up to the far end of his post, the west end, came slowly back, and when about in rear of Lieutenant Ray's quarters he heard a sort of cough down the slope toward the stables and saw a dark form approaching. He challenged in low tone, as he had been taught. The answer was, "Officer of the post," and before he could think how to say, "Advance and be recognized," the officer said, "Lieutenant Ray, sentry," and went on without stopping. When asked to describe the officer, Schmitz said the moon was then "owudt" and it was pretty dark, but it was a "leetle, schmall yentleman. He walk and talk and look yust like Lieutenant Ray effrey day does." Questioned as to the dress, he said the lieutenant wore his "kempyne hat bulled down ofer his eyes – his blue blouse mid shoulder straps, poots unt bants." He added that, though the officer hadn't come nearer him than fifteen feet, if it wasn't Lieutenant Ray, who was it? Schmitz stood pat on this proposition, and that was all that could be elicited from him, except that the Herr Lieutenant had gone through the back gate to his quarters.
About the same hour the telephone in the quartermaster's office, the only telephone the United States would permit or, at least, pay for at the post, set up a sharp ringing, that finally roused from his heavy slumber a veteran employee serving as clerk. Shuffling to the instrument in his slippers, the clerk desired to be informed what in sheol Silver Hill wanted waking people that hour of the night? The reply was a question. The Argenta's livery stableman wished to know if anything had been seen of a horse and buggy of his at the fort. A gent had hired one just about dark, said he, a gent who said he'd be back about ten, and who hadn't come. The gent had had supper in his room at the Argenta and had ordered his traps sent to the railway station to meet the Flyer. They said at the hotel office that he was a Captain Foster, whereat the clerk became interested, notified the stableman that he would make immediate inquiry at the guard-house, and did, and the guard said that neither Foster nor his buggy had been seen about the post. The clerk was beginning to dribble this through the 'phone, when he was suddenly cut off by the counter announcement: "Oh, it's all right! The rig's just back. Cap took the Flyer west and sent a boy home with it. Never even got change for the ten dollars he deposited."
But when mine host of the Argenta came back from seeing the Flyer off for the west he, too, had questions to ask as to Foster. Did the office clerk see anything of him? Nothing. "Queer," said Boniface, "we gave his hand baggage to the Pullman porter, as directed, but his trunk is there yet. Reckon I'll have to wire after him and tell the conductor to send them things back by No. 5."
And this, before he went to bed, the landlord proceeded to do, but no Captain Foster appeared during the night to claim the trunk or remonstrate about the luggage; nor came there any answer to the dispatch to the Flyer until the following morning, when there was handed the proprietor a slip somewhat as follows:
Man calling himself Captain Foster put aboard last night at Fort Siding, slugged and robbed. Taking him on to Wister. Physician in charge. Better notify police.
This was about eight o'clock, at which time the old guard was cleaning up about the guard-house and the companies detailed for the new were assembling in front of their quarters, and the officer of the guard, a young lieutenant recently joined from civil life, new to his trade and strange to the traditions of the army, was cross-questioning a reluctant corporal about an unauthorized item of equipment found tucked into his cartridge belt when the guard paraded at reveille – an officer's gauntlet of the style worn in the cavalry a year before this time. The corporal explained that it had been picked up by No. 3 just before his relief was taken off post at 5:15, that it had been handed him, the corporal, just before sentry's shout of "Turn out the guard!" at the approach of the officer of the day, and he had stowed it there for want of a better place and before he had had time to examine it.
But No. 3, it seems, had had time to examine, and had told some of his mates of his discovery. They had gone to Corporal Clancy to see for themselves, and had been told to go about their business, which led to more talk that finally reached the lieutenant's ears. Clancy had had a clatter with the sergeant and had been refused permission to go to his quarters anywhere, for a strange story was flitting about the post concerning two or three men of "B" Troop who had been out late the previous night, had got liquor over at a vile resort far across the Minneconjou, and a little southwest of town, and had had a sanguinary fight of some kind, for Sullivan was badly cut and Connelly had a nasty eye, and there was something black and ugly back of it they were trying to hide, unless veteran sergeants were in error; and finally the sergeant of the guard told the lieutenant of the story and said he believed Corporal Clancy was secreting evidence that might be of value, whereupon Clancy was ordered into the presence and told to produce that gauntlet.
But neither lieutenant nor sergeant dreamed of what was before them when Clancy at last reluctantly complied, dragging from beneath his blouse what had been a dainty bit of military finery, a soft white gauntlet, that bore within the cuff the inscription, "Sanford Ray," and that without was soaked and stained with blood.
