Stories by American Authors, Volume 6

I listened an instant.

"1—5—1," I said, "151; it isn't fifteen."

Another five minutes elapsed, while he searched for "151" I busily writing the while.

"Hit's—w'y, Lawd-a-massy! Mist' Dunkin, hit's fu' de milinte'y."

"Let me see," said I. "Yes, so it is; but they only want them to go to Cumberland. There's a strike there, and the strikers are getting troublesome."

He made no reply, and as the bells ceased ringing soon afterward, I resumed my work, which kept me busy until seven o'clock. I then placed the papers in an envelope, and took up the letters.

"Be sure you see the Vice-President himself, Thomas," I said. "You know him, don't you?"

Receiving no reply, and turning to ascertain the cause of his silence, I saw he was leaning out at the open window, gazing earnestly northward toward Baltimore Street.

"Thomas! Thomas!" I shouted.

He heard me at last, and withdrawing his head, apologized for his inattention.

"I thought—I heehed sup'n nutha like a hollehin' kine of a noise, an'—some guns, aw sup'n, an' I wuz look'n' to see, but thaih don't 'peah to be nuthin' goin' on."

"They're mending the railroad on Baltimore Street," I said. "I suppose that is what you heard." And I gave the papers into his hand repeating my directions: "If the gentleman is not there, don't leave them on any account. I'll wait here until you get back—but go first to the post-office and mail these."

He wrapped the papers carefully in his handkerchief, placed them in his vest-pocket, and started off.

After he left, I leaned my elbow on the dusty window-sill and lounged there awhile, watching him as he trotted busily down the deserted street; then, rousing myself, I stretched my weary limbs and set about arranging my desk, closing the safe, etc. At last everything was put in order, and I seated myself in an arm-chair, rubbing my cramped fingers and wrist, and afterward consulting my watch, more for something to do than to ascertain the time, which the clock on the mantel-piece would have told me.

Only quarter past seven, and he might be detained until, half-past eight. I leaned back and closed my eyes. How still and hot it was! I believe I was the only human being in that whole long block of big buildings on that July evening. Everything was as quiet as the typical country churchyard. I had a lethargic sense now and then of the far-off tinkle of a car-bell. I could catch a distant rumble from a passing vehicle a block or two away. And, yes, I did observe the presence of a dull, continuous drone, which proceeded from the direction of Baltimore Street, but just as I sat up to hearken, some one passing whistled, "Silver Threads among the Gold," the melody tracing itself upon the stillness like phosphoric letters in a dark room. I listened with vivid interest, but the tune presently grew fainter, faded, and was dissolved into the dusk, leaving me lonelier than before, and too sleepy to give my attention to the strange hum, of which I again became dully conscious. It is tiresome work waiting here with nothing to do, was my last drowsy thought, as I folded my arms on the desk, and rested my head upon them, to be aroused by a knocking at my door.

"Come in," I called.

The door creaked on its hinges, and somebody entered. I waited an instant, when an adolescent voice of the colored persuasion asked:

"Do somebody name Mist' Dunkin live here?"

"Yes. I'm here; what do you want?"

"Dey wan's you down-y street."

I stretched myself, reached mechanically for a match, and lighted the gas, which disclosed a small yellow boy, standing in the doorway, some fright and a good deal of excitement in his aspect. I then detected that he had something important to tell, and that his errand was a source of gratification to him.

"Well, what is it?" I asked, after we had stared at one another.

"Ain't yer yeared nuth'n' 'tall?" a shade of contempt in his tone.

"No, what is there to hear?" I asked, rather irascibly.

"Dey's a big fight down-town; de folks dey done tore de Six Reggimen' all ter pieces, an' dey's wuk'n 'long on de Fif now."

"Whereabouts?"

I started up, and got on my hat in an instant.

"Dey's et Camd' Street depot, now. Ole colored gentlemun he's been hurtid, an' sent me atter you."

It did not take half a minute to lock the door and we proceeded down-stairs together.

"He's down yere on Eutaw Street," continued my informant. "Dey's fightin' all 'long dere—I come nigh gittin' hit myself—he gimme ten cents to come tell yer—maybe he's done dade now," he added, cheerfully, as we gained the street, and began to walk.

"Dey fet all 'long yere," was his next breathless remark, made some time later. We were now proceeding rapidly up Baltimore Street, as rapidly, at least, as people can who are pushing against a steady stream of agitated humanity. "Dey fawr'd a bullet clean through de Sun-paper room," pursued the boy, "an' dey bust up dem dere winder-glassis—"

Pausing involuntarily to look, I caught stray scraps of additional information.

"Twenty-five people killed."

"As many as that?"

"Oh, yes; fully, I should say. The Sixth fired right into the crowd, all along from Gay to Eutaw Street."

"Well, I hear the Sixth are pretty well cleaned out by this time, so it's tit for tat."

Then—

"The Fifth must be there now—"

"The Fifth?—what are they—two hundred men against two thousand?—Lord knows how it will end. I hope this old town won't be burnt, that's all." The boy, listening, turned fearfully around, looking with distended eyes into mine. "Come on," I responded, and we spoke no more until we reached Liberty Street. Then, all at once, above the street noises—the rumbling of fugitive vehicles, the jingle of street-cars, and the hum of excited voices—rose a deep, hollow roar; a horrible sound of human menace in it, which was distinguishable even at that distance. The boy pressed closer, clutching timidly at my hand.

"Is yer—is yer gwine ter keep on?" he faltered.

"De ole gentlemun, he 'lowed puticler you wa'n't to run no resk 'count o' him."

"Where is he?" I asked. "In the thick of it?"

"No, sir; he's lay'n' down in a little alley—clean off d' street."

"Come on, then; you'll have to show me where it is. I won't let you get hurt."

When we first wheeled into South Eutaw Street, I was conscious of an almost painful stillness, more noticeable after the tumult of confused sounds from which we had just emerged. The houses either side were fast closed, doors and windows Some of them were even unlighted, and not vehicle was in sight. The street was partially unpaved, where new gas-pipes had been laid, and piles of paving-stones were heaped on the edge of the sidewalks. The place seemed deserted.

But presently, far down in the immediate vicinity of the depot, I perceived accumulated a dense, dark mass, like a low-hanging cloud, from which a low hoarse murmur seemed to proceed. It swayed slightly from side to side, with the inevitable motion of a large crowd, while at the same time it kept well within certain bounds. We walked quickly along, block after block, without encountering a single soul. I had been so engrossed with the dark, muttering pulsation in front, that I failed to attend to the sounds from behind, until the boy, jerking my hand, bade me listen to the drum. I heard it then plainly, as soon as he spoke, and the approaching tramp of disciplined feet was soon after distinctly audible. I turned and looked. The Fifth Regiment was marching down the middle of North Eutaw Street, having not yet crossed Baltimore Street, the drum corps in front, the colors flying, and crowding the sidewalks on either hand was a motley van and bodyguard, consisting of street loafers and half-grown boys, who had come along to see the "fun," and whose sympathies were plainly with the rioters. The foremost of these soon reached the spot where I stood, and as I drew aside to let them pass, I heard a gamin say to his neighbor:

"I say, Bill, these yere putty little soldier-boys hadn't better make ther las' will an' testyment—ain't it?'"

"I dunno 'bout that," replied the other, a veteran of fourteen, who was chewing tobacco, and whom I recognized as a certain one-eyed newsboy.

"These yere men hez fought in the late war, yer see, plenty of 'um, an' you bet they don't carry no bokays on ther bayonits."

As the column advanced, I glanced anxiously toward the human sea down yonder. At first, no additional movement could be detected, then, as the drums approached nearer, a quick stir, like a sudden gust, struck its troubled waters; the hoarse, horrible cry tore raggedly through the summer air. And then I hastily drew the terrified child with me into the shade of a receding doorway—for the mad flood came raving over its bounds toward us.

The mob was mostly composed of men in their working-clothes, with bare arms and gaunt, haggard faces. There were some women among them—wretched, half-starved creatures—who kept shrieking like furies all the time. As the regiment, still moving resolutely onward, approached within a few yards of them, there fell the first volley of stones, accompanied with hoots and jeers of derision.

"Thuz only two hundred of 'um, boys," shouted a rough voice. "They'll run quick enough if you give it to 'um good," and a second shower of missiles fell into the ranks, the mob arming themselves with the paving-stones at hand.

But the little band of soldiers did not once falter, although here and there in their ranks you could discover a man leaning against a comrade, who gave him support as they moved on together. The crowd seemed a little dashed. The dispersion of the Sixth Regiment had been such a mere bagatelle, and their own number had, since then, been re-enforced by half the professional rowdies in town. They redoubled their cries, which, from jeers, now became shouts of rage and mortification.

"Wot are you 'bout? Give it to 'um good, I tell yer. They daresn't fire," howled the same brawny giant who had spoken before.

As they continued the attack, a pistol-shot could be heard now and then from the crowd. The regiment did not return the fire, but as the mob pressed closer, an order from the front was passed along the line.

"Fix bayonets."

The opposing parties were now only a few feet apart, and a rain of stones was falling so thick and fast as to darken the air, when all at once I saw the colonel's sword flash out, the blunt edge striking one of the rioters who was pressing on him.

"Clear the way, there!" he cried.

Then, wheeling and facing his command, his voice rang out, clear as a bugle;

"A—r—m—s, 'port! Double-time, march! Ch—ar—ge, bayonets! Hurrah! Give 'em a yell, boys, and you can do it," added the colonel.

I cannot describe the shout which followed—a clear, ringing, organized whoop; fresh and vibrant; of a perfectly distinct quality from the hoarse, undisciplined howl of the mob—sounding cool and terrible, like the cry of an avenging angel.

The mob turned and fled, appalled, melting away like wax before the blue flame of the glittering bayonets, and the regiment entered the depot.

Then I took time to breathe, and remembered Thomas.

"He ain't fur f'om yere," said the boy. "Right 'roun' d' corner."

And we passed out of the shelter of the doorway to a small, dirty alley, about twenty-five yards distant, where I found the old man resting against a lamp-post, the blood streaming down his face from a ghastly wound in the head, and his eyes closed. I made the boy get some water, and after bathing his face for a few moments, I succeeded in rousing him.

"Is that you, Mist' Dunkin?" he asked, faintly.

"Yes. How do you feel, Thomas?"

"Dey's tuhibul times down-street," he gasped. "I like to got kilt."

A pause.

"Dey 'lowed dey wanted dem daih papehs—an'—dey didn't git 'um—an'—den—den dey hit me side de hade—with a brickbat—an' I come 'long tell I git yeah—an' den, disha boy he come 'long—"

His voice was very faint and his hands very cold

"Don't talk any more now," I said, chafing them in mine, while I wondered perplexedly how I should get him home. Presently he spoke again:

"But de papehs is all right, seh. I hilt on to 'um, sho'. Dey—dey couldn't git 'um nohow, wid all de smahtniss," he said, with feeble triumph. "Dey's right yeah in my wescut pocket." Then he added, with a sudden change of tone: "But I'd like to go home, Mist' Dunkin; Ailse'll be oneasy 'bout me."

I had to leave him with the boy while I went for a doctor and a vehicle, neither of which was easy to be had, but finally a milk-wagon was pressed into service, and although the mob had gathered together again, and were besieging the depot, yet, after some delay, we succeeded in conveying him to his home. I saw him safe in bed, his hurt dressed; then, after bestowing a reward upon the colored boy, who had rendered me such efficient service, I left him in charge of the doctor and his wife.

The latter was a small, plump yellow woman, with large, gentle black eyes, and the soft voice so often found among Virginia "house" servants. After watching her as she assisted the surgeon to dress the wound, I came to the conclusion all of her talents were by no means "bound up in napkins," and I went home assured my faithful old messenger was left in very capable hands.

Next morning, directly after breakfast, I sallied forth to inquire concerning his condition. After passing along the crowded thoroughfares, where everybody was occupied with the riot, it was a relief to find myself turning into the obscure little street where he lived.

"Here, at least, everything seems peaceful enough," I said, aloud, as I approached the house. I was just in the act of placing my foot on the one door-step, when the door was thrown violently open, and a tall black woman bounced out, colliding with me as she passed, her superior momentum thrusting me backward across the narrow pavement into the street. She was too excited to heed my exclamation of astonishment. I don't think she saw me, even, for she turned immediately and faced some one standing in the doorway, whom I now perceived to be Ailse, looking dreadfully frightened.

"Good-mornin', Mis' Wheatley," said the Amazon, with withering sarcasm; "good-mornin', madam. I think you'll know it the nex' time I darkens your doors, I think you will. Served me right, though, we'en I demeaned myself to come; I might 'a' knowed what treatment I'd 'eceive from you. Ef I hadn't ben boun' by solemn class-rules to pay some 'tention to Brother Wheatley's immortal soul "—these words were uttered at the very top of her voice—"you wouldn't 'a' caught me comin'; but I'll never come ag'in, never; so make yourself easy, Mis' Wheatley."

A shade of relief passed over Ailse's features as this assurance was repeated, and I coming forward at this moment, the representative of the church militant betook herself off, while I entered and spoke to Ailse, who, fairly dazed, sank into a chair, and stared me helplessly in the face. There was a moment's silence, when she suddenly rose and offered me a seat, remarking, as she did so, that "Sisteh Ma'y Ann Jinkins ca'in' on so" made her forget her manners.

"What is the matter?" said I.

"I dunno, seh, 'cep'n' she's mad 'cause docteh won't leave heh stay and talk to Mist' Wheatley; he made heh go, an' I s'pose hit kindeh put heh out."

"What was she doing?"

"Talkin', seh; jiss talkin' and prayin'."

"And exciting the man into a fever," said the doctor, entering at that moment. "I came here half an hour ago," he continued, turning to me, "and found this woman—who really is a good nurse—turned out of her husband's room by that termagant who has just gone, and whom I found in the act of preparing the man for death, she having decided his hours on earth were numbered; in fact, I actually chanced in upon a species of commendatory prayer, which, if continued another half hour—and I have every reason to think it would have been—would almost inevitably have ended the man's life."

"I suppose I had better not see him this morning, then," said I.

"Oh, yes; you can see him; he's doing well now, and if he doesn't talk too much, I think the sight of a cheerful face will do him good," and I left him giving some directions to Ailse, while I proceeded up-stairs to the room where Thomas lay. He was awake, so I walked up to his bedside, and asked him how he felt.

"I'm tollubul, thankee, seh; de medicine makes me kind o' sleepy, that's all."

I seated myself beside him, there was a moment or two of silence, then he asked, fretfully:

"Whai—whaih's Ailse? I like to see the 'oman 'roun'; s'haint got no speshul great gif', but she's kind o' handy wen a body's sick."

"You don't seem to care so much for gifted women in a sick-room, Thomas?" I remarked, somewhat mischievously, after I had summoned his wife from down-stairs.

"Well, naw, seh," a little shamefacedly. "Not so much. You see, seh, dey—dey's mos' too much fu' a body, sich times. Dey will talk, you'se dey will, an' 'livah 'scouhcis, an' a sick man he hain't got de strenth to—to supplicate in kine, an' hit kind o' mawtifies him, seh."

Once more there followed a silence, when I asked:

"Thomas, why didn't you give up those papers to the mob, when they attacked you last night? Your retaining them might have cost you your life. I didn't mean you to endanger your life for them."

He smiled slightly, as his glance met mine.

"I dunno, seh," he replied, with his old reflective air. "You tole me mos' pehticaleh to hole on to 'um, an' 'twouldn't be doin' my duty faithful to let 'um go 's long ez I could hole on to 'um."

"But suppose they had killed you?"

"Well, Mist' Dunkin, ef dey had, I hope I'd been ready to go. I ben tryin' to lead a godly an' Chris'chun life, ez Scripcheh sez, fu' fawty yeahs, now, an' I hope I'd a foun' dyin' grace at de las'. You see, seh, thing hoped me mos' was de thoughts of a tex' Bro' Moss preached on las' Sund'y; 'peached like hit hep' on jinglin' in my hade all time dey was jawin' an' fightin' with me."

"What text was it?" I asked.

But he was almost asleep, and his wife signalled me not to wake him. So I was stealing away toward the door, when he opened his eyes and murmured, drowsily:

"De tex', oh yes, seh. I fo'got—'twas a Scripcheh tex'—'Be thou faithful unto—'"

He then turned over, settling himself comfortably in his pillows, and in a moment dropped asleep.

In due course of time, he made his appearance in the office again, being anxious to "resume his duties," he said. But that blow on the head has proved to be a serious affair, affecting the old man's memory permanently, and giving a violent shock to his system, from which it will never entirely recover. He is no longer the clear-headed messenger he was, when he was wont to assert—no idle boast either—that he could "fetch an' cai' eq'il to any man." Now and then, in these latter days, he confuses things a little, always suffering the keenest mortification when he discovers his mistakes. As I said in the beginning, he is still our office-boy and messenger, although a smart young mulatto is hired to come betimes, make things tidy, and leave before the old man gets down, so his feelings mayn't be hurt. He sometimes remarks on our being the "cleanis' gentlemun in de wueld," but we contrive that no whisper of the real state of the case ever reaches his ear, and he is allowed to sweep and dust a little to satisfy his mind.

THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO.

By LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY

"It is a cameo to break one's heart!" said Mrs. Dalliba, as she toyed with the superb jewel. "The cutting is unmistakably Florentine, and yet you have placed it among your Indian curiosities. I do not understand it at all."

Mrs. Dalliba was a connoisseur in gems; she had travelled from one extremity of Europe to the other; had studied the crown jewels of nearly every civilized nation, haunted museums, and was such a frequent visitor at the jewellers' of the Palais Royal, that many of them had come to regard her as an individual who might harbor burglarious intentions. She was a very harmless specialist, however, who, though she loved these stars of the underworld better than any human being, could never have been tempted to make one of them unfairly her own, and she seldom purchased, for she never coveted one unless it was something quite extraordinary, beyond the reach of even her considerable fortune. Meanwhile few of the larger jewelry houses had in their employ lapidaries more skilled than Mrs. Dalliba. She pursued her studies for the mere love of the science, devoting a year in Italy to mosaics, cameos, and intaglios. And yet the Crèvecoeur cameo had puzzled wiser heads than Mrs. Dalliba's, adept though she was. It was cut from a solid heart-shaped gem, a layer of pure white, shading down through exquisite gradations into deep green, and representing Aphrodite rising from the sea; the white foam rose gracefully, with arms extended, scattering the drops of spray from her hands and her wind-blown hair; the foamy waves were beautifully cut with their intense hollows and snowy crests; it was evidently the work of a cultivated as well as a natural artist; it was not surprising that Mrs. Dalliba should insist that it could not have been executed out of Italy.

But Prof. Stonehenge was right too; it was a stone of the chalcedonic family, resembling sardonyx, except in color; others, similar to it both in a natural state and wrought into arrow-heads, had been found along the shores of Lake Superior. This seemed to have been brought away from its associates by some wandering tribe, for it had been discovered in Central Illinois. The nearest point at which other relics belonging to the same period had been found was the site of Fort Crèvecoeur, near Starved Rock, Illinois. After all, the stone only differed from the arrow-heads of Lake Superior in its beautiful carving and unprecedented size—and, ah, yes! there was another difference, the mystery of its discovery. No other skeleton among all the buried braves unearthed by scientific research at Crèvecoeur had been found with a gem for a heart—a gem that glittered not on the breast, but within a chest hooped with human bone. Mrs. Dalliba had just remarked that she had never felt so strong a desire to possess and wear any jewel as now; but when Prof. Stonehenge told how the uncanny thing rattled within the white ribs of the skeleton in which it was found, she allowed the gem to slip from her hand, while something of its own pale green flickered in the disgusted expression which quivered about the corners of her mobile mouth. The cameo was a mystery which had baffled geologist, antiquarian, and sculptor alike, for Father Francis Xavier had gone down to his grave with his secret and his cameo hidden in his heart. He had kept both well for two centuries, and when the heart crumbled in dust it took its secret with it, leaving only the cameo to bewilder conjecture.

Its story was, after all, a simple one. On the southern shore of Michillimackinac, in the romantic days of the first exploration of the great lakes by the Courreurs de Bois and pioneer priests, had settled good Père Ignace, a devoted Jesuit missionary. The old man was revered and loved by the Indians among whom he dwelt. His labors blossomed in a little village, called from his patron saint the mission of St. Ignace, that displayed its cluster of white huts and wigwams like the petals of a water-lily on the margin of the lake. Just back of the village was a round knoll which served as a landmark on the lake, for the shore near St. Ignace was remarkably level. On the summit of this mound the good father had reared a great white cross, and at its foot the superstitious Indians often laid votive offerings of strongly incongruous character. Here he had lived and taught for many years, succeeding in instructing his little flock in the French tongue, and in at least an outward semblance of the Catholic religion. Even the rude trappers, who came to trade at regular intervals, revered him, and lived like good Christians while at the mission, so as not to counteract his teaching by their lawless example. Here Père Ignace was growing old, and even this grasshopper of a spiritual charge was becoming a burden. His superior, at Montreal, understood this, and sent him an assistant.