Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  As he waited for admittance he saw the flag over the porch, motionless in the still air; he heard the wild bees’ harmony overhead, he heard the rustle of a summer gown behind the door. But the door did not open. He waited. A burr stuck to the crimson stripe on his riding breeches; he flicked it off with his middle finger. Presently he knocked again, once; the door opened, and Mrs. Ashley came out, smiling faintly.

  “I hope you want another cup of tea,” she said with the slightest gesture toward the table under the magnolias where the two chairs still stood as they had left them in the morning.

  He attended her, cap in hand, to the table; when she was seated, he stood beside her.

  “Is it tea, Captain Smith?” she asked, looking up at him.

  He grew suddenly red, but did not reply.

  “What is it then?” she repeated, smiling: “not the mere honour of my poor presence I am sure. But, as a gallant officer, you must contradict me, Captain Smith.”

  Fear whitened her lips that the smile had not left; she faced him with the coquetry of desperation; and the pathos of it turned him sick at heart.

  “I brought the Bible to you,” he said; “it is the one you swore on — the oath of allegiance. You kissed it.”

  She inclined her throbbing head and took it.

  “Open it,” he said.

  She obeyed. The wet bit of folded paper caught her eyes and she held it out to Smith, saying: “This is yours.”

  “No!” he said, “it is yours.”

  She glanced swiftly up at him, caught her breath; and sat motionless, the paper clutched nervously in her fingers.

  “Read it,” he said in a scarcely audible voice.

  She opened it; one glance was enough. Then she dropped it on the grass at her feet. Presently he stooped and recovered it.

  “Yes,” she said, obeying his eyes’ command, “my husband is not dead. What of it?”

  “Where is he?”

  She was silent.

  “A deserter.”

  “Yes.”

  “A traitor.”

  “Yes.”

  Smith walked to the gate, looked down the road toward the church where the artillery pickets paraded, naked sabres drawn. Then he came back.

  “You are under arrest,” he said, looking at the ground.

  She turned a bloodless face to his, and raised one slender hand to her forehead.

  “Do you doubt my loyalty?” she stammered.

  He turned his back sharply.

  “My loyalty?” she repeated as though dazed.

  He was silent.

  “But — but you administered the oath — you saw me kiss the Book,” she persisted with childlike insistence.

  “And your husband?” he asked, turning abruptly.

  “What of him!” she cried, revolted; “I am myself! — I have a brain and a body and a soul of my own! Do you think I would damn my soul with a kiss on that Book! Do you think if I were a Rebel I would deny it to save my body?”

  “You have denied it,” he said. He took the Bible from her hand and opened it at a marked page:

  “By their acts ye shall know them,” he read steadily, then closed the Book and laid it on the table. Their eyes met; the anguish in his bore a message to her that pleaded for forgiveness for what he was about to do.

  “Not that!—” she stammered, half rising from the chair.

  He turned, drew out a handkerchief, and signalled the artillery picket, flag-fashion. Then, before he could prevent it, she was on her knees to him, there on the grass, her white face lifted, speechless with horror.

  “For God’s sake don’t do that,” he said, trying to raise her, but she clung to him and pushed him toward the gate murmuring, “Go! Go!”

  Furious at the agony he was causing her, tortured by the agony it cost him, he held her firmly and told her to be silent.

  “Your husband is hidden in that house,” he said: “he is attempting to add to his treason by communicating with the Rebel cavalry. He tried to force your own pastor, at the point of a pistol, to hang a red shirt on his clothesline, which means ‘attack!’ The pastor is a good man; he had taken the oath; such villainy horrified him. To save his life in the room above he consented to hang out a signal, but the signal he hung out is a white shirt which means ‘retreat.’ There it is!’

  He pointed angrily at the white shirt hanging on the minister’s clothes-line down the road.

  “Now,” he said, “let me do my duty.”

  He took her by the wrists, and looked straight into her eyes, adding:

  “I’d rather be lying dead at your feet than doing what I’ve got to do.”

  “But,” she cried, struggling to free herself, “but the signal! Can’t you understand? The man lied! He lied! He lied! The white rag means ‘attack!’”

  Stupefied, he dropped her wrists and stepped back.

  “Run to your battery!” she wailed, “run! run! Can’t you understand! They’re coming! They’ll kill you!”

  Scarcely had she spoken when a rifle-shot rang out from the race-track, another, another, then a scattered volley.

  An artillery guard approached the garden, halted, turned, then scattered pell mell toward the church. The next moment Smith was running for his battery and shouting to Steele, who, mounted, cantered among the grave-stones, and hurried the panic-stricken cannoniers to their stations.

  A frightful tumult arose from the race-track, where the “Dead Rabbits,” taken utterly unprepared by a cloud of Confederate cavalry, ran like rabbits very much alive. Through them galloped the Confederate riders, heavy sabres dripping to the hilt. The Union cavalry at the water-tank was overwhelmed; the gray-jacketed troopers, shouting their “Hi! yi! yi! yi!” wheeled into the village, shaking a thousand glittering sabres; but here they met a blast of cannister from the churchyard that sent them reeling and tumbling back to the race-track, now swarming with the entire Confederate division.

  Smith’s battery, limbered up, filed out of the churchyard, while Smith, looking annihilation in the face, saw the last of the “Dead-Rabbits” legging it for the woods. He turned with a groan to Steele, and Steele said, “Ride for it, if we’re to save the guns! The whole rebel cavalry is here!”

  Bullets began to sing into the bewildered column; the cannoniers struggled with the horses and swore. Suddenly a shell fell squarely on the church tower and burst.

  “They’ve got artillery; we’re goners!” shouted a teamster.

  Smith drew his sabre and raised it high above his head: “Battery forward!” he cried: “by the left flank! Gallop!”

  “God help us,” gasped Steele.

  Team after team dashed into position, dropped their guns, and wheeled into station behind. Smith dismounted and, standing by gun No. 1, began to make calculations, pad and pencil in hand. Presently he gave his orders; a shrapnel shell was rammed home, the screw twisted to the elevation, then:

  “Fire!”

  A lance of flame pierced the white cloud, the shell soared away toward the race-track and burst beyond it.

  Before gun No. 2 could be fired, a roar broke from the wooded heights close to the left, and a flight of shells struck Smith’s battery amidships. For a moment it was horrible; teams were butchered, guns dismounted, cannoniers torn to shreds.

  “Steele, bring that limber up!” shouted Smith; “they shan’t have every gun!”

  Steele seized the bridle; the terrified animals lashed out right and left, threatening to kick the traces to bits. A cannonier tried to hook up the gun but fell dead under the limber. A caisson blew up, hurling a dozen men into the air and stunning as many more. With blackened face and jacket, Steele reeled toward the gun again but fell on his face in the long grass.

  “Bring off that gun!” shouted Smith, standing straight up in his stirrups. Crack! went the wheel, and the gun sank to its axle. Then Smith sprang from his horse and helped the gunners take the spare wheel from the caisson, roll it up over the grass, and mount it on the broken pieces. Smith hammere
d it on the axle, then drove home the linchpin, brushed the sweat from his half-blinded eyes, and looked around.

  What he saw was the wreck of three guns and caissons, the blackened fragments of gunners and horses, and a mess of trampled grass; and beyond, between his single gun and the race-track, a long gray line, glittering with naked steel, sweeping straight upon him.

  Of his battery there remained three men with him; the others were lying dead around Steele or stunned and mangled somewhere in the rank grass.

  Scarcely conscious of what he did, he helped his three gunners hook the gun to the limber, then mounted and followed the gun back into the village through a constantly increasing rain of bullets. One of his men fell to the earth.

  “I guess the whole Rebel army’s here,” he said, as though speaking to himself: “I guess I’d better get this gun to the Junction damn quick.”

  In front of Mrs. Ashley’s cottage, as the cannon passed, Ashley, in his shirt-sleeves, fired from the window point-blank at a cannonier and shot him out of his saddle. The dead man’s clutch on the team’s bridle brought the gun to a halt, and the remaining gunner sprang from his saddle with an oath and dashed into the house, sabre unsheathed.

  “Come back!” shouted Smith, reining in; “man! man! we’ve got to save the gun! Come back!” He climbed from his own saddle into the saddle of the nigh battery horse and seized the heavy rawhide. A bullet broke his wrist as he lifted it.

  There was a struggle going on in the room from which Ashley had fired, but Smith did not see it; his head swam and he looked at his gun with sick eyes. For a second all round grew black, then he found himself rising from his horse’s neck, and, in the road beside him, he saw Mrs. Ashley and ‘Biah, holding the bridles he had dropped.

  “They’ve hit me, I can’t guide the team,” he said vacantly. “I’ve got to save the gun, you know.” His eyes fell on the dead body of her husband, lying where it had been flung from the window among the flowers below.

  “He’s dead,” said Mrs. Ashley; “I can’t stay. Don’t leave me! I can sit a horse if you will let me. I’ll go with you. Don’t refuse me!”

  She sprang into the limber seat and clutched the railing with both hands; ‘Biah followed with a howl of terror. There was a whip there; she swung the heavy rawhide and, seizing a horse by the mane, drew herself forward to the saddle, calling; “here they come! Gallop! gallop!”

  With a plunge the six horses leaped forward, and tore down the road, Smith swaying in his saddle with a broken arm, the young girl, enveloped in a torrent of dust, riding the nigh horse of the wheel-team, limber and gun swaying and crashing on behind, ‘Biah bouncing, jouncing, and howling intermittently. “Guide!” called Smith faintly: “I can’t.”

  She seized the bridles and lashed the horses. ‘Biah shrieked.

  “There are soldiers ahead!” she cried to him,—” Rebel infantry! They’re going to fire!”

  “Drive over them!” he gasped.

  With a rumble, a roar, and a tearing crash, the train broke into the shouting mass of men, the scurrying wheels crunched on something, there came a flash of rifles, and Smith staggered. Before his eyes all was a blurr; he still heard the hoofs clink, the chains clash, the wheels thump and pound. Gun and limber struck an opposing body and leaped into the air; Smith’s glazing eyes opened; he clung to his mount and attempted to turn.

  He tried to say: “Is the wheel broken?”

  She could not reply, nor did she dare turn her head to that heap in the road already far behind. Terror sealed her lips — had sealed her lips when, through the dust ahead, she saw Smull, almost under the head team’s hoofs, start to run, then go down to death beneath her very eyes.

  * * * * * *

  Six wild horses, a runaway limber and gun, two half-dead creatures hanging to the saddles, and a frantic darkey on the limber, — that was all of Smith’s battery that tore into the Junction to the horror of Wilson and the scandal of the rank and file.

  It all happened years ago; too long ago to fix the year or the date. Perhaps the incident is recorded in the archives of the Nation. Perhaps not. At all events when they had picked some stray bullets out of Smith and set his wrist in splints, he went North on furlough.

  I think Mrs. Ashley went with him; and ‘Biah being of no account, toted their luggage and breathed hard.

  AMBASSADOR EXTRAORDINARY.

  Alas! he’s gone before,

  Gone to return no more,

  Whose well-spent life did last

  Full ninety year and past,

  Crowned with Eternal bliss

  We wish our souls with his.

  Ancient Epitaph

  Sing again the song you sung

  When we were together young —

  When there were but you and I

  Underneath the summer sky.

  GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.

  I.

  IT was the season when our beloved motherland undergoes a quadrennial Caesarian operation and presents a new president to a pardonably hysterical people.

  Installed in the several departments of the national incubator, newly hatched cabinet officers, destitute of the Roman Augur’s sense of humour, met around the “Oracle,” and parted, without the shadow of a smile; brand-new heads of departments gazed solemnly at each other, government clerks cast owlish eyes on brand-new chiefs, gloomily alert for new cues.

  The Ambassador to England was named, and sent forth; at parting the President intimated to him that he was a statesman; they shook hands and looked into each other’s eyes; neither relaxed a muscle. The Ambassador to Germany departed; the Ambassador to Russia followed. Other statesmen-patriots expatriated themselves with serious alacrity; a Minister descended on Brazil, another on Spain, another on Belgium; no guilty land escaped.

  When His Excellency the United States Ambassador to France presented his credentials to the President of the French Republic, the guard at the Elysée presented arms, a nurse-maid wheeling a baby-carriage stopped to look, and there was a paragraph in the Figaro several days later.

  In the Latin Quarter the American students discussed the new Ambassador.

  Selby said to Severn: “There’s a new Ambassador, you know; I hear he’s red-headed.”

  Severn said to Rowden: “There’s a new Ambassador, you know. I understand his family have red hair.”

  Rowden observed to Lambert: “I am told that the new Ambassador’s daughter has red hair.”

  That morning the pale April sunshine, slanting through the glass-roofed studio in the rue Notre Dame, awoke Richard Osborne Elliott from refreshing slumbers. That young man, in turn, aroused Foxhall Clifford from a lethargy incident on a nuit blanche and a green table.

  “Black can’t turn up every time; red is bound to assist the lowly,” muttered Clifford on his pillow.

  At that moment Elliott, reading the Figaro, encountered the paragraph concerning the new Ambassador.

  “Red is going to assist us,” he remarked; “they say he has red hair.”

  “Who?” yawned Clifford.

  An hour later Elliott, swathed in a blue crash bath-robe, sat in the studio sipping his morning coffee and perusing the feuilleton in the Figaro.

  His comrade entered a moment later carrying a pair of shoes, and sat down on the floor.

  “New Ambassador,” repeated Clifford, lacing his patent leathers; “what do I care for Ambassadors!”

  “They’re good to know,” observed Elliott, “they give receptions.”

  “Yes,” sneered Clifford, “fourth of July receptions, where everybody waves little flags at every body else. I’ve seen trained birds do that.”

  “Ambassadors,” insisted Elliott, “can get you out of scrapes. If you’re broke they can send you home. You’re not much of a patriot anyway.”

  “Yes, I am,” snapped Clifford, “I’m loyal to the spinal marrow, but I draw the line at our diplomats.” He laced the other shoe, tied it, straightened up and rose, kicking out gently first with one leg then with the other
until his trousers fell over each instep with satisfying symmetry.

  “Patriot?” he went on, “I am too patriotic to countenance the status quo at our consulate, where the United States Consul sits in his shirt-sleeves and practises at a cuspidor, and where you can’t get a consular certificate without being bullied by an insolent roustabout! So your new Ambassador,” he continued reflectively, “can go to the devil!”

  “Now you’re too hasty,” said Elliott; “Ambassadors are not consuls.” He added dreamily, “His Excellency has a daughter — I understand.”

  Clifford, loitering before the mirror, unconsciously gave a smarter twist to his tie, and buttoned the snowy waistcoat in silence. When he was ready, gloved, hatted, and faultlessly groomed, he selected a blossom from a pot of fragrant pinks on the window and drew it through the lapel of his morning coat.

  “Going to see Jacquette?” asked Elliott, pouring out more coffee.

  “No,” replied Clifford. He hummed a bar of a wedding march, strolled to the great glass window, mused a moment, sighed, whistled softly, and sighed again. There was a cock-sparrow out in the garden, hopping around, chirping and trailing his dusty wings through the gravel. A lady sparrow pecked him at intervals. The innocent courtship of the little things stirred Clifford with amorous wistfulness. He flattened his nose against the window glass and watched them, gently humming:

  “The fox and the bear,

  The squirrel and the hare,

  The dickey-bird up in the tree,

  The roly-poly rabbits,

  So amazing in their habits,

  They all have a mate but me,

  But me!

  They all —

  They a — a — a — ll —

  Oh, they all have a mate but me!”

  Elliott listened scornfully.

  “Why,” said Clifford, twisting suddenly around, “should I go to school and paint Italian models — on a day like this?”

  “You haven’t been to the atelier in a week,” said Elliott morosely. “Oh, I know what you’re going to say!”