Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country

by Irving Bacheller

  Chapter 36

  Those were great days in mid autumn. The Republic was in grave peril ofdissolution. Liberty that had hymned her birth in the last centurynow hymned her destiny in the voices of bard and orator. Crowds ofmen gathered in public squares, at bulletin boards, on street cornersarguing, gesticulating, exclaiming and cursing. Cheering multitudes wentup and down the city by night, with bands and torches, and there wassuch a howl of oratory and applause on the lower half of ManhattanIsland that it gave the reporter no rest. William H. Seward, CharlesSumner, John A. Dix, Henry Ward Beecher and Charles O'Connor were thegiants of the stump. There was more violence and religious fervour inthe political feeling of that time than had been mingled since '76. Asense of outrage was in the hearts of men. 'Honest Abe' Lincoln stood,as they took it, for their homes and their country, for human libertyand even for their God.

  I remember coming into the counting-room late one evening. Loud voiceshad halted me as I passed the door. Mr Greeley stood back of thecounter; a rather tall, wiry grey-headed man before it. Each was shakinga right fist under the other's nose. They were shouting loudly as theyargued. The stranger was for war; Mr Greeley for waiting. The publisherof the Tribune stood beside the latter, smoking a pipe; a small manleaned over the counter at the stranger's elbow, putting in a word hereand there; half a dozen people stood by, listening. Mr Greeley turned tohis publisher in a moment.

  'Rhoades,' said he, 'I wish ye'd put these men out. They holler 'n yell,so I can't hear myself think.

  Then there was a general laugh.

  I learned to my surprise, when they had gone, that the tall man wasWilliam H. Seward, the other John A. Dix.

  Then one of those fevered days came the Prince of Wales--a Godsend, toallay passion with curiosity.

  It was my duty to handle some of 'the latest news by magnetictelegraph', and help to get the plans and progress of the campaign atheadquarters. The Printer, as they called Mr Greeley, was at his deskwhen I came in at noon, never leaving the office but for dinner, untilpast midnight, those days. And he made the Tribune a mighty power in thestate. His faith in its efficacy was sublime, and every line went underhis eye before it went to his readers. I remember a night when he calledme to his office about twelve o clock. He was up to his knees in therubbish of the day-newspapers that he had read and thrown upon thefloor; his desk was littered with proofs.

  'Go an' see the Prince o' Wales,' he said. (That interesting young manhad arrived on the Harriet Lane that morning and ridden up Broadwaybetween cheering hosts.) 'I've got a sketch of him here an' it's alltwaddle. Tell us something new about him. If he's got a hole in his sockwe ought to know it.'

  Mr Dana came in to see him while I was there.

  'Look here, Dana,' said the Printer, in a rasping humour. 'By the godsof war! here's two columns about that performance at the Academy andonly two sticks of the speech of Seward at St Paul. I'll have to getsomeone to go an' burn that theatre an' send the bill to me.

  In the morning Mayor Wood introduced me to the Duke of Newcastle, whoin turn presented me to the Prince of Wales--then a slim, blue-eyedyoungster of nineteen, as gentle mannered as any I have ever met. It wasmy unpleasant duty to keep as near as possible to the royal party in allthe festivities of that week.

  The ball, in the Prince's honour, at the Academy of Music, was one ofthe great social events of the century. No fair of vanity in the westernhemisphere ever quite equalled it. The fashions of the French Court hadtaken the city, as had the Prince, by unconditional surrender. Not inthe palace of Versailles could one have seen a more generous exposure ofthe charms of fair women. None were admitted without a low-cut bodice,and many came that had not the proper accessories. But it was the mostbrilliant company New York had ever seen.

  Too many tickets had been distributed and soon 'there was an elbow onevery rib and a heel on every toe', as Mr Greeley put it. Every miss andher mamma tiptoed for a view of the Prince and his party, who came in atten, taking their seats on a dais at one side of the crowded floor.The Prince sat with his hands folded before him, like one in a reverie.Beside him were the Duke of Newcastle, a big, stern man, with anaggressive red beard; the blithe and sparkling Earl of St Germans, thenSteward of the Royal Household; the curly Major Teasdale; the gay Bruce,a major-general, who behaved himself always like a lady. Suddenly thefloor sank beneath the crowd of people, who retired in some disorder.Such a compression of crinoline was never seen as at that moment, whenperiphery pressed upon periphery, and held many a man captive in thecold embrace of steel and whalebone. The royal party retired to itsrooms again and carpenters came in with saws and hammers. The floorrepaired, an area was roped off for dancing--as much as could be spared.The Prince opened the dance with Mrs Governor Morgan, after which otherladies were honoured with his gallantry.

  I saw Mrs Fuller in one of the boxes and made haste to speak withher. She had just landed, having left Hope to study a time in theConservatory of Leipzig.

  'Mrs Livingstone is with her,' said she, 'and they will return togetherin April.

  'Mrs Fuller, did she send any word to me?' I enquired anxiously. 'Didshe give you no message?

  'None,' she said coldly, 'except one to her mother and father, which Ihave sent in a letter to them.

  I left her heavy hearted, went to the reporter's table and wrote mystory, very badly I must admit, for I was cut deep with sadness. Then Icame away and walked for hours, not caring whither. A great homesicknesshad come over me. I felt as if a talk with Uncle Eb or Elizabeth Browerwould have given me the comfort I needed. I walked rapidly through dark,deserted streets. A steeple clock was striking two, when I heard someonecoming hurriedly on the walk behind me. I looked over my shoulder, butcould not make him out in the darkness, and yet there was somethingfamiliar in the step. As he came near I felt his hand upon my shoulder.

  'Better go home, Brower,' he said, as I recognised the voice ofTrumbull. 'You've been out a long time. Passed you before tonight.'

  'Why didn't you speak?'

  'You were preoccupied.'

  'Not keeping good hours yourself,' I said.

  'Rather late,' he answered, 'but I am a walker, and I love the night. Itis so still in this part of the town.'

  We were passing the Five Points.

  'When do you sleep,' I enquired.

  'Never sleep at night,' he said, 'unless uncommonly tired. Out everynight more or less. Sleep two hours in the morning and two in theafternoon--that's all I require. Seen the hands o' that clock yonder onevery hour of the night.'

  He pointed to a lighted dial in a near tower.

  Stopping presently he looked down at a little waif asleep in a doorway,a bundle of evening papers under his arm. He lifted him tenderly.

  'Here, boy,' he said, dropping corns in the pocket of the ragged littlecoat, 'I'll take those papers--you go home now.

  We walked to the river, passing few save members of 'the force, whoalways gave Trumbull a cheery 'hello, Cap!' We passed wharves where thegreat sea horses lay stalled, with harnesses hung high above them, theirnoses nodding over our heads; we stood awhile looking up at the loomingmasts, the lights of the river craft.

  'Guess I've done some good,' said he turning into Peck Slip. 'Savedtwo young women. Took 'em off the streets. Fine women now both ofthem--respectable, prosperous, and one is beautiful. Man who's got amother, or a sister, can't help feeling sorry for such people.

  We came up Frankfort to William Street where we shook hands and partedand I turned up Monkey Hill. I had made unexpected progress withTrumbull that night. He had never talked to me so freely before andsomehow he had let me come nearer to him than I had ever hoped to be.His company had lifted me out of the slough a little and my mind was ona better footing as I neared the chalet.

  Riggs's shop was lighted--an unusual thing at so late an hour. Peeringthrough the window I saw Riggs sleeping at his desk An old tin lanternsat near, its candle burning low, with a flaring flame, that threwa spray of light upon him as it rose and fell. Far back in the s
hopanother light was burning dimly. I lifted the big iron latch and pushedthe door open. Riggs did not move. I closed the door softly and wentback into the gloom. The boy was also sound asleep in his chair.The lantern light flared and fell again as water leaps in a stoppingfountain. As it dashed upon the face of Riggs I saw his eyes half-open.I went close to his chair. As I did so the light went out and smoke roseabove the lantern with a rank odour.

  'Riggs!' I called but he sat motionless and made no answer.

  The moonlight came through the dusty window lighting his face andbeard. I put my hand upon his brow and withdrew it quickly. I was inthe presence of death. I opened the door and called the sleeping boy. Herose out of his chair and came toward me rubbing his eyes.

  'Your master is dead,' I whispered, 'go and call an officer.

  Riggs's dream was over--he had waked at last. He was in port and I doubtnot Annie and his mother were hailing him on the shore, for I knew nowthey had both died far back in that long dream of the old sailor.

  My story of Riggs was now complete. It soon found a publisher because itwas true.

  'All good things are true in literature,' said the editor after he hadread it. 'Be a servant of Truth always and you will be successful.'