Chapter I: Front Matter

Copyright, 1897, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MARCH 9, 1897. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVIII.--NO. 906. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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HOW TOM RODMAN JOINED THE GERMAN ARMY.

BY POULTNEY BIGELOW.

"Thomas," said Professor Schinkel, as they were in the midst of supper, "run down and see what all the noise is about."

Tom Rodman was only fifteen years old; but like most Yankee boys of his age, he was pretty quick at getting news. He knew that the French Emperor had declared war against the Germans; he knew that soldiers were being marched from every village of the father-land, and he knew also that the Rhine was near to the frontier of France. He was just then--this was in 1870--living in the family of Professor Schinkel, at Slaugenstein on the Rhine, and quickly made up his mind that the noise he heard in the street was made by troops marching to the war. So, with a big piece of brown-bread in his hand and another in his mouth, he sprang down stairs two steps at a time, and opened the front door. The street was full of soldiers who wore helmets of black leather on their heads, and who looked very brown and strong. They all seemed to be looking for something; they had been marching all day, and each soldier carried a knapsack that weighed quite as much as a very heavy child.

As Tom Rodman was wondering what these soldiers wanted, a big corporal with a straw-colored beard and blue eyes came up, measured the house with his eyes, counted the windows, then pulled out a piece of chalk, and wrote on the door,

"One corporal and seven men!"

Tom now noticed that other doors in the street were being treated in the same way, and quickly learned why; the whole town was to become night quarters for the troops marching to the war.

"Is the Herr Professor at home?" asked the corporal.

"Yes; come this way," said Tom, now very much excited.

The corporal knocked at the professor's door, and walked in with a sharp military tread. He then stood bolt-upright, put one hand to the side of his helmet, after the soldier fashion, and said, in a voice that could be heard all over the house,

"I beg to tell you most respectfully, Herr Professor Schinkel, that it is my duty to bring here for this night one corporal and seven men!"

"You are heartily welcome, Herr Corporal," said the professor. "I am glad that I am able to do a little good at this time for the brave men who are going to war for the sake of our common country."

All was now bustle in the Schinkel family. The seven soldiers came tramping up stairs, and were made as comfortable as was possible. Tom ran out to the baker's and the butcher's, and came running back with bread and meat. The soldiers had laid aside their guns, knapsacks, and coats, and each did his share in getting supper ready.

Corporal Kutchke was invited to eat at the professor's table; and he made the evening pass rapidly by telling stories about life in the army. Tom liked the corporal, for he was a big, healthy, strong man, full of enterprise. The professor found that Kutchke had been in the same university as himself, and they had many friends in common. Tom thought he would give anything if he could only be a soldier like Kutchke, and go to the war. The corporal noticed Tom's excitement, and said, "Herr Professor, why don't you send your son there to fight for his country?"

The professor laughed. "My son? Why, he's not my son. He's not German. Tom is an American boy. His name is Tom Rodman. His mother is the widow of a distinguished American artillery officer, and she has sent him here to learn German in my family."

"Well," said Corporal Kutchke, "you do surprise me! The boy speaks such good German that I never thought he could be a foreigner. But of course foreigners don't care about fighting for us!"

II.

The door was pushed open with much force, and one of the soldiers marched into the room, knocked his heels together, stood very stiff and still, then said, with a very clear but yet rather sad voice,

"Private Rothmann has been taken very ill."

"Hulloo!" thought Tom, "that is a funny name for a German; it sounds like mine."

Corporal Kutchke ordered the private to run and inform the army surgeon, while he himself went up stairs to learn what he could. Rothmann was very pale and weak. The heat of the day had affected him on the march, and he was now tossing about in a feverish manner. The surgeon came and said that Rothmann was wholly unfit to march, and must be left behind. He was at once taken to the hospital. As soon as Rothmann was gone, Tom Rodman went up to help the corporal about getting bedding for his men. He found Kutchke seated on a drum rubbing his nose with a drum-stick.

"Million Schock Donnerwetter!" said Kutchke. "What will my Captain say? I shall be blamed because he fell ill. And it's not my fault. It's the fault of all the people along the road, who keep giving the soldiers cigars and sausage, and make them useless for hard work."

III.

When Tom went up to his room that night he felt very sore at not being allowed to go and fight with Corporal Kutchke, and he feared lest people might think him a coward. He sat down on the edge of his bed, and began to make plans for running away and joining the army in spite of the professor. Just then he noticed the uniform which Rothmann had left behind when they had so hastily taken him to the hospital. He jumped up, quickly stripped off his coat and trousers, and dressed himself in the uniform of a Prussian foot-soldier. The fit was not perfect, but as he looked at himself in the glass he felt his shoulders straighten up and his chest swell out with pride, and when he had finally put on the knapsack and the cartridge-belt, and the warlike helmet with the brass spike on top, he looked as though he had been made for this particular uniform. He was just about reaching for Rothmann's gun, which had been hung against the wall, when the door was thrown open, and Corporal Kutchke stood facing him, looking as though he had seen a ghost.

"What is it? Who are you? Are you Rothmann?"

Tom burst into a hearty laugh, and the corporal was so delighted at finding that Tom was not the ghost of Rothmann that he too joined.

Suddenly Corporal Kutchke slapped Tom on the back and said: "I have a grand idea. Do you want to be a soldier?"

"Yes, indeed," said Tom.

"Will you march with us to-morrow at daybreak?"

"Certainly," said Tom.

"Then," said Kutchke, "I will take good care of you. It is against the regulations, but in war-time we cannot be so strict. Your name is Rodman, and you must make believe that you are the man Rothmann whom we have left behind. You are both about the same size, and the Captain is not likely to notice anything amiss, for I will drill you so that you will soon be as good as any of the recruits. You are very big for your age, and you will have splendid stories to tell when you come back from the war."

"But what about the professor?" said Tom.

"Oh, that is simple enough," said the corporal. "Just write him a few lines telling him that you have gone to defend the father-land against the French, and he will forgive you in the end, even if he is angry for the moment."

IV.

There was hard marching for poor Tom, and his knapsack weighed very heavily on his young shoulders, and now and then he would gladly have gone back to his comfortable bed at the professor's, had he not been anxious to show his German comrades that an American could make a good soldier--for Tom was a very patriotic boy. One night, as they were cooking their supper at the camp-fire, Kutchke whispered in Tom's ear that some of their scouts had seen French uniforms in the distance, and that there would soon be a fight.

At about two o'clock in the morning his company was drawn up ready to march, although it was pitch-dark. The Captain made them a short speech, telling them they must make no noise, for they hoped to get very near to the enemy before being seen, and if they fought well, many of them might hope to get the Iron Cross, which is the most highly prized war medal in the German army.

Then each soldier held his hand carefully against his side so as to prevent the rattling of his tin water-bottle against his bayonet-scabbard, and thus they marched for about an hour in silence, keeping a sharp lookout to right and left.

Suddenly was heard ping-ping-ping, the sound of rifle-bullets whizzing over their heads, and soon commenced a clatter of infantry fire, for the French had discovered the movements of this company in the faint light of the dawning day. But it was too late for effective resistance on the part of the enemy, who were taken by surprise, and had to retreat up the slopes of a gentle hill, on the top of which stood six cannon in a row; but, curiously enough, they were pointing in the opposite direction from Tom. As soon as the noise of the firing was heard, Tom heard the bugles blowing, and knew from this that the French would soon be firing off their big guns at them. Then the Captain roared out to them to run as hard as they could and capture these six pieces of cannon before they could be turned round and fired off; so they all started with a great hurrah, and arrived at the guns just as the French artillerymen were trying to move them into proper positions. Tom could not tell exactly what happened, excepting that there seemed to be hundreds of swords waving in the air and a constant rattling of infantry fire. Now and then a man dropped, but Tom was too excited to notice why he dropped. His blood was aroused, and he thought only of keeping near Kutchke and winning the Iron Cross. There was one cannon which was just about to be fired, when Kutchke sprang at the man in charge and knocked him down with the butt of his rifle; but no sooner was this done than another man sprang forward to fire the gun, and three Frenchmen attacked Kutchke at once. Then Tom sprang forward like a wild-cat and smashed the gun of a Frenchman who was just about sticking his bayonet through Kutchke's back, and at this the other two ran away. Then the Captain, who was fighting close to them, shouted out, "Well done, Rodman; you have saved Kutchke's life!" And the soldiers near by shouted "Hurrah!" still more vigorously, and looked at Rodman as though they were proud of him.

But now the Captain commenced to be anxious for the safety of his company, and ordered the men to harness up the horses to the French cannon so as to get them back as trophies, for there were signs in the distance that large forces of French were coming up. They had no sooner brought the horses up to be harnessed, than a regiment of French cavalry was seen galloping towards them in a cloud of dust. On they came with loud shouts, and there was no time to waste. Tom's company was ordered to lie down beneath the guns and not to fire until the horses were close to them, and then to give them a volley all together. This plan worked splendidly, for the French were so surprised by this sudden response that there was much confusion amongst them, and they hesitated. Tom noticed a French officer carrying a flag, which in war is considered a very precious trophy. When that Frenchman saw the effect of the first volley, he looked about him as though ready to run away, and when a second volley was fired, which killed more Frenchmen, he wheeled round with the flag in his hand and put spurs to his horse. But Tom did not wait for orders in the presence of such an opportunity. He seized the nearest artillery horse, jumped into the saddle in the twinkling of an eye, and made straight for the flying French officer. The race was an exciting one, and Tom soon discovered that it was likely to be a dangerous one; for they soon left the battle-field behind them, and he had before him the prospect of fighting a desperate man. Tom had no weapons, for he had thrown away his gun, and at the same time he had cast off his knapsack and cartridge-belt. Tom shouted to the Frenchman that he must surrender, but the Frenchman paid no attention to it; so Tom took off the stirrup leathers from the saddle while his horse kept up his furious pace. He hung the two stirrups on to one leather, and joined the two leathers together so that they would stretch a long distance. Then he swung this around his head as though it had been a long sling, and waited for a time to use it. The Frenchman was not a very good rider, and the country over which he rode was rather rough, so that he did not dare to turn round in the saddle, excepting just enough to point his pistol at Tom, and fire it off without hitting anything. Tom was gaining inch by inch, and at last was ready for a blow. A narrow and rapid river was close ahead of them, and the Frenchman no doubt felt that escape was hopeless without a struggle; so he drew his sword, wheeled his horse, and attacked Tom for the purpose of running him through the body. Tom kept cool, swung his long leather gently around his head, and just at the moment when the Frenchman was ready to make his lunge he gave all his strength to a final swing that brought the stirrups together against the left cheek of the Frenchman, who fell to the ground stunned and bleeding. One blow was enough, and Tom sprang from his horse, seized the flag and sword from the enemy and then fetched water from the river and bandaged up the Frenchman's wound. Tom would have staid longer with this French officer had it not been that French troops made their appearance over the tops of the ridges.

V.

With the sabre of a French cavalry officer in one hand, and the standard of a French cavalry regiment in the other, Tom ran as hard as his legs could carry him towards the rapid stream which was not more than fifty yards from where he had had the short fight. It was no use trying to escape on horseback, for his retreat was cut off by French cavalry; indeed, it seemed to Tom as though Frenchmen had started up out of the ground all around him, and he realized that he was now cut off entirely from his comrades, and must make good use of his wits if he wished to avoid being killed or made prisoner. Along the edges of this stream were clumps of overhanging bushes, and into the thickest of them he sprang, where he lay effectually concealed. Pretty soon a detachment of Frenchmen passed close to him, and he heard one of them say:

"Oh, that sacré Prussien! How I should like to catch him and get back the standard of our regiment! But I don't see how he could have knocked our Captain off his horse; it is most mysterious. However, I suppose he has drowned himself in the river, and so I ought to be satisfied."

Tom did not know the name of this river, or where it led to, but he knew enough of geography to know that if he kept on it long enough he should arrive at the Rhine. He was an expert swimmer, and made up his mind that the only way open to him was to travel by water and avoid the land. Of course he did not dare move by daylight, but as soon as the sun was set he launched himself upon the stream and struck out with the current. The sabre and standard he had wrapped round and round with small branches cut from the bushes, and this served him not only as a means of concealing his trophies, but also as a help, for it supported him when he was tired. His uniform he had to leave behind, for it would have been in his way, and he wore nothing but his shirt and a sort of bathing-drawers, which he made by cutting off the lower part of his uniform trousers. The water was, fortunately, warm, and Tom was prepared for a good long swim. He had gone about an hour, and already he had begun to feel that he could not stand very much more of this kind of work, when he noticed ahead of him something black. He struck out for it, and found that it was a massive door, which had been broken off from some peasant's barn and probably thrown into the river out of mischief by some prowling band of soldiers. To the great delight of Tom this barn door was so big that he could lie upon it and find most welcome rest as he floated on down stream at the rate of five or six miles an hour. Tom had nothing to eat with him, but he tightened his belt and tried to think of other things, and soon he fell asleep, with his head resting in the water on one side of the raft, and his legs in the water on the other side.

As he lay sweetly dreaming, he was suddenly awakened by a sound of voices and by the fierce light of a huge camp-fire on the bank. The voices were French, and Tom could understand this much.

"Look out there! I see something suspicious on the river."

"It is a corpse," said another Frenchman, and then Tom heard a laugh.

"Be careful there," cried another, "or he will float down upon us and poison our soup;" and then Tom heard foot-steps coming down to the water's edge; then he felt a push against his raft and the scraping of a bayonet-point against one of his legs. So near was he that he could smell the fragrant supper--the onions, the beef, and the smoke of the wood fire.

About half an hour from where he had left the Frenchmen cooking their soup he rounded a bend in the river, and saw ahead of him another camp-fire, with soldiers about it wearing German forage-caps. He recognized the big straw-colored beard of Kutchke, and knew at once that he was amongst friends. He floated close to the bank where the corporal stood, and pretended to be a corpse. No one noticed him until he was at their very feet, and then he heard some one say: "Ach, there is a corpse! Push it away quickly!" And then he heard Kutchke call out: "No; wait until I see it. Perhaps it is Tom Rodman." Then he heard the heavy tread of Kutchke, and presently the corporal's voice could be heard breaking out into loud lamentation.

"Ah, yes," said he, "it is poor Rodman who saved my life from the Frenchmen! How dreadful that I should have brought him to the war! What can I do?"

"Why, you can give me something to eat!" came from the raft; and with these words Tom Rodman sat bolt-upright and laughed in Kutchke's face. Then there was a loud hurrah in the camp, and all the soldiers flocked down to see the miracle of Rodman coming to life and asking for something to eat. Kutchke embraced him, and kissed him several times, and called him his savior. All the men shook hands with him, and he was at once put into a good warm uniform, and given the most comfortable seat by the fire, where he was provided with a big tin full of well-cooked cabbage, sausage, and bread, which tasted exceedingly well after the hardships of the last twenty-four hours.

In the midst of it arrived the Captain, who wanted also to hear the story of Tom's escape, and why he had chased after the French officer. Tom told his adventures, and then produced the French cavalry standard, and the sabre of the officer whom he had knocked from his horse with the pair of stirrups.

All were delighted at the result of Tom's courage, and Kutchke said that Tom deserved three Iron Crosses--one for saving his life, another for capturing the standard, and another for bringing home the sabre. Tom was very popular with his comrades, and the news of his adventures soon reached the ears of the Colonel of his regiment, and he was soon afterwards informed that he was to receive the Iron Cross. The whole regiment was formed into three sides of a square, and the Colonel called out the name of Tom Rodman, who stepped forward, and stood very stiff while the Colonel asked after him and his family. Tom could not any longer conceal the fact that he was not a German, but an American boy, and the Colonel promised to say nothing about it, in order that Kutchke should not be punished. So this is how Tom Rodman joined the German army, and was the first American to wear the famous Iron Cross. The Colonel cabled to his mother in America, so that she might not be alarmed, and the Professor easily forgave his pupil for all the anxiety that Tom had caused him.

A JAPANESE PICTURE-STORY.

BY BARNET PHILLIPS.

The stories that have been written about pictures are to be divided into two general categories--those indicating the skill of the artist, and those relating to the performances of the pictures themselves. Both of these merge, since they attest the ability of the artist. There is a third kind of story, dwelling on the mishaps of painters, which accidents, however, in the long-run, invariably aid the artist.

The supernatural must have been called into play at the dawn of civilization, when the first artist scratched with splinter of flint an animal form on a bone. Pygmalion, who carved a woman so lifelike that he prayed to Venus to give Galatea flesh, blood, and a soul, must in an earlier form have been a story of the most remote antiquity. We find traces of this myth in Egyptian worship. To a South Sea Islander carved idols are not stocks nor stones, but living gods. The most acute Hindostanee does not separate his brazen images from the personalities of his deities.

Nothing is older than the stories of the supreme skill of the artist which the old Greek repeated. The common type of this legend is the picture with the figs painted on it, which were so natural that the birds pecked at them. The modern Orientals have embellished this story in many ways. The Persians will tell you that the birds actually carried a pomegranate out of a picture and fought over the fruit. One of the pomegranates slipped from the beak of a bird and tumbled down to a garden below. The over-ripe fruit broke, the seeds were scattered, and where they fell a pomegranate-tree grew, which will be shown you to-day in a court-yard in Ispahan.

We have the very old joke about the slab of stone painted so exactly like a log of wood that it floated. The Japanese have worked up the idea in many ingenious ways. They had a painter of the tenth century who drew a crystal ball so perfectly that when the sun shone on it, it behaved as would a lens, and would light tinder.

The Greeks tell of an artist who was dissatisfied with the flecks of foam in the mouth of the dog he was painting, and in anger threw a sponge at his picture, and, lo! where the sponge had struck the painting there was the froth required.

This is told of a bronze artificer who never could be satisfied with the ocean he was making up, into which his hero was wading. He set his work on a window. A storm arose, there was a blinding flash of lightning, and the bronze was hurled to the ground. When the artist picked up the bronze a portion of the metal representing the water had been fused, and there was the rolling, undulating sea, such as no mortal hand could ever have produced.

Another story is about a second bronze-worker, who was a great artist, but an intemperate one, for he drank too much saki. The man had fashioned a deity in bronze which did not satisfy him, though he had worked on it for ten years. Do what he would, the figure showed traces of the long toil he had lavished on it. Though given to his cups, he was apparently a conscientious artist. Putting his bronze in his pocket or up his sleeve, the artist determined to commit suicide, and so plunged into a great tub of fermenting rice, from which saki is distilled. When the saki-maker emptied his tubs there was the artist dead, and his bronze, but the work had been perfected. The fermenting rice had smoothed down the hard lines. The bronze was admirable, and so the artist's death conferred on him a certain amount of heroism--that is, according to Japanese ideas of heroism.

The neatest story of artistic performance and of higher criticism is Japanese, and for the lesson it conveys has its value. There was a Shogun of the fourteenth century who was the art critic of his time, because he never saw a screen or a bronze or a china decoration without finding some fault. In his court all his retainers followed the Shogun in deprecating whatsoever was shown to them.

In the court of the great man was a painter, the most distinguished of his time, and this artist became very tired of the adverse criticisms passed on his work. The Shogun ordered a screen, leaving the choice of the subject to the artist.

"As you are very slow," said the Shogun, "you may take a year to paint your screen. Time enough, I think, to assure us that there will be nothing careless in your work."

The artist accepted the commission, and asked for leave of absence, which was granted to him. He was away for eleven months, and it was within three days of the end of the year when he paid his respects to the Shogun.

"Exhibit at once your so-called work of art," said the Shogun.

"I have not yet commenced it, may it please your Dignity," answered the artist.

"And in three days do you expect to show me a picture worth my looking at?" inquired the Shogun.

"I have travelled all over the country for that work which it has pleased you to commit to my care, and it will be ready on time," replied the artist, humbly.

When the last day had come the artist said his screen was ready, and that it was hanging in a particular room in the Shogun's palace. The high dignitary and his court were present, and examined the picture.

What was painted was simplicity itself. There was a river, and in the stream a boat was moored, with a furled sail. The banks of the river were lined with rushes. There were a few trees, with a bird here and there perched on the boughs. A rabbit was nibbling the grass. In the distance was a high mountain.

"That is supposably water, if I am not mistaken," said the Shogun.

"It's very sluggish," remarked the pipe-bearer.

"Those rushes--ahem!" interposed a courtier--"are they not absurdly stiff?"

"And, dear me," chimed in the secretary, "what birds! Stuffed birds on boughs are too preposterous!"

"The boat--such a boat as that never could float! Is it meant for a boat or a rock?" inquired the master of the robes.

"The fact is," said the Shogun, "it is an idiotic performance. It wants life, go, dash, imagination. It is dulness personified. It is nothing but 'prentice work, and entirely unfitted to grace our elegant abode. Treasurer, pay this man for his trouble. A full year's wages, such as you would give to a weeder of rice."

"Your Highness always was a liberal patron of the arts," said the treasurer.

"And though generous, most discriminating, for really the picture is overpaid," said the courtiers.

The painter smiled, slowly walked to where the screen was hung, and plunged head foremost into his work. Then, to the great amazement of the Shogun and his court, a splash was heard. Now the water rippled and the boat began to rock. The rushes on the bank of the stream nodded and bent and swayed, as if with a passing breeze. The birds flew from bough to bough. The rabbit scampered away. There was a figure in the boat, and presently the anchor was hauled up and the sail was set, and the little craft, heeling over with the wind, sped up the stream, and now a landing was made at the foot of the mountain.

Next a little man was seen slowly climbing up the mountain, and when the mountain-top was reached the figure bowed respectfully to the Shogun and the court and disappeared, as if descending on the other side of the mountain.

Then a loon came to the immediate foreground of the screen, and flapped his wings, and said, in very courtly Japanese, these words, which may be rather carelessly translated into English in this way:

"You are all a set of ninnies, for you don't know a good thing when you see it. Ta, ta!"

The courtiers were so enraged that they drew their two swords and wanted to hack the loon and the screen to pieces. But when they looked at the screen, they saw a big tear in it, with falling flaps of silk, on which the work had been painted. It was where the artist had made his exit. This is the Japanese fable for critics.

A LOYAL TRAITOR.[1]

[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 888.

A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.

BY JAMES BARNES.