Chapter IX: Part 9

“It may be incomprehensible to you, doctor, but life and liberty are especially sweet to me--much sweeter to-day, than they were prior--well, just prior to the events of the day before yesterday. I am capable of forgetting the past and enjoying such happiness as the future may have in store for me. For this much, and for the circumstances which led to our acquaintance, I am indebted to the hot Latin blood with which my father endowed me. Last night, the colder elements of my heredity held full sway and I was afraid. To-day, sir, I am a Morales. Had you known my father you would understand what that means.

“Doctor, it is for you to do as your conscience dictates. If you decide that it is your duty to relegate a certain matter to the authorities for investigation I shall not blame you. Furthermore, I shall not attempt to escape, as was my first impulse when you left me yesterday afternoon. To merely escape punishment would not be enough; I must remain free from suspicion, or life means nothing to me, absolutely nothing!”

The young woman rose from her chair and stood in calm expectancy. Her attitude was so entirely different from what I had anticipated from the character of the letter which I had in my possession, and from what was evidently an exceedingly emotional temperament, that I sat silently gazing at her for some time. I finally rose to my feet and was about to reply, when there came a sharp rap upon the door of my consultation room. I opened the door and found my attendant standing there with a yellow paper in his extended hand.

“Well, what do you want?” I asked, rather impatiently.

“Pardon me for disturbing you, sir, but there’s a man here from the undertaker’s, with a certificate for you to sign, and he says it is important, because the funeral is this afternoon, sir?”

I took the ominous yellow form from the man, closed the door and returned to my desk. With the paper still in my hand I turned to my fair visitor. She paled perceptibly, and I fancied, trembled a little, but returned my gaze unflinchingly, although I was sure she knew.

“Game to the core!” I thought.

I turned slowly to my desk, picked up a pen and wrote--“Ptomaine poisoning--Acute Gastritis,” then, without a twinge of conscience, deliberately signed my name to the “yellow peril” and rang for my attendant.

A LEGEND OF THE YOSEMITE

THE LOVE OF TIS-SA-ACK AND TU-TOCH-A-NU-LAH

“Ah-wi-yah--the Beautiful,” she was once justly called. And now that the weight of many, many years bore heavily upon her, the warriors of the tribe, recalling the traditions of the past, still called her “The Beautiful.” But who would ever think that the bent and withered old squaw was once the pride of her tribe? The scorching suns of many summers, and the keen, chilling blasts of many cruel winters had indeed made sad havoc in the beauty of Yosemite’s queen.

No one knew how old Ah-wi-yah was--no one knew when she first came to the valley of Yosemite. There was none of all her people who could recall the time when she was not already very, very old and wrinkled. The most venerable sagamore of the tribe remembered that the old squaw was regarded as the only living relic of an age of by-gone majesty, when he was yet scarcely more than a small pappoose, boarded and strapped with thongs to his mother’s back. He recalled that it was she who smiled upon him, and patted his head approvingly on the glorious and never to be forgotten day when his little hands and feeble arms first drew a slender, feathered arrow to its barbed head, and from a child’s bow sent it hurtling on its deadly flight at a startled rabbit that traversed his path. He remembered too, that the venerable Ah-wi-yah, standing erect before her lodge with fiery, flashing eyes, led the wild, fierce shout of triumph when he, grown to the stature of a brave, came home from the warpath with his first scalp. And it was the old squaw who, with her own wrinkled hands, hung the still bleeding trophy on his lodge pole, and foretold that the ghastly, gory emblem of his valor would have many, many children.

Yes, Ah-wi-yah was very, very old--so old that she recalled the time when the fair Po-ho-ho waterfall was but a silvery, gleaming ribbon no larger than a stalk of maize--so old that she remembered the days when the Mission Fathers had not yet come to the Land of the Golden Sunset.

White as the snows of the Sierran winter was the hair of Ah-wi-yah, but her eye--so wondrous dark--was bright and piercing beneath her shaggy, wrinkled brow, and her voice was sweet and flute-like; clear as a wandering echo amid the towering, craggy hills of the smiling beautiful valley wherein her tribe had lived and died for unnumbered ages.

Ah-wi-yah was often the counsellor of the chieftains of the tribe for, squaw though she was, she alone knew the records of the more glorious and war-like past of her fast diminishing kindred. The old squaw lived not in the dull and spiritless present, though her aged tongue was wise and crafty. She lived in the glorious olden days, that wondrous, shadowy past that held for her such memories of long vanished greatness--and who knows what sweet and tender romance?

When I, a curious tourist, wished to study the wonderful traditions of the tribe, the warriors said: “Oh pale face, there is none left to tell thee of our glorious and deathless past but Ah-wi-yah, the Beautiful. In the vast storehouse of her unfailing memory there are many marvellous and beautiful legends. Go to her--the wise old squaw--she will tell them to thee, we doubt not gladly.”

And the white haired squaw with the flute-like voice told me many thrilling, beautiful legends of the days when her tribe was strong and mighty--the days when the Manitou never forgot his chosen people, the children of the lustrous Sun. Of all the legends that Ah-wi-yah told the wondering pale face, there was none so beautiful as the love of Tis-sa-ack and Tu-toch-a-nu-lah. This I will relate just as the wonderful story-teller, who has long since been gathered to her fathers, and whose fragile bones are now mouldering in a dark and gloomy canyon of the towering Sierras, told it me.

* * * * *

“The memory of man, O Pale Face, goeth not so far back into the distant past as the happy days when the children of the glorious Sun first built their blazing council fires in the beautiful, mountain locked valley of the Yosemite. In that unremembered time the baleful glitter of the white sails of the accursed, marauding pale face had not yet defiled the pure blue waters of the broad Pacific. The Sierras were illumined by the red glare of the watch-fires of a mighty, heroic race of redmen, and the waters laughed and sang in joyful cadence with the dancing of their light canoes.

“And in those joyous days the Manitou smiled upon his chosen people, for they were as yet pure, and uncontaminated by the conflicting creeds, multitudinous diseases, bad fire-water and worse morals of the wicked white man. The Indian was a fearless, noble warrior and a man, roaming the trackless woods and traversing the waters of his ancient ancestral home as free as the wild birds of his native hills.

“In that far distant time happiness hovered like a golden cloud over the lodges of the redman, for within all was peace, and comfort, and plenty. Neither cold nor hunger came like an evil spirit to bring woe to the redman’s bosom. The forests were alive with mighty game, and he was a poor and lowly hunter indeed, who could not show that acknowledged badge of fearless courage, a necklace made of the cruel claws of the fierce grizzly bear. The lakes and streams were teeming with glittering fish, in number like the falling leaves of the yellow autumn, many-hued and brilliant as the rainbow.

“For him who fain would seek for glory, there was many a gory scalp lock to be fairly and hazardously earned in fierce, relentless battle, while for the feeble, timid spirit who shrank from the hardships and dangers of war, the warm and fertile soil promised the husbandman rich rewards of nutritious maize.

“On the green-verdured slopes and in the broad, smiling valleys gleamed many a comfortable wigwam of poles and dried skins of wild beasts, wrought with the weird hieroglyphs of the tribe--strange, ancient characters and picture-writing, unintelligible even to the Indian of to-day. The smoke of a thousand lodges rose and mingled with the snowy vapor--the fleeces of the sky--mingled with the billowy flocks and herds of the Manitou.

“The valley of the sparkling Yosemite--that wonderful stream of liquid silver whose mystic source is in the clouds, far, far beyond any trail of man--was the earthly paradise of the redman of the mountains. To say that the great ineffable Beyond--the land of Manitou the Mighty--was fairer than the beauteous valley of the Yosemite, was the utmost limit of the Indian’s faith in heaven--those Happy Hunting Grounds to which death alone could transport him. Aye, it was the farthest limit of the redman’s imagination.

* * * * *

“Chief among the sachems of his tribe, was Tu-toch-a-nu-lah. Tall was he, like the towering redwood; strong were his limbs like those of a mighty oak; rugged were his broad shoulders as the frowning, beetling cliffs of the mountain locked home of his people. There was none so bold and so brave as he--the mightiest hunter and most daring warrior of all his tribe. Within his lodge there hung the scalps of countless enemies, and the claws of many a savage bear of the mountains. Brave? Had he not slain by a single blow with his keen hunting knife the terrible panther--alone and single-handed had he not slain him? And where was the lodge that was large enough to hold the wide, branching horns of the kingly elk he had brought panting to the earth with his deadly, slender-shafted arrows? Straight was his handsome form as the ashen spear-shaft, and elastic as the bow of hickory; swifter was his moccasined foot than the red deer’s; lighter his step than the mountain lion’s; bright was his piercing eye as the first beams of the rising sun; keen was his vision as that of the king of birds--the great war eagle. There was not among all the Sun’s brave children a chief so nobly grand as he.

“Far up on the side of a steep, wooded mountain was the home lodge of Tu-toch-a-nu-lah. Here, like an eagle in his cloud-kissed eyrie, he watched over the welfare of his people as became a wise and mighty sachem who loved them and was well beloved by them.

“Beloved by them? Aye, and passing well, for he was their loyal, ever-ready champion, their benefactor and protector, and they--being red, not white--were grateful.

“Ranging over the fertile upper plains, the mighty sachem herded droves on droves of the graceful red deer, that his people might choose the best and fattest for the feast. High up amid the rocks were his flocks of big-horned mountain sheep--the picturesque and shaggy cimarron. The savage bear he gave not peace, for he drove him forth from his rocky lair that the braves of the tribe might win laurels in the hunt.

“Sometimes, when the skies had been unkind and the Sun Father had scorched the delicate leaves and fragrant blossoms and shrivelled the tender stalks of the young maize for many days, the wise and thoughtful sachem brought forth the magic red pipe he had fashioned in the far off land of the fierce Dacotahs. As he silently sat and smoked the sweetly pungent killikinnic, the billowy clouds of sweet incense were gently wafted to the sapphire skies and kissed them, so tenderly and lovingly that they wept for very joy. And those blissful tears fell as a soothing, gentle rain upon the drooping maize, and trees and flowers, until they raised their fainting, almost dying heads in joy and gladness. Then the vast choirs of brilliant-hued singing birds awoke once more the musical echoes of the sighing forest, and sweetly sang the praises, of the mighty Tu-toch-a-nu-lah, bravest and most tender-hearted of his race--greatest of all the proud and haughty Yosemite.

“When the drought was over and the parched and thirsty soil was once more moist, the fragrant smoke billows of the magic pipe floated blithely, airily up to the fiercely glaring sun and brought down millions of warm, yet softened rays through the clear blue air that soon ripened the luxuriant crops into gold--gold that the joyful women should gather with singing and merry making in the harvest-time to be.

“When the mighty sachem was happy, and laughed, the Yosemite danced and sparkled in the sunlight as though rejoicing with him, its winding way rippling into pleasant, cheery smiles. When he sighed, the soughing wind wailed mournfully through the cone-laden boughs of the tall bread pines, or howled dismally down the dark and gloomy canyons like the spirit of some tortured brave. When he spake, his voice was sometimes like the soft, gentle cooing of the ring-dove, at others like the deep, sonorous voice of the cataract. But when he raging smote to death the giant grizzly, or fiercely tore the scalp lock from the skull of an enemy, his fearful war whoop rang out among the crags and gorges of the Sierras like the loud mutterings of the thunder, aye, like the awful rumbling and crashing of the earthquake.

“None there was in his tribe so learned as Tu-toch-a-nu-lah, for the smoke of his pipe oft brought him wonderful visions that the eye of none other ever saw. Through the blue, odorous haze of the burning killikinnic the Manitou had many a time spoken words of wisdom to his favorite child.

“And the noble sachem had travelled much. The soft tread of his moccasined feet had been felt by all the land from Oregon to the gulf, north and south, and from the Father of Waters to the blue Pacific, east and west. The broad prints of his snow shoes were upon the eternal snows of every land in the ice bound north. He had been in the far off Northland where, on a throne of glittering ice, robed in a mantle of ermine frost, sits the Queen of the Heavens. And he had seen crouching at her feet the great White Rabbit--with his own eyes had he seen it. There he had walked through the valley of peace and plenty, in the land where the year is but a night and a day. He had passed reverently among the graves of his ancestors, who lay there sleeping beneath the green mantle that the eternal snows could not chill. He had communed with that sleeping race of giant redmen and had heard them whisper of the day when time shall be no more, when the enemies of his race shall have passed and those mighty warriors shall arise to claim their long lost birthright.

“And Tu-toch-a-nu-lah knew the message of the north wind as it whistled among the mountains. To him spake the giant redwoods, as they battled with the gales of winter. And they spake of battles won in other days, for within those forest monarchs were imprisoned the souls of his forefathers, those red kings of aforetime. To him sang the robin in the springtime, and he heard and understood the twitter of the snowbird, in the days when Winter had laid his frosty fingers upon the verdant valley. For him the pines and cedars gave forth their balmy breath and fragrant balsam. He was Nature’s best beloved child and his mother was kind to the sachem.

“He it was who taught the boys of his tribe to catch the fish with hooks of bone in summer, and to kill them with the spear through the icy coverings of the streams in winter. ’Twas he who taught them how to make the bow and the barbed and feathered ashen shafts that should slay the grizzly and their foes among the redmen. And when the bows and shafts were done ’twas Tu-toch-a-nu-lah who led them into the sombre, fragrant woods and taught them to stalk and slay the deer. He was the children’s best friend and wisest counsellor.

“Yes, he was a brave and mighty warrior, and a wise one.

“Tender hearted and loving though he was, the great heart of Tu-toch-a-nu-lah had never been touched, be it ever so lightly, by love of woman. Strong and tireless in the chase, brave in battle, wiser than the wisest at the council fires of his people, kind and loving to all, the mighty warrior knew not yet the burning, all consuming glow of the most sacred fire that burns on human altars--he knew not the fire of passion. Of all the dark-eyed maidens and comely squaws of his tribe, there was none whose bright and longing eyes had ever aroused in his bosom the glorious and all-responsive thrill that might have bid her hope. Gaze upon him as yearningly and tenderly as she might, there was not one who could say that she was the woman whom fate had set apart for him.

“No, the handsome sachem had never known the love of woman--and yet the star of human destiny was ever hovering over his beloved head, and was soon to illumine with its fiery darts the utmost depth of the still, dark waters of romance that lay hidden within his soul.

* * * * *

“There had been a long and parching drought, and the delicate leaves and blossoms, and the tender heads of the young growing maize were drooping in weakness and sorrow, when from his lofty mountain lodge came forth Tu-toch-a-nu-lah. In his hand he held the magic calumet. Seating himself on a rocky height whence he could smile down upon his faithful people, he smoked, and blew the perfumed clouds toward heaven. It was early in the morning, and the red-glowing Sun Father was just rising from behind the mountains, his thirsty beams greedily drinking the lovely diamond-like dew-drops that tremblingly hung upon the verdure of the valley.

“At the further end of the valley was a mighty gray dome of time-worn granite, smooth and round as though made and polished by human hands. As the circling smoke rings rose from the sachem’s calumet, the gentle breeze bore them slowly to the southward, where they lingered in fantastic wreaths about the dome. The sun gilded with its brilliant beams the rocky summit and pierced the hovering clouds of perfumed pipe smoke as with golden arrows. The dome was surrounded as it were with a splendid halo, such as the chieftain had never before seen. As he gazed, the sky above the dome was illumined as by a gigantic, surpassingly beautiful rainbow.

“The smoke now faded away and there in a blaze of golden glory sat a maiden! Beautiful was she, beyond all the women Tu-toch-a-nu-lah had ever seen. She was not like the dusky, dark-eyed, raven-haired maidens of his tribe, for her skin was like the warm and radiant glow of the fiery setting sun on the calm still waters of the blue Pacific. Red were her cheeks like the roses of the valley. Her hair, like the ripened maize in autumn, fell over her white shoulders and about her lovely form as falls the sparkling spray of the beautiful cataract--the Bridal Veil, Po-ho-no--like golden water rippling over rocks of silver. Shining fair was her brow as though illumined by the pale, soft beauty of moonlight, and deep and dark was the liquid blue of her eyes, like the shaded pools of the verdant valley, far, far below. Small and shining was her foot, like a tuft of feathery snow twinkling through the boughs of the pines and firs in winter--like the spring of a fairy bow was its graceful arch. Over her dimpled, ivory shoulders fluttered two delicate wings of rose-like cloud. As his eyes fell upon her she called to him. Sweet and sad was her voice as the call of the night bird of the forest.

“The Sachem sprang to his feet and stood and gazed in speechless wonder. The precious red calumet fell unheeded to the ground, whence it bounded off the rocky ledge and went clattering down to a fragmentary fate on the cruel jagged rocks below.

“The beautiful maiden smiled upon him, and whispered softly as she held out her arms lovingly, entreatingly toward him. ‘I, thy Tis-sa-ack, am here. Oh, Tu-toch-a-nu-lah, come’--then gliding swiftly up the smooth and dangerous rocky dome, she vanished over its rounded top.

“As springs the startled deer from his leafy covert in the woods, so, with heart aflame, sprang Tu-toch-a-nu-lah in pursuit of the lovely maiden. Swift and sure of foot was he like the panther of the mountains, alert was he of ear like the wolf of the prairie, keen was his eye as that of the eagle, yet hopeless was his pursuit. The soft and beautiful down from her snowy wings was wafted back, veiling her from his enamored eyes and enveloping him in a feathery cloud denser than the mist of the morning. When the mountain breeze had borne the obscuring cloud away and he could once more see, the maiden had disappeared. There was naught upon the dome but a rosy haze that was fast dissolving before the merciless rays of the Sun Father. Far below him he saw the smoke of the cheerful camp fires of his people--the people who loved him and whom he loved. But he turned again and gazed longingly at the rocky dome.

“So fell the wise and mighty chieftain before the arrows of all conquering Love. He at last was as other men--touched by the divine fire.

* * * * *

“The ardent passion of new found love leaves room for no other sentiment, and his people soon found Th-toch-a-nu-lah sadly changed. He went no more upon the hunt or fierce foray; the savage bear no longer cowered and trembled at the dread sound of his footstep amid the mountains; his enemies blanched not, nor quaked with fear at the thunder of his voice. The sachem was no longer the wise counsellor and devoted ruler; he was like a new and strange being, and his neglected people marvelled much, and beheld the change with sorrow.

“Every morning was Tu-toch-a-nu-lah to be found eagerly wending his way to the rocky dome where he first saw the lovely Tis-sa-ack. He laid love offerings of wild flowers and the fruit of the bread pine upon the rocky dome, and awaited her coming with all the ardor of one upon whose heart love has but newly smiled. But only when he was far distant from the dome on which she sat enthroned would the beautiful maiden appear before his dazzled vision.

“Pursue her as quickly as he might, he caught her not. He heard but the faint and far-away sound of her footsteps, gentle as the falling of an autumn leaf, and the soft rustle of her wings as the unpitying wind blew their snowy, bewildering down into his longing eyes. He might devour with passionate glances her beautiful, shining form; he might in thought revel in her glory of golden hair; he might even look from afar into the limpid depths of her gentle blue eyes, yet was he never to clasp his loved one to his bosom. Struck dumb by her wondrous beauty, never did he speak before her, and never again did her sweet-toned voice fall like the tinkle of rippling brooks upon his enamored ear.

“And with the full blossoming of the flower of love in the heart of the sagamore came neglect of duty. His all absorbing passion swallowed up all regard for the welfare of his people--all remembrance of the beautiful valley for which he had ever so tenderly cared. The world was lost and found in Tis-sa-ack. So all consuming was his passion for her, so constant his thoughts of her, that the crops of Yosemite were neglected--aye, forgotten, and they, being without rain and deprived of his tender care, drooped their delicate heads mournfully and shrank away and died. The breezes whistled and sighed sadly through the juiceless blades of the wild corn that rustled in shrivelled dry response that had naught of life in it. The grass and leaves lost their freshness and turned autumnal brown--sure harbinger of death. The flowers lost their freshness and beauty and their petals fell to the dry earth, one by one, while the bee no longer stored sweet honey in the hollow trees.

“Dazzled were the eyes of Tu-toch-a-nu-lah by the shining wings, golden hair and ivory throat of the beautiful maiden, and he saw none of this. Love had blinded him to all save its object.

“But the fair Tis-sa-ack looked down upon the unhappy neglected valley with eyes of sorrow, as she stood in the early morning upon the mighty dome. As she gazed she wept with compassion, and kneeling down on the smooth, unfeeling rock she besought the Great Spirit to be merciful unto the beautiful valley of Yosemite and bring forth again the beautiful flowers and green trees and shrubs, the delicate grasses, nodding firs and waving maize.

“Then, with an awful crash as of thunder, beneath her feet the great dome was riven asunder, and the melting snows of the Nevada gushed through the wonderful gorge as if by magic! A lovely lake formed between the steep walls of living rock, and a gently murmuring river started therefrom on its meandering, life-giving course through the parched and thirsty valley.

“And then came a wonderful transformation. The valley was infused with new life. The flowers and trees, the withered grass and the yellowing maize raised their dying heads and smiled with joy as the stream of life crept silently through the parched soil at their shrunken roots. The breeze was laden with the perfumed thanks of the blossoms; the freshened blades of the wild corn rustled and shivered with pleasure as the moisture laden air softly caressed them. The mighty trees were thrilled with delight as the sap, with velvet footfall, ran up their trunks, bringing life and energy and renewed vigor. All was peace and happiness again, and the valley of the Yosemite was once more verdant and beautiful.

“But the mysterious maiden, for whom the valley had so sadly suffered--she who had so successfully appealed to the Manitou--was seen no more. As she flew swiftly as flies the swallow, away toward the western skies, there to fade from the sachem’s sight forever, myriads of delicate downy tufts were wafted from her lovely wings. They fell upon the margin of the new and beautiful lake, and where they fell may to-day be seen thousands on thousands of fragrant little white violets.

“And Tu-toch-a-nu-lah is still wandering sadly about the world seeking her whom he loved and lost. Ere he left his ancestral home, to return no more, that the noble race of Yosemite might never forget him he carved the outlines of his god-like head upon the haughty rock that bears his name. There it will forever stand, steadfastly gazing toward the dome whereon he found and lost Tis-sa-ack, the beloved--the first and last love of his noble heart.

“Sometimes, when the fragrant morning breeze sweeps gently round and round the rocky dome, the maidens of the Yosemite whisper one to another, saying:

“‘Hark! Tis-sa-ack the loved and lost one, is calling the brave Tu-toch-a-nu-lah.’”

A GREAT CITY’S SHAME

Over the entrance of what was once the Iroquois Theater, hangs a head, which the sculptor probably intended for the Goddess of Music. As I gaze upon the head its outlines become first blurred and then transformed. A Death’s head stands out in bold relief! The noble image of the Indian Chieftain that was once there, has been consigned to the Limbo of the Forgotten--to the Valley of Dead Lumber. The Death’s head grins and grins--grins sardonically. One can almost hear a chuckle, as the horrid thing looks down upon the heedless, hurrying crowd in the busy street. Seeing the thing above the door as I passed by in the midst of the throng to-day, I wondered why it grinned,--why it did not weep. Did it grin because it knew how soulless were the human things that inspired the hand which carved it; because it and the men who placed it there were of the same brotherhood of ghouls; because it felt that it was a grim satire upon humanity?

Have men whose hearts are adamant, whose souls are sordid, the right to stamp their own shamelessness upon a helpless block of stone; the right to hang it where it must perforce reflect their own cold, calculating, emotion defying inner consciousness upon the man in the street?

Beneath the grinning head, and flanking it below on either side, are impudently assertive, glaring legends that proclaim in lurid blatant type--“The Iroquois is no more.” The new temple of Thespis which, Phœnix like, has risen from the ashes of the old, is a “Music Hall.”

More harshly grating than all is the legend which announces that the new place of amusement will open to-night. Thus have insensate paint, paper and ink become accessories to a crime.

Yes, to-night the theater re-opens. “Refined Vaudeville” with a “Galaxy of Stars,” the bill boards say. And as the players caper about and sing, dance and perpetrate their quips and jokes, will they not see? They will gaze out upon the audience that applauds, and how can they fail to see the wraiths of that other audience? They will all be there, those ghostly ones. Sitting bolt upright where they died, piled row upon row in the aisles, massed in bewildering tangles at the doors--those delusive doors that would not open--they will all be there. And will _they_ applaud, think you?

In this commercial age there is little room for sentiment. A people that will permit the fair face of Nature to be disfigured by the painter of patent medicine ads; that will gaze calmly upon a pictured ham or the announcement of the birth of a new “liver-pad” on the Palisades; that will tolerate on our boulevards flaming advertisements of the latest thing in corsets or “union suits,” is not likely to protest against a Death’s head that merely grins over the gate of a charnel house. And yet the people know. They have read of the awful things that lie behind that awful grin. Many of them have suffered, still more have seen. A few, a very few, go by on the other side of the street with suffused eyes averted, and great sobs of agony welling up in their throats.

“An’ I should live a thousand years,” I could not forget. Many horrible sights had I seen; much suffering had I witnessed; the faces of the dead had long since ceased to be a novelty to me and were no longer awesome;--I fancied I had grown callous. But that awful fire! Would that I could blunt the memory of it. Would that I might shelve it as but another experience in the land of Work-a-day.

As I looked upon the Death’s head, it seemed to single me out from the crowd, leering at me triumphantly. Did it note my emotion and gloat over it?

I raged inwardly and was tempted to--But, had I seized a paving stone and smashed that vile image to bits, I could not have made them understand. Least of all could I have compelled the understanding of that huge policeman, who stood idly by, swinging his club in a way that suggested danger to sentimental cranks. When that team of horses swung around the corner, narrowly missing a woman who, bundles in arms and children at her side, was frantically trying to cross the street, the officer was gazing at a figure of Gambrinus in the saloon window across the way. He had appetites, but no sentiment, that man in blue.

Standing there in the street, jostled and elbowed by the surging crowd that had no time for dreaming, there rose before me a picture which the Death’s head also saw;--its expression showed that.

When on that fateful afternoon the call came for physicians to succor the hapless victims of that pitiless massacre of the innocents, there was no hesitancy upon the part of all who were within call. They hastened to respond, and stood not upon the order of their going. Humanity cried for aid--that was enough. When I arrived at the scene, only a few moments after the occurrence of the frightful disaster, the firemen had just forced their way into the foyer. The air within had begun to be barely breathable. Noticing several firemen groping their way up one of the marble stairways, I followed them. The air was so full of pungent smoke that objects were with great difficulty to be made out. At the top of the stairs, on the landing just outside the only door that was open in the front of the theater, the firemen met with an obstruction--a solid, monstrous cube of human bodies, as high as one could reach. This ghastly mass of bodies was free upon two sides--at the upper steps of the main stair and at the top of several steps leading to a main balcony within the foyer. On the other side the mass was hemmed in by the wall of the stairway. Behind it were piled the bodies of other human beings who had tried to climb over those in front and had failed. These last extended from the choked up door almost to the lower balcony rail within the theater. There was another door, but this was closed tight, and staunchly held by a strong lock and a heavy something behind it.

Seeing this wall of bodies I stopped short;--I confess it. The awful shock of it all came over me. For a moment I felt my knees give way beneath me. I grew faint and sick,--and then started back the way I had come. Half way down the stairs I stopped, and pulling myself together went back to duty. And then I stayed, like a soldier who runs away at the first volley of shot, but comes back and fights to the end.

The firemen were pulling at the mass of bodies, vainly trying to dislodge them. Several of the men climbed on top of the awful pile and tried to disentangle the bodies, bruising and crushing the while the upturned faces and helpless limbs with their cruel boots.

Alas! The mass of bodies was not to be untangled until too late, far too late. And yet, the pile was free upon two sides, and it looked easy enough to extricate those who were there. And so we tugged, and strained, and pulled, and pried at them. “My God!” I thought. “If we can only break the dead-lock and get them started!”

“Break the dead-lock?” Well, perhaps we might have done so if we had worked longer and more systematically. But the firemen said, “It’s no use.”

A big policeman who stood idly by, too dignified to help in the work of rescue, said to me, “Gwan out o’ that!”

“But,” I answered, “I’m a doctor. Some of these people _must_ be alive. I can’t go away without trying to get a body out. If I get only one out we may break the lock.”

And again he said, “Gwan out o’ that, or I’ll--” and he brandished his club menacingly.

And so I went “out o’ that.” I climbed over the bannister and on to the balcony and attacked the bodies from the other side, unnoticed by the officer and free from interference by the firemen, who had all gone, save two or three whose feet were still grinding and crushing the inanimate forms on the top of the pile.

Again I tugged and pulled at the bodies, this time with better success. Down in one corner of the mass, protected somewhat by the marble pillar forming the arch which connected the landing with the balcony, lay a little boy of perhaps ten years of age. I drew him out quite easily. He still breathed. Next to him lay the body of a grey haired woman. Her face was gashed across by a blow from the boot of some one caught in the death struggles of that pile. As I dragged her body from beneath the towering mass of death, an opera glass, innocent accessory to murder, fell from her nerveless hand and clattered upon the marble floor of the balcony. She, too, was alive.

Curiosity seekers had by this time entered the building. I impressed several of them into service, and between us we carried the bodies of the old woman and the boy down the stair by which they had climbed to their deaths, to the street, and into the restaurant next-door, which was rapidly becoming transformed into a morgue and hospital emergency ward. Leaving the poor creatures to the care of some of my brother physicians, I rushed back to that pile of bodies--to again attempt to break that awful dead-lock.

As I re-entered the door of the theater I heard a man wildly expostulating with several policemen. He madly insisted on entering, and they as strenuously refused to allow him to do so. His voice seemed familiar, and I turned to look. He sprang past the opposing arms of the officers, grasped me by the shoulders and cried, “My God! man, can’t you help me? My daughters are in there somewhere!” He was one of my oldest and dearest friends. I had watched his children grow up from babyhood to childhood, from childhood to womanhood and loved them.

“Surely,” I said, “you are mistaken.”

“No, no, I am sure!” he cried, in agony. “Help me to find them, oh, help me to find them!”

“Come with me,” I replied, as I sprang up the stairs. Pointing to the pile of bodies on the landing, I said, “If they were in the theater at all, let us hope that they have either escaped or are here in this pile. Help me, Harry, let us try to get these bodies free.”

Imprisoned in the mass of bodies, hanging several feet above the floor, caught only by the lower limbs, with the head, trunk and arms perfectly free, was the body of a powerful man. Surely this one could be removed. My friend, one of the strongest men I know, assisted me, and we pulled at the body until--well, until my poor friend weakened and fled. And then two other sturdy men came to my aid, and we tugged at the body until a policeman drove us away. And my dear friend’s children were in that heap of dead all the while!

Not until the theater proper was entered, and the bodies that were heaped up behind them removed, did it become possible to remove the dead upon the landing. Oh, the pity of it! There they lay, apparently outside the zone of danger and death. And the hands that would fain have saved them were impotent. Untangle them? Think of a lot of huge angle-worms massed together; give those angle-worms legs and arms to twist and intertwine, hands to grip in the death throes, and heads to interlock, and you may understand. And yet, perhaps not,--I myself could not understand, nor believe, had I not seen.

Looking back upon that awful scene of desolation I can find but one crumb of comfort--only one consolation. At the time I felt that many in that pile of human forms must surely be alive and could be saved, if only they could be extricated. Oh, the horror of the idea! It overwhelmed me then. But now as my mind reverts to that scene of death, I am sure that very few could have been alive, surer still that none were conscious. I recall that not a sound came from those lost ones. Not a cry for help, not a moan of distress, not even a sigh to indicate that life was still there. Oh, the awful stillness of it all! The stillness of the dead lying on the dripping slabs of a morgue. The stillness of the subjects lying upon the tables of the dissecting room. Even the man whose trunk and head were free gave forth no sound. He was caught only up to his hips. Had he been alive, surely he would have made some sign. He was not crushed, save perhaps as to his lower limbs, and that could not have been mortal. The weight of bodies does not crush limbs as does machinery. No, he certainly must have been dead.

And why did all these people fall upon the landing? Of what did they die?

Plunging in the dark, pell mell through that one narrow door, the poor creatures stumbled down several steps that led from the door to the landing. Cunningly devised trap this--wise architect that designed it. Those who went down, rose not again. They lay crushed by the weight of the tangled up scores of other hapless ones who followed after. A small part of the crowd, those who were not caught in the tangle, flowed, as it were, over the top. A few, just a very few, thus escaped.

As the helpless creatures lay there in that fearful jam, at the only available exit in the front of the house, the smoke, and flame, and noxious gases were drawn irresistibly to that same door. They too, sought an exit at the front, and found only that death trap. The draught must have been fierce, the flames like a breath from hell. While the still breathing, palpitating mass of crushed and bruised humanity lay there imprisoned, the smoke and gases were sucked through the door into the foyer, diffusing themselves through the writhing human hecatomb, and giving those not yet dead a painless _coup de grace_. How soon it must have been over! How useless the emotions that shook my very soul as I gazed upon the slaughtered ones. And how solacing the conclusions with which calm retrospection has replaced the horrible immediate impressions of the scene itself.

Merciful indeed, the smoke and those noxious gases, especially for those luckless ones who lay on the top of the pile of victims. These were scorched and burned--not badly, but enough to show that with the death-dealing smoke and gases the flames came also. A fearful gust or two--perhaps only one, and the work was done.

And the scene at the open door of death was but a fragment of the frightful holocaust. Death’s barbecue lay behind that heap of bodies. Towering up behind that other front door which would not open, were scores of blackened bodies, some burned and distorted out of all semblance to their living form. Still others sat upright where Death had surprised them. They died in their seats without resistance, overcome doubtless, by the deadly gases.

There, standing erect, like soldiers, packed like sardines, on a stair case behind a locked iron gate, was row on row of dead, who had lost their lives trying to escape from the gallery to join the panic-stricken ones in the lower balcony. Hopeless effort--what matter where they died? As well meet death face to face, there upon that inner stair behind that merciless trap gate, as in that pile upon the landing--perhaps better, who knows?

Over yonder is an “exit,” one of many similar delusions. This one leads into a blind hallway. Here again, stand the dead bodies of unfortunate beings who died fighting for life against invincible odds.

Scattered about in the aisles between the balcony rail and the death trap “exits”--oh, the mockery of the word!--lay bodies burned to a cinder. Among them lay the body of a noble youth, the son of one of my friends, whose life was so full of promise, so replete with possible future usefulness, so suggestive of future greatness even, that I do not wonder the father was crushed to the earth. I loved the lad, and if, deep down, my friend’s grief were tinged with resentment against the ordering of things, I could understand and sympathize.

What foolishness have I attempted here? Describe that scene within the Iroquois? Never was quill wrought, that could do the subject justice! Do you, those curious ones, who idly stood in crowds about the building, watching the poor victims who sprang from the windows in the upper galleries or attempted to pass on a frail ladder to the building across the alley, only to be hurled to the ground and mangled to death or permanent disability, think you could picture it? If so, your storm centers of emotion have no more potential energy than a babbling brook--no more dynamic capacity than the breeze that ripples a mill pond. Do you, my friend, who stood with gaping mouth, watching the charred, blackened forms brought forth from the maw of hell by the firemen, think you could depict the fearful sight? If so, I can only say: “You did not see.”

Within the restaurant, the doctors worked like beavers. They did not always work systematically--that was impossible, in that confused mass of people. Confusion? Ye Gods! Was there ever such another scene? Distracted friends and relatives in search of their loved ones, nurses, doctors, firemen, policemen, and others who were trying to lend a helping hand, all contributed to the seething crowd of excited humanity that packed the place. Then there were the vulgar, bestial ones who stood and gaped sensually at the nudity of the fire victims who were being partially stripped by the doctors in their efforts to save. Yes, such were there, and they were numerous enough to make one blush for humanity. These cursed blots upon the face of nature, these moral monstrosities, and the other morbidly curious beings were alike obstructive. The first might not be killed without process of law, and there was so much to do that time could not be spared to throw the latter out upon the street. Once I very nearly forgot my surroundings. I asked a man who stood near to help me lift some dead bodies from a table to the floor, to make room for others in which there might still be life. He refused and moved away, saying, “You can do your own dirty work.” It was then I so nearly forgot, and said sundry sulphurous things. Had there been time, perhaps I should have entirely forgotten. But I fancy the cur was frightened, for after our brief and forceful interview he started for the door and I did not see him again.

Meanwhile, in the midst of the closely packed throng the stalwart firemen and policemen pushed their way as best they could, bearing the bodies of the dead. The work of rescue was going on very slowly. Even the doctors were not using their skill to the best advantage. In some instances a veritable throng of them were working, or attempting to work, simultaneously upon one body. A clear headed layman grasped the situation and, with the assistance of some of the physicians, evolved order out of chaos. Three doctors were assigned to each table; the police cleared out many of the drones in the crowd, and things began to move more swiftly. The police in general did excellent work. A glaring exception was a certain well-known captain. Noticing his insignia of office, I asked him to clear away the people who were obstructing the passage of the men who were carrying in the bodies. He replied, “I’ve got no time for you. Hunt up the man who has charge of the police detail.” And then the heartless brute went on gaping and getting in the way along with the rest of the morbidly curious.

I wonder if many realize what it means to see dead bodies so numerous that they might be estimated by the cord. Those who do, may perhaps picture to themselves the harrowing scenes about those tables where the physicians worked. As soon as a body was pronounced dead, it was hurriedly laid aside to make room for a possibly hopeful case. Cases in which resuscitation was accomplished were carried to the waiting ambulances and taken to the hospitals. But, alas! these cases were few.

The bodies were brought to us in a seemingly endless stream. As body after body was pronounced lifeless and laid aside, the piles of dead upon the tables grew higher and higher, grew until, as I have said, they could only be compared to piles of cord wood.

And what a difference in those bodies! Some were so seared, so blistered and blackened from the fire and smoke, that in the handling of them the skin, and even the flesh, came off in one’s hands in great shreds and rolls. A far greater number were so free from mar or discoloration, and their faces were so calm and peaceful that it was hard to believe them dead. Indeed, it was difficult to believe even that animation was suspended. They apparently had just fallen asleep.

And these last were to me the most awful sight of all. The others--well, they were better dead than living disfigured and maimed, and besides, there had at no time been hope for them. But these, ah, these! If only they had not lain so long. A little stimulant for the heart, a few compressions and relaxations of the chest, and the life giving oxygen would have entered their lungs and blood. They would have been saved.

What pathetic incidents there were in that restaurant.

A doctor friend of mine, a big hearted, broad shouldered Nature’s nobleman, was pushing his way here and there through the crowd. I noted him towering above those about him as he jostled the people about, and called to him, “Will you take a table?” But he did not answer. He did not seem to see or hear. He went on through the crowd from table to table and finally disappeared. I marvelled then, for I did not know. Poor fellow, his two daughters, beautiful young women, had gone to the Iroquois that day. He was looking, and looking,--for that which was bound to crush him, and hoping,--ah! hoping against hope, as the sequence proved. His light had gone out--and it has stayed out.

And I have just an inkling of what it all meant to the bereaved ones. I had not yet had time to ascertain whether my own wife and children had chanced to go to the Iroquois that afternoon. I recalled however, that I had taken them to see the same play a few days before, and concluded that they were not likely to attend it again soon, but still--

The horrible doubt had just begun to befog my mind, when a new subject was laid upon the table where I was working. It was the body of a young girl. As I took the first hasty glance at this latest unfortunate, I was almost stunned. The resemblance to my younger daughter was so startling that I was all but sure it was she. It was but a fleeting moment before I knew, but that ephemeral space of time was enough. And then I understood, oh, so well.

“A father’s heart should not be deceived, even for a moment,” I fancy I hear some one say. Perhaps not, yet there was one unhappy man in that frantic throng of those who were seeking their beloved ones, whom I beheld, thrice in succession, identifying a strange child as his own. And that father had a heart of hearts, as I have occasion to know.

Lying beneath one of the tables lay the body of a beautiful little girl of about twelve years of age. Fair was she, with golden hair and cheeks still red. A doctor saw her lying there and paused, wondering to himself whether his brethren had worked quite long enough. She surely did not look as if she were dead.

As the doctor stood wondering thus, a group of young lads approached him from the other side of the table. One of them cried appealingly:

“Oh, doctor, won’t you please try once more to save that little girl. We know her, and know her folks, and it will kill them if she dies.”

Another physician who was passing by, overhearing said, “No use, old man. We worked over her for forty minutes before we gave her up,” and he hurried on to another table.

“Oh, but doctor,” said one of the boys appealingly, “I just saw her eyes quiver.”

“Yes,” said another, “and one of her fingers just moved.”

“Dear, optimistic little liars,” said the doctor afterward, “I just couldn’t stand it. I pulled the body off the pile on which it lay, put it on the table, and worked like a horse over it for thirty minutes. And when the poor little chest made a few pitifully gasping sounds under my efforts, the expression of joy and hope on the faces of those lads was wonderful to see.