Chapter IV: Preface (4)

The ship rolled into Queenstown one bright morning, and Ivan and his nine hundred steerage companions crowded the for'ard deck. A boy in a rowboat threw a line to the deck, and after it had been fastened to a stanchion he came up hand over hand. The emigrants watched him curiously. An old woman sitting in the boat pulled off her shoes, sat in a loop of the rope, and lifted her hand as a signal to her son on deck.

"Hey, fellers," said the boy, "help me pull me muvver up. She wants to sell a few dozen apples, an' they won't let her up the gangway!"

Big Ivan didn't understand the words, but he guessed what the boy wanted. He made one of a half dozen who gripped the rope and started to pull the ancient apple woman to the deck.

They had her halfway up the side when an undersized third officer discovered what they were doing. He called to a steward, and the steward sprang to obey.

"Turn a hose on her!" cried the officer. "Turn a hose on the old woman!"

The steward rushed for the hose. He ran with it to the side of the ship with the intention of squirting the old woman, who was swinging in midair and exhorting the six men who were dragging her to the deck.

"Pull!" she cried. "Sure, I'll give every one of ye a rosy red apple an' me blessing with it."

The steward aimed the muzzle of the hose, and Big Ivan of the Bridge let go of the rope and sprang at him. The fist of the great Russian went out like a battering ram; it struck the steward between the eyes, and he dropped upon the deck. He lay like one dead, the muzzle of the hose wriggling from his limp hands.

The third officer and the interpreter rushed at Big Ivan, who stood erect, his hands clenched.

"Ask the big swine why he did it," roared the officer.

"Because he is a coward!" cried Ivan. "They wouldn't do that in America!"

"What does the big brute know about America?" cried the officer.

"Tell him I have dreamed of it," shouted Ivan. "Tell him it is in my Dream. Tell him I will kill him if he turns the water upon this old woman."

The apple seller was on deck then, and with the wisdom of the Celt she understood. She put her lean hand upon the great head of the Russian and blessed him in Gaelic. Ivan bowed before her, then as she offered him a rosy apple he led her toward Anna, a great Viking leading a withered old woman who walked with the grace of a duchess.

"Please don't touch him," she cried, turning to the officer. "We have been waiting for your ship for six hours, and we have only five dozen apples to sell. It's a great man he is. Sure he's as big as Finn MacCool."

Some one pulled the steward behind a ventilator and revived him by squirting him with water from the hose which he had tried to turn upon the old woman. The third officer slipped quietly away.

The Atlantic was kind to the ship that carried Ivan and Anna. Through sunny days they sat up on deck and watched the horizon. They wanted to be among those who would get the first glimpse of the wonderland.

They saw it on a morning with sunshine and soft winds. Standing together in the bow, they looked at the smear upon the horizon, and their eyes filled with tears. They forgot the long road to Bobruisk, the rocking journey to Libau, the mad buckjumping boat in whose timbers the sea devils of the Baltic had bored holes. Everything unpleasant was forgotten, because the Dream filled them with a great happiness.

The inspectors at Ellis Island were interested in Ivan. They walked around him and prodded his muscles, and he smiled down upon them good-naturedly.

"A fine animal," said one. "Gee, he's a new white hope! Ask him can he fight?"

An interpreter put the question, and Ivan nodded. "I have fought," he said.

"Gee!" cried the inspector. "Ask him was it for purses or what?"

"For freedom," answered Ivan. "For freedom to stretch my legs and straighten my neck!"

Ivan and Anna left the Government ferryboat at the Battery. They started to walk uptown, making for the East Side, Ivan carrying the big trunk that no other man could lift.

It was a wonderful morning. The city was bathed in warm sunshine, and the well-dressed men and women who crowded the sidewalks made the two immigrants think that it was a festival day. Ivan and Anna stared at each other in amazement. They had never seen such dresses as those worn by the smiling women who passed them by; they had never seen such well-groomed men.

"It is a feast day for certain," said Anna.

"They are dressed like princes and princesses," murmured Ivan. "There are no poor here, Anna. None."

Like two simple children, they walked along the streets of the City of Wonder. What a contrast it was to the gray, stupid towns where the Terror waited to spring upon the cowed people. In Bobruisk, Minsk, Vilna, and Libau the people were sullen and afraid. They walked in dread, but in the City of Wonder beside the glorious Hudson every person seemed happy and contented.

They lost their way, but they walked on, looking at the wonderful shop windows, the roaring elevated trains, and the huge skyscrapers. Hours afterward they found themselves in Fifth Avenue near Thirty-third Street, and there the miracle happened to the two Russian immigrants. It was a big miracle inasmuch as it proved the Dream a truth, a great truth.

Ivan and Anna attempted to cross the avenue, but they became confused in the snarl of traffic. They dodged backward and forward as the stream of automobiles swept by them. Anna screamed, and, in response to her scream, a traffic policeman, resplendent in a new uniform, rushed to her side. He took the arm of Anna and flung up a commanding hand. The charging autos halted. For five blocks north and south they jammed on the brakes when the unexpected interruption occurred, and Big Ivan gasped.

"Don't be flurried, little woman," said the cop. "Sure I can tame 'em by liftin' me hand."

Anna didn't understand what he said, but she knew it was something nice by the manner in which his Irish eyes smiled down upon her. And in front of the waiting automobiles he led her with the same care that he would give to a duchess, while Ivan, carrying the big trunk, followed them, wondering much. Ivan's mind went back to Bobruisk on the night the Terror was abroad.

The policeman led Anna to the sidewalk, patted Ivan good-naturedly upon the shoulder, and then with a sharp whistle unloosed the waiting stream of cars that had been held up so that two Russian immigrants could cross the avenue.

Big Ivan of the Bridge took the trunk from his head and put it on the ground. He reached out his arms and folded Anna in a great embrace. His eyes were wet.

"The Dream is true!" he cried. "Did you see, Anna? We are as good as they! This is the land where a muzhik is as good as a prince of the blood!"

The President was nearing the close of his address. Anna shook Ivan, and Ivan came out of the trance which the President's words had brought upon him. He sat up and listened intently:

_We grow great by dreams. All big men are dreamers. They see things in the soft haze of a spring day or in the red fire of a long winter's evening. Some of us let those great dreams die, but others nourish and protect them, nurse them through bad days till they bring them to the sunshine and light which comes always to those who sincerely hope that their dreams will come true._

The President finished. For a moment he stood looking down at the faces turned up to him, and Big Ivan of the Bridge thought that the President smiled at him. Ivan seized Anna's hand and held it tight.

"He knew of my Dream!" he cried. "He knew of it. Did you hear what he said about the dreams of a spring day?"

"Of course he knew," said Anna. "He is the wisest man in America, where there are many wise men. Ivan, you are a citizen now."

"And you are a citizen, Anna."

The band started to play "My Country, 'tis of Thee," and Ivan and Anna got to their feet. Standing side by side, holding hands, they joined in with the others who had found after long days of journeying the blessed land where dreams come true.

--James Francis Dwyer.

V--THE INDIAN OF THE RESERVATION

The big, square, barren, rude room which in its existence had progressed from store to schoolroom and on to council hall, was filled to overflowing with a throng of anachronous humanity, rank on rank, tier behind tier. There was the sound of moccasins slipping grittily over the knotty floor, of the dull, rhythmic thudding of a mother's foot as she trotted her fretful baby, the rustling of soft garments, the stirring of unhurried bodies, the hissing of stealthy whispers. Here and there two Indians might be seen conversing in the sign language; their hands, shielded from sight by encircling backs, were lifted scarcely above the level of their laps.

The people were massed one might say ethnologically. The main part of the crowd was Indian, squatting, seated on benches, or standing leaning against the walls. The two tribes sat separately, as did also the sexes of each. To right and left at the tapering ends of the rows were the mixed-bloods, dressed mainly like the whites except that their garments looked more home-made, more patternless, more illy put. Then quite at one end of the room and grouped about the chairman's table sat the whites; school and Agency employees, traders, soldiers, ranch neighbors; an indifferent, self-seeking, heterogeneous group. In the midst of these last, dapper, conspicuously well-dressed, and well-groomed, presided the inspector from Washington. His old, dignified face, slightly pompous, was crowned with gray hair brushed back from his brow. His hands rested squarely upon his knees. By his side, taking notes, sat his stenographer, his glance half curious and half supercilious playing constantly over the faces of the throng. At either end of the little table behind which sat the inspector, were stationed the interpreters, one for each tribe. The eyes of these men were searching, though their lips seemed to mock slightly, and when they spoke, rising to interpret, even though they passed on the phrases with a certain guarded vehemence, they seemed consciously to preserve a detached attitude, as do those who speak but will not be held accountable for what they say.

Perhaps the arrangement that caused the mixed-bloods and the other younger Indians to be the first to deliver their speeches was intentional on the part of someone. At any rate one by one they arose, in overalls, in spurs, in bright neckerchiefs, differing from each other in type and temperament, as differed also those two tribes, and indeed, the two races, represented there within the council room.

Occasionally after some speech the inspector would get up and pronounce in continuance a few elucidating words. He gesticulated slightly and conventionally. He bent a little toward the interpreters, each in turn. His words came slowly and with unction.

The subject of the council was the desire of the Indian Bureau to throw open to white settlement a half of the reservation. The mixed-bloods and the younger Indians were, though they spoke but briefly, in accord in favoring the execution of the plan. Their words, however, from some lack in themselves of knowledge or of conviction, were not uttered in a manner calculated to tip the scale greatly their way.

"It's a question of water rights," they said. "We must have money to buy those rights and how else can we obtain it? It's an obligation to our children."

Again and again the same note was struck. One by one the young men arose, and one by one sat down again. The interpreters mopped their tired brows. The inspector sipped frequently from a glass of water upon his table.

The air was full of the odor of people, pungent with the herb perfume worn by the Indians in little sacks sewed to the clothing, acrid with the smell of sage clinging to shawls and dresses, with the flavor of smoke-tanned buckskin. A half-open window let in a little fitful breeze that played wantonly with the dust showing in the sunlight of the upper reaches of the room, flirting and whisking about the heads of the throng.

At last it came time for the weightier speeches, for those of the councilmen, of the chiefs, of indeed the older men of the two tribes, the patriarchs of this patriarchal people.

"Sell our land?" they cried. "Retreat? Give up? Be forced into contact with intermingling whites? Take money in place of our land? What, money for the good of these traders who will get it all from us in the end?" Their old faces hardened; their eyes flamed. "Give up? Retreat? Move on? Abrogate the old promises, the old treaties? What, _again?_" Their lips twisted bitterly. "Do you not know, does not the Great Father at Washington know, that all we ask now of life is a little land, a little peace, a little place wherein to live quietly our quiet life, and in the end a little ground for our narrow bed? Move on! That we think was the first word the whites--" the "outsiders," the "aliens," was the name they in the Indian tongue gave this other race--"said to us. It seems they are saying it yet." The soft bitter voices ceased; the old men sank into their seats, the interpreters, too, relaxed, wiping their faces.

The inspector stood up cautiously, apologetically even. "But these old men, the chiefs, do not seem to have caught the point. The whole question of selling or not selling turns on the matter of their water rights; on theirs and their children's as has been said. Land even in this beautiful Wyoming valley is a mockery without water. They can I am sure understand that; water they must have."

An old chief rose solemnly, turned deep, scornful eyes upon the inspector. "Let the white man from Washington go but a mile yonder," extended arm pointed that way, "and he will see the river that flows down our valley and waters our land. It is there. It is ours. It is born in these mountains above us. God made them, I suppose as he made it. It is ours."

Along the packed rows there was a slight stirring.

Patiently again the inspector arose. "I know that it is hard for the old people to understand that having _water_ does not necessarily mean having _rights_ to that water. There exist hundreds of white men below you, beyond the border of your reservation, who have taken up claims along this same stream and who have filed on its water prior to any Indian having done so. The State must recognize this priority. The whites have filed on the water and have paid the dues. Beside that as the law stands now the Indians cannot individually take out water rights. I know that you will say that when this reservation was given to these two tribes, a matter of a generation and a half ago, the water was included with the land, 'to the center of the streams bordering the reservation,' as your old treaty reads. But times and conditions have changed since then. At that period the Federal Government controlled the water of Wyoming, now its disposition has been turned over to the State. Where the Indians stand in this matter has never been decided by law."

The mixed-bloods who understood at least partially, shifted uneasily.

"But now--although the question of priority has still not been decided--the Indian Bureau--which I represent--says that you as a tribe may buy your water rights. For this you must have money." He named a sum reaching far into the thousands. "The sale of your land will bring you this amount of money, at least. This thing is intricate and impossible I believe to elucidate to the older people, your leaders. They must, I fear, just hear my statements and, if they can, believe." With his hands he made a deprecating little gesture. Then he sat down.

There was silence in the room, complete save for a slight stirring, the sound of deep breathing, and the fretting, here and there, of a hungry child.

Finally at the back of the room, by some shifting of his pose, by thrusting himself forward beyond the relief of his line, an Indian made his presence known. He was a man of powerful build, of nobly moulded head; his hair instead of having been braided, had been gathered forward into two loosely twisted strands; his eyes showed, speculative yet keen, his mouth was sharply chiseled though withal soft in its lines, and there was a kindly look on his face which gave somehow the impression of the morning light seen upon the rugged side of a great mountain. In age he seemed to be between the young and the old.

As he made his presence known there was a slow turning of the heads in his direction, a slight tensing of the crowd. The old chiefs appeared suddenly eager and filled with hope; as for the younger men and the mixed-bloods they glanced at him and looked away again, as if, sighing they said: "Another on the wrong side. Ah, the blind old men!"

Then he spoke. His voice was deep, very virile, carefully subdued as something held in leash, and yet through it there seemed to run a tremor, a quaver almost, that gave an impression of strange intensity.

I repeat his words with elision.

"I am not one of the old men," he said, "and yet I can easily remember the time when this valley, these mountains, were ours; not because someone had given them to us, but because we had taken them for ourselves, because our arrows flew straightest, our spears reached furthest, our horsemen rode fastest, our hearts were bravest."

Here several of the old men grunted sympathetically. More and more the faces of the throng were turned toward the speaker.

"Then everything was changed. The strangers came like a flood, like our rivers in the spring; they surged over us and they left us--as we are. Perhaps this was the will of the Stranger-on-High, we cannot tell.... But these strangers on earth were not altogether unkind to us. For what they took they gave a sort of compensation. It was as though they carried away from us fat buffaloes and then handed to us in exchange each a little slice of their meat. They deprived us of our valley and our mountains but instead they gave us each eighty acres of the land. Then they sent more strangers with chains and three-legged toys to measure these off correctly for us. They gave us wire for our fences but only enough so that we must spend much money for more. They gave us seed, but also so little that we were driven to buy more. We worked--some of us with the chains and three-legged toys--some at the ditches, every way we could, for now we needed a new thing--something of which we had before known nothing, _money_. We received it--and then we spent it."

Again faint grunts and groans encouraged him.

"For we cannot keep money long. We are children. This the Great Father in Washington understands, and also that our ears are dull, that our eyes cannot read his written words. Therefore, in his kindness, he sends to us this man to speak to us face to face." He turned his slow gaze upon the inspector. In his eyes was the look of mockery. "We have listened to his words. But what has he said to us? 'Give up the eighty acres, for your children to be born, give up the money you earned and spent, give up your homes; as you gave up this valley and these mountains. The white men need them. Your day is past. But I am not unkind. Without compensation I will not deprive you. See, I will give you even a little more money--'" He stopped abruptly. His eyes drooped, his shoulders, his hands, the whole man.

A strained silence had fallen upon the room, smothered it. From it escaped the faint sighing of the younger men. The chiefs stiffened as they sat.

By an effort the speaker seemed to rouse himself. He stared strangely about the room. "There was a little boy once," he said, and his voice had grown dreamy, slightly high in pitch, "and this little boy held his hand out toward the flames, nearer,--I saw it--the fire was so pretty, so warm, it danced, purred, sparkled. His hand crept nearer, nearer. His father watched him. At the last moment he caught him and pulled him away. The child cried then, he struggled in his father's arms, he pushed away from him, he fought. Again he reached out toward the flame. But finally he looked up into the man's face and suddenly it seemed to dawn on him that, although he could not understand, this was indeed his father, old and wise and loving; and that he, by comparison, was only a little misguided child...." The strange, vibrant voice dwindled, broke. The speaker made a wide gesture toward the attentive inspector, held it while the interpreters got forth in English his last sentence. Then he sank back into his old place against the wall; with one bent hand he wiped the sweat from his brow.

A faint sound of muttering passed over the room; old fierce eyes were veiled, young keen ones peered incredulously. But the inspector was on his feet on the instant, his hand outstretched to grasp the golden moment.

"There is no more to be said," he cried. "Our ears are ringing with words. Our hearts are full. I have here, prepared, a paper. Let those who for their own good and the good of their children are of a mind to sell, now sign it."

Slowly, amidst moving and murmuring, the long paper, in the hands of one of the interpreters, made its deliberate rounds. Difficult signatures were inscribed in slow succession. Ancient, unaccustomed hands, deft enough with spear or bow, grasped awkwardly the pen and with it made their wavering "mark."

Some there were of the old men, indeed the majority of them, who wrapping their blankets about them arose, and shambling, withdrew, aloof and soundless.

Like a shaken kaleidoscope the council broke up.

The inspector leaned back in his chair, a hand shielding the working of his mouth. His eyes searched the variegated, dissolving throng. The stenographer, still seated and playing with his idle pencil, shot him an understanding glance.

Later the Half-breed, standing on the board walk outside the trading store, a box of crackers in one hand, a paper containing pickles in the other, was lunching heartily. Suddenly he shifted everything into his left hand and strode down into the road. For in company with his wife and a young son the last of the speakers was passing.

The Half-breed's extended hand grasped the Indian's.

"I thank you for what you said," he cried. "It was a noble thing to have done. You faced them all; the old timers, the chiefs, public opinion, prejudice. And you won. It was a brave act."

The rugged, illuminated face was turned to him, the deep eyes rested squarely upon his. "You have perhaps forgotten," he said. "You are younger than I am and too you have been for a long time with the whites--but I remember well the time when we were boys and our great head-chief Black Star used to sit and talk with us. Yes, you have perhaps forgotten," he repeated, and his look, just touched with yearning, rested upon the younger man. "But I remember--I have never forgotten what he used to say to us. 'Be brave,' he would tell us. 'That is the chief thing to learn; to do what each one believes is right, to speak for the right, everywhere, always. To be fearless of tongues, of persecution, to take counsel with our own minds and being sure to speak out surely. That,' he always said to us, 'and that only, is the man's part.'"

--Grace Coolidge.

VI--THE NIGHT ATTACK

When B Company marched out of the camp for the morning skirmish practice, Tom Kennedy of squad five was feeling depressed. His corporal, John Wheeler, had just given him a scolding, and now wore a stern expression on his youthful yet somehow granite-like countenance. Kennedy, glancing out of the corner of his eye, saw and interpreted the expression.

He was a thin, pale youth, who had gone from high school into the bank, where he was employed in a humble capacity as clerk. His lack of physical strength had prevented him from taking part in school athletics; the impecuniosity of his family had kept him from a share in many healthful, boyish activities. He had been a bookish boy and had shown himself quick at figures; many of his classmates envied him when, after graduation, a subordinate place in the First National Bank had been given him. In his second year of service there he was promoted to a clerkship; and when the bank announced its willingness to let some of its employees attend the military training camp, Kennedy had presented himself as a volunteer.

Without experience in the handling of arms, without natural dexterity and without the self-confidence that a boy derives from participation in sports or from a life outdoors, Kennedy was not the most promising of "rookies." He would have made a better showing in the early drills perhaps had he been less concerned with the dread of being regarded as a "dub." What made him especially self-conscious was the fact that his corporal was the son of the president of the First National Bank. It seemed to Kennedy, inexperienced youth that he was, that his whole future might depend on the impression he made on the president's son.

He had long known John Wheeler by reputation. Wheeler had been halfback on his college football team; he was a yachtsman of more than local renown. As corporal, he was alert, industrious and energetic; his efficiency caused Kennedy to be only the more keenly aware of his own incompetence. The other men in the tent were all older than he, all better educated than he, and without in the least intending to make him feel inferior they did make him feel so. As a matter of fact, they thought he was an unassuming and obliging person, who had, as one of them expressed it, not much small change in conversation.

Now, after a week at the camp, Kennedy had begun to make himself a nuisance to his companions--the thing that he had most dreaded being. He had caught cold, and had coughed at frequent intervals throughout the night; he had buried his head under his blankets and tried to suppress the coughs, and he had blown his nose with as little reverberation as possible, but he had, nevertheless, received intimations that he was disturbing the sleep of his tent mates. In the morning one of them, Morrison, a student in a medical school, offered him some quinine pills and advised him to report at sick call. But Kennedy had resolved not to be knocked out by sickness; he thanked Morrison for the pills and said he thought he should get through all right. His feelings were hurt, however, when after breakfast Wheeler said:

"Come, fellows, let's roll up the tent; if we don't give the sun and air a chance in here, we'll all of us be sniffling."

The corporal started in to undo the guy ropes and then exclaimed wrathfully. "Who's the man that tied these ropes in hard knots? He's a landlubber, all right."

"I should say!" remarked Morrison, who was at work on the other side of the tent. "I'm not guilty."

"I'm afraid I am." Kennedy's admission was the more rueful because so croaking.

"A man who can only tie a hard knot or a granny has no business ever to touch a rope." Wheeler snapped out the words while his fingers worked busily. "I should think before coming to a camp a fellow would learn to tie a few knots."

Kennedy accepted the reproof in silence--if a sudden access of coughing can be termed silence. He was finding it hard work to disengage one of the knots of his own making; presently Wheeler, having freed the other ropes, came up and unceremoniously took possession of that at which Kennedy was picking.

"Undo your pack, take the rope that's fastened to your shelter half and I'll give you a lesson," commanded Wheeler.

To the object lesson in tying hitches, half hitches, slipknots and other useful knots Kennedy gave close attention; but when he tried to do what he had just seen his instructor do he became confused.

"Are you as slow as that counting bills in the bank?" Wheeler asked. "I wonder that they keep you. You don't seem to have learned to use your hands."

He snatched the rope and then began another demonstration for the mortified youth; Kennedy could not have been more hurt if he had been lashed with it. The whistle blew; the order, "Fall in!" was shouted at the head of the street.

"Quick, now! Do up your pack!" Wheeler tossed back the rope, and Kennedy made a dive into the tent where his equipment lay scattered. Hastily cramming things together, he discovered when he had his pack rolled up and fastened that he had left out the rubber poncho. In the street the men were all lined up at attention; he alone was unready. The first sergeant was calling the roll; the corporals were reporting: "Squad one?" "All present." "Squad two?" "All present." Kennedy flung on his pack and crammed his poncho under his mattress, where it would not be visible. "Squad five?" "Private Kennedy absent." "Squad six?" "All present."

Kennedy fastened his canteen to his belt, caught up his rifle and took his place in the rear rank.

He heard the corporals far down the line reporting, "All present." He alone had been delinquent. Wheeler's face seemed more forbidding than ever.

And that was why, as the company marched out for the day's work, Kennedy felt depressed. He was making a poor showing; he had won the outspoken disapproval of the man whose good opinion he most heartily desired. Besides, he was miserable in body; nose, eyes and throat were all inflamed, the pack seemed heavier than it ought to be, and there was no early-morning enthusiasm in his legs. A glance at Wheeler's face still further depressed his spirits. He had never seen the corporal look so black, and he knew it was all on account of having such a "dub" in the squad!

It was really not on that account at all. What was troubling the corporal was a sense of his severity toward a subordinate who seemed to be doing the best he could. He was chagrined that he had been so sharp-tongued with the little fellow; he had got into the habit of thinking of Kennedy rather pityingly as "the little fellow."

All the long morning B Company was put through skirmish drill; the sun was hot, the air heavy; with all too brief intermissions the men were kept at work; running, leaping, casting themselves on their faces, and pulling the trigger and throwing the bolt of their rifles. Lying prone, with neck and shoulder muscles aching under the weight of the pack, Kennedy experienced the greatest discomfort, for then his nose became an abomination to him. And at those times, snuffling, coughing and gasping, he was painfully aware that to the other members of the squad, and particularly to the corporal, he must seem nothing less than a curse.

The luncheon hour afforded him a little rest. But all the afternoon there was drill on the parade ground; and at supper Kennedy was almost too tired to eat. His cold was no better, his cough was more frequent and racking, and he feared that he should be a greater nuisance to his tent mates than on the preceding night. After supper he thought he should go into the town and get some cough drops; but that was a mile walk, and before undertaking it he decided to stretch himself out on his bed for a few minutes' rest. Wheeler came up and asked him how he was feeling.

"All right, if only I don't keep you fellows awake," Kennedy croaked, grateful for the question.

"You don't sound all right. I should think you'd better see the doctor."

"Oh, I sound worse than I am."

Wheeler walked away, with a good-natured laugh that made Kennedy feel better than a cough drop could have done. It showed him that the corporal did not have an unfriendly attitude toward him, and it stimulated his resolve to let the corporal see that he did not lack staying power.

For a few minutes he had been reclining on his bed, when he was horrified to hear the B Company whistle, followed by the shout, "Fall in, B Company!" When he emerged from the tent, he heard the second order that was being relayed down the street, "Fall in with the rifle and the full pack!" For a dismal moment Kennedy thought of going up to the captain and pleading unfitness for further duty. Then he gritted his teeth, slung his pack, which he had not yet unrolled, on his aching shoulders and took up his rifle. The other occupants of the tent made their appearance on the run, uttering maledictions and cries of grief and wonderment. Had not they been worked hard enough for one day! This kind of thing was an outrage!

When the company was lined up, Captain Hughes said, "B Company is ordered out to hold a section of trench against an expected night attack. Squads right!"

While the men proceeded at route step, they lamented facetiously the ordeal ahead of them. Kennedy snuffled and shuffled along, trying to keep his head up and his shoulders from drooping. He looked apprehensively at the western sky; the sun had gone down in a black cloud wrack, which was swarming higher and heavier. The sultry air was suddenly fanned by a cool wind, lightning flashed in the mass of clouds, and thunder pealed.

"Going to have a little real war this evening, I guess," observed Morrison.

"The storm may not hit us," said Wheeler.

"Everything that can will hit us to-day," replied Morrison.

By the time the company had reached the trenches, which were dug on the edge of a wide field, it was growing dark. The wind was blowing hard and flung splashes of rain into the men's faces.

Captain Hughes halted his command and called the members round him.

"This is the section that you are to defend," he said. "You see it consists of four separate front-line trenches, each just long enough and wide enough to accommodate eight men. Each front trench is connected with the second line of trenches by a short runway. Behind the second line is the shelter, or dugout, for those who are not on duty in the trenches. You will take turns in holding the front line; each squad will be relieved every fifteen minutes. The rest of you will keep under cover in the shelter--under cover from the enemy, that is." There was an uncertain ripple of laughter; the rain was beginning now to pour down. "At what hour the attack may develop I can't tell you," continued the captain, "but it will no doubt be sometime between now and sunrise."

In the shelter, which was a large rectangular pit six feet deep, the men opened their packs and got out their ponchos--all except Kennedy, who stood looking on while his comrades proceeded to protect themselves against the now pelting rain.

Wheeler, poking his head through the opening in his poncho, saw Kennedy standing thus.

"Why don't you get out your poncho?" he asked.

"I forgot to put it in my pack."

"That's the limit, a night like this. You've got a frightful cold, too." Wheeler pulled off the poncho that he had just put on. "Get into this and keep yourself as dry as you can."

"No, I wouldn't think of taking your----"

"You're under orders now, and you'll take what your corporal tells you." Wheeler thrust the rubber garment over his subordinate's head. "There you are; I don't want to feel responsible for your having pneumonia."

Then, as Captain Hughes called, "Squad leaders, gather round!" Wheeler moved away to receive instructions.

Seating himself cross-legged, Kennedy arranged the poncho as well as he could over his rifle. The rain came down in sheets, poured from the brims of hats, formed puddles on the ground, oozed through trousers and boots and leggings. By the occasional lightning flashes Kennedy could see the group of corporals holding conference with the captain near by; he could see the huddled forms of the privates like himself, the ponchos shining on their shoulders, the pools glistening at their feet.

In a few moments the conference broke up; then Captain Hughes raised his voice sharply.

"Mr. Wheeler, where is your poncho?"

"I haven't got it, sir."

"A man who is careless about himself is not likely to look after his men, and that is an officer's first duty. You set a bad example to the members of your squad, Mr. Wheeler."

"Yes, sir."

Wheeler saluted and the captain turned away just as Kennedy came forward. The corporal gripped Kennedy's wrist and held him fast, then led him in silence back to his place.

"That's all right," he whispered in Kennedy's ear. "Don't you butt in. You'd only get it in the neck if you did."

Kennedy, believing that a soldier's first duty is to obey, did not persist; he saw the captain leave the shelter and join a group of officers on the bank.

"It isn't fair, though, for you to take the blame," he began.

"It's of no importance," Wheeler answered.

A few moments later Kennedy was convinced that the corporal was mistaken. While Wheeler was talking to another member of the squad, Morrison said to Kennedy in a low voice:

"I guess Wheeler's chance for promotion is gone now. They're going to make some new sergeants tomorrow, and I thought Wheeler would surely be one; but I guess that forgetting his poncho has queered him with the captain. He's a stickler about little things."

"It doesn't seem fair," repeated Kennedy, as if speaking to himself.

Night had settled down, the blackest kind of night, when the first platoon was ordered into the advance trenches. From ambush among the trees behind the shelter searchlights began to play against the woods five hundred yards away, out of which the attack was expected to come. The watchers in the shelter and the trenches remained in utter darkness while the streaming lines of rain and the distant trees emerged into view under the sweeping rays. Back and forth the searchlights plied, raking the whole sector of forest that bounded the field. The men in the shelter, who had stood up to see what the searchlights might disclose, soon sat down again and wrapped their ponchos about themselves more snugly. The minutes passed; there was no sound except that made by the determined, trampling rain.

Wheeler, who had been peering over the top of the embankment, came and seated himself between Kennedy and Morrison.

"There's one thing," he murmured. "The enemy are getting it same as we are."

Morrison grunted. "How do you know? They're regulars, and maybe they haven't left their barracks yet. Maybe they won't till about 2 A. M."

"Don't be always taking the joy out of life," Wheeler entreated.

At last came the turn of the second platoon. They filed out through the runways into the second-line trench, where they waited until the squads of the first platoon returned from the sections that they had been holding.

"Second platoon, load!"

In the pitch blackness it was not an easy thing to do. Kennedy got his clip jammed in the magazine and for a few moments could not shove it down or pull it out. Then, when he gave a final desperate wrench, out it came with a jump, slipped through his fingers and fell somewhere in the mud.

"Lock your pieces. Forward!"

Kennedy had to straighten up and move on without having found his cartridges. When he was in his place between Wheeler and Morrison, he took another clip out of his belt and, working carefully and slowly, inserted it in the magazine. The sound of others working with their rifles let him know that he had not been the only one to get into difficulty.

From somewhere behind, Captain Hughes gave instructions:

"Keep your eyes on that strip of woods. Squad on the right, take the sector from the ravine to the top of the knoll. Next squad, the sector from the top of the knoll to that tree that stands out in front of the woods. Next squad, the sector from that tree to the big rock. Fourth squad, the sector from the big rock to the road. If anyone comes out of the woods in your sector, fire on him."

"No one will come," murmured Morrison. "Not for five or six hours yet."

But they all stood peering intently over the low ridge of earth that protected the top of the trench and on which their rifles rested. Without cessation the searchlights swept back and forth along the belt of woods; for only the briefest interval was any section left in darkness. Time passed, and still the only sound was the steady drumming of the rain.

Then suddenly out of the belt of woods broke a line of men and charged forward. Instantly all along the advance trenches burst jets of flame and the vicious crackle and bang of the rifles. After the wearisome and uncomfortable vigil, Kennedy felt warmed into excitement; he got off three shots before the enemy dropped to the ground and began shooting in their turn. Then an enemy platoon on the right made a short rush forward and dropped, and immediately resumed firing. By platoon rushes the line advanced, and its fire seemed to grow steadier and stronger as it drew nearer. In contrast, the fire of the defenders of the trenches weakened. Only three men in Wheeler's squad were maintaining a steady fire; the other squads displayed a corresponding feebleness of resistance.

"Fire faster, men!" cried Captain Hughes.

But fire faster they did not--and could not. More than half of them were now having the trouble in loading their rifles that Kennedy had experienced--and was having again. Fumbling in the darkness with the wet, slippery mechanism, trying hurriedly to slide the cartridge clips into place, man after man had jammed his magazine, and with clumsy fingers was frantically trying to adjust it. Meanwhile, the fire of the enemy became more intense; they drew nearer and nearer by platoon rushes; and at last Captain Hughes gave the order to the defenders of the trenches, "Cease firing!"

Then, a few yards away, up sprang the enemy and, with bayonets fixed and a wild yell that at the last fizzled out into laughter, charged down on the trenches. They stopped on the edge and greeted the defenders derisively: "Well, boys, all dead, ain't you?" "Fired as if you were, anyway." "How'd you have liked it if this had been a real attack?" "Any of you boys want to have a little bayonet practice?"

Captain Hughes gave the command to unload. After "inspection arms" had been ordered, the captain pointed the moral of the evening's experience: "You see, it's not enough to be good daylight soldiers--important though that is. You have got to be able to use your rifles as well in the dark."

B Company marched back to camp; Kennedy sought an audience with Captain Hughes. He could only say in a husky whisper:

"I want to explain about Corporal Wheeler's poncho." He had to stop for a fit of coughing; the captain bent down and looked at him sharply. "He took off his poncho and made me put it on--I'd forgotten mine. I hope it won't count against him."

"What do you mean by staying on duty in this condition?" demanded the captain.

"I sound worse than I am."

The captain grunted. "Report at sick call tomorrow. I'll remember what you say about Wheeler. Goodnight!"

The next morning, when Kennedy returned from the hospital tent, having been pronounced fit to continue on active duty, he found the members of squad five congratulating Wheeler on his promotion to the rank of sergeant.

"Here's the fellow that saved the job for me." Wheeler clapped Kennedy's shoulder. "Captain Hughes said you went to him and told tales out of school."

Kennedy looked pleased. "I heard the captain tell you that you mightn't be good at looking after your men," he answered. "I thought I'd show him."

"Business, just business," said Wheeler with a twinkle in his eyes. "Dad would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you. I feel just as responsible for the bank, having you up here, as he does. Now come and I'll give you another lesson in how to tie a knot."

--Arthur Stanwood Pier.

VII--THE PATH OF GLORY