Newspaper Page Text
Atlanta, Ga., Week Ending August 30, 1902
NUMBER TWENTY-SIX
A Soldier of the Line
Tarkington Baker, j Copyright, 1902.
HERE the waters of the
Rio Betis leap high to the
verdant leaves that over
hang its banks, then surge
away to the maddened
current in mid-stream,
plunging “down to the
droning waves of the
tropic sea, Bacolor, the
capital, huddles on the
paddy fields of the prov
ince of Pampanga. Hither
in retreat fled the brown
hosts of Agulnaldo wh°n
the Americans, pressing close, drove the
manikin army from the province of Ba
taan and the bordering lands of Tarlac.
Hither in pursuit came the Thirty-
sixth, and at night, when the rain beat
down in torrents and the stars seemed
lost forever, spread itself In the mud to
await the dawn and to curse the com
missary. For the commissary, in the
way of its kind, was half a march be
hind, the heavy wagons creaking and
groaning through the ooze of the bot
tomless trails and the men who urged
forward the soughing carabaos swelling
the chorus of curses that arose from the
regiment, sopped in the mud for beds
and served on the hope of the morrow
for mess.
When in the early evening of the time
less night the bugler turned the water
from his bugle and lifted the notes of
the taps until they rose and echoed in
the crags of the Luzon hills and the
regiment lay down to sleep, a man stood
up spectrelike among the forms about
him and turned his face toward the east
as though he would look through the
r.ight, beyond the land about him, across
the seas and into a distant American
home. He was a private in the ranks
and walked with the measured stride of
\a soldier of the line. On the rolls of his
regiment he was William Reddington
Byers. Jr., of New, York. Tn the far-off
metropolis of his country he was Bvers,
Jr., son of the little man in the dingy
office on Wall street,, whose brain had
wrestled millions from the markets and
made gold with the touch of a Midas.
Tn Company C of the Thirty-sixth he
was Private Billy Byers—nothing less
and nothing more.
The men who marched abreast of Bvers
and the corporal who counted No. 4 in
his set of fours were ignqrant of the
business 'Vi r 3- . r-
the consequent prospects of the fall son
who strode by their side. And Byers
knew and understood, for the millions
of his father were no greater in the
sight of the stalwart men of the service
► than the monthly pittance the corporal
drew when the paymaster came around.
Byers stood still a moment then, with
a motion of his hand as though he
would put some sight forever from his
eyes. He prepared to make a place for
himself beside the men about him. H!s
hand went to his breast, his head bent
forward, and he drew out into the rainy
night a locket. For a second's time the
tiny case was open, then closed, and
Private Byers found a bed for himself
in the recking mud of the paddy soil.
Next to Byers lay a man whose hands
were hard and horny from toil in the
mines of the west. On the other side
bivouacked a soldier booked on ihe com
pany muster as a shoemaker, but the in
quisitive private who asked where the
trade had been learned forgot the ques
tion with its asking, for a brawny fist
was planted in his teeth and his quest
for information endod. The men in the
ranks* of the army have their own se
crets, as carefully guarded from curious
investigators as are the sacred secrets
locked behind the doors of the office of
the great secretary of war.
The first was Private Michael McGlynn.
the second was Private Thomas Ellis.
The one was “Micky,” the other was
■'Tommy,'’ and tl* man with the tat
tered chevrons on his sleeve was Corporal
Cook, greater than these and greater
than Private Byers, for, by the symbol
on his blouse and the stripes on his
trousers, he bore a noncommissioned of
ficer’s warrant in his pocket.
Thus was William Reddington Byers
leveled by the uniform he wore and by
the sign of a numbered tag about his
neck, made again into common clay like
the men who messed and marched and
their way to the sea, beaten by th*
whipping winds and pelted into mists
and foam by the torrent of the blinding
rain.
When the gray crept into the east and
for a moment the red sun shot forward
to lose itself again into the blackness of
the clouds, a bullet beat its way above
the sleeping forms of the Thirty-sixth
and moaned in its malice as it spent it
self b?yond. Another followed, and as
the regime t awoke to action the air
seethed, burned and quivered with the
wailing of the steel-clad missiles from
the Mausers of the Brown Men, who lay
entrenched before Bacolor.
In the dim light of the sombre datli
the Thirty-sixth rose from the paddy
ing fire from the trenches. Suddenly a
Krag-Jorgensen sputtered to the left of
Byers, and before the sound had died
In the midst of the trembling air. half a
thousand American rifles leaped into ac
tion and sent the wailing bullets scream
ing above the brown earthworks.
Far down the line above the roar.of the
battle a voice thundered: “Forward!”
Private Byers leaped at the sound and
shouted in the madness that seized him
and hurled him on in the face of the
spitting guns that flashed from the
trenches.
A man ran by his side and another
leaped at his left. The one was Micky
McGlynn and the other was Tommy Ellis.
But back on the grass of the paddy field
.*•' '-I*.
THE CHARGE OF THE THIRTY-SIXTH.
slept by his side. But by the tiny gold
locket he wore next his heart he was
lifted above them—far above them. .Tn
the locket was the picture of a girl, and
she waited and watched and hoped for
the homecoming of Billy Byers.
The Thirty-sixth had spent a fortnight
in the field, but through Bataan and
Tarlac the serried ranks in khaki had
seen nothing of the men who fought un
der the trailing flag of Agulnaldo. In
the pampagna the weary soldiery had
heard the wail of the Mauser bullets,'
but the regiment pressed on toward
Bacolor with an empty field before it.
At night the men had reached the cap
ital, and, worn with the weariness of
the march, burnt with the heat of the
sun and bathed with the fever vapors of
the endless morass, had fallen where
they stood when the halt had been called.
And by the camp where they lay ran the
waters of the Rio Betis, muttering on
fields and stumbled Into position In a
long, writhing line of brown that stood
sullen and sile t, the perfect fighting
machine awaiting the word that would
hurl it forward to crush the enemy of
the flag it bore.
Against the one thousand of the Thirty-
sixth stood the five thousand of Luna’s
gaunt army. In numbers outtold. with
out knowledge of the ground, weary and
without food, up from a restless slumber
sprang the Men of the Service, grim in
the face of the scathing fire—soldiers of
the Blue and Brown, men of an army
born in Ad ay. trained in a night.
When trte line went hurrying forward,
silent, yet sullen, William Reddington
Byers, with his squad, charged with the
others. With half the space covered that
lay between the guns of the mannikins
and the camp left deserted behind, the
advance wavered, weakened and reeled
as it encountered the steady and wither
lay the stricken form of Corporal Cook,
who shouted and writhed in a madness
greater than that surging in the breast
of Billy Byers, for it was born of the
anger, surprise, the pain and the hatred
of a man struck down by an enemy’s
steel.
Somewhere to the right the line waver
ed again. It cringed before the ceaseless
fire that poured into its unprotected ranks;
It hesitated, it paused, orders were thun
dered before it, but it gave no heed. For
a moment it halted; in another moment
it gave way, and the men tumbled back
ward, their faces paled and their eyes
open and staring and the fury of fright
driving them on and on—nowhere, any
where save against the guns that smote
them and the white vapors that settles
heavy on the damp earth before the
enemy’s works.
The colonel waved his arms. He stood
alone, the bullets hissing about him, and
called to his men. but the panic of fear
had seized on the Thirty-sixth and the
ranks were deaf to his word. In the
storm of the retreat, the man who bore
the flag stumbled and the banner fell.
The men, rushing wildly to the rear,
leaped across its folds and saw its col
ors prone on the mud of the swamp,
but forgot its glory in the terror that
seethed in their souls.
Suddenly a tall and brawny form stood
forth and it bent low to raise the fallen
flag and lift it high where the enemy
might see that it was not gone down in
the Thirty-sixth’s everlasting disgrace.
And by the side of the form ran Micky
McGlynn, and in front of it, bellowing
in the rage of battle, leaped Tommy
Ellis. Beyond, mad with the Joy of the
faithfulness of three, the colonel shouted,
and behind the men heeded and rallied
and the front changed. The soldier in
khaki is swept on, forward with the flag.
Private Byers felt the faith of victory
and its triumph, and his voice as the line
thundered on rose hoarsely in the swing
ing rhythm of the “Battle Hymn of the
Republic.”
That was the fever of battle; within him
burned an exultation that life had never
held before, and the notes of the great
pean shook with the depth of that feeling
and trembled on the ears of Micky Mc
Glynn and Tommy Ellis high above the
roar of the battle’s sweeping storm.
Along the line the words were snatched
from the lips of Private Bvers and the
chorus was lifted high in the air as the
long, thin front of brown charged for
ward against the hosts of mannikins who
held, faltering now, the earthen en
trenchments.
And then, beneath the grime of the
powder smoke that smirched his face,
the features of Private Biily Byers grew
pale, and, as he mounted to the crest of
the enemy’# works and waved the flag
aloft, he felt a blow as of a clinched
fist upon his naked breast and a thou
sand threads of burning pain shot through
his lungs and scorched along the veins
of his arms to the finger tips. For a
moment he stood breathless, then, as his
knees bent under him, he fell forward,
turning as he fell, his arms outstretch
ed, the fingers clutching at the air, his
jaw fallen and his eyes staring with the
mute surprise of a man of the service
stricken with a deadly wound. And, as
his body turned, so he lay—his back to-
»■- nrnr4 ihe enemy* ^
SictSi Jim aha Ellis kn^w now the greirt*
e^t terror of their lives; other mei^had
fallen with a sigh, a groan, and They
had felt no fear. But when the tall form
of Private Byers sank at the blow of a
tiny, steel-clad missile, something of the
horror, of the death of battle rushed into
their minds. The strange presence that
made the air tremble with the high, keen
note of the bullet’s song, had shown itself
in visible form. McGlynn, fired with the
hate of vengeance, rushed on, but Ellis,
silent as the form that quivered at his
feet, paused. He bent low over Private
Byers, and, as the blood gushed from
the mouth and nostrils of the wounded
soldier, caught the words that came in
whispers from the lips grown suddenly
blue.
“Tommy,” faltered the hsuky voice,
“turn me ’round—’round where I can see
—the flag!”
When the sun, still veiled by the gray
clouds, fell before the approaching night,
Private Byers, with the men of the Thir
ty-sixth who had fallen by his side, lay
in the emergency hospital, sheltered in
the great church of the captured capitol
of Bacolor. Above the bandaged forms
flickered the lights of smoking, swinging
lights, and, from cot to cot, silent and
grim, moved the calm surgeons of the
service—unfaltering and unhesitating.
Private Byers lay motionless and un
suffering in the mercifulness of uncon-
iousness. The surgeons and the stew
ards were gathered round another form
that lay on the improvised operating ta
ble in the center of the great church
building. Private Byers sighed as awak
ening consciousness struggled to compre
hend the situation. Slowly he lifted his
arms and on the hands as he held them*
trembling before him in the faint light
he saw the blood from his own wound
hard and dried and streaked with the
black stains of the powder smoke of bat
tle.
As he looked, memory came spelling
into play, and he saw the rush and
surge of the charge, and he heard the
thunder of rushing fight and roaring guns
as a man sees and hears in a dream. His
veins burned with the fever of the pic
ture. He struggled to a sitting posture;
then, as a sudden twinge of pain sent
its paroxysm across his breast, his hand
went there, and the drawn fingers came
in contact again with the tiny locket
that lay next his heart.
All was grimly silent in the church at
Bacolor. Private Byers forgot the uni
form he wore, the army he served, the
pain he bore and became again William
Reddington Byers, Jr. In the murky light
his weakened fingers plucked the locket
open, and he brought it close to his eyes
that he might see again the face that
laughed from out the gold frame at his
own pain-drawn features.
A sudden weakness overcame him, the
face faded from his sight, the locket drop
ped from his grasp, he fell back on his
cot and lay gasping for breath.
A moment later, his cheeks flushed and
his eyes brightened with the intense
brightness of fever, he struggled again
to a sitting posture and raised his hands
high above his head, and In the midst
of the silence his hoarse voice broke forth
anew;
“I have read a fiery gospel writ in burn
ished rows of steelj
As ye deal with my contemners, so with
you my grace shall deal;
Let the hero, born of woman, crush the
serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on,
Glory, glory, halleiujali.
Glory, glory, hall—”
William Reddington Byers, Jr. f of New’
York, had become again Billy Byers, sol
dier of the Thirty-sixth.
Before the quick surgeon could reach
the side of the* fever-maddened man the
sol* di ?.d awavin/v vfl-l gut^'4wSpwall..
ana the form-'foil badV’’frrafcs the .
blanket. The man of the’servidB^reathed
a sigh, the eyes closed wr.arlljr, tne hands
slipped from the bosoth of the blood-*
stained blouse and dropped limp to the
side. Private Byers, w’ho saved fhe flag
and the Thirty-sixth from disgrace, was
dead.
A correspondent stepped into the hos
pital.
“Who sang?” he asked.
A steward pointed to the silent form.
“What’s his name?”
“Bvers,” was the br^ef reply.
“Not William Reddington Byers, Jr., of
New York?” i
“Of New York,” affirmed the steward.
“Great God,” said the correspondent-
nothing more.
Where the shadows grew deeper in the
dir.gy office in Wall street the little man
who had made the markets tremble with
his might sat silent, staring into the
darkness with straining eyes—eyes that
looked away across the sea to the tropic
town where the Stars and Stripes lay
wrapped about the silent form of a pri
vate of the ranks.
And far away from the office In the
crow’ded mart of Wall street a girl sat
with a month-old letter in her hand and a
day-old paper before her eyes, and the
smile that was on her lips died away
as it had died away from the sight of Pri
vate Billy Byers, and as the sfWlle fle.d
the laughter went out of her heart for
ever.
jc? THe Hound of the Baskervilles ^
By A. Conan Doyle, Author of “The Great Boer War. " “The Green Flag,” “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes," 44 A Study in Scarlet, ” etc., etc.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
THE MAN ON THE TOR.
HE extract from my private
diary which forms the
last chapter has brought
my narrative up to the
lSth*of October, a time
when these strange events
began to move swiftly to
ward their terrible con
clusion. The incidents of
the next few days are in
delibly graven upon my
recollection, and I can tell
them without reference to
the notes made at the
time. I start then from the day which
succeeded that upon which I had estab
lished two facts of great importance,
the one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of
Coombe Tracey had written to Sir
Charles Baskervllle and made an ap
pointment with him at the very place
and hour that he met his death; the
other that the lurking man upon the
moor was to be found among the stone
huts upon the hillside. With these two
farts in my possession I felt that either
my intelligence or my courage must be
deficient if I could not Throw some fur
ther light upon these dark places.
I had no opportunity to tell the baronet
what I had learned about Mrs. Lyons
upon the evening before, for Dr. Morti
mer remained with him at cards until
it was very late. At breakfast, however.
I informed him about my discovery, and
asked him whether he would care to ac
company me to Coombe Tracey. At first
be was very eager to come, but on sec
ond thoughts it seemed to both of us
that if I went alone the results might
he better. The more formal we made
the visit the les* information we might
obtain. I left Sir Henry behind, there
fore. not without some prickings of con
science, and drove off upon my new
quest.
When I reached Coombe Tracey I told
Perkins to put up the horses, and I made
inquiries for the lady whom I had come
to interrogate. I had no difficulty in
finding her rooms, which were central
and well appointed. A maid show*ed me
in without ceremony, and as I entered
the sitting room a lady, who was sitting
before a Remington typewriter, sprang
up with a pleasant smile of welcome.
Her face fell, however, when she saw
that I was a stranger, and she sat down
again and asked me the object of my
visit.
The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons
was one of extreme beauty. Her eyes
and hair were of the same rich hazel
color, and her cheeks, though consid
erably freckled, were flushed with the
exquisite bloom of the brunette. the
dainty pink which lurks at the heart of
the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I re
peat. the first impression. But the sec
ond was criticism. There was something
subtly wrong with the face, some coarse
ness of expression, some hardness, per
haps. of eye. some looseness of lip which
marred its perfect beauty. But these, of
course, are after-thoughts. At the mo
ment I was simply conscious that I was
in the presence of a very handsome wom
an. and that she was asking me the rea
sons for my visit. I had not quite un
derstood until that instant how delicate
my mission was.
T have the pleasure,” said I, “of
knowing your father.”
Tt was a clumsy introduction, and the
lauy made me feel it.
“There is nothing in common between
my father* and me,” she said. “I owe
him nothing, and his friends are not
mine. If it were not f<jSt the late Sir
Charles Baskerville and some other
fcir.d hearts I might have starved for all
that my father cared.”
“It was about the. late Sir Charles
Baskerville that I have come here to see
you.”
The freckles started out on the lady’s
face.
“What can I tell you about him?” she
asked, and her fingers played nervously
over the stops of her typewriter.
“You knew him. did you not?”
“I have already said that I owe a
great deal to his kindness. If I am able
to support myself it is largely due to the
interest which he took in my unhappy
situation.”
“Did you correspond with him?”
The lad^- looked quickly up with an
angry gleam In her hazel eyes.
“What is the object of these ques
tions?’’ she asked, sharply.
“The object is to avoid a public scan
dal. It is better that I should ask them
here than that the matter should pass
outside our control.”
She was silent and her face was still
very pale. At last she looked up with
something reckless and defiant in her
manner.
"Well, I’ll answer,” she said. “What
are your questions?”
“Did you correspond with Sir Charles?”
"I certainly wrote to him once or twice
to acknowledge his delicacy and his gen
erosity.”
“Have you the dates of those letters?”
“No.”
“Ha\t- you ever met him?”
“Yes, once or twice, when he came
into Coombe Tracey. He was a very re
tiring man. and he preferred to do good
by steaith.”
“But if you saw him so seldom and
wrote so seldom, how did he know enough
about your affairs to be able to help
you. as you say that he has done?”
She met my difficulty with the utmost
readiness.
“There were several gentlemen who
knew my sad history and united to help
me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbor
and intimate friend of Sir Charles'. He
was exceedingly kind, and it was through
him that Sir Charles learned about my
affairs.”
I knew already that Sir Charles Bas
kerville had made Stapleton his almoner
upon several occasions, so the lady’s
statement bore the impress of truth upon
It.
“Did you ever write to Sir Charles ask
ing him to meet you?” I continued.
Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again.
“Really, sir, this Is a very extraordi
nary question.”
“I am sorry, madame, but I must re
peat it.”
“Then I answer, certainly not.”
“Not on the very day of Sir Charles’
death?”
The flush had faded in an Instant, and
a deathly face was before me. Her dry
lips could not speak the “no” which I
saw rather than heard.
"Surely your memory deceives you.”
said I. “I could even quote a passage
of your letter. It ran, ‘Please, please,
as you are a gentleman, burn this letter,
and be at the gate by 10 o’clock.’”
I thought that she had fainted, but
she recovered herself by a supreme ef
fort.
“Is there nb such thing as a gentle
man?” she gasped.
“You do Sir Charles an injustice. He
did burn the letter. But sometimes a
letter may be legible even when burned.
You acknowledge now that you wrote it.”
“Yes, I did write it.” she cried, pour
ing out her soul in £ torrent of words.
“I did write it. Why should I deny it?
I have no reason to be ashamed of it. I
wished him to help ’me. I believed that if
I had an interview I could gain his help,
so I asked him to meet me.”
“But why at such an hour?”
“Because I had only just learned that
he was going to London next day and
might be away for months. There were
reasons why I could not get there ear
lier.”
“But why a rendezvous In the garden
instead of a visit to the house?”
“Do you think a woman could go alone
at that hour to a bachelor’s house?”
“Well, what happened when you did
get there?”
“I never went.”
“Mrs. Lyons!”
“No, I swear it to you on all I hold
sacred. I never wlnt. Something inter
vened to prevent my going.”
“What was that?”
“That is a private matter. I cannot
tell it.”
“You acknowledge, then, that you made
an appointment with Sir Charles at the
very hour and place at which he met
his death, but you deny that you kept
the appointment.”
"That Is the truths*
Again and again I -cross-questioned her,
but I could never get past that point.
“Mrs. Lyons,” said I, as I rose from
this long and Inconclusive interview,
“you are taking a very great responsi
bility and putting yourself in a very false
position by not making an absolutely
clean breast of all that you know. If
I have to call in the aid of the police
you will find how seriously you are com
promised. If your position is innocent,
why did you in the first instance deny
having written to Sir Charles upon that
date?"
“Because I feared that some false con
clusion might be drawn from it, and that
I might find myself involved in a scan
dal.”
“And why were you so pressing that
Sir Charles should destroy your letter?”
“If you have read the letter you will
know.”
“I did not say that I had read all the
letter.”
“You quoted some of it.”
“I quoted the postscript. The letter
had. as I said, been burned, and It was
not all legible. I ask you once again
why it was that you were so pressing
that Sir Charles should destroy this let
ter which he received on the day of his
death.”
“The matter is a very private one.**
“The more reason why you avoid a
public Investigation.”
“I will tell you, then. If you have
heard anything of my unhappy history
you will know that I made a rash mar
riage and had reason to regret It.”
“I have heard so much.”
“My life has been one incessant perse
cution from a husband whom I abhor.
The law is upon his side, and evqjy day
I am faced by the possibility that he
may force me to live with him. At the
time that I wrote this letter to Sir
Charles I had learned that there was a
prospect of my regaining my freedom if
certain expenses could be met. It meant
everything to me—peace of mind, happi
ness, self-respect—everything. I knew
Sir Charles’ generosity, and I thought
that If he heard the story from my own
lips he would help me.”
“Then how Is it that you did not go?”
“Because I received help in the inter
val from another source.”
“Why, then, did you not write to SU*
Charles and explain this?”
“So I should have done had I not seen
his death in the paper next morning.”
The woman’s story hung coherently to
gether and all my questions were un
able to shak£ It. * I could only check it
by finding if she had, indeed, instituted
divorce proceedings against her husband
at or about the time of the tragedy.
It was unlikely that she would dare to
say that she had not been to Baskerville
hall if she really had been, for a trap
would be necessary to take her there,
and could not have returned to Coombe
Tracey until the early hours of the morn
ing. SucK an excursion could not be
kept secret. The probability was, there
fore, that she was telling the truth, or.
at least, a part of the truth. I came
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