Chapter 1

Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

A LITTLE DUSKY HERO

BY HARRIET T. COMSTOCK

_AUTHOR OF "CEDRIC THE SAXON," "TOWER OR THRONE," ETC._

NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL & Co. PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1902, By Thomas Y. Crowell & Company.

THIS LITTLE BOOK IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED TO Philip and Albert BY THEIR MOTHER

CONTENTS

I. George Washington McKinley Jones

II. The Box from up North

III. The Little Gauntlet and Sword

IV. Waiting in the Turret Chamber

V. The Boy up North

VI. "War, G. W.!"

VII. The Battle on the Hill-Top

VIII. The Colonel's Body-Guard

IX. "I'se Got de Colonel!"

X. In the Tent Hospital

XI. "It's all yours, G. W.!"

XII. A History-Evening at Oakwood

A LITTLE DUSKY HERO.

I.

GEORGE WASHINGTON MCKINLEY JONES.

Scratch! scratch! scratch! went Colonel Austin's pen over the smooth white sheets of paper, sheet after sheet.

The dead heat of Tampa hung heavy within the tent; the buzz of the flies was most distressing; but the reports must be got off, and after them there were letters to be written to "the Boy and his Mother" up North, telling them--especially the Boy--what a glorious thing it is to serve one's country under _any_ circumstances. The present circumstances were extremely trying, to be sure, but the firm brown hand glided back and forth over the long pages in a determined manner that showed how Colonel Austin believed in doing his duty.

Scratch! scratch! scratch!

Buzz! buzz! buzz!

"Good-mornin', sah!"

It was a soft little voice, and it droned away into the buzz of the flies and the scratching of the pen so that the writer at the rough table took no heed.

"Good mornin', sah!"

This time Colonel Austin turned. He was a firm believer in discipline, and the unannounced arrival annoyed him. He swung around and gazed sternly about six feet from the ground. There was nothing there! His eyes dropped and finally rested upon the very smallest, dirtiest, raggedest black boy he had ever seen. But the beautiful great eyes of the forlorn mite looked trustingly up at the surprised officer, and Colonel Austin noticed that the grimy cheeks were tear-stained though the childish lips were smiling bravely.

"Good mornin', sah!" again piped the soft voice.

"Why, good morning to you!" the Colonel replied. He was always tender with sick soldiers, women, and children, and the pathetic little figure before him touched his sympathy. "Who are you, my small friend?"

"George Washington McKinley Jones, sah."

"Just so; and where are your folks?"

"No folks any more, sah. Daddy he done got put in prison fur life, sah, 'cos he killed a frien' of his, an' my mammy she done died yesterday. I jus' come from her buryin', sah." Two slow tears fell from the soft brown eyes and rolled over the stained cheeks.

Colonel Austin's throat grew dry, as it always did when he looked upon suffering things bearing pain and trouble bravely.

"And why do you come here, my child?" he asked kindly.

"I likes de look ob your face, sah, an' I'se hungry--I'se starved, I is--an' 'sides I want work!"

The boy certainly was not over nine, and was undersized and childish-looking even for that.

"Work!" smiled the grave Colonel, "what in the world can you do?"

"Why, sah, I'se de best shot you ebber saw; I reckon I'se what you call a real crack shot; dat's what I am, sah!"

The ring of pride in the piping voice reached the Colonel's heart. "Oh! I see," he nodded. "You wish to be a soldier boy, is that it?"

The grimy little applicant drew himself up to his extreme height, and replied with magnificent scorn. "No, sah! I does _not_ wish to be a sojer boy. I wish ter be one ob dem heroes, sah!"

A joke was a rare thing in those dull, waiting days, and George Washington McKinley Jones was delicious. The Colonel smoothed the smiles from his mouth as best he could. But not a quiver of mirth ruffled the dirt-stained countenance of the child. His severe stare sobered the Colonel, and he asked in a gentle tone, "Do you know what a hero is, my boy?"

George Washington drew his ragged coat about him with a gesture of patient pity, then answered with a slow, pained dignity. "Co'se I knows what a hero is, sah. How could I know dat I wanted ter be one if I didn't? A hero is a pusson, sah, what ain't afraid to tackle a job too big fur other folks, an' goes right froo wid it or dies a-doin' it!"

Something in the quiet words drove all desire to laugh for good and all from the listening officer. "I have a character on my hands, evidently," he thought; aloud he said, "George Washington McKinley Jones, I presume you haven't any particular job in heroism in sight at present?"

"No, sah. I jes' wants to go 'long wid de boys, an' watch out fur my chance. Mammy done tole me heaps ob times dat if I jes' was wid sojers, I was boun'ter be a hero some day, shore. She 'lowed she had visions."

"You shall have your chance, comrade!" The Colonel got up and took the thin little hand in his. "If you have told me the truth, my boy, I will take you along with my regiment and give you a show." He called to an officer who was passing the tent. "Martin!"

The man stopped and touched his cap.

"Martin, we have a young volunteer here. He's no common soldier, please understand; he's enlisted as a hero. Feed him up, give him all that he can hold, and let him report to me later."

Lieutenant Martin's face never changed expression; he simply held out his hand gravely to George Washington McKinley Jones, saluted his superior officer, and led the volunteer out of the tent.

While George Washington ate, solemnly and long, investigations were made as to the truth of his story. Colonel Austin made them himself. He wished to make sure, for his sympathy was deeply enlisted, and he did not intend to be deceived. He found the little fellow had not departed from the facts in the least particular. He belonged to nobody; but every one who knew him had a kindly word for him. He was known as an honest, good-natured little waif, with a reputation for hitting the bull's-eye every time any one would lend him a gun at a rifle-match.

Upon the evidence gathered the boy was taken into the army as the "mascot of the Ninth," and before long he was the pet of the men in that city of white tents, and became known as "G. W.," for who in that hot, lazy place could waste time in calling him all of his various historical national names? It was "G. W." here and "G. W." there. He danced for them and sang for them, and was never weary, never ill-tempered.

When once he had had enough to eat--and for many days the men thought that he never could get enough--he became the healthiest and ruggedest of boys, and beyond doubt one of the happiest that ever breathed.

II.

THE BOX FROM UP NORTH.

One day a box came from the North. It was addressed to "George Washington McKinley Jones, care of Colonel Austin;" but as G. W. was incapable of reading he sharply questioned the messenger who delivered it.

"How you know dis 'blongs ter me?" asked he.

"There's your name," said the messenger.

"Whar?"

The patient messenger traced the boy's illustrious name.

"What's dar 'sides my name?"

"Care of Colonel Austin."

"Oh!" said G. W., understandingly, "dat means I'se got ter take care ob it fur my Colonel! I reckon dey needn't took all de trouble to write dat foolishness out! Co'se I'll take care of it."

G. W. ran straight to Colonel Austin's tent. The officer was sitting inside, and, as it happened, alone.

"Hello, G. W., what have you there?"

The boy held the big box out gravely. Colonel Austin read the address. "It's for you, my boy," he said. "Open it and let us see what is inside. Here, let us drop the tent-flap and keep the surprise to ourselves."

When the Colonel said the package was for him all doubt fled from G. W.'s heart. Others might step from truth's narrow way--but his Colonel? Oh, never! The exciting thought that the box was really for himself made the sturdy little form quiver. His hands shook, and the big brown eyes stood open, as round as full moons.

The heavy papers were off at last. Upon the box itself lay a square white envelope, breathing forth a fragrance of violets, and stating as plainly as could be, in delicate lettering, that the contents of the envelope were also for G. W.

"There's something for you in the letter--open that first," said the Colonel. He was eyeing the scene with a strange look upon his face. "Shall I read it for you, G. W.?" he added.

"Yes, sah! I guess you'll have to, sah, sump-in' seems de matter wid my eyes," said G. W. "You jes' read it, Colonel. Read it slow an' _exactly_ what it done say, kase I doan't want any mistake, sah, 'bout dis sort ob thing."

"All right, old man,--just tell me if I go too fast."

Then the Colonel began:

"To George Washington McKinley Jones,

_private in the Ninth Infantry_:

"Dear Sir: The enclosed are for you. They were made in Uncle Sam's workshop, just where all the brave boys have theirs made"--

"You reads too fast, Colonel!" gasped G. W., tiny drops of perspiration standing out on his face.

The Colonel began again at the beginning, and then went on, reading slowly:

"I am sure they will fit, because a little messenger brought me the measurements. Accept them with our love, and wear them like the hero you will certainly be some day. There is just one way you can thank us; bring Colonel Austin home to us safe and sound, well and strong. See that he obeys you where this is concerned. We wish him to do his duty, but do not let anything happen to him.

"God bless you, little soldier! That is the daily wish of

"The Boy and his Mother."

There was silence in the tent.

Then said the Colonel, "Well, why don't you open the box, G. W.?"

The boy was kneeling before the box, but his eyes were fastened upon a photograph on the rude table. It was a photograph of "the Boy and his Mother," G. W. felt certain; and he was realizing that these two, far away in the unknown, had spoken to him.

"Open it, G. W.," again the Colonel said.

"You do it, sah! I clar I doan't dare!"

The officer laughed, and cut the string. Within the box, neatly folded, but in such a way as to hide none of their charms, lay trousers and jacket of army blue resplendent with flashing buttons.

Colonel Austin took the garments out, and held them up at arms' length. They were small, but perfect.

"Lawd!" gasped G. W.; "for de Lawd's sake!"

A moment of breathless silence followed; then Colonel Austin said, "They are yours, G. W., try them on! You are 'one of the boys' now for sure and certain, buttons and all! See, there is a '9' on every button!"

Slowly the surprise cleared away in G. W.'s brain. He gave a low whistle, like the note of a bird, and struggled to his feet, for he was still on his knees by the box.

"Colonel," he whispered, "you ain't never tole me a lie--but dis here 'sperience done tries my mind! Turn away yo' head, sah."

Colonel Austin turned away his head and waited.

Behind his back arose a rustling, with mutters of impatience, as buttons refused to comply with the nervous efforts of awkward and trembling fingers. Then came a long breath of content, as things began to run smoother, and presently a sigh of superhuman bliss; then a voice, new and deep, gasped forth:

"Look at me!"

The Colonel turned. There, his face and hands in a tremble, but all exultant, stood G. W. in the uniform of the Ninth. The coat was buttoned crooked, the cap, which G. W. had discovered at the bottom of the box, was hind part before--but what of that? In all the army of the great Republic was no manlier soldier than the little fellow who now faced his Colonel with a look of rapture on his round, dusky face.

"Comrade, give us your hand!" There was a mistiness in the Colonel's eyes, a queer chokiness in his voice. "You'll never disgrace the uniform, my boy,--it isn't in you to do it!"

G. W. saluted, and then gravely placed his hand in Colonel Austin's.

"Dese clo'es," he said, "are jes' goin' to help make me a hero for sho! An', Colonel, I'se goin' ter take care ob you jis' like de Boy an' his Mother tole me. I is sho! Nothin' ain't goin' to happen 'long o' you while George Washington McKinley Jones knows what hisself am about! I'se goin' ter put dis letter in my breas'-pocket, an' it's goin' ter stay right plumb ober my heart, till I take yer back to dem two all right! Now, sah, let me show de boys. Lawd! I clar if my mammy"--the proud smile quivered--"should see me, I jes' reckon de visions she'd have would make her trimble!"

III.

THE LITTLE GAUNTLET AND SWORD.

The sunlight beat down upon Tampa until every man in camp shed his coat in despair, but not one button did G. W. unfasten!

He strutted and sweltered, and complained not. He gave daily exhibitions of his sharp-shooting--which, by the way, was an accomplishment truly remarkable. For the first time in his life he was absolutely and perfectly happy.

While all "the boys" felt a personal interest in the child, it was a well-understood fact that he belonged to Colonel Austin. To that officer alone did G. W. report, and from him alone did he accept orders as to his outgoings and incomings.

As the long languid weeks dragged on, G. W. became the life of the camp. His "break-downs," danced with wondrous grace and skill, set many a lazy foot shuffling in sympathy. He sang songs to a banjo accompaniment which made the listeners forget their pipes and cards, and set them to thinking of home--and other things. He appeared to be singularly innocent and child-like for such an uncared-for waif. He seemed to have gathered only good nature and a love for the brave and noble from his starved, cruel years. As Colonel Austin watched him from day to day he became more interested in him, and began to wonder what he should do with the odd little chap when the business with Spain was settled, and life assumed its ordinary aspect once more.

Perhaps the Colonel's hunger for the Boy up North made him glad of the companionship; perhaps it was only his noble heart always yearning over the needy. Be that as it may, the little black boy and the handsome young Colonel became daily closer comrades.

There was one regulation which Colonel Austin had insisted upon from the first. G. W., who was to sleep upon a mattress in his tent, was to go to bed early, as a child should. The men might bribe or coax him for a dance or a song during the day; but the little soldier had his orders to "turn in" at eight-thirty, and although G. W. often longed for an hour more, he obeyed like the hero he meant some day to be. Love and a strong sense of duty governed the heart beating faithfully under the hot, trimly-buttoned uniform. He might wish to stay where the fun was, but he never varied his obedience by an extra five minutes.

When it was possible the Colonel took a few moments from duty or pleasure at the twilight hour, and followed G. W. into the tent. When the flap fell to after the pair, not a soldier but knew that the Colonel was not to be disturbed except upon the most urgent business. When the Colonel came out of the tent the look in his eyes made more than one man remember it.

Old General Wallace was once known to have taken off his hat as he came face to face with G. W.'s Colonel at the tent door, after one of those mysterious twilight talks. When the older man realized what he had done he jammed his hat down over his eyes, and, with an impatient laugh, said, "What in thunder is the matter with you, Austin? You look like a Methodist camp-meeting!"

G. W.'s Colonel saluted and passed on.

One night when he went into the tent after G. W., he found the boy divested of his splendid regimentals, kneeling in a very scant and child-like costume before the table--which, by the way, was composed of two soap-boxes covered with a flag--and scanning the faces of "the Boy and his Mother." A strange yearning in G. W.'s eyes caused the officer to speak very gently.

"What is it, old fellow? Surely you are not envying the Boy up North? You, a full-fledged soldier of Uncle Sam!"

Envy! why G. W.'s heart just then was filled with pity for that boy nearly as old as he, who was obliged to wear humiliating garments. Actually there was lace on his collar. And the boy wore curls! not long ones, but curls nevertheless. G. W. had by this time acquired tact sufficient to forbid mention of these pitiful details, but he said slowly, "I'se right sorry fur de Boy, Colonel, kase he's 'bliged to stay away frum being wid you!"

G. W. was too sincere to be laughed at, and the Boy's father replied gently:

"Well, you see, comrade, it is this way: the Boy is serving his country as well as you. He'd like to be here first-rate,--a drum-call sets him prancing like a war horse,--but there's the Mother, you know. It would never do to leave her quite alone--he's taking my place by her side until the country needs me no longer and I may go home. There are a good many ways of serving, old man.

"G. W., once I was walking through a gallery of an ancient castle, and I noticed among the armor and weapons which lined the walls a little gauntlet and sword. So very small were they that I questioned the guide, and he told me this story:

'In the dark days of long ago, when a man's castle had to be defended from his foes, and every one was on guard against an attack, there was a knight who had four sons and one fair daughter. Three of the sons were great stalwart fellows, but the fourth was a crippled lad who lay upon his bed in the turret chamber week after week, dreaming his dreams and looking out across the wide parks over which he was never to ride to wage war against a cruel foe. The pretty sister sat much with him and wove wondrous stories from her busy brain to help while away the weary hours; and she got the father to have the slender gauntlet and sword made, so that the patient soldier upon the bed might the better believe himself like the strong, brave heroes of her tales.

'Now it came to pass that a very wicked lord of an adjoining country wished to marry the pretty sister, and take her to his gloomy castle. To that the father and brothers said, "No!" They vowed that they would fight to the end rather than that the wicked lord should have his way. And soon they saw that they must indeed fight if they would keep her, for rumor reached them that the lord had raised a mighty company and was nearing their castle. Then every man prepared himself for battle, and in the turret room the small warrior lay upon his bed with the gauntlet upon his hand, and the keen sword ready in case the foe should enter. Day by day the fair sister, white and full of fear, knelt beside him, and tried to be brave for his dear sake.

'At length the day of conflict came. The two in the high room saw the banners of the wicked lord advancing, and the little brother said valiantly, "I will defend you!"

'The struggle came on. Long and nobly did the knight and his men strive to keep back the terrible lord, and many fell in court-yard and hall. But at last the wicked lord and his followers triumphed, and with shouts of victory strode to the turret-room.

'There knelt the maid, her golden head bowed beside her brother. His left hand pressed her fair curls, but his right hand was ready for its task. The lord bent to grasp the prize for which he had fought, little heeding the crippled boy; but as his fingers were about to close upon the girl's arm the keen slender sword was raised in a hand made strong for the deed, and a desperate blow fell upon the wrist of the lord, and his hand was nearly severed from the arm. An awed silence followed the doughty deed. Then out spoke the lord: "Let no man touch the pair. Of all warriors this cripple is the greatest, because in his weakness he has dared all things for love!"'

"So you see, G. W., the poor young stay-at-home was a soldier, too!" said the Colonel. "I have always loved to remember the story. And now I often think of the Boy up North defending his mother from loneliness and foreboding--he is doing his share, G. W."

G. W.'s soft, big, brown eyes were fixed upon his Colonel's face. The great hero-tales of legend and history were new to his empty childhood, and this one thrilled him to his heart's core.

"Dat's a mighty fine story!" he mused. "When you was telling me dat story, Colonel, it done seem as if nothing was mean in all de world; it seems like every one was brave!"

"Never reckon out any honest service, old man," the Colonel went on; "very little things count in this world, and oftentimes the weakest do the greatest deeds. That little hero of long ago stretches forth a hand to every child who tries to do his part!"

A gleam of admiration flashed into G. W.'s eyes. "Well, I 'low dat de Boy up North is a bigger soldier dan I 'magined. I knowed from de fust I done got to take care ob _you_, Colonel, but now I jis' feel like I 'd be glad to do something fur de Boy hisself!"

Colonel Austin seemed to understand. "Well," said he, "you and he are both taking care of me. You are helping him and he is helping you, and maybe some day you may tell each other all about it."

There was surely one thing the Colonel's two "boys" had in common: they both had the same devouring passion for hero-stories.

During almost every spring evening of that year, by a bedside in a cool Northern home, a pretty young mother had sat and told to an eager little lad thrilling tales of bravery and courage. Always she began with the one the Colonel had told to G. W.--the story of the crippled boy in the old castle turret. There was something in that legend that stirred Jack Austin in a wonderful manner.

It had been hard for Jack to be separated from his father from the first; but now, whenever he heard from his father's letters about G. W., and realized that among war's perils there could be a place for a small boy, his heart simply ached with longing. G. W., a boy little older than himself, was there beside Daddy! But at this point Jack always recalled the story of the gauntlet and the small sword, and stifled back the tears and looked lovingly at his pretty mother. No matter how he envied G. W., he would stay, patient, in his "turret chamber." His place was beside his mother until Daddy came marching home. How many times his father had sent him that message! Jack dreamed almost every night of his father coming home, keeping step to the cheerful drum; so he had marched away, and so he would return, with G. W. at his side!

Near his bed, at night, always lay Jack's own splendid suit of make-believe soldier clothes. It was hard sometimes for him to think that they were make-believe clothes, while the suit of blue his mother had sent to G. W. were real, true ones, and worn by the dusky little soldier who lived in his dear father's tent. There often seemed to him an unendurable difference between G. W. and himself.

Poor little Jack! he was braver than he realized when he turned away from this feeling and smiled up into his mother's face.

But Jack's mother knew all about this feeling.

"And so you see, dear," the stories for Jack always ended, "that though you are but mother's obedient little boy now, your chance in the great world's work will come!"

And in the tent, beneath the glorious sunsets of Tampa, at about the same time "Daddy" would be sitting and smoking beside a small mattress bed, urging the same line of conduct upon another boy "hero" with a heart under the brown skin as pure and innocent as the one throbbing beneath the snowy night-gown so far away.

"Your chance will come, G. W.!"