Chapter 2

And both boys generally fell asleep with the resolve that they would do the things and bear the things of the present, and "wait" without a murmur, because heroes had done the same since the world began.

IV.

WAITING IN THE TURRET CHAMBER.

It was never clear to G. W. why the "boys" were always anxious to be "going." For him the lazy, fun-loving life was never tedious or unpleasant. From all that he could gather by endless questioning, war was not half so agreeable, although he granted it must certainly be more exciting.

"When will the order come for us to move?" That was the daily question in camp.

At last it came! They were to sail at once. Of course the President of the United States, whose illustrious name G. W. bore himself, meant all the thousands who were encamped in Tampa; but to G. W. the order meant that _he_ and "de Colonel" were to "pull up stakes" and sail away to that strange, mysterious Cuba, and face war!

The little dusky fellow in blue suddenly felt that his hands were pretty full.

He it was who packed all the Colonel's belongings, giving special care to the photograph. He polished up the guns and swords, and even his own buttons. He meant at least to command the respect of the foe. He often grew hot and tired, during those days, but never made a complaint. And when the hurried camp preparations were completed, it was G. W. and "de Colonel" who marched down the long pier to the waiting transports. To G. W.'s mind, it was for them the cheers rang out, and for them did the band play the inspiring music that set his feet dancing. Oh, it was the proudest moment of G. W.'s life so far. His buttons almost burst over his swelling chest. He was marching straight into the glorious future. He was going to be a hero without further delay. He saw "visions," like his mammy. Somewhere, off in the misty distance, his "chance" was waiting for him; he felt as certain of it as he was that under his beloved uniform he was surely melting.

The days in the crowded transport put little G. W.'s endurance to the test. But during the wretched hours one glance at the Colonel's face gave him courage to suffer and be--still!

His Colonel saw it all.

"Bear up, old chap! Heroes grin--and conquer things," said the officer, while his heart ached for the silent child; and in the end, through sea-sickness and a longing for old easy days, G. W. did grin and "conquer things."

Then they came to Cuba! Under the dark palms and cacti, once more the white tents were pitched; and facing the fact of approaching battles, the men made ready, but still lightened the heavy hours by song and joke, and boisterously welcomed the old comradeship of G. W.

G. W. revived when once his feet touched solid land. "I doan't like de water," he explained; "it's shaky an' onsartain an'--an'--wet! Dere's too much ob it too, an' when it gets wobbly, whar are yo?"

So the boy cheerfully took up again his dancing and singing. War grew again to seem to him a matter of some other day. The regiment seemed merely to have shifted its pleasure-ground. To be sure, there were fewer hours alone with the Colonel, for he was very busy, but G. W. followed him about at a distance whenever and wherever he could. If love could shield the young officer from harm, surely never was he safer.

But presently G. W. began to form new and more personal ideas of war; his imagination, fed by the stories he had heard, sprang to life. Perhaps war wasn't anything they would know about beforehand. That might be the reason for the look of anxiety he had noticed upon the face of his Colonel. Possibly war was like a great cloud hurled along by the hurricane--G. W. knew how _that_ looked. They might all be sitting by the camp-fire some night, when suddenly war would descend upon them and find them unprepared. With that thought G. W.'s face took on an expression of anxiety. He clung closer to his Colonel; he did not intend that war should find his Colonel unattended by body-guard.

Colonel Austin often took heed of the faithful little shadow, and began to fear anew for the time when he might be obliged to "go to the front" and leave the boy behind.

"G. W., you must never go beyond that point alone," he said one day, naming a hill a half mile or so distant. "These are not play-days, comrade; I want to feel that you are safe. I cannot afford to worry about you now. Obedience first, old man, you know, and then you are on the way to being a hero."

"Yes, sah!" The small black hand gave the salute gravely. G. W. never by any possible chance forgot his military training. "But, Colonel, you goes furder dan de hill right often."

"That's true, G. W., but my duty calls _me_ beyond; _your_ duty bids you stay this side of the hill--that's the difference, G. W."

"Yes, sah! but how is I goin' ter take care ob you, wid you trapesing off de Lawd knows whar?"

Colonel Austin smiled. "You must try to be willing to trust me out of your sight, my boy," he said, "just as I have to trust you when you stay behind."

"But, Colonel, jes' 'spose war should attack you, wid me fur off? How does yo' 'spec I 'se goin' ter report to de Boy an' his Mother?"

Colonel Austin saw trouble ahead unless he got G. W. into shape.

"Look here, old fellow," he replied, taking the young body-guard between his knees. "War isn't going to catch us napping. We'll know at what minute to point our guns at the enemy. We shall know and we shall obey our orders. And you'll know, and _you_ must obey _your_ orders, comrade. You must stay in your turret chamber, like the brave boy of old. You mustn't follow me past that point. If you do, G. W.,"--Colonel Austin had never threatened the boy before,--"unless you promise me, G. W., I'll tie the flaps of the tent upon you every time I leave it."

The childish lips quivered in an un-soldier-like way. "I'll promise, Colonel!"

"All right, then, and give us your hand. Comrade, you've taken a load from my mind."

The days following grew to be hard days for the boy, so long petted by the regiment. Food was scarce, and when there was plenty it was often of a kind that he turned from. The evenings in the tent were very long and lonely before he fell asleep. No stories now. His Colonel's absences grew more frequent and more prolonged. G. W.'s only solace was to gaze at the picture of the Boy and his Mother.

The half-mile hill became more and more every day a dread landmark. From that hated point of view he had to watch the Colonel's tall figure disappear only too often, while he stayed behind to return ingloriously to the tent. Where was the "chance" that was going to make him a hero if he must always stay behind in the place of safety? Did the Colonel think heroes were made on hill-tops a half mile from camp? G. W. grew sarcastic. He kept his buttons bright and his uniform brushed and trim; not because he loved it as when he expected to soon wear it as a hero, but because the Colonel kept himself in order--his faithful G. W. could at least follow him in that.

But at last came a thing that roused him from this mood. Fever broke out in camp, and G. W. developed into a nurse of no mean order. He carried water and bathed aching heads. Hot hands clung to him, forgetting how very small and weak he was. "Sing to us, G. W.," often those weary, suffering fellows said, "and don't give us the jig-tunes, old man, but something soft."

With his brown, childish face upraised G. W. would sing the old camp-meeting songs that his mother used to sing in the days of long ago before he had dreamed of being a hero.

Was it the religious thought in the quaint words, or the tender quality of the airs, or was it G. W.'s pathetic voice that had the power to quiet the delirium and make it possible for the tired sick men to rest? How can one tell? But as the boy sang stillness settled down over the rough hospital, and many a "God bless you, G. W.!" came from thankful lips.

Colonel Austin watched the little comforter bustling to and fro, and with a grim smile he thought that the hero-side of G. W. was developing fast.

The boy had grown thin, and an anxious, worn look made the small dusky face very touching; but weariness, disappointment, and bodily discomfort never dragged a complaint from the firm lips.

V.

THE BOY UP NORTH.

Just before the Colonel and G. W. had been ordered by President McKinley to "move on," Colonel Austin had had the dear dusky little attendant photographed, dazzling uniform and all and had sent it to little Jack who was playing his harder part away up in the Northern home. Underneath he had written, "My Body-Guard."

After Mrs. Austin had gazed long and searchingly at the radiant little soldier, she had surprised her son by suddenly bursting into tears.

"Why, Mamma-dear!" cried Jack, "don't you like his looks?"

"Oh! I do indeed, Jack; I like his looks so well that it almost breaks my heart--poor little fellow!"

"Poor little fellow?" Jack fell to pondering. He examined every detail of the fascinating photograph--the suit of "real" soldier clothes, the straight, proud wearer with that look of exultation upon his round face. Why "poor little fellow"? Jacky would have given anything in the world--except his mother--to have been in his place.

"Mamma-dear," he sighed at last, "I'd rather be G. W. than President of the United States!"

Mrs. Austin laughed and wiped away her tears.

"That's because you are Daddy's boy," she replied; "but poor G. W. has a hard way to travel through life, and your mother was wondering just where he will fit in when heroes are not required."

"Heroes are always required," Jack answered sagely, "and I bet G. W. will be brave anywhere. He's got brave eyes."

"I believe you are right, Jack," said his mother. "Put his photograph upon your table, and try to be the same kind of boy you think he is. He certainly is a dear little chap!"

So upon the table in Jack's room G. W.'s photograph was placed; and often and often when he was quite alone Colonel Austin's son visited with his father's small dusky body-guard until, on Jack's side at least, the two became intimate friends.

Then into the Northern home came Daddy's letters telling of the approach of battle and the change of scene. Nothing of G. W.'s doings was ever omitted by the Colonel; he knew Jack's hunger for hero-news.

The little mother was less gay during those early days of summer; a shadow rested upon her sweet face, and she clung to Jack with a sort of passion. Jack was full of comfort and cheer when he was with her, but he had his hours of unhappiness too, and then he used to go into his room and stay with G. W.

One day Mrs. Austin went to drive with a friend, and Jack took that opportunity for a private drill, with G. W. to look on. Up in his bright sunlit room he put on his soldier suit and marched to and fro with swelling chest and mighty stride.

Oh! if he were only to be with his father in the battles to come! He might keep danger away if he were with him. No one would hurt a little boy--he would go, in every battle, in front of his father!

At last he went to the table and kneeling down scanned the likeness of G. W.--the boy who was filling his place, Daddy's body-guard! He grew very unhappy as he looked at the small colored boy.

"I'm a toy boy," he faltered, "and G. W. is a live soldier!" Then he thought of Daddy's last letter, in which he had written of the hill which marked G. W.'s boundary.

"I bet that makes you turn hot and cold, G. W.," he mused. "Oh, I know just how you feel!" The blue eyes searched deep into the pictured ones of brown. "Oh! G. W., I wish you knew how to manage Daddy as Mamma-dear and I do! Daddy'll let you do what's necessary always, if you just know how, but he's awful particular about being obeyed. I wish you could make him change his mind about that hill. Of course they won't fight a battle _there_; if there was any danger of that Daddy'd set your limit at camp! But, G. W., if you should go ahead and do a brave thing, like saving a life, he'd forgive you; he'd punish you, I guess, but he'd forgive you--Mamma-dear and I'd make him, anyway. If _I_ were in your place, in the very clothes of the Ninth, I'd dare a good sound punishing to be by Daddy's side. I'd just ask him what he called me a body-guard for."

The tears blinded Jack's eyes, and through their gleam G. W.'s face seemed to grow rigid with disapproval.

"I know," half sobbed Jack, wiping his tears upon the sleeve of his blue "make-believe" coat; "Daddy's trained you to think you _must_ obey; but, oh, I wish that particular old hill wasn't in Cuba!

"I'm going to tell you something, G. W.," Jack went on. "Once, the summer before Daddy went away, I had a 'sperience with him. I was a year littler than I am now. He told me not on any account to go down to the river without him. I wanted to, for Daddy had taught me how to swim and I wanted to float about and practise. Every day I went near, to look at the water, and every night Daddy would say, 'Now remember, Jack, for no reason go to the river without me.' But I went nearer and nearer, until one day I could see the other boys in, and then--I pulled off my clothes and in I went, too! I hadn't been in long when Don Grover--he's my best friend, but a year littler--got out further than any one else, and suddenly he put his arms right up in the air and screamed that he was a-drowning. We were all scared, and the other boys swam to the shore to get help. I couldn't think of anything but Don, and I swam right out to him, and he didn't grab hold of me or anything, but let me kind of tow him in; and course it was awful far and we were nearly dead, and I kept thinking how I had disobeyed Daddy, and seeing Mamma-dear's mournful eyes. But Don and I didn't talk, only just swam. When we got to the shore we crawled out and lay down and went to sleep, but when the boys came back with some men I waked up and told them to take Don home and I could go alone. G. W., I was terribly fearful to go, for you know how particular Daddy is about obeying and waiting in your own place of duty.

"I ached, and my knees just fluttered. When I got there Daddy and Mamma-dear were sitting on the piazza, and the minute I looked at Daddy I was sure he knew I had disobeyed. 'Where have you been, Jack?' he said, solemn. I said, 'Swimming.' He got up, and Mamma-dear began to cry, but Daddy took me in the study and he--he whipped me, G. W., like anything, for disobedience. I wouldn't cry, because I _had_ been disobedient.

"That evening Don's father came over and told Daddy how I tugged Don in, and I saw Daddy's eyes looking like two big steady stars, and the whipping was just nothing, and Mamma-dear cried the same as if Don and I were drowned dead. And, G. W., what do you think Daddy did? When Don's father finished, Daddy came and said, 'You deserved the thrashing, Jack, for not obeying, you know; but let me shake hands with you because you are a brave fellow,' and I almost choked. I said, 'Don't mention it!' but I shook his hand like anything. Oh, G. W., if only I could make you know just how to be a true body-guard to Daddy! If you should go over that hill he'd punish you for disobeying, sure, but if some time you just _had_ to do it for a brave reason, he'd shake your hand, G. W."

The boy in the photograph seemed to be listening to Jack, and trying to understand him, and to be thinking about it, as if he knew that Jack's very heart was in what he said.

Presently a slow smile lit up the features of the make-believe boy in blue. "G. W.," he whispered, "I'm not going to worry any more about Daddy! You'll do the right thing by him, I'll bet! When you come home, G. W., you shall have half of everything I own. We're going to be brothers!"

Little Jack Austin ran down to meet his mother when she returned, with a cheery smile, because he had in his heart a sure trust that G. W. would save the day, no matter what the danger that threatened Daddy!

VI.

"WAR, G. W.!"

G. W.'s wanderings from camp became less and less frequent. He thought no longer of going anywhere but to the hill-top; and that detested limit became more hated as oftener and oftener the Colonel passed beyond the faithful little guardian's gaze.

"I'd jes' like to know whar de Colonel goes _all_ de time!" sighed G. W.

Colonel Austin was not unmindful of the boy, but evidently he was deep in business and anxiety. An occasional pat upon the little woolly head, or a word of cheer, was all the devoted comrade received; yet, with only that to feed upon, the childish devotion continually grew.

He took to talking aloud to the Boy and his Mother, in the long silent hours of evening. They became as alive and intimate to him as he, all unknown to himself, had become to Jack. He made solemn promises regarding the Colonel which, had Jack heard, would have set to rest any doubt as to G. W.'s capabilities of "managing the Colonel."

"Doan you-uns be frettin'," he whispered one night when his own heart was like lead in his body; "you kin jes' keep on a-smilin' an' a-smilin'--I 'low I can take care ob de Colonel. Dat hill gets de best ob me, jes' fur de minute, but you min' I'm a-thinkin' 'bout dat ar hill! I'se goin' git de bes' ob dat der hill, yit!"

One hot day when G. W. had smothered as usual his loathing for his limit, and followed at a respectful distance the tall, well-beloved figure of his Colonel, he had a hard fit of sighing. "I reckon if de Colonel knew 'bout how I is feelin' dis minute," he said, wiping the perspiration from his face, "he'd jes' holler back 'howdy' ter me." But the Colonel not knowing of the faithful little henchman's nearness, sent back no word of loving cheer--did not once turn.

The two were plodding along the road called the Santiago Road at the time, and the long strides of the officer presently put him beyond G. W.'s vision.

Suddenly G. W. sighed aloud. "He's gone!" There was a break in the soft voice. "I clar ter goodness, he's always gone! I'm bressed if I doan't wish de war would come an' be done wid! Dese days done w'ar me to frazzles!"

A low, deep, rumbling sound made G. W. start. By instinct, he crouched under some nearby bushes.

"What's dat?" he muttered, his eyes growing round and full of inquiry. "Dat ain't thunder!" The ominous, threatening sounds were drawing nearer, approaching over the road along which he had come, and along which he must return to camp.

"Lawd!" gasped G. W.; "jes' 'spose dat is war a-comin' an' a-ketchin' me alone by myself; good Lawd!" The small face became terror-stricken. He clutched his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

The rumble grew louder. Suddenly the sun flashed upon a strange object being drawn up the rough trail.

"Cannoneers, forward!" came a full loud cry that echoed and re-echoed in G. W.'s brain. Then the boy perceived, as far as his gaze could travel, soldiers and cannon filling the familiar road. He forgot his terror, and thrilled and palpitated as he gazed from his leaf-covered hiding-spot.

Then a new thought made him reel backward. Was the entire American army marching away from camp, leaving him behind who was bound to return there?

The Colonel had left no orders for him; and the hill stood, as ever, between him and any following of the soldiers. Then came a thought that relieved him--there would be the sick in camp; surely they could not join this rushing company and he would remain with them until the Colonel remembered him.

Back toward camp he sped, keeping within the tangle of bushes and out of sight of the oncoming men; pushing and tumbling, he made his way as fast as his uniformed legs would carry him.

When he reached camp, panting and heated, he found a scene of great excitement; and as far as he could judge, the men, both sick and well, were all there! The Ninth, at least, had not gone over the hill-top!

"What's goin' ter happen?" G. W. gasped.

A boyish soldier who was writing a letter home looked up and answered,

"War, G. W.! that's what's going to happen, and mighty quick, too."

"And is us all goin' to de war?" G. W. sat down beside the soldier; indeed, his legs could hold him up no longer.

"There are no orders yet, but I reckon we'll get our chance. Two more transports are in, and a lot of guns."

"I saw dem," said G. W., thrilling again. "Miles ob dem an' millions of men! Lawd, Corporal!" Then, after a pause, and very softly, he said, "Say, Corporal Jack, if--if my Colonel don't send orders back fur me to come ter him, an' if youse all get orders ter go on, will yer jes' fur my sake try ter find de Colonel an' tell him a message? Jes' tell him not ter fret 'bout me, cos I'se goin' ter remember de hill!" G. W. had never humiliated himself by allowing any one to suppose he cared to go beyond the hill-top. "An' jes' tell him I'll take care ob de picture!"

There were tears rolling down G. W.'s upturned face. Corporal Jack laid down his pen and pad. "Well!" he cried, "you're a brick, G. W. But the Colonel is not going to forget you, G. W. Brace up and hold on. And just give us your hand, comrade!"

The two clasped hands gravely; then Corporal Jack went on with his letter, and G. W. passed into Colonel Austin's tent, to have all things ready in case there came an order to march.

Late that night, as G. W. lay upon his camp-bed (for he had been promoted from the humble mattress) in the dismantled tent, Colonel Austin entered. He was very weary, very pale. The boy upon the bed watched him silently. The moonlight was streaming in the opening, and the tall figure was distinctly outlined as the Colonel paused within the doorway and glanced about the bare, disordered place. All at once he seemed to understand; a smile flitted across his worn face. He went over to the soapbox table, shorn of its gorgeous cover, the photograph alone adorning it. He took the picture, looked long and tenderly at the two faces, then slipping the card out of the frame he put it in his breast pocket.

A moment later he came over to G. W.'s bed. The boy looked up trustingly.

"I'se awake, Colonel."

"Good for you, comrade. I want to have a little talk with you."

A thin brown little hand slipped itself into the large firm one, and G. W. sat up.

"G. W.," said the Colonel, "I'm going to the front. You know what that means?"

"I 'low I does, Colonel. When does we start? I'se been a-workin' ter get ready."

"But, comrade, _you_ are not to go!" The poor little body-guard had feared this. In his misery he looked up into the Colonel's face and gulped helplessly.

"Don't take it that way, my child," said the Colonel, smoothing the little woolly head burrowing back in the pillow; "it would be impossible for me to take a little fellow like you along. There's just a chance, you know, G. W., that I may not get back. I've thought lately that I did wrong to bring you from Tampa; but you had nothing there, and we have had each other here, comrade, and _that_ ought to count for something."

A tightening of the little hand replied.

"If I shouldn't come back, my child," the Colonel continued, "I want you to know that I have made all arrangements for you to be sent up to the Boy and his Mother. They'll look out for you, comrade, for they know that you are my little body-guard, and they will adopt you in their home--for your own sake too, G. W.; there's the making of a man in you, G. W., and you will not ever disappoint anybody, no matter what happens to me. During the coming days here, keep within your limits, my boy. Obey orders, and you will be a hero indeed, for I know how much you want to go along to take care of me. By staying right here you are doing a harder thing."

G. W. was sobbing forlornly. The Colonel got up and paced the tent for a silent moment or two.

"You've been the best kind of a comrade, G. W.," he went on, as he came back, while the listener drew his legs up and down under the coarse gray blanket, in an agony of sorrow. "And you're not going to fail me now, old fellow."