Chapter 4

Some hours later the transport cast anchor in the lovely bay. In the early morning, when the sunlight danced upon the shining waves, never was there a fairer sight to greet sick, home-longing eyes.

At last it was G. W.'s turn to be carried up the gang-plank. Very gently they placed him upon the litter, and his Colonel walked beside it and held the small, weak hand. G. W. closed his eyes, for the excitement made him tremble, and lately he had had trouble with growing tearful on every possible occasion, and had had to squeeze his eyelids together hard.

They were carrying him along up somewhere--G. W. felt the upward motion. And now they were walking on even ground. Presently the shouting he had noticed before began again. It came nearer and words became distinct. Comrade was greeting comrade. There were welcomes for his Colonel, a welcome to Corporal Jack--his mother was there, some one said; she was up in the general's tent.

Suddenly a few words startled G. W. They seemed to him to ring out of the confusion of greetings like an alarm:

"Oh, look! there are Colonel Austin and his little hero!"

It was a woman's voice.

The heavy brown eyes of the little fellow in blue on the litter opened.

The procession of sick men was passing between lines of sympathizing people, but to G. W. they faded like visions. He turned his head and fixed his solemn gaze upon the one face in all the world dear to him.

"Colonel!" he gasped, "did yo' hear dem words--dem hero-words? Yo' better tell dem dat it ain't so!"

"Why, my child, they know all about it. You are as big a hero as ever was brought home--didn't you know it?"

"No, sah!" Again the lids closed--the battle with tears was renewed.

The next stage of little G. W.'s journey was made in an army ambulance. Over the hills and down the sandy valleys the big wagon went softly until it stopped before the long hospital tent on the hill overlooking the merry waves. Then G. W. was carried in and placed upon a bed, and a woman with a wonderful face came and bent over him. She wore a blue gown and a snowy cap and apron and kerchief. G. W. had never seen anybody in the world in the least like her. She stood and smiled down at him, and he smiled weakly up at her.

"Well, my little hero," she laughed in the most cheerful manner, as if it were quite a joke to see heroes carried about like babies, "it isn't so very bad! I think I can get you on your feet in--let me see--well, three days at the farthest."

Three days! If she had said three years the boy would have felt doubtful, for his legs were but waving strings.

This smiling woman in blue and white fed him--about every two minutes, he thought; as soon as he had swallowed one thing she went away for another, and came back and fed him again; and he swallowed all the things down, and began soon to laugh as merrily as she.

Sure enough, upon the third day, and in the morning, too, she came walking up to G. W.'s cot with Colonel Austin, and over her arm hung the fine new uniform.

"My boy," she laughed,--she always laughed,--and drew a screen about the bed, "we're going to put your clothes on you, and if you lean upon both Colonel Austin and me, I think you can manage to take a bit of a walk. We have something very important to show you."

How he got into his dear blue clothes, G. W. never knew; but at length, and rather unsteadily, he was walking between the nurse and his Colonel down the aisle of the tent.

Weak cheers followed him from rows of cots. Thin hands waved him salutes. On the whole, it was rather jolly and inspiring.

By the time he reached the door G. W. was walking more steadily, and the strong salt air put life into him at the first breath as he came outside in the sunlight.

"Just up this hill, now, G. W.,--can you make it?" asked the Colonel. "Take breath, go slowly, lean heavily. The last time you and I took a walk, comrade, I nearly bent you double. We're going to my tent."

G. W. gazed about him. A city of snowy tents under a blue, blue sky. Water everywhere round about, dancing in the sunlight and making a great roar as if constantly saluting the brave soldier boys who had come home to rest. Down a hillside a troop of cavalry came galloping. The horses were to take a plunge in the ocean, and oh! how they loved the sport.

G. W. shouted out weakly in pure delight.

"Dat's fine! Dat's fine!" he gasped, waving his thin little brown hand as horses and riders tore past.

Then G. W. wearily asked, "Whar did you say yo' tent is, Colonel?"

"Right there, my boy."

G. W. looked.

"What's dat little tent fur, by de side ob it?"

"That's yours, G. W."

The nurse tightened her grasp of the trembling arm.

"Mine! dere's a flag a-flying on top, Colonel! An' dere's a little horse a-pawin' in de front ob de tent-do', Colonel!"

"All yours, G. W! Let's get on if you can, my boy!"

At last the tents were reached. They entered G. W.'s. It was perfect. Camp bed, soapbox table, flag-draped, a folding stool and all; and in the corner stood the little gun--the precious gun that had done such brave service for the Colonel.

"Lie down now, G. W.," said the nurse; and the child promptly obeyed. He could take in the great scene just as well from the bed, and there was less danger of falling all in a heap if it got too overpowering.

"My boy, there is some one waiting who wishes to see you," said Colonel Austin, presently; "may I bring the person in?"

Five minutes later two persons instead of one entered with G. W.'s Colonel. One glance--and G. W. knew that he was in the presence of the Boy and his Mother! He struggled to get upon his feet, but the nurse's hand held him back; he merely gave a wan smile, and saluted gravely.

"Oh, G. W.!" cried the Mother, holding her hands toward him from where she stood, the tears raining down from her bright eyes. "Oh, G. W., you brave child, I did not know you were so _very_ small!"

G. W. had never seen such a vision of loveliness as the lady was; but he was afraid of her.

"How can I help kissing you, you blessed child!" she went on, coming close.

Kissing him! G. W. glanced about wildly.

The lady's eyes filled up with bright tears anew. "No, I will not kiss you, G. W. Of course not. You see I do not know very well just what it is safe to do with such small-sized heroes as you and Jack!"

She turned to the Boy, who had stood motionless, looking on. "Jack," she said, "it _is_ our G. W., Daddy's body-guard."

Jack came forward. There was a suggestion of lace and curls about him perhaps, but his face gave G. W. a feeling of firm ground under his feet at last.

"Hello!" said Jack, and held out a plump white hand.

"Hello!" G. W. replied, and laid his thin brown fingers slowly in the other's grasp.

The moment while Jack stood by the little soldier's bed was long enough for the two boys to eye each other well.

Jack spoke first. "You saved my father, G. W.,--you are a brick! Whatever I've got, you can have half of it."

"Did you see dat hoss by de do'?" said G. W., after a moment. "Dat hoss is mine! You--can--take--de fust ride! An' dis is my tent, my Colonel give it to me, an' dis an' all dat I'se got b'longs ter you half!"

Then they smiled broadly into each other's faces, forgetting the onlookers.

"We're going to be just like brothers," whispered Jack Austin. That was the thought that floated through the dusky little bodyguard's dreams that night as he slept in the little tent beside the Colonel's.

And the Mother's words to the Colonel mingled with Jack's: "The boys'll have a good time!"

And the tall light-house on the Point blazed out its message to the sailors upon the sea, "All's well! All's well!" And to the brave soldier-boys sleeping within its shadow it sent down soft rays of light that breathed, "All's well! All's well!"

On his cot poor weak little G. W., waking in the moonlight, smiled and sighed with content, then smiled again.

XII.

A HISTORY-EVENING AT OAKWOOD.

"G. W., stand up in front of me, and answer!"

G. W. took position and looked unflinchingly into the eyes of his Colonel.

The rapturous life at Montauk was a thing of the past--the little body-guard never could think of it without his heart aching with happiness.

It was the most glorious experience a boy ever had. The Colonel wondered how G. W. had escaped being utterly ruined, for people had lost their heads over him, and even stern army men had shown a soft side toward the dusky little fellow. However, G. W. was a real hero, and such you simply cannot ruin.

Now the scene was changed. The Colonel and G. W. were in the library of the home "up North;" they wore citizen's clothes and looked well and hearty.

"G. W., do you remember what you once told me a hero was?"

"Yes, sah."

"Well, you proved yourself one, on a certain occasion, and I reckon you and I will never forget it."

"No, sah!"

"But, G. W., there are many kinds of heroes, as I have often told you. A fellow that can be a hero under _all_ circumstances is a chap worth knowing."

"Yes, sah!" All this sounded ominous, and G. W. pulled himself together.

"Well, my boy, you've got to go into a conflict again, another sort of a conflict, and I wish to heaven I could prepare you; but you'll have to battle it out, according to what is in you, as you did before, on the hill-top in Cuba. I'm going to send you to school, my boy, with Jack. It's a military school and the head master knows all about you, and _wants_ you there. The others don't know."

"Yes, sah!" The low voice had a tone that always unnerved the Colonel--a tone of complete obedience, of complete understanding, and complete resignation.

"You see, G. W., I want to fit you for life," the Colonel went on. "I'm going to give you your chance. It's going to be a hard pull. The odds will be against you. It isn't just that it should be so, but it is so. Your color, comrade, often will go against you, though your heart is the pure heart of a brave, honest child."

"Yes, sah."

"Of course," the deep voice went on, "I could buy favor for you at the school, by telling the story of your bravery--a sort of honor for you; but, G. W., I want you to win your own position there, just as you always have, so far. It will be a tussle, but I think you'd like to make the try?"

"Yes, sah."

"Because you'll have to tussle and try through life, you know, comrade."

"Yes, sah!"

The firm white hand took the little brown one in a warm hold. "And I shan't bind you with any promises this time, G. W.," the Colonel said.

A warm color stole over G. W.'s dusky cheeks. He looked up and spoke unexpectedly to the Colonel. "Dere was two promises, Colonel. I kep' de promise to de Boy and his Mother, sah. I kep' de promise to take care ob you, sah."

The poor little body-guard, so long sick and torn with shame over his disobedience and tarnished honor, had thought the whole matter out to the comfort of his soul. He looked up fearlessly into his Colonel's eyes.

"So you did, G. W.," said the officer, humbly, but with a lighted face. "And God bless you, comrade!"

The whole matter was clear to them both forever.

* * * * *

A week later the two boys went with Colonel Austin to enter the famous school where little G. W., as a private citizen of the Republic he had served according to his strength, was to begin to hew out his fortunes, with the odds, as his Colonel had said, against him.

The head master greeted him cordially, and the other teachers followed the example. At the very outset the pupils were divided among themselves and withheld their verdict. The open comradeship of Colonel Austin's son was the thing that counted in the matter for the time being.

The outcome of this school-life--not for their own boy, but for G. W.--was a grave matter with the Colonel and the Colonel's wife for those first weeks.

"No one can hold out against his merry sweetness," said Mrs. Austin again and again.

The question with the Colonel was whether the little fellow had the sort of heroism to endure what he could not help.

G. W. was undoubtedly "sweet," undoubtedly brave, but he was not "merry" those first months of school life. The work of lessons was bitter-hard for him, and the school routine most painful. Never in his life before had he given a thought to his color. In the Tampa days, before he had entered Colonel Austin's tent to "offer himself up on the altar of his country," there had never been a question as to his "position;" he had been just a "waif." His "army career" had placed him upon a pinacle where his color had served but to add to his glory.

Here, on the playground, except for Jack and three or four others, G. W. was quietly ignored, and in a helpless way the little fellow felt it keenly, despite the Colonel's warning.

He tried to look ahead. He studied more and more diligently. He meant to be all the kinds of hero that Colonel Austin desired.

"Fo' de Lawd!" he said one day in his room, as he scanned his trim figure in the gray school uniform before the glass. "Fo' de Lawd! I can't understand it." (G. W. was beginning to put the "d's" and "g's" on words now.) "I don't lie, and I ain't afraid of nothing--and I wouldn't do a mean thing any sooner dan dey! It's jes' my skin, and my skin's only a different color on the _outside_, de inside is jes'--is just de same." Poor little G. W.

"An' I'se getting 'long fine in my classes." (So he was, and at the cost of terrific strain and study.) "An' I likes--I like the--boys first rate--but nawthing in dis education's going to git de black off dis skin!"

There was one hour in the school-day that George Jones--he was "G. W." only to Jack Austin, and that in private--enjoyed thoroughly.

This was an evening hour when one of the younger professors took the smaller pupils into a library and told them history stories; stories dealing with valiant deeds. There was a flavor of camp life and soldiering about many of the tales that George Jones understood far better than the other boys. In the glow of his interest he generally forgot to notice if any boy edged away from him when he chanced to forget his "color" and drew too near; but Colonel Austin's son always noticed it, and his loyal heart ached.

"Oh! if I were only sure that Daddy would think this was a good time to speak out!" Jack often muttered between his teeth. "I wish these fellows knew how awfully white G. W. is inside!"

But the Colonel had warned Jack against "speaking out" unless indignities to little G. W. should become unendurable.

During one of these story hours in the library, G. W. had remained in the study-room to conquer a particularly knotty problem in addition, while Jack, eager for the tale, which was to be an unusually splendid one, ran on ahead. It happened that when G. W. reached the room he was the last, and the others were clustered around Professor Catherwood.

G. W. paused a moment to look for Jack, but among those dark and light heads grouped close he could not distinguish him. Just then the story plunged into the thick of interest, and G. W. took the nearest empty chair. Unfortunately it was beside Tom Harding, a very quick-tempered but warm-hearted boy, who had, perhaps, more than any other pupil, made G. W.'s life at "Oakwood" a grim experience. He glanced around as G. W. sat down. "Please take another seat!" he said.

For a moment the silence vibrated. G. W. arose and stood rigid, with downcast eyes. The master, too much disturbed to speak, was silent. But Jack Austin arose.

"Tom Harding!" he said with flashing eyes, "George Jones has a white heart and he is the bravest boy in this room! If you knew"--

At this point G. W. went to Jack's side. "Don't you tell dat, Jack!" he said. "Don't yer! You know what de--the Colonel said. Don' yer displease de Colonel!"

But Jack's blood was up. There was something in his young voice that quieted even G. W. He put his hand upon G. W.'s shoulder and kept it there while he spoke.

"George is my legally adopted brother, boys. He saved my father's life down in Cuba." Then came the whole brave, pathetic story, broken here and there by a shake in Jack's voice.

"And when G. W."--Jack had forgotten the more dignified name--"made up his mind on the hill-top to go down after my father, he plunged off where Spaniards were hidden thick and bullets flying. He went alone, and he was awful little. And he went on, and wounded soldiers met him and told him my father was off helpless on the ground in some bushes, and he got near there and he saw a Spaniard aiming his gun and G. W. aimed his and shot true, and the soldier the Spaniard was going to shoot--was my father! And G. W. got my own father back to the tent hospital all alone and no one else on earth did it. My father says G. W. had a glorious, glorious hero-strength. My father and my mother and myself are never, never going to forget what G. W. did! And G. W. is going to have the best life my father can help him get! Now isn't he brave and fine enough to be respected? Is any one going to mind his brown color when his soul is as white--as white as snow? What would you have of a boy?" Jack's voice failed him. G. W., by his side, stood with his back to the boys, even yet as rigid as a statue.

For a second--stillness; then a stir in the group. Tom Harding came forward, his fine young face quivering with emotion.

"I beg your pardon, George," he said. "_I_ will never make your life hard again!"

"Nor I! Nor I! Nor any of us!"

It came like a shout.

A smile beamed upon the face of little G. W. His simple, strong, sunny nature responded to the honest outburst. He turned to the boys.

"I'se sorry about my skin," he said slowly, "since you-all don't like de color; but I like de--the color of yours, and I'se goin'--going ter learn all that de Colonel wants me ter learn! I'se never going to disappoint de Colonel!"

Professor Catherwood raised his hand. "Three cheers for _our_ hero!" said he.

"I think," he went on, when the hurrahing had died down, "that two hero stories are almost too many for one evening; besides you've got a chance to know a live hero. I am sure no boy of Oakwood will ever again fail to recognize the real article in the hero line, when he sees it. Good-night!"

Since that evening G. W.'s only battles have been with his school-books. And but for the manly help of his honest school-mates, the far-off victory would seem even dimmer than it does to George Washington McKinley Jones.

THE GOLDEN HOUR SERIES

_A new series of books for young people, bound in extra cloth, with illuminated designs, illustrations, and title-pages made especially for each volume_

A LITTLE DUSKY HERO. By Harriet T. Comstock.

THE CAXTON CLUB. By Amos R. Wells.

THE CHILD AND THE TREE. By Bessie Kenyon Ulrich.

DAISIES AND DIGGLESES. By Evelyn Raymond.

HOW THE TWINS CAPTURED A HESSIAN. By James Otis.

THE I CAN SCHOOL. By Eva A. Madden.

MASTER FRISKY. By Clarence W. Hawkes.

MISS DE PEYSTER'S BOY. By Etheldred B. Barry.

MOLLY. By Barbara Yechton.

THE WONDER SHIP. By Sophie Swett.

WHISPERING TONGUES. By Homer Greene.

End of Project Gutenberg's A Little Dusky Hero, by Harriot T, Comstock