Captain Tom. A novel

Front matter

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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Contents

CHAPTER. PAGE.

I. — How the Shells Fell in the Quartier Latin 5

II. — “Give Her Up, or You Shall Share Her Fate !” 14

Chapter I. How The Shells Fell In The Quartier Latin

At exactly one o’clock on the morning of the ninth of January, 1871, a great shell hurled from the Prussian stronghold at Chatillon drops upon the roof of a house in the Quartier Latin in doomed Paris. A mournful, rushing sound is instantly followed by a ripping and tearing, in turn succeeded by a muffled explosion, then comes a dreadful silence.

In a corner of the upper room a man fully dressed has been sleeping on a cot. The tremendous shock arouses him ; he flings back the covers and sits up, looking around with a coolness that is amazing.

Darkness everywhere save above, where a ragged hole in the roof marks the route taken by the iron intruder. The man gives a whistle to indicate his surprise.

“A close shave, by Jove! That was meant for me. Confound those Prussian gunners, to break my rest in this way. Ugh ! that is a cold wind coming in through the new entrance. It is impossible to sleep longer. Perhaps I may find something to interest me outside.”

Listening, strange sounds come to his ears. The French forts answer the Prussian guns. Mont Valerien is aflame, and the thunder of artillery makes the very earth tremble. Besides there is heard the weird shriek of passing shells, their awful bursting, with perhaps the falling of innumerable bricks or stones.

Astonishing as it may seem, this man takes a match and lights a candle with a hand that never so much as trembles. Surely he must be made of ice, or have nerves of steel, to show so little emotion during such a tumult.

Shielding the flame as much as possible from the current of air that rushes in through the rent in the roof, he surveys the desolate scene. The rafters hang downward, plaster lies broadcast over the floor, which in turn is torn and wrecked where the iron sphere passed downward.

A fine dust fills the air ; the house would perhaps fall only for the support given on either side. As it is, the building is ruined.

While the cool inmate of the upper floor thus surveys the wreck of his quarters, the light falls upon his own face and figure. It reveals a tall, wellknit form, and an American countenance, more remarkable on account of its firmness than because of any claims to manly beauty, although Captain Tom Pilgrim has never been accounted a homely man.

Satisfied that his den is no longer habitable after this remorseless visitor from the Prussian guns at Chatillon has plowed a passage through it, the

HOW THE SHELLS FELL IN THE QU ARTIEli LATIN. 7

American dons an outer coat, together with a soft hat, and picking up a few little articles, such as a revolver, etc., walks toward the staircase.

He remembers for the first time that there are others below, and wonders whether the iron monster has done more than bring damage upon the property.

On the stairs he meets Monsieur Blanc, his host, a small but voluble Frenchman, who denounces the Prussians for ruining him, and expresses gratitude that “ monsieur le capitaine” is safe, all in one breath.

Everywhere is seen wreck and ruin, for the shell seems to have dropped as perpendicularly as though coming from the clouds.

Even the door is out of plumb, and only by a muscular effort does the American tear it open.

He passes out upon the streets. The Quartier Latin is receiving an undue proportion of the enemy’s projectiles, and on this night in particular the citizens are fully aroused to a realization of their perilous situation.

Until recently the Parisians have laughed at the s ieg e _they saw so little of its horrors, as the battles have been fought at a distance— and the official reports published each day predicted a Prussian retreat immediately.

Now the bombardment was begun, and houses, bridges, and churches lie in ruins. Starvation is not the only fate that threatens. There is a terrible death fluttering in the air, accompanying each hurtling bomb. The humor of the populace has changed, and actual fear is seen upon many a face.

The streets are not crowded, but here and there stand squads of men and women, discussing the last terrible phase of the siege, hurrying this way and that to note the devastation caused by some bursting shell— perhaps to collect relics at the same time, for their fear has not entirely overcome their cupidity.

Lights are seen ; for the great city is not yet reduced to darkness. Fires burn in three distinct quarters, but whether caused by bursting bombs or through the carelessness of pillaging vandals, it is impossible to tell.

Captain Tom saunters along, taking in the strange sights to be met with on this night of the hottest bombardment yet experienced, and keeping a watchful eye for friends, of whom he has a number in the beleaguered city.

Several cabs rattle along the paved streets. Each bears the significant red cross, and, no doubt, contains a wounded man from the front — an officer of rank, perhaps — whose position entitles him to a bed in the Necker Hospital on the Rue de Sevres, though from the reckless manner in which the shells descend it would probably be safer to have kept the wounded leaders in the forts outside the city.

Here and there are nuns hastening to give their assistance to the wounded, each under the protection of the red cross.

The scene is full of excitement. Here is a house in ruins, just beyond a shell tears a gaping hole in the street, sending the debris all around in confusion, and killing several citizens who chance to be near. Through a side street that debouches upon a boulevard a company of mobiles march amid the cheers of the Parisian crowd, which is nothing if not demonstrative.

The glare of a bonfire lights up the scene, and glints upon the polished chassepots carried upon the shoulders of the soldiers from the provinces. All around are evidences that the war has come home to gay, thoughtless Paris, and yet her citizens, half starved as they are, never dream but that it is a hideous nightmare, and some fine morning the enemy will awaken to find himself in a trap — when the army of rescue that is always coming, but never arrives, reaches the scene.

Thus sauntering along, the American finds that he has reached the Boulevard des Capucines. Near-by towers the hotel generally sought, after the Louvre, by foreigners, and known as the Hotel de la Paix.

Even in this quarter Paris is alarmed. The Prussian guns seem capable of reaching every point in the city, and at any hour the deluge of iron may be hurled upon this section. Indeed, one shell has already shattered a house not a stone’s throw from the caravansary.

Captain Tom has had an object in heading for the boulevard. He looks into each face he meets, as though under the belief that here he will find the one he seeks. Sometimes it is a well-dressed citizen, again a man of the bourgeoisie stamp, wearing a blouse and Tyrolese hat, or perhaps a military individual, strutting along with the importance that only a French petty officer can assume.

While thus engaged he reaches the hotel, and a hand presses his arm, while a voice says :

“ V^jhat does this mean, Captain Tom. You declared you were bound to sleep the night through in spite of the bloody racket, and yet here I find you on the boulevard.”

The speaker is, like himself, a foreigner, but his voice and language bespeak the Briton. Others besides the daring American have allowed themselves to be shut up in Paris, from motives of curiosity, love of adventure, or something else that may be developed later on.

Captain Tom laughs. It is a cheery sound, and has won him many a friend in times past.

“ I give you my word, Lord Eric, I slept as sound as a dollar so long as the affair was confined to screeching and smashing all about in the Latin Quartier, but when a beastly shell dropped into my room, and left me exposed to the weather, I drew the line at that, and concluded that there might be some queer things to be seen on the streets. Something — I can’t explain what — drew me to your hotel. Perhaps it was because I saw our friend, Colonel Julas, being carried in an ambulance to the hospital, or it may have been just a notion on my part. *’

“Pardon me, my friend, it was more. Yes, even the hand of fate.”

“I am far from being a fatalist, Lord Eric,” returns the American, at the same time giving his companion a queer glance, for he hardly knew how to take him at times; milord is a peculiar combination — a puzzle to those who know him.

“ Listen ! At this very moment I have issued from the hotel here with my mind set upon seeing you. Behold! the first person against whom I run is Captain Tom. What do you call that but fate?”

“ It is a queer coincidence, certainly— I admit that ; but what has occurred to make an interview with me so essential ! Has anything happened since I parted with you at nine at the Champs Ely sees?”

The Englishman twists his neck around as if to make sure that there is no one near to spy upon their movements. Then he takes hold of his companion’s sleeve and draws him into a niche formed by the hotel wall.

It not only screens them from the observation of passers-by, but serves to keep off the chilly January night wind that sweeps down the elegant boulevard.

There is something mysterious in the very actions of the Briton, and the adventurous Captain Tom anticipates a revelation that will arouse his sluggish blood. This man has seen so much of life in his time that ordinary events do not move him.

Having fully satisfied himself with regard to their security, milord speaks, and even his voice seems to be full of deep mystery, so low and strained is its tone.

“What I have to tell you concerns a certain lady friend of yours. Perhaps you can give a guess as to her name.”

“Let me see. Is it the fair Alsatian, Linda?”

“ Hit it the first shot ! Shows where your heart must be, captain. I have not come any too soon to warn you.”

“ Bah ! I have passed unscathed the battery of brighter eyes than hers. Linda is beautiful. It amuses me to play the gallant once in a while, though I am more at home in the woods, or on the deck of my dainty little yacht than in the presence of ladies ; but as to warning me of the danger, my good friend ”

“Wait! You do not understand me, captain. It is not danger from her eyes, of which I warn you. The peril comes from another quarter, but in connection with the fair Alsatian.”

Captain Tom puffs at his cigar while his companion thus speaks. He seems to be pondering the words.

“Ah! you have reference to a jealous rival. I shall have to meet him some morning at sunrise in the Forest de St. Germaine, or perhaps the Bois de Boulogne, with swords or pistols. I suppose I can depend on you, my friend, to second me, for I shall fight, if challenged, just for the adventure.”

“ Blast the luck, Captain Tom ; you run on like a Derby winner. Hark, man! This danger does not come from within, but from without. It is the military authorities you have to fear.”

The words, though thrilling in their nature, do not seem to arouse any alarm in the breast of the American, who merely shrugs his shoulders in the French style he has learned so well, and remarks :

“Is that all? Please explain, milord.”

“ It is known that you have been intimate with this beautiful lady for some time. You have sent her flowers, driven her in a carriage, and even forced her to accept presents of food that are worth their weight in silver during the siege.”

“In brief, I have treated her as a lady friend, for whom I have a warm admiration. I am rich. Whose business is it if I choose to send flowers to one of the fair sex?”

Captain Tom is indignant. He feels that some one has been meddling in his private affairs, and this is an interference he never will brook without being heard from.

Before speaking further the Englishman pokes his head out from the niche, and takes a survey of their surroundings. A fiacre dashes past as though containing a messenger who bears important tidings. Down the boulevard a crowd of citizens advance, singing the “ Marseillaise,” and shouting that the Republic has come, “Vive la Republique!”

In another quarter a detachment of gendarmes, under a commissaire of police, sweep the boulevard of all gathering crowds. Already the authorities of Paris feel the mutterings of the coming storm. The enemy within will play greater havoc than the Prussians ever can. The dreaded hydra-headed Commune is nearly in the saddle, after a retirement of over twenty years. Paris will soon be under the heel of the oppressor.

In their immediate vicinity all is quiet, and Lord Eric sees no cause for apprehension. What he has to say can be told without danger of being overheard, at least so far as he can discern.

The American has had his natural curiosity aroused by this time, and the strange actions of his friend are calculated to augment such feelings on his part.

Still he asks no more questions, satisfied that Lord Eric will tell all when he has gone through his little stage business. Perhaps the American has seen him carry on in this way before, and make much out of a mole-hill.

“ I need not tell you how I have obtained my information, my friend. It is a beastly shame, you know, but, all the same, I have no doubt regarding its accuracy. When I tell you that the secret police have received positive instructions from military headquarters to watch your every movement, you can understand why I am so particular about being seen in your company, and at this hour.”

“ Confusion ! Lord Eric, you harp on in the one strain. Tell me why I am under suspicion.”

14 “GIVE HER UP, OH YOU SHALL SHARE HER FATE.”

“ Because you admire the fair Alsatian. You send her costly presents, ride with her; in a word, because you are her friend.”

“Answer me plainly, man. What do they say she is?” and his hand grips the Briton’s arm until he winces under the pressure.

“Listen, then, my friend. They have learned that the lovely Alsation is a German spy!”

Chapter II. “give Her Up, Or You Shall Share Her Fate.”

The words “ German spy” are almost hissed in the ear of the American, who has maintained his clutch upon Lord Eric’s arm.

“The duse you say!” he answers, and it is evident that milord’s announcement has not awakened as much wonder as the other had expected.

“Whether you are guilty or innocent will not matter much, once you fall into the hands of the authorities, Captain Tom. It is a march to the Prison La Roquette, and the guillotine by morning, or perhaps a file of zouaves, a box for a coffin, a brief order, and you are no more. These are stirring times in Paris. See these citizens approaching. If I were to step out and denounce you as a Prussian spy, do you think they would ask for my proofs or wait to hear your defense. The chances are your head would adorn the end of a pike carried by some rough from Belleville inside of thirty minutes.”

“Perhaps,” returns the other, quietly, “unless I put the whole of them to flight.”

The Englishman surveys his companion in the dim light of the distant bonfire, as though astonished at his nonchalance.

“ Bless my soul, Pilgrim, I believe you would be equal to it. I haven’t forgotten your adventure in the catacombs with the gang of robbers. But make your mind easy. Eric Bullard is the last man in Paris to betray you, even if you are guilty. I’d sooner cut my hand off than prove false to a friend.”

“ A thousand thanks, milord ; those words do you honor. I need not question your motives in seeking me.”

“ They were to warn you, so that you might visit the fair Linda no more, since death lies in the cup, pleasant though it may seem.”

“ From my heart I thank you. One favor I have to beg, rude though it may seem.”

“Name it. If in my power ”

“ There is no question about that. Since I am under suspicion I beg that you will no longer appear to be my friend.”

“You fear that I may be dragged in also?”

“No good can come of it. If we both live through the siege we may renew our friendship.”

It is a singular request, but milord understands that something underlies it.

“As you say, my friend. It would be better if you accompanied me to the Minister of the Interior, explained your position, and gave your solemn word of honor that you would never again see the lovely Alsatian.”

Captain Tom shakes his head.

“That were impossible, milord.”

“Why so?” impatiently.

“Because I go from this spot to see the woman the authorities have declared to be a German spy.”

The Englishman seems shocked.

“It is a shame for such a bright, jolly fellow to invite annihilation, for that is the inevitable result when a man runs against the machinery of the Paris police. I am bound to believe that you are either a reckless dare-devil, ready to risk your life for a sou, or else what they suspect is true.”

“And that I am a German spy !” laughs the American, carelessly.

“Hush I for Heaven’s sake, man! If the ears of that rabble caught your words nothing could save us from their fury.”

“Bah! they are a lot of jackals! A few well-directed shots among them would scatter the pack and send them howling down the boulevard. However, I have no desire to invite such attention. While I thank you again for your friendly warning, milord, do not believe that I am insensible to the fact that for three days and nights I have been shadowed; at the Mabille, such as it is in these desolate times; dining at the Cafe de Madrid, where conspirators are wont to meet ; even when accompanying the remains of my friend Duval, who fell in the last useless sortie, to Pere la Chaise, the noble cemetery, risking the fire from the Prussian guns— I have been aware of the fact that some one was watching me.”

“Yet you will defy fate by visiting again at the house of that enchantress. Well, man is a strange creature,” remarks the other, in a philosophical way, that draws out another of those cheery laughs from Captain Tom.

“ Perhaps at some future time, when you know all, you will understand what now seems a dark mystery,” he says, soberly.

“Then you confess there is a mystery? Why not take me into your confidence? Make me a sharer in your secrets.”

“That is generous of you, milord, but I must firmly decline your offer. We part here. I know not whether the fortunes of war will ever bring us together as friends again. Remember your promise to cut my acquaintance until such time as this affair is all over.”

“Do you mean to hold me to that?”

“Most religiously, milord. If we meet again I shall scowl at you like an Italian bandit, and expect you to do the same.”

“Perhaps so,” mutters the puzzled Englishman, as he returns the warm hand clasp.

Standing in the niche he watches the stalwart form of the American moving down the boulevard, and shakes his head sadly.

“Blast the luck! I like that chap. He is a man any one might go wild over; strong as a horse, bold as a lion, and yet no woman could have been more gentle than Tom Pilgrim when he handled my wounds after that boar hunt in the Black Forest. Yes, confound it, I love him because he is a man after my own heart ; but I’m afraid he’s been foolish enough to mix up in some business here that may cost him his life. It is not love that takes him to the side of that fair Alsatian, but what then? I can’t even guess, unless Great Heaven ! I won-

der if he is in the employ of the French general? Nonsense. The idea is too absurd. I’ll go inside and get a little sleep, though the poor devils in the region of the Latin Quartier will have small peace with that infernal din about their ears.” Saying which the philosophical Briton once more re-enters

18 “GIVE HER VP, OR YOU SHALL SHARE HER FATE”

the great caravansary and seeks his desolate room. Provisions have long since grown so scarce that the hotels could not supply their guests, who may still lodge in them, but must seek their food elsewhere.

Captain Tom saunters along with the same careless step. He again approaches the region where the German shells are falling at the rate of one a minute. In spite of the danger, crowds are in the streets, and each explosion is the signal for a great rush toward the scene.

Various sights greet his eyes, and he finds much to engage his attention. All the while he is advancing with a certain object in view.

He meets groups of soldiers hurrying in the direction of the forts — mobiles, zouaves, or it may be a squad of mounted chasseurs. There has been secret word brought in of a contemplated Prussian advance from the north, while the Krupp guns on the heights of Chatillon keep up the bombardment, and Governor Trochu seeks to strengthen the defenses there.

Excitement grows as the night becomes older.

Down the street comes a howling mob of men — yes, and women, such Amazons as the Revolution made notorious.

What is the cause of the tremendous racket?

A single, exhausted figure flies before them.

Hear what they shout — “ Death to the spy ! To the lamp-post with the Prussian!”

Now they overtake the wretch. He is a coward, and shows no fight. Innocent or guilty, it matters not ; the name is as good as the game to these desperate communists, and in a twinkling the poor devil is swinging from the nearest lamp-post.

Captain Tom sees and shrugs his shoulders, for he remembers what his friend Lord Eric has warned him of. Such a fate as this would be his should the mob find out that he has been signaling to the Germans in any way — by the use of colored lights, for instance.

He does not avoid the terrible figure, but walks straight forward. No one knows the nature of a Parisian crowd better than this man, who has made a study of them. Some of the leaders glance at him, but he bears his American citizenship in his face, and they do not question him. Americans are, as a general thing, the friends of France in this unhappy war.

A new clamor breaks out, and Captain Tom turns his head to discover the cause. He is electrified to see a number of the mob, mostly the Amazons, chasing a female.

Where she has come from, what she has done, he cannot say. All that he knows is the fact that the poor creature flies toward him. She does not shriek or fill the air with her cries, but looks like a fluttering bird endeavoring to escape its tormentors.

The American feels all his manhood aroused by the sight. Whenever he has been appealed to for help, especially by a woman in distress, he has generously thrown himself into the breach.

Straight up to him the girlish figure flies, as though she has an intuition that here she may find a rock of refuge.

Captain Tom feels a wave of indignation sweep over him when he takes note cf the delicate figure that crouches at his feet.

“Oh, sir, you are a gentleman! Save me from these terrible creatures!”

She speaks in French, but Tom is almost as familiar with the language of diplomatic correspondence as with his mother tongue. He sees the beseeching attitude, and imagines a sister of his own in such a position.

In an instant his decision is taken. He will save this poor girl from her enemies, no matter what the personal risk. At times like this a really brave man never stops to consider the danger. He does not say “how many,” but “where are they?”

With an involuntary movement he steps in front of the poor girl and faces her foes, who by this time have almost overtaken her.

At the sight of a man before them instead of a weak, terror-stricken girl, the mob abruptly pauses and glowers upon him. The constituent members of this mob are like a lot of wolves, hungry and desperate. Already the horrors of the siege have been felt among the lower classes. The rich were wise enough to lay in a supply of food in time, but the poor have to take the pitiful allowance doled out by the authorities, and upon the faces of many a haggard look has come— the imprint of famine’s gaunt hand.

To face such a crowd of half-crazed, vengeanceseeking people is something few men would care about doing.

Captain Tom might be averse to it under ordinary circumstances, but men are often brought into action through certain means over which they have no control.

His manner is that of a gladiator. With the girl behind him he stands there and waves back the dozen “ citizens” who have pursued.

“Stop!” he cries, in French. “What has the girl done? Why do you chase her?”

A Babel of voices answer him. Each Amazon shrieks out some accusation, and the hoarser voices of the men join in.

“ She is a witch ! We would burn her !”

“She is a Prussian spy! The governor would shoot her on the Trocadero.”

“We must have her. Give her up, or you shall share her fate!”

The clamor grows in volume. It is perfectly terrible now, the shrill voices of the Amazons cutting the air like knives.

Captain Tom is unmoved. He stands there like a rock, with the object of their wrath between the wall of the house and himself.

His hand is no longer raised to warn them back, but it now grasps a revolver, while the light of battle shines in his gray eyes. The American is on his mettle. He has been appealed to by one in distress, and stands here as the champion of helplessness.

Let the waves of Parisian communism beat against him. They will be dashed back as from a rocky barrier.

Perhaps the sight of the revolver has something to do with the mob halting. At any rate the Amazons and their backers come to a stop, forming a ragged line before him, which a neighboring bonfire lights up in a fantastic manner.

The picture is one an artist might seize upon to make his name famous. The crouching figure of the poor girl, her indomitable defender, the dozen awful creatures from the slums of Paris, rendered doubly desperate by the want of nourishing food, upon them all the flickering firelight playing iu fantastic humor. Captain Tom himself could never get the picture out of his mind.

It looks just now as though they are bound to come to blows, that another little engagement will be fought upon the streets of Paris, such as becomes more frequent with each passing day of the siege, for the iron of the Prussian host is pressing closer and closer upon the throats of the beleaguered citizens as each sun sets behind the wintry hills.

The American does not await the storm. He seeks to bring matters to a climax.

The sooner these things are over the better. Captain Tom believes in prompt action, for on more than one occasion he has seen the side that takes an aggressive part, though inferior in numbers, come out with victory perched upon its banner.

“Listen, fellow citizens of Paris. The enemy is thundering at our gates, and every man is needed to save the city. This is no time to make war on the helpless, or to cut one another’s throats. You accuse this girl of being a Prussian spy. Prove it, and I will no longer defend her, but until you do, I stand before her, and death to the one who dares molest her!”

Mutterings arise.

These hardened creatures admire courage, but at the same time they are averse to giving up their prey.

Having had a taste of blood, their appetites are whetted, and it really matters little to them where their next victim comes from.

No country in the world has been so covered with the blood of its people as poor France. When scourged by the Revolution her rivers ran red with the slaughter of her citizens. In the city of Nantes alone thirty thousand were put to death with every conceivable torture.