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FRANCIS TREVELYAN MILLER Author of Hero Tales"
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10 TALES
FROM AMERICAN LIFE
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Literary Editor ai The Sean.;,-i Journal of American
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Ft-'ANC'.J TREVELYAN MILLER
HERO TALES
FROM AMERICAN LIFE
BY
FRANCIS TREVELYAN MILLER
Literary Editor of The Search-Light Library, Founder of the Journal of American History, etc., etc.
NEW YORK
THE CHRISTIAN HERALD
LOUIS KLOPSCH, Proprietor BIBLE HOUSE
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r^R. MCLER AND THE SEARCH-LIGHT INFOR' ^ MATION LIBRARY, IN MAKING RESEARCH AND IN THE PREPARATION OF THESE TALES, ACKNOWLEDGE THE VALUABLE ASSISTANCE RENDERED BY THE FOLLOWING WRITERS:
WALTER R. BICKFORD, KATE UPSON CLARK, CLARA BICKFORD MILLER, ARTHUR FORREST BURNS, DAVID STONE KELSEY, ELMER MUNSON HUNT, MINERVA SPENCER HANDY, HARRY CHASE BREARLEY, JOHN MILTON SCOTT, DAN- IEL Gibbons, Elizabeth b. grimball, samuel
EMERY, J. L. COTTELL, ELIZABETH A. SEMPLE, LINA DeLAND BREARI.E/.
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FOREWORD
THIS Book of a Hundred Hero Tales is drawn from the thousands of incidents of courage and bravery with which American History is inspired — tales that are close to the human heart and which bring with them the glow of manhood and womanhood. Not alone the heroism in great crises, but the tragic tests of courage in the average man and woman — the heroism of everyday life.
Everyone has the opportunity to become a hero. It may not be in war nor in the presence of great physi- cal danger. It may be in the sense of duty, in moral character, in honesty, in trade, and at work. It may be in the burdens and the responsibilities in the home, or in the little self-sacrifices that one meets every hour. It may be in overcoming habit, or in conquering anger by self-control. It may be in self-reliance, in obedi- ence, in kindness, justice, truthfulness, usefulness, courtesy, purity, ambition, perseverance.
There are a thousand tests of courage that come to every man, woman, and child, every day of life. It is of these that great heroism springs when life itself is in danger. It is the men and women, who through child- hood and youth have learned the heroism in little things, that respond to their country's call or rise to Heroism in Great Things.
It is not the intent of this book to record history or biography, but to tell true storied that grip the heart — stories of real Americans who have lived, and many of
FOREWORD
them died,'' under the American flag — the ensign of Liberty that makes heroes. There lias been no desire to select or nominate the hundred most heroic char- acters in American history, but rather to relate a hundred thrilling incidents from American life, past and present, that make one proud to be an American. It is a Story-teller's Club — a gathering around the family table after the day's work is done.
In selecting the Hero Tales for this volume, Dr. Miller gathered about him a circle of friends, under the Editorial Staff of The Search-Light Library, and asked each one to relate the most heroic story in his or her memory, either connected with some occasion in American History or some incident in modern Ameri- can life. Then the story-telling began. There were tales of war, sea tales, Indian tales, colonial tales, frontier tales; tales of the days when America was struggling for her independence, of the wars with England, and with the Mexicans ; tales of the sad days when the American brotherhood was rent by Civil War ; tales of the days when America rose as a world power and drove Spain from the Western Continent ; tales of modern invention, of heroic fidelity to duty in modern life ; tales of the home, of the fortitude of women, of the love of children.
These are the tales that form the basis of this vol- ume— told with all the mannerism and carelessness of the entertaining story-teller, without disturbing their romance with historical import or chronological order. It'is this delightful informality, and simple recital — carrying one far back into the centuries, then into the life of to-day, only to be carried once more into the past — that gives them the charm of the story-teller, and brings them to the memory with intense human interest and thrilling impulse.
FOREWORD
To sit at your fireside with such a goodly company of brave hearts is a privilege that probably never be- fore has come to you. Directly before you, are men who imperiled their lives for their country. Here are women who withstood the bitterest agonies for the sake of their beloved ones. Here is a child who fled into the arms of death to save those who were in danger. There is the soldier who led an army to victory. Here is a captain who brought a thousand lives safely to port.
You have, undoubtedly, often wished that you might see the conquering hero return from war, or clasp the hands of the world's bravest men. Here they are with you: Dewey, the hero of Manila; Custer, the hero of the Indian massacres; Houston, the frontiersman; Nathan Hale, the patriot. Some of them have been very near to you: Binns, the hero of the Republic dis- aster, the first man to save his ship through the modern science of wireless telegraphy; Lieutenant Self ridge, who gave his life to the solution of aerial navigation while in the service of his country; heroes of the long ago; heroes of yesterday; heroes of to-day — in the company of the heroes of to-morrow.
Draw your chair closer and sit in this companion- ship of a Hundred Heroes. Listen to their tales of daring. Look into their faces as you hear their stories of self-sacrifice. Go with them onto the battlefield. Follow them to the cannon's mouth. Stand with them on the sinking ship. Sleep with them in the wilder- ness. Suffer with them on the trails of the Frozen North. Die with them, if need be, for the sake of a principle.
Then tell me would you make a hero?
IX
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Man With a Heart Big Enough to Hold the World 1
The Statesman Who Gave His Life to a Principle . . 11
The American Flag in the Snows of Canada .... 17
The Indian Slave Girl Who Unlocked the Northwest . 22
The Rough Riders Who Carried the Flag to Victory . 27
The First American Fleet to Challenge the Seas . . 33
The Physician Who Added Three Stars to the Flag . 37
The Victor in the World's Deepest Tragedy .... 43
The Naval Youth Who Destroyed an Ironclad ... 49
The Mother's Love For the Sake of Her Children . . 54
The Grim Fighter and the Thirty-eighth Psalm . . 61
The Green Mountain Boys Who Overpowered a Fort . 65
The Virginian Who Heard the Call of His Home-Land 68
The Priest and Cross That Saved Half a Continent . 75
The Valiant Cavalier Who Would Not Surrender . . 81
The Widowed Mother Who Gave Seven Sons to Liberty 85
The Brotherly Love That Founded a Powerful State 89
The Schoolmaster Who Died For His Country ... 93
The Cavalryman Who Turned Defeat Into Victory . 97
The Explorer Who Found a Dark Continent . , , 100
The Admiral Who Unfurled the Flag in the Orient . 105
The Scientist Who Appealed to a Heedless World . 110
The Cabin Boy Who Became the First Admiral . . . 113
The Tory Father Who Believed Liberty Was a Dream 118
The Rear-Admiral of the Greatest Fleet on the Seas 123
The Castaways in the Storm Off Cape Henlopen . 129
The Troopers Who Plunged to the Valley of Death . 133
The Homeless Girl Who Fought in the Revolution . . 138
The Ruined City That Rose Triumphant From Its Ashes 145
The Southerner Who Loved Two Flags 149
The Girl Cannoneer Who Won a Sergeant's Honors . 153
CONTENTS
The Airship That Fell From the Clouds .... The Watauga Boys in the Charge op King's Mountain The Engineers Who Fathomed the Black Canyon .
The Lost Ship and the Lost Crew
The Little Kansan Who Conquered a Savage Race . The Immigrant Girl in the Harbor of a New World The Privateer That Fought Four Ships of War . . The Midnight Raiders Who Rode Through Lines of Death The Coppersmith Who Aroused His People . . . The Telephone Girl Who Warned the Valley . . The Orphan Boy Who Rose to Lead His Countrymen The Battleships That Vanquished a Proud Monarchy The Gallant Horseman Who Subdued the Cruel Apache The Life-Savers Who Risk Their Lives For Duty . The Diplomat Who Did not Forget the Debt The Martyred Seamen Who Broke the Bonds of Tyranny The Lighthouse Woman on the Cliffs of Lime Rock The College Student on the Great Lakes The Little General Who Won the Love of His Army The Commander Who Saved the Great Lakes . The Dying Warrior Who Stormed a Citadel . The Saintly Friend Who Loved Humanity The Conqueror Who Carried the Flag Into Mexico . The Mechanic Who Forced the World to Take Heed The Major-General Who Fought as a Common Soldier A Woman's Compassion in the World of Darkness . The Wounded Captain Who Would Not Give Up His Ship The Woodsman Who Saved a Great Seaport . The Ploughman Who Heard the Alarm of His Country Man's Ambition and the Lure of the Labrador . The Philanthropist Who Gave His Life .... The American Woman Who Appealed to Womanhood The "War Child" of the Blue and the Gray . The Wireless Operator Who Saved a Thousand Lives The Indian Princess Who Loved the White Race , The Shipwreck Off the Coast of New England The Gallows and the Father of Twenty Children The Tennessee Girl Who Guided a Cavalry . . .
xii
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Submarine on the Bottom of the Sea .... 317
The Sea Fighter Who Challenged the World . . . 321
The Mill Boy of the Slashes Who Became a Statesman 326
The Frontiersman in the Great Southwest .... 330
The Girl Pilot on the Mississippi River 334
The Bayonet Brigade That Charged a Fort in the Night 337
The Poor Inventor Who Made the World Rich . . . 339
The Trapper in the Wilds of the Rocky Mountains . 344
A Thousand Horsemen That Encircled a Sleeping Army 348
The Child Bride of Delaware Bay 353
The Farmer Boy Who Rose to Lead a Great Army . . 357
The Heiress of Old Kingwood Mansion 361
The Mission Church in the Struggle For Freedom . 365
The Young Lieutenant in the Harbor of Tripoli . . 369
The Schoolgirl Who Saved Fort Henry 373
The Wrecking Tug at the Statue of Liberty . . . 877
The Soldier's Wife in the Santee Swamp .... 381
The Surveyor Who Saved the Middle West .... 385
The Flood That Raced With the Horseman of Conemaugh 390
The Scout's Sister Who Was Held Captive .... 394
The Firemen Who Save Great Cities 401
The Nurse Who Became the "Angel of the Battlefield" 405
The Fugitive Boy in the American Wilderness . . . 409
The Quakeress Whose Lips Always Spoke the Truth 417
The Naval Officer Who Blew Up His Ship .... 421
The Woman "Heretic" Who Died For Her Conscience 426
The Bridge Builder Who United Two Great Cities . 430
The Pilgrim Soldier Who Challenged Barbarism ... 434
The Sergeant Who Rescued the Fallen Flag ... 438
The Pathfinder Who Saved a Promised Land . . . 442 The Southern Planter Who Became Father of His
Country ^'^^
XIU
ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
Francis Trevelyan Miller, page
Author of "Hero Tales" . . Frontispiece
Death op Montgomery at Quebec 17
The Conflict Between the Serapis and the Bonhomme
Richard 32
Destruction of the Albemarle . , 49
Capture of Fort Ticonderoga 64
Lieutenant-Colonel Forrest Leading His Command From
Fort Donelson 81
Ride of the Horseman Who Turned Defeat Into Victory 96
Admiral Farragut at Mobile Bay 113
Life-Saving Crew to the Rescue of the Imperiled at Sea 128
Burning of San Francisco 145
Ruined City That Rose From Its Ashes 145
The Wright Aeroplane in Conquest of the Air . . . 160
Death of Lieutenant Selfridge 160
Gunnison Canyon, Where the Engineers Began Their
Perilous Journey 193
Life-Raft in Gunnison Tunnel 193
Cavern Where Engineers Were Imprisoned .... 193
General Lawton in the Philippines 208
Army of Aguinaldo in the Philippines 208
Flight of General Israel Putnam 273
Susan B. Anthony, Who Gave Her Life to Emancipate
Womanhood 288
Surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown 445
XV
HERO TALES
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THE TALE OF THE MAN WITH A HEART BIG ENOUGH TO HOLD THE WORLD
This is the tale of a log cabin that made a man such as the world had never known; a man who rose from the forests to a palace within the hearts of a great people. It is a tale that makes one feel that there are greater riches than money, and that toil has its victories more glorious than war.
IT WAS in the days when Kentucky was a dense wilderness. The growl of the bear came from the hills, and the deer darted from the trails. Only here and there amid the forests were a few rough log-cabins.
The year was 1809 ; the day the twelfth of February. The smoke curled from the huge stone chimney. A woodsman stood in the door of a cabin. The morning was cold and frosty. He pulled his fur cap, made from the skins he had trapped, far down over his face as he started out along the trail. In about half an hour, he stood at the door of a neighboring cabin, two miles away, and pushing it open, drawled :
*' Nancy's got a boy-baby."
The years passed ; and soon that boy-baby was fish- ing in the creek, setting traps for rabbits and muskrats, and going on coon-hunts. One day a brace of par- tridges flew over his head, and across a stream over which led a foot-log. The little lad scrambled on to the log and was half-way across, when splash! he fell off into the creek. The water was about eight feet deep,
HERO TALES
and he could not swim. A boy comrade saw him sink to the bottom and shrieked in terror. Then, grabbing a stick, he thrust it into the water. As the drowning lad came to the surface, he clutched at the stick with both hands and clung to it. The comrade on the bank tugged with all the might in his small body and was almost pulled into the creek, when, with a desperate pull, the half-drowned lad was dragged on to the bank. His body was limp. The little comrade shook him violently and rolled him on the ground. The water poured from his mouth. Soon he began to choke and open his eyes, and, after his clothes were dried in the sun, he went home whistling.
The little lad was now seven years of age. His father loaded him on to a horse, with his sister and mother, and they moved to Indiana. There was no road, and during part of the way not even a foot-trail. The passage had to be cut with an ax. In the heart of the forest, in the neighborhood of Pigeon Creek, a camp was thrown up of rough, unhewn logs. This was their new home, and it had neither windows nor floors. The little lad slept on a heap of dry leaves in the corner of the loft, which he reached by climbing wooden pegs driven in the wall, and at times potatoes were the only food on the table.
In his tenth year came his first great sadness. His mother lay sick. There was no physician within thirty- five miles. She called her children to her bedside. Placing her feeble hands on the little lad's head, she whispered: ''Be good to one another. Be kind."
The poor mother was taken from the lowly cabin and buried under the trees, and the little fellow's heart was almost broken with grief.
The years in the wilderness passed with long days of labor, with the ax in the forest and the life of the
THE LOG-CABIN
woodsman, and soon the lad was nineteen years of age — a lank, rugged, swarthy youth, standing six feet four inches, and strong as a giant. In all his life he had not had more than a year's schooling, but he borrowed every book within fifty miles of his home and devoured its learning like a hungry child.
It was the custom in those days for a father to bind out his son to a farmer or tradesman. So it was that this youth was bound out at twenty-five cents a day. He was hostler, ploughman and ferryman ; he worked for a tavern-keeper and a butcher ; but his wages went to his father to whom he owed all his time until noon of his twenty-first birthday. He knew nothing about money, and when he received his first dollar for carry- ing some strangers across the river, it was the greatest riches that he ever expected to see.
"He would walk farther and work harder to get an old book," said one of the neighbors, "than any one else around him would walk or work to get a new dollar bill."
One newspaper came to the neighboring village. The youth would sit in the village store and read aloud to the villagers the news from the great world and the debates in Congress.
It was in the spring of 1830 that an ox-team rattled along the forests from Indiana to Illinois. Its wagon- wheels were round blocks of wood cut from the trunk of an oak tree with a hole in the center for an axle. There were no roads nor bridges. The driver of the ox-team was the gaunt, sad-faced youth, his coat ragged, his hat battered, and his trousers of torn and patched homespun. He was now twenty-two years old. His family were safe in Illinois. He helped build the new home, clear the fence for the new farm, and plant and harvest the first crop.
HERO TALES
''Father," he said, "I think I am old enough to take care of myself in the world."
''Go on, boy," said the father, "let's see what you can do for yourself."
The years that now passed were much like thosq that come to every American youth. There was the fight with poverty; the struggle to gain the first foot- hold; the mighty battle between the right and wrong; the decision between honesty and dishonesty; the con- quest of self — the battles that every American youth must fight to gain the heights of either manhood or womanhood.
In the midst of these years, the American people were burdened with a heavy problem. The custom of black slavery, that had existed since the first settlement of America, was falling into ill repute. Slowly it had been driven out of the North into the South, where cotton-fields and climate made it more profitable, and now a strong moral sentiment had been created against it. The country was aroused.
It was in the fall of 1858. A great throng had gath- ered in a little village in Illinois. Country folk had come the night before in wagons, on horseback and afoot, and their log-fires lit up the prairie as if it were an army in camp. Trains were bringing the crowds from Chicago and from the large eastern cities, as far as New York. The great problem of negro slavery was to be fought out in debate. The conflict was in the open air, the vast throng waiting in expectation. Before the crowd, on a raised platform, stood a little man, hardly five feet four inches tall, but with broad shoulders, a massive head, and a voice that deepened into a roar.
"I don't care whether slavery is to be voted up or voted down," shouted the little man, "I don't believe the negro is any kin of mine."
THE LOG-CABIN
His voice rang with denunciation of the attitude of the abolitionist. Half the crowd cheered wildly as he sat down after one of the greatest speeches ever deliv- ered in the defense of slavery and state-rights.
A tall, lank man arose, and came to the front of the platform. He was six feet four inches tall, his shoul- ders stooped, his clothing hung loosely on his awkward frame, and a long bony finger pointed at the crowd.
''Is slavery wrong?" he said, speaking solemnly. ' ' That is the real issue that will continue in this country when these poor tongues shall be silent. It is the eternal struggle between these two principles — right and wrong — throughout the world. Slavery is wrong, and should be abolished. To this cause I pledge myself until the sun shall shine, the rain shall fall, and the wind shall blow upon no man who goes forth to unrequited toil."
A roar of applause greeted the plain, vigorous words. The country was thrilled by the shafts of oratory. A new leader had come to carry the banner of freedom. As the months passed, the agitation reached fever-heat. Then a great campaign came — and at its close, the long, lank man of six feet four was raised to the leadership of the American people and elected to the Presidency — the "boy-baby" from the Kentucky cabin, the ungainly youth of the wilderness, the son of poverty who had left his home but a few years before to ''make his own living," was now President of the United States of America, the greatest nation on the face of the earth.
It was the eleventh of February, in 1861. He stood on the rear platform of the train that was to bear him from the little Illinois town in which for some years he had lived and practiced law, to the nation's capital at Washington. The neighbors gathered about his car
HERO TALES
to bid him farewell. The morning was chill and dreary, but they bared their heads in the falling snowflakes. He gazed at them for a moment. Then he removed his hat, and raised his hand for silence. His lips quivered and there was a tear on his cheek. His face was thin and sad.
''My friends," he said, the words choked with emotion, "no one not in my situation, can appreciate my feelings of sadness at this parting. To this place, and the kindness of these people, I owe everything. Here have I lived a quarter of a .century, and have passed from a young man to an old man. Here my children have been born, and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether I may ever return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him, I cannot succeed. With that assistance, T cannot fail. Trusting in Him, who can go with me, and remain with you, and be every- where for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To his care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affec- tionate farewell."
It was under an angry sky and with a heavy heart that the tall, lank man of the wilderness entered the White House. It was in the nation's hour of trial. The clouds of war had begun to gather, and, with the showers of April, broke in fury over the nation, threat- ening the destruction of the great republic of the western world.
''They have fired on Fort Sumter!"
The words rang across the continent. Tlie echo was heard around the world. The most heartrending struggle that ever engaged men of the same blood was now on; brother fighting brother; father fighting son;
—6—
THE LOG-CABIN
mothers praying for their boys — one in the uniform of the blue and the other wearing the gray; churches of the same faith appealing to God, each for the other's overthrow. Men speaking the same language and liv- ing for eighty-four years under the same flag now stood as deadly foes. America, a peace-loving nation, now aroused, became the greatest fighting force on the face of the globe.
''Capture the national capital! Burn the city! Seize the President !" These were the wild words that lay on the lips of sons of the founders of the republic, whose fathers had fought for American independence.
The awful hours in the White House can never be known. The tender heart of the tall, lank man upon whose shoulders had fallen the duty of fulfilling a nation's destiny, overflowed with love for all humanity and bled with anguish at the bloodshed of his people.
The battle-line crossed, as it were, the threshold of the White House, for the President was a Kentuckian by birth and many of his dearest friends were fighting under the flag of the Confederacy. As duty called his wife to lead a ball in honor of the Federal victory at Shiloh, one of her brothers, the darling of her heart, lay dead on that battlefield in the uniform of the gray, and another brother was dying at Vicksburg, as she listened to the shouts of rejoicing over the victory of the Federal arms. The sad man in the leadership of his people was often found in bitter tears over the brave death of some beloved friend in the uniform of gray as well as in the uniform of blue.
Duty lay heavily upon the great chieftain. He himself, must bring the blow of the crisis upon his nation. It was a New Year's Day, in 1863. The tall, lank man sat in his cabinet-room with a legal document before him. As he took up his pen his hand trembled.
HERO TALES
"I fear," he said, "as lie started to inscribe his name, "that posterity will look at this signature and say, 'He hesitated.' "
He rested his arm a moment and then wrote his name at the bottom of the document with much care. Then, examining his penmanship, he said, with a smile ; "That will do. If my name ever gets into history at all, it will be for this act. ' '
The news of the Emancipation Proclamation swept the country. By a stroke of the pen more than three million slaves were declared to be free. The nations of the earth were astounded.
The^republic was now in the worst convulsions of war, nearly four million Americans — boys of an average age of but nineteen years — wearing the blue and the gray, were throwing their lives into the can- non's mouth for the sake of whichever cause was dear to them.
The stroke of war is quick and sharp, but its issue is variable. Now it was the day of defeat, and now the day of victory. The American people upheld the tall, lank chieftain in the White House, and, in the midst of their dismay, re-elected him to the highest honor within their gift. The day of the second inaug- ural was rainy and gloomy, but as the beloved son of the Kentucky log-cabin stood with head bared to take the oath of allegiance to his nation, the sun burst through the clouds.
"Fellow-countrymen," began the inaugural ad- dress, "On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago, all thought was anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it; all sought to avert it. . . . But the war came. . . . Let us judge not, that we be not judged. . . . Fondly do we hope, feverishly do we pray, that this scourge of war may
THE LOG-CABIN
speedily pass away. Yet, if God will that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hun- dred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn from the lash shall be paid by another drawn from the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said: 'The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous alto- gether.' With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds ; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan ; to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations."
There were a few brief days. The news that rang through the country threw a nation into rejoicing.
''The was is over! The nation is saved! The great Lee has surrendered at Appomattox!"
Bells were pealing the glad tidings. The North was wild with joy. The people arose in triumph as the wave of exultation swelled the hearts of a continent. Then, like a flash of lightning from a clear sky, came the news that engulfed a nation in a tidal wave of grief.
"The President has been assassinated!"
All were stunned by these words, which were almost beyond belief. In the longed-for hour of triumph, its beloved leader had fallen by the hand of an assassin. Eage mingled with the sobs of a great people. The tall, lank youth from the Kentucky cabin, grown old with sorrows and burdens such as the world seldom brings to man, lay breathing his last precious moments away in Washington — struck down at the dawn of the age of peace and good-will which had so long been the one great desire of his heart.
Statesmen watched at his bedside as the giant
HERO TALES
strength of the man born in the woods met his last great battle — with death. Great generals, fresh from the carnage of the battle-ground, wept like children. The night was dismal. There was a raw, drizzling rain. Hour by hour the pulse of the dying man became weaker. It was Saturday morning — the fifteenth of April, in 1865. The hands of the clock pointed to twenty-two minutes after seven. The physician, aris- ing from the bedside, remarked hoarsely:
''The President is dead."
A statesman rising and looking into the sad face of the great chieftain whispered :
"Now he belongs to the ages."
And so he does — this man from the Kentucky cabin who had led his nation through its years of trial and brought it to its triumph. Grief stricken multitudes of more than a million people, bared their heads, their faces streaming with tears, as he was borne through the thoroughfares of the great metropolis, and carried to his home in Springfield, Illinois, where he had first gone after leaving his father's house to pass out into the world to try and make a living for himself. There, beside his old neighbors, was laid to rest the most beloved man in America, and with a heart big enough to hold the whole world — Abraham Lincoln.
"Thy task is done; the bond are free: We bear thee to an honored grave, Whose proudest monument shall be The broken fetters of the slave.
"Pure was thy life; its bloody close
Hath placed thee with the sons of light, Among the noble host of those Who perished in the cause of Right."
—10—
THE TALE OF THE STATESMAN WHO GAVE HIS LIFE TO A PRINCIPLE
This is the tale of a boy orator wlio held his hearers spell-bound and aroused in their hearts the spirit of patriotism. It is the tale of his wise counsel in the building of the Republic, his bravery In the war for independence and the courageous convictions that cost him his life.
THE story begins in the heated days before the Americans had issued to the world their Declaration of Independence. The spirit of revolt had aroused the country. Groups of villagers gathered at the public meeting places and denounced the King. Severest condemnation was directed against those who refused to participate in the demonstrations. They were branded as ''cowards." While those who were loyal to their mother country retaliated with the epithet of ''rebels."
It was the sixth day of July, in 1774. The men on the island of Manhattan, in the little city known as New York, were gathered in the northern fields of the town. Men with agitated gestures, expressed their opinions of the King, denouncing his taxation as imposition and tyranny. While others, with deliberation and calm- ness, urged them to be more considerate of the Crown, and advised them to be more guarded in their threats. "Shall we stand by our sister colonies and demand justice, or shall we let England keep us shackled like slaves?"
—11—
HERO TALES
This was the temper of the meeting. The towns- people gathered about the speakers as they appealed for their sympathies. Violence of tongue was greater than that of deed, however, and throughout the inter- rupted speeches there seemed to be no tendency toward decisive action.
One by one the listeners were leaving and returning to their labors, and the assemblage was about to ad- journ. A tall, clean-cut lad of seventeen years of age, arose. He spoke with calmness and deliberation, but his words burned with honor and reason. His quiet, convincing manner hushed the gathering into silence.
*'Who is this boy that has such mastery of the con- ditions and whose words fill our hearts with the desire to do great things?" was the question on the minds of the listeners.
The youthful orator held his hearers spell-bound. His patriotic eloquence kindled the fire of patriotism in their hearts.
''New York will stand with the states!"
This was the decision of that moment, and New York pledged herself to the fight for liberty.
Soon, the rumble of the drum and the shrill of the fife echoed across Manhattan Island. Seated on horseback, at the head of a company which he had organized, was this same youth, now nineteen years of age, ready to go to war. His gallant men were soon sweeping on to White Plains, and later across Long Island. His coolness on the battle-line attracted the admiration of Washington, and he was soon made a member of the great general's staff, following him to Yorktown, where he laid down his sword, after a bril- liant military career.
He was now but a youth — twenty-four years of age — and life was just beginning for him. He studied law
—12—
THE STATESMAN
so that he might better enter into the moulding of the policies of the new nation. These first days of the republic were more critical even than those of the war had been. At times, even brave men felt like giving up the whole experiment, but in the lowest moment of despair, the figure of this young giant of intellect and power arose and carried his country to triumph. He sat in the cabinet of Washington, the first president of the new republic, and framed the financial policy of the nation which has to-day become the strongest financial power in the world. He organized its banking system. He fought the great Jefferson in political debates greater even than war. The two brilliant leaders quar- reled incessantly. A few months later found him again on the battle-line in the supx^ression of the Whisky Insurrection, and later standing between the new re- public and Prance when war seemed imminent. The great Washington counselled with him in the prepara- tion of his farewell address to his people. Great politi- cal doctrines were absorbing the nation. With many of them this man could not agree, and he stood many times alone in upholding the principles which, accord- ing to his heart and reason, were the ones.
It was early in July in 1804. The statesman who was in the height of his career of glory, but whose greatest usefulness to his nation had only just begun, clasped his wife to his arms and kissed her. The woman sobbed convulsively, but he comforted her with words of duty and honor, admonishing her to care for their beloved children. The moral heroism of this man had brought him into many tests of manhood, but this was the supreme test of all.
The custom of the times was forcing him to fight against his own principles, to do that which he deplored, but which he believed his honor demanded.
—13—
HERO TALES
The day was the eleventh of the month. The sun dawned warm and bright on the heights of Weehawken. Two boats crept along the Hudson and nestled to the shore. Several men landed at the foot of the ledge; men whose faces were familiar to the eyes of the nation and whose names were constantly on their lips. Two of the men hurried to the seclusion beneath the ledge. They stood for a moment facing each other. Each in his hand held a pistol.
''Are you ready?" asked a stern voice.
' ' We are ! ' ' replied both men firmly.
*' Present!" commanded the stern voice.
The younger of the men paused an instant; took deliberate aim — and fired.
The other man convulsively raised himself upon his toes, and fell forward upon his face, his pistol ex- ploding as he did so, and the bullet whizzing high through the foliage of the trees.
The report of the pistol brought a doctor and sev- eral companions to the spot. The man who had fired the fatal shot was hurried to the boat. The man who had been wounded was lifted to a sitting posture. He had been struck in the right side.
' ' This is a mortal wound, ' ' he gasped and fell into a swoon.
They lifted him in their arms and bore him tenderly to the river bank. His wandering eyes looked into their faces.
"My vision is indistinct," he whispered.
As his eyes fell upon his pistol, he spoke excitedly.
"Take care of that pistol," he said. "It is un- discharged and still cocked. It may go off and do harm."
Then he turned his head to the faithful friend who had acted as his second in the tragic event.
—14^
THE STATESMAN
*'He knows," he exclaimed, ''that I did not intend to fire!"
He bade them to send for his wife.
*'Let my condition be gradually broken to her; but — give her hopes."
The news of the tragedy aroused the nation.
"The greatest statesman of the republic is gone!" were the words that were heralded by horseman and stage, by messenger and neighbor, from village to village and house to house. Political antagonists, who had feared him, appeared to rejoice, but the masses of the people arose against them, for they were overcome with grief.
Throughout the day the great statesman lingered in intense suffering. His wife and children were at Tiis couch. Again and again, he sought consolation for them in his implicit faith in God, and his love for his fellow-men.
"I want it said," he directed, "that I had no ill-will against Colonel Burr. I met him with a fixed resolu- tion to do him no harm. I forgive all that happened."
Then he became weaker; the pain abated. He clasped the hand of his wife and held it to his lips.
"Eemember, my Eliza," he whispered. "You are a Christian. ' '
'' Alexander Hamilton is dead!"
The throngs that had lingered for hours about the bulletin-boards of the newspaper offices in the larger cities mingled rage and execration with grief and sobs. The city was not now a safe place for Aaron Burr, the man who had fired the fatal shot, although he fled for his life, never to regain his former position in the hearts of his countrymen. It was charged, that through taunts affecting his honor, he had led the great states- man into the duel ; that he had known that it was against
HERO TALES
his principles, but that he had hounded him into the fatal tragedy.
This is the story of Alexander Hamilton, the mag- netic boy-orator, the cavalry leader, the aide to Wash- ington, the secretary of his treasury, the most hated political rival of Jefferson in the first days of the re- public, and the enemy of the political doctrines repre- sented by Aaron Burr. It is the tale of Alexander Hamilton, the most brilliant statesman of his time, whose unselfish levotion to his country and whose heroism, even to the last tragic day of his life, are not excelled in the annals of the nations.
"In toil he lived; in peace he died; When life's full cycle was complete, Put off his robes of power and pride, And laid them at his Master's feet.
"His rest is by the storm-swept waves
Whom life's wild tempests roughly tried. Whose heart was lilj;e the streaming caves Of ocean, throbbing at his side.
"Death's cold white hand is like the snow Laid softly on the furrowed hill. It hides the broken seams below, And leaves the summit brighter still.
"In vain the envious tongue upbraids; His name a nation's heart shall keep Till morning's latest sunlight fades On the blue tablet of the deep!"
—16—
THE NEW YO«K ' PUBLIC L15*IARY
AP3-OR, LBINOX TJLDEN FOUNDATICTNS
THE TALE OF THE AMERICAN FLAG IN THE SNOWS OF CANADA
This is tine tale of the soldiers who carried the flag of liberty against the Gibraltar of the New World; who tried to plant the Stars and Stripes on the citadel of the great donninion. It is a tale of a man who died for his adopted country, but will live forever in the hearts of Americans.
IT WAS in the years when America first became known as the land of opportunity. Thousands of courageous men were breaking their home-ties in the Old World and coming to the New World to seek fortune and happiness. Men of royal blood and large estates were joining the pilgrimage to the New America. It was the domain of the British King, and many of his court-favorites took up leases of land in the colonies across the sea. To protect their interests from the envy and aggression of other Old- Wo rid powers, the King sent his soldiers to the Western Hemisphere.
It was a day in 1757. A ship bearing the King's soldiers was coming into port. Among the brave men who landed from it on the new shores was a young lad, twenty-one years of age, with strong Irish features. In the north, the French were harassing the English col- onists. The British soldiers were hurried from their ship to the borders.
On the second of June, in the following year, ten thousand of the King's men stood before the fortress at Louisburg in Canada, and stormed the citadel.
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HERO TALES
Under terrific fire, fighting surf and cannon, ship and army, for fifty-five days, the French stronghold was besieged, until the French ships were in flames or cap- tured, half the garrison were wounded or dead, and the strongest military j3oint in America was in the hands of the British.
On the British firing-line stood this young Irish lad, fighting with the courage and persistence which have made his race famous. Two years later, as the British stormed Montreal, this same Irish lad stood in the ranks. Year after year, he followed the fortunes of his flag in many countries, but in his heart he loved best the new land — America.
"I will give up fighting," he resolved, ** and go to America to spend the rest of my days."
So in 1772, he sold his commission and returned to America. He settled on a large farm overlooking the Hudson, and married, leading the life of an American colonist.
Three years later, when liberty was the great po- litical issue, this retired British soldier stood on the floor of the Provincial Congress in New York. His heart was true to the flag under which he had so gal- lantly fought, but he loved, too, the spirit of freedom which is inherent in his race. The stroke for inde- pendence was a daring one. The young American must depend upon the spirit of its cause rather than the strength of armies.
"Will you accept a commission'as brigadier-general in the American army?" asked a revolutionary leader of this retired British soldier.
He hesitated between love and duty.
''The will of any oppressed people compelled to choose between liberty and slavery," he exclaimed, "must be obeved!"
—18—
THE AMERICAN FLAG
It was now the autumn of 1775. The lines of the Continental army were drawn up before the great Eng- lish stronghold of Montreal, in an attempt to effect the conquest of Canada. In command of the American army was the British soldier, who, fifteen years before had stood on the same fighting-ground under the flag against which he now led an army, and had forced it to surrender to the ensign of liberty, which he was now carrying to victory.
*'We have captured Montreal," he said to his com- rades, "but till Quebec is taken, Canada is uncon- quered."
It was then November, and the weather was very severe. Food and ammunition were giving out. Many soldiers, unwilling to face starvation, deserted. Some of the officers declared that not a man would ever return to the colonies alive.
"Till Quebec is taken, Canada is unconquered, " was the constant retort of the undaunted general, and with but three hundred soldiers remaining he pushed on over the frozen ground and drifting snows.
The morning of the first of December dawned. Far over the hills could be seen the snow-covered forms of moving men. Nearer and nearer they came, until they were within hailing distance. The shout that went up from the brave band of three hundred men rang through the snow-clad forests. Eelief had come. There, before them, stood six hundred sturdy Americans, who through trackless forests and snow-bound mountains had marched to the rescue of the heroes of Montreal.
The two generals clasped hands, and General Robert Montgomery, the hero of Montreal and the ex-British soldier, now the leader of the faithful three hundred under the flag of independence, looked into the face of Benedict Arnold, who with his daring six
—19—
HERO TALES
hundred had performed one of the bravest marches in the American Eevolution.
The entire force, now under General Montgomery, numbered about nine hundred. But the real effective strength of his army was considerably less. The ter- rible cold of the Canadian winter benumbed and para- lyzed them; their food was insufficient; sickness broke out. But worse than all — many of the discouraged soldiers became mutinous. The British, who were de- fending Quebec, were warmly housed and comfortably clothed. In their desperation some of the famished, half-frozen Americans deserted to the enemy.
The city of Quebec looked out over the St. Lawrence River, from its rocky, precipitous bluff — the Gibraltar of the Western Hemisphere. But fifteen years before, the British flag had been carried up the sheer walls of that cliff by a man who had fought side by side at Louisburg under the same colors with the general who now was to risk his life to unfurl the new American flag over the coveted stronghold.
It was two o'clock in the morning of the last day of 1775. There was a pelting hail-storm. In the black- ness^ of the night, shielding their faces from the bitter, stinging hail, and holding their coat-lapels over their guns to keep the priming dry, the American soldiers moved forward.
A volley burst from the guns of the fortification.
* ' Men of New York, ' ' shouted Montgomery in front of his troops, "You will not fear to follow where your general leads. March on, brav© boys! Quebeo Es ours ! ' '
The echo of the artillery died away for a moment. The body of General Mongomery lay dead in the snow, the words of courage still on his lips.
The American soldiers staggered under the terrific —20—
THE AMERICAN FLAG
fire. The artillery thundered. Benedict Arnold, lead- ing his division, fell wounded but held command of his men.
The American soldiers, after a last desperate effort, fled in retreat. The British flag still waves, even to this day, over the citadel of Quebec, and visitors to the city as they drive along the river are shown the rock where the dauntless Montgomery attempted to plant the American flag when he fell on that bitter winter day in
1775.
The epaulets of the brigadier-general were placed on the daring Arnold, but far better had it been if he, too, had given his life on that heroic day, as years later found him selling his country for a mess of pottage, and, as he died a fugitive from his country and held in infamy, these words of a broken heart were on his lips :
''Let me die in the old uniform in which I fought my battles for freedom. May God forgive me for put- ting on any other. ' '
"The muffled drum's sad roll Las beat
The soldier's last tattoo! No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread; And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
"Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished age hath flown.
The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb."
—21—
THE TALE OF THE INDIAN SLAVE GIRL WHO UNLOCKED THE NORTHWEST
This is tlie tale of the Indian slave girl who led civilization into new and untrodden paths and opened to the world the wealth of the Great Northwest. It is the tale of a savage mother who piloted the first white nnen across the continent to the Pacific and revealed to them a new world of opportunity.
EVEN though we hear little of the lives of these first American women, it does not mean necessarily that no acts of heroism were ever enacted by them. Forced into the back- ground by their despotic masters, they had not much opportunity to show the nobility of their characters. There was one, however, whose light was too strong to **be hid under a bushel." The achievement of this Indian woman has come down through the past century, and to-day splendid monuments are being erected to her memory throughout the western country.
It was a full hundred years ago that the tribe of Indians, known to history as the Shoshones, made their home a little west of the Rocky Mountains ; or, as the range was called by them, the "Bitter Root Moun- tains." Here it was that Sacajawea, and her little friends played their childish games, with no thought of anything outside of their own lives. It was not always play-time even among those children; from infancy they were taught to labor with their hands, and their education in other respects was not neglected. At a
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THE INDIAN SLAVE GIRL
surprisingly early age, they became skilled in the use of the bow, and they were sent into the forest to gather herbs and roots, for medicine and food.
One day, into this peaceful valley, without warning, the powerful Minnetarees, or Blackfeet, tribe swept down in battle array. Devastation followed in their wake. Many of the Shoshones were killed and many were carried away into captivity. Among the captives was little Sacajawea. Away over the mountains she was borne into the far, far east. Naturally alert and observing, the little maid absorbed every incident of this new experience, so that in after years, when trav- eling back over this same country, she was able to recognize most of the landmarks on the way.
Sacajawea was sold as a slave when she reached the east. A French Canadian, named Charboneau, who was an Indian interpreter, bought her when she was only five years old. When she was fourteen he made her his wife, and a year later a son was born to her.
It was about this time that American explorers were looking toward the great, mysterious region in the Far West. They believed that it was a land of great wealth, and they longed to plant the American flag on its moun- tains. Men called them foolhardy and said that it was a worthless jungle of forests and rocks and beasts; that it was not worth the risk of life it would take to survey it.
But there were two explorers — Lewis and Clarke — who were willing to undertake it. Shortly after start- ing on their hazardous journey, they entered the little Indian village of Mandan. There they found Char- boneau, who could talk many tongues. Their eyes fell also upon the little Indian mother, Sacajawea. Charboneau told them that his Indian wife knew the
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HERO TALES
whole country, and was a natural guide. Sacajawea, in her native tongue, told them how she knew the trails ; how she could take them through country, never before traveled by the feet of white men ; and how she could show them the beauties of the land of her birth, with its towering blue mountains, capped with snow, and its golden valleys, its gorges and rivers, its glittering sands, and its thousand and one beauties that have since given it the name of the ''Garden of the Gods."
"We will go with you," said Charboneau and Sacajawea.
And so it was that when that expedition, which opened up the western domain of America, started on the most perilous portion of its journey, Sacajawea was the guide and Charboneau the interpreter. Sacajawea strapped her two months' old baby on her shoulders, and carried him in this snug pocket throughout the en- tire journey. She was the only woman in the party and she rendered vital service to the explorers.
Into the heart of the wilderness they plunged. When all signs of human life were left far behind them, and there were none to beckon them onward, then it was that the native instinct of this woman came to their assistance, and the great explorers were willing and thankful to throw themselves upon her guidance. At times sickness or starvation seemed imminent. Then Sacajawea would go into the woods, where in secret she gathered herbs to cure each ailment ; or dug roots, from which she prepared savory dishes for their meals.
The men marveled at the courage and ingenuity of this faithful pilot. Burdened though she was with the care of the young child, she never seemed to feel fatigue. No complaint ever escaped her lips. Patient, plucky, and determined, she was a constant source of inspira- tion to the explorers.
—24—
THE INDIAN SLAVE GIRL
The baby laughed and cooed as the wonders of the world were revealed to it. With all its mother's fear- lessness, it swung calmly on her faithful back while she climbed over jagged precipices and forded swiftly running rivers.
One day a little incident occurred, which illustrates the true character of this Indian woman. While mak- ing their way along one of the rivers, her husband, in a clumsy attempt to readjust things, overturned the canoe containing every article necessary for the jour- ney. Without a moment's hesitation Sacajawea plunged into the river, risking her own life and that of the infant strapped to her. Clothing, bundles, and many valuable documents of the expedition were thus rescued. If these things had been lost, the party would have been obliged to retrace its steps hundreds of miles, in order to replace them. This is, indeed, the heroisni that makes history. The alertness of Sacajawea 's native instinct, and her faithful kindness worked inestimable benefit to our nation. In gratitude for her great services, the explorers named after her the next river that they discovered.
"^ Some months later, scenes began to take on a familiar aspect to Sacajawea, and she showed signs of elation. She pointed out old landmarks which indi- cated that she was nearing her old home. They at last pitched their camp where years before, as a little child, she had been taken captive. Here she soon found old friends, and to her unspeakable delight she discovered among them her own brother. Wrapped closely in his arms, she sobbed out all the sorrow which had been bound up in her heart for so many years. From him she learned that all of her family had died, except two of her brothers and a son of her eldest sister.
Sacajawea was at home again. Now and then little —25—
HERO TALES
snatches of songs of contentment reached the ears of the members of the great expedition. They might naturally have thought that now it would not be easy for the girl to attend them on their westward journey. But if they entertained this fear, they misjudged Sacajawea. She never flinched from her first intention, and cheerfully left her long-lost friends to plunge once more into the unbroken and unknown forests beyond the Rockies. The solitude was enough to shake a strong man's courage. Never a sound was to be heard except the dismal, distant howl of wild beasts and occasionally the war-cry of savages, but Sacajawea did not falter.
Thus they plodded overland, ever westward until the end of the journey drew near. They made a camp inland, leaving Sacajawea in its protection, and then pushed to the coast.
''It is the Pacific!" they cried at last.
In their enthusiasm, the explorers forgot the brave Sacajawea. They talked of the Pacific in the camp, but did not allow her to go to the coast until she pleaded with them to let her gaze upon the waters, to behold which she had made the long journey.
Then she was satisfied. She had seen the ''great waters" and the "fish," as she called the whale which spouted on its heaving bosom.
It was an epoch-making journey, in which the path was blazed by a woman. It rivaled the great explora- tions of Stanley and Livingstone in daring, and far exceeded them in importance. It was an expedition that moved the world along ; that pushed the boundary of the United States from the Mississippi to the Pacific ; that gave us the breadth of the continent from ocean to ocean; that command of its rivers and harbors, the wealth of its mountains, plains and valleys — a dominion vast enough for the ambitions of kings.
THE TALE OF THE ROUGH RIDERS WHO CARRIED THE FLAG TO VICTORY
This is the tale of the Rough Riders and the inspiration of a man who led more than a thou- sand other men in a charge of triumph. It is a tale that recalls the ancient days of chivalry and yet so modern that he who reads these lines may have been one of the heroes under the Stars and Stripes.
SPAIN, once a great world-power, and once the birth-place of daring and adventurous men, was engaged in war with a younger, but more powerful nation, a nation which its own genius had revealed to the world, the United States of Am- erica. The Island of Cuba, in the West Indies, long a Spanish dependency, was the first scene of active warfare.
Traditions of Spain's unjust taxation and shocking cruelties had come down through the generations. The native Cubans had been in a state of intermittent- rebellion for many years, dreaming of the attainment of their independence — but their few volunteer patriots had been powerless against the trained soldiers of the ancient Spanish dynasty.
The eyes of the world were on this unequal struggle. Appeals to Spain to be more humane and just to her helpless subjects were unheeded. The Cubans had turned with arms uplifted in supplication for assistance to the young republic of the Western Continent — the nation that little more than a hundred years before had
—27—
HERO TALES
thrown off the yoke of British thraldom and unfurled the standard of liberty to the world.
The young republic had heard the cry, and its sol- diers and sailors were carrying the Stars and Stripes to the oppressed island of the tropical seas.
The war had continued for some time. The United States army, contending with strange conditions and pest-ridden swamps, had taken up the cause of hu- manity with the same spirit that had made their own early struggle for freedom one of the most notable in the annals of mankind. The unorganized patriots of the island had thrown the burden of the war upon the trained soldiers who marched under the Ensign of Liberty.
It was an exceedingly hot day on the first of July, in 1898, even for this tropical country. The American army of invasion stood in front of El Caney and San Juan.
The soldiers had lain for hours in the fever-laden air of the jungle, awaiting the order to advance on San Juan, the key to Santiago, where the final blow of the war was to be struck. The tropical sun beat down on the regiments of restless men, willing and eager to unlock the strategic doors that led to the path to final victory or heroic defeat.
There were the United States regulars, disciplined by years of training under the greatest military leaders of the age. There were the men recruited from the militia, who had heard the call to arms and had offered their lives to aid in freeing Cuba from Spanish despotism. But strangest among them was a division of unmounted cavalrymen, the like of whom had never before been seen on a battle-line. They were men not used to war upon mankind, but to the clearing of the wilderness for civilization; men who had swept the
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THE ROUGH RIDERS
Southwest with the lasso and driven the buffalo from the prairies, — whose bronzed faces spoke no fear and whose hearts had never known defeat, who were to make the desperate charge against Old Spain. These men, who had conquered the western hills and valleys, were now eager to conquer an old-world power, and to plant the flag of freedom on the palm-covered hills of unhappy Cuba. Among these ''cow-punchers," and "rangers," were many so-called "society men," the sons of rich Americans who had tired of the tame- ness of luxurious city life, and had learned to love the heart of the plains.
In command, was a strong, bronzed man, whose personality breathed courage, and whose face was lined with determination. He had long known the plains, for he had gone to them many years before, in order to gain from nature its health and robustness.
"You've got to perform without flinching whatever duty is assigned to you, regardless of its difficulty or danger. No matter what comes, you must not squeal ! ' '
These were the homely words with which he had inspired them until they were restless for an oppor- tunity for hard and daring deeds.
At day-break, the boom of the cannon and the echo of the rifles along the valley, had aroused the fighting men. The cavalry, dismounted, had advanced up the valley from the hill of El Pozo, fording several streams, where they were under fire and lost heavily. They were now deployed at the foot of the series of hills known as San Juan, under a sharp fusilade from all sides, which was exceedingly effective, because the enemy could not be discerned, owing to the long range and smokeless powder. Nearer and nearer had come the fire until all along the line from El Caney the hot blaze of the Mauser bullets flashed from the trenches.
—29—
HERO TALES
The commander of the force, at the foot of San Juan, strode up and down his line, and with a hearty ' ' Steady, boys," he held their eager spirits in check until the final command should come to charge the hill.
The suspense of lying still under the terrific fire while other regiments were in action, was almost beyond endurance. One by one the minutes dragged slowly by, each one meaning another sacrifice to Spanish bullets.
An officer, mounting a fiery horse, swung along the line and halted beside the commander. A stirring in the ranks of the men showed that they realized the import of the message. It did not need the order from their colonel's lips to tell them that their moment had come. The joy in his face told its own story.
The command to advance ran along the line. Under steady formation they moved to the clearing in front of them. A sudden dash and they were across to the sheltering jungle beyond. The fire of the Spaniards had been accurate and several brave plainsmen never reached the shelter of the woods, but lay wounded or dead in the glare of the sun. The death of their com- rades only served to increase the desire of the rest to get close to their foes at the top of that long stretch of hill. The approach was commanded by a block-house and trenches filled with Spanish soldiers, armed with the most modern and deadly of guns. From their posi- tion on the crest of this long, steep hill, they could sweep the oncoming soldiers with a terrific hail of bullets and shell.
All the obstacles which the ingenuity of modern war- fare could devise, had been thrown in their path. Now they were tripped and gashed by the thongs that had been cunningly strung along the hill. Now they were cutting their wav through barbed wire and over pointed
—30—
THE ROUGH RIDERS
stakes. The storm of bullets was rapidly thinning their ranks.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon. The brave plainsmen had been under fire for two hours, when, by slow, painful advances under withering volleys, the brow of the hill was reached.
Suddenly, the heroic officer of the command, a hun- dred feet in advance of his men, disappeared. But soon he was up again and shouting harder than ever, as he urged his men on ! His horse had been shot from under him, but he had disentangled himself and was soon again in the midst of this rain of steel, on foot, cheering and waving his sword, undaunted by the loss which had brought him so close to death. When his horse had been struck, he had himself been wounded in the hand. He looked at it for a moment. Then, whipping out his handkerchief, he bound it about the bleeding member. Holding it up and waving it above his head at the soldiers, he cried :
"See here, boys; I've got it, too!"
The fire was deadly. The Americans, unable to see their foes, who were concealed behind the entrench- ments and in a blockhouse, could not return the fire. Some of the officers suggested that it would be well to fall back and leave the blockhouse in possession of the Spaniards.
The commander grasped at his pistol.
"You can fall back if you want to," he said, "but my men will hold it till the last man dies."
"Win or die," was the slogan that rang through the lines.
The sight was magnificent.
A yell like that of madmen ! Then the commander dashed into a hail of bullets, cheering as if possessed with demons.
—31—
HERO TALES
' ' San Juan is ours I ' '
The shout rang along the hills and vibrated through the valleys. The gallant Spaniards, losing heart at the sight of this courageous assault, were deserting their posts and fleeing down the other side of the hill.
The door to victory was unlocked, and on the mor- row the last stand before Santiago would be made.
The news of the victory swept across the island, bringing joy to the hearts of the struggling Cubans, who now saw the dawn of freedom. It thrilled the patriotic heart of every American as it swept through the states. It brought dismay to the throne of Spain.
This is the tale of the Eoosevelt Bough Eiders. A sturdier body of men never followed a flag.
This is the story of the brave deeds of Theodore Eoosevelt, which made him the hero of his people, and the memory of which raised him to the governorship of his state, and the vice-presidency of his nation. Thence, through the assassination of the good McKinley, he became President of the United States, and finally was elected to the Presidency for a second term by the tremendous voice of the nation. He has fought the subtle foes of dishonesty in high places, and the greed which robs the people, with even more of valor than he displayed on San Juan hill.
"Glorious flag of liberty!
Law and Love revealing, All the downcast turn to thee,
For thy help appealing. In the front for human right,
Flash thy stars of morning."
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Tk'E NEW yotJC PUBLIC LiS^.ARY
.-..IONS
THE TALE OF THE FIRST AMERICAN FLEET TO CHALLENGE THE SEAS
This Is the tale of the Yankee ships that first carried the flag of liberty to the gates of the Old World, flaunting its warning in the face of tyranny and defying the strength of monar^hial power to lower the colors
i that proclainned to the world the dawn of a new age and a new people.
IT WAS in the year of 1779. During the revolu- tionary war. The colonists had met with varying success on land, sometimes driving the English in utter rout, oftentimes themselves driven head- long from the battlefield.
On the seas, the poor little American privateers, schooners and merchant ships, in fact anything that would float and carry a crew and a few small cannon, contested with the larger ships of the powerful King's navy, and, through the bravery of commander and crew, bore off many of the British ships as prizes.
It was the twenty-third of September. A squadron of five small American vessels were cruising off the coast of England, under the flagship BonJiomme Richard, an old East Indiaman merchant ship, long since condemned as unseaworthy. The ship had been sold to be broken up. The Americans had obtained her and after patching up her rotten hulk, mounted forty guns and set her afloat as a ship of war.
In the Baltic sea, the daring commander of the American ships, spied a fleet of British merchantmen,
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HERO TALES
couvoyed by two new frigates, the Serapis and the Countess of Scarborough. Sails were set and the American ships filed away toward the English vessels. It was half -past seven in the evening. The Bonhomme Richard drew within range. Dusk was settling over the water.
The American sailors, stationed at the guns behind the high bulwarks, and imbued with the enthusiasm and energy of their intrepid commander, eagerly awaited the order to fire. The British sailormen were just as anxious for the fray, believing that the worth- less American ships would be easy prey for their fine frigates.
A flash of flame, followed by a crash, and an English broadside had opened the battle. Broadside after broadside shattered the peaceful quiet of the autumn night.
Three of the American ships held off and did not take part in the l^attle, leaving the brave commander with his rotten ships, and one other little vessel equally unfit, to bear the brunt of the fearful fire of the power- ful British vessels.
At almost the first broadside, the Bonhomme Rich- ard's eighteen-pounders burst, spreading death and destruction around them. Gun after gun blew up, doing more damage to the Americans than the English shells wrought.
With her guns crippled, unable to respond with effect to the storm of British shot, the brave captain realized that his only hope of victory was to close in on the Serapis and grapple hand to hand with cutlass and pistol.
Up in the rigging of the Bonhomme Richard were agile sailors, and, when the two ships came together with a rasping crash, they threw their grappling irons
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THE FIRST FLEET
into the British ship's rigging and lashed the two vessels together.
Instantly, a line of furious Americans, led by their doughty captain, scrambled on to the decks of the Eng- lish ship and a fearful struggle followed with pike, cutlass and pistol. The English commander rallied his men. With a cheer, he drove the boarders back on to the deck of the sinking, shot-riddled Bonhomme Richard.
The American ship was now in a fearful condition. Her rigging was hanging in bits and her hull was a pulp. Water was pouring in through her gashes, flood- ing the lower decks. The American flag had been shot away, but the British colors were still flying.
The British captain hailed the American captain.
"Have you struck your colors?" he* asked.
"I have not begun to fight," was the defiant reply of the brave American, and with renewed courage- the American sailors swept over the side of the Serapis, rushing the British along the deck, stubbornly resisting every inch, down the hatchways.
The words of the brave commander will ever thrill the American, as they thrilled and inspired the* almost defeated American sailors in that memorable moment and sent them on to victory.
The English, disheartened by the heroic and daunt- less spirit of their enemies, with aching hearts were forced to pull down the King's flag and surrender.
The havoc wrought in the action was fearful. The English decks were littered with the bodies of the dead and wounded. The Bonhomme Richard was shot to pieces ; her rigging was a mass of wreckage ; her hull was riddled like a sieve ; her torn and gashed decks were so thickly strewn with bodies and wreckage that it was with difficulty that the sailors could find a place to walk.
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HERO TALES
The American ship was wallowing about in the waves as the water poured through the holes in her sides.
The captain ordered that all the wounded and prisoners be transferred to the captured English ship. When all were on board he sailed for Holland with his prisoners, while his own ship filled with water and sank to the bottom of the sea.
It was some years later that the captain, who had lost his ship and won a victory, passed away in poverty in France.
More than a century later, grateful citizens of the United States placed his remains on board a modern warship and conveyed them to the United States, where, with great military pomp they were interred in the National cemetery. Thus was tardy honor paid to the memory of the great naval hero, who when his ship was sinking had "just begun to fight" — John Paul Jones.
"All honor to our flag, for which our fathers fought and died; On many a blood-stained battlefield, on many a gory sea, The flag has triumphed, ever more triumphant may it be. And since again, 'mid shot and shell, its folds must be unfurled, God grant that we may keep it unstained before the world. All hail the flag we love, may it victorious ever fly, And hats ofC along the line, when Freedom's flag goes by."
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THE TALE OF THE PHYSICIAN WHO ADDED THREE STARS TO THE FLAG
This is the tale of a physician who traveled fourthousand miles through six months of blizzard and hunger to add three stars to the Amer- ican flag, who tracked his way through a savage wilderness to give Incalculable riches, greatness and glory to the American Union.
IT WAS not long ago — indeed, it is within the memory of men now living — and yet the Great Northwest beyond the Rockies was little known to the American people. That sncli a wilderness could ever become a habitable country was ridiculed by the public. Statesmen stood on the floor of Congress and declared it valueless to civilization.
"It is not worth a pinch of snuff ! ' ' declared one.
"It is useful only as a place to which rogues and scoundrels can be banished," shouted another.
"I thank God that He made the Rocky Mountains an impassable barrier to a country as irreclaimable and barren as the desert of Sahara," exclaimed a third, while the great Daniel Webster was for bartering it away in exchange for some little Canadian fishing con- cession, unaware that he was trading an empire for a mere toy.
It was while this discussion was agitating states- men, that two men from the East created a sensation by stating that they intended to marry and take their brides to this barren wilderness. The friends of the
HERO TALES
brides protested, but without avail, for they, too, had become interested in this unexplored domain, and were willing to cast their lot in its wilds.
It was in 1836 when this hazardous wedding trip engaged the curiosity of the people. The grooms were a young missionary physician, named Marcus Whit- man, and his friend, also a missionary, the Reverend Henry Spaulding. Their brides were young women who were interested in the Christianization of the world, and in carrying the banner of American civiliza- tion to the furthest outposts of the continent.
It was many months later when the first message was received from the missionaries to the Great North- west. It said that the bridal parties had arrived safely; that the new country was beautiful beyond compare, and abundant in its fruits and rich bounties. They had taught the red men of the Northwest to plough and plant, and three hundred acres had been cleared, while two hundred were already under culti- vation, and were planted with grains and vegetables and fruits. Still, practical statesmen would not believe that the experiment would be successful, for they were satisfied that no seed could be profitably grown in that waste and mountainous country.
One day the young physician of the wilderness was ministering to the Indians and traders that had gath- ered at the post of the Hudson Bay Company, when he fell into discussion with a young Canadian priest who had recently come from civilization.
*'Sir," said the priest, ''have you heard the news?"
''I have not," said the doctor; "is it good news?"
' ' Your country is to turn over this whole domain to the British government, and it is to be colonized by my own Canadians."
**Is that true?" asked the doctor, incredulously. —38—
THE PHYSICIAN
* *I have it at first hand," said the priest. "It comes from those who are connected with your own govern- ment. The agreement is called the Ashburton Treaty. It is being prepared and will soon be signed."
The doctor, who loved the American flag as he did life itself, passed thoughtfully along the trail to his forest home. The silence was broken only by the twi- light song of the Oregon robin and the distant howl of the wolf. He entered his cabin with determination in his face.
"I am going to the East," he said to his wife. **I must start at once!"
*'When?" asked his wife in surprise.
''To-morrow," he answered firmly. "My country is about to renounce this whole rich domain. It must not be. I must hurry to Washington!"
It was on the second day of October, 1842, that Dr. Whitman bade good-bye to his beloved ones, and, with General Lovejoy and a guide, was soon scaling the mountain passes that led toward the Southwest. The heroic journey to save the Great Northwest to the American flag had begun. Four thousand miles and a long winter were before them. Tribes of hostile Indians drove them from their path to the south; packs of wolves set upon them ; hunger threatened their lives ; the winter storms beset them ; snow drifted, until mountains and passes became impassable barriers.
One night as they traveled ceaselessly, not daring to lose an hour, for fear that the fatal treaty might be signed before the four thousand miles could be con- quered, a terrific snow storm fell upon them, raging into a blinding blizzard — and the travelers became totally lost. The courageous doctor, fearing that the end was near, fell to his knees in the storm and prayed. He knew that the instinct of an animal was generally
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HERO TALES
safe, so he turned loose the old pack mule. The animal wandered back to the camp where they had rested the night before. They followed him and here they waited until the storm was over.
Starvation now threatened them, and the faithful mule was slain to keep them alive. Then famine again faced them, and they were forced to kill and devour the dog that guarded their camp while they rested at night.
At last, General Lovejoy and the guide refused to go any farther.
"The journey is impossible," they declared. "It means sure death. No human being can get to Wash- ington in the face of such obstacles as these. ' '
And so it was that at Fort Bent, the courageous doctor bade farewell to his companions, and hastened on into the wilderness alone. The weeks carried him into Utah ; then to Colorado and New Mexico and Indian Territory— and finally to Kansas City.
Some days later, a man in the costume of a frontiers- man entered the city of St. Louis. There was a look of anxiety on his face, which was beaten and furrowed by the weather. His feet, fingers and face were frozen purple.
"Don't worry about me," he exclaimed, "I ask only one favor of you. Is the Ashburton Treaty signed? Can I reach Washington before Congress adjourns?"
It was early in March of 1843. The great Daniel Webster was Secretary of State. President Tyler, surrounded by his Cabinet, was ready to sign the Ash- burton Treaty, when suddenly before them stood a strange man clothed in buckskin, his face frost-bitten— a veritable man of the woods.
"Gentlemen, stay your hand or lose an empire," he cried.
The words came like molten truth from his heart. —40—
THE PHYSICIAN
"But it lies beyond an impassable barrier," ven- tured the great Webster.
' ' Sir, ' ' replied the man who had come four thousand miles through six months of terrible winter to seize this very moment; "You have been deceived. I stand here as proof against that statement!"
The wiseacres leaned forward, deeply impressed. The words of the man before them carried conviction.
"There is no barrier there that civilization cannot overleap," he continued. "I have taken a wagon across these mountains. The natural boundaries of our young republic are the two mighty oceans that wash our shores, and over the whole domain, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, there should be but one flag."
The voice of the woodsman rang true.
"The day will come," he said, "when locomotives will cross those mountains, and the tide of civilization will roll over them and spread upon the golden slopes beyond."
"Sir," he explained, in closing, amid the profound silence of the great room. "Stay your hand! "What I have told you of that wonderful country is God's truth. I have imperilled my life; I have come these four thousand miles simply to place these facts before you in time. All that I ask is six months to prove my words. Give me that time, and I will lead a colony of a thousand souls across those plains and through those mountain-gates to the paradise beyond."
"Dr. Whitman," said President Tyler, rising, and grasping his hand. "I admire your lofty patriotism and your dauntless spirit. Your frozen hands and feet attest the truth of your statements. You need no further credentials before this body. Your request is granted. Oregon is not yet ceded to Great Britain, and I do not think it will be."
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HERO TALES
It was not long after that a pilgrimage, the like of which America had never before seen, passed over the plains. Here were a thousand men and women and children. Grazing on the path were a thousand and five hundred cattle and horses. Here were prairie schooners laden with food and the utensils of civiliza- tion. The "Westward ho!" of brave Dr. Whitman had been heard by the American people.
*'0n to Oregon!" was the cry.
Three new stars soon shone on the American flag, and the untold riches of three new states increased the wealth of the imperial union. The heroic journey of Marcus Whitman had become one of the great epochal events of our history — four thousand miles to save the region west of the Rocky Mountains and to plant the Stars and Stripes on the Northwest Pacific forever.
"We will make ye the mold of an empire, here in the land ye scorn.
While ye drowse and dream in your well-housed ease, that States at your nod are born.
But the while ye follow your smooth-made roads, to a fireside safe of fears,
Shall come a voice from a land still young, to sing in your age- dulled ears
The hero song of a strife as fine as your fathers' father knew.
When they dared the rivers of unmapped wilds at the will of a bark canoe—
"The song of the deed in the doing, of the work still hot from the
hand; Of the yoke of man laid friendly-wise on the neck of a tameless
laud. While your merchandise is weighing, we will bit and bridle and rein The floods of the storm-rocked mountains and lead them down to
the plain; And the foam-ribbed, dark-hued waters, tired from that mighty
race. Shall lie at the feet of palin and vine and know their appointed
place; And out of that subtle imion. desert and mountain-flood. Shall be homes for a nation's choosing, where no home else had
stood."
THE TALE OF THE VICTOR IN THE WORLD'S DEEPEST TRAGEDY
This is the tale of the mighty general who came to the rescue of his nation when it was In its greatest peril and led his people to triumph in the most terrific struggle that mankind has ever known. It is the tale of the world's deepest tragedy, in which brother fought brother in battle.
IT WAS in 1861 — the year is on tlie lips of every American. The beat of the drum and the call of the bugle were heard in the streets of every American village. The tramp, tramp, tramp of marching men echoed along the highways, as a great, peace-loving people were called to the defense of their country.
In the ranks of the volunteers was a man, slightly under the medium height, but with an impressive mili- tary bearing. The call of the bugle had awakened in him the fires of his youth, when at twenty-one years of age he had left "West Point with a lieutenant's commis- sion and had followed the flag in the war against Mexico, where his bravery had brought him a captain's honors.
These days were now long gone. He was nearing the age of forty, and for some years had been engaged in the common struggle for a living of the every-day American. His country's peril had again aroused him, and he stood in the line as a volunteer. His erect, military bearing, however, made him conspicuous, and
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HERO TALES
not many days passed before lie was leading the citi- zen soldiers from Illinois into Kentucky.
The fate of the nation was hanging in the balance. The advances of the army were repulsed by the strong fighting forces of their brother adversaries. The days were tense with excitement. There were rumors of severe reverses, and but little news that could bring hope or relief to the nation in its anxiety.
It was in this critical hour that a message came from the silence of Kentucky. The day was the eighth of February, 1862.
''Forts Henry and Donelson have been taken. Fif- teen thousand Confederate prisoners have been cap- tured."
The first brilliant victory of the national arms had been won. A thrill passed over the country. Thousands of men caught the inspiration and joined the ranks of the volunteers. The strains of the national anthem were taken up along the line and new courage seemed to inspire the fighting forces.
The man of military bearing, who had led his men to victory, bowed calmly, but spoke no word as the commission of major-general of volunteers was awarded him for his service to his country.
The terrific combats of the armies in the East over- whelmed the American people and for a time little was heard from the quiet, broad-shouldered general who was sweeping the Mississippi Valley with his volun- teers. Then came the news :
''Vicksburg has fallen. The key to the South has been taken by storm. ' '
The American people were again thrilled by the daring of a military exploit by which forty thousand men had in twenty days marched one hundred and eighty miles with onlv five days' rations, crossed the
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THE VICTOR
Mississippi Eiver, fouglit and won four distinct battles, captured a state capital, and took over six thousand prisoners — all against a foe sixty thousand strong.
The silent leader of the volunteers had now come again into his own. His fighting spirit had brought a nation's recognition, and he stood at the head of his columns wearing the epaulets of a major-general of the regular army, and commander of the combined armies of the West. His brave men were on the verge of star- vation. Not less than ten thousand horses and mules had perished. Undaunted, he urged his army on to victories, greater and more glorious than they had yet seen.
"Hold Chattanooga at all hazards," he telegraphed to one of his commanding officers.
''I will hold the town until we starve," came back the reply.
Then in quick succession came the news of Chicka- mauga, the greatest battle in the West, and the battle above the clouds at Lookout Mountain, the most spec- tacular in history. The hearts of the American people throbbed in exultation. The silent man again bowed solemnly and spoke no word as the rank of lieutenant- general was bestowed upon him, and he was hailed as the saviour of his nation.
It was early in March, in 1864. A rousing cheer went up from tens of thousands of throats as the silent general rode at the head of the columns against Eich- mond, the capital of the Confederacy. He was now in command of all the armies under the American flag.
The fighting forces seemed imbued with new life. The strains of the "Star Spangled Banner" echoed through the camps. The half-starved and nearly ex- hausted soldiers felt the strength of some unseen power. Volleys of musketry thundered through the
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HERO TALES
battles of the Wilderness, and in the virgin forests of pine and oak nearly thirty thousand brave Americans, wearing the blue and the gray, gave their lives to their flag. More than forty-three thousand more were left, dead or wounded, on the field at Spottsylvania. In the solid mass of lead and flame in the drizzling rain at Cold Harbor, nearly sixteen thousand more brave men fell in less than twenty minutes.
The general was stubborn and immutable. The destiny of two nations was on his shoulders. So com- pletely had the great conflict of western civilization centered in him that his own life was now the pivot upon which swung the future of a continent. It was during these fearful days that a message which aroused the fighting spirit of every soldier, passed along the lines.
* * I propose to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer. ' '
This determined general, in his terrible onslaughts against the foe, entirely forgot danger. In an attempt to lift the siege of Petersburg, which had been one of the longest and most stubborn in the annals of a nation, he tunneled under the Confederate lines in order to blow up the fortifications with a charge of eight thou- sand pounds of powder. It was twenty minutes before five on the morning of the thirtieth of July, in 1864, that the awful earthquake hurled the forts, with their men and arms, into the air. Into the smoke of the ex- plosion charged the faithful soldiers, streaming into the crater of the mine and up the slope beyond, bearing the Stars and Stripes. The great crater seemed to swallow the soldiers like the mouth of a beast. They cringed under the terrific fire of the foe and fell back dazed, line after line being mowed down by the on- slaught.
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THE VICTOR
Somebody had not obeyed orders. The plan of assault had not been properly followed. The Con- federate batteries were firing directly into the crater of that pit, which had become a veritable cauldron of death.
At this moment, an officer on horseback rode rapidly to the front and into the fire of the foe. Throwing himself quickly from his horse, he rushed forward into the choking volumes of troops that were massed for a charge without a leader. There was a crash of musketry and artillery. The officeri 'leaped to the parapet, stood in the front of the breastworks, and strode along the shot-swept front between the firing- lines of the two armies. It was the figure of the silent general. Terrible havoc had been wrought, but he had marshalled the fighting forces and had brought them under command.
A few days later the silent general was in his head- quarters at City Point, just below Richmond, prepar- ing to make the final attack on the stronghold of the Confederacy and strike the decisive blow in the war.
Boom! The air was filled with smoke and flying debris. The general's headquarters, which were on a bluff over the James Eiver, were shattered by a terrific explosion. Eighty men lay killed or maimed. The great general staggered to the open air.
'* An infernal machine," reported one of the officers. "It is an attempt upon the general's life. The machine was secreted in a ship of ammunition which lay directly under the bluff. ' '
The general listened to the report of the attack on his life, but made no remarks. Without his knowledge a body-guard was secretly organized to watch over him day and night.
Nine months of the most daring warfare that man- —47—
HERO TALES
kind has ever known, now followed. Thirty thousand lives were sacrificed by the Federal army in that fear- ful siege. It was about nine o'clock on the morning of the third day of April, in 1865.
''Petersburg has been evacuated!" was the news that thrilled the country on that Sunday morning.
''Eichmond is burning!" was the dispatch that quickly followed.
As the Federal forces entered Eichmond, it was a scene of terrific splendor. The explosion of maga- zines caused the earth to rock and tremble as with the shock of an earthquake. Flames were leaping from building to building until thirty squares were ablaze, consuming over one thousand structures. Prisoners were liberated from the penitentiary and the torch was applied to it. Men, women and children, faint from hunger, fled from their homes. The doors of the provision-depots were battered down, in the wild re- sistance to starvation. The clatter of the horses in the streets, added to the tumult.
But the fleeing army of the Confederacy was not now to escape. The silent general was close at their heels in a life-and-death race. The brave dead were lying in heaps along the road for seventy miles.
It was the morning of the eighth of April, in 1865. The bugle sounded for the last stand. Suddenly, a flag of truce was unfurled to the air. A few hours later two of the greatest warriors that any nation has ever known, stood face to face, no longer enemies, but as arbiters of peace; one returned broken-hearted to private life, and the other, the volunteer general, Ulysses S. Grant, was carried in triumph to the capital of his nation, to receive twice in succession, the highest gift that his grateful fellow-citizens could bestow, the Presidency of the United States.
—48—
THE TALE OF THE NAVAL YOUTH WHO DESTROYED AN IRONCLAD
This Is the tale of a naval youth who deliberately plunged into danger to save the navy of his country, who left his connrades to perform an heroic duty fronn which he never expected to return. It is a tale of a lad's willingness to sacrifice his life for the flag that waves over him.
IT WAS in the year of 1864. The Confederate ''iron-clad" gunboat, Albemarle, had demoralized the Union navy with its fleet of wooden ships of war. The Confederate boat, lined as it was with iron, was practically impregnable to the shell from the Union ships, and could run alongside of them and throw her terrible broadsides of steel into them, with little or no damage to herself.
This condition of affairs had gone on for some time, and the Union officers were completely unnerved by the continual loss of their ships. Something had to be done to put a stop to the depredations of the Confederate boat, or else the sea would be in the control of the South.
The 'Albemarle was lying in the Eoanoke Eiver, about eight miles from its mouth, and protected from torpedo attack by sentries, who were stationed on the banks. On her decks, men were stationed with guns to repel an attack from land. Though she seemed to be thoroughly guarded, the Confederates did not relax their watch.
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HERO TALES
At midniglit, on the twenty- seventh of October, 1864, two open launches, but thirty feet long, came from the open sea headed directly for the mouth of the river and its formidable defenders. The leading boat pre- sented a curious appearance.
From her bow there extended a boom about fourteen feet long, reaching out over the water. To the end of this long yard was fastened a cigar-shaped object of steel, much in appearance like an immense rocket. In the rear, towed by the leading launch, was another boat containing a few sailor-men. The two launches plowed their way through the rolling waves, and under cover of night, rapidly approached the river's mouth, where despite the vigilance of the thousands of soldiers on shore, they soon passed the entrance, and were on their dangerous course up the river. The seven men in the little boat strained their eyes for the first sign of hos- tility. Absolute silence reigned over the scene.
Suddenly, in the darkness, a big black shape rose as if from the bottom of the river. The little boats sheered off around the obstacle. It was the sunken wreck of the Soutlifield, crowded with Confederate pickets, on the lookout for just such an expedition ; yet, though the launches passed within thirty feet of the wreck, they were not discovered.
Greatly encouraged by their good fortune, the boats sped on up the river. The daring men were now near- ing their destination, the invincible iron-clad, Albe- marle. With tense bodies and bated breath, they crouched low in the launches, for just ahead of them could be seen the dim outlines of a large, low-lying ship of peculiar shape, which they knew to be the object of iheir search.
The voices of the pickets on shore were plainl}^ audible to the brave men in the boats. They felt that it
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THE NAVAL YOUTH
was now a question of only a few moments before their detection must occur. Crouching still lower in the drizzling rain that had just commenced to fall, the little band of men waited for the first shout telling of their discovery.
I'oot by foot they crept upon the huge vessel. Then out of the night there came a cry! They were discovered !
Throwing caution to the winds, they put on full speed and rushed at the vessel with terrific speed. They only hoped to reach the side of the iron-clad and place a torpedo and explode it before their boat should be blown up under them by the guns in the forts on shore and the cannon of the Albemarle. Another call came from the land, but it was unheeded by the men in the launch, intent only on reaching the vessel before it should be too late.
Suddenly, a huge bon-fire blazed up onshore, cast- ing its light over the water and throwing into bold relief the daring little group of men in the attacking launches. In the bow of the foremost boat, with cord in hand, stood the heroic figure of a twenty-two-year- old lad, Commander William Barker Cushing, leader of the daring expedition. With deliberation he gave his orders in low tones.
*'Back," he cried, for just in front but a few feet from the prow of his little launch, floated great logs of cypress, chained together and held in position by booms from the side of the iron-clad, literally enclosing it in a pen.
By this time, the guns on shore and on the Albemarle had opened fire, and were hurling fearful loads of grape and canister at the courageous men. The boats slowly approached the barricade in the midst of the terrible rain of shot and shell. Cushing closely exam-
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HERO TALES
ined the logs. Then the boat drew off into the middle of the stream.
Failure? Never. The young hero did not know the meaning of the word. Back it drew for the distance of a hundred yards, and then for an instant the little boat hung motionless, as if gathering its strength for a desperate plunge. The soldiers on shore, curiously watched the movements of the daring launch, which was lying so calmly in the middle of the stream, in the center of the rain of steel, and lighted up by the glare from the fire on shore. Suddenly, the launch dashed forward, and its intent was plain to the watching men.
''They are going over the logs," was the cry.
This was undoubtedly the intention of the cour- ageous young commander. Gathering speed with every foot it traveled, the little launch rushed at the barricade and met it with a crash. The logs sullenly gave way. The bow of the boat lifted up, the propeller thrashing the water furiously. Throwing their weight forward, the men forced the little boat over the slimy logs, and they were in the pen with the doomed Albemarle.
The shock of running into the logs had greatly reduced the headway of the light launch, and the focus of all the fire from the vessel and of the men on shore, it slowly moved on toward the iron-clad. The little boat staggered as a hundred-pound charge crashed into its side. Another shell from the cannon struck her, and she careened madly, as if in agony. Men were dropping on all sides of the brave Gushing, as he stood in the bow, with the line in his hand, ready to place the deadly torpedo under the side of the Albemarle. The sailors on the Confederate ship fought madly to drive off these fearless men, but the launch was soon along- side, and the dauntless Gushing was lowering the boom and placing the torpedo in position. He pulled the cord
—52—
THE NAVAL YOUTH
of the trigger. A tremendous explosion swallowed up the noise of the Confederate guns. A dense mass of water shot up from the side of the stricken Albemarle, and fell with tremendous weight full upon the heroes.
Gushing found himself in the river. Around him the water was spurting up as the enemy's bullets struck all around him. He dove and swam under water until he choked for breath, and was forced to come to the surface. The shot were still cutting up the water and Gushing dove again, and this time came up further away from the dangerous spot where the Albemarle sank.
For hours he continued to swim down the river, greatly hampered by his water-soaked clothing, and with his blood nearly frozen in the cold water. Finally, he reached a place to land, but, utterly exhausted by his struggles, he was too weak to drag his weary body up out of the water. He lay, sunk in the mud and half covered with water, until daylight came.
All day long he struggled through the terrible swamp, to the fleet twelve miles away. Gapturing a skiff on the bank of the river, he paddled for ten succes- sive hours, without rest, until he came in sight of the Union picket-vessel, the Valley City.
His faint ''Ship ahoy" crossed the waters, and the vessel, after due precautions against a possible ruse of the enemy, came to his assistance. They had feared at first that he was a Gonfederate sailor, bent on blowing up their ship. The boat of the patrol cautiously approached the little skiff, and found the unconscious body of the heroic Gushing lying prone in the bottom of the boat He was hurried to the patrol. When it became known that the daring, young commander had returned safely from' his successful expedition, cheer on cheer rang from the entire Union fleet, and rockets were sent up to show their appreciation of his daring.
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THE TALE OF THE MOTHER'S LOVE FOR THE SAKE OF HER CHILDREN
This is the tale of a mother who gave her life to the savages to save her beloved ones from danger, who passed through a "living death" to protect them from harm, but whose strong faith and hope conquered the world's greatest grief and rose triumphant in the hour of deepest darkness.
WOMEN are heroic by instinct. A true mother will die for her children, and thousands to-day are wearing their lives away for their beloved ones. Mother- hood in itself is heroism. Every man, and woman, and child, who has a good mother looks into the face of a heroine who has many times faced death in their behalf, and whose conrageons heart and protecting love can never be surpassed even in this great world of noble deeds.
In Haverhill, Massachusetts, there stands to-day, a monument to the memory of the first American mother whose heroism for the sake of her children has been immortalized.
It was in the days when America was a savage land. The Great West was an unknown jungle of wild beasts and wilder men. A few brave families were scattered along the Atlantic coast, and while the fathers were felling the forests to make way for civilization, the women were left to guard their homes against the Indians.
—54—
THE MOTHER'S LOVE
It was the sixteenth of March, away back in 1697. Hannah Dustin was alone in her rude home in the wilderness with her seven children, and a nurse, Mary Neff, who was caring for the mother, and a week-old baby.
Suddenly there was the weird sound of stealthy feet ; then the shriek of women and children ; then the whoop of the Indians rang through the settlement, as firebrand and tomahawk flashed in the light. Mothers grasped their little ones to their breasts and fled for safety, only to be stricken in death by the brutal hand of the savage. Women and children fell in pools of blood until the village was strewn with the bodies of forty slain.
Thomas Dustin, the father of the seven children, was at work in the fields when the noise of the onslaught reached his ears. He threw down his implements and rushed to his home, thinking only of the helpless condition of his family and determined to take them to safety, if possible. Almost overcome by the danger that threatened them, father Dustin shouted to his children :
''Run to the garrison, mother will come soon."
The little ones fled down the road in terror. He realized that his children were not safe on the road alone, but that his beloved wife, if left behind un- protected, would fall a victim to the cruelty of the sav- ages. Mother Dustin, having only the welfare of her family at heart, pleaded with him to go with them. "Don't wait for me," she said calmly. "Mount the horse and protect the children."
Father Dustin seized his guns and ammunition. Then he hesitated a moment and bade his wife goodbye, believing that this was the last time that he would see her and the tender baby that she held to her breast.
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HERO TALES
He mounted his horse and was soon in pursuit of his fleeing children. Down the road he overtook them, unharmed but bitterly frightened. He gathered them about him, keeping a sharp lookout upon all the ways of approach. They had gone quite a distance before there were any signs of danger. Suddenly, his heart stood still. The savage marauders were on his trail. Through the forest trees he could see them approach- ing and closing in upon him.
The children clung tightly to him. His impulse was to take one of them and make a dash to safety, but, maddened with grief and hatred, he determined to save them all or die with them. It was the heroism of father- hood, as his wife's had been the heroism of motherhood.
The desperate man fought his way down the road with the fury of a wild beast protecting its young. At last, the shelter of the garrison was reached and the children were safe.
Father Dustin's only thought now was of the mother of the children. He left the little ones in their shelter and hastened back to the spot where he had said good- bye to his wife and babe. Alas, he was too late ! The home was in ruins.
' ' Mother ! Mother ! " he called.
But there was no response.
Before the echoes of the horse's hoofs had died away, as he had left with the children, the house had been surrounded by the enemy and mother Dustin dragged from her bed. Thinking that she would save her young, she pressed it to her breast. The heartless Indians, fearing that she might have one little source of comfort, snatched the infant from her arms and, before her eyes, threw it cruelly against a tree. Heart- broken and nearly crazed by grief, the mother was led away to leave her helpless baby to die.
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THE MOTHER'S LOVE
For days she inarched northward with the Indians, who for some mysterious reason spared her life.
When she had recovered from the exhausting journey, she found herself, with the faithful nurse, Mary Neif, captive in an Indian family, consisting of two men, seven children and three women. With other white prisoners, they soon started again on a long march to an Indian village many miles distant. Sick- ening scenes of devastation and slaughter along their route, made their hearts bleed. Many of the captives dropped by the wayside, overcome by fatigue and sick- ness. The savages, angered by their weakness, and fearing that it was a white man's scheme to escape, murdered them, as they fell on their hands and knees, begging for mercy.
At an island, six miles above where the present Concord, New Hampshire, is located, the party of cap- tives halted. They had then journeyed one hundred and fifty miles. Mother Dustin and Mrs. Neif were the only white persons left in the party, except a young boy of English descent, named Samuel Leonardson, who had been with the Indians for a period of several years. Because of his extreme youth and apparent docility, he was regarded by the savages as harmless and was trusted to a very great extent.
Mother Dustin grieved for her children. At first, she would sorrow openly, and at such times tomahawks were swung over her head and her life was threatened. She did not care to live, except in the hope of seeing her beloved ones again.
Heroic Mother ! While her body was forced to sub- mission, her mind was clear and alert and she was ever on the watch for a means to escape.
Her pity was directed especially to the young boy. She sought his company and won his confidence. She
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HERO TALES
learned, that, although trusted and well treated, he held a secret longing in his heart that some day he, too, might escape. Pier motherly heart, grieving for her own dear children, went forth in tenderness to this captive lad. "If I can do nothing else," she thought, ' ' I can set him free ! ' '
She directed Samuel to get certain information from their keepers in a quiet way so that he might not be suspected. She told him to ask where the fatal blow must be struck on the head with a tomahawk. This he did and the instruction was given without the least suspicion. The boy was cheered again with hopeful- ness and carried the news secretly to Mrs. Dustin.
At night, when the camp-fires were glowing, sending the rays of their warm light into the dense blackness of the forest, poor mother Dustin would sit mournfully among the savages and hope vainly that the light and smoke from the fires would beckon some one to their rescue. Then the hopelessness of it all would dawn upon her, but her stout heart refused to give up its dream.
"I will!" she resolved. "I will live and be free! If my dear ones are alive, I will soon be with them !"
They had gone so far on their journey, and were so far away from any settlement, that the savages had no fear that their white captives would escape. They knew also that they were beyond pursuit.
It was late at night. The warriors slept peacefully by the camp-fire with their weapons beside them ready for instant use. No guard was on duty. The camp-fire had died away into embers. Mother Dustin glanced hurriedly about her. She leaned a moment on her el- bow as she lay on the ground. The least sound might awaken the sleeping Indians and mean instant death for her.
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THE MOTHER'S LOVE
Three tomahawks lay near by. She crept to the side of her nurse and then to the boy and handed each a weapon. They understood. The stroke of freedom was at hand. There was not a moment to parley with fate. Deep sank the deadly tomahawks into the skulls of the slumbering warriors. Three of the savages who had brought so much suffering to these white people lay dead without a groan. Again the tomahawks fell. Again three bodies lay lifeless. Ten red men were sleeping their last sleep when mother Dustin and her comrades fled into the night. Ony one squaw and a child escaped into the forest to tell the tale of a white woman's revenge.
Mother Dustin, with renewed strength and courage, led Mrs. Neff along the trail through the forest. The way was long and toilsome. Many times they were almost overcome with fatigue and hunger, but realizing that the possibility of reaching her loved ones again was not altogether hopeless, they fought off all hard- shijjs with courageous hearts.
A few days later there was a tremor of excitement in the settlement.
"Hannah Dustin has come home!" was the news that passed through the town. ''And she bears around her waist the scalps of ten red men!"
The neighbors hailed her as though she had re- turned from the dead.
She clasped her little ones in her arms and the tears of a mother's joy sweetened their soft cheeks as she poured out her love for them.
Hannah Dustin is the first white American heroine to be honored by a monument ; but this honor is due to her memory, for her wonderful courage and ability; she sowed such terror in the hearts of the savages, who, it was said, were planning another massacre of the
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HERO TALES
whites, that the other members of the tribe feared that a white woman was a spirit of revenge, that would bring a curse upon them.
The heroism of Hannah Dustin was the heroism of a mother's heart. And mothers' hearts are, after all, what the sweetness of the world is made from. There are many Hannah Dustins to-day, but, thanks to civili- zation and Christianity, the call of duty, although it is and always must be hard, does not often now require such mighty sacrifices as in those old, primitive days.
*'The wife who girds her husband's sword
'Mid little ones who weep and wonder, And bravely spealis the cheering word.
What though her heart be rent asunder, Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of death around him rattle, Has shed as sacred blood as e'er
Was poured upon the field of battle.
"The mother who conceals her grief
While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few words and brief,
Kissing the patriot brow she blessed, With no one but her secret God
To liDow the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod
Received on Freedom's field of honor!"
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THE TALE OF THE GRIM FIGHTER AND THE THIRTY-EIGHTH PSALM
This is the tal6 of a grim fighter who ied his men into the valley of death, and, when helplessly wounded, calmly sat and directed the battle. It is a tale of self-control and repose in the hour of affliction, in which the old warrior called for his Bible and died with its words on his lips.
IT WAS in the Mohawk Valley, back in 1777. The Tories and Indians were devastating the homes of the American patriots. Down the valley swept St. Leger, with his strange army under the British flag, loyalist Tory and aborigine — 1,500 strong — to join forces with General Burgoyne, who was on his way down the Hudson from the northern lake region, cutting the colonial forces in halves so that each division could be fought separately and forced to surrender. A brilliant plan of warfare had been conceived.
It was the sixth day of August. The Americans, who had been rallied from the farms, with a few militia- men, half-trained and poorly armed, were gathered under the command of General Nicholas Herkimer, a quaint Dutch-American, who some years before had fought himself under a British ensign against the French and Indians. As they moved down the valley, they heard the rumors of massacres, and that the Brit- ish were offering the Indians twenty-five dollars for every scalp of an American patriot that they could bring into camp, regardless of age or sex.
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The brave patriot farmers reached Whitesboro. A courier hurried to Fort Stanwix to notify its com- mander, Peter Gansevoort, of their approach and to summon his garrison to their relief.
''Fire your cannon three times," said the message, "to inform us when your garrison starts."
The rumors of massacre lay heavily upon the mind of old General Herkimer. As he moved his men slowly down the valley, a friendly Indian brought him the warning that an ambush had been prepared ahead. He therefore called a halt. His younger lieutenants were impatient at their commander's conservatism, and intimated in their anger that he might still be friendly to the British King.
The old warrior, who spoke broken English, was seized with rage.
' ' The blood be on your own heads, then, ' ' he shouted, in hardly intelligible English. ' ' Vorwaerts. ' '
And on to the attack the column marched, without waiting for the three cannon shots from the fort, until they were two miles west of Oriskany and passing through a ravine. The advance guard was moving along without scouts. Suddenly, from both sides came the awful war-cry of the Indians, and a deadly fire from rifles. In front, a force of red-coated British regulars were massed on the firing line. The American militia- men fell back. The assault was one of the most atro- cious in the annals of warfare, the patriots being scalped as they took refuge behind the logs and trees. The rear guard was cut off and with it the supply train and the food.
After the manner of men of iron-will and courage, old Nicholas Herkimer rallied a few straggling men, and stormed the hills occupied by the proud British rangers. A shot from a rifle went through the gen-
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THE THIRTY-EIGHTH PSALM
eral's leg and his liorse fell from under him, but the serenity of the old general was undisturbed. He or- dered the saddle taken off his horse and placed against a tree. Seated there, he calmly lit his old black clay- pipe — and went on directing the battle.
The Americans now took to the trees and other posi- tions of advantage, and opened warfare in true Indian fashion. The Indians, in their savage hunt for scalps, molested only those who were within easy reach. The Tories came hurrying on from the village, eager for the fray, and the sight of their neighbors in the guise of enemies aroused them into greater fury. Then, mingling with the yell of the savages, and the shrieks of the massacred, came the sound of three cannon shots, the signal for the advance of the garrison from the fort !
But old Herkimer still sat beneath his tree, calmly smoking. Watching the battle as best he could from his post, he witnessed the varying fortunes of that awful combat; directing assistance first to one part, then to another. Grim, determined, sputtering in his native German and again in English, hard to under- stand, he gave his orders with composure and courage. One of the young American officers, who had forced the battle, was dead ; another was desperately wounded.
''Your wound. General f" inquired a young officer, coming up for orders.
"Aich, 'sist nichts,'' he growled, and, then remem- bering that his aid could not understand, he shouted, ' ' Notting, I tell you ; yust notting ! ' '
Then pulling away at his pipe, he ordered : "I mean take dat lot of fellows from behind dat rock dere and order dem up on de right vere dem red coats is making such troubles for 'em."
But the gathering lines in the old general's face told their own sad story. The wound in his leg was slowly
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sapping his life away. For six hours the brave old man sat there beneath his tree on his saddle, cheering on the stricken forces.
A shout went up from the battlefield. The smoke cleared away. Over the hills the Indians and Tories were fleeing in terror. The Americans held the field. St. Leger, and his warfare of horror against women and babies was meeting his first stubborn resistance.
''Thank Got," muttered the iron-hearted Nicholas Herkimer, as he was carefully lifted by his soldiers and carried to his home, thirty-five miles away.
"Your leg must be amputated," remarked the surgeon.
It was before the days of modern anesthesia for lessening pain. The old general called for his pipe and puffed great clouds of gray smoke as the wounded leg was removed. Ten days later, a hemorrhage issued from the unhealed limb. The old warrior had seen death too often to fear it among his family and friends. As his life ebbed away, he gathered his beloved ones about him and called for the family Bible. Opening it, he turned to the thirty-eighth psalm :
"0 Lord, rebuke me not in thy wrath, neither chasten me in thy hot displeasure — for mine iniquities are gone over my head ; as an heavy burden they are too heavy for me — I am feeble and sore-broken — Lord, all my desire is before thee and my groaning is not hid from thee; my heart panteth, my strength ."
The voice grew slower, weakened, and then ceased. Nicholas Herkimer was with the greater army in the beyond — the soldiers of eternity. On the ground where he fought so valiantly for liberty, now stands his monu- ment. There he sits in bronze, pipe in hand, his right arm stretched out in command, pointing the way to vic- tory as he did on that memorable day in 1777.
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THE TALE OF THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS WHO OVERPOWERED A FORT
This is tlie tale of a mountaineer who led his comrades against a British stronghold under the darkness of night and forced them to surrender without firing a shot. It is a tale of victory in war without the clash of steel or the flame of a gun, a tale of overwhelming courage.
IT WAS in the years when King George of England ruled over the American colonies. The people of New York were in dispute with the people of New Hampshire over the boundary line. The matter had been referred to the King and he had decided in favor of New York. The boundary war waged for years, the people of New York trying in vain to eject the New Hampshire settlers, until the irate Governor Tryon offered a reward of one hundred and fifty pounds, the currency of those times, for the capture of the leader of the settlers, who called themselves the ' ' Green Mountain Boys. ' *
This mountaineer captain was a giant in strength, tall, and strong as a lion.
''I'll give fifty pounds," he retaliated when he heard of the price on his head, ''for the capture of Governor Tryon."
The dispute was reaching a crisis, when word of the battle of Lexington came to the mountaineers, the forerunner of the great struggle for American inde- pendence. Immediately discarding their private quar-
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rel, the "Green Mountain Boj^s" armed and prepared to take np the common cause of their country.
On the shores of Lake George, the present boundary- line between New York and New England, was situated the fort of Ticonderoga, garrisoned by English soldiers. The colonists were in need of ammunition. The daring leader of the "Green Mountain Boys" determined to capture the fort and its great store of powder and arms.
It was in the year 1775. They had reached the shores of Lake George and were about to cross the lake to attack the fort. An officer, on horseback, galloped from the woods into the ranks of the raiders.
"I have been appointed by the Governor of Massa- chusetts to command this expedition, ' ' he announced.
"We are able to command our own expedition," replied the raiders, and, loyal to their gallant young giant who led them, the "Green Mountain Boys" re- fused to obey the new commander, and pushed on across the lake to attack the English.
On the morning of the tenth of May, there was a gray mist rising from the lake, as the "Green Mountain Boys" approached the fort. Up the hill they crept. They could see, over the crest of the hill, the English flag bravely flying.
In the lead of the courageous patriots, was the young giant. Along the line of eighty-three men, passed the low-toned order, "Advance."
With a rush, they had crossed the intervening space and stood before the gate of the fort. A sentry in a sally-port snapped his musket at the invaders and turned and fled.
The gate flew back with a crash, and the patriots dashed into the fort. Far in advance was the young giant, rushing for the commanding officer's quarters.
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GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS
Meeting with but feeble resistance from the terrified British, he reached the door. Flinging it wide open, he cried : ' ' Surrender. ' '
"By whose authority?" stammered the dazed of- ficer, springing up from his seat.
"In the name of the Great Jehovah and the Conti- nental Congress, ' ' thundered the leader of the ' ' Green Mountain Boys. ' '
The surprised officer could scarcely believe his ears, l)ut the "Green Mountain Boys" crowded into the room, and he surrendered the fort and his sword.
The daring young American giant, and his band of inountaineers, had surprised and captured the fort without firing a single shot. They found large quan- tities of powder, shot and arms, which the colonists needed sorely. They also gained the key to the secret route to and from Canada, which was later to become a factor in the long war.
The daring of the ' ' Green Mountain Boys ' ' startled the British and thrilled the Americans. Their com- mander was sent to Canada on a dangerous mission, requiring great courage and judgment, and while en- gaged in an attempt to take Montreal, he was captured and sent to England as a prisoner of war. He was later returned to this country and allowed his liberty on parole. After the conclusion of the war, he re- turned to his native state.
Generous and frank, loyal to his country and true to his friends, he exerted a powerful influence on the earty history of the great Commonwealth of Vermont, and helped to make it the rich and independent state that it is to-day — this young giant of brawn and brain, Ethan Allen.
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THE TALE OF THE VIRGINIAN WHO HEARD THE CALL OF HIS HOME-LAND
This is the tale of a Virginian who was forced to choose between his home and his country —and chose his home. It is the tale of a great heart and a clear conscience that rose above defeat and crowned him with a nobility of character greater than the victories of war— the triumph of peace.
IT WAS down in old Virginia, on the nineteenth day of January in the year 1807. The old Southern plantation was full of joy. The negroes came running from the cabin to the old manor-house, and gathered about the door, bringing gifts of cakes and trinkets.
"Dey's a new massa on de plantation." Their voices echoed from cabin to cabin. *'He was done b'on dis mornin'.'*
In the mansion, an old black mammy crooned to a little child in her arms, while the banjoes twanged from the cabins and negro melodies floated out on the cool, winter air.
The heir of the plantation was a handsome lad, in whose veins flowed the blood of generations of states- men and warriors, who had helped to lay the foundation upon which the nation is built. The master of the plantation, the father of the lad, was a patriot in whose heart there still burned the fires of 1776. In the American Eevolution, he had been a bold and dashing horseman under the flag of Independence.
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THE VIRGINIAN
The years naturally found him following in the foot- steps of his fathers, and, at eighteen years of age, he stood in the ranks at West Point wearing the coat of blue. He was a manly fellow, erect and stately in figure, with a face so open and frank that it won the admiration of both cadets and officers. His soldierly bearing and high sense of honor brought him .rapid promotion through the various grades, until at his graduation he was adjutant of the corps. As the years passed, little was heard of the men who were serving their country. It was enjoying the blessings of peace.
The war with Mexico broke the long silence. The ancient civilization of the Spanish resented the trend of American progress. The moment for the *' survival of the fittest" had come. Under the Stars and Stripes of the republic, on the battle-ground of two civiliza- tions, stood the heir of that old Southern plantation, now a man of mature years, defending the flag that he loved. Side by side with comrades, whom, in later years, fate was to make his foes, he fought gallantly for his country. The honors of the army were bestowed upon him, and he rose to the rank of colonel.
Shortly after the close of the war, he was chosen as the best-fitted man in the army for the superintendency of the United States Military Academy at West Point. Then there came to him the appointment of lieutenant- colonel of cavalry — an honor which pleased him more than all others, for his father during the American Eevolution had been known as ''Light Horse Harry," because of his unexcelled horsemanship, in command of the troopers under the flag of Liberty.
These were the days when the American Indians were stubbornly resisting the invasion of the white man on the Western frontier. In command of his cavalry, the lieutenant-colonel from West Point swept into the
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great West and pushed forward the outposts of civili- zation. Military honors were coming rapidly to the brilliant cavalry leader.
Then came the terrible Civil War. The nation was rent asunder. The great North stood arrayed against the magnificent South. The American people were divided so hopelessly that only a conquest for su- premacy could ever restore peace. The nation called to her sons, and the officer from West Point heard the call. The honors of the army were his. He could now lead his regiments into battle under the flag of the country for which he had so long fought and which his fathers established. It was the moment of opportunity for which military ambition had so long dreamed — to carry the Stars and Stripes to glorious triumph.
But his heart grew heavy with sadness. Who was the foe? Against whom was he to lead his army? What was the land which he must invade with a rain of fire and shell? Who were these people who were to fall under his onslaught 1
The soldier bowed his head. For many days he was silent. A great grief seemed to be upon his heart.
' ' I cannot do it, ' ' he said. ' ' I must resign from the army. I cannot lead an army against my own people, when I believe they are rightj/
Then another call came to him. It was the pleading voice of the South— his home-land. Its plaintive tones rang in his ears and swelled in his breast. His beloved ones needed him. They were in imminent peril ; their lives and homes were threatened. They must defend themselves— and they wanted the heir of that old Southern plantation to come to them.
"I must stand with the beliefs and the traditions of my home and state," he decided. "This is my first duty, even though it opposes my country."
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THE VIRGINIAN
He manfully informed liis Government of his de- cision, and, resigning his commission in the United States army, he went home. The people of his state greeted him as their savior. Cheers rang in his ears as he passed through the Commonwealth of his nativity. He had made the greatest sacrifice that man could ever be called to make, and his kindly face was lined with sadness.
The great war broke upon his beloved home-land. In the fighting regiments, rode the stately commander from West Point, now in the uniform of the gray, and under the new flag of the Stars and Bars. The tumult swept the land. The two greatest fighting forces that were ever arrayed on earth were now in mortal combat. The unconquerable courage of the man from West Point inspired his people, and, after the battle of Seven Pines, he was placed in command of the Army of Vir- ginia, the pride of the Confederacy. The North now knew that it was pitted against the fairest and most courageous fighter that a government could ever meet ; a man who could grasp situations, who could plan cam- paigns, and above all who knew the human side of war and inspired men with his manhood.
It was in the early days of June, in 1862. The Federal troopers were threatening Richmond, the capital of the Confederacy. The defenders of the city were terror-stricken. In a tent, gathered about a table, the officers were figuring with pencil and paper, showing how the Federals might advance and take the capital.
' ' Stop ! ' ' ordered the general. If you go to cipher- ing, we are whipped before we begin ! ' '
He ordered the construction of earth-works. Gruns were placed in position. Then he calmly awaited the attack of a greater force of men than his own. On came the Union army. For seven long days of fearful
HERO TALES
Carnage the brave Confederates held their position. Often in the forefront of the battle, the general urged his men on. Time and again, he attempted to ride to the front and lead the attacks in person, but his soldiers, knowing the value of his military genius to their cause, would grasp the bridle-rein of his horse and refuse to go forward themselves if the general did not retire. The Federals were repulsed and swept with an ir- resistible rush back to the James River, and even to the very capitol at Washington, which trembled under the mighty leadership of the besieging Confederate.
Now the nation was alarmed. The Government was threatened. The enemy were knocking at the gates of the great capital. Then the tide of war turned and the invaders were swept back into the valley of Virginia to the defense of their own Richmond. In victory, the great commander of the army in gray showered the credit on his soldiers ; in defeat, he took the blame on himself. The long, weary years of warfare stretched on. Both of the American armies seemed to be un- conquerable, until the great resources of the federal government began to slowly overpower the Con- federates, who, worn out by the battle against over- whelming odds took their last stand in defense of the capital of the Confederacy. As the Federal army had been when forced to defend Washington, the condition of the Confederate soldiers was now pitiful. Thousands were without shoes ; thousands, with but fragments to cover their feet, and all without overcoats and blankets or warm clothing ; but they lay in the trenches at Rich- mond awaiting the final assault with an undaunted spirit, willing to be annihilated rather than surrender.
Bay and night for months, an incessant fire rained down upon them, but their loyalty to their general never failed during that dismal winter. Snow, hail,
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THE VIRGINIAN
rain, wind, cannon-fire, starvation, — they bore them all.
Then came the end. Human endurance had reached its limit. They must flee from their beloved Richmond to save their lives. But they would destroy the capital of their lost cause with their own hands, rather than leave it to the invaders. Flames enveloped the mag- nificent Southern city. The fearless remnant of the warriors in gray, under the guidance of their inspiring general, fled into the valley, fighting as they went, and leaving their dead behind them, until the great com- mander' s heart would no longer allow him to lead them on to annihilation.
The sun fell upon Appomattox Court-house. Be- fore the great general of the Americans in blue, stood the white-haired, kindly-faced warrior of the Americans in gray — noble in surrender as he had been in the days of triumph. His head bent, he offered his sword to his victor, with resignation to the inevitable imprinted upon his face. The gallant general of the blue looked upon the face of the man in gray, with whom he had fought in years gone by, under the same flag in Mexico — and returned the sword, with a grace that touched the manhood of the nation.
The great commander in blue rode from the field in triumph. The commander in gray turned to look for the last time upon his men. His soldiers understood the meaning of it all to his grief -burdened heart. Gather- ing at his side, they pressed his hand, stroked his cloth- ing, and caressed his horse. The great commander raised his hat and stood before them.
''Men," he said, his voice gentle as of old, "we have fought through the war together. I have done my best for you. My heart is too full to say more."
The war was over. The dawn of Peace cast its —73—
HERO TALES
radiance over the land. Two great fighting armies be- came one powerful working force for civilization under the same flag. Never before in the history of the world have a people been re-united, after dissension, into such a brotherhood.
In the beautiful little village of Lexington, in the hills of Eockbridge County in Virginia, is a university, which for generations has moulded the manhood and character of the sons of the South, disseminating its culture and learning throughout the nation. This noble institution opened its arms to the great commander in his hour of deepest affliction and bestowed upon him the presidency of the Washington and Lee University. This was the first ray of light that came to the man who had ''done his best" for his people. And here, in the love and respect of his own, he passed the last years of his life, instilling nobility and patriotic inspiration into the hearts and minds of the youth of the South, for in his own heart there was no malice.
In this magnificent environment, the great warrior passed his last days. Then came his last great battle with the world, — but he did not care to win.
''It is of no use," he said, shaking his head feebly, as he lay on his death-bed. He neither expected nor desired to recover. As he lay in his darkened room, the hearth-fire cast its flickering shadows upon his calm, noble face. In his last moments he lived over again, in delirium, the fearful days of war! he led his army into battle ; he called to his soldiers.
"Tell Hill he must come up," he ordered, and fell into his la^t repose — and oh, what a glorious rest it is !
This, then is the tale of a man who was as noble in defeat as he was in victory — a man whose resignation in failure is a lesson to all Americans — General Robert E. Lee.
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THE TALE OF THE PRIEST AND CROSS THAT SAVED HALF A CONTINENT
This is the tale of a priest who did unto others as he would have them do unto him; who went into the American wilderness in its savage days to carry the cross of the Golden Rule in the mad conquest of the Continent, when civilization was in desperate combat with the Red Man.
IT WAS in 1849. The greed for gold had seized the hearts of the people, and they were willing to pay their lives to gain it. ^'On to the gold fields!"
The cry swept across the continent. Thousands of daring men defied fate in the struggle for riches. From California along the coast to the wilds of British Columbia, a mighty nation was fighting the battle of avarice.
In this mad rush into danger, there was one pilgrim whose mission was neither greed nor gold. He was a youth of twenty- two, but he was called Father Lacombe. About him clung a black robe ; around his neck was a cross, bearing the figure of the Crucified Christ ; while on his lips were prayers for the safety of the dear ones at home, and appeals to God to teach men that the way to happiness is not through wealth, but in the peace of a clear conscience.
''My children need me," he said. **My duty lies in the wilderness where God calls me."
As he journeyed, he came one night to a little village
HERO TALES
on the Mississippi Eiver. It contained twenty-five crude huts, and here Father Lacombe said mass. That little village to-day is the great city of St. Paul. The buffalo then roamed the prairies in countless herds. But it was with men that the brave and true priest had to do. ' ' Crees, ' " ' Bloods, " " Blackf eet, " ' ' Crows, ' '— from all over the United States, had caught the spirit of greed and had entered the contest for the possession of the great western empire. All were the "children" of Father Lacombe; all the object of his tender care. Throughout the strife of mankind and the clash of the races, the young priest traveled unharmed over thou- sands of miles of wilderness, where, at certain times, death would have been the sure fate of any man except the saintly figure of a priest. It was a priest, who, forty years later, after the dreadful massacre of General Custer and his troopers of the Seventh United States Cavalry, built a cross of rough wood, painted it white, fastened it to his buckboard, and, driving onto the battlefield, planted it among the dying soldiers.
Father Lacombe was beloved by savages and civ- ilized men alike. He learned from the Indians their tongue, and ministered to their needs, journeying over a half million square miles of the continent, and always stopping to speak a word of good will to every man that he met.
One night, he was camping in the interminable snow, with his guide, on the edge of a small copse in the far north. The sky grew black, foreboding storm. They were eighty miles from a living soul, in the midst of the awful silence of the terrible Arctic cold. The snapping of the fagots, or an occasional splinter of frost-cracked trees, was all that broke the stillness. Suddenly, the guide sprang to his feet. A voice! A muffled wail ! Then out of the woods there came a call.
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THE PRIEST
''Alex, do you hear?" said the priest.
''It's only a hare seized by an owl," responded the guide.
He drew his blanket tightly around him.
"It may be the voice of some brave buried among the branches of trees, calling for something his family neglected to place with his corpse," he remarked, as he curled himself upon the ground. "To follow that voice means sure death. ' '
"It is the voice of some one in distress," exclaimed the priest. "I shall go and see who it is."
Father Lacombe faced the dark night.
"Who's there!" he called.
"A woman lost with her child," came the reply, in the Cree tongue. And, indeed, only a short distance away, the good priest discovered a human form, wrapped in a buffalo robe, and lying across the embers of a dying camp-fire. She had been terribly beaten by her Indian husband and had gone forth from the camp to slay her babe and herself, but the child's cry had appealed to her mother-heart, and had stayed her hand. She had tramped on till her frozen feet could carry her no farther. Wrapping the little one in her warmest clothing, she had taken it in her arms, spread the robe over them and lain down to await the end.
When morning came, the guide and the dogs were fastened to the sleigh, and, with Father Lacombe push- ing behind, they started with the poor Indian mother for the mission house, hundreds of miles away. Upon their arrival there it was necessary to amputate her feet to save her life.
On the way, they met the Cree husband of the Indian mother.
" Me I - T7ant this wif e ! Mind own business. Let her die alone," he blustered.
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HERO TALES
The good, red blood of manliood in Father La- combe's veins was aronsed, and he made a vigorous stroke at the savage.
*'You miserable beast!" thundered the good priest. "You don't care as much for your child as a dog for its pui^s. Go and hide your contemptible head!"
As the years passed, Father Lacombe became the trusted friend of the American Indians. His affection for "Old Crowfoot," one of the last of the mighty barbaric monarchs of the Great Northwest, was heroic. Between them, these two men controlled the peace of a territory as large as that of many a great empire. Together they shared dreadful privations and endurc'l frightful winters and storms. Side by side they passed through savage battles in respect and love. So deep had become Father Lacombe 's affection for the red men that he offered his life to protect them from the white man's brutal intrusion.
He feared that the sins of the white man would be implanted in the wild blood of the Indian and he labored to shield him from that fate.
One day the news came that a railroad was to penetrate the wilderness. Father Lacombe knew its meaning. He hurried to the Indians on their reserva- tion and called together the leaders.
"In a month," he said gently, in their native tongue, "the white man will be here with his railroad. With him he will bring many who are wicked and soulless. And he will bring whisky, disease and pitiful degra- dation. ' '
The Indians smoked in silence, and then old Crow- foot spoke:
"We have listened," he said. "We will not go to the railroad."
But, alas, for the pure-hearted priest, and the wise,
THE PRIEST
brave, old chief ! The buffalo were gone and food was scarce ; the money of the white man and his inf amons whisky were stronger than the counsel of religion or wisdom; soon the tepees of the Indians were pitched beside the railroad construction-camps and the end of their race had begun.
Not only this — but the plagues of the white man were upon them. Father Lacombe found himself, with three thousand about him, dying and dead, of small- pox ; men fleeing from camp, pursued by the phantom of death; wolves skulking unmolested past the wind- blown tent-flaps ; no one remaining to bury the dead.
It was some years later, when he was sitting one night with Sun Chief in one of the Blaekfoot camps. It was in bitter December weather: A fierce gale was abroad ; fires were piled high ; tents were braced against the gale, and four hundred horses were sheltered and tethered to keep them from driving before the fierce wind. Midnight came and only the fire in Sun Chief's tent was still ablaze. Suddenly, out of the black night, came a volley of rifle shots and the fierce, blood-chilling yells of the Crees. Sun Chief's tent, a good mark in the dim light, was the principal point of attack. Tear- ing open the flap, he hurled his family into the darkness to flee for life. Father Lacombe seized his cross.
"Stand your ground! Fight, my children!" he cried. "If you run, they will shoot you down. For- ward, my braves! Fight for your wives and your children ! ' '
The battle raged fiercely. The truth of it all dawned upon the priest. If the Crees should succeed in destroying the Blaekfoot camp, every mission and every post between the Missouri River and the Mac- kenzie, two thousand miles north, would be wiped from existence and the work of civilization for a century
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HERO TALES
defeated. Father Lacombe was the friend of the Cree and Blackfoot alike. Had he not helped the Cree when the scourge of small-pox was upon him? Instantly he rushed forward and stood in the dying light of the camp- fire. In his right hand he held a cross ; in his left a flag.
" It is I, Father Lacombe, your friend ! " he shouted. But storm and rifle shot, screams of women and chil- dren, the stampeding of horses and the yells of the battle, the groans of wounded and dying — drowned that blessed voice.
The Blackfoot warriors stood like heroes, following the priest's cheers and counsel. Three times the Crees attacked them and fell back. The storm that had drowned the priest's voice now helped to obscure the weakness of the defenders. He stepped into the night. His red comrades called him back, but it was too late. Suddenly, in the half light, he was seen to fall. Demons could not now restrain the Blackfoot. No longer on the defensive, they rushed to the attack, a whirlwind of rage driving them on. With yells of fury, they poured volley after volley into the Crees, rushing them madly from snow-drift to snow-drift, hurling them back in amazement and fear. A Cree advanced to parley. The face that stood before him was that of Father Lacombe, and the warriors withdrew into the forests.
The victory was won ! Father Lacombe was alive, bearing the wound of a glancing bullet on the shoulder and forehead. The man, who, by the lifting of his hand had prevented a massacre that might have wiped out the frontier of half a continent, stood with cross and prayer-book still in hand, his limbs exposed in the frozen storm and only a soutane coat thrown over his shoulder. He had been robbed of his robes, but the Great Northwest had been saved.
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THE TALE OF THE VALIANT CAVALIER WHO WOULD NOT SURRENDER
This is the tale of a cavalry leader who refused to haul down the flag that he loved, even when his eyes rested on defeat, and who, when vanquished, withdrew his thousand horsemen on retreat through the lines of the enemy,' under cover of the night, without losing a man from his daring cavalcade.
THE gigantic struggle between the North and the South was bewildering the nations. The advantage seemed to be going to the stronger side, though neither was gaining a decided victory. Even a great and powerful government seemed unable to suppress the uprising of its own sons. The world had found that when Americans meet in combat over a principle, it is a fight to the death.
The hour of the first turning-point had now come. The day was the fifteenth of February, 1862. The American army in blue, with twenty-seven thousand men, outnumbering the army in gray nearly two to one, stood before Fort Donelson, down in Tennessee, wait- ing the order to advance.
It was four o 'clock in the morning. Far down the road moved more than a thousand horsemen — the flower of the Confederate cavalry — under the command of an intrepid leader, who rode his charger with the swaying grace of a man of the plains.
At the break of dawn an outpost brought this mes- sage into camp :
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HERO I ALES
''The enemy is approaching. The daring South- erners are charging npon us with their cavalry."
Along the road advanced the brave thirteen hun- dred against the mighty army in blue. It was six o'clock when the foaming horses drew into sight. On they came, as though unaware that an enemy existed in the world, until they were passing the Federal outposts.
A volley of musketry flashed in their faces.
' ' Charge ! ! " cried the cavalry leader.
The horses plunged at the breastworks. The com- bat was sharp and fierce, hand to hand. The resistance was as stubborn as the attack was gallant. Many of the Southerners were armed only with shot-guns and squirrel-rifles, and pressed close to the Federal lines in order that their weapons might prove effective. For more than two hours they fought. The Confederate cavalry, apparently unconquerable, slowly began to gain ground. Little by little, the troops in blue were forced to drop back, bitterly contending every step of the way. And as slowly and surely the horsemen in gray were pushing forward. At the head of his men, pistol in hand, the Confederate cavalry leader fought his way close to the Federal intrenchments, and by the force of his inspiration led his men on to accomplish the seemingly impossible.
Alarmed by the fierceness of the onslaught, and overestimating the strength of the charging forces, the Federal commander sent an urgent call to headquarters for reinforcements. The blue brigade made a gallant fight, but the alert horsemen in gray had pushed a detachment around their right flank, and to their rear. The fire was staggering the Federals. They seemed to waver.
"Charge!" shouted the Confederate leader. Straight for the Union lines the foam-flecked —82—
THE CAVALIER
horses plunged. Panic seized the men in blue. Close after the fleeing soldiers the Confederate cavalry rushed, riding down the gunners of one of the Union batteries and capturing the cannon. Leaving a small band to take it from the field, they pressed on after the retreating forces.
The great armies of the blue and the gray were now all in action. Infantry were crowding onto the battle- ground by the thousands. The conflict begun by the thirteen hundred brave horsemen, was now a seething torrent of flame in which twenty-seven thousand Fed- erals were directing their fire at the fort, which was defended by fourteen thousand Confederates, and was the coveted military position of the Middle West.
Two cannon belched forth flame in the path of the Confederate army.
''They must be silenced! You must take them!" ordered the general in gray.
At the head of his own squadron the cavalry leader started for the guns. Over a field swept by the bullets of the Federal troops, they charged.
*'He is down!" cried the Federal soldiers.
The horse of the Confederate cavalryman had been shot from under him, but securing another, he sprang to the saddle. Then, with a few men, he pushed for- ward to reconnoiter. Suddenly, coming out of a dense growth of underbrush, he found himself face to face with a force of Union cavalry. Before he could turn to retreat, his horse was felled by a shell, and for the second time he found himself on foot. Through the tangle of branches he crashed and made his way back to his command, and then he was ordered by the general to gather up the batteries that had been captured, and a retreat was begun along the entire Confederate line. Night fell. The men in grav still held the fort, and the
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HERO TALES
men in blue again occupied the places from whicli they had been driven at daybreak.
It was midnight. The cavalry leader whose duty it had been to start the day's combat, was sleeping by his camp-fire. A messenger spoke his name and he quickly sprang to his feet.
''What is it?" he asked in surprise.
''You are wanted by the officers," was the reply.
"We are discussing the terms of surrender," said the general, as the cavalry leader stood before him.
The cavalryman was amazed.
"We are here to fight; not to surrender," he urged.
"The numbers against us are overwhelming," replied the commander. "The outlook is hopeless. The better part of wisdom and valor is to surrender. ' '
"I cannot — I will not surrender either myself or my men," he cried. "If the fort falls, it must fall with- out us."
A few moments later he stood before his men in the light of the camp-fire.
"Men," he said, "the fort is to surrender. I have informed the general that not one of our men will lay down his arms. Follow me, and I will try to take you out safely. I am going, if I have to go alone, and die in the attempt."
The morning sun fell on Fort Donelson. The white flag of surrender fluttered in the breeze. The fort had surrendered and the Federal arms had won their first great victory of the war, the turning-point of the great struggle. But among the troops that became prisoners of war, was not one of the gallant cavalry. In the dark- ness of the night they had passed through the sleeping Federal lines to safety, and were now dashing over the hills, headed by that most daring leader of the Con- federate cavalry — General Nathan B. Forrest.
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THE TALE OF THE WIDOWED MOTHER WHO GAVE SEVEN SONS TO LIBERTY
This is the tale of a widowed mother who sent seven sons to fight for the independence of her country and who wished she had ' fifty" to offer the cause of Liberty. It is a tale of a nnother's heart which inspired her daughters to venture their lives in the service of the flag of freedom.
IT "WAS down in South Carolina. The strong men of the South were nobly defending the flag of independence, and slowly but surely driving the British from the land. In the ranks with General Greene, fighting for the Stars and Stripes, were the two eldest Martin brothers. Their wives, Grace and Eachel, lived with Mother Martin while the husbands were at war. The highway in front of the Martin home was the favorite road of the British messengers who carried the orders to the army, and upon these despatches depended the movements of the soldiers.
''I wonder if we can't do something for our coun- try,'' exclaimed Grace Martin, as she saw a courier on his horse, galloping down the road.
' ' I '11 tell you, ' ' said Rachel. ' ' Let 's dress in men 's clothes and see if we can get one of those messages. They might tell us something that we could send to the army. At any rate, we could keep it from the British. ' ' It was night. The battles of the day had been hard fought, and couriers were hurrying to the lines with important orders for the morning, upon which depended
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HERO TALES
the lives of thousands of soldiers, and the victory or defeat of our arms.
The two young women donned some clothes which their husbands had left in the house, and, with coat- collars turned up, hats drawn down over their eyes, and pistols in their hands, hurried along the highway. They had reached a bend in the road where the forest was dense, when the hoofs of horses could be heard approaching. Nearer and nearer they came, until they had reached the secluded spot where the supposed highwaymen were standing.
''Halt," cried a voice, and the figure of a man sprang at the reins held by the courier, and thrust a revolver into his face.
The man was taken without warning. He looked to his escort, but he, too, was held at the point of a pistol.
"Give me that despatch," ordered the voice, "or I'll take your life."
The courier stared into the barrel of the revolver, and then released the despatch with reluctance. The highwaymen, almost as overcome by surprise as the soldiers, fled into the dark. A few minutes later, the young wives rushed breathlessly into their home.
"We have got a despatch," they cried gleefully. "We held up a British courier at the bend of the road and got a despatch ! ' '
Almost as they were speaking, there was a hard rap at the door. Mother Martin opened the door, while the young women disappeared. There stood two British soldiers.
"Can we get shelter here for the night?" asked one of them.
"Surely, you can," answered Mother Martin, whose doors were always open to the wayfarer, no matter under which flag he was fighting.
—SG—
THE WIDOWED MOTHER
The soldiers entered, and, after being offered the comforts of the home, fell into conversation with the young women, who had now recovered from their excitement and were again in womanly attire.
''How came you here?" asked Grace Martin, by way of entertaining their guests.
"We were held-up on the highway," replied one of the soldiers, ' ' and have decided that it is not safe to go on till morning."
''Had you no arms?" inquired the girls.
"We were taken off our guard and had no time to use them," replied the courier.
The girls taunted them with their lack of courage, and the followers of two flags sat before the fire for some hours telling stories of war ; but the British guests never discovered that they were at that moment still in the hands of their captives.
Mother Martin, whose name was Elizabeth, was a native of Carolina county, Virginia, but upon her mar- riage to Abram Martin had removed to his plantation in the district of "Ninety-Six." At the opening of the war, she had nine children; seven were boys and all were old enough to enlist in the ranks. When the first call to arms was heralded through the land. Mother Martin, thrilling with patriotism and zeal, called her sons before her.
"Go, boys," she said, "and fight for your country! Fight till death, if you must, but never let your country be dishonored ! ' '
' ' Were I a man, ' ' she added, ' ' I would go with you. ' '
Sometime later, when several British officers were taking refreshments at Mother Martin's house, she was talking of her boys and one of the officers inquired :
"How many sons have you?"
"Seven," she replied, proudly. —87—
HERO TALES
''Where are they?" inquired the officer.
''All of them are engaged in the service of their country," replied the proud mother.
"Eeally, madam," said the officer with a haughty sneer, "you have enough of them!"
' ' Sir, ' ' replied Mother Martin, looking him directly in the eyes, ' ' I wish I had fifty ! ' '
After the war was over, and a new nation waved the banner of liberty before the world. Mother Martin clasped to her arms six of the seven patriot sons whom she had offered to her country. Her mother-heart was forced to make but one sacrifice — her seventh and eldest son slept on the battlefield of Augusta.
"She is old, and bent, and wrinkled.
In her rocker in the sun, And the thick, gray, woolen stocking
That she knits is never done. She will ask the news of battle
If you pass her when you will. For to her the troops are marching,
Marching still.
"Seven tall sons about her growing Cheered the widowed mother's soul; One by one they kissed and left her When the drums began to roll."
THE TALE OF THE BROTHERLY LOVE THAT FOUNDED A POWERFUL STATE
This is the tale of a man who loved his feliowmen, and who, even at the peril of his life, practised what he preached. It is a tale of the Golden Rule in everyday life, in which the world is made richer and life made brighter by the grip of a warm hand and a kind word.
IT WAS the first day of September, 1682. The ship Welcome was sailing from the port of Deal, in England, bound for the distant shores of the new and barbarous western continent — America. On board were a party of Quakers, who had left their homes in England to reside in the new land of unl^nown perils.
The leader of the expedition, stern of countenance but gentle of nature, had obtained a grant of land in the new country from King Charles II., through the influence of his friend, the Duke of York, the heir to the throne ; and hither he was taking his comrades, who had been cruelly persecuted by the English people on account of their religious beliefs. Early in life, he had embraced the faith of the Quakers, and, despite the commands of his father and the ridicule and jeers of the people, he went about preaching its doctrine. These people led purely spiritual lives. They took no oath, made no compliments, removed not the hat to king nor ruler, and greeted friend and foe alike. Every day was to them a holy day, and the Sabbath a day of rest.
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HERO TALES
For more than a month, the ship Welcome ploughed her way through the strange waters of the Atlantic. It required great courage to make the voyage across the ocean in those days, in the small sailing-vessels of the time, which were but poorly equipped to meet the terrible storms. The passengers huddled together most uncomfortably in their small cabin, yet they willingly suffered, in order that they might have religious liberty.
When the band of refugees landed on the wooded shores of America — at Newcastle on the Delaware — they had lost one-third of their number through an epidemic of small-pox, which had visited the ship dur- ing the voyage. They were received into the little settlement of Chester, founded by Swedish immigrants, who had fled from their own country to America that they, too, might be free to worship God in their own way.
On the seventh day of December, in 1682, the leader of the Quakers called the settlers together. He ad- dressed them and called their attention to the necessity of rules of conduct for the community. The key-note of his speech was brotherly love, and from his speech grew the great laws that were soon to found a city and establish a state. The laws were to be liberal, allowing the settlers freedom in their religion ; and only one con- dition was required of the office-holder ; that condition was Christianity. In many ways, the leader of the Quakers showed that he was an astute executive, far in advance of the time. In his provision for educationhe appointed a committee of manners, education and art, so that all "wicked and scandalous living may be pre- vented, and that all youth may be trained up in virtue, and useful arts and knowledge."
The settler, upon receiving his grant of land on which to build his homestead, traveled through the
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BROTHERLY LOVE
forest, abounding with game, and hewed out a clearing. It required uncommon strength and courage; yet one year after the beginning of the settlement there were more than one hundred homes; and in the following year the population had mounted to two thousand. The forests surrounding the settlement were filled with savage Indians, who resented the encroachments of the English, and on former occasions had repeatedly at- tacked their settlements, massacring all the inhabitants. The gentle, brave leader of this band of religious pio- neers studied the situation, and found that these earlier settlers had treated the Indians with great cruelty.
One day, a large assemblage gathered under a mighty elm tree. Quakers and Indians mingled freely as they awaited the commencement of the meeting. Under the tree stood the Quaker leader, his broad- brimmed hat shading his kind eyes. Looking into the faces of the assembled Indians, he spoke with kindness and brotherly love.
' ' We meet, ' ' he said, ' ' on the broad pathway of good faith and good will; no advantage shall be taken on either side, but all shall be openness and love. The friendship between you and me I will not compare to a chain, for that the rains might rust, or the falling trees might break. "We are the same as if one man's body were to be divided into two parts ; we are all one flesh and blood."
The savages were touched by the noble words.
''We will live in love with you and your children," they replied, ''as long as the sun and moon shall shine."
Thus did the Quaker leader form his famous treaty with the Indians, and by his just and noble treatment, make steadfast friends of the savages, who, though they waged war with the other colonists, never shed a drop of Quaker blood. The natives kept the history
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HERO TALES
of the treaty by means of strings of wampum, and often they rehearsed its provisions. It was the only Indian treaty never sworn to, and the only one never broken.
For years the Quaker leader lived with his com- rades; and, though he had been appointed proprietor of the great territory, he gave most of his power to his people. His sole ambition seemed to be to advance their interests.
''If I knew of anything more that could make you happy, I would joyfully grant it," he declared.
It was in 1684 that he got news from England that the Quakers there were being persecuted. Giving up his own interests, he sailed for England to assist them. The feeling against the sect was very bitter at that time and they had to hold their meetings in secret. But when Charles II. died, and the Duke of York ascended the throne, the Quakers were allowed free- dom in their beliefs, and the good Quaker leader was permitted to go about the country, preaching the doc- trines of his faith. Wlien he died, on the thirteenth of May, 1718, his friends, the Indians, sent a message to his widow expressing their great grief, at the loss of their ''brother Onas."
This is the tale of the founding of the City of Brotherly Love — Philadelphia — and of the good Quaker, whose lands, known as "Penn's Woods," be- came the great commonwealth of Pennsylvania; — the tale of a man who, like the poet's hero, Abou Ben Adhem, loved his fellow-men — William Penn.
'A man not perfect, but of heart So high, of such heroic rage.
That even his hopes became a part Of earth's eternal heritage."
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THE TALE OF THE SCHOOLMASTER WHO DIED FOR HIS COUNTRY
This is the tale of a schoolmaster who, when standing before a martyr's death or a traitor's life, choose death, and regretted that he could not live again to make the same choice. It is an old story that will ever be new, for it brings a throb to the heart and makes one glad to be an American.
WHILE monuments have been reared in many cities throughout America to this boy of twenty- two years, his ashes lie — no one knows where. Somewhere under the great towering structures of America's greatest metropolis this youthful hero lies buried.
As the son of good parents, he was sent to Yale College ; then he taught school. On the eighteenth of April, in 1775, this youth was the master of a grammar- school in New London, Connecticut. The American spirit of independence was arousing its fighting blood. The townsmen had gathered to hear the news, and decided upon action. The young school-teacher listened intently. Then rising to his feet, he shouted:
"Let us march immediately, and never lay down
our arms until we have obtained our independence."
The gathering broke into spontaneous shouts of
approval. The fire of liberty was enkindled in their
hearts.
Washington was calling for volunteers to follow him under the new flag, but the fear of the great British
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HERO TALES
Empire was such that few dared respond. It was then that young Nathan Hale, a captain in Knowlton's Rangers, cahuly decided that it was his duty to respond to Washington's call, and brushing aside the vehement protests of his friends, he exclaimed: "I desire only to be useful."
A few days later he was in the camp of the American army.
No nation ever needed men more than did the Amer- ican people at this moment. Darker, if possible, than the winter at Valley Forge, were the summer days following the Declaration of Independence in 1776. The defeats at the battles of Long Island had wrung the great heart of Washington with anguish.
Young Captain Hale held a hurried conference with Washington, and then mysteriously disappeared from camp. A few days later, he was following the Con- necticut shore eastward, disguised as a country school- master. Still a few days later he was entering the British camps in Long Island, and soon became friendly with the British officers about New York.
In less than two weeks he had completed drawings of all their fortifications, and taken in Latin copious notes of his observations, which he kept between the soles of his shoes.
All this was but the risk of war, as when one calmly marches and sleeps under fire ; but there were no cheers nor colors, nor companionship, save the whispers of an approving conscience, and the applause of duty done. War is romantic, and appeals to the youth and man of action.
A man never knows, however, when he is to be called to test his heroism. The ''village schoolmaster" had ]jerformed his duty. He had entered and safely left the British ranks as a spv, without suspicion. More-
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THE SCHOOLMASTER
over, he had secured important infoiination that might rend the New World from the grasp of the Old World, and establish a new republic on the western hemisphere.
As he passed along the road a British officer ap- proached.
' ' Halt, ' ' he exclaimed.
The "village schoolmaster'* was ordered to throw up his hands. A search of his body was made. The precious documents were found in their hiding-place.
His elated captors first took him aboard a British man-of-war, as a precious jewel for safe-keeping, but later, that same afternoon, he was conveyed to General Howe's headquarters in New York City. Here, with- out even the pretense of a trial, he was summarily con- demned to be executed at sunrise on the following morning.
The flying hours of this last awful night were made more horrible by the gross brutalities of the provost- marshal in charge.
*'May I have a minister?" asked the young hero, who now knew that he was to meet his Maker.
' ' No ! " replied the British officer.
"May I have a Bible!" asked Captain Hale.
"No!" growled the provost-marshal.
A more kindly English officer took pity on the youthful martyr, and prevailed on the guard to trans- fer him from the common guard-house to the officer's own tent, that in comparative seclusion he might con- sole his last hours by devotion, and write brief mes- sages to loved ones.
Hale's manly and fearless bearing had so stung the officer in command, that these farewell messages — to his mother, his sweetheart and also one to a soldier comrade — ^were seized, and torn to shreds before his eyes.
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HERO TALES
In the gray and chilly dawn he was hurried out to the orchard.
The angered provost purposely gave the final or- ders prematurely :
' ' The rebels shall never know they have a man who can die with such firmness ! " he declared.
To the greater anger of the officer, he found on ar- rival at the gallows that the crowd had already gath- ered in expectancy of the execution.
The young captain stood before the lines of British red-coats, his six-foot figure athletic and erect. There was not a tremor of fear on his face. He stood calm and resigned.
The hemp rope was lowered from the limb of the tree and placed about his neck.
"Have you anything to say?" growled the British officer.
The young captain, only twenty-two years of age, his noble head raised high, and his chest bared, looked into the face of the officer.
His words were low :
"I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country. ' '
These words have since burned in the hearts of men for more than a century.
In all the stories of mankind is there a more heroic death than this? The honorable execution of the soldier is to be shot; and his wounds are badges of honor. Nathan Hale was hfinged in ignominy and met his death with a fearlessness that became joyful resig- nation, and a heroism that glowed into exultation.
He was buried by the British in their camp some- where in an orchard on Manhattan Island, near the present Franklin Square.
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THE TALE OF THE CAVALRYMAN WHO TURNED DEFEAT INTO VICTORY
This Is the tale of the cavalryman who Inspired a retreating army to stand against the foe and led them to victory. It is a tale of a daring ride Into the face of death, which will fill the heart of every Amer- ican as long as the pulse of man is stirred by the impulse of chivalry.
THE day was the nineteenth of October, in 1864. A Union soldier, wearing the uniform of a general of cavalry, received word at "Win- chester, in Virginia, that a great battle was in progress at Cedar Creek, nineteen miles away.
In the windows of the houses of the citizens of the town, all Southern sympathizers, he could see gleeful faces, smiling as though they had» received some secret and welcome information from the battlefield.
Hurriedly mounting his horse, the officer started for the scene of battle, anxious to see what caused this dis- quieting state of affairs, and whether he might not be needed at the front.
It was during the last year of the fearful conflict between the North and South. The officer had been called to Washington to confer with the government officials, and was on his return to his command when the tidings of battle reached him.
Through the crowds in the streets of the town, he plunged his horse, and rode for a short distance on the country road, but he was forced to take to the fields,
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HERO TALES
because of the throngs of wounded men returning from the front. Two miles from "Winchester, the general met a supply-wagon. The driver reported that, hear- ing that the whole Union army was retreating, he had started back for "Winchester. Spurring his black charger, "Rienzi" into a gallop, the officer dashed on.
His first halt was at Newtown, where he met an army chaplain, astride a jaded horse, making with all haste for the rear.
' ' Where are you going ? ' ' asked the officer.
''All is lost," stammered the frightened chaplain, ' ' hut everything will be all right when you get there. ' '
Yet, the chaplain, despite his confidence in the of- ficer, still kept on his retreat and disappeared down the road.
The general's features grew set and stern as the awful din of the battle came nearer and nearer. In his eyes there came that piercing red glint that had been seen there before when a battle threatened to go against him. The stream of retreating men, ever clogging the way, was enough to dishearten any commander. He passed a group of straggling soldiers, and without slackening his gallop, waved his hat and pointed to the front. It was enough. One look at that face, one glimpse of that heroic gesture, and their own hats were in the air, while their wearied feet immediately turned and eagerly rushed back to the battlefield.
Cheer on cheer greeted the gallant officer as he dashed forward. The effect of his presence was elec- trical. He uttered never a word of reproach, never an oath; the secret of his power was his simple, brave enthusiasm, which thrilled his men as he shouted :
"Turn iDack, men. Turn back. We must all face the other way."
The wavering and discouraged troopers obeyed him —98—
THE CAVALRYMAN
without argument or parley, the great forward move- ment gaining recruits at every step. For miles in the rear, as the gallant officer galloped onward to the front, the roads and fields adjacent were thronged with men pressing on after him. With a final dash the general was among his men.
''Sheridan ! Sheridan !" rang the shout from a thou- sand throats as the gallant officer wheeled his horse before his men. His mere presence had the effect of restoring their waning courage. They threw them- selves into the fray with new fury. The charging Con- federates were perplexed. The hitherto weak and yield- ing line of Union soldiers now resisted their attack with the solidity of a stone wall. The Confederates were thrown back, bruised and bleeding.
It was now late in the afternoon. The Confederate line rose as one man and ru.shed at the Union line of soldiers in a final desperate charge. The withering- fire which greeted them did not halt them. Colors fell, only to be eagerly caught up again; men fell unheeded. On they came, until, when they were almost hand to hand with their foes, the fearful fire of reinforcements overpowered them and they turned and fled. For seven miles the chase was forced — the Confederates were completely routed.
The courageous cavalryman by his ride from Win- chester not only rallied his fleeing army, and recap- tured his camp, but drove the Confederates in head- long flight and took their supplies and cannon.
There never were braver men than these Southern soldiers, pitted against an army in conflict, but nothing could withstand the inspiring leadership of that un- daunted officer, who snatched the brand of victory from the consuming flame of defeat— Philip H. Sheridan,
«99- 9l404^
THE TALE OF THE EXPLORER WHO FOUND A DARK CONTINENT
This is the tale of a journalist who entered the jungles of barbarisnn In search of a nnissionary who had been lost while carrying the torch of a Christian civilization into its depths, and who revealed to the world a dark continent with its wonderful lakes and incomparable riches.
T WAS at a time when the unknown regions of Central Africa were appealing to the courage and hardihood of men and daring them to penetrate its mysteries. The world knew much about north- ern Africa ; especially Egypt and Morocco and Algiers ; and it knew something about its extreme south; but there were in the central part of that continent, vast regions of rich land, through which ran mighty rivers, and about which the outside world knew nothing.
In the year 1840, the eyes of the world were cen- tered upon one David Livingstone, a Scotch mission- ary, who entered the jungle-land to minister to the innumerable black races that wandered over its vast domain.
Thirty years passed, and the voice of the great Livingstone came back to civilization, with an appeal for help to save a continent rich beyond the mind of man to compute. Messages proclaiming the discovery of the great lakes and rivers in the interior of the vast wilderness came back to the world. Then the voice ceased. Not a word was heard from the man who had
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THE EXPLORER
become the greatest explorer of his generation. Months passed, but still there was no cry from the jnngle- depths of the sleeping continent.
' ' Where is Livingstone 1 ' ' was the query on the lips of the civilized nations.
The world called for a man who would offer himself to the cause of humanity and volunteer to enter the darkness of barbarism to solve the mystery of the impenetrable silence.
''I'll go," came the reply.
It was a young war-correspondent of a great Amer- ican journal who spoke. He was but twenty-eight years of age, but he had met the world square in the face since the day that he came into it, for at three years of age he had been left parentless in an English alms-house, and at fifteen he had come to America as a cabin-boy on a ship that had entered the port of New Orleans. He was adopted by a merchant, whose name he took in place of that given him at his birth.
This volunteer had always lived close to the heart of mankind. At twenty-one years of age he had stood on the battle-line in the great American Civil war, and at its close he had followed the British army into Abys- sinia, whence he had sent to the world the first news of its conquest.
It was on the sixth day of January, in 1871, that the young journalist reached Zanzibar, on the coast of Africa. He had entered upon his mission in secrecy, and the world knew little of him or his journey.
The difficulties that beset him were almost beyond human endurance. It was on the twenty-first of March when he, with two hundred natives who he had hired for a year's journey, started into the interior. His half-savage companions muttered in a strange tongue and looked upon him with suspicion. The young ex-
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HERO TALES
plorer knew not the moment when his own body-guard might slay him. Every hour brought his little army into encounters with savage beasts or savage tribes. It was only his patience, bravery and resourcefulness that kept him alive. Every moment of the day tested his courage, but he always showed the same fearless- ness that he had displayed long before in the great American war, when, escaping from his guards after he had been made prisoner at the battle of Shiloh, he swam across a river amid a storm of bullets.
It was in June that this strange expedition entered the native village of Unyanyembe, in the wilds of the African continent. Hunger and disease had claimed many sacrifices. Some of his men had been taken by sickness and death; others had lost their lives in en- counters with beasts ; still others had been seized with superstitions and deserted, while still others had been rebellious, including two giant black men who plotted mutiny against him; but the explorer's courage was strong, and with but fifty-four men remaining, he ad- vanced further into the interior, aided by the advice of three faithful guides who had taken similar journeys before.
The months wore on until the twenty-eighth of Oc- tober. The American journalist, haggard and worn from two hundred and thirty-six days of jungle dangers, entered the little village of Ujiji, on the north- east coast of the great Tanganyika. A cry that a strange white man had arrived went through the tribe and a crowd of black natives soon surrounded him.
The spokesman for the tribe was a giant black, with a huge nose and lips, rings in his ears, and bands of brass about his ankles and wrists.
He advanced toward the white intruder and with a low bow, exclaimed in pure English:
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THE EXPLORER
''Good morning, sir."
The white man was astounded. To hear his native tongue in this weird jungle-land filled him with wonder- ment. How had this savage learned these words of civilization?
Then the truth dawned upon him.
"I am a Susi," said the tribesman, ''Dr. Living- stone's servant."
Stanley was nearly overcome. Could it be true that he stood face to face with the object for which he had for months risked his life?
' ' Is Dr. Livingstone near ? " he inquired.
The tribesman took his arm and led him through the gathering of natives, to a clan of Arabs, whose dark faces were protected by hoods. In their midst stood a white-haired old man, whose countenance was furrowed with lines of self-denial, sacrifice, and suf- fering. It was the white face of modern civilization. The young American's heart throbbed with emotion. Then, knowing that self-control is the greatest quality in final triumph, he removed his hat, baring his head and advanced.
"Dr. Livingstone, I presume," he said.
"Yes," was the firm reply.
As the young American journalist grasped the hand of the lost missionary and imparted to him the greet- ings of the civilized world, delivering to him the writ- ten messages from his own beloved children, the eyes of both of the great explorers were blinded by tears of thanksgiving.
"What would I have not given," said the American journalist after the excitement had subsided, "for a bit of friendly wilderness where, unseen, I might vent my joy ill some mad freak, such as idiotically biting my hand, turning a somersault, or slashing at a tree,
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HERO TALES
in order to give vent to the excitement whicli was well- nigh uncontrollable. My heart beats fast, but I must not let my face betray my emotions, lest it should de- tract from the dignity of a white man appearing under such extraordinary circumstances."
The two men remained together in the heart of Africa for four months, until the following February, in 1872, when they parted forever, Livingstone starting on the journey from which he never returned, and the journalist making his way back to Europe to tell the world of the greatest feat of exploration which the age had known.
This is the story of the enterprise of American journalism which discovered Livingstone. It is also the story of the finding by a young American journalist, of his life-work ; for it was this journey, in the cause of humanity, that stirred his ambition to explore Cen- tral Africa, and resulted in the gift to the world of Lake Victoria Nyanza, the largest body of fresh water on the globe, with an area of forty thousand square miles ; and the throwing open of the darkest continent of the earth to the light of civilization. It was his sincerity, his courage, and the unselfish pursuit of a great hu- mane mission that enabled him to come out of the first ordeal with triumph, and to devote himself still further to the great work of African exploration.
Thus it was that a young journalist received the decoration of the cross of the Legion of Honor; gained the friendship of the monarchs of the Old World; founded the great Congo Free State, which in its opu- lence has become the envy of the governments of Eu- rope; and became the greatest explorer of his age — Henry M. Stanley.
^104—
THE TALE OF THE ADMIRAL WHO UN- FURLED THE FLAG IN THE ORIENT
This is the tale of the son of the granite hills who followed the flag of his country throughout a long life and crowned .his old age by carry- ing It victoriously into the seas of the Ancient East and plant- ing American civilization on the rich islands of the Golden Orient.
IT "WAS a cold, bleak day in December in the year 1837. In the town of Montpelier, in Vermont, in a house nearly opposite the beautiful state capitol building, a boy came into the world — the heir to generations of American patriotism. His boy- hood was passed in the usual way of the normal American lad. He was a leader in their sports and ex- celled in their various games. At the age of fifteen, he entered a military school. His ambition was to become a great soldier. Disappointed at not securing an ap- pointment to West Point, his desire turned to An- napolis, and there he went, graduating in 1858, fifth in a class of over sixty cadets.
The young midshipman entered the navy of the United States and for two years ranged the Mediter- ranean sea, performing his duties so well that he won commendation from his superior officers, and was soon commissioned as lieutenant. When the conflict be- tween the North and South broke out, he served with the great Farragut, and at the close of hostilities, he had reached the rank of lieutenant-commander.
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HERO TALES
The years passed and the daring naval officer fol- lowed his duties along the old adage, "in time of peace, prepare for war." The last days in 1897, found this son of the Vermont hills in command of the Asiatic squadron in the China sea, his pennant flying from the flagstaff of the Olympia.
The news of the destruction of the American battle- ship Maine, in the harbor of Havana, flashed around the earth, under sea and over land, to the commander of the Asiatic squadron. The hearts of his men burned with resentment at the insult offered to their flag, the emblem of civil and religious liberty throughout the world. Anxiously they waited for the declaration of war. The crews drilled constantly in the use of the great guns and smaller arms. The ships assumed their war-coats of gray.
All was ready when the order came from their far- off native land, America: "Proceed against the Spanish fleet in Asiatic seas and blow it out of the water."
It was the twenty-fifth day of April, in 1898. The American fleet, hoisting their anchors, sped out over the sea. Seven hundred miles to the south, in the port of Manila, the stronghold of Old Spain in the Far East, lay the Spanish fleet. Five days later the huge forms of the American battleships came out of the mists that enshrouded the seas and loomed like ghostly spectres off the coast of the ancient Philippines. Spanish cun- ning had strewn death on the bed of the ocean and mines were planted in the entrance to the harbor to blow up any ship that dared to try to enter the bay of Manila. The banks of the passage were lined with batteries of great cannon.
It was ten o'clock at night. The American battle- fleet was in darkness. Not a light was shining from the
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THE ADMIRAL
mouster ships. Led by the flagship Oh/mpia, silently they moved along, mile after mile, without a sign from the enemy. The sailors, stationed at their posts, watched the dark shores anxiously, expecting moment- arily, the rending crash of a mine.
On the bridge of the Olympia, stood the man from the Granite hills, calm and alert. A bright light sprang up on shore. An answering signal flashed out, and a hissing rocket rushed toward the heavens.
''It has taken them a long time to wake up," said the commodore, with a gleam of humor in his eagle eye.
He showed no more concern at these signals of death than if his ships were on parade, instead of going into battle. Suddenly, there was a tremendous roar. The first Spanish shell went shrieking over the Ameri- can ships. The American fleet had now entered the bay, and were face to face with the Spanish guns.
The hours of the night dragged slowly. Not a man was permitted to leave his station, but half of the crew were allowed to lie down by their guns, and get what little sleep they could, in the intense heat of the tropical night.
The first rays of dawn flickered over the battleships. It was the morning of the first of May. A flash from a land battery shot out through the mist. There was a torrent of water. Two great geysers seemed to lift the sea into the clouds, thrown up by submerged mines.
"There!" exclaimed the commodore, "they have some mines, after all. ' '
The flagship Olympia rocked in the tempestuous water.
* ' Hold her as close in as the water will let you, but be careful not to touch bottom," ordered the commo- dore to the officer directing the course of the ship.
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HERO TALES
Bursting shell and shrieking shot filled the air, as the Spaniards hurled their defiance at the Americans. The advancing American ships were silent as they drew nearer the smoke-clouded Spanish vessels. The strain on the American sailors was terrific as they stood inactive under the terrible rain of steel. On the bridge stood the gallant commander, calmly watching the actions of the enemy. In perfect formation the great battleships filed along, one after the other.
''You may fire when you are ready, Gridley." The words of the great commander were calm and de- liberate.
With a fearful crash, the guns spoke their answer to the order. In single file, the great battleships sailed along, parallel to the Spanish fleet, pouring in a con- tinual and terrific bombardment. Down the line they passed with their rain of death, and, at the end, they gracefully swept around and came back on the same course into the center of the battle, steel shell meeting steel ship, amid the roaring of unleashed guns.
The gallant conmiander pacing the bridge, unmind- ful of the plunging shell about him, was gazing at the battle, intent only upon the performance of his duty.
For two hours the opposing ships hurled their fear- ful deluge of shell upon each other.
At seven o'clock, having run five times the course of death, the American ships withdrew. A sailor ran up to an officer, and, with tears in his eyes and choking voice cried: ''Why are we stopping now? We have got them licked and can finish them in one more round."
' ' Take it easy, ' ' replied the officer calmly. ' ' We are only stopping for breakfast, and we will finish them off to your heart's content after we have had something to eat."
At eleven o'clock the American ships were again —108—
THE ADMIRAL
in action, moving into the tumult of the bay like raging demons.
Then their crews gave mighty shouts. The mouths of the hot cannon were silent. The smoke in the harbor lifted like a veil, and there, floating over the silenced Spanish guns, waved the white flag of surrender.
The greatest naval battle of modern times was over ; the destiny of two nations was decided; the flag of American civilization waved over the Spanish islands in the Far East, ushering in the dawn of a new epoch there ; and through it all not an American life had been sacrificed and only seven had been injured, a modern miracle.
The enthusiasm upon the return of the great com- modore to his native land, and the ovation given him and his men as they sailed into the harbor of New York, have never been equalled since the days of the Eomans, when they welcomed the return of their vic- torious heroes. For two days the great metropolis went wild with exultation — feting, cheering, and wor- shipping the hero of Manila Bay. The Government be- stowed its highest honors upon George Dewey, the man from the Granite hills — and made him an admiral.
"Go forth in hope! Go forth in might! To all your nobler self be true, That coming times may see in you The vanguard of the hosts of light.
"Though wrathful justice load and train Your guns, be every breach they make A gateway pierced for mercy's sake That peace may enter in and reign."
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THE TALE OF THE SCIENTIST WHO APPEALED TO A HEEDLESS WORLD
This is the tale of a scientist who tried to reveal to civilization one of fits secret forces, but was scoffed and rejected, until in despair he was about to give up the struggle against public opinion and poverty, when the world listened at the last moment and was startled by his marvelous power.
IT WAS in October, in the year 1832. On board the packet Sully, bound from Havre, France, to New York, a group of passengers were discussing the theories of electro-magnetism. An American physician was describing an experiment that he had witnessed in Paris, in which electricity had been suc- cessfully transmitted through a great length of wire. An artist was listening intently to the narration, and, at the conclusion of the doctor's remarks, he said : "If that is so, I see no reason why messages may not be instantaneously transmitted." Through the rest of the voyage the artist was seen but little by the passen- gers. He spent his days in his state-room, and most of the time seemed to be sketching strange contrivances on paper. As he left the ship at New York, his fellow passengers taunted him on his seclusion.
''Well," said one of them, ''I suppose you have solved the problems of the world."
"I have solved one of them, at the least," was the reply.
It was three years later — 1835. A group of friends —110-^
THE SCIENTIST
were gathered in the room of the artist. Before them lay great coils of wire — a half mile in length, and two crude instruments.
"Those instruments," said the artist, ''will carry a message around the world."
The friends were amazed. Then, with the touch of the keys, he laid before them the simple power of elec- tricity to convey thought through space.
This was the beginning of a great science that was to test the courage of the man who had given it to the world. Various forms of communicating by wire had been devised by scientists before, but it remained for the artist to bring together unsuccessful attempts and form them into a practical method of transmitting a message by that then little known element — electricity. Through many great trials and difficulties he labored with his crude tools and small knowledge of the power that he was trying to bend to his will. The commercial world, which he was to revolutionize, refused to con- sider him seriously.
"It is interesting," said the financiers, "but can never be put to practical use."
It was some months later that the inventor, having exhausted all his funds and now threatened by poverty, appeared in Washington, and appealed to Congress for an appropriation to build a telegraph-line from Balti- more to Washington. The statesmen listened to his request with courtesy, but no action was taken. The discouraged inventor was overwhelmed when he real- ized that his own government would not take him seri- ously. His experiments for the past five years had brought him almost to penury, and it was necessary that he should interest some one in his invention in order that he might be saved from hunger.
In his earlier days he had studied art for several —111—
HERO TALES
years in Europe. Now he boarded a packet, and sailed with his precious invention to France, hoping to con- vince the foreign powers of the value of his telegraph.
''It is marvelous," they cried, ''but what is it good for?"
Utterly discouraged, the inventor returned to America, and again appealed to Congress. For four long years, in the midst of his poverty and trouble, he haunted the national Capitol.
It was a night in March. The year was now 1843. Down the steps of the Capitol he wearily trudged, heart- sick and discouraged, wondering what he could do to retain life in his body. He had waited all through the long session for his bill to be introduced for discussion — only to meet with disappointment again.
The next morning, while engaged in gloomy thoughts, a message was brought to the inventor: "Congress in the last hour before midmght, appro- priated $30,000 for your telegraph-line."
Only those who have struggled through anxious years know the joy that he felt at that moment. Imme- diately he set about constructing the line that proved to the world the soundness of his judgment and the practicability of transmitting messages by electricity.
The first message passed over the wires was in these profound words : ' ' What hath God wrought. ' ' Though beset by difficulties that seemed insurmountable, per- severance had won at last. A new and magic power had been given to the world ; a power that has made and unmade nations ; that enables us to send our thoughts instantaneously for thousands of miles ; a power that has, over and over again, saved human life and is sav- ing human lives, as you listen to this tale of the man who invented telegraphy— Samuel Finley Breese Morse.
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',. ';i^^ NEW Y0«F^ f^^'^UC LIBRARY
[ -ASTOR, LBMOX
THE TALE OF THE CABIN BOY WHO BECAME THE FIRST ADMIRAL
This is tlie tale of a cabin boy who entered the American navy at nine years of age and through his magnificent courage became the first admiral under the American flag. It is a tale of indomitable will that knows no defeat^ that conquered his foes and the homage of the world.
IT WAS the month of August, in 1864. The naval history of the world offers no more thrilling adven- tures than those of the daring Americans who were on the flagship, Hartford, during the storm- ing^of the river batteries at Port Hudson, on the Mississippi, and the battle of Mobile Bay; the two naval actions of the Civil War that did more than all the others to bring about a Union victory.
The captain of the ship was a hero of the wooden- warship days, when the style of fighting was at close range. Fear was unknown to him, and it was through daring to do the seemingly impossible, that he won his brilliant victories, and made for himself a name that will live as long as the history of the United States navy is remembered — David Glascoe Farragut.
Farragut was in his fifty-third year, when his greatest triumph was accomplished. At the beginning of the war, being a Virginian, he was looked upon with a little suspicion by the Navy Department, but finally, was given a chance to display his patriotism.
On this August day, Farragut 's fleet of seventeen —113—
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ships drew up outside of Mobile Bay, prepared to attempt the most hazardous feat in their career. Par- ragut, having opened the Mississippi Eiver, in the face of tremendous odds, now undertook to enter INfobile Bay. The entrance to the channel was guarded by Fort Morgan, mounting some fifty guns. One hundred and eighty tin torpedoes were anchored in the channel, leaving a space scarcely a hundred yards wide, and directly under the guns of the fort, which boats enter- ing the harbor must pass. This opening was marked with red buoys, in order that blockade-runners might pass in and out, but the marks served equally well for Farragut. Inside the bay was a small Confederate squadron, consisting of the ram, Tennessee, and the gunboats, Morgan, Gaines, and Selma. This was the blockade which Farragut undertook to break through. He was to attempt it when the flood tide would help to sweep his vessels through the channel, with the help of a southwest wind