A Soldier's Trial: An Episode of the Canteen Crusade

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King Charles. A Soldier's Trial: An Episode of the Canteen Crusade

CHAPTER I. TWO ANNOUNCEMENTS

CHAPTER II. A FACE FROM THE PHILIPPINES

CHAPTER III. A NIGHT AT NAPLES

CHAPTER IV "SHE IS COMING HERE!"

CHAPTER V. PREMONITORY SYMPTOMS

CHAPTER VI. A BRIDE – AND A BEAU

CHAPTER VII. THE WOLF IN THE SHEEPFOLD

CHAPTER VIII. ACCUSING LETTERS

CHAPTER IX. AN INVITATION – TO GO

CHAPTER X. A GATHERING STORM

CHAPTER XI. DEEPER IN THE TOILS

CHAPTER XII. WHAT THE WOMEN TOLD THE MAJOR

CHAPTER XIII. WORST DEED OF HIS LIFE

CHAPTER XIV. REACTION

CHAPTER XV. RETRIBUTION

CHAPTER XVI. MY LADY'S MAID

CHAPTER XVII. A MOMENTOUS DAY

CHAPTER XVIII. BLENKE COVERS HIS TRACKS

CHAPTER XIX. AGAIN THE SALOON

CHAPTER XX. A MOTHER'S DREAD

CHAPTER XXI. LOVE'S LAST APPEAL

CHAPTER XXII. THE LOST FOUND

CHAPTER XXIII. A WELCOME PERIL

CHAPTER XXIV. CRISIS

CHAPTER XXV. BLACK WOLF'S BATTLE

CHAPTER XXVI. TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION

CHAPTER XXVII. EXEUNT OMNES

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The man did not live who could say, much less think, that Oswald Dwight did not devotedly love his devoted wife and had not deeply, even desolately, mourned her untimely death. Margaret Welland was not a woman to be soon forgotten. For six years she had been the object almost of reverence among the officers and men of her husband's regiment, almost of worship among the women. Gentle, generous, and charitable, gifted with many a physical charm and almost every spiritual grace, she had lived her brief life in the army an uncrowned queen, and died a martyr – almost a saint. For long weeks afterward the women would weep at mere mention of her name. The casket that bore the fragile, lifeless form and that of her infant daughter to their final rest was literally buried in flowers that were wet with tears. Strong men, too, turned aside or hid their faces in trembling hands when with bowed head Oswald Dwight was led by, clasping to his breast his sobbing little boy. There were some who said that Dwight could never have pulled up again if it hadn't been for Jimmy. It was long months before the stricken soldier was restored to them. It was longer still before little Jim returned, and every day meantime, after Dwight's appearance, regularly as he rose and went silently about his duties, the father wrote his letter to be read aloud to his only living child, and the one thing that spurred the merry-hearted little fellow to his studies was the longing to read and to answer for himself. Jim's first missive to his father, penned by his own infinite labor, was the event of the second winter at Fort Riley, for it was shown in succession to nearly every comrade and to every even remotely sympathetic woman at the post. There were maidens there who would fain have consoled the tall, distinguished, dark-eyed trooper, so interesting in his depth of melancholy, so eligible as a catch, for Dwight, for an army man, was oddly well to do. Obstinately, however, he refused all consolation from even such a sympathetic source, and would for long brook no companion on his solitary walks or rides. All his talk now was of his boy. All his thoughts, plans, projects, seemed centering on little Jim, who, for the time being, had to be housed among his mother's people. He was still too young for the care of a soldier-father who any day might be compelled to take the field. But then came station at Fort Riley, with its big garrison, its school and its society, and then the yearning at his heart could no longer be denied. The Wellands nearly cried their eyes out when Oswald, toward the end of the third "leave" since Margaret's death, told them that the time for which he had scrupulously sought to prepare them had come at last: he must have his boy – he could not live without him.

Then when Jimmy came it seemed as though an entire garrison had started in to spoil him. He was the merriest, sunniest, friendliest little chap, frank, brave and even beautiful, with all his mother's lovely coloring, with her deep, heavily-lashed, soulful, violet eyes, with her soft curling brown hair, with her sweet, sensitive mouth and pretty white teeth. No wonder big Oswald used to set him on his knee and look long into the smiling little face, so fond and trustful, yet filled with vague wonderment why daddy should so wistfully gaze at him; and then with relief, Jim knew not why, when the strong arms would suddenly draw the lithe, slender little body to that broad and heaving chest and hold it there, close strained, while bearded lips sought and kissed again and again the sunny curls. Dwight just lived for that boy, said Fort Riley, small blame to him! Dwight made little Jim his friend, his confidant, his companion. Jim had his own little pony as soon as he could safely bestride one. Jim had his own little camp bed in the room opening off his father's. Jim had his own shower bath rigged up in his own closet. Jim had his regular setting-up drill and calisthenics, with daddy himself for teacher, his rub-down and his soldier toilet, with daddy to teach him breathing exercises that took the oxygen deep down into his lungs and sent the red blood whirling through his sinewy little frame. Jimmy had his own racket for tennis, his own target rifle, his own kites, tops, marbles, soldiers of every conceivable size, costume and corps, his own railway tracks and trains, his own books and bookshelves, his own desk and study table – pretty much everything a boy could have except his own way, which he was the better without, and his own mother – without whom boy life can never be complete.

.....

"Jimmy boy, you were sound asleep on the front seat. Don't you remember, Oswald, dear?"

"But I'd waked up, daddy. Mamma gave a little scream and I thought somebody'd hurt her, and there was this gentleman with his hat raised, just standing and staring at her till she bent over and said something quick – "

.....