The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Tales

“I thought so, too, but I asked him if he had heard it at any other time.

“‘Once or twice in the daytime,’ he replied, ‘when I have been reading or writing; then very loudly, as though it were angry, and tried in that way to attract my attention away from my books.’

“I looked into his face and placed my hand upon his pulse. His eyes were very bright and his pulse a little flurried and quick. I then tried to explain to him that he was very weak, and that his senses were very acute, as most weak people’s are; and how that when he read, or grew interested and excited, or when he was tired at night, the throbbing of a big artery made the beating sound he heard. He listened to me with a sad smile of unbelief, but thanked me, and in a little while I went away. But as I was going downstairs I met the professor. I gave him my opinion of the case—well, no matter what it was.

“‘He wants fresh air and exercise’ said the professor, ‘and some practical experience of life, sir.’ The professor was not a bad man, but he was a little worried and impatient, and thought—as clever people are apt to think—that things which he didn’t understand were either silly or improper.

“I left the city that very day, and in the excitement of battlefields and hospitals I forgot all about little Rupert, nor did I hear of him again, until one day, meeting an old classmate in the army, who had known the professor, he told me that Rupert had become quite insane, and that in one of his paroxysms he had escaped from the house, and as he had never been found, it was feared that he had fallen into the river and was drowned. I was terribly shocked for the moment, as you may imagine; but, dear me, I was living just then among scenes as terrible and shocking, and I had little time to spare to mourn over poor Rupert.

“It was not long after receiving this intelligence that we had a terrible battle, in which a portion of our army was slaughtered. I was detached from my brigade to ride over to the battlefield and assist the surgeons of the beaten division, who had more on their hands than they could attend to. When I reached the barn that served for a temporary hospital, I went at once to work. Ah! Bob,” said the doctor thoughtfully, taking the bright sword from the hands of the half-frightened Bob, and holding it gravely before him, “these pretty playthings are symbols of cruel, ugly realities.”

“I turned to a tall, stout Vermonter,” he continued, very slowly, tracing a pattern on the rug with the point of the scabbard, “who was badly wounded in both thighs, but he held up his hands and begged me to help others first who needed it more than he. I did not at first heed his request, for this kind of unselfishness was very common in the army; but he went on, ‘For God’s sake, doctor, leave me here; there is a drummer boy of our regiment—a mere child—dying, if he isn’t dead now. Go and see him first. He lies over there. He saved more than one life. He was at his post in the panic of this morning, and saved the honor of the regiment.’ I was so much more impressed by the man’s manner than by the substance of his speech, which was, however, corroborated by the other poor fellows stretched around me, that I passed over to where the drummer lay, with his drum beside him. I gave one glance at his face—and—yes, Bob—yes, my children—it was Rupert.

“Well! well! it needed not the chalked cross which my brother surgeons had left upon the rough board whereon he lay to show how urgent was the relief he sought; it needed not the prophetic words of the Vermonter, nor the damp that mingled with the brown curls that clung to his pale forehead, to show how hopeless it was now. I called him by name. He opened his eyes—larger, I thought, in the new vision that was beginning to dawn upon him—and recognized me. He whispered, ‘I’m glad you are come, but I don’t think you can do me any good.’

“I could not tell him a lie. I could not say anything. I only pressed his hand in mine as he went on.

“‘But you will see father, and ask him to forgive me. Nobody is to blame but myself. It was a long time before I understood why the drum came to me that Christmas night, and why it kept calling to me every night, and what it said. I know it now. The work is done, and I am content. Tell father it is better as it is. I should have lived only to worry and perplex him, and something in me tells me this is right.’

“He lay still for a moment, and then grasping my hand, said,—

“‘Hark!’

“I listened, but heard nothing but the suppressed moans of the wounded men around me. ‘The drum’ he said faintly; ‘don’t you hear it?—the drum is calling me.’

“He reached out his arm to where it lay, as though he would embrace it.

“‘Listen’—he went on—‘it’s the reveille. There are the ranks drawn up in review. Don’t you see the sunlight flash down the long line of bayonets? Their faces are shining—they present arms—there comes the General—but his face I cannot look at for the glory round his head. He sees me; he smiles, it is ‘—and with a name upon his lips that he had learned long ago, he stretched himself wearily upon the planks and lay quite still.

“That’s all.

“No questions now—never mind what became of the drum.

“Who’s that sniveling?

“Bless my soul! where’s my pill-box?”

THE END

1

By the appearance in England several years ago of an edition of the author’s writings as then collected.

2

The delicate reader will appreciate the omission of certain articles for which English synonyms are forbidden.

3

The right of dramatization of this and succeeding chapters is reserved by the writer.

4

NOTE, BY G. A. S.—In the Southwest, any stone larger than a pea is termed “a rock.”

5

I make no pretension to fine writing, but perhaps Mrs. Hardinge can lay over that. Oh, of course! M. McG.

6

The Declaration of Independence grants to each subject “the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness.” A fugitive slave may be said to personify “life, liberty, and happiness.” Hence his pursuit is really legal. This is logic. G.A.S.

7

There are two forms of this tale. The earlier one is that printed originally in The Golden Era and afterward and until this time included in Mr. Harte’s collected writings. It is comprised in four chapters and occupies about thirty pages. When the present edition was under consideration, Mr. Harte called his publishers’ attention to the fact that the editor of the same paper proposed to him some time later to continue it as a serial. In order to do this, he found himself obliged to make some changes in the earlier incidents. Accordingly he republished the story in its first form, but with some interpolations and alterations, and then proceeded with other chapters, making ten in all, “concluding it,” he says, “rather abruptly when I found it was inartistically prolonged.” This was in 1863. But even thus the story was not to be let alone. Ten years later, in 1873, another writer took the tale up at the end of the tenth chapter, added fifty more, and issued the whole in The Golden Era. When the continuation had been running some time, Mr. Harte discovered the fraud, and inserted a card in the same paper, advising the public that he had nothing whatever to do with this further amplification of his story. Afterward, when the whole was published in book form, he instituted legal proceedings and suppressed the sale.

The present form is Mr. Harte’s revision and extension of his first, and is reprinted from The Golden Era with his consent. EDITOR.