Dora Darling the daughter of the regiment |
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| 25. | CHAPTER XXV. |
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 | CHAPTER XXV. Dora Darling |  |
25. CHAPTER XXV.
Notwithstanding her sympathy in his sufferings,
Dora could not but find it pleasant to have Captain Karl
an inmate of the hospital, where his gay good humor and
merry mode of viewing both his own and others' misfortunes
quite changed the character of the place. His
wounds were by no means dangerous, and seemed likely
to heal with little trouble or delay; so that, after a week
had passed, he declared himself, in confidence, to the
chaplain, “as well as ever, and only shirking so as to
stay in hospital and help Dora on.”
To him, as well as to Mr. Brown, the little nurse had
repeated the story confided to her by Merlin, and both
gentlemen had promised to do all that was possible to
bring about a better state of feeling between the Kentuckians.
Each proceeded in his own way, and each
produced his own effect; for while Merlin listened with
respectful attention to the chaplain's clear and earnest
arguments in favor of a Christian spirit of forgiveness
even of the bitterest wrongs and insults, Judson found it
impossible to resist Captain Karl's half humorous and
all informal exhortations to confess that he had behaved
fully justified the deep indignation entertained towards
him by the former. Of the terrible justice he had so
narrowly escaped at the hands of Merlin, the captain did
not speak; partly because he feared to excite a resentment
that would defeat his own purpose, and partly because
Dora so earnestly desired to have her own share
in the event kept from Judson's knowledge. The child,
contrary to her habit, had taken a violent antipathy to
this big black-bearded man, of whom Merlin had told
such unpleasant stories; and as her duties never now led
her to address him, she seldom approached the corner
where he still lay.
Presently, however, a deeper anxiety than any connected
with either of these men, took possession of the
little girl's affectionate heart.
One day, after Captain Karl had been placed upon the
convalescent list, and was well enough to amuse himself,
at least a part of the time, Dora left the hospital for an
hour or two, and, after wandering about for a little while,
went into the chaplain's tent, to ask permission to go on
with a book of his, that she had begun to read several
weeks before.
Mr. Brown, after a few kind inquiries and remarks,
handed her the volume of Eastern Travels for which she
asked, and invited her to seat herself upon a sort of lounge,
manufactured by the ingenious Hepburn, to read it.
Dora, absorbed in tales of harems, fountains, yashmaks,
and other wonders, to her as great as those of the
Arabian Nights, hardly looked up when Colonel Blank
entered the tent, and so soon as she had returned his
careless greeting, buried herself again in the charmed
volume, and for another half hour was conscious of nothing
outside it. At the end of that time, however, her
attention was suddenly aroused by the mention of her
own name. She glanced up abstractedly. Both gentlemen,
sitting with their backs toward her, had become
entirely forgetful of her presence, and were now discussing
Captain Windsor's conduct in the slight skirmish
where he had been wounded. The chaplain was apparently
defending his friend, and trying to soften the displeasure
that the colonel loudly expressed. The sentence
that attracted the attention of the vivandière was this: —
“And taking Dora with him, besides causing him to
disobey orders as to the hour of starting, was altogether
out of rule. I never intended the child to be exposed in
that sort of way. No, sir, there's nothing to be said in
extenuation of such acts of insubordination and carelessness.
Captain Windsor richly deserves to be degraded;
it would be no more than an adequate punishment.”
“Pardon me, colonel, if I disagree with you. The
lad is high-spirited, proud, and sensitive. He was not,
at the time, nor is he now, aware of the severe construction
you placed upon his negligence. Would it not be
your views and his own errors, than by undue harshness
to alienate him from his commander, and possibly lose to
the service of the country one of her bravest defenders?
After all, we must remember he is himself the greatest
sufferer from his disobedience.”
“As it happens, yes. But it might very well have
chanced that the whole command should have been surprised,
and cut off, with that little sap of a lieutenant at
their head, while the man whose business it was to lead
them, was maundering about the country roads, trying
races with the vivandière. No, sir, a severe public
reprimand, in face of the regiment, is as light a punishment
as such criminal negligence deserves, and he shall
have it the first day he appears in public, as sure as my
name is Blank.”
“I am very sorry — ” began the chaplain; but before
he could finish the sentence the door flap of the tent was
thrust aside, and two officers entered, with the purpose,
apparently, of making a call.
Colonel Blank, with an expression of annoyance at
the interruption, rose from his seat, and, after briefly
returning the salutations of the two captains, left the
tent.
Dora, gliding quietly behind the chaplain, also made
her retreat, unobserved by him, until, just as she disappeared,
one of the guests exclaimed, —
“Hullo! Is that a brownie, or our little vivandière,
Brown?”
“It is Dora Darling. She has been reading here for
the last hour,” said the chaplain, suddenly remembering
that the girl must have heard the conversation between
himself and the colonel, and wishing that he had
seen her in time to give a warning against repeating it.
A second thought, however, assured him of Dora's caution
and delicate sense of honor, and he seated himself
to entertain his guests with his usual easy cordiality of
manner.
Dora, meanwhile, as soon as she found herself in the
open air, hurried after the colonel, who was striding
away toward the outskirts of the camp, for his evening
promenade.
“Colonel Blank!” exclaimed the vivandière, quickening
her step almost to a run.
The colonel paused and looked around. “Dora Darling!
And what do you want, my daughter?” asked
he, kindly, as the child stood beside him, and raised her
grave eyes to his face.
“I want to talk with you, sir,” said Dora, with a little
hesitation, for the exact form of her petition was by no
means clear in her own mind.
“Come, then, along with me, and we will talk and
walk at the same time. I know what you want, already.
It's a splendid red, blue, and white ribbon, to wear baldric-wise
its lower end. Now, isn't that it?”
“No, sir,” said Dora, a little indignantly.
“No! Well, then you want a little drum, such as the
vivandière in `La Fille du Régiment' is got up with.
I've thought of it before, Dora Darling, but I concluded
it would only be in your way; and I can't think of any
use for it, except to summon aid in case you were captured
or lost, and for that I've something far prettier to
give you. It's a silver whistle, Dora, such as boatswains
use on board men-of-war. It was given me by a friend
in the navy, who found it on board a rebel gunboat that
he helped capture. I was looking at it the other day,
and thinking I would give it to you some time. Come
up to my tent to-night, and you shall have it. Now,
isn't that better than the drum?”
“Yes, sir, it would be very nice; but it wasn't a drum
that I was going to ask for.”
“Not a drum, and not a baldric!” cried the colonel,
with an affectation of great surprise. “Then it must be
sugar-plums; and those I have not to give you. There
are none nearer than Monterey, I am afraid; and even
there it's likely enough the graybacks will have eaten
them all up. Shall I take the town, and find out
about it?”
“It isn't any such thing as that, sir,” said Dora, seriously,
for she had now recovered all her usual determination,
raillery.
“What is it, then? I am at the end of my wits, and
can guess nothing further.”
“I want you to forgive Captain Karl — Captain Windsor,
I mean,” said Dora, bluntly.
The colonel dropped her hand, and looked both surprised
and displeased.
“What do you know of my intentions regarding Captain
Windsor?” asked he.
“I heard what you were saying, just now, to Mr.
Brown.”
“What! you were listening — were you?” exclaimed
the colonel.
“No, sir. I never listen to things people say when
they think they are alone; but you saw me in the tent;
you spoke to me when you came in. I didn't hide away.
I just sat still.”
“And what made you keep so quiet that we forgot all
about you? Wasn't it so as to listen?” demanded the
colonel, the corner of his mouth quivering with a suppressed
smile as he glanced at the crimson cheek, flashing
eyes, and straightened figure of the little maid.
“No, indeed, sir. I was reading `The Howadji in
Syria,' and I forgot where I was, entirely, until I heard
you say `Dora;' and then I looked up, and you went on
about Captain Karl, saying — ”
“Never mind about Captain Karl, child. It is never
well for little girls to meddle in the affairs of other people,
especially people older and wiser than themselves. I am
glad you were not an intentional listener to our conversation,
for nothing is meaner than to try to overhear
what is not intended for you; and I have only my own
carelessness to blame. In future, however, you must
speak or show yourself when you see that people have
forgotten you, and are discussing private matters in your
presence. Now I advise you to go back to the `Howadji,'
and leave regimental discipline to me.”
“But, sir, Captain Karl wasn't to blame,” persisted
Dora, in spite of the colonel's frown. “He meant to go
with the company; but we lost our way, and I advised
him to keep right on, instead of turning back to look for
the men.”
“And did you and he understand that I had delegated
the command of the expedition to you, my dear?” inquired
the colonel, grimly.
“No, sir. He meant to mind what you had told him,
and I only wanted to help him do so. We both thought
we should find the company quicker by keeping on than
by turning back.”
“And what prevented him from taking the right road
at first?”
“The guide was with the company, sir, and they were
out of sight before we set out.”
“Indeed! And pray why did Captain Windsor wait
until his command was out of sight before he set out to
lead it?”
The colonel smiled sarcastically, as he made this inquiry,
and Dora again colored deeply, but nevertheless
answered with courage, —
“Because, sir, he waited to ask me to go, and then to
get a horse for me, and then you kept us a few minutes
—”
“And don't you know, child, that a soldier on duty
has no right to neglect or swerve from that duty ever so
slightly, and that many a brave fellow has lost life and
honor for a smaller disobedience than this?”
“There's no danger of Captain Karl losing his life?”
asked Dora, quickly, and with whitened cheek.
“No, not this time; but if you are his friend, Dora
Darling, you will advise him not to risk as much another
time.”
“But what will happen to him now? I mean, what
do you think you will do?”
“What do I think I will do? That's an odd question;
it sounds as if it was you, and not I, who know what I
will do.”
Dora made no reply, and as the colonel looked sharply
into her face, her eyes met his with a look of steadfast
determination.
“What are you thinking, Dora?”
“I am waiting, sir.”
“Waiting for what?”
“To know what you will do, so as to know what I
shall do.”
“O, then you intend to take action in the matter—do
you?” asked Colonel Blank, ironically.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what will you do if I administer a public reprimand
to your hero? That is the mildest course contemplated.”
“I will speak as soon as you are done, and say that
you are wrong, for it was I, and not Captain Karl, who
was to blame, and should be reprimanded.”
“You'll do that — will you?” asked the colonel, in
great surprise.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what do you think I will do to you after such
an act of insubordination, of mutiny, in fact?”
“You will do nothing, sir; for before I stop I shall
bid good by to the men, and tell them all that I cannot
be the daughter of the regiment any longer, because I
cannot be the daughter of its colonel.”
“Then I'll have you and Captain Karl drummed out
of camp together to the Rogue's March!” exclaimed
Colonel Blank, in comic wrath.
“I don't think you'd give such an order, sir; and if
you did, the drummers wouldn't mind you. Nobody
thing.”
The colonel turned, and looked down at the slight,
bright-eyed girl who thus dared to reprove and warn
him. She was very pale, and trembled with nervous
excitement; but her front was radiant with truth and
courage, and her lips were set in the look that Joan of
Are might have worn as she walked to her death for the
cause she had espoused.
Colonel Blank read the high heart in that fair young
face; and, man like, longed to prove it.
“Come, then, girl,” said he, with affected harshness,
“it is you, after all, who are responsible for this breach
of discipline; it is, therefore, you who should be punished.
Say that I excuse Captain Windsor from all consequences
of his fault, — will you bear them for him?”
“Can I? May I? What will be done to me?” asked
the vivandière, earnestly, while a faint flush of mingled
eagerness and apprehension stained her cheek.
“Of course you may, if it's right you should. And
as for what the penalty shall be — ” The colonel paused
to furtively watch the anxious but unwavering face.
“Let me see. A public reprimand would hardly be
sufficient in your case. A little girl doesn't mind being
reproved, as a man does. You might be shut up in the
guard-house two or three days on bread and water.
You'd be alone at night, and have no light, you know.”
“I shouldn't mind that at all, sir, or the bread and
water either,” exclaimed the young heroine.
“No; a better plan would be to send you back to that
aunt whom you told me of. The woman you ran away
from, I mean. I'll send you back to her.”
The look of anxiety deepened into one of horror.
“O, sir, won't anything else do?”
“No. If you take other people's burdens on your
own shoulders, you must expect to bear them. But you
have your choice still. You may either suffer for Captain
Windsor in this manner, or you may leave his affair
in my hands, as you would better have done from the
first. You needn't hurry. Come to my tent in an hour,
and let me know.”
“Stop, sir, please; I'd rather tell you now. My
mind is quite made up, and will not change. I will go
back to aunt Wilson.”
“You will? But how can I be sure you will go to
her, even if you leave camp?”
“Because I shall promise to do so,” said the child,
simply.
Colonel Blank looked again at his vivandière, with
keen and suspicious eyes; but on that placid brow, and
in those lustrous eyes, lay no shade of duplicity — on those
still lips no coward's tremor. And still, man like, he
searched her heart.
“I shall send back Picter at the same time,” said he.
not of much use here.”
“No, indeed, sir, I wouldn't take him on any account.
He's a servant, you know, and they'd treat him dreadfully
if he went back. It would be very, very cruel.
You'll not do that, sir — will you?”
“Yes. If you go, he shall go; and I'll send you
both under a flag to camp Bartow, so as to be sure Pic
don't run away on the road,” said the colonel, savagely.
Dora looked at him with indignant astonishment.
“Why will you do so?” asked she; “Picter has done
no harm.”
“No, but you have. I return him to punish you.”
“But that isn't fair at all,” cried Dora, passionately.
“You can do as you like about me; if you're not satisfied
with sending me to my aunt, you may shut me up in the
guard-house first, but you haven't the least right in the
world to meddle with Pic, and you shan't.”
“And — I — shan't! Did I understand you to say
those words, vivandière?” inquired the colonel, drawing
himself up in simulated anger.
“Yes, sir, I did say so. It wasn't proper, and I
shouldn't have said it if I had been the daughter of the
regiment still; but now — ”
“No; the daughter of the regiment never says `shan't'
to the colonel.”
A merry quaver in the voice struck on Dora's ear.
cold and stern as before.
“Now, Dora,” said he, slowly, “suppose that I conclude
to do just this thing: to send you and Picter to the
first rebel station, and let Captain Windsor go free.
What can you do about it, and what will you say about
it? Stop, now, and think.”
“I don't want to think, sir. I don't suppose I could
do anything to prevent it, because you are a strong man,
with a great many soldiers to do all you tell them to.
But God is just as much stronger than you, as you are
than me; and he will never, never let you be so wicked
and so cruel, or, if he does, he will punish you for it.
O, sir, you can do nothing half so bad to Picter or to me,
as the feelings God will put in your heart will be to you.”
“What sort of feelings, Dora?”
“Shame and sorrow; and, O, such a dreadful wish
that you could go back and do it over, and such a dreadful
feeling that you never can!”
“What do you know of such remorse as this, child?”
asked the colonel, in astonishment, as he marked the intensity
of emotion in the young face uplifted to his own.
“I killed my linnet because he wouldn't eat out of my
hand,” said Dora, in a low, quick voice, while her eyes
sank, and the color burned fiercely upon all her face.
“And you feel that way about it?” persisted the
colonel.
“Yes, sir. I don't think I could ever have been happy
any more; but after a while, when I had asked and
asked, and mother had asked for me, God forgave me.”
“How did you know that?”
“O, by my feelings. I knew right off.”
“And I suppose He would forgive me too, after a
while,” suggested the colonel.
Dora solemnly shook her head.
“I don't think so, sir. Picter is a man, and a man is
a great deal more than a linnet—”
“Cela dépend,” murmured the colonel.
“What, sir?”
“Nothing, child.”
“You'll not send Picter back?” recommenced Dora,
in a moment.
“I'll think of it.”
“Please tell me now.”
“And why now?”
“I should like to know, if you please, sir.”
“So that you may warn him, and help him off?”
Dora made no reply.
“Come, child, the truth. Was that what you meant
to do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you dare tell me of it, you audacious mutineer.
Do you know the brightest idea I ever had in my life?”
“No, sir.”
“It was changing your name to Dora Darling. Now,
be off with you to your hospital, and say not one word
about this to any one before to-morrow morning. I will
let you know my decision in the course of the evening.
Promise me sacredly to be silent.”
“I promise, sir,” said Dora, raising her eyes to his.
“Good by, then;” and the colonel, with a beaming
smile, turned abruptly away to resume his walk, while
Dora, sorely puzzled, returned to the hospital.
An hour or two later the vivandière received, at the
hands of the colonel's orderly, a little package containing
a handsome silver whistle, wrapped in a bit of paper bearing
this inscription:—
“The Reward of Mutiny.”
| CHAPTER XXV. Dora Darling | |