Part 23 (1/2)
”'Well, Cap'n Doane,' said he, 'that battery must be taken--at any cost.
May I depend on you?'
”'General,' said I, 'I will do my duty,' and I wheeled on my horse and rode to the front of my troop.
”'Forward--_March!_ Draw--_Sabres!_ Gallop----_Charge!_----'”
By this time the old Captain was on his feet, cane in hand for a sabre, the wonderful light of a by-gone conflict s.h.i.+ning in his eyes. I could see him charging down the hill with his clattering troop; hear the clash of arms and the roll of musketry; see the flags flying and the men falling--dust and smoke and heat--the cry of wounded horses.... They took the battery.
Well, when he finished his story that evening there was a pause, and then I saw Anthy suddenly lean forward, her hands clasped hard and her face glowing.
”Such stories as that,” she said, ”ought not to be lost, Uncle Newt.
They are _good_ for people. The coming generation doesn't know what its fathers suffered and struggled for--or what the country owes to them----” And then, wistfully: ”I wish those stories might never be lost.”
Instantly Nort sprung from his chair, for great ideas when they arrived seemed to p.r.i.c.k him physically as well as mentally.
”Say,” he almost shouted, ”I have it! Let's have the Cap'n write the story of his life--and, by Jiminy, publish it in the _Star_. Everybody knows the Cap'n--they'd eat it up.”
It was Nort's genius that he could see, instantly, the greater possibilities of things, and his suggestion quite carried us away. We all began to talk at once:
”Print the Captain's picture, a big one on the first page. A story every week. Why, he _knew_ James G. Blaine----”
Anthy leaned back in her chair, her eyes like stars, looked at Nort, and looked at him.
When we went out that night the old Captain threw a big arm over Nort's shoulder. The tears were running quite unheeded down the old fellow's face.
”Nort, my boy,” he said, ”I love you like a son.”
He was happier that night than he had been before in years.
The next morning Nort appeared at the office with a tremendous announcement, headed: _Captain Doane's Story of His Life_, which would, on a conservative estimate, have filled an entire page of the _Star_.
And the old Captain, who need never have taken off his hat to d.i.c.kens or Dumas where copiousness was concerned, began to write--enormously. The dear old fellow, looking back into his own past, discovered anew a hero after his own heart, and as the incidents jumped at him out of his memory, he could scarcely put them down fast enough. He filled reams of yellow copy paper.
With the first article we published a three-column half-tone portrait of the Captain, his head turned a little to one side to show the full lift of his brow, and one hand thrust carelessly and yet artfully into the bosom of his long coat. Oh, very wonderful! The first article, headed,
EARLY MEMORIES OF HEMPFIELD
was really excellent, after Anthy had cut out two thirds of the old Captain's copy--which no other one of us would have dared to do.
Well, in an old town, in an old country, where the memories of many people reached far back, where many had known Captain Doane all their lives, this article instantly found sympathetic readers, and began to be talked about. We felt it at once in the demand for papers. Later came the stories of early political affairs in Hempfield and, indeed, in New England, and stories of the war which were really thrilling. Other headings were: ”_How I Met General McClellan_” and ”_Reminiscences of James G. Blaine_.”
These not only awakened local interest, but they began to be clipped and quoted in outside newspapers, even in Boston and New York. A reporter was sent down from Boston to ”write up” the old Captain. It was quite a triumph. The Captain began to have visitors, old friends and old citizens, as he had never had before. They became almost a nuisance in the office. But the Captain was in his element: he thrived on it; his eye brightened; he walked, if possible, still more erect. His very mood, indeed, for his fighting blood was up, gave us some difficult problems.
Nearly every week he would pause in the course of his narrative to smite the Democratic party, to cry ”Fudge” at flying machines, or to visit his scorn upon the ”initiative, referendum and recall.” And one week he cut loose grandly upon woman suffrage, after he had first expressed his chivalric admiration for the ”gentle s.e.x” and quoted Sir Walter Scott:
”Oh, woman, in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,” etc., etc.