A Little Dusky Hero.

by Harriot T, Comstock.

I.

GEORGE WASHINGTON MCKINLEY JONES.

Scratch! scratch! scratch! went Colonel Austin's pen over the smooth white sheets of paper, sheet after sheet.

The dead heat of Tampa hung heavy within the tent; the buzz of the flies was most distressing; but the reports must be got off, and after them there were letters to be written to "the Boy and his Mother" up North, telling them--especially the Boy--what a glorious thing it is to serve one's country under _any_ circ.u.mstances. The present circ.u.mstances were extremely trying, to be sure, but the firm brown hand glided back and forth over the long pages in a determined manner that showed how Colonel Austin believed in doing his duty.

Scratch! scratch! scratch!

Buzz! buzz! buzz!

"Good-mornin', sah!"

It was a soft little voice, and it droned away into the buzz of the flies and the scratching of the pen so that the writer at the rough table took no heed.

"Good mornin', sah!"

This time Colonel Austin turned. He was a firm believer in discipline, and the unannounced arrival annoyed him. He swung around and gazed sternly about six feet from the ground. There was nothing there! His eyes dropped and finally rested upon the very smallest, dirtiest, raggedest black boy he had ever seen. But the beautiful great eyes of the forlorn mite looked trustingly up at the surprised officer, and Colonel Austin noticed that the grimy cheeks were tear-stained though the childish lips were smiling bravely.

"Good mornin', sah!" again piped the soft voice.

"Why, good morning to you!" the Colonel replied. He was always tender with sick soldiers, women, and children, and the pathetic little figure before him touched his sympathy. "Who are you, my small friend?"

"George Washington McKinley Jones, sah."

"Just so; and where are your folks?"

"No folks any more, sah. Daddy he done got put in prison fur life, sah, 'cos he killed a frien' of his, an' my mammy she done died yesterday. I jus' come from her buryin', sah." Two slow tears fell from the soft brown eyes and rolled over the stained cheeks.

Colonel Austin's throat grew dry, as it always did when he looked upon suffering things bearing pain and trouble bravely.

"And why do you come here, my child?" he asked kindly.

"I likes de look ob your face, sah, an' I'se hungry--I'se starved, I is--an' 'sides I want work!"

The boy certainly was not over nine, and was undersized and childish-looking even for that.

"Work!" smiled the grave Colonel, "what in the world can you do?"

"Why, sah, I'se de best shot you ebber saw; I reckon I'se what you call a real crack shot; dat's what I am, sah!"

The ring of pride in the piping voice reached the Colonel's heart. "Oh!

I see," he nodded. "You wish to be a soldier boy, is that it?"

The grimy little applicant drew himself up to his extreme height, and replied with magnificent scorn. "No, sah! I does _not_ wish to be a sojer boy. I wish ter be one ob dem heroes, sah!"

A joke was a rare thing in those dull, waiting days, and George Washington McKinley Jones was delicious. The Colonel smoothed the smiles from his mouth as best he could. But not a quiver of mirth ruffled the dirt-stained countenance of the child. His severe stare sobered the Colonel, and he asked in a gentle tone, "Do you know what a hero is, my boy?"

George Washington drew his ragged coat about him with a gesture of patient pity, then answered with a slow, pained dignity. "Co'se I knows what a hero is, sah. How could I know dat I wanted ter be one if I didn't? A hero is a pusson, sah, what ain't afraid to tackle a job too big fur other folks, an' goes right froo wid it or dies a-doin' it!"

Something in the quiet words drove all desire to laugh for good and all from the listening officer. "I have a character on my hands, evidently,"

he thought; aloud he said, "George Washington McKinley Jones, I presume you haven't any particular job in heroism in sight at present?"

"No, sah. I jes' wants to go 'long wid de boys, an' watch out fur my chance. Mammy done tole me heaps ob times dat if I jes' was wid sojers, I was boun'ter be a hero some day, sh.o.r.e. She 'lowed she had visions."

"You shall have your chance, comrade!" The Colonel got up and took the thin little hand in his. "If you have told me the truth, my boy, I will take you along with my regiment and give you a show." He called to an officer who was pa.s.sing the tent. "Martin!"

The man stopped and touched his cap.

"Martin, we have a young volunteer here. He's no common soldier, please understand; he's enlisted as a hero. Feed him up, give him all that he can hold, and let him report to me later."

Lieutenant Martin's face never changed expression; he simply held out his hand gravely to George Washington McKinley Jones, saluted his superior officer, and led the volunteer out of the tent.

While George Washington ate, solemnly and long, investigations were made as to the truth of his story. Colonel Austin made them himself. He wished to make sure, for his sympathy was deeply enlisted, and he did not intend to be deceived. He found the little fellow had not departed from the facts in the least particular. He belonged to n.o.body; but every one who knew him had a kindly word for him. He was known as an honest, good-natured little waif, with a reputation for hitting the bull's-eye every time any one would lend him a gun at a rifle-match.

Upon the evidence gathered the boy was taken into the army as the "mascot of the Ninth," and before long he was the pet of the men in that city of white tents, and became known as "G. W.," for who in that hot, lazy place could waste time in calling him all of his various historical national names? It was "G. W." here and "G. W." there. He danced for them and sang for them, and was never weary, never ill-tempered.

When once he had had enough to eat--and for many days the men thought that he never could get enough--he became the healthiest and ruggedest of boys, and beyond doubt one of the happiest that ever breathed.

II.

THE BOX FROM UP NORTH.

One day a box came from the North. It was addressed to "George Washington McKinley Jones, care of Colonel Austin;" but as G. W. was incapable of reading he sharply questioned the messenger who delivered it.

"How you know dis 'blongs ter me?" asked he.

"There's your name," said the messenger.

"Whar?"

The patient messenger traced the boy's ill.u.s.trious name.

"What's dar 'sides my name?"

"Care of Colonel Austin."

"Oh!" said G. W., understandingly, "dat means I'se got ter take care ob it fur my Colonel! I reckon dey needn't took all de trouble to write dat foolishness out! Co'se I'll take care of it."