Fairhaven Herald

CAPTAIN TOM.

"Drat that boy, with his rum-i-tum-tum all the day long! It's the first thing in the morning and the last thing at night. I'm tired of hearing it."

The cook glanced through the open window as she spoke; but even she, with her sense of the humorous blunted somewhat by a lifelong contact with pots, pans and spoons could not help smiling.

The scene of action was a government reservation known as a navy yard. The "rum-i-tum-tum" of which the cook complained came from a much battered tin kettle suspended from the neck of a small sized drummer boy. He was furnishing the music for the army, and the army was composed of five others, including the captain.

It was marching past the kitchen window. At its head, bearing himself proudly, was the captain. A paper cap, with a feather that fell to the shoulder, was the only insignia of his rank, except the wooden sword which he flourished in the air as he gave his commands. He wore no jacket and no shoes, and his trousers were held in place by a single suspender.

His age was twelve or thereabout.

With an eye to a possible mutiny among his forces, he had made up his command of those younger and weaker than himself, and had wisely allowed no commission to be held but his own.

The next in rank was the sergeant. He was a worthy follower of his leader. His cap, also of paper, differed from the commander's only in the absence of the feather, and as became his humbler rank he wore no suspenders. This circumstance interfered somewhat with his military bearing, for one hand was frequently occupied in pulling up his trousers.

The next in rank was the corporal. His emoluments must have been better than his comrades', for his clothes were of the latest and most approved fashion, and the chevrons which adorned his sleeves were evidently put there by skillful hands.

This left only two to be common soldiers. One of these had for a weapon a baseball bat, while the other, as became her age and sex, swung by its strings a white sunbonnet. Brother and sister were they, drafted from the once happy home of the paymaster of the yard.

The band, marching a little in advance, was noticeable for its smallness and the vigor with which it pounded music from the kettle drum.

In spite of the expression of displeasure to which the cook had given utterance, the relations existing between her and the captain evidently were amicable, for, as he caught sight of her through the open window, he halted his forces with much ceremony. Then he sheathed his sword in a conveniently large button hole inside the waistband of his trousers and advanced upon her window with an engaging smile.

"Did you hear the soldiers, Bridget?" he asked.

"Hear them, indeed!" she replied with a snort. "I'll tell you what it is, Captain Tom, one of these days, when the commodore isn't feeling first rate, and you go rum-i-ti-tuming around the yard, he'll send you all a-flying."

"But we don't go near him, Bridget," replied the captain, "and besides, Charley is in the company."

Charley was the commodore's son, and was the well dressed corporal already mentioned.

"Well, you mind what I say," returned the cook, "that's all. Do you want some bread this morning?"

"If you please," he answered; and soon, bearing a large slice of bread and butter for each of his command, he returned to his troops.

"A fine lad!" said the cook, as she resumed her work.

This fine lad was the son of an orderly sergeant in the marine corps who had died after thirty years of faithful service, leaving behind him a widow and one son. The widow also died soon after, and at three years of age Thomas Fitzgerald was left alone. In consideration of the small pension allowed by the government, little Thomas was taken in charge by a relative who lived not far away, but the cares of guardianship did not rest very heavily upon this relative, and Thomas was usually to be found at the marine barracks, to which place he naturally drifted.

He received his early training from the noncommissioned officers, with whom his father had always been a favorite. Many of his teachers were harsh and coarse, but there seemed to be an inborn goodness in the boy that pulled him safely through all temptations. It was the unchallenged boast of the first sergeant that "Thomas Fitzgerald had niver told a lie."

From the day when the good natured major had helped him to toddle by the aid of his scabbard, Thomas had been of the military. He was hardly four years old when he was discovered calmly sitting just back of the rifle butts—with the firing party on the other side. How he ever slipped past the danger flags no one could tell, but he wept bitterly upon being removed and begged that he might be taken back to "hear the booms."

When he was six years old nothing delighted the men in the barracks more than to buckle around his waist an old sword and see him strut about the courtyard, trailing behind on the stones the clattering scabbard, and giving orders in unconscious mimicry of the major commanding.

The major himself saw this one morning. Chancing to look out of the window he saw four of his men standing in line. Facing them was Thomas, who, with drawn sword, was putting them through the manual of arms.

"Carry arms! Order arms!"

The command was so like the major's that he recognized the imitation at once, and burst into a loud laugh.

"By George!" said the major, telling of this afterward to some of his brother officers, "you should have seen the way in which the young rascal came to a salute! I only wish all the men could do it as well. He's not bigger than a cartridge, you know. But I have noticed one thing—he always takes charge; he's never in the ranks."

Every one in the yard knew him as "captain," and from the white haired commodore down all saluted him as if he were a captain.

So it was quite to be expected that the army which was quietly eating its rations behind the surgeon's house, preparatory to the campaign of the day, should be under the command of Captain Thomas Fitzgerald. The rations disposed of, the captain formed the company. But mutiny was brewing in the ranks. The soldier with the trailing sunbonnet announced that she was tired and was going home.

This was desertion. The stern captain could not tolerate it, of course. To frighten her into subjection he declared that he would send her to the guardhouse. Whereupon the soldier in the sunbonnet sat down upon the ground and began to cry.

It was a new experiment for the captain. Never before had any of his troops been Amazons. As he was undecided how to act, he wisely resolved not to act at all. Leaving the weeping soldier to herself, he took up the line of march.

The one private soldier remaining moved forward, but ties of kindred attracted him very strongly toward his weeping sister's side. Her sobs grew more and more violent. His brotherly affection proved stronger than his patriotism, and throwing down his bat he hurried to the little girl's side.

The army was disbanded. A sergeant and corporal, although valuable as a nucleus around which to build a company, are of little use without at least one private. Captain Thomas Fitzgerald sheathed his sword, and, declaring that "he'd have no such kids in his company again," stalked gloomily away.

So it came about that Captain Thomas, instead of drilling his troops, was lounging about the navy yard gate, chatting with the sergeant on duty, at the very moment when Mme. Randeau stepped into her carriage to take an airing in the park.

Just then a piece of paper, blown by the wind, startled the horses. Whether the coachman fell or was thrown from his box, or indeed whether he was there at all to catch the reins, is uncertain, but in a moment there was a runaway.

A shout from the corner was caught up and echoed from the row of houses that faced the wall. Windows were thrown open and men and women rushed from the doors. There was a mad clatter over the rough stones, and Captain Thomas Fitzgerald, still lounging at the navy yard gate, looked up.

He saw two terrified horses dashing at mad speed down the street, a carriage surging from side to side, and the bloodless face of a terror stricken woman within.

The street was long and narrow and ended in a high wharf. The horses could not be turned aside, and unless their speed could be checked they would plunge into the sea, which at this spot was very deep and swept by a swift current.

Captain Thomas Fitzgerald was of quick and ready wit, and saw this at a glance. The flying team were almost at the gate. For an instant they swerved toward the navy yard wall, and as they did so a lad leaped from behind one of the trees that lined the curb and with a single bound caught the bridle of the nearest horse.

A cry of horror rang out from all who saw him. Surely the frantic animal would break his hold and trample the child to death. But the ancestors of Captain Thomas Fitzgerald were tough and strong, and the lad's muscles were good. His grip could not be loosened, let the frenzied horse fling its head ever so madly.

Flung from side to side, with closed eyes and clenched teeth, Captain Thomas Fitzgerald, bruised and bleeding, clung to the bridle as the horses dashed down the narrow street. Soon his weight, though little, began to tell. The speed of the team slackened; and now a dozen men rushed from the road to seize the trembling animals.

But it was too late. Weakened and exhausted, the gallant boy slipped his hold, and the heavy wheels passed over his body.

Then they came to a stop, and Madam Randeau was taken from her carriage in a dead faint.

Tenderly they lifted and carried the little captain into the messroom; but he was almost gone, and when the major, with tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks, bent over him, a smile fluttered for an instant across the poor crushed face, and only the major could hear him whisper,

"Parade's missed!"

Then—he surrendered his commission.

It was an irregular thing to do, but the commodore gave to Thomas Fitzgerald, son of an orderly sergeant in the marine corps, and a boy but twelve years old, all the honors of a soldier's funeral, and the next day the chapel could not hold all those who came to do him honor. People stood in crowds outside the doors, and as the body was borne along every head was bared.

The cortege wound its way out through the gate where so short a time before the captain had lounged and chatted with the sergeant, and up toward the wooded hill so thickly strewn with marble slabs.

With slow and measured tread, to the wailing music of the dead march, came the marines with arms reversed, and in their midst, crape draped and furled, was the flag of the captain's company. Then came the long line of officers, in the full uniform of their rank, paying their last tribute to the heroic lad.

Over his little grave three volleys were fired. Then the bugler, clad in gold and scarlet, stepped upon the mound of new turned earth and sounded the sweet, sad call of "Lights Out," which ends the parting day.—W. F. Low in Youth's Companion.