CHAPTER LVII
WATERS PAYS THE PRICE
Months passed to a tune of fifes and drums. Everywhere men were drilling. At more or less regular intervals one saw them marching down Montgomery street, brave in their new uniforms, running a gauntlet of bunting, flags and cheers. Then they passed from one's ken. Each fortnight the San Francisco papers published a column of Deaths and Casualties.
In due time a letter came from Herbert Waters, now a sergeant of his troop. Benito promptly closed his office for the afternoon and ran home with it; he read the missive, while Alice, Robert and Po Lun listened, eager-eyed and silent:
"We have marched over historic ground, the trail of d'Anza, which Benito's forefathers broke in 1774. They say it is the hardest march that volunteer troops ever made and I can well believe it. There are no railroads; it was almost like exploring. Sometimes water holes are ninety miles apart. The desert is so hot that you in temperate San Francisco can't imagine it unless you think of Hell; and in the mountains we found snow up to our waists; were nearly frozen.
"Apaches, Yumas, Navajos abound; they are cruel, treacherous fighters. We had some lively skirmishes with them. I received a poisoned arrow in my arm. But I sucked the wound and very soon, to everyone's surprise, it healed. There comes to me oft-times a strange conceit that I cannot be killed or even badly hurt ... until I have met Terry."
There was a postscript written on a later date, proceeding from Fort Davis, Texas. Though the handwriting was less firm than the foregoing, there was a jubilance about the closing lines which even the Chinese felt. His eyes glowed with a battle spirit as Benito read:
"My prayer has been answered. At least in part. I have met and fought with Broderick's assassin. It was in the battle for Fort Davis, which we wrested from the enemy, that he loomed suddenly before me, a great hulk of a man in a captain's uniform swinging his sword like a demon. I saw one of our men go down before him and then the battle press brought us together. It seemed almost like destiny. His sword was red and dripping, his horse was covered with foam. He looked at me with eyes that were insane--mad with the lust of killing; tried to plunge the blade into my neck. But I caught his wrist and held it. I shouted at him, for the noise was hideous, 'David Terry, I am Broderick's friend.' He went white at that. I let his wrist go and drew my own saber. I struck at him and the sparks flew from his countering weapon. My heart was leaping with a kind of joy. 'No trick pistols this time,' I cried. And I spat in his face.
"But another's ball came to his rescue. I felt it, cold as ice and hot as fire in my lung. I made a wild slash at him as I fell; saw him wince, but ride away.... So, now I lie in a camp hospital. It has seemed a long time. But it is the fortune of war. Perhaps I shall see you soon."
"It isn't signed," Benito seemed a trifle puzzled. Then he found, in back of Waters' lines, a final sheet in a strange handwriting. Hurriedly he rose, walked to the open door. Below, upon the bay, storm was brewing; it seemed mirrored in his eyes.
"What is it, dear?" asked Alice following. He handed her the single sheet of paper.
"Dead!" her tone was stunned, incredulous.
Benito's arm around her, dumbly, they went out together. Rain was beginning to fall, but neither knew it.
* * * * *
Several years of war made little change in San Francisco. The city furnished more than its quota of troops. The California Hundred, trained fighters and good horsemen, went to Massachusetts in 1862 and were assigned to the Second Cavalry. Later the California Battalion joined them. Both saw terrific fighting.
But California furnished better than "man-power" to the struggle. Money, that all-important war-essential, streamed uninterruptedly from the coast-state mines to Washington. More than a hundred millions had already been sent--a sum which, in Confederate hands, might have turned the destiny of battle. California was loyal politically as well. Though badly treated by a remote, often unsympathetic government, she had scorned the plot to set up a "Pacific Republic" as the South had planned and hoped.
Her secret service men were busy and astute, preventing filibustering plots and mail robberies. There was a constant feeling of uneasiness. San Francisco still housed too many Southern folk.
Benito and Alice were dining with the Stanleys. Francisco and Robert were squatted on the hearth, poring over an illustrated book that had come from New York. It showed the uniforms of United States soldiers, the latest additions to the navy.
"See," said Francisco, "here are pictures of Admiral Farragut and General Sherman." He was fifteen now and well above his father's shoulders. Robert, three years younger, looked up to admire his cousin. A smaller, more intellectual type of boy was Robert, with his mother's quiet sweetness and his father's fire.
"Here's a picture of the fight between the Monitor and Merrimac," he cried interestedly, "When I grow up I shall join the navy and wear a cap with gold braid, like Farragut."
"And I shall be a lawyer ... maybe a Senator or President," said Francisco, with importance.
The men, talking politics over their cigars, did not hear this converse, but the women looked down at their sons, smiling fondly. "Yesterday Robert announced that he would be a poet," Alice confided. "He saw his father writing verses in a book."
"And tomorrow he will want to be an inventor or a steam-boat captain," Inez answered. "'Tis the way with boys.... Mine is getting so big--I'm afraid he'll be going to war."
Po Lun interrupted their further confidences. He rushed in breathless, unannounced. "Misstah Windham," he spoke to Benito. "One man wanchee see you quick in Chinatown.... He allee same plitty soon die. He say you sabe him. His name McTu'pin."
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