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Midshipman Paulding
By Molly Elliot Seawell
Chapter I
IN WHICH HIRAM MAKES HIS BOW TO THE WORLD
PETER GANSEVOORT'S tavern, up in the wilderness of northern New York, had never been so uproarious in all the thirty years it had been built as on one chilly spring night in 1813, when Colonel Tuthill's regiment, on a forced march to Sackett's Harbor, had come pouring into the village just at nightfall. Reports of sharp fighting had been flying about the country for several days, and not a moment was to be lost in re-enforcing Sackett's Harbor, upon which an attack by the British, by land and sea, was hourly expected. The staid and sober villagers were at their wits' end how to feed the multitude of hungry soldiers, who were quartered in houses and barns and stables— wherever a tired man could find a spot and a bundle of hay to sleep on. Camp-fires were burning brightly on the edges of the straggling village, for the night was singularly cold for the season, and in Peter Gansevoort's sanded parlor a blaze fit for midwinter went roaring up the big chimney. The ruddy light illuminated the quaint, low-ceiled room, and threw a mellow reflection upon two highly colored portraits, one of General Washington, and the other of the Marquis de Lafayette.
The General, in yellow breeches and red top-boots, was represented as glaring in a fierce and savage manner at the Marquis, whose countenance, if the artist was to be believed, indicated all the worst passions of human nature.
The room was full of officers, hungry and impatient for their supper. The cloth was laid, and Peter, with his buxom wife, was bustling back and forth, hurrying up things generally. Now, although Peter was a good American at heart, he was Holland-born, and as arrant a Dutchman as ever stepped. But Peter fondly imagined that all the Dutch had been ground out of him, and was continually being surprised and exasperated by the small boys in the village, who followed him to church on Sundays, whooping after him, "Dutch Peter! Dutch Peter!" "Oh, der defel!" groaned Peter in the pantry that night. "Soldiers is hard to blease. I haf nearly run my legs off, and instead of saying, 'Thank you, Peter,' 'Much obliged, landlord,' it's 'Hurry up there, you Dutch demijohn!' 'Step lively, Dutchy!' and if anybody galls me a Dootchman," continued Peter, getting very red and wiping his face on his white apron, "or says I dalks Dootch, or looks Dootch, it makes me as mad as der defel, and I vill bunch his head!"
At that very moment Colonel Tuthill called out sharply, "Landlord! Landlord! " and Peter jumped as if a hornet had stung him. "Yes, sir—directly, sir—goming, sir," answered Peter, and in two minutes supper was smoking on the table. The officers— more than a dozen—sat down; but there was a vacant place next Colonel Tuthill after all were seated. "Whom is that for?" asked the Colonel. "Dot ees for a nice leedle boy in midshipman's uniform dot has joost tramped into the village with a gang of sailors tagging after him. He told me, with as mooch air as any gommodore, to save him a place at der officers' table, and I thought to myself, 'Eef leedle boys like dot is all we've got to fight the Breetish, Lord help Peter Gansevoort and all other goot Amerigans!"
As Peter was speaking the door opened and a handsome young midshipman, about fourteen years old, entered. He at once perceived by Colonel Tuthill's place at the head of the table that he was the ranking officer, and, going up to him, made a low bow. "I ask leave to introduce myself, sir. I am Midshipman Hiram Paulding, of the United States navy." Colonel Tuthill rose from his chair and offered his hand courteously to the little midshipman. "And I am Colonel Tuthill. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Paulding, and beg to introduce you to the officers of my regiment." Then he introduced Hiram formally to all the officers present, and invited him to take the vacant place at his side.
The boy's address was so easy, and there was so much modest manliness in his bearing, that all the officers were at once prepossessed in his favor. But then, Dutch Peter appearing with a great roast pig on a large platter held high above his head, the officers turned their attention to their supper, and the colonel led in a gallant and dashing charge on the pig.
Hungry and tired as they all were after a succession of forced marches, the comfort and plenty around them was doubly welcome. With that disposition to seize the present moment for enjoyment, which is characteristic of soldiers and sailors, they forgot all hardships past, all dangers to come. They laughed and chaffed each other, and told merry stories by the dozen; and while the young midshipman was too modest to take much share in the conversation of his elders and superiors, he did more laughing than anybody else. He felt a little ashamed of this, and once or twice, when his fresh, boyish laugh rang out in advance, of the point of a good story, he turned crimson, and retired behind his napkin—but before he could straighten his face some new drollery would tickle him, and off he would go again. This amused the older officers very much, but they found when they addressed the little midshipman that he could answer them gravely and pertinently enough. Colonel Tuthill entered pleasantly into conversation with his young neighbor (who did his part nobly in demolishing the pig), and became still more pleased at the boy's sensible and straightforward answers. Presently supper was over, and pipes were in order. Hiram had taken a pipe when Peter Gansevoort passed them round, arid in doing so had turned very red, but after a few mild whiffs he had suddenly turned very pale. The colonel smiled and said nothing, but Hiram seemed to forget all about the pipe, and professed to be very much surprised some time after when he found it had gone out.
"And may I inquire your destination, Mr. Paulding?" asked the colonel. "I am under orders to Commodore Chauncey's flag ship, the Oneida, on Lake Ontario, sir," answered Hiram. "I have never seen any sea service yet, although I have had my commission for more than a year." "And, are you a native of this State?" "Yes, sir. I was born in Westchester County." "There was a John Paulding, of West-Chester, who conferred a great service on his country in the capture of Major Andre." "That was my father," said Hiram, his eyes brightening with pleasure. "Then let me felicitate you upon being the son of such a man," cried Colonel Tuthill warmly. "Gentlemen, you may remember, perhaps, that when Williams, one of Major Andre's three captors, asked him if he would give all the personal property about him and a hundred guineas for his freedom, John Paulding cried, 'Not for ten thousand guineas shall you stir a step!' Let us drink a health to John Paulding."
In those days anything was an excuse for drinking a health, and Hiram was called upon to reply. But, after rising and standing a few minutes, coloring furiously, without being able to utter a word, Colonel Tuthill, taking pity on his embarrassment, said kindly: "Sit down, Mr. Paulding. Your modesty does you no discredit." And Hiram sat down, infinitely relieved. "Are you your father's only son?" asked the colonel. "No, sir," replied Hiram gravely. "There are nineteen more children besides myself." This startling announcement was made (so naively that the officers roared out laughing, much to Hiram's surprise. He knew that a family of twenty children, even in a prosperous and well-to-do household like John Paulding's, had its disadvantages, but these were rather doleful than laughable. "I should say, Mr. Paulding, that you would not suffer for want of company at home?" remarked Colonel Tuthill, laughing. "Not in the least, sir, I assure you," responded Hiram earnestly. "The trouble is to find a quiet spot." "And how did you manage to make this village, with your sailors, for I hear you have a detachment?" "I came to Albany by schooner, sir, and from there to Utica in a mail-carrier's wagon, with a drum-major for company. At Utica I found these sailors on their way to Commodore Chauncey's squadron. They are all Americans—every one of them, sir— and some of them have fought in the British navy. We got on very well as far as the corduroy roads lasted, but today we have trudged through the woods nearly forty miles."
"And how did your sailors march, Mr. Paulding?" "Very poorly, sir," answered Hiram, sighing. "They groaned and swore so hard as they rolled along that I scarcely knew what to do; so I just marched ahead, holding myself as straight as I could, and pretended not to hear what they were saying." "Very proper conduct for a young officer." "And, although they got along so slowly, every time we stopped, one of them, who has a fiddle in his kit, would get it out and begin to play, and then they'd dance hornpipes instead of resting." "What have you done with them tonight?" asked the colonel. "I got them a barn to sleep in and something to eat before I looked out for myself. They are very respectful to me as long as my eye is on them, but the minute my back is turned they begin growling about the march and their heavy kits and everything. But I don't believe they'd growl about fighting. They growled about what they got to eat until I showed them I had no better, and didn't complain about it. There is one old fellow, a boatswain's mate, named Danny Dixon, that is a great help to me. He was a powder-monkey on Captain Paul Jones's ship, the Bon Homme Richard, when he fought the Serapis; and Dixon begins everything he tells with, 'When I was a powder-monkey aboard Cap'n Paul Jones's ship, the Bunnum Richard.' He's a very amusing old fellow. That must have been a fine fight of Captain Jones's, Colonel Tuthill?"
"A deuced fine fight, sir," answered Colonel Tuthill. "I hope we shall have some more like it. I see you know something of the world, Mr. Paulding." "I have seen very little of it, sir," replied Hiram, "as I was never away from home in my life before. But one learns a good deal with nineteen sisters and brothers for companions." "I should think so, although I have never enjoyed that advantage myself," replied the colonel, smiling; and then the conversation became general. The officers smoked and told stories and sang songs, and all were in high spirits and delighted with the prospect of active service. Hiram enjoyed 'himself immensely. For the first time in his life he was treated as a man by men. He thought an officer's life must certainly be the pleasantest in the world. But after a little while a sweet forgetfulness came softly upon him. He lay back in his chair, and thought the fire dancing up the chimney was the fire in his father's house at home, and the songs and the laughter around him was a pretty dream. He put his hands behind his head to listen to the dream music, and presently it got fainter and farther off, and then a silence sweeter than the music even took its place. All this seemed to Hiram to have taken a long, long time. But to Colonel Tuthill, watching the boy, it was not five minutes from the time his eyes grew heavy until he was sleeping soundly, his curly head resting on his arm. The colonel watched him, and presently calling Peter Gansevoort to him, pointed to the little officer sleeping so peacefully, and said in a low voice: "Take him and put him in a quiet room to himself, and let him sleep until morning."
Peter, who was a muscular fellow, with more brawn than brains, picked Hiram up as if he were a baby. The motion half waked him, although he did not realize where he was or what was being done to him. "Landlord," he cried in a sleepy voice, "wake me at daylight tomorrow morning. I must start early with my men. Good night, father and mother! Good night, boys!" and in another minute he was as fast asleep as ever. Peter carried him into the next room, and laid him in a bed and covered him up carefully. "And I'll let him shleep as long as he likes," thought Peter; "and if he misses der vight tomorrow, all der better. Boor leedle chop!"
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