Young Lieutenant Claflin left the
Brooklyn Navy-yard at an early hour, and arrived at
the recruiting-office at ten o’clock. It
was the day before Christmas, and even the Bowery,
“the thieves’ highway,” had taken
on the emblems and spirit of the season, and the young
officer smiled grimly as he saw a hard-faced proprietor
of a saloon directing the hanging of wreaths and crosses
over the door of his palace and telling the assistant
barkeeper to make the red holly berries “show
up” better.
The cheap lodging-houses had trailed
the green over their illuminated transoms, and even
on Mott Street the Chinamen had hung up strings of
evergreen over the doors of the joss-house and the
gambling-house next door. And the tramps and
good-for-nothings, just back from the Island, had
an animated, expectant look, as though something certainly
was going to happen.
Lieutenant Claflin nodded to Corporal
Goddard at the door of the recruiting-office, and
startled that veteran’s rigidity, and kept his
cotton-gloved hand at his visor longer than the Regulations
required, by saying, “Wish you merry Christmas,”
as he jumped up the stairs.
The recruiting-office was a dull,
blank-looking place, the view from the windows was
not inspiring, and the sight of the plump and black-eyed
Jewess in front of the pawn-shop across the street,
who was a vision of delight to Corporal Goddard, had
no attractions to the officer upstairs. He put
on his blue jacket, with the black braid down the
front, lighted a cigar, and wrote letters on every
other than official matters, and forgot about recruits.
He was to have leave of absence on Christmas, and
though the others had denounced him for leaving the
mess-table on that day, they had forgiven him when
he explained that he was going to spend it with his
people at home. The others had homes as far away
as San Francisco and as far inland as Milwaukee, and
some called the big ship of war home; but Claflin’s
people lived up in Connecticut, and he could reach
them in a few hours. He was a very lucky man,
the others said, and he felt very cheerful over it,
and forgot the blank-looking office with its Rules
and Regulations, and colored prints of uniforms, and
models of old war-ships, and tin boxes of official
documents which were to be filled out and sent to
“the Honorable, the Secretary of the Navy.”
Corporal Goddard on the stoop below
shifted from one foot to the other, and chafed his
gloved hands softly together to keep them warm.
He had no time to write letters on unofficial writing-paper,
nor to smoke cigars or read novels with his feet on
a chair, with the choice of looking out at the queer
stream of human life moving by below the window on
the opposite side of the Bowery. He had to stand
straight, which came easily to him now, and to answer
questions and urge doubtful minds to join the ranks
of the government’s marines.
A drunken man gazed at Ogden’s
colored pictures of the American infantry, cavalry,
and marine uniforms that hung before the door, and
placed an unsteady finger on the cavalry-man’s
picture, and said he chose to be one of those.
Corporal Goddard told him severely to be off and get
sober and grow six inches before he thought of such
a thing, and frowned him off the stoop.
Then two boys from the country asked
about the service, and went off very quickly when
they found they would have to remain in it for three
years at least. A great many more stopped in front
of the gay pictures and gazed admiringly at Corporal
Goddard’s bright brass buttons and brilliant
complexion, which they innocently attributed to exposure
to the sun on long, weary marches. But no one
came to offer himself in earnest. At one o’clock
Lieutenant Claflin changed his coat and went down-town
to luncheon, and came back still more content and in
feeling with the season, and lighted another cigar.
But just as he had settled himself
comfortably he heard Corporal Goddard’s step
on the stairs and a less determined step behind him.
He took his feet down from the rung of the other chair,
pulled his undress jacket into place, and took up
a pen.
Corporal Goddard saluted at the door
and introduced with a wave of his hand the latest
applicant for Uncle Sam’s service. The applicant
was as young as Lieutenant Claflin, and as good-looking;
but he was dirty and unshaven, and his eyes were set
back in the sockets, and his fingers twitched at his
side. Lieutenant Claflin had seen many applicants
in this stage. He called it the remorseful stage,
and was used to it.
“Name?” said Lieutenant
Claflin, as he pulled a printed sheet of paper towards
him.
The applicant hesitated, then he said,
“Walker John Walker.”
The Lieutenant noticed the hesitation,
but he merely remarked to himself, “It’s
none of my business,” and added, aloud, “Nationality?”
and wrote United States before the applicant answered.
The applicant said he was unmarried,
was twenty three years old, and had been born in New
York City. Even Corporal Goddard knew this last
was not so, but it was none of his business, either.
He moved the applicant up against the wall under the
measuring-rod, and brought it down on his head.
So he measured and weighed the applicant,
and tested his eyesight with printed letters and bits
of colored yarn, and the lieutenant kept tally on
the sheet, and bit the end of his pen and watched the
applicant’s face. There were a great many
applicants, and few were chosen, but none of them
had quite the air about him which this one had.
Lieutenant Claflin thought Corporal Goddard was just
a bit too callous in the way he handled the applicant,
and too peremptory in his questions; but he could
not tell why Corporal Goddard treated them all in
that way. Then the young officer noticed that
the applicant’s white face was flushing, and
that he bit his lips when Corporal Goddard pushed
him towards the weighing-machine as he would have moved
a barrel of flour.
“You’ll answer,”
said Lieutenant Claflin, glancing at the sheet.
“Your average is very good. All you’ve
got to do now is to sign this, and then it will be
over.” But he did not let go of the sheet
in his hand, as he would have done had he wanted it
over. Neither did the applicant move forward
to sign.
“After you have signed this,”
said the young officer, keeping his eyes down on the
paper before him, “you will have become a servant
of the United States; you will sit in that other room
until the office is closed for to-day, and then you
will be led over to the Navy-yard and put into a uniform,
and from that time on for three years you will have
a number, the same number as the one on your musket.
You and the musket will both belong to the government.
You will clean and load the musket, and fight with
it if God ever gives us the chance; and the government
will feed you and keep you clean, and fight with you
if needful.”
The lieutenant looked up at the corporal
and said, “You can go, Goddard,” and the
corporal turned on his heel and walked downstairs,
wondering.
“You may spend the three years,”
continued the officer, still without looking at the
applicant, “which are the best years of a young
man’s life, on the sea, visiting foreign ports,
or you may spend it marching up and down the Brooklyn
Navy-yard and cleaning brass-work. There are
some men who are meant to clean brass-work and to march
up and down in front of a stone arsenal, and who are
fitted for nothing else. But to every man is
given something which should tell him that he is put
here to make the best of himself. Every man has
that, even the men who are only fit to clean brass
rods; but some men kill it, or try to kill it, in
different ways, generally by rum. And they are
as generally successful, if they keep the process
up long enough. The government, of which I am
a very humble representative, is always glad to get
good men to serve her, but it seems to me (and I may
be wrong, and I’m quite sure that I am speaking
contrary to Regulations) that some of her men can
serve her better in other ways than swabbing down decks.
Now, you know yourself best. It may be that you
are just the sort of man to stand up and salute the
ladies when they come on board to see the ship, and
to watch them from for’ard as they walk about
with the officers. You won’t be allowed
to speak to them; you will be number 329 or 328, and
whatever benefits a good woman can give a man will
be shut off from you, more or less, for three years.
“And, on the other hand, it
may be that there are some good women who could keep
you on shore, and help you to do something more with
yourself than to carry a musket. And, again, it
may be that if you stayed on shore you would drink
yourself more or less comfortably to death, and break
somebody’s heart. I can’t tell.
But if I were not a commissioned officer of the United
States, and a thing of Rules and Regulations who can
dance and wear a uniform, and a youth generally unfit
to pose as an example, I would advise you not to sign
this, but to go home and brace up and leave whiskey
alone.
“Now, what shall we do?”
said the young lieutenant, smiling; “shall we
tear this up, or will you sign it?”
The applicant’s lips were twitching
as well as his hands now, and he rubbed his cuff over
his face and smiled back.
“I’m much obliged to you,”
he said, nervously. “That sounds a rather
flat thing to say, I know, but if you knew all I meant
by it, though, it would mean enough. I’ve
made a damned fool of myself in this city, but nothing
worse. And it was a choice of the navy, where
they’d keep me straight, or going to the devil
my own way. But it won’t be my own way
now, thanks to you. I don’t know how you
saw how it was so quickly; but, you see, I have got
a home back in Connecticut, and women that can help
me there, and I’ll go back to them and ask them
to let me start in again where I was when I went away.”
“That’s good,” said
the young officer, cheerfully; “that’s
the way to talk. Tell me where you live in Connecticut,
and I’ll lend you the car-fare to get there.
I’ll expect it back with interest, you know,”
he said, laughing.
“Thank you,” said the
rejected applicant. “It’s not so far
but that I can walk, and I don’t think you’d
believe in me if I took money.”
“Oh, yes, I would,” said
the lieutenant. “How much do you want?”
“Thank you, but I’d rather
walk,” said the other. “I can get
there easily enough by to-morrow. I’ll
be a nice Christmas present, won’t I?”
he added, grimly.
“You’ll do,” said
the young officer. “I fancy you’ll
be about as welcome a one as they’ll get.”
He held out his hand and the other shook it, and walked
out with his shoulders as stiff as those of Corporal
Goddard.
Then he came back and looked into
the room shyly. “I say,” he said,
hesitatingly. The lieutenant ran his hand down
into his pocket. “You’ve changed
your mind?” he asked, eagerly. “That’s
good. How much will you want?”
The rejected applicant flushed.
“No, not that,” he said. “I
just came back to say wish you a merry
Christmas.”