Harper's Round Table, October 29, 1895 Part 7

"I know; but I had to go. Besides, you wouldn't have let me if I had been here."

"Let us go back to the parlor. It is almost twelve."

"No, I want you here."

Cynthia was about to reply defiantly, but something in Neal's eyes made her drop her own. She stood there in silence.

"Cynthia, do you remember that day on the river in the rain?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember what you called me then?" No reply.

"Tell me, Cynth; do you remember what you called me?"

"Yes," very low.

"You called me a coward. Do you think I am one now?"

"Oh no."

"But you also said you had faith in me, Cynthia; and in Philadelphia that spring I told you I was going to prove to you that I was worthy of your faith. Do you think I have, Cynthia?"

"Yes, Neal."

He said nothing for a minute. Then he glanced at the old clock in the back part of the hall. It was five minutes of twelve.

"Come to the hall window, Cynthia," he said, taking her hand; and Cynthia went with him. "That other New-year's eve we stood here and looked out on the snow just as we're doing now. Do you remember?"

"And I made good resolutions which I never kept," said Cynthia, finding her voice at last. "Oh, Neal, my bureau drawers are just as untidy and my tongue is just as unruly as ever! I make the same good resolutions every New-year's eve, but I always break them. You were wiser. You would not promise that night when I wanted you to, but you have done a great deal better than if you had."

"I would not promise when I should have done so. But won't you return good for evil, Cynthia, and promise me something? Promise me that before many more New-year's eves have come and gone you will be my wife! For I love you--love you, Cynthia! I have loved you ever since that day on the river--indeed, long before that! Hark! the clock is beginning to strike.

Promise before it stops."

And Cynthia promised.

And the old clock struck twelve, as it had done thousands of times before, and the old year died, and for us the story is finished. But for Neal and Cynthia a new year and a new life were dawning, and for them the story had but just begun.

THE END.

RATHER ODD.

"Papa," said Jimmieboy, "you are the nicest man in the world."

"And you are the nicest boy in the world," said his father.

"Yes; I guess that's so," said Jimmieboy. "Isn't it queer how we both managed to get into the same family."

THE BOMBARDMENT OF THE GOLDEN GATE.

BY YATES STIRLING, JUN.

"A strange fleet is in sight to the westward." This is the startling report of the telephone from the Farallone Islands, situated twenty-eight miles nearly due west of San Francisco. The General receives the report without a sign of the anxiety he feels, and continues his study of the huge maps before him. He is contemplating the vast amount of work that has been accomplished in the last three months since war had been declared. Then San Francisco had been a defenceless city at the mercy of the most insignificant enemy; now it is as near impregnable as human skill and ingenuity can make it.

The General takes a lingering look at the maps on his desk; running over the different forts, he sees with pride that there is nothing left undone.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Point Bonito. Point Diablo. Lime Point.

Point Lobos. Sutro Heights. Mortar Battery. Mining Station. Fort Point.

BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF THE GOLDEN GATE.]

On Point Lobos, the southern cape of the outer harbor, on high bluffs, are three 16-inch rifles mounted on disappearing carriages, the guns, in the loading position, being behind breastworks of earth and concrete. In this position the guns are sighted, then going up to the firing position above the earthwork for only a few seconds on firing, and then recoiling to their position of safety. On the high land between Point Lobos and Fort Point are two 12-inch and two 10-inch rifles in Grueson turrets, the armor consisting of eighteen inches of Harveyized nickel steel. The turrets are segments of a sphere, and are manipulated similarly to those on a battle-s.h.i.+p. A little higher up is one of the two formidable pneumatic guns, the explosion of whose sh.e.l.l within twenty yards of a s.h.i.+p would send her to the bottom. At Fort Point, the southern cape of the Golden Gate, in earthworks of old design patched up and strengthened, are four 10-inch rifles with disappearing carriages. On the northern cape of the Gate, Point Bonito, are three 16-inch rifles mounted in a similar way. The second pneumatic terror is also at this point, commanding the entrance to the Gate. Point Diablo is fortified with three 12-inch and two 10-inch rifles on disappearing carriages, and Lime Point will defend the harbor with four 10-inch rifles mounted in the same way. The outer harbor seaward of Fort Point and Point Diablo has been well mined, making it impossible for a vessel to enter in safety even though she had escaped the tons of steel hurled at her. The cables from the mines are led to a central station on the bluffs back of Fort Point. If by chance the enemy's s.h.i.+ps should ride over this hidden explosive, the simple pressure of a key in this station would send them all to destruction. At the mine station are two observers, who, by an instrument similar to a range finder, discover from time to time the position of the enemy on their chart. When the unlucky vessel is over a mine the key is pressed.

On Sutro Heights is a heavily armored tower, the inside of which to an inexperienced eye would appear like a central telephone station. It is the General's headquarters in action. From here he and his staff will direct and control the battle. This is the brain of the intricate fortifications. The nerves run to every battery and central station, making it but the work of a minute to transmit orders to any point.

Before another half-hour has slipped away everything is activity within the forts. The wires from the General's tower are busy with the many orders transmitted.

Actual hostilities began months ago in the East, but as yet have not laid their cruel hand on the Pacific slope. New York has been the scene of most of the strife.

While the army has been making the Golden Gate a fortress, the navy has not been idle. All the fighting s.h.i.+ps on the coast have been collected, and the work on the new ones so expedited that a formidable fleet has been ma.s.sed in the harbor. The _Oregon_, the only first-cla.s.s battle-s.h.i.+p of the West, cleared for action, the Admiral's blue flag flying at her truck, is lying behind Alcatraz Island; made fast to the different mooring-buoys by slip-ropes is the rest of the Pacific fleet.

The _Monterey_, low and formidable, is nearest the island, barely distinguishable against the dark land; her heavily armored turrets, bristling each with two great 12-inch rifles, are a menace to any battle-s.h.i.+p. The _Monadnock_, a double-turreted vessel, is close to the _Oregon_; in her turrets she carries two 12-inch and two 10-inch rifles, and inside of her dark hull are brave men who will show the enemy that the American monitor is as deadly a foe as of old. The _Olympia_, _Philadelphia_, _Baltimore_, _Charleston_, _Bennington_, and _Yorktown_, all protected cruisers, are equally ready to do battle with any of the enemy that it is their duty to encounter.

The foreign fleet is now in sight from Sutro Heights. A glance through the powerful telescope tells the General it is the enemy--six first-cla.s.s battle-s.h.i.+ps and eight cruisers, for the belligerent country depends upon the capture of this rich city to defray the heavy expense of the war.

They are approaching in double column, the battle-s.h.i.+ps leading. Nearer and nearer they come. The range-finders at the different batteries show the range is rapidly diminis.h.i.+ng. News has reached San Francisco, and the high bluffs about the city are thronged with an excited crowd. The blue-coated regulars have dispersed from the little knots about the guns, and have gone to their stations, and stand ready at the command to open the greatest battle the West has ever seen. On the s.h.i.+ps of the enemy come, majestically cutting the smooth sea, throwing the silvery spray upon their bare forecastles, over which their heavy turret guns are to soon speak.

"Four miles, sir!" reports one of the General's aides. The batteries at Lobos and Bonito are ordered to open fire. The six big 16-inch rifles thunder forth their challenge almost simultaneously, and nearly three and a half tons of steel go speeding toward the approaching enemy. All eyes are turned seaward, and are just in time to see columns of water thrown up close aboard the on-coming s.h.i.+ps. Again and again the heavy batteries speak; shot after shot goes on its deadly flight, making havoc on board the silent vessels. The fleet is approaching at nearly fifteen-knot speed; it will take them but eight minutes to reach the range, when tons of gun-cotton will be sent out to meet them both above and below the peaceful sea. They are heading directly for the entrance.

What can be their intention? Will they dare attempt to run the forts? Do they suppose the harbor is clear of mines and they have naught to fear save the guns? The range-finder dials point to 4000 yards from the Gate.

All the guns on the forts are blazing forth fire, but the gunners' aims are poor, and the better part of the shots are fruitlessly ploughing up the sea in the vicinity of the enemy. One well-aimed 16-inch sh.e.l.l strikes home on the nearest s.h.i.+p; her armor is pierced, and she has become unmanageable and drops out of the advancing columns. Nearer and nearer comes the fighting. At last the dreaded puffs of smoke dart from the battle-s.h.i.+ps' turrets, and the sh.e.l.ls are coming screeching ash.o.r.e, tearing up the earth in the fortifications. With a gla.s.s one of the aides is scanning the sea at the entrance to the harbor. An exclamation escapes him as his gla.s.s focuses on some object of interest; with a flinger trembling with emotion he points out to the General two small red flags, barely distinguishable on the water's surface, midway between Point Lobos and the nearest s.h.i.+p. A glance shows it to be the flags on the Sims-Edison controllable torpedo. Out it goes at a terrific speed; nearer and nearer it approaches its intended victim. Harmless enough look these small pieces of bunting, but underneath the water not many feet lurk nearly five hundred pounds of deadly gun-cotton. It has pa.s.sed astern of the leading s.h.i.+p. Will it run out its scope and fail? A small column of water is seen to ascend from the flags, and the next moment the second battle-s.h.i.+p is nearly engulfed in a mighty explosion. The first charge tears the torpedo net; the second makes one less s.h.i.+p to attack the batteries, for she is fast sinking. The gun-cotton has exploded against her steel hull. A cruiser drops out to render a.s.sistance.

An explosion that seems like an earthquake to those in the fortifications tells that the first gun-cotton sh.e.l.l has exploded near the enemy. One of the leading battle-s.h.i.+ps heels over and slowly sinks beneath the waves; her seams have been opened by the force of the explosion. The enemy now is in irregular formation, more nearly like double echelon; they are pouring in a scathing fire on all the batteries. As they approach the torpedo range they starboard and stand out to sea, bringing to bear their after turrets. Some of their shots have committed awful havoc ash.o.r.e; gun after gun has been dismounted, one of the pneumatic guns has been struck by a sh.e.l.l and is a total wreck. The remaining controllable torpedoes have failed.

The pneumatic gun on Point Bonito is aimed at the nearest s.h.i.+p, but a mile and a half away; the gauge on the acc.u.mulator shows the air pressure is sufficient. The lever is tripped, and the quarter-ton of gun-cotton, with a whir, is hurled on its errand of destruction. The eye can distinguish the aerial torpedo as it soars to the height of its trajectory, and then majestically and swiftly steals down toward its helpless prey. Will it explode? It strikes the water a few yards from the target, but the looked-for explosion does not follow; the fuse has failed. The next minute every gun of the enemy is trained upon this terrible weapon, knowing that if the sh.e.l.l is again let loose their s.h.i.+ps will be like chaff before this tremendous power. The enemy is now confident of victory. Signals go up on the flag-s.h.i.+p, and in a very few minutes the old formation is resumed, and once again they head for the harbor.

The firing becomes hot and furious; broadside after broadside belches forth from the enemy's steel sides; a few sh.e.l.ls go wide into the city, and dense columns of black smoke from the buildings set on fire lend a more awesome aspect to the picture depicted.

The observers at the mining-station are nervous with the suppressed excitement within them. The s.h.i.+ps of the enemy plot on their chart only eight hundred yards away from their mines. Will it be their fortune to decide the fate of the Golden City? The s.h.i.+ps still advance. Soon they will be over the mines. A pressure of the key under the hand will discharge tons of the hidden explosive.

But the enemy has stopped. What does this foretell? Five hundred yards from the mines the s.h.i.+ps are nearly motionless in the troubled sea lashed to foam by the ploughing of so much steel.

All the batteries are now doing splendid work. Explosion follows explosion on board the intruding s.h.i.+ps. Two cruisers are unmanageable and on fire; they drift onto the rocks almost within a stone's throw of one of the batteries. Suddenly torpedoes shoot from the bow tubes of the leading s.h.i.+ps, and a few moments afterward tremendous columns of water are seen to rise from the bay, and the next second the sound of a mighty discharge reaches the expectant ears of the defenders of the Gate. The officer at the mining-key knows from the spark that jumps across under his hand that the enemy has countermined and the harbor is clear. The struggle has come to such close quarters that the rapid-fire and machine gun fire lends its sharp cracking report to the dull roar of the heavy guns.