The Telegraph Messenger Boy; Or, The Straight Road to Success Read online

  I shall never forget the glow which came into the pinched face when Iaddressed her thus, nor the devout expression which overspread hercountenance at my liberal praise of her child.

  "Ben has always been obedient to his father and mother. I have neverknown him to swear or tell an untruth, and he never took anything thatwas not his own--that is," the poor lady hastened to add when sherecalled the painful circumstance, "he never forgot himself but once."

  "He told me about it; few could blame him for that misstep; I cannotthink the distressing necessity will ever arise again. Should Heavenspare his life he will become your staff, upon which you can soon leanyour whole weight."

  She gave a faint sigh of happiness.

  "My boy Ben has never brought a pang to his mother's heart."

  Ah, my young friend, can your mother say that? When that dear head islaid low, when those loving eyes shall be closed forever, and the sweetvoice is hushed in the tomb, will you be able to say through yourblinding tears:

  "I never brought a pang to her heart!"

  CHAPTER IV

  A MESSAGE IN THE NIGHT

  At the end of a month Ben Mayberry was made a messenger boy of the officeunder my charge. This cannot be called a very momentous promotion,inasmuch as many of our telegraphists begin there; but it doubled Ben'swages at once, and led to his appearance in the attractive blue uniformwhich the boys of the Western Union wear. In his case it seemed to addtwo inches to his stature at once.

  Ben was our best messenger from the first. He was acquainted with thecity of Damietta from one end to the other, and his superior fleetness offoot enabled him to outstrip the others, while his cheerful, intelligentmanner added to his popularity with our customers.

  As he was so young, I determined to keep him messenger for a longer timethan was really necessary, affording him all the opportunity he could askin which to learn telegraphy. He picked it up rapidly, and I wassurprised when I found him reading messages over the wires by sound. Aseveryone knows, it takes a skillful operator, or rather one ofexperience, to do this, a proof that Ben was applying himself to learningthe business with all the power at his command.

  In more than one instance, those who knew the high estimation in whichthe boy was held exerted themselves to put annoyances and obstructions inhis way. All manner of pretexts were made for detaining him, and heshowed no little originality and ingenuity in outwitting his veryattentive friends.

  He continued to apply himself evenings, when not on duty at the office,and his progress was excellent in every respect. The kind principalshowed great interest in him, and at the age of twelve Ben Mayberrypossessed what may be called a good elementary English education.

  Before, however, these two years had passed he could receive and sendmessages in a very acceptable manner. His wages had been advanced, and henow had his mother in comfortable quarters, dressed tastefully himself,and was developing into a handsome youth, whose brilliant work hadalready attracted the notice of the general superintendent.

  Ben had been an operator a little less than a year when he met with amost extraordinary experience, which to-day is a theme of never-endingwonder to those who were living in Damietta at the time.

  One evening a rough-bearded man entered the office, and stepping to thecounter, said to me:

  "My name is Burkhill--G. R. Burkhill--and I am staying at the hotel inMoorestown. I am expecting a very important dispatch to-night, but Icannot wait for it. If it reaches this office before ten o'clock, I wishto have it delivered to the hotel."

  Moorestown lay directly across the river, and was reached by the long,covered bridge which spanned the stream. It was beyond our "jurisdiction,"that is, outside the circle of free delivery, which Mr. Burkhillunderstood, as he remarked that he would pay well for the trouble.

  I assured him that I would see that the telegram reached him that night,if received before ten o'clock. Thanking me, he said good-evening, passedout, mounted his horse, and galloped away in the wintry darkness.

  It was in the month of February, but the weather was mild for thatseason, and there had been a plentiful fall of rain. Ben was on dutyuntil ten, and he was in the very act of rising from his seat when hecalled out:

  "Helloa! here comes the message for Mr. Burkhill."

  It was quite brief and Ben wrote it out rapidly, took a hasty impression,thrust it into the damp yellow envelope, and whistled for a messengerboy. There was only one present, and he was a pale, delicate lad, who hadgone on duty that day after a week's illness.

  "Helloa, Tim; do you want to earn a half dollar extra?" asked Ben, as theboy stood expectantly before him.

  "I would like to, if it isn't too hard for me."

  Ben looked sharply at him and saw that the boy was in too weak a state toundertake the task. There was no other messenger within call, and Mr.Burkhill was doubtless impatient for the message whose delivery I hadguaranteed.

  "It won't do for you to cross the river to-night," said Ben decisively;"the air is damp and raw, and I think it is going to rain again. I'll doit for you, and whatever extra I collect from Mr. Burkhill you shallhave, Tim; now go home and go to bed."

  And waving me a good-night, Ben hurried out of the door and vanished downthe street.

  "It's just like him," I muttered, as I prepared to go home; for except onspecial occasions we closed our office at ten, or shortly after. "Thatisn't the first kindness he has done that boy, and everyone in the officeis bound by gratitude to him."

  As I stepped out on the street I observed that the fine mist was turninginto rain, and another of those dismal nights, which are oftenexperienced in the Middle States during the latter part of winter, wasupon the city.

  I did not feel sleepy after reaching home. My wife and two children hadretired and were sound asleep. There was no one astir but myself, anddrawing my chair to the fire, I began reading the evening paper.

  Fully an hour had passed in this manner and I was in the act of risingfrom my chair, with the purpose of going to bed, when a sharp ring of thebell startled me as though I had heard burglars in the house. I feltinstinctively that something serious had happened as I hurried to thedoor.

  "Did Ben Mayberry take a telegraphic message across the river to-night?"asked the man, whom I recognized as a policeman.

  "He started to do so," I answered tremblingly. "What's wrong."

  "It's the last message he'll ever deliver; he has probably been killed!"

  CHAPTER V

  IN STORM AND DARKNESS

  "Yes, it's the last message he'll ever deliver," repeated the policeman;"Ben Mayberry has probably been killed!"

  These were the terrible words spoken by the man who had rung my bell inthe middle of the night, and startled me almost out of my senses. Iswallowed the lump in my throat, and with a voice tremulous with emotion,said:

  "No, no! it cannot be. Who would kill him?"

  "I don't mean he was murdered," the officer hastened to add, seeing mymistake. "He was on the middle span of the bridge when it was carriedaway by the flood, and that's the last of him!"

  I drew a great sigh of relief. There was something unspeakably dreadfulin the thought of noble Ben Mayberry being killed by anyone, and itlifted a vast burden from my shoulders to be told that no such awful fatehad overtaken him.

  But instantly came the staggering terror that the boy had gone down inthe wreck and ruin, and at that moment was floating among the greatmasses of ice and debris that were sweeping swiftly down the rivertoward the sea.

  "How was it?" I asked, after the officer had refused my invitation toenter.

  "The river began rising very fast at dark, but the bridge has stood somany freshets we were hopeful of this. The water was at the top of theabutments at nine o'clock and was still creeping up. Jack Sprall, who isoff duty to-night, was down by the bridge watching things. A little afterten o'clock, Ben Mayberry came along and said he had a message which hehad promised to deliver to a gentleman at the hotel in Moorestown. Jacktold him the bridge was unsafe, bu
t Ben said he knew how to swim, andstarted across, whistling and jolly as usual. Jack said at the same timehe heard the sound of wheels, which showed that a wagon or carriage haddriven on from the other side, which never ought to have been allowedwhen things were looking so shaky. Ben had just about time to reach themiddle of the bridge when the crash came, and the big span was wiped out,as though it was a chalk mark on a blackboard."

  "How do you know of a surety that Ben Mayberry did not save himself?"

  "He is very active and strong, I know, which made Jack hope he had pulledthrough. In spite of the danger of the rest of the bridge going, Jackcrept out over it to the abutment, and shouted to Ben.

  "It seemed that a couple of men had done the same from Moorestown, andthey stood on the other abutment, with the middle of the river sweepingbetween and threatening to take away the rest of the tottering bridgeevery minute.

  "When Jack called, they answered, though it was too dark to see eachother, and they asked Jack whom he was looking for. He told them that BenMayberry had gone on the bridge a few minutes before from this side, andhe was afraid he had been swept away. They said there could be no doubtof it, as he had not reached the span on which they were standing. Theythen asked Jack whether he had seen anything of a horse and carriage,which drove on the bridge from the Moorestown side, and which they hadcome out to see about. Of course Jack could only make the same answer,and when they explained, it was learned that the carriage contained alady and small child--so three lives have been lost from people not doingtheir duty in keeping folks out of danger."

  "Does the mother of Ben know anything about this?" I asked, with ashudder at the thought of her terrible grief.

  "Yes; I went up to her house and told her first, as I thought it my dutyto do."

  "Poor woman! she must have been overcome."

  "She was at first, and then when she asked me to tell her all about it,and I had done so, she said very quietly that she didn't believe her boywas drowned."

  "Nor do I believe it!" I exclaimed, with a sudden thrill of hope. "BenMayberry is one of the best swimmers I ever saw; he went down with thelumber of the central span, and even if he could not swim, he had a goodchance to float himself on some of the timbers or blocks of ice which arebuoyant enough to support a dozen men."

  "All that is very true," replied the policeman, who seemed to havethought of everything; "and I don't deny that there is just the barestpossibility in the world that you're right. But you mustn't forget thatthe roof of the bridge was over him, and has shut out the chance of hishelping himself. Don't you believe that, if he was alive, he would haveanswered the calls that Jack made to him? Jack has a voice like afog-horn, and Ben would have heard him if he was able to hear anything."

  This view of the case staggered me, and I hardly knew what to say, exceptto suggest that possibly Ben had answered the call, and was unheard inthe rushing waters; but the officer shook his head, and I confess Ishared his doubts.

  "Just as the splintering timbers went down, Jack did hear the shout ofBen; he heard, too, the scream of a woman, and that awful cry which ahorse sometimes makes when in the very extremity of peril, but that wasall."

  I could not sleep after such horrifying tidings, when the policeman hadgone; I went into the house and donned my overshoes and rubber coat.Fortunately my family had not been awakened by the ringing of the bell,and I did not disturb them; but, carefully closing and locking the doorafter me, I went out in the storm and darkness, oppressed by a griefwhich I had not known for years, for Ben Mayberry was as dear to me as myown son, and my heart bled for the stricken mother who, when she mostneeded a staff to lean upon during her declining years, found it cruellysnatched from her.

  CHAPTER VI

  "TELL MOTHER I AM ALL RIGHT"

  There is a fascination in the presence of danger which we all feel. Thenews of the dreadful disaster spread with astonishing rapidity, and whenI reached the river-side it seemed as if all Damietta were there.

  The lamps twinkled in the hands of innumerable men moving hither andthither in that restless manner which showed how deep their feelingswere. People were talking in guarded voices, as if the shadow of an awfuldanger impended over them, and the wildest rumors, as is the case at suchtimes, were afloat. It was said that six, eight, and a dozen persons hadgone down with the bridge and were irrecoverably lost. Other structuresabove us were carried away (though no one stopped to explain how thetidings had reached ahead of the flood itself), and it was asserted thatnot a span would be left on the stream at daybreak.

  The flickering lanterns gave a glimpse of the scene which rendered itmore impressive than if viewed under the glare of midday. Some daringones ventured out to the first abutment despite the danger, and we sawthe glare of their lanterns on the rushing, muddy water and the immenseblocks of ice. Some of the latter would impinge against the stoneabutment with a prodigious grinding crash, spin around several times, andthen mount up from the water, crowded by others behind, as though it wasabout to climb over the massive stone. Then it would tumble back with asplash and swiftly sweep out of sight in the darkness.

  Again, trees, with their bushy tops tossing above the surface, glided byas if caught in a rushing mill-race, and a grotesque character was givento the whole scene by the sudden crowing of some cocks, which must havebeen frightened by the twinkling lights so near them.

  Few in Damietta went to bed that night. There was a continual walking toand fro, as people are seen to do when some great calamity is about tobreak upon them. Several mounted horses and rode down the river-bank formiles, in the weak hope of picking up tidings of the lost ones. No onecould be found who knew the lady and child in the carriage which cameupon the bridge from the other side. There were innumerable guesses as totheir identity, but they were guesses and nothing more. No doubt wasentertained that when communication could be opened with Moorestown onthe morrow, we would learn who they were.

  I stayed at the river-side for an hour, weighed down by the greatestgrief of my life. I was anxious to do something, but there was absolutelynothing for me to do. Ben was gone, and his friends could not begin anintelligent search for him before the morrow.

  I turned on my heel to go home, when a shout went up that the span on theother side of the center was going. There could be no doubt that thesplintering crash and the grinding swirl of waters and ice were caused bythe destruction of that span which dissolved into nothingness almost in amoment.

  This started the cry that the timbers nearest us were breaking up.

  Those who were on it made a rush for shore, which was not reached aminute too soon. The entire span suddenly lifted up and was "snuffed out"so promptly that the wonder was how it had withstood the flood so long.

  This occurrence struck me as decisive of the fate of my young friend BenMayberry. It gave me an appreciation of the tremendous irresistibility ofthe freshet, which must have ended the lives of the hapless party almoston the instant. The bravest swimmer would be absolutely helpless in thegrasp of such a terrific current, and in a night of pitchy darkness wouldbe unable to make the first intelligent effort to save himself.

  At last I went home through the drizzling rain, as miserable a mortal asone could imagine. When I reached the house I was glad to find that myfamily were still asleep. It would be time enough for them to learn of myaffliction and the public disaster on the coming morrow.

  The pattering of the rain on the roof accorded with my feeling ofdesolation, and I lay awake until almost daylight, listening, wretched,dismal, and utterly despairing.

  I slept unusually late, and I was glad, when I went down to my breakfast,to learn that some kind neighbor had told my family all I knew, andindeed, a little more. The river rose steadily until daylight, by whichtime it was two feet above the abutments, and not a vestige of the bridgeremained.

  But the water had reached its highest point, for, after remainingstationary an hour, it had begun to fall, and was now a couple of incheslower than "high-water mark."

  There
were two things which I dreaded--the sight of the furious river,and to meet the sad, white face of Ben Mayberry's mother. I felt that Icould give her no word of comfort, for I needed it almost as much as didshe. She must have abandoned all hope by this time, and her loss wasenough to crush life itself from her.

  When walking along the street I found that everyone was talking about theunexampled flood. It had overflowed the lower part of the city, andpeople were making their way through the streets in boats. Scores offamilies were made homeless, and the sights were curious enough to drawmultitudes thither.

  I kept away from every point where I could catch so much as a glimpse ofthe freshet.

  "You have robbed me of the brightest and best boy I ever knew," Imuttered, in bitterness of spirit; "he was one whom I loved as if he werea son."

  The shadow of death seemed to rest on the office when I reached it. Theloss of Ben Mayberry was a personal affliction to everyone there. Onlythe most necessary words were spoken, and the sighing, which could beheard at all times, came from the heart.

  I went to my desk in a mechanical way, and had just placed my hand on theinstrument, when I was thrilled by a call which I would have recognizedamong a thousand. Others heard and identified it also, and held theirbreath. The next instant this message reached me:

  "Dear Mr. Melville--Tell mother I am all right, but in need of dry clothing.

  "Ben Mayberry."

  CHAPTER VII