Anna Graetz - "Pearl and Periwinkle"

Dan Smoot - "The Invisible Government"

F. Max Mueller - "India: What can it teach us?"

Louisa de la Rame) - "A Dog of Flanders"

Editorial
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Gray Dawn

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Gray Dawn



Produced by C. Aldarondo, T. Vergon, J. Fairbanks
and Online Distributed Proofreaders




THE GREY DAWN

BY

STEWART EDWARD WHITE


Illustrated by
Thomas Fogarty

ILLUSTRATIONS

They moved away, leaving Mrs. Morrell alone, biting her lips and planning
revenges

King listened to him in silence

"Look here, don't try to come that rot. I said, get out--and I mean it!"

"Call all you please," he sneered. "Nobody's going to pay any attention to
your calls at Jake's Place!"

OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR


THE CLAIM JUMPERS
THE WESTERNERS
THE BLAZED TRAIL
ARIZONA NIGHTS
BLAZED TRAIL STORIES
THE CABIN
CAMP AND TRAIL
CONJUROR'S HOUSE
THE FOREST
THE SIGN AT SIX
THE RULES OF THE GAME

THE RIVERMAN
THE SILENT PLACES
THE ADVENTURES OF BOBBY ORDE
THE MOUNTAINS
THE PASS
THE MAGIC FOREST
THE LAND OF FOOTPRINTS
AFRICAN CAMP FIRES
THE REDISCOVERED COUNTRY
GOLD
THE MYSTERY
(With Samuel Hopkins Adams)


THE GRAY DAWN


PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN TALE

MILTON KEITH: a young lawyer from Baltimore.
NAN KEITH: his wife.
JOHN SHERWOOD: a gambler.
PATSY SHERWOOD: his wife.
ARTHUR MORRELL: an English adventurer.
MIMI MORRELL: his wife or mistress.
BEN SANSOME: a lady-killer, destined to become an "old beau."
W. T. COLEMAN, or "old Vigilante," a leader.
DAVID TERRY: a leader on the other side.
JAMES KING OF WILLIAM: a modern Crusader.
THE SPIRIT OF SAN FRANCISCO
AND OTHERS




I


On the veranda of the Bella Union Hotel, San Francisco, a man sat enjoying
his morning pipe. The Bella Union overlooked the Plaza of that day, a
dusty, unkempt, open space, later to be swept and graded and dignified into
Portsmouth Square. The man was at the younger fringe of middle life. He was
dressed neatly and carefully in the fashionable costume of the time, which
was the year of grace 1852. As to countenance, he was square and solid; as
to physique, he was the same; as to expression, he inclined toward the
quietly humorous; in general he would strike the observer as deliberately,
philosophically competent. A large pair of steelbound spectacles sat
halfway down his nose. Sometimes he read his paper through their lenses;
and sometimes, forgetting, he read over the tops of their bows. The
newspaper he held was an extraordinary document. It consisted of four large
pages. The outside page was filled solidly with short eight or ten line
advertisements; the second page grudgingly vouchsafed a single column of
news items; the third page warmed to a column of editorial and another of
news; all the rest of the space on these and the entire fourth page was
again crowded close with the short advertisements. They told of the arrival
of ships, the consignment of goods, the movements of real estate, the sales
of stock, but mainly of auctions. The man paid little attention to the
scanty news, and none at all to the editorials. His name was John Sherwood,
and he was a powerful and respected public gambler.

The approach across the Plaza of a group of men caused him to lay aside his
paper, and with it his spectacles. The doffing of the latter strangely
changed his whole expression. The philosophical middle-aged quietude fell
from him. He became younger, keener, more alert. It was as though he had
removed a disguise.

The group approaching were all young men, and all dressed in the height of
fashion. At that rather picturesque time this implied the flat-brimmed
beaver hat; the long swallowtail, or skirted coat; the tight "pantaloons";
varicoloured, splendid, low-cut waistcoats of satin, of velvet, or of
brocade; high wing collars; varnished boots; many sparkling, studs and
cravat pins; rather longish hair; and whiskers cut close to the cheek or
curling luxuriantly under the chin. They were prosperous, well-fed,
arrogant-looking youths, carrying their crests high, the light of questing
recklessness in their eyes, ready to laugh, drink, or fight with anybody.
At sight of Sherwood they waved friendly hands, and canes, and veered in
his direction.

"Yo're just the man we are looking for!" cried a tall, dark, graceful young
fellow, "We are all 'specially needful of wisdom. The drinks are on some
one, and we cain't decide who."

John Sherwood, his keen eyes twinkling, set his chair down on four legs.

"State your case, Cal," he said.

Cal waved a graceful hand at a stout, burly, red-faced man whose thick
blunt fingers, square blue jowl, and tilted cigar gave the flavour of the
professional politician. "John Webb, here-excuse _me_, Sheriff John Webb-
presumin' on the fact that he has been to the mines, and that he came here
in '49, arrogates to himself the exclusive lyin' privileges, of this
assemblage."

"Pretty large order," commented Sherwood.

"_Pre_cisely," agreed Cal, "and that's why the drinks are on him!"

But Sheriff Webb, who had been chuckling cavernously inside his bulky
frame, spoke up in a harsh and husky voice: "I told them an innocent
experience of mine, and they try to hold me up for drinks. I don't object
to giving them a reasonable amount of drinks--what _I_ call reasonable," he
added hastily, "but I object to being held up."

"He says he used to cook," put in a small, alert, nervous, rather flashily
dressed individual named Rowlee, editor of the _Bugle_.

"I did!" stoutly asseverated Webb.

"And that he baked a loaf of bread so hard nobody could eat it."

"Sounds perfectly reasonable," said Sherwood.

"And that nobody could _break_ it," Rowlee went on.

"I have no difficulty in believing that," said Sherwood judicially. "Your
case is mighty weak yet, Cal."

"But he claims it was so hard that they used it for a grindstone."

"I did not!" disclaimed Webb indignantly.

An accusing groan met this statement.

"I tell you I didn't say anything of the kind," roared Webb, his bull voice
overtopping them all.

"Well, what did you say, then?" challenged Calhoun Bennett.

"I said we tried to use her as a grindstone," said Webb, "but it didn't
work."

"Weak case, boys; weak case," said Sherwood.

The little group, their eyes wide, their nostrils distended, waited
accusingly for Webb to proceed. After an interval, the sheriff, staring
critically at the lighted end of his cigar, went on in a drawling voice:

"Yes, we, couldn't get a hole through her to hang her axle on. We blunted
all our drills. Every Sunday we'd try a new scheme. Finally we laid her
flat under a tree and rigged a lightnin' rod down to the centre of her. No
use. She tore that lightning all to pieces."

He looked up at them with a limpid, innocent eye, to catch John Sherwood
gazing at him accusingly.

"John Webb," said he "you forget that I came out here in, '48. On your
honour, do you expect _me_ to believe that yarn?"

"Well," said Webb, gazing again at his cigar end, "no--really I don't. The
fact is," he went on with a perfectly solemn air of confidence, "the fact
is, I've lived out here so long and told so many damn lies that now without
some help I don't know when to believe myself."

"Do we get that drink?" insisted Calhoun Bennett.

"Oh, Lord, yes, you always get a drink."

"Well, come on and _get_ it then--you, too, of course, Mr. Sherwood."

The gambler arose, and began leisurely to fold his paper and to put away
his spectacles.

"I see you got Mex Ryan off, Cal," he observed. "You either had
extraordinary luck, or you're a mighty fine lawyer. Looked like a clear
case to me. He just naturally went in and beat Rucker half to death in his
own store. How did you do it?"

"I assure yo' it was no sinecure," laughed the tall, dark youth. "I earned
my fee."

"Yes," grumbled Webb, "but he got six months--and I got to take care of
him. Cluttering up my jail with dirty beasts like Mex Ryan! Could just as
easy have turned him loose!"

"That would have been a little too much!" smiled Bennett. "It was takin'
some risk to let him off as easy as we did. It isn't so long since the
Vigilantes."

"Oh, hell, we can handle that sort of trash now," snorted Webb.

"Who was backing Mex, anyway?" asked Rowlee curiously.

"Better ask who had it in for Rucker," suggested the fourth member of the
group, a man who had not heretofore spoken. This was Dick Blatchford, a
round-faced, rather corpulent, rather silent though jovial-looking
individual, with a calculating and humorous eye. He was magnificently
apparelled, but rather untidy.

"Well, I do ask it," said Rowlee.

But to this he got no response.

"Come on, ain't you got that valuable paper folded up yet?" rumbled Webb to
Sherwood.

They all turned down the high-pillared veranda, toward the bar, talking
idly and facetiously of last night's wine and this morning's head. A door
opened at their very elbow, and in it a woman appeared.




II


She was a slender woman, of medium height, with a small, well-poised head,
on which the hair lay smooth and glossy. Her age was somewhere between
thirty and thirty-five years. A stranger would have been first of all
impressed by the imperious carriage of her head and shoulders, the repose
of her attitude. Become a friend or a longer acquaintance, he would have
noticed more particularly her wide low brow, her steady gray eyes and her
grave but humorous lips. But inevitably he would have gone back at last to
her more general impression. Ben Sansome, the only man in town who did
nothing, made society and dress a profession and the judgment of women a
religion, had long since summed her up: "She carries her head charmingly."

This poised, wise serenity of carriage was well set off by the costume of
the early fifties--a low collar, above which her neck rose like a flower
stem; flowing sleeves; full skirts with many silken petticoats that
whispered and rustled; low sandalled shoes, their ties crossed and
recrossed around white slender ankles. A cameo locket, hung on a heavy gold
chain, rose and fell with her breast; a cameo brooch pinned together the
folds of her bodice; massive and wide bracelets of gold clasped her wrists
and vastly set off her rounded, slender forearms.

She stood quite motionless in the doorway, nodding with a little smile in
response to the men's sweeping salutes.

"You will excuse me gentlemen, I am sure," said Sherwood formally, and
instantly turned aside.

The woman in the doorway thereupon preceded him down a narrow, bare,
unlighted hallway, opened another door, and entered a room. Sherwood
followed, closing the door after him.

"Want something, Patsy?" he inquired.

The room was obviously one of the best of the Bella Union. That is to say,
it was fairly large, the morning sun streamed in through its two windows,
and it contained a small iron stove. In all other respects it differed
quite from any other hotel room in the San Francisco of that time. A heavy
carpet covered the floor, the upholstery was of leather or tapestry, wall
paper adorned the walls, a large table supported a bronze lamp and numerous
books and papers, a canary, in a brass cage, hung in the sunshine of one of
the windows, flitted from perch to perch, occasionally uttering a few
liquid notes under its breath.

"Just a little change, Jack, if you have some with you," said the woman.
Her speaking voice was rich and low.

Sherwood thrust a forefinger into his waistcoat pocket, and produced one of
the hexagonal slugs of gold current at that time.

"Oh, not so much!" she protested.

"All I've got. What are you up to to-day, Patsy?"

"I thought of going down to Yet Lee's--unless there is something better to
do."

"Doesn't sound inspiring. Did you go to that fair or bazaar thing
yesterday?"

She smiled with her lips, but her eyes darkened.

"Yes, I went. It was not altogether enjoyable. I doubt if I'll try that
sort of thing again."

Sherwood's eye suddenly became cold and dangerous.

"If they didn't treat you right--"

She smiled, genuinely this time, at his sudden truculence.

"They didn't mob me," she rejoined equably, "and, anyway, I suppose it is
to be expected."

"It's that cat of Morrell's," he surmised.

"Oh, she--and others. I ought not to have spoken of it, Jack. It's really
beneath the contempt of sensible people."

"I'll get after Morrell, if he doesn't make that woman behave," said
Sherwood, without attention to her last speech.

She smiled at him again, entirely calm and reasonable.

"And what good would it do to get after Morrell?" she asked. "Mrs. Morrell
only stands for what most of them feel. I don't care, anyway. I get along
splendidly without them." She sauntered over to the window, where she began
idly to poke one finger at the canary.

"For the life of me, Patsy," confessed Sherwood, "I can't see that they're
an inspiring lot, anyway. From what little I've seen of them, they haven't
more than an idea apiece. They'd bore me to death in a week."

"I know that. They'd bore me, too. Don't talk about them. When do they
expect the _Panama_--do you know?"

But with masculine persistence he refused to abandon the topic.

"I must confess I don't see the point," he insisted. "You've got more
brains than the whole lot of them together, you've got more sense, you're a
lot better looking"--he surveyed her, standing in the full light by the
canary's cage, her little glossy head thrown back, her pink lips pouted
teasingly at the charmed and agitated bird, her fine clear features
profiled in the gold of the sunshine--"and you're a thoroughbred, egad,
which most of them are not."

"Oh, thank you, kind sir." She threw him a humourous glance. "But of course
that is not the point."

"Oh, isn't it? Well, perhaps you'll tell me the point."

She left the canary and came to face him.

"I'm not respectable," she said.

At the word he exploded.

"Respectable? What are you talking about? You talk as though--as though we
weren't married, egad!"

"Well, Jack," she replied, a faint mocking smile curving the corners of her
mouth, "when it comes to that, we _did_ elope, you'll have to acknowledge.
And we weren't married for quite a long time afterward."

"We got married as soon as we could, didn't we?" he cried indignantly. "Was
it our fault that we didn't get married sooner? And what difference did it
make, anyway?"

"Now don't get all worked up," she chided. "I'm just telling you why, in
the eyes of some of these people, I'm not 'respectable.' You asked me, you
know."

"Go on," he conceded to this last.

"Well, we ran away and weren't married. That's item one. Then perhaps
you've forgotten that I sat on lookout for some of your games in the early
days in the mining camps?"

"Forgotten?" said Sherwood, the light of reminiscence springing to his
eyes.

The same light had come into hers.

"Will you _ever_ forget," she murmured, "the camps by the summer streams,
the log towns, the lights, the smoke, the freedom--the comradeship--"

"Homesick for the old rough days?" he teased.

"Kind of," she confessed. "But it wasn't 'respectable'--a--well, a _fairly_
good-looking woman in a miner's saloon."

He flared again.

"Do you mean to tell me they dare say--"

"They dare say anything--behind our backs," she said, with cool contempt.
"It's all drivelling nonsense. I care nothing about it. But you asked me.
Don't bother your head about it. Have you anything to suggest doing this
morning, instead of Yet Lee's?" She turned away from him toward the door
leading into another room. "I'll get my hat," she said over her shoulder.

"Look here, Patsy," said Sherwood, rather grimly, "if you want to get in
with that lot, you shall."

She stopped at this, and turned square around.

"If I do--when I do--I will," she replied. "But, John Sherwood, you mustn't
interfere--never in the world! Promise!" She stood there, almost menacing
in her insistence, evidently resolved to nip this particularly masculine
resolution in the bud.

"Egad, Patsy," cried Sherwood, "you are certainly a raving beauty!"

He covered the ground between them in two strides, and crushed her in his
arms. She threw her head back for his kiss.

A knock sounded, and almost immediately a very black, very bullet-headed
young negro thrust his head in at the door.

"Sam," said Sherwood deliberately, "some day I'm going to kill you!"

"Yes, sah! yes, sah!" agreed Sam heartily.

"Well, what the devil do you want?"

"Th' _Panama_ done been, signalled; yes, sah!" said the negro, but without
following his head through the door.

"Well, what the devil do you suppose I care, you black limb?" roared
Sherwood, "and what do you mean coming in here before you're told?"

"Yes, sah! yes, sah, dat's right," ducked Sam, "Shell I awdah the team,
sah?"

"I suppose we might as well go see her docked. Would you like it?" he asked
his wife.

"I'd love it."

"Then get the team. And some day I'm going to kill you."




III


Mrs. Sherwood prepared herself first of all by powdering her nose. This
simple operation, could it have been seen by the "respectable" members of
the community, would in itself have branded her as "fast," In those days
cosmetics of any sort were by most considered inventions of the devil. It
took extraordinary firmness of character even to protect one's self against
sunburn by anything more artificial than the shadow of a hat or a parasol.
Then she assumed a fascinating little round hat that fitted well down over
her small head. This, innocent of pins, was held on by an elastic at the
back. A ribbon, hanging down directly in front, could be utilized to steady
it in a breeze.

"All ready," she announced, picking up a tiny parasol, about big enough for
a modern doll. "You may carry my mantle."

Near the foot of the veranda steps waited Sam at the heads of a pair of
beautiful, slim, satiny horses. Their bay coats had been groomed until they
rippled and sparkled with every movement of the muscles beneath. Wide red-
lined nostrils softly expanded and contracted with a restrained eagerness;
and soft eyes rolled in the direction of the Sherwoods--keen, lithe,
nervous, high-strung creatures, gently stamping little hoofs, impatiently
tossing dainty heads, but nevertheless making no movement that would stir
the vehicle that stood "cramped" at the steps. Their harness carried no
blinders; their tails, undocked, swept the ground; but their heads were
pulled into the air by the old stupid overhead check reins until their
noses pointed almost straight ahead. It gave them rather a haughty air.

Sherwood stepped in first, took the reins in one hand, and offered his
other hand to his wife. Sam instantly left the horses' heads to hold a
wicker contrivance against the arc of the wheels. This was to protect
skirts from dusty tires. Mrs. Sherwood settled as gracefully to her place
as a butterfly on its flower. Sam snatched away the wicker guards. Sherwood
spoke to the horses. With a purring little snort they moved smoothly away.
The gossamerlike wheels threw the light from their swift spokes. Sam, half
choked by the swirl of dust, gazed after them. Sherwood, leaning slightly
forward against the first eagerness of the animals, showed a strong,
competent, arresting figure, with his beaver hat, his keen grim face, his
snow-white linen, and the blue of his brass-buttoned-coat. The beautiful
horses were stepping as one, a delight to the eye, making nothing whatever
of the frail vehicle at their heels. But Sam's eye lingered longest on the
small stately figure of his mistress. She sat very straight, her head high,
the little parasol poised against the sun, the other hand clasping the hat
ribbon.

"Dem's quality foh sure!" said Sam with conviction.

Sherwood drove rapidly around the edge of the Plaza and, so into Kearney
Street. From here to the water front were by now many fireproof brick and
stone structures, with double doors and iron shatters, like fortresses. So
much had San Francisco learned from her five disastrous fires. The stone
had come from China, the brick also from overseas. Down side streets one
caught glimpses of huge warehouses--already in this year of 1852 men talked
of the open-air auctions of three years before as of something in history
inconceivably remote. The streets, where formerly mule teams had literally
been drowned in mud, now were covered with planking. This made a fine
resounding pavement. Horses' hoofs went merrily _klop, klop, klop_, and the
wheels rumbled a dull undertone. San Francisco had been very proud of this
pavement when it was new. She was very grateful for it even now, for in the
upper part of town the mud and dust were still something awful.
Unfortunately the planks were beginning to wear out in places; and a city
government, trying to give the least possible for its taxes, had made no
repairs.

There were many holes, large or small: jagged, splintered, ugly holes going
down to indeterminate blackness either of depth or mud. Private
philanthropists had fenced or covered these. Private facetiousness had
labelled most of them with signboards. These were rough pictures of
disaster painted from the marking pot, and various screeds--"Head of
Navigation," "No Bottom," "Horse and Dray Lost Here," "Take Soundings,"
"Storage, Inquire Below," "Good Fishing for Teal," and the like.

Among these obstructions Sherwood guided his team skilfully, dodging not
only them, but other vehicles darting or crawling in the same direction.
There were no rules of the road. Omnibuses careered along, every window
rattling loudly; drays creaked and strained, their horses' hoofs slipping
against wet planks; horsemen threaded their way; nondescript delivery
wagons tried to outrattle the omnibuses. The din was something
extraordinary--hoofs drumming, wheels rumbling, oaths and shouts, and from
the sidewalks the blare and bray of brass bands in front of the various
auction shops. Newsboys and bootblacks darted in all directions, shouting
raucously as they do to-day. Cigar boys, an institution of the time, added
to the hubbub. Everybody was going in the same direction, some sauntering
with an air of leisure, some hurrying as though their fortunes were at
stake.

A wild shriek arose, and everybody made room for the steam sand shovel on
its way to dump the sand hills into the bay. It was called the "steam
paddy" to distinguish it from the "hand paddy"--out of Cork or Dublin. It
rumbled by on its track, very much like juggernaut in its calm indifference
as to how many it ran over. Sherwood's horses looked at it nervously
askance; but he spoke to them, and though they trembled they stood.

Now they debouched on the Central Wharf, and the sound of the hoofs and the
wheels changed its tone. Central Wharf extended a full mile into the bay.
It was lined on either side its narrow roadway by small shacks, in which
were offered fowls, fish, vegetables, candy, refreshments. Some of them
were tiny saloons or gambling houses. But by far the majority were the
cubicles where the Jewish slop sellers displayed their wares. Men returning
from the mines here landed, and here replenished their wardrobes.
Everything was exposed to view outside, like clothes hung out after a rain.

The narrow way between this long row of shops was crowded almost
dangerously. Magnificent dray horses, with long hair on the fetlocks above
their big heavy hoofs, bridling in conscious pride of silver-mounted
harness and curled or braided manes, rose above the ruck as their
ancestors, the warhorses, must have risen in medieval battle. The crowd
parted before them and closed in behind them. Here and there, too, a
horseman could be seen--with a little cleared space at his heels. Or a
private calash picking its way circumspectly.

From her point of vantage on the elevated seat Mrs. Sherwood could see over
the heads of people. She sat very quietly, her body upright, but in the
poised repose characteristic of her. Many admiring glances were directed at
her. She seemed to be unconscious of them. Nevertheless, nothing escaped
her. She saw, and appreciated and enjoyed, every phase of that
heterogeneous crowd--miners in their exaggeratedly rough clothes, brocaded
or cotton clad Chinese, gorgeous Spaniards or Chilenos, drunken men, sober
men, excited men, empty cans or cases kicking around underfoot, frantic
runners for hotels or steamboats trying to push their way by, newsboys and
cigar boys darting about and miraculously worming their way through
impenetrable places. Atop a portable pair of steps a pale, well-dressed
young man was playing thimble-rig on his knees with a gilt pea. From an
upturned keg a preacher was exhorting. And occasionally, through gaps
between the shacks, she caught glimpses of blue water; or of ships at
anchor; or, more often, of the tall pile drivers whose hammers went
steadily up and down.

Sherwood guided his glossy team and light spidery vehicle with the greatest
delicacy and skill. He was wholly absorbed in his task. Suddenly up ahead a
wild turmoil broke out. People crowded to right and left, clambering,
shouting, screaming. A runaway horse hitched to a light buggy came
careering down the way.

A collision seemed inevitable. Sherwood turned his horses' heads directly
at an open shop front. They hesitated, their small pointed ears working
nervously. Sherwood spoke to them. They moved forward, quivering, picking
their way daintily. Sherwood spoke again. They stopped. The runaway hurtled
by, missing the tail of the buggy by two feet. A moment later a grand crash
marked the end of its career farther down the line. Again Sherwood spoke to
his horses, and exerted the slightest pressure on the reins. Daintily,
slowly, their ears twitching back and forth, their fine eyes rolling, they
backed out of the opening.

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