Boys’ Life, 1912 July (article)
The Emancipation of Launcelot
Launcelot was the only child of wealthy parents. Three little brothers had come and gone before him, none living more than a year, and Launcelot was the idol of the home, the centre of the universe. Three nurses had him in charge. Special cows supplied his special food, nothing was allowed near his sacred person till it had been disinfected, sterilized, purified and sanctified in the many alembies of modern science. No change in the house was made without reference first to Launcelot, no trip was taken, no move of any kind that was not pronounced, on the keenest of expert evidence “best for the child.”
The family physician was under special retainer, but a young doctor, his assistant, dwelt, perpetually vigilant, in the left wing of the house. Never was Oriental prince more closely. watched, guarded and loved than Launcelot, the hope of the Howden house.
The dangerous period of infancy was past. Launecelot grew, walked, talked and played like a human child, but never away from the sevenfold watch of loving tyranny, and schooling days came with little companionship but that of respectful tutors.
Nothing was spared for his well being, still he did not thrive. He was screened from every puff of wind and yet forever taking cold, and he grew to be a puny specimen of a boy looking at ten years of age like an ordinary child of seven and troubled with a cough and spells of nervous insomnia. Yet he was wiry and tough and his brain was of excellent quality, quick to learn what interested him, an avid reader, highly imaginative, yet practical and ready to plan when need be, and tinged already indeed with a little of the cunning that had made his father the master of millions.
It was the advent of a cousin that impressed Launcelot with the idea that he was not getting all possible out of life.
His blunt request: — “Father, I want to go to school and gymnasium and be like other boys,” was a bombshell in the family council.
His mother’s “never,” followed by his father’s less emphatic, “no, no, my boy, you are not strong enough,” was merely the beginning of pourparler. He trapped the family physician into an alliance. That wise man had begun to protest. The sphere of judicious care had long been left, now the boy was being coddled. The old argument was used, “If you always protect your son from hardship he will be unable to resist it when it comes, as come it must.” Father consented reluctantly, mother rebelliously. Launcelot went to a gymnasium and was brought home an hour later with a broken arm. His medico-religious tutor was dismissed and a new regime of even greater strictness was established. Launcelot could not so much as descend the front steps without the support of two maids, and then only after each step had been seraped and sanded or salted, if in the winter. Self-registering and adjusting thermometers heating apparatus was put in his part of the house, his food was weighed and the daily tonic pill once ordered by the doctor was secretly continued and trebled. In short, intense loving care became insufferable tyranny.
He was a keen reader, had found a realm of freedom in the printed page, but now even his books were censored in order that no painful or dangerous suggestion might come from them.
But Launcelot had a mind of his own; it had been growing — live things will grow. The gymnasium incident had not affected his views at all, it was a mere passing accident, and the crux of events came a year later.
The boy was lovingly familiar with the Leatherstocking Tales, and a recent magazine described a revival of those stirring scenes in a camp of boys called the Seton Indians.
The camp was organized by men who were interested in giving the boys the pleasure of camp life, in teaching them how to enjoy it intelligently in its various departments of athletics, nature study, watersports, hunting and camping. Launcelot did not simply read the article, he gloated it into his little brain and then it was like an elixir of life or fiery poison, according to your views in such matters.
“Mother” he said, “I want to go and live in that tribe of Indians.”
His parents, especially his mother, read the article with horror.
“What, my darling, go among a lot of rough, brutal boys, eat horrible poisonous, camp-cooked, filthy food, sleep out of doors on the ground and die before morning, as well as get drowned? No darling, never. Remember the gymnasium, my son. Wait till you are strong and grown up.”
But Launcelot’s pa had been seventeen times defeated before he got control of a certain business that made his fortune, and Launcelot’s pa’s son was the son of Launcelot’s pa.
The siege lasted for several weeks. Then Launcelot’s aunt came to visit the Howdens. She had been to the camp of Seton Indians and knew that with all their freedom the boys were carefully looked after. She came out bluntly and said: “If I were you I would send him to camp for a few hours. That can do no harm and may cure him of the idea.”
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This was the history of Launcelot when the aunt came to me, Black Wolf, the Medicine Man of the Tribe, asking me to speak for him in Council that he might join our band.
Their answer was simple. “He can join the camp on sufferance; whether he joins the band, depends on how he pans out.”
Launcelot’s mother was determined that he should visit the camp not more than one hour, and that at least one nurse should accompany him. But the last was withdrawn when she found that the Council and Launcelot and the nurse were doggedly opposed to it.
It was an amusing sight that morning when Launcelot came. His mother drove him to camp in their carriage. Launcelot, refusing the help of the footman, leaped out. He was armed with a tiny bow and arrow, and the footman followed with two large baskets of delicacies ’lest he should be hungry.
A score or two of brown and husky warriors were in camp but they paid little heed to the new comer. He looked a miserable little starvling beside these stalwart lads, but’ his eyes were blazing bright and on his mouth sat an expression that showed his determination to be as brave as the best.
I showed him to his place in the teepee, his home that was to be for an hour. His mother said, “Now good bye, darling, I’ll be back in an hour for you and don’t forget your pills.”
He wriggled out of her embrace with a gesture of dignified reproof. She cautioned a painted war-chief to take care of her boy, she repeated her hopes to me and to every one near, then unwillingly drove away, and Launcelot was alone in the world for once.
I kept out of sight but watched him. He took a box of pills from his pocket — the pills that he had to take, and he threw them as far as he could into the lake, remarking simply, “Injuns don’t take them.”
He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, displaying a pair of thin, white arms. Then opening his basket he invited all the warriors present to “pitch in.” It was like inviting a very large pack of wolves into a very small fold. In half an hour everything was gone and the fellows began to think that the Little Shrimp was better than he looked.
But soon a rumbling was heard. Launcelot glanced down the road and spying the carriage, he seized his bow and arrow and disappeared into the woods.
His mother shouted, “Launcelot — Launcelot, darling, the hour is up,” but Launcelot was gone, and the mother left in blank amazement. She set about organizing active search parties, but the aunt said, “Let. him alone, Lizzie, come back in the afternoon and he’ll be cured.”
As soon as the carriage peril was over Launcelot reappeared in camp and actively joined in all the life so far as he could.
He was wearing nothing but his drawers when I noticed him, white among the brown and ruddy warriors, and said:—
“Launcelot, won’t you get sunburnt?”
“I’m afraid not,” he piped in a childish tone that told of the envy gnawing at his heart.
An hour later I saw him alone in a canoe paddling serenely across the lake. I called him back and said:
“Launcelot, didn’t your mother say, ‘don’t go near the deep water?”
“Yes,” he said, “but you see, she didn’t understand about it.”
“You must not go in a canoe till you can swim.”
“Will you teach me,” he replied.
“I’ll find you a teacher,” and calling Wild Duck, our famous swimmer, I saw that he got his first lesson in shallow water.
“How is he, Wild Duck?” I asked later.
“Better than he looks — lots of grit,” was the reply.
“Say, Shrimpie, there comes the kerrige,” was the warning that Launcelot now got from his new friend.
He seized his bow and arrows, gathered up his clothing, and dashed away, going a little faster as his mother shrieked after him.
There was no use talking to her, but the aunt listened. He had plenty of blankets, would be looked after, and there was nothing like night time to make a boy homesick. Besides, Launcelot defied all attempts to find him. The boys could not find Shrimpie till the mother was gone, then he was speedily produced; he, the pampered child of luxury, looking the picture of happiness and dirt.
He was shy, but not timid. He was into everything that day and at night he ate a hearty meal of the very simple camp fare.
The nightly council around the fire is one of the most important features of the life. Then the warriors are in full regalia, then the deeds of the day are recounted, honors are awarded, criminals tried, application for membership considered. The pomp and splendor of it exerts marvelous power on all who see it and to an imaginative boy it is like being in a real Indian village with the unpleasant features of savagery left out. Shrimpie, as they called him, sat next to me. His eyes were ablaze with joy and excitement. He saw the head chief administer justice and bestow honors, he heard him call for claimants, and one by one their cases were settled, Many added eagle feathers to their bonnets that night, in token of some honorable exploit. One had run a mile in 4:50, another had batted the baseball 300 feet, a third had saved a companion from drowning, and two received their Indian names, and one who was tortured by an obnoxious nick name, had the unspeakable joy of exchanging it that night for a name of glory.
“My! Don’t I wish I had a good name,” murmured Launcelot at my side, as memories of Uncas and Leatherstocking came with vital force. I laid my hand on his bare arm. He was cold. I said, “Go and get your blanket; I’ll keep your place for you.” When he came back the head chief was asking:—
“Any applications for membership?” There was a pause and silence. Then up got little Shrimpie in his blanket, looking very Indian, but very tiny, and holding up a pitiful pipestem arm, he piped out,
“Please, I’d like to join.”
The War Chief was a husky young giant about six feet high, and the contrast between the two raised a laugh
“How do you know they want you?” said the chief.
“I don’t know,” said Shrimpie, and turned the laugh, “but I’ll do anything you tell me to prove I’m all right,” he, added.
“You will?” said the Chief, “All right. Since you aren’t great on muscle, we'll try you on nerve.
“Will you dance the Sun dance?”
“Yes sir—Chief—I mean.”
“How about the Moon dance?”
“I don’t know, but—I—I’ll do it if you show me how,”
“We'll give you a chance to try it at midnight. Will you go?”
“Yes sir,” said Shrimpie, in low, firm tones.
After the business was over the story telling began. Bear stories were the chosen line. One after another was related with most realistic and convincing details, and local zest was given by accounts of a fierce white spook bear seen quite recently in the woods near the camp. The smugglers cave, half a mile away, was known to be his’ haunts and as the speaker’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper a long, horrid wail was heard in the distant gloom. At ten o’clock the Council broke up, the warriors went to the teepees. The tall War Chief in paint and eagle plumes stopped for a moment and noticed Shrimpie. “Now remember,” said he, “at midnight you have to go and meet this spook bear. Will you go?”
“Yes sir,” said Shrimpie, and I saw his thin lips and fingers tighten as he spoke.
I sat by the fire with several of the chiefs, talking of many things till midnight. Then the head Chief said: “Well, it’s time Shrimpie did his stunts.”
“No, no,” said I, “I object. He’s a delicate little creature, never away from home before. I think he’s tested enough already.”
“No sir, not much,” said the Chief. “He said he’d go and I mean to give him the chance.”
“Yes, but you can give him an easier one, seeing he’s so young. I wouldn’t on any account have him scared or hurt.”
“Oh, I'll see that he doesn’t come to harm and I believe he’s gritty,” was the reply.
So at midnight Little Shrimpie was rudely awakened for the first time in his life, and, opening his eyes he saw not his loving mother with a pill or a nurse with thermometer, but a scowling, feathered warrior who said, “Get up, Shrimpie; time you went to meet the bear. Here now is a piece of charcoal. You are to mark your name on him with it, and if he kills you that’ll show that you faced him an’ we can tell your parents you were good grit anyhow. Git now!”
“Yes sir” — said Launcelot in a forced voice as he stepped tremblingly out of the teepee in his pajamas.
“Now remember, go straight up the path for half a mile, don’t turn right or left, an’ don’t sing or whistle or speak to any one you think you hear or see. Are you ready?”
“Y-e-s s-i-r,” said Launcelot, taking the charcoal in his cold hand. “Will you tell mama I—I—I—was brave if I— — — —
“You bet. Get now.”
I felt very guilty allowing the child to be sent on such an errand, but I was curious to see how he would take it. His mouth was firmly set—over firmly; his tiny hands clutched the charcoal and his knees seemed shaky, but he pulled his blanket around him and strode away at the word.
In twenty steps he was out of sight. Then I said, “Now Chief Deerfoot. I think this is enough. He has proved his grit in being willing to go, but it’s a black night and he will get lost in the woods.”
“That’s all right,” said the Chief, “I’ll send a Scout after him pretty soon.”
In one minute a trusty Scout was sent with orders to bring Shrimpie back at once. The Scout quickly overtook the little chap, although he was striding bravely along, and he shouted, “Hold on Shrimpie!” But the little one paid no heed except by going faster. “Hold on, Shrimpe, you have to come back,” cried the Scout. Unpleasant sounds were heard in the woods ahead, but Launcelot kept on.
“Hold on, you little fool,” and the Scout dashed in front of him.
But Shrimpie dodged past and silently renewed his gruesome march. Then the Scout seized and held him in spite of his struggles and shouted, “In the name of the Head War Chief Deerfoot and the Council of the Tribe I, their messenger, command you to return at once to the village.”
Then only did Launcelot speak.
“The Chief sent me to scribble my name all over that bear with charcoal.”
“But that’s changed, and you’ve got to come back.”
So very unwillingly Launcelot was brought back.
The Chief received him with marked approval.
“Say, Shrimpie, you’re all right. You can go to bed now, but we’ll give you an easy one in the morning.” And Launcelot retired to sleep the remnant of the strangest night he had ever known.
It was long before he slept but he did sleep at last and at eight o’clock was very ready for the simple breakfast of the camp.
Then the Council put his nerve to a new test. He carried an egg in a spoon at arm’s length into every teepee of the village in spite of warriors yelling in his ears and doing all they could to rattle him. He delivered the egg safely to the Medicine Man and was declared a warrior of grit and nerve, therefore fit to join the tribe.
Some small strategy was needed to restrain his parents for a few hours, but finally they consented to see him admitted to the Tribe and when evening came with the big camp fire he was duly sworn to obey the Chief and Council, to play fair, to refrain from liquor and smoking, to preserve the woods, birds, beasts and flowers and stream, and to keep his word of honor sacred. Then in the presence of one hundred warriors and as many spectators the Chief related with some exaggeration Shrimpie’s behavior under trial and announced that having shown himself proof against all kinds of fear, he was now to be honored with the title of “Little Never-scare” and admitted to the full honors of a warrior.
That was the end, but it was also the beginning. Launcelot had found he could hold his own among boys; it marked a new epoch, The pill-box era, was ended. Launcelot was sent to a camp in the mountains where his body had a chance to grow worthy of the indominitable spirit within, and before a year, the cough and the sleeplessness had followed the pill-box that he flung from him far into the depths of the lake.
