"In order to take that
train," said Colonel Levering, sitting in the Waldorf-Astoria hotel,
"you will have to remain nearly all night in Atlanta. That is a fine city,
but I advise you not to put up at the Breathitt House, one of the principal
hotels. It is an old wooden building in urgent need of repairs. There are
breaches in the walls that you could throw a cat through. The bedrooms have no
locks on the doors, no furniture but a single chair in each, and a bedstead
without bedding--just a mattress. Even these meager accommodations you cannot
be sure that you will have in monopoly; you must take your chance of being
stowed in with a lot of others. Sir, it is a most abominable hotel.
"The night that I passed in it
was an uncomfortable night. I got in late and was shown to my room on the
ground floor by an apologetic night-clerk with a tallow candle, which he
considerately left with me. I was worn out by two days and a night of hard
railway travel and had not entirely recovered from a gunshot wound in the head,
received in an altercation. Rather than look for better quarters I lay down on
the mattress without removing my clothing and fell asleep.
"Along toward morning I awoke.
The moon had risen and was shining in at the uncurtained window, illuminating
the room with a soft, bluish light which seemed, somehow, a bit spooky, though
I dare say it had no uncommon quality; all moonlight is that way if you will
observe it. Imagine my surprise and indignation when I saw the floor occupied
by at least a dozen other lodgers! I sat up, earnestly damning the management
of that unthinkable hotel, and was about to spring from the bed to go and make
trouble for the night- clerk--him of the apologetic manner and the tallow
candle--when something in the situation affected me with a strange
indisposition to move. I suppose I was what a story-writer might call 'frozen
with terror.' For those men were obviously all dead!
"They lay on their backs,
disposed orderly along three sides of the room, their feet to the
walls--against the other wall, farthest from the door, stood my bed and the
chair. All the faces were covered, but under their white cloths the features of
the two bodies that lay in the square patch of moonlight near the window showed
in sharp profile as to nose and chin.
"I thought this a bad dream and
tried to cry out, as one does in a nightmare, but could make no sound. At last,
with a desperate effort I threw my feet to the floor and passing between the
two rows of clouted faces and the two bodies that lay nearest the door, I
escaped from the infernal place and ran to the office. The night- clerk was
there, behind the desk, sitting in the dim light of another tallow candle--just
sitting and staring. He did not rise: my abrupt entrance produced no effect
upon him, though I must have looked a veritable corpse myself. It occurred to
me then that I had not before really observed the fellow. He was a little chap,
with a colorless face and the whitest, blankest eyes I ever saw. He had no more
expression than the back of my hand. His clothing was a dirty gray.
"'Damn you!' I said; 'what do
you mean?'
"Just the same, I was shaking
like a leaf in the wind and did not recognize my own voice.
"The night-clerk rose, bowed
(apologetically) and--well, he was no longer there, and at that moment I felt a
hand laid upon my shoulder from behind. Just fancy that if you can! Unspeakably
frightened, I turned and saw a portly, kind-faced gentleman, who asked:
"'What is the matter, my
friend?'
"I was not long in telling him,
but before I made an end of it he went pale himself. 'See here,' he said, 'are
you telling the truth?'
"I had now got myself in hand
and terror had given place to indignation. 'If you dare to doubt it,' I said,
'I'll hammer the life out of you!'
"'No,' he replied, 'don't do
that; just sit down till I tell you. This is not a hotel. It used to be;
afterward it was a hospital. Now it is unoccupied, awaiting a tenant. The room
that you mention was the dead-room--there were always plenty of dead. The
fellow that you call the night-clerk used to be that, but later he booked the
patients as they were brought in. I don't understand his being here. He has
been dead a few weeks.'
"'And who are you?' I blurted
out.
"'Oh, I look after the
premises. I happened to be passing just now, and seeing a light in here came in
to investigate. Let us have a look into that room,' he added, lifting the
sputtering candle from the desk.
"'I'll see you at the devil
first!' said I, bolting out of the door into the street.
"Sir, that Breathitt House, in
Atlanta, is a beastly place! Don't you stop there."
"God forbid! Your account of it
certainly does not suggest comfort. By the way, Colonel, when did all that
occur?"
"In September,
1864--shortly after the siege."
No comments:
Post a Comment