CHAPTER XVII.
MORTAR PRACTICE AT WEST POINT.
“A very good shot, Mr. Bryce. A trifle high, though. Correct your elevation for the next shot.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Number two—ready! Fire!”
The scene was West Point, and the place was the target practice ground.
Over on the opposite side of the West Point inlet, stood a post with a barrel upon it. That was the target; the fondest hope of every cadet heart was that “some day” he might hit that barrel. With a mortar that is no easy task, but it has been done in West Point’s history.
The cadets were grouped about the guns, under the command of one of the tactical officers. In response to his order to fire, a cadet pulled the lanyard and with a flash and a roar the second of the heavy cannon was discharged. A white cloud of smoke ascended, half hiding the battery. There was an anxious wait, and then a splash far out on the water. It was followed by a murmured cheer from the spectators for the aim was so close that the barrel was half hidden from sight by the spray.
“A little to the right, Mr. Thompson,” said the imperturbable “tac.” “Number three—ready!”
Such is “mortar drill” at West Point. It gets to be very exciting at times, for there is no end of rivalry among the young gunners, and there are fair partisans to look on—sisters, and some who are not sisters. Cadets always look forward with pleasure to the hours for mortar drill. It is a pleasure vouchsafed to first classmen alone.
Gazing wistfully at the scene during half an hour of liberty that morning were certain members of the plebe class with whom we are acquainted. “Plebes” or new cadets, are far, far away from such a delightful function as mortar drill. It takes the three years to get to that honor, three years of work. The road that leads to it is blocked with much débris; there are fallen logs, and many bad places, ruts, and mud holes; there are drills and examinations by the dozens, and the wayside is strewn with the corpses of unfortunate plebes and yearlings who get “left” during the journey.
Some such train of thought was wandering through the minds of the aforementioned interested plebes.
Three years does seem a dreadfully long time, with such chances of failure.
“It is a case of ’Many are called,’” began one of the plebes.
“And the arithmetical ratio,” put in another, “of those who successfully achieve the ultimate object of their concentrated endeavors, and of those who are compelled to relinquish their efforts owing to unprognosticated circumstantialities, is so excessively diminutive that——”
Another gun went off there and put a period to the discourse.
It is quite needless to say that the person last quoted was our genial friend, Parson Stanard. There dwelt no other human being in all West Point who could have delivered such an address as that. There were probably no others who would have taken it more as a matter of course than did the six who were with him then. They were used to the Parson.
The party strolled back toward camp, after drill was over, internal conditions reminding them that they might soon expect to hear the drum that summoned them to dinner.
As the plebes entered the camp the members of the guard were being “turned out” for inspection. Mark recognized one of them and he turned to his companions.
“There’s our old friend, ’Echo’ Rogers,” said he.
The rest were tickled by that nickname, for they broke into a laugh, in which even Dewey joined. The cadet himself, a tall, heavily built yearling, was standing at attention—“eyes to the front—chest out—” and so on. But he heard the remark and an angry flush swept over his face.
“Echo doesn’t like his name,” observed Mark, as the party went on down the company street. “You could tell that, anyhow, from the fact that he and his crowd haven’t told a soul about their adventures.”
“I wish I knew about that mystery,” put in Dewey. “B’gee, there’s something the matter up at that cave. The yearlings have kept pretty mum.”
“We’ll find out to-night,” muttered Texas. “That is, if you fellers don’t get scared afore that an’ go back on our bargain. Haven’t forgotten, have you?”
“I haven’t,” laughed Mark, an assurance which the others were just as prompt to give.
“An’ you ain’t afraid, be you?” Texas added.
“N-n-no!” answered Indian, dubiously. “I—I—— I’m not.”
What had caused the flight from the cave the plebes had not the slightest idea. They had walked home somewhat frightened and subdued, and sought out the yearlings, who had fled so wildly back to camp. The latter had, strangely enough, refused to answer any questions. They had turned angrily away upon the slightest mention of the matter, and what was still more strange, they had even gone to the length of refusing to explain to the authorities how their clothing had been torn or how Rogers had gotten the severe cut which he bore on his shoulder.
Naturally, this behavior had puzzled the plebes. It puzzled them still, and made them think that there was some terrible mystery back of the matter, some mystery connected with that dark and uncanny cavern. It was “their” cavern, too, and they didn’t relish the idea of having any secret danger to make them afraid to go near it.
The upshot of the whole matter, to put it briefly, had been just this: The wild and woolly Texan had vowed that morning, after having been tormented by the mystery for two whole days, that down where he came from men weren’t afraid of anything—man, beast or devil; and that he was going to go up and find out about “that air bizness,” if it was the last thing he ever did in his life.
The audacity of the proposal had rather taken the Banded Seven aback. The idea of daring to enter that cave, after the horrible danger into which the yearlings had gotten, had never quite occurred to them. But Texas vowed he was going to do it alone, if he couldn’t get anybody else; that he would be ashamed to call himself a son of his father, “the Honorable Scrap Powers, o’ Hurricane County, Texas,” if he didn’t. And so that settled the matter.
“When are you going?” Mark asked him.
And Texas answered promptly:
“To-night.”
The result of which startling announcement had been that the Seven, as appeared from the conversation previously mentioned, stood pledged by a solemn promise to probe that mystery to the bottom that very evening.
“The thing that puzzles me so much about this matter,” Mark observed to his friends as they strolled down the street, “is the fact that Rogers and his crowd are unwilling or afraid to tell anybody about the cave and what happened. I can’t to save my life conceive why they should be so quiet.”
That was a strange state of affairs for a fact; the plebes talked it over nearly all day, without coming to a conclusion. The cave was within bounds, and the yearlings had a perfect right to go there that Saturday afternoon. So they need not have feared to tell the authorities for that reason. Questioned they certainly must have been; their wounds and torn uniforms must certainly have made the superintendent inquisitive. But they had stuck tight to their secret and apparently told not a soul. The matter would have been the talk of the post if they had.
“It may be they’re ashamed of how we fooled ’em,” was Dewey’s suggestion.
That did not seem at all probable, but it was the best the Seven came to, and finally they were compelled to adopt it.
“Perhaps we’ll know to-night,” they said.
The reader must not suppose that the plebes were going to set out upon this expedition haphazard or recklessly. That was hardly like a man who had learned his lessons in Texas. Cadet Powers, as we know, had had, when he came to West Point, no less than seventeen revolvers stowed away in his trunk. These he had hidden safely, and though they had been somewhat reduced in number by excessive use he still had enough to go around. There was one for each, except Indian, who vowed that he’d die before he’d touch one. Thus armed the plebes fancied they’d be able to receive warmly anything the cave might hold.
And yet even armed as they were, it was a mighty “scary” business. They found that when they came to start that night. Wandering through a forest about midnight is a very dubious sort of an occupation, anyway. And when you have continually before your mind the image of a deep black hole in the mountains with all sorts of possible and impossible horrors lurking about inside—dragons and demons and bears and snakes, to say nothing of a few stray ghosts and rattling skeletons—it was no wonder Indian’s knees gave way occasionally.
At West Point the drum sounds tattoo at nine-thirty in the evening.
That means that the battalion lines up for roll call and then breaks ranks for bed. “Taps” sounds half an hour later, and means “lights out, all quiet.” After that every one is supposed to be asleep in his tent, and there is a watchful “tac” who goes around with a lantern to make sure.
The tac himself goes to bed, however, by eleven at the latest. Then, the cat being away, the mice sometimes come out for a little fun.
Stealing out of camp was what our plebe friends were doing. They dressed softly and silently, and then after signaling the sentry, a member of their own class, swept across his post and vanished in old Fort Clinton.
Something like half a minute later a very startling incident happened in camp. At least it would have startled the plebes if they had seen it. A figure, all dressed, crept swiftly out of one of the tents and across the street. He stole into another tent and awakened its inmates.
“Fellows,” he whispered, “they’ve gone.”
“Who?”
“The plebes!”
“Up there, do you mean?”
“Yes, I think so. Come on, hurry up.”
The cadets leaped up as one man and hastily slipped into their uniforms. A few minutes later they, too, stole out of camp. But it was in the opposite direction! They were going to Highland Falls!
It is needless to say that the cadets were Rogers and his crowd; it is likewise needless to say that their action meant trouble of some kind for our friends, the plebes.
The latter, of course, were altogether unaware of that. Having safely reached Fort Clinton, they stole across the inclosure and made their way swiftly around past Trophy Point and the old graveyard, and so out into the woods beyond. Once there they stopped just long enough to light two or three lanterns they had and then hurried on their journey.
It was quite a silent party. The plebes felt rather solemn on the whole, for there was no one of them who failed to realize that a very serious adventure might result from their trip. How many of them wished they hadn’t come may not be said, but it is certain that Indian whispered “Bless my soul!” at least “a thirty-four to the minute stroke,” as Dewey phrased it; also that Dewey himself got off no more than two jokes all the way. In fact, the only person who seemed at all inclined to talk was our old friend, the Parson.
The Parson was a man who felt with real earnestness that he had a serious duty to perform during “this life temporal,” that duty was the dissemination of knowledge, and the Parson never lost a chance to work in a few instructive remarks—philosophical, moral or scientific—upon every possible occasion. So when other people were quiet the Parson saw a chance that he never failed to utilize.
The subjects for that night’s discourse chanced to be geological. The Parson talked on the question of alluvial deposits, the forces of denudation and sedimentation, etc. He gave very accurately the various authoritative hypotheses as to the thickness of strata in the Hudson River Valley. In fact, there is no telling what knowledge he would not have imparted by the end of the trip if it had not been for an unforeseen occurrence which deprived the Seven of the Parson’s company for the rest of that night.
It appeared that when they had come to about halfway to their destination the Parson, who could not lose his habits of observation even in the night time (like the wise old owl he was), suddenly stopped and with a startled exclamation pointed to the ground at one side.
The rest looked, but at first they could distinguish nothing. The Parson approached the spot and then they saw a most interesting sight. An unfortunate bullfrog, hopping about country during the night had gotten into trouble. A garter snake had him by the leg and was slowly swallowing him. (The Parson referred to it as “the process of deglutition.”)
It was rather an interesting sight, and ordinarily the plebes would have been glad to watch it; but now they were in a hurry.
“I wish we had time to stop,” said Mark. “Come on.”
And Stanard turned and gazed at him in consternation.
“Come on!” he echoed. “Come on! Do you actually mean to say that the scientific spirit has burned so low in your breast that you will not stop to witness a process of such extraordinary interest as this? Why, sir, a man might not see it once in a lifetime! I would stop an express train to watch it!”
“I’m sorry,” laughed Mark, “but we’re in more of a hurry than an express. Come on.”
“By Zeus!” gasped the Parson. “I will not go for one.”
“You may stay if you want to,” said Mark, good-naturedly. “But I’m going.”
He started away, the rest following.
“Do you mean,” roared the Parson, gazing at them indignantly, “that there is no one who cares to stay after all the scientific interest I have striven to awaken in you?”
“I-I-I think I’ll stay,” stammered Indian, who was really scared to death at the mere thought of the cave. “I-I’m v-very m-m-much interested.”
But the dodge didn’t “go.” Poor Indian was dragged off, protesting at the outrage, and the solemn Parson was left alone with his lantern and his snake.
“I’ll join you later,” he called, and then settled himself into a meditative pose, à la Hamlet. His friends’ footsteps died away in the distance and he was left in silence to observe and study that “process of deglutition.”
We must follow the plebes, in the meanwhile. A few minutes later they reached the cave, where momentous things were destined to occur.