CHAPTER XXI.
A CAMP IN THE WOODS.
Rat-tat-a-tat! Rat-tat-a-tat!
It was the sound of a drum, echoing through Camp McPherson and proceeding from a small-sized drum orderly at the head of the company street; a stern and handsome lieutenant was standing nearby, and the cadets were pouring out of their tents and forming outside.
It was the forenoon of a bright August day and the white tents were shining in the sunlight, except for where they were darkened by the shadows of the waving trees.
The sound of the drum ceased abruptly; a moment later the officer strode down the line and faced it. Then came the order:
“Attention, company!”
A silent, motionless line of statues the cadets became on the instant. And then, in obedience to further orders, they wheeled and marched by fours down the company street.
Those who are familiar with the appearance of the battalion under ordinary circumstances would have gazed in some perplexity at the lines that morning. They were very differently arrayed, for some reason.
In the first place as to the camp they left. Usually when the corps marched out to the parade ground they left their tents in spic-and-span order, nothing short of perfection itself. Now the tents were empty; there was nothing but the bare “wall tent” standing, and not a thing of any sort whatever inside of it. In fact, the camp was a “deserted village.”
More strikingly true was this of the “guard tent.” The guard tent had never before been left alone all summer. No matter where the battalion marched or what they did, the members of the guard always had stayed by that tent, and those who were on duty, the sentries, never ceased to pace their beats. But now the sentries had joined the rest of the guard and fallen in behind the cadets, marching swiftly out of camp.
That was a very unusual procedure; the appearance of the cadets was very unusual, too. Their handsome dress uniforms were nowhere to be seen. They wore their fatigue dress, even the officers; the plebes, or fourth classmen, had their close-fitting shell jackets and gray trousers. Each cadet, be he plebe or otherwise, had a heavy knapsack strapped to his shoulder, and also his share of a “shelter tent.” Thus equipped and with glistening rifles in hand, they were turning their backs upon the silent camp.
It seemed as if all the visitors on the post had turned out to see them march. They crossed Trophy Point and started up the road to the north, between two lines of cheering spectators, waving handkerchiefs and calling, “Good-by!” A few minutes later the last line had swung around the turn and the post was silent and deserted.
Where were they going, you ask?
There is no very great mystery about it; the corps was on its way to Camp Lookout, in the mountains. That move is one of the events of the summer season to the cadets, for then they play “real soldier.” They go into “rough camp,” or bivouac, and altogether have quite an exciting time indeed.
That morning they had visited the trunk room and stowed away all their belongings—dress coats and hats, white trousers and so on. And now they were marching with nothing but knapsack and tent into the woods. The band was in front, and behind a big mule wagon with camp utensils. Getting through the mountain forest in that order was quite an interesting task indeed.
One may readily imagine that the novices who had never taken part in such an adventure as this before were head over heels with excitement, figuratively speaking. One might look forward to any amount of fun during the ten days that were to follow. Our friends, “the Banded Seven,” were fairly ready to dance for joy.
When the battalion once got fairly into the woods it was found that a regular order could not be maintained. The band gave up playing then and a loose order of marching was adopted. That enabled the Seven to get together in the rear, where they fell to discussing the prospect.
“There’s one good thing,” Mark said, after they had been wondering if there was any prospect of meeting bears or wildcats by way of excitement, “we’ll have a great deal more liberty. There won’t be any delinquency book.”
“Good!” growled Texas. “Who told you so?”
“Everybody,” responded Mark. “We’re going to live in army style, and they don’t have anything like that in the army.”
Texas chuckled gleefully at the information.
“Make believe I ain’t glad!” said he. “We won’t have that air ole yearlin’ corporal a-comin’ in to boss us an’ raise a rumpus ’cause there’s dust on a feller’s lookin’-glass and freckles on his nose. Doggone them yearlin’s’ boots!”
“And, b’gee,” put in Dewey, the reconteur of the party, “B’gee, we’ll have army rations—hard-tack and water for ten days.”
“Bless my soul!” gasped the fat and rosy Indian. No more terrible news on earth could have been given to Indian than that. “Bless my soul!” he repeated. “What on earth shall I do? Hard-tack and water!”
“It is terrible,” observed Dewey, solemnly. “Why, they gave me better than that when I was in prison last time.”
Indian gazed at his friend in alarm. The others spoiled the joke, however, by laughing.
“You’re only fooling,” the fat boy observed, wisely. “I think that’s mean. Anyhow, I’m sure I shall starve.”
“It won’t be quite as bad as it’s painted,” Mark laughed, by way of consolation. “They’ll probably give us something better than tack.”
“And if they don’t, b’gee,” put in Dewey, “we can bite our finger nails.”
The plebes had plenty of time to do their joking that morning, for there was a long, dreary walk ahead of them. In fact, they marched steadily for between three and four hours, with but few halts for rest. One may readily believe that the cadets were glad when it was over.
The young soldiers got so tired that toward the end they relapsed into silence of their own accord. Nobody said anything more, except the learned Parson and the lively Dewey, both of whom saw an excellent opportunity to talk all they wanted to without interruption. When Dewey once got started at his jokes a whole express train full of air brakes couldn’t have stopped him. He explained the matter to his meek and long-suffering companions by singing the verse from “Alice in Wonderland:”
In Dewey’s case, at any rate, it lasted until the welcome order was given:
“Company, halt!”
Which meant that the battalion was at last upon the scene of their home for the next ten days, “Camp Lookout,” twelve miles back in the mountains from West Point.
Poor Indian, who was exhausted and breathless by this time, expected that he would get a chance to sit down and rest. But Indian was destined to learn that that is not the army way of doing business; he was obliged to content himself with a few longing glances at the inviting scene about him. Then he got to work.
The first order was to stack arms; the second to unsling knapsacks and deposit them near the guns. After that the corps pitched in to unload the mule wagon.
Under the direction of the officers, the plebes set to work to lay out the camp site. The small shelter tents were then pitched. They are known as “A tents,” from their shape. A person who is curious for a more exact description of them may care to peruse that of the solemn Parson, who assured his friends that each was “a regular prism or parallelopipedon reclining upon one of its rectilinear facets and having for its base an equilateral triangle, whose vertical angle subtends an arc of forty-five degrees.”
While the Parson was saying this most of the tents had been spread. The next duty was to dig a trench around each one and then to cut boughs upon which to sleep.
By dinner time most of the work was done. The cadets were then on the verge of starvation.
The army “rations” which were issued proved to contain more than hard-tack, after all, much to the joy of our friend Indian’s soul. There was a generous allowance of fresh meat, and three or four camp-fires already blazing by which to cook it. Everybody pitched in with avidity, and soon there was a lively scene indeed.
As usual, the Parson, who had, as we know, “taken all knowledge to be his province,” was right on deck with information upon the art and science of culinary practice. The Parson gave the history of cookery from the time Abel roasted his sheep to the twentieth century. Very soon he wished he had kept quiet, for several mischievous yearlings promptly suggested that since he knew so much about it would he “be so kind” as to do their cooking for them? And so the unfortunate Parson was soon standing with a frying pan in each hand (neither containing his own dinner) and with a facetious youngster urging him to hold a third one in his teeth.
Such is a picture of perhaps the most enjoyable day in all the season of summer camp—the beginning of the bivouac in the mountains. Whether the practice is maintained at West Point to the present day the writer is not certain; but in Mark’s day (and his own) it was a regular and much enjoyed custom.
The site of the camp is between two small lakes, Long Pond and Round Pond. Drinking water is obtained from one; the other the cadets use to bathe in. During the ten days of the stay they live in army style and when not on duty have the freedom of the woods. They learn guard duty, cook their own rations, and sleep on the ground. Incidentally it may be mentioned that the plebes who during the whole summer long had been compelled to march with hands at their sides and palms to the front whenever they appeared in public were now for the first time allowed to walk as ordinary mortals and “slap at the mosquitoes that bite them.” One may imagine that this is a privilege that is profoundly appreciated.
While we have been talking about them the cadets had gotten to work at their midday meal. Indian had started long ago, for he was so hungry that he had scarcely waited for the meat to cook. It was “rarer than a missionary,” as Dewey observed, a remark so disgusting that the fat boy vowed he wouldn’t eat another mouthful, a resolution to which he bravely stuck—having licked the platter clean before he made it.
Dinner was eaten and everything cleaned up. Then the guard detail for the day was assigned to duty, and after that the cadets scattered to amuse themselves as they pleased. Our friends, the Seven, went off straightway to find the swimming place.
For some reason not essential to the story, “B’gee” Dewey lingered behind at the camp. Some half an hour later he rejoined the party and they noticed to their surprise that he was out of breath and excited. His eyes were dancing merrily. Dewey was the delighted bearer of the information concerning the “banquet.”
“B’gee!” he gasped. “Fellows—the greatest—b’gee!—the greatest—news of the century! Hooray!”
His friends gazed at him in surprise and curiosity.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Mark.
“Yes, what’s up?” chimed in Texas, his fingers beginning to twitch at the prospects of “fun.” “Anybody to lick? Any fights? Any——”
“It’s Bull Harris!” panted Dewey. “B’gee!—it’s the chance of a lifetime!”
“Whoop!” roared Texas. “Out with it. Doggone his boots, I’m jes’ a layin’ fo’ another whack at that air ole yearlin’. Whoop!”
If it had been Parson Stanard who had gotten hold of that news which Dewey was breathlessly trying to tell, he would have kept the crowd upon the tenderhooks of expectation while he led up to the subject with sequipedalian perorations and scholarly circumlocutions. But the true story-teller’s instinct was not in Dewey; he was anxious to be “out with it.” The secret was too good a one to keep and the only reason he delayed for even a moment was that he was trying to regain his vocal powers, a process which was very much impeded by the number of “b’gees!” he felt duty bound to work in during the time.
“B’gee!” he gasped, “it’s the greatest thing out. Bull’s going to give a party.”
“A party!”
“Yes—b’gee! It seems somebody’s sent him a box of eatables from home. He got it on the sly and none of the authorities know anything about it. Reminds me of a story I once heard, about——”
“Go on! Go on!”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. Well, it seems he’s invited half a dozen of the yearlings—his gang, you know—to help him eat ’em, b’gee.”
Indian smacked his lips and looked hungry.
“Whereabouts?” inquired Mark. “And when?”
“They’re going to steal out into the woods to-night,” continued Dewey. “One of the drum orderlies is going to have the box there for them.”
“How did you learn all this?”
“I heard ’em talking about it. And, b’gee, they’re expecting to have a high old time. What I want to know is, b’gee, are we going to allow it. I——”
“Wow, no!” roared Texas, indignantly. “The idea of their daring it. I say, we must bust up the hull bizness!”
“Yea, by Zeus!” echoed the Parson.
Mark cleared his throat at this stage of the proceedings and began solemnly:
“Fellow citizens,” he said, “this matter has gone too far.”
“What matter?”
“The presumption of these yearlings! Such a thing has never been known in the history of West Point before, and I move, gentlemen, that we do not tolerate it for a moment. The very idea! Has it not been our special and exclusive privilege, disputed by no one, to leave camp at night whenever we want to? And are we to surrender our immortal rights as plebes to a handful of impudent yearlings? Gentlemen, I say no! Why, pretty soon they’ll be objecting to our hazing them! Think of their daring to talk of leaving camp! And without our permission at that. And of their daring to get up a feast without offering us any! Why, such outrages are enough, as my friend, the Parson, here has so often said, to make the very dogs of Rome cry out in rage and mutiny.”
“Yea, by Zeus!” said the Parson.
“Bless my soul!” gasped Indian, who didn’t exactly perceive the humor of the matter.
Indian couldn’t see but that the yearlings, from time immemorial the hazers of the plebe, had a perfect right to hold a feast if they wanted to.
However, he appeared to be the only dissenting member of the party; the rest were hilarious over Mark’s speech, and the minority report “cut no ice.”
“Gentlemen,” said Mark, still laughing; and then in imitation of the Parson, he added: “Fellow citizens of Athens, I move that we swear a solemn oath upon this sacred spot where so many of our noble ancestors—er——”
“Went in swimming,” suggested Dewey.
“Er—yes,” said Mark, “that’ll do, won’t it, Parson? A solemn oath, I say, that, in Texas’ vulgar parlance, we bust up that banquet to-night. What do you say? All in favor——”
“Amendment, b’gee!” chuckled Dewey. “I move, Mr. Chairman, that we say eat it instead.”
“Bless my soul!” chimed in Indian, suddenly taking an interest in the proceedings. “Bless my soul, yes! That’s what I say, too. Let’s eat it!”
“Amendment accepted,” laughed Mark. “All in favor, please say ay!”
And the roar that resulted shook the woods. It boded ill for Bull Harris and his yearling crowd.