“Corporal of the guard, No. 1,” shouted the sentry at the gate.
“Zetz auber!” exclaimed the professor, throwing down his paper. “Go out dere, gorporal. Mebbe dot ish somedings from Meester Gellock.”
The corporal went, and Bert went with him. If there were a messenger-boy at the gate, his despatch might be from Don instead of Professor Kellogg; but there was no messenger-boy to be seen. On the opposite side of the tall, iron gate were a couple of men who peered through the bars occasionally, and then looked behind and on both sides of them as if to make sure that there was no one watching their movements.
“These fellows affirm that they are just from the city,” said the sentry, in a husky and trembling voice. “They have brought bad news. They say that our boys were cut all to pieces by the rioters.”
Bert’s heart seemed to stop beating. Without waiting to ask the sentry any questions, he passed on to the gate and waited for the men to speak to him. He could not have said a word to them to save his life.
“We thought we had better come up here and let you know about it,” said one of the visitors, at length. “The strikers are awful mad, and declare they are going to burn the academy.”
“Who are you?” demanded Bert, after he had taken time to recover his breath.
“We’re strikers, but we’re friends,” was the answer. “We live here in Bridgeport and had to strike with the rest to escape getting our heads broken. We saw the fight to-night, but we didn’t take any part in it.”
“The fight?” gasped Bert.
“Yes; and it was a lively one, I tell you. I didn’t know the boys had so much pluck. But there were three thousand of the mob and only about eighty of them, and so they had no show.”
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Bert. “What became of our boys?”
“We don’t know, for we lost no time in getting out of that when we found that there were bullets flying through the air; but some of the strikers told us that they whipped the cadets, and that those of them who could get away ran like sheep.”
“Corporal, go into the sentry’s box and get the key,” said Bert. “I shall have to ask you to make your report to the officer of the guard.”
“All right,” said the man who did the talking. “That’s what we came here for; but we want to be as sly as we can in getting in and out, for if we should be seen here, we’d have trouble directly. Bridgeport is in a tumult of excitement, and there are lots of spies here. We came up from Town Line on a hand-car with a lot of them. The lads must have got in some pretty good work before they were whipped, or else the strikers would not be so mad at them.”
“Was there a fight, sure enough?” said Bert, as the corporal came up with the key and opened the gate. He was so astounded and terrified that, although he heard all the man said to him, he did not seem to comprehend it.
“Well, I should say there was a fight. I tell you, it must have been hot in that car, and I don’t see how a single boy in it could possibly come out alive!”
“Then some of our friends must have been hurt?” faltered Bert.
“Of course. I don’t believe a dozen of the whole company came out uninjured.”
Bert wanted to ask if his informant had heard the names of any of the wounded, but the words he would have uttered stuck in his throat. While he was trying to get them out he reached the guard-room, and ushered the visitors into the presence of Professor Odenheimer.
“These men, sir, desire to make report concerning a fight that took place between our boys and the mob at Hamilton,” said the sergeant; and then he backed off and stood ready to hear what they had to say in addition to what they had already told him.
The excitable Prussian started as if he had been shot. “Our poys did have a pattle?” he exclaimed.
“Yes, sir, they did,” answered one of the men.
“Donder and blixen! I don’t can pelieve dot.”
“They say they have just come from there, sir,” interposed Bert.
The professor jumped to his feet, dashed his spectacles upon the table, and broke into a torrent of German ejaculations indicative of the greatest wonder and excitement. His next question was, not “Were any of the boys injured?” but—
“Did dem gadets make good fighting? Dot’s vot I vant to know.”
The men replied that they had done wonders.
“Dot’s all right! Dot’s all right,” exclaimed Mr. Odenheimer, rubbing his hands gleefully together. “Zargeant, you and de gorporal vait oudside and I will hear de rebort of dese men. So dem gadets make good fighting! I been glad to hear dot. Seet down in dem chairs and told me all apout it.”
The non-commissioned officers reluctantly withdrew, and the professor was left alone with the visitors.
“Dutchy is a hard-hearted old wretch,” said Corporal Arkwright indignantly. “He never asked if any of our boys were wounded.”
“Of course he didn’t,” replied Bert. “He took it for granted. If the fight was as desperate as those men say it was, we shall soon have a sorrowful report from Hamilton. I ought to write to my mother at once, but I haven’t the courage to do it.”
The boys waited outside, as they were told to do, but they used their best endeavors to overhear what passed between the professor and his visitors. They had their trouble for their pains, however. The men talked in low tones, and beyond an occasional ebullition of wrath from Mr. Odenheimer, who invariably spoke in German, they could hear nothing. Presently the door opened, and the three came out and hastened toward the academy.
“It is fully as serious as we thought, Sam,” said Sergeant Gordon. “They are going in to tell their story to the superintendent.”
Bert never slept a wink that night. He was at the gate at daylight, and was the first to purchase a paper when the newsboys came around. As he opened the sheet with trembling hands, his eye fell upon the following paragraph:
“Wednesday Morning, 3 o’clock.—We have delayed the issue of our paper until this morning, hoping to obtain direct information from Hamilton; but we have heard nothing but vague rumors, which grew out of all proportion as they traveled. That the academy boys had a brush with the strikers is evident. They were met before reaching the city by an immense mob, and a fight ensued, in which some of our boys were wounded. The following despatch, taken from last night’s Town Line Democrat, despite some inaccuracies, probably has a few grains of truth in it:
‘This evening, when the Bridgeport Cadets got into Hamilton they were stopped by striking rioters, who shoved their car upon a side track, and then commenced stoning and shooting them. The Cadets, after standing the fusillade for some time, opened fire and delivered volley after volley, wounding thirty persons and killing many. The rioters finally succeeded in getting upon the car and overpowering the company, capturing the guns, and driving the boys out of the city.’
“Nine members of the academy company, having become separated from their fellows in the mêlée, took the back track and are expected home to-day.”
After making himself master of everything in the paper that related to the fight, Bert went into the academy and handed the sheet to the orderly, with the request that he would give it to the superintendent as soon as he got up. It was probable, he thought, that the latter would want to do something to assist those nine boys who were now on their way home. When they arrived he might be able to learn something about Don; and in the mean time he could do nothing but wait.
No study-call was sounded that morning, and the day promised to be a dark and gloomy one; but about ten o’clock little rays of sunshine began breaking through the clouds. The first came when the word was passed for Bert Gordon. He hurried into the superintendent’s office and was presented with a despatch. He was about to go out with it when the superintendent said:
“Read it here, sergeant. There may be news in it, and we should like to know what it is, if you have no objections.”
Bert tore open the envelope and read aloud the following from Don, who had telegraphed at the very earliest opportunity:
“Got in this morning after a night of trouble. No violence offered in the city. I am all right, and so is Curtis, but our unlucky friend Hop is missing, and Egan is wounded.”
Every one present drew a long breath of relief when Bert read these words. This was the first reliable news they had received, and it removed a heavy burden of anxiety from their minds.
“So it seems that the company was not cut to pieces after all,” said the superintendent. “It is probable that the boys were roughly handled, but that didn’t keep them from going into the city. I feel greatly encouraged.”
And so did everybody. Bert would have felt quite at his ease if he could have got over worrying about Hopkins and Egan. He feared the worst. But then his fat crony was fortunate in some respects even if he were unlucky in others, and it was possible that he might yet turn up safe and sound and as jolly as ever, and that Egan’s wound might not be a serious one.
After that despatches came thick and fast. As soon as they were received they were read aloud to the students, who made the armory ring with their yells of delight when one came from Professor Kellogg stating that Captain Mack and his men had behaved with the utmost gallantry. Thirty-two of the company were fit for duty, although they had but seventeen guns among them, eight were slightly wounded, but, having good care, were doing well, and the rest were missing. They had whipped the mob twice and carried their wounded off the field.
“I tell you it makes a good deal of difference where the news comes from—from your own side or from the enemy’s,” said Bert. “Things don’t look as dark as they did. I wish those nine boys who are now on the way home would hurry up. I am impatient to talk to them.”
“They will soon be here,” replied one of the students. “I heard the superintendent say that the citizens have sent carriages after them.”
While those at the academy are waiting for these boys, let us go back to the third company and see what really happened to them, and how they acted when they found themselves surrounded by the mob. Of course they did not know what was in store for them, but the majority made up their minds that they would be called upon to face something decidedly unpleasant when they reached Hamilton, for their train had hardly moved away from the depot before it was whispered from one boy to another that some one on the platform had been heard to say that they (the students) were going into a hotter place than they ever dreamed of. Still they kept up a good heart, although they did not at all like the looks of the crowds of men and boys who were assembled at every station along the road. They did not know that two unhanged villains, Michael Lynch, the fireman of their train, and William Long, the Western Union operator at Bridgeport, had conspired to make their reception at Hamilton a warmer one than they had bargained for, by sending a despatch announcing their departure to an office in the lower part of the city that was in the hands of the strikers.
For a while it looked as though the ball would be set in motion at Town Line; for the large depot through which their train passed was literally packed with strikers and their aids and sympathizers, who had a good deal to say about the young soldiers and their object in going to the city. But they went through without any trouble, and when they reached a little station a few miles beyond, Professor Kellogg telegraphed for orders. These having been received the train moved on again, and Captain Mack came and perched himself upon the arm of the seat in which Don and Egan were sitting.
“I tell you, fellows, this begins to look like war times,” said he.
“Where are we going, and what are we to do when we get there?” inquired Egan.
“We are not going into the city to-night,” answered the captain. “We are sent down here simply to act as guards, and if there is any fighting to be done, the 61st will have to do it. Our orders read in this way: ‘You will leave the train at Hamilton creek and guard the railroad property there during the night. Use such cars as you can, and keep all the guards out that may be necessary.’ There are no signs of a gathering at the creek, but in order to be on the safe side the professor has ordered the conductor to let us out at least a quarter of a mile from the bridge. If a mob appears anywhere along the road, we are to get off and form before we go up to it.”
There was nothing in these plans with which any military man could have found fault. They would have met the requirements of the case in every particular, had it not been for the fact that Professor Kellogg had to deal with men who were as treacherous as the plains Indians are said to be. There was a mob at the bridge, and the engineer saw it long before he reached it. In fact he ran through a part of it, and did not stop his train until he was right in the midst of it. The first thing the boys knew their car was standing still, hoarse yells and imprecations which disturbed their dreams for many a night afterward were arising on all sides of them, and the rioters were crowding upon the platforms.
“Lave this kyar open; we’re strong,” said a man, in a voice which proclaimed his nationality; and as he spoke he threw open the rear door and placed one end of his heavy cane against it, at the same time drawing himself back out of sight as much as he could.
“Attention!” shouted Captain Mack, prompted by the professor; whereupon the young soldiers arose and stood in front of their seats. Their bayonets were fixed, they had loaded their guns when they left the station at which they had stopped for orders, and if they had been commanded to act at once, the mob never would have gained a footing in the car. But Mr. Kellogg did just what he ought not to have done—he stood in the front door, blocking the way as well as he could, and trying to reason with the leaders of the rabble, who demanded to know why he had come down there, and what he was going to do. The professor told them in reply that he was not going into the city that night, that he had been ordered to stop at the bridge and guard the railroad property there, and this seemed to satisfy the mob, who might have dispersed or gone back to Hamilton, as their leaders promised, had it not been for one unfortunate occurrence.
The attention of everybody in the car was directed toward the men who were gathered about the front door, and no one seemed to remember that there was a rear door at which no guard had been stationed. The rioters at that end of the car did not at first make themselves very conspicuous, for they did not like the looks of the muskets the young soldiers held in their hands; but in a very few minutes they grew bold enough to move across the platform in little squads, stopping on the way to take a hasty glance at the interior, and finally some of the reckless ones among them ventured to come in. These were followed by others, and in less time than it takes to tell it the aisle was packed with strikers, who even forced their way into the seats, crowding the boys out of their places. About this time Mr. Kellogg happened to look behind him, and seeing that he and his men were at the mercy of the mob—there were more strikers than soldiers in the car now—he called out to the conductor, who stood on the front platform, to go ahead with the train.
“I can’t do it,” was the reply. “The strikers are in full possession of it.”
“Well, then, cut loose from us and go ahead with your passengers,” said Professor Kellogg. “This is as far as I want to go anyhow.”
“And you couldn’t go any farther if you wanted to,” said a loud-mouthed striker. “We’ll have the last one of you hung up to the telegraph poles before morning.”
“Who said that?” exclaimed one of the leaders at the front door. “Knock that man down, somebody, or make him keep his tongue still.”
“Shove the car on to the switch,” yelled somebody outside.
“Yes; run ’em into the switch!” yelled a whole chorus of hoarse voices. “Dump ’em over into the creek.”
Some idea of the strength of the mob may be gained from the fact that the car, heavily loaded as it was, began to move at once, and in a few minutes it was pushed upon a side-track, and brought to a stand-still on the edge of a steep bank. While the car was in motion Don, who had grown tired of being squeezed, sought to obtain an easier position by stepping into his seat and sitting down on the back of it. As he did so he nearly lost his balance; whereupon a burly striker, who had stepped into his place as soon as he vacated it, reached out his hand and caught him, in the most friendly manner.
“Thanks,” said Don, placing his hand on the striker’s broad shoulder and steadying himself until he was fairly settled on his perch. “Now, since you have showed yourself to be so accommodating, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me where those fellows on the outside are shoving us to, and what they intend to do with us.”
“They are going to throw you into the creek, probably.”
“I don’t see any sense in that,” observed Don. “What’s the meaning of this demonstration, anyhow?”
“It means bread!” said the man so firmly that Don thought it best to hold his peace.
There were few in the mob who seemed inclined to talk. They answered all the questions that were asked them, but gave their entire attention to what was going on in the forward end of the car. Their recognized leaders were there, talking with Professor Kellogg, and they were waiting to see how the conference was going to end. Those who spoke for the strikers seemed to be intelligent men, fully sensible of the fact that Professor Kellogg and his company had not come to the city to trample upon the rights of the workingman, and for a time the prospect for a peaceful settlement of the points under discussion looked very bright indeed. But there were some abusive and violent ones in the mob who could not be controlled, and they always spoke up just at the wrong time.
“Take the bayonets off the guns!” piped a forward youngster, who ought to have been at home and in bed. “That’s the way we did with the 61st.”
“I’ll tell you how to settle it,” said a shrill voice, that was plainly audible in spite of the tumult in the car and the continuous yells of the mob outside. “If they’re friendly toward us, as they say they are, let them give up their guns. We’ll see that nobody harms them.”
“Yes; that’s the way to settle it,” yelled the mob. “Let them give up their guns.”
This proposition startled the young soldiers. If they agreed to it they would be powerless to defend themselves, and what assurance had they that the strikers would not wreak vengeance upon them? Nothing but the word of half a dozen men who could not have controlled the turbulent ones among their followers, even if they had been disposed to try. But fortunately Mr. Kellogg was not the man they took him for. As soon as the yells of approval had subsided so that he could make himself heard, his answer came clear and distinct;
“I shall not disarm my men; you may depend upon that.”
“Let’s run ’em back to Bridgeport, where they belong,” shouted a striker.
“That’s the idea,” shouted the mob. “We don’t want ’em here. Run ’em back where they came from. We can easy find an engine.”
“I am not going back,” replied the undaunted professor. “I was ordered to come here, and now that I got here, I am going to stay.”
“Well, you shan’t stay with these guns in your hands,” said the shrill-voiced man. “All of us who are in favor of disarming them say ‘I.’”
“I! I!” was the almost unanimous response.
If there were any present who were opposed to disarming the boys, they were not given an opportunity to say so. Encouraged by their overwhelming numbers, and by the fact that the mass of the soldiers were mere striplings to be strangled with a finger and thumb, the rioters went to work to secure the muskets, and then there was a scene to which no pen could do justice.
The fight, if such it could be called, was a most unequal one. That portion of the mob which had possession of the car, was composed almost entirely of rolling-mill hands, and not of “lazy, ragged tramps and boys,” as a Hamilton paper afterward declared. They were powerful men, and the young soldiers were like infants in their grasp. But, taken at every disadvantage as they were, the most of the boys gave a good account of themselves. A few, terrified by the sight of the revolvers and knives that were flourished before their eyes, surrendered their weapons on demand, and even allowed their cartridge-boxes to be cut from their persons; but the others fought firmly to retain possession of their guns, and gave them up only when they were torn from their grasp. Among the latter was Don Gordon.
When the proposition to disarm the boys was put and carried, the man who was standing in Don’s seat, and who had caught him when he came so near losing his balance, faced about, seized the boy’s musket, and, in spite of all Don could do to prevent it, forced it over toward his friends in the aisle. A dozen hands quickly laid hold of it, but Don would not give it up. He held to it with all his strength, until one of the mob, enraged at his determined resistance, gave a sudden jerk, pulling the weapon out of his hands and compelling Don to turn a somerset over the back of his seat.
One thing that encouraged Don to make so desperate a struggle for the possession of his piece, was the heroic conduct of a little pale-faced fellow, Will Hovey by name, who occupied the seat in front of him. Will didn’t look as though he had any too much courage, but his actions proved that he had plenty of it. He was confronted by a ruffian big enough to eat him up, who was trying to disarm him with one hand, while in the other he had a formidable looking knife with a blade that was a foot long.
“Give it up, I tell you,” Don heard the striker say.
“I’ll not do it,” was Will’s reply. “I’ll die first.”
The knife descended, and Don expected to see the brave boy killed before his eyes; but he dodged like a flash, just in the nick of time, and the glittering steel passed over his shoulder, cutting a great hole in his coat and letting out the lining. Will lost his gun in the end, but he wore that coat to the city, and was as proud of that rent as he would have been of a badge of honor. He was a soldier all over, and proved it by stealing a gun to replace the one the strikers had taken from him.
When Don was pulled over the back of his seat, he fell under the feet of a party of struggling men and boys, who stepped upon and knocked him about in the most unceremonious way, and it was only after repeated efforts that he succeeded in recovering his perpendicular. No sooner had he arisen to an upright position than he fell into the clutches of a striker who seized his waist-belt with one hand and tried to cut it from him with a knife he held in the other, being under the impression that if he succeeded, he would gain possession of the boy’s cartridge-box. But there’s where he missed his guess, for the cartridge-box which hung on one side and the bayonet scabbard that hung on the other, were supported by breast belts; and the waist belt was simply intended to hold them close to the person, so that they would not fly about too much when the wearer was moving at double time. Don, however, did not want that belt cut, and he determined that it should not be if he could prevent it. The striker was larger and much stronger than he was, but Don fought him with so much spirit that the man finally became enraged, and turned the knife against him. If he had had any chance whatever to use his weapon, he would certainly have done some damage; but he and Don were packed in so tightly among the strikers and the students, who were all mixed up together now, that neither one of them had an inch of elbow-room. The struggling crowd was gradually working its way toward the rear door, and Don saw that he must do something very quickly or be dragged out of the car into the hands of the outside mob. After trying in vain to disarm his assailant, and to free himself from his grasp by breaking the belt, he set to work to unhook it; but he was knocked about so promiscuously by the combatants on all sides of him, that he couldn’t even do that.
How long the fight over the guns and cartridge-boxes continued no one knows; and the reports in our possession, which are full and explicit on all other points, are silent on this. But it took the strikers a long time to disarm the boys, and even then they had to leave without getting all the guns.
Up to this time not a shot had been fired or a stone thrown. The mob outside could not bombard the car for fear of injuring some of their own men, and the students could not shoot for the same reason. Besides, the order not to pull a trigger until they were told to do so was peremptory, and in his report Professor Kellogg takes pains to say that this command was strictly obeyed. The order to fire on the mob would have been given before it was but for one thing: The only officer who had the right to give it was being choked so that he could not utter a sound. The strikers were quick to see that Professor Kellogg was the head and front of the company, and believing that if they could work their will on him, they could easily frighten the boys into submission, they laid hold of him and tried to drag him out of the car; and failing in that, the door being blocked by their own men, who were anxious to crowd in and take a hand in the fracas, they bent the professor backward over the arm of a seat and throttled him. The students in his immediate vicinity defended him with the utmost obstinacy and courage, and a sword, and at least one bayonet, which went into the fight bright and clean, came out stained. At any rate the rioters did not succeed in killing the professor, as they fully intended to do, or in dragging him out of the door. After a desperate struggle he succeeded in freeing himself from their clutches, and as soon as he could speak, he called out:
“Clear the car! Clear the car!”
This was the order the students were waiting for, and if the order had not been so long delayed their victory would have been more complete than it was, for they would have had more guns to use. They went to work at once, and the way those rioters got out of that car must have been a surprise to their friends on the outside. Swords, bayonets and the butts of the muskets were freely used, and when the last rioter had jumped from the platform, the real business of the night commenced. All on a sudden the windows on both sides were smashed in, and stones, chunks of coal, coupling-pins, bullets and buck-shot rattled into the car like hail.
“Come on, me brave lads!” yelled a voice on the outside. “Let’s have the last one of ’em out of there an’ hang them to the brudge.”
A simultaneous rush was made for both the doors, but the maddened mob had no sooner appeared than a sheet of flame rolled toward them, and they retreated with the utmost precipitancy. Forbearance was no longer a virtue. His own life and the lives of the boys under his charge were seriously threatened now, and with the greatest reluctance Professor Kellogg gave the order to fire. It was obeyed, and with the most telling effect. After repulsing three charges that were made upon the car, the boys turned their guns out of the windows, and firing as rapidly as they could reload, they drove the mob over the railroad track and forced them to take refuge behind the embankment.
Although the students had full possession of the car, their position was one of extreme danger. They were surrounded by a rabble numbering more than three thousand men, sixty of whom were armed with their own muskets, while the students had only seventeen left with which to oppose them; the rioters were securely hidden behind the embankment, while the car was brilliantly lighted, and if a boy showed the top of his cap in front of a window, somebody was sure to see and shoot at it; and worse than all, some of the mob, being afraid to run the gauntlet of the bullets which were flying through the air from both sides, had taken refuge under the car, and were now shooting through the bottom of it. One of the lieutenants was the first to discover this. He reported it to Captain Mack, and the latter reported it to the professor.
“That will never do,” said Mr. Kellogg. “We must get out of here. Attention!”
The boys, who were crouched behind the seats and firing over the backs and around the sides of them, jumped to their feet and stepped out into the aisle, while Don opened the door so that they could go out.
“Where’s your gun, Gordon?” demanded the professor.
“It was taken from me, sir,” replied Don. “But I’ll have another before many minutes.”
Don knew very well that somebody would get hurt when they got out on the railroad, and if he were not hit himself, he wanted to be ready to take the gun from the hands of the first boy who was hit, provided that same boy had a gun. He secured a musket in this way, and he did good service with it, too.
Don Gordon’s assailant kept him exceedingly busy in warding off the thrusts of the knife, and the boy had a lively time of it before he could escape from his clutches. When the students went to work to clear the car, Don hoped that the man would become frightened and let go his hold; but instead of that, he seemed all the more determined to pull his captive out of the door. In spite of his resistance Don was dragged as far as the stove, and there he made a desperate and final effort to escape. Placing his foot against the side of the door he threw his whole weight upon the belt, jerked it from the man’s grasp and fell in the aisle all in a heap. When he scrambled to his feet the car was clear of strikers, his antagonist being the last to jump from the platform. Don was surprised to see how few there were left of the students. When they left Bridgeport there were more of them than the seats could accommodate; but there were only a handful of them remaining, and they were gathered in the forward end of the car. Where were the others? While Don stood in the aisle debating this question, two or three boys arose from their hiding-places under the seats and hurried past him.
“Come on, Gordon,” said one. “The way is clear now.”
“Where are you going?” asked Don.
“Anywhere to get out of the mob. Lots of our fellows have left the car and taken to their heels. Come on.”
“Don’t go out there,” cried Don. “You will be safer if you stay with the crowd.”
The boys, who were so badly frightened that they hardly knew what they were doing, paid no attention to him. They ran out of the car, and a minute later the rioters made their first charge, and the order was given to fire. This put life into Don, who lost no time in getting out of the range of the bullets in his companions’ muskets. Stepping out of the aisle he made his way toward the forward end of the car, by jumping from the back of one seat to the back of another. As he was passing a window a coupling-pin, or some other heavy missile, came crushing through it, barely missing him and filling his clothing with broken glass. If it had hit him, it would probably have ended his career as a military student then and there.
Reaching the forward end of the car in safety the first thing Don saw, as he dropped to his knee by Egan’s side, was a loaded musket; and the second was one of the Bridgeport students lying motionless under a seat. His face was too pale and his wide-open eyes were too void of expression to belong to a living boy, and Don straightway came to the conclusion that he was dead.
“Poor fellow,” was his mental comment. “There’ll be a sad home somewhere when the particulars of this night’s work get into the papers. He doesn’t need his musket any more, so I will use it in his stead.”
Don secured his musket in time to assist in repulsing every charge the mob made upon the car, and then, like the others, he began firing from the windows. While he was thus engaged one of the lieutenants passed along the aisle, and discovering a student lying prone under a seat, he bent down and looked at him. Like Don, he thought, at first, that the boy was dead; but upon closer examination he found that there was plenty of life in him.
“What are you doing there?” demanded the young officer, indignantly. “Get up and go to work. Where’s your gun?”
“Gordon’s got it,” was the faint reply.
The lieutenant looked around and saw Don in the act of firing his piece out of the window. After he made his shot, the officer asked him whose gun he was using.
“I don’t know,” answered Don. “I found it on the floor, and thought it might as well take part in this fight as to lie idle there.”
“That’s all right; but it belongs to this man. Hand it over.”
Don was glad to know that his comrade was not injured, but he was reluctant to surrender the musket into the hands of one who had showed no disposition to use it when he had it. He gave it up, however, and then crouched behind a seat and passed out cartridges to Egan and Curtis, who fired as fast as they could load. Both these boys had won the marksman’s badge at five hundred yards, and it was not likely that all their shots were thrown away.
About this time report was made that some of the rioters had taken refuge under the car and were shooting up through the floor, and the professor determined to abandon his position. The company was called to attention, Don Gordon opened the door, as we have recorded, and when the order was given they left the car on a run, Don being the fourth to touch the ground. After moving down the track a short distance they came to a halt and faced toward the rioters, who arose from their places of concealment and rushed over the embankment in a body, evidently with the intention of annihilating the students. In fact they told the boys as they came on that they were going to “wipe the last one of ’em out,” but they did not do it. The young soldiers were as steady as veterans, and one volley was enough to scatter the rioters, and send them in confusion to their hiding-places. But the students did not escape unscathed. As Don stood there on the track offering a fair target to the rifles of the mob, and unable to fire a single bullet in response to those that whistled about his ears, he heard a suppressed exclamation from somebody, and turned quickly about to see the boy who stood on his left, bent half double and clasping both his hands around his leg.
“I’ve got it,” said he, as Don sprang to his assistance.
“Well, you take it pretty coolly,” replied the other. “Come down out of sight. You’ve no business up here now that you are shot.”
After leading his injured comrade to a place of safety behind the embankment, Don returned to the track just in time to receive in his arms the boy who stood on his right and who clapped his hand to his breast and reeled as if he were about to fall. That was the narrowest escape that Don ever had. If he had been in line, where he belonged, the bullet which struck this boy’s breast-plate and made an ugly wound in his chest, would have hit Don squarely in the side.
The wounded boy had a gun, and Don lost no time in taking possession of it. After seeing that the owner was cared for by some of the unarmed students, Don went back to his place in line, where he remained just long enough to fire one round, when the company was ordered off the track behind the embankment, and an inspection of boxes was held. To their great astonishment the young soldiers found that they had not more than two or three cartridges remaining. As it was impossible for them to hold their ground with so small a supply of ammunition, Mr. Kellogg thought it best to draw off while he could. The wounded were sent to the rear in charge of the boys who had lost their guns in the car, after which the company climbed the fence and struck off through an oat-field toward the road. Seeing this retrograde movement the mob made another charge, but one volley sufficed to check it. If the boys were whipped (as a Hamilton paper, which was cowardly enough to pander to the mob and to extol its heroism afterward declared they were) they did not know it, and neither did the rioters, who took pains after that to keep out of sight. They remained by the car, which they afterward used to carry their wounded to the city, and the students saw them no more that night.
It was during this short halt that Don Gordon, after firing his single round, was approached by Curtis and Egan, one of whom held a musket in each hand, while the other had his fingers tightly clasped around his wrist. The latter was Egan, and his left hand was covered with blood.
“Have you got a spare handkerchief about you, Gordon?” said he. “I’m hit.”
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Don. “When did you get it?”
“Just now. Curtis had a loud call too,” said Egan, nodding toward his friend. “His plume was shot out of his cap.”
“Let me look at your hand,” said Don, drawing a couple of handkerchiefs from his pocket.
“Oh, there’s no artery cut, for the blood comes out in drops and not in jets,” answered Egan. “But I am afraid my little finger has gone up. I have bled for my country and you haven’t.”
“And what’s more, I don’t want to,” said Don.
The latter bandaged the wounded hand as well as he could, and the line moved on across the oat-field. On the way the boy who had been shot through the leg, gave out and had to be carried. The other held up bravely, making frequent and clamorous demands for his gun, and announcing his readiness, severely wounded as he was, to whip the boy who stole it from him. Don kept a still tongue in his head. He had the gun, and being in a better condition to use it than the owner was, he determined to hold fast to it.
When they reached the road they tore a panel or two of the fence to pieces to make a litter for the boy who had given out, and here they were joined by ten or a dozen of their comrades who had left the car by the rear door. By some extraordinary streak of good luck, such as might not have fallen to them again in a thousand years, they had succeeded in escaping the mob and finding refuge in a culvert under the railroad. They brought two wounded boys with them, one of whom had been struck in the eye with a buck-shot, while the other had had his scalp laid open by a vicious blow from the butt of a musket as he was jumping from the car.
“When we heard you going across the field we came out,” said one of the new-comers, who was delighted to find himself among friends once more. “There were strikers in the culvert, too, but they didn’t bother us, for they were as badly frightened as we were. If they had known that there was going to be a fight they wouldn’t have come near the bridge. They said so.”
“Seen anything of Hop?” asked Don, as soon as he had satisfied himself that his fat friend was not with the party.
“Not lately,” was the reply, “but I guess he’s all right. The last time I put eyes on him he was going up the track toward Bridgeport, beating the time of Maud S. all to pieces. If he kept on he’s at the academy by this time. I always had an idea that I could outrun Hop, but when he passed me I thought I was standing still.”
“Were there any strikers after him?”
“There wasn’t one in sight. When you fellows in the car got fairly to work, you kept such a fusillade that they were afraid to show their heads.”
By this time the litter was completed, and the wounded boy being placed upon it, the students resumed their march, stopping at the first house they came to, which proved to be a little German inn. The hospitable proprietor gave up his house to them; guards were posted at once; a good Samaritan, who was also a surgeon, promptly made his appearance; the wounded were tenderly cared for; and one of the corporals exchanged his uniform for a citizen’s suit, went into the city, reported the fight, and in due time returned with orders for the company to march in and report at the railroad depot.
When morning came the good Samaritan came also, accompanied by a liberal supply of hot coffee and a substantial breakfast, which were served out to the boys while they were sitting in the shade of the trees opposite the inn. The doctor took the wounded home with him to be cared for until they could be sent back to Bridgeport; and the others, having broken their fast, shouldered their guns and set out for Hamilton.
Don Gordon afterward said that his courage had never been so severely tested as it was that morning. On their way to the depot the students passed through the lower portion of the city and through the coal-yards in which the hands had just struck. Thousands of tons of coal were piled on each side of the narrow street, and on the top of these piles stood the striking workmen, who, outnumbering the boys more than twenty to one, and having every advantage of them in position, could have annihilated them in a minute’s time if they had made the attempt. It required all the nerve Don possessed to march through there with his eyes straight to the front, and his hair seemed to rise on end whenever he heard one of the men call out to his comrades:
“Thim’s the fellers, b’ys. Have a bit of coal at thim.”
Some of the men held chunks of coal in their hands, but they did not throw them. No doubt there were those among them who had been in the fight the night before, and who knew that the boys would defend themselves if they were crowded upon. They passed the coal-yards in safety, and marched into the depot, where they found a portion of the 61st under arms, together with several companies of militia, which had been sent there from the neighboring towns. When they stacked arms in the rear of one of the companies which held the left of the line, every boy drew a long breath of relief, and Don hurried off to find a telegraph office.
But little duty was imposed upon the students that day, partly because of their rough experience of the previous night, and partly for the reason that the mob had threatened vengeance upon them—particularly upon Professor Kellogg, who conducted the defence, and upon Captain Mack and the boy with the stained bayonet who had so gallantly defended their leader when the rioters tried to kill him. As one of the students afterward remarked, they loafed about like a lot of tramps, eating and sleeping as they do, and looking quite as dirty. As the hours wore away the mob began gathering in front of the depot, and once when Don looked out, he could see nothing but heads as far as his eyes could reach. There were between eight and ten thousand of them, and opposed to them there were less than three hundred muskets. They were kept in check by double lines of sentries which they could have swept away like chaff if they had possessed the courage to attempt it.
With the night came more excitement. Reinforcements began to arrive. Squads of men who had been sent off on detached duty came in, followed by strong delegations from the Grand Army. There were three false alarms, the last of which created some confusion. Some uneasy sleeper, while rolling about on his hard bed, managed to kick over a stack of muskets. One of them, which its careless owner had not left at a half-cock, as he ought to have done, exploded with a ringing report that brought the different companies to their feet and into the ranks in short order. The company that created the confusion was stationed directly in front of the Bridgeport boys. Some of its members, believing that the mob was upon them, ran for dear life, deserting their arms and rushing pell-mell through the ranks of the students, knocking them out of their places as fast as they could get into them.
This was an opportunity that was too good to be lost. Here were guns, scattered about over the floor, and no one to use them. To snatch them up and remove and throw away the slings that belonged to them, thus making their identification a matter of impossibility, was the work of but a few seconds. Will Hovey was the one who set the example, others were quick to follow it, and no one noticed what they were doing. When order had been restored and the ranks formed, there were eight men in one company who could not find their weapons, and as many boys in another who held in their hands muskets that did not belong to them.
“Humph!” said Don to himself. “If our company gets into another tight place, I hope we shall have somebody besides these men to back us. They are very pretty fellows, well up in the school of the company, and all that, but they don’t seem to have much pluck.”
The night passed without further trouble, the forenoon came and went, and at three o’clock the 49th, of Auburn, came in. The train that brought them to the city was stopped by the strikers, who refused to allow it to go any further. The colonel said he didn’t care—that he had just as soon walk as ride—and ordered his men to disembark.
If the rioters had never before been fully satisfied that their day was passed, they must have seen it now. Instead of one company there were several that got out of the cars—four hundred and ninety men, in fact, who stood there with their bayonets fixed and their pieces loaded, all ready for a fight if the rioters wanted it. But they didn’t. Having been so severely handled by only seventeen boys, that they dared not pursue them when they left the field, it was not likely that they were anxious for a collision with this splendid body of men, many of whom were veterans. The leaders held a consultation, and seeing that they could not help themselves, they finally concluded that the regiment might proceed.
A short time after it came into the depot, the Bridgeport boys and two other companies marched out, directing their course toward the Arsenal, which was located on one of Hamilton’s principal business streets. Now came another test of their courage. The sound of the drums served as a signal to the mob, which congregated in immense numbers, and marched with the troops to their destination. Some of them carried clubs and stones in their hands, and loud threats were made against the students, who were repeatedly assured that not one of them would ever leave the city alive. If they had been alone they would probably have had another fight on their hands; but they had a hundred and sixty men to back them, and that number, added to their own, made a larger force than the mob cared to face in battle.
They took supper at the Arsenal, where they remained until midnight, when they were ordered to fall in without the least noise. They obeyed, lost in wonder, leaving the drill-room so silently that the men who were slumbering on each side of them did not know they were gone until daylight came to reveal the fact, and when they reached the gate they found an immense police-van waiting for them. Into this they crowded and were driven slowly up the street, Professor Kellogg and Captain Mack going on ahead to see that the way was clear.
“Where are you taking us?” whispered Don to the driver.
“To the Penitentiary,” was the guarded response.
“Going to lock us up there?”
“Yes, sir; the last one of you.”
“What for?”
“To punish you for shooting at the mob last night.”
“They’ll give us plenty to eat, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes; all you want.”
“Do they look for any trouble among the prisoners?”
“I think so; at any rate you are sent up there at the mayor’s request. He said he wanted men there who were not afraid to shoot, and such men he wanted well fed.”
This was a compliment to the company, and a decided indorsement of the manner in which they had conducted themselves during the fight with the mob. To quote from some of the members, they had a “soft thing” while they remained at the Penitentiary. There were about four hundred convicts there, but they knew better than to attempt an outbreak, and all the boys had to do was to keep themselves clean, eat, sleep, and stand guard. Having made themselves famous they received many calls during their two days’ stay at the prison, and these visitors did not come empty-handed. The stockings, handkerchiefs, collars, lemons and other needful things they were thoughtful enough to bring with them, were gratefully accepted by the young soldiers, who begged for papers, and wanted to know all that was going on outside. They were gratified to learn that the back-bone of the riot was broken; that the strikers were anxious to go to work; that trains were running on some of the roads; and that the hour of their release was close at hand.
It came early on Saturday morning, when they were ordered to draw cartridges and fall in for a march to the skating-rink, which was now used as military headquarters, and which they reached without any mishap, the streets being free from any thing that looked like a mob. As they marched into the rink a soldier called out: “Three cheers for the Bridgeport boys!” and the lusty manner in which they were given proved that their comrades were entirely satisfied with what they had done.
Their departure from Hamilton, which was ordered at eleven o’clock, was in keeping with the treatment they had received from all the officers and military during their entire stay. They were escorted to the depot by two companies, which formed in line and saluted them as they passed by. After taking leave of many new-made friends they boarded the car which had been set apart for them (it was guarded at both doors this time, although there was no necessity for it) and were whirled away toward home, their journey being enlivened by songs, speeches and cheers for everybody who had borne his part in the fight. When the whistle sounded for Bridgeport one of the students thrust his head out of a window, but almost instantly pulled it back again to exclaim:
“Great Moses! What a crowd!”
But it was one the boys were not afraid of. As soon as the train came to a stand-still they left the car, and marching in columns of fours, moved through long lines of firemen and students who had assembled to welcome them home, the firemen standing with uncovered heads and the students presenting arms. The cross-roads, as well as the roads leading from the depot to the village, were crowded with carriages, all filled to their utmost capacity with ladies and gentlemen, who waved their handkerchiefs and hats, and greeted them with every demonstration of delight.
“Halt here, captain,” said the marshal of the day, when the boys reached the head of the line.
“Where’s Professor Kellogg?” asked Mack, looking around.
“I don’t know. Halt here, and come to a left face.”
When the order was obeyed, the spokesman of a committee of reception, which had been appointed by the citizens, mounted upon a chair and took off his hat; whereupon Captain Mack brought his men to parade rest to listen to his speech. It was short but eloquent, and went straight to the hearts of those to whom it was addressed, with the exception, perhaps, of Captain Mack. He knew that somebody would be expected to respond, and while he pretended to be listening with all his ears, he was looking nervously around to find Mr. Kellogg. But that gentleman was seated in the superintendent’s carriage a little distance away, looking serenely on, and Mack was left to his own resources, which, so far as speech-making was concerned, were few indeed. When the speaker had complimented them in well-chosen words for the gallantry they had displayed in the fight, and told them how proud his fellow-citizens were to say that the company that struck the first blow in defence of law and order in Hamilton came from their little town, he got down from his chair, and everybody looked at Captain Mack.
The young officer blushed like a girl as he stepped out of the ranks with his cap in his hand. He managed to make those of the crowd who could hear him understand that he and his company were much gratified by their reception, which was something they had not dreamed of, and delighted to know that their conduct as soldiers was approved by their friends at home; and then, not knowing what else to say, he broke out with—
“I can’t make a speech, gentlemen of the committee, but my boys can holler, and I’ll prove it. Three cheers and a tiger for the gentleman who has so cordially greeted us, for the other gentlemen composing the committee, and for every man, woman and baby who has come out to welcome us home.”
The cheers were given with a will, and the citizens replied with “three times three.” When the band struck up, the line was formed under direction of the marshal and moved toward the park. The church bells were rung, the solitary field-piece of which the village could boast, and which was brought out only on state occasions, thundered out a greeting every minute, and the crowds that met them at every turn cheered themselves hoarse. Mottoes and bunting were lavishly displayed, and Main-street was spanned by two large flags, to which was attached a white banner having an inscription that sent a thrill of pride to the breasts of the boys, who now read it for the first time—
“Welcome!
We honor those who do their duty.”
On arriving at the park the arms were stacked, the ranks broken, and fifteen minutes were taken for hand-shaking; and cordial as the formal reception was, it bore no comparison to the hearty personal welcome that was extended to each and every one of the third company boys, who never knew until that moment how many warm friends they had in Bridgeport. Among those who came up to shake hands with Don Gordon and Curtis was a fellow who was dressed in the academy uniform, who walked with a cane and wore a slipper on his left foot. It was Courtland Hopkins.
“Boys, I am delighted to see you home again, safe and sound,” said Hopkins, putting his cane under his arm and shaking hands with both his friends at once. “I tell you we have been troubled about you, for some of us who returned the second day after the fight, heard the rioters say that you would never leave the city alive.”
“We heard them say so, too,” replied Curtis. “But we’re here all the same. Hallo, Bert. And there’s Egan. How’s your hand, old fellow? Lost that little finger yet?”
“No; and I don’t think I’ll have to. Why didn’t you let us know that you were coming?”
“You did know it, or else you couldn’t have met us at the depot,” answered Don, after he had returned his brother’s greeting.
“I mean that you ought to have sent us word this morning,” said Egan. “The ladies would have got up a good supper for you if they had had time to do it.”
“We should have done full justice to it, for we had an early breakfast and no dinner,” Curtis remarked. “But you have not yet told us what is the matter with you, Hop. I hope you were not shot.”
“Oh, no. It is nothing more serious than a sprained ankle,” replied Hopkins.
“And ‘thereby hangs a tale,’” added Egan. “I’ll tell you all about it when we get up to the academy. Hop showed himself a hero if he did run out of the back door.”
“How did you get back to Bridgeport?” inquired Don.
“I went home with the doctor on the morning that you fellows started for Hamilton, you know,” replied Egan. “Well, as soon as he had dressed my hand and the wounds of some of the other boys who were able to walk, we went up the track to the next station, and there we telegraphed for a carriage. To tell the truth I never expected to get home, for the rioters were scouring the country in search of us. We heard of them at every house along the road, and everybody cautioned us to look out for ourselves.”
During a hurried conversation with their friends, Don and Curtis learned that the people of Bridgeport knew as much about the fight as they did themselves. Perhaps they knew more, for they had heard both sides of the story. The students who came home the day after the fight—the missing ones had all reported with the exception of three, whose wounds were so severe that they could not be brought from the city—had given a correct version of the affair and described the part that every boy took in it. All those who had done their duty like men were known to the citizens, and so were those who gave up their guns when the strikers demanded them. The boys who did the fighting, however, had not a word to say regarding the behavior of their timid comrades. They had an abundance of charity for them.
“We don’t blame them for being frightened,” Don and Curtis often said. “There isn’t a boy in the company who wouldn’t have been glad to get out of that car if he could. When you have been placed in just such a situation yourselves, you will know how we felt; until then, you have no business to sit in judgment upon those who are said to have shown the white feather.”
The fifteen minutes allotted for hand-shaking having expired, the students fell in and set out for the academy. As they marched through the gate the bell in the cupola rung out a joyful greeting, the artillery saluted them, and the boys in the first, second and fourth companies presented arms. They moved at once to the armory, and after listening to a stirring speech from the superintendent the ranks were broken, and their campaign against the Hamilton rioters was happily ended.
“And I, for one, never want to engage in another,” said Captain Mack, as he and Don and Curtis set out in search of Egan and Hopkins. “Have you heard some of the fellows say that they wish they had been there?”
Yes, they and all the returned soldiers had heard a good deal of such talk from boys who would have died before giving up their guns, and who were loud in their criticisms of Mr. Kellogg, who ought to have stopped the train at least half a mile from the mob, and fired upon it the moment it appeared. What a chance this would have been for Lester Brigham, if he had only been in a situation to improve it! If he had never known before that he made a great mistake by feigning illness on the night the false alarm was sounded, he knew it now. He could not conceal the disgust he felt whenever he saw a third-company boy surrounded by friends who were listening eagerly to his description of the fight. Such sights as these made him all the more determined to get away from the academy where he had always been kept in the background in spite of his efforts to push himself to the front. And worse than all, there was Don Gordon, who had come home with the marks of a rioter’s knife on his coat and belt, who had behaved with the coolness of a veteran, and showed no more fear than he would have exhibited if he had been engaged in a game of snow-ball.
“I’ll bet he was under a seat more than half the time, and that nobody noticed him,” said Lester, spitefully.
“Oh, I guess not,” said Jones. “Gordon isn’t that sort of a fellow. Well, they have had their fun, and ours is yet to come. There will be a jolly lot of us sent down at the end of the term. What do you suppose your governor will say to you?”
“Not a word,” replied Lester, confidently. “He didn’t send me here to risk life and limb by fighting strikers who have done nothing to me, and when he gets the letters I have written him, he will tell me to start for home at once.”
“But you’ll not go?” said Jones.
“Not until we have had our picnic,” replied Lester.
“Perhaps your father won’t care to have Jones and me visit you,” remarked Enoch.
“Oh, yes he will. He told me particularly to invite a lot of good fellows home with me, and he will give you a cordial welcome. I haven’t got a shooting-box, but I own a nice tent, and that will do just as well. I will show you some duck-shooting that will make you open your eyes.”
“All right,” said Enoch. “I’ll go, according to promise, and you must be sure and visit me in my Maryland home next year. Both the Gordons and Curtis will visit Egan at that time, and unless I am much mistaken, we can make things lively for them.”
“Nothing would suit me better,” returned Lester. “I hate all that crowd. Don and Bert went back on me as soon as they got me here, and I’ll never rest easy until I get a chance to square yards with them.”
(Lester learned this from Enoch. He remembered all the nautical expressions he heard, and used them as often as he could, and sometimes without the least regard for the fitness of things. He hoped in this way to make his companions believe that he was a sailor, and competent to command the yacht during their proposed cruise.)
The conversation just recorded will make it plain to the reader that Lester and some of his particular friends, following in the lead of Don and Bert Gordon and their friends, had made arrangements to spend a portion of their vacation in visiting one another. They carried out their plans, too, and perhaps we shall see what came of it.
When Mack and the rest found Hopkins and Egan, they went up to the latter’s room, where they thought they would be allowed to talk in peace; but some of the students saw them go in there, and in less time than it takes to write it, the little dormitory was packed until standing-room was at a premium. The boys were full of questions. What one did not think of another did, and it was a long time before Don could say a word about Hopkins’s experience, which Egan related substantially as follows:
To begin with, Hopkins did not leave the car because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t help himself. When the rioters voted to disarm the young soldiers, half a dozen pairs of ready hands were laid upon his musket, but Hopkins wouldn’t give it up. Threats, and the sight of the revolvers and knives that were brandished before his face, had no effect upon him; but he could not contend against such overwhelming odds, with the least hope of success. He was jerked out into the aisle in spite of all he could do to prevent it, and dragged toward the door. When the students turned their bayonets and the butts of their pieces against their assailants, the latter made a frantic rush for the door, and Hopkins was wedged in so tightly among them, that he could not get out. His gun was pulled from his grasp, and Hopkins, finding his hands at liberty, seized the arm of the nearest seat in the hope of holding himself there until the mob had passed out of the car; but the pressure from the forward end was too great for his strength. He lost his hold, was carried out of the door by the rush of the rioters, who, intent on saving themselves, took no notice of him, and crowded him off the platform.
“But before I went, I was an eye-witness to a little episode in which our friend Egan bore a part, and which he seems inclined to omit,” interrupted Hopkins.
“Now, Hop, I’ve got the floor,” exclaimed Egan, who was lying at his ease on his room-mate’s bed.
“I don’t care if you have. There’s no gag-law here.”
“Go on, Hop,” shouted the boys.
“It will take me but a moment,” said Hopkins, while Egan settled his uninjured hand under his head with a sigh of resignation. “When the mob went to work to disarm us, one big fellow stepped up to Egan and took hold of his gun. ‘Lave me this; I’m Oirish,’ said he. ‘I’m Irish too,’ said Egan. ‘Take that with me compliments and lave me the gun;’ and he hit the striker a blow in the face that lifted him from his feet and would have knocked him out of the front door, if there hadn’t been so many men and boys in the way. That fellow must have thought he had been kicked by a mule. At any rate he did not come back after the gun, and Egan was one of the few who got out of the car as fully armed as he was when he went in.”
Hopkins could be irresistibly comical when he tried, and his auditors shouted until the room rang again. They knew that his story was exaggerated, but it amused them all the same. Egan did say that he was Irish (Hopkins often told him that if he ever denied his nationality his name would betray him), and it was equally true that he floored the man who demanded his gun, and with him one or two of his own company boys who happened to be in the way; but he said nothing about “compliments” nor did he imitate the striker’s way of talking. Among those who felt some of the force of that blow, was Captain Mack.