PREPARATIONS FOR THE BATTLE.
It does not take long for news of so exciting a matter as a really
important fight to spread among the corps. No sooner did the Parson
leave camp than cadets began to stroll in to find out why he had come,
and, learning, they hurried off to discuss the news with their own
tentmates. So it happened that by the time the cadets marched down to
mess hall to supper every man in the battalion knew that Mark Mallory,
the B. J. beast, had succeeded in getting another chance at "Billy"
Williams. The plebes knew of it, too. When their rather ragged and
scattered company fell in behind the corps at barracks, they were all
talking about it, at least when the file closers weren't near. At supper
nobody talked of anything else, and everybody in the room was eying Mark
and his stalwart opponent and speculating as to what the chances would
be.
"Billy'll do him!" vowed the yearlings. "There's nobody in the class
that stands more chance."
And the plebes feared it would be that way, too, and yet there were a
few at the tables discussing the matter in whispers, venturesome enough
to say that perhaps maybe their classmate might win and to wonder what
on earth would happen to him if he did.
"It'll mean a revelation if he does!" they cried. "Perhaps it'll even
stop hazing."
The mood of the irate little corporal, who had vowed not an hour before
that Mallory should not have another chance, may well be imagined.
"I tell you, 'tis a shame!" he vowed to Williams. "A shame! I don't see
why in thunder you didn't hold out."
"It's not my fault, Jasper," responded the other, smiling good
naturedly. "If you'll think a while, you'll see he was in a position to
force a fight at any time he chose. If I refused to 'allow him to
threaten to hit me,' as he put it, he could have threatened anyway, and
then if that didn't do any good, he'd have actually to hit me, and there
you would have been. It's a great deal better this way."
"Yes!" growled Jasper. "That sounds all very well. But look where it
puts me, by George! You'll have to get somebody else to arrange it. I
won't. I went as a committee and told him he'd not get another chance,
and I tell you now I'll not go take it back for anybody, and with that
B. J. plebe especially."
"Perhaps he won't be so very B. J. after the fight," responded the
other, smiling. "I don't know, of course, but I shall do my best."
"If you don't," said the other, looking serious, "by jingo! we'll be in
a thundering fix. There's nobody in the class can beat you, and that
plebe'll have a walkover."
This last sentiment of Jasper's was the sentiment of the whole yearling
class, and the class was in a state of uncertainty in consequence. Texas
was known to have whipped four cadets in one morning, and all of them
good men, too; then there was a rumor out that Mark and Texas had had a
quarrel and that the latter had gone to the hospital some five minutes
later. The two facts put together were enough to make the most confident
do some thinking.
It is difficult for one who has never been to West Point to appreciate
what this state of affairs meant--because it is hard for him to
appreciate the relation which exists between the plebe and the rest of
the corps. From the moment of the former's arrival as an alarmed and
trembling candidate, it is the especial business of every cadet to
teach him that he is the most utterly, entirely and absolutely
insignificant individual upon the face of the universe. He is shouted at
and ordered, bullied, badgered, tormented, pulled and hauled, drilled
and laughed at until he is reduced to the state of mind of a rabbit. If
he is "B. J." about it, he is bullied the more; if he shows fight, he
has all he wants, and is made meeker still. The result of it all is that
he learns to do just as anybody else commands him, and
Never dares to sneeze unless
He's asked you if he might.
All of which is fun for the yearling.
Now, here was Mark Mallory--to say nothing of Texas--who had come up to
the Point with an absurd notion of his own dignity, who had outwitted
the yearlings at every turn, been sent to Coventry--and didn't care a
hang, and now was on the point of trying to "lick" the finest all-around
athlete in the whole third class. It was enough to make the corps
tremble--the yearlings, at any rate. The first class usually feels too
dignified to meddle with such things.
Billy Williams' ambassador put in an appearance on the following Sunday
morning, and, to Mark's disgust, he proved to be none other than his
old enemy, Bull Harris--sent, by the way, not because Williams so chose,
but because Bull himself had asked to be sent.
"Mr. Williams," said he, "says he'll give you another chance to run
away."
Mark bowed politely, determined that Harris should get as little chance
for insult as possible.
"He'll fight you to-morrow--Fort Clinton, at four, and if you don't
come, by thunder! he'll find out why."
Mark's face grew white, but he only bowed again, and swallowed it. And
just then came an unexpected interruption.
"Mr. Mallory, as the challenged party, has the right to name the time."
The voice was loud and clear, and seemed to have authority; Harris
turned and confronted Cadet First Captain Fischer, in all his glory of
chevrons and sword. Now, the first captain is lord of West Point--and
Harris didn't dare to say a word, though he was boiling within.
"And, moreover," continued the imposing young officer, angrily, "you
should remember that you came, Mr. Harris, as a gentleman and not as a
combatant. Mr. Mallory, what is your wish?"
"The time suits me," said Mark, quietly. "Good-day, Mr. Harris."
And Harris left in a very unpleasant mood indeed; he had meant to have
no end of amusement at the expense of Mark's feelings.
"You've a hard row to hoe," said the cadet officer to Mark, "and a hard
man to beat. And you were foolish to get into it, but, all the same,
I'll see that you have fair play."
"And that," exclaimed Texas to Mark, as he watched the tall, erect
figure of the cadet vanish through the sally port. "That is the first
decent word I've heard from a cadet since I've been here. Bully for
Fischer!"
"It's probable," said Mark, "that he knows Harris as well as we. And
now, old fellow," he added, "we've got nothing to do but pass time, and
wait--and wait for to-morrow morning!"
Mark slept soundly that night in spite of the excitement. It was Texas
who was restless, for Texas had promised to act as alarm clock, and,
realizing that not to be on time again would be a calamity indeed, he
was up half a dozen times to gaze out of the window toward the eastern
sky, watching for the first signs of morning.
While it was yet so dark that he could scarcely see the clock, he routed
Mark out of bed.
"Git up thar," he whispered, "git up an' git ready."
Mark "got," and the two dressed hurriedly and crept down the stairs,
past the sentry--the sentry was a cadet, and kindly "looked the other
way"--and then went out through the sally port to the parade ground. The
plain was shrouded in mist and darkness, and the stars still shone,
though there was a faint light in the east. The two stole past the
camp--where also the sentries were blind--scaled the ramparts, and stood
in the center of "old Fort Clinton."
The spot was deserted and silent, but scarcely had the two been there a
moment before a head peered over the wall nearest to the camp.
"They're here," whispered a cadet, and sprang over. A dozen others
followed him, and in a very few minutes more there were at least thirty
of them, excited and eager, waiting for "Billy" to put in an appearance.
It was not long before Billy came, and behind him his faithful chum,
Jasper, with a bucket of water, and sponges and towels enough for a
dozen. About the same time Stanard's long shanks appeared over the
breastworks, and Indian tumbled over a moment later. Things were about
ready then.
"Let's lose no time," said Jasper, always impatient. "Captain Fischer
will act as referee and timekeeper, if it's agreeable."
No one could have suited Mark more, and he said so. Likewise, he stated,
through his second, Mr. Powers, that he preferred to fight by rounds,
which evidently pleased Mr. Williams. Mr. Williams was by this time
stripped to the waist, his suspenders tied about him. And it was
evidently as Fischer had said. There was no finer man in his class, and
he was trained to perfection. His skin was white and glistening, his
shoulders broad and massive, and the muscles on his arms stood out with
every motion. His legs were probably as muscular, too, thought Mark, for
Williams held the record for the mile. The yearlings' hearts beat higher
as they gazed at their champion's determined face.
Mark was a little slower in stepping up; when he did so the watching
crowd sized him up carefully, and then there was doubt.
"Oh, gee, but this is going to be a fight!" was the verdict of every one
of them.
"Marquis of Queensberry rules," said Fischer, in a low tone. "Both know
them?"
Mark nodded.
"Shake hands!"
Mark put out his, by way of answer, and Williams gripped it right
heartily.
"Ready?"
And then the simple word "Go."
Let us gaze about a moment at the scene. The ring is surrounded by
earthworks, now grass-grown and trodden down, unkept since the
Revolutionary days, when West Point was a Gibraltar. Old cannon,
caissons and wagon wheels are scattered about inside, together with
ramparts and wire chevaux-de-friezes which the cadets are practiced in
constructing. In the southwest corner is a small, clear, smooth-trodden
space, where the two brawny, white-skinned warriors stand. The cadets
are forming a ring about them, for every one is too excited to sit down
and keep quiet. The "outlooks," posted for safety, are neglecting their
duty recklessly for the same reason, and looking in altogether. Every
eye is on the two.
Over in Mark's corner sits Texas, gripping his hands in excitement,
wriggling nervously and muttering to himself. Stanard is beside him with
"Dana's Geology" as a cushion. The Parson is a picture of calm and
scholarly dignity, in direct contrast with our friend Texas, who is on
the verge of one of his wild "fits." "Indian" is the fourth and only
other plebe present, and Indian is horrified, as usual, and mutters
"Bless my soul" at intervals.
On the opposite side of the circle of cadets are Jasper and another
second, both breathlessly watching every move. Nearby stands Cadet
Captain Fischer, calm and cool, critically watching the play.