INDIAN IN TROUBLE.
What manner of torture is squad drill has already been shown; and so the
reader should have some idea of what our five friends were going
through. Squad drill lasts for the first two weeks or so of plebe
life--that is, before the move into camp. The luckless victims begin
after breakfast, and at regular (and frequent) periods until night are
turned out under the charge of some irascible yearling to be taught all
manner of military maneuvers--setting up drill, how to stand, to face,
and, in fact, how to walk.
Most people, those who have not been to West Point, are under the
delusion that they know how to walk already. It usually takes the
luckless plebe a week to get that idea hammered out of his head, and
another week besides to learn the correct method. The young instructor,
presenting, by the way, a ludicrous contrast in his shining uniform of
gray and white and gold, with his three or four nervous and variously
costumed pupils, takes the bayonet of his gun for a drill stick and
marches "his" squad over into a secluded corner of the area and thus
begins the above-mentioned instructions:
"At the word forward, throw the weight of the body upon the right leg,
the left knee straight. At the word march, move the left leg smartly
without jerk, carry the left foot forward thirty inches from the right,
the sole near the ground, the toe a little depressed, knee straight and
slightly turned out. At the same time throw the weight of the body
forward (eyes to the front) and plant the foot without shock, weight of
the body resting upon it; next, in like manner, advance the right foot
and plant it as above. Continue to advance without crossing the legs or
striking one against the other, keeping the face direct to the front.
Now, forward, common time, march. Depress the toe so that it strikes the
ground at the same time as the heel (palms of the hands squarely to the
front. Head up)"--and so on.
That is the way the marching exercise goes, exclusive, of course, of all
interruptions, comments and witticisms on the instructor's part. The
plebe begins to get used to it after the first week or so, when the
stiffness rubs off, and then a certain amount of rivalry begins to
spring up among various squads, and everybody settles down to the
business of learning. The squads are consolidated later on, and
gradually the class is merged into one company. Such as they are, these
drills, together with inspections, meals and "rests" (with hazing),
occupy almost the entire time of the two weeks in barracks.
And now for our five "rebels."
That particular Monday morning the plebes had an hour's rest before
dinner, in which to do as they pleased (or as the yearlings pleased).
And during this hour it was that one of "the five," the always luckless
and unhappy one, got into trouble. The one was Indian, or the Mormon.
Indian, it seemed, was always thought of whenever there was any deviling
to be done. The other plebes did as they were told, and furnished
amusement on demand, but they always realized that it was all in fun.
Indian, however, was an innocent, gullible youth, who took everything
solemnly, and was in terror of his unhappy life every moment of the day.
And he was especially unfortunate this time because he fell into the
hands of "Bull" Harris and his gang.
It is not the intention of the writer to give the impression that all
cadets at West Point were or are like "Bull" Harris, or that hazing of
his peculiar variety is an everyday affair. But it would be hard to find
one hundred men without a cowardly, cruel nature among them. "Bull"
Harris and his crowd represented the lower element of the yearling
class, and made hazing their business and diversion. They were the
especial dread of the plebes in consequence. Bull had tried his tricks
upon Mark to his discomfort, and ever since that had left Mark strictly
alone, and confined his efforts to less vigorous victims, among which
were Dewey, and now Indian.
Indian had selected a rather grewsome occupation, anyhow, at the
particular moment when he was caught. It was just in keeping with the
peculiarly dejected frame of mind he was in (after squad drill). He was
wandering through the graveyard, which is situated in a lonely portion
of the post, way off in the northwestern corner. Some heroes, West
Point's bravest, lie buried there, and Indian was dejectedly wondering
if those same heroes would ever have stuck through plebe days in
barracks if they had had a drill master like that "red-headed coyote,"
Chick Spencer. He had about concluded they would not have, when he heard
some muffled laughter and the sound of running feet. A moment later the
terrified plebe found himself completely surrounded by a dozen merry
yearlings, out for a lark. Prominent among them were Bull and his
toadying little friend, Baby Edwards.
It is correct West Point etiquette for a plebe, when "captured" to go
meekly wherever desired. Indian went, and the party disappeared quickly
in the woods on one side, the captive being hidden completely in the
circle of cadets.
There was one person who had seen him, however, and that one person was
the Parson, who had been about to enter the gate to join his friend. And
the Parson, when he saw it, turned quickly on his heel and strode away
back to barracks as fast as his long legs could carry him without loss
of scholarly dignity.
"Yes, by Zeus," he muttered to himself. "Yea, by Zeus, the enemy is
fierce upon our trail. And swiftly, forsooth, will I hie me to my
companions and inform them of this insufferable indignity."
All unconscious of the learned gentleman's discovery, the yearlings
meanwhile were hurrying away into a secluded portion of the woods; for
they knew that their time was short, and that they would have to make
haste. The terrified victim was pushed over logs and through brambles
until he was almost exhausted, the captors meanwhile dropping dire hints
as to his fate.
"An Indian he is!" muttered Bull Harris. "An Indian!" (The plebe was as
red as one then.) "He shall die an Indian's death!"
"That's what he shall!" echoed the crowd. "An Indian! An Indian! We'll
burn him at the stake!"
"He, he! the only good Indian's a dead Indian, he, he!" chimed in Baby,
chuckling at his own witticism. "He, he!"
All this poor Joseph did not fail to notice, and as was his habit, he
believed every word of it. Nor did his mind regain any of its composure
as the procession continued its solemn marching through the lonely
woods, to the tune of the yearlings' cheerful remarks. The latter were
chuckling merrily to themselves, but when they were in hearing of their
victim their tone was deep and awful, and their looks dark and savage.
Poor Indian's fat, round eyes stared wider and rounder every minute; his
equally round, red face grew redder, and his gasping exclamations more
frequent and violent.
"Bless my soul!" he cried, "what extraordinary proceedings!"
"Ha! ha!" muttered the yearlings. "See, he trembles! Behold how the
victim pales!"
A short distance farther in the woods the party came upon a small
clearing.
"Just the spot!" cried Bull. "See the tree in the center. That is the
stake, and to that we will tie him, while the smoke ascends to the
clouds of heaven."
"Just the spot!" echoed Baby, chuckling gleefully.
"It is quiet," continued Bull, in a low, sepulchral tone. "Yes, and his
cries of agony will be heard by none. Advance, wretched victim, and
prepare to die the death which your savage ancestors did inflict upon
our fathers. Advance!"
"Advance!" growled the crowd.
"Bless my soul!" cried the Indian.
He was no more capable of advancing than he was of flying. His knees
were shaking in violent terror. Great beads of perspiration rolled from
the dimples in his fat little cheeks. Limp and helpless, he would have
sunk to the ground, but for the support of his captors.
"Advance!" cried Bull, again, stamping on the ground in mock impatience
and rage. "Bodyguard, bring forth the wretch!"
In response to this order several of the cadets dragged the unhappy
plebe to the tree and held him fast against it. Bull Harris produced
from under his coat a coil of rope, and Indian felt it being wrapped
about his body.
Up to this point he had been silent from sheer terror; but the feeling
of the rough rope served to bring before him with startling reality the
awfulness of the fate that was in store for him. He opened his mouth and
forthwith gave vent to a cry so weird and unearthly that the yearlings
burst out into a shout of laughter. It was no articulate cry, simply a
wild howl. It rang and echoed through the woods, like the hoot of an owl
at night, or the strange, half-human cry of a frightened dog. And it
died into a gasp that Bull Harris described as "the sigh of a homesick
bullfrog."
Indian's musical efforts continued as the horrible rope was wound about
his body. Each wail was louder and more unearthly, more mirth-provoking
to the unpitying cadets, until at last, when Bull Harris finished and
stepped back to survey his work, the frightened plebe could be likened
to nothing less than a steam calliope.
The yearlings were so much amused by his powers that they resolved
forthwith that the show must not stop. And so, without giving the
performer chance to breathe even, they set to work diligently collecting
sticks and leaves.
"Heap 'em up! Heap 'em up!" cried Bull. "Heap 'em up! And soon shall the
fire blaze merrily."
Naturally, since Indian's shrieks and howls continued unabated in
quantity or variety through all this, the yearlings were in no hurry to
finish, but took care to prolong the agony, sport as they called it, as
long as possible. So, while the red-faced, perspiring victim panted,
grunted, howled, and wriggled, they piled the wood about him with
exasperating slowness, rearranging, inspecting, and discussing the
probable effect of each and every stick of wood they laid on.
It was done, at last, however, and the result was a great pile of fagots
surrounding and half covering the unfortunate lad. They were fagots
selected as being the driest that could be found in the dry and
sun-parched clearing. There was a moment or two later on when Bull
wished they had not been quite so dry, after all.
The crowd stood and admired their work for a few moments longer, while
Indian's weird wails rose higher than ever. Then Bull stepped forward.
"Art thou prepared to die?" he inquired in his most sepulchral tone.
Indian responded with a crescendo in C minor.
"He answereth not!" muttered the other. "Let him scorn our questions who
dares. What, ho! Bring forth the torch! We shall roast him brown."
"And when he is brown," roared another, "then he will cease to be
Smith!"
"Yes," cried Bull, "for he will be dead. His bones shall bleach on the
plains. On his flesh we will make a meal!"
"An Indian meal!" added Baby, chuckling merrily over his own joke.
"Several meals," continued Bull, solemnly. "There is enough of him for a
whole _table d'hote_. How about that? Aren't you?"
"Wow! Wo-oo-oo-oooo!" wailed Indian.
"He mocks us!" cried the spokesman. "He scorns to answer. Very well! We
shall see. Is the torch lit?"
The torch, an ordinary sulphur match, was not lit. But Bull produced one
from the same place as the rope and held it poised. He waited a moment
while the yearlings discussed the next action.
"I say we let him loose," said one. "He's scared enough."
"Nonsense!" laughed Bull, "I'm not going to stop yet. I'm going to set
him afire."
"Set him afire!" echoed the crowd, in a whisper.
"'Sh! Yes," responded the other. "Not really, you know, but just enough
to scare him. We'll set fire to the wood and then when it's begun to
smoke some we'll put it out."
"That's risky," objected somebody. "I say we----"
"Nonsense!" interrupted the leader. "If you don't want to, run home. I
am."
And so once more he turned toward the wretched captive, who still kept
up his shrieks.
"Ha, ha!" he muttered, "thy time has come. Say thy last prayer."
With which words he stepped quickly forward, struck the match upon his
heel, and after holding it for a moment knelt down before the pile of
leaves and wood.
"Wow! Wow!" roared Indian. "Stop! Stop! Help! Wo-oo-oo!"
Another of those steam calliope wails.
"He shrieks for mercy!" muttered Bull. "He shrieks in vain. There!"
The last exclamation came as he touched the match to the leaves, stood
up and worked off to join his companions.
"Form a ring," he said, "and dance about him as he dies."
The terror of Indian can scarcely be imagined; he was almost on the
verge of fainting as the hot choking smoke curled up and around his
face. His yells grew louder and increased to a perfect shriek of agony.
"Don't you think we'd better stop it now?" inquired one of the
yearlings, more timid than the rest.
"Rats!" laughed Bull. "It's hardly started. I'll manage it."
Bull's "management" proved rather untrustworthy; for Bull had forgotten
to take into account the dryness of the twigs, and also another factor.
The air had been still as he struck the match, but just at that moment a
slight breeze swept along the ground, blowing the leaves before it. It
struck the little fire and it seized one tiny flame and bore it up
through the pile and about the legs of the imprisoned plebe.
The next instant the yearlings were thrown into the wildest imaginable
confusion by a cry from one of them.
"Look out! Look out! His trousers are afire!"