THE STUDENTS IN CAMP.
Time flew on, the school term drew to a close, and at last the “day of
all days”—the day to which all the students in the Bridgeport Military
Academy looked forward with the liveliest anticipations of
pleasure—arrived. Of late there had been a perceptible bustle among the
boys. Those of their number who had hitherto thought of nothing but
mischief, and whose highest ambition was to shirk their duty in every
way they could, began to show some interest in the daily school routine,
and tried by the hardest kind of study and strict attention to business,
to make up for the time they had lost. There was no idleness, and
consequently no rules were broken, and there was no extra duty to be
done. There was less time wasted in loitering about the grounds, the
hours of recreation being devoted to the discussion of various plans for
amusement, and to the overhauling of fly-books and trolling-lines. Their
studies were soon to be thrown aside for a whole month; their pleasant
dormitories were to be exchanged for shelter-tents; fly-rods, oars, and
geologists’ hammers were to take the place of the pens, pencils, and
mathematical instruments that had so long been their daily companions;
and their tiresome drills were to give way to moonlight boat-rides and
to—well, to some other sports that would not have been permitted while
the students were living at the academy, but which were winked at during
the time they were in camp. What these sports were shall be told
presently.
As the eventful day drew near, the excitement and impatience, and, we
may add, anxiety, of the students increased to such a degree that it was
all they could do to study. The reason for this state of affairs was
found in the fact that it had somehow leaked out—through what source no
one seemed able to tell—that an event of unusual interest was to take
place during this particular encampment; something that had never
occurred before, and might never occur again. Some of the first-class
boys who were in the secret, had said just enough to put their
companions on nettles, but not enough to give them even the faintest
idea of what they might expect.
“I know that boat-riding, and trolling for pickerel, and spearing eels
by torch-light, are fine sports,” Egan said to Don, one day, “and they
are exciting, too, when you have no better way of passing the time; but
you very soon forget all about the pleasure you have in that way, don’t
you? Well, there’s something going to happen very shortly that you’ll
not forget so easily, _I_ tell you. You will remember it as long as you
live.”
“Now, sergeant, what is it?” exclaimed Don, after Egan had talked to him
a few times in this way. “Can’t you give me a hint?”
“No. Couldn’t possibly think of it.”
“Well, then, if you were told to keep it to yourself, why don’t you do
it? What’s the use of aggravating a fellow in this way?”
“I assure you, my dear boy, that no aggravation is intended,” replied
Egan, in his blandest tones. “I only meant to prepare you for something
you never dreamed of. If your eyes don’t open and your hair stand on
end, I—whew! I can’t think of it without a little thrill of excitement.”
Meanwhile the question as to where and how the coming vacation should be
spent, had been repeatedly referred to and talked over by Don and his
three friends in the first class—Egan, Hopkins and Curtis. The latter
was anxious to go home and join his friends in the club-shoot that
always came off on Thanksgiving day; Hopkins wanted Don to see him add
another “brush” to the numerous trophies of the chase that adorned the
walls of his room; and Don held out strongly in favor of his own
shooting-grounds about Diamond Lake. The matter was finally settled by
the assistance of General Gordon, who sent each of the boys a cordial
invitation to spend at least a small portion of their next vacation at
Don’s shooting-box, and made sure of its acceptance by communicating
with the fathers of these students, all of whom he had known in the days
of his boyhood. This point having been decided to his entire
satisfaction, Don could have settled down to good hard work, had it not
been for the fact that he was continually looking forward to that
“unusual and interesting event” that was to transpire when the boys went
into camp. His curiosity had been aroused to the highest pitch, and he
could scarcely think about anything else.
The sun rose clear and cloudless on the morning of the first day of
August, and before the echoes awakened by the roar of the field-piece
had fairly died away, the boys were crowding into the drill-room.
Breakfast was served immediately after roll-call, and two hours later
three hundred students, led by the band and marching with the precision
of veteran soldiers, moved through the wide gateway, and down the
principal street of the village toward their camping-ground. Everybody
turned out to see them. Flags and handkerchiefs were waved all along
their line of march, flowers were showered into their ranks, and when,
in obedience to the command: “Platoons, right front into line, double
time, march!” they broke from column of fours into column of platoons,
the cheers that greeted their prompt and soldier-like execution of the
manœuvre, which is always an awkward one unless it is well done, were
always deafening.
The camp was always pitched upon a little rise of ground about three
miles from the village. In front of it was the river, on its left arose
a range of hills which were almost high enough to be called mountains,
and among these hills were located the streams and ponds in which the
speckled trout, pickerel, sunfish and bass abounded. Here too, were
found the thieving raccoons that ravaged the farmers’ corn-fields, the
hawks that caught their chickens, and the black and gray squirrels which
afforded the boys many an exciting hunt and excellent dinner. Between
these hills and the camp ran a wide and deep creek, whose rapid current
often baffled the skill of the young engineers who tried to throw a
pontoon-bridge across it.
On reaching the camping ground the arms were stacked, and the tents,
which had already arrived, were distributed among the different
companies and pitched at the tap of the drum. Then working-parties were
detailed to grade and ditch the streets, provide fire-wood for the
kitchens and to perform various other duties, and when they were
relieved at four o’clock in the afternoon, the little camp presented a
scene of neatness and order with which the most exacting officer could
not have found a word of fault.
There were several orders read that night on dress-parade, and among
them was one that expressly prohibited “foraging.” Don could not see the
necessity for such an order, so he waited for an opportunity to speak to
Egan about it.
“It means,” said the latter, in response to Don’s inquiries, “that we
mustn’t steal anything from the farmers hereabouts.”
“So I supposed. But who is there among us who would be mean enough to do
such a thing?”
“I don’t know about it’s being mean,” replied the sergeant, in a tone of
voice that made Don open his eyes. “We want something good to eat, don’t
we?”
“Of course we do; but why can’t we buy what we want? We’ve all got a
little pocket-money.”
“That’s very likely; but it is cheaper to forage.”
“But suppose you are caught at it?”
“That’s your lookout. You must be sharp enough to get away with your
plunder after you have secured it.”
“I’ll not try it,” said Don, decidedly. “I’ve had trouble enough this
term, and I am not going to have any more black marks placed against my
name if I can help it. Besides, I don’t see what there is to steal.”
“O, there are lots of things. The farmers hardly ever lock their
spring-houses, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to slip into one
of them and take a good swig out of a pan of milk that has cream on it
an inch thick. Ah!” said the sergeant, smacking his lips. “That’s the
way Hop got himself into a snarl last camp.”
“Not Court Hopkins!” exclaimed Don.
“Yes, Courtland Hopkins. He and a party of fellows went down to Hudson’s
one day after some eggs and butter—by the way, that same farmer Hudson
always has a splendid melon patch, and the melons will begin to ripen
pretty soon—and while some of the boys were occupying the attention of
the farmer’s wife, Hop slipped around to the spring-house, and there he
found a five-gallon jar full of fresh buttermilk. That was too much for
Hop, who can make way with more buttermilk than any boy _I_ ever saw. He
grabbed the jar and made off with it; but just as he was leaving the
spring-house, Hudson, who was at work in a field close by, caught sight
of him and started in pursuit. Hop heard him coming, and knowing that he
could not escape with his burden, he put it down, never spilling a drop
of the milk, and took to his heels. Fat as he is, he led Hudson a good
long chase, but he was collared at last and taken to camp.”
Don was utterly amazed. Here was Hopkins, who was looked upon by all his
companions as a model of perfection, and yet he had been caught in the
act of stealing; and here was Egan, another good scholar and a
non-commissioned officer besides, who told the story of his friend’s
guilt as though it were something well worth relating. Don could not
understand it.
“What did they do with him?” he asked, as soon as he had somewhat
recovered from his surprise.
“Well, the superintendent thought that _that_ was carrying matters a
little too far, and so he refused Hop a pass for a week,” was the
sergeant’s reply. “But he didn’t gain any black marks by it.”
“How was that?” inquired Don.
“Why, you see, your record for the term is all made up, and the hooks
are closed; and any mischief you may do here in camp will not count
against you in the examination. We come out here to have fun, and the
teachers are willing we should have it, so long as we keep within
bounds. The farmers around here make lots of money out of us every year,
and if we want to go into their orchards and melon-patches and help
ourselves to what we find there, we are welcome to do it, if we go about
it openly and above board; but if we try to forage on them, they enter
into the spirit of the matter as fully as we do, and make every effort
to capture us. If they succeed, they march us to camp, and all the boys
laugh at us, and we have to fork over money enough to pay for the
articles we took, whatever they are. But after all one don’t lose
anything by it, for very likely that same farmer will meet you the next
day and give you a peck of peaches, or an armful of green-corn or a
water-melon as big as you can carry.”
Don began to understand the matter now, and to see why it was that the
students looked forward to their month in camp with so much eagerness
and impatience. Here were opportunities for him to work off a little of
his superabundant energy without violating any rules or doing harm to
anybody, and those who are acquainted with him will know that he was not
long in making up his mind to improve them.
“But there is one thing we have to keep constantly before us,” continued
the sergeant, who did not fail to notice and to rightly interpret the
look he saw in Don’s eye. “The teachers do not object to innocent fun,
but anything that savors of meanness won’t go down. If a boy oversteps
the mark, he goes back to the academy and stays there under guard.
Duncan went back last camp for trying to rob a hen-roost. The farmer who
owned the fowls laughed and said it was all right, but the teachers
didn’t think so. I never foraged so much as an ear of corn; but I am a
number one deserter.”
“Deserter!” echoed Don, growing more and more interested.
“Yes. You see, we want to do things here just as they are done in a
regular camp, and there is much more fun in working up a case against a
real culprit, who will try by every means in his power to hide his
guilt, than there is in trumping up a charge against some innocent boy.
I have deserted every time I have been in camp.”
“What did they do with you?”
“Nothing, for I got back before I was caught. If I had been captured by
any of the scouting parties that were sent out in pursuit of me, I
should have been court-martialed, and ordered to the guard-tent to await
sentence. That’s the way they did with Hop, who was sentenced to be
shot. But then he deserted when the camp was supposed to be surrounded
by the enemy. Hop always was unlucky. He can’t do any mischief without
being caught at it.”
“How did they carry out the sentence?” asked Don.
“They didn’t carry it out. They simply put him in the guard-tent, and
about midnight the officer of the day came along and let him out; and
that was the last of it. When the members of the Grand Army of the
Republic hold their encampments, and capture a deserter or a spy, they
go through all the forms—seating the prisoner blindfolded on a coffin
and shooting at him with blank cartridges. But we don’t believe in that.
It is almost too much like the reality. By the way, Gordon, that great
European seven-elephant railroad show is advertised to pitch its tent in
Bridgeport very shortly, and I should really like to see the man who
turns a double somerset over three elephants and four camels; wouldn’t
you?”
“Of course I would, and I’ll go if you will. Shall we ask for a pass?”
“Certainly not, because we don’t intend to come back until we get ready.
The boys all want to get out of the lines for exercise, and nothing
would suit them better than tramping about the country in search of us.”
Just then the officer of the day appeared at the door of his tent and
beckoned to the sergeant, who hurried away, leaving Don to himself. The
latter wished most heartily that that great European seven-elephant
railroad show had been billed to appear at Bridgeport that very night,
for he was in just the right humor for an adventure. Like Egan, he had
no taste for foraging. It is true that he had joined in raids upon
melon-patches when they were closely guarded, and when he knew that
speedy punishment would be visited upon him if he were discovered and
captured, and he might, without a great deal of urging, have been
induced to do the same thing over again, if there were any risk to be
run; but the thought of plundering a good-natured farmer who would
freely have given him all the melons he wanted, was not to be
entertained for a moment. Desertion, as proposed by Egan, was, according
to Don’s way of thinking, a more high-toned proceeding. Creeping
unobserved past the sentries; visiting an entertainment that would
doubtless be witnessed by a majority of the teachers, and fifty or
perhaps a hundred of their school-fellows, all of whom would be glad to
report them “just for the fun of the thing;” roaming about the country
wherever their fancy led them; dodging the scouting parties that were
sent in pursuit, and at last, when weary of their freedom, making their
way back to camp and into their tents without being caught—there was
something interesting and exciting in all this, and the longer Don
thought of it the more he wished that the show would hasten its coming.
During the first two weeks the students were kept at work at something
nearly all the time, and there were but few passes granted. Don and Egan
were among those who were lucky enough to get out of the lines for an
afternoon, and before they came back they had made arrangements for
procuring citizen’s clothes in which to visit the show when it arrived.
After that Don became more impatient and uneasy than ever, and proposed
to his friend Egan that they should desert at once, and stay out until
the show left town.
“Oh, that would never do,” was the sergeant’s reply. “We want to absent
ourselves only on our ‘off’ days—that is, on days when there is no work
to be done in surveying, or in artillery and rifle-practice. You know I
am to complete the course this year, and as I want to pass a good
examination, I must be on hand to receive all the practical instruction
I can. I wouldn’t like to miss that.”
“But we don’t seem to have any ‘off’ days,” answered Don. “We are kept
busy all the time. What’s the use of surrounding the camp with these
rifle-pits?”
“There are two reasons for it. In the first place, the enemy may be
hovering around watching for a chance to make an attack upon us.”
Don laughed outright.
“And in the next place, you want to learn just how to go to work to
fortify a camp in case you should ever have command of one.”
“Which is not at all likely,” interrupted Don. “Why can’t the engineers
stake out the works so that we could see the shape of them, and stop at
that? I didn’t come here to handle picks and shovels for so many hours
every day, and I don’t see any sense in it.”
Almost the first thing the superintendent did after the students were
fairly settled in their new quarters, was to put the engineers at work
laying out a very elaborate system of fortifications with which the
entire camp was surrounded. The boys would have made no complaint if he
had been satisfied with that; but he wasn’t. When the fortifications had
been laid out, he detailed working-parties to build them, just as he
would have done if the camp had been located in an enemy’s country. Such
a thing had never been done before, and Don Gordon was not the only one
who could not see any sense in it. At first the boys laughed at their
sergeants and corporals, who urged them to greater exertions with their
picks and shovels, assuring them at the same time that an attack might
be expected at any moment, and finally they began to get angry with
them; but the attack was made all the same.
But these days of toil were ended at last, and when the old soldiers who
lived in Bridgeport came out and inspected the works, and declared with
one voice that, in everything except extent, they were equal to any with
which the Confederates had surrounded Vicksburg and Richmond, the boys
felt that they were in some measure repaid for their labor. They made
the most of the days of recreation that followed. Passes were freely
granted, and every boy who went outside the lines made it a point to
bring back something for his mess-table.
One day, while Don was lounging in his tent, Egan appeared at the door
and beckoned him to come out. In one hand he carried a huge yellow
poster, which he passed over to Don, with the request that the latter
would read it at his leisure, and at the same time he held up the
forefinger of the other hand as if he were listening to something. Don
listened also, and presently the breeze bore to his ear the enlivening
strains of martial music.
“They’ve come,” said Egan, “and they are now making their street parade.
Are you ready?”
“I am,” answered Don.
“Well, say one o’clock, then. I shall be busy with my reports until——”
“Why, man alive,” interrupted Don, “are we going to run the guard in
broad daylight?”
“How in the world are we going to help it?” demanded Egan, in reply.
“We ought to have gone out last night when we would have had the
darkness to aid us,” said Don, who began to think that his chances for
seeing that wonderful leaper were very slim indeed.
“I couldn’t have gone last night, for I was busy; and, as I told you, I
don’t want to be out of camp when my class is under instruction. I shall
be busy until about one o’clock; but after my work is done, I am going
to that show. Are you going with me?”
Don answered, very decidedly, that he was.
“I don’t deny that we shall have a tight squeak for it,” continued the
sergeant, pulling off his cap and scratching his head in deep
perplexity. “You see, there used to be a little ridge out there in the
upper end of the camp, that ran close by the side of post No. 2. It was
thickly lined with bushes, under cover of which a fellow who was at all
cautious in his movements, could creep by the sentry very easily; but
when these earth-works were built that ridge was cut away, and I haven’t
yet been able to decide how we are going to get out, although I have
reconnoitered every part of the camp more than a dozen times.”
“Look here,” said Don. “Perhaps one of the sentries could be prevailed
upon to keep his back turned when——”
“No, he couldn’t,” interrupted Egan, who knew very well what Don was
about to say. “There isn’t a boy in camp who wouldn’t report his best
friend, if he had the chance, just for the sake of getting a joke on
him.”
Just then Hopkins and Curtis came hurrying by. Their faces wore a
pleased expression, and each held in his hand a piece of paper which he
flourished exultantly over his head.
“We’re going to see the elephants, and the lions, and tigers, and all
the other things,” said Curtis. “I say, boys, if you want passes you’d
better not be standing here. The fellows are packed around the
superintendent’s marquée as closely as sardines in a box.”
Don and Egan replied that they had concluded not to ask for passes on
that particular day, and Hopkins and his friend hurried on to their
tents to exchange their fatigue suits for their dress uniforms.
“I haven’t yet been able to decide how we are going to get out,”
repeated the sergeant, when he and Don were left alone, “but don’t you
worry about that. I’ll hit upon something before the time for action
arrives.”
“All right,” replied Don. “I’ll be ready when you want me.”
Egan turned toward his tent, and Don went back into his. He spent the
time until dinner in reading the poster the sergeant had given him,
hundreds of which had that morning been distributed about the camp by
village boys who were hired for that purpose, and then he made his
toilet and waited for the hands on his watch to travel around to one
o’clock. They had scarcely got there before Sergeant Egan put in an
appearance, carrying in his hand a small tin pail. He seemed somewhat
disconcerted when he looked into Don’s tent, for it was full of boys.
“Come in, sergeant,” said Bert, pleasantly.
“Where are you going?” inquired Don. “To the spring after some fresh
water, I suppose. Hold on till I get a bucket, and I will go with you.”
“So will I,” said Bert.
That wouldn’t do at all. The sergeant looked perplexed, but Don was
equal to the emergency.
“Bert,” said he, “you stay here till I come back, and I will have
something to tell you.”
The confiding Bert was good-natured enough to submit without any
argument, and Don, having secured a bucket, walked off with the
sergeant. To his great surprise Egan led the way directly to the
principal gate, and the sentry who was on duty there allowed them to
pass without a word of protest. He had no business to do it, and if they
had exhibited the least timidity, or been at all uncertain in their
movements, they would have been halted on the instant; but, as it was,
their audacity carried them safely through. If Don had been alone he
would have been stopped beyond a doubt; but the fact that he was in the
company of a non-commissioned officer, who, however, had no more right
to go outside the lines than a private had, disarmed the sentry of all
suspicion.
[Illustration: RUNNING THE GUARD.]
The two deserters, astonished and delighted at the ease with which their
escape had been effected, but showing no outward signs of exultation,
walked slowly toward the spring, which bubbled up among the rocks about
fifty yards from the gate, their every movement being closely watched by
the sentry, who began to wonder if he had done just right in permitting
them to pass. They made a great show of washing out their pails,
stopping now and then to point out to each other objects of interest on
the opposite side of the creek, all of which they had seen a hundred
times before; and at last, pretending to discover something at a little
distance that they considered to be worthy of close examination, they
set down their buckets and moved down the bank of the stream. That
movement aroused the sentry, who now began to see through the little
game that had been so neatly played upon him.
“Halt!” he shouted, bringing his musket to “arms port.”
“Now for it, Gordon,” said Egan, in an excited whisper. “Leg bail is all
that will save us.”
Suiting the action to the word, the sergeant pulled his fatigue cap down
over his ears and darted through the bushes like a frightened hare, Don
following close at his heels.