"Parade rest!" and then--
"Sound off!"
And with sweet, clear rendering, the band begins to play:
"In cottage or palace,
Wherever I roam,
Be it ever so humble,
There's no place like home.
Home! Home!
Sweet, sweet home!"--
O what does it mean, to those men who (except for the short furlough)
have been four years in exile! They give no sign; motionless as so many
statues; the black chin straps merging faces, and hiding what may be
there. The June air stirs the soft edges of the black plumes, floating
them off as one; the sunset glitters on buckle and bayonet; the great
garrison flag curls and uncurls its mighty folds. "It may be for years
and it may be for ever," before the men of that front rank will look
upon the scene again. They have hated it, sometimes, and longed to get
away, but now they know how well they love it. What things those old
hills and they have gone through together! from the forlorn pleb days
until now. And even with that thought, the band lapses softly into
another mood:
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?"
and every heart answers to the pleading of "Auld Lang Syne."
For these classmates, after to-morrow, will be scattered to the four
winds. Some, not to meet again till they are grey-haired men; never
_all_ to stand together, until the day when before the King "in his
glory," "shall be gathered all nations." Believers or unbelievers, they
think of it now. They may not speak nor touch each other, nor turn the
head, but they think.
It is as well, perhaps, that "The girl I left behind me" puts in her
word just here, and you have to laugh, partly because you were so near
crying. But Lang Syne and Sweet Home have the last saying, as the band
comes back to its place.
Parade goes on, and for once everybody is "present or accounted for."
The orders are published, the standing read (not always, in these
days), and then the graduating class come forward, and with dress hats
off and held at the correct angle, shake hands with the Commandant and
have a short address from him. And while the little company pass down
and stand in line before the trees (not that either, now), the old
Commandant turns hastily away from the show, and seeks his own front
door. It is a long ago "Lang Syne" that he remembers, and far better
than these youngsters, he knows what all this means.
But the music begins again, with another change. "I see them on their
winding way" fills all the air. The lines break up; and buckle and
bayonet, sash and plume, come gaily past the seats, and then as they
pass the waiting graduates, again the plumed hats come off, while
cheers ring out in eager greeting from their comrades marching by.
"I know I shall cry when it comes to that!" said a gay young first
classman to me. And I have no doubt he did. But there are no lookers-on
in front of them, and the old plain tells no tales.
The next ten or twelve waking hours are little but hurry and rush.
The big hop on hand for society men: with farewell visits, last ends
of packing, and countless bits of red tape to be tied in regulation
knots. Then last looks at the river, and hands laid lovingly and for
the last time upon some of the old grey rocks.
In front of the library a platform is raised, and draped with the
star-spangled banner, and a canvas canopy stretches across from tree
to tree. Strong ropes wall in the space below, where stand the chairs,
rank after rank, and as the morning hours run on, sentinels guard the
ropes against all intruders. The seats, of course, are, first of all,
for cadets and people of the Post, but just there does the dear general
public wish to sit, and for whom the chairs are placed affects them not
at all. So, for an hour or more, there is a sort of running fight--a
skirmish line--all round the lines of rope, and the sentries well nigh
meet their match. Demands, complaints, exclamations, are loud-voiced
and many, and neither orders nor fixed bayonets win much respect.
"Those are the orders, ma'am."
"I'm not responsible, ma'am."
"No, ma'am, no one allowed inside the ropes."
"Sit there? Those seats are reserved for the mothers, ma'am."
"But _we_ are the mothers," cried one good dame to the stony official.
And as the guard turned to ward off some new intruder, one could but
laugh at the adroitness with which she slipped in behind his back,
to be again ordered out. At last come dignitaries in such very full
feather that the crowd stands back and becomes a trifle more modest.
The hands on the clock move on, cadets who were wandering about
with mothers and friends leave them and go off to barracks. Men for
the platform come leisurely along, sure of a good place; the upper
ten for the seats below make more speed, seeking the best. Then the
superintendent, the adjutant, and all the glittering people in train
of the Board of Visitors, mount the platform, and make it a study
of sheen and colour. Drums sound in the distance, then nearer, and
the whole battalion comes marching down. They halt at the back of the
crowd, stack arms, and the graduating class file in and take their
seats.
There is a short prayer from the chaplain, "Hail, Columbia!" from
the band, and then the address--or, maybe two. From the president of
the board generally, followed often by words from some high ranking
officer, or some notability in civil life. Addresses sometimes wise,
sometimes more--otherwise--than one could wish; very seldom vivid
and instinct with fire. The country figures, of course, and "this
Institution," and the flag, with the service, in a mild sort of way.
All eyes are fixed upon this particular class, and the army welcomes it
with open arms. And the cadets have done well, and the professors have
done their best. On the whole, the sort of speeches to which you would
like to apply a match and bring them to either a blaze or to ashes. How
rarely--Oh, how rarely!--have these veterans in camp or council one
word of real cheer, wisdom, and fire, for these "youngsters," these
smooth-faced new recruits.
Perhaps it makes less difference than I think to the grave young men
waiting there, bare-headed and absorbed; they have been at such high
pressure, and have so much else to think of. They listen, and applaud,
from time to time, and generally in the right place. Once in a while
you may notice that just _there_ the Southern hands are silent.
More music follows, and then the adjutant with his stack of diplomas
comes to the front and stands behind the Superintendent, or whoever is
to give them out: in the old days, it was often General Sherman. One by
one he takes the parchment from the adjutant, and the names are called
off in order of standing.
"Harvey Linton!"
A tall, dark-haired young fellow rises from the grey mass, comes to
the foot of the platform, and with a low bow takes the credentials for
which he has toiled so bravely.
"I congratulate you, sir," says the donor; "not so much for being at
the head as for the hard work which has put you there,"--and Linton
bows again, and goes back to his seat.
"Yes, he has done very well--ve--ry well," so his father in the crowd
answers friendly words, trying hard to seem unconscious that his son
has carried off first honours.
"Anson Dent!" and this time it is a broad shouldered Wisconsiner,
followed by a Virginian, a fair haired Hoosier, and all the rest. But
you notice other differences among the men. For while some smile and
bow gratefully, others give the briefest sort of nod, and some none at
all. Some flush, and some grow pale, and some hands almost grab the
diploma as if a right had been long withheld. And one casts furtive
glances towards a certain bewitching bonnet in the crowd, as he goes
to his seat, and the next sends a deeper gaze across the gay lines,
seeking a face and dress the plainest there, but the best beloved in
all the world; while many see only the friends a thousand miles away.
One man unrolls his diploma and studies it with all his eyes, his
neighbour plays with his, as if it were the veriest trifle--a mere
bagatelle.
"Charlemagne Kindred!"
And I am bound to own that this man went forward in a dream. With one
swift glance at Mr. Wayne, he did catch the loving interest in that
face, but the rest of the people might as well have been a fog bank. He
was feeling so much that he seemed not to feel at all, until when they
broke up, and Twinkle pressed through the crowd, crying:
"Where is my mother! I want my mother!"
And then Magnus could have shaken him, for daring to put his own
heart-cry in words.
Indiscriminate cheering was not the fashion in those days. A specially
popular man, or one who had done his work against special odds, might
have some hearty plaudits. But generally the applause was kept for "the
last man," who by brilliant carelessness or industrious breaking of
regulations, footed "the immortals." Of course, they all cheered _him_.
Had he not kept someone else from being "last man?"--even now and then
(it is whispered) closing up the class end so that no one else _could_
fall through. But after all, _somebody_ must be last, so cheer him on.
He may outrank you yet, in life.
The scene changes. Everyone rises to the "Star-Spangled Banner," there
is the benediction, the cadets march away to the "Left Behind Girl"
once more; and then girls present, who will not accept the situation,
tear along to the front of barracks to hear the new orders.
The companies are drawn up in line, never again to stand together
there, and the adjutant publishes the orders for the last time.
It is a long reading. Lists of the men who graduate, of the men who
go on furlough, and of the new cadet officers; and again the friendly
chin-straps do the part of words, and "conceal thought." But if you are
near enough, and know the faces, you can see a gleam in the eyes of the
men who are to wear chevrons, or gloom on the faces of some who are
left in ranks, while the furlough men are almost dancing. But not even
a half-inch stir, anywhere.
When the reading is done, and they break ranks, then indeed frolic
breaks loose, and every sort of thing is on hand. Graduates rush
to their rooms, clasping a hand here and there as they go, to put
off the grey once more and forever. Furlough men also "scoot" away,
eager to come out in "cits" for the journey; while the others hug and
congratulate each other in a threefold tangle, sometimes; the new
officers hurry to put on their chevrons; and (lest the fun should be
one-sided) are now and then caught and borne away and put under the
hydrant by the zealous yearlings.
Meantime the sallyport fills up with girls, matrons, friends, old
graduates, and people in general. The gay overflow pours out into the
area of barracks, all waiting to see the young lieutenants and the
furlough men shine out in "cits." And they are about as different from
each other, when they come, as they were in the old candidate days. One
tall man in an extra tall hat, the next neat and harmonious down to
his small handbag, and this one just a trifle loud and mixed. Twos and
threes and one alone, hardly to be known at first, with their canes and
neckties. The furlough men shine all over with joy, the young graduates
have thoughts. So this face grows grave over a handshake, and this
other stalwart fellow breaks down in his words of farewell, and leaves
them unsaid.
Mr. Wayne stood there with the rest, watching for Magnus, and then
having a word with him from time to time, until that matter-of-fact
regulation drum beat the call for dinner, and the new cadet officers
marched the men away.
The air is still full of hurry, for most of those who are going want
to take the down boat, and there are a few last calls to pay, and some
unfinished business with the commissary or the "Com." But one way and
another the area is cleared, the men slip out of sight, and graduation
is over. Few words may tell the rest.
Mr. Erskine had passed away from this earthly life, during that very
week in June; and it was a very pale and grief-stricken girl, much
needing him, that Magnus took in his arms when he reached home. And
later on in the summer there was a quiet wedding, with just a few
classmates in full-dress uniform to light up the room, and Mr. Wayne to
join the two hands in a bond which should never be broken.
And their first post? What does that matter? However, it was one with
plenty to do, and some things to bear; a good place wherein to shine as
the Lord's true servants, and an excellent one from which to look up to
Him.
For the rest, it stood on high ground, with a fine outlook, and a fair
climate. It was called Fort Content.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Obvious typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected.
Blank pages have been removed.
There are inconsistencies in the display of attributions in the poetry
and quotes following chapter headings. These have been retained.
In the body of the text closing quotes have been omitted before
poetry, after a colon and in correspondence. The text reproduced here
is true to the original.