Take up your bandoliers.
Put on your bandoliers.
Take up your match.
Take up your rest.
Put the string of your rest about
your left wrist.
Take up your musket.
Rest your musket.
Poise your musket.
Shoulder your musket.
Unshoulder your musket and poise.
Join your rest to the outside of your musket.
Open your pan.
Clear your pan.
Prime your pan.
Shut your pan.
Cast off your loose corns.
Blow off your loose corns, and bring
about your musket to the left side.
Trail your rest.
Balance your musket in your left hand.
Find out your charge.
Open your charge.
Charge with powder.
Draw forth your scouring-stick.
Turn and shorten him to an inch.
Charge with bullet.
Put your scouring-stick into your musket.
Ram home your charge.
Withdraw your scouring-stick.
Turn and shorten him to a handful.
Return your scouring-stick.
Bring forward your musket and rest.
Poise your musket and recover your rest.
Join your rest to the outside of your musket.
Draw forth your match.
Blow your coal.
Cock your match.
Guard your pan.
Blow the ashes from your coal.
Open your pan.
Present upon your rest.
Give fire breast-high.
Dismount your musket, joining the rest to the outside of your musket.
Uncock and return your match.
Clear your pan.
Poise your musket.
Rest your musket.
Take your musket off the rest and set
the butt end to the ground.
Lay down your musket.
Lay down your match.
Take your rest into your right hand,
clearing the string from your left wrist.
Lay down your rest.
Take off your bandoliers.
Lay down your bandoliers.
Here endeth the postures of the musket.
The "Postures of the Pike" gave these orders: "Handle, raise, charge,
order, advance, shoulder, port, comport, check, trail, and lay
down,"--the words "your pikes" being given with every order.
Elton's "Instructions to a Company of Horsemen" were as follows:
Horse,--_i.e._, mount your horse.
Uncap your pistol-case.
Draw your pistol.
Order your pistol.
Span your pistol.
Prime your pistol.
Shut your pan.
Cast your pistol.
Gage your flasque.
Lode your pistol.
Draw your rammer.
Lode with bullet and ram home.
Return your rammer.
Pull down the cock.
Recover your pistol.
Present and give fire.
Return your pistol.
Our fathers might have gone on in this lumbering way for many years if
they had seen nothing worth imitating in the red men. The Indians of
King Philip's War brought out their "snap-hances," or flint-locks, and
the colonists were not slow to see the improvement. Experimentally at
first, and afterward by a law of Massachusetts, the old pikes and heavy
match-lock rifles were replaced with lighter muskets bearing the flint.
The soldier ceased to be a slave to his weapon. Tactics were
revolutionized; and the newly-developed military spirit was met by "The
Complete Soldier," compiled from Elton, Bariff, and other authorities,
and published by Nicholas Boone, of Boston, in 1701. This, the first
military book in the British colonies, directed the soldiers to appear
"with their hair, or periwigs, tied up in bags, and their hats briskly
cocked." We hear also for the first time of the "powder-horn" and the
"cartouch-box." The "bagnets" that are mentioned were of little use
against the Indians, and they were scarcely known in America until the
wars with France. But with the appearance of the bayonet came also the
revival of the fife, which had been discarded in England in the time of
Shakespeare. The military experiences gained in the French wars were of
immense benefit when the Continentals and the volunteers formed
themselves in line for the American Revolution. And yet the _esprit de
corps_ was contemptible; for every movement contemplated and every order
given by a superior officer had to be discussed, approved, or
disapproved by the inferior officers and by the humblest privates. It
was years before the army ceased to be a great debating-society with a
sharp rivalry as to which regiment should have the handsomest silk
banner. But Steuben--the great drill-master--brought order out of the
turmoil with his "Regulations for the Discipline of the Troops of the
United States," although the evolutions in the field did not go much
beyond the old-time marching that clings to the Hartford Phalanx of
to-day. An Englishman who lived in Massachusetts during the Revolution
had this to say: "The females are fond of dress and love to rule. The
men are fond of the military art. But in Connecticut the men are less
so, while the women stay at home and spin."
The Revolution being over, the several States of the new republic
enacted military laws of their own. In New York every able-bodied male
between eighteen and forty-five was required to meet with his company
four times in each year "for training and discipline,"--once by brigade,
once by regiment, and twice by company,--for such length of time as the
governor might direct. Similar laws were in force in the New-England
States, and upon them was based the United States law of 1792 which
sought to establish a uniform militia throughout the country. The
attempt was a failure, because the President is commander-in-chief of
the militia only when it is in the actual service of the United States.
The several States, therefore, kept up their ununiformed militia until
it became a laughing-stock,--an army with broom-sticks, to evade serving
in which but fifty cents a year was required,--and then the present
uniformed militia arose from the ruins. Our present inquiry concerns the
militia of New England during the fifty years from 1790 to 1840. In
those days the "military duty" consisted of two "company trainings" of
half a day each in May and October, and one "general training" or
"regimental muster" of one day in October. While no uniforms were
required at the trainings, except to distinguish the officers, yet there
were usually enough public-spirited people in every town to furnish
uniforms to the crack company. The other company, the tatterdemalions of
the town, was called "the flood-wood." The regiment consisted of one
company each of artillery, grenadiers, light infantry, and riflemen from
adjoining towns,--the cavalry being recruited wherever a farm-house
could be found which was able to stand the shock of war. Then came the
flood-wood companies, outnumbering the uniformed companies almost two to
one.
The cavalry--it was before the days of Hackett and Poinsett and
McClellan saddles and Solingen sabres--appeared to treasure up the
memory of "Light-Horse Harry Lee" and Major Winston of the Legionary
Cavalry that helped Mad Anthony Wayne against the Indians of the West.
They had not heard of the valor of the elder Hampton or the daring rides
of Major Davies, of Kentucky. "Tone's Tactics" was unknown to them. And
yet they were admired in their black suits faced and corded with red
(the militia repudiated the colors of the regular army), and they were a
terror with their cutlasses and holsters for the brace of huge
horse-pistols that they were required to carry. The uniform of the
artillery and grenadiers differed little from that of the cavalry. The
latter were topped off with helmets of red leather. Upon the hats of the
flood-wood, tin or sheet-iron plates showed the name of the
company,--the L. I. standing for "Light Infantry,"--just as you know the
porter of your hotel by his badge. The riflemen wore gray spencers and
gray pantaloons. Their hats were stiff black beavers, for the comfort of
a soft felt hat had not yet been discovered. Most gorgeous of all were
the men of the infantry, in their white pantaloons and blue coats, the
latter covered by cross-belts of white, to which priming-wires, brushes,
and extra flints were chained. A cap of black leather, sprung outward at
the top, carried a black feather tipped with red. The musicians, when
there were any, followed the uniform of the company which they attended,
with some slight differences, like turned-over plates and tasselled
ends, to show that they were non-combatants. Altogether, as one looked
at the "fuss and feathers," the broad lapels, and the bob-tailed coats,
he might well recall Thoreau's description of the manner in which the
salt cod are spread out on the fish-flakes to dry: "They were everywhere
lying on their backs, their collar-bones standing out like the lapels of
a man-o'-war-man's jacket.... If you should wrap a large salt fish
around a small boy, he would have a coat of such fashion as I have seen
many a one wear at muster." Or, if we wish to go back still further, we
might exclaim, with Falstaff, "You would think that I had a hundred and
fifty tattered prodigals, lately come from swine-keeping, from eating
draff and husks.... No eye hath seen such scarecrows."
We are at the training "in the fall of the year,"--a far more important
occasion than that in the spring, because the annual "muster" is only a
week or ten days ahead. It is a private show. The uniformed infantry and
the flood-wood have met at Walton Centre, but they, and all the
spectators too, are from "our town," with its various outlying
settlements. Let the other towns boast, let Stormont show her
grenadiers, Leicester her riflemen, and Acton her artillery, but when
"muster-day" comes look out for Walton and her infantry. The law
requires every soldier to have a musket or rifle,--flint-lock of
course,--a bayonet, a priming-wire and brush, a knapsack, a
cartridge-box, and two spare flints. The lack of any one of these may
lead to a fine. The regular order of the manual is, open pan, tear
cartridge, prime, shut pan, ram down cartridge, ready, aim, fire. But
cartridges are not often to be had, and flasks must be used, with a
pause in the manual to allow the measuring of a charge. The lack of
cartridges leads also to the carrying of powder in bulk in the
pantaloons pocket, so that the soldier may move quickly when the order
is given to "load and fire as fast as possible." Still more quick in his
movements will the soldier be when, led on by the excitement of the
hour, he becomes careless of his pocket-magazine and allows it to
explode, with a great wreckage of hair, whiskers, and eyebrows, though
no one was ever known to lose his life thereby.
But the "evolutions" of the fall training-day make up its greatest
worth. It is not enough that squads of "our company" advance, fire, and
fall back, the drummer drumming his loudest all the while. It is mere
boy's play to march in single and double files or in platoons. We are to
meet the companies from the other towns at the muster, and they must be
forced to admit our superiority in spite of themselves, or else our town
will not come out ahead. Now, if there is any one manoeuvre on which
the Walton infantry prides itself, the "lock-step and sit-down" is that
one. The company is marched about in single file until a circle is
formed, care being taken that the captain shall be in the inside and the
musicians on the outside. Gradually drawing toward the centre, the
circle contracts to slow music, until the whole company is in lock-step,
like a gang of convicts. At the word of command, each man seats himself
in the lap of the man behind him, and the whole company is in the
attitude of frogs as they are ready to leap. The captain, raised aloft
in the middle by some convenient mackerel-keg, draws his sword, and the
tableau lasts while the music sounds the "three cheers."
Another "evolution," such as Darwin never dreamed of, is begun by facing
the company to the front in a single rank. The left hand of each man
resting on his next neighbor's right shoulder, space is taken until all
the men are an arm's length apart. At a given signal they all face to
the right. The captain, "with drawn sword," followed by the music, the
drum beating vigorously, runs at double-quick time in and out of the
spaces, like a very undignified performance of the Virginia Reel. As
each man is passed, he joins the rapidly-increasing file, until the
whole line expends its snake-like activity and marches off in "common
time" on a straight course, like this:
[Illustration]
Both of these "evolutions" are calculated to inspire the enemy with
terror, but the latter especially so. On beholding it, the enemy cannot
help giving applause, and in applauding he must necessarily drop his
arms. The Walton Light Infantry, equal to any emergency, may now show
their superior discipline by capturing the enemy before he can recover
from his surprise and admiration. Even the very boys on a training-day
seek to terrorize the enemy with broom-sticks and tin pans, until they
become a nuisance to the older folk and are sent off to some field to
play base-ball after the old method, the "Massachusetts game," which
allows the "plunking" of a batter when he is not on his base. But the
boys will claim their share of the extra cards of gingerbread that have
been laid in at the stores, and they will be on hand to see the
half-day's sport of training-day end before early tea-time with the
flashing of powder and the departure of the "sojers" for their homes.
A very different affair is the "muster-day" of the early fall, before
the cold days and nights have come to stay. The several adjoining towns,
that furnish each its own company or its quota of cavalry, take care of
the "regiment," by rotation, at such a time as this. No matter how
centrally located the town may be, the grenadiers must come a long way
over the hills from Stormont, and the riflemen must leave Acton soon
after midnight in order to obey the signal of the seven-o'clock gun,
which demands the presence of every company on the "parade-ground:" it
goes by the name of "the common" every other day in the year. The night
marches or rides are orderly, the more so in anticipation of what is to
follow. The sun rises upon a gala-day for the men and youth: the boys
had their time at the training. Now the crowd is greater, and there is
no room for the boys, except those who live in the town where the muster
is held. The field, at a respectful distance from the regimental
line, is covered with auctioneers' stands, peddlers' wagons,
refreshment-booths of rough boards, and planked platforms for dancing to
the music of the violin. It is the picture of a college town on
"commencement-day," magnified to ten times the proportions. As you
stand,--no seats are allowed,--you can partake of sweet cider, lemonade,
apples, gingerbread, and pies and buns of all kinds. If you call for it,
you can have New-England rum, or its more popular substitute,
"black-strap," one-half rum and the other half molasses. Awaiting the
inspection, soldiers on leave of absence mingle with the commoners,
partake of the refreshments, including the black-strap, and nod their
plumes or rattle their swords while they dance the "double shuffle" or
"cut a double pigeon-wing" on the platforms, to the great wonder of the
crowd.
When the regiment gathers itself together it is a sight to behold. There
are perhaps five hundred men, all told, in two ranks. A part of them
rejoice in gayly-colored uniforms, but the majority are "the
flood-wood," dressed in sheep's gray and blue jeans and armed with
rifles, muskets, and fowling-pieces of every pattern. This motley band
"toe the mark,"--a small trench that has been cut in the turf to save
their reputation for alignment. Then they break into platoons, and are
inspected, man by man, by the adjutant and his aides. The inspection
being over about eleven o'clock, the colonel appears, all glorious in
brass buttons, epaulets as large as tin plates, and a cocked hat of
great proportions. Once more the regiment forms in double ranks, with
presented arms. The colonel and his "staff" ride slowly down the line,
turn back, and take their stand for review. The music, just as it came
from every town contributing to the regiment, has been "pooled" and
placed in the charge of a leader. It is a strange medley of snare-,
kettle-, and bass drums, of fifes, clarionets, and piccolos, with an
occasional "Kent bugle"--the predecessor of the cornet--or some other
instrument of brass. It is poor music at the best, and it cannot go far
beyond marking time for the marching. But is it not better than the
simple drum and fife of a common training-day? The "full brass band," we
must recollect, is too expensive a luxury except for the most
extraordinary occasions, and even then we run the risk of hearing
"Highland Mary" repeated all day long, so scant is the _répertoire_. The
regiment, headed by the cavalry and the music, passes the colonel and
his staff. The music wheels out of the line, gives "three cheers," and
remains at the colonel's side till the regiment has returned to its
place. A hollow square is formed, in imitation of the great Napoleon at
Waterloo, and the colonel addresses his "brother-officers and
fellow-soldiers" in a few fitting words, and retires from the field.
And now comes dinner,--a most important feature of muster-day. No one
has had a bite since his breakfast at home by candle-light,--unless he
has patronized the refreshment-booths. Even then he will not allow his
appetite for the noonday meal to become impaired. By previous
arrangement, each company dines by itself, or it joins forces with some
friendly company and hires the services of a caterer. The hotel of the
village cannot begin to accommodate the public, whether martial or
civilian, and temporary sheds cover long lines of tables on which the
feast is spread. It is a jolly company, and the scrambling for the
viands and the vintages, if there are any, is done in a good-natured
way. As the repast draws to a close and dessert is in order, the caterer
appears at the end of one of the tables in shirt-sleeves that are more
than wet with perspiration. Under his arm he holds a pile of plateless
pies, just as the newsboy on the train secures a pile of magazines. The
caterer marches down the length of the table with the half-inquiring,
half-defiant announcement, "Pies, gentlemen! pies, gentlemen!" At every
step he reaches for a pie, gives it a dexterous twirl between his thumb
and finger, and sends it spinning to the recipient with a skill and
accuracy of aim which would have done credit to the disk-thrower of the
ancient Romans.
The "noon gun," fired after dinner, calls the regiment back to the
parade-ground. The real work of the day is over; and now come
recreation and amusement. The remarkable "evolutions" of the several
companies are shown, each town striving to outdo the others. Of course
the Walton Light Infantry will excel all the rest; but it may be no easy
matter to make every one think as we do. The newest evolution--that of
the snake on training-day--certainly "brings down the house," even if it
fails to carry an admission of its superiority. When this friendly
rivalry is over, the sham fight proceeds. A rough structure of boards
and boughs has been prepared to represent a fort, and one of the
companies is imprisoned therein, with little air or light, and with no
means of defence except to discharge their guns upward. The advancing
regiment fires by platoons, which wheel outward and retire to the rear
to load. The artillery fires blank charges from a neighboring hill. The
sweltering soldiers within the fort are only too glad to capitulate and
let some other company take their place; the new company, in turn, to
capitulate and march out with the honors of war. Meanwhile, the
cavalry--whose horses are more used to the plough than to the din of
battle--has retired to a distance, and indulges in a sham fight on its
own account. And yet, in spite of all this preparation and in spite of
the pains that have been taken to show the fancy movements of the
soldiers, you will seldom see a company that is really well drilled in
the most simple movements; for drill-masters are unknown.
The sham fight goes on till toward sunset, when the regiment is
dismissed at the signal of the evening gun. And now comes the hurry to
reach home. Such reckless driving, such wild racing over the hills and
along the rough roads and ledges, and such a desire to "take off
somebody's wheel," you never saw, unless you have been to a muster-day
before. This is a part of the fun; and if you do not take it as the
correct thing, and enjoy it too, you might as well have stayed away from
the muster altogether.
FREDERIC G. MATHER.
THE STORY OF A STORY.
I.
THE HEROINE.
A horse-car, for all it is so common a sight, is not without its
picturesque side. To stand on a long bridge at night, while the lights
twinkle in the perspective, and watch one of these animated servants,
with its colored globular eye, come scrambling toward you, is to see a
clumsy, good-natured Caliban of this mechanical age. One of these days,
when the horse-car is superseded by some electric skipping wicker-basket
or what not, the Austin Dobson of the time will doubtless expend his
light sympathy of verse on the pathetic old abandoned conveyance.
Such picturesqueness, however, is rather for one who seeks, than a view
which thrusts itself upon the merely casual observer. At any rate,
another Austin,--Austin Buckingham,--who was engaged one winter evening
at the end of a long bridge in idealizing horse-cars, hit upon this way
of looking at the one he was waiting for, out of sheer desperation of
intellect. He was a young _littérateur_ who was out of work. He was not,
like other workmen in similar straits, going from one shop to another
looking for a job. Not at all. He recognized the situation. He had only
to write a clever story and he could quickly dispose of it. He had
written a good many stories in his short day. Now he wished to write
another. The pity of it was that he had no story to tell,--absolutely
nothing. He had been through his note-books, but they gave him no help;
he had kept his ears open for some suggestive little incident, but the
whole world seemed suddenly given over to the dreariest commonplace. He
had walked out this evening, slowly revolving in his mind the various
odds and ends which came upon demand of his rag-picking memory, and yet
nothing of value had turned up. He was tired, and determined to take a
horse-car for the rest of the way.
It was while he stood watching for the one which took him nearest to his
door, that he made the slight reflection with which this story opens.
"Could I make a horse-car the hero of my story?" he asked himself, with
a petulant tone, as he thought how dismally dull he was. The jingling
car came up, and he jumped upon the rear platform, wedged his way
through the men and boys who crowded the steps and platform, and so
pushed into the interior. He found half a dozen men in various attitudes
of neglect, but all hanging abjectly by the loops which a considerate
company had provided for its patrons. For his part, he preferred to
brace himself against the forward door, which gave him a position where
he could watch his fellow-prisoners.
His eye fell at once on a girl for whom he always looked. He did not
know her name, but, as the saying goes, he knew her face very well. She
lived on the same street where he had his lodging, so that when they met
in a horse-car they always got out together. From the regularity with
which she came out in a certain car, Buckingham had sagely concluded
that she was one of the multitude of girls who earned their living, for
whom as a class he had great respect, though he did not happen to know
any single member. He liked to look at her. She was shy and discreet in
bearing; she usually entertained herself with a book, which permitted
him larger liberty of eye; and she dressed with a neatness which had an
individuality: she evidently expressed herself in her clothes. That is
not all. She was undeniably pretty.
Now, our young friend had seen her in his horse-car a great many times,
but never under the conditions which existed at this time. People rarely
exclaim to themselves except in novels, but Buckingham did deliberately
shout to himself, "Why, this--this is my heroine! I have only to find a
hero and a plot. I know this girl very well. I am sure I can make a
story about her. Give me a hero, give me a plot, and there is my story!"
II.
MISS MARTINDALE.
When the horse-car stopped at the foot of Grove Street, Austin
Buckingham and the prospective heroine of his story got out so nearly at
the same time that when they reached the sidewalk they were side by
side. Beneath the gas-light stood a tallish man who was looking up to
read the name of the street upon the lamp. The light thus fell on his
face and brought it into distinctness; especially it disclosed a scar
upon his cheek. He caught sight now of these two people, and at once
addressed Buckingham:
"Can you tell me whereabouts Mr. Martindale lives?"