THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVES.
On the morning of the departure of the rebels from Riverpark, Mr.
Graydon, one of the teachers, happening to stand at the window of his
recitation-room, saw the boys as they ran to the fence, leaped over,
and passed into the fields beyond. He was too greatly astonished by
the act to realize at once what it meant. Then it occurred to him that
these lads had broken into open rebellion, and were about to take the
holiday that had been denied them by the principal. He hurried across
the schoolroom to Colonel Silsbee’s office, and entered it in a state
of great excitement.
“They have gone!” he exclaimed. “The boys--forty or fifty of them--have
leaped the south fence, and are hurrying across the fields into the
country!”
Colonel Silsbee started from his chair, and the blood rushed violently
to his face.
“Is it possible!” he exclaimed.
“Yes; I just saw them from my window. If you’ll step this way, you can
see them. They’re not yet out of sight.”
“I prefer not to see them,” said the principal, sinking back into his
chair. The blood had already receded, and left an unusual pallor on his
face.
“I didn’t know but you might want some of us to hurry out and intercept
their flight,” continued Mr. Graydon, earnestly.
“No, I don’t think that would be wise. Let them go; they’ll repent of
it sooner if allowed to take their own course. I’m sorry, very sorry.
It’s an almost unpardonable offence.”
Other teachers now came in from the hall, and Colonel Silsbee
continued: “Our policy, gentlemen, will be to conduct the school as
usual, and to take no notice of the affair until the boys return. They
will doubtless be with us again before night, and then we will consult
as to what shall be done. Mr. Graydon, will you learn if the drummer
has gone, and if so, will you find some one to beat the school-call?”
Mr. Graydon hurried away, and, after a few more words, the other
teachers passed to their respective rooms.
In the mean time there was the most intense excitement among the boys
who had remained. Some of them had gone to the highest windows of
the building to watch the fleeing rebels; others were examining the
fence where the runaways had leaped over or crawled through; and still
others were gathered in the hall and about the grounds, discussing the
marvellous event with bated breath.
At the usual hour the school-call was beaten on the drum; the remnant
of the battalion formed and passed into the schoolroom, and Colonel
Silsbee came in, book in hand, as was his custom, to conduct the
morning service. He took his seat at the desk, laid his book down in
front of him, and looked around over the half-empty benches. He was
taking note of the absentees, trying to learn who of his soldiers had
so betrayed his trust in them as to rise in open revolt against his
rule.
He cast his eyes toward Brede’s chair; it was empty. Those who were
watching him saw a deeper compression of his lips. Harple was in his
accustomed place; he was glad of that,--he had placed much confidence
in Harple. And Brightly--Brightly was missing. This seemed to give him
much pain; his pale face grew perceptibly paler.
So his gaze went from one seat to another. The boys thought he would
never have done looking them over. They saw that he was suffering; they
feared that he was trying to suppress intense anger; and they scarcely
breathed until his eyes fell back upon his book, and he took it up and
opened it as usual.
He looked up again before he began to read, and his lips parted as if
he was about to speak; but apparently he thought better of it, and,
after a moment’s silence, went on with the morning Scripture lesson
and prayer. After this he went back to his office, and the classes
were called. None of the teachers made reference to the revolt, and the
morning dragged by with exasperating slowness.
At lunch-time the boys almost darted from the ranks to form into
excited and whispering groups. Where had the fugitives gone, and what
punishment would they suffer on their return? These were the topics of
discussion.
At dinner-time the excitement was intense, but not boisterous. The
rebellion and flight were spoken of in hushed tones. The whole thing
was so desperate and revolutionary.
There were many who looked out occasionally across the fields by which
the runaways went, half-expecting to see them come straying back in
time for dinner; but the dinner-hour passed, and they did not come.
The afternoon drill went on awkwardly. It was difficult to arrange the
squads in the absence of so many men and officers.
At retreat thirty-seven answered the roll-call. Supper was eaten in
haste, and then every one went out to the best points on the grounds,
or gathered in the south windows, to watch for the return of the
holiday-seekers. No one dreamed that they would not come back before
nightfall. There were several false alarms, especially as twilight came
on, and objects at a distance grew indistinct; but the fugitives were
watched for in vain.
Colonel Silsbee began to be anxious. He had thought it best not to
follow the erring lads, but to let them return at will. Consequently he
had sent no messengers for them, and no messages to them. He preferred
to deal with them after they had voluntarily returned to his authority.
But now night was coming on, and they were still absent, and there were
small boys among them who might be harmed by the unusual exposure. He
had heard of them in the afternoon,--that they were on the high-road
going toward New Hornbury. He thought they would probably return in the
same way, and he sent a team with a double wagon down to meet them,
with instructions that certain of the smaller boys should be brought
back in it.
Night came; the call for the evening session was sounded, and again
only the boys who had remained at home filed into their places in the
schoolroom.
Colonel Silsbee came in and took his place at the desk as usual. The
look of anger which the boys thought they had seen on his face in the
morning had now given way to one of anxiety and sadness. He looked down
again on the empty chairs with perceptible emotion.
“To you who have remained faithful,” he said, addressing the boys, “it
is perhaps right that I should say something of what has occurred.
You doubtless agree with me that your companions who are absent from
us to-night have made a grievous mistake. For those younger boys who
have been led away thoughtlessly into this folly I have much anxiety
and pity; but for those who are older, and who ought to be wiser, I
know of no excuse. There must come a day of retribution for them, and
their punishment will be severe. Some of these young men have received
honors at our hands; many of them have received favors; all of them
have enjoyed the best we had to give: and my indignation at their
unexampled conduct is lost in the deep pain which their ingratitude has
given me.”
He paused a moment; then, greatly moved, he continued: “I have had
schoolboys under my care for nearly thirty years, but I have never
experienced anything like this before. It is not I alone who suffer;
there are fathers and mothers who will be grieved beyond measure at
this reckless conduct of their sons, for it is my plain duty to make
that conduct known to them.
“To-night I can only hope that no harm will befall these rash
adventurers; to-morrow they will doubtless be with us again, and in the
hard, unhappy days that must come for them, we shall look to you, you
who are wise, to lead them into right paths. From this time on, the
honor of the school will rest on you.”
He opened the book, and read a favorite selection from the Psalms; but
in the prayer his voice broke, and his “Amen” was scarcely audible.
He went back across the room to his office; and the boys, some of them
furtively wiping tears from their eyes, took up their evening tasks.
The next day passed in much the same way as the preceding one had done.
Some one brought a morning paper down from the city, and an eager group
read the reporter’s vivid and somewhat amusing account of the rebellion
and flight. A special telegram to the paper from New Hornbury, dated
the previous night, was to the effect that the rebels had attended the
circus at that town in a body, and from there had crossed the river by
the rowboat ferry. The supposition was that they were on their way to
New Bury.
About noon a rumor came floating down to the school that one of the
row-boats containing the runaways had been swamped, and several of the
boys drowned; but telegraphic inquiry resulted in a contradiction of
this report later in the day.
No one was on the lookout for the home-coming now. The boys might
return, or they might not. To imaginations which had for two days
endured such a prodigious strain, nothing could seem any longer
improbable. But how desolate it seemed at the school! How funereal
everything was, how quiet! There were no games going on; there was no
sound of merry voices, no boisterous laughter, no fun of any kind; but
there were the empty benches, the eager faces, the thin ranks, the
whispered conversations, the unusual monotony of the usual tasks. It
was a dreary time.
When the daily drill was over, at four o’clock, Harple went up to his
room and threw himself into a chair by the window in gloomy despair.
His surprise at the sudden departure of the rebellious company had
given way to pain and consternation when he learned that Brightly was
a member of it; and these feelings were in turn replaced by anxiety,
alarm, deep grief, as the hours went by, and his friend and companion
did not return.
There was no hope now in any direction. Brightly, whom he had loved;
of whom he had been proud; for whom he had suffered; for whom, indeed,
he would have laid down his sword and shoulder-straps any day, if that
would have saved him,--Brightly was lost beyond hope of recovery,
disgraced and ruined beyond possibility of reform. It was sad, it was
very sad,--it was dreadful!
The lad started nervously to his feet, and began walking hastily up and
down the narrow floor of his room. At last he dashed from his eyes the
tears that had started there, and went about some tasks that he had set
down for quiet accomplishment.
It was a dark, dull day, wet and cold and cheerless. The rain, which
had fallen irregularly during the morning hours, had now set in again
more steadily, and was driving against the windows of Harple’s room in
rattling sheets.
About five o’clock Harple became aware that something unusual was going
on in the hall below him. There were quick steps and excited voices.
Outside some one was shouting and calling. He hurried to the window and
looked out.
The fugitives were returning. They were coming up from the street
leading to the river, and climbing the terrace, one by one, to the
drill-ground.
They bore scarcely a resemblance to those boys of Riverpark who had
started away in the morning of the day before, with shout and song,
abounding in rebellious glee. Their torn clothes were drenched with
the rain and splashed with red mud. Their soiled faces were haggard
and weatherbeaten, and bore marks of great weariness and pain. Their
movements were slow and halting; and some, unable to climb the bank
alone, were being helped along by others.
As they crossed the drill-ground there were no demonstrations, either
of delight or disapproval. Those who saw them come and were waiting to
welcome them, were too greatly shocked at their wretched appearance to
do more than look upon them with surprise and pity.
Harple did not go down. He sat in his chair by the window, with his
face in his hands, and waited for his friend. Brightly came down the
hall at last, with hesitating steps.
“Don’t look at me, Charley,” he said, as he entered the room; “don’t
look at me!”
His voice was weak and broken. The very sound of it roused all the pity
in Harple’s compassionate nature. He rose from his chair, took one of
Brightly’s hands in his, put his arm around Brightly’s neck, and laid
his face against Brightly’s wet, cold cheek. That was the welcome. It
was a long time before Brightly found his voice again. When he did, it
was only long enough to say,--
“O Charley, it’s been terrible! terrible!”
They did not talk much after that. Harple knew, from the first word
that his chum had spoken, that no admonition was needed from him. He
helped Brightly to remove his wet garments and clothe himself in dry
ones, and then he considerately left the room.
It was after supper that Brightly took down his military coat, and
severed the shoulder-straps from it, and the honor-grade chevrons from
the sleeves. Then he took these, and his sword and sash, and went
downstairs. He crossed through the private hall to Colonel Silsbee’s
office door, knocked, and was bidden to enter. The principal was there
alone. Brightly laid the insignia of his rank on the table before
Colonel Silsbee.
“I have brought these things to you,” he said. “I have no right to them
any more. I have worn them unworthily. There was no excuse for my going
away. I have been very foolish and wicked and ungrateful.”
He hesitated a moment, then went on: “I would like to speak about that
night that you called me in before Brede and Finkelton to explain
my marks. That was a lie that I told then. The figures were correct
before. I did not change them; I don’t know, certainly, who did. I
would like to have them put back as they were. I hope it won’t be
necessary to send me away. I look at things very differently from what
I did yesterday. I am ready to stand any punishment. I don’t want to be
released from any,--I didn’t come to you for that; I only wanted you to
know that I’m not rebellious any longer--nor careless--nor--”
But here the lad broke down. He had spoken with painful hesitancy for a
whole minute.
He had feared that his coming might be misinterpreted. But there was no
danger of that. When he looked at Colonel Silsbee again he knew there
was no danger of it. The man, with his sympathetic nature, had divined
the boy’s feelings to their greatest depth. He rose from his chair and
laid his hand on Brightly’s shoulder.
“I am glad you came,” he said. “You must suffer with the rest, but--I
am glad you came. I shall remember it of you,--I shall never forget it.”
It was strange, but Colonel Silsbee’s voice had broken, too. He turned
his face away and resumed his seat, and, in the silence that ensued,
Brightly went quietly out.
The next morning at the opening of the morning session, Colonel Silsbee
came in, and conducted the Scripture reading and prayer as usual,
but made no remarks. He merely gave to the officer of the day, for
record, a slip of paper which contained the order placing on perpetual
delinquency all members of the school who had participated in the
rebellion.
That night, at retreat, another order was read by the acting adjutant,
reducing permanently to the ranks all officers, both commissioned and
non-commissioned, who had taken part in the revolt.
* * * * *
But what had become of Brede? This was the question which now agitated
the school. He had not as yet returned to Riverpark. He had not
been seen by any one connected with the academy since his departure
northward on the train from New Hornbury. Every one now knew of his
treacherous and cowardly conduct, and the general opinion was that he
was afraid to return.
But the doubt as to his whereabouts was soon to be dispelled. It was
not long after taps that night, that those of the boys who were not
yet asleep heard an unusual commotion downstairs. There were hurrying
footsteps, loud voices, once a noise as of a slight scuffle; then all
was quiet again.
On the following morning, at the reveille roll-call, a whisper
ran rapidly around the school to the effect that Brede was in the
guard-house. This was a cell-like room, on the second floor, in a
remote corner of the building, with one narrow window near the ceiling,
and a heavy door studded with round-headed spikes, and locked with a
great brass key.
Only once before, in the memory of the oldest student, had that door
been opened to admit a refractory pupil. Indeed, few of those in the
school had even so much as seen it. The guard-house was always spoken
of with an indefinable shiver, and an unpleasant thought of bread and
water and ghostly solitude. The fact that Brede was confined there
brought to a climax the excitement under which the school had been
laboring for a week.
Later in the morning the nature of Brede’s offence became known. He
had been found, the night before, at a disreputable resort in the
lower part of the city, in a state of gross intoxication. He had
quarrelled with the keeper of the place, had been taken in charge by
the police and marched to the station-house, where the police captain
had recognized him; and on account of his youth and the disgrace which
would attend the publicity of his offence, had directed the officers
to take him to Riverpark and turn him over to Colonel Silsbee for
punishment. So now he was in the guard-house, living on bread and water.
It was a terrible thing. Boys who were not accustomed to hearing
stories of vice and crime, spoke of it in whispers. Indeed, there
were some who hardly dared speak of it at all, it was so utterly and
shamelessly disgraceful.
That evening Brightly was sick. The fatigue and exposure, especially
the nervous strain of the last few days, had so worn upon him that he
was obliged to ask for an excuse before the evening session was half
through, that he might go to his room and to bed. The favor was readily
granted, and he passed slowly up the two flights of stairs to the upper
dormitory.
As he went down the hall toward his room, he saw, through the transom
over the door, a flickering light. He thought it strange, as he knew
that Harple was still in the schoolroom.
It suddenly occurred to him that it was the light of fire. He darted to
the door, pushed it open, and started back in horrified amazement.
Brede was kneeling by the bed, holding a lighted candle in his hand,
and the mattress in front of him was rapidly bursting into flame.
He had partly risen at Brightly’s approach, and was facing the door
when it was opened. Seeing who confronted him, he dropped the candle
and made a savage spring toward his old antagonist. In a moment they
were both on the floor, fighting desperately.
Over and over they rolled, down the entire length of the hall. In their
struggles they reached the landing at the head of the stairs, and the
next violent turn sent them pitching down into the darkness.