SERGEANT-MAJOR ARNOLD.
THE winter term had passed rapidly, and again the boys were within ten
days of their vacation. The term had been a pleasant one; but in spite
of all their good times, Leon was eagerly looking forward to his two
weeks at home, for once more Alex was to be with them, and the Arnolds
were full of plans for his entertainment, which it had been impossible
for them to carry out at Christmas, owing to Leon’s temporary lameness.
Every day since Mrs. Arnold’s note of invitation to Alex had come, the
boys had added to their program, which had become full and varied enough
to satisfy the most difficult of guests, much more Alex, who was ready
to enjoy it all, however simple. Dorothy, too, had carried her point,
and invitations were already out for a grand party, on the night after
Easter, at which, as a crowning happiness, Lieutenant Wilde was to be
among the guests, going down from Hilton on the Saturday beforehand, and
staying at the Arnolds’, to come up with the boys, three days later.
What wonder that even quiet Harry was excited over the brilliant
prospect; while at home, pretty Dorothy was planning a wonderful gown of
the pale, creamy yellow which Alex had once chanced to say was his
favorite color.
“It doesn’t seem as if I could wait, Hal!” Leon kept saying. “I almost
know something will happen to spoil it all.”
And Harry would ask in reply,—
“But what can happen, Leon?”
Old Flemming was deserted, one afternoon, for the boys had just gone
over to a dress-parade in the armory; and they still stood grouped about
the door, while they waited for Lieutenant Wilde’s coming, before taking
their places. The cadets were all in a state of ill-suppressed
excitement, for Captain Curtis, an old class-mate of Lieutenant Wilde at
the Point, had suddenly appeared to him, and the boys were to have the
honor of parade before a soldier fresh from active service among the
Dakota and Montana Indians. None of the cadets had seen the hero who had
only reached Hilton that morning; but his fame had gone before him, and
the boys, forgetful of his years, were picturing him as a seamed and
scarred veteran who would burst upon them in all the panoply of war, and
were conscious of a keen sense of enjoyment as they put on their dress
uniforms and hurried across to the armory to await his coming.
“Alex says he came east on furlough, after the Sioux pow-wow, last
December,” said Leon.
Leon’s sleeve was now decorated with the three stripes and block of his
rank, for since he had been able to resume his drill, six weeks before,
his mental and physical standing had kept him constantly in the line of
promotion, and Corporal Arnold was now Sergeant Arnold, with a fair
prospect of rising, so soon as there should be a vacancy in the ranks.
“How jolly! Then he’s seen Sitting Bull and his men. I wish I could get
in at West Point, and have a chance for a little fun,” sighed Max
enviously.
“Much fun it is!” said Jack. “It’s mostly living in garrison on the
plains, for we don’t get an Indian war every day. This man was promoted
after the battle at Wounded Knee Creek. He was shot there; but he stayed
round in camp, and wouldn’t give up and come home, till the Indians
surrendered. He’s been at home ever since, getting patched up again, and
now he’s stopped over a day with Lieutenant Wilde, on his way back to
his company.”
“After all, it must be fun to be out there. I should think it would make
Lieutenant Wilde crazy to go,” said Louis, whose ideas of frontier army
life were largely derived from Captain King’s novels.
“Not much!” returned Jack scornfully. “I’d rather be a first-class
cowboy, myself. But here they come.” And the cadets scurried into
position and saluted, as Alex came into the armory, followed by
Lieutenant Wilde and a stranger.
At the first glance, the boys were a little disappointed in the
appearance of this yellow-haired, blue-eyed young officer, who looked so
like a boy, in his citizen’s dress; but there was something in his
soldierly carriage, in the firm lines about his lips which made them
realize that they stood in the presence of one accustomed to command,
while a long scar on his right cheek bore witness to his having seen
service, outside of the more ornamental duties of garrison life.
As the companies formed for inspection, the stranger walked slowly
across the floor and took up a position where he could watch the cadets
when, at _adjutant’s call_, they fell into line. Then, while the music
sounded off and the adjutant received the reports, he closely scanned
the faces before him, now and then giving a quick nod of approval at
some well-executed detail of the drill. As the sergeants returned to
position, Alex faced about, saluted Lieutenant Wilde and reported the
absentees. The lieutenant acknowledged the salute and added, according
to the usual form,—
“Publish the orders, sir!”
Again Alex faced about to the battalion commanding,—
“Attention to Orders!”
There was no need for the command, for the cadets always looked upon
this as the crowning moment of the parade, and waited eagerly to hear
the promotions and appointments; while, on this day in particular, they
were all on the alert to do credit to themselves and their commanding
officer.
Some sudden memory of his own cadet days made the young captain smile to
himself, as Alex read:—
Form No. 23.
HEADQUARTERS
FLEMMING HALL BATTALION,
_March 18, 1891_.
General Orders, No. 116.
The following promotions of Officers and Non-com. Officers is announced
for the benefit of all concerned,—
1st Lieut. Keith to be Capt.
2nd Lieut. Walker to be 1st Lieut.
1st Sergt. Eliot to be 2nd Lieut.
1st Sergt. Arnold to be Sergt.-Major.
Corp. Lockwood to be Sergt.
The following appointment is also announced,—
Cadet Reed to be Corp.
By order of the Commandant.
ALEX P. STERNE, 1st Lieut. and Adj.
“I say, Leon; you’re in luck,” said Harry, seizing his brother’s arm, as
they left the armory after parade. “I didn’t suppose you were in for a
promotion now, anyway; and then it’s so jolly to get it under the eyes
of an army officer, too. I heard him asking Lieutenant Wilde which you
were, for he said he met father in Helena, two years ago. He remembered
the name, because father knew all about Lieutenant Wilde; and he’s
coming to our room this evening to see us.”
“I’m going over now to write to daddy,” said Leon. “I want him to know
about this right away, because he was awfully cut up about my row with
Winslow, even if he didn’t say much about it.”
“All right,” returned Harry; “I’ll be over by and by, to help get things
into shape for the captain.” And he strolled away with Max and Louis,
who were greatly elated over their new honors.
True to his promise, Captain Curtis did call upon the Arnolds in their
room, that evening; and for half an hour he held the boys in a state of
breathless interest, with his stirring tales of frontier life, in camp
and in the field. He had been detailed for service here and there in the
West until he was familiar with every phase of it, among the Black Hills
or in the Alkali deserts, in campaigns against Sioux, Blackfoot or
Apache. Two years before, while on a brief furlough, he had met Mr.
Arnold at Helena, and some slight favors which the older man had done
him, had ripened the short acquaintance into a friendship that made him
doubly glad to meet the young cadets. At length he rose, to return to
Lieutenant Wilde’s room; but at the door, he turned back to say
cordially,—
“Don’t fail to tell your father how well I remember our meeting at The
Helena; and say to him that the next time I come to Boston, I shall
surely call on him. I’m glad to have the chance to get acquainted with
you for his sake, for he is a man whom every one must delight to honor;
and I am so much indebted to him that I can only hope the time may come
when I can do something either for him or for his sons.”
He paused while he shook hands with Harry; then he turned to Leon, whom
he had been studying closely, during the evening.
“Let me congratulate you most heartily on your promotion,” he said. “So
far as I can judge by what I have seen to-day, you deserve it, for
you’ve the making of a soldier in you. Some day, perhaps, we may meet
again in service out on the plains.”
“Oh dear! I wish he meant what he said, and there was any chance of it,”
said Leon, as their guests took their departure.
“Why, you wouldn’t really like to go into the army?” And Harry looked at
his brother in surprise.
“Wouldn’t I, though!” echoed Leon. “I’d like it better than anything
else. I believe I was meant for a fighter; not fisticuffs, like the time
I knocked Winslow over, but regular army service. I wonder if daddy
would let me do it.” And Leon gave his more peaceful brother a look
which was anything but blood-thirsty, as Harry asked again,—
“How would you like it to have to give up college and just go to West
Point? Life there isn’t anything but states-prison discipline.”
“Give me a chance to choose, and I’d show you what I’d do. But ’tisn’t
so easy to get in at West Point, and I shall never get the chance. I
shall most likely end by being a minister, or a lawyer, or something
else that’s poky.” And Leon went to his desk, to add a postscript to his
letter to his father, telling him of their call from Captain Curtis, and
of the captain’s answer to his own unspoken longings.
Three days later, the Wilders had been out for a long walk up to the
lake and back. It had been an unusually merry walk, too, for the boys,
excited by the near prospect of vacation, were all full of fun; while
Max, in particular, had invented a dozen different pranks to amuse and
torment the others, until Harry had suggested dropping him into the lake
and leaving him there, to meditate upon his sins. An hour before supper,
they came trooping home, as hungry and hearty as nine lads could be, all
laughing and talking at once. As they separated, to go to their rooms,
Alex paused at the stairway window long enough to see the doctor walking
hurriedly up the hill, with an open letter in his hand, and his head
bowed, as if in deep and painful thought. For a moment, the boy watched
him anxiously, for he knew that the doctor rarely came to Old Flemming,
and never at this hour in the day, when he was usually preparing for
dinner.
“I hope nothing’s wrong,” he said to himself, as he went on. Then he
dismissed the matter from his mind, for Stanley Campbell had overtaken
him, with a question about the next day’s plans.
Alex would have been still more anxious, could he have seen the doctor
enter his nephew’s room, and heard the short, hurried conversation which
took place there.
“Do it if you can, Irving,” said the doctor, at length. “You can tell
them better than I, for the boys are both so fond of you.”
Irving Wilde rose to do his bidding; but his face was deathly pale, and
his knees were trembling beneath his weight. He took off his glasses and
wiped them, before he could see clearly. For the first time in his young
life, he was to be the bearer of a sad message, and the thought unmanned
him. Then he shut his teeth together, mustered all his strength and said
briefly,—
“I will. Let me take the letter, please.”
His uncle silently handed it to him; silently he turned away and walked
down the hall towards number fifteen. At the door he stopped, with his
hand raised, just ready to knock. He could hear the boys laughing inside
the room, while he stood there outside, waiting to put an end to all
their frolic. He longed to go back to his uncle, to beg him to take his
place; but it was too late, he must go on. He rapped desperately.
“Come on in!” shouted Leon’s voice.
Slowly the knob turned and the door swung open, showing Lieutenant Wilde
on the threshold. The boys had turned to the door, expecting to see one
of their mates, Max perhaps, or Jack, come to continue the fun. At sight
of their teacher’s wan white face, Harry sprang forward.
“Lieutenant Wilde!” he exclaimed in alarm. “What’s the matter? Are you
ill?”
With an effort, Lieutenant Wilde rallied.
“No,” he said; “I’m not ill, so don’t be frightened. I only came to
bring you a message from the doctor.” And he dropped into a chair, while
his fingers closed upon the letter in his hand with a nervous pressure
which left the nails white and bloodless. The boys watched him
anxiously, sure that something was amiss.
“The doctor has had a letter from your home,” Lieutenant Wilde went on,
after a moment, with a vain attempt to assume his usual quiet manner.
Leon’s hand was on his shoulder, and he felt the boy’s fingers grow
rigid, as they clutched him.
“Who is it?” he asked abruptly. “Some one is ill, I know.”
Delay was useless, and Lieutenant Wilde answered at once, feeling that
it would be cruel to waste words.
“It is your father,” he said gently.
Again the boy’s thought had rushed on in advance of the words.
“He is dead,” he said excitedly.
Irving Wilde could not speak. For his only answer, he rose and put his
arm around the boy. He was none too soon for with a cry,—
“Oh, Hal! Oh, daddy, daddy!” Leon reeled where he stood.
With the help of Harry, who until then had remained speechless and
dazed, Lieutenant Wilde laid him gently on his bed and sat down by his
side, with one hand on his, the other arm around Harry’s shoulders.
There was comfort and strength in his touch; but he sat there silent,
while the twilight in the room slowly changed to darkness, for he knew
only too well that, as yet, no words could comfort the sorrowing hearts
before him.
At length Harry raised his head.
“Please tell us,” he said brokenly; “when was it?”
Then Lieutenant Wilde told, as gently and quietly as he could, and
pausing, now and then, until the fresh wave of boyish grief had spent
itself, and he could go on with his sad story.
There was but little to tell, for in the hurry and confusion of their
sudden grief, the letter was short. During the early part of the evening
before, Mr. Arnold had seemed to be unusually bright and full of fun. At
about nine o’clock, he had gone into the library to write to the boys;
and he had been away from the room for more than two hours, before they
wondered at his absence. Then Mrs. Arnold went in to speak to him, only
to find that he had left them, never to come back to his pleasant
earthly home. He sat there, leaning back in his chair, as one fallen
asleep, with a quiet smile on his genial face which had so rarely known
a frown. Under his hand, still stretched out upon the table before him,
was a sheet of paper, on which he had written,—
“MY DEAR BOYS,—Only a week before you come back to your old daddy again,
but Leon’s letter, with its good news of his promotion and of your
seeing Captain Curtis, makes me write to you once more. Captain Curtis
is a good man, and if either of you could be as true a soldier as he, I
would gladly give my consent, though I had never thought of that life
for my sons. We were all delighted over the news from Leon; in fact,
your daddy is thoroughly proud of both of his boys wh—”
Then the nerveless fingers had relaxed their hold, and the pen had
dropped. Mr. Arnold’s last thought on earth had been given to his boys.
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