It takes but little time for a boy to win a nickname in the corps of
cadets, though a lifetime may not rid him of it. Physical peculiarities
are turned to prompt account, and no account is taken of personal
feelings. Certain fixed rules obtain as to the eldest and youngest
of each class. They are respectively "Dad" and "Babe." Otherwise a
young fellow becomes "Fatty" or "Skinny," "Whity" or "Cuffy," "Beauty"
(if ugly), "Curly," or "Pinky," "Shanks" or "Legs," "Bones," etc.,
if in any way remarkable from an anatomical point of view; "Sissy,"
"Fanny," "Carrie," if rosy-cheeked and clear-skinned, whether otherwise
effeminate or not. All these, more or less, depended upon physical
charms or faults, and these are apt to be settled at the start. So,
too, such titles as "Parson," "Deacon," "Squire." Others come in as
lasting mementos of some unfortunate break in recitation or blunder in
drill.
But no term or title is so calculated to convey with it so much of
exasperation in the case of the plebe, strange as it may seem, as
one which is exclusively military. Just why this should be so it is
difficult to explain. The end and aim of West Point existence is the
winning of a commission that opens the way to a series, perhaps, of
military titles; yet let a plebe be saddled with some such appendage to
his name, and all the explanations in the world cannot save him from
misconception and annoyance.
From the time a new cadet is fairly in uniform and a member of the
battalion, he has perhaps no higher ambition than that of being made
a corporal at the end of his year of probation. It is indeed a case
where "many are called but few chosen." Four out of five are doomed to
disappointment, but the head of the class in scholarship stands not so
high in cadet esteem as he who heads the list of officers. To be made
senior corporal at the end of the first year, and, as such, acting
sergeant-major, or first sergeant throughout camp, in the absence of
the Second Class or furlough men, is to be the envied of almost every
other yearling; but to have conferred upon one in his plebe camp by
common consent the title of "Corporal" carries with it a weight of
annoyance little appreciated outside of the gray battalion; and it was
Geordie Graham's luck to begin his very first tour of guard duty with
this luckless handle—that, too, coupled with the diminutive of "Pops."
Even as he paced up and down the shaded path of Number Three, he could
hear the mischievous delight with which the old cadets pointed him out
as the new corporal, and could not but hear the somewhat malicious
allusions made by his own classmates, some of whom (for there is a
heap of human nature in every plebe class that has to be hammered out
of it in course of time) were not very sorry to see a cloud of worry
gathering over the first of their number to win praise for soldierly
excellence, and none were more ready—hard as it may be to say so—than
his tent-mate Frazier.
Geordie swallowed it all in silence, vigilantly walking the post
assigned him, paying strict attention to the instructions given him
every few moments by the officers of the guard. Time and again, as a
boy, he had played at walking post in front of the doctor's quarters,
punctiliously saluting officers in the daytime, and sternly challenging
after dark before being hustled off to bed. All this stood him in good
stead now. He had studied the cool, professional way of the regulars
on sentry duty, and looked far more at home on post this bright July
day than any of his class-mates. Both Lieutenant Allen, who was officer
in charge, and Cadet Captain Leonard, who was officer of the day,
said, "Very well indeed, sir!" as he repeated the long list of his
instructions.
It galled him to think that when gentlemen of their standing should
treat him with such respect, and when the general regulations of the
army provided that all persons of whatsoever rank in the service should
observe respect towards sentries, so many old cadets, lolling in the
shade of their tent-flies in Company A, so many class-mates skipping
along inside his post on the path leading to the shoeblack's or the
water-tank, should make audible comments about the "corporal on post."
His life had been spent on the frontier, where the safety of the camp
depended on the vigilance of the sentry, and where no man, high or low,
behaved towards a soldier on such duty except with the utmost respect.
He remembered what McCrea had told him, that even as a sentry on
post—indeed, more so at such times than at any other, so long as he was
green and unaccustomed to the duty—it was the habit of the old cadets
in the old days to "devil" and torment the plebe in every conceivable
way. But Geordie argued that he was not green. He knew the main points
of sentry duty as well as any cadet, though nowhere are the finer
points, the more intricate tests, so taught as they are at the Military
Academy.
It was actually his misfortune that he knew so much. Geordie Graham
might have been spared many an hour of trouble and injustice and
misrepresentation had he not been imbued with the soldier idea of the
sacred character of the sentinel. It was one thing to submit to the
unwritten laws and customs of the corps of cadets, so long as they
were applied to him in his personal capacity. It was a very different
matter, however, in his judgment, to be interfered with or molested as
a member of the guard.
His first "two hours on" in the morning passed without material
annoyance, for most of the corps were out of camp at drill. At
dinner-time, after marching down with the guard, he found his
class-mates at the B Company table, to which he had been assigned,
awaiting his coming with no little eagerness; but as the yearlings
began their quizzing the instant he took his seat and unfolded his
napkin, Frazier and Burns were forced to be silent. Connell had
remained with the relief posted at camp during the absence of the
battalion, so Pops had his fire to undergo all alone. The Third Class
men hailed him, of course, by his recently discovered title.
[Illustration: ON GUARD DUTY]
"Ah! the cavalry corporal of Camp Coyote!" exclaimed Mr. Riggs, the
nearest of his tormentors. "Corporal, suppose that you found your post
suddenly invaded at night, sir, by the simultaneous appearance of the
general-in-chief and staff on the east, the commandant and corporal of
the guard on the west, the superintendent and a brass-band on the
north, Moses and the ten commandments on the south, and the ghost of
Horace Greeley on the other side, which would you first advance with
the countersign?"
Mr. Woods, another young gentleman whose years at the Academy had
conferred upon him the right to catechise, wished to be informed what
Corporal Graham's—er—excuse me—Corporal Pops's—course would be in the
event of a night attack of Sioux squaws upon his post. A third young
gentleman demanded to be informed if he had ever been regularly posted
as a sentry before, and to this question Pops truthfully answered "No,
sir," and went on eating his dinner as placidly as he could, keeping up
a good-natured grin the while, and striving not to be ruffled.
But Frazier, smarting under his own worriments, jealous, too, of the
comments that he had overheard from the lips of fair-minded cadets, who
could not but notice Graham's easy mastery of sentry duty, was only
waiting for a chance to give Pops a dig on his own account. At last
the chance seemed to come, and Benny, eager to show old cadets and new
comrades both how much more a Beanton High-school cadet knew of sentry
duty than a frontier plebe, lucklessly broke forth:
"Nice blunder you made this morning, Graham, turning your back on the
officer of the day, instead of facing him and saluting!" And Benny
looked triumphantly about him. The other plebes within hearing pricked
up their ears, as a matter of course.
"Is that so?" asked Pops. "When was it?"
"Oh, you needn't pretend you didn't see him! I saw you; so did Green
here. Didn't I, Green? I spoke of it at the time. You looked right at
him as he came around from A Company street past the adjutant's tent,
and instead of stopping and presenting arms you deliberately turned
your back on him, and stood facing Fort Clinton while he passed along
behind you."
Alas, poor Benny! Even yet he had not begun to learn how dangerous a
thing was a little learning. Graham's reply was perfectly quiet and
placid.
"I was taught this morning that when an officer passed along in rear of
the post without attempting to cross it, simply to stand at a carry,
facing outwards. I never heard of its being done any other way."
"Ho, ho!" laughed Benny. "Why, the very first thing a soldier's taught
is to look towards the officer he salutes, and never to turn his back.
Ain't it so, Mr. Cross?" he asked, confidently and appealingly of the
corporal of the guard, who had arisen, listening with a grin on his
face while pulling on his gloves.
"You have a heap to learn yet, young man," was the withering reply. "A
sentry always faces outward in camp when an officer passes by, even if
he passes behind his post, in which case he doesn't even salute. I gave
Mr. Graham those orders myself, sir."
Pops was wise enough to hold his peace, and never admit that he knew
it all before; nor did he join in the burst of laughter at Benny's
expense. Frazier, indignant, discomfited, shamed again before them all,
glared wrathfully at his tent-mate, as though it were all his fault.
But it would never do to let a plebe come off with such flying colors,
argued Mr. Woods, of the yearlings. One after another, insistently, he
pressed Geordie with all manner of points in sentry duty, and all that
were not broad burlesque were answered correctly, though it was evident
that Pops was getting annoyed. At last, just before the order to rise
was given, the yearling leaned half-way across the table.
"Now, suppose I was to come, sir, in the dead of night to your sentry
post, and demand, as your superior officer, that you give me up your
gun, what would you do?"
There was strained silence among the plebes for a moment. Geordie's
blue eyes, blazing a little, were looking straight into the frowning
face of his tormentor.
"Do you mean without the countersign? Without being an officer of the
guard?"
"Exactly, sir. Simply as your superior officer—as an old cadet to a
plebe, sir."
The answer came in low tone, but without a quaver, and every man at the
table heard it.
"I'd let you have it, butt foremost, between the eyes."
The sudden order for Company B to rise, in the voice of the first
captain, put instant end to this exciting colloquy. Foster gave his
leg a loud slap of delight. Even Benny rejoiced in the display of
what he called "Graham's grit." Mr. Woods made a spring as though to
come around to Graham's side of the table, but Cadet Captain Leonard,
officer of the day, was standing not forty feet away, and his attention
was evidently attracted. A class-mate seized Woods by the arm.
"Not here, not now, Jimmy," he cautioned. "We'll 'tend to that plebe
later."
Before the guard broke ranks on its return to camp the battalion had
scattered, and the yearlings of Company B were in excited consultation.
A plebe had threatened to strike Woods, was the explanation, and in the
unwritten code that has obtained at the Point from time immemorial that
meant fight.
"Nothing can be done till he marches off guard to-morrow, Woods," said
the First Class man to whom the matter was referred. "That'll be time
enough to settle it."
But meantime Geordie was destined to undergo further experiences.
That morning at guard-mounting the junior officer of the guard
inspecting the rear rank had very rigidly scrutinized every item of
Graham's dress and equipment, handing back his rifle with a look of
disappointment, as though he really wanted to find something he could
condemn. Even a junior cadet lieutenant seems to consider it a mistake
to be compelled to approve of anything a plebe can do.
But presently along came the adjutant, to whom, as was customary,
those old cadets of the guard who desired to "try for colors" tossed
up a second time their rifles, inviting his inspection. Trying for
colors used to be quite a ceremony in itself. The color-line in camp
at West Point extends along the front of what is called the body of
camp and parallel with its western side. It is the line along which the
battalion holds morning and evening parade, and along which all four
companies stack their arms immediately after "troop." The color-bearer
furls the flag, and lays it upon the centre stacks; a sentry is
immediately posted, and there the colors and the stacks remain until 4
P.M., unless it should rain. All persons going in or out of camp must
pass around the flanks of the line, and in so doing raise the cap or
helmet in salute to the flag. It is the duty of the sentry on colors to
see that this is done. Even civilians who may be invited into camp by
officers are expected to show the same deference.
Now an ordinary member of the guard has to walk post eight hours
during his tour of twenty-four, two hours on and four off, but the
color sentries had only the time from about 8.45 A.M. to 4 P.M. to
cover—less than two and a half hours apiece—and at night they were
permitted to go to their own tents and sleep, while their comrades of
the guard were walking post in the dew and darkness or storm and rain;
for never for an instant, day or night, are the sentry posts around
cadet camp vacated, by authority at least, from the hour of the corps'
marching in late in June until the fall of the snowy tents the 28th of
August. It was a "big thing," therefore, to win one of the colors at
guard-mounting.
Twenty-one cadet privates marched on every day, eighteen to man the
ordinary posts and three the color-line, these three being selected by
the adjutant from those whose rifle, equipment, uniform, etc., were in
the handsomest condition. Keen was the rivalry, and simply immaculate
at times the appearance of the contestants. The adjutant would not
infrequently force a dainty white handkerchief into all manner of
crevices about the rifle, or corners of the cartridge-box, wherever
dust or rust might collect, and a speck would ruin a fellow's chances.
On this particular morning, however, Mr. Glenn, the adjutant, was not
thoroughly satisfied with his color-men. He found some fault with two
of those whose rifles were tossed up, and there were only four all
told. And so it happened he had made the circuit of the front rank
without finding a satisfactory third man, nor had he better success on
the right of the rear rank. Coming to Graham, and looking him keenly
over from the tip of his pompon down to the toe of his shoes, the
adjutant's soldierly face lighted up with interest.
"What is your name, sir?" he asked.
"Graham."
"Toss up your rifle."
Geordie obeyed, conscious that his knees and lips were trembling a
little. Glenn took the beautifully-polished weapon, the interest on his
face deepening.
"Did you clean this gun yourself, sir?"
"Yes, sir."
"If this were not your first tour of guard duty, Mr. Graham, and you
had not to learn sentry duty, I would put you on colors." And all the
rear rank and file closers and most of the front rank heard him say it.
Now while a plebe must be berated for every blunder he makes, and is
perpetually being ordered to do better next time, the idea of his
doing so well the first time as to excel the performance of even the
"lowest-down yearling" is still more unforgivable in old cadet eyes.
It was not until dinner-time, however, that Mr. Glenn's commendation
of Corporal Pops began to be noised abroad. The adjutant, in his
dissatisfaction with the yearling candidates for colors, had virtually
instituted comparison between them and a plebe marching on for the very
first time, and comparisons of that nature were indeed odious. And so
it resulted that through no soldierly fault, but rather from too much
soldierly appreciation of his duties, Geordie Graham had fallen under
the ban of yearling censure, and was marked for vengeance.
This is not a pleasant thing for an old cadet—a very old cadet—to
write. There were plenty of Third Class men who, had they heard the
adjutant's remarks as made, and the conversation between Mr. Woods
and Graham as it occurred, would have taken no exceptions; but such
affairs are invariably colored in the telling, and gain in exaggeration
with every repetition. There was no one to tell Geordie's side of the
story. There were few yearlings who cared to question the adjutant
as to the exact nature of his remarks. Without any formal action at
all, but as the result of their own experience the year before and the
loose discussion held in group after group, by a sort of common consent
it was settled that that plebe must be "taken down." Not only must he
be called upon to apologize to Mr. Woods on marching off guard on the
morrow, or else give full satisfaction, cadet fashion, in fair fight
with nature's own weapons, but he must be taught at once that he had
too big an idea of his importance as a sentry. That might be all very
well a year hence, but not now.
At the risk of court-martial and dismissal, if discovered, two members
of the Third Class who had just scraped through the June examination,
and by reason of profusion of demerit and paucity of brains were
reasonably certain of being discharged the service by January next,
"shook hands on it" with one or two cadets more daring—because they
had more to lose—that they would dump Mr. Graham in Fort Clinton ditch
that very night; and as Fort Clinton ditch lay right along the post of
Number Three for a distance of some sixty yards, that would probably be
no difficult thing to do. "Only it's got to be a surprise. That young
Indian fighter will use either butt or bayonet, or both," was the
caution administered by an older head.
"Keep your eye peeled, Graham," whispered Connell to him just after
supper. "Some of those yearlings are going to try and get square with
you to-night."
Pops nodded, but said nothing. He had noticed that during supper
neither Mr. Woods nor any of the Third Class men at the table looked at
or exchanged a word with him. Frazier, all excitement, had overheard
Cadet Jennings, one of the famous boxers of the corps, inquire which
was "that plebe Graham," and had seen him speak in a low tone to
Geordie.
"I have a message for you from Mr. Woods, Mr. Graham," was all that
Jennings had said, "and will see you after you march off guard."
Pops well knew what that meant. From many a graduate, and especially
from Mr. McCrea, he had heard full account of the West Point method of
settling such matters. It differed very little from that described by
that manliest of Christians, Mr. Thomas Hughes, in his incomparable
boy-story, _Tom Brown's School-Days at Rugby_, and Pops had never a
doubt as to what his course would have to be. It was one point he could
not and would not discuss with his mother, and one which his father
never mentioned. Pops had said just what he meant to Mr. Woods, and he
meant to stand by what he had said.
But meantime other yearlings proposed to make it lively for him on post
that night, did they? Well, Geordie clinched his teeth, and set his
square, sunburned jaws, and gripped his rifle firmly as the relief went
tramping away down the long vista under the trees. The full moon was
high in the heavens, and camp was wellnigh as light as day. A nice time
they would have stealing upon him unawares, said he to himself; but his
heart kept thumping hard. It was very late—long after one. Only at the
guard-tents was there a lamp or candle burning. It was very still. Only
the long, regular breathing of some sleepers close at hand in the tents
of Company A, the distant rumble of freight trains winding through
the Highlands, or the soft churning of the waters by some powerful
tow-boat, south bound with its fleet of barges, broke upon the night.
Mr. Allen, officer in charge, had visited the guard just before their
relief was on, and, going back to his tent, had extinguished his lamp,
and presumably turned in. It was very warm, and many of the corps
had raised their tent walls; so, too, had Lieutenant Webster, the
army officer commanding Company A, and Pops could see the lieutenant
himself lying on his camp-cot sleeping the sleep of the just. His
post—Number Three—extended from the north end of the color-line, on
which Numbers Two and Six were now pacing, closed in around camp for
the night, down along the north side, skirting the long row of tents
of Company A; then, with the black, deep ditch of Fort Clinton on
the left hand, the gravelled pathway ran straight eastward under the
great spreading trees, past the wall tent of the cadet first captain;
beyond that the double tent of the adjutant; then near at hand was the
water-tank; and farther east, close to the path, the three tents of the
bootblacks and varnishers.
The four big double tents occupied by the four army officers commanding
cadet companies were aligned opposite their company streets, and some
twenty yards away from them. The big "marquee" of the commandant stood
still farther back, close to the shaded post of Number Four—and all so
white and still and ghostly. The corporal of the relief came round in
ten minutes to test the sentries' knowledge of the night orders. Pops
challenged sharply: "Who comes there?" and went through his military
catechism with no serious error. Half an hour later the clink of
sword was heard, and the cadet officer of the guard made the rounds,
and still there came no sign of trouble. Twice had the call of the
half-hour passed around camp. "Half-past two o'clock, and a-l-l's
well," went echoing away among the moonlit mountains, and still no
sight or sound of coming foe.
[Illustration: "'WHO COMES THERE?'"]
"They won't dare, it's so bright a night," said Pops to himself. "Only
an Apache could creep up on me here. They have to come from the side of
camp if they come at all. They can't get out across any sentry post."
Pacing slowly eastward, his rifle on his shoulder, turning vigilantly
behind him every moment or two, he had reached the tank where the
overhanging shade was heaviest and the darkness thick. Opposite the
shoeblack's tent he turned about and started westward again, where
all at the upper end of his post lay bright and clear. He could see
the white trousers and belts of Number Two glinting in the moonlight
as he sauntered along the northern end of his post. Then of a sudden
everything was dark, his rifle pitched forward into space; something
hot, soft, stifling enveloped his head and arms, and wound round and
round about him—all in the twinkling of an eye. Cry out he could not.
Brawny arms embraced him in a bear-hug. Sightless, he was rushed
forward, tripped up, and the next instant half slid, half rolled, into
the dewy, grassy depths of Clinton ditch. Unhurt, yet raging, when at
last, unrolling himself from the folds of a drum-boy's blanket, and
shouting for the corporal of the guard, he clambered back to his post.
Then not a trace could be seen of his assailants, not a sign of his
beautiful gun.