January examinations passed by without material change in the standing
of those in whom we are most interested, except in the case of Benny
Frazier—too ill to appear before the Board. For weeks he had been
"running down," and the assault at the hands of Jennings proved but
the climax that brought on a violent and dangerous siege of fever. For
days the devoted mother, aided by skilled nurses, was ever at the side
of her stricken boy. Volunteers from his class, too, were always in
readiness as night-watchers; but almost from the first the one for whom
he called and of whom he moaned in his delirium was Geordie Graham. No
one saw the meeting between the heart-sick, almost hopeless woman and
her son's earliest friend and room-mate, but that she had been deeply
agitated was plain. From their interview she came forth clinging to his
arm, leaning on his strength, and from that time she was never content
to have him far away. Each day, between retreat parade and evening call
to quarters, there were hours he could spend at Frazier's bedside,
and they were the only hours in all the twenty-four that the feeble,
childlike patient looked forward to with anything but apathy. For days
his life hung in the balance; but when at last the crisis came and went
and left him pitiably weak in body and spirit, the one thing he seemed
to cling to in life was Graham's brown and muscular hand.
"I wonder I am not jealous," said Mrs. Frazier to the doctor's kindly
wife; "but I thank God my poor boy has such a friend left to him, after
all his trouble—all the misery into which that—that awful person has
led and held him."
And the awful person was Jennings, who, shunned like a pariah by the
corps, was again awaiting trial by court-martial as soon as Frazier
should be able to testify. For days it looked as though Benny never
could appear before an earthly court, and that this case, like the
other, must go by default. So long as it appeared that the fever would
prove fatal, Jennings kept up his air of bravado and confidence. The
evidence of Graham and Ames, the first to reach the scene of the
assault, would be sufficient to convict him of that offence, but even
they could prove nothing beyond a personal row, said he. It was fully
understood, however, that back of all this trouble was the old case
of Benny's plebe camp, and that the assault on Graham when a sentry,
the stealing of Graham's rifle, and the desertion of Musician Doyle
were all matters in which Jennings was a prime mover; and though now
"outlawed by the statute"—more than two years having passed since the
occurrence of these offences, during which time the alleged offender
had in no wise sought to secrete himself from military justice, and
therefore a case no longer triable by court-martial—there is no
two-year limit to the contempt of the corps of cadets. They could send
him to Coventry at any time, and even though he were graduated it might
be impossible to obtain a commission.
But when it was noised about the battalion that Benny was on the mend,
and that, day after day, he looked forward to nothing as he did to
Geordie's visit, it became known that he had made a full and frank
confession, and that Jennings was deeply implicated. Interviewed on
this subject, Graham refused to say a word; but Mrs. Frazier had been
less cautious. It seemed as though she could not do enough to undo
her coldness and injustice to Geordie in the past, or to express her
affection and regard for him now. In the overflow of her gratitude
and joy, when at last her son was declared out of danger, she told
the story to sympathetic lady friends, wives of officers stationed
at the post, almost as it had been told to her by Benny, and it was
not long in leaking through to the corps. The pent-up wrath of the
battalion is not a thing to see and forget. The story flew from lip to
lip. "Tar-and-feather him!" "Kick him out!" "Turn him loose and let
him run the gantlet!" were some of the mad suggestions, but Bend and
cooler counsels prevailed. Realizing his peril, Jennings implored the
protection of the commandant, and was given a room in the officers'
angle. Then the commandant and adjutant went with Dr. Brett to the
convalescent's bedside, and Benny's statement was reduced to writing.
A few days later the police of Jersey City laid hands on a precious
pair. One of them bore the name of Peter Peterson, the other was Doyle,
ex-drummer, both wanted for blackmail and other offences, and Doyle
for desertion. The news of this capture reached the corps late in the
afternoon, and was the talk of the whole mess-hall at supper. Next
morning at breakfast came sensation still bigger:
Jennings had fled.
Some time during the night he had packed up such things as he could
carry and stolen quietly away. A sentry said he saw a young man in
civilian dress, with a bag in his hand, going down towards the south
dock about 11 o'clock. He boarded a night train at Cranston's Station,
and that was all. It proved the easiest settlement of a vexed case.
The court-martial turned its attention to Doyle, the deserter, and
Doyle pleaded guilty, for his was a case that was still triable because
he had absented himself ever since the desertion occurred. Throwing
himself upon the mercy of the court, the boy made his statement. He
said that one evening in camp, three summers back, Mr. Jennings was
sentry on Number Three, and told him he wanted him, Doyle, to do
an errand. Cadets often employed him, and paid him money to carry
notes, or to buy cigars, or the like. It was arranged that he was to
be there, back of Company A, about ten minutes before tattoo, and,
going there, he found a rifle leaning against a tree, and this Mr.
Jennings bade him carry out to a point near the east edge of the dump
hollow, and look there in the weeds, where he would find, half hidden,
another one. The drummers were allowed to cross the post of Number
Three without question. He had no difficulty in finding and fetching
in the rusty rifle, and left the new rifle in its place, as he had
been told, supposing that it was only some trick they were playing.
Mr. Frazier was there, inside the sentry's post, on his return, and
received from him the rusty gun. That night, later, when he heard
the adjutant and the cadet captains talking, he saw the matter was
serious and got scared, and went out next day and "found," as he
expressed it, what he had left there, and carried it to the adjutant.
He was closely questioned, got more frightened, and wanted to tell
all he knew; but Jennings swore he would be tried and sent to jail as
a thief, and warned him the only safety lay in secrecy. Mr. Frazier
gave him ten dollars then to buy his silence, and promised him more;
but when Jennings was put in arrest and court was ordered to convene,
both Jennings and Frazier were badly scared, and told him there was
no hope for him at all if it came to trial, as they'd have to testify
to his part in the thing, and that meant penitentiary. Then old Mr.
Frazier came and had a talk with him down at the Falls: told him he
must get away to save himself, gave him fifty dollars, and promised
him employment and immunity from arrest if he would go at once. Doyle
told Reilly, another of the boys, of his trouble, and Reilly said he'd
better go. He got away all right, but the place Mr. Frazier gave him
in Pennsylvania among the miners was too hard work; he couldn't stand
it, and asked for more money, and until Frazier died he paid him. Then
there was no way but to turn to the cadet, through Reilly, saying he
was starving, and would have to come and give himself up and tell all
about how the old man had bribed him to desert. Then all of a sudden he
was nabbed, and that ended it. No! Cadet Frazier had never suggested
desertion. It was all Mr. Jennings and the father.
And Benny's story corroborated much of poor Doyle's. Jennings had
halted him down by the water-tank that wretched night in camp, pointed
out how Pops was being shown too much favoritism and getting the "big
head." Jennings put him up to getting Graham's rifle—a matter that was
easily accomplished in the darkness and the deserted street of Company
B; but he never meant it for anything more than a joke, though he was
jealous of Graham's success, and did think that he was having too much
partiality shown him. Then when Jennings told him to take the rusty
rifle to the tent in place of the new one, he wanted to back out; but
it was too late. Jennings bullied and threatened him with exposure and
dismissal for stealing, etc.—threatened even then to call the corporal
of the guard and have him taken to the guard-house, caught in the act.
He was bewildered and terrified, and ended by doing exactly as he was
told. Then came that dreadful day of investigation, followed later
by Jennings's arrest; and then Jennings told him of their desperate
plight, and bade him wire for his father to come at once. Jennings told
him what to say to his father, and wrote a letter, setting forth what
would happen if the drum-boy could not be "fixed," and suggesting how
to fix him. His father was utterly dismayed at the scrape that Benny
was in, and accepted all Jennings's statements. He did not, of course,
consult any of the officers, but carried out everything proposed to the
letter. For the time being the boys were saved, but within another year
Benny learned from the other drum-boy, Reilly, the one with whom he had
had the trouble, that Doyle had let the cat out of the bag. Then he
had to bribe Reilly. Then Jennings, too, levied on him, and his father
later on, while on furlough; and after his father's death poor Benny's
life was one succession of torments. Doyle, Reilly, and Jennings, too,
"bled" and threatened him time and again, until in his desperation he
sought to make a clean breast of it all to Graham. That night Jennings
suspected his object, overtook him in the hall, seized and choked and
carried him back, and nearly finished him by strangulation before
rescue came. Benny was ready to stand trial—suffer any punishment; but
by this time the poor fellow's prostration and penitence, his mother's
tears and anxiety, and the fact that he had been throughout the entire
history of the affair only a cat's-paw, coupled with the reports of the
surgeons that he was in no condition to face a trial, all prevailed.
It was late in February before he was sufficiently recovered to be
moved about, and then sick leave of absence was granted, and he with
his devoted mother left for Nassau. He had parted company with the old
class for good and all, and was ordered to report in June and join the
class below.
March, spring drills, spring rides, and the election of hop managers
for First Class camp, all were upon them again before Benny and his
strange and unhappy experiences had ceased to be the universal topic
of conversation. Geordie had wonderful letters to write that month,
and there had been an interchange of missives between two grateful,
prayerful women, one letter leading to another, until now Mrs. Graham's
weekly budget to her big boy was full of Mrs. Frazier and the sweet,
womanly, motherly letters she wrote. April came, and, despite his
modest declination of such an honor, Geordie found himself chosen
among the foremost of the nine hop managers for the coming camp.
More than that, while study had become so habitual to him that he
had risen slowly but steadily even in the most difficult portions of
applied mathematics, his progress in chemistry and kindred topics
had been still more marked. But, better than all, he was now in the
midst of a course wherein no one in all the class was more thoroughly
at home. From boyhood, drill and drill regulations, as they are
called in this day—"tactics," as they were in his—were matters of
everyday acquaintance. He knew cavalry drill "from a to izzard," and
the infantry tactics through the school of the battalion thoroughly
and well. But all the same he left no stone unturned, no paragraph
unstudied, before each day's recitation. Here, at least, were subjects
in which he could "face the music" week after week and fairly triumph.
And to the delight of Connell, Winn, Ames, Ross, and the first section
men generally, it was seen that Geordie was "maxing" steadily through,
never losing a single tenth in infantry.
"Go it, Coyote, go it!" said Connell. "By jimminy! there isn't a man in
the class that would begrudge you the first place if you can get it."
It was even queried whether Ames, to whom maxing in anything now came
as easy as failure to some boys, had not deliberately "slouched off"
a couple of points so as to secure to Graham first mark in infantry;
though, just to make sure of his own place in general standing, he
stuck to a solid line of 3's in artillery, Pops following close behind.
So far as marks were concerned, therefore, Geordie was certain of high
rank in the general subject, for he was as thorough in cavalry as in
infantry. Battery books alone presented any novelty to him, and it was
conceded that the June examination could not change his prospects.
Meantime, too, as the spring wore on, the members of the Graduating
Class seemed to feel that it was due to themselves to behave towards
Graham with marked cordiality and regard. Anybody failing in this
respect might render himself liable to suspicion of being in some way
connected with the old Jennings clique; and no greater shame attached
to any member of the corps now than that he had at any time been an
associate of that fellow, or even guided by his opinion. On the other
hand, to be pointed out as the one man in the corps who had "knocked
out" that redoubtable middle-weight was honor that overtopped the
chevrons of half the senior class. No one doubted that there were other
fellows who could have "bested" the representative of the "Sanguinary
Second," but he had wisely refrained from giving them opportunity.
Feeling sure of Pops, he ventured once too often, and down went the
star of his glory.
May, with its sunshine and showers and long languorous days—"the days
of spring fever and spring fights," as the cadets used to say—found
the relations between Geordie and his company more and more cordial.
All through the year, with absolute impartiality and quiet force, he
had done his duty to the best of his ability, and Connell, with all
his pride in "old D," was the last to claim for it a superiority over
the color company. Bend declared he never had to bother his head
about it at all. He marched it out to parade or inspection, but his
first sergeant looked to the discipline. Among the officers of the
tactical department, too, there was no lack of appreciation of the way
in which "McCrea's plebe" had won his way up the ladder of promotion,
and the relative position of the cadet officers for the coming summer
was already a problem over which the corps was indulging in much
speculation and the commandant in no little thought. The two finest
positions, as has been said, are those of first captain and adjutant.
The former commands the battalion in the mess-hall and on its way to
and from the same, while the latter has the most conspicuous part to
play at parade, guard-mounting, and the like. The first captain is
assigned to the right flank, Company A, and his responsibilities are
great. He requires dignity and strength of character beyond the other
officers. The adjutant should be a model in bearing, carriage, voice,
command, but his duties are more picturesque than formidable. As a
rule, these high offices—the captaincies, adjutancy, etc.—are given
to cadets whose scholarship and class standing are also high; for in
the greater number of cases soldierly ability and character are there
to be found. Yet it often happens that the head of the First Class is
only a private in the ranks, and the senior captain or the adjutant
comes from the other end of the line. When graduation is close at hand,
however, the commandant makes out a list of the recommendations for
the coming year, and this he submits to the superintendent. His wishes
generally carry all possible weight.
It rarely happens that the first captain is selected from outside the
first sergeants of the previous year, and in four cases out of five
the office goes to the first sergeant of Company A. The sergeant-major
in the same degree is looked upon as a sort of legitimate heir to the
adjutancy. He has served as senior non-commissioned officer for a year,
and yet has had no opportunity of command other than the few seconds
required in forming the guard. He may never have given the command
"Forward, march!" He may turn out to have little or no voice, and
voice is something an adjutant must have. The first sergeants, on the
contrary, have constant use for their lungs and larynx and faculties of
command; and it used to happen quite frequently that, to one of these,
instead of the sergeant-major, the prize of the adjutancy was given.
But there was no room for doubt in Benton's case, said the corps. He
was soldier in every word and action; stood one of the five—_sure_;
had a rich resonant voice, that was good to hear in the cadet choir
and a delight at the entertainment given the fag-end of February—"one
hundred days to June." No doubt, the plume and chevrons and sword-knot
of the adjutancy would be his; "and no one," said Badger and Coyote,
"would better grace or deserve it." On the score of the first captaincy
they had less to say, but the battalion said a good deal. No one quite
understood why, when Ames was dropped from third to sixth corporal,
Wright had not been dropped from second to eighth or even below. He was
a fine, tall, dignified fellow, massive of voice and slow of movement,
and a very hard student. He was "dad" of the class, but no longer
stood in the 5's. He was a fine-looking corporal and would have made
an admirable color-bearer, but his impressive dignity was what lifted
him so high at the start; and, acting as first sergeant of Company A in
their yearling camp under a famous captain, he made no serious failure,
but could not compare with either Graham or Connell or Winn as a
drill-master. He was made first sergeant of Company A, however, at the
outset; and as he was methodical and massive, things looked all right;
but it soon became apparent that all manner of "breaks" could happen
before his eyes and Wright never see them. More than that, roll-call
with him was a very perfunctory affair. Time and again he faced about
and reported, "All present, sir!" when one, two, and even, as once
happened, six of his company had slept through reveille. Discipline
couldn't help running down in Company A; and when recitations in
tactics were about half over, it became evident that Wright was
nowhere, compared with Graham and Benton, Ames and Connell, and a dozen
more of the class.
"If Wright's made first captain, he'll go to sleep some day, and the
corps will march right away from him," said his own cadet captain, who
was a frequent sufferer from his sergeant's lapses. "Still, he has the
prestige of being first in Company A right along, and nobody can say
what Colonel Hazzard or the Supe may do."
But it was decided soon enough.
Back from the beautiful grove, one exquisite June morning, marched
the jaunty battalion, each graduate bearing in his white-gloved hand
the diploma he had just received in the presence of the revered old
general-in-chief, who for the last time addressed the eager audience
in cadet gray. Once more the line reformed in the shade of the massive
elms in front of barracks. Gray-and-white and motionless, it faced the
tall plumed figure of the cadet adjutant, unfolding the last order.
Eagerly, impetuously a throng of visitors—men and women, girls and
boys—came scurrying after and grouping breathlessly among the trees,
all eyes on one form, all ears on one voice. Though he win the highest
honors in the highest corps in the army of the United States, not for
many a year will that young gentleman be again the centre of such
absorbed and universal regard. Quickly he rattles through the orders
for the dispersal of the Graduating Class. Who cares for that? They all
know that beforehand, anyway. They'll be out of cadet uniform and into
cit's in ten minutes from the word "Break ranks!" Here's what all ears
are striving to hear. Listen:
Headquarters United States Military Academy,
West Point, N. Y., _June 11, 18—_.
_Orders._
No....
1. All appointments hitherto existing in the battalion of cadets are
hereby annulled, and the following substituted in their stead:
To be captains:
Cadets Graham, Connell, Ross, and Winn.
To be adjutant:
Cadet Denton.
To be quartermaster:
Cadet Ames.
And now Pops is conscious that the trees are swimming and he is
getting dizzy. First captain! first captain! _He?_ What will not mother
say? What will not Bud say? It is almost incredible. But he gathers
himself as the adjutant runs down the list. He sees the smile in Bend's
kind face as his loved friend and captain faces about, and for the last
time says, "Dismiss the company!" Mechanically his hand snaps in to
the shoulder in salute, as for the last time he jumps the old rifle up
to the carry, then steps to the front and faces to his left, and finds
a frog in his throat as he gives the order, for the last time, to the
company he has so well handled throughout the year, "Carry arms!" "Arms
port!" "Break ranks, March!" and then is swallowed up in the cheering,
hand-shaking, uproarious rush of the whole battalion; is lifted on the
shoulders of a squad of stalwart fellows, faithful Connell among them,
and borne triumphantly down along the road, and a lane is made through
the gang of tossing shakoes, and suddenly a lithe little dark-eyed
fellow, in natty suit of summery cits, sends a white top-hat spinning
up into the overhanging elms, and clasps Geordie's right in both his
dainty kid-gloved hands. "Pops, dear old boy, nobody's gladder than I
am!"
And indeed Frazier looks it.