THE SCHEME SUCCEEDS.
Dress parade in all its Fourth of July holiday splendor had passed, and
the sunset gun marked the ending of that day of celebration. Through the
dusk of evening the battalion had marched back from supper, to the tune
of "Marching Through Georgia" from the band and the popping of sundry
small firecrackers from mischievous small boys on the way. And then the
cadets had scattered, still in their dress uniforms, each to join his
own party of friends and go to the evening's entertainment.
Cadets are famous as "ladies' men," and during the gay holiday season,
which was now on, West Point was crowded with girls, so that every cadet
had his opportunities for gallantry, excepting, of course, the plebes,
who do not go into "society."
As the hour approached, the big gymnasium hall took on a lively aspect.
It ceased to be a gymnasium for a while; rings and trapezes were hung
up, and rows of seats occupied the floor, instead of parallel bars. The
big West Point Band was seated in front, and the rest of the room was
devoted to pretty girls and their cadet escorts. The Fourth of July
celebration was a cadet affair; the "president" occupied the small
platform in solitary grandeur; the commandant and his staff were
present, but they sat among the audience.
The plebes were there, too, on sufferance. The gallery was given up to
their use, and they filled it entirely, and gazed on the scene below.
The room with its decorations of flags and bunting, making them feel
very patriotic indeed.
The plebes we are interested in were there with the rest. They sat off
in one corner where they could whisper and keep their secret all to
themselves. If any one had overheard them, which they took good care
should not happen, he would have learned, to his amazement, that the
night's plot was all perfected. He might have learned that "George" had
done his duty with fully as much delight as any of the Seven.
He might have learned that having been taken into the secret "George"
had not only gotten the powder, but had volunteered to do the work
himself, to save the seven "young gintlemen" all danger of discovery. He
might have learned that down in a secluded woody hollow just east of
camp lay three big siege guns in "Battery Knox," loaded and stuffed to
the muzzle with powder and paper and rags.
There was lots more he might have learned. He might have learned that at
the present moment the jolly, red-faced butler was lurking about the
neighborhood of the Battery, anxiously surveying his watch at intervals
of every minute or so, waiting for half-past nine, the precise minute
when he was to touch off the fuse and run. Also that Grace was down with
her father, in the audience, occasionally stealing a sly glance at Mark;
also that Mark was bearing a good deal of merry banter upon his
conquest; also that the Seven, having spent two hours or so with Grace,
were vowing her the most original, daring and altogether charming girl
that ever was anywhere, a most undoubtable and valuable ally of Mark and
his anti-hazing society.
The seven were about as nervous and anxious as seven plebes could
possibly be. What if "George" should be found out? What if the guns
should not go off? It was such a colossal and magnificent plot that the
mere thought of its failure was enough to make one's hair turn gray.
What if the thing should begin too late, the guns go off before Bull
started? Or on the other hand, suppose his speech was short and he
shouldn't be interrupted!
Mark had calculated the time carefully. He had allowed five minutes for
the "prelude." But suppose it should be longer, or shorter, or should
begin after eight-thirty? As the hour drew near Mark and his friends
sat and wriggled in their seats and glanced at their watches and----
"It's half past now," growled Texas. "Durnation, it's a minute after
that! Ain't they ever--ah!"
The bandmaster arose from his seat, and raised his baton in the air. It
was the "Star Spangled Banner," and the sound shook the flags that
graced the walls and shook the hearts of the audience, too, and made
them rise as one man.
"'Tis the Star Spangled Banner
And long may it wave.
O'er the land of the free
And the home of the brave!"
The notes died out and the Seven remembered that for a moment they had
forgotten to be nervous.
The grave young chaplain arose, and raised his hands. His prayer was
earnest, and his voice trembled as he spoke of the flag and its country.
But alas! our friends had no eye or ear for beauty. It was time--time!
Would he take more than the calculated five minutes? It was time for him
to stop! Plague take it--six!--six and a half!--ah! There he had said
"Finally," no, he was going off on another tack! Gee whiz--eight--thank
heavens!
The sigh of relief that came at last from the Seven almost shook the
roof.
Then came "music;" that had been problematical. Music might mean
anything from two minutes to twenty. But there is no need of torturing
the reader, even if the seven were tortured correspondingly. The piece
took some ten minutes of agony, and then Cadet Captain Fischer stepped
forward on the platform.
Fischer was an immensely popular man with his class, and they applauded
him to the echo. He looked handsome, too, in his chevrons and sash. He
read "The Declaration of Independence," and he read it in the voice that
had made him first captain, a voice that was clear and deep and ringing,
a voice that sounded in the open above the thunder and rattle of
artillery drill, and that sounded still better in the hall, as it spoke
the words that had made a continent tremble.
There was nothing in that to worry the Seven--they had gotten a copy of
the "Declaration" and practiced it by the watch. Fischer finished on
schedule time; but then came the tussle. And some poor plebes up in the
gallery nearly had apoplexy from waiting.
There were fifteen minutes left. That allowed say ten minutes for the
music, and five for Bull to get warmed up to his work.
The bandmaster arose; he played "Hail Columbia." The audience, wild with
fervor, stormed and shouted; he played it again. The minutes fled by.
The Seven gasped! The audience kept up their applause, and the music
struck up "My Country, 'Tis of Thee," while the time fled yet faster
still.
Great heavens! and still the fools--the fools!--in that crowd clapped
and waved handkerchiefs--would they never stop, would they never let
Bull step forward? He was dying to. The Seven could see him in his seat,
half-risen, waiting doubtless as impatiently as they. And still the
people wouldn't behave themselves.
Bull rose up. Ah, at last. There was a cessation in the infernal racket!
The amount of torture the plebes suffered during those brief moments
cannot be told. The gun might go off at any moment now! It might go off
before Bull started, might ruin the whole thing. Plague take him, what
made him walk so slowly? Would he never get up on that platform? And the
foolish audience, why didn't they stop and let him start? What did they
want to be applauding that ugly old yearling for? And why didn't he stop
that fool bowing and scraping? Some people are such chumps!
The applause stopped at last. An expectant hush fell upon the crowd.
Bull Harris stood pompous and self-conscious, gazing upon the scene for
a moment, and then began. The Seven gasped: "We've got him."
"Ladies and Gentlemen: We have assembled upon this memorable occasion to
celebrate (Now let that gun go, b'gee!) one of the most glorious
achievements (You bet we have!) that ever was attained by man. We have
assembled (What on earth's the matter with "George?") to applaud with
the voices of the present, words that echo from memories of the past,
(Can his watch have stopped?) words that will ring through the halls of
time (Plague take the luck!) as long as time shall be counted in the
heart throbs of living men. The deeds of our ancestors live in the----"
At last!
With a boom and a rattle and a crash gun No. 1 of Battery Knox thundered
out upon the still night air. Bull stopped in amazement; the audience
sprang up in alarm; the seven shrieked--silently--for joy. And then----
Boom!
It was No. 2. The room rang with shouts of confusion; cadets stared and
ran hastily about; women cried out in alarm.
Boom!
It was No. 3, and at the same instant from a hundred throats came the
dreaded cry of "Fire!"
Three guns is West Point's fire alarm. Quick as a flash, before the
audience had time to think of flight, of panic, the commandant of cadets
sprang to the platform.
"Company fire battalion form on the street outside, immediately!"
At the same moment, in response to a command from outside, a drum
orderly sounded the "long roll." The band struck up a quick march, and
tramp, tramp, tramp, the grave cadets marched out of the hall,
forgetting friends and entertainment, forgetting everything in the one
important thought--discipline--obedience to orders.
And in half a minute more the gymnasium was empty; the street was
crowded with the anxious audience, and the battalion was tramping
steadily across the parade ground in a vain search for an imaginary
fire.
In that battalion were seven wildly delighted plebes. They hugged
themselves for joy; they gasped, choked with repressed laughter. They
punched each other in the ribs and whispered:
"Didn't we do it? Oh, didn't we do it? Three cheers for the Banded
Seven--B. B. J.!"
The fire, of course was not found. Near camp the corps halted, to wait
for the person who fired the alarm guns to come out and lead the way. He
didn't do it, and gradually it began to dawn upon the commandant and the
assembled "tacs" that the whole thing was a hoax. "And then indeed the
Philistines were wroth."
Captain Quincey, the commandant, stepped to the head of the line,
determined to investigate the matter on the spot. Roll call disclosed
the fact that no one was absent; that made him think the guns were fired
with a time fuse, and so he tried another way to find out the culprits.
It is not good form in West Point to lie; cadets who do soon find
themselves cut by the class. So Captain Quincey, knowing that, gave this
order:
"Parties who fired those guns will remain standing. Those who are
innocent will advance one step. March!"
Now that any plebe had dared to do such a bold trick had never occurred
to the cadets. They were convinced that some of their number were
guilty, and they protected them in the usual way. Not a man moved. They
refused to obey the order.
The commandant was furious, of course. He tried it the other way,
ordered the guilty ones to advance. Whereupon the whole corps stepped
forward to share the blame. To punish them he tried the dodge of keeping
them standing at attention for half an hour or so, but several dropped
from well-feigned exhaustion, which stopped that scheme.
He ordered one of the "tacs" to march them around the parade ground. The
cadets, who were out for fun by this time and angry besides, guyed the
unpopular "tac" with a vengeance. It was too dark for him to distinguish
any one, and so every one obeyed orders wrong, producing chaos and
finally compelling him to summon the commandant to preserve order.
With the commandant watching, those weary cadets marched for an hour
more. Then he asked some questions and again got no answers. And finally
in disgust he sent them off to their tents, most of them still puzzled
as to who did it, some of them wild with joy.
These last were the Banded Seven--"B. B. J."