THE ATTACK ON MARK.
There was confusion indescribable in a moment; cadets rushed out of
their tents, and every one who chanced to be in the neighborhood started
on a run for the scene of the trouble, most of them just in time to see
the figure of the frightened plebe flying down a company street to the
guard tent. Indian's hair was sailing out behind, his eyes were staring
and his cheeks bulging with fright.
In response to the first yell, Lieutenant Allen, the tactical officer in
charge, had rushed to the tent door, followed by the corporal of the
guard, the officer of the day, and a host of other cadet officials. The
figure in blue, however, was the only one the plebe saw. That meant an
army officer and safety for him. So to that figure he rushed with a gasp
of fright.
"What's the matter?" cried Lieutenant Allen.
"Dynamite, sir, anarchists!"
"What!"
"Yes, sir, oh, please, sir, bless my soul, sir, I saw it,
sir--puff--oh!"
It took the amazed officer several moments to take in the situation.
"Anarchists," he repeated. "Dynamite! Why, what on earth?"
And then suddenly the whole thing flashed across him. It was another
prank of the yearlings! And, what was worse, a thousand times worse,
here was a sentry off his beat, in direct violation of his orders of all
military law.
"Didn't you receive a command, sir," he demanded severely, "not to leave
your post for any reason whatsoever? Don't you know that in time of war
your offense would mean hanging?"
"Bless my soul, sir!" gasped the sorely perplexed plebe, frightful
visions of gallows rising up before his bulging eyes. "Yes,
sir--er--that is, no, sir--bless my soul! They're going to attack the
place!"
The officer gazed at the lad incredulously for a moment; he thought the
plebe was trying to fool him. But that look on Indian's face could not
possibly be feigned; and the officer when he spoke again was a trifle
more consoling.
"Don't you know, my boy," he said, "this is all a joke? It was not real
dynamite."
"Not real dynamite!" cried the other in amazement. "Why, I saw it!
It----"
"It was the yearlings trying to fool you," said the lieutenant.
"Yearlings trying to fool me!" echoed the other as if unable to grasp
the meaning. "Why--er--bless my soul! Yearlings trying to fool me!"
The thought filtered through gradually, but it reached Indian's excited
brain at last. The change it produced when it got there was marvelous to
behold. The look of terror on his face vanished. So he had been fooled!
So he had let the yearlings outwit him! Yearlings--his sworn enemies!
And he a member of the Banded Seven at that! It was too awful to be
true! It was----
And then suddenly before Lieutenant Allen could raise a hand or say a
word the plebe wheeled, sprang forward and tore back down the company
street.
There was a look on Indian's face that his friends had seen there just
once before. The yearlings had tied him to a stake that day to "burn"
him, and they had set fire to his trousers by accident. Indian had
broken loose, and it was then that the look was on his face, a look of
the wildest fury of convulsive rage. Now it was there again, and Indian
was too mad to speak, almost too mad to see.
He rushed down the street, he tore in between two of the tents and burst
out upon the path where the sentry beat lay. It was dark and he could
see little, but off to one side he made out a group of cadets. He heard
a sound of muffled laughter. Here were his tormentors! Here! And with a
gasp and gurgle of rage Indian plunged into the midst of them.
After that there was just about as lively a time as those yearlings had
ever seen. Indian's arms were windmills and sledge hammers combined,
with the added quality of hitting the nail on the head every time they
hit. The result ten eyes could not have followed, and as many pens could
not describe it. Suffice it to say that the plebe plowed a path straight
through the crowd, then whirled about and started on another tack. And
that a few moments later he was in undisturbed possession of his post,
the yearlings having fled in every direction.
Then Indian picked up his musket, shouldered it, and strode away down
the path.
"I guess they'll leave me alone now," he said.
They did. Indian marched courageously after that, his head high and his
step firm, conscious of having done his duty and signally retrieved his
honor.
Pacing patiently, he heard tattoo sound and saw the cadets line up in
the company street beyond. He heard the roll call and the order to break
ranks. He saw the cadets scatter to their tents, his own friends among
them. Indian knew that it was half-past nine then and that he had but
half an hour more.
As he marched he was thinking about Mark. He was wondering if the
yearlings had had the temerity to try their "dumping" so early in the
evening. And he wondered, too, if Mark had prevailed, and if he had
dared to put into execution the daring act of retribution he had
planned.
Mark meantime was also walking his post, over on the other side of the
camp. He had marched there in silence and solitude since eight. He, too,
had heard tattoo; he had seen his five friends enter their tents which
lay very close to his beat, and he had nodded to them and signaled that
all was well.
Time passed rapidly. He saw the cadets undressing, saw most of them
extinguish their lights and lie down. And then suddenly came a roll upon
the drum--ten o'clock--"lights out and all quiet." And at the same
moment he heard the clank of a sword, and the tramp of marching feet
coming down the path. It was the relief.
They left another sentry there in Mark's stead and marched on around the
camp, picking up the others. Among these was the weary fat Indian, who
joined them with a sigh that it is no pun to call one of "relief." A few
minutes later they were in the guard tent, where Indian learned that the
attack had not yet come, at which he sighed again.
Cadets who are members of the guard sleep in the big "guard tent," which
is situated at the western end of the camp. Here they can be awakened
and can fall in and join the relief when their time comes without
disturbing the rest of the corps. Mark and Indian did not go on duty
again until two o'clock in the morning, and so they "turned in," in no
time and were soon fast asleep.
When they are awakened again we shall follow Mark to "Post No. 3."
Nothing more was done to poor Indian that night.
It was the "corporal of the relief," who touched Mark on the shoulder
and brought him out of the land of dreams. He sprang up hastily and
began to dress; cadets sleep in their underclothing, so that they may be
ready to "fall in" promptly, all dressed in case of an emergency. Mark,
gazing about him, saw a big white tent, with sleeping forms scattered
about it. A yawning cadet officer sat at a table, a candle by his side.
And five other sentries, about to go "on" like himself, were sleepily
dressing.
Promptly at the minute of two the six fell in, in response to the low
command of the corporal. At the same time the sentry's call of the hour
sounded:
"Two o'clock and all's well!"
And then out into the cold night air marched the six and away to their
posts of duty. There was a bright moon and the whole camp was light as
day as they marched. At number three, in response to the corporal's
order, Mallory fell out. And then "Forward, march!" and away down the
dim vista of trees swept the rest and around a turn and were gone. Mark
Mallory was alone, waiting for the enemy.
He was not afraid. He had made up his mind as to what he should do, and
now he was here to do it. He realized that from the very first moment he
set foot on this post, the word must be vigilance, vigilance! And he
gritted his teeth and set his square, sunburned jaws and seized his
rifle with a grip of determination, striding meanwhile on down the path.
He had not gotten halfway down to the end, the tramp of the relief was
still in the air, when suddenly came a low, faint whistle. Mark was
expecting that, and he faced about, started off the other way. He heard
a faint sound of hurrying feet and knew that his friends, the five, had
crossed. He saw shadows flitting in the deep grass of the ditch beside
him and knew that they were scattering to hide and wait in accordance
with the agreement. And he set his teeth with a still more grinding snap
and strode on. Vigilance, vigilance!
The moon was high in the heavens by this time; one could almost have
seen to read.
"They won't dare to try it," thought Mark. "A snake couldn't creep up on
me now. They'll have to come from the camp, too, for they can't cross
any sentry beat. But I'll watch, all the same."
His heart was beating fast then, he could almost regulate his step by
it. Outside of that all was ghostly and silent, except for the breathing
of the sleepers in the nearest tents of Company A. Once, too, he heard
the distant roar of a train as it whirled down the river valley, and
once the faint chug chug of a steamboat that passed on the water. But
for the most part the camp was unbroken in its peacefulness.
Tramp, tramp. Down the path to the sentry box, right about, and back
again. His post--number three--extended from the upper end of the
colorline on which two and six were marching, down along the north side
of the camp skirting the tents of Company A--his own--with the deep
ditch of Fort Clinton right to the left, past the tent of Fischer, the
first captain, and that of the adjutant, and ending near the water tank.
Tramp! tramp!
It was just a few minutes more before the corporal of the relief came
around, testing the sentries' knowledge of the orders of the night.
Later still came the cadet officer of the guard, with a clank of sword;
and he passed on, too. Tramp, tramp. And still no sign of trouble.
Mark's challenge, "Who comes there?" had been heard but once, and that
by the corporal.
"Will they try it?" he thought. "Now's the time. Will they try it?"
The answer came soon. Peering ahead with the stealthiness of a cat,
glancing back over his shoulder every minute, watching every moving
shadow, listening for every faintest sound. Tramp, tramp. Eastward
toward the river; he reached the water tank, where the shade was the
thickest, where stood the only bushes that could conceal a lurking foe.
Opposite the tent of the bootblack he halted and started back again,
where the path lay clear in the moonlight. Tramp, tramp. He could see
number two, far down in the distance, his white trousers glistening as
he marched. He saw the shadows of the trees waving, he heard the
breathing of the sleepers.
Then suddenly came the attack. There was a quick step behind him, and
everything grew dark. A cloth was flung about his mouth, and two pair of
hands about his writhing, sinewy body. Down he went to the ground,
fighting with every ounce of muscle that was in him. And after that
there was fun to spare.