ON THE MARCH.
The battalion stood at “order arms,” waiting for the next movement.
Major Tommy galloped his sorrel charger up and down the line, looking
with great solemnity at the troops. We in the line wondered what was
going to happen, though we were all sufficiently aware of Tommy’s
propensity for making speeches to suspect that he meditated a flight of
rhetoric on the present occasion. The opportunity seemed to be too good
for him to neglect. He would not have thought of making a speech to the
battalion alone; but the instructors and quite a respectable crowd of
the town’s people were present, and we knew the oration was intended
for them rather than for us, to whom it was addressed.
“Soldiers,” Tommy began, with a flourish of his sword,--a very elegant
toy, which added much vim to his words,--“we are about to commence a
long march.”
“What’s the use of saying that? We knew it before,” said, in a low
tone, the first lieutenant of Company B, who stood near me.
“We are going without any of our instructors, entirely upon our own
responsibility.”
“We know that too,” growled the lieutenant; and no one will suspect
that he was a partisan of the major.
“Soldiers, we must remember the uniform that we wear, and never
disgrace it. We must bear in mind that we are the soldiers of the
Toppleton Institute, upon which rests no stain of disgrace or dishonor.
Wherever we go, let it be our purpose to reflect credit and honor
upon the institution. We claim to be young gentlemen; let us conduct
ourselves as such, whether we be in the halls of the Institute or amid
the solitudes of nature.”
“He stole that,” hummed the discontented lieutenant of Company B.
“Soldiers, we are a military organization, subject to the rules of
military discipline. The first duty of a soldier is to obey the orders
of his superiors. I expect from you, during the march that is before
us, the most implicit obedience to your officers. If any one, officer
or private, behaves himself in an unsoldierly manner, he shall be
promptly tried by court martial, and punished for his offence.”
“Court martial!” exclaimed the grumbler of Company B. “If Tommy
Toppleton don’t conduct himself according to his buncombe standard, I
go for trying him by court martial.”
Tommy’s allusion to military discipline looked as though he had
obtained a new idea. A court martial was a thing unknown in the
experience of our little army. Tommy had threatened the thing once or
twice when the boys were crooked, though delinquents were reported
to the principal of the Institute, and punished by him. But it was a
fact that the major had been studying up courts martial; and when he
mentioned the matter, we were satisfied that he would be on the lookout
for some one to court martial. It was evident that he wished to go
through with the ceremony of a military court, and we saw that it would
be well for us to be prudent, or he would soon find a victim.
Tommy proceeded to explain the order of march, the rules of the camp,
and bivouac, and repeated his injunctions that all the members of the
battalion should behave with perfect propriety, the latter of which
could only be meant in a Pickwickian sense, and was uttered to produce
a proper impression upon the instructors and other outsiders.
“Shoulder--arms!” shouted he, when he had finished his oration.
We shouldered, broke into sections, and moved off. The baggage wagons
fell in behind, and the long tramp was actually commenced. The band
played “The Girl I left behind me,” which, however, had no special
significance on the present occasion, inasmuch as we were all too young
to have sweethearts. Major Tommy rode in solemn majesty at the head of
the column, the boys and girls in the streets gazing at him in wonder
and admiration. The sorrel pony, as well as the rider, seemed to “feel
his oats,” prancing and curvetting in a very impressive manner.
In less than half an hour we had passed the last house in the town.
Thus far we had marched with the utmost precision, and the band had
played nearly all the time, relieved at intervals by the drum corps.
Of course we all expected to make a show when we passed any houses,
or there were any people to see us; but we did not like to be kept
in the straight jacket of precision when there was no occasion for a
sensation, and when there was nothing but the squirrels and the robins
to be moved by a martial display. We expected the order for the “route
step,” which permitted us to march in a free and easy manner. It did
not come, and the band and the drum corps blowed and pounded just as
though we had been in the midst of a populous city.
“Tommy is ugly to-day,” said the lieutenant of Company B. “He means to
make us work our passage.”
“I am afraid he is,” I replied. “But it is not very uncommon for him.”
“I should think he would remember that to-morrow will be election day.
What’s the use of tooting so out here!” added the malcontent, alluding
to the music of the band.
“No use; but it’s Tommy’s will.”
“No talking in the ranks there!” exclaimed Tommy, who had halted his
steed at the side of the road to survey his command “Captain Skotchley,
you will keep in your proper position.”
I obeyed the order; but, as Tommy rode forward, I ventured to suggest
that the route step would be agreeable to the privates.
“You will mind your own business, Captain Skotchley, and remember that
I command the battalion. I don’t need any advice,” was the ungracious
reply.
By regular promotions I had become the captain of Company B. My
advancement was not due to Tommy’s favor, for I was not one of his
toadies. I had taken no part in the battles on the Horse Shoe the year
before, when the conduct of the little major had been so overbearing
that I could not endure it. I was charged with being a deserter. I
wrote to my father, asking him to take me away from the Institute;
but he was an old friend of Major Toppleton, senior, and a peace was
patched up between us. I was restored to my rank; but Tommy hated me as
he did the evil one, because I would not toady to him.
Why should I? My father was not less wealthy than his. Our social
position was just as good. I always made it a point to be a gentleman.
I had my friends among the poor as well as the rich; and I don’t think
I ever put on airs. I always had a profound respect and admiration
for Wolf Penniman, and we were the very best of friends. He always
called me the “dignified student,” though I don’t think there was any
particular reason for doing so, unless it was that I was too dignified
to be trodden beneath the feet of Tommy Toppleton. I always liked a
good time, and went in for one, when there was a chance.
Without egotism I may say that I stood well with the fellows in the
Institute--that is with all those whose good opinion was worth having.
I base my judgment of this feeling upon the fact that they elected me
the president of the railroad company over Tommy Toppleton, the year
before, and had given me almost a majority the present year. More than
this, in the counsels of the opposition, I had been invited to stand as
a candidate for major, at the coming election. Briscoe ranked me, and
was a very good fellow, though a little disposed to be hot-headed at
times. I refused to stand in his way, believing him justly entitled to
the office if Tommy was defeated, as the opposition hoped and expected
he would be on the following day. Some of the fellows told the captain
of Company A that I had declined in his favor, and I did not lose
anything in his estimation by the act.
Tommy did not give us the route step, and we concluded he intended to
worry and fatigue us as much as he could; but we were too good soldiers
to disobey orders, at least at this stage of the march. We advanced
with as much precision as though the eyes of admiring thousands had
been fixed upon us. We were ascending the gentle undulation of a long
hill, about four miles from Middleton, when we saw a young man in a
wagon, with a very pretty girl at his side, driving a spirited horse.
The band was laboriously wailing out the solemn strains of “Hail
Columbia,” for it had about exhausted its _repertoire_ of pieces;
and the bass drummer pounded out his part as though he knew not the
meaning of weariness. The horse attached to the wagon, which appeared
to be a four-year-old colt, began to snort, and exhibit an evident
disinclination to “face the music.” Pretty girl was alarmed, as well
she might be, for the capricious animal reared and plunged in a fearful
manner. The young man holding the reins was master of the situation,
though he appeared to have his hands full.
Major Tommy was riding on the flank of the battalion, as the head of
the column approached the furious horse. He dashed forward with a
flourish, when the leader of the band, seeing that the music frightened
the colt, and not wishing to be responsible for a catastrophe, had
silenced the players.
“Why don’t you play? What did you stop for?” shouted the major,
angrily. “Strike up again!”
The leader tooted with his bugle, and the bass drummer hammered out
the initial notes of the piece. The terrified animal, which had begun
to take a reasonable view of the situation, reared and plunged again.
Pretty girl screamed, as pretty girls do when they are alarmed, and the
colt was frightened all the more.
“I say, cap’n, just stop the music for half a minute--won’t you, if you
please?” said the driver, appealing to Tommy, who had now resumed his
place at the head of the battalion.
“No, sir! I won’t stop the music,” replied Tommy, rudely; and he
appeared to enjoy the terror of the pretty girl, and the antics of the
horse.
“Only half a minute! Clarissa is scared half to death,” added the young
man.
“Play away!” was the only reply the magnificent major deigned to make.
The colt stopped, stood up straight, and positively refused to advance
another step. Then, as the band advanced, he began to back, until he
had placed the wagon square across the road, between the major and the
musicians.
“Stop the music,” said Captain Briscoe, in a low tone.
The band ceased playing. Indeed, they could not well do otherwise, for
the fractious colt, as the driver attempted to urge him forward, broke
in upon their ranks, and then backed them out of the road, and out of
their propriety at the same instant.
[Illustration: ON THE MARCH.]