THE BATTLE IN THE WHEAT FIELD.
Tommy had been talking with Haven, the first lieutenant of Company A,
who was a reckless and unprincipled fellow, and it was probable that he
had indicated a plan by which Jed might be properly punished for his
temerity. The order I refused to obey directed me to march to the rear
of the barn, and there await further instructions. The next command
would have been to capture the fiery colt, pull down the cow-shed, or
assault the hens and chickens--something to make a row which would
divert the attention of the farmer’s family and call them to the scene
of action. Then the first company would doubtless have been ordered
to march up to the front of the house, empty out the hot water in the
wash-boiler, capture the garden syringe, and lie in wait for the awful
Jed.
Major Toppleton rode up to Briscoe, and repeated the order he had given
to me. Of course the captain of the first company refused to obey.
He was a sensible fellow, and knew that boys who were merely playing
soldier would not be justified in doing mischief which could only have
been tolerated in time of war upon urgent necessity. Tommy was as much
in earnest as though the country had been invaded by a warlike host,
and its salvation depended upon the energy of his movements.
“Captains Briscoe and Skotchley are suspended from further duty,
and will consider themselves under arrest,” said the little major,
pompously. “They shall be tried by court martial when we halt at noon
to-day.”
Tommy then gave his order to march to the rear of the barn to Faxon,
the first lieutenant of my company. He followed my example, and
Barnscott was placed in command. He was ready to obey any orders, no
matter what they were. He would have set the barn on fire, if Tommy
had told him to do so. He gave the necessary commands for moving the
company towards the field, but only the twenty-five who had obeyed
him before were willing to do so now. Tommy stormed, and even swore,
after the manner of his father in such emergencies; but the rest of the
company, thirty-five in number, were as resolute as their suspended
officers, and refused to move into the field.
The moment the fellows began to leap over the fence, the old man and
Jed rushed forward to prevent the mischief. They yelled with a vigor
which did credit to their lungs and with clubs in their hands, placed
themselves in the way of the advancing column. They were not content
merely to stand before the troops, but they commenced a furious attack
upon them with the sticks in their hands. Though bayonets are generally
awkward weapons to run upon, the old man and his son did not seem to
hold them in terror.
Tommy, furiously excited by this actual warfare, ordered the first
company to march to the front of the house. At this movement Clarissa
rushed into the house, but she presently appeared with the old lady,
bearing the boiler of hot water. The women were quite as belligerent as
the men, and a few dippers of hot soap-suds compelled the brave boys of
Company A to retreat into the road again. But Haven, the master-spirit
of mischief, led his hot-water-battered forces over the fence above the
house into the farmer’s garden, and moved towards the rear of the barn,
doing no little damage to beets, carrots, cabbages, and peas.
In the mean time, the old man and his son were fighting a very unequal
battle with Company B--two against twenty-five. In the struggle, the
young wheat was trodden down, and the ground torn up by the feet of the
combatants. Briscoe and I were appalled at the probable consequences of
the strife. A thrust of a bayonet might kill Jed or his father; while,
at the best, our fellows were making fearful havoc in the grain field.
“Skotchley, this is rascally!” exclaimed Briscoe.
“I know it,” I replied, with no little feeling, for I was disgusted
with the strife.
“I don’t know but we are just as guilty in looking on as we should be
if we took part in it. I am willing, for one, to go in and stop this
thing.”
“So am I.”
“We are going to stop this thing, fellows!” shouted Briscoe, with
energy. “Will you stand by us?”
“Yes, yes!” replied the line.
“Hold on a minute, Briscoe,” I interposed, as a bright thought flashed
upon my mind. “Where is Fryes?”
“Here he is. Fryes!” called Briscoe.
“Blow the retreat,” I added, as the leader of the band presented
himself, with his bugle in his hand.
Although this was not exactly a piece of infantry tactics, we had
practised it in our studies, and the bugle call was well known to all
the troops. Indeed, we had been taught the drill and evolutions of all
arms of the service. Fryes blew the refrain, and it was heard by both
of the companies, or rather the fragments of them which were in the
field and behind the barn. Tommy, being on his horse, had been unable
to follow either detachment to the service upon which he had ordered
them. The troops who were engaged with the farmer and his son, in the
wheat field, appeared to receive the bugle blast as a welcome sound,
for without waiting for any orders from their officers, they made haste
to get over the fence into the road. The conflict had begun to flag in
this quarter, and our fellows were certainly getting the worst of it.
I do not wish to have it understood that this fighting was very
perilous to either party, for both took particular care to keep out
of each other’s way. It was simply running up and running back again,
though one or two of our boys got a rap from the stick in the hands of
Jed. If the conflict had continued a few moments longer, I think they
would have been driven out of the field. But I was afraid some accident
would happen to somebody.
By the time the second company had scaled the fence, the other
appeared, coming at the double-quick towards the road, without any
regard to the safety and future welfare of young beets, cabbages, and
other garden vegetables. Major Tommy began to fly around on his little
steed, for I learned that he had just sent a message to Haven, in the
rear of the barn, to march into the wheat field, and take the old man
and his son in the rear, intending to surround and capture them. Of
course, when he saw his carefully laid plan, defeated, he was angry and
excited, as usual.
“Who blew that retreat?” demanded he fiercely, as he galloped his steed
up to the place where Fryes stood.
“I did,” replied the chief musician, blandly.
“What did you do that for?”
“I was trying my bugle.”
“Trying your bugle! I will give you a lesson before I have done with
you.”
“A lesson on the bugle?” asked Fryes.
“None of your impudence!” exclaimed Tommy, flourishing his sword as
though he intended again to inflict corporal chastisement upon the
musician.
But the little major did not mean anything of the kind. Rash as he was,
he had a certain degree of prudence which did not permit him to hit
the wrong person. If Tommy had struck him again he would have been on
the ground in the twinkling of an eye; for Fryes was a high-spirited
fellow, who would not endure a second blow, especially from Tommy, whom
he despised as a tyrant.
“I beg your pardon if I said anything impudent, major. I only answered
your question,” replied Fryes, with his usual gravity.
“Don’t you blow that bugle again without orders from me.”
The leader of the band did not even suggest that he had received an
order from me to sound the retreat. He was always willing to take the
responsibility; but Briscoe and I were ready to share it with him.
“Barnscott!” called the major.
The lieutenant of the second company, who had gathered his weary
warriors near the spot where I stood, marched up to the major, and
saluted him. He was still out of breath with the violence of his
exertions in the field, or rather with the haste of his retreat, for
his party had been closely pursued by the old man and his son.
“March your company back, and don’t mind the bugle again.”
“Major Toppleton, this thing has gone far enough,” said Briscoe,
stepping up to the little major.
“What do you mean by that, Briscoe?”
“I mean to say, for one, that I won’t stand by any longer and see the
farmer’s crop destroyed.”
“I say it, for another,” I added.
“So say we all of us!” shouted the fellows in the line who had
supported Briscoe and myself.
“Do you command this battalion?” demanded Tommy.
“I command some of it,” answered the senior captain.
“I command some more of it,” I added.
“What are you going to do about it?” continued Tommy, angrily.
“We are going to protect the farmer,” replied Briscoe.
“I should like to see you do it!” said Tommy, shaking his head. “You
have your orders, Barnscott.”
Tommy rode up to the other company, which had halted in the road on the
front of the house, evidently for the purpose of sending it back to the
barn again.
“Skotchley, you have thirty-five men, and I have only thirty,” said
Briscoe, beginning now to be excited by the job we had jointly
undertaken. “You look out for Company A, and I will look out for
Company B. Let’s not have a fight if we can help it.”
“All right. I will do the best I can,” I replied.
Briscoe was a veteran, for he had been the leading spirit in the battle
on the Horse Shoe. With a few hasty orders, and a sharp movement, he
placed his men between Barnscott’s command and the wheat field. At the
same time I marched my men up towards the garden fence.
“Halt!” shouted Tommy, when he saw what I intended to do. “Why don’t
you halt when I tell you?”
We concluded not to halt, and reached the position to which Briscoe had
assigned us. Fryes had followed me, for we were the best of friends.
I think, if he had not kept an eye on the major, the irate commander
would have pitched into me. We were now in the order of battle, both
above and below the house; but I hoped that Tommy would not proceed to
extremities, in the face of so many difficulties.