MORTAR PRACTICE AT WEST POINT.
“A very good shot, Mr. Bryce. A trifle high, though. Correct your
elevation for the next shot.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Number two――ready! Fire!”
The scene was West Point, and the place was the target practice
ground.
Over on the opposite side of the West Point inlet, stood a post with a
barrel upon it. That was the target; the fondest hope of every cadet
heart was that “some day” he might hit that barrel. With a mortar that
is no easy task, but it has been done in West Point’s history.
The cadets were grouped about the guns, under the command of one of
the tactical officers. In response to his order to fire, a cadet
pulled the lanyard and with a flash and a roar the second of the heavy
cannon was discharged. A white cloud of smoke ascended, half hiding
the battery. There was an anxious wait, and then a splash far out on
the water. It was followed by a murmured cheer from the spectators for
the aim was so close that the barrel was half hidden from sight by the
spray.
“A little to the right, Mr. Thompson,” said the imperturbable “tac.”
“Number three――ready!”
Such is “mortar drill” at West Point. It gets to be very exciting at
times, for there is no end of rivalry among the young gunners, and
there are fair partisans to look on――sisters, and some who are not
sisters. Cadets always look forward with pleasure to the hours for
mortar drill. It is a pleasure vouchsafed to first classmen alone.
Gazing wistfully at the scene during half an hour of liberty that
morning were certain members of the plebe class with whom we are
acquainted. “Plebes” or new cadets, are far, far away from such a
delightful function as mortar drill. It takes the three years to get
to that honor, three years of work. The road that leads to it is
blocked with much _débris_; there are fallen logs, and many bad
places, ruts, and mud holes; there are drills and examinations by the
dozens, and the wayside is strewn with the corpses of unfortunate
plebes and yearlings who get “left” during the journey.
Some such train of thought was wandering through the minds of the
aforementioned interested plebes.
Three years does seem a dreadfully long time, with such chances of
failure.
“It is a case of ’Many are called,’” began one of the plebes.
“And the arithmetical ratio,” put in another, “of those who
successfully achieve the ultimate object of their concentrated
endeavors, and of those who are compelled to relinquish their efforts
owing to unprognosticated circumstantialities, is so excessively
diminutive that――――”
Another gun went off there and put a period to the discourse.
It is quite needless to say that the person last quoted was our genial
friend, Parson Stanard. There dwelt no other human being in all West
Point who could have delivered such an address as that. There were
probably no others who would have taken it more as a matter of course
than did the six who were with him then. They were used to the Parson.
The party strolled back toward camp, after drill was over, internal
conditions reminding them that they might soon expect to hear the drum
that summoned them to dinner.
As the plebes entered the camp the members of the guard were being
“turned out” for inspection. Mark recognized one of them and he turned
to his companions.
“There’s our old friend, ’Echo’ Rogers,” said he.
The rest were tickled by that nickname, for they broke into a laugh,
in which even Dewey joined. The cadet himself, a tall, heavily built
yearling, was standing at attention――“eyes to the front――chest out――”
and so on. But he heard the remark and an angry flush swept over his
face.
“Echo doesn’t like his name,” observed Mark, as the party went on down
the company street. “You could tell that, anyhow, from the fact that
he and his crowd haven’t told a soul about their adventures.”
“I wish I knew about that mystery,” put in Dewey. “B’gee, there’s
something the matter up at that cave. The yearlings have kept pretty
mum.”
“We’ll find out to-night,” muttered Texas. “That is, if you fellers
don’t get scared afore that an’ go back on our bargain. Haven’t
forgotten, have you?”
“I haven’t,” laughed Mark, an assurance which the others were just as
prompt to give.
“An’ you ain’t afraid, be you?” Texas added.
“N-n-no!” answered Indian, dubiously. “I――I――――I’m not.”
What had caused the flight from the cave the plebes had not the
slightest idea. They had walked home somewhat frightened and subdued,
and sought out the yearlings, who had fled so wildly back to camp. The
latter had, strangely enough, refused to answer any questions. They
had turned angrily away upon the slightest mention of the matter, and
what was still more strange, they had even gone to the length of
refusing to explain to the authorities how their clothing had been
torn or how Rogers had gotten the severe cut which he bore on his
shoulder.
Naturally, this behavior had puzzled the plebes. It puzzled them
still, and made them think that there was some terrible mystery back
of the matter, some mystery connected with that dark and uncanny
cavern. It was “their” cavern, too, and they didn’t relish the idea of
having any secret danger to make them afraid to go near it.
The upshot of the whole matter, to put it briefly, had been just this:
The wild and woolly Texan had vowed that morning, after having been
tormented by the mystery for two whole days, that down where he came
from men weren’t afraid of anything――man, beast or devil; and that he
was going to go up and find out about “that air bizness,” if it was
the last thing he ever did in his life.
The audacity of the proposal had rather taken the Banded Seven aback.
The idea of daring to enter that cave, after the horrible danger into
which the yearlings had gotten, had never quite occurred to them. But
Texas vowed he was going to do it alone, if he couldn’t get anybody
else; that he would be ashamed to call himself a son of his father,
“the Honorable Scrap Powers, o’ Hurricane County, Texas,” if he
didn’t. And so that settled the matter.
“When are you going?” Mark asked him.
And Texas answered promptly:
“To-night.”
The result of which startling announcement had been that the Seven, as
appeared from the conversation previously mentioned, stood pledged by
a solemn promise to probe that mystery to the bottom that very
evening.
“The thing that puzzles me so much about this matter,” Mark observed
to his friends as they strolled down the street, “is the fact that
Rogers and his crowd are unwilling or afraid to tell anybody about the
cave and what happened. I can’t to save my life conceive why they
should be so quiet.”
That was a strange state of affairs for a fact; the plebes talked it
over nearly all day, without coming to a conclusion. The cave was
within bounds, and the yearlings had a perfect right to go there that
Saturday afternoon. So they need not have feared to tell the
authorities for that reason. Questioned they certainly must have been;
their wounds and torn uniforms must certainly have made the
superintendent inquisitive. But they had stuck tight to their secret
and apparently told not a soul. The matter would have been the talk of
the post if they had.
“It may be they’re ashamed of how we fooled ’em,” was Dewey’s
suggestion.
That did not seem at all probable, but it was the best the Seven came
to, and finally they were compelled to adopt it.
“Perhaps we’ll know to-night,” they said.
The reader must not suppose that the plebes were going to set out upon
this expedition haphazard or recklessly. That was hardly like a man
who had learned his lessons in Texas. Cadet Powers, as we know, had
had, when he came to West Point, no less than seventeen revolvers
stowed away in his trunk. These he had hidden safely, and though they
had been somewhat reduced in number by excessive use he still had
enough to go around. There was one for each, except Indian, who vowed
that he’d die before he’d touch one. Thus armed the plebes fancied
they’d be able to receive warmly anything the cave might hold.
And yet even armed as they were, it was a mighty “scary” business.
They found that when they came to start that night. Wandering through
a forest about midnight is a very dubious sort of an occupation,
anyway. And when you have continually before your mind the image of a
deep black hole in the mountains with all sorts of possible and
impossible horrors lurking about inside――dragons and demons and bears
and snakes, to say nothing of a few stray ghosts and rattling
skeletons――it was no wonder Indian’s knees gave way occasionally.
At West Point the drum sounds tattoo at nine-thirty in the evening.
That means that the battalion lines up for roll call and then breaks
ranks for bed. “Taps” sounds half an hour later, and means “lights
out, all quiet.” After that every one is supposed to be asleep in his
tent, and there is a watchful “tac” who goes around with a lantern to
make sure.
The tac himself goes to bed, however, by eleven at the latest. Then,
the cat being away, the mice sometimes come out for a little fun.
Stealing out of camp was what our plebe friends were doing. They
dressed softly and silently, and then after signaling the sentry, a
member of their own class, swept across his post and vanished in old
Fort Clinton.
Something like half a minute later a very startling incident happened
in camp. At least it would have startled the plebes if they had seen
it. A figure, all dressed, crept swiftly out of one of the tents and
across the street. He stole into another tent and awakened its
inmates.
“Fellows,” he whispered, “they’ve gone.”
“Who?”
“The plebes!”
“Up there, do you mean?”
“Yes, I think so. Come on, hurry up.”
The cadets leaped up as one man and hastily slipped into their
uniforms. A few minutes later they, too, stole out of camp. But it was
in the opposite direction! They were going to Highland Falls!
It is needless to say that the cadets were Rogers and his crowd; it is
likewise needless to say that their action meant trouble of some kind
for our friends, the plebes.
The latter, of course, were altogether unaware of that. Having safely
reached Fort Clinton, they stole across the inclosure and made their
way swiftly around past Trophy Point and the old graveyard, and so out
into the woods beyond. Once there they stopped just long enough to
light two or three lanterns they had and then hurried on their
journey.
It was quite a silent party. The plebes felt rather solemn on the
whole, for there was no one of them who failed to realize that a very
serious adventure might result from their trip. How many of them
wished they hadn’t come may not be said, but it is certain that Indian
whispered “Bless my soul!” at least “a thirty-four to the minute
stroke,” as Dewey phrased it; also that Dewey himself got off no more
than two jokes all the way. In fact, the only person who seemed at all
inclined to talk was our old friend, the Parson.
The Parson was a man who felt with real earnestness that he had a
serious duty to perform during “this life temporal,” that duty was the
dissemination of knowledge, and the Parson never lost a chance to work
in a few instructive remarks――philosophical, moral or scientific――upon
every possible occasion. So when other people were quiet the Parson
saw a chance that he never failed to utilize.
The subjects for that night’s discourse chanced to be geological. The
Parson talked on the question of alluvial deposits, the forces of
denudation and sedimentation, etc. He gave very accurately the various
authoritative hypotheses as to the thickness of strata in the Hudson
River Valley. In fact, there is no telling what knowledge he would not
have imparted by the end of the trip if it had not been for an
unforeseen occurrence which deprived the Seven of the Parson’s company
for the rest of that night.
It appeared that when they had come to about halfway to their
destination the Parson, who could not lose his habits of observation
even in the night time (like the wise old owl he was), suddenly
stopped and with a startled exclamation pointed to the ground at one
side.
The rest looked, but at first they could distinguish nothing. The
Parson approached the spot and then they saw a most interesting sight.
An unfortunate bullfrog, hopping about country during the night had
gotten into trouble. A garter snake had him by the leg and was slowly
swallowing him. (The Parson referred to it as “the process of
deglutition.”)
It was rather an interesting sight, and ordinarily the plebes would
have been glad to watch it; but now they were in a hurry.
“I wish we had time to stop,” said Mark. “Come on.”
And Stanard turned and gazed at him in consternation.
“Come on!” he echoed. “Come on! Do you actually mean to say that the
scientific spirit has burned so low in your breast that you will not
stop to witness a process of such extraordinary interest as this? Why,
sir, a man might not see it once in a lifetime! I would stop an
express train to watch it!”
“I’m sorry,” laughed Mark, “but we’re in more of a hurry than an
express. Come on.”
“By Zeus!” gasped the Parson. “I will not go for one.”
“You may stay if you want to,” said Mark, good-naturedly. “But I’m
going.”
He started away, the rest following.
“Do you mean,” roared the Parson, gazing at them indignantly, “that
there is no one who cares to stay after all the scientific interest I
have striven to awaken in you?”
“I-I-I think I’ll stay,” stammered Indian, who was really scared to
death at the mere thought of the cave. “I-I’m v-very m-m-much
interested.”
But the dodge didn’t “go.” Poor Indian was dragged off, protesting at
the outrage, and the solemn Parson was left alone with his lantern and
his snake.
“I’ll join you later,” he called, and then settled himself into a
meditative pose, _à la_ Hamlet. His friends’ footsteps died away in
the distance and he was left in silence to observe and study that
“process of deglutition.”
We must follow the plebes, in the meanwhile. A few minutes later they
reached the cave, where momentous things were destined to occur.