A CAMP IN THE WOODS.
Rat-tat-a-tat! Rat-tat-a-tat!
It was the sound of a drum, echoing through Camp McPherson and
proceeding from a small-sized drum orderly at the head of the company
street; a stern and handsome lieutenant was standing nearby, and the
cadets were pouring out of their tents and forming outside.
It was the forenoon of a bright August day and the white tents were
shining in the sunlight, except for where they were darkened by the
shadows of the waving trees.
The sound of the drum ceased abruptly; a moment later the officer
strode down the line and faced it. Then came the order:
“Attention, company!”
A silent, motionless line of statues the cadets became on the instant.
And then, in obedience to further orders, they wheeled and marched by
fours down the company street.
Those who are familiar with the appearance of the battalion under
ordinary circumstances would have gazed in some perplexity at the
lines that morning. They were very differently arrayed, for some
reason.
In the first place as to the camp they left. Usually when the corps
marched out to the parade ground they left their tents in
spic-and-span order, nothing short of perfection itself. Now the tents
were empty; there was nothing but the bare “wall tent” standing, and
not a thing of any sort whatever inside of it. In fact, the camp was a
“deserted village.”
More strikingly true was this of the “guard tent.” The guard tent had
never before been left alone all summer. No matter where the battalion
marched or what they did, the members of the guard always had stayed
by that tent, and those who were on duty, the sentries, never ceased
to pace their beats. But now the sentries had joined the rest of the
guard and fallen in behind the cadets, marching swiftly out of camp.
That was a very unusual procedure; the appearance of the cadets was
very unusual, too. Their handsome dress uniforms were nowhere to be
seen. They wore their fatigue dress, even the officers; the plebes, or
fourth classmen, had their close-fitting shell jackets and gray
trousers. Each cadet, be he plebe or otherwise, had a heavy knapsack
strapped to his shoulder, and also his share of a “shelter tent.” Thus
equipped and with glistening rifles in hand, they were turning their
backs upon the silent camp.
It seemed as if all the visitors on the post had turned out to see
them march. They crossed Trophy Point and started up the road to the
north, between two lines of cheering spectators, waving handkerchiefs
and calling, “Good-by!” A few minutes later the last line had swung
around the turn and the post was silent and deserted.
Where were they going, you ask?
There is no very great mystery about it; the corps was on its way to
Camp Lookout, in the mountains. That move is one of the events of the
summer season to the cadets, for then they play “real soldier.” They
go into “rough camp,” or bivouac, and altogether have quite an
exciting time indeed.
That morning they had visited the trunk room and stowed away all their
belongings――dress coats and hats, white trousers and so on. And now
they were marching with nothing but knapsack and tent into the woods.
The band was in front, and behind a big mule wagon with camp utensils.
Getting through the mountain forest in that order was quite an
interesting task indeed.
One may readily imagine that the novices who had never taken part in
such an adventure as this before were head over heels with excitement,
figuratively speaking. One might look forward to any amount of fun
during the ten days that were to follow. Our friends, “the Banded
Seven,” were fairly ready to dance for joy.
When the battalion once got fairly into the woods it was found that a
regular order could not be maintained. The band gave up playing then
and a loose order of marching was adopted. That enabled the Seven to
get together in the rear, where they fell to discussing the prospect.
“There’s one good thing,” Mark said, after they had been wondering if
there was any prospect of meeting bears or wildcats by way of
excitement, “we’ll have a great deal more liberty. There won’t be any
delinquency book.”
“Good!” growled Texas. “Who told you so?”
“Everybody,” responded Mark. “We’re going to live in army style, and
they don’t have anything like that in the army.”
Texas chuckled gleefully at the information.
“Make believe I ain’t glad!” said he. “We won’t have that air ole
yearlin’ corporal a-comin’ in to boss us an’ raise a rumpus ’cause
there’s dust on a feller’s lookin’-glass and freckles on his nose.
Doggone them yearlin’s’ boots!”
“And, b’gee,” put in Dewey, the _reconteur_ of the party, “B’gee,
we’ll have army rations――hard-tack and water for ten days.”
“Bless my soul!” gasped the fat and rosy Indian. No more terrible news
on earth could have been given to Indian than that. “Bless my soul!”
he repeated. “What on earth shall I do? Hard-tack and water!”
“It is terrible,” observed Dewey, solemnly. “Why, they gave me better
than that when I was in prison last time.”
Indian gazed at his friend in alarm. The others spoiled the joke,
however, by laughing.
“You’re only fooling,” the fat boy observed, wisely. “I think that’s
mean. Anyhow, I’m sure I shall starve.”
“It won’t be quite as bad as it’s painted,” Mark laughed, by way of
consolation. “They’ll probably give us something better than tack.”
“And if they don’t, b’gee,” put in Dewey, “we can bite our finger
nails.”
The plebes had plenty of time to do their joking that morning, for
there was a long, dreary walk ahead of them. In fact, they marched
steadily for between three and four hours, with but few halts for
rest. One may readily believe that the cadets were glad when it was
over.
The young soldiers got so tired that toward the end they relapsed into
silence of their own accord. Nobody said anything more, except the
learned Parson and the lively Dewey, both of whom saw an excellent
opportunity to talk all they wanted to without interruption. When
Dewey once got started at his jokes a whole express train full of air
brakes couldn’t have stopped him. He explained the matter to his meek
and long-suffering companions by singing the verse from “Alice in
Wonderland:”
“‘In my youth,’ said his father, ‘I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife.
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.’”
In Dewey’s case, at any rate, it lasted until the welcome order was
given:
“Company, halt!”
Which meant that the battalion was at last upon the scene of their
home for the next ten days, “Camp Lookout,” twelve miles back in the
mountains from West Point.
Poor Indian, who was exhausted and breathless by this time, expected
that he would get a chance to sit down and rest. But Indian was
destined to learn that that is not the army way of doing business; he
was obliged to content himself with a few longing glances at the
inviting scene about him. Then he got to work.
The first order was to stack arms; the second to unsling knapsacks and
deposit them near the guns. After that the corps pitched in to unload
the mule wagon.
Under the direction of the officers, the plebes set to work to lay out
the camp site. The small shelter tents were then pitched. They are
known as “A tents,” from their shape. A person who is curious for a
more exact description of them may care to peruse that of the solemn
Parson, who assured his friends that each was “a regular prism or
parallelopipedon reclining upon one of its rectilinear facets and
having for its base an equilateral triangle, whose vertical angle
subtends an arc of forty-five degrees.”
While the Parson was saying this most of the tents had been spread.
The next duty was to dig a trench around each one and then to cut
boughs upon which to sleep.
By dinner time most of the work was done. The cadets were then on the
verge of starvation.
The army “rations” which were issued proved to contain more than
hard-tack, after all, much to the joy of our friend Indian’s soul.
There was a generous allowance of fresh meat, and three or four
camp-fires already blazing by which to cook it. Everybody pitched in
with avidity, and soon there was a lively scene indeed.
As usual, the Parson, who had, as we know, “taken all knowledge to be
his province,” was right on deck with information upon the art and
science of culinary practice. The Parson gave the history of cookery
from the time Abel roasted his sheep to the twentieth century. Very
soon he wished he had kept quiet, for several mischievous yearlings
promptly suggested that since he knew so much about it would he “be so
kind” as to do their cooking for them? And so the unfortunate Parson
was soon standing with a frying pan in each hand (neither containing
his own dinner) and with a facetious youngster urging him to hold a
third one in his teeth.
Such is a picture of perhaps the most enjoyable day in all the season
of summer camp――the beginning of the bivouac in the mountains. Whether
the practice is maintained at West Point to the present day the writer
is not certain; but in Mark’s day (and his own) it was a regular and
much enjoyed custom.
The site of the camp is between two small lakes, Long Pond and Round
Pond. Drinking water is obtained from one; the other the cadets use to
bathe in. During the ten days of the stay they live in army style and
when not on duty have the freedom of the woods. They learn guard duty,
cook their own rations, and sleep on the ground. Incidentally it may
be mentioned that the plebes who during the whole summer long had been
compelled to march with hands at their sides and palms to the front
whenever they appeared in public were now for the first time allowed
to walk as ordinary mortals and “slap at the mosquitoes that bite
them.” One may imagine that this is a privilege that is profoundly
appreciated.
While we have been talking about them the cadets had gotten to work at
their midday meal. Indian had started long ago, for he was so hungry
that he had scarcely waited for the meat to cook. It was “rarer than a
missionary,” as Dewey observed, a remark so disgusting that the fat
boy vowed he wouldn’t eat another mouthful, a resolution to which he
bravely stuck――having licked the platter clean before he made it.
Dinner was eaten and everything cleaned up. Then the guard detail for
the day was assigned to duty, and after that the cadets scattered to
amuse themselves as they pleased. Our friends, the Seven, went off
straightway to find the swimming place.
For some reason not essential to the story, “B’gee” Dewey lingered
behind at the camp. Some half an hour later he rejoined the party and
they noticed to their surprise that he was out of breath and excited.
His eyes were dancing merrily. Dewey was the delighted bearer of the
information concerning the “banquet.”
“B’gee!” he gasped. “Fellows――the greatest――b’gee!――the greatest――news
of the century! Hooray!”
His friends gazed at him in surprise and curiosity.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Mark.
“Yes, what’s up?” chimed in Texas, his fingers beginning to twitch at
the prospects of “fun.” “Anybody to lick? Any fights? Any――――”
“It’s Bull Harris!” panted Dewey. “B’gee!――it’s the chance of a
lifetime!”
“Whoop!” roared Texas. “Out with it. Doggone his boots, I’m jes’ a
layin’ fo’ another whack at that air ole yearlin’. Whoop!”
If it had been Parson Stanard who had gotten hold of that news which
Dewey was breathlessly trying to tell, he would have kept the crowd
upon the tenderhooks of expectation while he led up to the subject
with sequipedalian perorations and scholarly circumlocutions. But the
true story-teller’s instinct was not in Dewey; he was anxious to be
“out with it.” The secret was too good a one to keep and the only
reason he delayed for even a moment was that he was trying to regain
his vocal powers, a process which was very much impeded by the number
of “b’gees!” he felt duty bound to work in during the time.
“B’gee!” he gasped, “it’s the greatest thing out. Bull’s going to give
a party.”
“A party!”
“Yes――b’gee! It seems somebody’s sent him a box of eatables from home.
He got it on the sly and none of the authorities know anything about
it. Reminds me of a story I once heard, about――――”
“Go on! Go on!”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. Well, it seems he’s invited half a dozen of the
yearlings――his gang, you know――to help him eat ’em, b’gee.”
Indian smacked his lips and looked hungry.
“Whereabouts?” inquired Mark. “And when?”
“They’re going to steal out into the woods to-night,” continued Dewey.
“One of the drum orderlies is going to have the box there for them.”
“How did you learn all this?”
“I heard ’em talking about it. And, b’gee, they’re expecting to have a
high old time. What I want to know is, b’gee, are we going to allow
it. I――――”
“Wow, no!” roared Texas, indignantly. “The idea of their daring it. I
say, we must bust up the hull bizness!”
“Yea, by Zeus!” echoed the Parson.
Mark cleared his throat at this stage of the proceedings and began
solemnly:
“Fellow citizens,” he said, “this matter has gone too far.”
“What matter?”
“The presumption of these yearlings! Such a thing has never been known
in the history of West Point before, and I move, gentlemen, that we do
not tolerate it for a moment. The very idea! Has it not been our
special and exclusive privilege, disputed by no one, to leave camp at
night whenever we want to? And are we to surrender our immortal rights
as plebes to a handful of impudent yearlings? Gentlemen, I say no!
Why, pretty soon they’ll be objecting to our hazing them! Think of
their daring to talk of leaving camp! And without our permission at
that. And of their daring to get up a feast without offering us any!
Why, such outrages are enough, as my friend, the Parson, here has so
often said, to make the very dogs of Rome cry out in rage and mutiny.”
“Yea, by Zeus!” said the Parson.
“Bless my soul!” gasped Indian, who didn’t exactly perceive the humor
of the matter.
Indian couldn’t see but that the yearlings, from time immemorial the
hazers of the plebe, had a perfect right to hold a feast if they
wanted to.
However, he appeared to be the only dissenting member of the party;
the rest were hilarious over Mark’s speech, and the minority report
“cut no ice.”
“Gentlemen,” said Mark, still laughing; and then in imitation of the
Parson, he added: “Fellow citizens of Athens, I move that we swear a
solemn oath upon this sacred spot where so many of our noble
ancestors――er――――”
“Went in swimming,” suggested Dewey.
“Er――yes,” said Mark, “that’ll do, won’t it, Parson? A solemn oath, I
say, that, in Texas’ vulgar parlance, we bust up that banquet
to-night. What do you say? All in favor――――”
“Amendment, b’gee!” chuckled Dewey. “I move, Mr. Chairman, that we say
eat it instead.”
“Bless my soul!” chimed in Indian, suddenly taking an interest in the
proceedings. “Bless my soul, yes! That’s what I say, too. Let’s eat
it!”
“Amendment accepted,” laughed Mark. “All in favor, please say ay!”
And the roar that resulted shook the woods. It boded ill for Bull
Harris and his yearling crowd.