A TEST OF COURAGE.
The story of the sacred geese that saved the city of Rome is known to
every schoolboy. Not so long ago the classic Parson, of the Banded
Seven, told of a spider who saved the life of Bruce the Scot, by
building a web over the entrance of the log he hid in. As life-savers,
dogs and even horses are famous, too, but it is left to the historian
of these pages to tell of how a rescue was effected by a mouse.
Perhaps you think to be told it was a mouse who fired that gun and
saved Mark. Well, in a sense it was true.
The mouse who is our hero lived in the West Point Hotel, situated a
very short way beyond the camp. And the tale of his deed, unlike the
mouse’s tail, is a very short one. It was simply that some one left
a box of matches upon a table in the kitchen, and that the mouse got
after those matches. There you have it.
Some of them fell to the floor, and the mouse went after them. He bit
one, after the fashion of inquisitive mice; then, scared at the result,
turned and scampered off in haste. Inquisitive persons sometimes make
no end of trouble.
There was a piece of paper near the match, and then more paper, and
the leg of the table. There was also plenty of time and no one to
interfere. Every one who was in that building, except the clerks and
the watchman in the office, was sleeping soundly by that time of night,
and so the small crackling fire was in no hurry. It crept up the leg
of the table, its bright forked tongues dancing about gayly as it did
so. Then it leaped over to a curtain at the window, and then still more
swiftly to the window frame, and still there was no one to see it.
Quietly at rest in that hotel, and unsuspecting, were some dozens of
guests, including one that interests us above all others, Grace Fuller.
Her room was now on the top floor of the hotel, and in the corner of
the building that was fast getting warm and choking.
It is a horrible thing, the progress of a fire through the still
watches of the night. Creeping ahead and crackling it goes, so slowly
and yet with such deadly and inevitable purpose. It has been called
a devouring fiend; it has greedy tongues that steal on and lick up
everything, and grow hungrier and more savage as they feed. And it
breathes forth volumes of deep black poison that stupefy its victims
till it comes to seize them.
The unguarded kitchen of the hotel was soon a roaring furnace, and
then the fire crept out into the hall, and as the glass of the windows
cracked and a rush of fresh air fanned in, the flames leaped up the
staircase as if it had been the chimney, and then spread through the
parlor, and on upward, farther and farther still. And how were people
to get down those stairs if they did not hurry about it?
The people were not thinking of that; they were not even beginning to
have bad dreams until the smoke got just a little thicker, until the
halls outside got just a little hotter, until the fire had moved on
from the basement to the ground floor, and from the ground floor to the
next above. And even then they were not destined to discover it. That
task was left to some one else.
It was a sentry, a sentry of the regular army, facing the walk called
Professor’s Row. That sentry had no business to leave his post, but
he did it none the less, and dashed across the street to look, as he
caught sight of that unusual glare from the windows of the old hotel.
An instant later he had swung up his musket to his shoulder, snapped
back the trigger, and then came the roar of the gun that the startled
cadets had heard from the deep recesses of the fort.
The sentry, the instant he had fired, lowered the gun, snapped out
the cartridge, and slid in another to fire again. Before the camp had
gotten its eyes open a third report had come also, the dreaded signal
of fire. The sentry had done his duty then, and he set out once more to
march back and forth upon his post.
The wild excitement that ensued it is impossible to picture; everything
in camp was moving and shouting at once. Lieutenant Allen, the tac of
Company A, on duty for the night, had leaped from his bed at the first
bang, and from his tent at the second. His yell for the drum orderly
brought that youngster out flying, and the third report of the gun
was echoed by a rattle of drums that seemed never to stop. It was the
dreaded “long roll.”
Cadets sleep in their underclothing, like firemen, ready for just such
an emergency as this. They were springing into their clothing before
they were entirely awake, and rushing out to form in the company street
before they were half in their clothing. Those who had been into Fort
Clinton were the first in line, and as the others followed they heard
the cadet adjutant rattling through the list of names, and Lieutenant
Allen shouting orders as if trying to drown the other’s mighty voice.
And above it all rang shrieks and cries from the now awakened inmates
of the building, the glare of the fire shining through the trees.
It was the matter of but a minute or two for the company fire battalion
to be out and ready for duty. But at such times as these seconds grow
to hours. Fischer, out of his tent among the first, and quick to think,
spoke a few words to the lieutenant, and at his nod dashed on ahead
with the cadets from the guard tent at his heels. And it is Fischer we
must follow now.
Things were happening with frightful rapidity just then. Fischer and
his little command, when they got there, found that fully half the
occupants of the place had managed to get out already. They had gotten
a ladder and were raising it to the piazza roof. Up that ladder the
cadets rushed, and then raised it after them and put it up to the next
floor and sped on. Into the smoke-laden rooms they dashed, and through
the glaring flames in the halls, pausing at nothing, hearing nothing
but the ringing commands of their leader. There was work for the
members of the guard detail that night, and glory for Fischer.
They were still at work helping women and children out when the
battalion put in an appearance, coming on the double-quick with a cheer
of encouragement. They bore buckets and more ladders, and behind them,
still faster, clattered the members of the cavalry company of the post.
The two bodies reached the scene at about the same instant, and each
went to work with a will.
The white uniforms of the cadets shone in the yellow glare of the
flames; there were some pale faces staring into that light and some
trembling knees. But there was no trembling or hesitating among the
officers in command. They had the pumps working, and long lines of
bucket passers formed in no time. And there were ladders at the windows
and details of cadets searching the smoke-laden rooms.
The work of rescue was nearly over, however, by the time the battalion
got there, thanks to the fearless efforts of the first captain’s prompt
little band. Fischer had thought all were out, and had settled down to
emptying water on the flames, when the alarm we have to do with was
given.
It came from a white-haired figure, an old gentleman, who rushed up
breathless and panting to the scene. Every one recognized him, and
started in horror as they heard his cry. It was Judge Fuller.
“My daughter! My daughter!” he shrieked. “Oh, save her!”
He rushed to one of the ladders, about to spring into the very center
of the flames. Several of the cadets forced him back, and at the same
instant a ringing cheer broke from the whole battalion. It was Fischer
once more; he had been standing on the roof when he heard the cry,
and like a flash he had turned and bounded in at the window. He was
lost then to view, swallowed up in the smoke and flames. And, scarcely
breathing, the crowd outside stood and stared at the windows and waited.
Perhaps you are asking what of Mark, with Grace Fuller, the joy of his
life, in peril. Mark was down in the long line, passing buckets like
any dutiful plebe. He had heard Judge Fuller’s terrible warning, and
had been quick to spring forward. But the watchful “tac” had had his
eye on Mark, knowing his friendship for the girl. Lieutenant Allen did
not mean to have his lines broken up in that way; there were others to
attend to that rescue, and he ordered Mallory back to his place with a
stern command that Mallory dared not disobey. Now he was standing like
a warrior in chains amid the battle’s roar, watching with the rest, and
trembling with horror and dread.
What if Fischer should fail--be beaten back? What if smoke should
overcome him, and he should sink where he was? What if Grace Fuller----
And then, oh, how he did gasp for joy! And what a perfect roar of
triumph rose from the anxious crowd. There was the gallant captain,
smoke-stained and staggering, standing in a window on the top floor,
holding in his arms a figure white as snow. The girl was safe!
But how was she to get down?
That was the dreadful thought that flashed over the trembling cadet.
They stood irresolute, and so did the cadet in the window, hesitating
at times when a second might mean the difference between life and death.
And yet who could advise him? The girl’s waving hair and dress would
catch at the slightest flame; to try the roaring staircase was suicide.
Then should he drop her? The crowd shuddered to think of that, yet what
else could he do? There was no ladder to reach halfway. He must! He was
going to!
Picture the state of Mark Mallory’s mind at that moment. Himself
helpless, watching Fischer preparing for that horrible deed. He saw the
cadet drag a half-blazing mattress from one of the rooms, laying it on
the roof below. He heard the agonized shriek of the girl’s father, he
pictured that lovely figure perhaps dying, certainly maimed for life.
He saw Fischer passing the body through the window, his figure wreathed
in smoke, with a setting of fire behind. And then, with a shout that
was a perfect roar of command, Mark leaped forward.
“Stop! Stop!”
A thousand tacs could not hold him then; he was like a wild man. He saw
a chance, a chance that no one dared. But he--what was he, compared
with perfection, Grace Fuller?
He fairly tore a path up the ladder.
He paused but an instant on the roof of the piazza, to shout to
Fischer, then seized in his hand a rope that some were vainly trying to
toss up to the window. That rope Mark took in his teeth; ran his eye up
the long rainspout on the wall; and an instant later gave a spring.
“Take care!” shouted one of the cadets, who saw his purpose. “It’s hot!”
Hot? It burned his hands to the bone, but what did Mark care? Again
and again he seized it, again and again with his mighty arms he jerked
himself upward, gripping the pipe between his knees, gripping the rope
like death, higher and higher!
How the crowd gasped and trembled! He reached the first floor, halfway.
He might have climbed that on a ladder, if he had only thought. But it
was too late now. On! on! The smoke curled about him and choked him,
hid him from view; bright flames leaped out from the seething windows
and enveloped him.
“His clothes are afire!” shouted one. “Oh, heavens!”
Out of the smoke he came. Tongues of fire were starting at his
trousers, at the end of his coat, getting larger, climbing higher, upon
him. And still on he went, his flesh raw, his lungs hot and dry, his
strength failing him. And ever about was the fluttering of white, a
signal of distress that nerved him to clutch the burning iron yet once
again.
Fischer was leaning from the window, straining every nerve, almost
hanging by his knees, with outstretched hands. Mallory was climbing,
fainting, almost unconscious, still gazing up and gasping. And the
crowd could not make a move.
And then an instant later it was over. They saw Fischer give a sudden
convulsive clutch beneath him; they saw the gallant plebe totter and
sway, cling an instant more, and then, without uttering a sound, plunge
downward like a flaming shot and strike with a thud upon the mattress
below. But Fischer held the rope!