CHAPTER XIII.
PREPARATIONS FOR THE BATTLE.
It does not take long for news of so exciting a matter as a reallyimportant fight to spread among the corps. No sooner did the Parsonleave camp than cadets began to stroll in to find out why he had come,and, learning, they hurried off to discuss the news with their owntentmates. So it happened that by the time the cadets marched down tomess hall to supper every man in the battalion knew that Mark Mallory,the B. J. beast, had succeeded in getting another chance at "Billy"Williams. The plebes knew of it, too. When their rather ragged andscattered company fell in behind the corps at barracks, they were alltalking about it, at least when the file closers weren't near. At suppernobody talked of anything else, and everybody in the room was eying Markand his stalwart opponent and speculating as to what the chances wouldbe.
"Billy'll do him!" vowed the yearlings. "There's nobody in the classthat stands more chance."
And the plebes feared it would be that way, too, and yet there were afew at the tables discussing the matter in whispers, venturesome enoughto say that perhaps maybe their classmate might win and to wonder whaton earth would happen to him if he did.
"It'll mean a revelation if he does!" they cried. "Perhaps it'll evenstop hazing."
The mood of the irate little corporal, who had vowed not an hour beforethat Mallory should not have another chance, may well be imagined.
"I tell you, 'tis a shame!" he vowed to Williams. "A shame! I don't seewhy in thunder you didn't hold out."
"It's not my fault, Jasper," responded the other, smiling goodnaturedly. "If you'll think a while, you'll see he was in a position toforce a fight at any time he chose. If I refused to 'allow him tothreaten to hit me,' as he put it, he could have threatened anyway, andthen if that didn't do any good, he'd have actually to hit me, and thereyou would have been. It's a great deal better this way."
"Yes!" growled Jasper. "That sounds all very well. But look where itputs me, by George! You'll have to get somebody else to arrange it. Iwon't. I went as a committee and told him he'd not get another chance,and I tell you now I'll not go take it back for anybody, and with thatB. J. plebe especially."
"Perhaps he won't be so very B. J. after the fight," responded theother, smiling. "I don't know, of course, but I shall do my best."
"If you don't," said the other, looking serious, "by jingo! we'll be ina thundering fix. There's nobody in the class can beat you, and thatplebe'll have a walkover."
This last sentiment of Jasper's was the sentiment of the whole yearlingclass, and the class was in a state of uncertainty in consequence. Texaswas known to have whipped four cadets in one morning, and all of themgood men, too; then there was a rumor out that Mark and Texas had had aquarrel and that the latter had gone to the hospital some five minuteslater. The two facts put together were enough to make the most confidentdo some thinking.
It is difficult for one who has never been to West Point to appreciatewhat this state of affairs meant--because it is hard for him toappreciate the relation which exists between the plebe and the rest ofthe corps. From the moment of the former's arrival as an alarmed andtrembling candidate, it is the especial business of every cadet toteach him that he is the most utterly, entirely and absolutelyinsignificant individual upon the face of the universe. He is shouted atand ordered, bullied, badgered, tormented, pulled and hauled, drilledand laughed at until he is reduced to the state of mind of a rabbit. Ifhe is "B. J." about it, he is bullied the more; if he shows fight, hehas all he wants, and is made meeker still. The result of it all is thathe learns to do just as anybody else commands him, and
Never dares to sneeze unless He's asked you if he might.
All of which is fun for the yearling.
Now, here was Mark Mallory--to say nothing of Texas--who had come up tothe Point with an absurd notion of his own dignity, who had outwittedthe yearlings at every turn, been sent to Coventry--and didn't care ahang, and now was on the point of trying to "lick" the finest all-aroundathlete in the whole third class. It was enough to make the corpstremble--the yearlings, at any rate. The first class usually feels toodignified to meddle with such things.
Billy Williams' ambassador put in an appearance on the following Sundaymorning, and, to Mark's disgust, he proved to be none other than hisold enemy, Bull Harris--sent, by the way, not because Williams so chose,but because Bull himself had asked to be sent.
"Mr. Williams," said he, "says he'll give you another chance to runaway."
Mark bowed politely, determined that Harris should get as little chancefor insult as possible.
"He'll fight you to-morrow--Fort Clinton, at four, and if you don'tcome, by thunder! he'll find out why."
Mark's face grew white, but he only bowed again, and swallowed it. Andjust then came an unexpected interruption.
"Mr. Mallory, as the challenged party, has the right to name the time."
The voice was loud and clear, and seemed to have authority; Harristurned and confronted Cadet First Captain Fischer, in all his glory ofchevrons and sword. Now, the first captain is lord of West Point--andHarris didn't dare to say a word, though he was boiling within.
"And, moreover," continued the imposing young officer, angrily, "youshould remember that you came, Mr. Harris, as a gentleman and not as acombatant. Mr. Mallory, what is your wish?"
"The time suits me," said Mark, quietly. "Good-day, Mr. Harris."
And Harris left in a very unpleasant mood indeed; he had meant to haveno end of amusement at the expense of Mark's feelings.
"You've a hard row to hoe," said the cadet officer to Mark, "and a hardman to beat. And you were foolish to get into it, but, all the same,I'll see that you have fair play."
"And that," exclaimed Texas to Mark, as he watched the tall, erectfigure of the cadet vanish through the sally port. "That is the firstdecent word I've heard from a cadet since I've been here. Bully forFischer!"
"It's probable," said Mark, "that he knows Harris as well as we. Andnow, old fellow," he added, "we've got nothing to do but pass time, andwait--and wait for to-morrow morning!"
Mark slept soundly that night in spite of the excitement. It was Texaswho was restless, for Texas had promised to act as alarm clock, and,realizing that not to be on time again would be a calamity indeed, hewas up half a dozen times to gaze out of the window toward the easternsky, watching for the first signs of morning.
While it was yet so dark that he could scarcely see the clock, he routedMark out of bed.
"Git up thar," he whispered, "git up an' git ready."
Mark "got," and the two dressed hurriedly and crept down the stairs,past the sentry--the sentry was a cadet, and kindly "looked the otherway"--and then went out through the sally port to the parade ground. Theplain was shrouded in mist and darkness, and the stars still shone,though there was a faint light in the east. The two stole past thecamp--where also the sentries were blind--scaled the ramparts, and stoodin the center of "old Fort Clinton."
The spot was deserted and silent, but scarcely had the two been there amoment before a head peered over the wall nearest to the camp.
"They're here," whispered a cadet, and sprang over. A dozen othersfollowed him, and in a very few minutes more there were at least thirtyof them, excited and eager, waiting for "Billy" to put in an appearance.It was not long before Billy came, and behind him his faithful chum,Jasper, with a bucket of water, and sponges and towels enough for adozen. About the same time Stanard's long shanks appeared over thebreastworks, and Indian tumbled over a moment later. Things were aboutready then.
"Let's lose no time," said Jasper, always impatient. "Captain Fischerwill act as referee and timekeeper, if it's agreeable."
No one could have suited Mark more, and he said so. Likewise, he stated,through his second, Mr. Powers, that he preferred to fight by rounds,which evidently pleased Mr. Williams. Mr. Williams was by this timestripped to the waist, his suspenders tied about him. And it wasevidently as Fischer had said. There was no finer man in his class
, andhe was trained to perfection. His skin was white and glistening, hisshoulders broad and massive, and the muscles on his arms stood out withevery motion. His legs were probably as muscular, too, thought Mark, forWilliams held the record for the mile. The yearlings' hearts beat higheras they gazed at their champion's determined face.
Mark was a little slower in stepping up; when he did so the watchingcrowd sized him up carefully, and then there was doubt.
"Oh, gee, but this is going to be a fight!" was the verdict of every oneof them.
"Marquis of Queensberry rules," said Fischer, in a low tone. "Both knowthem?"
Mark nodded.
"Shake hands!"
Mark put out his, by way of answer, and Williams gripped it rightheartily.
"Ready?"
And then the simple word "Go."
Let us gaze about a moment at the scene. The ring is surrounded byearthworks, now grass-grown and trodden down, unkept since theRevolutionary days, when West Point was a Gibraltar. Old cannon,caissons and wagon wheels are scattered about inside, together withramparts and wire chevaux-de-friezes which the cadets are practiced inconstructing. In the southwest corner is a small, clear, smooth-troddenspace, where the two brawny, white-skinned warriors stand. The cadetsare forming a ring about them, for every one is too excited to sit downand keep quiet. The "outlooks," posted for safety, are neglecting theirduty recklessly for the same reason, and looking in altogether. Everyeye is on the two.
Over in Mark's corner sits Texas, gripping his hands in excitement,wriggling nervously and muttering to himself. Stanard is beside him with"Dana's Geology" as a cushion. The Parson is a picture of calm andscholarly dignity, in direct contrast with our friend Texas, who is onthe verge of one of his wild "fits." "Indian" is the fourth and onlyother plebe present, and Indian is horrified, as usual, and mutters"Bless my soul" at intervals.
On the opposite side of the circle of cadets are Jasper and anothersecond, both breathlessly watching every move. Nearby stands CadetCaptain Fischer, calm and cool, critically watching the play.
A Cadet's Honor: Mark Mallory's Heroism Page 13
