CHAPTER XVII.
INDIAN IN TROUBLE.
What manner of torture is squad drill has already been shown; and so thereader should have some idea of what our five friends were goingthrough. Squad drill lasts for the first two weeks or so of plebelife--that is, before the move into camp. The luckless victims beginafter breakfast, and at regular (and frequent) periods until night areturned out under the charge of some irascible yearling to be taught allmanner of military maneuvers--setting up drill, how to stand, to face,and, in fact, how to walk.
Most people, those who have not been to West Point, are under thedelusion that they know how to walk already. It usually takes theluckless plebe a week to get that idea hammered out of his head, andanother week besides to learn the correct method. The young instructor,presenting, by the way, a ludicrous contrast in his shining uniform ofgray and white and gold, with his three or four nervous and variouslycostumed pupils, takes the bayonet of his gun for a drill stick andmarches "his" squad over into a secluded corner of the area and thusbegins the above-mentioned instructions:
"At the word forward, throw the weight of the body upon the right leg,the left knee straight. At the word march, move the left leg smartlywithout jerk, carry the left foot forward thirty inches from the right,the sole near the ground, the toe a little depressed, knee straight andslightly turned out. At the same time throw the weight of the bodyforward (eyes to the front) and plant the foot without shock, weight ofthe body resting upon it; next, in like manner, advance the right footand plant it as above. Continue to advance without crossing the legs orstriking one against the other, keeping the face direct to the front.Now, forward, common time, march. Depress the toe so that it strikes theground at the same time as the heel (palms of the hands squarely to thefront. Head up)"--and so on.
That is the way the marching exercise goes, exclusive, of course, of allinterruptions, comments and witticisms on the instructor's part. Theplebe begins to get used to it after the first week or so, when thestiffness rubs off, and then a certain amount of rivalry begins tospring up among various squads, and everybody settles down to thebusiness of learning. The squads are consolidated later on, andgradually the class is merged into one company. Such as they are, thesedrills, together with inspections, meals and "rests" (with hazing),occupy almost the entire time of the two weeks in barracks.
And now for our five "rebels."
That particular Monday morning the plebes had an hour's rest beforedinner, in which to do as they pleased (or as the yearlings pleased).And during this hour it was that one of "the five," the always lucklessand unhappy one, got into trouble. The one was Indian, or the Mormon.Indian, it seemed, was always thought of whenever there was any devilingto be done. The other plebes did as they were told, and furnishedamusement on demand, but they always realized that it was all in fun.Indian, however, was an innocent, gullible youth, who took everythingsolemnly, and was in terror of his unhappy life every moment of the day.And he was especially unfortunate this time because he fell into thehands of "Bull" Harris and his gang.
It is not the intention of the writer to give the impression that allcadets at West Point were or are like "Bull" Harris, or that hazing ofhis peculiar variety is an everyday affair. But it would be hard to findone hundred men without a cowardly, cruel nature among them. "Bull"Harris and his crowd represented the lower element of the yearlingclass, and made hazing their business and diversion. They were theespecial dread of the plebes in consequence. Bull had tried his tricksupon Mark to his discomfort, and ever since that had left Mark strictlyalone, and confined his efforts to less vigorous victims, among whichwere Dewey, and now Indian.
Indian had selected a rather grewsome occupation, anyhow, at theparticular moment when he was caught. It was just in keeping with thepeculiarly dejected frame of mind he was in (after squad drill). He waswandering through the graveyard, which is situated in a lonely portionof the post, way off in the northwestern corner. Some heroes, WestPoint's bravest, lie buried there, and Indian was dejectedly wonderingif those same heroes would ever have stuck through plebe days inbarracks if they had had a drill master like that "red-headed coyote,"Chick Spencer. He had about concluded they would not have, when he heardsome muffled laughter and the sound of running feet. A moment later theterrified plebe found himself completely surrounded by a dozen merryyearlings, out for a lark. Prominent among them were Bull and histoadying little friend, Baby Edwards.
It is correct West Point etiquette for a plebe, when "captured" to gomeekly wherever desired. Indian went, and the party disappeared quicklyin the woods on one side, the captive being hidden completely in thecircle of cadets.
There was one person who had seen him, however, and that one person wasthe Parson, who had been about to enter the gate to join his friend. Andthe Parson, when he saw it, turned quickly on his heel and strode awayback to barracks as fast as his long legs could carry him without lossof scholarly dignity.
"Yes, by Zeus," he muttered to himself. "Yea, by Zeus, the enemy isfierce upon our trail. And swiftly, forsooth, will I hie me to mycompanions and inform them of this insufferable indignity."
All unconscious of the learned gentleman's discovery, the yearlingsmeanwhile were hurrying away into a secluded portion of the woods; forthey knew that their time was short, and that they would have to makehaste. The terrified victim was pushed over logs and through bramblesuntil he was almost exhausted, the captors meanwhile dropping dire hintsas to his fate.
"An Indian he is!" muttered Bull Harris. "An Indian!" (The plebe was asred as one then.) "He shall die an Indian's death!"
"That's what he shall!" echoed the crowd. "An Indian! An Indian! We'llburn him at the stake!"
"He, he! the only good Indian's a dead Indian, he, he!" chimed in Baby,chuckling at his own witticism. "He, he!"
All this poor Joseph did not fail to notice, and as was his habit, hebelieved every word of it. Nor did his mind regain any of its composureas the procession continued its solemn marching through the lonelywoods, to the tune of the yearlings' cheerful remarks. The latter werechuckling merrily to themselves, but when they were in hearing of theirvictim their tone was deep and awful, and their looks dark and savage.Poor Indian's fat, round eyes stared wider and rounder every minute; hisequally round, red face grew redder, and his gasping exclamations morefrequent and violent.
"Bless my soul!" he cried, "what extraordinary proceedings!"
"Ha! ha!" muttered the yearlings. "See, he trembles! Behold how thevictim pales!"
A short distance farther in the woods the party came upon a smallclearing.
"Just the spot!" cried Bull. "See the tree in the center. That is thestake, and to that we will tie him, while the smoke ascends to theclouds of heaven."
"Just the spot!" echoed Baby, chuckling gleefully.
"It is quiet," continued Bull, in a low, sepulchral tone. "Yes, and hiscries of agony will be heard by none. Advance, wretched victim, andprepare to die the death which your savage ancestors did inflict uponour fathers. Advance!"
"Advance!" growled the crowd.
"Bless my soul!" cried the Indian.
He was no more capable of advancing than he was of flying. His kneeswere shaking in violent terror. Great beads of perspiration rolled fromthe dimples in his fat little cheeks. Limp and helpless, he would havesunk to the ground, but for the support of his captors.
"Advance!" cried Bull, again, stamping on the ground in mock impatienceand rage. "Bodyguard, bring forth the wretch!"
In response to this order several of the cadets dragged the unhappyplebe to the tree and held him fast against it. Bull Harris producedfrom under his coat a coil of rope, and Indian felt it being wrappedabout his body.
Up to this point he had been silent from sheer terror; but the feelingof the rough rope served to bring before him with startling reality theawfulness of the fate that was in store for him. He opened his mouth andforthwith gave vent to a cry so weird and unearthly that the yearlingsburst out into a shout of laughter. It was
no articulate cry, simply awild howl. It rang and echoed through the woods, like the hoot of an owlat night, or the strange, half-human cry of a frightened dog. And itdied into a gasp that Bull Harris described as "the sigh of a homesickbullfrog."
Indian's musical efforts continued as the horrible rope was wound abouthis body. Each wail was louder and more unearthly, more mirth-provokingto the unpitying cadets, until at last, when Bull Harris finished andstepped back to survey his work, the frightened plebe could be likenedto nothing less than a steam calliope.
The yearlings were so much amused by his powers that they resolvedforthwith that the show must not stop. And so, without giving theperformer chance to breathe even, they set to work diligently collectingsticks and leaves.
"Heap 'em up! Heap 'em up!" cried Bull. "Heap 'em up! And soon shall thefire blaze merrily."
Naturally, since Indian's shrieks and howls continued unabated inquantity or variety through all this, the yearlings were in no hurry tofinish, but took care to prolong the agony, sport as they called it, aslong as possible. So, while the red-faced, perspiring victim panted,grunted, howled, and wriggled, they piled the wood about him withexasperating slowness, rearranging, inspecting, and discussing theprobable effect of each and every stick of wood they laid on.
It was done, at last, however, and the result was a great pile of fagotssurrounding and half covering the unfortunate lad. They were fagotsselected as being the driest that could be found in the dry andsun-parched clearing. There was a moment or two later on when Bullwished they had not been quite so dry, after all.
The crowd stood and admired their work for a few moments longer, whileIndian's weird wails rose higher than ever. Then Bull stepped forward.
"Art thou prepared to die?" he inquired in his most sepulchral tone.
Indian responded with a crescendo in C minor.
"He answereth not!" muttered the other. "Let him scorn our questions whodares. What, ho! Bring forth the torch! We shall roast him brown."
"And when he is brown," roared another, "then he will cease to beSmith!"
"Yes," cried Bull, "for he will be dead. His bones shall bleach on theplains. On his flesh we will make a meal!"
"An Indian meal!" added Baby, chuckling merrily over his own joke.
"Several meals," continued Bull, solemnly. "There is enough of him for awhole _table d'hote_. How about that? Aren't you?"
"Wow! Wo-oo-oo-oooo!" wailed Indian.
"He mocks us!" cried the spokesman. "He scorns to answer. Very well! Weshall see. Is the torch lit?"
The torch, an ordinary sulphur match, was not lit. But Bull produced onefrom the same place as the rope and held it poised. He waited a momentwhile the yearlings discussed the next action.
"I say we let him loose," said one. "He's scared enough."
"Nonsense!" laughed Bull, "I'm not going to stop yet. I'm going to sethim afire."
"Set him afire!" echoed the crowd, in a whisper.
"'Sh! Yes," responded the other. "Not really, you know, but just enoughto scare him. We'll set fire to the wood and then when it's begun tosmoke some we'll put it out."
"That's risky," objected somebody. "I say we----"
"Nonsense!" interrupted the leader. "If you don't want to, run home. Iam."
And so once more he turned toward the wretched captive, who still keptup his shrieks.
"Ha, ha!" he muttered, "thy time has come. Say thy last prayer."
With which words he stepped quickly forward, struck the match upon hisheel, and after holding it for a moment knelt down before the pile ofleaves and wood.
"Wow! Wow!" roared Indian. "Stop! Stop! Help! Wo-oo-oo!"
Another of those steam calliope wails.
"He shrieks for mercy!" muttered Bull. "He shrieks in vain. There!"
The last exclamation came as he touched the match to the leaves, stoodup and worked off to join his companions.
"Form a ring," he said, "and dance about him as he dies."
The terror of Indian can scarcely be imagined; he was almost on theverge of fainting as the hot choking smoke curled up and around hisface. His yells grew louder and increased to a perfect shriek of agony.
"Don't you think we'd better stop it now?" inquired one of theyearlings, more timid than the rest.
"Rats!" laughed Bull. "It's hardly started. I'll manage it."
Bull's "management" proved rather untrustworthy; for Bull had forgottento take into account the dryness of the twigs, and also another factor.The air had been still as he struck the match, but just at that moment aslight breeze swept along the ground, blowing the leaves before it. Itstruck the little fire and it seized one tiny flame and bore it upthrough the pile and about the legs of the imprisoned plebe.
The next instant the yearlings were thrown into the wildest imaginableconfusion by a cry from one of them.
"Look out! Look out! His trousers are afire!"
A Cadet's Honor: Mark Mallory's Heroism Page 17
