what manner of torture is squad drill has already been shown; and so the reader should have some idea of what our five friends were going through. squad drill lasts for the first two weeks or so of plebe life—that is, before the move into camp. the luckless victims begin after breakfast, and at regular (and frequent) periods until night are turned out under the charge of some irascible yearling to be taught all manner 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 the delusion that they know how to walk already. it usually takes the luckless plebe a week to get that idea hammered out of his head, and another week besides to learn the correct method. the young instructor, presenting, by the way, a ludicrous contrast in his shining uniform of gray and white and gold, with his three or four nervous and variously costumed pupils,[pg 134] takes the bayonet of his gun for a drill stick and marches "his" squad over into a secluded corner of the area and thus begins 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 smartly without jerk, carry the left foot forward thirty inches from the right, the sole near the ground, the toe a little depressed, knee straight and slightly turned out. at the same time throw the weight of the body forward (eyes to the front) and plant the foot without shock, weight of the body resting upon it; next, in like manner, advance the right foot and plant it as above. continue to advance without crossing the legs or striking one against the other, keeping the face direct to the front. now, forward, common time, march. depress the toe so that it strikes the ground at the same time as the heel (palms of the hands squarely to the front. head up)"—and so on.
that is the way the marching exercise goes, exclusive, of course, of all interruptions, comments and witticisms on the instructor's part. the plebe begins to get used to it after the first week or so, when the stiffness rubs off, and then a certain amount of rivalry begins to spring up[pg 135] among various squads, and everybody settles down to the business of learning. the squads are consolidated later on, and gradually the class is merged into one company. such as they are, these drills, 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 before dinner, 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 luckless and unhappy one, got into trouble. the one was indian, or the mormon. indian, it seemed, was always thought of whenever there was any deviling to be done. the other plebes did as they were told, and furnished amusement on demand, but they always realized that it was all in fun. indian, however, was an innocent, gullible youth, who took everything solemnly, and was in terror of his unhappy life every moment of the day. and he was especially unfortunate this time because he fell into the hands of "bull" harris and his gang.
it is not the intention of the writer to give the impression that all cadets at west point were or are like "bull"[pg 136] harris, or that hazing of his peculiar variety is an everyday affair. but it would be hard to find one hundred men without a cowardly, cruel nature among them. "bull" harris and his crowd represented the lower element of the yearling class, and made hazing their business and diversion. they were the especial dread of the plebes in consequence. bull had tried his tricks upon mark to his discomfort, and ever since that had left mark strictly alone, and confined his efforts to less vigorous victims, among which were dewey, and now indian.
indian had selected a rather grewsome occupation, anyhow, at the particular moment when he was caught. it was just in keeping with the peculiarly dejected frame of mind he was in (after squad drill). he was wandering through the graveyard, which is situated in a lonely portion of the post, way off in the northwestern corner. some heroes, west point's bravest, lie buried there, and indian was dejectedly wondering if those same heroes would ever have stuck through plebe days in barracks if they had had a drill master like that "red-headed coyote," chick spencer. he had about concluded they would not have, when he heard some muffled laughter and the sound of running feet. a moment later the ter[pg 137]rified plebe found himself completely surrounded by a dozen merry yearlings, out for a lark. prominent among them were bull and his toadying little friend, baby edwards.
it is correct west point etiquette for a plebe, when "captured" to go meekly wherever desired. indian went, and the party disappeared quickly in the woods on one side, the captive being hidden completely in the circle of cadets.
there was one person who had seen him, however, and that one person was the parson, who had been about to enter the gate to join his friend. and the parson, when he saw it, turned quickly on his heel and strode away back to barracks as fast as his long legs could carry him without loss of scholarly dignity.
"yes, by zeus," he muttered to himself. "yea, by zeus, the enemy is fierce upon our trail. and swiftly, forsooth, will i hie me to my companions and inform them of this insufferable indignity."
all unconscious of the learned gentleman's discovery, the yearlings meanwhile were hurrying away into a secluded portion of the woods; for they knew that their time was short, and that they would have to make haste. the ter[pg 138]rified victim was pushed over logs and through brambles until he was almost exhausted, the captors meanwhile dropping dire hints as to his fate.
"an indian he is!" muttered bull harris. "an indian!" (the plebe was as red as one then.) "he shall die an indian's death!"
"that's what he shall!" echoed the crowd. "an indian! an indian! we'll burn 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, he believed every word of it. nor did his mind regain any of its composure as the procession continued its solemn marching through the lonely woods, to the tune of the yearlings' cheerful remarks. the latter were chuckling merrily to themselves, but when they were in hearing of their victim their tone was deep and awful, and their looks dark and savage. poor indian's fat, round eyes stared wider and rounder every minute; his equally round, red face grew redder, and his gasping exclamations more frequent and violent.
[pg 139]"bless my soul!" he cried, "what extraordinary proceedings!"
"ha! ha!" muttered the yearlings. "see, he trembles! behold how the victim pales!"
a short distance farther in the woods the party came upon a small clearing.
"just the spot!" cried bull. "see the tree in the center. that is the stake, and to that we will tie him, while the smoke ascends to the clouds of heaven."
"just the spot!" echoed baby, chuckling gleefully.
"it is quiet," continued bull, in a low, sepulchral tone. "yes, and his cries of agony will be heard by none. advance, wretched victim, and prepare to die the death which your savage ancestors did inflict upon our 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 knees were shaking in violent terror. great beads of perspiration rolled from the dimples in his fat little cheeks. limp and helpless, he would have sunk to the ground, but for the support of his captors.
"advance!" cried bull, again, stamping on the ground[pg 140] in mock impatience and rage. "bodyguard, bring forth the wretch!"
in response to this order several of the cadets dragged the unhappy plebe to the tree and held him fast against it. bull harris produced from under his coat a coil of rope, and indian felt it being wrapped about his body.
up to this point he had been silent from sheer terror; but the feeling of the rough rope served to bring before him with startling reality the awfulness of the fate that was in store for him. he opened his mouth and forthwith gave vent to a cry so weird and unearthly that the yearlings burst out into a shout of laughter. it was no articulate cry, simply a wild howl. it rang and echoed through the woods, like the hoot of an owl at night, or the strange, half-human cry of a frightened dog. and it died into a gasp that bull harris described as "the sigh of a homesick bullfrog."
indian's musical efforts continued as the horrible rope was wound about his body. each wail was louder and more unearthly, more mirth-provoking to the unpitying cadets, until at last, when bull harris finished and stepped back to survey his work, the frightened plebe could be likened to nothing less than a steam calliope.
[pg 141]the yearlings were so much amused by his powers that they resolved forthwith that the show must not stop. and so, without giving the performer chance to breathe even, they set to work diligently collecting sticks and leaves.
"heap 'em up! heap 'em up!" cried bull. "heap 'em up! and soon shall the fire blaze merrily."
naturally, since indian's shrieks and howls continued unabated in quantity or variety through all this, the yearlings were in no hurry to finish, but took care to prolong the agony, sport as they called it, as long as possible. so, while the red-faced, perspiring victim panted, grunted, howled, and wriggled, they piled the wood about him with exasperating slowness, rearranging, inspecting, and discussing the probable 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 fagots surrounding and half covering the unfortunate lad. they were fagots selected as being the driest that could be found in the dry and sun-parched clearing. there was a moment or two later on when bull wished they had not been quite so dry, after all.
the crowd stood and admired their work for a few mo[pg 142]ments longer, while indian'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 who dares. what, ho! bring forth the torch! we shall roast him brown."
"and when he is brown," roared another, "then he will cease to be smith!"
"yes," cried bull, "for he will be dead. his bones shall bleach on the plains. 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 a whole 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! we shall see. is the torch lit?"
the torch, an ordinary sulphur match, was not lit. but bull produced one from the same place as the rope and[pg 143] held it poised. he waited a moment while 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 set him afire."
"set him afire!" echoed the crowd, in a whisper.
"'sh! yes," responded the other. "not really, you know, but just enough to scare him. we'll set fire to the wood and then when it's begun to smoke 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. i am."
and so once more he turned toward the wretched captive, who still kept up 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 his heel, and after holding it for a moment knelt down before the pile of leaves and wood.
"wow! wow!" roared indian. "stop! stop! help! wo-oo-oo!"
[pg 144]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, stood up 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 the verge of fainting as the hot choking smoke curled up and around his face. 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 the yearlings, 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 forgotten to 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 a slight breeze swept along the ground, blowing the leaves before it. it struck the little fire and it seized one tiny flame[pg 145] and bore it up through the pile and about the legs of the imprisoned plebe.
the next instant the yearlings were thrown into the wildest imaginable confusion by a cry from one of them.
"look out! look out! his trousers are afire!"
