Cadet Days: A Story of West Point

by Charles King

This is not a pleasant thing for an old cadet—a very old cadet—to write. There were plenty of Third Class men who, had they heard the adjutant's remarks as made, and the conversation between Mr. Woods and Graham as it occurred, would have taken no exceptions; but such affairs are invariably colored in the telling, and gain in exaggeration with every repetition. There was no one to tell Geordie's side of the story. There were few yearlings who cared to question the adjutant as to the exact nature of his remarks. Without any formal action at all, but as the result of their own experience the year before and the loose discussion held in group after group, by a sort of common consent it was settled that that plebe must be "taken down." Not only must he be called upon to apologize to Mr. Woods on marching off guard on the morrow, or else give full satisfaction, cadet fashion, in fair fight with nature's own weapons, but he must be taught at once that he had too big an idea of his importance as a sentry. That might be all very well a year hence, but not now.

At the risk of court-martial and dismissal, if discovered, two members of the Third Class who had just scraped through the June examination, and by reason of profusion of demerit and paucity of brains were reasonably certain of being discharged the service by January next, "shook hands on it" with one or two cadets more daring—because they had more to lose—that they would dump Mr. Graham in Fort Clinton ditch that very night; and as Fort Clinton ditch lay right along the post of Number Three for a distance of some sixty yards, that would probably be no difficult thing to do. "Only it's got to be a surprise. That young Indian fighter will use either butt or bayonet, or both," was the caution administered by an older head.

"Keep your eye peeled, Graham," whispered Connell to him just after supper. "Some of those yearlings are going to try and get square with you to-night."

Pops nodded, but said nothing. He had noticed that during supper neither Mr. Woods nor any of the Third Class men at the table looked at or exchanged a word with him. Frazier, all excitement, had overheard Cadet Jennings, one of the famous boxers of the corps, inquire which was "that plebe Graham," and had seen him speak in a low tone to Geordie.

"I have a message for you from Mr. Woods, Mr. Graham," was all that Jennings had said, "and will see you after you march off guard."

Pops well knew what that meant. From many a graduate, and especially from Mr. McCrea, he had heard full account of the West Point method of settling such matters. It differed very little from that described by that manliest of Christians, Mr. Thomas Hughes, in his incomparable boy-story, Tom Brown's School-Days at Rugby, and Pops had never a doubt as to what his course would have to be. It was one point he could not and would not discuss with his mother, and one which his father never mentioned. Pops had said just what he meant to Mr. Woods, and he meant to stand by what he had said.

But meantime other yearlings proposed to make it lively for him on post that night, did they? Well, Geordie clinched his teeth, and set his square, sunburned jaws, and gripped his rifle firmly as the relief went tramping away down the long vista under the trees. The full moon was high in the heavens, and camp was wellnigh as light as day. A nice time they would have stealing upon him unawares, said he to himself; but his heart kept thumping hard. It was very late—long after one. Only at the guard-tents was there a lamp or candle burning. It was very still. Only the long, regular breathing of some sleepers close at hand in the tents of Company A, the distant rumble of freight trains winding through the Highlands, or the soft churning of the waters by some powerful tow-boat, south bound with its fleet of barges, broke upon the night.

Mr. Allen, officer in charge, had visited the guard just before their relief was on, and, going back to his tent, had extinguished his lamp, and presumably turned in. It was very warm, and many of the corps had raised their tent walls; so, too, had Lieutenant Webster, the army officer commanding Company A, and Pops could see the lieutenant himself lying on his camp-cot sleeping the sleep of the just. His post—Number Three—extended from the north end of the color-line, on which Numbers Two and Six were now pacing, closed in around camp for the night, down along the north side, skirting the long row of tents of Company A; then, with the black, deep ditch of Fort Clinton on the left hand, the gravelled pathway ran straight eastward under the great spreading trees, past the wall tent of the cadet first captain; beyond that the double tent of the adjutant; then near at hand was the water-tank; and farther east, close to the path, the three tents of the bootblacks and varnishers.

The four big double tents occupied by the four army officers commanding cadet companies were aligned opposite their company streets, and some twenty yards away from them. The big "marquee" of the commandant stood still farther back, close to the shaded post of Number Four—and all so white and still and ghostly. The corporal of the relief came round in ten minutes to test the sentries' knowledge of the night orders. Pops challenged sharply: "Who comes there?" and went through his military catechism with no serious error. Half an hour later the clink of sword was heard, and the cadet officer of the guard made the rounds, and still there came no sign of trouble. Twice had the call of the half-hour passed around camp. "Half-past two o'clock, and a-l-l's well," went echoing away among the moonlit mountains, and still no sight or sound of coming foe.