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.