They made for the Hudson. In Mark’s day cadets were allowed to hire rowboats, that is, all except plebes. But it was easy enough for a plebe to get one, as indeed to get anything else, tobacco or eatables. The small drum orderly is always bribable, and that accounts for the fact that two big rowboats lay tied in a quiet place, ready for the expedition.
Since the den was near the shore oars furnished an easier way to carry the prisoners to the place.
They found the boats without trouble, and deposited the yearlings in the bottom. They weren’t very gentle about it, either. Then the rest scrambled in, and a long row began, during which those who were not working at the oars made it pleasant for the unfortunate yearlings by muttering sundry prophecies about tortures to come, and in general the disadvantages of being wicked. The Parson recited some dozen texts from Scripture to prove that obvious fact.
We shall not here stop to picture the infuriated Bull Harris’ state of mind under this mild torture. Enough of that later. Suffice it to say the row came to an end an hour or so later, and the party stepped ashore. And also that before, they started into the woods a brilliant idea occurred to the ingeniously cruel Texas. They meant to make those cadets shiver and shake; what was the matter with letting them start now, where there was plenty of nice cold water handy?
A whispered consultation was held by the six; it was agreed that in view of all the brutality of Bull and his gang, there was no call to temper justice with mercy. As a result of that decision each one of the yearlings was held tight by the heels, and, spluttering and gasping, dipped well under water and then hauled up again. That did not cool their anger, but it made them shiver, you may well believe. During this baptismal ceremony the classic Parson was interesting, as usual. He sat on a rock nearby and told the story, embellished with many allusions, how the “silver-footed Thetis, daughter of the old man of the sea,” as Homer calls her, took her son, “the swift-footed” Achilles, and dipped him into a magic fountain to give him immortality. All got wet but the heel she held him by, and so it was a blow in the heel that killed the Grecian hero.
“Therefore, gentlemen,” said the Parson, “since you don’t want Bull Harris to die from the treatment he gets to-night, I suggest with all sincerity that you stick him in again and wet his feet.”
While this was being done, the learned Boston scholar switched off onto the subject of Baptists and their views on total immersion; which promptly reminded Dewey of a story of a “darky” camp meeting.
“Brudder Jones was very fat,” said he, “and b’gee, when he got religion and wanted to be baptized there was only a little brook to put him in. They found the deepest place they could, but b’gee, Brudder Jones stomach was still out of water. Now the deacon said his ‘wussest’ sin was gluttony, and that if he didn’t get all the way under water the devil would still have his stomach and Brudder Jones would be a glutton all his life, b’gee. So all the brothers and sisters had to wade out into the water and sit on Brudder Jones’ stomach so that all his sins would get washed away.”
Those who were doing the immersing in this case were so much overcome by Dewey’s way of telling that story that they almost let Baby Edwards, the last victim, slip out of their hands. But they pulled him in safely in the end, and after that the merry party set out for the “Banded Seven den.”
They knew the contour of the mountains so well by this time that even in the darkness they had no difficulty in finding the place. They had relapsed into a grave and solemn silence by that time, so as to get the shivering victims into proper mood for what was next to come. Some of the crowd climbed in, and then, like so many logs of wood, the yearlings were poked through the opening in the rocks and laid on the floor inside. The rest of the plebes followed. The time for Mark’s revenge had come at last.