Both of these "evolutions" are calculated to inspire the enemy with terror, but the latter especially so. On beholding it, the enemy cannot help giving applause, and in applauding he must necessarily drop his arms. The Walton Light Infantry, equal to any emergency, may now show their superior discipline by capturing the enemy before he can recover from his surprise and admiration. Even the very boys on a training-day seek to terrorize the enemy with broom-sticks and tin pans, until they become a nuisance to the older folk and are sent off to some field to play base-ball after the old method, the "Massachusetts game," which allows the "plunking" of a batter when he is not on his base. But the boys will claim their share of the extra cards of gingerbread that have been laid in at the stores, and they will be on hand to see the half-day's sport of training-day end before early tea-time with the flashing of powder and the departure of the "sojers" for their homes.
A very different affair is the "muster-day" of the early fall, before the cold days and nights have come to stay. The several adjoining towns, that furnish each its own company or its quota of cavalry, take care of the "regiment," by rotation, at such a time as this. No matter how centrally located the town may be, the grenadiers must come a long way over the hills from Stormont, and the riflemen must leave Acton soon after midnight in order to obey the signal of the seven-o'clock gun, which demands the presence of every company on the "parade-ground:" it goes by the name of "the common" every other day in the year. The night marches or rides are orderly, the more so in anticipation of what is to follow. The sun rises upon a gala-day for the men and youth: the boys had their time at the training. Now the crowd is greater, and there is no room for the boys, except those who live in the town where the muster is held. The field, at a respectful distance from the regimental line, is covered with auctioneers' stands, peddlers' wagons, refreshment-booths of rough boards, and planked platforms for dancing to the music of the violin. It is the picture of a college town on "commencement-day," magnified to ten times the proportions. As you stand,—no seats are allowed,—you can partake of sweet cider, lemonade, apples, gingerbread, and pies and buns of all kinds. If you call for it, you can have New-England rum, or its more popular substitute, "black-strap," one-half rum and the other half molasses. Awaiting the inspection, soldiers on leave of absence mingle with the commoners, partake of the refreshments, including the black-strap, and nod their plumes or rattle their swords while they dance the "double shuffle" or "cut a double pigeon-wing" on the platforms, to the great wonder of the crowd.
When the regiment gathers itself together it is a sight to behold. There are perhaps five hundred men, all told, in two ranks. A part of them rejoice in gayly-colored uniforms, but the majority are "the flood-wood," dressed in sheep's gray and blue jeans and armed with rifles, muskets, and fowling-pieces of every pattern. This motley band "toe the mark,"—a small trench that has been cut in the turf to save their reputation for alignment. Then they break into platoons, and are inspected, man by man, by the adjutant and his aides. The inspection being over about eleven o'clock, the colonel appears, all glorious in brass buttons, epaulets as large as tin plates, and a cocked hat of great proportions. Once more the regiment forms in double ranks, with presented arms. The colonel and his "staff" ride slowly down the line, turn back, and take their stand for review. The music, just as it came from every town contributing to the regiment, has been "pooled" and placed in the charge of a leader. It is a strange medley of snare-, kettle-, and bass drums, of fifes, clarionets, and piccolos, with an occasional "Kent bugle"—the predecessor of the cornet—or some other instrument of brass. It is poor music at the best, and it cannot go far beyond marking time for the marching. But is it not better than the simple drum and fife of a common training-day? The "full brass band," we must recollect, is too expensive a luxury except for the most extraordinary occasions, and even then we run the risk of hearing "Highland Mary" repeated all day long, so scant is the répertoire. The regiment, headed by the cavalry and the music, passes the colonel and his staff. The music wheels out of the line, gives "three cheers," and remains at the colonel's side till the regiment has returned to its place. A hollow square is formed, in imitation of the great Napoleon at Waterloo, and the colonel addresses his "brother-officers and fellow-soldiers" in a few fitting words, and retires from the field.
And now comes dinner,—a most important feature of muster-day. No one has had a bite since his breakfast at home by candle-light,—unless he has patronized the refreshment-booths. Even then he will not allow his appetite for the noonday meal to become impaired. By previous arrangement, each company dines by itself, or it joins forces with some friendly company and hires the services of a caterer. The hotel of the village cannot begin to accommodate the public, whether martial or civilian, and temporary sheds cover long lines of tables on which the feast is spread. It is a jolly company, and the scrambling for the viands and the vintages, if there are any, is done in a good-natured way. As the repast draws to a close and dessert is in order, the caterer appears at the end of one of the tables in shirt-sleeves that are more than wet with perspiration. Under his arm he holds a pile of plateless pies, just as the newsboy on the train secures a pile of magazines. The caterer marches down the length of the table with the half-inquiring, half-defiant announcement, "Pies, gentlemen! pies, gentlemen!" At every step he reaches for a pie, gives it a dexterous twirl between his thumb and finger, and sends it spinning to the recipient with a skill and accuracy of aim which would have done credit to the disk-thrower of the ancient Romans.
The "noon gun," fired after dinner, calls the regiment back to the parade-ground. The real work of the day is over; and now come recreation and amusement. The remarkable "evolutions" of the several companies are shown, each town striving to outdo the others. Of course the Walton Light Infantry will excel all the rest; but it may be no easy matter to make every one think as we do. The newest evolution—that of the snake on training-day—certainly "brings down the house," even if it fails to carry an admission of its superiority. When this friendly rivalry is over, the sham fight proceeds. A rough structure of boards and boughs has been prepared to represent a fort, and one of the companies is imprisoned therein, with little air or light, and with no means of defence except to discharge their guns upward. The advancing regiment fires by platoons, which wheel outward and retire to the rear to load. The artillery fires blank charges from a neighboring hill. The sweltering soldiers within the fort are only too glad to capitulate and let some other company take their place; the new company, in turn, to capitulate and march out with the honors of war. Meanwhile, the cavalry—whose horses are more used to the plough than to the din of battle—has retired to a distance, and indulges in a sham fight on its own account. And yet, in spite of all this preparation and in spite of the pains that have been taken to show the fancy movements of the soldiers, you will seldom see a company that is really well drilled in the most simple movements; for drill-masters are unknown.
The sham fight goes on till toward sunset, when the regiment is dismissed at the signal of the evening gun. And now comes the hurry to reach home. Such reckless driving, such wild racing over the hills and along the rough roads and ledges, and such a desire to "take off somebody's wheel," you never saw, unless you have been to a muster-day before. This is a part of the fun; and if you do not take it as the correct thing, and enjoy it too, you might as well have stayed away from the muster altogether.
Frederic G. Mather.