CHAPTER VII.
THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVES.
On the morning of the departure of the rebels from Riverpark, Mr.Graydon, one of the teachers, happening to stand at the window of hisrecitation-room, saw the boys as they ran to the fence, leaped over,and passed into the fields beyond. He was too greatly astonished bythe act to realize at once what it meant. Then it occurred to him thatthese lads had broken into open rebellion, and were about to take theholiday that had been denied them by the principal. He hurried acrossthe schoolroom to Colonel Silsbee's office, and entered it in a stateof great excitement.
"They have gone!" he exclaimed. "The boys--forty or fifty of them--haveleaped the south fence, and are hurrying across the fields into thecountry!"
Colonel Silsbee started from his chair, and the blood rushed violentlyto his face.
"Is it possible!" he exclaimed.
"Yes; I just saw them from my window. If you'll step this way, you cansee them. They're not yet out of sight."
"I prefer not to see them," said the principal, sinking back into hischair. The blood had already receded, and left an unusual pallor on hisface.
"I didn't know but you might want some of us to hurry out and intercepttheir flight," continued Mr. Graydon, earnestly.
"No, I don't think that would be wise. Let them go; they'll repent ofit sooner if allowed to take their own course. I'm sorry, very sorry.It's an almost unpardonable offence."
Other teachers now came in from the hall, and Colonel Silsbeecontinued: "Our policy, gentlemen, will be to conduct the school asusual, and to take no notice of the affair until the boys return. Theywill doubtless be with us again before night, and then we will consultas to what shall be done. Mr. Graydon, will you learn if the drummerhas gone, and if so, will you find some one to beat the school-call?"
Mr. Graydon hurried away, and, after a few more words, the otherteachers passed to their respective rooms.
In the mean time there was the most intense excitement among the boyswho had remained. Some of them had gone to the highest windows ofthe building to watch the fleeing rebels; others were examining thefence where the runaways had leaped over or crawled through; and stillothers were gathered in the hall and about the grounds, discussing themarvellous event with bated breath.
At the usual hour the school-call was beaten on the drum; the remnantof the battalion formed and passed into the schoolroom, and ColonelSilsbee came in, book in hand, as was his custom, to conduct themorning service. He took his seat at the desk, laid his book down infront of him, and looked around over the half-empty benches. He wastaking note of the absentees, trying to learn who of his soldiers hadso betrayed his trust in them as to rise in open revolt against hisrule.
He cast his eyes toward Brede's chair; it was empty. Those who werewatching him saw a deeper compression of his lips. Harple was in hisaccustomed place; he was glad of that,--he had placed much confidencein Harple. And Brightly--Brightly was missing. This seemed to give himmuch pain; his pale face grew perceptibly paler.
So his gaze went from one seat to another. The boys thought he wouldnever have done looking them over. They saw that he was suffering; theyfeared that he was trying to suppress intense anger; and they scarcelybreathed until his eyes fell back upon his book, and he took it up andopened it as usual.
He looked up again before he began to read, and his lips parted as ifhe was about to speak; but apparently he thought better of it, and,after a moment's silence, went on with the morning Scripture lessonand prayer. After this he went back to his office, and the classeswere called. None of the teachers made reference to the revolt, and themorning dragged by with exasperating slowness.
At lunch-time the boys almost darted from the ranks to form intoexcited and whispering groups. Where had the fugitives gone, and whatpunishment would they suffer on their return? These were the topics ofdiscussion.
At dinner-time the excitement was intense, but not boisterous. Therebellion and flight were spoken of in hushed tones. The whole thingwas so desperate and revolutionary.
There were many who looked out occasionally across the fields by whichthe runaways went, half-expecting to see them come straying back intime for dinner; but the dinner-hour passed, and they did not come.The afternoon drill went on awkwardly. It was difficult to arrange thesquads in the absence of so many men and officers.
At retreat thirty-seven answered the roll-call. Supper was eaten inhaste, and then every one went out to the best points on the grounds,or gathered in the south windows, to watch for the return of theholiday-seekers. No one dreamed that they would not come back beforenightfall. There were several false alarms, especially as twilight cameon, and objects at a distance grew indistinct; but the fugitives werewatched for in vain.
Colonel Silsbee began to be anxious. He had thought it best not tofollow the erring lads, but to let them return at will. Consequently hehad sent no messengers for them, and no messages to them. He preferredto deal with them after they had voluntarily returned to his authority.
But now night was coming on, and they were still absent, and there weresmall boys among them who might be harmed by the unusual exposure. Hehad heard of them in the afternoon,--that they were on the high-roadgoing toward New Hornbury. He thought they would probably return in thesame way, and he sent a team with a double wagon down to meet them,with instructions that certain of the smaller boys should be broughtback in it.
Night came; the call for the evening session was sounded, and againonly the boys who had remained at home filed into their places in theschoolroom.
Colonel Silsbee came in and took his place at the desk as usual. Thelook of anger which the boys thought they had seen on his face in themorning had now given way to one of anxiety and sadness. He looked downagain on the empty chairs with perceptible emotion.
"To you who have remained faithful," he said, addressing the boys, "itis perhaps right that I should say something of what has occurred.You doubtless agree with me that your companions who are absent fromus to-night have made a grievous mistake. For those younger boys whohave been led away thoughtlessly into this folly I have much anxietyand pity; but for those who are older, and who ought to be wiser, Iknow of no excuse. There must come a day of retribution for them, andtheir punishment will be severe. Some of these young men have receivedhonors at our hands; many of them have received favors; all of themhave enjoyed the best we had to give: and my indignation at theirunexampled conduct is lost in the deep pain which their ingratitude hasgiven me."
He paused a moment; then, greatly moved, he continued: "I have hadschoolboys under my care for nearly thirty years, but I have neverexperienced anything like this before. It is not I alone who suffer;there are fathers and mothers who will be grieved beyond measure atthis reckless conduct of their sons, for it is my plain duty to makethat conduct known to them.
"To-night I can only hope that no harm will befall these rashadventurers; to-morrow they will doubtless be with us again, and in thehard, unhappy days that must come for them, we shall look to you, youwho are wise, to lead them into right paths. From this time on, thehonor of the school will rest on you."
He opened the book, and read a favorite selection from the Psalms; butin the prayer his voice broke, and his "Amen" was scarcely audible.
He went back across the room to his office; and the boys, some of themfurtively wiping tears from their eyes, took up their evening tasks.
The next day passed in much the same way as the preceding one had done.Some one brought a morning paper down from the city, and an eager groupread the reporter's vivid and somewhat amusing account of the rebellionand flight. A special telegram to the paper from New Hornbury, datedthe previous night, was to the effect that the rebels had attended thecircus at that town in a body, and from there had crossed the river bythe rowboat ferry. The supposition was that they were on their way toNew Bury.
About noon a rumor came floating down to the school that one of therow-boats containing the runaways had been swamped, and several
of theboys drowned; but telegraphic inquiry resulted in a contradiction ofthis report later in the day.
No one was on the lookout for the home-coming now. The boys mightreturn, or they might not. To imaginations which had for two daysendured such a prodigious strain, nothing could seem any longerimprobable. But how desolate it seemed at the school! How funerealeverything was, how quiet! There were no games going on; there was nosound of merry voices, no boisterous laughter, no fun of any kind; butthere were the empty benches, the eager faces, the thin ranks, thewhispered conversations, the unusual monotony of the usual tasks. Itwas a dreary time.
When the daily drill was over, at four o'clock, Harple went up to hisroom and threw himself into a chair by the window in gloomy despair.His surprise at the sudden departure of the rebellious company hadgiven way to pain and consternation when he learned that Brightly wasa member of it; and these feelings were in turn replaced by anxiety,alarm, deep grief, as the hours went by, and his friend and companiondid not return.
There was no hope now in any direction. Brightly, whom he had loved;of whom he had been proud; for whom he had suffered; for whom, indeed,he would have laid down his sword and shoulder-straps any day, if thatwould have saved him,--Brightly was lost beyond hope of recovery,disgraced and ruined beyond possibility of reform. It was sad, it wasvery sad,--it was dreadful!
The lad started nervously to his feet, and began walking hastily up anddown the narrow floor of his room. At last he dashed from his eyes thetears that had started there, and went about some tasks that he had setdown for quiet accomplishment.
It was a dark, dull day, wet and cold and cheerless. The rain, whichhad fallen irregularly during the morning hours, had now set in againmore steadily, and was driving against the windows of Harple's room inrattling sheets.
About five o'clock Harple became aware that something unusual was goingon in the hall below him. There were quick steps and excited voices.Outside some one was shouting and calling. He hurried to the window andlooked out.
The fugitives were returning. They were coming up from the streetleading to the river, and climbing the terrace, one by one, to thedrill-ground.
They bore scarcely a resemblance to those boys of Riverpark who hadstarted away in the morning of the day before, with shout and song,abounding in rebellious glee. Their torn clothes were drenched withthe rain and splashed with red mud. Their soiled faces were haggardand weatherbeaten, and bore marks of great weariness and pain. Theirmovements were slow and halting; and some, unable to climb the bankalone, were being helped along by others.
As they crossed the drill-ground there were no demonstrations, eitherof delight or disapproval. Those who saw them come and were waiting towelcome them, were too greatly shocked at their wretched appearance todo more than look upon them with surprise and pity.
Harple did not go down. He sat in his chair by the window, with hisface in his hands, and waited for his friend. Brightly came down thehall at last, with hesitating steps.
"Don't look at me, Charley," he said, as he entered the room; "don'tlook at me!"
His voice was weak and broken. The very sound of it roused all the pityin Harple's compassionate nature. He rose from his chair, took one ofBrightly's hands in his, put his arm around Brightly's neck, and laidhis face against Brightly's wet, cold cheek. That was the welcome. Itwas a long time before Brightly found his voice again. When he did, itwas only long enough to say,--
"O Charley, it's been terrible! terrible!"
They did not talk much after that. Harple knew, from the first wordthat his chum had spoken, that no admonition was needed from him. Hehelped Brightly to remove his wet garments and clothe himself in dryones, and then he considerately left the room.
It was after supper that Brightly took down his military coat, andsevered the shoulder-straps from it, and the honor-grade chevrons fromthe sleeves. Then he took these, and his sword and sash, and wentdownstairs. He crossed through the private hall to Colonel Silsbee'soffice door, knocked, and was bidden to enter. The principal was therealone. Brightly laid the insignia of his rank on the table beforeColonel Silsbee.
"I have brought these things to you," he said. "I have no right to themany more. I have worn them unworthily. There was no excuse for my goingaway. I have been very foolish and wicked and ungrateful."
He hesitated a moment, then went on: "I would like to speak about thatnight that you called me in before Brede and Finkelton to explainmy marks. That was a lie that I told then. The figures were correctbefore. I did not change them; I don't know, certainly, who did. Iwould like to have them put back as they were. I hope it won't benecessary to send me away. I look at things very differently from whatI did yesterday. I am ready to stand any punishment. I don't want to bereleased from any,--I didn't come to you for that; I only wanted you toknow that I'm not rebellious any longer--nor careless--nor--"
But here the lad broke down. He had spoken with painful hesitancy for awhole minute.
He had feared that his coming might be misinterpreted. But there was nodanger of that. When he looked at Colonel Silsbee again he knew therewas no danger of it. The man, with his sympathetic nature, had divinedthe boy's feelings to their greatest depth. He rose from his chair andlaid his hand on Brightly's shoulder.
"I am glad you came," he said. "You must suffer with the rest, but--Iam glad you came. I shall remember it of you,--I shall never forget it."
It was strange, but Colonel Silsbee's voice had broken, too. He turnedhis face away and resumed his seat, and, in the silence that ensued,Brightly went quietly out.
The next morning at the opening of the morning session, Colonel Silsbeecame in, and conducted the Scripture reading and prayer as usual,but made no remarks. He merely gave to the officer of the day, forrecord, a slip of paper which contained the order placing on perpetualdelinquency all members of the school who had participated in therebellion.
That night, at retreat, another order was read by the acting adjutant,reducing permanently to the ranks all officers, both commissioned andnon-commissioned, who had taken part in the revolt.
* * * * *
But what had become of Brede? This was the question which now agitatedthe school. He had not as yet returned to Riverpark. He had notbeen seen by any one connected with the academy since his departurenorthward on the train from New Hornbury. Every one now knew of histreacherous and cowardly conduct, and the general opinion was that hewas afraid to return.
But the doubt as to his whereabouts was soon to be dispelled. It wasnot long after taps that night, that those of the boys who were notyet asleep heard an unusual commotion downstairs. There were hurryingfootsteps, loud voices, once a noise as of a slight scuffle; then allwas quiet again.
On the following morning, at the reveille roll-call, a whisperran rapidly around the school to the effect that Brede was in theguard-house. This was a cell-like room, on the second floor, in aremote corner of the building, with one narrow window near the ceiling,and a heavy door studded with round-headed spikes, and locked with agreat brass key.
Only once before, in the memory of the oldest student, had that doorbeen opened to admit a refractory pupil. Indeed, few of those in theschool had even so much as seen it. The guard-house was always spokenof with an indefinable shiver, and an unpleasant thought of bread andwater and ghostly solitude. The fact that Brede was confined therebrought to a climax the excitement under which the school had beenlaboring for a week.
Later in the morning the nature of Brede's offence became known. Hehad been found, the night before, at a disreputable resort in thelower part of the city, in a state of gross intoxication. He hadquarrelled with the keeper of the place, had been taken in charge bythe police and marched to the station-house, where the police captainhad recognized him; and on account of his youth and the disgrace whichwould attend the publicity of his offence, had directed the officersto take him to Riverpark and turn him over to Colonel Silsbee forpunishment. So now he was in the guard-house, living on
bread and water.
It was a terrible thing. Boys who were not accustomed to hearingstories of vice and crime, spoke of it in whispers. Indeed, therewere some who hardly dared speak of it at all, it was so utterly andshamelessly disgraceful.
That evening Brightly was sick. The fatigue and exposure, especiallythe nervous strain of the last few days, had so worn upon him that hewas obliged to ask for an excuse before the evening session was halfthrough, that he might go to his room and to bed. The favor was readilygranted, and he passed slowly up the two flights of stairs to the upperdormitory.
As he went down the hall toward his room, he saw, through the transomover the door, a flickering light. He thought it strange, as he knewthat Harple was still in the schoolroom.
It suddenly occurred to him that it was the light of fire. He darted tothe door, pushed it open, and started back in horrified amazement.
Brede was kneeling by the bed, holding a lighted candle in his hand,and the mattress in front of him was rapidly bursting into flame.
He had partly risen at Brightly's approach, and was facing the doorwhen it was opened. Seeing who confronted him, he dropped the candleand made a savage spring toward his old antagonist. In a moment theywere both on the floor, fighting desperately.
Over and over they rolled, down the entire length of the hall. In theirstruggles they reached the landing at the head of the stairs, and thenext violent turn sent them pitching down into the darkness.