Harper's Round Table, May 19, 1896

JACK HOWARD'S SURPRISE PARTY.

It was the critical moment in the famous sham battle of Easter Monday. The bicycle corps was a mile and a half away, and the signal post had been captured by the enemy. Unless the corps could be brought into the action the day was lost, and the wood road running back of the "Cardinal's Nob" offered the only possible means of communication. But could the message be conveyed in time? Colonel Howard turned to his son Jack, who stood anxious and silent at the front handle-bars of the Arrow, a modern racing quad, geared to 120, and stripped down to the enamel. The inspection seemed to satisfy him, and hastily scribbling a few lines on a page torn from his note-book, he handed the order to his son.

"Get this through if you possibly can," he said, briefly, and turned again to his field-glasses.

A moment later and Jack and his crew were carrying the Arrow down the steep sides of the "Nob" to the wood road that ran below. The road was in splendid condition, hard and smooth as a racing-track, and the boys were all picked riders, and bound to hold on to their grips until the tires began to smoke.

"It will be a scorch, fellows," said Jack, as he swung himself into his saddle; "but let her run off easily until we can get to pedalling all together. Now, then, hit her up!"

The Arrow jumped forward like a hare as the long chain tightened and the riders bent over to their work. It took Jem Smith, No. 2, a moment longer to find his left pedal, and then the eight legs began to go up and down with the mechanical regularity of so many piston-rods. Once fairly into the long rhythmical swing, every ounce of power told, and the tense spokes hummed merrily as the speed increased and the road-bed slipped away beneath the rapidly revolving wheels. Jack Howard had his cap drawn well down over his eyes, and his hands were tightly clinched on the front handle-bars. So long as the way was smooth and the crew were pumping in strict time the Arrow steered with the certainty and quickness of a racing sloop; but every now and then a shallow rut or a half-hidden stone would cause the long machine to swerve like a flying horse, and it would take all of Jack's strength, even with the assistance of No. 2, whose handle-bars were coupled to the steering head, to keep the Arrow steady on her course. Above all, it was necessary that every rider should pay strict attention to the business in hand, or rather under foot. Uneven pedalling meant lost power and hard steering, while a slipped pedal might result in an ugly fall and a general smash-up.

Three-quarters of a mile from the "Nob" there was a gate across the road, with the approach on a curve that was also slightly down-grade. As was only prudent, speed was reduced, and the Arrow rounded the turn well under control. Luckily so, for the gate was closed. This was rather odd, for the bicycle corps had passed over the road only an hour before, and it had been understood that they should leave the gate open. The loss of time was vexatious, but there was nothing to do but to stop. The Arrow ran slowly up to the obstruction, and Jack called to Dick Long, the end man, to jump off and swing the gate aside.

"Hands up!" came with startling distinctness from the high, thickly wooded slope that bordered the road on either side, and Jack looked up straight into the barrel of a regulation army carbine that for the moment yawned as wide as the muzzle of a hundred-ton gun. It was the enemy, sure enough, a sergeant with a dozen men, and the Arrow had walked straight into the trap. Resistance was as impossible as it was hopeless, for the boys had strapped their carbines securely to the framing of the quad, and the surprise had been complete.

"You're captured," said the umpire, who had accompanied the ambuscade. "Hand over your despatches to the sergeant and stand at attention."

It was a dreadfully mortifying situation for the boys, but their captors were inclined to be magnanimous.

"It's not your fault, Jack," chuckled the jolly sergeant, as he took the precious despatch; "it was just a little game of strategy in which we happened to hold the high cards."

After all, it had been a desperate chance, and Jack was philosopher enough to abide by the result. And besides that he had faith enough in his father to feel assured that he would pull through somehow, and that his confidence was not misplaced those who have read "The Battle of Easter Monday" will remember.

The umpire hurried away for the actual field of battle, and the sergeant and his party took up their post again at the gate. It was stupid work playing prisoner, and Jack hinted as much to the sergeant. If they couldn't see the battle it was a pity to lose such a fine afternoon for a ride, and it was not likely that they would be able to borrow the quad again.

"Well," said the sergeant, good-naturedly, "I don't know that I have any right to do it, but I'll release you on parole, with the understanding that you go in the opposite direction from the battle-field, and that you report at the armory this evening and turn in your rifles and cartridge-belts."

The terms were too easy not to be accepted, and though the boys were naturally disappointed in not being able to see or take part in the fight, it was something in the way of consolation to have a twenty-mile spin on the Arrow.

"Let's go to Queenston," suggested Jem Smith, as the Arrow rolled slowly back along the wood road.

It was a good fifteen miles away to the old college town, but the roads were unusually good for so early in the year, and the scenery was more than enough to make up for the steepness of the hills.

"And take luncheon at Rock Hill," added Jack. "Is it a vote?" and no one dissenting, it was so ordered.

It was a glorious afternoon for a spin, and the boys enjoyed the novel experience of four-in-hand riding. But since the Arrow was geared up for racing on a level track, it was hard work hill-climbing, and nobody was sorry to see in the distance the gray towers of Queenston. A mile away from town and Jack called a halt. The stretch of road immediately before them had been broken up preparatory to macadamizing, and it was clearly unrideable. Nobody liked the idea of trundling the long machine into town; but, on the other hand, they had set out for a run to Queenston, and it would not do to give up within sight of port. And, moreover, through the town lay the shortest road back to Fairacre.

"What's that road?" asked Dick Long, pointing to a carriage drive that entered the woods at right angles to the highway.

Jack's eyes brightened. "I remember it now," he said. "It's a private road that runs back of the college and brings us out on University Square. There can't be any objection to our using it."

There was a locked gate to prevent intrusion, but the Arrow was quickly hoisted over the fence, and Jack and his crew were in the saddle again.

It was evident that the road had not been used for a long time, for it was overgrown with grass, and the old wheel-tracks were hardly discernible. But it was fair riding, for the turf was thick and firm, and as it was early in the spring, it had only just begun to grow. Half a mile in and the Arrow was running swiftly and noiselessly through the thickest part of the college wood. The university buildings were but a quarter of a mile or so away, but it was only occasionally that they showed through the leafless trunks of the great oaks and chestnuts. Here and there a chipmunk scuttled away through the dry rustling leaves, and once an early robin piped up with an original spring poem. The silence and stillness seemed almost primeval; it might have been the first Sunday morning after the creation of the world; a laugh or an idle word would have broken the spell. And then--

"Hold hard!" came in a tense whisper from Jack, and his crew mechanically bore back on their pedals. The Arrow had stopped at the brow of a gentle declivity that widened out at the bottom into a little glade, which was now the scene of a drama that looked perilously like a tragedy to the startled eyes of the new-comers. In the middle of the open space stood a rude structure of rough stones some three feet high and six long, and upon it was stretched the figure of a man bound and gagged. At a little distance were grouped a dozen masked forms armed with odd-looking axes, and listening attentively to an incomprehensible harangue on the part of the one who appeared to be their leader.

The boys looked at each other with white faces. Ku-Klux? White Caps? It was possible. Whatever it was, it looked ugly enough in all conscience.

Jack Howard began to unstrap his carbine from the framework of the Arrow.

"Our cartridges are all blanks," whispered Dick Long, hurriedly.

"I know it," returned Jack, fumbling with nervous haste at the mechanism of the breech-block, "but I'm not going to stand here and see murder done."

"But what can we do?"

"See that your magazines are full, be ready to ride the Arrow so as to get that stone pile between us and the crowd, and, above all, let nobody fire until I give the word. It's twelve to four, and the only chance is to bluff them."

It seemed like a dream to stand there waiting for the moment of action, the motionless figure stretched upon the stones, the sunlight flickering upon the grim-looking axes of the twelve masked men, the monotonous, unintelligible drone of the speaker. And yet there was a something in the picture that made it terribly alive, for all that this was the year of Our Lord 1896, and the bells in the college chapel were even now ringing the call for evening prayers.

Jack and his crew were sitting motionless in their saddles, Dick Long, the rear man, standing ready to give the necessary shove-off.

The speaker had stopped talking, and had taken his stand at the head of the line of masked men. In his hands he held an antique-looking urn, and at a signal the others advanced one by one. As the first man passed he dropped into the urn a small object that looked like a bean. But there could be no mistake about the color--it was black. Another followed, and then another, until all had passed and cast their vote, if vote it was. The chief solemnly emptied the contents of the urn upon the ground. Every bean was black.

The leader drew from beneath his cloak a long, glittering, crescent-shaped knife, and held it high above his head.

"Your sentence, then"--he looked inquiringly at the immovable silent figures that stood about him in a circle.

"Death!" came in muffled tones from the first mask, and "Death!" echoed the next, and the next, until all had spoken.

The circle parted, and the executioner moved slowly towards the altar and the victim.

"Now!" shouted Jack, and the Arrow flashed down the slope as though sped from some gigantic bowstring. In an instant the boys had dismounted, and were kneeling under cover of the stone-work with their rifles at their shoulders. There was a moment of surprise and confusion among the masked figures, and the man with the knife pulled up sharply.