CHAPTER XVI THE SIGNAL CORPS CAMP IN THE MOUNTAINS

Before leaving the center of the city Lieutenant Purcell directed Morey to several cheap but sufficiently good restaurants. Then the two friends spent several hours in sight-seeing, and when they separated, Morey went directly to his room to write to his mother at last. The letter, although a long one, told only a part of Morey’s story. As yet he made no mention of the money they owed Major Carey. It was an affectionate but positive letter leaving no doubt as to Morey’s intentions. This letter led up to a second and more important one.

The following day, having journeyed out to Fort Meyer and secured the proper form, Morey wrote again to his mother. In this letter he asked her consent to his joining the Signal Corps. This communication was most adroitly worded. There was in it no reference to the army, and the average person who read it would imagine that the “U. S. Signal Corps” was a sort of technical school, entrance into which was secured only by a favored few.

Morey waited four days for his mother’s reply. During that time he heard nothing from Major Squiers or from the real estate firm, and his expenses were already nearly twelve dollars. Then he called at the real estate office. The manager remembered him, was profuse in his apologies, but had been too busy to give the matter consideration. He would attempt to do so at once. Morey retired somewhat crestfallen. He had imagined that his business was to receive immediate attention. Not wishing to bother Lieutenant Purcell he went alone to the War Department and asked to see Major Squiers. After much delay he was admitted.

Major Squiers greeted him cordially but with every sign of having no time to lose.

“I just wanted to ask you about the papers?” Morey explained at once.

“Oh, yes,” responded the military executive. “They have been submitted to the proper officials. When reports are made on them I will take the matter up with the Secretary of War. You mustn’t be impatient, my son. We are all the victims of red tape here in Washington.”

“Have you any idea when I shall know?”

“Not the slightest—weeks perhaps; maybe months. You had better go home in the meantime.”

“I should say not,” responded Morey decisively. “Don’t you remember what you told me I could do? I can’t afford to loaf, either here or at home. I want to enlist.”

“I remember,” laughed Major Squiers. “Have you your mother’s formal consent?”

“I expect to have it in a day or so.”

Major Squiers thought a moment. Then he turned to his desk and wrote a note.

“Why not?” he asked as he turned around and handed the envelope to Morey. “Here is a note to Lieutenant Purcell with a suggestion. If you are in the service I can the more easily keep track of you. The lieutenant is leaving in a few days for the experiment station. I have suggested that if your mother’s consent arrives in time and you are formally enrolled before he leaves, he should take you with him.”

“Where is the experiment station,” asked Morey, boyishly.

The officer smiled.

“That is a military secret, my son.”

Then Morey smiled.

After expressing his gratitude Morey withdrew. It pleased him to think that he knew where the experiment station was. The presence of Lieutenant Purcell at Linden, only twenty miles from his home was explained. If things worked out all right, Morey figured he would be on his way there in a few days. There, with the possible chance of seeing his mother occasionally, he would study the operation of aeroplanes and would wait for some word as to his business affairs.

The next morning his mother’s letter came. It was a pathetic composition, protesting, appealing and reproaching. And, although she ordered Morey to return home at once she also gave her consent that he might join the Signal Corps. The letter contained also a message from Amos’ father. The substance of this was that a “hiding” awaited the colored boy.

Within an hour Morey had consulted with Lieutenant Purcell. Then he made another call at the real estate office. The manager, Morey thought, showed uncalled for impatience. It had not yet been convenient, it seemed, to look into the Marshall matter. The disappointed lad was glad to make his escape. But he left his new address: “Care Lieut. Fred Purcell, U. S. Signal Corps.”

By noon he and Amos had packed up their belongings, eaten luncheon at one of Amos’ favorite places down near the “Basin,” and the adventurers were off for Fort Meyer. Morey was about to become a soldier. Amos following blindly in Morey’s footsteps, supposed with his own peculiar logic that the white boy’s enlistment included him. In the delusion that he, too, was about to become a soldier and don a cap and blue clothes he was happy.

Lieutenant Purcell had orders to return to Linden, or Green Springs, the real location of the encampment, at noon of the following day. And at his suggestion Morey was not formally enlisted until the next morning. All embarrassment as to Amos was soon relieved. Morey had money enough to send the black boy home by train. The officer, however, offered to attach Amos to himself as a personal servant.

“But he thinks he is to be a soldier,” said Morey.

“That’s all right,” suggested the lieutenant, “I’ll scare up an old uniform and we’ll rig him out in it. It will satisfy him and do no one any harm.”

This was done that evening. When the reservation ambulance started for Washington and the train at noon the next day, among the other corps privates to be transferred to Green Springs under Sergeant Burns, was Morey, in a stiff new uniform, and with a soldier’s kit. Lieutenant Purcell preceded the detachment in a ’bus and Amos went with him—in reality as the lieutenant’s personal servant, but so far as the black boy knew, as much of a soldier as any in the squad. Three hours later, to Amos’ consternation, the party alighted in the village of Linden. The camp wagon was waiting and long before night Lieutenant Purcell and his men were at Green Springs.

Morey was assigned to a tent with three other privates, and Amos—protesting but finally obeying Morey’s orders—was located in Lieutenant Purcell’s cook tent with another darkey. Amos had expected to shoulder a gun, and had visions of at once stealing away to exhibit himself in Lee’s Court House. But he found the duty of waiting on Lieutenant Purcell’s table more pressing.

Even a quick examination satisfied Morey that he had made no mistake. The camp and its surroundings seemed a fairy land to him. High up on the slope of the Blue Mountains, well concealed behind a barrier of mountain ash trees, lay a plateau. This plateau led into a broad rift in the mountain. Deep in this valley, next the spring that gave the place its name, was the camp. A score of tents surrounding a square, housed the soldiers and officers selected by the War Department to be trained in the use of the aeroplane. Just below the camp and fronting a slope leading to the plateau outside were two large tents. In one of these were two aeroplanes—Wright machines—and in the other was a shop and quarters for two civilian representatives of the airship manufacturers.

Fascinated by the surroundings and the daily routine of the work Morey threw himself enthusiastically into the experiments. He was young, full of ideas and more than willing. He was assigned to the shop division and in three weeks he was as well informed on the theory and construction of an aeroplane as the experts themselves. So intent was he upon his duties that he seemed to have no thought for any thing else. But no day went by in which he did not inquire of his superior officer whether any message had come for him from Major Squiers or the real estate firm. But his frequent and keen disappointment in this hope always passed away in the fervor with which he executed his tasks. The men were not allowed to send messages from the camp. Nor were they permitted to visit Linden unless accompanied by an officer.

Lieutenant Purcell had tried several men in short flights, always making longer ones himself, generally about sundown. Morey now had his first experience in the machine. Corporal Appleton was the favored pupil. One evening early in July, Lieutenant Purcell and Corporal Appleton were preparing for a trial flight. The car was on the track, the lieutenant was in place at the levers and the corporal was just mounting alongside his superior when the latter looked up, sprang from the car and ordered Appleton away and into custody. The soldier was partly intoxicated.

Without a spoken word Lieutenant Purcell turned toward Morey and nodded his head. In another moment the young Virginian was by the officer’s side, the aeroplane had been released and the craft was swirling forward and upward. Almost before Morey could catch his breath the world seemed dropping from beneath him. There was a long, slanting curve and Morey’s heart almost stopped beating. He closed his eyes and gripped the fragile frame. A cold sweat covered his body. Again the car swayed. The boy, almost dizzy with fear, gasped and bit his lips. The whirr of the propellers filled the air. Then, suddenly, came the sense of smoothness, the absence of vibration, the feeling that without jar or quiver the delicate vehicle was floating.

At last Morey opened his eyes. He closed them quickly. So far beneath them that the sense of height was almost sickening, the plain and forest were rushing by with the speed of an express. But he began to reason. He had at last achieved a step in his ambition. With all the grit he had he pulled himself together. Again he opened his eyes—this time to keep them open. His companion was not afraid. Why should he be?

“How is she doing?” he exclaimed suddenly, surprised at his own calmness.

“Beautifully. Watch me!”

And the boy did. Far out over the forest in the gathering twilight the aeroplane flew like a disc. Then the aviator turned to the south. At this long swoop the sickening depression came again into Morey’s breast, but only for a moment.

“It’s this or nothing, for me,” he said to himself and with a last effort he put aside his fear.

“Look ahead,” exclaimed Lieutenant Purcell suddenly. “See something white?”

“Looks like a building.”

“Top of the courthouse in your village.”

Five miles toward the village the aeroplane flew and then Lieutenant Purcell turned once more. Just at dusk the airship sank gently to the earth in front of the camp. Amos grabbed Morey as a mother might clasp a lost child. He was blubbering and breathless. The black boy had chased the aeroplane and was almost exhausted.

“Marse Morey,” he panted, “ef yo’ all ebber go in that hurricane agin I’s gwine right home and tell yo’ ma.”

Morey had another opportunity the next day. Appleton was in disgrace. Morey was given his place and in the evening, after another short flight with Lieutenant Purcell, he was allowed to make a trial flight alone near the ground. In the week that followed Morey made daily flights—at last over the adjacent forest. His skill and confidence grew with every ascent. Lieutenant Purcell was not disappointed in his pupil. He had already assured the boy of a promotion to a sergeancy. Morey’s proud satisfaction had only one cloud on it—still no word came from Washington concerning his business negotiations.

On the morning of July 13, Morey was summoned to headquarters. Lieutenant Purcell greeted him with a sober face.

“Morey,” he said at once, “I have a disagreeable duty to perform. You will remember that it was not on my advice that you joined the Corps. Yet, I have done all I could to teach you what we know. In my judgment you have been too apt a pupil. Major Squiers has just made a requisition on me for my best operator. You are not only my best, but you are practically the only one I can trust.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said the boy. “But what makes your duty disagreeable?”

“Because I must conscientiously recommend you to Major Squiers.”

Morey’s eyes opened in surprise.

“Isn’t that a compliment?”

“It is a dangerous job. They are going to begin experimenting with explosives and their effects when dropped from aeroplanes.”

“Good!” exclaimed Morey. “Do you mean that I’m to have a chance at this?”

“I must submit your name. But it is exceedingly hazardous work. You can take or refuse the offer. Appleton is ready to go if you don’t.”

“When do I start?” was the boy’s only answer.

“Whoever I send must be in Arlington, New Jersey, tomorrow. You’ll have to start on the slow train this evening and leave Washington on the six o’clock express in the morning.”

As Morey grasped his lieutenant’s hand in both of his he said:

“Lieutenant, you’re a brick. You’ve certainly done your share in trying to turn a foolish boy into a good man.”