by John Jakes
“I can’t because I don’t know yet. We’ll have to shape our plan to the circumstances, but we’ll know the right moment when it comes along. We mustn’t rush into anything. We must smile and wait, and then one day when Billy Hazard and my sister least expect it, we’ll repay them.”
Despite his misgivings, Forbes smiled. It was a slightly bleary smile, which she nevertheless found charming.
“Indeed we will,” he said. He pointed up the lawn to the glitter of the great house. “May I have a dance to seal that bargain?”
“You may, Mr. LaMotte. Lead on.”
32
ON THE FIRST OF June, 1852, Billy stepped onto the North Dock at West Point. A hot gray haze lay on the river and the mountains. He strained for a glimpse of the Academy, but it was hidden by the steep bluff rising behind the dock. How had his brother felt on the day he arrived? As nervous as this? As excited?
Billy was determined to do well during the next four years. He wanted to go into the engineers, and that meant earning top marks. With application and a touch of luck, he knew he could get them. He had already started to prepare. He had been boning hard throughout the trip and before. What filled most of the space in his big carpetbag were books—secondhand copies of Bourdon’s Algebra, Legendre’s Geometry and Trigonometry, Descriptive Geometry—all adapted and expanded from original sources by Professor Davies of the Military Academy.
“Sir, don’t stand there and gape. You are the only newcomer on the steamer? Very well, sir. Put your valise in that cart, sir.”
The voice and the brogue belonged to a wrinkled and rather ferocious-looking little man in a soiled Army uniform. He swaggered away with one hand on the hilt of his cutlass. The man was far from the ideal picture of a soldier, yet he impressed Billy and gave him a sense of the tradition of this place. Billy felt proud to be standing where his brother had stood ten years ago. The Academy had acquired a bad reputation during Jackson’s time, but George said that was fading, and West Point was taking its place among the world’s leading military schools: Woolwich and Sandhurst in Britain, St. Cyr and L’Ecole Polytechnique in Paris. Old Thayer had used the French polytechnic school as his model when reshaping the West Point curriculum.
“Sir, I shall not ask you again to step lively. I am Sergeant Owens, provost of the post, and I remind you that you are now on a military reservation. Comport yourself accordingly!”
“Yes, sir,” Billy said, and hurried after him.
Captain Elkanah Bent sat picking at his lower lip with the nail of his index finger. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the open file before him. Although every window in the old-fashioned brick house was wide open, the obese officer was roasting.
The house was one of two that stood at the west edge of President’s Park. In another eight months a new man would be moving into the residence at the center of the wooded park. The Democrats had nominated Franklin Pierce of New Hampshire, on the forty-ninth ballot. When Pierce had been appointed a general in the Mexican War, he had promptly been dismissed as one more politician who craved military rank. But he had proved to be a surprisingly able commander, and many professional officers favored his election.
The Whigs, on the other hand, had chosen the Commanding General himself. Old Fuss and Feathers had wanted the nomination in 1848 but had been forced to wait another four years. This time he had gotten it on the fifty-third ballot, after President Fillmore had been denied the nomination by his own party—if it was possible to call the Whigs a viable party any longer. That was the obstacle facing General Scott. He was about to charge into the political lists on a dying horse.
Ah, well. However it came out, the country would have a President with military experience. Perhaps that kind of man would understand that the government’s chief mission was to prepare for war against the traitors gaining control in the South.
Bent had been at the War Department slightly less than four weeks. He already hated the capital, as he had known he would when he accepted the transfer. Washington was a permanently unfinished city, Southern in style and viewpoint, and plagued by flies and open sewers and many other undesirable features. He loathed all the free Negroes who flaunted themselves in public, as if they were the equals of white men. He loathed the civilian bureaucrats—pismires who ran to and fro in a futile attempt to prove they had some purpose.
Despite all the drawbacks of the town, transfer to Washington was a good step and one long overdue. Staff duty was important professional experience. For the past thirty-four months Bent had been stuck in a line post at Carlisle Barracks. This new assignment might be a turning point in a career in which advancement had been far too slow, even for peacetime. He knew whom to blame for that.
The adjutant general’s office handled all personnel records for the Army. Soon after arriving, Bent had reviewed the list of next year’s confirmed appointments to the Military Academy. On the list he discovered the name of Charles Main of South Carolina. Some investigation disclosed that this Charles Main was the nephew of a certain former officer of Bent’s acquaintance.
Then, just today, an official pouch had brought the revised final list of June entrants, already in camp, as well as a list of the Seps, who wouldn’t arrive until the start of the fall term. A name leaped out from the June roster. William Hazard II, Lehigh Station, Pennsylvania.
It could only be someone from the same family.
Bent could barely contain his delight. He had lost track of Orry Main and George Hazard. The pressures of his own career had contributed to that. Also, both had left the Army and placed themselves beyond his reach, so to speak.
But he had never abandoned a desire to revenge himself on Main and Hazard. Thanks to them and the doubts they had planted about him, he hadn’t advanced as far or as fast as he should have. For that and other reasons, he had an abiding hatred of both men. Now, through members of their families, he just might have another chance at them.
A small, fuzzy caterpillar appeared at the far edge of Bent’s desk and worked its way toward the file he had just closed. Out of habit, Bent began to think of his old adversaries by their Academy nicknames. Had Stick and Stump forgotten the promise he made to them? If they had, so much the better. Secrecy and surprise were valuable for all campaigns, military or personal.
“Captain Bent?” The voice of the adjutant general sounded from the inner office. “Please come in here a moment.”
“Right away, sir.”
Elkanah Bent heaved himself out of his chair. He took a step, halted, reached to the center of his desk, and pressed his thumb down on the caterpillar. When the creature was dead and brushed away, Bent lumbered to answer the summons.
Book Three
“The Cords That Bind Are Breaking One By One”
If they break up, in God’s name
let the Union go … I love the
Union as I love my wife. But if my
wife should ask and insist upon a
separation, she should have it,
though it broke my heart.
JOHN QUINCY ADAMS,
On Burr’s rumored secession conspiracy1801
33
GEORGE HAZARD CLAIMED TO have no special feeling for West Point. Yet he had talked about the place often and at length with his younger brother, so by the time Billy arrived at the Military Academy he knew a good deal about it.
George had warned him about “Thayer’s men and Thayer’s system.” The heart of the system was the belief that personal accomplishment could be measured in absolute terms and expressed by a numerical ranking. The system, and the men who implemented it, still ruled West Point.
But there had been changes in the six years since George’s graduation. The most visible ones were architectural. The old North and South Barracks had been razed, and a new cadet barracks with 176 rooms had been built at the staggering cost of $186,000. Corniced with red sandstone, the building reminded Billy of pictures of English castles. Its large hall above the central sally port provided the cadet
debating society with a permanent home, and in the basement an Army pensioner had opened a refreshment shop that sold cookies, candy, and pickles. A central hot-water system heated the barracks. There were none of those grates of which George spoke so fondly. No grates meant no cooking after hours. A disappointment; Billy had been looking forward to his first hash.
East of the barracks and directly south of the Chapel, a new stone mess hall was under construction. The Observatory and Library were still there, however. The classroom building, too.
To provide practical demonstrations and perhaps a little inspiration, a company of engineers had been stationed on the post since the end of the Mexican War. They could be identified by their dark blue single-breasted tailcoats with black velvet collars and cuffs, and by the official insignia of their branch, the turreted castle. Billy hoped to wear the same insignia one day.
He knew he would have to study hard during the next four years. But he found his preparation for the June entrance tests to have been wasted effort. To pass the math section, he needed only to solve one easy blackboard problem and orally answer three equally simple questions. No wonder some civilians called the entrance requirements ludicrous.
Cadets now were summoned by the bugle instead of the drum. But the mess hall served the same old food, and he hadn’t been in his assigned room ten minutes before a third classman swaggered in, identified himself as Cadet Caleb Slocum, and demanded that he assume the position of the soldier.
He did so as best he could. The third classman, an emaciated fellow with straight black hair and bad skin, criticized him, then said in a drawling voice:
“Tell me something about yourself, sir. Is your father a Democrat?”
Billy answered pleasantly. “I think that will depend on the person the party nominates this month.”
“Sir, I asked you a question requiring a simple yes or no response. You have instead chosen to deliver a lecture on politics.” The third classman lowered his voice from a shout to a purr. “May I infer from your answer that your father is a politician, sir?”
Billy gulped and fought his anger. “No. Sir. He’s an ironmaster.”
“Sir,” roared the other, “I asked you straightforwardly whether your father was or was not a politician, and in reply you regale me with a discourse on manufacturing. Stand in that corner, facing it, for fifteen minutes. I shall be back to check on you. Meantime, ponder this. Continue to be garrulous and headstrong, and your career at this institution will be short and unpleasant. Now, sir. Into the corner!”
Red-faced, Billy obeyed. If he had been like his brother, he would have punched the arrogant cadet and worried about the consequences later. But he was a more deliberate sort, and for that reason George said he would probably make an outstanding engineer. Moreover, his trusting nature made him an easy victim. He stood for nearly an hour before a second classman looked in, took pity on him, and ordered him to stand at ease, because Slocum had no intention of coming back.
Slocum. Billy rubbed his aching leg and noted the name.
“Better get used to that kind of deviling, sir,” said the second classman. “You’re going to be a plebe for a good long time.”
“Yes sir,” Billy muttered as the other left. Some things at West Point didn’t change, and never would.
Still wearing civilian clothes, Billy and the other plebes marched to the Plain for summer camp behind the uniformed battalion, just as George and Orry had. The plebes staggered through the dust carrying the gear of the upperclassmen, and bloodied their knuckles and lost their tempers trying to drive tent pegs into the hard ground.
That first day in camp, Billy was exposed to another change taking place at the Academy. It was a change less marked than many of the others, but no less important. Some said later that it was the most important change of all because it was so destructive.
Each tent held three men, their blankets, a rack for the muskets they would eventually be issued, and a battered, green-painted locker. The locker had three compartments, one for each cadet’s linen. It also served as the tent’s only seat. When Billy walked in, followed by a thin, pale plebe with a bewildered air, the third occupant of the tent was sitting on the locker, polishing his expensive Wellington boots with a kerchief.
He glanced up. “Good evening to you. McAleer’s the name. Dillard McAleer.” He extended his hand.
Billy shook it, trying to identify the boy’s accent. It was Southern, but a little harder and more nasal than the speech of South Carolina.
“I’m Billy Hazard. From Pennsylvania. This is Fred Pratt, from Milwaukee.”
“Frank Pratt,” said the tall boy. He sounded apologetic.
“Well, well. Two Yankees.” Dillard McAleer grinned. McAleer had pale blue eyes and blond curls that fell over his pink forehead. Billy had seen him before, when the newcomers had been sized and divided into four squads, one of which was attached to each cadet company. Billy and McAleer were of medium height, hence had been put in a squad attached to one of the interior companies. Frank Pratt, who remained meekly by the tent entrance, stood almost six feet. He had been assigned to a flank company squad.
“You boys plan to gang up on me?” McAleer asked. Something about him struck faint chords of memory. What was it? McAleer was still smiling, but there was a detectable seriousness in the question. Billy thought it a bad omen.
He heard noises outside—footfalls, and someone whispering. The skulkers were on the side of the tent away from the sun, so no shadows fell across the canvas. Billy countered McAleer’s question with another:
“Why should we do that? We’re all suffering through this together.”
“I don’t aim to suffer,” McAleer declared. “First Yankee son of a bitch that fools with me, I’ll push his nose out the back of his head.”
Billy scratched his chin. “Where are you from, McAleer?”
“Little place in Kentucky, name of Pine Vale. My daddy farms there.” He stared at Billy. “Him and the four niggers he owns.”
The cadet clearly expected a reaction. He remained seated on the locker, his cheerfully truculent expression telling them he could and would deal with any criticisms they might offer. Billy hadn’t expected to confront sectional hostility at West Point. He had been naive, and the realization gave him a jolt. But he certainly didn’t intend to get into any arguments over slavery.
Still, as tent mates, the three of them were equals, and McAleer had to understand that. Billy gestured. “I’d like to stow my linen. Mind moving out of the way?”
“Why, yes, I do.” McAleer stood up slowly, like a snake uncoiling. Though he was stocky, he had a natural grace that heightened his girlish look. But when he brushed the tips of his fingers over his palms, as if preparing for a fight, Billy saw that his hands were callused.
McAleer’s grin widened again. “Reckon that if you want into this here locker, you’ll have to displace me.”
Frank Pratt uttered a small, pathetic groan. Now Billy knew why Dillard McAleer seemed familiar. He acted like some of the young men Billy had met at Mont Royal. Arrogant, almost desperately pugnacious. Maybe it was a standard defense against Yankees.
Billy gave the Kentuckian a level stare. “McAleer, I’ve no quarrel with you. We have to live in this canvas hell hole for sixty days, and we need to get along. As far as I’m concerned, getting along doesn’t depend on who we are or where we hail from, but it surely does depend on how we treat each other. Now I didn’t ask anything unusual, just to get into that locker, which is one-third mine. But if I have to displace you, as you call it, I guess I can.”
The firmness of the statement impressed McAleer. He waved. “Hell, Hazard, I was only having a little fun.” With a deep bow, he stood aside. “All yours. Yours too, Fred.”
“Frank.”
“Oh, sure. Frank.”
Billy relaxed and turned toward the entrance where he had piled his belongings. Suddenly:
“All together, boys—pull!”
Billy recognize
d Slocum’s voice an instant before the lurkers yanked all the tent pegs out of the ground. Down came the poles and the canvas.
McAleer cursed and thrashed. When the three plebes extricated themselves, Billy had to hold the Kentuckian to prevent him from going after the laughing upperclassmen.
George said that as plebes he and Orry had been plagued by one upperclassman who took a special dislike to them. It was the same with Billy. Caleb Slocum of Arkansas constantly sought him out in order to hive him for real and imaginary infractions. Billy’s nights were soon haunted by dreams of Slocum’s homely, blotchy face—and of triumphant moments in which he saw himself killing Slocum in a variety of ways.
He endured the harassment because he knew he must if he wanted to reach his goal. He liked to think about the future while he was standing guard; the routine consisted of two hours pacing your post, then four hours of rest, then another two hours on duty, for a total of twenty-four hours. To pass the time, Billy sent his imagination shooting ahead to a bright day when he had won his commission in the engineers and could support a wife. There was no longer any doubt in his mind as to who that wife would be. He only hoped Brett would want him as much as he wanted her.
A week before the end of summer camp, Dillard McAleer got into an argument with a couple of Northern plebes. They quarreled over the free-soil question. A fight developed. McAleer held his own until a foulmouthed first classman intervened, a New Yorker named Phil Sheridan who had a reputation as quite a brawler himself. This time he was serving as officer of the day and came down on the side of discipline.
Sheridan tried to stop the fight. His interference only infuriated McAleer all the more. The Kentuckian tore a limb from a nearby tree and ran at Sheridan, ready to club him. Fortunately other cadets leaped in and separated the two, but it took about five minutes to completely subdue McAleer.
Next day, Superintendent Henry Brewerton called McAleer to his office. No one knew what was said behind the superintendent’s closed door, but by late afternoon McAleer was packing.