by John Jakes
“A damn trick!” Charles howled. He yanked his knife out of his boot and flung it.
Slocum had lagged behind. The bowie flashed past his ear and buried in a beam on the landing below. While the knife hummed, Charles launched into a profane tirade against West Point men and West Point perfidy.
When questioned, Charles would say only that he alone was responsible for his haircut. He stuck to the story despite threats from the tactical officers and some upperclassmen. His silence earned him the respect of most of the leaders of the cadet corps, including Beauty Stuart.
Charles soon came to idolize Stuart. This was true even though the two seemingly had little in common. Charles was handsome whereas Stuart was most decidedly the opposite; his stocky trunk contrasted oddly with his unusually long arms. What he lacked in appearance, however, he more than made up for with dash and charm. His blue eyes almost always brimmed with good humor. And he had an amazing record of success with young ladies who stayed at the hotel.
Stuart’s romantic prowess was not the only reason for Charles’s admiration. To him, the Virginian represented all the good qualities of Southerners. Courage. A high sense of personal honor. A zest for life. The ability to smile when trouble engulfed you; smile and endure.
Stuart was also passionately loyal to his friends. Early in Charles’s plebe year, Fitz Lee got drunk and was unlucky enough to be caught. He faced court-martial. Stuart organized Fitz’s classmates, who presented the superintendent with a pledge that, as a class, they would never be guilty of a similar offense.
By tradition, such a pledge from an entire class resulted in cancellation of charges against the offender. Colonel Lee could not otherwise have intervened in his nephew’s case. On the day after his receipt of the pledge, the superintendent was seen smiling frequently. He was probably pleased that his nephew had escaped dismissal, but no doubt more pleased that a band of brothers had lived up to its name.
Charles had no trouble with the military aspect of Academy training. Scholastically it was a different story. The fourth-class course in English grammar and geography was relatively simple, if boring. But in spite of the excellent preparation from Herr Nagel, the algebra course was an absolute mystery. Charles immediately joined the immortals and remained in their ranks through the January examinations, which he barely passed. Things got no better when he began his study of French in the second term.
“Why the devil do soldiers have to know French?” he asked Billy on one of the rare occasions when they could talk without being hampered by class rank. It was a Saturday afternoon during a February thaw. They had gone hiking in the hills above Fort Putnam. To the north they could see chunks of ice floating in the gray river. The air had the dry, astringent smell of winter. Occasional whiffs of wood smoke rose from the chimneys of the brick faculty houses below. Billy broke a twig in his mittened hands and tossed both halves away.
“Because, Mr. Bison, a lot of important military and scientific treatises are written in French. You might need to translate one someday.”
“Not me. I’m going into the dragoons and chase Indians.” He squinted at his friend. “You sure that’s the reason?”
“Why would I lie to you?”
“Because I’m a plebe, and you’re very good with buncombe. You proved that when you set me up for the haircut.”
“You’d better go back to your dictionary. Buncombe means lies and smooth talk from a politician.”
“Don’t tell me what it’s supposed to be; I already know—and you’re an expert at dispensing it.” With obvious delight, he rolled the word out again. “Buncombe. Mr. Buncombe, that’s you—” Sudden inspiration. Charles pointed like a prosecutor. “No. Bunk. Old Bunk. From now on.”
Billy snorted and complained, but secretly he was pleased. He had been embarrassed by his lack of a nickname. It seemed fitting that his best friend had finally bestowed it.
Toward the end of May 1854, the Senate passed the Kansas-Nebraska Bill. Senator Douglas had introduced it in January, once again heating up the simmering slavery controversy.
The bill organized two new territories. Douglas called it an expression of popular sovereignty. Anti-slavery men called it a betrayal, a repeal of the old Missouri Compromise that prohibited slavery north of 36 degrees 30 minutes of latitude. Secretary Davis reportedly influenced President Pierce to sign the bill. The anti-slavery forces said a new political party was obviously needed to combat sinister combinations at work in Washington.
Orry wrote Charles to say that judging from the rhetoric on both sides, Clay’s compromise of four years ago was in ruins. And Charles, without knowing or caring much about national issues, found himself on the defensive because of them. Upperclassmen occasionally put him on report for a glare or a swallowed retort, calling his behavior Southern insolence. Southerners such as Slocum reacted against that sort of thing by cruel hazing of Northern plebes. Lee continued to exhort the cadets to be a band of brothers, but Charles saw the corps quietly separating into two hostile camps.
Of course there were gradations of behavior within each camp. Slocum represented one end of the Southern spectrum, Beauty Stuart the other—when he was on his good behavior with his temper unruffled, that is. Stuart claimed he patterned himself after the Marble Model, the superintendent, but he was too fond of assignations on Flirtation Walk for the resemblance to be perfect. Charles took Stuart as one of his exemplars and Billy as another, because Billy kept himself aloof from political arguments and concentrated on good marks, which he seemed to achieve with little effort.
Still, given his upbringing and the nature of the times, Charles sometimes found it hard to keep his temper. While standing at attention during a reveille roll call in the spring, he was singled out for harassment by an obnoxious cadet sergeant from Vermont. The Yankee pulled three buttons off his uniform on the pretext of inspecting them.
“No wonder you never look trig, sir,” the Yankee snarled. “You don’t have your niggers to do for you.”
Under his breath, Charles said, “I polish my own brass. And fight my own fights.”
The Vermont cadet thrust his jaw forward. The sunrise flecked his eyes with points of light. “What did you say, sir?”
“I said—” Suddenly Charles recalled his demerit total. It stood at 190 with two weeks of the plebe year still remaining. “Nothing, sir.”
The cadet sergeant strutted on, looking smug. Perhaps he was relieved, too. Charles had established a reputation as an expert with knives and bare knuckles.
He hated to cave in under a Yankee’s insults. He did it only because he owed Orry a decent showing at the Academy, and the debt meant more to him than real or fancied insults to his honor.
For the moment, anyway.
Curiously, it was one of his own who first prodded Charles to think seriously about slavery. The culprit was Caleb Slocum, who had now advanced to cadet sergeant.
The Arkansas cadet had an excellent academic record. He was in the first section in most of his subjects. Billy said he got to the top by stealing examination questions ahead of time, and by various other forms of cheating. Although cheating wasn’t condoned by the officers and professors, it never received the attention given to other breaches of discipline such as drinking.
Thus Billy had one more reason to despise Slocum. He told Charles he intended to thrash the Arkansas cadet one of these days.
Slocum was a master at tormenting plebes. He hung out at Benny Haven’s—the proprietor was still alive, immortal, it seemed—and there learned about certain kinds of hazing that had been tried in the past and abandoned as too nasty.
They were not too nasty for Slocum. His targets remained the plebes from Northern states. When Charles observed the absolute power Slocum had over them, it struck him that the same power relationship existed back home between white master and black slave. The relationship had been present all along, of course; he had just never appreciated its potential for abuse and outright cruelty.
He felt dis
loyal about questioning the South even slightly. But he couldn’t help it. Ideas different from his own bombarded him every day. Like the nation, the Academy was in ferment. One proof could be seen in the Dialectic Society. Cadets organized fewer debates on so-called soft topics. “Ought females to receive a first-class education?” They reasoned—argued, sometimes shouted—over hard issues. “Has a state the right to secede from the Union?” “Has Congress an obligation to protect the property of territorial settlers?”
Privately, Charles began to consider different aspects of the peculiar institution: the justice of it, the long-term practicality. He had trouble admitting the system was wholly wrong—he was a Southerner, after all—but with so many people opposed to it, there was surely something amiss. In terms of the animosity it produced, slavery seemed more of a burden to the South than a benefit. Sometimes Charles was almost ready to agree with that Illinois stump speaker and politician, Lincoln, who said gradual emancipation was the only answer.
Although his inner turmoil persisted, he was determined to avoid fights that were in any way related to the issue. On the night of June 1, that resolve was destroyed.
At half-past nine, Charles gathered up soap and towel and tramped downstairs to the barracks washroom. Since it was late, he hoped to have the place to himself. Cadets were required to bathe once a week but could not do so more often without special permission from Colonel Lee.
Oil lamps shed a dim light in the basement corridor; rumor said Secretary Davis hoped to install a gaslight system soon. Charles hurried past the entrance to the refreshment shop, not wanting to be noticed or hived. He was tired and sore from marching. He longed to lean back in the tub and drowse in warm water for ten or fifteen minutes before taps.
He started to whistle softly as he approached the double door of the washroom. Suddenly he stopped and listened. He frowned. On the other side of the doors he heard voices. Two were low-pitched, the other slightly louder—
Pleading.
He jerked the door open. Startled, Caleb Slocum and a skinny classmate from Louisiana spun toward him. Slocum had an open jar in one hand. From it, mingling with the smells of soap and dampness, rose the pungent odor of spirits of turpentine.
The Louisiana cadet was holding a third young man face down in an empty tub. The youth peered at Charles, his dark eyes big and moist and scared. Charles recognized him as a newcomer who had arrived only today.
“Get out, sir,” Slocum said to Charles. “This disciplinary matter is none of your affair.”
“Disciplinary matter? Come on, boys. That fellow just got here this afternoon. He’s entitled to one or two mistakes.”
“This Yankee insulted us,” the Louisiana cadet snarled.
“I did not,” the youth in the tub protested. “They grabbed hold of me and dragged me down here and—”
“You shut up,” Louisiana said, seizing the newcomer’s neck and squeezing until he winced.
Slocum stepped forward to block Charles’s view. His blotchy face darkened as he said: “I’ll tell you just once more, sir. Leave.”
Slowly Charles shook his head. The water pipes running to the tubs radiated heat. He wiped his sweating palm on his shirt bosom and said, “Not till I see what you’re fixing to do to him.” He suspected he knew.
Quickly he stepped to one side, then darted forward before Slocum could react. The victim was naked. He looked scrawny and pathetic with his bare buttocks elevated slightly. Between his legs Charles saw the cord around his testicles. It was tied so tightly his balls were already swollen.
Charles licked the roof of his mouth, which was dry all at once. This was one of the little stunts tried a few times in the past and abandoned. Charles had walked in just before the conclusion—the pouring of turpentine into the victim’s anus.
Bile and anger thickened his voice. “That isn’t fit treatment for a dog. Let him up.”
Slocum couldn’t permit a plebe to bully him. “Main, I’m warning you—”
The door opened. Charles spun, saw Frank Pratt with a towel draped over his arm. Frank registered surprise as he took in the scene. He gulped and looked bilious. Charles spoke softly but with authority.
“Get Old Bunk. I want him to see what Slocum’s up to this time.”
Frank ran out and slammed the door. Slocum deposited the turpentine jar on the slippery floor, then began to massage his knuckles with the palm of his left hand. “Apparently there’s just one kind of order you understand, sir. Very well, I shall provide it.”
Charles almost snickered at the posturing. He didn’t because these two were upperclassmen, and cornered to boot. That made them dangerous.
The Louisiana cadet released the youth in the tub, who flopped on his chest and uttered a feeble cry. Slocum continued the melodramatic massaging of his hand. His companion grabbed his arm.
“Don’t fool with him, Slocum. You know his reputation. He’s within ten skins of dismissal—if we put him on report, we can get rid of him.”
The idea appealed to the Arkansas cadet, who really didn’t want to fight anyone as big and as formidable as Charles. Slocum continued to rub his hand, saying to no one in particular, “Damn fool ought to be on our side anyway. We’re all from the same part of the—”
The door opened. Frank and Billy walked in. Billy slammed the door. His opinion of what he saw was expressed in an explosive, “Jesus Christ! You”—he pointed to the cowering boy—“put your clothes on and get to your room.”
“Y-yes, sir.” The newcomer groped over the side of the tub but couldn’t reach his clothes. Charles kicked them closer. Slocum was glaring at Billy.
“Don’t come in here issuing orders, sir. Remember that I’m your superior—”
Billy cut him off. “The hell you are; You think West Point’s your plantation and every plebe a nigger you can mistreat. You’re nothing but Southern shit.”
“Come on, Bunk,” Charles exclaimed. “There’s no call for that kind of talk.”
But his friend was furious. “If you’re on his side, say so.”
“Goddamn you—”
Charles’s shout reverberated in the damp room. His fist was raised and shooting forward before he realized it. He just managed to pull the punch,
Billy had already retreated a step and was raising his hands to block the blow. He looked almost as astonished as Charles felt.
What Charles had done, or almost done, was profoundly upsetting to him. He had been ready to brawl over a few words that he had interpreted not as an individual but as a Southerner. He had behaved exactly like Whitney Smith and his crowd. He was stunned to discover that the vein of pride existed within him and ran deep.
He wiped his palm across his mouth. “Bunk, I’m sorry.”
“All right.” Billy sounded none too friendly.
“Slocum is the one we should—”
“I said all right.”
Billy’s furious gaze locked with his friend’s for a second. Then his anger cooled. He tilted his head toward the door.
“Everybody out—except you, Slocum. Your brand of discipline isn’t popular around here. It’s time someone demonstrated that.”
Worried, Frank Pratt said, “Billy, you’ll have half the corps down on you if you do this.”
“I don’t think so. But I’ll take that chance. Out.”
“I’ll stand watch outside,” Charles said. “Nobody will bother you.”
Charles had made a gesture the corps would understand. A Northerner dealing with Slocum while a Southerner acted as lookout would establish that Slocum’s behavior, and not his birthplace was the cause of the fight.
“Hurry,” Charles said to the newcomer, who was struggling into his ruffled shirt. “Put your shoes on outside.”
The youth left, followed by Frank Pratt. Charles looked at the Louisiana cadet. “Guess I’ll have to drag you out.”
“No—no!” Louisiana fled, moving sideways like a crab until he was in the hall. There, he turned and ran.
; Charles gazed down the gloomy, lamp-lit corridor, empty save for Frank Pratt crouching by the stairs and staring upward apprehensively. The pensioner who operated the refreshment shop came out, locked the door, noticed Charles and Frank, then walked upstairs without a word.
Charles leaned back against the double door, still shaken by what had happened. Far away the bugler sounded the first notes of taps. He heard a weak cry of fright in the washroom just before the first sound of a fist striking.
Billy came out ten minutes later. Blood spattered his blouse, and bruises showed on the backs of his hands. Otherwise he was unmarked.
No, that wasn’t entirely correct, Charles realized. A certain uneasiness showed in Billy’s eyes. Charles asked, “Can he walk?”
“Yes, but he won’t feel like it for a little while.” Again his eyes met those of his friend and slid away. “I enjoyed that too much.”
From the stairs Frank Pratt motioned for them to hurry. They would all be given demerits if the inspecting officer called “All right?” outside their doors and received no reply.
Well, Charles didn’t care. He was thinking of Billy’s remark a moment ago. Was Billy concerned that he had enjoyed mistreating Slocum because Slocum was a Southerner?
They reached Frank, who asked anxiously, “What’s going to happen when Slocum talks about this?”
As they started climbing the stairway, Billy said, “I tried to impress on him that he’d better not. I think he understands that if our little session gets on the record in any official way, the one thing I’ll do before I’m dismissed is visit him again—and his Louisiana chum, too.”
“Of course,” Frank went on, “you could take the offense and formally charge him with mistreating that new fellow—”
Billy shook his head. “If I did that, Slocum would be a hero, and I’d be just another vindictive Yankee. There’s friction enough in this place already. I think we should let matters stand.”
He sounded less than happy, though, and that finally prompted Charles to offer his friend the assurance that, by tone of voice, he had asked for some moments ago: