by John Jakes
Slocum explained his injuries as the results of a fall down the stairs. The Louisiana cadet didn’t dispute him. The vicious hazing stopped.
Despite this, the incident quickly became known and thought of as a sectional fight. Hearing only that one cadet had thrashed another, some Northerners and Westerners took Billy’s side and cut Slocum. Some Southerners cut Billy. Charles drew the silent treatment from both camps, a response so insulting, yet at the same time so ludicrous, all he could do was laugh.
A week later Fitz Lee informed Charles that the Louisiana cadet was spreading his own version of the incident. He was telling friends that casual criticism of the Kansas-Nebraska bill by Slocum, and his statement that a code of Southern rights must be written in Congress to protect property in the new territories, had provoked Billy’s brutal attack.
And why had the Louisiana cadet kept this from his friends until now? To prevent the officers from hearing of the incident, he said. He had been thinking solely of the welfare of the corps, and the truth of the matter had just slipped out.
“Oh, it just slipped out, did it?” Charles growled. “It just slipped out on two or three different occasions?”
“Or more,” Fitz replied with a sour smile.
Charles lost his temper. He said he was going to pull Louisiana out of formation at evening parade and pound his lies down his throat. Billy and Fitz talked him out of it.
Gradually, interest in the fight waned. The cadets began speaking to Billy and Charles again, while generally ignoring Slocum—exactly the state of affairs that had existed before the trouble.
But the quarrel had left some bad memories, and they piled up with others like them.
Soon the first classmen left. The graduates included Stuart, the superintendent’s son, and a Maine boy named Ollie O. Howard from whom Charles bought a good used blanket. Billy, meantime, was packing to go home on leave.
Everyone at the Academy was talking about the changes to be instituted in the fall. For almost a decade the Academic Board had been recommending a five-year curriculum, and Secretary Davis had finally secured its adoption. Half of the incoming plebes would be put into the new program, while the other half would follow the old four-year course—the last class to do so. The plebes were being divided in this fashion so that there would never be a year without a graduating class.
The five-year curriculum was designed to correct what many considered an overemphasis on mathematics, science, and engineering. New course work in English, history, elocution, and Spanish was to be introduced.
“Why the devil do I need another language?” Charles complained. “I have enough trouble with French.”
“The war added a lot of new territory—in which there are a lot of people who speak Spanish. That’s the excuse I heard, anyway.” Billy shut his valise, stretched, and walked to the window.
“In the dragoons,” Charles said, “they don’t converse with greasers, they just shoot ’em.”
Billy gave him a wry look. “I don’t think Mexicans would find that very funny.” Charles’s shrug acknowledged that his friend was right, but Billy didn’t see it; he had put both hands on the sill and was gazing at a familiar figure limping across the Plain. By chance the cadet noticed Billy in the window and looked away.
“Slocum,” Billy said soberly.
Charles joined him. “He’s walking better.”
The Arkansas cadet limped out of sight. Charles turned from the window. For days he had been tormented by guilt. Until September this would be his last chance to say something about it.
“I feel rotten about that night. Not over Slocum. Over what I almost did to you.”
Billy’s deprecating wave gave Charles a feeling of immense relief. “I was just as much to blame,” Billy said. “I think it was a fortunate lesson for both of us. Let the rest of the corps shout epithets and brawl if they want. We shouldn’t, and we won’t.”
“Right you are.” Charles was glad to have Billy’s assurance, but he felt it was more hope than certainty.
Silence for a moment. Charles plucked a piece of stable straw off his trousers. The urge to confide was powerful.
“Let me tell you something else. Most of the time I hate being a Southerner around here. It means being second-rate in academic work—no, don’t deny it. You Yankee boys always outshine us. We get by on toughness and nerve.”
“Even if that were true, which I don’t believe, those aren’t bad qualities for a soldier.”
Charles ignored the compliment. “Being a Southerner here means feeling inferior. Ashamed of where you come from. Mad because the rest of the corps acts so righteous”—his chin lifted—“which of course it damn well isn’t.”
“I guess smugness is a Yankee disease, Bison.”
A smile softened the defiance in Charles’s eyes. “I reckon no one except another Southerner could understand what I just said. Really understand it. But I thank you for listening.” He held out his hand. “Friends?”
“Absolutely. Always.” Their handclasp was firm, strong.
A whistle sounded from the North Dock. Billy grabbed his valise and bolted for the door. “When you write Brett, tell her I miss her.”
“Tell her yourself.” Charles’s eyes sparkled. “I believe she’ll be up here to visit soon after you get back.”
Billy’s mouth dropped open. “If you’re joking—”
“I wouldn’t joke with you. Not after the way you made hog slops out of Slocum.” From the shelf Charles took his copy of Lévizac’s French grammar. He opened it and removed a folded letter. “I got this from Brett only this morning. She said to surprise you at a”—he located the word in the letter—“propitious moment. Do you understand that?”
“You bet I do.” Billy did a jig with his valise. Two cadets passing outside laughed. “Who’s to chaperone her while she’s here?”
“Orry. He’s bringing Ashton, too. If he didn’t, she’d throw a fit.”
Even that news couldn’t mar Billy’s happiness. He sang and whooped all the way down the stairs, and Charles watched him race across the Plain in a most unsoldierly manner, throwing giddy salutes at a couple of professors.
Charles felt fine for all of half an hour. Then he heard four cadets in the next room arguing loudly about Kansas. An explanation, a handshake—such things might alleviate tensions between friends, but they’d never solve the problems plaguing the land. Not when some Southerners wouldn’t even admit problems existed.
Hell, he thought. What an infernal mess.
Superintendent Lee and the younger officer strolled along the west edge of the Plain in leisurely fashion. A large crowd of hotel guests, including some children, had turned out to watch the exhibition of horsemanship, which the younger officer had ordered moved outdoors because of the intense heat in the riding hall. It was a Saturday afternoon in July; the surrounding hillsides shimmered in haze.
The heat didn’t seem to inhibit the applause of the audience, or the enthusiasm with which the cadets performed. Some demonstrated the correct way to saddle and bridle a horse, and to mount and dismount. Others rode at different gaits or jumped their horses over a series of hay bales. A select group of first classmen charged straw dummies at the gallop. They thrust at the dummies with regulation dragoon sabers, curved swords over a yard long, as they rode by.
All this was watched critically by the younger officer, whose dress cap bore an orange pom-pom as well as an emblem—sheathed crossed sabers with the number 2 in the upper angle. Lieutenant Hawes of the Second Dragoons taught equitation. A year ago he had voluntarily begun a needed course of instruction in cavalry tactics—something the Academy had never before provided.
Because of the presence of spectators, Hawes had ordered his pupils to don their gray merino firemen’s shirts, which were worn outside regulation gray kersey trousers but looked neat since the shirttails were trimmed square.
“Impressive,” Lee said above the sound of thudding hoofs. “You have done a fine job, Lieutena
nt.”
“Thank you, sir.” Hawes pointed out a dark-haired, good-looking rider who handled his sorrel mare skillfully, almost appearing to float her over the hay bales. “There’s the best horseman in the cadet corps. He shouldn’t even be demonstrating with the others. He’s only in the third class. But all this year he’s been coming to the riding hall every free hour. When he starts equitation work in the fall, there isn’t much I’ll be able to teach him. I like to let him ride with the older boys because he keeps them on their mettle.”
The cadet under discussion jumped another bale, coming down on his regulation Grimsley saddle with a natural grace. Lee watched the cadet’s dark hair streaming behind him, studied his profile, thought a moment.
“South Carolina boy, isn’t he?”
“That’s right, sir. His name’s Main.”
“Ah, yes. Had a cousin here about ten years ago. The boy cuts a fine figure.”
Lieutenant Hawes nodded enthusiastically. “He’s the same sort as Stuart—only better-looking.”
They both laughed. Then Hawes added, “I don’t doubt he’ll be posted to the dragoons or mounted rifles after graduation.”
“Or perhaps to one of those new regiments of cavalry the secretary wants.”
“Main’s marks won’t permit him a choice of branches,” Hawes observed. “But in military studies he’s exceptional. He seems delighted by the idea that a man can fight and be paid for it.”
“That delight will pass when he sees his first battlefield.”
“Yes, sir. In any case, I hope he manages to graduate. He’s a scrapper. Again like Stuart.”
“Then he’ll be an asset wherever he goes.”
Hawes didn’t say anything. But he agreed, and he knew why he was able to endure the torture of instructing hundreds of inept boys who would never be able to ride anything more frisky than a camp chair. He endured it in the hope of finding one outstanding pupil. This year it had happened.
Both officers watched Charles jump the last bale with a huge smile on his face. For a moment, horse and rider seemed to hang in the sultry sky, centaurlike.
36
ORRY AND HIS SISTERS arrived at the hotel on a Friday in September. They were in time for the evening parade. When Brett saw Billy, she clapped her hands in delight. He wore new chevrons.
He had been appointed company first sergeant, she later found out. He had just missed being named to the highest rank in the second class, sergeant major. He had saved the news as a surprise.
Ashton noticed her sister’s pleased expression. Animosity boiled up within her—as well as an unexpected reaction to the sight of Billy Hazard. The surge of longing disgusted her. She suppressed it by force of will. He had abandoned her, and he would pay.
But she didn’t want him on guard against her, now or in the future. Her face, bathed in sunshine, remained composed and sweetly smiling. A moment later she realized that two gentlemen from the hotel were watching her. That made her feel much better. Her drab little sister didn’t get so much as a smidgen of attention. Not that kind, anyway.
Billy Hazard wasn’t the only man on earth. Right in front of her, marching and counter-marching in precise formation, there were several hundred of them. Surely a few would be willing to help her enjoy this vacation—probably her last fling. James was pressing her for a wedding date.
She watched the trim, strong legs of the marching cadets. The tip of her tongue ran across her upper lip. Her loins felt warm and moist. She knew she was going to have a wonderful time at West Point.
For Orry, the parade was a highly emotional experience. It was good to hear the drumming again, mingled with the bugles and the fifes. The flags flying against the backdrop of hillsides splashed with the first yellow and crimson of autumn brought vivid memories and thoughts of loss. And when he spied Charles marching among the taller cadets in a flank company, he felt intense pride.
Next day, Billy invited Orry and the girls to observe his fencing class. Ashton said she had a headache and remained on the porch of the hotel. Brett and her brother spent an hour seated on a hard bench, watching Billy and a dozen other cadets working out with various pieces of fencing equipment: hickory broadswords for the beginners, foils, or, in the case of Billy and his opponent, practice sabers.
The sword master, de Jaman, hovered near the visitors. Billy confused his opponent with a composed attack of feints, beats, and binds. “That young chap, he has a natural talent for this sport,” the Frenchman said with the enthusiasm of a doting parent. “But, then, cadets who excel at scholarship usually do. Swordplay is above all cerebral.”
“True,” Orry said, recalling that he hadn’t been very good at it.
Billy’s match ended with a simple lunge that drove the protective button of his saber straight into the target on his opponent’s padded vest. After the hit, he saluted his opponent, jerked off his mask, and turned to grin at Brett. She was on her feet, applauding.
Orry smiled broadly. Then he noticed the face of the opponent. A pronounced purplish half-circle showed beneath the boy’s right eye. “How did he get that bruise?” Orry asked when Billy joined them.
Billy forced a smile. “I understand he had a discussion with one of his roommates.”
“What kind of discussion?” Brett wanted to know.
“Something to do with Senator Douglas, I believe. My opponent’s from Alabama, you see—” He let the sentence trail off.
Disturbed, Orry said, “Does much of that sort of thing happen here?”
“Oh, no, very little,” Billy answered too quickly. His eyes met Orry’s. Each saw that the other recognized the lie.
That evening Orry hiked off to Buttermilk Falls for what he termed his first legal visit to Benny Haven’s. With Orry’s permission, Billy took Brett to Flirtation Walk.
Shadowy couples glided by on the darkening path. Through the leaves of the overhanging trees, the last sunlight illuminated clouds high in the eastern sky. Below, on the river, the firefly lights of the Albany night boat moved slowly by.
Brett had put on her prettiest lace canezou and lace mittens—not much in vogue up North, she had been noticing. Billy thought her the loveliest creature he had ever seen:
“Mademoiselle, vous êtes absolument ravissante.”
She laughed and took hold of his arm. “That must be a compliment. It sounds too pretty to be anything else. What does it mean?”
They had paused beside one of the benches set into a nook along the path. Nervously, he took her mittened hands in his.
“It means I finally found a practical use for all those hours and hours of French.”
She laughed again. Put at ease, he bent forward and planted a gentle kiss on her lips.
“It means I think you’re beautiful.”
The kiss flustered her, even though it was what she had been craving. She couldn’t think of a thing to say. She feared that if she used the word love in any way, he might laugh. Out of desperation, she rose on tiptoe, slipped her arm around his neck and kissed him again, fiercely this time. They sank down on the bench, holding hands in the dark.
“Lord, I’m glad you’re here, Brett. I thought this moment would never arrive. I thought my leave would never end.”
“Surely you enjoyed going home.”
“Oh, yes, in a way. I was glad to see Lehigh Station again, but not nearly as glad as I thought I’d be. Everyone was there but the one person who matters most. The days dragged, and by the end I couldn’t wait to pack and go. George understood, but my mother didn’t. I think my boredom hurt her feelings. I was sorry about that. I tried to conceal how I felt, but I—I couldn’t stop missing you.”
After a moment’s silence, she murmured, “I’ve been missing you, too, Billy.” He clasped her hands more tightly between his. “You can’t imagine how lonesome I was all year. I lived for the days that brought a new letter from you. I don’t see how you ever have time to be lonesome here. The schedule you keep is just ferocious. I’ve very much enjoyed mee
ting your friends, but I saw some of them give me queer looks the first time I said something.”
“They were charmed by your accent.”
“Charmed, or disgusted?” A couple of cadets—Yankees, she presumed—had cast decidedly unfriendly glances her way.
He didn’t reply. He was aware of the rudeness, even outright hostility, some of the Northern boys directed at the occasional female visitor from the South. The difference in his background and Brett’s presented some practical problems for the future, problems he didn’t want to face but could not indefinitely ignore.
This wasn’t the time to discuss them, though. He shifted his sword belt out of the way and reached into his pocket. From it he pulled the scrap of black velvet snipped from his furlough cap. He twisted it in his fingers as he explained the tradition connected with it, concluding:
“But I couldn’t give it to my best girl when I went home this summer. She was in South Carolina.”
He pressed the velvet band into her palm. She touched the wreath of gold embroidery, whispered, “Thank you.”
“I hope”—he swallowed—“I hope you’ll be my best girl always.”
“Ï want to be, Billy. Forever.”
A cadet and a companion passing in the dark overheard that. Being acquaintances and not lovers, they laughed in a cynical way. Billy and Brett didn’t hear. They were sitting with their arms around each other, kissing.
Presently they strolled back to the top of the bluff. Billy had never experienced such a perfect night or such a certainty that the future would be equally perfect.
Figures loomed in the dark—a cadet lieutenant with a girl on his arm. The cadet, from Michigan, had never been particularly friendly. Now, as he and his companion went on toward Flirtation Walk, he spoke so that Brett would hear.