by Louis Bayard
By now, Sergeant Locke had begun to grow vexed in spirit. Although I endeavored to make him understand that my condition was serious indeed, he would have none of my justifications and warned me to mind myself or be reported. Protesting my innocence, I cried that he could ask the doctor himself, if he liked. Even as I spoke these words, Mr. Landor, I undertook my rashest act of all. I located Artemus Marquis’ eye in the crowd, and in a covert but unmistakable fashion, I winked at him.
Had Marquis fils been more piously disposed toward his father, he might well have taken great offense, thereby dashing on the spot any hope of my binding myself to him. You may ask, then, why did I see fit to court such a danger? I had already concluded, you see, that a man fain to flout Religious Orthodoxy would be as willing to flout Family Orthodoxy. There is, I acknowledge, no a priori reason for believing so, but my inferences were soon vindicated by the moue of amusement which overtook the young man’s face. I heard him then remark, “It’s quite true, Lieutenant. My father has told me he’s never seen anything like it.”
My delight at this turn of events spurred me on toward new transgressions. Thus, as Sergeant Locke was turning to Artemus to chide him for his impertinence, I announced, loudly enough for all to hear, that my spells were most pronounced in liturgical settings. “I fear I shall have to miss chapel,” I said, most pointedly. “For the next three Sundays, at the very least.”
I saw Artemus’ hand pass before his mouth—whether to conceal amusement or consternation I cannot say, for Sergeant Locke was even now fronting me. In a voice unnaturally low, he charged me with “unbecoming brazenness” and opined that an extra tour or two of guard duty would do something to “cure me of that.” Fumbling for his ubiquitous notebook, he then awarded me three demerits, adding a fourth for improperly blacked shoes.
(Mr. Landor, I must interrupt my narrative and entreat you most earnestly to speak with Captain Hitchcock in my behalf. I should never have so brazenly courted infractions had the Academy’s business not been foremost in mind. I am not so anxious about the demerits, but the guard duty would be an enormous encumbrance to our ongoing inquiries—to my very Health.)
Sergeant Locke commanded me to return directly to my quarters, with the injunction that I had best be there when the officers came round for their morning inspections. I took him at his word and was indeed dutifully seated in Number 22 South Barracks when the knock came, shortly after ten o’clock. Imagine my surprise, Mr. Landor, to find the commandant himself entering my quarters. I immediately rose to attention and was relieved to see that my hat and coatee were properly hung on their wall pegs and that my bedroll was in good order. For reasons unknown, Captain Hitchcock prolonged his inspection beyond the normal bounds, perusing both the front room and the sleeping room of our suite, and even made a point of commenting on the condition of my blacking brush. His inspection at last complete, he inquired of me, in what I might call an exceedingly ironical tone, how my vertigo was progressing. I forbore to make any but the most noncommittal rejoinder. Captain Hitchcock then enjoined me to avoid any further antagonizing of Lieutenant Locke. I assured him that such had never been my intention. Although not exactly satisfied on that score, he left.
The rest of the day was passed in study of a mostly unfruitful sort: algebra and spherical geometry, neither of which presents any remarkable challenge to one of my attainments, in addition to the translation of a rather mundane passage from Voltaire’s Histoire de Charles XII. By afternoon, I was so eager for diversion that I even gave myself leave to pen verse. Sadly, I was unable to indite more than a few lines, beset as I am by the memory of this other poem—dictated by the unseen Presence to which I have already adverted.
My dark ruminations were interrupted sometime toward midafternoon by the sound of a rock thumping against my window. Leaping from my chair, I threw open the casement. What was my astonishment in beholding Artemus Marquis in the assembly yard below!
“Poe, is it?” he cried.
“Yes.”
“Hash tonight. Eleven o’clock. Eighteen North Barracks.”
Not staying for my reply, he sauntered off.
I was struck most forcibly by the volume of his delivery. Here, after all, was an upperclassman inviting a plebe to partake of an illicit after-hours activity. And for all that, he called up à gorge déployée. I can only theorize that being the son of a West Point faculty member must confer (at least in his mind) a certain immunity from reprisal.
I will not tax you, Mr. Landor, with the complicated stratagems by means of which I left my quarters shortly after tattoo. Let it suffice that the two cadets who share my rooms are fast sleepers—and that, by dint of light treading and quick thinking, I was able to present myself to the occupants of Eighteen North Barracks several minutes prior to the appointed hour.
Inside I found the windows covered over with blankets. Bread and butter had been smuggled from the mess hall and potatoes from the officers’ mess, a chicken had been hooked from someone’s barnyard, and a basket of speckled red apples had been claimed from Farmer de Kuiper’s orchard.
Naturally, as a singularly favored plebe, I was the object of some curiosity—though one of the room’s occupants made a special point of withholding his approbation. This was Cadet First Classman Randolph Ballinger, of Pennsylvania, who lost no chance to gibe me. “Oh, Dad! Give us more French.” “Eddie boy, isn’t it past your bedtime?” “I think it’s about time we filled the pot de chambre.” (I need hardly remind you that pot, as rendered by the Gallic tongue, is homophonic with my own surname.) Being that no one else appeared disposed to rise to his bait, I could not at first understand why he so served me—until, from various hints, I divined that he was Artemus’ roommate. From this I concluded that he had appointed himself guardian of Artemus’ inner circle and was, in the execution of this office, as zealous as Cerberus.
Had I come under my own banner, Mr. Landor, I should have made this Ballinger answer for his slights. Being all too mindful, however, of my responsibilities toward you and to the Academy, I resolved to bite my tongue. The others, I am relieved to say, seemed bound and determined to make up for Ballinger’s churlish manners. I attribute this in large part to Artemus, who demonstrated unfeigned interest in my humble history. Upon learning that I was a published Poet—not that I in any way volunteered this intelligence (nor did I, except under great duress, disclose the opinion of Mrs. Sarah Josepha Hale, who has seen fit to hymn a sample of my verses as evidencing notable gifts)—upon learning, I say, of my Vocation, he immediately demanded a public reading. What could I do but comply, Mr. Landor? In truth, the only real difficulty consisted in finding a poem suitable to the occasion. “Al Aaraaf ” is a bit abstruse for lay audiences and remains, in any event, unfinished, and while I have earned warm praise for the closing stanza of “Tamerlane,” it was evident that something in a lighter vein was needed in this context. I allowed then as how I had been moved to panegyrize Lieutenant Locke. I soon learned that more than one of the fellows in the room—Artemus included—had, over the course of their years at the Academy, been reported by this dagger-eyed officer. Thus, they were well primed for my bit of doggerel (composed, I confess at the risk of boasting, on the very spot).
John Locke was a notable name;
Joe Locke is greater; in short, The former was well known to fame
But the latter’s well known “to report.”
This provoked a hearty round of laughter and acclamation. I was praised beyond all measure, and was earnestly requested to compose squibs on the subject of other officers and instructors. I complied as best I could and even hazarded impersonations of the more colorful specimens. It was generally agreed that I had done particular justice to Professor Davies—“caught old Rush Tush to the life”—and when I aped the professor’s habit of leaning forward and crying, “How’s that, Mr. Marquis?” . . . well, you never heard such a roar.
Amidst all this revelry, there was but a single abstainer: the aforementioned Ballinger. I can
not recall the exact text of his remarks, though I believe there was something to the effect of how much better off I would be entertaining ladies in Saratoga, rather than wasting my exquisite gifts on a place such as this. Fortunately, I was rescued from the necessity of replying in kind by Artemus, who shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s not just Poe. We’re all wasted here.”
At this, one of the wags opined that the only good reason to come to the Academy was “to meet all the women.” This prompted the most violent and boisterous roar of the evening. Being a man yourself, Mr. Landor, you will find it in no way wonderful that the conversation soon devolved into such sightings of the female form as had been secured in recent weeks. One might have thought twenty years had passed since these poor fellows had beheld a woman, so voracious were they in savoring every last detail.
At length, it was suggested by one of those present that Artemus “take out his telescope.” I assumed this at first to be a particularly unfortunate metaphor, but in fact, an actual telescope of modest proportions was soon procured from the mantel, and ere long, Artemus had set it on a tripod and trained it out his window, in a south-by-southeasterly direction. After tactful questioning, I learned that Artemus, while still a plebe, had, in the course of his nocturnal explorations, located a certain far-off domicile wherein a young woman was said to have passed before the window in a state of half undress. No one but Artemus and Ballinger had seen it at the time, no one had seen it since, and yet the mere possibility of espying this elusive vision of Woman drove man after man to the eyepiece.
I alone forfeited the chance to view, for which reticence I was soundly ridiculed by Ballinger and, on this occasion, one or two others. I considered myself in no way obliged to answer their ridiculous charges, and once they saw that they would gain nothing more from their efforts than a succession of blushes, Ballinger and his fellow gibers gradually desisted. It may even be that my blushes further endeared me to the evening’s host, for after the revels wound to a close, Artemus made it an especial point to invite me to a game of cards on Wednesday evening.
“You’ll come, won’t you, Poe?”
This was advanced in a tone sufficient to stifle any dissent in its birth. And in the interlude of silence that ensued, it became incontestably clear that Artemus asserted over this group the authority of a monarch, whose crown is no less contested for being so lightly worn.
The only problem I faced in accepting the invitation of young Marquis was the inadequacy of my cash reserves. For reasons too complicated to enumerate, I have nearly run through my twenty-eight-dollar stipend for the month. I briefly considered requesting capital of you, Mr. Landor, but in the end, I was rescued by the kindly intervention of my Tarheel roommate, who stepped in au moment critique and graciously loaned me two of his private stock of dollars (on top of the three that, as he gently reminded me, he had lent me in October). So it was that on Wednesday evening, with bills in hand, I gamely crept up the stairwell and once again presented myself to the hosts of Eighteen North Barracks. Artemus professed himself delighted to see me and, with a charmingly proprietorial air, showed me round to the fellows who had not been on hand two evenings previous. Introduction was scarce needed, for my feats of vers de société had already been bruited about mess hall and parade ground, and those cadets who had not been present were eager to have squibs coined for their own least favored personages. (I’m afraid that Captain Hitchcock was numbered among these ranks. I am unable to recall the quatrain he inspired, other than the accompanying rhyme, which was “kitchen clock.”) In one respect at least, this gathering was different to the last: one of the cadets had smuggled in a bottle of Pennsylvania hard whiskey (courtesy of la divine Patsy). The very sight of it warmed my blood.
The game, Mr. Landor, was écarté—long a favorite of mine and one I was wont to play ofttimes as a matriculant at the University of Virginia. You will not, I think, be surprised to learn that before two rounds had passed, I had vaulted into a winning position—much to the perturbation of Ballinger, who, warm with spirits, failed to announce that he had the king of clubs and hence forfeited the right to mark it. Happy would I have been to while away the entire evening snapping up his nickels, had I not perceived another unintended victim of my wiles: Artemus. By the increasing frequency of the peevish remarks that escaped him, I was led to believe that this was not the first time he had incurred losses, nor would it be the last. As his irritation grew, so, too, grew my cares. Having worked so hard to seat myself in the cathedral of his affections, I could not bear to see my labor set at naught by something so paltry as cards. And so, Mr. Landor, I took the path away from pride and toward the general amity: I contrived to let Artemus win and closed the evening some three dollars and twelve cents in arrears.
(Mr. Landor, I must here pause and earnestly request that you make good on these debts, which were incurred entirely in the Academy’s service. Had Mr. Allan seen fit to make good on his promises, I should have had no need to beg this of you, but my financial embarrassments leave me with no other recourse.)
Well, sir, it is no small thing for a man to throw away even a modest clutch of worldly goods when they lie so near to his grasp. However, my “losses” (for so they would be constructed by amateur eyes) excited no end of pity in my fellow cadets, Artemus most particularly, and left them still better disposed toward me than before. Now, I could see, was the moment for bringing our business to its maturity. And thus it was that, with the greatest care and tact, I caused the subject of Leroy Fry to be introduced into our conversation.
I disclosed to them that you, Mr. Landor, had interviewed me under the mistaken impression that I was an intimate of Fry’s. This fomented no end of debate on the fascinating subject of Yourself. I will not oppress you with the minutiae, Mr. Landor, except to say that you are now enveloped in a cult of legend comparable to that of Bonaparte or Washington. It was said by one that you had caused a felon to confess his deed simply by clearing your throat, and by another that you had unmasked a murderer by sniffing the residue of his thumb on a candle holder. In the view of Artemus himself—I feel it incumbent to report—you seem an altogether mild gentleman, surely more at home apprehending scallops than scoundrels. (If his alliteration is too juvenile for full comic effect, you can at least take comfort, Mr. Landor, in the misconception it betrays of your character.)
The talk subsequently turned to the unfortunate Fry himself. By the testimony of one of the assembled wits, the poor lad had never ranked in the first section of anything—he had failed even to wield a theodolite with notable success—and so had effected, by his death, the one achievement which might have gained him distinction. The prevailing consensus was that Fry had occupied such a small niche in the Academy’s firmament that he would therefore have been deemed incapable of such a large and awful act of self-annihilation. Yes, Mr. Landor, it is still generally believed that Leroy Fry visited death upon himself. Interestingly, it is also widely credited that he was in the act of venturing out that evening for an assignation. How these two assumptions can be in any manner reconciled—well, that is outside my poor ken, though one second classman did propound the theory that Fry had hanged himself in despair over being jilted by the lady who had sworn to meet him.
“And what lady would have sworn to meet him?” exclaimed one.
Amidst the laughter occasioned by this remark, the smiling Ballinger was heard to say, “What of your sister, Artemus? Didn’t she dazzle Leroy?”
The room grew ominously silent, for it seemed that the odious Ballinger was on the verge of impugning a lady’s honor, a circumstance which must make any gentleman worth the name rise and demand an accounting. I myself was in the act of doing so when I was arrested by Artemus’ hand on my sleeve. His countenance had lightened into a state of strange serenity, and it was with great unease that I heard him say, “Come, Randy. You were closer to Fry than anybody in this room.”
Speaking in a level tone, Ballinger replied, “I don’t believe I was so near to
him as you, Artemus.”
As the young Marquis made no riposte, the room once again fell quiet—a silence so deep and so suspenseful that none dared speak. It was then that Artemus confounded us all by collapsing into laughter, in which condition he was soon joined by Ballinger. Theirs was not, though, the merry peal that gladdens a listener’s heart; no, Mr. Landor, it was laughter of an altogether more hysterical order, exemplary of nerves tautened to their limit. Only by Artemus’ own exertions were we able to renew the spirit of revelry with which the evening had commenced. Even so, no one dared presume to raise the specter of Leroy Fry, and as the time crept well past the midnight hour, we relapsed into such banalities as could be safely essayed by fatigued minds.
Shortly before one o’clock, I became aware that our numbers had one by one dropped off until four only remained together. I thereupon determined to take my leave. Artemus rose with me and offered—nay, all but demanded—to serve as my escort out of barracks. Lieutenant Case, he explained, had taken of late to walking the halls in caoutchouc overshoes. In this way he had maneuvered, over the course of a week, to hive five cadets, break up three hashes, and confiscate six meerschaums. I might be hived “perfectly frigid,” I was informed, unless I employed an escort.