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Authors: John Jakes
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not last a fraction of that time if you don’t practice a seemly silence at the appropriate moments. Good night, sir!” The door shut, a thunderclap. Even at a time of rest there was no escaping the system—or the upperclassmen.
The drum called them before daylight. The morning that followed was strange and uneasy. A cadet lieutenant, a Kentuckian, threw all their blankets on the floor and lectured them on the correct way to fold bedding and put the room in shape for inspection. George seethed, but their treatment could have been worse. A newcomer in a nearby room was visited by two cadet noncoms, one of whom introduced the other as the post barber. The trusting newcomer surrendered himself to razor and shears. Next time he was seen, he was bald.
Not all the upperclassmen were dedicated to deviling the new arrivals; some offered help. Cadet Bee volunteered to tutor the roommates in any of the subjects on which they would have to recite during entrance examinations—reading, writing, orthography, simple proportions, decimals, and vulgar fractions.
George thanked Bee but said he thought he could get through all right. Orry gratefully accepted the offer. He had always been a wretched student, with a poor memory; he had no illusions about that.
George didn’t feel he had to study. He spent the morning asking questions of some of the less hostile upperclassmen. A couple of things that he discovered pleased him immensely.
He learned that a river man frequently rowed to a nook on the bank below the Plain and there awaited the cadets who had blankets or other contraband to trade. The river man’s illegal goods included cakes, pies, whiskey, and—blessed news—cigars. George had been smoking since he was fourteen.
Even more satisfying was the news that young female visitors came and went at Roe’s Hotel the year round. Women of all ages seemed to be smitten with a certain malady described with a leer and a wink as “cadet fever.” George’s four-year exile might not be as grim as he’d feared.
He knew he would find the discipline tiresome but the education offered by the Academy was supposedly very fine, so he would negotiate his way around the rules. His roommate was pleasant enough. Likable, even. Not nearly so clannish as some of the Southrons he observed. In less than twenty-four hours many of them, and many Yankees as well, had found their fellows and formed their own little groups.
After dinner the drum sounded drill call. George was momentarily content as he joined his squad in the street. The contentment departed when he saw the drillmaster—a plebe who would become a yearling as soon as the first class changed the gray for blue.
This fellow surely weighed more than two hundred pounds. The start of a paunch showed beneath his uniform. He had black hair, sly dark eyes, and a complexion that reddened rather than browned in the sunshine. He appeared to be eighteen or nineteen. George thought of him as a porker, a pachyderm, and disliked him on sight.
“I, gentlemen, am your drillmaster, Cadet Bent. Of the great and sovereign state of Ohio.” Bent unexpectedly stepped in front of Orry. “Do you have a comment on that, sir?”
Orry gulped. “No, I don’t.”
“You will reply with ‘No, I don’t—sir!’”
George had a sudden feeling that the fat cadet had taken time to discover where his charges had come from and was using the information to bait them. To many Southerners, the word Ohio meant just one thing—the state containing Oberlin College, where white and black students defied convention by studying together as equals.
“You gentlemen from down South fancy yourselves superior to we Westerners, do you not, sir?”
Orry’s neck reddened. “No, sir, we do not.”
“Well, I am pleased you agree with me, sir. Surprised but pleased.”
Bent strutted down the squad, passing a couple of obvious bumpkins and choosing George as his next victim. “And you, sir? How do you feel about the West
The drum called them before daylight. The morning that followed was strange and uneasy. A cadet lieutenant, a Kentuckian, threw all their blankets on the floor and lectured them on the correct way to fold bedding and put the room in shape for inspection. George seethed, but their treatment could have been worse. A newcomer in a nearby room was visited by two cadet noncoms, one of whom introduced the other as the post barber. The trusting newcomer surrendered himself to razor and shears. Next time he was seen, he was bald.
Not all the upperclassmen were dedicated to deviling the new arrivals; some offered help. Cadet Bee volunteered to tutor the roommates in any of the subjects on which they would have to recite during entrance examinations—reading, writing, orthography, simple proportions, decimals, and vulgar fractions.
George thanked Bee but said he thought he could get through all right. Orry gratefully accepted the offer. He had always been a wretched student, with a poor memory; he had no illusions about that.
George didn’t feel he had to study. He spent the morning asking questions of some of the less hostile upperclassmen. A couple of things that he discovered pleased him immensely.
He learned that a river man frequently rowed to a nook on the bank below the Plain and there awaited the cadets who had blankets or other contraband to trade. The river man’s illegal goods included cakes, pies, whiskey, and—blessed news—cigars. George had been smoking since he was fourteen.
Even more satisfying was the news that young female visitors came and went at Roe’s Hotel the year round. Women of all ages seemed to be smitten with a certain malady described with a leer and a wink as “cadet fever.” George’s four-year exile might not be as grim as he’d feared.
He knew he would find the discipline tiresome but the education offered by the Academy was supposedly very fine, so he would negotiate his way around the rules. His roommate was pleasant enough. Likable, even. Not nearly so clannish as some of the Southrons he observed. In less than twenty-four hours many of them, and many Yankees as well, had found their fellows and formed their own little groups.
After dinner the drum sounded drill call. George was momentarily content as he joined his squad in the street. The contentment departed when he saw the drillmaster—a plebe who would become a yearling as soon as the first class changed the gray for blue.
This fellow surely weighed more than two hundred pounds. The start of a paunch showed beneath his uniform. He had black hair, sly dark eyes, and a complexion that reddened rather than browned in the sunshine. He appeared to be eighteen or nineteen. George thought of him as a porker, a pachyderm, and disliked him on sight.
“I, gentlemen, am your drillmaster, Cadet Bent. Of the great and sovereign state of Ohio.” Bent unexpectedly stepped in front of Orry. “Do you have a comment on that, sir?”
Orry gulped. “No, I don’t.”
“You will reply with ‘No, I don’t—sir!’”
George had a sudden feeling that the fat cadet had taken time to discover where his charges had come from and was using the information to bait them. To many Southerners, the word Ohio meant just one thing—the state containing Oberlin College, where white and black students defied convention by studying together as equals.
“You gentlemen from down South fancy yourselves superior to we Westerners, do you not, sir?”
Orry’s neck reddened. “No, sir, we do not.”
“Well, I am pleased you agree with me, sir. Surprised but pleased.”
Bent strutted down the squad, passing a couple of obvious bumpkins and choosing George as his next victim. “And you, sir? How do you feel about the West
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