Read Online North and South Trilogy by John Jakes - Free Book Online
Authors: John Jakes
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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squad was placed at a tottery wooden table reserved for newcomers. At other tables, however, Orry noticed new cadets seated with upperclassmen. He could only assume those things had arrived the day before, The first classmen had the best seats at the ends of the tables. Next along the sides came the second classmen, then the yearlings, then the plebes. Finally, at the very center of each side—farthest from the food—were the nervous newcomers Orry was observing. The upperclassmen passed snide comments about them but were slow to pass the bowls of food. Orry was thankful he wasn’t at that kind of table tonight.
Someone said the main meal of the day was midday dinner. Hence all they got for supper was standard Army leftovers—beef and boiled potatoes. George and Orry were hungry enough that it made no difference. Besides, there were some positively delicious extras: homemade bread, country butter, rich coffee.
At the conclusion of supper the cadet captain gave the order to rise. Cadets and newcomers marched back to barracks, with fifes supplementing the drum cadence. While George and Orry spread their blankets on their iron beds, George’s sullen look asked why they had come to this place of loneliness and regimentation.
Between all-in and tattoo, a couple of upperclassmen stopped by to introduce themselves. One, a six-footer named Barnard Bee, was a South Carolinian, which pleased Orry. George was greeted by a cadet from his home state, Winfield Hancock.
South Barracks housed most of the new arrivals, and that night George and Orry met some of them as well. One was a bright, glib little chap from Philadelphia who introduced himself as George McClellan.
“Real society stuff,” George noted after McClellan left. “Everybody in eastern Pennsylvania knows his family. They say he’s smart. Maybe a genius. He’s only fifteen.”
Orry left off examining his image in the small looking glass over the washstand; he had already been ordered to get a haircut.
“Fifteen? How can that be? You’re supposed to be sixteen to get in here.”
George gave him a cynical look. “Unless you have connections in Washington. My father says there’s a lot of political pull employed to get certain men admitted. And to keep ’em here if they can’t handle the work or get in a jam.”
Two more newcomers stopped in a few minutes later. One, an elegantly dressed Virginian named George Pickett, was of medium height, with a quick smile and dark, glossy hair that hung to his shoulders. Pickett said he had been appointed from the state of Illinois, where he had clerked in his uncle’s law office. There had been no Virginia appointments available to him. Pickett seemed even more contemptuous of the rules than the other George; his breezy manner was immediately likable.
The second visitor was also a Virginian, but Pickett’s enthusiasm seemed forced when he performed introductions. Perhaps Pickett had struck up an acquaintance with the tall, awkward fellow and now regretted it. There was a marked difference between George Pickett of Fauquier County and the new cadet from Clarksburg. Of course that far western section of the state could hardly be considered an authentic part of the South; it was mountainous and populated with a lot of illiterate rustics—
Of which Tom J. Jackson, as he called himself, was a prime example. His skin was sallow; his long, thin nose looked like the blade of a knife. The intensity of his blue-gray eyes made Orry nervous. Jackson tried hard to be as jolly as Pickett, but his lack of social grace made the short visit uncomfortable for all four young men.
“With that phiz, he should be a preacher, not a soldier,” George said as he snuffed out the candle. “Looks to me like he’s worrying about something. A bellyache. Cramped bowels, maybe. Well, who cares? He won’t last ten days.”
Orry almost fell off the bed when someone kicked the door open and a stentorian voice exclaimed:
“And you, sir, will
Someone said the main meal of the day was midday dinner. Hence all they got for supper was standard Army leftovers—beef and boiled potatoes. George and Orry were hungry enough that it made no difference. Besides, there were some positively delicious extras: homemade bread, country butter, rich coffee.
At the conclusion of supper the cadet captain gave the order to rise. Cadets and newcomers marched back to barracks, with fifes supplementing the drum cadence. While George and Orry spread their blankets on their iron beds, George’s sullen look asked why they had come to this place of loneliness and regimentation.
Between all-in and tattoo, a couple of upperclassmen stopped by to introduce themselves. One, a six-footer named Barnard Bee, was a South Carolinian, which pleased Orry. George was greeted by a cadet from his home state, Winfield Hancock.
South Barracks housed most of the new arrivals, and that night George and Orry met some of them as well. One was a bright, glib little chap from Philadelphia who introduced himself as George McClellan.
“Real society stuff,” George noted after McClellan left. “Everybody in eastern Pennsylvania knows his family. They say he’s smart. Maybe a genius. He’s only fifteen.”
Orry left off examining his image in the small looking glass over the washstand; he had already been ordered to get a haircut.
“Fifteen? How can that be? You’re supposed to be sixteen to get in here.”
George gave him a cynical look. “Unless you have connections in Washington. My father says there’s a lot of political pull employed to get certain men admitted. And to keep ’em here if they can’t handle the work or get in a jam.”
Two more newcomers stopped in a few minutes later. One, an elegantly dressed Virginian named George Pickett, was of medium height, with a quick smile and dark, glossy hair that hung to his shoulders. Pickett said he had been appointed from the state of Illinois, where he had clerked in his uncle’s law office. There had been no Virginia appointments available to him. Pickett seemed even more contemptuous of the rules than the other George; his breezy manner was immediately likable.
The second visitor was also a Virginian, but Pickett’s enthusiasm seemed forced when he performed introductions. Perhaps Pickett had struck up an acquaintance with the tall, awkward fellow and now regretted it. There was a marked difference between George Pickett of Fauquier County and the new cadet from Clarksburg. Of course that far western section of the state could hardly be considered an authentic part of the South; it was mountainous and populated with a lot of illiterate rustics—
Of which Tom J. Jackson, as he called himself, was a prime example. His skin was sallow; his long, thin nose looked like the blade of a knife. The intensity of his blue-gray eyes made Orry nervous. Jackson tried hard to be as jolly as Pickett, but his lack of social grace made the short visit uncomfortable for all four young men.
“With that phiz, he should be a preacher, not a soldier,” George said as he snuffed out the candle. “Looks to me like he’s worrying about something. A bellyache. Cramped bowels, maybe. Well, who cares? He won’t last ten days.”
Orry almost fell off the bed when someone kicked the door open and a stentorian voice exclaimed:
“And you, sir, will
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