by Джон Джейкс
Next day, Orry started practicing his French aloud. He did this whenever he was alone in his room. Bent was always snooping around and two days later caught him during one of these recitations. The Ohioan roared into the room, demanding to know what was going on. When Orry explained, Bent scoffed.
"You are entertaining someone in here, sir. Socializing." Orry reddened. "Sir, I am not. Look for yourself, sir —"
But the corporal had already waddled out. He placed Orry on report for attempting to deceive a superior.
Orry wrote an excuse. After an awkward interview with Captain Thomas, he got the report removed. He learned later that Bent had raved and cursed for ten minutes when he heard the news.
The autumn went faster than Orry had expected. Formations, drill, classroom work, and endless study left little time for anything else. The West Point system was founded on filling all a cadet's waking moments. Only on Saturday afternoons were plebes free to do what they wished, and often that time had to be spent walking extra rounds of guard duty to work off demerits.
In bad weather the duty was miserable. Superintendent Delafield, nicknamed Old Dickey, had some strange ways of economizing. One was his refusal to issue overcoats until after the January examinations. Why give a cadet an expensive coat he would carry off with him if he were dismissed? Consequently, in autumn's rain and sleet, new cadets stood guard clad only in thin, incredibly filthy sentinel overcoats that had been in the guardroom, collecting dirt and vermin, for years.
George still didn't study much, but he was always in the first or second sections of mathematics and French. He already had 110 demerits; Orry had 93. Bent was responsible for two-thirds of both totals.
Harassment by the Ohioan slacked off as the January examinations drew near. Orry took to sneaking down to Tom Jackson's room after lights out. They studied together by the glow of banked coals in the fireplace.
Orry regarded Jackson as inherently intelligent, perhaps even brilliant, yet the Virginian had a lot of trouble with lessons and formal classroom routine; each passing mark he obtained required a monumental struggle. Still, he was determined to succeed, and some of the other cadets recognized this extraordinary drive; Jackson had already acquired his cadet nickname, General.
Sometimes, though, Orry thought Jackson was crazy — as when he would sit upright for five minutes at a time so that his internal organs could "hang and arrange themselves properly." He was maniacal on the subject of his own health.
George wrote an occasional letter home; Orry wrote a great many and received an equal number. But letters didn't help as the end of December drew near. Never before had Orry been away from the family plantation at Christmas, and he got quite sentimental over the fact. Showing rare emotion, George admitted that he too would miss home a great deal. Finally, Christmas dawned, and although the chaplain preached an inspiring sermon in the chapel and the mess hall served a fine dinner, the day was a sad and lonely one for most of the cadets.
Soon bitter January weather closed in. Dismal skies lowered spirits as examinations loomed. The Hudson started to freeze, but Orry was hardly aware of it. Even when he stood guard duty in a snowstorm, his mind was on French.
Somehow he survived the inquisition at the blackboard, After the results of the examinations were announced, he whooped and crowed outside his room while less fortunate cadets silently packed their trunks. Sixteen plebes took the Canterberry road. The others took the oath, signed the articles of enlistment — and received a cadet overcoat.
February was only a couple of days old when George made a daring proposal to his roommate. "I'm all out of cigars. And we never really celebrated our brilliant success with the examinations. Let's run it down to Benny's."
Orry looked toward the window. Moonlight touched starry patterns of frost on the glass; the fireplace did little to relieve the night's fierce cold. The Hudson had frozen over almost completely now.
"In this weather? At this hour?" Orry looked dubious. Tattoo and taps would be sounded soon.
George jumped up from his bed; he had been reading a novel. "Of course. We've yet to visit that esteemed landmark. We owe ourselves a celebration. Where's your spirit of adventure?" He was already donning his new overcoat.
Orry's inclination was to say no. But some of George's past remarks about his hesitant nature prodded him to do the opposite. Half an hour after lights out, they sneaked down the iron stairs, eluded the guards, and ran toward the river in the bitter, breathtaking cold.
They scrambled down the path on the side of the bluff and tried to make their way through the snow and frozen underbrush along the shore. They found it hard going. George squinted at the glaring expanse of white to their left.
"It'll be easier if we walk on the ice."
"Think it's thick enough to hold us?"
George's pale eyes reflected the moon sailing high above the Hudson Highlands. "We'll soon find out."
Orry followed his friend, chastising himself for his eternal failure to act boldly. What sort of behavior was that for someone who might be called upon to lead a battlefield charge? He stepped onto the slippery ice and heard a sharp creak.
Ahead, George stopped. "What was that?"
Orry peered at the black mass of the bluff above them. "I thought it came from up there."
"You don't suppose someone's following us?"
Orry looked around. On the moonlit ice they would be completely visible from shore. "It's too late to worry about that."
George agreed. They pressed ahead. Several times the ice creaked and threatened to break beneath them; it really was too thin for safe passage. But there were no signs of pursuit, and very shortly they were peering over a windowsill at the cozy fire burning inside Benny Haven's little drinking establishment on the riverbank. George rubbed his hands together, then blew on them.
"Luck's with us. Not an upperclassman in sight."
In fact Benny Haven had no customers from the post and only two from the village of Buttermilk Falls, located on the bluff above the tavern. Genial, middle-aged Benny had black hair, a big nose, and features reminiscent of an Indian's. He had been selling beer, wine, and ardent spirits for more years than the cadets could remember or the tactical officers cared to acknowledge. He greeted the two arrivals cordially. The townsmen gave them sullen looks.
George ordered three cigars and two pots of beer. The friends sat at a corner table next to a window with a view of the stoop. Should an upperclassman show up, they could cut for the curtained doorway beside the fieldstone chimney! Orry relaxed a little, enjoying the taste of the beer and the smell of hot ham drifting from the kitchen in back. He ordered a plate of ham and some bread.
Benny served the food, then struck up a conversation. As a newcomer Orry was very welcome, Benny said. But Orry's accent identified him as a Southerner. Hence Benny couldn't help asking politely about the Southern clamor for the annexation of Texas. Was it motivated by a desire on the part of politicians to add more slave territory to the Union?
Orry had heard the charge too often to be offended. Besides, his brother Cooper — much to the annoyance of their father — said it was true. Orry took his time framing a reply.
While he was thinking, Benny frowned and looked toward the curtained door. They had all heard a noise in the kitchen. George's face signaled trouble an instant before the curtain was swept aside. A cold red face loomed over a quivering mountain of cloth, a cadet overcoat.
"Well, sir, what have we here? A couple of malefactors, that's evident," said Elkanah Bent with a gloating smile.
Orry's belly hurt. He was sure Bent's arrival was no accident. He recalled the noise they had heard while walking here. How many nights had Bent spied on them, waiting for this kind of opportunity?
Suddenly, George flung his empty beer pot. Bent squealed and dodged to avoid being hit. "Run," George shouted. He went out the door like a ball from a cannon.
Orry ran after him, his only thought a ridiculous one: they hadn't paid their bill.
>
In one of the deepest patches of snow along the shore, George took a tumble. Orry stopped, ran back, and helped his friend to his feet. He saw Bent lumbering after them while Benny Haven stood in the tavern door, an amused spectator. He didn't act worried about the bill.
"Come on, George," Orry panted as his friend again slipped and floundered in the snow. "This time that son of a bitch will have our heads."
"Not if we beat him back."
"Even if we do, he'll report us, and we can't lie," Orry gasped as they headed up the shore. The Academy's honor code had already been thoroughly drummed into them.
"I guess we can't," George agreed.
Bent's bulk worked against him; the other two cadets were able to run much faster. But the underbrush once again impeded them. Frozen branches slashed at their faces and broke with gunlike sounds when they struck them. Soon George called for a change of direction. He leaped a low thicket and landed on the ice. Orry saw its moon whitened surface crack and sag.
"Maybe we can bluff him into not putting us on report," George said as he led the way. "He's out after hours, too, don't forget."
Orry didn't answer, just kept running. There was some flaw in George's logic which he couldn't locate.
Footing was treacherous. Every few steps Orry felt the ice give.
He looked back, saw Bent stumbling and lurching in pursuit, a huge, shuddering blot of ink on the pale expanse of the river.
"Another twenty yards and we'll be on the path," George cried, pointing. At that moment a shout went up behind them. George skidded to a stop and squinted.
"Oh, God," he groaned.
Orry lurched against him, turning. Only half of the ink blot was visible above the ice. Hands waved feebly. Frightened outcries drifted to them in the still air.
"He fell through!" Orry exclaimed.
"At his weight, are you surprised? Let's go."
"George, we can't leave him. He might drown."
Bent's cries grew more strident. George grimaced. "I was afraid you'd say that."
"Look here, I don't believe you've suddenly lost your conscience —"
"Just shut up and come on," George said, starting back. His eyes had a furious glint; he didn't need to tell Orry their luck had turned bad.
Then Orry saw Bent sinking. He and George ran even harder than they'd run before.
A second later Bent's head disappeared. His forage cap floated in the water, its stiff visor shining in the moonlight. Just as the two plebes reached the hole in the ice, the Ohioan bobbed into sight again. He groped toward them, splashing and shrieking.
George and Orry tugged and heaved. Rescue was difficult because of the slippery ice. Twice the plebes almost pitched headfirst into the water. But at last they dragged Bent out. He lay retching, a wet, whalelike figure. George knelt beside him.
"Bent? You have to get up and get back to barracks. If you don't, you'll freeze."
"Yes — all right. Help me. Please."
George and Orry stretched Bent's arms over their shoulders so that they could support him. By then the corporal was no longer making coherent sounds, just moaning and gulping air. Because of the water on Bent's clothes, his rescuers were soaked and chilled by the time they brought him to the riverbank. Still keeping silent, he labored up the hillside path. At the top he shook himself, caught his breath, and said:
"I appreciate what you did. It was — a brave act. I had better go this way. You return to your barracks as best you can."
He lumbered into the dark, the squeak of his shoes and the sound of his heavy breathing lingering for a time after he disappeared.
Orry's teeth started to chatter. His hands felt stiff, frozen. How strange Bent's last remark had sounded, how —
He couldn't think of the word he wanted.
George gave voice to his friend's feelings. "He sounded about as sincere as a woman praising spinsterhood. I think we should have let him drown."
Despite his chill, Orry laughed. "Now that it's all over, you've got to admit we had a pretty rotten celebration."
"I'll say." George pulled three broken cigars from under his overcoat. With a rueful grin, he threw them away. "The only consolation is, I never paid for them. Let's get inside before we die of ague."
The following morning, Bent was absent from breakfast. Orry and George presumed he had decided to Wheaton it — a term synonymous with malingering. Surgeon Wheaton, the post's medical officer for nearly twenty years, had a kind, unsuspecting nature. He frequently admitted cadets to the hospital or excused them from duty for feigned illnesses.
George and Orry told only a few close friends about their escapade. Then, later in the day, Pickett brought them some disturbing news.
"I'm afraid that treacherous bag of blubber didn't tell you the whole truth, boys. He had special permission to be off post after tattoo. He requested the permission from one of the tactical officers. Bent said he had information that two plebes were running it to Benny's almost every night, and he meant to catch them."
For dinner the mess hall served Albany beef — the nickname for river sturgeon caught in the Hudson before it froze. The fish didn't set well on Orry's stomach for some reason. Later he wondered if he'd had a premonition.
Before the evening was over, Corporal Bent had placed Cadets Main and Hazard on report.
The Academy honor code was founded on faith in the goodness of a cadet's character. If any cadet stated that a charge was false, his word was accepted without question and the charge was withdrawn. Orry believed in the code. Despite George's cynicism, he did too.
Hence neither denied guilt, although the resulting demerit total brought George dangerously close to dismissal.
To work off some of the demerits, the two friends had to walk a good many extra guard tours. The weather turned stormy. George withstood the outdoor duty with no ill effects, but it was different with Orry. Ever since their river adventure, he had been sneezing and sniffling, and he was feeling weak and dizzy when he started an extra tour on a particularly dark Saturday afternoon.
A blizzard was roaring across the mountains from the northwest. A foot of drifted snow piled up in less than an hour. Then the temperature rose and the result was sleet. Orry was slogging back and forth near the sally port when he realized that despite the cold, he was burning up.
Sweat mingled with melting sleet on his cheeks. His musket seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. He staggered in the snow, then leaned against the barracks wall to rest.
Someone plucked his sleeve. Orry recognized a first classman named Sam Grant, an undistinguished fellow except for his horsemanship, which was outstanding.
"Who sent you out here in this weather?" Grant demanded. "You look green. About ready to faint. You should take yourself to the hospital."
"I'm fine, sir," Orry croaked, attempting to straighten up.
The short, dark-eyed cadet was skeptical. "You're about as fine as my Aunt Bess five minutes before she expired. Shall I find a tactical officer and ask him to see that you're relieved?"
"No, sir, that would be — dereliction of — my duty."
Grant shook his head. "You'll make a fine soldier, Mr. Main. If you don't die of mulishness first."
"You know who I am?"
"Every man in the corps knows about you, and your friend, and that scum from Ohio. It's a pity Corporal Bent's standings are so high. Some of us are trying to remedy that. He's being deviled as furiously as he devils others. I sincerely hope you survive to enjoy that, sir."
With a little smile, Grant tramped off into the storm.
It was about four o'clock, Orry guessed. Dark as midnight. He forced himself to move. He thought he was marching, but actually he was reeling from point to point. Fortunately, most of the officers were indoors, hence didn't witness his awkward performance.
Another half hour passed. He began to fear he was desperately ill — mortally ill, maybe — and that his foolish wish to avoid a display of weakness would finish him.
"You
're not stepping smartly, sir. Not smartly at all."
Stunned by the voice, Orry turned. He saw Bent's tentlike overcoat looming just this side of the sally port. Bent seemed to float forward, a huge shape in the murk. His eyes shone with glee.
"I heard you were out here, sir. I came to inspect —"
The Ohioan's voice faltered as Orry wrenched the old smoothbore flintlock off his shoulder. Orry was out of his head, beyond fear.
"Why are you pointing that piece at me, sir?"
"Because I'm going to shoot you, Bent. If you don't leave me alone, and my friend too, I'm going to shoot you."
Bent tried to sneer. "That musket is unloaded, sir."
"Is it?" Orry blinked and weaved on his feet. "Then I'll beat you to death with it. They can court-martial me, or even shove me in front of a firing squad, but if you're still here at the end of the next five seconds, you ungrateful bastard, I'm going to kill you."
"By God, we've a madman at West Point."
"Yes, sir. An Ohio madman, who treats plebes like animals. Well, Mr. Bent, sir, this is one plebe who won't be treated that way any longer. Five seconds. One, sir, two, sir ... "
Bent huffed, but said nothing. He was intimidated by the wild white specter in front of him. Sleet clung to Orry's cap and eyebrows. His expression almost maniacal, he turned the musket so that he gripped it by the barrel, like a club.
Humiliation and hate flickered on Bent's face. Suddenly, he spun on one heel. He seemed to melt into the storm.
Orry swallowed and shouted, "And you'd better leave us alone from now on."
"What did you say, sir?"
The sharp voice turned him the other way. Bundled to the ears, one of the tactical officers came striding toward him. The howl of the wind forced the officer to yell. "Cadet Grant requested that I come out here, sir. He said you were too ill for this duty. Is that true?"
By now Orry had practiced the position of a soldier a thousand times or more. He tried to assume it, not even realizing he had just committed the one unforgivable sin. He had dropped his musket in the snow.
