North and South Trilogy by John Jakes

during the Revolution. Fort Clinton stood up there on the point. It was named for the British general. The ruins of Fort Putnam are over that way.”
    “Interested in history, are you?” George asked pointedly.
    “Yes. Some of the Mains fought in the Revolution. One rode with Marion, the Swamp Fox.”
    “Well, I suppose some Hazards fought, too. In Pennsylvania we don’t keep very close track of those things.” Testiness brought on by the heat and by their isolation had crept into George’s voice. He recognized that and tried to joke. “But now I understand why you haven’t time for girls. You’re always reading.”
    Orry reddened. George held up his hand. “Don’t get me wrong. What you said is interesting. But are you always so serious?”
    “What’s wrong with that? You’d better be serious too, if you want to last through your first summer encampment.”
    George sobered. “Guess you’re right.”
    The young female passengers waved good-bye as George and Orry left the steamer. The heat was intense now; George doffed his coat.
    Two soldiers in uniform waited on the dock. One, rather oafish, leaned against a rickety one-horse cart. He wore a roundabout with brass buttons, trousers, and gloves—all white but not clean. On his head sat a flat round cap decorated with some kind of brass ornament. A big cutlass hung from a heavy belt.
    Orry and George were the only arrivals. The crewmen hurled their luggage onto the dock without concern for the contents. While the newcomers gazed about them, the gangway was quickly drawn up. Bells rang, paddles churned, a whistle blast signaled departure.
    The smaller of the two soldiers, clad in a somewhat cleaner uniform, clutched the hilt of his cutlass and strode forward. He too wore one of those round caps. He had a wrinkled face and addressed them with a distinct Irish brogue.
    “Corporal Owens, United States Army. Provost of the post.”
    “We are new plebes—” George began.
    “No, sir!”
    “What’s that?”
    “You are a thing, sir. To be a plebe you must survive the entrance examinations. Until then both of you are lower than plebes. You are things. Remember that and comport yourselves accordingly.”
    That didn’t set well with George. “Everything ranked and pigeon-holed, is that it?”
    With a sniff, Owens said, “Precisely, sir. The Academy puts great faith in rankings. Even the branches of the Army are ranked. The engineers are the elite. The acme. That is why cadets with the highest class standing become engineers. The lowest become dragoons. Remember that and comport yourselves accordingly.”
    What a damn lout, Orry thought. He didn’t like Owens. As it turned out, few cadets did.
    Owens indicated the cart. “Place your luggage in there, take that path to the top, and report to the adjutant’s office.” George asked where it was, but Owens ignored him.
    The two newcomers trudged up a winding path to the Plain, a flat, treeless field that looked depressingly dusty and hot. Orry was feeling homesick. He tried to overcome that by recalling why he was here. The Academy gave him his best chance to get what he had wanted ever since he was small: a career as a soldier.
    If George felt forlorn, he hid it well. While Orry studied the various stone buildings on the far edge of the Plain, George concentrated on a smaller frame structure immediately to their left; more specifically, on several visitors chatting and observing the Plain from the building’s shaded veranda.
    “Girls,” George remarked unnecessarily. “That must be the hotel. Wonder if I can buy cigars there.”
    “Cadets don’t smoke. It’s a rule.”
    George shrugged. “I’ll get around it.”
    Orry found the Academy’s physical setting impressive, but the buildings themselves had a spartan look; that was the Army way, of course. It certainly gave the lie to critics who said the place pampered those who enrolled. And West Point could hardly be a citadel of indolence if ninety to a