North and South Trilogy by John Jakes Page B

genial one this time. He took their appointment papers. A second assistant relieved them of their pocket money and recorded the amount in a ledger. They were then directed to see Cadet Sergeant Stribling in room fourteen of South Barracks.
    Near the barracks the two paused by the communal water pump and looked past Superintendent Delafield’s grazing cow to groups of young men drilling on the Plain. Orry and George knew they were newcomers because they still wore civilian clothes. The adjutant’s clerk had answered Orry’s question about uniforms:
    “You don’t get one until you’re officially a plebe, m’lad. And you’re not a plebe until you pass the entrance examinations.”
    The marchers on the field executed commands sloppily and stumbled often. This caused their cadet drillmasters to shout all the louder. Soon the newcomers were replaced by members of the cadet battalion, in uniform. Their drill was so smart and synchronized, Orry knew there was hope for the new arrivals.
    They found Cadet Stribling turned out in immaculate white trousers and a cadet-gray jacket adorned with black cord herringbones and three rows of bullet-shaped gilt buttons. Stribling abused them verbally, just as the cadet near the hotel had done, then sent them to the post store where they drew supplies: bucket and broom, a tin dipper, a lump of soap, an arithmetic book and slate, and blankets. The blankets were so new they still reeked of sheep’s oil. It was the traditional smell of the plebe.
    Their room on the third floor of South Barracks was hardly a haven for lovers of luxury: a single window, a few storage shelves, a huge chimney and fireplace dominating one wall. Orry wondered whether the room would hold heat on snowy winter nights. He had seen but one snowfall, and that had lasted just two hours on the ground, but this wasn’t South Carolina.
    George studied the narrow iron beds with a professional eye. The legs were badly cast, he said. Another drum call, this one different from the first, drifted up to them in the sultry air. George made a face. “That drum seems to signal every activity around here. I feel like a damn slave to it already.”
    “Do you suppose that’s the call to supper?” Orry said with a hopeful look.
    “It better be. I’m starved.”
    But it was not yet mealtime. Downstairs they were ordered to fall in to watch the evening parade. A cadet band struck up a march, and Orry quickly forgot his hunger.
    Bayonets on shouldered muskets flashed in the orange light of the sinking sun. The colors and officers’ hat plumes danced in the breeze. The marching and the music thrilled Orry, and all at once he felt less homesick, almost happy to be here. West Point was, after all, a kind of fulfillment of a boyhood ambition that still dominated his life.
    Orry couldn’t remember exactly when he had decided to become a soldier, but he was very much aware of why he thought so highly of the profession. It was glamorous—much more so than the life of a rice planter—and it was important in the universal scheme of things. Many people looked down on military men, yet no one could deny that generals and their armies frequently changed the shape of entire countries and altered the course of history.
    Growing up, he had read book after book about commanders who had done just that. Alexander. Hannibal. Jenghiz Khan. Bonaparte, whose apocalyptic shadow had covered Europe less than half a century ago. Out of Orry’s reading and his boyhood dreams, which mingled danger and pageantry, nobility and bloodshed, had come his decision about his life’s work. He would be thankful forever that his older brother hadn’t wanted the appointment.
    After the conclusion of the impressive evening ceremony the drum called them again—this time for supper. Cadet Stribling commanded the squad of newcomers who marched to the mess hall in slovenly fashion. In the hall everyone stood until the senior cadet captain gave the command to sit.
    The