Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [104]
“If you believe something is truly important, you have an obligation to fight for it. How many times have we heard words like that, especially from great figures of authority, like . . . our parents?”
There were nods, laughter.
“And how many times have the words really meant anything? Well, my young friends, if it has never mattered before, it matters now. And if I did not believe that I would ever see young men—the men from the empty seats in this room—if I did not believe I would ever see any of you put on a uniform and pick up a musket, well, I saw it today. And . . . if there are more of you who plan on doing the same . . . God bless you.”
HE STOPPED in the doorway of the small office, saw an older woman, a tight bun of silver hair, thick glasses, sitting behind a small desk. “Excuse me,” he said. “Is the meeting . . . in here?”
“What? The meeting? Yes, there, in Dr. Woods’s office. Are you a member of the faculty?”
“Yes, madam, I am Professor Chamberlain. I am the—”
“Can’t say I’m familiar with you, young man. No matter, I forget faces all the time. If you say so . . . go on in.”
He moved warily through the small room, approached the old dark door to the president’s office, stood for a moment, reached slowly for the knob, turned it quietly, and behind him the woman startled him.
“Go on in, son. They won’t bite you.”
He had rarely been in the president’s office, had never had reason to call on Dr. Woods personally. There was a distance between them, mainly in age, but Chamberlain had respect for Woods, knew the president was at odds with most of the older faculty, men who rejected the modern notions of education. Woods had been gradually pushing through a policy of enlightenment with respect to the students’ off hours, their free time. Many had felt their behavior should be regulated around the clock, that students should be monitored closely, lest they succumb to the horrors of unspeakable temptations, most of which were not identified.
“Ah, Mr. Chamberlain. Good, you made it.”
Woods stood behind his desk, and there were a half-dozen men in the large office, men whom Chamberlain knew, some by reputation, others socially. There were always faculty meetings, mostly informal affairs, and Chamberlain had learned early on that attendance was rarely an issue, but this time there had been a memo directed to him, by name, a specific invitation.
He saw the always grouchy Dr. Caldwell, who nodded without smiling, and Grodin, the philosophy professor, a tiny man with a high, nervous voice, a man not much older than himself. Grodin came forward, held out a small friendly hand, which Chamberlain shook.
“I think we should begin,” the president said. “Gentlemen, if you can find a chair.” Woods sat down in his tall, cushioned chair, pulled himself forward, closer to the desk, leaned out toward the others, waiting for them to find seats. Chamberlain slid a straight-backed wooden chair out from the corner of the room, sat to the side of Woods’s desk.
“Good, now gentlemen, let us begin.” He turned and looked at Chamberlain, and Chamberlain felt the sudden stares of the others, wilted slightly.
“Professor Chamberlain, we have received some . . . somewhat disturbing reports. Please understand, this administration is not attempting to guide you in any