Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [106]
Woods stood, said, “Gentlemen, let us adjourn. Mr. Chamberlain has made some valid points, and I believe little else can be served by debating these issues here. I, for one, do not believe that anything of Mr. Chamberlain’s ideas hold any threat to either this college or his students, and that accordingly, the matter is settled. This meeting is adjourned.”
The others sat for a moment, surprised by the quick end to the meeting. Chamberlain continued to stand, thoughts pouring through his mind, a great tide of energy, and he felt he could have gone on, had a great deal more to say, and then realized Woods knew that as well. Gradually, the men rose, went to the door, and there were glances, small voices, and Givens moved by him with fragile old steps, did not look at him, and then Grodin, who held out the hand again, smiling again, and Chamberlain could not tell if he had even heard anything he’d said, wondered if any of them had.
“Mr. Chamberlain, would you remain? If it is not inconvenient . . .” Woods was motioning to the chair, and Chamberlain looked at him, saw kindness in the old face, something fatherly, and he sat down, waited. The last of the others filed out, and the door was closed behind them. Woods put his hands on his head, rubbed his temples, as though wiping away a headache.
“They probably haven’t been lectured to in a long time, Mr. Chamberlain. They’re not used to it.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was lecturing.”
“No matter. They’ll recover. No doubt I’ll hear from one or two of them privately, the friendly advice of my colleagues, that maybe I should talk to you myself, set you straight.” He laughed, prodded the headache again.
Chamberlain watched him, pulled his chair over toward the front of the desk, felt himself heating up again, said, “So, is that what this is? Are you going to tell me that I should watch what I say, that I should pay no attention to my instincts, my fears about the war? I should not disrupt the blind serenity of Bowdoin College?”
“Certainly not. Mr. Chamberlain, I share many of your concerns. Unlike many of those distinguished men, I have traveled somewhat throughout the South, and I know that what you are saying is probably true. But I also know that these men are right, that there is very little that any of us can do to affect these matters, and that if we open up our worst fears, if we convince these students that our nation is in a deep crisis, it is possible, don’t you see . . . they may take that seriously. They may stop applying themselves, what’s the use, and so forth. Some of them will go off and be soldiers—young people are good at that sort of nonsense—but it’s the rest that concern me, the ones who stay, who look to us for a foundation, something they can build on. It is possible, Mr. Chamberlain, that what you are telling them is taking that foundation away.”
Chamberlain felt suddenly betrayed.
“But you said you agreed—”
“Yes, Mr. Chamberlain, I do agree. I understand, and I share your concerns. That much is true. But I question the wisdom of sharing those concerns with young minds.”
“There is no one else better suited to solve these problems. Certainly, you don’t believe this office full of gray-haired academicians is going to solve anything.” He looked at Woods’s gray hair. “My apologies, sir.”
“No, you are quite