Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [8]
“Mr. Walker, I am forced to conclude that I must repeat this lesson tomorrow, word for word, and if you, if all of you, will pay a bit closer attention, perhaps it will be understood. We are out of time today.”
There was a low groan, and the cadets understood that Jackson was serious, that tomorrow’s lesson would be the same as today, exactly the same, and they would absorb the words again, or try to, and there would be little room for questions.
He turned, reached toward the small desk behind him, picked up his copy of the large gray textbook which all the cadets carried. They rose, a great collective sigh, and filed from the room.
Jackson was annoyed. He had spent the greater part of the previous evening memorizing today’s lesson, had spoken it aloud to himself in the dim lamplight of his room. It was perfectly clear to him, and he had recited it with the same clarity today. He turned back, watched the cadets, frowned. Many of these young men would not survive the academic load at VMI. He saw the fault lying with the outside influences, recalled West Point, the local taverns that had attracted so many of his classmates. Lexington, Virginia, was not as sophisticated, there was not a bustling social scene, and so it mystified him why these young men were so distracted, why they could not seem to grasp the lessons that were so clear to him.
He held the heavy book under one arm, waited for the last cadet to exit, then walked out into the hallway. He saw many faces watching him, heard some laughter, comments, the brashness of boys who are briefly anonymous, out from your control. He did not look at them, had heard it before, walked past the building’s wide oak doorway and to the cool air outside. He stopped, took a deep breath, then another, tried to rid himself of the stale air of the classroom. It has been going fairly well, he thought, most of them do want to learn. He could not understand the others, could not understand why they made the effort to be here if they had no sense of duty.
Major Jackson walked again, with long loping strides, kept the book tightly under his arm, allowed the other arm to swing freely. Conversations stopped when he passed, cadets pointing, more comments. He didn’t see them, kept his eyes straight ahead in an intent stare—he had an appointment to keep.
Moving out across the wide parade ground, he glanced once toward the row of brass cannon, his cannon, which he used to teach the skills of artillery. It was the one part of their lessons the cadets enjoyed. Jackson’s reputation in the classroom was clear and appalling. He was nicknamed “Tom Fool,” a teacher with no talent for teaching, whose daily routine tortured his cadets, but out here, with the guns, there was something else, something the cadets could feel. The professor was, after all, a soldier, and with his beloved guns his lessons became animated, energetic. Though he forced them through the torture of the classroom, they knew that out here, in the open air, Jackson and his guns would show them a small glimpse of the fire. Out here they did not ridicule him, and though many of these young men would never become soldiers, they would know at least what a soldier was.
He moved beyond the gates now, passed through the campus of Washington University, which spread out alongside VMI. The atmosphere here was very different. There was laughter, young people moving in pairs under great sweeping trees. He did not look at them, stared straight ahead, moved in long strides toward a distant church steeple. He was uncomfortable now, would not look around, would avoid