CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Gentlemen and Scholars

Lucas whooped and threw his hat into the air as the freshmen poured down the steps.  “Three cheers for Adam Cartwright!” he announced.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Adam scolded.  “I’m pleased to serve, but it’s a small office.”

“Not to us,” Jamie insisted.

“No, choosing the debate topics for the society is vitally important,” Marcus declared.

Lucas laughed.  “Especially since you haven’t taken your turn at debating yet.”  He leaned close to Adam’s ear and said in a stage whisper, “Pick an easy topic for the lad, won’t you?”

“And the hardest I can think of for you,” Adam promised with a wicked grin.

Lucas scowled, turning his gaze on Jamie.  “I suppose I must forgive him for such sauce?”

“You must,” Jamie intoned solemnly.  “In fact, as a penance, I think you should hoist him on your shoulders—we’ll help—and carry him in honor from the scene of his triumph.”

“You’re Protestant, remember?” Adam snorted.  “You don’t practice the levying of penances.”

Jamie grinned.  “But I do practice giving honor where honor is due.”

“Don’t you dare!” Adam ordered, but the other three had already taken hold of his legs and were lifting him up.  “Put me down!” he demanded.  “If you must honor someone, pick on Morse; he’s the new president of the Brothers in Unity.”

“Don’t give them ideas, Cartwright,” called Richard Morse himself, who was passing by at that moment.  Some of his friends, however, agreed that their highest officer should be shown, at least, as much honor as someone of lower position, and soon the protesting president was being born aloft across the campus.

“See what you’ve started,” Adam scolded.  “Now, put me down!”

“I suppose we should,” Jamie chuckled, as the trio lowered him to the ground, “and since we want you to live to celebrate your birthday tomorrow, we’ll even do it gently.”

Marcus and Jamie tried to set him down gently, as promised, but Lucas, struck by a vital piece of new information, just let go.  The result was a virtual collapse, since the other two boys were both slighter and less well muscled than Adam.  “Birthday? Tomorrow?” Lucas demanded.  “Why have you kept this a secret, spoopsey?”

“I didn’t,” Adam protested, standing and dusting off his trousers.  “Just didn’t have any reason to advertise it.”

“No reason!” Lucas barked.  “How are we to mount a celebration if you keep it to yourself, sir?  I ask you that!”

Adam laughed. “The only celebration I anticipate is a chapel service and three recitations.  No time off for good behavior.”

“Pathetic,” Lucas declared with a roll of his eyes.  “Shall we let the occasion pass in such base depravity, gentlemen?”

“Never!” Marcus proclaimed, while Jamie shrugged.  He would have relished a true celebration of the occasion, of course, but his perennially empty pockets vetoed any idea he could come up with, other than the same small gift Adam had given him on his own birthday.

Lucas saw the shrug and immediately guessed the problem.  “Listen, there’s a great place on Wooster Street that an upperclassman told me about.  Let’s meet there tomorrow evening and sample their fare—my treat.”

“No,” Adam protested. “It’s generous, Luke, but not fair to you.”

“Not fair at all,” Jamie agreed, and Marcus nodded mute concurrence.

“What’s not fair,” Lucas insisted, staring at Jamie, “is your depriving me of a good time, just because you’re squeamish about strong drink.”

“That isn’t it,” Jamie protested.  “I don’t drink, but I wouldn’t stop the rest of you.”

“Prove it,” Lucas challenged.

“Luke,” Adam said, laying a hand on his shoulder, “that isn’t the reason, and you know it.”

“No,” Lucas admitted in fairness, “but the real reason isn’t valid, either.  So what if I have more ready cash than you?  Birthday gifts aren’t meant to be repaid, you know, just accepted with gladness of heart.”

Adam, Jamie and Marcus exchanged questioning glances, and finally Adam smiled at the fourth boy.  “You’re right.  Maybe someday I’ll have the funds to treat you on a special occasion, but for now I’ll accept your gift with the same gladness of heart with which it’s given.”

“That’s the spirit!” Lucas cried.  “Meet me on the Green at eight tomorrow night, and I’ll lead the way.”

* * * * *

            As he and Jamie waited on the Green the following night, Adam huddled inside his wool coat.  Though the sun had shone all day, the temperature had been barely above freezing, and now that night had fallen, it was even lower.  “We’ll have snow by morning,” he predicted.

“Sooner than that,” Jamie prophesied.

“Just our luck,” Adam admitted with a wry grin.  “You may wish you were a drinker by the time we get to this tavern Luke’s picked out.”

Jamie laughed.  “I may be frozen, but I’ll stick to my convictions, thank you.  I hope they serve coffee, as well.”

“We’ll soon find out.”  Adam pointed down the street.  “Here they come.”

Lucas and Marcus trotted up to meet them, both reiterating their congratulations to Adam on his nineteenth year.  “Now, for a fine feast and a tankard of warming ale,” Lucas promised as he led them down Court Street toward the harbor.  They didn’t go that far, but they were close enough to feel the wind off the water, and by the time they entered Moriarty’s Tavern, they all felt thoroughly chilled.

It was an unpretentious place, but the atmosphere was welcoming.  From behind the bar, the proprietor, Frank Moriarty, greeted them and suggested a pint of ale to warm their innards.

“We’ll have three,” Lucas said, adding as he turned to Jamie, “unless you’ve

changed your mind.”

Jamie shook his head.  “Do you have coffee, sir—or tea?”  He’d noticed the man’s English accent and thought that tea might be the likelier choice on this menu.

“Whichever you wish, lad,” Moriarty said, “though we’ll have to brew the tea.  Don’t get much call for it here.”

“Coffee, please,” Jamie said.

“And we’d like a table,” Lucas added.  “We plan to eat.”

“Eat?” Jamie squeaked as they moved toward the table the proprietor had pointed out.  “How can you eat again after the supper we had at the Vultures’ Nest?”

“Oh, it’s easy,” Lucas assured him with a grin.

“Easy,” Marcus agreed, nudging Jamie with his elbow.

“Decidedly easy,” Adam put in.  “I’m a growing boy—and you should be.”  They all chuckled, those close enough poking Jamie’s rail-thin ribs with sharp elbows.

“Oh, stop it,” he protested.  “It’s Adam’s birthday; save your kind attention for him!”

“Thanks a lot!” Adam laughed.

When Frank Moriarty served them their drinks, three pewter mugs of brown ale and one cup of steaming coffee, he asked if they’d decided what they wanted.

“What’s on the menu?” Adam inquired.

The Englishman chuckled.  “Your first visit, is it?  Aye, I didn’t remember seeing you before.  The food’s simple, but hearty.  You can have grilled sardines or eggs on toast, but our specialty is Welsh rarebit; and if you’re hungrier than that, try our Golden Buck. That’s the rarebit with a poached egg on top.”

“That’s for me,” Lucas declared enthusiastically, “and the coffee-drinking lad will have that, as well.”

“Oh, no,” Jamie protested.  “Really, that’s too much.”

“Your bones need padding,” Lucas insisted, “and, Adam, as the birthday boy, you should definitely have the best the house can offer.”

“No argument here,” Adam agreed.  “Golden Buck for me, too.”

“I’ll have the rarebit plain,” Marcus said.  “Eggs sound too much like breakfast.”  The others hooted at that idea, but let him have what he wanted.

The food was delivered shortly by Moriarty’s wife and almost as quickly devoured by the three boys, in spite of the filling supper they’d consumed only two hours before.  Lucas leaned back, patting his stomach.  “That was prime.”

“Indeed, it was!” Jamie enthused.  “I think that would have cured my cold quicker than either Dr. Haversham’s tonic or Mrs. Wiggins’ gruel.”

“It ought to, with all that ale in it!” Lucas chortled.  “Now, if you’d just learn to take it straight . . .”

“Don’t tease him,” Adam said.  To Jamie, he added, “The alcohol cooks out.”

“I hope so,” Jamie laughed, “because I could become a connoisseur of Golden Buck—if only I had the cash to support the habit.”

“I could, too,” Adam agreed.  “Thank you, Luke, for a very special treat on my birthday.”

“My pleasure,” said their host, “and I’ll hear no more on the subject.  Another ale for the road?”

The offer was eagerly accepted, except by Jamie, who declined even another cup of coffee, lest it keep him awake.  When the others had finished their drinks, the quartet of friends left, with promises to Mr. Moriarty to return.  Arm locked in arm, they walked back to the Green through the falling snowflakes and parted with final calls of “Happy birthday, Adam.”

“It has been . . . thanks to you,” Adam called back.  He threw an arm around Jamie’s slim shoulders as they hurried back toward George Street.  “You were right about the snow,” he said.  “By morning we’ll be walking through a carpet of it.”

“Ah, but still warmed to the bones by the bonds of friendship,” Jamie returned.

“And Golden Buck!” Adam added.

Laughing, they headed back to the boardinghouse, unaware, as was most of the country, that far to the south, in the highest home of the nation, the chill of something colder than snow was hovering near.  When dawn came and the rest of the country began its celebration of Washington’s birthday, the first family was, instead, mourning the death of young Willie Lincoln.  Most sympathized with the President’s “affliction,” as the newspapers termed it, but in a few homes, mothers and fathers who had lost sons to the gaping maw of War, though shamed by the thought, felt it poetic justice for the Commander-in-Chief to share the same grief that wrenched their hearts.

* * * * *

            In chapel on Monday, prayers were said for the Lincoln family, who would be burying their young son that afternoon, but after the moment of solemnity, it was business as usual at Yale.  The President’s loss hit Adam, perhaps, harder than most, as he couldn’t help realizing that young Willie was eleven, the same age as Hoss, and Adam had seen loss often enough and recently enough to know that tragedy could strike without warning and leave devastating grief in its wake.  To think, as he momentarily did, that it could strike Hoss—or Joe or Pa, death being no respecter of youth or age—while he was away, too far even to make it home for the funeral, was troubling.  Like the other students, however, he was soon caught up in the routine of recitations and college activities.

Adam worked diligently during the week, having finally determined that weekends with Elizabeth could be savored more fully if nothing were left hanging over his head.  He longed to take her to dinner and the theater, as she had hinted a few times, but all he could afford was trips to the skating pond, followed by a cup of cocoa.  Even that stretched his resources further than was comfortable, but it seemed ungracious not to offer her at least that much.  Of course, Sundays were still spent at the mission, and they were a trial at times, when the youngsters demonstrated a distinct lack of appetite for instruction.  However, Adam felt amply rewarded by the chance to walk Elizabeth home and hold her mittened hand.  So far, nothing more than a chaste kiss at her door had followed, but even that seemed like the nectar of the gods to Adam.

What he’d do once the weather improved, he wasn’t sure.  Picnics, perhaps, or long strolls through the woods.  As February gave way to March, however, sunny days seemed far away.  There were a few, but most days were cloudy and overcast, at best; and while the daytime temperatures were consistently above freezing, nighttime lows were as consistently below, and rain or snow still inundated them every few days.

On Monday, March 10th, Adam and Jamie arrived for breakfast at the Vultures’ Nest in expectation of the usual grousing about the weather, but the room rippled with excitement as heads bent in avid perusal of the morning newspaper.  “What’s happened?” Adam called.

“Naval battle at Hampton Roads,” Milton Bradford called.

“Clash of the ironclads,” the more poetic junior, James Goodman announced.  “The Monitor defeated the Merrimac.”

Alexander White shook his head, though a smile touched his lips.  “It’s against our rules, but I suppose nothing will suffice but hearing it read over breakfast.”

“Hear, hear,” his senior cohort Robert Raines chimed in his encouragement.

“Not by me,” George MiIler declared.  “I want to eat my breakfast!”

“Let one of the freshmen read it,” Edgar Warington suggested with a snide curl of his upper lip.  “They undoubtedly need the practice.”

White silenced the roar of outrage that met the sophomore’s taunt and then turned to Adam with a smile.  “I’m sure you don’t need the practice, Mr. Cartwright,” he said, “but you have a pleasant speaking voice, so I wonder if you’d mind doing the honors.”

Adam gave the senior a slight bow.  “It would be my pleasure.”  Eagerly, he took the paper and began to read, “‘Fortress Monroe, Saturday, March 8.  The dullness of Old Point was startled today by the announcement that a suspicious looking vessel; supposed to be the Merrimac, looking like a submerged house, with the roof only above water, was moving down from Norfolk. . . .’”

With mounting excitement he read of the engagement of three Confederate vessels against the Union ships, the Cumberland and the Congress.  The wooden ships were no match for the ironclad Merrimac; and after running the Cumberland aground, the Merrimac had captured the other Union ship.  Night fell, however, before the Confederate ironclad could return to finish off the Cumberland.  The dim hopes for that sailing ship’s survival changed entirely when the Union’s new ironclad, the Monitor, arrived that night, and a five-hour battle the next day saw the Confederate’s Merrimac limp away from harbor, defeated by the much smaller, but more maneuverable Monitor.

After reading the account of the naval engagement, Adam continued with a description of the Monitor’s construction, but when he came to the list of the vessel’s specifications, Edgar Warington said, “Oh, bother that nonsense.  It’s only the results that matter.”

Adam looked up, startled.  “Aren’t you interested in how those results were achieved?” he asked.  “I’m just getting to the engineering of the ship.”

Warington snorted.  “Do I look like a Scientif?  Of course, Cartwright, I’ve always suspected you belonged in Sheffield, rather than with the scholars and gentlemen of Yale.”

A hush fell over the table, for while it was not considered a disgrace to attend the Sheffield Scientific branch of the college, a certain stigma hung over the students who sought to put their education to practical use in the more mechanical fields.  Everyone recognized that the sophomore had fully intended to insult the freshman by stating that he belonged there, as well as insinuating that Adam was no gentleman.  “I believe that will be quite enough,” White said quietly.

“Exactly as I said,” Warington smirked.

“I wasn’t referring to the article,” the steward declared tersely.  “However, I think we’ve imposed on Mr. Cartwright’s good nature long enough.  Please eat your breakfast before it grows stone cold, Mr. Cartwright, and I’ll be glad to let you take the newspaper with you, so that you may further your interest in the engineering of the Monitor.  Would anyone like to have it after Mr. Cartwright?”

At first no one responded, perhaps wishing to maintain their own status as “scholars and gentlemen of Yale.”  Then Robert Raines, whose reputation as a senior was strong enough to withstand any such slur, said that he would appreciate reading the rest of the article after Adam.  “In my time at Yale,” he said pointedly, “I have observed that those who cultivate learning in many fields fare best in their chosen one.”  The two juniors both made a point of commending Adam for his fine reading, while the sophomores found that emptying their plates required all their gentlemanly attention.

“I’ve had about all of that Warington I can take,” Adam fumed as the freshmen hurried toward chapel after the meal.

“I’m proud of you, Adam, for holding your temper,” Jamie said.

Adam exhaled with exasperation.  “You wouldn’t be, if you could read my uncharitable and unrepentant mind.”

Jamie laughed.  “All the more reason for pride, then, that you held it in.”

With a shrug and a grin Adam let his friend win the point.

“St. James, you are beyond belief,” Lucas declared with a jab in the ribs, but there was warm respect in his gaze, which also took in Adam.  There was a time when he would have volunteered to bash in the sophomore’s thick skull himself if the others were too craven or too sanctified, but though he scarcely realized it himself, Adam’s and Jamie’s more reasoned responses were tempering his own hot head.

* * * * *

            March continued much as it had begun, although as the days flew past, they were more frequently rainy than snowy.  The students made their regular rounds of recitation, meals and society meetings, with the addition of rehearsals with the Beethoven Society and stolen afternoons with Elizabeth for Adam.  When the ice was no longer safe for skating, they resorted to walks through the elm-canopied streets or the cemetery, although a petulant pout often graced the girl’s lips when muddy water splashed her hemline.  Almost before they knew it, however, reviews for second term exams began, and even time with Elizabeth had to give way to that.  Adam was determined to stand near the top of his class . . . for her, for Pa and, perhaps the greatest motivation of all, for his own self-respect.

On the final day of their Latin review, a messenger arrived, requesting that the gentlemen whose names he called follow him.  Tutor Smith nodded his permission and continued on with the review, while about a dozen students, Jamie among them, filed out of the room, looking totally bewildered.  Fifteen minutes later they returned and took their seats, the tutor making no more of their return than their departure, and a second dozen young men were asked to leave with their escort.  “What’s going on?” Adam whispered out the side of his mouth to Lucas, often a good source of information on college activities.

“No clue,” Lucas muttered back, “but St. James doesn’t look upset.  Can’t be anything bad.”

“Mr. Cameron,” Wilder Smith said loudly, “did you have a question regarding this passage from Livy?”

“Uh, no, sir, not about that,” the hapless Lucas stammered.

“That is the only topic presently under discussion, Mr. Cameron,” the tutor said firmly without the slightest trace of the humor he felt, “and considering your average in this class, I would recommend that you give it your undivided attention.”

“Good idea, sir,” Lucas said, sitting up straighter and giving his best imitation of a diligent scholar.

“Excellent,” Tutor Smith said, and a smile finally touched his lips.  “Do that with all areas of endeavor, and I can assure you that all will be revealed to you at the appropriate time.”

Sorely tempted to roll his eyes, Lucas, instead, nodded in submission.  Adam flicked him an apologetic look, for he felt that it was his question that had led his friend astray.  At least, the tutor hadn’t assessed another demerit.

Finally, the second group of Latin students returned, and the third dozen called included Adam, but not Lucas.  “All will be revealed at the appropriate time,” Lucas quipped under his breath as his seatmate stood, and Adam nodded his promise to reveal the mystery when he returned.  He followed the senior down the hall and up the stairs to the third floor.

They entered a recitation room there, where one of the senior tutors was waiting for them. “Welcome, young gentlemen,” the tutor said, “and congratulations.”  Seeing their bewildered looks, he laughed.  “Haven’t you guessed?  Today you matriculate and become full-fledged students of Yale.”

Looks and sighs of relief met this announcement that their probationary period had ended; then the tutor continued, “It’s a simple ceremony.  I will read the oath, and if you agree to abide by it, you’ll sign this book.”  He pointed to a table at his right hand.  “Ready, gentlemen?”  Being assured that they were, he read, “‘I promise on condition of being admitted as a member of Yale College, on my faith and honor, to obey all the laws and regulations of this college; particularly that I will faithfully avoid intemperance, profanity, gaming, and all indecent, disorderly behavior, and disrespectful conduct to the faculty and all combinations to resist their authority; as witness my hand.’”

One by one, the students signed the book.  After Adam had written his name neatly, he hesitantly asked the senior tutor, “Please, sir, can you tell me what happens to the students who didn’t matriculate this time?”  Since that last freshman-sophomore rush, he’d known that Lucas had too many demerits to matriculate, but didn’t understand what could be done to change that.

“Why, nothing,” the tutor responded.  “‘They continue with their studies, as before, and when they’ve earned the honor, they, too, will matriculate.”

“When they’ve lowered their demerit tally, for instance?” Adam inquired.

“Precisely,” the older man said and then asked softly, “A friend?”  At Adam’s nod, he said, “I wouldn’t worry.  Only about two-thirds of the class will matriculate this first time.  Unless your friend is a persistent troublemaker or a true dunderhead, he’s sure to follow . . .  eventually.”

Adam thanked him and hurried back to class, although only minutes remained.  He didn’t want to miss any of the review, for exams would begin within a week.  As he slid into his seat, he whispered, “Tell you later” to Lucas, and as soon as class ended, he did.

“Figured it might be that,” Lucas said with a shrug, “when I saw whose names didn’t get called, namely us ne’er-do-wells.”

“You’re doing much better of late, though,” Jamie encouraged.  “I’m sure you’ll matriculate with the next group.”

“I plan to,” Lucas said and then he groaned.  “Hate to hear what Pater will say.”

“Tell him you have a group of friends who’ve taken you in hand,” Adam suggested, “and assure him that you’re already improving and intend to continue to do so.”

“It might work,” Lucas said.

“The truth always works best with my pa,” Adam chuckled.  “I doubt that yours is much different.”

Lucas shrugged, belying the concern he felt.  “Oh, well.  If ever I needed a good workout at the gym, it’s now.  With me, Adam?”

“Certainly,” Adam agreed.  Back home, he’d often seen the value of sweating out his troubles over a pile of kindling, and he figured swinging a set of Indian clubs would garner the same benefit for his friend.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

Moriarty’s Tavern, affectionately known as Mory’s to Yale students, was discovered by the Class of 1863, and became a popular hangout for college men from that time on.