The Lords of Discipline (43 page)

He and I had become good friends in my sophomore year for the oddest of reasons. I had not known until I walked into his class that the group to be primarily blamed for the decline of Western civilization and culture was the Irish Catholics. I learned it when he called the roll in his survey course on European civilization, reached my name, and said as his eyes rested on my features:

“Mr. McLean, you are an Irish Catholic, are you not?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“On your feet and stand at attention when you address an officer, swine,” he bellowed as I sprang to my feet. “If I am not mistaken, this is still a military college. Now, Mr. McLean, I would like to propose a serious question, and I would like a serious answer. Are you proud of being an Irish Catholic?”

“I’ve never thought about it one way or another, sir,” I said nervously, as I spoke the truth.

“I suggest you do think about it with all your limited powers of ratiocination, Mr. McLean. You, of course, could not help the accident that selected you as a member of this contemptible race, but you must understand the significance of the fact and you must try to comprehend how the cards are stacked against you. Now, I have had many other Irishmen in my class, feisty devils all, and they would inevitably be ready to fight me after I pointed out several incontestable facts about the Irish. I am not a bigoted man, Mr. McLean, and I do believe that in a limited number of cases, it is possible for a single individual to rise above his racial origins and actually distinguish himself in ways uncommon to his stock. But I am a truthful man and I am an historian and feel that I would be remiss in my duties if I did not ringingly proclaim the truth no matter where I found it or in what shape. Do you not agree, Mr. McLean?”

“Absolutely, sir,” I said, though I could feel my anger rising hotly to my throat.

“Good man.” He nodded his black and leonine head affirmatively “No, many poor simpletons at the Institute do not consider me a fair man. They actually consider me a contemptible bigot, Mr. McLean. I would like to know your honest views on that outrageous slander.”

“I don’t think you’re a contemptible bigot, sir. I think you are a very simple bigot.”

The class laughed nervously, but it was laughter instantly stifled by Reynolds’s imperious glare. He was not amused.

“The Irish have a capacity for treacly gab and the humorous aside, Mr. McLean,” he said sadly. “They are a merry race, though, God knows, they had very little to laugh about during the bloody tyrannous occupation of the English. Let there be no mistake, Mr. McLean, even though English blood flows in my veins I am not blind to the faults of the English; a more bloodthirsty, rapacious, and brutal people never existed on this planet. English blood comes from the sewer system of Western Europe, but their capacity for outrage is offset by their ability to govern. It has been left to the English to enforce a system of laws on inferiors like the Irish.”

“And we Irish are eternally grateful, sir,” I said.

“Sarcasm, of course, Mr. McLean, and I cannot blame you nor will I chastise you for your impudence. But if we had allowed the Irish to rule themselves, the race would be extinct by now, having bashed each other’s brains out in drunken, mindless orgies and furious melees that only such degenerate races are capable of. Each Irishman is a nation unto himself, Mr. McLean. They are incapable either of self-rule or of accepting the hegemony of their superiors. But they are a freedom-loving people, of that there can be no question, though they lack the mental capacity to comprehend what the essence of freedom truly means. It is a nation of contradictions, sir. Consider this: Ireland is an island nation that has never developed a navy; a music-loving people who have produced only those harmless lilting ditties as their musical legacy; a bellicose people who have never known the sweet savor of victory in a single war; a Catholic country that has never produced a single doctor of the Church; a magnificently beautiful country, a country to inspire artists, but a country not yet immortalized in art; a philosophic people yet to produce a single philosopher of note; a sensual people who have never mastered the art of preparing food. What do you have to say for your tribe, Mr. McLean? Speak freely and without fear of retribution; this is an exchange of ideas.”

“Your people look as though they’ve mastered the art of preparing food, sir. Great quantities of food.”

The class shook with laughter but of the nervous, impermissible variety.

“Silence, swine,” Reynolds commanded. “Witty. Triflingly witty, Mr. McLean, but I would like you to account for your people’s history of ineptitude.”

His stare withered me, and I heard my voice come out ineffectually, defensively. “But, sir, I was born in Georgia.”

“And I was born in South Carolina, sir,” he thundered. “But I am not talking about birthplace, I’m talking bloodline. I’m talking about origins. I am talking about racial patterns that have emerged in groups and have been catalogued and studied for centuries. Take a trout from a mountain stream, put him into an aquarium in the Gobi desert or in the sewers below Montparnasse, and you still have a trout. I could parachute you into County Limerick this very day, Mr. McLean, and it is very likely that within a single year you’d be cultivating potatoes, courting an ugly Irish wench, and running guns for the IRA. Now sit down, swine, forgive me for coming down so hard on you the first day, and I promise to teach you and the other simpletons some of the grandeur and sweep and horror of history as it spread into Western Europe.”

Before he began his lecture, he warmed me with a buoyant, exhilarated smile. The smile was offered as a sign of friendship. When I saw the smile I realized verbal jousting was the only sport of Edward T. Reynolds, his only method of communication. But there was something else, something darker, subterranean, and inexpressible about the man, which caused me to pity him deeply and tenderly. He was a supremely lonely man, and Irish or not, I recognized a fellow countryman from that dreadful land on sight. Yet I did not know we would come to be friends until I took my first exam in his class and read the note he had written in the margin of the blue book: “You write well, Mr. McLean, but I am absolutely positive you have not mastered a single fact of European history. From this paper, I think you are full of merde. I will expect a great deal from you.” He gave me a “D” on the paper and invited me for tea with him and his wife that afternoon. It was the beginning of many such afternoons, all of them stimulating, cordial, and memorable.

But the friendship did not extend to his classroom and tardiness was the one transgression he would not tolerate in any cadet.

“Halt, Santoro-swine,” he ordered. “You know that I do not tolerate lateness. I was told when I came to this decaying institution twenty-three years ago that this was a school where discipline was a feminine deity and where cadets were worshipers at her sacred shrine. Do you have even the flimsiest excuse for such flagrant tardiness?”

“Yes, sir, he does,” I answered from the front of the class.

“I was speaking to the Senate of Rome, not to the rabble of Dublin, sir,” Colonel Reynolds said to me without a trace of humor in his voice.

“That is the root of our problem, sir,” I said. “That is precisely why we are late.”

“Explain yourself, Mr. McLean. Already, you may consider yourself under report.”

“Sir, as we were dressing for this class, talking excitedly about the prospect of increasing our knowledge of English history and of listening spellbound to one of the superb lectures by our brilliant professor. . .”

“Mr. McLean,” he said impatiently. “I have an extremely low tolerance for drivel.”

“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir, and I will be brief. But as we were discussing today’s class, I made an unfortunate and ill-considered remark about our professor’s weight.”

“And?”

“And Mr. Santoro told me that he would not allow an Irishman to speak critically about his favorite professor’s girth.”

“What did Mr. Santoro do, Mr. McLean?”

“He beat me soundly about the head and shoulders, sir. He abused me physically. The fracas made us lose track of time and thus, we were five minutes late, sir. There are no limits to our shame for interrupting your lecture, sir. So please continue.”

I walked briskly to my seat, but before I could set my books down, Colonel Reynolds said, “Halt, swine. You are excused from class for the day. You will write me an official apology and an appeal for reinstatement to this class. You, Mr. Santoro,” he said, grinning broadly at Mark, “are a fine, smart, Mediterranean fellow and I would like you to sit in a place of honor in this front desk beside me. I love any man who would throttle an impudent Irishman. Good day, Mr. McLean.”

As I left the room, I paused beside his lectern and whispered,

“I’d like to see you about something important after class, sir. I need your help.”

“I will be in my office for the rest of the afternoon, Mr. McLean.”

When he entered his office after class, I was sitting in a student’s chair facing his desk.

“Attention, swine,” he roared cheerfully. “A better man is entering the room. An Anglo-Saxon, I believe.”

He threw his lecture notes on his cluttered desk and sank heavily into the huge leather chair behind it. He folded his hands, his fingers bunched like fat white bananas, and laid them on his extraordinary stomach, appraising me with civil, intuitive eyes.

“We were born during the wrong eras, Mr. McLean. We are both anachronisms. You should have been an Irish priest in the twelfth century with a shillelagh in your hand and a cause in your heart, standing in the chill surf of the Irish Sea, braining and smashing the sternums of English invaders. And I—I, Mr. McLean, should have been an English king with all the wenches of England at my beck and call, with an army of bandy-legged knights imploring me to raise a fleet to cross the Channel and wreak havoc along the French coast. We are sad, pathetic creatures, Mr. McLean, and there is little hope for us in this world. What may I do for you, sir?”

“I have a question for you, sir,” I said. “It’s a matter of history”

“I’m glad you are finally showing a glimmer of interest in the craft of Herodotus.”

“When you wrote your book on the history of Carolina Military Institute, Colonel, did you ever come across in your research a reference to an organization known as The Ten?”

“Why do you ask, sir?” he said, bringing his hands up under his chin.

“Because you did not mention The Ten a single time in your history. I read the book when I was a sophomore, but I checked it today to make sure. That’s why I was late to class. I wanted to be positive The Ten was not mentioned.”

“What have you heard about The Ten, Mr. McLean?”

“Just rumors, sir.”

“Precisely. Rumors were all I could find when I was writing my history. Rumors make for captivating speculation but questionable history, sir. I tracked down rumor after rumor, looking for some documentation, some specific, tangible proof that the organization existed. I came up with absolutely no concrete data that either proved or disproved that The Ten is a secret and powerful organization on this campus.”

“So you don’t believe The Ten exists at all, Colonel?” I asked.

“I did not say that, Mr. McLean,” he said. “The Irish always impulsively jump to conclusions. I said that I could find no documented proof that The Ten existed, ergo, I could not state with absolute assurance that the group did exist. I am an historian, not a psychic or a Hollywood gossip columnist.”

“Sir, when I was a freshman, the General himself told a newspaper reporter that no secret societies would be tolerated on campus, that it was strictly forbidden by the Blue Book. He denied ever hearing about The Ten.”

“He was lying,” Colonel Reynolds said. “But he is not to be censured for it. He could not have become a four-star general without mastering the governmental art of deception.”

“Lying?” I said incredulously. The myth of the General’s unimpeachable rectitude was so strong on campus that the very idea seemed sacrilegious. “Isn’t that odd for a man who speaks so passionately in defense of the honor system? How do you know he’s lying?”

“Because anyone who has been around this campus long enough has at least heard of The Ten’s existence. It may only be a legend, but it is not a legend without mystique and power. He would have to be a deaf mute not to have heard of it, and an ignoramus besides. Let me tell you an interesting anecdote, Mr. McLean, and see what you think, When Colonel Adamson, the Registrar, died in 1958, there was a wreath with ten white carnations on his casket at his funeral. There was a cageful of white doves. Ten doves. I counted both the carnations and the filthy birds. An anonymous contribution often thousand dollars was bequeathed to the Institute in his name. None of this means anything by itself. But then there was another funeral.”

“Whose funeral, Colonel?” I asked, leaning forward hungrily.

“Remove your vile digits from the furniture, Mr. McLean,” he commanded. “And have more patience. An historian is required to have infinite patience. The second funeral took place in Atlanta, Georgia. General Homer Stone, the hero of the Bulge, had died in his sleep, and I was sent as a representative of the Institute faculty. It was a dull, excruciating affair with insufferable long-winded eulogies. But what did catch my eye that day was a cageful of doves, a wreath with ten white carnations, and a note in the service announcing a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship at the Institute in General Stone’s memory.”

“So it does exist.”

“Please never write history, Mr. McLean. You would do far better with science fiction. Let me continue,” he said, leaning back serenely and lifting his eyes until they came to rest on the ceiling. “I interviewed over three hundred alumni when I was compiling my history of the Institute and I asked each of them about any information they may have had about The Ten. Most of them gave me the usual hodge-podge of rumor, though some of our most illustrious graduates adamantly insisted that The Ten did not exist at all. The organization was much more discussed in the late thirties than it has been in recent years. I pieced together the various fragments of rumor, and this is the rather fanciful portrait of the organization as I imagine it. Now, remember, Mr. McLean, this portrait is crudely sketched in the crayons of innuendo. Supposedly, membership in The Ten is the highest honor a cadet can aspire to at the Institute. Much of its mystique lies in its total secrecy. There is a bond of honor among the members never to reveal their membership, not even to their wives and family. I myself used to hear this kind of idle chatter when I was a cadet at the Institute. I always expected that if there were, indeed, such an organization I, of course, would be chosen as a member. I waited for someone to inform me of my selection but, of course, no one ever did. I would have been a far better choice than the ten scoundrels they selected in my place, of that I can assure you.”