"I hope you don't expect me to applaud this decision, Mr. McLean. You are merely doing your duty and I've never had any difficulty in the performance of duty. And I would like you to specify which parts of the honor system you do not happen to like."

I hesitated a moment, then said, "I don't like the Walk of Shame, sir."

He gave a short laugh and responded, "You know, of course, that I instituted the Walk of Shame when I returned as President."

Blushing, I answered, "Yes, sir, I know that."

"And you are also aware that the number of honor violations has decreased by sixty percent since my return to the Institute."

"Yes, sir," I said as he rose and walked to the rear door of his office. From what appeared to be a small, well-appointed anteroom, he ushered two cadets into the office: John Alexander, the second battalion commander, and his exec, a spaniel-eyed boy named Wayne Braselton, whose identity was irretrievably fastened to the destiny of the fiercer, more charismatic Alexander. John Alexander was a splendid looking cadet, erect and arrogant, with an instinct for survival in the Corps that was as uncanny as it was disingenuous. They walked to the two leather chairs on the right side of the General's desk and sat facing me, not the General. Their faces were austere, inquisitorial. Then I heard the General's voice again: "Mr. McLean, you know your classmates, Cadet Alexander and Cadet Braselton, I'm sure. They asked to meet with you in my presence. These two cadets are concerned about the efficacy of allowing a senior private to address the incoming freshmen. They feel strongly that a cadet officer would make a much better impression on the freshmen. Is this not correct, gentlemen?"

"Yes, sir," Alexander answered forcefully, with Braselton nodding his vigorous assent. "We feel that the training cadre is composed of specially selected elite men whose personal appearance and devotion to military excellence provide a high standard for the plebes to emulate. Mr. McLean is well known in the Corps for not taking the military part of the Institute seriously. We feel that this attitude could only harm the freshmen and undermine the plebe system. We feel that a substitution for Mr. McLean should be made for the good of all concerned. If necessary, Mr. Braselton or I will assume Mr. McLeans responsibilities of helping to indoctrinate the freshmen in the honor system."

"Gee, thanks a lot, John," I said, trying to control my anger. "What a grand, selfless gesture on your part. But I think the freshmen will survive a single hour's exposure to my grossness."

"There's a principle involved here, Mr. McLean," the General replied. "One that I do not think you are grasping. If we allow a private to influence the thinking of the recruits, then a precedent has been set. But if we continue to uphold our standards, the highest standards of any military college in the world, I cannot help but think that our system is growing stronger and that our vigilance will be rewarded. I agree that our cadre should be composed only of the most select cadets in the Corps. I owe that to the freshmen, to their parents, to the men of the line."

"That was very well put, sir, if you don't mind my saying so," Alexander said with Braselton nodding passionately.

The General did not mind Alexander's saying so; in fact, he was radiant and positively enchanted by Alexander's oily compliment. If I ever attend a convention of generals, I hope to control the Chapstick concession to offer some small relief to the obsequious legions of ass-kissers who spend their days pandering to the egos of generals. Every general I had ever known required the presence and the gentle, insincere strokes of these self-serving acolytes of flattery and I simply could not understand it.

"Sir," I spoke directly to the General, "Cadet Alexander and I are not friends."

"That is true, sir," Alexander replied. "I do not like what Mr. McLean represents in the Corps of Cadets."

"What exactly does Mr. McLean represent?" the General asked, leaning toward Alexander and cupping his hand over his right ear.

"He represents the negative attitude, sir. He makes fun of the traditions of the school. . . sacred traditions like the ring and the uniform and even the cadet prayer. I myself heard him give a profane and disgusting rendition of the cadet prayer while R. Company was forming up to march to chapel."

"A profane rendition of the cadet prayer?" the General said with a gasp.

"It wasn't that profane, General," I whined.

Braselton, sensing the kill, suddenly burst out, "And his appearance is a disgrace, sir. That is how I would put it after careful thought. He goes out of his way to wear a uniform that is wrinkled and brass that's scratched. And his shoes are a joke throughout the Corps. That's how I would put it, sir. After careful thought. His shoes are a joke."

"What do you say in your defense, Mr. McLean?" the General asked.

"Sir, you and all my classmates know that I have not performed splendidly in the military part of Institute life. This is my fourth straight year as a private. But I have heard you say before, General, that the ideal cadet excels militarily, academically, and athletically. I have a better academic record than these two cadets, and I'm captain of this year's basketball team. So using your own criteria for measuring the model cadet, I have done well in two areas of achievement and these two have excelled in only one. Therefore, I feel I'm just as well qualified to address the freshmen as they are."

"It is Mr. McLean's attitude that we object to, General," Alexander interjected. "I think you can see from the way he tries to attack Mr. Braselton and me personally that his attitude leaves much to be desired. We question his love of the Institute and his devotion to the Corps. This is not a personal attack on Mr. McLean, and we think it is immature of him to consider it such."

"Sir," I answered, looking at the General. "The members of fourth battalion selected me as their honor representative. Me, Will McLean. The cadets could have selected Mr. Alexander or Mr. Braselton. For whatever reasons, they chose to select me instead. The members of the honor court then chose me to be vice chairman of the court. I have never taken the military seriously. But I'm taking my position in the honor court very seriously. The Corps entrusted me with the responsibility of serving on the honor committee without conferring with these two gentlemen. It appears presumptuous to me for these two gentlemen to try to interfere with the will of the Corps."

"I believe we are acting in the best interest of the Corps, General," Alexander said.

"I appreciate your concern, Mr. Alexander, and I will take what you say under consideration."

"I resent Mr. McLean's implication that he is more honorable because he happened to win a popularity contest among cadets, General."

"I'm sure Mr. McLean was not impugning your honor, Mr. Alexander. Good day, sir. And thank you for sharing your views so openly. It takes courage to criticize one of your classmates man to man."

The two cadets saluted and left the room. It struck me as both odd and symbolic that we should be ushered in and out of the General's presence through different doors. Before he left, Alexander shot me a languid, supercilious look. I grinned at him, and with the General's back to me as he escorted them to the door, I shot Alexander the bird. It might have been the first finger thrown in the august confines of that room.

The General returned to his seat, smiling, folded his hands beneath his chin, and immobilized me with the withering crossfire of his eyes again. Then the smile vanished and the voice, husky and controlled, filled the room again. My anger had passed when the two cadets departed and my instinctive fear of the General returned to fill up the void.

"Do you think you won that little skirmish, Mr. McLean?" the General asked.

"I didn't need to win it, General. I received my orders this summer that I was to report back to the cadre and be prepared to lecture the freshmen on the honor system."

"You are wrong, Mr. McLean. You did need to win it. If I had known that a senior private was to be a member of the 1966 cadre, I would have put a stop to it myself. Your presence on campus was a bit of a surprise to me, but I think you will perform your duties adequately"

"Thank you, sir."

"Let me tell you a little story, Mr. McLean. I hope you have the time. Ten years ago I was watching a swim meet when I watched our star swimmer stop competing in the middle of the race and climb out of the pool. I heard him tell the swimming coach that he had just choked up, that he simply could not go on. I called him to my office the next day and told him I was taking away his Army contract, that I did not want a person like him in the Armed Forces, someone who might choke up and quit during the middle of a battle. I told him I did not tolerate quitters. To me, a quitter is not only dishonorable, he is immoral. Do you agree, Mr. McLean?"

"I guess so, sir."

"I think you are like me, one of those men who would rather die than quit. I've watched you play basketball for three years, McLean. You won't quit out there either. Men are born with that instinct or they are not. It's an absolute necessity for a professional soldier. I would not know how to lead an army in retreat, Mr. McLean."

The General had never retreated in his entire career nor had he lost a single battle in which his troops engaged the enemy. But his splendid military reputation had been ventilated slightly by revisionist innuendoes that Bentley Durrell had sacrificed too many men in his encounters with the enemy, that he had traded too much American blood for too little Japanese real estate. Once, when ordering the capture of a heavily fortified Japanese position, he had screamed to his staff that he didn't care if it took a shipload of dog tags to do it. General Durrell won that battle while incurring extraordinarily heavy losses and picked up a battlefield nickname in the process. "Shipload" Durrell was more popular with the American public than he was with the infantrymen who cleared the way for his triumphal push toward the Japanese mainland.

"The gentleman who did not finish the swimming race became one of our most successful alumni, Mr. McLean. He is a lawyer in Nashville, Tennessee, and I hear from him every year. He thanks me now for giving him such a valuable lesson so early in life. He has never quit at anything since. The reason I am letting you address the freshmen is because you fought back when I confronted you with Alexander and Braselton. I love a competitive spirit. Now, just what is the nature of your enmity with Cadet Alexander?"

"I think he's a jerk, sir."

"You are talking to the President of this college, Mr. McLean," the General snapped harshly at me. "You will mind your mouth and manners."

"I'm sorry, sir. It began with a disagreement our plebe year."

"I happen to think Cadet Alexander is one of the most impressive cadets ever to go through the Long Gray Line. A born leader."

"Yes, sir. He thinks that too, sir. I just don't agree, sir."

"Do you think you are potentially as fine a leader as Cadet Alexander?"

"No, sir. I don't think I'm much of a leader at all. Sir, Alexander and I had a fight when we were knobs. Not much of a fight, really, more of a shoving match. It happened after another freshman left the Institute. Since then, we've kept out of each other's way. We usually don't even talk to each other on campus unless it's to exchange unpleasantries. It's nothing serious, sir. There's always going to be a couple of people you don't like out of two thousand."

"Well, that will be all, Mr. McLean. Do your duty with the freshmen. Good day."

"Good day, sir, and thank you, sir," I said, saluting.

Before I got to the door, I heard the General ask, "Who won the fight between you and Cadet Alexander, McLean? I'm curious."

"I did, sir," I answered. Then smiling, I added, "He quit."

Chapter Six.

After a fine dinner at the St. Croixs' on Sunday night, Abigail invited me to join her on a walk along the Battery. My roommates all returned early to the barracks. With the rest of the cadre, they would rise early to greet the freshmen as they arrived on campus. I had no assignments until the honor code speech on Wednesday morning.

Our pace was unhurried as Abigail and I left the house. We walked down East Bay Street, crossed South Battery, and continued under the grove of wind-hewn oaks to the seawall that separated the aristocracy from the Ashley River. The tide was high and almost perfectly still, with the moon's image graven into the water's surface in a silvery imperfect coinage. Abigail drifted ahead of me, her head thrown back, looking at the stars. I did not try to catch up to her. Instead, I watched her as she danced awkwardly up the steps of the seawall, pausing against the railing to study the soft lights of houses strung along the shore of James Island. This walk was ritual with her. She knew this promenade well enough to give her undivided attention to stars and water and the lights of the familiar, marvelous harbor. The tide was reversing slowly, almost imperceptibly. The Atlantic was inhaling, and the two rivers that sketched the shape of Charleston began to feel the immense, light-inspirited authority of the lunar flux. To me, there was always a severe magnificence in this recall of rivers, especially on these clear, humming nights in the lowcountry when the air was sweet breathed and starry. I loved these salt rivers more than I loved the sea; I loved the movement of tides more than I loved the fury of surf. Something in me was congruent with this land, something affirmed when I witnessed the startled, piping rush of shrimp or the flash of starlight on the scales of mullet. I could feel myself relax and change whenever I returned to the lowcountry and saw the vast green expanses of marsh, feminine as lace, delicate as calligraphy. The lowcountry had its own special ache and sting. In Charleston I had found the flawless city rising splendidly, economically, out of a ripe, immaculate landscape. But it was also the city of the Institute and I never could quite forgive her for that single indiscretion.

Abigail slowed her walk and turned to wait for me to catch up. The wind caught her hair, honey-colored and sensibly cut, but she brushed it back with a charming, distracted sweep of her hand. She was smiling and her face was younger, even girlish, in the darkness. She took my hand, and we skipped down the seawall for twenty yards. Then she stopped and walked to the railing. With her eyes closed, she began inhaling the warm, fragrant air in large breaths. The wind was rising slowly.

"There is an old Charleston joke, Will," she said with her eyes tightly shut. "Someone asked an old Charleston woman why she never traveled anywhere and she replied, 'Why should I travel, sir? I am already here.' That's the way I feel about this city."

"That's not how I feel about Charleston. It's not that I don't like the city. I do like it. I love the way this city looks. But sometimes I don't like the way this city feels. It feels dead to me and sometimes it feels mean. I don't know whether it's the city itself or because of the Institute. Maybe if I hadn't gone to the Institute I'd feel the same way about the city you do."

"All the boys complain about the Institute while they're there, Will. You know that. Then as soon as they graduate they become crazed fanatics about the place, lunatic alumni who think the place was designed by God on the first day he rested. You'll be just like all the rest of them when you graduate, mark my words."

"I'll never be like that, Abigail."

"Hush, you simpleton. I'm telling you gospel stuff and you're not even listening. Now I want you to tell me something else, and I've got a good reason for asking. Who is the girl creature in your life? You've never brought a girl to the house a single time since you've been rooming with Tradd and I demand a plausible explanation."

"There is no girl creature, Abigail."

"Pourquoi, monsieur?"

"I don't have time," I lied.

"Nonsense, monsieur."

"Girls have this funny habit. They turn green when I come in sight. I don't know what's really the problem. I've never learned to talk with girls. I don't know how to say the things I hear other boys say to them, and I feel stupid trying. I'm not comfortable around them and, God knows, they're not comfortable around me."

"Confidence, Will. Confidence," she said soothingly. "You've got to start realizing that you're adorable and eligible and desirable. You're twenty-one and composed of fresh, juicy, tender, delectable man-flesh. We'll find a girl for you this year."

"I don't like South of Broad girls, Abigail," I said. "You know that, don't you? You set me up with that one girl when I was a sophomore. What was her name? Buffy or Missy or Punkin or something. I'd have done the world a favor if I'd drop-kicked her off the Cooper River Bridge at low tide. She was the biggest snob I've ever met."

Abigail giggled with pleasure. "I admit it was not a match made in heaven, Will, but Suki was a darling-looking girl and I thought you two might get along just famously. Stranger things have happened between men and women. But you certainly must try to get over this prejudice you have against snobs. I came from a long, distinguished family of snobs, and you absolutely adore me."

Clumsily, she leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. She held the kiss for several seconds; it was chaste, motherly, the way women always kissed me. Her eyes were invisible in the shadows cast by the streetlight.

"How does that make you feel, Will?" Abigail asked softly. "Does that make you feel better?"

"It makes me feel hopeful that Commerce isn't watching, that your friends don't see us, that nobody sees us," I said blushing.

"Oh, Commerce wouldn't care what I did. He hasn't cared about things like that for years. For decades. It was a friendly gesture, Will. You're like a son to me and I'm trying to build up your confidence. I hope I didn't embarrass you. I don't pull off things like that very well."

"I'm glad you did it, Abigail," I said, and now I could see that she was embarrassed, too.

I did not know if Abigail could really gauge the extent of my inexperience with women, my absolute lack of confidence around them, my fear of them. But I suspected she knew it instinctively. My virginity was settling in hard on me. It seemed both silly and rather affectingly pitiful that a twenty-one-year-old male with awesome enthusiasm and all his parts intact had not managed to make love to a single woman. Though I had taken no vows of chastity, women responded to me as though I were an affable rural curate with no thunder in my pants. It was not that I lacked the desire, the necessary heat: There was something almost nuclear about the lust. Sex had become the central, consuming obsession in my life. It charged the cells of my blood with energy, jewel-fire light, and the sweet forbidden glucose of sin. Restless and on the prowl, I had entered my young manhood tired and desperate to be done with these sexless days, though sexless is not completely accurate. Cadets become clandestine but brilliantly imaginative masturbators of a very high order. Show me a product of a military school and I will show you a man who can beat off without moving a muscle, without rustling a sheet.

I had once read in a book that traced the natural history of blue whales that the great creatures often had to travel thousands of miles through the dark waters of the Pacific Ocean to find a mate. They conducted their search with the fever and furious attention of beasts aware of the imminence of extinction. As the whaling fleets depleted their numbers, scientists conjectured that there were whales who would exhaust themselves in fruitless wandering and never connect with any mate at all. When I read about those solitary leviathans, I feared I had stumbled on an allegory of my own life, that I would spend my life unable to make a connection, unable to find someone attracted by the beauty and urgency of my song. Sometimes I felt like an endangered species.

Holding hands, Abigail and I walked for thirty minutes through those charmed, lovely streets South of Broad. It was 11:30 when I left her house to return to the barracks. As I opened my car door, I saw a note stuck in the windshield wiper.

I read it beneath the streetlight, my eyes straining to decipher the feathery, feminine script. The note was brief but to the point: "You have no right to park here. Tourists and cadets are ruining Charleston. Please park your car somewhere else or I will call the police." There was no signature.

I looked around in the darkness. There was nothing illegal or impertinent about where I had parked, nothing at all. Before I got into the car, however, I saw a girl watching me from the unlit entrance to Stoll's Alley, twenty yards away. She was wearing a scarf, a raincoat, and a pair of sunglasses.

When she realized I had seen her, she turned and began walking quickly down the narrow alleyway. I sprinted after her. She had not gotten very far. It was difficult navigating a tree-shaded Charleston lane wearing sunglasses as the hour approached midnight.

She stopped suddenly and wheeled toward me as I approached.

"Did you leave this note on my car?" I asked.

"You have no right to park your car on this street," she said in a harsh, strident whisper.

"When did you inherit it?"

"What?" she asked.

"The street."

"Cadets think they are so funny. I've always hated cadets," she said.

"At least we have something in common."

"I've got to go," the girl said furtively, glancing over her shoulder. "My mother would kill me if she knew I was out here talking to you. What's your name, cadet? You've got a funny looking nose. Hurry up now. I don't have much time. I want to know your name."

"Take back what you said about my nose."

"I will not. You have a perfectly ludicrous nose. I would try to cover it up with something if I were you. Now tell me your name so you can take your tacky car and your silly nose back to the barracks."

"My name is Will."

She laughed and said, "I knew it. I knew your name would be silly, too."

"You've been in Charleston too long. You think it's normal for a boy's first name to be Prioleau or Pinckney or Cathedral or Seawall or any of those other stupid family names they stick on kids."

"Those are aristocratic names," she explained with infuriating haughtiness. " 'Will' is not aristocratic. What's your last name?"

"Aristocratic. Will Aristocratic. I'm Greek."

"You're not a comedian and I'm not very amused."

"McLean. Will McLean," I said, trying to invest abundant dignity in that modest but comfortable monicker.

"An ethnic," she giggled. "A Hibernian. The Irish drink too much and they are never serious. They also beat their children and ignore their wives."

"That's me, OK. What's your name?"