Nathaniel
lowered his head while his father smiled.
“When
you go into Tail Hall,” continued the young man, “you can sit anywhere in the
front three rows on the left-hand side. The moment you hear nine chimes on the
clock, you will stop talking and not speak again until the principal and the
rest of the staff have left the hall.”
“What
do I do then?” asked Nathaniel, trying to hide the fact that he was shaking.
“You
will be briefed by your form master,” said the young man who turned his
attention to the new father. “Nat will be just fine, Mr. Cartwright. I hope you
have a good journey home, sir.”
That
was the moment Nathaniel decided in the future he would always be known as Nat,
even though he realized it wouldn’t please his mother.
As
he entered Tail Hall Nat lowered his head and walked quickly down the long
aisle, hoping no one would notice him. He spotted a place on the end of the
second row, and slipped into it. He glanced at the boy seated on his left,
whose head was cupped in his hands. Was he praying, or could he possibly be
even more terrified than Nat? “My name’s Nat,” he ventured.
“Mine’s
Tom,” said the boy, not raising his head.
“What
happens next?”
“I
don’t know, but I wish it would,” said Tom as the clock struck nine, and
everyone fell silent.
A
crocodile of masters proceeded down the aisle-no mistresses, Nat observed. His
mother wouldn’t approve. They walked up onto the stage, and took their places,
leaving only two seats unoccupied. The faculty began to talk quietly among
themselves, while those in the body of the hall remained silent.
“What
are we waiting for?” whispered Nat, and a moment later his question was answered
as everyone rose, including those seated on the stage. Nat didn’t dare look
around when he heard the footsteps of two men proceeding down the aisle.
Moments later, the school chaplain followed by the principal passed him on
their way up to the two vacant seats. Everyone remained standing as the
chaplain stepped forward to conduct a short service, which included the Lord’s
Prayer, and ended with the assembly singing the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
The
chaplain then returned to his seat, allowing the principal to take his place.
Alexander Inglefield paused for a moment, before gazing down at the assembled
gathering. He then raised his hands, palms down, and everyone resumed their
seat.
Three
hundred and eighty pairs of eyes stared up at a man of six foot two with thick
bushy eyebrows and a square jaw, who presented such a frightening figure that
Nat
hoped they would never meet.
The
principal gripped the edge of his long black gown before addressing the
gathering for fifteen minutes.
He
began by taking his charges through the long history of the school, extolling
Taft’s past academic and sporting achievements. He stared down at the new boys
and reminded them of the school’s motto, Non
ut
sibi
I
ministretur
sed
ut
ministret
.
“What
does that mean?” whispered Tom.
“Not
to be served, but to serve,” muttered Nat.
The
principal concluded by announcing that there were two things a Bearcat could
never afford to miss-an exam, or a match against Hotchkiss-and, as if making
clear his priorities, he promised a half-day’s holiday if Tail beat Hotchkiss
in the annual football game. This was immediately greeted by a rousing cheer
from the whole assembly, although every boy beyond the third row knew that this
had not been achieved for the past four years.
When
the cheering had died down, the principal left the stage, followed by the
chaplain and the rest of the staff.
Once
they had departed, the chattering began again as the upper classmen started to
file out of the hall, while only those boys in the front three rows remained
seated, because they didn’t know where to go.
Ninety-five
boys sat waiting to see what would happen next. They did not have long to wait,
because an elderly master-well actually he was only fifty-one, but Nat thought
he looked much older than his dad-came to a halt in front of them. He was a
short, thick-set man, with a semicircle of gray hair around an otherwise bald
pate. As he spoke, he clung onto the lapels of his tweed jacket, imitating the
principal’s pose.
“My
name is Haskins,” he told them. “I am master of the lower
middlers
,”
he added with a wry smile. “We’ll begin the day with orientation, which you
will have completed by first break at ten thirty. At eleven you will attend
your assigned classes. Your first lesson will be American history.” Nat
frowned, as history had never been his favorite subject.
“
Which will be followed by lunch.
Don’t look forward to
that,” Mr. Haskins said with the same wry smile. A few of the boys laughed.
“But then that’s just another Tail tradition,” Mr. Haskins assured them, “which
any of you who are following in your father’s footsteps will have already been
warned about.” One or two of the boys, including Tom, smiled.
Once
they had begun what Mr. Haskins described as the nickel and dime tour, Nat
never left Tom’s side. He seemed to have prior knowledge of everything Haskins
was about to say. Nat quickly discovered that not only was Tom’s
father
a former alumni, but so was his grandfather.
By
the time the tour had ended and they had seen everything from the lake to the
sanatorium, he and Tom were best friends. When they filed into the classroom
twenty minutes later, they automatically sat next to each other.
As
the clock chimed eleven, Mr. Haskins marched into the room. A boy followed in
his wake.
He
had
a self
-assurance about him, almost a swagger, that
made every other boy look up. The master’s eyes also followed the new pupil as
he slipped into the one remaining desk.
“Name?”
“Ralph
Elliot.”
“That
will be the last time you will be late for my class while you’re at Tail,” said
Haskins.
He
paused. “Do I make myself clear, Elliot?”
“You
most certainly do.” The boy paused, before adding, “Sir.”
Mr.
Haskins turned his gaze to the rest of the class. “Our first lesson, as I
warned you, will be on American history, which is appropriate remembering that
this school was founded by the brother of a former president.” With a portrait
of
William .
Tail
in the main hall and a statue of his brother in the quadrangle, it would have
been hard for even the least inquisitive pupil not to have worked that out.
“Who
was the first president of the United States?” Mr. Haskins asked. Every hand
shot up. Mr. Haskins nodded to a boy in the front row.
“George
Washington, sir.”
“And
the second?” asked Haskins. Fewer hands rose, and this time Tom was selected.
“John
Adams, sir.”
“Correct,
and the third?”
Only
two hands remained up, Nat’s and the boy who had arrived late. Haskins pointed
to Nat.
“Thomas
Jefferson, 1800 to 1808.”
Mr.
Haskins nodded, acknowledging that the boy also knew the correct dates, “And
the fourth?”
“James
Madison, 1809 to 1817,” said Elliot.
“And the fifth, Cartwright?”
“James
Monroe, 1817 to 1825.”
“And the sixth, Elliot?”
“John
Quincy Adams, 1825 to 1829.”
“And the seventh, Cartwright?”
Nat
racked his brains. “I don’t remember, sir.”
“You
don’t remember, Cartwright.
or
do you simply not
know?”
Haskins
paused. “There is a considerable difference,” he added. He turned his attention
back to Elliot.
“William
Henry Harrison, I think, sir.”
“No,
he was the ninth president, Elliot, 1841, but as he died of pneumonia only a
month after his inauguration, we won’t be spending a lot of time on him,” added
Haskins. “Make sure everyone can tell me the name of the ninth president by
tomorrow morning. Now let’s go back to the founding fathers. You may all take
notes as I require you to produce a three-page essay on the subject by the time
we next meet.”
Nat
had filled three long sheets even before the lesson had ended, while Tom barely
managed a page. As they left the classroom at the end of the lesson, Elliot
brushed quickly past them.
“He
already looks like a real rival,” remarked Tom.
Nat
didn’t comment.
What
he couldn’t know was that he and Ralph Elliot would be rivals for the rest of
their lives.
the
annual football game between
Hotchkiss and Tail was the sporting highlight of the semester. As both teams
were undefeated that season, little else was discussed once the midterms were
over, and for the jocks, long before midterms began.
Fletcher
found himself caught up in the excitement, and in his weekly letter to his
mother named every member of the team, although he realized that she wouldn’t
have a clue
who
any of them were.
The
game was due to be played on the last Saturday in October and once the final
whistle had been blown, all boarders would have the rest of the weekend off,
plus an extra day should they win.
On
the Monday before the match, Fletcher’s class sat their first midterms,
hut
not before the principal had declared at morning
assembly that, “Life consists of a series of tests and examinations, which is
why we take them every term at Hotchkiss.”
On
Tuesday evening Fletcher phoned his mother to tell her he thought he’d done
well.
On
Wednesday he told Jimmy he wasn’t so sure.
By
Thursday, he’d looked up everything he hadn’t included, and wondered if he had
even achieved a pass grade.
On
Friday morning, class rankings were posted on the school notice board and the
preps were headed by the name of Fletcher Davenport. He immediately ran to the
nearest phone and rang his mother. Ruth couldn’t hide her delight when she
learned her son’s news, but didn’t tell him that she wasn’t surprised. “You
must celebrate,” she said. Fletcher would have done so, but felt he couldn’t
when he saw who had
come
bottom of the class.
At
the full school assembly on Saturday morning, prayers were offered by the
chaplain “for our undefeated football team, who played only for the glory of
our Lord.” Our Lord was then vouchsafed the name of every player and asked if
his Holy Spirit might be bestowed on each and every one of them. The principal
was obviously in no doubt which team God would be supporting on Saturday
afternoon.
At
Hotchkiss, everything was decided on seniority, even a boy’s place in the
bleachers.
During
their first term, preps were relegated to the far end of the field so both boys
sat in the right-hand corner of the stand every other Saturday, and watched
their heroes extend the season’s unbeaten run, a record they realized Tail also
enjoyed.
As
the Tail game fell on a homecoming weekend, Jimmy’s parents invited Fletcher to
join them for a tailgate picnic before the kickoff.
Fletcher
didn’t tell any of the other boys in preps, because he felt it would only make
them jealous. It was bad enough being top of the class, without being invited
to watch the Tail game with an old boy who had seats on the center line.
“What’s
your dad like?” asked Jimmy, after lights-out the night before the game.
“He’s
great,” said Fletcher, “but I should warn you that he’s a Tail man, and a
Republican.
And how about your dad?
I’ve never met a
senator before.”
“He’s
a politician to his fingertips, or at least that’s how the press
describe
him,” said Jimmy. “Not that I’m sure what it
means.”
On
the morning of the game no one was able to concentrate during chemistry,
despite Mr. Bailey’s enthusiasm for testing the effects of acid on zinc, not
least because Jimmy had turned the gas off at the main, so Mr. Bailey couldn’t
even get the Bunsen burners lit.
At
twelve o’clock a bell rang, releasing 380 screaming boys to charge out into the
courtyard.
They
resembled nothing less than a warring tribe, with their cries of, “Hotchkiss,
Hotchkiss, Hotchkiss will win, death to all Bearcats.”
Fletcher
ran all the way to the assembly point to meet his parents, as cars and taxis
came streaming in past the lake. Fletcher scanned every vehicle, searching for
his father and mother.
“How
are you, Andrew my darling?” were his mother’s first words as she stepped out
of the car.
“Fletcher,
I’m Fletcher at Hotchkiss,” he whispered, hoping that none of the other boys
had heard the word “darling.” He shook hands with his father, before adding,
“We must leave for the field immediately, because we’ve been invited to join
Senator and Mrs. Gates for a tailgate lunch.”