North and South Trilogy by John Jakes Page B

Benny said. But Orry’s accent identified him as a Southerner. Hence Benny couldn’t help asking politely about the Southern clamor for the annexation of Texas. Was it motivated by a desire on the part of politicians to add more slave territory to the Union?
    Orry had heard the charge too often to be offended. Besides, his brother Cooper—much to the annoyance of their father—said it was true. Orry took his time framing a reply.
    While he was thinking, Benny frowned and looked toward the curtained door. They had all heard a noise in the kitchen. George’s face signaled trouble an instant before the curtain was swept aside. A cold red face loomed over a quivering mountain of cloth, a cadet overcoat.
    “Well, sir, what have we here? A couple of malefactors, that’s evident,” said Elkanah Bent with a gloating smile.
    Orry’s belly hurt. He was sure Bent’s arrival was no accident. He recalled the noise they had heard while walking here. How many nights had Bent spied on them, waiting for this kind of opportunity?
    Suddenly, George flung his empty beer pot. Bent squealed and dodged to avoid being hit. “Run,” George shouted. He went out the door like a ball from a cannon.
    Orry ran after him, his only thought a ridiculous one: they hadn’t paid their bill.
    In one of the deepest patches of snow along the shore, George took a tumble. Orry stopped, ran back, and helped his friend to his feet. He saw Bent lumbering after them while Benny Haven stood in the tavern door, an amused spectator. He didn’t act worried about the bill.
    “Come on, George,” Orry panted as his friend again slipped and floundered in the snow. “This time that son of a bitch will have our heads.”
    “Not if we beat him back.”
    “Even if we do, he’ll report us, and we can’t lie,” Orry gasped as they headed up the shore. The Academy’s honor code had already been thoroughly drummed into them.
    “I guess we can’t,” George agreed.
    Bent’s bulk worked against him; the other two cadets were able to run much faster. But the underbrush once again impeded them. Frozen branches slashed at their faces and broke with gunlike sounds when they struck them. Soon George called for a change of direction. He leaped a low thicket and landed on the ice. Orry saw its moon whitened surface crack and sag.
    “Maybe we can bluff him into not putting us on report,” George said as he led the way. “He’s out after hours, too, don’t forget.”
    Orry didn’t answer, just kept running. There was some flaw in George’s logic which he couldn’t locate.
    Footing was treacherous. Every few steps Orry felt the ice give. He looked back, saw Bent stumbling and lurching in pursuit, a huge, shuddering blot of ink on the pale expanse of the river.
    “Another twenty yards and we’ll be on the path,” George cried, pointing. At that moment a shout went up behind them. George skidded to a stop and squinted.
    “Oh, God,” he groaned.
    Orry lurched against him, turning. Only half of the ink blot was visible above the ice. Hands waved feebly. Frightened outcries drifted to them in the still air.
    “He fell through!” Orry exclaimed.
    “At his weight, are you surprised? Let’s go.”
    “George, we can’t leave him. He might drown.”
    Bent’s cries grew more strident. George grimaced. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
    “Look here, I don’t believe you’ve suddenly lost your conscience—”
    “Just shut up and come on,” George said, starting back. His eyes had a furious glint; he didn’t need to tell Orry their luck had turned bad.
    Then Orry saw Bent sinking. He and George ran even harder than they’d run before.
    A second later Bent’s head disappeared. His forage cap floated in the water, its stiff visor shining in the moonlight. Just as the two plebes reached the hole in the ice, the Ohioan bobbed into sight again. He groped toward them, splashing and shrieking.
    George and Orry tugged and heaved. Rescue was difficult because of