By the time Mr. McPherson came around at ten o’clock for the room check, I must have been soundly asleep. But I bolted fully awake when I heard, “Up you go, lads. Time for the three-mile run after which you can get yourselves some breakfast.” 

Then I heard a clatter next to my bed as he said, “Harry, here are some trunks and a shirt and proper shoes that should fit ya for the run. I’ll see the two of you along with the rest of the lads out in the courtyard in ten minutes. I advise against tardiness. It’ll add a mile to the distance for ya.” When my eyes cleared enough to focus, he was gone from the doorway.

“Right about now I’d venture you’re rethinking the idea of leaving South Carolina for this godforsaken place,” said Albert. I was too  dazed and confused to reply.

“Not to worry. You look built for running. Far more than I. The saunter around the campus will get you fully awake. By the time we sit down to breakfast, you’ll have the appetite of a wolf.”

The next thing I remember was trudging behind several boys I did not recognize from night before. In sum, we were a group of about twenty. Slowly, I became more alert. I smelled pine trees, whose odor was more pungent and appealing than that of the conifers back home. Over the clopping of our feet, I heard the cries of jays and crows mixed in with the cawing of sea gulls. The air that had caused me to shiver when Albert and I first emerged from the dormitory was becoming an elixir as my lungs filled.

“Go ahead, Harry, take the lead if you like,” said McPherson who was chugging along to my right. “The path is clear. Should you veer off in the wrong direction, one of us will holler at ya. No need for the rest of us to be hold you back as if you were a deer on a tether.”

Within a matter of seconds the clopping sounds of the group were fading, and I was alone as I glided through the trees lining the path. I felt like I had hundreds of times in the woods at home when I would run with a hound at my side in search of nothing in particular. Just running. Running until we stopped and cooled ourselves by splashing around in a pond or stream then back on our feet and running some more.

Faintly, I heard Macpherson’s voice behind me: “Far enough, Harry. Far enough.” When I stopped and looked around, I realized I had arrived at our starting point. A few minutes later the rest of the group pulled up, with most of them panting and perspiring profusely. When Albert came up alongside me, he bent over with his hands on his knees and vomited.

“Not to worry, laddy,” bellowed Macpherson whose own breathing was labored. “The puking will give ya more room for the breakfast we’re about to consume.”

“It will, sir, and I’m most grateful for the additional space.”

“There’s a good bloke. Now the lot of ya, get yourselves in there and enjoy the food. You deserve it.”

As Albert and I were about to enter the dining hall, Mr. Macpherson put a huge hand on each of our shoulders and said, “Hold up a moment lads, I want you to meet your club captain. This is Robert Boudreaux. He’s got a bit of an accent because he’s French Canadian, but his English is more comprehensible than my own.”

“I don’t think you’re gonna get too much agreement on that, Monsieur Macpherson,” said a boy almost as big as the Scotsman. 

As Robert gently clutched Albert and me behind our necks, he said “Nice to make the acquaintance of both of you. I think we’re gonna have a better club this year because the two of you have joined us. Albert, you look like you was born to be a hooker. Harry? I don’t think I ever seen nobody run like that, least not at your age. Once you get the ball passed to you, gonna be like trying to catch a frightened rabbit.”

“I concur with your assessment of these two, Robert. But now let’s get inside. Harry and Albert, the two of you are newcomers so you’ll be the waiters for the rest of us. Go on into the kitchen. They’ll tell you what to do.”

Waiting on tables. This was a new experience for me. Where I was from, it was the rare white person who served food to other white people. That was a task for colored people. Oddly enough, I was pleased that I was required to do such work. It conformed to a view I was developing of the way things should be: None of us, regardless of our station in life, is too good to clean out stables, pick cotton, husk corn, or do any of a myriad of “menial” tasks.

As Albert and I walked into the steaming kitchen, he whispered, “Harry, I look forward to seeing our friend Carleton Rogers having to wait on tables. Snobby prick. They’ll probably give him a dispensation that allows him to duck out of it.”

“Could be right, Albert. But I think you’ll get your wish.”

“I’ll insert that wish in my daily supplications to the almighty.”

The following week passed so quickly my recollection of it is mostly a blur. The bustling arrival of old students ended the tranquility on the campus that had reigned when first I got there. And then there were the early morning runs; the start of classes; the afternoon rugby training sessions; and the evening study in the library. All of these combined to distract me from  miss my parents and Mary Kathleen and Jared and Horatio.

But there was one phenomenon that blocked my normal obsessing and worrying about all matter of things.  An immersion into the world of ideas. 

There were the classes in English and history and mathematics and Latin and French. Each with a separate teacher and a small class. So different from the one-room schoolhouse back home. I was now in an oasis where intellectual growth was the focus. Not making sure the cattle and cows were cared for. Not the unremitting concern with weather and how it could hurt or devastate us. Not the fear that our land and possessions (long after the war had ended) could be wrenched from us by uniformed men bearing documents that said they could do whatever they wished. None of that. Just learning. I could not get enough of it.

Ultimately, Exeter did not turn out to be the safe harbor it appeared to be during that initial week. On the contrary, it would prove to be the place where I would confront a moral dilemma far greater than the one the Widow Jeffries had placed in my path. Perhaps that dilemma was born the day Albert and I first sat down in our history class taught by Mr. Warren Powell.

“Gentlemen,” he said as Albert and I and a few other boys including Carleton Rogers took our seats. “Welcome to the adventure of America, from its earliest beginnings right up to the present.” He was a slight man, somewhere in his late 20s perhaps 30. His stooped posture reminded me of dogs I had found roaming  our property who had been abused. Though he was a good ten years my senior, something in his bearing made me want to reach out and tell him the abuse was ended; as if he was now coming home to the safety of our farm.

“Frankly, my greatest fear in the teaching of history is that you will find it dry and boring, perhaps even soporific.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I do not know the meaning of that word,” said Albert.

“Of, like, or pertaining to the induction of sleep,” said Carleton with his eyes focused upwards.

“Good for you, Carleton,” said Mr. Powell. “And that’s the last thing I want to do here, boys – put you to sleep. So … let’s jump right in. But not at the beginning of American history. There’ll be time enough for that. Let’s start with a discussion of things that have happened recently that are making history or will shortly.”

 

For a good minute-and-a-half, none of us uttered a word. Mr. Powell waited us out with an impish grin as he ambled about the room. At some point, Albert said, “Sir, Harry here lived through the Civil War in South Carolina. I wager he could tell us a story or two that none of us would find soporific.”

“Well, there you are. Great suggestion, Albert! Harry?”

I would never have offered up the story if I had not been prodded, but I wanted to meet Albert’s challenge and, even more, I wanted to accommodate Mr. Powell. Haltingly, I began the story of my sitting up in the tree with the buffalo rifle when the two drunken soldiers came parading onto our property.

At first, only Mr. Powell and Albert appeared interested in what I had to say. The looks on the faces of the other boys ranged from skepticism to Carleton’s gazing out the window as if I were not even there. But that quickly changed. Now, even Carleton was sitting on the edge of his seat. What turned the tide? Maybe it was the image of a small boy lugging a long rifle up into a tree. Maybe it was my shooting the bottle off the soldier’s head. I’m not sure. But at the end of my tale, all of them, save Carleton, were clapping.

“Bravo, Harry, bravo. Now that’s the way to bring history alive. With a story. And a true one, at that, for I can’t imagine your having concocted it.”

“No, sir. I did not. That particular one had a happy ending. Sadly, most of the ones I could tell do not.” As I struggled to maintain my composure, Mr. Powell came over and put a gentle hand on the back of my neck. “I think that’s enough stories for today, boys.” After assigning us some reading, he dismissed us well before the class was scheduled to end.

Thanks to Mr. Macpherson and Albert, Exeter had offered me something more than an environment of intense scholarship. It had offered me rugby. And what a wonderful game it was. Running. Kicking. Tackling. Crawling, more than walking, off the pitch from near exhaustion after a training session. The only negative I could point to was  that Jared was not there to be a member of our club. If ever a fellow was born to play rugby, it was Jared.

One day Albert had told me about the possiblity of a  match with Harvard’s second-level club, made up mostly of freshmen and a few upperclassmen who lacked the skill to play on the first level. That afternoon, after each of us had trotted around the pitch a couple of times to loosen our muscles, Mr. Macpherson assembled us in a circle around him.

“Lads, as you may know we’ll be heading down to Cambridge on the train early Saturday morning for a match. I believe we’re well prepared for them, but don’t be expecting an easy contest. For the most part, they will be bigger and faster than we are, simply because they’re a bit older. So, prepare yourselves to be knocked hard on your arses a few times during the course of the afternoon.”

As he talked, Robert Boudreaux stood next to him nodding his head.

“Robert, I believe you had a few words of your own you wanted to share with your mates.”

“I do, sir. Thank you.” Before he spoke, Robert swiveled his head to look each of us in the eye. In his own eyes there was a hint of a twinkle accompanying his smile.

“The first thing I want to say, gents, is this. Let’s have ourselves some enjoyment when we go down there. Yes, we want to win. No doubt about that. But this is not a battle, not a war we gonna be fighting. Some of us, like Harry, we already seen too much of guns and violence and killing. And some of us probably gonna see more before we leave this earth.”

“So we want to be knocking the snot out of those arrogant sods but doing it with the friendliest of intentions?” asked Albert.

Over the guffawing Robert replied, “Albert, tu comprends bien.”

I thought he did, too.

We were well into the second half of the match. I had just been tackled hard by a bruiser of a fellow after a long, sweeping run and being knocked out of bounds. As I lay on the ground to catch my breath, Albert trotted over, grabbed me by an arm, and yanked me up to a standing position.

“Did ya see the little shite over there consorting with the enemy?”

Still a bit dazed, I said, “Albert, what in tarnation are you talking about?”

“Carleton. He’s over on the Harvard side, chatting up a bunch of lads like he was already a student there. Feel like going over and giving him a swift kick in his skinny arse.”

Albert was right. I turned my head and there was Carleton, standing on the sidelines cheering with some older-looking boys. And he was not cheering for Exeter. Disgusted, I said, “I have a better idea, friend. But first, let’s us win this damn match.”

Robert had come over and was standing next to Albert. He looked downright ferocious when he said, “And we won’t be nice about it, either.”

“So, Robert, whatever happened to your idea of having fun?” asked Albert with a straight face but a mischievous tone?

“We lose, little man, the only fun to be had will be me kicking your Irish ass all the way back to New Hampshire.”

“Well then, Harry, best we win … if I’m to have anything left to sit on.”

Firm intentions notwithstanding, our victory was not assured. Mr. Macpherson had been right. The Harvard players did outmatch us in both size and speed. Plus they led by three points. To win we would have to hold them scoreless and score twice ourselves, either by kick or run. I was fiercely determined, but less than optimistic about our chances.

Then I noticed something that had earlier been only on the fringes of my consciousness. The Harvard players had their hands on their hips and were breathing heavily. They were exhausted. Our boys, pummeled and bruised as we were, walked about with the same nervous energy we had at the match’s beginning. It looked as if our investment in early morning runs was about to pay off.

When I looked at Robert, he gave me a wink and a nod. He had seen what I had seen. As he huddled us before the line-out, he said, “We still have some time, fellas. Once the first of these guys blows his lunch, we’ll throw some coals on the fire. Understood?” Lots of grunts and headshakes of agreement.

With his height and great strength, Robert usually controlled the tip of the ball from the line-out. This time was no exception. He knocked the ball out to one of our scrum halves who immediately shot it out to me. Rather than head for Harvard’s goal line, I ran back towards our own line for a few yards. Then I made a long arching run back towards the Harvard goal. I knew I had no chance of running by the herd of pursuers. But that was not my intent; my intent was to wear them down. So before I reached the sideline, I turned and repeated the maneuver. When I was finally pushed out of bounds, two of the Harvard players were on their hands and knees, puking. The rest of them appeared on the verge of doing the same.

“Should we put ‘em out of their misery, lads?” shouted Albert. Our boys cheered, but their sounds were but a whisper compared to the roar that erupted from Mr. Macpherson. In the next several minutes we kicked two goals and held the lead when the final whistle was blown. I ignored the celebrating going on behind me and headed straight for Carleton Rogers. He had apparently lost interest in the match but not in chatting up his soon-to-be classmates.

“Carleton,” I yelled. As he turned towards me with a disdainful look, I shoved him hard in the chest. As he fell backwards, I yelled even more loudly, “Is it your habit to always cheer for the opposing club?” I barely saw the look of shock on his face before I dropped like a stone from a hard punch to my left temple.

Because of my dazed condition, I have only a vague memory of what happened next. According to Robert and Albert, a fist-swinging melee erupted, involving both clubs and more than a few Harvard students. Finally, Mr. Macpherson and the Harvard coach were able to break up the fight. What I do vividly recall is Macpherson holding me off the ground by the scruff of my shirt and carrying me away as he yelled, “Harry Wylie, you can expect severe disciplining upon our return to Exeter. There was no call whatsoever for what you did to get this altercation started.”

As he got us a bit further away from the throng, he whispered, “Couldn’t be prouder of you if I tried, laddy.”

I needed a day or two to calm down from all the excitement at Harvard. But come Monday, I knew I could no longer delay writing my parents and Mary Kathleen and Horatio and Jared. 

Since Mr. Macpherson had given us a day of rest from our training, I found the energy that evening to compose all three letters. 

In the one to my mother and father I stressed that our behavior on the trip up to New Hampshire had been largely what Mama had wanted and that I had found Exeter proving to be a wonderful experience both intellectually and athletically. 

To Mary Kathleen I stressed how much I longed for her and that the time until I would see her again could not pass quickly enough. 

To my two partners in mayhem and mischief I tried as best as I could to convey how much I missed their company without sounding sappy. Once the letters were posted, the weight of my guilt seemed to lift.

The next several weeks passed quickly, and before I knew it we were well into October. It is difficult to describe what a beautiful time that is in New Hampshire. I had heard of the splendor of the fall leaves, but I had no way to ready myself for their beauty. The bright reds … really more scarlet than red. The brilliant yellows from the birches (which are not a tree we have back home). And especially the maples, with their oranges sprinkled here and there. Accompanying the colors was the scent of the fallen leaves. In South Carolina the humidity would have made them smell slightly putrid. Here the dry air gave them a soft aroma that was always in the background until they finally dissolved and drifted away with the wind.