The Seduction Of Ellen

Once inside her fifth-floor room, Ellen went hastily about throwing open the windows. She paused before one for a moment and looked out, viewing the Battery and the sailing vessels on the calm waters of the Ashley River. And out in the harbor, the big parrot guns of Fort Sumter, that historic place where the War Between the States had begun.

It had been, legend claimed, cadets from the military academy her son now attended who had opened fire on a Northern supply ship attempting to deliver supplies to the garrison at Fort Sumter. The first shots fired in the war.

Ellen turned away.

She didn’t want to think about war and destruction. She wanted to dwell entirely on the next two carefree days she would be spending with her son.

Humming happily, Ellen took a hurried bath, redressed her long chestnut hair neatly atop her head and put on her best summer frock, a sky-blue poplin with elbow-length mutton-chop sleeves, tight waist and narrow skirt that flared at the knee. Taking one last appraising look in the mirror, Ellen frowned and sighed. She certainly wouldn’t win any beauty prizes. Her cheeks were too hollow, her complexion too sallow, her hair too dull.

She turned away, grabbed her gloves and reticule, rushed downstairs, out onto the street and up into the waiting carriage.

“The military academy,” she said. Then, unable to keep her maternal pride to herself, she added, “My son is a cadet at the Citadel.”

“Is he now?” the cabbie responded, then drove several long blocks down Meeting Street until he reached the section of the old rampart called Marion Green. Once a state arsenal and guardhouse, it was now the remodeled, three-story Citadel.

Quickly paying the fare, Ellen was out of the carriage with the agility of a young girl. She was ushered through the gate and onto the academy grounds by the Cadet Officer of the Guard.

Her heart aflutter, Ellen hurried toward the parade ground to join other visitors and natives who were watching the South Carolina Corps of Cadets marching in full-dress parade. Ellen stood at the perimeter of the quadrangle with the other onlookers, shading her eyes against the strong Carolina sun, searching a sea of bright young faces for the one dear to her heart.

The marching cadets wore their crisp summer whites. The tight-fitting waist-length jackets with their stiff stand-up collars had a triple row of brass buttons adorning the chest. The neatly pressed trousers had gold stripes going down the outside of each leg. Those stripes were now moving as one, as feet were lifted and lowered in flawless cadence by the well-trained cadets.

On their heads were tall, plumed hats with chin straps worn just below their noses. The cadets’ white-gloved hands swung back and forth in perfect precision. They were, Ellen thought, America’s finest sons and her heart swelled with happiness at the knowledge that her own precious son was one of their elite number.

Awed, she watched the proud corps pass in review while the regimental band played and the crowd of visitors applauded and waved American flags. Ellen continued to anxiously hunt for Chris. Finally she spotted him. Her hand went to her breast and she exhaled with pleasure.

Christopher marched with the skill and expertise of one who’d spent many long hard hours on the parade ground. His back was rigid, his shoulders straight, chest out, stomach in. He was staring straight ahead. Lean. Proud. Erect.

A true cadet.

When the dress parade ended, Ellen stayed where she was. She spotted Chris looking about and knew that he was hunting for her. She raised a hand and waved. He caught sight of her and a wide boyish smile instantly spread across his face. He yanked off his plumed hat and started running toward her, dodging other cadets as he came.

Ellen didn’t move. Just stood there admiring him as he sprinted toward her. Tall and blond and incredibly handsome in his crisp summer whites, he was the precious child of her heart, the light of her life, the one thing in this often dark, dismal world that had made it all worthwhile. The mere sight of him coming toward her erased all the pain and loneliness she’d ever known. The brilliant sun in her universe, he was, and always had been, the sweetest, kindest, most loving child in the world.

But he was no longer a child, she realized almost sadly as she watched him approach. He was no longer her little boy. He was no longer a boy. That nervous, slender eighteen-year-old who had entered the academy last autumn was gone. In his place was a sleek, efficient, confident young man.

Chris reached his mother, threw his arms around her, lifted her off the ground and swung her round and round while she laughed, somewhat embarrassed.

Chris Cornelius was the opposite of Ellen. Where she was by nature prim, sedate, timid, submissive and distrustful, her only son was gregarious, friendly, trusting, outgoing and fun-loving.

When at last Chris put Ellen down, he gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek, not caring who saw, and said honestly, “I’m glad to see you, Mother.”

“I’ve missed you so,” she softly replied. She drew back to look up at him. “You’ve grown,” she said as if surprised. “You’re taller than you were at Christmas break.”

“I have,” he said proudly, “Guess how tall I am.”

“Six foot?”

“Six-one,” he said, laughing. “Come on, I want to introduce you to my friends.”

“Are you sure?” Ellen asked hesitantly. “I don’t look my best after all those hours on the train.”

Chris’s blond eyebrows shot up. “Aunt Alex didn’t let you come down in the rail car? You had to sit up in a day coach the entire way?” Ellen nodded sheepishly. His brilliant blue eyes momentarily flashed with anger, then he quickly smiled again and said, “I sure hope God threw away the pattern after he made her, don’t you?” Ellen laughed. Chris laughed with her, squeezed her waist and said, “Mother, you look beautiful. Let’s go meet my friends.”

Chris introduced Ellen to his roommates, three young men who had been through the grueling plebe year with him. They were mannerly, attentive, and made easy, amiable small talk.

After several minutes of pleasantries, Ellen said, “I’ve heard the first year at the academy can be quite difficult.” She smiled at Pete Desmond, a big, muscular cadet from Richmond, Virginia, and said, “Tell me, were the upperclassmen mean to you knobs?”

Pete glanced at Chris, who stood behind his mother. Chris shook his head. Pete grinned and said, “No, ma’am, Mrs. Cornelius. They were most helpful and kind.”

Ellen didn’t believe Pete. She had heard the stories of how the upperclassmen at military academies were sometimes quite brutal to the plebes. She had worried about Chris since the day he had come here, had wondered what he was going through.

“You hear that, Mother? What did I tell you?” Chris said.

Chris, not wanting to worry her, had never told his mother of the demeaning torment and physical misery he had suffered at the hands of some sadistic upper-classmen. He had never once, in his weekly letters, mentioned his agonizing loneliness, his intense fear, his constant exhaustion. His biggest fear had been that he would be branded a coward and drummed out of the corps like so many others who had come here with high hopes, only to be sent home in shame.

He never would tell her.

He had made it.

The first year was almost over and he had survived the rigors of the institute and had never complained, except to the three cadets who were his roommates. They had been through the torture with him. They had shared his terror and had understood his fear. They had comforted him when he was in danger of breaking and he had done the same for them. The experiences they had shared had drawn them closer than brothers. The four of them were good friends. The best of friends. Chris loved these three brave, loyal men with whom he had been through the fires of hell. He knew that they would be his friends for life.

Chris invited the roommates to join his mother and him for dinner that evening, but they respectfully declined.

Jarrod Willingham, a slender, red-haired, freckle-faced cadet from Memphis, Tennessee, said, “We do appreciate the invitation, Chris, but I know if my mother came to visit, she’d want to have me to herself for a while.” Jarrod grinned and winked at Ellen.

Ellen smiled and nodded.

The visit to Charleston was everything Ellen had hoped for and more. After an excellent dinner that evening, she and Chris strolled toward the Battery in the bright Carolina moonlight. Their pace leisurely, their conversation inconsequential, they soon reached South Battery and continued beneath the tall oaks to the seawall.

Chris took Ellen’s hand as they ascended the steps of the seawall. At the top, they stood in silence for a time before the railing, watching the glittering lights of houses along the shore of James Island and listening to the unique sounds of the sea.

The tide was going out. The powerful beams of the moon were now in command of the ocean’s current. It was a warm, beautiful, starry night, perfect for promenading along the old seawall.

Deeply inhaling the heavy, moist air, Chris said, “It’s nice here, isn’t it, Mother?”

“Mmm,” she murmured. “Breathtaking. I wish I could spend the rest of my life here.”

Chris laughed. “You don’t mean that.”

“Oh, but I do. I would love to live in these warm lowlands near the ocean.”

“Who knows? Maybe someday you will,” Chris offered. Left unsaid was that it would have to be after Alexandra had passed away.

“Perhaps,” she said dreamily, not really believing it.

On leaving the seawall, they walked down the Battery to East Bay and Chris pointed out the stately mansions on the tree-shaded streets South of Broad, where the aristocracy resided.

“The old Charleston families dwell in these houses,” Chris told his mother. “I know a couple of cadets who came from here.”