Last in Their Class. James Robbins
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a paper trail. Originally, violations did not carry specific penalties, but in September 1825, a point system was devised to reflect the “degree of criminality” of the offense. For example, a disorderly room or oversleeping would be worth one demerit. Visiting after hours carried a three-point penalty. Missing a class or being absent from chapel or reveille rated four to five points. Being discovered absent from the barracks at night was a very serious offense, worth nine points, and the most serious of all, mutinous conduct, carried the maximum ten-point penalty. After 1831, extra points were added to the cadet’s annual total depending on his rank. For example, a firstie would face an additional half-point penalty for having been at the Academy long enough to know better.
Many cadets are listed in the delinquency rolls with no demerits, though most had earned some strikes during the year but had cleansed their record by “walking off” the points on punishment tours. A cadet could erase one demerit for every extra hour marching a post. Robert E. Lee, who graduated second in the Class of 1829, was a rare case of a cadet who was never cited once for a demerit in four years at the Academy. (Half of Lee’s assigned page in the Record of Delinquencies was given to his less-disciplined classmate Pleaides Orion Lumpkin from Georgia, who made good use of the space by amassing an impressive 303 demerits in 1827.9 He left West Point before graduating and served in the revolutionary army of Texas.) Some say that Lee’s achievement has never been equaled, but in fact it has been more than once; for example, Lee’s classmate Charles Mason not only had an equally pristine disciplinary record, but graduated first in their class.10 Despite the examples of cadets like Lee and Mason, academic standing and demerit totals were not necessarily related. Frederick A. Smith, first in the Class of 1833, ranked 138th in the Corps in discipline with 81 demerits in his final year. George Washington Cullum, third in the same class, had no demerits, but likewise George Herbert Pegram, who ranked 31st. Roswell W. Lee had the worst disciplinary record of the class, ranking 195th in the Corps with 172 demerits, but he graduated eighth.
Some demerit totals in this period were extraordinary. In 1827, yearling Albert Gallatin Blanchard piled up 489 points but nevertheless managed to graduate two years later, 26th out of 46 in his class, with a more reasonable 301 demerits. Though hailing from Massachusetts, Blanchard went on to become a Confederate brigadier general. George Washington Patten graduated 36th of 42 in the Class of 1830, and in discipline was fourth from the bottom of the Corps that year with 538 demerits. He was the author of many well-known military manuals and later became a noted San Francisco poet. Charles H. Larnard of Rhode Island compiled a record-setting 729 demerits in his yearling year of 1829, which he brought down to 190 by the time he graduated in 1831, when he ranked 16th of 33 in his class.11 But Larnard’s sudden outbreak of relatively good behavior probably had less to do with his developing maturity than the 200-point limit that was instituted in 1831. Any cadet who ended the year beyond that limit was dismissed. Once the 200-point “line of death” was established, the average total demerits declined radically, and the number of cadets walking post correspondingly increased. Thayer saw to it that there would be no more Larnards.
While the point system appeared objective, it could be arbitrary. Frequently the question was not what one did, but who was watching, whether they wanted to report or not, and how many points would be assessed. Cadet Henry D. Bird of the Class of 1829 was for some reason regularly given higher penalties than other cadets for the same offenses (seven points instead of one for a disorderly room, for example), and he left before graduation. Tactical officers (“Tacs”) were the source of most reports, but worse were the cadets who reported on their classmates. Wyche noted in a letter to his mother, “I do all in my power to keep from getting reported, but it is impossible. . . . There are officers, I mean Cadet officers, who seek to report their fellow Cadets. They are universally despised by the Corps and should be by everybody.”12 Wyche’s relatively modest demerit totals ranged from 106 to 139 over his years at West Point, though they could have been much higher. “It is something very remarkable that I have not been caught yet in my many and flagrant violations of the regulations,” he wrote his sister. “I have been in an ace of it a hundred times. When others in the commission of the same act have been detected and dismissed—without the hope of being reinstated.”
One day in his final year at the Academy it seemed as though Cadet Hunter’s luck had run out. Without warning or explanation, he was ordered to the Superintendent’s office. He feared the worst. He stood at attention while Thayer looked at him impassively.
“I have understood from various sources and know from personal observation that you are guilty of many little irregularities which you should be particularly careful to avoid,” Thayer began. “It becomes you to do so not only as a Cadet disobeying the regulations of the institution but as a gentleman engaged in the ordinary business of life.” Was it significant that Thayer had not mentioned that it was also the duty of an officer? Wyche was sweating at this point, wondering which of his hundreds of overlooked transgressions was about to come back to haunt him.
“Do you chew tobacco Mr. Hunter?” Thayer asked.
Wyche calculated—he did not think the Supe had a right to ask him about his infractions; he could only report them and let the punishment system take it from there. Since Thayer was showing such candor, he probably already knew the answer, and if he had wanted to impose punishment, he would not talk about it, he would just do it. Wyche decided that honesty might be the best approach.
“Yes sir I do,” he replied.
Thayer, who had expected either a negative answer or an evasion, was visibly surprised. His attitude softened slightly, as much as he would allow, and he spent several minutes giving Wyche some almost fatherly advice, encouraging him to improve his behavior and throw off his bad habits, for his own good. Wyche emerged from the meeting shaken, but unscathed. He later wrote that Thayer showed “so much of interest in my welfare and condescension on his part that I came away with a better opinion than I ever had of the old fox.”13
The Corps, which in this era numbered around 215 cadets, was divided into two companies, and cadet officers and NCOs were selected from the top three classes. Cadets were housed in two barracks, with a Tac in each to keep order. Rooms were assigned by lot, meaning every cadet had an equal chance of getting choice quarters or one of the less desirable rooms. Three to five roommates, who might be from any class, shared the space. Each room had a fireplace, and fire prevention was a priority concern. “Neglect of fender” carried a three- to five-point demerit penalty. There were no beds; cadets slept on the floor on bedrolls, or on cots. They drew water from springs or cisterns, and there were no indoor bathrooms until the Civil War period. Despite (or perhaps because of) these hardships, life in the barracks was close and convivial. To supplement their bland diet, cadets would hold secret banquets in their rooms, which required some degree of planning and teamwork, particularly if alcohol was involved. Wyche wrote his sister about an eggnog party he attended:
I assure you the materials for preparing it were procured at the risk of the procuror’s reputation and life. If he had been detected he would certainly been dismissed—in skating on the rotten ice down the river he broke through twice and with great difficulty extricated himself. . . . We enjoyed ourselves heartily regardless of the danger attending it and for some time we thought ourselves elsewhere than W. Point. Last night we had a couple of chickens and a large beefsteak cooked in splendid style before and on the coals. The best Parisian cook could not have prepared them better.
A dozen cadets were allowed to board with Mrs. Thompson, widow of a Revolutionary War officer who lived on the post with her three gregarious daughters. “The places were much sought after,” Church wrote, “a fact due not only to the excellent fare provided, but, doubtless, in a great degree, to the fondness of the young soldier for female society.”14 John De Witt, the post sutler, also had several daughters, two of whom married officers. The post barber, named Spencer, had two young and pretty daughters, “much admired and visited by some of the cadets,” according to Church.15 This perhaps ameliorated the impact of the grooming regulations introduced in the early 1830s. Cadets were required to have their hair cut once a month on a strict alphabetical schedule. When the policy was introduced, some cadets, who had hair down past their shoulders, ruefully joked that it was a signal day for the New York wigmakers. Cadets of