Jeffrey Archer: Sons of Fortune

‘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 Taft 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 on to the stage, and took their places, leaving only two seats unoccupied. The faculty began to talk quietly amongst 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 round 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 edges 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 ministretur sed ut ministret’.

‘What does that mean?’ whispered Nat.

‘Not to be served, but to serve,’ muttered Tom.

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 Taft 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-class men 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 grey hair around an otherwise bald pate. As he spoke, he clung on to 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 favourite 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 Taft tradition,’ Mr Haskins assured them, ‘which any of you who are following in your fathers’ 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 Taft,’ 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 H. Taft 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, 1801 to 1809.’

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 seventh 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.