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spare time—what little he had—he did extra reading designed as preliminary forays into the realm of military training. He checked books out of the library—Machiavelli's
Art of War
, Drean's
Military Dictionary
, and Baron Gay de Vernon's
Treatise on the Science of War and Fortification
. Consuming these heavy tomes had never been a chore for him. His mind was a sponge soaking up every detail. But now, as Emily Cooper loomed ominously in his immediate future, he found it extremely difficult to concentrate.
    These were crucial months for all the cadets. The board of visitors would soon make its annual visit. The board was composed of five gentlemen well-versed in military and other sciences who would be on hand for the Academy's twice-yearly examinations. They were allowed to verbally examine the cadets. Christopher wanted to excel, as he always did, in these examinations, because those whose names were placed at the top of the merit rolls received instruction from thebest members of the faculty. And Christopher was determined to qualify for Alfred Thayer Mahan's class in military science. One reason was Mahan's admiration for Napoleon Bonaparte's military genius, something he shared with Christopher. Napoleon had breathed his last a few years ago, an exile on the remote South Atlantic island of St. Helena, but his reputation as one of the great captains of military history would never die.
    Christopher's prized possession was a rare copy of Napoleon's
Military Maxims
. A slim printed volume bound in dun-colored leather, its full title was
A Manuscript found in the portfolio of Las Casas containing maxims and observations of Napoleon, collected during the last two years of his residence at St. Helena
. Translated from the French, it had been printed in London in 1820. Oddly enough, the volume sported a frontispiece of Wellington, of all people.
    Ten days after his visit with Sylvanus Thayer, Christopher found a little time between tattoo and "lights out" to browse through the
Maxims
. Not having been entirely successful in concentrating on his studies that day, he sought inspiration from the words of the master for renewed effort on the morrow. Bryant and O'Connor were there, too, the former at his desk, plowing through Berard's
Lecteur Français
. O'Connor was sprawled on his bed, writing a letter to one of his many lady friends.
    Then Adam Vickers burst into the room.
    "There you are, Groves," he said curtly. "I want a word with you."
    Sitting on his bed, his back to the wall, Christopher stared at the intruder, momentarily nonplussed. Vickers was a tall, brawny young man with raven black hair in a constant state of angry disarray, and blue eyes so dark they looked black at times, beneath bushy brows whichmet above the bridge of his nose, giving him a peculiarly predatory appearance.
    O'Connor rolled out of his bunk and jumped to his feet to confront Vickers, standing toe to toe, matching Vickers' belligerence with an equal measure of his own.
    "Why don't you try knocking before you enter private quarters?"
    "Take care how you speak to me," sneered Vickers, and pointed to the stripes on his sleeve. He had been honored with an appointment as class staff sergeant, a position that only the best cadets of good academic standing could hope to attain. There was no denying that Vickers was an excellent student. He excelled in athletic pursuits, too. But he was not well-liked. His attitude was to blame for that.
    "I wouldn't care if you wore a general's braid," said O'Connor, truculent.
    Christopher rose, put a hand on O'Connor's shoulder, and spun him around. He knew O'Connor would never back down from the likes of Vickers, and he didn't want his friend to get into trouble on his account.
    "Back off," he said.
    O'Connor smirked at Vickers. "Well, I suppose I should only expect gentlemen to have manners."
    "Why don't you and Gil leave," suggested Christopher. "I believe what Mr. Vickers wants to say to me ought to be said in