. . . In future wars the Nation must
look to the Academy for the skill
to conduct valor to victory.
"Like some help loading that aboard, young sir?"
The stevedore smiled but there was no friendliness in his eyes, only avarice inspired by the sight of an obvious stranger.
A few moments ago the driver of the Astor House passenger omnibus had thrown the travel-battered trunk down at the head of the pier. Orry had picked it up by the one rope handle still unbroken and had dragged it scarcely three feet before the stevedore stepped between him and the gangway.
It was a brilliant, windless morning in June 1842. Orry was already nervous about the day ahead. The stevedore's fixed smile and hard stare only worsened that state, as did the sight of the stevedore's two associates lounging nearby.
Nerves and cowardice were two different things, though; Orry had no intention of letting the former lead to the latter. He had been warned that New York teemed with all sorts of swindlers, and now it appeared he had finally met one. He took off his tall, stylish beaver hat and mopped his forehead with a linen handkerchief from an inside pocket.
Orry Main was sixteen and stood almost six feet two inches. His slimness accentuated his height and lent him a certain grace when he moved. He had a long, plain face with the good color of someone who spent a lot of time in the sunshine. His nose was narrow and aristocratic, his wavy hair brown. His eyes, brown too, were rather deeply set. Fatigue circles tended to appear under them whenever he slept poorly, as he had last night. The rings of shadow gave his face a melancholy cast. But he was not melancholy by disposition. His smile, which appeared frequently, proved that. He was, however, a deliberate sort. He tended to pause and think before taking any important step.
Impatient, the stevedore put a foot on the trunk. "Lad I asked —"
"I heard you, sir. I can handle the trunk myself."
"Listen to that," one of the other stevedores jeered. "Where you from, country boy?" It was Orry's accent that gave him away; his clothes were far from countrified.
"South Carolina."
His heart was beating fast now. The three were mature men, muscular and rough. But he refused to be backed down. He reached for the rope handle. The first stevedore grabbed his wrist.
"No you don't. Either we put it on the steamer or you travel up to West Point without it."
Orry was stunned by the threat and equally stunned by the ease with which he and his destination had been identified. He needed time to think, time to put himself in a better position to deal with these louts. He shook his wrist to signal that he wanted the stevedore to release him. After a deliberate delay the man did. Orry straightened and used both hands to put his hat back on his head.
Three female passengers, two pretty girls and an older woman, hurried by. They certainly couldn't help him. Then a small man in a uniform stepped off the gangway, an official of the line, Orry suspected. A sharp wave from one of the stevedores and the official came no farther.
"How much to load it?" Orry asked. Somewhere behind him wagon wheels squealed and hooves rang on the cobbles. He heard merry voices, laughter. Other passengers arriving.
"Two dollars."
"That's about eight times more than it should be."
The stevedore grinned. "Could be, sojer boy. But that's the price."
"You don't like it," the second stevedore said, "go complain to the mayor. Go complain to Brother Jonathan." All three laughed. Brother Jonathan was the popular symbol for the nation. A rustic, a Yankee.
Orry was perspiring from tension as well as from the heat. He bent at the waist, again reaching for the trunk. "I refuse to pay you a —"
The first stevedore pushed him. "Then the trunk stays here."
A grave look concealed Orry's fear. "Sir, don't put hands on me again." The words provoked the stevedore to do exactly that. He tried to give Orry a clumsy shake. Orry had planned his point of attack and rammed his right fist into the stevedore's stomach.
The official cried, "Stop that," and started forward. Another stevedore flung him back so hard he nearly pitched off the pier into the water. The first stevedore grabbed Orry's ears and twisted. Then he kneed Orry's groin. Orry reeled away, falling against someone who had come up behind him, someone who darted around him and charged the three stevedores, fists swinging.
A young man not much older than himself, Orry saw as he lunged back to the fray. A shorter, very stocky chap who punched with great ferocity. Orry jumped in, bloodied a nose, and got his cheek raked by fingernails. Frontier-style fighting had reached the New York docks, it seemed.
The first stevedore tried to jab a thumb in Orry's eye. Before he hit his target, a long gold-knobbed cane came slashing in from the right. The knob whacked the stevedore's forehead. He yelled and staggered.
"Blackguards," a man bellowed. "Where are the authorities?"
"William, don't excite yourself," a woman exclaimed. The stocky young man jumped on Orry's trunk, poised and ready to continue the fight. Now the official by the gangway was joined by two crewmen from the steamer. The stevedores backed off, calculated the rapidly changing odds, and after some oaths that brought gasps from the two ladies who had just arrived, hurried off the pier and disappeared on the street beyond.
Orry drew a deep breath. The other young man jumped down from the trunk. His fine clothes were hardly ruffled.
"I thank you very much for your assistance sir." Orry's politeness helped hide his nervousness in the presence of Yankees — and patently prosperous ones, at that.
The stocky young man grinned. "We almost had 'em whipped."
Orry smiled too. The newcomer stood just about to his shoulder. Although there was no fat on him, he gave the impression of being very wide of body. His face was shaped like a wide U. He'd lost his hat, and his brown hair, lighter than Orry's, showed several blond streaks bleached by the sun. The young man's pale, ice-colored eyes were saved from severity by a good-humored sparkle. His smile helped, too, although anyone who disliked him no doubt would have called it cocky.
"So we did," Orry replied, perpetuating the lie.
"Nonsense," said a stout, pasty man three or four years older than Orry's benefactor. "Both of you could have been injured or killed."
The stocky lad spoke to Orry. "My brother never does anything more dangerous than trimming his nails."
The woman who had cried out, stout and fortyish, said, "George, don't be saucy to Stanley. He's right. You're far too reckless."
It was a family, then. Orry touched his hat brim. "Whether we won or lost, all of you helped me out of a tight spot. My thanks again."
"I'll give you a hand with that trunk," George said. "You are taking this boat, aren't you?"
"Yes, to the Military Academy."
"Just get your appointment this year?"
Orry nodded. "Two months ago."
"Fancy that," George said, grinning again. "So did I."
He let go of the broken rope handle. Orry's quick jump saved his feet from being crushed by the trunk.
The other young man held out his hand. "Name's George Hazard. I'm from Pennsylvania. A little town you've never heard of — Lehigh Station."
"Orry Main. From Saint George's Parish, South Carolina."
They looked at each other as their hands clasped. Orry had a feeling this pugnacious little Yankee was going to be a friend.
A few steps away George's father was berating the official who had stood by while a fight developed. The official loudly disavowed responsibility for the public pier. The elder Hazard exclaimed, "I've got your name. There'll be an investigation, I promise you that."
Scowling, he returned to his family. His wife soothed him with some murmured words and a pat or two. Then George cleared his throat and, with a mannerly air, made the proper introductions.
William Hazard was a stern, impressive man with a lined face. He looked ten years older than his wife, though in fact he was not. In addition to the parents and their two older sons, there was a sister, Virgilia — oldest of the children, Orry surmised — and a boy of six or seven. His mother called him William; George referred to him as Billy. The boy kept fiddling with his high collar, which brushed the lobes of his ears; all the men, including Orry, wore similar collars. Billy gazed at his brother George with unmistakable admiration.
"Since Stanley's the oldest male, he's going to take over the ironworks," George explained as he and Orry carried the trunk onto the steamer. "There's never been a question of his doing anything else."
"Iron, you said?"
"Yes. Our family's been making it for six generations. The company used to be called Hazard Furnace, but my father changed the name to Hazard Iron."
"My older brother would be fascinated. Anything scientific or mechanical interests him."
"Are you the second son also?" George's father asked, coming aboard with the rest of the family.
"Yes, sir. My brother Cooper refused an Academy appointment, so I took it instead." He said nothing more. There was no point in airing family quarrels; no point in telling strangers how Cooper, whom Orry admired, continually disappointed and angered their father with his independent ways.
"Then you're the fortunate one," Hazard Senior declared, leaning on his gold-knobbed stick. "Some say the Academy is a haven for aristocrats, but that's a canard. The true nature of the Academy is this: it's the source of the best scientific education available in America." He punctuated each sentence with a kind of verbal period; the man spoke in pronouncements, Orry thought.
The sister stepped forward. She was an unsmiling girl of about twenty. Her squarish face was marred by a few pox marks. Her figure was generous, almost too buxom for her puff-shouldered, narrow-waisted dress of embroidered cambric. Gloves and a flower-trimmed poke completed her costume. Miss Virgilia Hazard said, "Would you be kind enough to repeat your first name, Mr. Main?"
He could certainly understand why she wasn't married. "Orry," he said, and spelled it. He explained that his forebears were early settlers of South Carolina and that he was the third member of his family to be called Orry; it was a corruption of Horry, a common Huguenot name pronounced as if the H did not exist.
Virgilia's dark eyes challenged him. "Might I ask the nature of your family's business?"
Instantly he felt defensive; he knew what she was after.
"They own a rice plantation, ma'am. Rather large and considered prosperous." He realized his description was gratuitous and braggy; he was indeed on the defensive.
"Then I presume you also own slaves?"
No trace of a smile on his face now. "Yes, ma'am, more than a hundred and fifty. You can't grow rice without them."
"As long as the South perpetuates Negro slavery, Mr. Main, the region will remain backward."
The mother touched her daughter's arm. "Virgilia, this is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. Your remark was impolite and un-Christian. You hardly know this young man."
The sister blinked; it appeared to be the only apology Orry would get.
"Visitors ashore. Visitors ashore, please!" A bell rang stridently. George bustled around, hugging Billy, his mother, his father. He shook stuffy Stanley's hand and merely said good-bye to Virgilia.
Soon the steamer was backing from its berth. The family waved from the pier. They dropped out of sight as the boat headed upstream. The two travelers stared at each other, realizing they were on their own.
George Hazard, seventeen, felt obliged to apologize to the young man from the South. George didn't understand his older sister, though he suspected she was mad at the world because she hadn't been born a man, with a man's rights and opportunities. Her anger made her a misfit socially; she was too brusque to catch a beau.
The young Pennsylvanian didn't understand his sister's opinions, either. He had never thought much about slavery one way or another. It existed, although many said it should not. He was not about to damn this chap because of it.
The paddles churned the sunlit water. New York's piers and buildings disappeared astern. George glanced sidewise at Orry, who in one way reminded him of Stanley. Think carefully first, and don't act until you do. There was, however, a significant difference. Orry had a natural, genuine smile. Stanley's smile was priggish and obviously forced.
George cleared his throat. "My sister was rude to say what she did."
The moment he spoke he saw Orry's shoulders stiffen. But the tone of the statement put the Southerner at ease. Orry asked, "Is she an abolitionist?''
"I don't think so. Not an active one, anyway, although I guess she could be. Hope you don't take her remarks too personally. I expect Virgilia would sass anyone from your part of the country. You're probably the first Southron she's ever run into. We don't see many in Pennsylvania, and I can't say I've ever met one myself." "You'll meet plenty at the Academy."
"Good. I'm anxious to know what they're really like. I have this picture, you see —"
"What kind of picture?"
"Southerners are people who eat pork and collards, fight with knives, and abuse their niggers."
In spite of the way the description offended him, Orry managed to see the attempt at humor in it. "Each of those things is true about some Southerners, but it's by no means true of all. That's where misunderstandings arise, I reckon." He pondered a moment. "I have a picture of a Yankee, too." George grinned. "I thought you might. What is it?" "A Yankee's always ready to invent some new thingamajig or to outwit his neighbor in court. He's a pert sort who wants to sell you jackknives or tinware, but what he likes best is skinning you."
The other burst out laughing. "I've met a couple of Yankees like that."
"My father says Yankees are trying to run the country now."
George couldn't let that pass. "The way Virginia ran it for so many years?"
Orry gripped the varnished rail. "Look here —"
"No, look there." George decided that if they were to be friends the subject should be changed posthaste. He pointed to the stern, where the two young female passengers were giggling under their parasols. The older woman with them had fallen asleep on a bench.
George had made love to two girls back home, thus felt worldly. "Shall we go talk to 'em?"
Orry turned pink and shook his head. "You go if you want. I'm not much for gallanting the belles."
"Don't like to?"
A sheepish admission: "Don't know how."
"Well, you'd better learn or you'll miss half the fun in life." George relaxed against the rail. "Guess I won't talk to them either. I couldn't conduct much of a romance between here and West Point."
He fell silent, giving in at last to the anxiety that had been growing in him ever since he left home. His family would be staying on in the city, his father to transact some business, the others to enjoy the restaurants, museums, and theaters — while he traveled toward an uncertain future. A lonely one, too. Even if he survived the rigorous disciplines of the Academy, it would be two years before he saw Lehigh Station again. Cadets were granted just one leave, between their second and third years.
Of course he had to overcome a lot of obstacles before he became eligible for that little holiday. The academic work was reportedly hard, the deviling of plebes by upperclassmen harder still. The institution was frequently criticized for permitting hazing. The criticism usually came from Democrats who hated the whole concept of the place, as Old Hickory had.
As the steamer moved against the current, the palisades rose on either hand, green with summer leaves. There was no sign of human habitation on the bluffs. The vessel was carrying them into a wilderness. For that reason George welcomed the company of someone else fated to suffer the same uncertainties and, unless he guessed wrong, the same fears of what lay ahead.
The steamer proceeded north into the Hudson Highlands. About one in the afternoon it rounded the point that gave the institution its more common name. Orry strained for a glimpse of the cadet monument to the great engineer, Kosciusko, on the bluff above, but foliage hid it.
As the boat maneuvered into the North Dock, the two young men had a breathtaking view of the Hudson gorge stretching north. Ancient glaciers had carved terraced mountainsides and created the peaks with which Orry had familiarized himself through reading. He pointed them out. Mount Taurus behind them on the east shore, Crow-Nest on the west, and, farther upriver, the Shawangunk range.
"Back there where we passed Constitution Island the Americans strung a chain and boom to hamper navigation during the Revolution. Fort Clinton stood up there on the point. It was named for the British general. The ruins of Fort Putnam are over that way."
"Interested in history, are you?" George asked pointedly.
"Yes. Some of the Mains fought in the Revolution. One rode with Marion, the Swamp Fox."
"Well, I suppose some Hazards fought, too. In Pennsylvania we don't keep very close track of those things." Testiness brought on by the heat and by their isolation had crept into George's voice. He recognized that and tried to joke. "But now I understand why you haven't time for girls. You're always reading."
Orry reddened. George held up his hand. "Don't get me wrong. What you said is interesting. But are you always so serious?"
"What's wrong with that? You'd better be serious too, if you want to last through your first summer encampment."
George sobered. "Guess you're right."
The young female passengers waved good-bye as George and Orry left the steamer. The heat was intense now; George doffed his coat.
Two soldiers in uniform waited on the dock. One, rather oafish, leaned against a rickety one-horse cart. He wore a roundabout with brass buttons, trousers, and gloves — all white but not clean. On his head sat a flat round cap decorated with some kind of brass ornament. A big cutlass hung from a heavy belt.
Orry and George were the only arrivals. The crewmen hurled their luggage onto the dock without concern for the contents. While the newcomers gazed about them, the gangway was quickly drawn up. Bells rang, paddles churned, a whistle blast signaled departure.
The smaller of the two soldiers, clad in a somewhat cleaner uniform, clutched the hilt of his cutlass and strode forward. He too wore one of those round caps. He had a wrinkled face and addressed them with a distinct Irish brogue.
"Corporal Owens, United States Army. Provost of the post."
"We are new plebes —" George began.
"No, sir!"
"What's that?"
"You are a thing, sir. To be a plebe you must survive the entrance examinations. Until then both of you are lower than plebes. You are things. Remember that and comport yourselves accordingly."
That didn't set well with George. "Everything ranked and pigeonholed, is that it?"
With a sniff, Owens said, "Precisely, sir. The Academy puts great faith in rankings. Even the branches of the Army are ranked. The engineers are the elite. The acme. That is why cadets with the highest class standing become engineers. The lowest become dragoons. Remember that and comport yourselves accordingly."
What a damn lout, Orry thought. He didn't like Owens. As it turned out, few cadets did.
Owens indicated the cart. "Place your luggage in there, take that path to the top, and report to the adjutant's office." George asked where it was, but Owens ignored him.
The two newcomers trudged up a winding path to the Plain, a flat, treeless field that looked depressingly dusty and hot. Orry was feeling homesick. He tried to overcome that by recalling why he was here. The Academy gave him his best chance to get what he had wanted ever since he was small: a career as a soldier.
If George felt forlorn, he hid it well. While Orry studied the various stone buildings on the far edge of the Plain, George concentrated on a smaller frame structure immediately to their left; more specifically, on several visitors chatting and observing the Plain from the building's shaded veranda.
"Girls," George remarked unnecessarily. "That must be the hotel. Wonder if I can buy cigars there."
"Cadets don't smoke. It's a rule."
George shrugged. "I'll get around it."
Orry found the Academy's physical setting impressive, but the buildings themselves had a spartan look; that was the Army way, of course. It certainly gave the lie to critics who said the place pampered those who enrolled. And West Point could hardly be a citadel of indolence if ninety to a hundred young men arrived each June but only forty to fifty of them graduated four years later. Orry and his new friend had a long way to go before they left the place as full-fledged members of the class of 1846.
Admittance to West Point was highly regulated. The minimum age was sixteen, the maximum twenty-one. In any given year there could be enrolled but one cadet from each congressional district. An additional ten cadets held at-large appointments; these generally went to the sons of Army officers who had no fixed residence. There was also one presidential appointment from the District of Columbia.
Scarcely forty years old, the institution had managed to overcome a good deal of opposition from Congress and the public. Its academic excellence was now generally acknowledged, both at home and in Europe, but a fine scholastic reputation wasn't the same thing as public favor. The Academy continually fought charges that it was elitist, a school serving only the sons of the wealthy and well connected. During President Jackson's administration, Congressman David Crockett of Tennessee had introduced a bill that would have dismantled West Point had it passed.
Although the Academy had been established in 1802, it had received little attention or support from Congress or the Cabinet until after the War of 1812. During the war much of America's military leadership had shown itself to be inept. As a consequence a new Academy superintendent had been appointed in 1817. Major Sylvanus Thayer had rapidly upgraded both the military and the academic curriculum. Since Thayer's time West Point had graduated some outstanding officers. Orry had often heard his father mention Robert Lee of the Corps of Engineers. Lee had been a cadet in the late 1820s.
The military skills of the graduates of the past few decades had never been demonstrated to a skeptical population, however. There had been no wars, and without war West Point's claims about the worth of its program couldn't be validated. That skepticism was fueled by the attitude of many of the cadets; few of them planned long Army careers. They sought appointments simply to take advantage of a fine educational opportunity. The present law required just four years of military service after graduation. On the steamer George had told Orry that he intended to serve that length of time, then return to civilian life. No wonder some people said it was a crime to spend public funds on young men who had no intention of repaying the debt with long service.
From clear on the other side of the Plain came shouting. Orry and George quickly saw the source: cadets in uniform bawling orders in the dusty street that ran past the two stone barracks. Other young men in an assortment of civilian outfits stumbled into military formation in response to the hectoring. The haphazard way they lined up marked them as new arrivals.
A drum rattled somewhere, the beats staccato, the pattern distinctive. Closer at hand, a cadet in a splendid uniform walked briskly toward them, bound for the hotel. George held up a hand to catch his attention.
"Excuse me."
The cadet halted, standing rigid and fixing them with hard eyes. "Did you address me, sir?" Rather than speaking, he bellowed.
George managed to keep smiling. "That's right. We're looking for the —"
"If you are a newcomer, sir," the other screamed, "take off your hat, sir." He whipped his eyes to Orry. "You also, sir. Always uncover when you address a superior, sir." To George again. "Now, sir. What did you say to me, sir?"
Intimidated by the shouting and all the sirs, George barely managed to ask directions to the adjutant's office.
"That way, sir. I will see you again, sir. Make no mistake about that, sir."
He marched on. George and Orry exchanged dismayed looks. It was their first introduction to the West Point style of address. Neither young man liked it.
The adjutant's clerk was another Irishman, but a genial one this time. He took their appointment papers. A second assistant relieved them of their pocket money and recorded the amount in a ledger. They were then directed to see Cadet Sergeant Stribling in room fourteen of South Barracks.
Near the barracks the two paused by the communal water pump and looked past Superintendent Delafield's grazing cow to groups of young men drilling on the Plain. Orry and George knew they were newcomers because they still wore civilian clothes. The adjutant's clerk had answered Orry's question about uniforms:
"You don't get one until you're officially a plebe, m'lad. And you're not a plebe until you pass the entrance examinations."
The marchers on the field executed commands sloppily and stumbled often. This caused their cadet drillmasters to shout all the louder. Soon the newcomers were replaced by members of the cadet battalion, in uniform. Their drill was so smart and synchronized, Orry knew there was hope for the new arrivals.
They found Cadet Stribling turned out in immaculate white trousers and a cadet-gray jacket adorned with black cord herringbones and three rows of bullet-shaped gilt buttons. Stribling abused them verbally, just as the cadet near the hotel had done, then sent them to the post store where they drew supplies: bucket and broom, a tin dipper, a lump of soap, an arithmetic book and slate, and blankets. The blankets were so new they still reeked of sheep's oil. It was the traditional smell of the plebe.
Their room on the third floor of South Barracks was hardly a haven for lovers of luxury: a single window, a few storage shelves, a huge chimney and fireplace dominating one wall. Orry wondered whether the room would hold heat on snowy winter nights. He had seen but one snowfall, and that had lasted just two hours on the ground, but this wasn't South Carolina.
George studied the narrow iron beds with a professional eye. The legs were badly cast, he said. Another drum call, this one different from the first, drifted up to them in the sultry air. George made a face. "That drum seems to signal every activity around here. I feel like a damn slave to it already."
"Do you suppose that's the call to supper?" Orry said with a hopeful look.
"It better be. I'm starved."
But it was not yet mealtime. Downstairs they were ordered to fall in to watch the evening parade. A cadet band struck up a march, and Orry quickly forgot his hunger.
Bayonets on shouldered muskets flashed in the orange light of the sinking sun. The colors and officers' hat plumes danced in the breeze. The marching and the music thrilled Orry, and all at once he felt less homesick, almost happy to be here. West Point was, after all, a kind of fulfillment of a boyhood ambition that still dominated his life.
Orry couldn't remember exactly when he had decided to become a soldier, but he was very much aware of why he thought so highly of the profession. It was glamorous — much more so than the life of a rice planter — and it was important in the universal scheme of things. Many people looked down on military men, yet no one could deny that generals and their armies frequently changed the shape of entire countries and altered the course of history.
Growing up, he had read book after book about commanders who had done just that. Alexander. Hannibal. Jenghiz Khan. Bonaparte, whose apocalyptic shadow had covered Europe less than half a century ago. Out of Orry's reading and his boyhood dreams, which mingled danger and pageantry, nobility and bloodshed, had come his decision about his life's work. He would be thankful forever that his older brother hadn't wanted the appointment.
After the conclusion of the impressive evening ceremony the drum called them again — this time for supper. Cadet Stribling commanded the squad of newcomers who marched to the mess hall in slovenly fashion. In the hall everyone stood until the senior cadet captain gave the command to sit.
The squad was placed at a tottery wooden table reserved for newcomers. At other tables, however, Orry noticed new cadets seated with upperclassmen. He could only assume those things had arrived the day before. The first classmen had the best seats at the ends of the tables. Next along the sides came the second classmen, then the yearlings, then the plebes. Finally, at the very center of each side — farthest from the food — were the nervous newcomers Orry was observing. The upperclassmen passed snide comments about them but were slow to pass the bowls of food. Orry was thankful he wasn't at that kind of table tonight.
Someone said the main meal of the day was midday dinner. Hence all they got for supper was standard Army leftovers — beef and boiled potatoes. George and Orry were hungry enough that it made no difference. Besides, there were some positively delicious extras: homemade bread, country butter, rich coffee.
At the conclusion of supper the cadet captain gave the order to rise. Cadets and newcomers marched back to barracks, with fifes supplementing the drum cadence. While George and Orry spread their blankets on their iron beds, George's sullen look asked why they had come to this place of loneliness and regimentation.
Between all-in and tattoo, a couple of upperclassmen stopped by to introduce themselves. One, a six-footer named Barnard Bee, was a South Carolinian, which pleased Orry. George was greeted by a cadet from his home state, Winfield Hancock.
South Barracks housed most of the new arrivals, and that night George and Orry met some of them as well. One was a bright, glib little chap from Philadelphia who introduced himself as George McClellan.
"Real society stuff," George noted after McClellan left. "Everybody in eastern Pennsylvania knows his family. They say he's smart. Maybe a genius. He's only fifteen."
Orry left off examining his image in the small looking glass over the washstand; he had already been ordered to get a haircut.
"Fifteen? How can that be? You're supposed to be sixteen to get in here."
George gave him a cynical look. "Unless you have connections in Washington. My father says there's a lot of political pull employed to get certain men admitted. And to keep 'em here if they can't handle the work or get in a jam."
Two more newcomers stopped in a few minutes later. One, an elegantly dressed Virginian named George Pickett, was of medium height, with a quick smile and dark, glossy hair that hung to his shoulders. Pickett said he had been appointed from the state of Illinois, where he had clerked in his uncle's law office. There had been no Virginia appointments available to him. Pickett seemed even more contemptuous of the rules than the other George; his breezy manner was immediately likable.
The second visitor was also a Virginian, but Pickett's enthusiasm seemed forced when he performed introductions. Perhaps Pickett had struck up an acquaintance with the tall, awkward fellow and now regretted it. There was a marked difference between George Pickett of Fauquier County and the new cadet from Clarksburg. Of course that far western section of the state could hardly be considered an authentic part of the South; it was mountainous and populated with a lot of illiterate rustics —
Of which Tom J. Jackson, as he called himself, was a prime example. His skin was sallow; his long, thin nose looked like the blade of a knife. The intensity of his blue-gray eyes made Orry nervous. Jackson tried hard to be as jolly as Pickett, but his lack of social grace made the short visit uncomfortable for all four young men.
"With that phiz, he should be a preacher, not a soldier," George said as he snuffed out the candle. "Looks to me like he's worrying about something. A bellyache. Cramped bowels, maybe. Well, who cares? He won't last ten days."
Orry almost fell off the bed when someone kicked the door open and a stentorian voice exclaimed:
"And you, sir, will not last a fraction of that time if you don't practice a seemly silence at the appropriate moments. Good night, sir!" The door shut, a thunderclap. Even at a time of rest there was no escaping the system — or the upperclassmen.
The drum called them before daylight. The morning that followed was strange and uneasy. A cadet lieutenant, a Kentuckian, threw all their blankets on the floor and lectured them on the correct way to fold bedding and put the room in shape for inspection. George seethed, but their treatment could have been worse. A newcomer in a nearby room was visited by two cadet noncoms, one of whom introduced the other as the post barber. The trusting newcomer surrendered himself to razor and shears. Next time he was seen, he was bald.
Not all the upperclassmen were dedicated to deviling the new arrivals; some offered help. Cadet Bee volunteered to tutor the roommates in any of the subjects on which they would have to recite during entrance examinations — reading, writing, orthography, simple proportions, decimals, and vulgar fractions.
George thanked Bee but said he thought he could get through all right. Orry gratefully accepted the offer. He had always been a wretched student, with a poor memory; he had no illusions about that.
George didn't feel he had to study. He spent the morning asking questions of some of the less hostile upperclassmen. A couple of things that he discovered pleased him immensely.
He learned that a river man frequently rowed to a nook on the bank below the Plain and there awaited the cadets who had blankets or other contraband to trade. The river man's illegal goods included cakes, pies, whiskey, and — blessed news — cigars. George had been smoking since he was fourteen.
Even more satisfying was the news that young female visitors came and went at Roe's Hotel the year round. Women of all ages seemed to be smitten with a certain malady described with a leer and a wink as "cadet fever." George's four-year exile might not be as grim as he'd feared.
He knew he would find the discipline tiresome but the education offered by the Academy was supposedly very fine, so he would negotiate his way around the rules. His roommate was pleasant enough. Likable, even. Not nearly so clannish as some of the Southrons he observed. In less than twenty-four hours many of them, and many
Yankees as well, had found their fellows and formed their own little groups.
After dinner the drum sounded drill call. George was momentarily content as he joined his squad in the street. The contentment departed when he saw the drillmaster — a plebe who would become a yearling as soon as the first class changed the gray for blue.
This fellow surely weighed more than two hundred pounds. The start of a paunch showed beneath his uniform. He had black hair, sly dark eyes, and a complexion that reddened rather than browned in the sunshine. He appeared to be eighteen or nineteen. George thought of him as a porker, a pachyderm, and disliked him on sight.
"I, gentlemen, am your drillmaster, Cadet Bent. Of the great and sovereign state of Ohio." Bent unexpectedly stepped in front of Orry. "Do you have a comment on that, sir?"
Orry gulped. "No, I don't."
"You will reply with 'No, I don't — sir!' "
George had a sudden feeling that the fat cadet had taken time to discover where his charges had come from and was using the information to bait them. To many Southerners, the word Ohio meant just one thing — the state containing Oberlin College, where white and black students defied convention by studying together as equals.
"You gentlemen from down South fancy yourselves superior to we Westerners, do you not, sir?"
Orry's neck reddened. "No, sir, we do not."
"Well, I am pleased you agree with me, sir. Surprised but pleased."
Bent strutted down the squad, passing a couple of obvious bumpkins and choosing George as his next victim. "And you, sir? How do you feel about the West vis-a-vis your section — the East, am I not correct, sir? Which of the three regions is in your view superior?"
George did his best to smile like a perfect idiot. "Why, the East, sir."
"What did you say?"
Bent's bad breath was sickening, but George kept smiling. "The East, sir. Nothing but farmers out West. Present company excepted, naturally, sir."
"Would you make the same remark, sir, if you knew the Bent family had important and highly placed friends in Washington City, sir? Friends whose merest word could affect your standing here?''
Bloated braggart, George thought, grinning. "Yes, I would." Before Bent could scream, he chirruped, "Sir."
"Your name is Mr. Hazard, I believe, sir. Step forward! I shall use you to demonstrate one of the fundamental principles of marching to these gentlemen. Did you hear me, sir? I said step forward!"
George moved quickly. He had failed to heed the order because he'd been stunned by the spiteful light in Bent's eyes. This was not mere deviling; the poor wretch drew pleasure from it. Despite the heat, George shivered.
"Now, sir, I shall demonstrate the principle of which I spoke. It is commonly termed the goose step. Stand on one leg, thus —"
He lifted his right leg but swayed; his weight unbalanced him.
"On the command front, the raised leg is flung forward, thus. Front!"
He couldn't lift his leg very high because he was so heavy. Sweating, he held his position with difficulty. Then, shouting "Rear," he tried to fling his leg downward and behind him. He nearly fell on his face. Someone snickered. With horror, George realized it came from the rank near Orry.
"You, sir. Our Southern hothouse lily. I believe you were making sport of me — of this military maneuver?"
"Sir," Orry began, obviously startled.
"If you had been formally accepted as a plebe, sir, I would place you on report, and you would receive a score of demerits. You know, sir, that if you receive two hundred demerits in a year, you are sent down the Canterberry road" — that was the road to the nearest railroad depot and the familiar term for dismissal — "in disgrace. Even superior academics cannot save you. So curb your levity, sir."
Awash in self-importance, Bent was enjoying himself. "And, more important, give heed to learning this maneuver. You shall practice it, sir — you and your roommate together. Step forward!"
George and Orry stood side by side. Bent strutted in front of them. In his fiercest hoping-for-corporal bellow, he cried, "On one leg, stand! Ready, begin! Front, rear. Front, rear. Front, rear."
After a minute George felt pain in his right leg. He was damned if he'd let on. One of the regular officers strolled by, giving Bent an approving nod. Bent's commands grew louder, the cadence faster. Sweat broke out all over George's face. His leg began to throb, especially the thigh.
Two minutes passed. Two more. His ears rang, his eyes blurred. He figured he might last another ten minutes at most. He was in fine shape physically, but utterly unused to this wrenching exercise.
"Front, rear, front, rear!" Bent's voice was husky with excitement.
Some others in the squad exchanged nervous looks. The fat cadet's obsessive enjoyment was all too evident.
Orry fell first, pitching over and catching himself on palms and one knee. Bent stepped to him quickly, seeming to kick up some dust by accident. The dust struck Orry in the face.
Bent was about to order him to stand and resume the exercise when he noticed that the officer was still watching.
"Back to the ranks, sir," Bent said. He sounded almost regretful. He gave George a scathing look. "You too, sir. Perhaps next time you will not treat a military exercise so frivolously. Perhaps you will not be so pert with a superior."
George's right leg ached horribly. But he made it back to the squad, trying to limp as little as possible. Plebes had their generous share of miseries, he thought, but this spiteful hog, sweating his collar black — he was more than a disciplinarian. He was a sadist.
Bent's sly little eyes sought his again. George returned the look with defiance. He knew he had made an enemy.
The two friends asked questions about Bent. They very quickly got more information than they expected. The Ohioan was a superior student but extremely unpopular. Members of his own class willingly discussed his failings — an unusual, even rare, disloyalty and an indication of Bent's low status.
During Bent's plebe year he had been subjected to an unsual amount of hazing. In the opinion of Hancock and others, he had brought it on himself with his pompous pronouncements about war and his frequent boasts about his family's connections in Washington.
"I would surmise that he's a boor because he's fat," Bee said. "I've known a couple of chubby fellows who were picked on when they were small and as a consequence grew up to be mighty rotten adults. On the other hand, that doesn't explain why Bent's so bloody-minded. His attitude goes way beyond the proper mental set of a soldier. Goes most all the way to queerness," the South Carolinian finished with a tap of his forehead.
Another classmate mentioned Bent's devotion to the Academy's foremost professor, Dennis Mahan, who taught engineering and the science of war. Mahan believed the next great war, whatever its cause and whoever its participants, would be fought on new strategic principles.
One was celerity. The army that could move fastest would gain the advantage. A transportation revolution was under way in America and the rest of the world. Even in this relatively depressed decade railroads were expanding everywhere. Railroads would make celerity more than a classroom theory; they would make it a reality.
Information was Mahan's second new principle. Information from other than the traditional earthbound scouts. The professor loved to speculate about the use of balloons for observation, and about experiments now being conducted with coded messages sent long distances along a wire.
A great many cadets absorbed and pondered Mahan's ideas, George and Orry were told. But few preached them as fanatically as Bent. This was impressed on them when they were unlucky enough to draw Bent as drillmaster a second time. Mahan taught that the great generals, such as Frederick and Napoleon, never fought merely to win a piece of ground but for a far more important objective — to crush utterly all means of enemy resistance. During drill, Bent delivered a queer little lecture in which he referred to this teaching of Mahan's, then stressed the upperclassman's duty to promote military discipline by crushing all resistance among the plebes.
A smile wreathed his sweaty face as he held forth. But his dark little eyes were humorless. Jackson was in the squad and that day became Bent's particular target. Bent reviled the Virginian with the nickname Dunce. He did it not once but half a dozen times.
Back in barracks, Jackson declared that he thought Bent somewhat "tetched." "And not a Christian. Not a Christian at all," he added with his usual fervor.
George shrugged. "If someone slapped you with a first name like Elkanah, maybe you'd be crazy too."
"I don't know much about the Army," Orry put in, "but I know Bent isn't fit to command other men, and he never will be."
"He's just the kind that will make it, though," George said. "Especially if he has those connections he brags about."
It was traditional for the first classmen to fling their hats in the air at their last parade, then harry them around the Plain by kicking them and stabbing them with their bayonets. That was the entire West Point graduation.
Soon after the ceremony, the first classmen left, having willed or sold their uniforms and blankets to friends remaining behind. Each class then moved up, and the Board of Visitors, convened under the command of General Winfield Scott to examine the prospective graduates, now turned its attention to the prospective plebes.
General Scott was the nation's foremost soldier, pompous and obese, but a great hero. His nickname, not always uttered affectionately, was Old Fuss and Feathers. He took up residence at the hotel with his daughters and presided at the entrance examinations, although he dozed through most of them. So did a majority of the regular Army officers who sat on the board. The work of the examinations was done by the professors, who could always be identified by what they wore — not regulation uniforms but dark blue coats and trousers with a military look.
The new cadets had been randomly sorted into small groups, or sections; all academic work at the Academy was done in sections. The examinations were patterned after regular classroom sessions. At West Point students did not passively receive lecture material and months later spew it back to the instructor in a test. Every day, according to a fixed schedule, certain members of each section recited. A blackboard was always used for this demonstration, as it was called.
At the examination George and Orry and the others had to step to a board and demonstrate their facility in all the required subjects. George had done no studying. But the examinations still didn't worry him, and his relaxed manner showed it. He passed with no difficulty.
When Orry's turn came, he found the examination room hotter than the pit, the officers bored — Scott was snoring — and the demonstration work an excruciating embarrassment. He and Jackson were being tested at the same time. It was a guess as to which one sweated more, squirmed more, or got more chalk on his clothes. Was such torture worth it for a cadet's princely pay of fourteen dollars a month? Orry had to keep reminding himself that struggling at the board was the price of becoming a soldier.
At that he was lucky. Twenty young men failed and were sent home. The rest received uniforms; after these few weeks that had seemed endless, they were now officially plebes. Just to run a palm over the sleeve of his swallowtail coat of cadet gray was the greatest thrill Orry had ever experienced.
The two-month summer encampment, prescribed by law, began July 1. Except for the new second classmen, who were home on furlough, the entire cadet corps pitched tents on the Plain. Orry was initiated into the mysteries of standing guard and of dealing with upperclassmen who came sneaking around in the dark to see whether they could confuse the new sentinel.
Bent was now a corporal. He placed Orry on report three times for different infractions. Orry thought two of the charges trumped up and one highly exaggerated. George urged him to submit a written excuse for the third offense to Captain Thomas, the commandant of cadets. If the excuse was sufficiently persuasive, the report would be removed. But Orry had heard that Thomas was a stickler for grammar and felicitous phrasing and often kept a cadet in front of him for an hour, while, together, they corrected the written excuse. It sounded too much like blackboard demonstration, so he let all the reports stand and collected the demerits for each.
George seemed to be Bent's favorite target. Somehow he always managed to wind up in the Ohioan's detail. When the plebes policed the encampment, Bent hazed George to exhaustion by making him pick up pebbles and straighten blades of grass the corporal claimed were crooked. George wasn't good at keeping his temper — much to Bent's delight. He collected demerits — skins, the cadets sometimes called them — at a dizzy rate. He soon had three times the number that Orry did.
Despite the cramped tents, bad food, and incessant ragging by a few of the upperclassmen who criticized everything about the plebes from their salutes to their ancestors, the encampment delighted Orry. He relished the infantry and artillery drills that occupied most of the day. The evening parades, watched by visitors from the hotel, were splendid martial demonstrations that made all the travails worthwhile.
A cadet hop was held each week. To make sure there were enough partners for the ladies who attended, the Academy offered its students the services of a German dancing master. George brushed up on the jig and double shuffle and attended every hop if he wasn't on duty. Plebes were permitted to mingle with the female guests, but of course had to defer to upperclassmen at all times. In spite of this, George enjoyed himself immensely and on several occasions strolled down Flirtation Walk with a girl — a deliberate defiance of the rules that placed certain sections of the post off limits to members of his class. One night after a hop, George crawled into the tent with the smell of cigars on him. He found Orry still awake and urged his friend to join him at next week's dance.
"I'm a terrible dancer.'' Orry yawned. "I never have enough nerve to hold a girl firmly. I reckon my trouble is that I think of a woman as an object to be admired from a distance, like a statue."
"Stuff and nonsense," George whispered. "Women are meant to be touched and used — like a nice old winter glove. They like it."
''George, I can't believe that. Women don't think the same thoughts as men. They're delicate creatures. Refined."
"They only pretend to be delicate and refined because it sometimes suits their purposes. Believe me, Orry, a woman wants exactly what a man wants. She just isn't allowed to admit it, that's all. You'd better get over that romantic view of the fair sex. If you don't, one of these days some woman will break your heart."
Orry suspected George was right. But he still couldn't bring himself to attend a hop that summer.
At the end of August the furloughed class returned and the corps of cadets moved back to barracks. On that day upperclassmen took advantage of the plebes as beasts of burden, ordering them to carry their gear. Corporal Bent sought out George, who made four trips with staggering loads in ninety-eight-degree heat. At the start of the fifth trip Bent ordered him to run. George got halfway up the stairs in North Barracks, gasped, and passed out.
He bloodied his forehead as he crashed to the landing below. Bent didn't apologize or express sympathy. He placed George on report for damaging an upperclassman's belongings through carelessness. Orry urged that his roommate write an excuse.
George said no. "I'd have to admit I swooned like a girl. I don't want that on my record. But don't worry, I'll get that bastard. If not next week, then next month or next year." Orry was starting to feel the same way.
The morning gun, the evening gun, the fifes and the drum soon became familiar sounds, even friendly ones. It was the drum Orry liked best. It not only served as a kind of clock; it reminded him of why he was here. It cheered him up whenever he felt the classroom work was too hard — which was almost every time he went to the board.
Plebes received instruction in mathematics during the morning and in French during the afternoon. For the first week sections were organized on a random basis. Then at week's end new cadets were ranked. Orry found himself in the mathematics section second from the bottom. In French he was in the lowest section — among the immortals, as the cadets called them.
Orry's French section recited to Lieutenant Théophile d'Orémieulx, born in France and Gallic from his shrug to his peg-top trousers. He was highly critical of the accents and abilities of his pupils, and his grading showed it.
Class standings were announced once a week at parade. Some cadets rotated in or out of the lowest French section, but Orry remained. This led d'Orémieulx to question him about his background. Orry was prodded to admit that the founder of the Main family had been a Frenchman.
"Then surely your relatives speak the language?"
"No, not anymore, I'm embarrassed to say. My mother can read a little, and my sisters are being tutored in French, but that's all."
"God above," cried the instructor, storming around the room. "How do they expect me to instruct barbarians? I might as well try to teach the M'sieu Attila to paint teacups."
The conversation only seemed to worsen Orry's relationship with the instructor. One day in October, after Orry had given an especially halting recitation, d'Orémieulx blew up:
"Let me tell you something, M'sieu Main. If the M'sieu Jesu Chri were to say to me, 'M'sieu d'Orémieulx, will you listen to M'sieu Main speak French or will you go to the hell,' I would say to him 'I will go to the hell, s'il vous plaît, M'sieu Jesu Chri.' Sit down. Sit down!''
Next day, Orry started practicing his French aloud. He did this whenever he was alone in his room. Bent was always snooping around and two days later caught him during one of these recitations. The Ohioan roared into the room, demanding to know what was going on. When Orry explained, Bent scoffed.
"You are entertaining someone in here, sir. Socializing." Orry reddened. "Sir, I am not. Look for yourself, sir —"
But the corporal had already waddled out. He placed Orry on report for attempting to deceive a superior.
Orry wrote an excuse. After an awkward interview with Captain Thomas, he got the report removed. He learned later that Bent had raved and cursed for ten minutes when he heard the news.
The autumn went faster than Orry had expected. Formations, drill, classroom work, and endless study left little time for anything else. The West Point system was founded on filling all a cadet's waking moments. Only on Saturday afternoons were plebes free to do what they wished, and often that time had to be spent walking extra rounds of guard duty to work off demerits.
In bad weather the duty was miserable. Superintendent Delafield, nicknamed Old Dickey, had some strange ways of economizing. One was his refusal to issue overcoats until after the January examinations. Why give a cadet an expensive coat he would carry off with him if he were dismissed? Consequently, in autumn's rain and sleet, new cadets stood guard clad only in thin, incredibly filthy sentinel overcoats that had been in the guardroom, collecting dirt and vermin, for years.
George still didn't study much, but he was always in the first or second sections of mathematics and French. He already had 110 demerits; Orry had 93. Bent was responsible for two-thirds of both totals.
Harassment by the Ohioan slacked off as the January examinations drew near. Orry took to sneaking down to Tom Jackson's room after lights out. They studied together by the glow of banked coals in the fireplace.
Orry regarded Jackson as inherently intelligent, perhaps even brilliant, yet the Virginian had a lot of trouble with lessons and formal classroom routine; each passing mark he obtained required a monumental struggle. Still, he was determined to succeed, and some of the other cadets recognized this extraordinary drive; Jackson had already acquired his cadet nickname, General.
Sometimes, though, Orry thought Jackson was crazy — as when he would sit upright for five minutes at a time so that his internal organs could "hang and arrange themselves properly." He was maniacal on the subject of his own health.
George wrote an occasional letter home; Orry wrote a great many and received an equal number. But letters didn't help as the end of December drew near. Never before had Orry been away from the family plantation at Christmas, and he got quite sentimental over the fact. Showing rare emotion, George admitted that he too would miss home a great deal. Finally, Christmas dawned, and although the chaplain preached an inspiring sermon in the chapel and the mess hall served a fine dinner, the day was a sad and lonely one for most of the cadets.
Soon bitter January weather closed in. Dismal skies lowered spirits as examinations loomed. The Hudson started to freeze, but Orry was hardly aware of it. Even when he stood guard duty in a snowstorm, his mind was on French.
Somehow he survived the inquisition at the blackboard, After the results of the examinations were announced, he whooped and crowed outside his room while less fortunate cadets silently packed their trunks. Sixteen plebes took the Canterberry road. The others took the oath, signed the articles of enlistment — and received a cadet overcoat.
February was only a couple of days old when George made a daring proposal to his roommate. "I'm all out of cigars. And we never really celebrated our brilliant success with the examinations. Let's run it down to Benny's."
Orry looked toward the window. Moonlight touched starry patterns of frost on the glass; the fireplace did little to relieve the night's fierce cold. The Hudson had frozen over almost completely now.
"In this weather? At this hour?" Orry looked dubious. Tattoo and taps would be sounded soon.
George jumped up from his bed; he had been reading a novel. "Of course. We've yet to visit that esteemed landmark. We owe ourselves a celebration. Where's your spirit of adventure?" He was already donning his new overcoat.
Orry's inclination was to say no. But some of George's past remarks about his hesitant nature prodded him to do the opposite. Half an hour after lights out, they sneaked down the iron stairs, eluded the guards, and ran toward the river in the bitter, breathtaking cold.
They scrambled down the path on the side of the bluff and tried to make their way through the snow and frozen underbrush along the shore. They found it hard going. George squinted at the glaring expanse of white to their left.
"It'll be easier if we walk on the ice."
"Think it's thick enough to hold us?"
George's pale eyes reflected the moon sailing high above the Hudson Highlands. "We'll soon find out."
Orry followed his friend, chastising himself for his eternal failure to act boldly. What sort of behavior was that for someone who might be called upon to lead a battlefield charge? He stepped onto the slippery ice and heard a sharp creak.
Ahead, George stopped. "What was that?"
Orry peered at the black mass of the bluff above them. "I thought it came from up there."
"You don't suppose someone's following us?"
Orry looked around. On the moonlit ice they would be completely visible from shore. "It's too late to worry about that."
George agreed. They pressed ahead. Several times the ice creaked and threatened to break beneath them; it really was too thin for safe passage. But there were no signs of pursuit, and very shortly they were peering over a windowsill at the cozy fire burning inside Benny Haven's little drinking establishment on the riverbank. George rubbed his hands together, then blew on them.
"Luck's with us. Not an upperclassman in sight."
In fact Benny Haven had no customers from the post and only two from the village of Buttermilk Falls, located on the bluff above the tavern. Genial, middle-aged Benny had black hair, a big nose, and features reminiscent of an Indian's. He had been selling beer, wine, and ardent spirits for more years than the cadets could remember or the tactical officers cared to acknowledge. He greeted the two arrivals cordially. The townsmen gave them sullen looks.
George ordered three cigars and two pots of beer. The friends sat at a corner table next to a window with a view of the stoop. Should an upperclassman show up, they could cut for the curtained doorway beside the fieldstone chimney! Orry relaxed a little, enjoying the taste of the beer and the smell of hot ham drifting from the kitchen in back. He ordered a plate of ham and some bread.
Benny served the food, then struck up a conversation. As a newcomer Orry was very welcome, Benny said. But Orry's accent identified him as a Southerner. Hence Benny couldn't help asking politely about the Southern clamor for the annexation of Texas. Was it motivated by a desire on the part of politicians to add more slave territory to the Union?
Orry had heard the charge too often to be offended. Besides, his brother Cooper — much to the annoyance of their father — said it was true. Orry took his time framing a reply.
While he was thinking, Benny frowned and looked toward the curtained door. They had all heard a noise in the kitchen. George's face signaled trouble an instant before the curtain was swept aside. A cold red face loomed over a quivering mountain of cloth, a cadet overcoat.
"Well, sir, what have we here? A couple of malefactors, that's evident," said Elkanah Bent with a gloating smile.
Orry's belly hurt. He was sure Bent's arrival was no accident. He recalled the noise they had heard while walking here. How many nights had Bent spied on them, waiting for this kind of opportunity?
Suddenly, George flung his empty beer pot. Bent squealed and dodged to avoid being hit. "Run," George shouted. He went out the door like a ball from a cannon.
Orry ran after him, his only thought a ridiculous one: they hadn't paid their bill.
In one of the deepest patches of snow along the shore, George took a tumble. Orry stopped, ran back, and helped his friend to his feet. He saw Bent lumbering after them while Benny Haven stood in the tavern door, an amused spectator. He didn't act worried about the bill.
"Come on, George," Orry panted as his friend again slipped and floundered in the snow. "This time that son of a bitch will have our heads."
"Not if we beat him back."
"Even if we do, he'll report us, and we can't lie," Orry gasped as they headed up the shore. The Academy's honor code had already been thoroughly drummed into them.
"I guess we can't," George agreed.
Bent's bulk worked against him; the other two cadets were able to run much faster. But the underbrush once again impeded them. Frozen branches slashed at their faces and broke with gunlike sounds when they struck them. Soon George called for a change of direction. He leaped a low thicket and landed on the ice. Orry saw its moon whitened surface crack and sag.
"Maybe we can bluff him into not putting us on report," George said as he led the way. "He's out after hours, too, don't forget."
Orry didn't answer, just kept running. There was some flaw in George's logic which he couldn't locate.
Footing was treacherous. Every few steps Orry felt the ice give.
He looked back, saw Bent stumbling and lurching in pursuit, a huge, shuddering blot of ink on the pale expanse of the river.
"Another twenty yards and we'll be on the path," George cried, pointing. At that moment a shout went up behind them. George skidded to a stop and squinted.
"Oh, God," he groaned.
Orry lurched against him, turning. Only half of the ink blot was visible above the ice. Hands waved feebly. Frightened outcries drifted to them in the still air.
"He fell through!" Orry exclaimed.
"At his weight, are you surprised? Let's go."
"George, we can't leave him. He might drown."
Bent's cries grew more strident. George grimaced. "I was afraid you'd say that."
"Look here, I don't believe you've suddenly lost your conscience —"
"Just shut up and come on," George said, starting back. His eyes had a furious glint; he didn't need to tell Orry their luck had turned bad.
Then Orry saw Bent sinking. He and George ran even harder than they'd run before.
A second later Bent's head disappeared. His forage cap floated in the water, its stiff visor shining in the moonlight. Just as the two plebes reached the hole in the ice, the Ohioan bobbed into sight again. He groped toward them, splashing and shrieking.
George and Orry tugged and heaved. Rescue was difficult because of the slippery ice. Twice the plebes almost pitched headfirst into the water. But at last they dragged Bent out. He lay retching, a wet, whalelike figure. George knelt beside him.
"Bent? You have to get up and get back to barracks. If you don't, you'll freeze."
"Yes — all right. Help me. Please."
George and Orry stretched Bent's arms over their shoulders so that they could support him. By then the corporal was no longer making coherent sounds, just moaning and gulping air. Because of the water on Bent's clothes, his rescuers were soaked and chilled by the time they brought him to the riverbank. Still keeping silent, he labored up the hillside path. At the top he shook himself, caught his breath, and said:
"I appreciate what you did. It was — a brave act. I had better go this way. You return to your barracks as best you can."
He lumbered into the dark, the squeak of his shoes and the sound of his heavy breathing lingering for a time after he disappeared.
Orry's teeth started to chatter. His hands felt stiff, frozen. How strange Bent's last remark had sounded, how —
He couldn't think of the word he wanted.
George gave voice to his friend's feelings. "He sounded about as sincere as a woman praising spinsterhood. I think we should have let him drown."
Despite his chill, Orry laughed. "Now that it's all over, you've got to admit we had a pretty rotten celebration."
"I'll say." George pulled three broken cigars from under his overcoat. With a rueful grin, he threw them away. "The only consolation is, I never paid for them. Let's get inside before we die of ague."
The following morning, Bent was absent from breakfast. Orry and George presumed he had decided to Wheaton it — a term synonymous with malingering. Surgeon Wheaton, the post's medical officer for nearly twenty years, had a kind, unsuspecting nature. He frequently admitted cadets to the hospital or excused them from duty for feigned illnesses.
George and Orry told only a few close friends about their escapade. Then, later in the day, Pickett brought them some disturbing news.
"I'm afraid that treacherous bag of blubber didn't tell you the whole truth, boys. He had special permission to be off post after tattoo. He requested the permission from one of the tactical officers. Bent said he had information that two plebes were running it to Benny's almost every night, and he meant to catch them."
For dinner the mess hall served Albany beef — the nickname for river sturgeon caught in the Hudson before it froze. The fish didn't set well on Orry's stomach for some reason. Later he wondered if he'd had a premonition.
Before the evening was over, Corporal Bent had placed Cadets Main and Hazard on report.
The Academy honor code was founded on faith in the goodness of a cadet's character. If any cadet stated that a charge was false, his word was accepted without question and the charge was withdrawn. Orry believed in the code. Despite George's cynicism, he did too.
Hence neither denied guilt, although the resulting demerit total brought George dangerously close to dismissal.
To work off some of the demerits, the two friends had to walk a good many extra guard tours. The weather turned stormy. George withstood the outdoor duty with no ill effects, but it was different with Orry. Ever since their river adventure, he had been sneezing and sniffling, and he was feeling weak and dizzy when he started an extra tour on a particularly dark Saturday afternoon.
A blizzard was roaring across the mountains from the northwest. A foot of drifted snow piled up in less than an hour. Then the temperature rose and the result was sleet. Orry was slogging back and forth near the sally port when he realized that despite the cold, he was burning up.
Sweat mingled with melting sleet on his cheeks. His musket seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. He staggered in the snow, then leaned against the barracks wall to rest.
Someone plucked his sleeve. Orry recognized a first classman named Sam Grant, an undistinguished fellow except for his horsemanship, which was outstanding.
"Who sent you out here in this weather?" Grant demanded. "You look green. About ready to faint. You should take yourself to the hospital."
"I'm fine, sir," Orry croaked, attempting to straighten up.
The short, dark-eyed cadet was skeptical. "You're about as fine as my Aunt Bess five minutes before she expired. Shall I find a tactical officer and ask him to see that you're relieved?"
"No, sir, that would be — dereliction of — my duty."
Grant shook his head. "You'll make a fine soldier, Mr. Main. If you don't die of mulishness first."
"You know who I am?"
"Every man in the corps knows about you, and your friend, and that scum from Ohio. It's a pity Corporal Bent's standings are so high. Some of us are trying to remedy that. He's being deviled as furiously as he devils others. I sincerely hope you survive to enjoy that, sir."
With a little smile, Grant tramped off into the storm.
It was about four o'clock, Orry guessed. Dark as midnight. He forced himself to move. He thought he was marching, but actually he was reeling from point to point. Fortunately, most of the officers were indoors, hence didn't witness his awkward performance.
Another half hour passed. He began to fear he was desperately ill — mortally ill, maybe — and that his foolish wish to avoid a display of weakness would finish him.
"You're not stepping smartly, sir. Not smartly at all."
Stunned by the voice, Orry turned. He saw Bent's tentlike overcoat looming just this side of the sally port. Bent seemed to float forward, a huge shape in the murk. His eyes shone with glee.
"I heard you were out here, sir. I came to inspect —"
The Ohioan's voice faltered as Orry wrenched the old smoothbore flintlock off his shoulder. Orry was out of his head, beyond fear.
"Why are you pointing that piece at me, sir?"
"Because I'm going to shoot you, Bent. If you don't leave me alone, and my friend too, I'm going to shoot you."
Bent tried to sneer. "That musket is unloaded, sir."
"Is it?" Orry blinked and weaved on his feet. "Then I'll beat you to death with it. They can court-martial me, or even shove me in front of a firing squad, but if you're still here at the end of the next five seconds, you ungrateful bastard, I'm going to kill you."
"By God, we've a madman at West Point."
"Yes, sir. An Ohio madman, who treats plebes like animals. Well, Mr. Bent, sir, this is one plebe who won't be treated that way any longer. Five seconds. One, sir, two, sir ... "
Bent huffed, but said nothing. He was intimidated by the wild white specter in front of him. Sleet clung to Orry's cap and eyebrows. His expression almost maniacal, he turned the musket so that he gripped it by the barrel, like a club.
Humiliation and hate flickered on Bent's face. Suddenly, he spun on one heel. He seemed to melt into the storm.
Orry swallowed and shouted, "And you'd better leave us alone from now on."
"What did you say, sir?"
The sharp voice turned him the other way. Bundled to the ears, one of the tactical officers came striding toward him. The howl of the wind forced the officer to yell. "Cadet Grant requested that I come out here, sir. He said you were too ill for this duty. Is that true?"
By now Orry had practiced the position of a soldier a thousand times or more. He tried to assume it, not even realizing he had just committed the one unforgivable sin. He had dropped his musket in the snow.
The tactical officer seemed to be tilting back and forth. Orry attempted to stop the motion by blinking his eyes.
"Is that true, sir?"
"No, sir!" Orry cried, and fell forward against the officer, unconscious.
George came running to the hospital an hour later. Surgeon Wheaton met him in the waiting room.
"Your friend is in extremely serious condition. His fever is dangerously high. We are trying to reduce it, but if it doesn't break within twenty-four hours, his life could be in jeopardy."
George thought of Bent, and the storm outside, and of Orry. "The poor damn fool wants to be a soldier too badly," he said in a bitter voice.
"This place has a way of inspiring that ambition." Wheaton's tone mingled regret and pride. "You look none too well yourself, young man. I prescribe a tot of rum. Come into my office and'' — he smiled — "Wheaton it for a few minutes, as the saying goes."
With the surgeon's permission, George kept a vigil at Orry's bedside all night. Pickett joined him for a while. So did Jackson. A first classman named Grant looked in briefly. How Orry knew him, George couldn't imagine.
By morning the hospital was cold and silent. George wriggled on his chair. The others were gone. Orry's face was still as pale as the undyed wool coverlet drawn up beneath his chin. He looked fragile in the flickering glow of the fish-oil lamps. Fragile and very sick.
George gazed at his friend and, to his astonishment, found tears welling in his own eyes. The last time he had cried he was five years old. He had been thrashed by this older brother for daring to play with Stanley's pet frog.
George wasn't surprised that Orry Main's fate could mean so much to him. The two of them had gone through a lot together, in a very short period. Common hopes and hardships had forged a strong bond of affection. West Point apparently had a way of doing that, too.
He stayed in the chair, neither sleeping nor eating, until noon, when Orry's fever broke.
The next afternoon, with February sunshine pouring through the window, Orry looked much better. George visited him before supper call with some good news.
"Bent seems to have gotten tired of deviling us. I passed him when I was coming over here. He looked the other way."
"I'd still like to kill him. God forgive me for saying such a thing, but it's the way I feel."
Orry's quiet savagery disturbed George, but he smiled and tried not to show it. "See here, my friend. You were the one counseling meekness and mercy when he was going down 'neath the icy waves. And I listened to you."
Orry folded his arms. "Almost wish you hadn't."
"It's better to leave him alive and squirming. The upperclassmen are skinning him right and left. That's sweet revenge."
"But he'll blame us. Even if he lets up on us for a while, he won't forget. There's something twisted about him."
"Well, don't fret over it," George said with a shrug. "We have enough to do keeping our demerit total under two hundred. It's a long way until June."
Orry sighed. "I reckon you're right."
But neither believed that merely forgetting about Bent would do away with the threat he posed.
Late in the spring, all the Hazards except Virgilia paid a visit to West Point. George wheedled the necessary permission to join them for Saturday dinner at the hotel. He took his friend along.
William Hazard invited Orry to visit them in Lehigh Station at some time in the future. Orry said he'd enjoy that. He found the family as likable as he remembered — save for Stanley, who talked, or rather bragged, incessantly. Stanley was preening over the fact that he and his father were to dine that night with a family named Kemble, who lived across the river in Cold Spring.
Between bites of a delicious lamb chop, Orry asked, "Are the Kembles relatives of yours?"
Stanley snickered. "No, my boy. They are the proprietors of the West Point Foundry. Who do you think casts most of the ordnance purchased by the Army?"
Stanley's pompous manner made his little brother Billy grimace and silently imitate him. Billy was seated next to Stanley, who didn't see the imitation and thus didn't understand why George guffawed. Billy's antics earned him a thwack on the ear from his father. Mrs. Hazard looked chagrined.
Stiffly, Orry said, "I'm sorry, I never heard of the Kembles."
"Their Saturday-night fetes are famous." Stanley's tone suggested that Orry and his home state somehow existed outside the mainstream of national life.
To Mr. Hazard, Orry said, "They're ironmakers, are they?"
The older man nodded. "With candor and envy, I must admit there are none better in the nation."
"Maybe they could help my brother."
Bored, Stanley forked up a potato. But William Hazard listened politely as Orry explained that in recent letters Cooper had complained about excessive breakage of wrought-iron walking beams and flywheels in the rice mill at Mont Royal.
"That's the name of our plantation. The mill used to be powered by the river tides, but my brother talked my father into trying a steam engine. Father was against the idea. Now he thinks he was right."
"Casting iron is a tricky business," Mr. Hazard said. "Perhaps the Kembles could help your brother. Better still, why not let us try? Have him write me."
"I'll do that, sir. Thank you!"
Orry was always eager to make his older brother think well of him. He wrote Cooper the next day. Cooper's reply began with words of appreciation to Orry. He then said he suspected that the man in Columbia who made the mill parts understood the process even less than he did. Hence he would be grateful for advice and assistance from experts. He was dispatching a letter to Hazard Iron immediately.
June approached. To Orry's surprise, he realized he stood a good chance of surviving his plebe year, although he seemed destined to remain an immortal forever. George continued to stand high in the academic ranking, and without visible effort. Orry envied his friend, but never to the point that jealousy impaired their relationship.
Both friends had managed to keep their demerit total just under two hundred, and when the new group of prospective cadets began to arrive, pressure on the plebes lessened. Orry and George did their share of deviling the newcomers, but there was little meanness in it. Bent had provided too good an object lesson.
It was impossible to avoid the Ohioan completely, of course. But whenever they encountered him, he affected an opaque stare, as if they didn't exist. The friends continued to feel that although Bent had left them alone during their final months as plebes, he certainly hadn't forgotten about them. Nor was it likely that he had forgiven them, either.
About ten days before the start of the summer encampment, Cooper arrived unexpectedly. He had just come from Pennsylvania, where William and Stanley Hazard had examined some of the shattered parts from the Mont Royal mill.
"Your father and brother solved the problem in short order," Cooper reported to George. "As I suspected, that clod in Columbia doesn't know what he's doing. Apparently he doesn't remelt his pig iron at the right temperature. If I can convince him of that, we may have fewer breakdowns. Of course convincing him won't be easy. As far as he's concerned, admitting you can learn something from a Yankee is almost as bad as saying Johnny Calhoun was wrong on nullification."
George was fascinated by Cooper Main, who was twenty-three and taller than his younger brother. He wore fine clothes, which managed to look terribly untidy. He had sunken cheeks and darting dark eyes and was not without a sense of humor, although George found him more inclined to sarcastic smiles than to laughter. Cooper and Orry shared certain obvious family traits, including a slender frame, the brown wavy hair, and the narrow, almost haughty nose. But the older brother lacked the robust color Orry developed whenever he spent even one day in the sunshine; Cooper's thin face and body seemed to have an unhealthy aura, as if he had been born pale, tired, and driven to think too much.
Cooper had decided to make the whirlwind overnight visit not only for the purpose of seeing Orry but to inspect the school that was turning out the nation's smartest soldiers. He remarked that there was nothing in creation unworthy of study, unless perhaps it was family trees in his native state.
During Cooper's short stay at Roe's Hotel, however, his attention seemed to wander repeatedly from the sights he had come to see. Once Orry caught him gazing at the big stone barracks — or perhaps something beyond them — with an almost melancholy look in his eyes.
But just before Cooper left, he put aside his preoccupations and his air of mockery and flashed a big grin at George, saying: "You must pay us a visit, sir. Lots of mighty pretty girls down on the Ashley. Got a couple in our own family. They'll be beauties when they grow up. Didn't see many pretty girls in the Lehigh Valley. 'Course, I spent most of my time staring into fiery furnaces. Your family operates a mighty impressive factory, Mr. Hazard."
"I wish you'd call me George."
"No, call him Stump," Orry put in. "All the cadets get nicknames eventually. We were christened last week."
"Stump, eh?" Cooper shot a glance at his brother. "What's yours?"
"Stick."
That made Cooper laugh. "Parts of the same tree, is that it? Well, Mr. Stump, I want to say I admire the size and scope of your family's enterprise." Again his eyes took on that distant, melancholy look. "I surely do."
Over the bellowings from a calf boat moving down the Hudson, they heard the whistle of the steamer at the North Dock. Cooper grabbed his valise and rushed down the steps of the hotel veranda.
"Come see us, Mr. Stump. Mind that you eat right, Orry. We'll expect you home next summer.''
After the visitor hurried out of sight, George said, "Your brother seems like a fine fellow."
Orry frowned. "He is. But there was something wrong. He was making a valiant effort to joke and smile — neither is very easy for him anytime — but he was upset."
"Why?"
"I wish I knew."
The river sloop Eutaw carried Cooper home from the seacoast. Aboard the sloop were packets of mail and shipments of staples sent up-river to the various plantations by the Charleston factor who served them.
It was a still, sunny morning. The Ashley was placid, glassy. Of all the rice rivers, it was one of the least valuable because the ocean could affect it so drastically. Although the river was fresh here, freak tides or hurricanes sometimes brought the salt of the Atlantic, which killed the rice. But in the opinion of Cooper's father and the other local planters, that risk was offset by the ease of shipping the crop down to Charleston.
The heat of late June baked Cooper's neck and hands as he stood at the rail awaiting his first glimpse of the Main dock. He was often bitterly critical of his state, and of this region in particular. But love of both dwelled deep in his bones. He especially loved the familiar sights of the river, the panorama of pines, live oaks, and occasional palmettos rising on those stretches of shore that remained unclaimed. In the trees, jays and redbirds flashed their colors. At one place a river road skirted the bank. Cooper watched three young blades on fine horses thunder by; racing was a favorite sport in the low country.
Insects nibbled and nagged at his skin. He could almost smell the sickly season coming. At the great house, preparations would be under way for the family's removal to their place at Summerville. From there Cooper's father would ride down to the plantation to inspect on a regular basis, but he would not stay at Mont Royal until the weather cooled again. They had a saying about South Carolina's coastal region, where miasmic fevers killed scores of whites every year: "In the spring a heaven. In the summer a hell. In the fall a hospital."
On the port side the foliage gave way to man-made ramparts — the high main banks. Beyond them lay fields long ago reclaimed from the marshlands by the hard work of Cooper's forebears. The banks themselves were a key part of the operation of the complex agricultural machine that was a rice plantation.
At regular intervals the banks were pierced by rectangular wood culverts called trunks. The trunks had gates at both ends. By means of these gates the water of the river was carefully admitted to, or drained from, the fields where the rice grew. That is, the rice grew if Tillet Main's people did their work properly and on time. It grew if the May birds and the rice birds weren't too numerous. It grew if autumn storms didn't poison the river with salt.
There were all sorts of variables, and endless risks. Many disappointments and few absolute triumphs. The life of a rice planter taught a healthy respect for the elements, and it frequently gave Cooper the feeling that the Mains should be in some less capricious, more modern business.
A hail from the wheel lifted him from his reverie. They had come in sight of the landing, and he hadn't even realized it. All at once he felt strangely sad. Better keep your mouth shut about the things you saw up North.
He doubted he could, though.
Soon he was striding up the path through the formal garden that overlooked the river. The air smelled of violets and jasmine, of crab apple and roses. On the second-floor piazza of the great house, his mother, Clarissa Gault Main, was supervising some of the house slaves in the work of closing off the upper rooms. She spied him, ran to the railing, called down with a greeting. Cooper waved and blew her kisses. He loved her very much.
He didn't enter the house but instead circled one end, saying hello to each of the Negroes coming and going around the separate kitchen building. From this spot he could enjoy the pleasing view down the half-mile lane that ran between giant live oaks to the little-used river road. A sultry breeze had sprung up; gray beards of Spanish moss stirred on the trees.
At the head of the lane he saw two little girls. His younger sisters, scrapping as usual; one was chasing the other. Of that rascally Cousin Charles there was no sign.
Mont Royal's business headquarters was another small building beyond the kitchen. Cooper mounted the steps and heard the voice of Rambo, one of the plantation's most experienced drivers.
"They's pipped in South Square, Mr. Main. Landing Square, too." He was referring to fields, each of which had a name.
Tillet Main hedged his bets every year by planting a third of his land during the late season in early June, when the resulting crop would be less likely to be damaged. The driver was telling Cooper's father that the seed in those late-planted areas had put out shoots from beneath the water of the sprout flow. Soon those fields would be drained by means of their trunks, and the long period of dry growth would begin.
"Good news, Rambo. Does Mr. Jones know?"
"He there with me to see it, sir."
"I want you and Mr. Jones to inform all the people who need to be told."
"Yes, sir. Surely will."
Cooper opened the door and said hello to the big gray-haired black man just leaving. Everyone else in the family called the Negroes Tillet's people, people being a traditional term that was somehow supposed to soften or obscure the truth. To Cooper it seemed less onerous — though not much — to be honest in one's thinking. He mentally referred to the Negroes by one word only: slaves.
"Thought the Yankees had kidnapped you," Tillet Main said from within the cloud of pipe tobacco hanging over his desk. He quirked the corners of his mouth — which would be all the affection he would display this morning, Cooper suspected.
"I took a day to visit Orry. He's getting along just fine."
"I expect him to get along just fine. I'm more interested in what you found out."
Cooper eased himself into an old rocker beside his father's ledger-littered desk. Tillet was his own bookkeeper and examined every bill pertaining to the operation of Mont Royal. Like other low-country planters, he liked to refer to his holdings as a barony, but he was one baron who personally kept track of every coin he owned.
"I found my suspicions were correct," Cooper said. "There's a scientific reason for the beams and flywheels breaking so often. If enough of the carbon in cast iron isn't oxidized — the carbon and some of the other elements, too — the iron isn't tough enough for machine parts that take a lot of abuse. Now I have to convince that dunce up in Columbia. If I can't, maybe we can order parts from a foundry in Maryland or even Pennsyl —''
"I would rather keep the business in the state," Tillet broke in. "It's easier to put pressure on friends than on strangers."
"All right." Cooper sighed. He had just been issued another parental order. He received dozens every week. Pique prompted him to add, "But I made some friends in Pennsylvania." Tillet ignored the remark.
The head of the Main family was in his forty-eighth year. Already the fringe of hair around his bald head was pure white. Cooper had inherited Tillet's height and his dark eyes. Yet in this last feature there was a distinct difference between father and eldest son. Cooper's eyes were soft, speculative, bitterly humorous sometimes. Tillet's gaze was seldom gentle or merry. It was, rather, direct, unblinking — and occasionally fierce.
Responsible for the behavior and the welfare of scores of human beings, white as well as black, Tillet Main had long ago schooled himself out of a natural shyness. He gave orders as if born to it — which, by virtue of his last name, he was. In summation of his character it could be said that he loved his wife, his children, his land, his church, his Negroes, and his state, and apologized for none of it.
Half the children he had sired hadn't lived past age four. Cooper's mother said that was why Tillet smiled so seldom. But the eldest son suspected there were other reasons. Tillet's position and heritage naturally inclined him to a justifiable touch of arrogance. At the same time, he was the victim of a growing sense of inferiority which he was helpless to control or defeat. It was a malady Cooper recognized in many Southerners these days. His trip had reconfirmed that such a condition was not without good cause.
Tillet studied his son. "You don't sound very happy to be home."
"Oh, I am," Cooper replied, telling the truth. "But I haven't been up North since my last year at Yale. What I saw depressed me pretty thoroughly."
"Exactly what did you see?" Tillet's manner had turned prickly. Cooper knew he should retreat. Stubbornly, he refused.
"Factories, Father. Huge, dirty factories, humming and clanging and fouling the sky like the furnaces of Beelzebub himself. The North's growing at a frightening rate. Machines are taking over. As for people — my God, I've never encountered so many. Comparatively speaking, this is a wilderness."
Tillet relit his pipe and puffed a moment. "You think quantity counts more than quality?"
"No, sir, but —"
"We don't want a lot of foreign nobodies crowding us."
There it was again, that stupid, stiff-necked pride. Cooper snapped, "What was Charles Main except a foreign nobody?"
"He was a duke, a gentleman, and one of the original Huguenot settlers."
"All very fine, sir. But worshiping the past won't build factories or help the South's economy. This is the age of the machine, and we refuse to acknowledge it. We cling to agriculture and our past, while we fall farther and farther out of step. Once the South practically ran this country. No more. Every year we lose respect and influence at the national level. And with reason. We aren't attuned to the times."
He stopped short of citing the familiar proof — the peculiar institution to which the South's prosperity had become shackled as firmly as the slaves themselves were bound to their owners. But he didn't have to go that far to infuriate Tillet. The older man banged the desk.
"Hold your tongue. Southerners don't speak against their homeland. At least loyal Southerners don't. There are enough Yankees doing that."
The son was caught — squeezed — between his own convictions and his eternal inability to change Tillet's mind. They had argued like this before, but never quite so hotly. Cooper found himself shouting: "If you weren't so damn stubborn, like all the rest of the barons of this benighted —"
A scream outside brought a temporary end to the quarrel. Father and son ran for the door.
The scream had come from one of the two little girls Cooper had noticed while on his way to the office. Ashton Main and her sister Brett had finished their reading and ciphering lessons a half hour before the sloop docked. Their tutor, a Charleston German named Herr Nagel, had gone off for a late-morning nap, pleased with the younger girl's eagerness to learn but irked by the sauciness of the older one, as well as her boredom with all things intellectual.
Both girls were unmistakably Mains, yet they were different. Only one was ever noticed by visitors — Ashton, who was going on eight and already beautiful. Her hair was much darker than was typical in the family. In certain lights it looked black. In color and sometimes in ferocity her eyes were exactly those of her father.
Brett was two years younger, not homely but less perfectly featured than her sister. She showed signs of growing up to be slender and quite tall, like Tillet and her brothers; she and Ashton were already the same height. It was an inheritance that would prove a handicap when it came time to attract beaux, as Ashton frequently pointed out.
After their lessons, the girls had gone for a stroll along the river. On a branch in a clump of underbrush, beyond the last square where the green shoots of the March planting stood healthy and tall, Brett had discovered an empty bird's nest containing a small, pale egg.
"Ashton, come see," she called.
Ashton approached with a jaunty step that had a touch of swagger. Young as she was, she had a clear awareness of her physical assets as compared to those of her sister. Her sense of superiority showed as she gazed down at the egg.
Brett said, "A green heron left it, I think." She scanned the river with grave eyes. "Bet she'll be back to nest soon."
Ashton noticed her sister's expression, and for a second or so a little smile played on her pink mouth. "Well, she'll be disappointed," she said, bending quickly to scoop the egg from the nest. Then she ran.
Brett pursued her along the bank. "Put that back. You haven't any right to take a mother bird's baby."
"Oh, yes, I have," Ashton said, tossing her hair. That was that.
Brett knew her sister, or thought she did. The situation called for desperate action, but carried out with cleverness. She pretended to be resigned. Soon Ashton was off guard, walking slowly and examining the prize she held on her upraised palm. Brett ran up from behind and snatched the egg.
Ashton chased her around the great house to the lane — the point at which Cooper, on his way to the office, saw them. The pursuit continued for several minutes. Finally, when both girls were out of breath, Ashton seemed overcome by contrition.
"I'm sorry, Brett. You're right and I'm a ninny. We should put it back. Just let me look at it once more, then we will."
Ashton's sweet sincerity lulled the younger girl. She handed the egg to her sister. Ashton's smile changed. "If it isn't mine, it isn't yours either." She closed her fist and crushed the egg.
Brett jumped at her and, being wiry and agile and not very ladylike, easily bore her to the ground. She yanked Ashton's hair and pummeled her until she shrieked. The outcry brought Papa and Cooper from the office. Papa pulled the two of them apart, got widely varying accounts of the incident from each, then turned them over his knee one at a time, and spanked them — all before their mother dashed out of the house in response to the noise.
Brett bawled to protest the injustice. Ashton bawled even louder. Yet while she threw her head back and grimaced and cut up, her eyes were luminous. At first glance the cause seemed to be tears. Closer inspection showed that she was amused. Clarissa, Tillet, and Cooper missed that.
Brett didn't.
Roughly three-quarters of a mile from the great house, in a separate little community of the plantation, another fight was taking place about the same time. A black boy and a white boy rolled over and over in the middle of a dusty street, struggling for possession of a bamboo fishing pole.
The street ran between two rows of whitewashed slave cabins. Here, too, carefully separated from the master's residence, stood the plantation sick house, the small church, and, dominating the far end of the street, a five-room residence raised on pillars of tabby. This house belonged to the Mont Royal overseer, Mr. Salem Jones, a New Englander by birth and a martinet by disposition. Jones had been raised in the South by his widowed mother and about eleven years ago had come to Mont Royal with excellent references from another plantation. Tillet still considered him a Yankee, hence an eternal outsider. Jones's good performance on behalf of the Mains helped overcome Tillet's distrust, but nothing could ever dispel it completely.
The two boys were tussling under the casual gaze of little black children and black men too old to work. It was hard to say which of the two was the rowdier or the dirtier. The white boy — seven years old, suntanned, and strong — was Charles Main. Cousin Charles, Clarissa called him, to distinguish him from the Mains in her own family.
Charles was an exceptionally handsome child. But good looks were just about his only inherited assets. He was the son of Tillet's brother, an incompetent lawyer named Huger Main. Together with his wife, Huger had perished on a New York-bound steamer that foundered and sank off Hatteras in 1841. Charles had been staying with his aunt and uncle while his parents vacationed. He was their only child, and he remained with his relatives after the funeral and the burial of a pair of empty caskets.
It was an easy life for Charles, if a lonely one. With the intuition of the young, he suspected Uncle Tillet hadn't thought much of his father, hence didn't think much of him. Charles turned the rejection into a blessing. His aunt and uncle permitted him to go his own way, making no attempt to subject him to the torture of studying with that Dutch tutor. Charles fished a lot and roamed the woods and marshes around the plantation. For friends he had black boys such as Cuffey, with whom he was wrestling for possession of the pole.
Loud voices in one of the slave cottages attracted the attention of the boys and some of the Negroes. Out of the cottage strode a familiar booted figure. Short, bald, and potbellied, with one of the more cherubic faces in the world, Salem Jones found it necessary to emphasize his authority by going everywhere with a quirt in his hand and a thick hickory truncheon in his belt.
The boys stopped fighting. In the process, Charles accidentally broke the pole. As usual, his shirt hung out and dirt streaked his cheeks and chin. Last week's fight with Cuffey's cousin James had cost Charles one of his upper front teeth. He thought the gap gave him a dashing air.
"Jones been tryin' to go at Semiramis," Cuffey whispered. "He been tryin' since his wife died six month ago."
"He was trying a long time before that, only not so's everybody could see," Charles confided. "That's what Uncle Tillet said, anyway."
Salem Jones walked up the street and disappeared in back of his residence. Charles drifted nearer the cottage occupied by Semiramis and her family. The girl was dimly visible beyond the open door. Charles couldn't see much of her, but he could picture her vividly. Semiramis had satiny black skin, gloriously perfect features, and a ripe figure. All the boys on the plantation agreed she was something special.
Looking angry, Jones saddled up his horse and rode rapidly toward the fields. Cuffey offered a prediction. "Priam be in for it tonight. Old Jones don't get what he want from her, he take it out on her brother.''
Charles studied the position of the sun. "I was going to the house for dinner. I think I'll hang around till Priam finishes with his task." The family wouldn't miss him anyway.
Soon he was speculating about what might happen. Semiramis's brother Priam was a strong, and strong-willed, Negro. Three generations removed from Angola, he still possessed a great sense of the freedom that he had been denied.
Charles could appreciate Priam's resentment. The boy didn't understand a system that granted some men freedom because they were white and barred other men from it because they were not. He found that kind of system unjust, even barbaric, although he also believed it to be both immutable and universal.
He had several times discussed certain aspects of the slave system with Cuffey. For example, they had both observed that Semiramis had not the least objection to the classical name given her at birth; her fancy name, Cuffey called it. She did not consider it a sly mockery of her status. Priam, on the other hand, understood the mockery very well. He made no secret of hating his name.
"Priam say he won't be Mist' Tillet's man forever," Cuffey had once confided to his friend. "He say it a lot."
Charles knew what was meant. Priam would run away. To what, though? Wasn't slavery practiced everywhere? Cuffey thought not, but could offer no evidence.
Charles loitered around the slave community as the afternoon wore on. He napped for an hour in the cool, dark church and was seated on a cottage stoop, whittling, when the field hands began to stream in with their hoes canted over their shoulders.
Jones had returned to his house an hour ago. He now appeared on the porch, sweat rings staining his shirt and his quirt and his truncheon very much in evidence.
"You, Priam," Jones called with an affable smile. The slave, a full head taller and fifteen years younger than the overseer, stepped out of the file of ambling Negroes. He was barely respectful as he answered:
"Yes, Mist' Jones?"
"Driver tells me you've been slack in your work lately. He says you've complained a lot, too. Shall I give you a task and a half every day?"
Priam shook his head. "I do every lick I'm 'posed to. I don't have to like it, do I?" He glanced at the other slaves, his eyes resentful, even threatening. "Driver never tol' me I wasn't pleasin' him."
Jones swaggered down the steps, but only halfway; going farther would have put the top of his head below the level of Priam's eyes. "Do you honestly think he'd tell you? No. You're too stupid to understand. All you're good for is just what you're doing. Nigger work. Animal's work."
The overseer gigged Priam's stomach with the truncheon, trying to rouse him. "I'm going to keep you busier for a week or so. An extra half task every day."
There were soft gasps from some of the Negroes who were watching. One task, one assigned piece of work, was the customary quota on all but the most repressive plantations. An able man could complete his task well before the sun set and then have time to cultivate his own garden or attend to personal chores.
Priam's jaw set. He knew better than to sass the overseer. But Jones was determined to provoke him. Charles hated the puffed-up little Yankee with his bald skull and whiny nasal voice.
"Got nothing to say about that, nigger?" Jones gigged Priam harder this time. "I could do more than increase your work. I could give you what your insolent stares call for." He shook the quirt at Priam. "Some of this."
The one-sided nature of the quarrel propelled Charles off the stoop like a cannonball. "Mr. Jones, you got a whip and you got a stick, and Priam's got nothing at all. Why don't you treat him fair? Give him one or the other and then pick a fight."
Silence.
The frightened slaves stood motionless. From the river drifted the hoarse bellowing of an alligator. Even Priam lost the murderous look Jones had kindled in his eyes. The dumbfounded overseer gazed down at the boy.
"You taking this nigger's part?"
"I just like to see him treated fair. Everybody says he's a hard worker. My uncle says that."
"He's a nigger. He's expected to work hard. To break his back, if need be. And you're expected to stay up at the great house where you belong. You keep messing around this part of the plantation, I'll start to wonder why. Does something attract you down here? Does something call to you, like to like? A little nigger blood, perhaps?"
It was the sneer, not the insult, that infuriated Charles. He lowered his head and butted Salem Jones in the stomach. Then he punched him twice and ran like the devil.
He hid out down by the river until twilight. Finally, he decided he couldn't stay away from the great house any longer. As he walked slowly through the garden, a hiss from behind a shrub caught his attention.
Cuffey's face shone in the fading light. Grinning, he said the diversion had been successful. After Charles's attack, Jones had been so mad he had lost interest in bullying Priam.
Hungry and tired, Charles drifted on toward the house. Somehow his victory seemed unimportant. It seemed downright disastrous when he found Uncle Tillet waiting for him, a scowl on his face.
"Jones was here an hour ago. Come in the library. I demand to know what you have to say for yourself.''
Charles obeyed and followed his uncle. The boy had always loved the sights and sounds of the great house at this hour of the day. The silver pots and bowls, the rosewood and walnut furniture giving back the candle- and lamplight. The crystal chandelier pendants catching the river breeze and jingling. The house servants murmuring and laughing occasionally as they finished their work. He saw and heard none of that tonight.
Charles had always liked Tillet's library, too, with its heavy, masculine furniture and the fascinating and highly realistic mural of ancient Roman ruins that formed part of the wall above the mantel. The shelves held hundreds of fine books in English, Latin, and Greek. Charles had no interest in those, although he admired his uncle for his ability to read all of them. This evening the library seemed unfriendly and forbidding.
Tillet asked Charles to explain his behavior. Haltingly, the boy said that since Jones had a quirt and a stick and Priam had no weapon there had been no question about whose side he would take.
Tillet shook his head as he reached for his pipe. "You have no business taking sides in that kind of dispute. You know Priam's one of my people. He doesn't have the same rights or privileges as a white man."
"But shouldn't he? If someone's going to hurt him, does he have to take it?"
Tillet lit his pipe with quick, jerky motions. His voice dropped, a sign of anger.
"You're very young, Charles. It's easy for you to fall prey to misconceptions — the wrong ideas," he amended when the long word produced a look of bafflement. "I take care of my people. They know that. And Mr. Jones, while a good manager, is in some ways a blasted fool. There is no need for him to strut around with a stick and quirt. We have no troublemaking niggers at Mont Royal — well, I take that back. Priam and one or two others show signs of rebellious temperament. But not all the time, and not to an unforgivable degree. I work hard to maintain a good atmosphere here. My people are happy."
He broke off, awaiting the boy's approval. Charles asked, "How can they be happy when they can't go wherever they want or do whatever they want?"
It seemed a perfectly natural question, but Tillet flew into a rage.
"Don't ask questions about things you don't understand. The system is beneficial to the people. If they weren't here, they'd be living in savagery. Negroes are happiest when their lives are organized and run for them. As for you, young man —"
Tillet's gaze flicked to the door, which he hadn't quite closed when they came in. Someone was out there listening. Tillet didn't appear concerned. He shook the stem of his pipe at the boy.
"If you cause Mr. Jones any more trouble, I'll put you across my knee and give you a tanning. I wish to heaven you'd behave yourself and try to act like a young gentleman — although I realize that's probably an impossible request, given your disposition. Now get out of here." Charles pivoted on the heel of his boot and ran. He didn't want his uncle to see the tears that had filled his eyes so unexpectedly. He tore the door open and gasped when he saw the looming figure —
It was only Aunt Clarissa. She stretched out a comforting hand. "Charles —"
His uncle thought him worthless. No doubt she did too. He dodged her hand and ran out of the house into the dark.
Later that night, in the large bedroom on the river side of the second floor, Tillet helped unfasten the lacings of his wife's corset. She breathed a long sigh, walked around several partially packed trunks and valises, and stepped behind a screen to finish her preparations for bed.
Tillet tugged on the linen drawers he wore for sleeping in warm weather. They weren't fashionable, but they were comfortable. The room remained quiet. The stillness upset him. He looked toward the screen.
"Out with it, Clarissa. I'd like a good night's sleep."
She emerged in her nightdress, stroking her unbound gray hair with a brush. Clarissa Main was a small woman with delicate, aristocratic features that somewhat offset a strong peasant look created by her plump face and thick arms. Few people thought her sons resembled her, except in one way: their noses were exactly like hers. Clarissa's ancestors, Huguenots named Gault, had arrived in Carolina two years before Charles de Main — a fact with which she twitted her husband whenever he became overbearing.
"I already apologized for eavesdropping," she said. "How you discipline Cousin Charles is your affair. He's your brother's son."
"You can't abdicate so easily," Tillet replied with gruff sarcasm. "Not when I know you have definite ideas of your own."
"Would you listen if I offered them?" The question was serious, yet free of acrimony. They seldom had arguments, but they had an almost infinite number of what they termed discussions. "I think not. You've already written the boy off as a wastrel and a failure."
Tillet fell back on a catchphrase: "Like father, like son."
"Sometimes. Sometimes not."
"He has dangerous notions. Did you hear some of the questions he asked?''
"Tillet, my dear, Cousin Charles isn't the only one with doubts about the system under which this family has lived for six generations."
"Lived and prospered," he corrected, sitting heavily on the edge of the canopied bed. "As have the Gaults."
"I don't deny it."
"Even my own son harbors the same kind of mad ideas."
His accusing tone kindled her anger. "If this is the start of your standard lecture about Cooper's bookish turn of mind and my responsibility for it, I don't want to hear it. I remind you that Cooper went to Yale — your college — at your insistence. And, yes, I do share some of his doubts about the wisdom of keeping tens of thousands of people enslaved."
He waved. "That's your fear of rebellion. Nothing like that will happen here. This parish isn't Haiti. We have no Veseys at Mont Royal."
He referred to the organizer of an 1822 slave uprising, one Denmark Vesey, a free mulatto of Charleston. The uprising had never taken place; it had been discovered and crushed ahead of time. But the memory of it influenced the behavior and haunted the sleep of most South Carolinians.
Tillet's condescending tone infuriated his wife. "Yes, indeed, that is my fear of the black majority. But more than that, it is, believe it or not, the expression of my conscience."
He jumped up. Spots of color appeared in his cheeks, but he withheld an angry retort and quickly got control of his temper. He loved Clarissa, which was why she was the only person in creation able to argue with him — and win.
More mildly, he said, "We're far from the original subject."
"You're right." Her nod and smile signaled a desire to end the quarrel. "I only want to suggest that you might do more than disapprove of the boy. He has a great deal of energy. Perhaps you should try to channel it in a positive way."
"How?"
A small shrug, a sigh. "I don't know. That's always the question on which I founder."
With the lamps extinguished and a cotton sheet drawn over them as protection against the cooling air, he curved his body around hers and rested his arm on her hip, as he did every night. The discussion refused to die — perhaps because, deep down, Tillet felt she was right about Cousin Charles. Like Clarissa, he often racked his brain for a remedy to the problem, and he always failed to find one. Inevitably, he took refuge in hostility.
"Well, I have no time for the herculean task of redeeming that young scoundrel. Did I say herculean? A better word is impossible. Along with every other person of sense in the neighborhood, I'm convinced Charles will come to a bad end."
"If everyone thinks that," Clarissa murmured sadly in the dark, "he will."
To George and Orry, the 1843 encampment proved far more enjoyable than their first one. George was promoted to corporal, which somewhat embarrassed his friend who continued to crave a military career. Nevertheless, Orry shook the new cadet noncom's hand warmly, and together they ran it to Benny's for beer and cigars. They didn't get caught. They were veterans now.
All during camp Orry worried about the third-class academic work. He was no longer a plebe, but that didn't mean he could relax. Not when he faced more French, plus descriptive geometry and instrumental drawing.
George persuaded him to attend the final summer hop. As always, it was held in the Academic Building. Stylishly dressed girls and their mothers converged on the granite and brownstone structure from the hotel and Buttermilk Falls. Orry felt foolish going to such an affair and did so only to put an end to his friend's incessant pleading.
In his full-dress uniform he felt not only hot but comical. There were certain compensations for the suffering, however. Orry loved the sight of the powdered shoulders and flirtatious eyes of the feminine guests, although this emotion was made bittersweet by the realization that none of the girls would ever cast encouraging glances his way.
Elkanah Bent also provided some diversion. He arrived escorting a hatchet-faced girl with a bad complexion. George nudged his friend and smirked. Pickett almost went into convulsions of laughter.
"I can't believe it," Pickett said. "He finally found someone willing to waltz with an elephant."
From across the crowded hall, Bent noticed the attention he was receiving. He gave the friends venomous looks. Undaunted, George continued to grin. "I guess when you're as ugly as that poor creature, even Bent's phiz becomes tolerable."
Ugly or pretty, the girls at the hop made Orry feel cloddish. George was soon dancing with great elan. Orry watched from the sidelines, wanting to ask someone but not sure how to go about it.
After he had stood for an hour, George rescued him. He appeared with a girl on each arm and made it clear he had brought one of them for Orry. Soon George and his girl danced off again. Orry felt as though the earth had opened and he was trying to stand on air. His questions were clumsy, his efforts at repartee ludicrous. But the girl, a plump, agreeable blonde, seemed charmed by his spotless uniform — she kept eyeing his buttons — and therefore willing to overlook his lack of social grace.
She was Miss Draper of Albany. His inability to keep thinking of intelligent remarks — or indeed any at all — drove him at last to dance with her. He trampled her feet. His conversation on the floor consisted of apologies. When he asked whether she'd care to stroll outside, she was almost breathlessly eager.
He had a pass permitting him to be on Flirtation Walk, so he took her there. But the leafy darkness, alive with the sounds of branches rustling — or were they the sounds of silks and satins being disturbed? — only heightened his embarrassment. They sat on a bench in awkward silence.
Unexpectedly, Miss Draper opened her large reticule and brought out a present of some little sugar cakes she had brought from the hotel dining room. Orry tried to nibble one and dropped it. He put the other inside his coat and promptly crushed it. Miss Draper gazed at him with an expectant look for about a minute, then jumped up from the bench.
"Please take me back, sir. It's too chilly out here."
It was, in fact, an exceptionally warm night. Orry escorted Miss Draper back to the dance in agonized silence. In less than thirty seconds she was dancing with another cadet. The evening was a failure and so was he.
"I'll never go to one of those damn things again," he said to George in their room after lights out. "I like being around girls, but I don't know what to do. I especially don't know how to flirt. Miss Draper said good night as if I had some contagious disease."
"My boy, you neglected the quid pro quo."
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't Miss Draper offer you a little gift? Some cakes, perhaps?"
"How the devil do you know that?"
"Because I've gotten them too."
"From her?"
"Of course not. Other girls."
"How many other girls?"
"Several. It's part of the game, Orry. In return for the gift, the girl expects a souvenir and a gentleman always obliges. Why do you think I'm constantly cadging spare buttons and sewing them on my coat?"
"I have noticed that you lose a lot of buttons. Do you mean to say Miss Draper wanted me to —?"
"The brave may deserve the fair," George broke in, "but the fair in turn demand West Point buttons. Especially before they give you a squeeze or a kiss. My boy, a button from a cadet uniform is the most sought-after romantic souvenir in the nation."
"My Lord," Orry breathed softly. "I never suspected. No wonder she was looking daggers. Oh, well, I reckon I'm one of those men the Almighty intended for just one woman."
"The same way He intended you for just one career? Orry, you're too serious."
In the dark George's iron bed squeaked as he rolled over to face his roommate. "As long as we're being candid, there's a question that's been bothering me. I must say I think I know the answer."
"Well?"
"Have you ever been with a woman?"
"See here, that's a personal, not to say ungentlemanly —"
"Confound it, don't give me any of your damned Southern rhetoric. Have you or haven't you?"
Orry very nearly swallowed the answer. "I haven't."
"We're going to do something about that."
"Do something? How?"
"You sound as if we're discussing cholera, for God's sake!"
Orry realized his friend's anger was feigned. He chuckled in a nervous way and muttered, "Sorry. Go on."
"A couple of very accommodating ladies live in the village. A visit to one of them might banish some of your sentimental notions about females. It would certainly help convince you that women won't shatter the first time you glance crookedly — or lustfully — in their direction."
Through this Orry had been trying to break in, but George refused to permit it:
"No arguments. It won't cost you much, and you'll find the whole thing vastly educational. If you value our friendship, you have to go."
"I was afraid you'd say something like that."
Orry hoped his voice didn't reveal his sudden excitement.
Orry expected his initiation into sex to be a private matter, with only George and the woman in question knowing about it. Instead, a few nights later, George rounded up four other cadets and all six of them ran it to Buttermilk Falls. The initiation would be about as private as a convention.
The lady they visited seemed ancient to him, though in fact she was not quite thirty-three. She was a buxom brunette, Alice Peet by name. She had gentle eyes, a hard smile, and a face from which work and worry had scrubbed much of the prettiness. George said she was a widow who took in laundry "and other things" to support herself, three youngsters, and a cat. Her husband, a deck hand on a river steamer, had fallen overboard and drowned during a thunderstorm two summers ago.
Alice Peet had sent her children to stay with a friend, so she and the visitors had the house to themselves. House was hardly the word, though; shack would have been more fitting. The place consisted of one large room and a second smaller addition, presumably to be used for the evening's business. A flimsy door divided the two areas.
Orry swallowed a burning mouthful of whiskey Alice Peet had poured. All at once shame and shyness gripped him. He knew he couldn't step beyond that door. Without saying anything, he took himself out to the porch.
Alice Peet's shack was located at the south end of the village, well away from the nearest neighbor. If the place had nothing else, it had a splendid view of the starlit Hudson. Orry sat down and relaxed.
Alice didn't seem to miss her husband much. She laughed and drank and enjoyed herself with the other cadets. The party grew cheerfully rowdy. After an hour or so, Orry figured they had forgotten him, for which he was thankful. Then the front door opened with a bang.
Cadet Stribling lurched out. He had become a good friend now that George and Orry were yearlings.
"Main? Where are you, sir? Madame Pompadour-Peet awaits. And, believe me, I use the word advisedly."
At that point Stribling almost fell off the porch. He caught himself and belched. "My Lord, the creature's insatiable. We'll be here all night. But as long as she doesn't raise the price, who cares? Go on, now. It's your turn."
"Thanks, but I think I'll stay right —"
"Cadet Orry Main sir?" That was George, shouting. "Get in here and do your duty, sir."
After a few more minutes of badgering, he reluctantly went in. The leering cadets rousted him through the main room to the other one and shut the door behind him. He was terrified. Yet to his surprise, he was also living up to his nickname: stiff as a stick against the fly front of his trousers. The fly was a recent innovation in West Point uniforms. It had been introduced despite the opposition of, among others, Old Dickey's wife, who had railed against the moral decay signified by pants with buttons down the front. Lust had been publicly acknowledged. And by the government, too.
Orry had wild fantasies of pressure causing those buttons to burst loose. In the dark the laundress had a pleasantly musky smell, a blend of toilet water, whiskey, and warm flesh. "Over here," she murmured.
He stumbled against the end of the bed, elaborately excused himself. Alice Peet didn't make fun of him. Perhaps she was drunk, but she sounded kind.
"Come, dear. You're Orry, aren't you?"
"That's right. Orry."
"Nice name. Your friend says this is all new to you."
"Well —"
"You don't have to answer. Sit down."
Afire — did he have a fever? — he lowered himself to the edge of the bed. ''We'll make it easy and enjoyable for you, dear,'' the woman said, and touched him in a way so shocking it might have given an older man a fatal seizure.
She was expert. Ten minutes later, Orry gasped involuntarily and no mystery remained.
On the way back to the post he tried to assure George that he'd had a fine time. Secretly, however, Alice Peet's embraces had left him unfulfilled and curiously sad. He might be out of step with the rest of the world, but couplings with near strangers were not for him. The visit to the shack had convinced him again that there would be but one woman in his life. One and only one. He was sure he would know her the instant he met her.
If that made him a romantic fool, so be it.
On a Saturday afternoon in the spring of 1844, George and Orry found themselves with a free hour and no demerits to work off with extra guard tours. They went hiking in the hills above the Academy. That day Orry learned something about the Hazard family's involvement with the iron trade. It was not only deep but, in its own way, mystical.
And George shared that involvement — a fact he had concealed until now.
As they were walking, the two cadets happened on a round, shallow crater in the hillside. The crater's diameter was something over two feet. Dirt had run down into the bottom, and the rim was pierced by new shoots of wild grass, suggesting the crater had been hollowed out months or even years before.
Unexpectedly, George looked excited. He knelt by the crater and, with no explanation, dug in the bottom with both hands.
"George, what the devil are you —?"
"Wait! I found something."
From under the loose dirt he produced his discovery — some kind of cinder, conical in shape and measuring about six inches from point to base. But Orry had never seen a cinder that exact shade of dark brown.
"What on earth is that?"
"Nothing earthly," George replied with an odd, almost humorless smile. When Orry's frown signified annoyance with the cryptic answer, George pointed at the cloud-dotted sky. "It came from out there. It's a meteorite. The color shows there's a great deal of iron in it. Star iron, the old-timers at the factory call it." He turned the rough object over and over, studying it with an expression so close to reverence Orry was thunderstruck.
"The ancient Egyptians knew about star iron," George went on softly. "This piece may have traveled millions and millions of miles before it crashed here. My father says the iron trade has had more influence on the course of history than all the politicians and generals since the beginning of time" — he held up the meteorite — "and this is the reason. Iron can destroy anything: families, fortunes, governments, whole countries. It's the most powerful stuff in the universe."
"Oh?" Orry's skeptical glance fell on the Plain below. "You really think it's more powerful than a big army?"
"Without weapons — without this — there are no big armies."
He said it with such intensity that Orry shivered. A few moments later they moved on. Soon George was his old self again, chatting and joking. But he still had the meteorite in his hand. Back in barracks, he wrapped it and stored it away like a treasured possession.
One night near the end of May, George ran it for cigars. He pulled up short outside the door of Benny Haven's. Inside, a boisterous crowd was serenading the proprietor with an old and familiar song. Each West Point class tried to add a memorable verse to the song, one that would be passed down to others. Most of the verses were bawdy, but just now the revelers were bellowing a polite one:
George peeked through the window and frowned. Too many first and second classmen in there, including that damn Bent. He thought about turning around and leaving, but he had been without cigars for several days.
A second peek showed him a couple of yearlings in the group. Most of the cadets were drunk. Spring had that effect. Quickly he planned his tactics. He'd give the upperclassmen no excuse to think he felt guilty. It was mostly a matter of deportment. He put his shoulders back, fixed a cocky smile in place, and went in.
The upperclassmen turned on him, but their shouted threats were perfunctory and brief. George bought his cigars and was on his way out when Bent lurched to his side and threw an arm across his shoulders.
George's stomach tightened. So did his right hand. But fists weren't necessary. Bent's eyes had a vague, bleary look. He asked George to join him for beer, muttering something about all of them forgetting the past. That didn't lull George for one second, though he agreed to have a drink because it was free and he was thirsty.
Elkanah Bent was tipsy and hence not as pompous as usual. He babbled excitedly about a piece of recent news from Washington. The inventor Morse had sent a message over a wire all the way to Baltimore.
"Don't you understand the significance, Hazard? It's the dawn of the age of improved military information. Exactly what old Mahan predicted! In the next war —"
"What next war?" George interrupted.
"How should I know?" Bent spilled beer over his chin and uniform as he drank. "But it will come, sure as the seasons." Some of the dullness left his eyes. "Human beings can't settle their differences any other way. It's the nature of the animal. For the sake of our careers, I say thank God."
Some of the other cadets were listening. One stared at Bent with a disbelieving expression much like that on George's face. The Ohioan paid no attention. His voice took on an unexpected intensity. "When this country fights again, she'll be looking for new leadership." He leaned forward, cheeks glistening, lips moist. "The Army will be seeking an American Bonaparte."
George uttered a nervous laugh. "Well, Mr. Bent, you see a larger canvas than I do. I hope I'm out of the Army before this gigantic war of yours. But if not, I'll have just three objectives. Carry out orders. Do so with reasonable effectiveness. And dodge the bullets."
"Quite right," Bent said with a wave. "A prudent general never exposes himself to fire. The individual soldier is nothing more or less than one of Mr. Whitney's interchangeable parts. Better that fifty thousand such parts should be lost than a brilliant leader."
"Interesting theory," George muttered, rising abruptly. He offered a word of thanks for the drink, but Bent didn't hear. He was too busy snatching at George's sleeve in an attempt to keep his audience.
George pulled away. He was disgusted by the sodden creature and what he had said. He needed fresh air and the sight of something besides Bent's small, crazed eyes.
That same week, Pickett invited George, Orry, and several other friends to a hash. Such affairs were a tradition at West Point. For three days preceding the event, the invited guests filched leftover meat, potatoes, butter and bread from the mess hall. They carried off the food in the traditional way — concealed in forage caps from which the rattan hoop stiffeners had been removed.
On Saturday night, after inspection of quarters, the guests gathered in Pickett's room. Using the donated ingredients, the Virginian prepared the hash in stolen utensils that were the common property of all the cadets in the barracks. A serving of hot hash was given to the nearest sentinel, thus ensuring that the party would be ignored until taps.
It was a happy, carefree occasion. Conversation was lively and wide-ranging. They talked about the Oregon problem; the April treaty providing for the annexation of Texas; the Democratic nominating convention that only the day before had turned from the favorite, Van Buren, and chosen a border man, Polk, who was an avowed expansionist.
Those looking forward to summer leave discussed their plans. Orry was among them. Then George brought up his most recent encounter with Bent.
"When he spoke about an American Bonaparte, I swear he was referring to himself. What's worse, I got a clear impression that he'd cheerfully send a regiment to be butchered if it served his purpose. He wouldn't think twice about it, either. He called soldiers 'interchangeable parts.' "
Pickett reached into the fireplace for the skillet in which he was reheating the last of the hash. "If you'll pardon an execrable pun, gentlemen, the cadet under discussion is hell-bent for glory. God pity anyone who obstructs that advance, intentionally or otherwise."
A slender cadet from Missouri said, "I think you're all taking him too seriously. He's a jackass. A clown."
"If you dismiss him that easily, you're the jackass,'' George countered.
"Amen," Orry said. "He's dangerous. Maybe even crazy. Stay out of his way."
"And finish the hash," Pickett added.
Orry traveled south by coastal steamer. At his first meal in the dining saloon, he felt self-conscious in his furlough uniform. The coat's long, narrow swallowtails carried an extravagant number of stamped gilt buttons, as did each cuff. The uniform certainly drew attention. All of it was favorable and friendly, except for that of a Connecticut merchant who grumbled about a pampered military aristocracy. The merchant thought a civilian board should be appointed to oversee the Academy.
At Charleston, Orry hired a horse so as to have a slower trip upriver than a boat would provide. He wanted to savor the sights of his homecoming. He'd been away two years and somewhat to his amazement, he had survived an astonishing number of tests of character and intellect. The realization brought a good feeling. This leave would be perfect if only a girl were waiting for him, a special girl to whom he could give the cadet's traditional gift of love — the gold embroidery wreath decorating the black velvet band of his furlough cap. The wreath contained the letters U.S.M.A. embroidered in the Old English style.
But there was no such girl. He had begun to resign himself to living his entire life without finding her.
Heavy rain started to fall as he rode out of the city. He stopped to put on his blue furlough coat and pull his cap lower so the bill would keep the water out of his eyes. Even so, he knew he'd be soaked when he reached Mont Royal, where he planned to meet Cooper. From the plantation the two of them would travel on to the family's summer residence.
To the right he glimpsed the rain-dappled river. On his left rose dark thickets of palmetto and oak, with occasional vistas of marsh visible between. The air was heavy with humidity, full of familiar sounds and smells.
He met two Negroes driving a produce cart to Charleston. One pulled out a pass and showed it to him without being asked to do so. No slave could travel anywhere unless he had written authorization from his master. Parish patrols policed the roads and checked passes, although not as thoroughly as some planters would like. The system was years old, intended to prevent gatherings of slaves that could lead to an uprising.
He had been riding about an hour when he heard alarmed voices. He cantered around a bend, then reined in. Ahead he saw a fine lacquered carriage lying on its side to the right of the road.
Then he noticed that a section of the road had been washed away, leaving only about half the regular roadbed and creating a sharp slope. The carriage must have run off the road and crashed down the slope while trying to negotiate the narrowed section. Orry saw broken traces but no sign of a horse.
The white driver stood beside the exposed bottom of the carriage, straining to reach up and open the door by lifting it. The agitated voices were feminine, although Orry could not see the women. He did see half a dozen satchels and trunks littering the roadside. One had burst open, spilling white garments into the gluelike mud. The garments were lavishly decorated with lace, he noted as he rode ahead. The pasengers were not poor. The driver took note of Orry's uniform. "Sir, are you a constable?" "No, but I'll be glad to help."
"My arms don't seem long enough to open this door." "Let me try."
While he was dismounting, he thought he saw something long and thin slither swiftly across the side of the coach and drop out of sight through one of the windows. He had an impression of olive coloring and dark bands.
Orry moved with near-frenzied speed then. As he reached the carriage, he saw that the side onto which it had fallen lay in a marshy pool. His identification of the snake had probably been correct.
"I'll get up there," he told the driver. He climbed via the axle and rear wheel, stepped on the side of the carriage, and looked down into two of the largest, darkest eyes he had ever seen. Even through his carefully concealed tension he observed that the white woman was young, pale-skinned, very lovely. Her companion was a black woman, older.
"We'll have you out soon, ladies."
He crouched and reached for the door handle, trying to be casual about his visual search of the interior. Then he spied it, motionless on the folds of the white girl's skirt, the back of her skirt, which of course she couldn't see.
Orry's cheeks dripped sweat and rain. "Ladies, I beg you to keep control of your nerves while you listen to me." His low, urgent tone got their attention. "Please don't move suddenly or do anything at all until I say so. A snake has gotten into the carriage —"
Their eyes widened. The black woman started to look down, but he whispered, "Don't do that. Stay absolutely still."
They did, and so did he. The snake had just opened its jaws, exposing its fangs and the cottony white interior of its mouth. A drop of moisture fell from Orry's chin; another. The sound of his racing heart seemed thunderous inside his head.
"Est-ce que le serpent est venimeux?" the white girl asked. Then she realized she had spoken in French. "Is the snake poisonous?"
Orry kept his voice low. "Very. They don't strike unless they feel threatened. They are easily alarmed, however. That's why I ask you to refrain from any sudden movements and from speaking loudly. If you do that, everything will be fine."
He was lying to them. Or at least exaggerating. Fortunately they couldn't get inside his skin and feel his tightness, his fear.
With a little smile of apology, the girl said, "We don't understand these things, sir. We're city people."
And not from the Carolinas, he knew from listening to her speech. He kept his eye on the water moccasin. The snake had closed its jaws again.
Suddenly the black woman's fear got the better of her. Her shoulders began to shake. She bit her lower lip and tried to hold back tears, but she couldn't.
"Calm her," Orry whispered to the girl. "Do anything to keep her quiet."
Obviously the girl was terrified, but that didn't immobilize her. Slowly, and with great care, she slipped a gloved hand up along the older woman's sleeve. She pressed gently, her voice murmurous.
"Mère Sally, prière de se taire encore un moment. J'ai peur aussi. Mais si nous pourrons rester tranquilles une minute de plus, nous serons en sécurité. J'en suis sûre."
The black woman mastered her fear. She lifted her left hand and touched the girl's pale purple glove — a demonstration of appreciation. But her movement was too abrupt, the rustle of her blouse too loud. Before Orry could shout a warning, the snake jumped.
The girl felt it on her skirt and screamed. Orry's vision swam for one panicky second. He gripped the edge of the window, leaned forward, looked down —
The moccasin was gone. It had dropped out through one of the lower windows, frightened away.
Orry felt he'd botched the rescue. The travelers didn't agree. All three thanked him effusively while he inspected the interior of the carriage, laid the door back, and lifted the women to safety.
He assisted the black woman first, then the girl. As she stepped on the side of the coach, he held her waist a moment longer than necessary. He couldn't help it. He was taken with her white-as-cream skin, her dark eyes and glossy black hair, her exquisitely full bosom under a stylish traveling suit. She was about his own age. In all his life he had never seen such a beautiful creature.
"We can never repay you," she said. The lilt of the last word left the sentence unfinished on a note of inquiry. "Main. Orry Main." "Are you a soldier?"
"Not yet. I attend the Military Academy at West Point. I'm on my way home on a two-month furlough." "You live nearby?"
"Yes, our plantation's just up the river."
He climbed down, reached up, and helped her negotiate the wheel and axle. The pressure of her gloved fingers left him aglow with pleasure. Her face was full, and so were her lips. In fact there was a certain deliciously passionate quality about her mouth which only enhanced her unmistakable aura of refinement by contrasting with it. Orry released her with reluctance.
"My name is Madeline Fabray. We are traveling to a plantation named Resolute. Do you know it?"
With difficulty he refrained from frowning. "I do. The LaMotte place. It isn't far."
"We have come all the way from New Orleans, Maum Sally and Villefranche and I. None of us has ever been more than two days' journey from our home. People in New Orleans are fearfully provincial, I'm afraid. Many will tell you there's nothing on the continent worth seeing after you've strolled across the Place d' Armes to the Mississippi.'' She was teasing, of course. He reveled in every word. She continued, "In any case, the Carolinas are very new to us. We had hoped to arrive at Resolute by dinner time, but clearly we won't. I must say these roads are pitiable. So many deep holes. Villefranche is a fine driver, but this narrow place proved too difficult. The horses slipped and bolted, the carriage overturned —"
A shrug, broad and expressive. She gave him a wondrous warm smile. "Fortunately a cavalier rode by to rescue us."
Orry turned pink. "You owe more to the snake's state of nerves than you do to me."
"No, Mr. Main, it is you to whom I shall be grateful." Madeline Fabray touched his sleeve impulsively. "Always."
Her eyes remained on his for a moment. Then, coloring noticeably, she withdrew her hand, and a fleeting look of chagrin crossed her face.
Orry didn't understand the reaction. He thought she had wanted to put her hand on his sleeve, but after she'd done it, she had regretted it. He had heard New Orleans women had highly refined manners, but touching a man's arm in gratitude was hardly a cardinal sin. What was wrong?
Of course he didn't dare ask. And even if he had, he suspected she wouldn't have answered. He sensed a shyness in her, a barrier that hid certain of her thoughts and feelings from the world. Behind that barrier lay the answer to the curious little riddle of the glove placed on his sleeve, then withdrawn with a look of surprise and perhaps a touch of shame.
Even with this mystery confronting him, he felt he had learned a good deal about the charming traveler in a very short time. She was intelligent and a gentlewoman, though something told him that didn't mean she lacked emotion. Just the opposite, in fact. These fascinating glimpses of her character attracted him even more profoundly than her beauty. For one dizzying instant he had a sense of two perfectly matched people finding each other.
Romantic ass, he thought a moment later. Villefranche made a polite but pointed remark about getting started. Orry cleared his throat. "There's a crossroads store about a mile ahead. I'll stop and find you a couple of mules and two or three nigras to lend a hand with putting the coach back on the road."
He helped the driver collect and stack the scattered luggage, though he didn't do so with any eagerness. He hated to think of this lovely young woman visiting the owner of Resolute, Justin LaMotte, whom he knew well and disliked.
The LaMottes were an old and aristocratic Huguenot family. The first LaMotte in the Carolinas had arrived more than a year before Charles de Main. Hence Justin, his brother Francis, and the entire clan tended to look down on the Mains, and most everyone else. This was true even though Justin had all but impoverished himself through bad management of his lands and a spendthrift style of life. Many who met him for the first or even the second time thought him exceptionally charming. But Orry knew otherwise.
He wanted to learn as much as he could about the visitor. As he handed another soiled piece of luggage to Villefranche, he said to Madeline:
"From your name, I take it you're French!"
She laughed. "Oh, nearly everyone in New Orleans has a French name because those in the majority, particularly the churchmen, kept insisting they couldn't pronounce or remember any other kind. You know the French can be dreadful snobs."
''Indeed I do. Frenchmen settled in the Carolinas, too.'' A comment about Justin leaped to mind, but he suppressed it. "Where did your family come from, then?"
"On the paternal side, Germany. My great-great-grandfather Faber was one of the earliest arrivals on what's called the German Coast, about twenty-five miles upriver from New Orleans. There are scores of Germans in our part of the world, and in the last hundred years virtually all the names have been changed to sound French. Buchwaiter became Bouchvaidre. Kerner became Quernel. I could recite a dozen."
"But your family now lives in the city rather than on this German Coast?"
A touch of strain returned to her face. "There is only my father." She explained that he was a sugar factor, like his father and his grandfather. He had wanted to accompany her on this journey but had been unable. Six months earlier he had been felled by a paralyzing stroke.
Orry brushed dried mud from the last satchel, then prepared to leave. "I hope you have an excellent visit at Resolute, Miss Fabray." He was afraid to say more but knew he must or the moment would be lost. "Perhaps —" He twisted his cap in his fingers. "Perhaps we'll see each other again."
"I would enjoy that, Mr. Main," she answered with a small, grave nod. He was too excited to recognize that she was only being polite.
With a wave he rode off. Elation set him singing all the way to the crossroads store. He didn't understand why a girl as lovely and sophisticated as Madeline Fabray would want to spend a holiday with people as arrogant and empty as the LaMottes. Could there be a blood relationship somewhere? It seemed the only sensible explanation.
Well, he could stomach being polite to Justin if that was the price of calling on his guest. And call on her he would, at the first possible moment. He would have more than a month and a half at home. Ample time to become a young woman's beau. He imagined himself presenting Madeline with the embroidered wreath from his cap, saw the two of them at the end of his furlough exchanging ardent promises to write.
How strangely fate worked. If this dismal rain hadn't washed out part of the road, the chance meeting might never have occurred. But it had — and the result was happiness that was altogether new and wonderful.
Five minutes after he reached Mont Royal, Cooper brought him crashing to earth.
"Fabray, you say? I'm afraid you've wandered down the wrong path, brother. Fabray is the name of the young woman Justin's going to marry."
After a stunned silence, Orry exclaimed,''How can that be? How?"
Cooper shrugged. They were in the dining room, a place dreary with shadows now that the rain had started again. Orry's furlough cap lay in a corner where he had flung it joyously after embracing his brother. Cooper was in shirt-sleeves. He had poured two glasses of their father's best claret. Orry hadn't tasted his.
"Haven't a notion," Cooper answered. He put a booted foot on the expensive mahogany table. "I am not exactly a confidant of either Justin or Francis."
"I can't believe that girl would marry Justin. She can't be more than twenty. He must be fifteen or twenty years older. How long has his first wife been dead?"
"Nine years, I think. What difference does it make? The girl's father probably arranged the match. That still happens quite frequently. And the LaMottes do offer a pedigree, even if they did run out of the milk of human kindness years ago."
This was the first time Orry had ever exhibited more than a casual interest in women. He continued to growl and utter lovelorn sounds someone else might have found comical. But Cooper did not. Even though he himself had not as yet been smitten in the same way, hence could not fully grasp the extent of his brother's pain, Cooper had no doubt that it was hellishly real.
He sipped claret and returned to the diagram of the pounding mill he'd been studying when his brother arrived. Orry paced around the table, and then around again, his expression growing more and more agitated. He halted abruptly next to Cooper's chair:
"When is the wedding?"
"This coming Saturday. We're invited as a family, by the way. Reckon you won't be going."
"Saturday! Why so soon?"
"I can only speculate. Justin's mother preferred that the wedding be held in the autumn when it's cooler. But he's old enough to say no to her. I don't know if it's the young lady he's anxious for, or her dowry. If she's as pretty as you say, I can understand the stories I've heard. According to the talk in the neighborhood, Justin's as impatient as one of his own prize stallions — look, don't start that infernal pacing again. She's just a girl."
Orry spun to face him. "She's a lot more than that. I could tell five minutes after we met that she and I would have made a fine — made —"
He didn't know how to finish. Or perhaps he feared mockery if he did. Cooper watched his brother retrieve his cap from the corner and touch its ornamental gold wreath with the tip of his index finger.
Then, without another word, Orry walked out.
Cooper sighed and reached for his brother's untasted claret. Damned if he wasn't feeling sad all at once too.
Next morning the brothers saddled up and rode on to Summerville. When they arrived, Orry made an effort to give each member of the family a warm greeting. But Clarissa knew her children. That evening after supper, she drew Cooper aside.
"Your brother is no actor. Why is he so unhappy? Isn't he glad to be home?"
"I'd say he is. But yesterday he met a young woman on the river road to Charleston. She caught his fancy, and then he discovered she's Justin LaMotte's intended."
"Oh, my. The girl everyone refers to as a Creole?"
"I reckon. Is she?"
"Her name suggests it. My," Clarissa said again. "This poses a problem. In connection with the wedding, I mean. Your father refuses to attend, but courtesy demands that the family be represented. I was hoping you and Orry would go with me."
Cooper understood his father's antipathy for the LaMottes; he shared it. They were shallow, mean-spirited people who worshiped horseflesh and settled inconsequential arguments by resorting to illegal duels. It was consideration for his mother that prompted his answer:
"To be honest, I'd rather not, but I will. We shouldn't force Orry, though."
"Of course you're right," Clarissa said. "Under the circumstances he surely wouldn't want to go."
That night at supper, Orry surprised them by announcing that he would accompany them on Saturday. Cooper considered it foolhardy but said nothing. Tillet ordered Clarissa to take Cousin Charles as well. "The sight of ladies and gentlemen behaving themselves might prove inspirational," he said with sarcasm. Poor Charles was forever being punished in one way or another, Cooper thought.
Saturday brought clear, mild weather with a brisk breeze to drive off the bugs. Departure for Resolute was delayed about an hour because Clarissa was busy. Just before sunrise one of the house girls they had brought from Mont Royal had gone into labor.
Clarissa helped with every confinement on the plantation, and she didn't expect compliments or even recognition for her efforts. She was only carrying out the traditional responsibilities of a woman of her position. One day Ashton and Brett would do the same.
The trip by carriage took an hour and a half. Cousin Charles fidgeted and complained the whole way. Clarissa had dressed him in a fine suit complete with high collar and cravat. By squirming and pulling he managed to wrinkle the outfit thoroughly by the time they reached Resolute.
They arrived forty minutes after the end of the marriage service, which had been held in a tiny separate chapel. Only close relatives had attended. Now the reception was in progress. Guests were chatting and laughing under the oaks and magnolias on the side lawn, where four yellow-and-white-striped pavilions had been erected.
The LaMotte plantation reminded Cooper of some Charleston whore who tried to hide time's ravages under a lot of powder and paint. At first glance the great house looked huge and impressive. Then you noticed planks warping away and extensive evidence of mold. Large pieces of mortar had fallen from the brick pillars supporting the rear piazza — Resolute's great house faced the river at the summit of a low hill — and many of the shutters showed unrepaired storm damage.
Still, the festive crowd didn't seem to mind. Counting family members, guests, and all the slaves required for the occasion, Cooper estimated that three hundred people were present. Fine carriages and buggies were parked on two acres at one side of the front lane. Smoke drifted in the air, evidence that barbecue was being served. Barbecue was a tradition at low country weddings.
An orchestra from Charleston began to play. Cousin Charles ran off. A grim-faced Orry searched for the bride. Cooper hoped the punch would be strong; only intemperance would make the rest of the afternoon bearable.
"There she is," Orry said. "We ought to pay our respects before the line gets any longer." Clarissa and Cooper agreed. They joined the line and presently moved up to greet the rector, the various LaMottes, and the bride and groom.
Justin LaMotte was a handsome, thick-waisted man with a ruddy complexion and silky brown hair that looked as though he treated it with dye. He accepted the congratulations of the Mains with a smile and some charmingly correct phrases of thanks. But his eyes held no warmth.
Cooper was busy studying the bride. She was breathtakingly beautiful. No wonder his brother had taken a hard fall. Justin didn't deserve such a prize. Did the girl know much about the man she had married? Poor creature, he hoped so; it would be a tragedy if she only just now discovered what lay beneath her husband's superficial charm.
Cooper had deliberately gone first in line, so that he might turn back and watch his brother's behavior with Madeline LaMotte, and he hoped there wouldn't be any sort of mawkish display. Orry felt bad enough already; he needed no further embarrassment.
He was the perfect gentleman, however. He held the bride's hand a moment while he leaned forward to give her the ritual peck on the cheek. But as Orry drew back, Cooper saw the young people look at each other. In his eyes — hers, too — Cooper detected sorrow, a swift but stunningly candid acknowledgment of a lost opportunity.
Then, showing a flash of guilt, the bride glanced away. Justin was greeting another guest and missed the little interchange. Thinking of what he had seen in Madeline's eyes a few moments ago, Cooper said to himself, I hope some woman looks at me that way just once before I die.
The Mains left the reception line. Cooper wanted to commiserate with his brother but couldn't find the proper words. Anyway, Orry would probably be offended. So, instead, Cooper set out for the punch bowl. On the way he noticed Cousin Charles crawling under one of the trestle tables. The boy was carrying a plate heaped with mutton barbecue and relish. Charles's shirttails already hung out.
Cooper saw that his mother was served, then left her with three matronly ladies, two of them Main cousins, the third a member of the huge Smith family. He consumed four cups of punch in half an hour. It didn't help much. On every side he heard compliments about the bridegroom that made him wince. The guests were being charitable, but Cooper's charity didn't extend to lying.
He soon found himself reeling around the outdoor dance platform with a good-natured matriarch named Aunt Betsy Bull. Cooper loved to polka, but Aunt Betsy spoiled it by saying:
"Don't they make the handsomest couple? She'll be supremely happy. I don't know Justin well, but he has always impressed me as a kind and charming man."
"At a wedding party, all men are angels."
Aunt Betsy tsk-tsked. "How did someone as sweet as your mother raise such a cynical scalawag? I don't think you care for Justin. You'll never get to heaven with that kind of attitude."
I don't want to get to heaven, just back to the punch bowl, Cooper thought as the music stopped. "Thank you for the dance, Aunt Betsy. Excuse me?" He bowed and left.
With a new drink in hand, he lectured himself about letting his feelings show. He didn't give a damn what people thought of him, but he shouldn't and wouldn't embarrass his mother. Not for anything. Still, it was hard to stay neutral about Justin LaMotte. The man pretended to be such a gentleman, but it was a sham. He treated his horses better than he treated his niggers. Abuse and outright cruelty had been staples at Resolute ever since Justin had taken over when his father died.
The previous summer, after Justin had suffered a defeat in a horse race, one of his black grooms had done something to displease him. Justin's rage was all out of proportion to the offense. He had ordered nails pounded into an empty hogshead, then put the offender in the hogshead and rolled it down a hill. The slave's injuries had left him unable to work, useless to anyone else. A month ago he had taken his own life.
Such barbarous punishment was rare in the low country and nonexistent at Mont Royal. Cooper considered it a major reason Resolute unfailingly yielded poor crops and year after year slid a little closer to bankruptcy.
Setting aside all moral questions, Cooper found one great practical weakness in the peculiar institution. The very act of holding a man against his will constituted mistreatment. Add physical cruelties to that, and how could you expect the man to work to the limit of his ability? To give everything and then a little more? Cooper had concluded that the significant difference between the economic systems of the North and South was not in industry versus agriculture but in motivation. The free Yankee worked to better himself. The Southern slave worked to keep from being punished. That difference was slowly rotting the South from the inside.
But try telling that to a Justin LaMotte — or a Tillet Main. Feeling dismal, Cooper helped himself to another cup of punch.
Francis LaMotte was three years older than his brother. He excelled in horsemanship, routinely beating Justin and all the other contestants in the medieval tournaments so popular in the low country. Francis thrilled spectators by charging the rows of hanging rings at a dangerous speed, and he inevitably caught the greatest number of rings on the point of his lance. He always rode in the gander-pulling, too, and nine times out of ten he was first to wring the animal's greased neck from horseback.
Francis was a small, sinewy man with a suntanned face and none of his brother's social graces. He looked waspish as he and Justin enjoyed punch, momentarily left alone by the guests. A few feet away, Madeline was chatting with the Episcopal rector.
"I don't know who will win the election in the fall, Father Victor," the brothers heard her say. "But it's obvious the outcome will hinge on the issue of the annexation of Texas."
"Are you aware that one of South Carolina's own played a vital role in bringing the question before the public?"
"You mean Mr. Calhoun, don't you?"
Father Victor nodded. Calhoun was serving as the third secretary of state in the troubled Tyler administration. After receiving his appointment earlier in the year, he had drafted the annexation treaty which the Republic of Texas and the United States had signed in April.
"You're quite right about the prominence of the issue," the rector agreed. "Before the year is out every man in public life will have to declare his position." He didn't need to add that many had already done so. The support of Polk and ex-President Jackson for annexation was well known. So was the opposition of Van Buren and Clay.
"That's as it should be," Madeline replied. "Some are claiming the Texas question goes much deeper than the politicians care to admit. I've heard it said the real issue is expansion of slavery."
The rector bristled. "The only ones who say that are agitators, my dear. Unprincipled Yankee agitators."
Out of politeness, Madeline shrugged to admit the possibility, but then she murmured, "I wonder."
Displeased, the rector snapped, "Shall we get some food?"
Madeline realized she had annoyed him. "Of course. Please lead the way."
She gave her husband a smile, which he returned with a rather forced one of his own. After she and the rector strolled off, Francis squinted at his brother. "Your bride has opinions on quite a number of public issues."
Justin chuckled. The sound was deep and mellow.
"You've noticed that have you?"
"She shouldn't speak so freely. Intelligence is desirable in a woman, but only within limits."
"Everything, my dear brother, carries a certain price. The dowry provided by old Fabray is no exception." Justin gazed over the rim of his silver punch cup at the swelling bodice of Madeline's wedding dress. He calculated the angle of the sun with sleepy, half-lidded eyes. In a few more hours he would be the possessor of everything hidden by that pristine satin and lace. He could hardly wait.
How curiously fate worked, he thought. Nearly two years ago he had decided to take a trip to New Orleans, even though he could scarcely afford it. He had gone there to indulge himself at the gambling tables and to attend one of the legendary quadroon balls in the famous hall overlooking Orleans Street. But before he went to the ball or got a look at the nigger beauties, chance put him next to Nicholas Fabray at the bar of a fashionable gambling establishment. Fabray didn't gamble, but he frequented the place because it was one of several where influential men of the city congregated. It soon became evident to the visitor that Fabray must be one of those. He knew everyone, his clothing was elegant and expensive, and he spent money with the ease of someone who didn't have to worry about it. Later, Justin asked questions and learned that all his suppositions were correct.
Two evenings later he ran into Fabray again at the same place. There he made the discovery that the sugar factor had a young unmarried daughter. From that point on, Justin fairly oozed politeness and good humor. Fabray was completely taken in; when Justin wanted to be charming, no one could rival him.
A few references by Justin to his status as a stranger in town prompted Fabray to invite him home for supper. Justin met the daughter, and from the instant he saw her, he was almost dizzy with lust.
He carefully concealed it, of course. He treated Madeline Fabray with the same restrained courtesy he lavished on her father. Before the evening was over, Justin concluded that although his age and experience awed the beautiful creature, she was not afraid of him.
He extended his stay in New Orleans a week, and then another. Fabray seemed pleased to have a gentleman of Justin's caliber pay court to Madeline. And everything Justin learned about the father only heightened his desire to possess the daughter. For one thing, there were no religious problems. The family was German — the original name was Faber — and Protestant. Madeline attended church, although her father did not; he was not interested in his soul, but in making money. Sensing what Justin had in mind, Fabray hinted that he would bestow a good deal of that money on his daughter, as her dowry.
On one occasion Justin inquired about Madeline's mother. He learned little other than that she had died some years earlier. She had been a Creole, which meant she was the New Orleans-born child of European parents — French, most likely, although they could have been Spanish or one of each. Justin, viewing Fabray's small gallery of family portraits, asked whether there were any pictures of the lady, to which Fabray replied with a curious vagueness, "No, not here."
Then and there Justin decided not to pursue the inquiry. Every respectable family, including his own, had a few skeletons hidden away; these usually belonged to wives who ran off with other men or who succumbed to a nervous disorder and had to be locked up until they died. He had heard nothing unfavorable about the late Mrs. Fabray — no one he had questioned had even mentioned her — so he would happily set aside this minor worry in exchange for Madeline's irresistible beauty and the money he so desperately needed to support his style of life.
If Fabray's daughter had any flaw at all, it was her obvious intelligence and her reluctance to conceal the fact that she had opinions about matters that were ordinarily the province of gentlemen. Fabray had seen to it that she received the finest education available to a young woman in New Orleans — that provided by the sisters of Saint Ursula. Fabray had many good friends in the city's Catholic community and was known to be a strong supporter of the worthy causes of the Roman church. He had overcome the initial reluctance of the Ursulines to accept a Protestant pupil by donating heavily to the hospital and orphanage the nuns maintained.
Madeline's forthright nature was no great deterrent to Justin, however. He had methods for dealing with that kind of problem, although he intended to conceal those methods until she was legally his wife.
Before he left the city, he asked for and received Fabray's permission to propose. Madeline listened to his rather long-winded declaration of love, and he became increasingly certain she would say yes at the end. But she said no, although she thanked him several times for flattering her with the proposal.
That night, to relieve his physical and mental frustration, he hired a whore and badly abused her with his fists and cane. After she had crept out of his hotel room, he lay awake in the dark for more than an hour, recalling Madeline's expression at the moment she refused him. She was afraid, he concluded. Since she could not possibly be afraid of him — he had been the soul of politeness, after all — it must be the idea of marriage that frightened her. That was a common enough attitude among young girls, and one he could overcome. Her refusal represented a delay, not a defeat.
In the weeks and months that followed, Justin sent the girl long, flowery love letters repeating his proposal. She answered each with an expression of gratitude and another politely phrased rejection. Then, unexpectedly, her father's stroke changed everything.
Justin was not exactly sure why the change had come about. Perhaps Fabray had feared he wouldn't live much longer and had intensified his effort to get his child safely married before he died. In any case, Madeline had reversed herself, and the terms had been arranged. The financial rewards of Justin's long campaign proved highly satisfactory. Beyond that, he would soon have the absolute right to put his hands on Madeline's —
Rudely, Francis jolted him back to the real world. "I tell you, Justin, you may discover that Madeline is entirely too independent for her own good. Or yours. A wife should be discouraged from speaking her mind on political matters — and absolutely forbidden to do so at any public gathering."
"Of course I agree, but I can't achieve a transformation in one day. It will take a little time."
Francis sniffed. "I wonder if you'll ever be able to handle that young woman."
Justin laid a big, well-manicured hand on his brother's shoulder. "Hasn't your experience with blooded animals taught you anything'.' A spirited woman's no different than a spirited mare. Each can and must be taught who's in charge." He sipped from his punch cup, then murmured, "Broken."
"I hope you know what you're talking about." Francis sounded doubtful, but then his knowledge of women was limited to slaves, prostitutes, and his dim-witted, downtrodden spouse. "Creoles are not noted for passive temperaments. All that Latin blood — you took a considerable risk marrying her."
"Nonsense. Madeline may be from New Orleans, but she's also female. Despite their pretensions, women are only slightly more intelligent than horses. She'll give me no — good God, what's that?"
He pivoted, startled by outcries and the crash of a table overturning. "A fight already?"
He rushed off.
A few minutes earlier, Cousin Charles had been seated against the trunk of a live oak, his coat discarded and a second huge plate of barbecue in his lap. A shadow fell across his legs.
He looked up to see a thin, foppish boy and three of his friends. The boy, a couple of years older than Charles, was a member of the Smith clan.
"Here's the creature from Mont Royal," young Smith said as he postured in front of his cronies. He looked down at Charles. "Rather a secluded spot, this. Hiding out?"
Charles stared back, nodded. "That's right."
Smith smiled and fingered his cravat. "Oh? Afraid?"
"Of you? Not much. I just wanted to eat in peace."
"Or is it that you're ashamed of the appearance you present? Cast your optics over him, gentlemen," Smith continued in an exaggerated way. "Marvel at the mussed clothing. Consider the crude haircut. Discern the dirt-stained cheeks. He looks more like white trash than a member of the Main family."
The baiting infuriated Charles, but he didn't let on. He figured he could get Smith's goat if he acted nonchalant. He was right. While Smith's friends made jokes about Charles, Smith himself stopped smiling and said:
"Stand up and face your betters when they address you, boy." He grabbed Charles's left earlobe and gave it a painful tweak.
Charles pitched the plate of barbecue at Smith. Meat and relish splattered the front of Smith's sky-blue waistcoat. Smith's friends began to laugh. He turned on them, cursing. That gave Charles the opportunity to jump up, grab both Smith's ears from behind, and twist them savagely.
Smith squealed. One of his friends said, "See here, you trashy little bastard —" The fellow attempted to grab him, but Charles dodged away. Laughing, he shot around the tree and raced toward the wedding guests. He bet that Smith and his friends wouldn't make a fuss in public. But he didn't bargain on their hot tempers; they charged right after him.
Charles slid on a patch of grass where someone had spilled a drink. He slammed down on his back, the wind knocked out. Smith ran up, took hold of him, and hauled him to his feet.
"Now, you lout, I intend to administer a lesson in deport —"
Charles butted him in the stomach, getting barbecue relish in his hair. The result was worth it. Smith clutched his middle and doubled over. In that position, his whole face was vulnerable. Charles gave him a thumb in the eye.
"Kill him," one of the other boys yelled. Charles wasn't sure that they didn't mean it. He rocketed off in the direction of the food.
Smith's friends raced in pursuit. Dropping to hands and knees, Charles scuttled underneath one of the tables. Fingers closed around his ankle and pulled him backward. He reared up and tipped the table — the crash that attracted the attention of Justin LaMotte, his brother, and many of the guests.
Charles had discovered that Smith knew nothing of frontier-style fighting. He presumed the same was true of the other three. Possessed of that advantage, he began to enjoy himself. He turned abruptly on the boy who had grabbed his ankle. When Justin and Francis arrived, closely followed by Francis's ten-year-old son Forbes, Charles was straddling the boy's chest, merrily pounding his head with bloody knuckles.
"Get him off!" the older boy gasped. "He — doesn't fight — like a gentleman."
"No, sir, I fight to win." Charles raised the boy's head by the ears and bashed it against the hard ground.
"Charles, that is enough."
The voice startled and alarmed him. He was jerked to his feet and whirled around. There stood Orry in his splendid uniform, fire in his eyes. Behind him Charles saw Cooper, Aunt Clarissa, and a sea of guests.
He heard one woman declare, "What a shame. All that intelligence — those good looks — wasted. He'll come to a bad end, that Main boy."
Several others agreed. Charles gave the crowd a defiant glare. Orry shook his arm hard, and Aunt Clarissa apologized for the trouble and offered to pay for the damage. Her tone made Charles blush and hang his head at last.
"I believe it might be best if we left now," Aunt Clarissa said.
"Oh, I'm sorry you can't stay longer," Justin said. Charles knew he didn't mean it.
On the way home, Orry started to lecture him. "That was an absolutely disgraceful scene. I don't care how badly you were provoked, you should have held your temper. It's time you began acting like a gentleman."
"I can't," Charles retorted. "I'm not a gentleman, I'm an orphan, and one isn't the same as the other. Everybody at Mont Royal makes that pretty clear all the time."
In the boy's angry eyes Cooper detected a flash of hurt. Orry squared his shoulders like a general who had been disobeyed. "You impertinent —''
"Let him alone," Cooper interrupted softly. "He got his punishment when all those people talked about him."
Charles peered at Cooper. He was stunned to find that the thin, studious man knew so much about him. To conceal his embarrassment, he turned to gaze out the window.
Orry blustered and started to argue. Clarissa touched his hand. "Cooper's right. No more discussion until we're home." A few minutes later she tried to slip her arm around Charles's shoulders. He pulled away. She looked across at her oldest son and shook her head.
When they reached Mont Royal, Tillet thrashed Charles in spite of Clarissa's protests. Tillet echoed the sentiments of the woman at the wedding:
"He'll come to a bad end. Do you need any further proof?"
Clarissa could only stare at her husband in silent dismay.
Somewhere in the great house at Resolute, a clock struck two.
The night air was humid and oppressive, heightening Madeline LaMotte's feeling that she was hopelessly trapped. Her fine cotton gown had tangled around her waist, but she didn't dare move to straighten it. Movement might rouse her husband, snoring lightly beside her.
It had been an exhausting day, but worse than that, the last few hours had brought her nothing but shock and pain and disillusionment.
She had expected Justin to be gentle and considerate, not only because he was an older man but because he had behaved that way in New Orleans. Now she knew it had all been a sham, designed to create a false impression for her and for her father.
Three times tonight she had been taught the bitter lesson. Three times Justin had exercised his rights. He had done it roughly, without once asking whether she was agreeable. There was only one small redeeming factor: the revelation of his dishonesty lessened her shame over the deception she had perpetrated on him.
This deception — the slight show of blood the first time — had been arranged with the help of Maum Sally, who knew about such things. The deception was necessary because Madeline had foolishly allowed herself to be seduced at a young age. That one mistake changed the course of her life. But for it, she wouldn't have been forced to ignore her own beliefs about personal honor and resort to deceit on her wedding night. Indeed, she never would have found herself in this frightful situation at all.
Madeline's seduction had occurred in the summer of her fourteenth year. To this day she carried a medallion-bright memory of Gerard, the carefree, good-looking boy who had worked as a cabin steward on one of the big Mississippi steamboats. She had met Gerard by chance one afternoon on the levee. He was seventeen and so jolly and attentive that she was soon ignoring the silent dictates of her conscience and sneaking off to meet him whenever his boat docked in the city — about once every ten days that summer.
Later in August, on a dark, thundery afternoon, she gave in to his pleadings and went with him to a sordid rented room in an alley in the Vieux Carre. Once he had her in a compromising position, he forgot about politeness and used her vigorously, although he was careful not to hurt her.
He failed to turn up for their next prearranged meeting. She took a great risk by going to the gangplank of the steamboat and asking for him. The deckhand to whom she spoke was evasive; he didn't know exactly where Gerard could be found at the moment. Then Madeline chanced to look at one of the upper decks. Behind a round cabin window she glimpsed a dim face. The instant Gerard saw her watching, he stepped back into darkness. She never saw him again.
For days she feared she might bear a child. When that consuming worry passed, she began to feel guilty about what she had done. She had wanted to make love with Gerard, but now that she had and she realized that he'd wanted nothing else from her, passion gave way to remorse and to a fear of all young men and their motives. The events of the summer drove her to try to atone, if that were possible, by means of adherence to new and more rigid standards of behavior she set for herself.
In the next few years she discouraged all young men who wanted to call on her, and in fact she avoided men almost completely until her father brought Justin LaMotte to dinner. The South Carolinian had two things to recommend him — kindly charm and his age. She was positive he was not driven by passions, as Gerard had been. That was one of the reasons she had finally changed her mind about Justin's proposals.
The change actually took place a few days after her father's seizure. One evening by the waxy light of bedside candles, he pleaded with her:
"I don't know how much longer I can live, Madeline. Set my mind at ease. Marry LaMotte. He's a decent and honorable man."
"Yes," she said as the candles wavered, stirred by Fabray's slurred speech. "I think so, too."
Only something as compelling as Nicholas Fabray's plea from his sickbed could have overcome her fear of marriage. But even her regard for her father couldn't banish her sadness at leaving her home, her small circle of friends, and the city she knew and loved. She made the long journey to South Carolina because she wanted to give her father peace of mind and because she trusted Justin LaMotte to be what he seemed.
How wrong she had been. How brutally, idiotically wrong. In terms of what he wanted, Justin was no different from younger men, and in one way he was worse. Gerard, at least, had tried not to hurt her.
She didn't blame her father for what had happened. Yet she believed things might not have reached such a state if she had also had a mother to counsel her. Madeline had never known her mother, whom Nicholas Fabray always described as the finest woman in the world. Evidently she had been an intelligent, sophisticated Creole of great beauty. Fabray said Madeline resembled her strongly, but there was not a single picture to prove or disprove that. Just before his wife's sudden and unexpected death, he had commissioned a miniaturist to paint her portrait. He said it was the second greatest disappointment of his life that he had not made the arrangements sooner.
Dear God, it was all such a frightful tangle, Madeline thought. So full of bitter ironies. How she had argued with Maum Sally about the wedding-night deception! She had said no to it again and again, even though Maum Sally insisted the deception was not only essential but, given prevailing male attitudes on virginity, an act of kindness toward Justin. The deception would ensure a smooth and trouble-free start to the marriage.
How damnably guilty she had felt for giving in — and how pitiable that guilt seemed in the light of her husband's treachery.
Then there was her meeting on the river road with the young military cadet, Orry Main. She had been taken with his gentle good manners and deep, dark eyes. She had wanted to touch him and she had done so, forgetting for a few seconds not only that she was about to be married but that he could not possibly be what he seemed. He was, after all, just about her own age.
Unexpectedly, an image of Orry slipped back into her thoughts as she lay beside her husband. Even at the reception she had felt a brief but powerful attraction to the young cadet. With her mind's eye she studied the imaginary face. Suddenly, guilt attacked her again. No matter what Justin had done to her, he was her husband. Even to think of another man was dishonorable.
Yet Orry's face lingered. To help banish it, she flung her forearm across her eyes, with more noise than she intended. She went rigid. The sound of Justin's breathing had changed. She straightened her arm at her side and tightened both hands into fists.
He was awake.
He started to speak but began coughing. In a faint voice she asked, "Are you all right?" It was concern she didn't feel.
He rolled onto his side, his back toward her. "I will be as soon as I clear this cough with some bourbon."
In the dark he knocked a glass off the bed stand. He blurted words Madeline had heard only a few times in her life, even though she was no stranger to profanity; Papa had strong views and sometimes punctuated them with oaths.
Justin didn't apologize for the filthy language. He drank directly from the bedside decanter. Then he uttered a long sigh and rolled back onto his elbows. The moon was up now; its brilliant light washed over his silky hair and muscular chest. For a man his age, he had very little flab on him.
He grinned at her. "You needn't worry about my health, my dear. It's perfect. Most of the LaMotte men have lived well into their nineties. I'm going to be around to enjoy your favors a good, long time."
She was too upset to say anything. She feared the huskiness in his voice and what it portended. He sounded almost testy when he continued, "I want you to bear me sons, Madeline. My first wife couldn't. Francis once had the nerve to suggest the fault was mine. Nonsense, of course — as we'll soon prove."
He rolled again, coming toward her like some fleshy juggernaut. He swept the sheet off her.
"Justin, if you don't mind, I would first like to get up and use —"
"Later," he said. He pushed the hem of her bed gown up above her stomach and shoved his hand between her thighs, hurting her.
She closed her eyes and dug her nails into her palms as he flung himself on top of her and began to grunt.
Orry went back to the Academy with the embroidered wreath still on his cap. The only person with whom he could discuss the momentous summer was George, who took note of his friend's melancholy state and tried to jolly him out of it.
"What you need, Stick, is a visit with Alice Peet. She'll soon make you forget this Madeline."
Orry gave him a long, level look, slowly shook his head.
"Never."
George was concerned about the fervor Orry put into that word. He hoped his friend wouldn't pine over a married woman for the rest of his life. He clapped an arm across Orry's shoulder and tried to buck him up. It didn't help.
Orry himself saw the need to find some antidote for his misery, He sought it in a herculean effort to lift himself out of the ranks of the immortals. But the second-class curriculum was no easier than those of his first two years. He liked the natural and experimental philosophy course, which included mechanics, optics, astronomy, and even a little about electricity. Yet he couldn't escape from the lowest section, no matter how he tried.
It was the same in advanced drawing. Professor Weir was merciless about Orry's watercolors, referring to them as daubs. George continued to breeze through everything with no apparent effort.
The one distinct improvement over last year was the opportunity to exercise the body as well as the mind. Second classmen took riding instruction from a professor nicknamed Old Hersh. Orry was a good rider, which was probably a blessing. At graduation, cadets were theoretically free to choose the branch of service they wanted to enter. But as a practical matter, the six branches were just as rigidly ranked as the cadets in their academic sections. Only the top graduates got into the engineers or the slightly less desirable topogs. Cadets at the bottom of the academic standings went to the infantry or to the dragoons and mounted rifles. The last two branches were held in such low esteem by the Army high command that all who served in them were permitted to grow mustaches. Orry suspected he would be growing one, and riding a lot.
Elkanah Bent had been chosen a cadet officer during summer camp. He strutted about in his scarlet sash and plumed hat, but the rank did nothing to improve his character. He continued to abuse plebes and yearlings with ruthless glee. One plebe, a lanky Kentuckian named Isham, became a special target because, like Orry and George, he showed defiance when Bent deviled him.
Not long before the national elections, Bent charged Isham with repeatedly losing step during an evening parade. Exhausted and coming down with a fever, Isham confronted Bent outside South Barracks later that night. He asked Bent to withdraw the report since he already had 164 demerits. At the rate he was going, he wouldn't be around to see whether he could pass the first-term examinations.
As the more experienced cadets could have told him, that kind of plea brought out the worst in Cadet Lieutenant Bent. He accused Isham of insolence to an upperclassman — several other cadets overheard that much — then marched the plebe away into the dusk for some "disciplinary drill."
Next morning after reveille, George and Orry learned that Isham was in the hospital. Gradually they pieced the story together. Bent had taken the plebe to the top of the winding path leading down to the North Dock. He then ordered Isham to march up and down the path at quickstep. It was a warm night, exceptional for late October, and heavy with humidity. After forty minutes Isham was reeling.
Bent sat on a boulder halfway down the path, smiling and calling mocking encouragements. Isham refused to beg for quarter, and Bent refused to give any. The plebe lasted about an hour. Then his legs gave out and he pitched sideways, tumbling and crashing down the slope to the bottom. He lay unconscious until a few minutes after midnight. Bent, naturally, had disappeared the moment Isham fell. There were no witnesses.
The plebe staggered to the hospital without his pack. An examination showed him to be suffering from a concussion and three broken ribs. Rumors flew on the Plain. Orry heard from several cadets that Isham would be crippled for life.
But the Kentuckian was strong. He recovered. Only after he was released from the hospital did he tell some fellow plebes what had happened. It was from them that George and Orry learned the truth, although they had guessed much of it, as had many others.
One of the tactical officers heard the story and placed Bent on report for disciplinary excesses. Isham refused to accuse his tormentor, however, so the evidence against the Ohioan remained circumstantial, hearsay. When confronted with the charges, Bent denied them heatedly and at length.
Pickett brought that news down to Gee's Point on a Saturday afternoon. Orry, George, and several friends were taking advantage of the prolonged hot spell and swimming in the river. George's reaction was blunt.
"That bastard. Were the charges dismissed?"
''Of course,'' Pickett said. ''What else could happen after he denied them?"
George reached for his shirt hanging on a branch. "I think we ought to do something to fix Mr. Blubber Bent."
Orry felt the same way, yet, as always, his was the voice of caution.
"Do you think it's our affair, George?"
"It's the affair of the whole corps now. Bent lied to save himself. Do you want a person like him commanding troops? He'd send a company to slaughter, then shift the blame onto someone else without a qualm. It's time we got him out of here for good."
The presidential campaign moved into its last days. Henry Clay, the Whig candidate, had substantially softened his original position on the Texas issue. Now he sounded almost like his opponent. But anti-annexation men continued to warn that bringing Texas into the Union could precipitate America's first war in thirty years. If so, it would be a war that would test West Point programs, and West Point graduates, as they hadn't been tested since the era of Sylvanus Thayer. The issue and the election would be decided on December 4.
George and Orry paid little attention to the political debate. They were preoccupied with their studies and their plot to bring about Bent's downfall. The plot remained little more than a nebulous wish until George made his next visit to Benny Haven's. There he happened to learn that one of Alice Peet's regular customers was Army Lieutenant Casimir de Jong, the tactical officer who had preferred charges against Bent in the Isham affair. Later he reported to Orry:
"Old Jongie calls for his laundry every Wednesday night at ten. They say it takes him at least an hour to complete the transaction. I'll wager he's going to Alice for more than clean shirts and small clothes."
By now Orry was completely in favor of reprisals against the Ohioan.
"Then I would say Jongie's habits dictate our strategy. We should maneuver Bent into the embrace of fair Alice around nine-thirty some Wednesday evening."
George grinned. "I can see you have a brilliant future on the battlefield. However, you should always know your ally as well as you know your enemy."
"What does that mean?"
"Fair Alice may be an agreeable sort, but she's also a camp follower. A mercenary. She won't entertain Bent gratis. Especially not after she gets a look at his belly."
The reality couldn't be escaped. The plot went into suspension for three weeks while various cadet conspirators obtained blankets and cooking utensils. No questions were asked about the way they got them, or where. The contraband went to the river man in exchange for cash.
On the night before the election, George visited Alice with money in hand. Following supper the next evening, the engine of Bent's hoped-for destruction began to roll.
George and Pickett staged an argument in front of witnesses. They quarreled over Polk's support of annexation, George stating the familiar proposition that it had nothing to do with embracing fellow Americans and everything to do with adding more slave territory to the Union.
Pickett turned red. His replies were loud and contentious. Chance witnesses, and even a few who were in on the plot, were convinced he was furious.
Over the next few days it became common knowledge that the two Georges had fallen out. This gave Pickett a chance to cozy up to Bent, a deception his wit and Virginia charm helped him carry off convincingly. The following Wednesday night, as a light snow began to fall, Pickett invited the Ohioan to Benny Haven's for a touch of ardent spirits. Then, en route, Pickett suggested that a visit to Alice Peet would be more stimulating.
George and Orry, the official observers for the corps, trailed the pair through the snow. Shivering at Alice's window, they watched her swing into action. Her theatrical ability couldn't match Pickett's, but that made no difference. By the time she approached Bent, he had hung his cap on the back of his chair, unbuttoned his collar, and downed three drinks. His eyes were already glassy.
Bending close to him, Alice whispered into his ear. The Ohioan wiped a drop of saliva from his lips. Outside the partially opened window, the two friends heard him ask Alice her price. George clutched Orry's forearm; this was the crisis. The plot depended on Bent's believing Alice's statement that she would charge him nothing because she had taken a fancy to him. "That," Pickett had remarked during the formulation of the plan, "is like asking someone to believe the falls of Niagara flow upward."
But Bent was drunk, and far back in the Ohioan's bleary eyes Orry thought he detected the presence of a cringing fat boy wanting to be liked. Bent winked at Pickett across the table. The Virginian rose, grinned, and waved good night.
Pickett came out and closed the door behind him. As he passed the other conspirators, he whispered without turning his head, "I'm relying on you to report everything that happens." Without breaking stride, he went away across the crunchy snow. Through the window George and Orry saw Alice reach for Bent's hand and lead him to the open door to the sleeping area. The bait was taken, the trap ready to close.
At precisely ten. Lieutenant Casimir de Jong came tramping out of the snow, muffled to the eyes and merrily humming "Chester." He went straight to the door of Alice's shack and, after a quick knock, walked in.
The observers heard Alice let out a patently false squeal of fright. She rushed into the main room, smoothing her shift down with one hand and patting her disarrayed hair with the other. From the darkness beyond the doorway came snorting and the sound of rustling bedclothes.
Old Jongie plucked the cadet cap from the back of the chair and studied it a moment. Then he crushed it in his hand and planted himself in front of the doorway. Like all good tactical officers he had long ago learned the technique of the intimidating bellow. He used it now.
"Who is in there? Come out immediately, sir!"
Snuffling and blinking, Bent appeared a moment later. Old Jongie's jaw dropped. "Good God, sir — I cannot believe what I see."
"It isn't what you think," Bent cried. "I came — I only came for my laundry."
"With your pants at half mast and your long underwear gapping? In the name of decency, sir — cover yourself."
Still crouched, Orry and George waddled toward the half-open door of the shack. George was almost unable to contain his laughter. By the light of an oil lamp, Orry saw Bent frantically jerk up his trousers. Alice wrung her hands.
"Oh, Mr. Bent, sir, I got so carried away, I clean forgot the lieutenant calls for his laundry every week at this time. That's the bundle over th —"
She dodged to avoid Bent's fist. "You slut, be quiet."
"That's enough, sir!" de Jong shouted. "Comport yourself like a gentleman while you may."
Bent's face shone as if greased. In the stillness of the nearby woods, a nocturnal animal cracked a twig. The sound was loud as a shot.
"While you may?" Bent whispered. "What do you mean by that?"
"Isn't it obvious, sir? You are on report — for more offenses than I care to enumerate at this moment. But be assured that I will enumerate them. Especially those that are punishable by dismissal."
Bent looked ill. "Sir, this is all a misunderstanding. If you'll give me a chance to explain —"
"The same kind of explanation you provided for Isham's injuries? Lies?" De Jong was a splendid instrument of official wrath; Orry almost felt sorry for the fat first classman.
De Jong spun toward the door. Bent saw his whole career about to vanish with the tactical officer. He grabbed de Jong's shoulder.
"Take your hands off me, you drunken sot," de Jong said in a chillingly quiet voice. "I shall expect you in my office the moment you arrive back on post — and that arrival had better not take any longer than ten minutes, or the view halloo will be heard all the way to New York City."
Grand in his contempt, Lieutenant de Jong marched down the steps and into the falling snow. He never saw the two cadets crouched in the shadows.
Inside the shack, Bent turned on Alice. "You stupid, bungling whore —''
He shoved the rickety table aside. She ran to the stove and snatched a butcher knife from a rack hanging next to it.
"Get out of here. Stump told me you were crazy, but I didn't put stock in that. What an idiot I was — get out. Get out!"
The brandished knife flashed. George and Orry exchanged quick, worried looks as Bent stood swaying, stunned.
"Stump? Do you mean Hazard had something to do with this? It was Pickett's idea to come here, and your idea for me to — that is —"
He was unable to continue. His anger was replaced by an expression of such blinding fury, Orry thought he would never again see its like on a human face.
Alice compounded the hurt with a shrill laugh. "My idea? I wouldn't let a pig like you touch me unless I got paid, and paid plenty. Even so, I nearly couldn't do it."
Bent trembled. "I should have seen it. A trick. A plot. All of them against me — that's it, isn't it?"
Alice realized her blunder and tried to rectify it. "No. I didn't mean —''
"Don't lie to me," Bent said. The two cadets outside couldn't see what happened next. Apparently Bent made another threatening move toward the laundress because she began to scream. This time she wasn't playacting.
"Quiet, or you'll wake the whole village!"
That was exactly what Alice intended; she screamed all the louder. Bent came lunging out the door, his hair flying, his eyes full of fright. He ran off with one hand holding up his pants.
George and Orry stared at each other. Neither felt the elation they had anticipated for so long.
Within three days Bent took the Canterberry road.
Most of the cadets said they were happy he had been dismissed. Orry was, certainly. And George. Yet both of them admitted to some feelings of guilt over the way the Ohioan had been entrapped. Gradually the friends put the guilt out of mind. Orry knew his crisis of conscience was at an end when he began to have sensual dreams about Madeline again.
At Christmas everyone was still discussing Polk's victory. Since the President-elect continued to proclaim his intention to annex Texas, Orry wondered whether he would go directly from his graduation, a year from June, to combat against a Mexican army. And would there be a second front in the Northwest as a result of the current dispute with the British over the location of the Oregon border? Thrilling possibilities, but frightening, too.
On the last Saturday night in December, another hash was in progress in Pickett's room when there was a furtive knock. Orry opened the door to find Tom Jackson standing there. Jackson had turned into a superior student, largely through determined effort. If he wasn't exactly likable because of his odd personality, there was yet something about him — a strength, an unspoken ferocity — that inspired respect. He was welcome in the more tolerant cadet groups, such as this one.
"Greetings, General," George called out as Jackson shut the door. "Care for a bite?"
"No, thank you." Jackson tapped his stomach to indicate his concern with his digestion. The lanky Virginian looked even more serious than usual; positively mournful, in fact.
"What's wrong?" Orry asked.
"I am the bearer of unhappy news. Especially for you two," Jackson said with glances at Orry and George. "Apparently Cadet Bent's connections in Washington were not mere products of a boastful imagination. I am reliably informed by the adjutant that Secretary of War Wilkins, as one of his last acts of office, has intervened in the case."
George wiped the edge of his index finger across his upper lip. "Intervened how, Tom?"
"The dismissal was overturned. Mr. Bent will be back among us within a fortnight."
The countermanding of dismissals was nothing new at the Academy. Thanks to the political ties of the families of cadets, it happened often enough to be a major cause of the institution's unpopularity. It was an abuse that even the most conscientious superintendent was powerless to stop, since final authority for West Point rested in Washington.
It took only six days for Bent to reappear, stripped of his former rank. George and Orry expected that revenge of some kind would be forthcoming, but it was not. The two friends avoided Bent as much as they could, but it was impossible to avoid him entirely. When either of them did encounter the Ohioan, his reaction was the same. His jowly face remained composed, stony. George and Orry might have been utter strangers.
"That scares me a devil of a lot more than ranting and raving would," Orry said. "What's he up to?"
"I hear he's boning pretty hard," George said. "Wasted effort, if you ask me. After what he did, he'll be lucky to make the infantry, even with top marks."
As June drew closer, and Bent continued to keep to himself, the overturned dismissal was discussed less frequently, and finally not at all. There were more important things to talk about; it had been a momentous springtime for the nation.
On the first of March, three days before Polk's inauguration, outgoing President Tyler had signed the joint congressional resolution calling for Texas to join the Union as a state. Polk inherited the consequences of that act, the first of them being the reaction of the Mexican government. At the end of the month, the U.S. minister in Mexico City was informed that diplomatic relations were severed.
War fever gripped some sections of the country, notably the South. Orry broke the wafer on a letter from home and found Cooper complaining about Tillet's zeal for a military crusade to protect the new slave state if the Texas legislature approved annexation, as it surely would. Northerners were divided on the question of war. Opposition was strongest around Boston, long the seedbed of abolitionist activity.
Bent and the other first classmen were busy preparing for their final examinations and conferring with the trunk makers and military tailors who always arrived at this time of year. Bent's class, typical of most, would graduate about half of those who had appeared for the first summer encampment. Each departing cadet would become a brevet second lieutenant in his respective branch. A brevet officer didn't receive the full pay to which his rank would otherwise entitle him, so it was the goal of most graduates to escape this provisional status and win promotion to full second during the first year of active duty. George's prediction about Bent came true. The Ohioan was able to do no better than a brevet in the infantry.
Bent finally spoke to George and Orry after the year's final parade. It was sunset, a cool June evening. The softly rounded peaks rose half scarlet, half blue above the Plain where many of the new graduates were receiving the congratulations of beaming mothers, quietly proud fathers, exuberant little brothers and sisters, and feminine admirers not connected with the family. George had noticed that Bent was one of the very few with no relatives present.
The Ohioan looked spruce in the cadet uniform he was wearing for the last time. He had grown generous whiskers, as the first classmen were permitted to do. In an hour or so he would be down on the boat landing, bound for New York and, presumably, the class supper, which was always held in some posh hotel the day after graduation. Leave for Bent and all the other graduates would end on the last day of September.
Orry was puzzled by Bent's smile. Then the Ohioan turned slightly, and fading daylight lit his eyes. Orry saw the hatred then.
"What I have to say to you two gentlemen is brief and to the point." Bent spoke in short, breathy bursts, as if struggling to contain powerful emotion. "You almost kept me from an Army career. That fact will never be far from the center of ray thoughts. I will be highly placed one of these days — very highly placed — mark that and count on it. And I will not forget the names of those who put a permanent stain on my record."
He pivoted away so abruptly that George sidestepped, a nervous reaction. Sunset light reddened Bent's eyes. He lumbered away toward his barracks. His weight made it hard for him to maintain a military bearing.
George was darting stunned looks at his friend, as if to say he couldn't believe the melodramatic recitation he had just heard. Orry hoped to God that his friend wouldn't take it lightly and laugh, because you had to believe the declarations of a madman.
Believe, and be warned.
In summer encampment George advanced to cadet lieutenant. Among the first classmen, Orry was the only one not given a rank.
He remained, as an old joke put it, a high private, which was discouraging because it showed how little his superiors thought of him. Oh, they liked him well enough personally. But as for believing he had any military ability, no.
The first-class courses seemed designed to validate that opinion. While George continued to sail through effortlessly, Orry struggled with the ethics course, which included principles of constitutional law as well as the practice of court-martial. He had an even harder time with the courses in civil and military engineering, which brought him into regular contact with the feared and legendary Professor Mahan.
In his dark blue dress coat, blue trousers, and buff vest, Mahan looked every inch the Academy professor. When a cadet demonstrated before him, he permitted no variance from what he had taught or the way he had taught it. The foolish cadet who dared to disagree, however timidly, was soon humbled by Mahan's celebrated sarcasm — and mentally downgraded to boot. Every cadet was ranked in Mahan's mind. From that judgment, whether it was just or not, there was no appeal.
Yet the cadets liked, even worshiped Mahan. If that hadn't been the case, they would have made fun of his slight speech impediment, which made him sound as if he always had a cold. Instead, the cadets affectionately acknowledged the problem with a nickname — Old Cobben Sense; Mahan was constantly lecturing about the virtues of "cobben sense."
In addition to engineering, Mahan taught military science. In this course he awed his pupils with predictions of a new, apocalyptic kind of war that would be born of the current industrial age. They would all be called on to command in that new kind of war, he said. And perhaps it would take place sooner than any of them anticipated. In July, General Zachary Taylor and fifteen hundred men had been ordered to the Nueces River, which Mexico still insisted was its northern boundary. At Corpus Christi on the Nueces, Taylor took up a position to guard against a possible Mexican attack.
By late autumn Taylor's force had grown to forty-five hundred. On December 29 Texas joined the Union as the twenty-eighth state, still standing by its claim that the peace treaty at the end of its war for independence had established its southern border at the Rio Grande.
Mexico's protests grew increasingly belligerent. The treaty was worthless, and the Republic of Texas was a fraud — nonexistent. How could an illegal political entity annex itself to the United States? The answer was obvious. It could not. If it thought otherwise, there would be dire consequences.
The threatening talk pleased those Americans who believed the nation had an almost divine right to expand its borders. Robert Winthrop, a representative from Massachusetts, encountered a phrase in an obscure journal that seemed to sum up this right in a memorable way. Early in January, Winthrop spoke on the floor of Congress about "manifest destiny," and America had a new rallying cry.
During the winter, attempts at peace negotiations conducted by Minister to Mexico John Slidell failed. Under orders from his superiors in Washington, General Taylor again advanced, this time proceeding south, through the sparsely populated wilderness both Mexico and Texas were claiming, all the way to the Rio Grande. People began to talk of war as a real possibility. "Mr. Polk's war," the President's opponents called it.
In that troubled spring of 1846, George Hazard took a good look around him, blinked, and realized that in four years, while he was busy with cigars, girls, and occasional study, profound changes had taken place. Boys had become young men; young men had become survivors; survivors were about to become brevet officers — in his case, and Orry's, brevet officers with new growths of whiskers.
Orry was going to the infantry, so George put in for it too. Some of the professors and tactical officers disapproved. They said George, with his high marks, could get the artillery, perhaps even the topogs. Orry urged his friend to heed that counsel, but George was adamant.
"I'd rather serve in the infantry with a friend than go flying around on a limber with a lot of strangers. Besides, I still plan to resign at the end of four years. It's immaterial to me where I spend that time, so long as I don't get shot at too often."
If George was not precisely overjoyed at the idea of going to war, Orry, on the other hand, really wanted to confront danger — see the elephant, as the popular phrase had it — on some distant battlefield in Mexico. Sometimes he felt guilty about that desire, but combat experience would be invaluable to a man planning on a military career.
Although Orry's superiors hadn't seen fit to promote him, that hadn't changed his mind about his goal. He would be a soldier no matter what anyone else thought.
Like Orry, most of the other first classmen were thrilled, although nervously so, over the possibility of seeing action. West Point's corps of "pampered aristocrats" might at last have a chance to prove its worth. So might the entire Army, for that matter. A great many citizens were contemptuous of the American soldier, saying he had but one skill — he knew how to raise malingering to a high art.
The question of war was decided before George and Orry graduated. On April 12 the Mexican commander at Matamoros had ordered General Taylor to withdraw. Old Rough and Ready had ignored the warning, and on the last day of the month Mexican soldiers began to cross the Rio Grande. Early in May, at Palo Alto, Taylor's army repulsed an enemy force three times its size and did so again at Resaca de la Palma a few days later. The ball was open. Congress responded to the invasion of American territory by declaring war on the twelfth of May.
The war created a windstorm of controversy. George didn't go so far as some anti-Southern Whigs such as Horace Greeley, the editor of the New York Tribune, who called the war a trumped-up land grab and warned that a Southern cabal was pushing the nation into a "fathomless abyss of crime and calamity." George also scoffed at Mexican propaganda about a perverse crusade to expunge Catholicism from North America. After looking forward to four lazy years in the Army, he found the war merely inconvenient and annoying.
The moment George made the decision about his branch of service, he had written his father and asked him to pull a few wires. Now, at last, his orders arrived, posting him to the Eighth Infantry. Orry announced with astonishment that he had been sent to the same regiment. George pretended to be greatly surprised by the coincidence.
In the fine June weather, the graduates accepted the good wishes of their professors and marched in their last parade. George and Orry for the first time donned regular Army blue: the dark blue coat, the light blue trousers with the thin white seam stripe of the infantry.
George's father and his brother Stanley attended the final parade. None of Orry's family had been able to make the trip from South Carolina. Immediately after the parade, the Hazards took a boat for Albany, where they had business. George and Orry were ready to leave about an hour later.
As the steamer pulled away from the dock, Orry stepped to the rail and gazed up at the bluff, visually tracing the path they had climbed for the first time four years ago.
"I'll miss the place. You'll laugh at this, but what I'll miss most is the drum. It gets into your bones after a while."
George didn't laugh, but he shook his head. "You'll miss a drum that divided your life into rigid little compartments?"
"Yes. It lent the days a certain rhythm. A pattern and order you could depend on."
"Well, don't pine away, Mr. Stick. We'll hear plenty of drums in Mexico."
Night was settling as the steamer plowed past Constitution Island. Soon they were moving down the Hudson in darkness. In the city they registered at the American House, and next day saw the sights of New York. On Broadway they happened on a couple of dragoon noncoms and received their first salutes. Orry was excited. "We're soldiers now. Officially."
His friend shrugged, unimpressed. Before George boarded the train for Philadelphia, Orry made him promise to come to Mont Royal toward the end of his leave. They could then travel on to their regiment together. George agreed. In the past four years he had developed a liking for most of the Southerners he had met.
Besides, he had never forgotten Cooper Main's comment about the pretty girls down home.
One of the first things George did when he arrived in Lehigh Station was to unwrap the meteorite he had found in the hills above West Point. In his room he carefully positioned it on a windowsill, where none of the upstairs maids could possibly mistake it for a piece of junk to be thrown out. Then he folded his hands under his chin and contemplated his prize.
Ten minutes passed. Twenty. In the silence, the rough-surfaced, iron-rich fragment seemed to speak to him with a wordless but mighty voice, telling of its power to alter or destroy anything man could build or invent. When he finally rose to leave, a shiver ran down his spine, even though the house was hot this summer afternoon.
George took few things seriously, and fewer still touched his emotions in any significant way. That piece of star iron, the stuff at the heart of the Hazard fortune, was a rare exception. He had no intention of meeting a brave and quickly forgotten death in Mexico; he had important work to do in the years ahead. Let Orry spend his life settling border disputes on battlefields. In the iron trade, George would help change the world in many more ways than that.
He packed and said good-bye to his family in mid-September. Taylor's Army was advancing on Monterrey, Mexico, during an eight-week armistice. George kept track of the Army's position because his regiment was part of Taylor's Second Division, commanded by General Worth. The Eighth had already seen hot fighting and presumably would see more.
On the long train trip to South Carolina, George tried to organize his ideas about Northerners and Southerners. At West Point cadets from both parts of the country had pretty well agreed that the Yankees were better prepared because the North had better schools. The Southerners haughtily amended their agreement by saying that it didn't matter much; it was the bold leader, not the smart one, who usually won the battle.
If quizzed on regional differences, he would have characterized Yankees as practical, restless, curious about the ordinary things of life, and eager to make improvements wherever possible. Southerners, by contrast, struck him as content with life as they knew it. They were, at the same time, given to endless disputation and theorizing, always in the abstract, about such subjects as politics, Negro slavery, and the Constitution, to name just three.
Of course slavery was always discussed as a positive good. Interestingly, George recalled Orry's saying that hadn't always been the case. As a boy he had eavesdropped on the conversation of gentlemen visiting his father. The talk often turned to the peculiar institution, and once he had heard Tillet state that some elements of slavery were abhorrent to God and man. But after the Vesey and Turner rebellions, Orry noted, there was no more of that kind of free discussion at Mont Royal. Tillet said it might tend to encourage another uprising.
George had no strong views on slavery, pro or con. He decided that he wouldn't discuss the subject in South Carolina, and he certainly wouldn't tell the Mains how the other Hazards felt. His mother and father weren't fanatical abolitionists, but they believed slavery to be totally wrong.
Orry met him with a carriage at a tiny woodland way station of the Northeastern Rail Road. During the ride to the plantation, the friends talked animatedly of the war and the months just past. Orry said his family had returned from their summer residence two weeks early, so as to be there when George arrived.
George was fascinated by the lush vegetation of the low country, overwhelmed by the size and beauty of Mont Royal, and taken with Orry's family.
With most of them, anyway. Tillet Main struck him as stern and a mite suspicious of outsiders. Then there was Cousin Charles, a raffishly handsome boy whose chief occupations seemed to be smiling in a sullen way and practicing lunges and feints with a large bowie knife.
Orry's sisters were, of course, far too young for George. Brett, just nine, was pretty and bright but tended to fade into the background when eleven-year-old Ashton was present. The older sister was one of the loveliest little girls George had ever seen. What a beauty she'd be at twenty!
He spent his first, full day at Mont Royal touring the fields and learning how a rice plantation operated. Late in the afternoon he was given into the care of Clarissa and her daughters, who took him to a charming summer house at one corner of the garden. When they were all comfortably seated in wicker chairs, two Negro girls served them delicious lemonade and little cakes.
Presently Clarissa excused herself to see to something in the kitchen. Ashton folded her hands in her lap and regarded George with great dark eyes.
"Orry says your nickname is Stump. You don't look like a stump to me." She smiled, her eyes flashing.
George ran an index finger under his tight, hot collar. For once he was at a loss for words. Brett rescued him.
"That's the handsomest uniform I ever have seen — though it's true I haven't seen many."
"Not as handsome as what's in it," Ashton said, and at that George actually blushed. The sisters seemed like miniature women, not children. Ashton's flirtatious nature, rather than being pleasing, made him uncomfortable.
It was her age, he decided. She was too young to act coquettish, yet she did. George was attracted to pretty women, but he tended to avoid beautiful ones They were too aware of their own good looks, and that awareness often made them moody and difficult. So it would be with Ashton Main, he suspected.
Ashton kept watching him over the rim of her lemonade glass. He was relieved to return to male company when the little party ended.
Two evenings later, at the dinner table, Clarissa announced plans for a big picnic at which George was to be introduced to neighbors and relatives.
"If we are lucky, we shall also have the honor of Senator Calhoun's presence. He has been home at Fort Hill for a few weeks. He suffers from a lung disorder which the climate of the Potomac basin only exacerbates. Up-country the air is clear and pure. It affords him some relief, which is the reason — Tillet, why on earth are you making such a face?''
Every head swung toward the end of the table. Outside, far-off thunder rumbled in the still air, Ashton and Brett exchanged anxious looks. This was the season of the hurricanes that came sweeping off the ocean with destructive fury.
"John hardly acts like one of us any longer," Tillet said. An insect landed on his forehead. He swatted at it, then gestured in an annoyed way.
A little Negro boy had been standing motionless in the corner, fly whisk held in front of him like a musket. In response to Tillet's gesture the boy jumped forward and waved the whisk vigorously near Tillet's head, but he knew he was too late. He had displeased his owner. The fear in the boy's eyes told George more about the relationship between master and slave than he might have learned from hours of abolitionist lectures.
"We toast John on every public occasion," Tillet went on. "We put up statues and plaques honoring him as the greatest living resident of the state — possibly the nation. Then he traipses off to Washington and utterly ignores the will of his constituents."
Cooper gave a little snort that clearly angered his father. "Come, sir," Cooper said, "are you suggesting Mr. Calhoun can be considered a South Carolinian only when he agrees with you? His opposition to the war may be unpopular, but it's patently sincere. He certainly supports and reinforces most of your other views."
"Which you do not. Of course, I am not particularly distressed by that fact.'' The sarcasm made George uncomfortable, and he suspected that deep down Tillet was greatly distressed.
"Good," Cooper retorted with an airy wave of his wineglass. He ignored imploring glances from his mother. ''You mustn't worry about what I think. It's the opinion of the rest of the country that you ignore at your peril."
Tillet's hand closed on his napkin. He glanced at George, forced a smile. "My son is a self-proclaimed expert on national affairs. Sometimes I think he'd be more at home living up North."
Rigid in his chair, Cooper said, "Balderdash." His smile was gone. "I despise those damn abolitionists with all their self-righteous breast-beating. But their hypocrisy doesn't blind me to the truth of some of their charges. The moment anyone dares to criticize the way we do things in the South, we all become as defensive as treed porcupines. The Yankees say slavery is wrong, so we claim it's a blessing. They point to scars on nigra backs —"
"You find no scars on anyone at Mont Royal," Tillet interrupted, for George's benefit. Cooper paid no attention.
"— and we respond with windy pronouncements that slaves are happy. No person deprived of liberty is happy, for God's sake!"
"Watch your foul mouth in front of these children," Tillet shouted.
But the younger man was as angry as the older: "Instead of learning from the truth, we avoid it. We're content to be what we've been for a hundred and fifty years — farmers whose crops depend on the sweat of black bondsmen. We ignore men like George's father, even though they're becoming legion up North. George's father manufactures iron with free labor. That iron goes into machines. Machines are creating the future. The Yankees understand what this century's all about, but we only understand the last one. If Senator Calhoun no longer parrots the established wisdom of the state, more power to him. We need a dozen more like him."
There was an uncharacteristic sharpness in Clarissa's voice. "It's rude of you to speak so intemperately in front of our guest."
"Yes, the hell with the truth. Good manners above all." Cooper raised his wineglass in a mock toast. Tillet knocked the glass from his hand.
The black boy with the fly whisk ducked. The glass broke against the wall. Brett shrieked and shrank against her chair, one hand over her eyes. Orry looked at the visitor and shrugged, his smile awkward and apologetic.
Tillet seethed. "You have consumed too much wine, Cooper. You had better retire until you can control yourself.''
"Yes, indeed," said Clarissa. Though softly spoken, it was a command.
Cooper did act a mite intoxicated, George thought. The older brother rose, stared at his father, then laughed before hurrying out. Tillet was livid; clearly, mockery enraged the head of Orry's family even more than did heresy.
No one smiled or said much during the rest of the meal. George was depressed. There was a clear rift in the Main household. A rift much like the one his own father said was slowly but inevitably dividing the country.
Although the picnic fell within the sickly season, it drew a crowd of more than two hundred. Many came from their summer homes, and some all the way from Columbia. This impressed George, but not as much as the late-morning arrival of John Calhoun.
Senator Calhoun and his wife, Floride, drove up the lane in an old but elegant barouche. Friends and the curious hurried to surround the vehicle. George had heard someone say the senator had spent the night in Charleston, attended by his driver and three other Negroes, all house servants, who followed the barouche in a mule-drawn cart.
In the last thirty years of America's national life, no one had played more roles with greater dominance than the tall, hawkish man who stepped quickly down from the barouche and began greeting well-wishers. George couldn't recall all the offices Calhoun had held. He knew secretary of war and Vice-President were two of them.
Early in his career Calhoun had been a fierce partisan of the Federal Union and of the Academy. When others had argued against Sylvanus Thayer's ambitious reform programs, Calhoun had endorsed them, believing America could not be strong without a strong military arm. But of course when Northerners heard Calhoun's name now, most of them thought of one thing — the doctrine of nullification.
The senator had propounded the doctrine in the early 1830s. At issue was a protective tariff unpopular in South Carolina. Calhoun argued that the state had the sovereign right to nullify the tariff — which in effect meant any state could disobey any Federal law it disliked. President Jackson had backed Calhoun down and ended the nullification movement with an implied threat of Federal force.
George was introduced to the Calhouns. He guessed that the senator was in his middle sixties. It was obvious that age and disease had wasted Calhoun's face and tall, strong frame. But echoes of earlier good looks remained in his dramatic crest of gray hair thrown back from his forehead and in his brilliant dark blue eyes.
Calhoun murmured a few complimentary words about West Point, then moved on. George had an impression that the senator was an exhausted, embittered man. His smile looked false, his movements labored.
George soon grew dizzy trying to keep up with all the introductions. He met Mains and Bulls and Smiths, Rhetts and Hugers and Boykins and LaMottes and Ravenels. One member of the Smith family, female and about his own age, seemed as taken with his uniform as he was with her decolletage. They promised to meet in twenty minutes at the punch table.
Herr Nagel, who tutored the Main sisters, was already falling-down drunk. George helped him to a bench. Next he spent an uncomfortable few minutes conversing with Tillet's overseer, a short Yankee named Salem Jones. Jones had a cherubic face but mean eyes, which he kept fixed on a distant section of the lawn. There, some favored house slaves had been given a couple of tables for their own food, which they were permitted to sample while waiting for a summons to perform some chore for the guests. Calhoun's blacks had made straight for the slave gathering, which was growing boisterous. Jones pursed his lips, watching.
The day grew dark with thunderclouds. A light shower sent everyone scurrying. When the rain stopped five minutes later and the guests sorted themselves out again, George couldn't find the Smith girl. He bumped into Orry and noticed his faraway expression.
"Who mesmerized you, Stick? Ah — I see." His appreciative smile faded. "I notice large rings on her hand. One a wedding ring. Is she the one you fell in love with two years ago?"
Softly, Orry said, "She's lovely, isn't she?"
"Lovely is faint praise. I'd say the word is ravishing. So that's Madeline. She looks exhausted." Yet mere tiredness could hardly account for her strange, benumbed expression.
Orry offered the explanation when he said, "She just returned from New Orleans. Her father suffered another stroke, she rushed to his bedside, and a couple of days after she got there, he died. She had to handle all the funeral arrangements herself. It's no wonder that she's worn out."
George was acutely aware of the emotion in his friend's voice. He hadn't heard much about the fabled Madeline during recent months, and he had decided Orry had gotten over the infatuation. He had been wrong.
He studied the girl more closely. Despite the fatigue shadows around her eyes, she was truly one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Her mouth was red and full. Her pale skin and black, straight hair created a stunning contrast. He leaned closer to his friend.
"Have I met her husband?"
"Yes. That clod."
Orry inclined his head toward one of the LaMottes. Then George recalled the introduction. Justin, that was the fellow's name. Arrogant sod. So was his brother Francis, who stood nearby with his dowdy wife and handsome young son. The son, in a fine coat and flowing cravat, was preening as much as his father and his uncle. They acted as if they were European royalty, not American farmers.
"How can she possibly get along with that crowd?" he whispered.
"She does very well. Madeline could charm the devil himself. And my mother tells me she's become extremely good at her duties on the plantation. That's unusual because Madeline wasn't trained to birth babies or run a kitchen. I'm sure Justin has no appreciation of her ability. Come on, I'll present you."
The young men started toward her. Madeline saw them and spontaneous joy animated her face. My Lord, George said to himself, she's got a case as bad as his. Then Madeline's lifeless look returned. She reminded George of someone who had just made a horrifying discovery. Something to do with her husband, no doubt, he thought cynically.
Madeline stepped away from Justin. Before Orry could speak to her, however, Calhoun strolled up with Tillet Main at his right hand and several other male guests at his heels. They were hanging on the senator's words.
"Some say the lesson of the nullification affair was this, Tillet. That the doctrine itself was wrong. I disagree. The doctrine is constitutionally correct. Only the way in which we tried to implement it was foolhardy. Foredoomed. One state cannot hope to prevail against the might of the Federal government. But several states — unified and determined — that's another matter."
Tillet cleared his throat. "Are you speaking of secession?"
Calhoun's shrug was quick, almost fierce. "Well, it's a term you hear a good deal in the South these days. I heard it in Charleston just the other evening. A gentleman I respect called secession the only adequate reply to Congressman Wilmot's proviso."
He was referring to an amendment to some Federal legislation that would have appropriated two million dollars to expedite negotiations with Mexico. Wilmot had proposed that slavery be expressly prohibited from territory acquired in any such negotiation. The arguments pro and con had caused a national uproar. The bill had passed the House, but the Senate had beaten it back before recessing in mid-August.
"The gentleman is right," said one of the others. "The proviso is extreme provocation. An insult to the South."
"What else do you expect from a Pennsylvania Democrat?" Tillet asked. "They have a bottomless treasury of righteousness up North."
Calhoun nodded. "Secession talk is in the air for precisely that reason. There may be no other way to redress the grievances of this region."
"I say let's get on with it," Justin LaMotte put in. He walked past his wife, and as he did so he scowled at her. George couldn't imagine the reason, unless it was because she was interested in the discussion — one woman in the midst of a dozen men. The wife of the other LaMotte had crept away.
Tillet said to Justin, "Much as I despise some of those Yankee politicians, I'd hate for us to choose disunion after all the struggles to establish this country."
Calhoun's lips twisted. "The word choose puts the wrong color on it. If there is disunion, we shall be driven to it. Flogged to it by those Northerners whose favorite entertainment is sneering at us."
"We'd be better off as a separate nation," Francis LaMotte declared.
"How can you say that, Francis?"
The feminine voice stilled everyone else, turned heads, and set mouths agape. Justin looked as if he wanted to sink into the earth. Orry watched his shock and shame turn to anger.
Madeline seemed oblivious. Once again that odd, stunned expression faded, and her eyes grew lively. Having spoken out, she showed no inclination to stop. She talked to Calhoun.
"I am a Southerner born and bred, Senator. It was years ago that I first heard men speak of seceding from the Union. My father said the idea was pernicious twaddle because it wouldn't work. I've thought about it since, and I agree."
Calhoun's reaction was more polite than those of the other men, who scowled and grumbled. Yet he, too, was obviously put off by a woman intruding into a man's domain. With a faint lift of a gray brow, he said, "Really, madam?"
Madeline managed a disarming smile. "Of course. Just think about the practicalities. What if we were a separate country and the cotton and rice markets went soft. It's happened before. How much sympathy — how much help — would we receive from the other nation up North?
What if a genuinely unfriendly government came to power there? What if they passed laws to prevent us from buying the goods we need for daily living? We depend on the North, Senator. We have no factories of our own. No substantial resources other than —"
"We have our principles," Justin interrupted. "Those are more important than factories." He closed a hand on her forearm. George saw her wince. "But I'm sure the senator isn't interested in feminine opinions."
Alarmed by the rage in LaMotte's eyes, Calhoun tried to be gracious. "Oh, I'm always interested in the opinions of my constituents, whoever —''
Justin didn't let him finish. "Come along, my dear. There is someone waiting to see you." His cheeks showed spots of scarlet. His smile looked like the teeth in a skull.
She tugged against his constricting hand. "Justin, please —"
"Come along."
He turned her around by pressure on her arm. Francis closed in behind them as they withdrew. George looked anxiously at his friend. For a moment he thought Orry might commit murder. Then Calhoun made a little joke to ease the tension, and the crisis passed.
Justin, meantime, was pushing Madeline toward the far side of the lawn where carriages were parked in long rows. He knew people were watching. He was too angry to care. Francis begged him to calm down. Justin swore at his brother and ordered him to leave. Looking mortified, Francis about-faced and returned to the crowd.
Justin shoved his wife against the big rear wheel of a carriage. The hub jabbed her back. She gasped.
"Let go of me. You have no right to treat —"
"I have every right," he said. "I am your husband. You humiliated me in front of the senator and all my friends."
She glared at him, color suffusing her face. "I beg your pardon, Justin. I wasn't aware that disagreement with someone's opinion had become a crime in South Carolina. I wasn't aware that free speech had been abridged by —"
"Don't give me any of that!" He wrenched her arm, thrust her against the hub again. She cried out softly, then looked at him with loathing.
"You bastard. It's only your damned reputation that matters, not the feelings of those you hurt whenever the whim strikes you. After our wedding night I suspected as much. Now there's no doubt."
And I could ruin your precious reputation forever. But angry as she was, she knew she could not.
Justin, however, was out of control. Even Madeline's show of resistance — something he found astounding in a female — couldn't do much to brake his temper. He shook her again.
"I'll tell you something else that is not in doubt, my dear. Your position. You are a wife. That means you are not entitled to offer opinions on any substantive issue. Women with intellectual pretensions come to a bad end in this part of the world — a lesson your late father should have taught you."
"He taught me there was nothing wrong with a woman's thinking independent —"
"I am not interested in your father's mistakes. Furthermore, I'm grateful I never had to debate the issue with him. I might have been forced to knock him down."
With a wrench she freed her forearm and drew it against her bosom. "That's all you know how to do, isn't it? Strike those who disagree with you. Bully your way through life!"
"Call it whatever you wish. Just remember this: women and ideas were not meant to mix. The Grimke sisters had to leave this state because they forgot that lesson. Now they're up North preaching nigger freedom and free love, disgracing themselves and their sex. I'll not have any wife of mine behaving that way. You must know your place and stay in it. I also promise you this." He leaned close, his silky brown hair tangled over his forehead. Her defiance drained away, replaced by fear when he looked into her eyes. "If you ever again speak out and embarrass me as you did a little while ago, you'll suffer. Be warned."
He drew himself up and smoothed his hair back into place. Then he returned to the picnic, trying to smile as if nothing had happened. But a change had come into their relationship, and both of them knew it. They had reached down to the hidden places within themselves and revealed things only hinted at before.
"Bastard," Madeline whispered again. How sweet and cruelly fitting it would be to tell Justin what her father had told her just before he died. Tell him every last stunning word.
She leaned against the wheel, struggling to contain her tears. She didn't know which was the worst of it — her humiliation, her rage, or her new certainty that Justin had issued no idle warning.
Orry watched the scene in the carriage park from a distance. Seldom had he been so tense and frustrated. He wanted to intervene, rescue Madeline, beat LaMotte senseless. But she was bound to her husband by religious and civil law. She was a wife, Justin's property. If Orry followed his instincts, he would only make matters worse for her.
He admired Madeline's bravery when she composed her face and moved back among the people still whispering about her. He silently cursed them for the scornful looks they gave her behind her back. George noticed his agitation. So did Cooper, who had already heard a good deal of gossip about Madeline's dispute with Calhoun.
Both Cooper and George tried to talk with Orry, but he broke away from each of them. Finally, after striding aimlessly for several minutes, he noticed Madeline standing by herself. He cast aside caution and did what his emotions had been driving him to do for the past hour. He walked straight to her side.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, yes." She wasn't; he could hear the wrath bubbling. "We mustn't be seen talking."
"I love you," he said. His eyes were on the tips of his boots. He felt feverish. "I can't stand to see you treated badly. Meet me tomorrow. Or the next day. Please."
She barely hesitated. "All right. Tomorrow. Where?"
Quickly he gave directions to the first safe spot that came to mind. Just as he finished, she drew in a sharp breath. '' Someone' s coming."
He whispered a time for the meeting. She whirled away. He hurried in the other direction, his heart pounding from fear and joy.
Nathanael Greene had belonged to John C. Calhoun for most of his adult life. Sixty-three now, he hated the stress of traveling and the necessity of mixing with slaves of inferior station.
Greene's pride had a twofold origin. His master was one of the nation's most eminent men, and Greene served him as a house slave — a position vastly superior to that of common field hands.
Greene had been born in the low country, but he despised its heat, stench, and stretches of insect-infested marsh. He longed for the familiar highlands up at Fort Hill. For the cool, narrow Calhoun house with its surrounding flower beds and wild orange trees. At Mont Royal he was cranky, and this crankiness tended to bring to the fore a certain meanness of disposition.
He soon grew bored with the company of the house slaves around the buffet tables set up for their use. Greene had certain perquisites and was thoroughly familiar with the limits of his master's tolerance. He took a couple of furtive swigs from a whiskey flask he kept hidden in his fine linen coat. Then he went searching for some sport.
Near the kitchen building he observed a big, strapping field hand lugging stove wood inside. The air near the kitchen felt as hot as the pit. Greene chuckled and waited.
Soon the field hand came out again. Greene beckoned to him. He gave the field hand a peek at the flask under his coat, then said with an innocent grin, "You look mighty thirsty, nigger. Come over into the shade and cool yourself with a nip of the corn."
The field hand was tempted, but held back. "Niggers aren't allowed to drink. You know that."
"Sure I know that. But today's a party day, and Mr. Calhoun, he's looking the other way."
Uneasily, the field hand glanced toward the slaves gathered by the special tables. They were eating and chatting and sipping punch that contained no alcohol. From time to time one of them left to answer a summons from lawn or kitchen, while others returned from like errands.
"I ain't supposed to hang around the house niggers, either," the field hand said. "They get uppity if I do."
"You let me worry 'bout that, nigger. I'm a house nigger for Mr. Calhoun, so if I invite you, it's all right." He steered the field hand toward the group. "What do they call you?"
"Priam."
"Mighty fine name. Have a sip."
Priam was hot and thirsty. That and Nathanael Greene's persuasive manner overcame his caution. Greene walked him up to the others. They recognized Priam, of course, and looked at him scornfully until they grasped Greene's intentions; he was doing a lot of winking and gesturing behind Priam's back.
The scornful looks disappeared. Priam's tense face, relaxed. At intervals of three or four minutes, Greene whisked the flask from its hiding place and shielded Priam while the latter drank. It didn't take long for Priam to start chuckling and even laughing out loud. The rest of the slaves, except for two women who didn't approve of the sport, smirked and nudged one another.
"'Nother drink," Priam said.
"Sure enough," Greene grinned. "Come get it."
He held the flask at arm's length. Priam shambled forward, reaching for it. At the last minute Greene pulled the flask out of the way.
Priam blundered straight into the table. His outstretched hand knocked a dish of butter beans onto the grass.
Greene laughed. "My Lord, you are one clumsy buck."
"He's just a dumb field nigger, that's why," someone else said.
Suspicion pierced Priam's stupor. "Give me that drink," he growled.
Greene waved the flask with a willowy motion. "Right here it is, nigger. All yours, if you can still see it."
Loud laughter.
"You give me that!" This time Priam roared.
"My, ain't he something," said Greene, still waggling the flask. "Givin' orders to his betters."
"Uppity," another slave said with contempt.
Priam blinked and used his palm to swab sweat from his neck. He watched the flask being waved at him in a tantalizing way. Suddenly he leaped forward, trying to seize the flask in a bear hug. Greene danced back. Priam caught nothing but air. The laughter exploded.
Priam lowered his head, turned, and charged the other Negroes with swinging fists. The women screamed. The men scattered.
The tumult brought Tillet and some of the guests on the run. Tillet's temper was short because of the heat and because he couldn't shake the bitter aftereffects of the quarrel with Cooper. It didn't help when he spied Cousin Charles under one of the tables, a rip showing in the knee of his fine breeches. With gleeful enthusiasm, Charles was calling encouragement to both combatants.
Tillet arrived just as Priam again attempted to grab Nathanael Greene. Calhoun's slave darted behind three big house blacks. The senator himself arrived just as Greene recognized Mont Royal's owner and exclaimed:
"That nigger took after me! He's drunk as a coot."
Tillet needed no one to help him see that. "Priam, go to your cabin. I'll deal with you later."
Fear showed on Priam's face. He saw that all the house people would side with Greene, and that made him angry all over again. He stepped up to Tillet and pointed to the fallen flask.
"I took a drink out of that 'cause Mr. Calhoun's nigger gave it to me. He acted friendly, but then he started to call me names."
Tillet was so affronted he could barely speak. "I am not interested in your explanations."
Greene gave a little disbelieving laugh. ''What's that nigger saying? Everybody know niggers aren't allowed to drink spirits. He didn't get one drop from me. No, sir," he finished with a soulful look at his owner.
"He's right," said a black woman. "The buck was already drunk when he came sashay in' over here."
Other house slaves nodded and murmured agreement. For a moment Priam couldn't believe his own people would do this to him. He looked as if someone had driven a spear into his side.
Righteous and wrathful, Greene shook a finger at Priam. "Don't you go tellin' any more lies to get me in trouble, nigger."
"No," Tillet said, reaching for his slave's arm. "Don't do that. You're in enough trouble already."
Priam jerked away from Tillet's hand. The watchers gasped, a sound like a great wave breaking. Tillet lowered his eyes and studied his hand, as if he couldn't believe what Priam had done.
Salem Jones appeared then. He slipped up next to his employer, barely able to suppress a smile. Priam stood slightly hunched, his hands fisted and sweat streaming down his cheeks. Orry and George joined the spectators. If Tillet couldn't see that Priam was dangerously out of control, they could.
"We had best leave," Calhoun said. "Nathanael, if you will —"
"No," Tillet said. "It isn't necessary for you to do that, John. The fault is Priam's." Orry recognized signs of an unusual anger building within his father. "You go to your cabin, Priam. Do it now or it will go hard with you."
Priam shook his head. Tillet stiffened as if slapped. "I'll order you one last time," he said.
Again the slave wagged his head from side to side. Tillet's face grew purplish. Hoping to prevent more trouble, Orry started to speak to his father. Before he could, Tillet made a quick, hooking gesture with his left hand. Jones caught the signal. He whisked his hickory truncheon from under his fancy coat, waved several of the house men forward.
"You, Jim. You, Aristotle. Take him."
Priam bellowed and started swinging. The men closed in. Priam retreated three steps and fell backward over a table. Bowls of food crashed to the ground and broke or spilled,
Jones let his two black helpers subdue Priam. Then the overseer leaned forward across the shoulders of Jim and Aristotle and whacked Priam with the truncheon. He did it several times. On the last blow, Priam sagged to his knees. A line of blood ran from a gash in his forehead. With hate-filled eyes he looked at his master, who had stepped in front of him.
"I told you it would go hard, Priam. I surely do wish you'd listened."
Standing close by his father, Orry said, "Don't you think he's had his punishment?"
Tillet's color was still high. He was breathing hard. "No. Priam disrupted the celebration and embarrassed me in front of my guests. I treat my people well, but I will not tolerate ingratitude or a rebellious spirit. I'm going to make an example of this nigger."
That last word was one Tillet never used in reference to his slaves. It told Orry he had better not try to stop his father from doing whatever he planned.
Priam, too, recognized the master's uncharacteristic rage. He wept silently as he hobbled away in the grip of the other two slaves.
At Resolute, Madeline turned in her bed for the twentieth time. When she had put on her nightgown and blown out the lights an hour ago, she had known sleep would be slow to come. Too much had happened. Too much was yet to happen, if she were brave enough — or foolhardy enough — to let it.
The bedroom windows stood open in the darkness, but no air was moving. Directly underneath her room, someone was padding through the house, securing it for the night. Outside, the barely perceptible stir and hum of night creatures formed a background for the sound of her own breathing.
Justin wasn't in the house, thank heaven. He had ridden off to Charleston with his brother, presumably feeling that she needed time by herself to contemplate the enormity of her sins and the punishment that would be hers if the sinning continued.
Bastard, she thought as her husband's self-righteous face glimmered in her imagination. It was becoming astonishingly easy to call him vile names. How she wished she could do more than that. How she wished she could confront him with the confession her father had made just before his eyes closed for the last time. How she yearned to smile at Justin and say:
"My dear, it is my painful duty to inform you that you are married to a woman with Negro blood."
Justin had deceived her during the courtship, so it was poetic justice that he be told, even if belatedly, that she had deceived him. Of course it was unintentional; she hadn't known or even suspected the truth that her father breathed out through pale lips while she sat at his bedside in the heavily draped room that smelled faintly of candle wax, and sweat, and death.
All his life, Nicholas Fabray had done his best to smooth his daughter's way, and those last moments were no exception. He cushioned the shock as best he could, spoke slowly but eloquently about Madeline's mother: how fine she was, how considerate and loving. Only then did he reveal that his wife, to all outward appearances a white woman, was in fact one-quarter Negro. Madeline was an octoroon.
"Why —" She fisted one trembling hand and pressed it against her knee. "Why are you telling me now?"
"Because you would curse my memory if you ever learned the truth from anyone else." Unspoken was the harsher thought: Because you are vulnerable to this truth, regardless of my efforts to veil it, unlikely as it is ever to be exposed.
He and his wife had wanted a better life for Madeline than she would have had if she were acknowledged to be of mixed blood. Fortunate quadroons and octoroons could enjoy the favors of white gentlemen and even be the recipients of some of their wealth. But those boons were always temporary because a woman of mixed blood could never be anything better than a mistress, never anything better than a white man's elegant whore.
Nicholas Fabray had refused to play out that sad little drama so prevalent in New Orleans. He had married the woman he loved, something that took enormous courage. He did not say that, of course. But Madeline understood it and bent over the bed and embraced his frail, half-paralyzed body while tears filled her eyes.
No, Fabray went on, there was nothing to be lost by concealing certain facts about Madeline's background, and everything to be gained. It was not difficult to maintain the deception, he said, because Madeline's mother was almost unknown in the twilight world of the city's quadroons and octoroons. And the dust of time had enhanced concealment. Now Madeline must join the conspiracy of silence and preserve the safety he had so long sought for her.
Finally, he revealed one dominant reason he had wanted his daughter to marry Justin LaMotte. Not only was Justin a kind, decent man — here Madeline averted her head while her mouth convulsed in a sardonic smile — but he also lived far from Louisiana. In South Carolina there would be virtually no chance of her ever being confronted with the truth about her lineage. In New Orleans the possibility, however remote, was present. His voice faltering, Fabray muttered something about a picture of Madeline's mother.
"A picture, Papa? Do you mean a painting?"
"Yes — a painting." His eyes were closed again; speech seemed difficult.
"There's a portrait of her somewhere?"
"Was." The tip of his tongue inched across dry lips. Then he opened his eyes and tried to clarify his answer, but his voice was so weak, his words so vague, she could make little sense of his statements. She got the impression that the painting had disappeared. When and how, he didn't say.
Then the thread of the thought was lost as light convulsions began to shake his wasted body. She held his hand and pressed her other to her own cheek, as if that way she could hold back her grief. She called out and told a passing servant to summon the doctor at once. Ten minutes before he arrived, Nicholas Fabray died.
The shock didn't hit her until the next day, after she had taken care of the last detail of the funeral arrangements. Then she broke down and wept for nearly an hour, stricken by Fabray's death and by the loathsome secret with which he had burdened her. For a brief period she hated him for telling her; in the South, having even one drop of black blood was the same as having skin the color of ebony.
A great many of the city's leading politicians and businessmen, Catholic and Protestant, attended the funeral. They brought their white wives, and when Madeline noticed that, she appreciated the skill with which her father had carried off the deception. The last vestiges of ill feeling left her; she mourned and blessed him at the same time.
Lying in the dark, Madeline wondered how she could have brought herself to say yes to Orry's whispered plea for a secret rendezvous. Her conscience was already torturing her about that, and yet she knew she would go through with this one meeting if she could. Her willingness was a natural reaction to Justin's cruelty. But it was also a clear violation of the code of behavior she had practiced all her life. Even given Justin's character, how could that happen? Many women endured similar mistreatment, or worse, till the day they died. What made the difference in her case?
The answer lay in something that could not be fully reduced to logical explanation. Something in the young cadet's eyes, in his courtly bearing and his shy demeanor, called out to her, spoke to her on a deep and primitive level. That was true despite her fear that, because of his age, he could not possibly be what he seemed.
She laid the back of one hand against her cheek and uttered a small, sad sound. Her life, so carefully and conscientiously put in order by her late father, was growing hopelessly tangled. She was thankful Nicholas Fabray didn't know.
She imagined Orry's face. He was young. That was a dire risk, and it was just one of several she intended to accept. Another was the risk she'd take when she left Resolute for the rendezvous. Keeping her hand where it was, she closed her eyes and concentrated on a plan to avert suspicion when she rode away tomorrow. She was still lying in that position when she fell asleep and dreamed of Orry kissing her.
Like Madeline, the slave girl Semiramis was unable to fall asleep easily that night. Jones was going to do something terrible to her brother. Quirt him, most likely. Priam had caused a big fuss at the picnic. After it happened, the Mont Royal slaves talked of nothing else for the rest of the day.
Most of the slaves thought her brother was going to get what he deserved. They said mean things about him because they were jealous of his courage. He was always whispering about the North, about fleeing to freedom. The others called him a boaster. Said he'd never do it, just because they knew he might, and they wouldn't. Of course, he'd never go if his temper got him killed first.
Semiramis wanted to sleep, to forget the beating Priam was going to get. She turned one way, then the other on her thin, sour-smelling pallet of ticking. She couldn't lie still; she was too tense.
Flickering light showed around the edge of the closed door. Torches had been lit in the barnyard behind old Jones's house. The punishment would begin soon. The torches told her, and so did the stillness of the night. Up and down the slave street, no one laughed or spoke.
A furtive knock startled her. She bolted upright.
"Who's that?"
A shadow blotted some of the flickering light. "Cuffey."
"Oh, Lord, no," she called. "Not this evening, boy." She had started pleasuring herself with Cuffey several months ago, although he was quite young; too young, some of the jealous old women said.
But they had never seen him without trousers, nor did they know what he could do with his remarkable —
Before she could finish the thought, the boy was inside and kneeling by the pallet.
"I din' come for that. I came 'bout Priam."
"Jones going to whip him."
"Uh-uh. Worse. Jones brought the old mouser down from the great house. They going to cat-haul him."
Stunned silence. Then Semiramis said, "Oh, Jesus, sweet Jesus. It'll kill him." She clutched her stomach.
Her brother had angered Mr. Tillet worse than she had imagined. How Priam must have strutted and fought! She hadn't seen it, only heard about it; she had been working elsewhere at the time. Now she wanted to run to the great house to plead for mercy.
Cuffey dissuaded her. He stayed with her, murmuring empty comforts as they waited for the sound of the first scream.
Torches planted in the ground lit the barnyard brilliantly. Priam lay spread-eagled on his stomach.
Jones had assembled an audience of twenty male slaves because, done properly, this night's work could benefit the plantation for years. It could leave a powerful and lasting impression on any other niggers who might be feeling rebellious. The impression would come not only from Priam's suffering but from his humiliation beforehand. He had been forced to disrobe, kneel, and bow his head while ropes were tied to his ankles and wrists. These ropes, pegged into the sandy soil, kept his limbs extended.
Animal and bird cries rose in the darkness beyond the barnyard. The slave cabins were abnormally quiet. Good, Jones thought. Many others were watching or listening. The lesson would not be lost on them, and the reports of the witnesses would reinforce it.
A big buck named Harmony held a burlap sack at arm's length. The sack jumped and writhed with a life of its own. Jones regarded the sack pleasurably as he took his time donning thickly padded gauntlets. Before this, he had had no occasion to use the gauntlets at Mont Royal, but he had kept them in his trunk, just in case. He was both surprised and delighted that Tillet Main, whom he secretly scorned, was actually able to order a cat-hauling.
Jones strutted past Priam's head to give him a good look at the gauntlets. He then repositioned all three buckets of heavily salted water he planned to dash on Priam's wounds. The buckets of brine were a little touch Jones had added on his own.
He gestured to the burlap sack, then extended his right hand above it.
"All right, Harmony — now."
The nervous slave opened the top of the sack. Jones plunged his gloved hand down. By feel alone he caught and pinioned the tomcat's rear legs. He lifted the furious, squalling animal into the light.
The slaves gulped and stepped back. Jones kept his head half averted, fearing one of the slashing front claws might nick an eye. At last he got a firm two-handed grip on the tom's rear legs.
Breathing hard from excitement, Jones stepped up to Priam's right side, planting one boot next to the slave's hip and the other by his ribs. He fought the tomcat every inch of the way, but the result would be worth the risk. He swung the writhing cat by its back legs, almost the way a gentleman swung a club in the old game of golf. The fore claws struck between Priam's shoulders, cutting and tearing all the way to the base of the spine before Jones jerked the cat up again. He smiled at the blood-daubed paws.
Priam hadn't cried out. But he had nearly bitten through his lower lip, Jones observed. Almost affably, he said, "We're not finished. Not by any means."
George lay sleepless in the guest bedroom on the second floor. He had taken off everything except his cotton underdrawers, but he was still sweltering. His stomach ached. His head hurt.
It hadn't been a pleasant day. The trouble caused by that slave, Priam, had upset and embarrassed Orry. He had become self-conscious with George, speaking only when necessary. The incident had affected George, too. For the first time since his arrival he had been driven to ponder everything he had seen. He thought especially hard about the slaves, and what he read on their faces and in their eyes.
He hated to think ill of people who had treated him so graciously. He hated to think ill of his best friend. But what he had encountered at Mont Royal — well, there was no way to avoid the conclusion. It was deeply disturbing. At last he understood comments at home, especially Virgilia's.
"Oh, my God," he said suddenly, shooting up in bed and twisting toward the windows that opened on the piazza. Far off in the night, someone was screaming.
He was sure it was the slave receiving his punishment. The outcries continued intermittently for about five minutes. When they stopped, he lay staring at the ceiling. He doubted that he could go to sleep the rest of the night. He knew the sound of the screaming would stay with him forever.
The screams sent Cooper hurtling downstairs, the hem of his sweaty nightshirt flying around his legs. For weeks he had been feeling that a crisis was brewing in his life, that the status quo had become intolerable. But it needed some major incident to propel him to action.
Tonight he had it. The slaves lived three-quarters of a mile from the great house. When screams carried that far, it said a lot. Too much. He stormed into the library without knocking. "What in hell are they doing to Priam?"
Tillet looked at his son through a choking cloud of pipe smoke. Sweat glistened on his bald head. All the windows were closed. To shut out unpleasant noises?
"I ordered him cat-hauled."
Cooper's face hardened. "My God, That's barbaric."
Tillet leaped up. "I'm not interested in your pious pronouncements."
"What about your own?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The other evening, very smugly, you told Orry's friend that there are no scarred backs at Mont Royal. Would you care to explain Priam's?"
"I don't need to explain it, you sarcastic whelp. Priam is my property, to do with as I please."
The men stood eye to eye. Cooper was suddenly overwhelmed with a sick sensation.
"He's a man. You call him property. This state and the whole damn South will fall to ruin because of that inhuman idea."
"I've heard this lecture before." Tillet waved his pipe. The bowl left a smoke tracery in the stifling air. He turned his back on his son. "Be so good as to leave me alone."
Cooper slammed the door on his way out.
Breakfast next morning was a dismal affair. George asked Orry about Priam's condition. Orry seemed to resent the question and curtly told his friend that the slave was resting in the sick house. A few minutes later Orry said he'd be gone during the late morning and early afternoon. He offered no explanation, nor any apology for leaving his guest alone, and he acted nervous all at once. George wondered why.
Clarissa arrived, striving unsuccessfully to be cheerful. She had obviously slept badly. She picked at her meal in silence, and she looked almost grateful when she had to rush off to mediate a screeching match between Orry's sisters.
Cooper appeared. His hair was uncombed. His shirttail hung out of the waist of his rumpled trousers. He fell into the chair next to George, ignored his food, and several times muttered something in a thick voice. Only once did George make sense of what he heard:
"Can't stay here. Can't stay and help run a place like this. The whole system's not only criminal, it's stupid. Stupid and doomed."
Soon Cooper lurched from the room. Orry raised an eyebrow. "I wonder what the devil's wrong with him?"
It sounded like a rhetorical question, but George answered it. "'I smelled wine. I hate to say it about your brother. Stick, but I think he's drunk."
On a direct line, the distance from Mont Royal to Salvation Chapel was no more than two miles. But the tiny, burned-out church was well hidden in the woods and could be reached only by following winding roads through forest and marsh. The ride took almost an hour. As each succeeding road grew narrower and more overgrown, Orry became increasingly sure that Madeline wouldn't be waiting for him. She had probably found his hurriedly whispered directions too vague or, more likely, the trip too difficult for a woman traveling alone.
Salvation Chapel had closed its doors five years ago. When its pastor, a Methodist shouter, fell over dead during a particularly bombastic sermon, another could not be found to replace him. The congregation had never been large anyway: a few marginal rice planters and their families, and some black freedmen who were permitted to worship in the gallery.
The whites drifted away. The Negroes stayed. Soon the church acquired a reputation as a center of illegal assembly, a place where black people were suspected of gathering to discuss forbidden subjects. General emancipation. Rebellion. One night the church was mysteriously burned. The LaMotte brothers were rumored to have had a hand in it. The freedmen never came back. The vegetation closed in.
It was a splendid spot for a secret meeting, surrounded as it was on three sides by woodland. The fourth side afforded a breathtaking view across several miles of marsh. As Orry rode the last quarter of a mile, his emotions were in turmoil. He wasn't overly afraid of Justin LaMotte, but he did fear that he had exposed Madeline to undue risk. He reminded himself that she probably wouldn't be there anyway. But if she were, what did he want her to do? Commit adultery? Much as a part of him shamefully admitted that, his conscience — his concern for Madeline's welfare — told him it was impossible.
These feelings mingled with others churned up by the trouble at Mont Royal. Orry was ashamed to have George see a sample of the cruelty that drove Northerners to condemn the South. Orry's embarrassment made him defensive and even illogically angry with his friend. Thus he was in a state of nerves when he pushed away the last overhanging branches and walked his horse toward Salvation Chapel. The remains of blackened beams and siding had long ago fallen into the wreckage of a tabby foundation. The ruin, and the marsh beyond, lay silent, empty. His face fell.
A horse whickered. Underbrush stirred. Madeline appeared at the edge of the marsh to his left. Screened from him by some trees, she had been gazing at the sunlit vista of reeds and glittering water.
He jumped down, tied his mount, and ran to her. How lovely she looked in her smart riding habit. He grasped her shoulders, leaned forward, then pulled back suddenly, red-faced.
"I didn't even think to ask whether it was dangerous for you to come."
She smiled, shrugged in a self-conscious way. "Not particularly. Not today, at least. I never attract much notice when I go to see the patients in our sick house. That's what a woman is expected to do. I told my house servants that after the visit I wanted to ride by myself for a while. They understand. They know Justin can be insufferable. Besides, he's in Charleston with Francis till tomorrow night. I can't stay here indefinitely, though."
He reached out to clasp her hand. Her smile disappeared; she seemed tense. "I'm very glad you're here," he told her. "Would you think badly of me if I said" — he swallowed — "said that I wanted to kiss you?"
A look of panic flashed over her face, but it was suppressed so swiftly he wondered if he had imagined it. Hastily, he added:
"If the thought upsets you, I withdraw the question."
Her eyes warmed and her mouth softened. The corners lifted in a sweet smile. "You can't; it's too late. Besides" — she returned the pressure of his fingers — "I want you to kiss me. I'm just a little afraid, that's all."
With clumsy hunger he pulled her into his arms. Her mouth was soft and cool. He had never felt a woman's tongue as he felt hers when her lips opened. He was ashamed of his stiffness, but she pressed tightly to him, not seeming to mind.
There was no banter now, just a long, intense moment in which their clinging, their, sweet, frantic kissing of eyes and cheeks and earlobes, revealed their emotions, their longings. He had to say it aloud.
"Madeline, I love you. I have from the first."
She laughed with tears in her eyes. Touched his face. Her words came in a torrent:
"Oh, my sweet Orry. My cavalier. I love you too; don't you know that? Like you, I realized it the day we met, and I've tried to deny it ever since." She began covering his face and mouth with kisses again.
Naturally, and without thought, his hand came up to her breast. She shuddered and pressed closer. Then she drew away. She knew, and so did he, what the consequences might be if they let their emotions overwhelm them.
They sat on the tabby foundation, watching white egrets rise from the marsh in beautiful, lifting curves. He put his arm around her. She rested against his side. They sat very still, figures in a domestic portrait.
"Did your husband —" He cleared his throat. "Did he retaliate in any way when you got home?"
"Oh, no. That little humiliation at Mont Royal was quite enough."
Orry scowled. "Will you tell me if he ever hurts you physically?"
"He never goes that far. His cruelty's more subtle. And much more devastating. Justin knows countless ways to wound the spirit, I've discovered. He knows how to rob a person of any sense of worth with just a laugh or a look. I don't think the men of this state should fear a rebellion by their slaves. They should fear one by their wives."
He laughed, then touched the sleeve of her riding habit. "He certainly doesn't stint with worldly goods. How much did this cost?"
"Too much. You're right, he isn't stingy with anything except consideration for the feelings of others. Whatever he thinks I need, he buys. He'll permit me to do anything I want so long as I never forget I'm a LaMotte. And a woman."
"Things would be different if you were married to me. I wish you were."
"Oh, I do too. So much."
"I shouldn't have asked you to meet me like this, but" — he looked at her, trying not to show his pain — "I had to tell you once how I felt."
"Yes." Her palm pressed lightly against his cheek. "So did I." He kissed her long and passionately.
When they were resting again, a new, embittered note came into her voice. "Justin's beginning to think I'm a failure as a woman."
"Why?"
"I've borne him no children."
"Is it because — that is — " He stopped, blushing.
"It isn't through any lack of effort on his part," she said, coloring a little herself. "He's very — vigorous in his attempts at fatherhood."
Orry's stomach felt as if someone had run a knife through it. He sat motionless. The pain eased, but slowly. Madeline went on, "I dare to be so frank because I've no one with whom I can share these things. The truth is" — she faced him, grave — "I'm convinced it's Justin's fault that I haven't gotten pregnant. I understand his first wife was bar — childless too."
"That's true," Orry said.
"Of course I must never suggest that he's the one responsible."
"He doesn't permit you to have ideas like that, eh?"
"He doesn't permit me to have any ideas at all."
For the next hour they spoke of all sorts of things: His friend George. The war that would take the two of them to Mexico and, presumably, combat. Priam's disobedience and punishment, and the resulting uproar in the family. Somehow none of it seemed very real. For a little while no universe existed except this hidden place, no force within it except their love.
At last, though, the sun started down, and the light began to change. Madeline rose. "I must go. I can't come here again, my sweet Orry. Kiss me good-bye."
They embraced and caressed and spoke their feelings for a few tremulous minutes. Then he helped her mount. As she guided her horse around the ruined foundation, sitting sidesaddle gracefully, she looked back, then reined in.
"When you're back from Mexico, I'm sure we'll see each other occasionally. At parties, weddings. And whenever I look just at you, you'll know exactly how I feel. Oh, Orry, I love you so!"
It was a declaration of joy and a cry of pain. She rode out of sight, and he started homeward twenty minutes later. He almost wished the meeting had never taken place. It had only ripped open a great inner wound that had scarred over once but now would never heal.
After supper that night, George and Orry strolled down to the boat landing while George smoked a cigar. Orry hadn't explained his absence, and he was obviously on edge. That and the events of yesterday put George in a testy mood as well.
They sat on a couple of old kegs, watching the Ashley reflect the first evening stars. Suddenly a door banged up at the house. They saw Clarissa rush down the lane leading to the slave community.
"She looks upset," George said.
"I expect Priam's taken a bad turn. Brett told me Mother went to the sick house twice this afternoon."
George let smoke trail from his nose and mouth. "She's very conscientious about caring for your slaves, isn't she?"
"With good reason. They don't know how to care for themselves. They're like children."
"Maybe that's because they're not permitted to be anything else."
"Oh, come on. Let's not debate."
"Debating's for politicians. I was merely expressing an opinion."
"I trust you're finished," Orry snapped.
Orry's tone told George that it would be wise for him to say nothing more. Somehow he couldn't do that. His conscience was deviling him — an unexpected occurrence — and he wouldn't be content or honest if he failed to express what was on his mind. He spoke quietly but with firmness:
"No, not quite. Your family's wonderful, Orry. Gracious. Kind. Very enlightened in many ways. The same can be said of most of your neighbors. The ones I've met, anyway. But slavery, now — well, I agree with your brother. Slavery's like a lump of food that can't be swallowed, no matter how hard you try."
"I thought you never worried about such things."
"I never did. Until yesterday." George tapped ash from his cigar. "What did they do to that slave?"
Orry kept his eyes on the star-flecked river. "I don't know. Whatever it was, it was necessary."
"But that's what I can't swallow. It shouldn't be necessary for one human being to hurt another. If the system makes it necessary or condones it, the system is wrong."
Orry stood, glowering. George was stunned by the sharpness in his friend's voice.
"Let me tell you something about Southerners. Southerners get tired of Yankees self-righteously criticizing everything that goes on down here. Cooper had some tales to tell about the sordid living conditions of workers from the Hazard mill. Is economic slavery any less reprehensible than what you complain about?"
George, too, was on his feet. "Wait a minute. Those mill workers —"
"No, you wait. The North should clean up its own house before it starts pointing fingers. If there are problems in the South, Southerners will solve them."
"Doesn't appear to me that you're solving anything, my friend. And you get damn smug and feisty if anyone suggests you get cracking.''
"We get feisty when Yankees suggest it. We get angry as hell. The North's been interfering in the affairs of the South for thirty years. If that continues, it can lead to only one thing."
"A separate slaveholding government? Your Southern cronies at West Point were always trotting out that threat. Well, go ahead. Secede!"
"No, I'm not threatening that," Orry countered. "But I do promise trouble, and plenty of it, to any outsider who insists on telling South Carolinians how to think and behave."
"Does the term outsider include me?"
"You're damn right," Orry said, and walked away up the pier.
George considered packing up and leaving that night. But he didn't. He knew Orry was deeply troubled, and he suspected the reason had nothing to do with the subject of their argument. Still, the quarrel disturbed him. It gave him a new and somber insight into the nature of the slave question.
He could understand that casual acquaintances or natural opponents such as politicians might fall out over slavery. But if it could threaten the relationship of good friends, it was a deep and potent issue indeed.
The next few days passed in an atmosphere of tension and forced politeness. The friends didn't patch up their differences until the night before they were scheduled to leave for Charleston. It was Orry who took the initiative after several rounds of drinks.
"Look, we're supposed to be fighting Mexicans, not each other."
"Absolutely right," George responded with vast relief. "I'm sorry I stuck my nose into your affairs."
"I'm sorry I tried to chop it off."
They renewed and repledged their friendship with another drink. But the memory of that quarrel, and its cause, remained with each of them.
A coastal steamer carried them around Florida into the Gulf. The sea was rough. During the first few days, George spent a lot of time hanging over the rail. When the steamer put into New Orleans to reprovision, he was grateful to stagger onto dry land for a few hours.
He and Orry strolled the levee and the old quarter, then drank bitter black coffee in a cafe. George had bought three papers, and after ordering a second coffee, he caught up on the news. In late September General Taylor had invested and captured Monterrey and was an even greater hero as a consequence. Politicians were saying Taylor would be the next Whig candidate for President, unless his superior, General Scott, also a Whig, had ambitions of his own. In the far West, Americans were rapidly overcoming Spanish California, which the United States had already annexed by proclamation.
Sometimes George found it hard to believe that his country and Mexico were at war; little more than twenty years ago, the Mexican government had invited Yankee colonization of the state of Coahuila y Texas and had granted concessions to the American empresario Moses Austin so that he could secure the wanted settlers.
Of course that had taken place in what amounted to the last hours of Spain's long rule in Mexico. The country soon won its independence, and that seemed to be the start of all the trouble. The Constitution of 1824 was repeatedly subverted by revolution. Governments rose and fell with dizzying speed.
The year 1836 brought the short, brutal struggle for Texas independence. Early in March of that year, the Texans defending the Alamo mission were massacred. Little more than a month later, Sam Houston's men won the war and the republic's freedom at San Jacinto. Mexican resentment had simmered ever since.
One name that had been associated with Mexican-American relations for the past two decades was back in the news once again, George discovered. General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna had voluntarily returned from exile in Cuba with his retinue and his seventeen-year-old wife. Presumably he was about to take command of the Mexican army, and not for the first time.
Tough, wily Santa Anna, now fifty-two, had fought for so many sides and factions, it was almost necessary to consult some kind of printed program to understand his career. He had served Spain as a young army officer, then joined the rebellion against the mother country. He had been, at various times, Mexico's military chief, president, and dictator. He had won the sanguinary victory at the Alamo, then lost at San Jacinto, where he had been ingloriously captured while attempting to escape disguised in a dirty smock and carpet slippers.
At Tampico, defending his country against an attempted Spanish reconquest, the self-styled Napoleon of the West had lost a leg. The leg had subsequently been enshrined and displayed in Mexico City when he was in power, then dragged through the streets by mobs when his fortunes changed. You certainly had to admit the man was a survivor, George said to himself. Santa Anna went with the prevailing winds, and nothing exemplified this better than the current border dispute.
As a defeated general, Santa Anna had personally signed the 1836 peace treaty acknowledging the Rio Grande as the Texas boundary. Now he was declaring that although his name had indeed gone onto the document, he was the only one who had signed; the Mexican government, in other words, had not. Hence, Mexico had every right to repudiate the treaty and fight for the disputed territory — under Santa Anna's command, naturally.
When George tried to discuss some of this with Orry he found his friend uninterested. He wondered about the reason for Orry's long face until he remembered that Madeline LaMotte came from New Orleans. George immediately said he would just as soon go back on board and write a long-delayed letter home.
Orry said he'd be happy to go. His spirits improved the minute they turned their backs on the city.
The steamer plowed on across the Gulf, bound for the mouth of the Rio Grande. A sudden storm, not unusual for the season but this time especially severe, damaged the vessel's port paddle wheel, forcing the captain to anchor off Saint Joseph Island to effect repairs. Lighters took all the military passengers ashore to Corpus Christi. Sometimes known as Kinney's Ranch, the place was a miserable village of about forty shops and houses on the west bank of the Nueces River.
The friends went separate ways for a couple of hours. Orry was fascinated by the flat, sandy terrain of the Texas coast. Strolling the muddy main street, he was amazed to see half a dozen antelope browsing behind the unpainted buildings. He absorbed a shopkeeper's warning about tarantulas and passed it along to George when they met. His friend, however, was interested in other forms of wildlife. But his report was discouraging.
"I've seen exactly one girl. Her face would crack a rock. Maybe I'll have better luck tonight."
"Where?"
"At the social. The local residents are putting it on for all the poor stranded soldiers. I swear, if I don't get to squeeze a feminine waist pretty soon, I'll go berserk."
The social was held in a barn on Colonel Kinney's trading post. Lanterns had been hung and some moth-eaten bunting tacked to the rafters. There was fresh straw on the dirt floor, a fiddler, a trestle table crowded with cakes, pies, and tarts, and a huge bowl of whiskey punch. About eighty officers and noncoms attended, and perhaps half as many townspeople, of which only seven were female. Of these, just one was attractive, and she got most of the attention.
She was worthy of it. She was a slender, stunning redhead in her early twenties. Her skin was white as thick cream and her eyes the bluest George had ever seen. He wasn't daunted by her surprisingly tall height or by the dozen officers already surrounding her.
Some were majors and colonels. They would surely pull rank on him if he tried a direct assault. The enemy had to be outflanked. While the fiddler tuned up, George drifted to the punch bowl, smiling and introducing himself to various townsmen. In five minutes he had made a discovery and formulated a plan.
He strode firmly as he approached a civilian standing in the large open doorway of the barn. George knew he cut a good figure. He had spent half an hour scrubbing travel grime off his light blue trousers and polishing the brass hilt and scabbard decorations of his yard-long infantry officer's sword.
The man he wanted to impress was a ruddy, stub-nosed fellow with short, unruly hair that was more white than red. He wore an old-fashioned suit of black broadcloth. George toasted him with his punch cup.
"A splendid party, sir. You Texans are good hosts."
With a wry smile, the man answered, "In wartime, Lieutenant, patriotism sometimes outweighs prudence." "I don't understand, sir."
"In Corpus Christi, public opinion of soldiers is about as low as it can get. Zach Taylor's troops camped here on their way to the Rio Grande. That was an experience this town won't forget. Fortunately, Texans know how to protect themselves — and their daughters." He clapped a hand on the immense holstered pistol hanging at his right hip. The barrel was almost a foot long. A Paterson Colt, George thought, perhaps a .36-caliber.
"Oh, do you have a daughter with you tonight?" The red-faced man gave him an amused look. "I didn't say that, my lad. But you apparently possess the information. Is that why you came over to talk to me?"
George gulped, then laughed. "And I thought I was being subtle. You're right, sir. I knew I didn't stand much of a chance of meeting her with that crowd around her. An introduction from you would give me an advantage."
"You may not be subtle, sir, but you're clever. However, I can't introduce you until I know your name."
"Lieutenant George Hazard, Eighth Infantry." The stocky man put out his hand. ''Patrick Flynn. Born in Cappamore, County Limerick, but I fancy I'm a Texan now. Been here long enough! Arrived the year after Colonel Kinney opened his trading post. Lost my wife that same year, but Constance and I have managed to survive — even though there's hardly enough legal business to keep a flea from starving."
"You're a lawyer? In this town?"
"I occasionally spend a month in San Antonio. That's where I really make my living. They're very disputatious in San Antonio. I did my reading of the law way up in Belfast. Very good training — all the shipping in Belfast Lough created legalistic tangles on every conceivable subject. A series of misadventures brought me to Texas while Sam Houston was struggling to wrest it away from the Mexicans. I settled in Corpus Christi because I thought this would become a port city with plenty of work for lawyers." Smiling wryly again, he added, "Development has failed to keep pace with my hopes." He threw his head back and drained his whiskey punch. "Or my thirst." "But you must like it here." "Oh, indeed." Flynn nodded. "There's free air and free space — and none of the snobbish restraints I encountered as a boy in the old country. Some of the local citizens distrust my Roman faith, which I can't practice since there's no Catholic chapel hereabouts, but that makes us even, since I dislike the prevailing view of slavery."
"I've heard most Texans support it."
"I regret to say that's true. I often remark that a man always works harder for the carrot of personal advancement than he does for the stick of the slave overseer. But that's a truth my neighbors don't care to hear. Most confine themselves to grumbling and cursing, but there are a few hotheads who would like to run me out for daring to say such a thing. They don't because they know I am, shall we say, self-reliant."
He grinned and again touched the handle of his Colt. "But you want to meet Constance."
"Yes, I do. Very much."
"I'll be happy to present you as soon as I rescue her from that pack of dullards — not one of whom displays your imagination. Are you perchance Irish?"
George laughed. "No, sir."
"I shall attempt to overlook the deficiency."
The lawyer strode off. George straightened his collar, saw Orry bearing down and signaled him away. Orry looked around, realized what was happening, and joined several other brevet lieutenants standing near the punch bowl with morose expressions.
Patrick Flynn snatched his daughter out of the group of senior officers. George tried to ignore their hostile looks and fix his attention on the girl. Half annoyed, half amused by the way her father had grasped her wrist and tugged her away, she allowed herself to be brought to George and presented.
"Constance, this is Lieutenant Hazard. He wanted to meet you and knew he stood a better chance if he spoke to me first."
"But how did he know I'd want to meet him, Father?" the girl asked with a tart smile.
George strained to stand as tall as he could. Lord, I'm still two inches shorter. He grinned and looked straight into her brilliant blue eyes.
"Give me five minutes, Miss Flynn, and I'll remove all doubt."
Constance laughed. She spied a fiercely mustached major of dragoons stalking them, then took hold of George's hand.
"Dance with me, Lieutenant, or we won't even get that five minutes.''
He needed no further prompting. The fiddler was scratching out a waltz. George swept Constance past the fuming major and on across the floor. She was soft and sweet-smelling in his arms; so deliciously lovely that he was extremely careful about the way he held her. She noticed:
"Your touch is very light, Lieutenant. Are you afraid I'll shatter?"
"Why, no, you're not brittle, you're exceedingly sof — that is —"
He strangled on the sentence. What the devil was wrong with him? He didn't usually act this way with a girl. He was behaving like Orry, who was watching him from the punch table. Orry had a big, smug grin on his face.
For the remainder of the dance, they exchanged inconsequential remarks. He told her a few things about West Point and about his home in Pennsylvania. She repeated much of the information her father had given him. George's head swam. He simply couldn't select the right words, let alone deliver them with anything approximating charm. Constance, on the other hand, was completely at ease, smiling and chatting without the slightest awkwardness.
He soon discovered that she was not only beautiful but intelligent. "Father sent me away to a young women's academy in San Antonio. He's in favor of education for women. He's really quite liberal for a man of his background. He says that believing in the Holy Trinity should never rule out a healthy interest in the secular."
George smiled, relaxing slightly. "I like your father."
"And he must have taken a liking to you, or he'd never have introduced us. I'm rather glad he did."
"You are? Miss Flynn, that's splendid!"
In a burst of enthusiasm, he swept her into another whirling waltz figure. A moment later she gently tapped his wrist with her ornamental fan. She wanted him to stop dancing. He obliged.
He saw grinning faces all around. Even Orry was covering a smirk. Constance whispered to him, "The music ended several moments ago, Lieutenant Hazard."
"It did? My God. That is — Miss Flynn, I didn't mean to curse in front of —"
"Lieutenant," she broke in, "I'll be the one cursing if you permit me to fall into the hands of that dragoon bearing down on us. Please take me for a stroll."
"With pleasure!"
George gave her his arm, then guided her toward the door of the barn. The major with the mustache pursued, looking more affronted every second. He was only three paces behind them when Patrick Flynn appeared to stumble. Flynn crashed against the major, almost dumping punch on his uniform. The lawyer bathed the officer with so much apologetic blarney he couldn't be angry.
By then George and Constance had slipped through the door into the darkness.
"I'm in love," George said a couple of hours later. "So that's what it is," Orry said. "I thought it was some sort of nervous condition. I've never seen you look so stupefied over a girl. Or act so tongue-tied, either."
They were trudging along the riverbank toward the white tents and lanterns of the encampment that had been improvised to shelter the men from the steamer. George started as a big jackrabbit leaped across his path. Then, after a distinctly lovelorn sigh, he said, "I think she likes me. But I'm not positive."
"Of course she likes you. She spent most of the evening in your company, didn't she? And she could have had her pick. Not necessarily of men more handsome than you" — Orry's mockery was broad but kindly — "but certainly of men she could look up to."
George called his friend a name and punched his arm. Orry laughed. Again George sighed. "I hope it takes them a week to repair the steamer. She invited me to dinner tomorrow. Boiled Texas beef and potatoes."
"Talking about her cooking already? You do sound as if you've found the love of your life," Orry said quietly.
"By heaven, you may be right. The instant I put my arms around her, I felt — well, something momentous. But there would be problems if it became anything permanent. She's Irish. Catholic, too. Up North that isn't always a welcome combination."
"You're getting serious awfully fast."
"I can't help it. I don't care, either. George Hazard, master of the fair sex, is for once absolutely powerless. That's the strangest part."
"No, it isn't. I understand perfectly."
George knew Orry had said something, but he was too excited to hear the words, or the note of melancholy in his friend's voice.
A distant whistle sounded the last call for the lighter. George shook Patrick Flynn's hand.
"Good-bye, sir. You've been wonderful to a stranger." "You're no longer a stranger, lad," the lawyer said with a swift glance at his daughter. Constance had put on a light shawl and was fussing with a parasol. Flynn laid his free hand on George's shoulder and pressed gently. "We wish you Godspeed to the battle zone and a safe walk along the pathway of your duty. We want you to come back again."
"Yes, sir, I'll do that."
The words carried more hope than certainty. George had read the papers enough to know that many men had already died in Mexico, not only from enemy fire but from disease. Many others would perish before the war ended. A couple of days ago he hadn't troubled himself about such things. Now, suddenly, in this ridiculous little village on a barren coast, life had become wondrously precious.
He and Constance walked out of the house. George stepped off the plank porch into the mud and raised his hand. She closed her fingers on his, then stepped down beside him and opened the parasol.
It was a dismal autumn day with a hint of winter in the gusty wind. He took charge of the parasol and offered his other arm. She pressed her breast against his sleeve, speaking to him silently that way. It began to drizzle as they hurried toward the pier where the last lighter was loading. "Will you write to me, George?" "Regularly. Daily! Will you answer?"
"You know I will. You must come back as soon as you can." "I promise. I want to show you Pennsylvania. Introduce you to my family."
He knew Constance could charm them and perhaps even overcome the suspicion of Catholics that was so prevalent in the nation. But if by some chance the family didn't welcome her, he would no longer consider himself a Hazard. In just these few days, she had become his universe — and his reason for fearing some random Mexican bullet as he had never feared it before.
''Father's very impressed by what you told him about your family,'' she said. "He thinks most Texans are fools because they won't admit factories are becoming more important than farms." "My friend Orry's family won't admit that." "Southerners can be so narrow-minded sometimes." No more narrow-minded than Northerners, he thought, recalling an incident in Philadelphia the week he had set off for Mont Royal.
Obscene words and statements had been slathered in red paint all over the walls of a Catholic church. Even his brother Stanley, no admirer of Papists, had been scandalized, though more by the language than by the motivation for the act.
Three senior officers sat in the lighter. All were frowning with impatience. The helmsman signaled for George to hurry. Another gust ripped the parasol out of his hand and sent it sailing into the water, where it bobbed like a lacy boat.
The men in the lighter laughed at him. George didn't care. His mind and heart were filled with Constance: her fiery hair blown loose by the wind, her blue eyes searching deep into his, her cheeks rain-speckled —
No, he realized with a start. That wasn't rain but her tears.
"Constance, I've never said this to any other girl. You may think me rude and forward since we've known each other such a short time. Still, I'm compelled" — he drew a quick breath and plunged — "I love you."
"I'm in love with you, too, George. Kiss me?"
"In public?"
"In public. In private. Anywhere — and forever."
The last word came out as a little cry. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him ferociously.
He pulled her close, his body rising against her to make the parting all the more intense and sorrowful. Her red hair kept loosening and blowing against his cheeks. He felt unmanly tears on his face — not hers, his own — and didn't give a damn about that, either.
The helmsman shouted, "Last call, Lieutenant. Get aboard or they'll report you for desertion."
Out by a sandbar the steamer sounded its whistle. George tore away and ran down the pier. He jumped into the lighter, falling against an artillery colonel who cursed him roundly. He sat on the middle thwart as the oarsmen strained and the lighter pulled away. Rain pelted him. He realized he had lost his hat. It didn't matter.
Constance Flynn stayed on the pier, her hair completely undone now. It flew over her shoulders and down to her waist like a red banner. "I'll come back," George said softly. The officer seated next to him stared.
He said it again silently, watching the girl's figure diminish along with the town's rude buildings. I'll come back.
It was a promise, but it was also a prayer.
Sergeant Jezreel Flicker peered at the empty beach. "Not a sign of a greaser. Mighty funny. We sure ain't made a secret of this here invasion."
Seated next to him in the rocking surfboat, Orry growled, "When are they going to send us in, damn it? If there are sharpshooters behind those dunes, they can pick us off like fish in a barrel."
Flicker's moon face remained imperturbable. He was a regular Army man, a laconic Kentuckian ten years older than Orry. Both of them understood that he was the one who ran the platoon. In response to Orry's nervous outburst he said, "Now, now, Lieutenant. I know you're anxious to see the elephant. But believe me, it ain't that pleasant."
Orry scowled. It was all very well for Sergeant Flicker to sneer at the glory of battle; he had been in the thick of it at Monterrey and elsewhere and survived. But Orry was as yet untested. He had already spent almost six months in Mexico, and the only guns he had heard were those of the damned volunteers who were always getting drunk and blowing their own toes off.
Some of Orry's men were looking bilious; a strong offshore current kept the surfboat in constant motion. Forty feet long, the boat was one of the 150 General Scott had ordered specifically for this assault. Each boat carried an eight-man naval crew and forty to fifty soldiers. Only 65 boats had actually been delivered, and these were strung out in a line just off Collado beach, opposite Sacrificios Island, some two and a half miles below the port city of Vera Cruz. It was here, out of range of the city's defensive artillery, that Scott intended to launch his drive inland to Mexico City.
George and Orry were serving in two different companies of the Eighth Infantry. Both companies were part of the first landing wave, along with other regular infantry and artillery units comprising General Worth's First Brigade. Orry's platoon consisted of Irishmen, Germans, a couple of Hungarians, and six native-born Americans. Even in peacetime, immigrants made up a large percentage of the country's military manpower.
The eight oarsmen struggled to keep the surfboat in its assigned place in the long line of similar craft awaiting the signal to go in. A couple of hours had already been lost because the line was constantly disrupted by the current swirling around Sacrificios. Behind the surfboats lay the troop ships and the rest of the invasion fleet, dozens of vessels of every size from steamers to small gunboats. The yards and tops of the biggest ships were filled with spectators: sailors as well as other soldiers who would go in with later waves. While Navy gunners loaded their cannon with grapeshot, the bands on various vessels competed with one another. Orry could hear "Hail, Columbia" and "Yankee Doodle" above the slap of the waves against the surfboat's hull and the oaths and complaints of the men.
He admitted they had plenty to complain about. They groused about everything from their government-issue shoes — cheaply made and designed to fit either right or left foot — to their India-rubber canteens. One private took a drink, grimaced, and spat over the side.
"No treat to swallow hot water, is it, Novotny?" Sergeant Flicker smirked. "Should have listened to what I told you last week. Rubber heats up. First chance you get, throw that away and fix yourself one of these." He tapped his own canteen, a gourd carried on a thong.
The men groused about being sent ashore burdened with haversacks and greatcoats. And they groused about their weapons. A few units had been issued 1841 percussion rifles, but Orry's men still carried old smoothbores, simply because the high command believed muskets could be more easily maintained by men of limited intelligence. Orry despaired of that kind of thinking. When men knew they were considered worthless, that's how they acted.
It was a mild, cloudless afternoon — perfect weather. Northwestward, the domes and rooftops of Vera Cruz were visible. Straight ahead, the spectacular snowcapped peak of Orizaba jutted up through a light haze some distance behind the beach. But Orry was too preoccupied to notice the scenery. He was reflecting that his view of soldiering had changed since his arrival in Mexico. He still wanted an Army career—that was why he was eager to get into combat — but much of the glamour with which he invested the profession was gone.
First of all, his war duty thus far had not only been frustrating, it had been downright disagreeable. The steamer from Corpus Christi had anchored in the harbor of Brazos Santiago, at the mouth of the Rio Grande. He and George had traveled inland with other troops, and on the second night Orry had been stricken with dysentery — a standard initiation for newcomers, he was informed. Not even his Surroundings — the cool, pleasant uplands of the Sierra Madre — could compensate for his misery.
The friends reported to their regiment in Saltillo. They were assigned to replace line officers wounded at Monterrey. Orry's company commander was a lazy complainer named Wilford Place. Captain Place seemed to dislike everyone above or below him, but Orry quickly discovered Place's attitude was typical rather than unusual. In the United States Army, animosity was a way of life.
West Point men scorned officers who hadn't graduated from the Academy. All the regulars hated the undisciplined volunteers, who were prone to burning Mexican houses, stealing Mexican property, and raping Mexican women. Native-born soldiers distrusted the immigrants and vice versa. Even the highest echelons weren't free of antagonism. Since the start of the war, General Worth had been feuding with General Twiggs over who outranked whom. That ludicrous quarrel had created factions within the Army and finally put an end to the friendship of Worth and Zach Taylor, who had known each other since the War of 1812.
Far-off Washington joined in the game of mutual distrust. After whipping the enemy at Monterrey, Taylor had given the Mexicans generous terms. Too generous, some complained; as commanding field general, he had let the beaten army slip away past an armistice line. His detractors said he should have ruthlessly destroyed the Mexican forces and ended the war.
President Polk used this as an excuse to criticize Taylor, whose unpretentious nature and unmistakable courage made him extremely well liked by his men. Taylor's rising popularity with the kingmakers of the Whig party may also have had something to do with Polk's enmity. Polk was, after all, a loyal Democrat.
The President had wanted an independent second front in the south, a direct thrust at the Mexican capital. To achieve this objective, he had no choice but to put a second Whig general in charge — the supreme commander of the Army, Winfield Scott.
For the proposed amphibious landing, Scott took about nine thousand of Taylor's regulars, leaving the latter with an army composed mostly of volunteers. With this Taylor was supposed to face a huge Mexican force rumored to be moving to attack him. The Mexicans were under the command of Santa Anna, the self-styled Napoleon of the West. Less reverent admirers called him the Immortal Three-fourths, because of his wooden leg.
All the strategic maneuvering and professional backbiting had meant but one thing to Orry — no immediate opportunity to go into combat. As part of Worth's command, he and George had marched all the way back to Santiago in early January, there to languish on the beach while the quartermasters coped with delays in the arrival of everything from casks of water to troop transports. To pass the time, Orry wrote long letters to Madeline. As soon as he finished one, he tore it up and started another.
Now, here it was the ninth of March, 1847, and he was bobbing in a surfboat, still unblooded, still seeing action only in his imagination. The waiting was surely worse than the fighting would ever be.
The sudden crumph of a cannon hurled him back to reality. Out in the thicket of masts and spars, a puff of smoke was drifting away from the steamer Massachusetts. Excitement roughened Orry's voice as he spoke to Sergeant Flicker.
"That's the signal."
"Yes, sir, so I figured." Flicker sounded tense for a change. It reassured Orry to know he wasn't the only one anticipating the prospect of resistance on shore.
A strange, unfamiliar roar brought puzzled looks to the faces of the men in the boat. Private Novotny was first to offer the explanation. "It's from the ships. Tattnall's sailors and cannoneers. They're cheering us on."
The sixty-five surfboats surged toward the beach. Late-afternoon sunshine flashed from the several thousand fixed bayonets. The oarsmen propelled the landing craft between the gunboats of the covering squadron. Caught up in the splendor of the moment, Orry forgot the illness and the boredom, the drudgery and the pettiness of the last few months. This was the high art of war, the glorious side of soldiering.
A naval gig pulled ahead of the other boats. Its oarsmen rowed frantically, obviously intending that the gig should be first on the beach. Standing in the bow, sword drawn, was a man they all recognized: their handsome, white-haired leader, General Worth.
Sergeant Flicker tore off his hat, waved it, and cheered the general. Orry joined in, and so did his men. Soon every soldier in the first wave was screaming himself hoarse.
A half minute before the keel scraped in the sand, Orry unsheathed his own sword. He stood up and was first to leap from the boat, flourishing the sword and shouting, "Here we go, men! All the way to the Halls of Montezuma in Mexico City!"
For that, they cheered him, too.
After such a rousing start, the next hour was an anticlimax.
The regiment formed on the colors, then, with bayonets extended, charged to the top of the first dune. The charge quickly ran out of steam because there were no Mexicans lying in wait, not one enemy foot soldier or dragoon visible anywhere. The only foes the Americans met the rest of the afternoon were sand fleas and the rising wind that flung gritty particles of sand into their eyes, noses, and mouths.
For the invasion, Scott had reorganized his men into three large forces. After the first two went ashore — Worth's regulars, then those in General Davey Twiggs's Second Brigade — the volunteers landed. General Patterson was in overall command of this brigade. Within it were units from South Carolina, Tennessee, and Pennsylvania, led by a man named Gideon Pillow who had but one qualification for his recent appointment to the rank of general. Before the war he had been Polk's law partner.
As night approached, the invading army began to extend its line to the northwest. Worth's brigade would hold the right, near the landing site, and it was there that Orry and his platoon went to work digging in. Even in perfect weather it would take several days to unload all the men and materiel necessary to complete the eight-mile siege line. Once the line was in place around Vera Cruz, it was expected that the artillery would begin bombardment. But the city might not fall for a long time. It was heavily fortified, defended by nine forts on the land side and the castle of San Juan de Ulúa in the harbor.
It was after midnight when Orry tottered into the mess tent. He was sodden with sweat and covered with sand and insect bites. He sank down next to George at a badly stained table, peered at what looked like a gobbet of old meat wedged into one of the cracks.
He picked at the dried lump with a fingernail. "Lord, this table's filthy."
Captain Place swabbed his cheeks with a bandanna. "It isn't one of ours. There have been several mix-ups in off-loading equipment. These are surgical tables, last used in Monterrey. Amputations — that sort of thing —"
Orry gagged and wiped his hand on his trousers. Then he heard the raucous laughter. Even Place, not humorous by nature, roared. It was an old Army joke, Orry learned later. That made him feel better. He was no longer a greenhorn; he had finally been accepted.
No one knew, that night or ever, why the Mexican commandant at Vera Cruz hadn't fired so much as one shot at the invaders. But the absence of an enemy made Orry nervous as he went from sentry post to sentry post in his sector about three in the morning. His right hand stayed close to the personal sidearm he had purchased at his own expense, a practice followed by most officers. The gun was a Model 1842, a single-shot percussion smoothbore made by I. N. Johnson and generally considered the best military pistol on the market.
The night was windy, with not a star showing. Orry was midway between two posts when he heard something on his left, the side away from the shore. He caught the sound of furtive voices and movement. His mouth dry, he drew his pistol.
"Who goes there?"
Instantly there was silence except for the wind.
He repeated his challenge, realizing belatedly that from out in the dark he was a clear target; the lantern-lit regimental staff tent was directly behind him. He started to move on quickly. He had taken only two steps when he again heard voices, loud this time, angrily shouting in Spanish.
Three shots rang out. He felt a ball flick his trousers. He dropped to one knee, aimed, and fired. A man screamed. Another cursed. Feet scurried away. Sentries at the nearby posts were shouting challenges.
Pain hit, canceling his brief feeling of triumph. He looked down and to his amazement discovered that a rifle ball had done more than tick against his trousers. It had pierced his calf.
He pacified the sentries and limped to the medical tent, a good half mile, his shoe filling with blood. The orderly on duty saluted. Before Orry could return it, he fainted.
The injury wasn't serious. He was feeling fairly chipper when George visited him late the next day.
"Your first battle wound." George grinned. "Congratulations."
Orry made a face. "I expected my baptism of fire to be a little grander, thanks. Being shot by a skulking guerrilla isn't my idea of heroism. I think I got one of them, though."
"I know you did. Flicker found the body at sunup."
"Soldier or civilian?"
"Soldier. Dressed like a peasant, but his accoutrements were military."
Orry looked less displeased. George crouched beside the cot and lowered his voice.
"Tell me something. When the shooting started, were you scared?'' Orry shook his head. "There wasn't time. But a minute or so afterward, I —" He was silent for a second. "I came to, I guess you could say. I went over every detail I could remember. Then I got scared." The more Orry thought about it, the more convinced he became that he had made an important discovery about the behavior of men at war.
In his tent a few nights later, George hunched closer to a dim lantern and rolled a pencil stub back and forth in his fingers. He was writing another of his long letters to Constance. He sent one about every three days. He loved her so much, he wanted to share as many of his experiences as propriety allowed.
He kept some of his deepest feelings out of the letters, though. His longing to be with her had filled him with a powerful hatred of this war, a reaction that went far beyond the resigned acceptance that had been his attitude before Corpus Christi.
While he was considering what to say next, something tickled the back of his neck. He whipped up his free hand, smacked the tiny insect, grimaced as he wiped his fingers on the edge of the cot. Then he put pencil to paper.
Unseen snipers usually fire a few rounds every night, but it has been quiet this evening. I am coming to believe that our true enemy is this land. The wind blows like
He scratched out the letter h; he had started to write hell.
fury, and as a consequence, the eyes and the skin are constantly savaged by flying sand. Retreating inside a tent minimizes that problem but does not guarantee peace or a good night's sleep, for we Americans are locked in battle with another army which our superior officers neglected to mention. I refer to the army of fleas and wood ticks which infests this coast.
Little Mac McClellan, one of my classmates who's down here with the engineers, has devised a novel defense against the infernal creatures. Each night he swabs himself from head to toe with salt pork and, thus odiously "protected," crawls into a canvas bag which he then proceeds to close about his neck with a tight drawstring. He says it works splendidly, but I for one am not quite desperate enough to try such an extreme
George bolted up at the sound of a gunshot. Someone cried out. Men began shouting and running. He dropped the letter, hurried outside, and discovered that a nearby sentry had been felled by a sniper's bullet.
The sentry, a private about George's age, lay on his side with the upper half of his face bathed in lantern light. The one eye George could see was open and glaring. The fatal shot had struck the middle of the sentry's back.
A sergeant took charge of disposing of the body. The private had belonged to another company; George didn't know him. Badly shaken, George returned to the tent and picked up the letter. He would say nothing about the killing. He began to write but had to quit almost at once. The face of the dead private kept intruding in his thoughts, along with memories of Orry's close call. It was five minutes later before his hands stopped trembling and he was able to pick up the pencil again.
Gale winds out of the north delayed the unloading of Scott's artillery, ammunition, and pack animals. Not a round was fired at Vera Cruz until March 22. That evening the guns opened up for the first time. Scott planned to reduce the city by what he called a "slow, scientific-process" of shelling.
Orry was soon back on duty. The Mexicans remained hidden as the bombardment continued. The American soldiers were restless and impatient to engage an enemy. They were beset by the climate all day, and now they were kept awake all night by the return fire of Mexican cannon, which could never reach the American lines but which were hellishly noisy nonetheless. Orry was constantly breaking up fights and disciplining his men.
Wherever he and George went, they encountered others from the Academy. About five hundred West Point graduates had been serving in the regular Army at the start of the war, and an equal number had been recalled from civilian life to command volunteer units. Tom Jackson, who seemed to grow more dour and indrawn every day, was in the artillery; Pickett and Bee and Sam Grant were in the infantry. Other Academy men the two friends knew slightly, and some just by reputation: Lee and Pierre Beauregard in the engineers; Joe Johnston and George Meade in the topogs; Dick Ewell and Tom Jackson's roommate, Pleasonton, commanded dragoon units. Robert Anderson, Ambrose Burnside, Powell Hill, and a fanatic abolitionist named Abner Doubleday were artillerymen with Tom. The secure feeling generated by the presence of officers with the same background was one of the few good things about this campaign, George thought.
On March 24, six long-range naval guns supplied by Commodore Matthew Perry joined the siege. That same day, Orry was summoned to brigade headquarters with Captain Place to explain a knifing that had occurred in his platoon. The questioning was perfunctory because everyone at headquarters was in an exultant mood. Scouts kept streaming in to report that the American bombardment was at last inflicting substantial damage on the walls of the city.
"Commodore Perry's cannon saved our skins," Place growled when he and Orry left the tent after the interrogation. "Guess we owe him thanks, even if he did squawk like a mudhen about the Navy's rights." Scott had been forced to let naval gunners operate the six long-range pieces. Orry realized the Army had no corner on officers jealous of their —
"Lieutenant Main. I say — Main!"
"Yes, sir!" Orry automatically brought his hand up to salute, even as he pivoted in response to the voice he couldn't quite place. He froze.
Elkanah Bent returned the salute in a relaxed, almost mocking way. He noted Orry's fatigue cap with a scornful glance. Bent was wearing the more formal, French-inspired chapeau bras.
"Thought it was you," Bent said. "I had a report that you had joined us. Your friend, too. Hazard."
Orry took it as a bad sign that the Ohioan remembered George's name. But of course he had promised to remember. Orry tried to act unconcerned.
"You're looking well, Captain."
"Considering all the action I've seen since last year, I feel remarkably fit. I was informed that you were one of our few casualties. A guerrilla ball caught you, did it not?"
"Yes, sir. The night we landed. The wound wasn't serious."
"That's good news." Bent's sly expression said just the opposite. "Well, Lieutenant, I'm confident we shall encounter each other again. When we do, perhaps we can reminisce about our days at West Point."
Captain Place's brows drew together in a frown. He could sense the tension. But Orry was the only one who understood Bent's remark. His spine tightened with apprehension as Bent waddled away, his hand self-consciously placed on the Phrygian helmet pommel of his sword. He was just as fat as ever, and just as poisonous.
"You knew that bastard at the Academy?" Place asked.
Orry nodded. "He was in the class ahead of me. Have you served with him?"
"Never, thank God. But everyone's heard of Captain Bent of the Third Infantry. His regimental commander, Colonel Hitchcock, makes no secret of his contempt for him. He says Bent's afflicted with uncontrollable ambition and is determined to climb upward — on a ladder of bodies, if necessary. Be thankful you no longer have any involvement with him."
But I do, Orry thought as they walked on.
Perry's cannon proved too much for the defenders of Vera Cruz. On March 29, under surrender terms arranged with General Scott's staff, the Mexican garrison struck its colors and marched out through the Merced Gate. Moments later, while American batteries on shore and on shipboard thundered in salute, the Stars and Stripes rose on every flagstaff in the city.
The victory had cost fewer than a hundred American lives. George and Orry were shocked to learn that, back home, politicians and a certain segment of the public were unhappy that casualties had been so light. "They calculate the importance of the victory by the size of the butcher's bill" was the way George put it. ''And then they wonder why nobody wants to stay in the Army."
Scott was pleased with the progress of the war. The surrender at Vera Cruz came on top of Taylor's stunning February triumph at Buena Vista. Scott once again reorganized the army for a march on the capital.
On April 8 Twiggs's division started inland. Patterson's division followed the next day. General Worth's men were awaiting orders to move forward in support when word came that Santa Anna, once again elevated to the presidency, had taken a position at Jalapa, on the National Road to Mexico City. On April 11 and 12 units from Twiggs's command clashed with enemy scouts and lancers. Outside Vera Cruz the drums and bugles summoned Worth's command for a forced march to join Twiggs at the village of Plan del Rio.
During the early hours of the march, heat felled dozens of men at the roadside. Close to fainting himself, Orry risked the censure of his superiors by dropping back and propping up a stumbling soldier who had the makings of a fine noncom if the climate, disease, a Mexican ball, or homesickness for Brooklyn didn't overcome him first. After twenty minutes the soldier was able to walk by himself again.
By dusk, four men in Orry's platoon were sick with diarrhea. So were scores of others in the column. The ditches along the road stank and swarmed with green flies. But dysentery wasn't the only malady to be feared. For weeks officers had worried aloud about the coming yellow-fever season. Outbreaks of the disease decimated the low-lying seacoast every year. Scott had wanted to move his men into the highlands before the season began, and the alarm from Twiggs had enabled him to do it. When a corporal complained about marching so far so fast — the distance was slightly less than sixty miles — Orry was quick to say, "As soon as we reach General Twiggs, you'll be a lot better off."
"Better off dodging greaser musket balls? Beggin' the lieutenant's pardon, I don't believe that."
"But it's true. You're much less likely to be felled by a ball than by the vomito.
Over the cook fire that night, Orry noticed that the smoke was climbing into clear, haze-free air. Cooler air. They were already above the coastal plain whose sometimes pestilential climate reminded him of home. He pointed out the change to the corporal, but the man remained unconvinced.
Sergeant Flicker arrived. He reported the sentinels posted according to Orry's orders. He squatted by the fire, took out a piece of biscuit, and began picking weevils from it. He observed that the odds now favored a major engagement with the Mexicans; things had been quiet for too long. Then he said:
"By the way, sir. I never had a chance to ask you 'fore this. Did you get close to any of them senioritas in Vera Cruz?"
Orry was astonished at the noncom's cheek. Flicker probably figured his length of service gave him certain privileges when dealing with officers. "No, Sergeant," he answered. "I have a girl back home." It was a convenient if painful lie.
"Oh.'' Flicker's expression said he didn't understand why one thing excluded the other. "Mighty accommodating, some of them ladies. 'Course, I had the bad luck to visit one of their establishments the night a captain from the Third foot got rough with the girl he'd paid for. She screamed bloody hell, and the head whore almost closed the place."
"The Third, you say? What was the captain's name?"
"Bent."
Quietly: "I've heard of him."
"Sure, who hasn't? Butcher Bent, his men call him. It was a scandal what he did in Monterrey."
"I didn't hear about that."
"You passed through the town last fall, didn't you? Then I 'spect you remember the layout of the fortifications on the east side. The Black Fort on the main approach an' the redoubt named for a tannery a little ways on? Bent was in Garland's column, it headed in past the Black Fort. The fire was pretty fierce. When the column turned, fire from the redoubt damn near blew away the left flank. The men started runnin', figuring to take cover in the streets close by. But those streets wasn't safe either. A greaser pistol or rifle was blazin' away from ever' window and garden gate, seemed like. Things went crazy for a couple of minutes. The only way out was to move to the next streets, where there wasn't so many of the varmints hidin'. That would get Bent an' all the rest out from under the worst of the fire from the forts, too. But Butcher Bent didn't care about savin' anybody. He decided to be a hero and knock out the tannery redoubt. He sent a platoon to storm it."
"Did they take it?"
" 'Course not. It was impossible. Bent lost more'n half the platoon. Afterwards, I heard they found at least two men with bullet holes in their backs."
"You mean they got shot running away from the redoubt?"
"They got shot runnin' away from Captain Bent."
"Godamighty. Why doesn't someone report him?"
"He kisses a lot of backsides, Lieutenant. And some of the idiots in charge of this here army don't give a goddamn about the way a man gets results, just so long as he gets 'em. They do say Bent's got a passel of friends in Washington, too."
Orry could have verified that but he didn't.
"Nobody knows for certain that he shot those men," Flicker went on. "I mean nobody can prove it. I did hear Bent's threatened to court-martial anybody who raises questions about that little operation. That says somethin' to you, don't it?"
Orry nodded. "So his men aren't talking about him?"
"Damn right they aren't. They're too scared. God knows how many he'll send to their deaths before they catch him — or he gets 'lected President, which is prob'ly more likely. Jesus, can't they find us some decent food?" He leaned forward and spat a wiggling weevil into the flames.
Later, Orry located George's company at the roadside. Orry reported what Sergeant Flicker had told him.
"I believe every word," George said. Carefully, he placed a stone on a thin sheet of paper on which he had been writing in pencil. There were eight or ten sheets beneath the partially filled one. Another letter to Texas, Orry presumed.
"I'll tell you this, Stick," George continued. "If the good Lord ever turns against me and arranges for me to be transferred to Bent's command, I think I'll kill myself before reporting for duty. By the way — I just learned that in our batteries at Vera Cruz there were some pieces cast at Cold Spring." And he was off into the enthusiasms of the ironmaster.
Orry had trouble sleeping that night. He was bothered by memories of Flicker's story, and of Bent's eyes.
The evening before Cerro Gordo, George drank a third of a bottle of Mexican wine smuggled in by his company commander, an Academy graduate named Enos Hoctor. George didn't like Captain Hoctor very much. He was too serious, too prone to worry aloud — and at length — over West Point's reputation.
George didn't share Hoctor's concern about the Academy, but he was happy to share his wine. He would have invited Orry to join them, but his friend said he wanted to spend some time rereading Scott's Infantry Tactics. Poor Orry, yearning for his first taste of battle. If George never heard an enemy ball whistling by his ear, he'd be perfectly happy.
To continue the march to Mexico City, the Americans had to clear away the enemy fortifications at Cerro Gordo on the National Road. On Telegrafo, a fortified peak some five to six hundred feet high, Mexican batteries were trained on the ravine through which the road ran in a westerly direction from the American camp at Plan del Rio to Cerro Gordo.
Enemy guns were also in place on a second hill, Atalaya. But Captain Robert Lee of the engineers had discovered a mule trail leading around the northern flank to this hill and had reportedly distinguished himself for bravery doing it. Earlier today — it was the seventeenth of April — American sharpshooters had slipped along the trail and in three hot charges had cleared Atalaya. Cannon were now being moved into position to rake Telegrafo.
When the main engagement commenced tomorrow, Twiggs's division had the task of driving through the hills above the highway and outflanking the Mexican defenses. Worth's division, which included George and Orry, had been rushed forward, then held on the National Road in case Twiggs needed reinforcement. In George's view, Orry faced disappointment once again; the division might see no action at all.
After drinking Hoctor's wine, George went to sleep without difficulty. He was up long before sunrise, when an artillery duel commenced. Smoke and a red glow were all he could see from the place where he and his men awaited orders. Then over the ridges came the crackle of gunfire, and drumming and bugle calls, and an occasional protracted cry of pain. George's men stopped their whispering and exchanged silent looks.
George had long ago given up hope of knowing much about the strategy of any battle in which he took part. He was just a lieutenant of the line, a small cog in an immense machine. Besides, all that really mattered to him was doing his job and surviving. Orry was different. He was fascinated by strategy because that was the stock-in-trade of a career officer. George could see his friend farther up the line with his platoon, and he hoped Orry was able to grasp something of the grand plan of the day. It might compensate him for missing combat yet again.
The battle lasted a little more than three hours. At half past nine, drums thudded and bugles blared close at hand, and the men of Worth's division began making the usual nervous jokes as they prepared to march. Their mission, as it turned out, was to rush along the National Road for ten miles, pursuing the beaten Mexican army. Santa Anna had sworn publicly that he would triumph at Cerro Gordo or die. But the Napoleon of the West had often put survival above promises. When defeat loomed, George learned later, Santa Anna had cut a horse from his presidential coach and galloped away into the chaparral.
Corpses already bloating in the sunshine lay along both sides of the National Road. Most were Mexicans, but there were a few American dragoons among them. The stench of dead flesh and emptied intestines made George so sick that he finally vomited in a ditch. He wondered what Orry thought about the glories of war now.
Other debris of the Mexican retreat — dead horses, overturned artillery caissons — littered the approach to the pass of La Joya. Two miles this side of the pass, musketry suddenly exploded from the rocky slope above the north side of the road.
"Take cover!" George shouted, drawing pistol and saber. The command was superfluous; his men were diving to the right and left. All but two went fast enough to avoid bullets.
Crouching below the road, George saw one of the two still moving. He squinted at the white puffs of smoke erupting on the hillside. He swallowed twice, then started climbing up the sloped side of the ditch.
"Get back, Lieutenant," Captain Hoctor shouted from the left. But George was already halfway to the wounded corporal, whom he lifted and carried back to the side of the road while balls from the hillside peppered the ground around him.
He lowered the wounded man into the ditch and jumped after him. An American artillery piece opened up on the hidden snipers. After three rounds of grape, there was no more firing, just cries and moans.
"You exposed yourself needlessly," Hoctor growled at George as litter bearers took the wounded man away. "Your duty is to your men."
"I'm sorry, sir," George retorted. "I believed I was carrying out my duty."
Unfeeling son of a bitch, he thought. He doesn't care about that soldier — or that I was scared out of my wits. If West Point was graduating many like Hoctor, it deserved the criticism it received.
That night George commandeered a horse and rode back to the field hospital to check on the corporal. The boy was in good spirits and would recover. On the cot next to his lay a red-bearded sergeant whose midsection was wrapped with brown-spotted bandages. That meant an intestinal or stomach wound, the worst kind. Listening to the man complain to an orderly, George heard Bent's name.
"Excuse me, soldier. Are you talking about Captain Elkanah Bent?"
Instantly wary, the noncom replied in a weak whisper, "Pal of yours, sir?"
"Just the opposite. I despise the bastard."
The sergeant scratched his beard. Surprise and suspicion kept him silent a moment or so. Finally he decided it was safe to continue the conversation about another officer:
"How do you know Butcher Bent?"
"We were at West Point together. I saw him damn near kill half a dozen plebes. What were you saying about him? Is he dead?"
"No such luck. Bent cost me the best platoon leader I ever had. He sent Lieutenant Cummins up Telegrafo against a redoubt that a brigade couldn't have taken. Of course Bent stayed to the rear, well protected, just like always. A stray shell from our guns on Atalaya blew the lieutenant and his detail to pieces, and a lot of Mexicans with it. So the Butcher, he led the rest of us up through the smoke and ordered us to spend ten minutes sabering greasers. Dead ones."
"Jesus," George breathed. He could almost see Bent's round, waxy face during the incident; he was sure the captain had been smiling.
In the lamplight, fiery pinpricks showed in the wounded man's eyes. "What was left of Cummins they put in a canvas bag. But you know who'll get the decoration."
"Tell me, Sergeant. If Cummins knew the attack was foolhardy —''
" 'Course he knew. We all did."
"My point is, did he question the order?"
"No. 'Twasn't his place to do that."
"Did anyone question it?"
"The platoon sergeant. He's — he was a crusty old coot. Twenty-year man. Not too impressed by officers — 'specially ones from the Academy." A cough; a belated realization. "No offense intended, sir."
"None taken. Go on."
"The sergeant, he spoke right out. He said that sending men against the redoubt was practically murder."
"How did Bent react?"
"He put Sarge in the detail too."
"And still Cummins said nothing?"
"Because he was a good officer! And I 'spose he didn't care to wind up with one of Bent's bullets in his back. At Monterrey —"
"Yes, I heard about Monterrey. Seems to me that if Bent keeps doing things like this, he may get shot himself. By his own men."
Weak as the sergeant's voice was, it had a cold edge when he said, "Not if I get him first."
"Get him? How?"
"The minute I'm on my feet again, I'm goin' to divisional staff and tell the whole story. If there's any justice in this goddamn army, they'll put Butcher Bent on trial and cashier him."
"You mean you're going to charge Bent with a definite act of wrongdoing?"
"I'm sure —" The sergeant coughed a second time; it clearly hurt him a great deal. "Sure as hell going to try."
"But if you're the only one making accusations —"
"I'll get nowhere, that what you mean?" George nodded. "Well, it won't be me alone. I got witnesses from the platoon. Half a dozen, maybe more."
"Are all of them willing to testify?"
"They've all been here, and that's what they told me."
"Any officers in the group?"
"No, sir."
"Too bad. It would add weight to your charges." Only after George said it did he notice the intensity that had come into the sergeant's gaze.
"Yes, it would, sir. Will you help? Will you testify to what you know about Bent? I gather you think he's a bad lot."
"I do, but —"
"He's got to be punished. He's got to be stopped. Help me, sir. Please."
George drew a deep breath. He was almost surprised when he heard his own response:
"All right, I'll do what I can."
Later that night he found Orry with his platoon. He took him aside and described the conversation with the red-bearded sergeant whose name he had learned at the close of the meeting: Lennard Arnesen.
When George finished, Orry shook his head. George bristled. "Don't you believe Arnesen's story?"
"Certainly I believe it. But I have trouble believing you'd involve yourself in something like this."
George squatted and reached up under his right trouser leg to scratch. He discovered a tick and pried it loose. "I have trouble believing it myself. Hazard the self-preservation specialist was ready to turn Arnesen down. But then I thought of all the things that fat bastard did at the Point, and I said to myself, If our men are shot down, it ought to be the Mexicans who are responsible, not our own officers."
"You're beginning to sound like me. Just before you got here I was telling a couple of my noncoms that Pillow should be removed. Did you hear about him bungling his assignment this morning?"
"No."
"He willfully marched into the wrong position on the left. As a result, his troops were exposed to the fire of three enemy batteries, instead of one. Then Pillow started yelling orders so loudly, the Mexicans knew exactly where he was. They opened fire with everything they had."
George uttered a weary obscenity. "What do you expect of a political general? Pillow I can't do anything about. Bent, though — that's different."
"What are you going to do?"
"First, talk to my captain. Tell him I intend to support Arnesen's story. I can't testify to what happened in Arnesen's platoon, but I can sure as hell speak with authority about Bent's character and past history. As the sergeant said — if there's any justice in this army, the divisional staff will listen. Of course'' — he looked hard at his friend — "two officers would be more convincing than one."
"I had a feeling you were about to ask me to go with you."
"Will you?"
Without hesitation, Orry said, "Yes." He yawned. "But in the morning."
"I'm shocked," Captain Hoctor said. "No, worse than that. I'm appalled."
George glanced at Orry standing beside him, pleased that his opening statements had produced such a strong reaction. "I'm encouraged to hear you say that, sir," he told Hoctor. "Bent's behavior really is —''
"I was not speaking of Captain Bent's behavior. I was referring to yours. Frankly, I cannot believe that one Academy graduate would impugn the ability, the motives — the fitness — of another. Furthermore, did no one ever tell either of you gentlemen that a commander is supposed to send his men against enemy positions, no matter how strongly fortified they are — no matter how impossible the odds?"
For a moment George felt dizzy. "Yes, sir, of course. And on the surface Captain Bent did no more than that. But there are other aspects. Questions of character, of —"
"Of his past actions," Orry put in. "Doesn't the charge have to be judged against those, too?"
Hoctor's look was withering. "I have never read any regulation to that effect, Lieutenant. My point stands. I cannot believe you gentlemen would be parties to such a vicious accusation when the reputation of the Academy — perhaps its very survival — is dependent upon public and congressional opinion of its graduates."
In a strained voice, George said, "Sir, may I respectfully ask what the Academy has to do with any of this? Sergeant Arnesen will swear that Captain Bent all but committed murder. Bent's platoon sergeant questioned the order, and for that Bent sent him to be killed too. The sergeant has witnesses, and they are ready to testify in support of every —''
"You said that already, Lieutenant." The captain's tone was scathing.
"Sorry, sir. I forgot." George tugged at his collar. "But I strongly believe there is a case and evidence of guilt. Lieutenant Main and I are willing to offer background information. There's no shortage of it. You must have learned about Monterrey —"
"Of course. Brave officers are always the targets of the less courageous." Hoctor's expression suggested that he was now including George in the latter group.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Orry said. "I think there's a distinction to be made. Let me use Captain Lee of the engineers as an example. I haven't heard a single officer or enlisted man question his courage. He demonstrated bravery at Cerro Gordo through personal action, not by throwing good men into hopeless situations. Bent, on the other hand —''
"That's enough," Hoctor interrupted. "You have made your point, both of you. Let me ask you a question." A note of threat had entered his voice. "Do you really intend to pursue this matter through formal channels?"
George didn't blink. "Yes, sir." Orry gave the same reply.
"I assume, sir," George added, "that when I write my formal report for division, you will receive it and send it along."
The fire in Hoctor's eyes was hot now. His voice was barely audible. "Contrary to the judgment I seem to detect in your words and your manner, Lieutenant, I am not a dishonorable man."
"Sir, I never meant to suggest —"
"Permit me to finish. Of course I would not hold or bury your report. My duty as an officer wouldn't allow it. However, that does not mean I approve of your course of action. I abominate it. If we are now clear on that — get out of here."
Feeling he had won a victory, if a rather dangerous one, George returned to the field hospital that night to inform Sergeant Arnesen.
When he reached the foot of the sergeant's bed, he stopped and stared witlessly. A young private with blond fuzz on his cheeks was lying in Arnesen's place.
George's gut began to ache. He pivoted, frantically searched the shadows where men stirred and moaned softly. An orderly came hurrying along with a reeking basin.
"Sergeant Arnesen? He died on the table last night. Most of 'em do when the surgeons get hold of 'em."
The fuzz-cheeked soldier was watching with puzzled, bleary eyes. The orderly rushed on. George could think of only one thing.
He never told me the names of the other witnesses.
Despite apprehensions, George went back to Captain Hoctor to inform him of this latest development and to say that he still intended to prepare his report.
"Have you completely lost your mind, Lieutenant? Every shred of evidence concerning the death of this Lieutenant Cummins is hearsay, and now you can't even produce the source of that! The sergeant is dead, you don't know the identities of his alleged witnesses — drop the matter."
"I could make inquiries. Try to learn the names of —"
"Do that and you'll get no help from me. This has gone far enough. Too far, in my opinion."
The message behind the words was clear. George's report, if he went ahead with it, would be blocked, permanently filed, perhaps even destroyed. Still, conscience drove him to a final effort:
"Sir, Captain Bent is not a stable person. He's committed a wrong, he's dangerous, and he should be removed from —"
Hoctor jumped up. "I will hear no more. Even granting a grain of truth in your assertions, do you seriously believe Bent is the only bad officer — or the worst one — in the Army? Haven't you heard the accusations they're making about that hack Gideon Pillow? Captain Bent is, at very least, an Academy man, and so are we, and your friend Main as well. God knows why the two of you are unable to comprehend the meaning of that bond — or the responsibility it places upon you. But for the sake of your careers, I hope you and Lieutenant Main will reach that understanding very soon. Dismissed."
"Captain Hoctor —"
Scarlet rushed into Hoctor's face. "Dismissed!"
Humiliated, George left.
"Well, that's a nasty lesson," Orry said when his friend described the scene. "West Point protects its own. I reckon we should have guessed it from Hoctor's remarks the first time." He sighed. "At least Bent won't know we tried to rob him of his laurels and do him in."
"You think not? I made Hoctor furious. In his eyes we're the dangerous ones. I'll wager Captain Butcher Bent will soon know exactly what we wanted to do. Hell, I bet Hoctor tells him. After all" — George grimaced — "West Point protects its own."
When the realization sank in, Orry was unable to say a word.
Soon after, George again wrote to Constance. The opening paragraphs of the letter said:
I have never felt so tired, although I think that is a state induced not merely by lack of sleep but by my revulsion toward this war. Death, injury, filth, eternal fear — an army of incompetents, poltroons, political cronies, and victims — always there are the victims whom the others send to slaughter in their stead — this is the ''glory'' by which Orry is seduced. When will he discover the "glory" is nothing but a layer of gilt desperately applied to conceal the rot beneath? For his own sake, I hope the enlightenment comes before he commits his life to military service. But sometimes lately, my dearest, I am too tired even to care much about my best friend's fate.
What fills my nights and days, sustaining me as nothing else can, is the thought of our being reunited one day, with nothing more fearful ahead of us than the ordinary vicissitudes of a life together. I am not a deeply religious person, but I have found myself praying for that reunion constantly of late. They do say God makes many converts on battlefields, a statement which I am beginning to understand at last.
The conditions about which I write have been made all the worse by my recent failure to rectify a criminally unjust situation. I tried to do so, mind you, but
All at once he glanced back over what he had written. Disgusted, he realized he had been thinking only of himself when he poured out his grim thoughts. If he added to her worries, he deserved to be whipped. He picked up the sheets and crumpled them. It was the one letter penned in Mexico that he never sent.
A shell whined in over the highroad to Churubusco. The Mexican gunners in the convent of San Mateo had found the range. So had those on the fortified bridge that carried the road over the Rio Churubusco and on into Mexico City.
Sword in his left hand, pistol in his right, Orry crouched in the marshy cornfield beside the road. He cringed as he awaited the explosion of the shell. The concussion nearly knocked him over.
To his left, a geyser shot up from the wet field, lifting cornstalks and bloody heads and limbs with it. It was mid-afternoon, the twentieth of August. Orry had been in heavy fighting for nearly three hours and had thought himself numb to sights of violent death. The disappearance of an entire squad of men when the shell hit showed him how foolish he'd been. He gagged as the human remains splattered back to earth.
Choking smoke stung his eyes. He could barely discern the spires of the Mexican capital and the snowy summit of Popocatepetl through the murk. He searched for familiar faces but saw none among the milling mobs in the cornfield.
On the highroad he heard hoarse commands; an attempt was being made to re-form Worth's division there. Having overcome and routed the garrison at San Antonio, the division had been racing toward Churubusco when devastating fire from the convent and the bridge drove it off the road into the field.
A stocky figure came lurching out of the smoke, teeth clenched and face barely recognizable under a layer of dirt. Orry laughed in a wild, ragged way and wigwagged his arms.
"George. George, here!"
George staggered toward him. Noncoms and officers ran past, most bound for the road but some going the other way. "I've lost sight of the colors," Orry gasped.
"I've lost all my men," George shouted back. "When the crossfire started, the whole division just seemed to melt. But I saw Captain Smith of the Fifth heading for the road to reorganize — Jesus Christ. Down!''
He pushed Orry face forward into the muck. Orry swallowed a mouthful of the foul stuff, but that was better than being ravaged by the charges of canister that blew apart and sent a thousand deadly bits of metal hissing through the corn.
They waited for a lull in the artillery bombardment; then, bent over and running side by side, they started for the highroad. Musket fire from the bridge and the firing platforms in the convent was almost constant. George encountered eight of his men along the way; they were lost, confused, frightened.
With George in the lead, they climbed the embankment near a crossroad where some adobe cottages stood. The walls were pocked by American and Mexican balls, and two rooftops were afire. Everywhere officers were shouting, trying to organize squads or platoons of men, any men available. Orry saw unfamiliar faces and the insignia of units that didn't belong on this part of the battlefield.
He took his cue from the other officers. "Form up, form up in squads!" he shouted, seizing running men and hurling them into a line at the edge of the road. He caught about twenty, but half of them immediately ran toward the rear. George threatened the others with his pistol.
"I'll shoot the next man who bolts."
That held them for about thirty seconds. Then everyone in the little group dove off the road. A shell blew a huge hole in the center.
In the rain of dirt and debris falling afterward, Orry again started to climb the embankment. He found his foot mired in something wet. I thought all the water was in the cornfield. He looked down. His foot was planted in the warm red cavity that had been a man's gut. He wrenched backward and gagged again, but there was nothing left to come up.
Someone pushed him from behind. He swore, then realized it was George trying to get him away from the corpse. They regained the road and began re-forming their group. Four had been killed.
Suddenly uniformed men came running from the direction of the fortified bridge. Americans. "We've been repulsed," they screamed, and raced on by.
A figure in the smoke at Orry's left glided toward him. "Perhaps we'd better reconnoiter and find out whether that's true, gentlemen."
Orry's jaw dropped. George was equally stupefied. Dirty, disheveled, greasy with sweat, Elkanah Bent faced them with sword and revolver in either hand. Orry lost his last doubt that the fellow was mad when he saw Bent smiling — smiling — in the midst of this hell of musket and artillery fire.
Bent gestured to the little squad huddling nearby. "Lieutenant Main, take those men and bring me a report on the situation at the river." His small eyes flicked to George. "Go with them, Lieutenant Hazard."
"Godamighty, Bent, do you know what you're saying? There's no way a squad can get far enough down that road to see —"
Bent cocked his revolver and pointed it at George. More men ran by, staring. But they didn't stop to ask the reason for the bizarre scene. It looked as if the fat captain might be disciplining a couple of cowardly subordinates.
"Bring me a report or I'll shoot you for disobeying a direct order in action."
Orry's hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. He fought an impulse to run Bent through and let his own life be forfeit. Bent sensed it and swung the revolver to cover him.
George laid a hand on Orry's arm. They both knew Bent meant for them to die. George winked quickly and jerked his head toward the bridge, as if to say, That way we stand a chance; here we have none.
With their backs to the fat captain, they stood close together, surveying the highroad. About a quarter of a mile beyond the junction stood two other cottages, apparently deserted.
"Let's advance to those," George whispered. "Once we take cover inside, he won't be able to get at us. Then we can plan our next move."
For an instant Orry was lost to reality. "I'm going to kill him." He repeated it twice in a monotonous voice. George gripped Orry's left arm and applied pressure as hard as he could. In a moment Orry winced, blinked, and collected himself. George shouted the command to advance. Orry shambled forward with the others.
They had taken no, more than a dozen steps away from the cottages at the junction when a musket barrel came smashing through an unbroken window in one of the cottages ahead. The door flew open; three more muskets poked out. The muskets boomed, killing two of the surprised soldiers a yard to Orry's left.
George shouted for everyone to go into the ditches again. Two more men fell before they reached the edge of the road. George was suddenly incoherent with rage. He looked back, saw Elkanah Bent gesturing to a major of mounted rifles. God knew how the major and his horse had gotten to this little comer of hell. Feeling just as Orry had earlier, George started for Bent. He had made up his mind. Regardless of the consequences, he was going to murder the swine on the spot.
A scream brought him to a stop. It sounded like Orry, and there was something terrifying about it. George peered through the smoke as the screaming intensified, a crescendo of sound.
It wasn't a cry of pain but of berserk anger. Orry was charging down the center of the road, brandishing his sword as he uttered that wild yell. It unnerved the stunned guerrillas hiding in the cottage. For several moments, none of them shot at the figure rushing toward them. By the time they realized they'd better, Orry was two yards from the door.
The first musket ball missed him. The second sent his forage cap sailing. He reached the door, kicked it wide open, and jumped into the dark interior, still yelling and swinging his sword.
George saw Bent and the mounted rifle officer watching with amazed expressions. Shrieks issued from the cottage. They might be Orry's. George bent low and began to run forward to help his friend.
Three of the men he had assembled clambered up the embankment and followed, their bayonets stirring the smoke ahead of them. In front of George and to the left, a shell hit. He shut his eyes to protect them from flying dirt, cut to the right, and kept running. The shrieking didn't stop; the cottage sounded like a slaughterhouse.
Suddenly two Mexicans in grimy clothing burst through the door. Two others hurled themselves out through a broken window. Orry appeared in the doorway, his sword dripping. He held something in his left hand — some piece of a human being — that he mercifully flung behind him before George could identify it.
The soldiers bayoneted the guerrillas attempting to flee. George raced toward his friend, but before he could say anything, he heard another shell coming in. Very fast, very loud.
He gestured wildly. "Orry, get out of th —"
The shell burst. The cottage flew apart in hundreds of pieces. Dirt and debris mushroomed upward in a roiling cloud. George blinked and choked, conscious of pain in his chest. He was lying on the road and didn't even remember throwing himself down.
The explosion must have done it. But where was his friend? He didn't see Orry anywhere.
He lurched to his feet, looking down the short stretch of road to the new crater where the cottage had been. The last bits of wreckage pattered to earth. The smoke was dispersing. Behind him he heard officers yelling — Bent was one — as they once more tried to organize the men straggling through the cornfield. George's attention fixed on something lying at the crater's edge.
He passed his right hand back and forth in front of his eyes, as if he were shooing a fly. He wanted to deny the evidence of his senses. He couldn't. He began to run.
Next to the crater lay a man's left hand and half of the forearm. The cloth around the forearm was torn and scorched. He found Orry sprawled on the embankment on the left side of the road, bleeding to death.
George's mind blotted out memories of the next four or five minutes. He later concluded that he never could have endured what he saw or done what was necessary if he had stopped to think about it. By shutting the horror out of his mind, he was able to function.
He did remember crouching over Orry and repeating three words — "You can't die" — but he had absolutely no recollection of fixing a tourniquet with material torn from his uniform and twisted tight with the muzzle of his own pistol, stanching the flow from what was left of Orry's arm.
He went staggering to the rear with Orry lying head down over his shoulder. He steadied Orry with his right hand and held the gun in place with his left. He couldn't tell whether Orry was still breathing. He might be trying to save a corpse. He didn't dare think about that. Calling on strength he never knew he had, he quickened his step until he was almost running again.
The major of mounted rifles cantered past, rallying men behind him with flourishes of his saber. Next came Bent, panting but safely surrounded by two noncoms and several privates with fixed bayonets. George gave the captain a murderous look. George's face was blackened, the eyes standing out as comical white circles. If Bent recognized the apparition with the body slung over its shoulder, he gave no sign.
The soldiers disappeared up the road to Mexico City. George kept going in the other direction, the effort filling his eyes with sweat and tears. His chest began to hurt. A couple of minutes later he came upon an ambulance stopped at the roadside.
The orderly examined Orry quickly. "Help me lift him inside."
On the orderly's instructions, the driver turned the ambulance swiftly and whipped the horses into a run. George was flung back and forth inside. He braced his palms against the walls so that he wouldn't fall on his friend.
"You'll kill him, for Christ's sake!" he protested. "Slow down!"
"Do you want him alive and bruised, or dead?" the orderly shouted. "His only chance is to get to the surgeons. Shut up and hang onto him."
George squeezed his eyes shut, clearing his vision a little. He gazed down at his friend. Orry's head bounced against the filthy blankets spread on the floor of the ambulance. George stripped off his blouse, rolled it into a pillow, and eased it beneath Orry's head. In that moment, with the dust blowing through the ambulance and the sounds of battle ringing outside, he understood how much he loved his friend.
To a God he prayed was listening he said, "Don't let him die." Tears ran down his cheeks.
The field hospital was a bedlam of blood and screaming. The exhausted surgeon turned up the lamps above the red table while an orderly held the gun-barrel tourniquet. After a brief examination, the surgeon gestured to a second orderly.
"Get him ready."
"What are you going to do?" George asked.
"Take the rest of the arm. It's the only way I can save him."
"No," George said with a ferocity that made heads turn six feet away. The surgeon gave him a scathing look.
"Would you like to take over the management of his case?"
George wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "No, of course not, but — if you cut off his arm, it'll kill him."
"Nonsense. He's lost half of it already, and he's still breathing, thanks to your quick action. I perform dozens of amputations every day that there's fighting. Forty or fifty percent of the men survive."
"That isn't what I meant when I said —"
"Well, I've no time for riddles," the surgeon broke in. "Leave the tent, if you please. I'll let you know when we're finished."
Orry woke in unfamiliar surroundings. He saw eight lanterns hanging above him, all glowing. Pain came in great surging waves, but in spite of it he tried to move his arms and found he couldn't. There was a feeling of something wrong, over and above the pain, though what it was he couldn't fathom. Suddenly a man appeared, a paunchy man wearing a stained apron. The man's pudgy hand held a wet red saw. All at once Orry knew where he was and why. He screamed. Unseen hands gripped his shoulders. He twisted his head, saw another man heating a cauterizing iron in a brazier of coals. He screamed again. They poured whiskey into his open mouth to stop him.
Six nights later, George entered the field tent of Orry's company commander. He helped himself to some of Captain Place's whiskey without asking. The valley of Mexico lay silent except for distant bugle calls and the occasional crackle of musketry. The generals had arranged yet another armistice, presumably to discuss peace terms. George didn't know the details and didn't care. Like most other line officers and men in the American army, he thought that whoever had proposed an armistice just when Mexico City was ready to fall ought to be lynched.
"How is he?" The captain's question, as well as George's visit, had become a nightly ritual.
"Still no change. Could go either way."
George tossed down the whiskey. Sometimes, shamefully, he thought it would be better if Orry died.
Place sorted through a pile of reports and orders. He drew out a document which he handed to George, who gazed at it without seeing. Well," the captain said, "I hope he recovers sufficiently to read that."
"What is it?"
"His promotion. He's no longer a brevet. There's a commendation coming from General Scott, too. For helping to clear the highroad so that the fortified bridge could be stormed and overcome. I presume Captain Hoctor will have the same good tidings for you."
"Full rank," George said in a blank way. "Took less than a year."
"I heard another bit of news that's less satisfying. Captain Bent of the Third Infantry has apparently offered an acceptable explanation for turning up so far from his regular command. He also managed to convince his superiors that he directed the attack on that nest of guerrillas. I'm reliably informed that he's being breveted to major."
George swore and reached for the whiskey. Place was no stranger to soldierly cursing, but George's language embarrassed even him.
One of the surgeons told Orry he would live, but a full day passed before he realized the price of that statement. When he did, he raved and wept for an hour, then turned his face to the tent wall and shut his eyes.
From then on, all he wanted to do was sleep. But even that means of escape was imperfect. Again and again he dreamed of an Army drum standing on a rock in the sunshine, silent. Someone had attacked the drum with a bayonet or saber. There was nothing left of the drumhead but tatters.
It was the sixteenth of September before Orry consented to receive a visitor. Two days earlier, General Scott had ridden into Mexico City as a conqueror. The armistice had failed, there had been hot fighting at several locations, and then the enemy had surrendered.
"Hello, Orry."
George moved an ammunition box next to the cot and sat down. Orry had good color. His beard was thick and luxuriant. But his eyes were dead. He had pulled the soiled sheet over his left shoulder, so that his friend couldn't see the bandaged stump.
At last he said, "Hello, George. I hear we won."
George nodded. "There's a commendation waiting for you. You're a full second lieutenant now. So am I. Our friend Bent, unfortunately, is a brevet major. I'm told we were all great heroes on the road to Churubusco."
He smiled but Orry didn't. Orry stared at the ridgepole of the tent. George twisted his forage cap in his hands. "How do you feel?"
"Oh, I don't know." Orry's voice was so flat, it was impossible to tell what the answer meant. George sat perfectly still, his hat held in both hands. He wanted to tell his friend about some of the sharp fighting that had led to the surrender of Mexico City, but obviously it was the wrong time. Would there ever be a right one?
Somewhere outside an amateur musician started playing a popular tune on a mouth organ. George had always known the tune as "Zip Coon," but some fiddlers were starting to refer to it as "Turkey in the Straw." He wanted to go out and strangle the musician. The song was too zestful, too much of a reminder of the pleasures a man could enjoy if he was whole.
Presently Orry looked at him again. "I reckon I owe you thanks for saving my life. Most of the time I lie here wishing you hadn't."
With a hint of sharpness, George said, "Come on, Stick, don't feel so sorry for yourself. You're alive. Life's precious."
"It is if there's something you care about," Orry agreed. "I've come to understand that I never really had a chance with Madeline. She was lost to me before I met her. But I had a fine chance to have the only career I ever wanted. Now they'll muster me out."
"But you'll be able to go home."
When George saw the hurt in Orry's eyes he felt like a fool. "To what?" Orry asked.
Anger erupted within George then. He kept it bottled up because he realized he was really angry with himself. He had botched things, failed utterly to raise his friend's spirits. If he couldn't, who could?
He tried one last time. "I'll be back to see you tomorrow. Meanwhile, you rest and collect yourself, and you'll soon be feeling —"
He stopped, scarlet. Thoughtlessly, he had reached down to squeeze Orry's arm. His left arm. He had remembered when his hand was just inches from the sheet.
Orry's dark eyes seemed to say, You see? I'm not the same as you anymore, so don't pretend I am. As he turned away he murmured a listless, "Thank you for coming."
George slipped out, whipped. He hoped time would heal his friend's bitterness and melancholy, but he wasn't sure. Orry had been robbed of the two things he wanted most in life. How did a man survive when that happened?
Only the arrival of a letter from Constance kept the day from being a complete disaster.
In the balmy October sunshine, George sat at an outdoor table in a cantina in Mexico City. The cantina faced the magnificent National Palace, where the American flag now flew from all the flagstaffs. With him were Pickett, Tom Jackson, and Sam Grant. The four were together for the first time in months.
Pickett and Grant had several empty beer glasses in front of them, as did George. Jackson had only a single, full glass of wine. Continually fretting about his digestion, he always bought one glass of wine and left it untasted.
The Mexican population had a surprisingly cheerful attitude about the outcome of the war. Civilian shopkeepers and tavern owners had shrugged off the loss and quickly settled down to profiting from the occupation. In the European manner, the government had struck medals commemorating every major battle, whether won or lost. Pickett, who was holding forth about Robert Lee, had gotten hold of a Churubusco medal, which was pinned to his jacket.
"I'm not saying this as a Virginian, though you'll probably think I am. Bob Lee is the best man in the Army. He proved it once and for all in the pedregal.''
Pickett was speaking of a field of volcanic rock that the Americans had encountered on the approach to Mexico City. It looked impassable, but Lee and Pierre Beauregard had scouted it and said otherwise. Then, during a thunderstorm, Lee had volunteered to recross the pedregal to carry important information to Scott. He had ridden over sharp ridges and through treacherous ravines with only lightning flashes to show him the way.
"Agreed," Grant said, and drank some beer. "I don't know of a smarter or more audacious soldier. Thank heaven he's not our enemy."
Generally, members of the Academy-trained officer corps had done well in the six-month campaign. Even Elkanah Bent was being regarded as a hero. Had George accused him of incompetence or attacked him physically, few would have sided with him, and he knew it.
The others at the table were actual proof that West Point was turning out brave and competent officers, George reflected. Grant, for instance, had been among the first to storm Molino del Rey, along with Captain Robert Anderson of the Third Artillery. Later, in the assault on the city proper, Grant had dragged a mountain howitzer up into a belfry overlooking the San Cosme Gate. He had done it on his own initiative. The howitzer's fire had all but wiped out the garrison defending the gate.
Jackson had distinguished himself several times, most notably at the north wall of Chapultepec, where he had single-handedly manned a gun from John Magruder's light battery. As for Pickett, during the same assault an Academy man named Lieutenant Lewis Armistead had fallen wounded while carrying colors up a scaling ladder. A second West Pointer, James Longstreet, had taken up the flag and climbed with it. He, too, was wounded. It was Pickett who finally bore the colors to the top.
George soon began to fidget. The others were lingering over their drinks, and he had two new letters in his pocket. One was from Constance. As the table talk turned to still another subject, he pulled out her letter and opened it. When he finished reading, he laughed and carefully put the letter away, intending to add it to all the others he was saving.
"Who's that from?" Grant inquired. "Your fair colleen?"
George nodded.
"Planning to marry her?"
"I might." He patted the bulge made by the letter. "She still likes me."
"Naturally." Pickett grinned. "You're a flaming hero. We're all flaming heroes this month. For a change even Congress agrees."
The dour Jackson cleared his throat. "Does your young lady practice the Roman faith, George?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"Only to remind you that your career might be impeded if you married a Papist. I've been cognizant of that lately because I — ah — I've been calling on a young woman of this city."
Pickett leaned forward, agog. "You, General? Courting a señorita?"
Jackson blushed and stared at his wineglass. "I have that honor, yes. Regrettably, I am afraid marriage is out of the question. God creates all His children equal, but in the eyes of the general staff and the majority of Americans, Catholics are less equal than most."
Grant and Pickett laughed, but George's face remained sober. Loving Constance as much as he did, he tended to brush aside the question of religion. He knew it was a potential problem. He tried not to show that as he said:
"I don't have much of a career to worry about. My hitch is up in less than three years."
"That's long enough for them to make it miserable for you," Grant said.
"Especially the beloved Major Bent," Pickett said.
Bells clanged in the nearby cathedral. A flock of pigeons took wing from the roof of the National Palace. The sunlight had changed to the amber of late afternoon. For George the happy reunion at the cantina table was spoiled.
Well, maybe there would be something cheering in the other letter he had received today. It came from Lehigh Station. While Grant and Pickett ordered one more round, George broke the wax wafer and read the first few lines of his mother's fine hand. He turned pale.
"What's wrong, Stump?"
He looked blankly at Grant. "It's my father. Eight weeks ago he had a seizure at the mill. His heart. He's dead."
Maude Hazard's short letter was followed by a much longer one from Stanley two days later. Stanley begged his younger brother to resign and hurry home. Hazard Iron was too large an enterprise for one man to run, especially now that the firm was putting a new mill in operation. William Hazard had designed that mill, supervised its construction, and had been struggling with an equipment problem the day he died.
Hazard's latest addition was a three-high rolling mill, designed to roll wrought-iron rails of the T configuration. The T was rapidly replacing the inverted U as the standard on American railroads. In his letter Stanley repeated an earlier statement to the effect that their father had been prodded into the expansion by the opening of a competitive mill in Danville, Pennsylvania. Had the decision been his, Stanley wrote, he would have vetoed the idea as too novel and fraught with risk.
"Too novel," George snorted to Orry, who was packing to go home. "Even though Henry Cort has been operating a three-high mill at Fontley, England, for more than twenty years. My fainthearted brother will probably go on crying 'fraught with risk' until the railroad boom's over, the country's covered with tracks from ocean to ocean, and the market's gone."
Orry folded a shirt and placed it in his footlocker. He was becoming adept at doing things with one hand. He had once said that the leather-capped stump hurt a good deal and often kept him from sleeping, but beyond that he never discussed his injury. He seldom smiled these days.
He sat on the edge of his cot to rest a moment. "Have you decided what you're going to do, George?" Since his release from the hospital, Orry never called George by his nickname.
George nodded unhappily. "I'm going to be loyal to my family when they need me. Much as I hate the blasted Army — much as I want to see Constance again — I don't feel good about the decision. I guess it's because I agreed to serve four years, and a promise is a promise. Well, nothing I can do about that. I'm going to write Stanley and tell him I'll come home. Of course, there's no guaranteeing the War Department will release me. Not soon, anyway."
He was in for a surprise on that score. On the day before Orry's departure, another letter from Stanley arrived. Stanley said he had referred George's case to a new friend, Simon Cameron, Democratic senator from Pennsylvania.
"The senator's a prime reason the Democracy stinks to heaven in our state," George told his friend. "He's crooked as a snake with convulsions, and he taints the whole party. Stanley's always mumbling about having political ambitions, but I never dreamed he'd cozy up to someone like Cameron."
"Does your brother have a talent for politics?"
"In my opinion, Orry, you enter politics when you're incapable of doing honest work. But the answer to your question is no. My brother has never been blessed with an overabundance of brains. Cameron would be interested in Stanley for only one reason: the size of his bank account. Wire pulling in Washington — God above!" George slapped a fist into a palm. "That makes me as bad as Bent. I'll write Stanley and tell him to stop it immediately."
Next morning the friends said good-bye. Orry was traveling to the coast in a wagon train carrying wounded and several companies of home-bound volunteers.
It was an awkward moment for both of them. Orry asked George to stop at Mont Royal on his way north. George said he'd try. He wasn't anxious to be a witness to his friend's continuing deterioration. Orry was peaked. He'd lost twenty pounds. There was a beaten look about him as he walked off to find the wagon to which he had been assigned.
George's letter of protest was sent too late. Three weeks after he dispatched it, Captain Hoctor called him in.
''Your orders have just come through, specially processed by Secretary Marcy's office. I didn't know the sons of rich ironmakers qualified as hardship cases." The sardonic remark was met by a bleak stare. Hoctor cleared his throat. "In any case, you'll be discharged right here, one week from Friday."
Afterward, Hoctor tried to understand why that piece of good news had caused the lieutenant to break into a storm of cursing. The captain was glad to be rid of such an obvious troublemaker.
The next wagon train was scheduled to leave the morning after George's discharge became official. By then he had done a lot of thinking. He had been a pusillanimous worm to let Constance Flynn's religion cause him even one moment's hesitation. From Vera Cruz he would travel straight to Corpus Christi by whatever means of transportation was available.
The night before the wagons departed, George got roaring drunk with Pickett and Grant. He was awake an hour before daylight. His stomach ached, his head throbbed, and his mouth tasted brown. An hour later he encountered Major Elkanah Bent for the first time since Churubusco.
George hurried by without saluting; he feared that with the slightest provocation he might commit murder.
Bent called him back. "Why are you out of uniform, Lieutenant?"
"Because I'm out of the Army, Major."
George's temples hurt. He knew he was slipping out of control. He didn't care.
Bent digested the news with a disappointed look. George went on, "Congratulations on your promotion. You earned it at the expense of my friend Orry Main. If it weren't for you, he'd still be a whole man. Everyone thinks you're a damn hero, but we both know what you tried to do on the Churubusco road, Major."
"Let go of my arm, you arrogant little —"
George hit him then. He felt the impact all the way to his shoulder. Bent's nose exploded with mucus and blood. George walked away with a slow, firm stride, the Ohioan too stunned — perhaps too frightened — to retaliate.
George's fist felt as if it were broken. He had never known pain to be so satisfying.
George arrived in Corpus Christi at the end of October. The air was bracing, cool even at midday. When he stepped from the lighter to the dock, it was just four in the afternoon, but the sun was already sinking. Buildings cast long shadows. The light had the unmistakable look of autumn, brilliant and feeble at the same time.
The scene induced feelings of melancholy. The year was hastening to an end, and so was his time on earth. Mexico had given him an awareness of death unusual in young men; he supposed that was a price you paid for going to war, even if you came out on the winning side. Still, having learned the lesson, he wouldn't be so foolish as to ignore it. That was why he had come straight from Vera Cruz.
There was no one at the dock to meet him. His spirits fell even further. But they lifted suddenly when he heard a cry — "Here I am, George!'' — and saw Constance appear around the corner of a building.
She wore one of those newfangled crinoline-stiffened skirts, which swayed back and forth like a ship in a storm as she tried to run. The color of the dress was emerald, very becoming.
"I'm so sorry I'm late. I took extra time getting ready — I wanted to look nice for you — and then I discovered it's impossible to hurry when you're dressed this way. Oh, I wanted to be waiting when your boat docked —"
She was laughing and crying too. He put his valise down. Her hand moved from his arm to his face, as if to test for wholeness, soundness, now that he was back from the war zone.
"I was devastated to hear about your father. I never expected you'd have time to stop here on your way home."
"My father's funeral was weeks ago. A few more days won't matter. I have" — he nearly strangled over the words — "an important question to ask you."
"What is it?" A joyous smile said she knew.
"I think I should speak to your father first."
"He's waiting for us. Minding the lamb roast I cooked for you. But I need a kiss."
She released the front of her stiffened skirt, which she had been holding off the ground, and flung her arms around him. Because of the skirt's bell shape, he had to lean forward from the waist to embrace her. His valise disappeared as her skirt dropped over it. That didn't matter, nor did the expressions of other people on the dock; some were amused, one or two outraged. All he cared about were the words she whispered as they hugged each other.
"Oh, George — how I missed you. I love you so."
While Constance finished setting the table, George took her father for a stroll. The necessary question came as no surprise to the little lawyer.
"I thought the two of you would soon be wanting to marry. She has been preparing for your arrival for days. Did you notice all the issues of Godey's near her sewing table? The patterns and other paraphernalia? The poor child's driven me mad with her seams and thimbles — if that isn't love, I don't recognize the beast."
Flynn locked his hands behind his black broadcloth coat. ' 'I've no basic objection to the match. But I have one question, and it's serious."
He halted in the street and turned to face the younger man. "What will you do about the difference in your faiths?"
"I'll have to speak to Constance about her specific wishes, sir. I'll make any accommodation necessary."
"Fair enough. But will your family welcome her?"
"I'm sure of it," George lied.
"Then you may have her."
"Oh, sir, thank —"
"On one condition!" Flynn's upraised finger threw a long, skeletal shadow on the ground. Suddenly he gestured to the treeless horizon. "Marry her in the North. This is too dismal a place for a wedding. Besides, I'd like a trip. I'm sick of listening to people say that Congressman Wilmot is the son of the devil. A change of perspective is in order."
"You'll have it," George promised with a grin. The two of them started back in response to Constance's call to supper.
Later that evening the lovers walked hand in hand to the shore. Constance had donned a long, fur-fringed pelerine, but it was more decorative than functional. George put his arm around her to provide what warmth he could. A chilly breeze blew in across the harbor bar, bending the sea oats growing along the dunes. Stars shimmered in the river. Small white-water crests showed out in the Gulf.
"It gets much colder than this up North," he said. "You'll miss the warm climate, I'm afraid."
"Then you'll just have to work very hard to keep me warm in bed."
He cleared his throat to conceal the embarrassment her teasing produced. She was a forthright girl — it was one of the many qualities he loved — and thus she often said things that would shock more conventional people. Perhaps her frontier upbringing accounted for some of that frankness. He hoped his family would understand.
"Actually," she went on, "I'll be glad to go to a place where you don't have to walk five hundred miles to find an abolitionist. I may involve myself in that work after we're married." They stopped near the top of a dune, both of them looking at the limitless Gulf. "Do you think your family would object?''
He smiled. "Would you stop if they did?"
"No. I don't believe I could do that even for you."
"Good. If you did, you wouldn't be the girl I fell in love with." He bussed her cheek.
"You didn't answer about your family."
"Constance, once we're married, you're my family. Only you, and anyone else who might chance to belong to both of us."
Satisfied, she brought her mouth gently against his, then whispered, "I'll try not to disappoint you there."
"You could never disappoint me in anything. I love you."
He moved behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, standing on her skirt in order to get close. She didn't mind. She leaned against him.
He raised his hands till they rested against the underside of her bosom. He feared she might be angry. Instead, she placed her hands over his, so that he pressed harder.
"This is beautiful," George said presently. "You'll miss it."
"I know I'll miss it sometimes. But I would miss you more." She faced him after some awkward maneuvering made necessary by the skirt. Softly, earnestly, she said, " 'Where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people.' The first chapter of the book of Ruth." Again she touched her lips to his. "I read it so often while you were away, I know it by heart."
They laughed quietly, their foreheads touching. Her red hair tossed around them like a gossamer mantle. Walking home, they discussed practical matters, including wedding plans. George said he'd like Orry to stand up with him.
"He will, won't he?"
"I'm not sure," George replied with a frown. "The war robbed him of more than a limb. I'm worried about him. Though I really don't want to, I'm going to stop at Mont Royal on my way home."
Several miles below the plantation, George smelled smoke. The late-November sky, already dark, grew darker still. Alarmed, he asked the captain of the river sloop whether one of the buildings might be afire.
The captain gave him a superior look. "Doubt it, sir. They're burning off the stubble, I expect."
The air grew noisy with the caw of unseen birds. The black billows continued to roll over the treetops and the river. Soon George was coughing. And when the sloop docked, Orry was nowhere to be seen, although George had written to say he was coming.
He didn't know whether to blame the postal service or his friend's state of mind. He tramped up the pier, the smoke irritating his eyes and throat. He felt as if he were back in the war zone.
From a three-high stack of rice casks a figure came hurtling down at him. George dodged and caught his breath. He smiled without much humor.
"Scared the daylights out of me, Charles."
"Oh," said the boy who had jumped. "I thought you saw me up there." He offered no apology.
George's heartbeat returned to normal. Cousin Charles went on, 'Orry sent me to fetch you. He's working over in Hull Square." He dug some dirt from under a fingernail with his huge bowie knife.
An elderly house servant hobbled toward them along the pier. Charles scowled at the Negro. "Cicero, step lively or I'll carve out your gizzard." Charles lunged with the knife. The old black yelped and leaped away. He missed the edge of the pier and landed in the shallows with a mighty splash. Charles ran to look down at him.
"God above, Cicero — I was only sporting with you."
"How's I to know that?" the old man panted as Charles helped him out of the water. "Sometimes you really take after folks with that wicked thing."
Charles shoved the knife into his belt. "I only take after Smiths and LaMottes, never niggers. Now you get busy and carry Mr. Hazard's bag up to the house."
Water dripped from the old man's face and clothes. His brown toes showed through holes in the tips of his squeaking shoes. He picked up George's valise and hurried off, not eager to prolong the encounter with Cousin Charles.
"Come on," the boy said, still amused. He couldn't be more than eleven, but he looked four or five years older. He had shot up several inches since George had seen him last. His shoulders had widened considerably. George wished he looked half as tough, and half as handsome.
Charles led him along the embankments separating the large, square fields. Smoke rose from three fields on the right. In each, slaves were using hoes to drag burning brush through the stubble to set it afire. All the workers were women. Their dresses were tied up at their knees. Bandannas protected their hair. In the distance, seated on a mule on another embankment, George saw Salem Jones. With his quirt and stick, the overseer resembled an equestrian statue.
George took Charles's advice and pressed a kerchief over his mouth. The black women seemed unaffected by the fire-shot smoke. Perhaps they had been forced to inhale it for so many years it no longer bothered them. When the flames advanced too fast, the women ran to the nearest irrigation ditch and jumped to safety.'' Fire gonna catch you!'' he heard one exclaim. "Better run!"
Hollering and laughing, the others did. It hardly seemed like a game to George. More like a picture of the Inferno. But perhaps the stubble burning brought a welcome excitement into plantation routine.
"Not far now," Charles said, beckoning him on toward fields already burned free of stubble. In these, huge flocks of black birds and wild ducks were noisily attacking the ground. Hunting for unsprouted grains, Charles said in response to George's question. In the growing seasons the Mains fought the birds, but in the burning season they counted on their help.
Loud hammering drew George's attention to the embankment next to the river. There he spied Orry, the only white in a group of six men. Orry was pounding nails into the gate of one of the culverts leading to the river. A nervous Negro positioned each nail and quickly retreated before Orry struck the first blow. He wielded the hammer with great arcing strokes.
Why in God's name would Orry try to do carpentry when he was crippled? George couldn't imagine. Then he realized Orry must be working so furiously precisely because he was crippled.
At last Orry finished. He turned to his friend who stood waiting nearby.
"Hello, George. Sorry I didn't meet you. These boys botched the repairs. I had to show them how to do it right." He dropped the hammer, paying no attention to the fact that it narrowly missed a slave's foot.
George was shocked seeing Orry up close. His friend looked older. Gaunt, grim, almost biblical. His unkempt beard hung halfway down his chest. The left sleeve of his filthy white blouse was pinned up at the shoulder.
"How have you been?" George asked as they walked in the direction of the great house.
"Busy." Orry fairly spat the word. "I'm trying to work myself back into the routine of things as fast as I can. Father's too old to do it all himself, and Cooper's leaving. Right after dinner today, as a matter of fact.''
George's eyebrows shot up. "Where's he going?"
"Charleston. By mutual agreement with Father. It's a sort of self-exile, I reckon you'd call it. Cooper just can't get along with Father anymore. He has too many radical ideas, and both of them realize it. Cooper offered to move out before the quarrels got any worse."
It was stunning news; no wonder Orry acted upset.
"Will he get a job?"
"There's one waiting for him. A year ago a man owed Father a lot of money and couldn't pay. He signed over his only possession — a little cotton packet company. The assets aren't much: two old side-wheel steamers, a broken-down warehouse, and a dock. Father doesn't give two pins for the whole thing. That's why he didn't fuss when Cooper said he'd take it over and run it. I'm glad to see you, George, but it's a bad time to visit Mont Royal. People have been shouting at each other for days."
You included? George wondered, but kept the question to himself. How haggard and hollow-eyed Orry looked. The sight of his friend in such a state saddened him.
"I had to stop," he explained, noticing that Cousin Charles had departed. He spied the boy down in the nearest field, grinning and patting the bottom of a black woman twice his age. "I'm going to marry Constance. I'd like you to be best man."
"That's wonderful news. Congratulations." Orry didn't shake his friend's hand or even break stride. He put his hand behind him, hunting for his handkerchief in his right rear pocket.
"It's in the other one," George said, reaching for it.
"I can get it." Grim-faced, Orry strained to extend his hand across the small of his back. He caught the tip of the handkerchief and plucked it out.
"Will you stand up with me, Orry?"
"What? Oh, yes, certainly. Provided the work here isn't too heavy. I hope you don't mind eating dinner with my father and Cooper. It probably won't be very pleasant."
Nothing at Mont Royal was pleasant that day. George wished he hadn't come. He made up his mind to leave as soon as possible.
Dinner proved as uncomfortable as Orry had predicted. Tillet, too, looked years older than George remembered. He and Cooper confined themselves to a desultory discussion of several matters relating to the little steamship company. Even an outsider could see Tillet had no interest in the subject. He merely wanted a safe topic for conversation.
Cooper, on the other hand, spoke with enthusiasm about formulating a plan to make the company profitable. "They're shipping more and more cotton out of this state every year. We should get our share of those revenues."
"Well, do what you can," Tillet replied with a shrug. Orry had once said Tillet hated to hear about South Carolina's expanding cotton industry. Somehow he construed it as a threat to rice planters in general, and the Mains in particular. He considered all cotton farmers to be upstarts without pedigrees, even though one of the state's most distinguished citizens, and possibly its richest, Wade Hampton of Millwood, planted cotton.
Cooper heard all of that in the older man's remark, and it irked him. "Count on it, sir," he said with determination. Clarissa sighed and patted his arm. Tillet paid no attention.
Ashton, already showing the first signs of young womanhood, kept staring at George during the meal. The attention made him nervous. Brett elbowed her sister to get her to stop it. Ashton yanked Brett's curls, whereupon Tillet blew up and sent both of them out of the room with Clarissa for a licking.
Brett was gulping, red-eyed, when the others came outside. The carriage had arrived. Ashton stared at her father with hot, hateful eyes. If the child had any feelings, they were all the wrong sort, George thought.
Cousin Charles sat with his back against one of the columns, whittling.
Unexpectedly peevish, Clarissa flicked his ear with her middle finger. "Stand up and say good-bye to your cousin."
Charles looked sullen. "I'm trying to finish this carving."
Orry strode forward. "On your feet." He slipped his hand under Charles's left arm and yanked. He pulled so hard that Charles yelped. Then he glared. Orry glared back without blinking.
George studied Orry's hand. It looked powerful, much thicker through the wrist than he remembered. Had Orry exercised to strengthen it? Apparently.
After Charles muttered a good-bye to Cooper, he put his bowie knife in his belt and rubbed the spot where Orry had held him. He was still rubbing when the carriage pulled away five minutes later.
That night George told the Mains that he would have to depart for Pennsylvania in the morning. Orry said he would accompany his friend to the little woodland way station of the Northeastern line. George slept fitfully and woke at first light. He dressed and left his room. He presumed no one would be awake except the slaves, who would have a pot of coffee ready. To his surprise, he heard loud voices below, voices of masters rather than servants. Tillet was up, and Clarissa, and Orry. Why?
He hurried down the great staircase and found the Mains in the dining room. Outside, the first faint rays of daylight shot over the eastern trees. A mist lay on the lawns, which were white with frost.
"Good morning, George," Clarissa said. He had never seen her with her hair undone — much of it was white — or in anything but proper attire. The dressing gown she wore was old, the colors of its complex embroidery faded by the years.
''Good morning.'' What did he say next? Why were they gathered? Had someone died during the night?
Tillet slumped in his chair, looking older than ever. A clay mug stood beside his hand. The coffee sent up curls of fragrant steam. Orry let out a long sigh and addressed his friend.
"No point hiding it from you. The whole plantation's in an uproar. Lately we've had nothing but trouble from that buck named Priam — you remember him."
George nodded; how could he forget the screaming that night?
"Well," Orry said, "it appears he's run away."
In the ensuing silence, one of the house girls entered with a plate of biscuits and a pot of wild honey. George recalled the girl from his earlier visit. She was a sunny-tempered creature who joked with everyone. This morning she kept her head down and her eyes averted. Her footsteps hardly made a sound.
When she left, he once again caught the sound of anxious voices, this, time through a window that was open a few inches. Out by the kitchen building, the house servants were talking. George heard no laughter. The crime of one slave was apparently the crime of all. But the slaves weren't the only ones who were worried. Here in the dining room, the stink of fear was almost as strong as the smell of the hot biscuits.
"Papa, what's wrong? Why is everyone up?"
The unexpected sound made them start. Brett stood in the hall, grave-faced in her cotton nightdress.
"One of the niggers ran off. We'll catch him. You scoot back to bed."
"Which one was it, Papa? Who ran off?"
Tillet struck the table. "Get back to your room."
Brett fled. George listened to the rhythm of her bare feet on the stairs. Clarissa changed the position of her chair. She folded her arms and stared into the table's brightly polished surface. Orry walked up and down in front of the windows.
The dawn burned away some of the mist outside. Tillet rubbed his palms over his cheeks and eye sockets. George munched a biscuit, finding himself confused. Why were three adults so upset about one man's escape? One man's freedom? Was freedom such an unacceptable idea? Hadn't Tillet Main's ancestors fought against the British for freedom in this very state?
But those were idiotic questions, he soon realized. The Mains had been fighting for freedom for white men, something greatly to be desired. Freedom for a black was altogether different, to be feared not only for its own sake but for its possible consequences. At last George began to understand something of the Southern dilemma. He began to understand the stranglehold that slavery had on those who practiced it. Not one slave could be allowed to escape, for if one succeeded, thousands might try. The Mains and all others like them were prisoners of the very system by which they profited. And they were prisoners of fear. He pitied Orry's family, but for the first time he was scornful of them too.
The sound of a horse brought Tillet to his feet. Salem Jones galloped into sight in the drive. A moment later he strode into the room. The overseer looked exhilarated. He suppressed a smile as he reported.
"Still no sign of that buck. Last anyone saw of him was around sunset yesterday. I searched his cottage. I now understand why he's been so troublesome." He shot a quick, accusing glance at Clarissa. Her attention was elsewhere, but Tillet didn't miss the overseer's look.
"What are you talking about?" he said.
Jones reached under his coat. "This. I found it hidden in Priam's pallet." He flung a dirty, dog-eared book on the table. The others crowded around to see it. "I suspect he was reading it before he ran off. I'll wager it gave him ideas. About how bad he was being treated," Jones added with significance.
George said, "I thought slaves weren't taught to read."
"Not usually," Orry said.
"In Priam's case we made an exception," Tillet said, without meeting his wife's eye. "Mrs. Main thought he displayed great potential as a boy. A peaceable disposition, too. She may have been right about the former, but as for the latter — well, I'm not blaming you, Clarissa."
At that point, finally, he looked at her. He was assigning her every bit of the blame.
"I gave you permission to teach Priam to read and cipher," Tillet went on. "It was a calamitous mistake." He turned to George. "Now perhaps you understand why the South must have laws prohibiting education of the Negro. Even the Bible, read with the wrong interpretation, can be a source of rebellious ideas."
Orry picked up the book, which had paper covers. "Who brought this piece of garbage onto the plantation?"
"I don't know," Tillet said. "But you make sure it's burned."
By now George had identified the book. He had seen a copy at home some years ago. On its cover it bore the colophon of the American Anti-Slavery Society of New York and the words American Slavery As It is. The Reverend Theodore Weld had published the work in 1839. It was a compendium of excerpts from slave laws, testimony by escaped slaves, and damning quotes from Southern slaveholders attempting to defend the institution and minimize or deny their mistreatment of blacks, George had heard his sister Virgilia say Weld's tract was the most important and influential anti-slavery document yet published in the United States.
Clarissa said, "It's all very well to point fingers, Tillet, but what do you propose to do now?"
Salem Jones spoke first. "I'll question Priam's sister, though it won't do a hoot of good. She's scared. What's worse, she's ignorant.
Even if she wanted to give me a useful answer, she couldn't. If I asked where her brother's gone, all she could say is one word. North. And she'd be telling the truth, I expect. In my humble opinion, we have no choice but to appeal to our neighbors in the district and organize a special mounted patrol to pursue the nigger." Stiffly, Tillet said, "An armed patrol?" "Heavily armed, sir. It's regrettable but necessary." The little monster's going to giggle before this is over, George thought.
Tillet nervously passed his hands across his forehead. "Never in the history of Mont Royal have the Mains resorted to a special mounted patrol. Not one of my people has run off in my lifetime. Not one!" He looked at George with anguish and pleading. Still confused and at the same time angry, George looked away.
Tillet's face hardened. "But you're right, Jones. Evidently the lesson of the cat-hauling was lost on Priam. An example must be made."
"I agree," said Orry with scarcely a trace of reluctance. George stared at his friend, inwardly aghast. Not bothering to conceal his eagerness, Jones strode out.
A couple of hours later, Orry and George rode to the railroad stop. Few words passed between them as Orry led the way along back roads and trails. He had donned a swallowtailed coat, old but obviously of fine quality. His holstered Johnson pistol hung at his right hip.
Mist still floated near the ground, and the orange light of the sun falling through it lent the forest a beautiful, spectral quality. The hoofs of the horses plopped softly on the carpet of pine needles and rotting leaves. George's valise bobbed behind his saddle.
Why was Orry so quiet? He acted angry. But at whom? Priam? His father? Things in general?
Or me?
He wanted to ask about Madeline LaMotte. During the visit her name hadn't come up once. He decided he had better not.
When they were about a half mile from the little way station, the forest echoed with the long wail of a whistle. George booted his horse up beside Orry's.
"Is that my train?"
Orry pulled a heavy gold watch from an inside pocket. He flicked back the lid, then shut it with a click and a shake of his head. "A northbound freight. It passes every morning at this time. It's still five or six miles south of here. Sound carries a long way over the marshes. The passenger local won't be along for twenty minutes yet."
He rode on. The trail took them out of the trees, around the perimeter of another misty marsh, and back into the woods. Shortly they emerged in a gloomy clearing bisected by a single track running roughly southeast to northwest. At one side of the track stood a weathered cypress shed, open on the side next to the rails.
Orry's judgment of distance had been right. The freight train was close, but not yet visible. The woodland resounded with the clatter of couplings and the shriek of wheels. While George tethered the nervous horses, Orry stepped inside the shed and lifted the lid of a wood box hanging on the wall. From the box he pulled a red flag. He raised the flag on the halyard of a pine pole at one end of the shed.
"There. That will signal the local to stop." He crossed the tracks to rejoin his friend just as the freight locomotive rounded a bend to their left. The whistle sounded again, deafening. The engine rattled by, traveling about ten miles an hour. The fireman and the engineer waved. Orry returned the wave laconically. George brushed falling cinders out of his hair.
The locomotive disappeared into the woods on their right. Boxcars and flatcars went shuttling by. Orry started to say something. George was staring past him, startled by the sight of a black man who had burst out of the underbrush and was now running beside the train.
Orry saw his friend's expression and turned. Surprise quickly changed to anger.
"Priam! Stop!"
The slave had seen the white men but apparently hadn't recognized them. He looked terrified. He scrambled up into the open door of a boxcar as Orry ran for his horse. George had never seen his friend move and mount so fast.
Clinging to the floor of the boxcar, Priam made the mistake of looking back. He recogized the bearded face looming above the horse. Wild fright filled Priam's eyes as Orry booted the horse forward. Go on, George found himself shouting silently. Get inside the car, where he can't see to shoot you.
But the sight of his owner apparently threw Priam into confusion. He lay on his belly in the doorway of the boxcar, floundering like a beached fish. His legs hung down outside, his dirty bare feet just clearing the roadbed. Orry galloped past the car, all the way to the edge of the clearing. There he wheeled, his right side nearest the train.
Gasping, Priam raised his right leg and got it into the car. George could only assume the slave was not only scared but exhausted; otherwise he would have clambered inside with no trouble. His left leg still dangled, thrashing the air.
As the boxcar rolled slowly by, Orry reached out and seized Priam's ankle. Priam was dragged backward through the opening. He tried to hold onto one of the doors, but then he shrieked and let go, as if splinters had torn his palms. Orry kneed his horse to the left, still pulling. Priam cleared the train and fell.
He landed on his chest on the shoulder of the roadbed. George could hear the slave's sobs above the rattle of the last cars passing. A brakeman on the caboose platform gaped at the scene in the clearing, then vanished in the trees.
"George, I need your help," Orry called, dismounting and pulling his pistol. George hurried forward. Orry gave him the pistol butt first.
"Keep this pointed at him. Shoot if he moves."
Priam looked up over his shoulder. George could barely stand the sight of the slave's eyes.
"Mist' Orry — please, Mist' Orry —"
"Don't take that tone with me," Orry interrupted, lifting a coil of rope from his saddle. "You knew what you were doing when you ran off. Stand up and put your hands behind your back."
"Mist' Orry," Priam repeated, staggering to his feet. All traces of his former defiance were gone. His escape had rendered him as vulnerable as a little child. There was something shameful and almost obscene in a grown man begging so desperately that tears trickled down his cheeks.
"Keep that gun on him," Orry said without taking his eyes off the runaway. He looped and tied one end of the rope around Priam's wrists. He was as dexterous with one hand as most men were with two. He had taught himself a lot in a short time.
George licked his lips. "What will happen now?"
"I don't know. He'll probably be lamed so he can't run away again. But my father's so angry he may have him killed."
Priam bent his head. "Oh, Jesus. Jesus."
"Stop it, Priam. You knew the penalties before you —"
"Orry, let him go."
George was astonished at the hoarseness of his own voice. He had approached a precipice and impulsively stepped over. This was none of his affair. Yet something in him was constitutionally unable to stand by and see the black man returned to Mont Royal to be crippled, perhaps even executed.
For a moment he felt idiotic. Priam meant nothing to him; his friendship with Orry meant a great deal. Still, he knew he would never be able to live with himself if he kept silent.
"What did you say?" Orry asked, his expression what it might have been if the sun had risen in the west, or the trees had grown bank notes in place of leaves.
"Let him go. Don't be a party to murder."
Orry fought back a furious reply, drew a deep breath. "You're confusing men with slaves. They're not the same th —"
"The hell they aren't! Don't do it." Trembling, George struggled for control. His voice moderated. "If our friendship means anything, grant me this one request."
"That's unfair. You're taking advantage of me."
"Yes, I am. To save his life."
"I can't go back to Mont Royal and tell my father —"
"Why must you say anything?" George cut in. "I won't, and you'll never see Priam again."
"Yes, sir, I be quiet," Priam babbled. "'Fore God, Mist' Orry, I swear that after I'm gone, no one will ever —"
"Shut up, goddamn you."
Orry's shout rang in the stillness. George had never heard his friend invoke the Deity's name in anger.
Orry rubbed his palm over his mouth. He squinted at his friend — angrily — then snatched the pistol out of George's hand. Christ, he's going to shoot him on the spot.
Orry's face said he would like to do exactly that. George knew that what he had asked ran counter to everything Orry had been taught, everything he was. Suddenly Orry slashed the air with the pistol, a gesture of rage as well as dismissal.
"Run," he said. "Run before I change my mind."
Priam wasted no time on words. His great, liquid eyes flicked over George's for a second — the only thanks George got. He bolted into the pines at the north side of the clearing.
Orry walked away, then halted, head down. Priam's footfalls faded. From the other direction George heard the whistle of the approaching passenger local.
George took a breath and moved toward his friend. "I know I shouldn't have asked you to let him go. I know he's your property. But I just couldn't stand by and let —"
He stopped. Orry was still standing with his back turned.
"Well, in any case, thank you."
Orry spun around. He held the pistol so tightly his hand was white as flour. George expected him to shout, but his voice was pitched low.
"Once before, I tried to explain the nature of things in the South. I told you we understand our own problems, our own needs, better than outsiders do. I told you we'd eventually solve those problems — so long as outsiders didn't interfere. I reckon all of that made no impression. Otherwise you wouldn't have asked me to let Priam go. I honored your request because we've been friends a long time. But if you want us to continue to be friends, don't ever ask me to do something like that again."
George felt a flash of anger, but it was quickly gone. Orry's quiet ferocity impressed him and made the terms of their future relationship absolutely clear.
"Agreed," George said. "I understand your feelings."
"I hope so."
Orry tucked his pistol under his arm and dug into his pocket for his watch. By the time the local came steaming up to the way station, he was calm enough to discuss other subjects.
"I'm sorry your visit fell at a time when everything seemed to go wrong around here." Orry's eyes were less severe now. He held out a verbal olive branch. "Next time you come, it'll be different. Until then, I'm eager to stand up with you when you marry Constance. That is, if you still want me to —"
Relieved, George clasped his friend's shoulder, "Of course. I'll write you with a date and particulars as soon as I have them."
"Good. Safe journey — and say hello to your family."
"I will, Orry. Thank you."
The conductor called for him to board. Soon George was standing on the train platform, waving. Orry waved back, the gun still in his hand. Steam and smoke and the forest closed in. Orry disappeared from sight.
George stowed his valise inside the coach and sat staring out the window at the pines shuttling by. Occasional breaks in the trees revealed vistas of marshland. But the image that stayed with him was something quite different. He kept seeing Priam at the moment he was dragged from the boxcar, the knowledge of his own death showing in his eyes.
Priam had to be punished for wanting liberty, the same liberty Orry enjoyed because he was a white man. George had never considered himself a partisan of the Negro race, but he guessed he was now, especially in the matter of freedom. Why weren't all men entitled to it? Especially in America?
He hoped Orry was right about the South's eventually solving its own problems. If the South did not, the rest of the nation would surely take action. He not only grasped that for the very first time, he also grasped the reason.
At Resolute several days later, Madeline stood in the shadows in her dressing room and touched herself. She hurt. Not from physical pain. From loneliness. A lack of love. A growing sense of isolation.
She clasped her hands over her breasts as if she could end the pain that way. She stood a moment with her head back and her eyes closed, but it did no good. Despondent, she walked through the spacious bedroom to the second-floor piazza, where she shivered in the coolness of the dusk. From the kitchen building rose the rich smell of game birds roasting for Saturday dinner. Tomorrow was Saturday, wasn't it? The days had little meaning any longer. Each one was like another: a trial.
How she wished Maum Sally were still with her. But the old woman had gone back to New Orleans to attend Madeline's father in his last days. Being Nicholas Fabray's free employee rather than his slave, Sally had chosen not to return to South Carolina after Fabray died. Madeline could certainly understand the decision; a few months of the LaMottes were all Sally could take. She had no patience with anyone who was arrogant or unkind, and Justin and most of his family were both.
Madeline had found one person who might someday take Maum Sally's place. Nancy was a house girl, a beautiful yellow mulatto in her early twenties. She and Madeline got along well and had become confidantes of a sort. Twice Nancy had brought Madeline a verbal message from Mont Royal.
Both times the message was short: "Salvation Chapel," then a day and a time. No names were spoken, and there was no trace of a sly smile in Nancy's eyes when she delivered each message. If anything, her gaze expressed sympathy, understanding.
Madeline never asked how the message passed from the slaves of one plantation to those of another, and she took the discretion of the messengers on faith. What other choice did she have? Her acceptance of Nancy's role as intermediary had built a bridge of trust between the two of them.
Madeline had never answered either message — or gone to the chapel, though she literally ached to go, to be with Orry and hold and kiss him. Now, leaning on the rail of the piazza, she realized she could hear no conversation from the kitchen, even though the slaves were at work there. She wondered about the peculiar silence. Then she heard a sound in the plantation office — the small building in which Justin spent so little time. The sound was the smack of leather on a bare back.
Clearly in the evening stillness there came another sound. A groan. Justin was thrashing one of the bucks. It had happened before.
Repelled yet irresistibly drawn, she slipped downstairs and through the foyer, where an old, dented saber decorated the wall. The sword had belonged to the LaMottes for several generations. Justin said an ancestor had wielded it when he fought beside Gamecock Sumter in the Revolution.
She ran along a path that would bring her to some shrubbery near the office. As she slipped behind the shrubbery there were more blows, more outcries. Then Justin's hoarse voice:
"My brother said for a fact that on the night Main's nigger ran away, someone on this plantation helped him hide out. Who was it, Ezekiel? Tell me."
"Don't know, Mr. LaMotte. Swear to God I don't."
"Liar." Justin struck again. Ezekiel wailed.
Madeline held still, a shadow in deeper shadow. She was alarmed to learn that Justin was asking about the slave Priam. How had Francis LaMotte discovered that someone at Resolute had aided the runaway? Was it certain knowledge or merely a suspicion? How far would Justin's investigation reach? All the way into the house? All the way to Nancy?
Madeline knew she didn't dare linger here. If anyone discovered her, she would be suspect. But there was a small pergola not far from the office, and she could sit inside as if taking the air. On a windless evening such as this, she might with luck hear more of what transpired in the office.
She hid herself in the pergola and was rewarded. During the next three-quarters of an hour, Justin continued to interrogate various slaves, laying a few blows on each. What infuriated Madeline was her husband's interrogation of some of the wenches. He beat them as hard as he beat the men. Over and over he asked the same questions.
"Who did it? Who helped him? Who had sympathy for a runaway nigger? Tell me, Clyta."
Clyta? Madeline sat up as if struck. Her mind had been wandering. There was only one Clyta at Resolute, a single girl of eighteen. Madeline suspected Justin had slept with her a few times. She was carrying a child. Even as she remembered that, she heard Justin hit the girl again. Clyta yelped in pain.
"Who did it?" he shouted. Madeline's nails dug into her palms. The escaped slave had carried the answer to that question until a patrol picked him up a few miles this side of the North Carolina border. Priam had put up a fight and been mortally wounded by a patrolman's pistol. The name of his secret benefactor had died with him.
Madeline was freezing now. Her breath clouded in the air when she exhaled. Justin repeated the question at full voice. Then came another blow and a scream. Madeline dug her fingers deeper, till they cut like tiny knives.
Who did it, Justin? Your wife. It was your wife whom Nancy summoned the night Priam showed up, frightened and hungry. I'm the one who slipped out to help him. You were oblivious. Off with one of your horses or one of your slave sluts — as usual. I'm the one who helped him, you scum. I'm the one with the peculiar sympathy for niggers.
She didn't quite have the courage to rush to the office and say all of it directly to him. She was ashamed of that lack within herself. She fled from the pergola, covering her ears to blot out the sound of Clyta's cries.
Most of the time Justin occupied a separate bedroom, coming to hers only when he felt the urge to rut. She was thankful he let her alone tonight. What she had heard in the pergola left her too upset to sleep. She was filled with a desire to revenge herself on her husband again. Revenge had been part of the reason she had gladly lent assistance when Nancy appealed to her about the runaway hiding in the loft of the sick house.
Presently she calmed down a little, and thoughts of Orry crept into her mind. People said he was a changed man because he had lost his arm in Mexico. They said his frame of mind was dark, embittered. Yet he had twice sent a message asking her to meet him secretly.
Still a creature of her past — still clinging to the remains of the code of right behavior that had once held absolute sway in her life — she had answered neither message. As if Justin deserved that kind of consideration! She slipped her hands downward, trying to suppress what she felt within herself. She couldn't. She would call on Clarissa Main after dinner tomorrow. Justin wouldn't go with her, of course; the mention of most social amenities started him yawning. When she visited the Main plantation, she would send a message of her own.
Why had she waited this long? Why had she refused to allow herself even a moment's happiness? Her misguided fear of Orry's youth, her own strong conscience, the secret her father had conveyed as he breathed his last — those were the most compelling reasons. None seemed to matter any longer. She prayed Orry wouldn't be so angry over her earlier rebuffs that he refused to answer now.
In the morning, before daylight, she went to the kitchen in her robe. As she had hoped, she found Nancy there, alone, tending the plump turkeys by the light of a lamp trimmed low.
"We're going to Mont Royal this afternoon, Nancy."
"Yes, ma'am."
Madeline was so pleased, so full of anticipation, that she didn't stop to ask herself why Nancy had such a grave, drawn look. "Can you deliver a message there, by the same route the others came to me?"
Nancy's eyes opened a little wider. "A message to the gentleman?"
"That's right. It's to be our secret."
"Yes'm. Surely."
"Nancy, what's wrong?"
The mulatto girl eyed the huge iron stove giving off savory odors. Madeline touched Nancy's thin arm. Her skin was cold.
"Tell me."
"It's Clyta, ma'am. After Mr. Justin beat her last night, she lost her baby."
"Oh, no. Oh, Nancy," Madeline said, taking the girl in her arms to comfort her.
Tears spilled down Madeline's face, but there were none inside her as she thought of her husband. Scum. Scum.
Orry rode hatless to Salvation Chapel, even though drab skies hinted of rain. It began to fall during the last half mile. Not a hard rain but a chilling one. Winter rain: the signal that another growing season was over and Charleston's high social season would soon begin.
Nothing could lower Orry's spirits this morning. He ducked beneath the last overhanging branches. The fallen foundation came into sight. Beyond, fog hid most of the marsh. He called Madeline's name. "Here, my darling."
The voice came from his left. As she had the first time, she'd sought shelter under the trees near the perimeter of the marsh. He sprang down and tethered his horse, then hurried to her.
He took hold of her left shoulder. She reached for his other arm, turning red as she realized her thoughtlessness. A sudden grin flashed like a beacon in the dark mass of his beard.
"You'll get used to its not being there. I have, almost."
The smile disappeared as he curved his arm around her. He pulled her to him, wanting to experience every soft contour, yet mindful of his own long-repressed need. She felt him through the layers of her clothing. She moved closer, uttering a small sound deep in her throat.
She rested against his chest. He stroked her hair. "I thought you never wanted to see me again."
"Because I didn't answer those messages? I didn't dare." She drew back. "I shouldn't be here now. I love you too much."
"Then go away with me."
"Where?"
"Anywhere."
There was great relief in being able to say that at last. In response, Madeline smiled and wept at the same time. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, her palms pressed against his bristly face.
"I'd give my soul to do that. I can't."
"Why not? Surely you don't think all that much of Justin."
"I loathe him. I've only just discovered how much. That's why I called on your mother on Saturday. I couldn't stand being separated from you any longer. I want you to tell me all about Mexico." She was stroking his face now, her fingers lingering at each place she touched. "How you got hurt. How you're getting along —"
"I'd get along much better if we were together."
"Orry, it's impossible."
"Because of Justin."
"Not him personally. Because of what I pledged when I married him. I made a lifetime promise. If I broke it — went away with you — I'd feel guilty forever. Guilt would ruin our lives."
"There's no guilt in meeting me like this?"
"Of course there is. But it's — bearable. I can convince myself that I'm still living up to the letter of the marriage agreement."
Suspicion overcame him. She wasn't being entirely truthful. She had some other reason for saying no. Then he decided he was only imagining that, perhaps to take some of the sting out of the refusal.
She whirled away, walking rapidly to the edge of the marsh. "You probably think I'm a wretched hypocrite."
From behind he touched her hair, lifted it so that he could gently kiss the curve of her neck below her ear. "I think I love you, that's all. I want you with me for the rest of our days."
"I feel the same way, darling. But you have responsibilities, too. No matter what you say, I don't think you could run from them and be happy."
He tried to redirect the conversation, to give them both breathing space. "I'd be happy if my father came to his senses. Did you know he exhibited the body of Priam, the runaway, as an example to our people?"
"No, I didn't." She rubbed her arms, not looking at him. "That's vile."
"Unnecessary, certainly. Our people understood the meaning of Priam's death long before they saw his corpse lying in ice. Sometimes I think my father's already senile. Or maybe the damned abolitionists drive him to it. He's a proud man. He can be defiant."
"It seems to be a local characteristic," she said with a wry smile.
He found it impossible to go on speaking as if they were acquaintances meeting in a parlor. The physical hunger was too strong, almost painful. He faced her, gazing down into her eyes.
"No more talk. What I want is you. Come — please —"
He took her hand and with unmistakable meaning drew her toward a level place where the leaves and pine needles looked dry.
"No, Orry." When she wrenched free, anger brimmed in his eyes.
She flung herself against him, her arms around his chest. "Don't you see we mustn't go that far? Ever? If we do, the guilt will be almost as bad as if we had run away."
Roughly now, he handled her hair, kissed her eyes and the moist, warm corners of her mouth. "You want to make love, you can't deny it.'' He slipped his arm below her waist, astonished at his own boldness. But fevers were consuming him, and it seemed perfectly natural to pull her hips against his and kiss her again. "You can't."
"No! I ache for you to hold me that way. But we mustn't."
He released her. "I don't understand you."
A strand of glossy black hair had fallen across her forehead. She dashed it back, then smiled again, sadly.
"How can you expect to when I don't completely understand myself? What person ever does? I only know that a small amount of guilt is bearable, but more is not."
Orry's face grew bleak again. The tension he had communicated through their embrace was diminishing. "If we can't live together or love each other properly, what's left?"
"We can —" She drew a breath, facing down his scorn. Her voice strengthened. "We can still meet here occasionally. Talk. Hold each other for a little while. It would make my life endurable, at least."
"It's still infidelity, Madeline."
"But not adultery."
"I thought they meant the same thing."
"Not to me."
"Well, it's a subtle distinction. I doubt it's one outsiders would appreciate."
"I can't help it. Is love ever comprehensible to others?"
He pressed his lips together and, with a sharp shake of his head, strode off toward the marsh, out from under the trees into the light rain. She was proposing an affair but under rules of her own design.
He walked as far as he could, stopping when the ground grew mushy beneath his boots. His long strides left reeds trampled behind him. He turned, rain collecting in his beard. "Those are hard terms. I want you too much. I'm not sure I can stand constant temptation."
"Isn't a little love better than none?"
He almost blurted a no. She walked toward him slowly, the rain ruining her clothes and flattening her hair against her head. Even bedraggled, she was the loveliest woman in creation. He couldn't deny her, even though her terms were nearly as painful as the situation that prompted them.
She stood close to him, gazing into his eyes. "Isn't it, Orry?"
He smiled but without real joy. "Yes."
She let out a small cry and once more crushed against him. He put his arm around her, his smile hollow. "God, I wish you'd been raised a slut instead of a decent woman."
"Sometimes I do too."
The shared laughter eased their unhappiness. They returned to the trees and sat talking for almost an hour. He pointed out that the more often they met the greater became the risk of discovery. She said she willingly accepted that risk. They kissed and embraced again.
Before she started home, they made plans in a few breathless sentences for their next rendezvous. Orry thought he must be mad to agree to such an arrangement. Denial of their mutual hunger brought excruciating physical and mental tension. He knew the tension would grow worse as they continued to meet.
And yet, as he stood by the chapel foundation and watched her ride away, his mood changed. Although the tension remained, in some curious way the self-denial began to enhance and deepen his longing and his love.
All the way north, George was haunted by the image of Priam's eyes. He still saw it now, as he sat with his chin in his palm and gazed out the coach window at the Delaware River.
Snow fell in the dreary twilight, melting the moment it struck the ground or the glass. He was worn out from the long trip with its seemingly endless succession of changes from one line to another. A meal in a depot dining room had upset his stomach, and for the last hundred miles he had sweltered because other passengers insisted the conductor keep throwing wood into the stove at the head of the car.
At least he would be in Lehigh Station tomorrow. He planned to stop overnight at the Haverford House, where the Hazards always stayed in Philadelphia. In the morning he would catch the local and, once home, begin the delicate job of preparing his family for his marriage to a Catholic.
The memory of Priam returned. It led to thoughts of his relationship with Orry — and, by extension, Orry's family. George could find something to like about every one of them, even feckless Cousin Charles, but that liking generated a familiar confusion and a good deal of guilt. By a combination of circumstances and choice, the Mains were deeply involved in Negro slavery.
The train slowed, chugging past shanties and dilapidated buildings before it pulled into the station. The roof over the platforms shut out most of the daylight. Instead of snowflakes, sparks from the engine swirled past the window. Passengers rose, gathering their belongings. Their reflections shimmered in the sooty glass. But George saw Priam.
Slavery had to end. His stop in South Carolina had convinced him. The goal wouldn't be easily reached. Too many obstacles stood in the way. Tradition. Pride. Economic dependence on the system. The disproportionately large influence of the small number of families who owned most of the slaves. Even the Bible. Just before George had left the plantation, Tillet had quoted Scripture to justify sending a patrol after Priam. The runaway had clearly disobeyed the charge in the third chapter of Colossians: "Servants, obey in all things your master ..."
Dismantling the peculiar institution would require flexibility, good will, and, most of all, determination to see it done. George saw none of those things at Mont Royal.
He turned the problem the other way around for a moment, considering his friendship with Orry as something that had to be preserved. There, too, serious difficulties loomed. When he had pleaded for Priam's freedom, Orry's warning had been clear. He mustn't interfere again if he expected the friendship to continue.
Yet how strong was friendship? Could it banish disagreement over a fundamental issue of human liberty — as if the issue and the disagreement didn't exist? Could friendship even survive in an atmosphere of growing sectional tension?
Orry said it would — if the slavery issue was ignored. But old Calhoun, sick and embittered, had indirectly suggested that it could not when he declared that separation was the sole remaining answer.
If a solution was to be found, George believed the burden for finding it rested largely on people such as the Mains. If the South was not solely responsible for creating the problem, the South had preserved it and the South must take steps to solve it. George held the North blameless and free of responsibility in the whole matter. At least that was his opinion as he trudged up the platform with his valise.
Fortunately the Haverford House was able to accommodate him without a reservation. He was signing the ledger when the unctuous clerk began, "I believe we have another guest from —"
"George, is that you?"
The voice behind him overlapped the clerk's. "— your family." He turned, then grinned at the young woman hurrying toward him, diamonds of melted snow shining on her muff and the fur trim of her hat.
"Virgilia. Good Lord. I didn't expect to see you."
She was flushed with excitement, and for a moment her squarish face looked almost pretty. In his absence her waist had grown thicker, he noticed.
"I booked a room because I'm staying in the city tonight," she said in a breathless way.
"By yourself? Whatever for?"
"I'm giving my first address at a public meeting sponsored by the society."
He shook his head. "I'm lost. What society?"
"The anti-slavery society, of course. Oh, George, I'm so nervous — I've spent weeks writing and memorizing the speech." She caught his hands in hers; how cold and hard her fingers felt. Almost like a man's. "I completely forgot you were due back today or tomorrow. You must come and hear me! All the tickets were gone weeks ago, but I'm sure we can squeeze you into a box."
"I'll be happy to come. I'm not going home till morning."
"Oh, that's glorious. Do you want to eat first? I can't, I'm too wrought-up. George, I've finally found a cause to which I can devote all my energy."
"I'm glad to hear that," he said as they walked to the staircase behind the hotel porter who had picked up George's luggage. You found a cause because you couldn't find a beau.
Silently he chastised himself for the unkindness. He and Virgilia had never been close, but she was still his sister. He was tired and perhaps a little put off by her enthusiasm.
"It's a very worthy cause, too, though I doubt Orry Main would think so. Honestly, I don't know how you can associate with such people."
"Orry's my friend. Let's leave him out of our discussions, shall we?"
"But that's impossible. He owns Negro slaves."
George held back a harsh retort and thought about begging off for the rest of the evening. Later he wished he had.
The hall held about two thousand people. Every seat was filled. Men and women were standing in the side aisles and at the rear. There were children present and a few well-dressed blacks. Lamps throughout the hall shed a smoky, sulfurous light.
George was squeezed into a chair at the back of the second-tier box at stage right. Three men and three women sat in front of him, all in formal attire. When he introduced himself, their greeting was brief and reserved. He suspected they were members of Philadelphia society.
Although it was quite cold outside — the temperature had plummeted while he was eating dinner — the press of human bodies in heavy clothing made the auditorium hot and put a sheen of sweat on every face. Even before the start of the formal program the audience was in a frenzy, stomping and clapping during the singing of several hymns.
George squinted at the handbill given him when he entered the box. He sighed. The program was divided into nine sections. A long evening.
Loud applause greeted the half-dozen speakers when they appeared from the wings. Virgilia looked poised and calm as she walked to the row of chairs set in front of a vivid red velvet drop. She took the third chair from the left and looked up at her brother. He nodded and smiled. The chairman, a Methodist clergyman, approached the podium and rapped the gavel for order. The program opened with a singing group, the Hutchinson Family of New Hampshire. They were received with loud applause as they took their positions to the right of the podium.
Hutchinson Senior introduced the group as "members of the tribe of Jesse and friends of equal rights." This produced more cheering, clapping, and stomping. The group was apparently well known in anti-slavery circles, though George had never heard of them. He was surprised and a bit dismayed by the fervor of the audience. He hadn't realized Pennsylvania abolitionists could be so emotional. It added to his understanding of the issue responsible for this gathering.
The Hutchinsons sang five songs. A piano and cello accompanied them from the pit. Their last number was a stirring anthem that concluded:
Men and women leaped to their feet, applauding. The enthusiastic audience held the Hutchinsons onstage and kept them bowing for more than three minutes. Virgilia's cheeks looked bright and moist as she smiled up at the box again.
The first address, ten minutes, was delivered by another clergyman, this one from New York City. He explained and endorsed the anti-slavery position of the noted Unitarian divine, William Ellery Channing of Boston. According to Channing, slavery could best be overcome by a direct and continuing appeal to the Christian principles of the slave owners. It was a conclusion not unlike the one George had reached on the train. Tonight he put the theory alongside a mental portrait of Tillet Main and got a shock. He knew Channing's plan would never work.
It wasn't popular with the audience, either. The cleric sat down to just a spattering of applause.
The second speaker received a much bigger hand. He was a tall, grizzled black man introduced as Daniel Phelps, a former slave who had escaped across the Ohio River and now devoted himself to lecturing about his days of bondage in Kentucky. Phelps was an effective orator. His fourteen-minute address, whether true in every detail or not, wrung the last drop of emotion from the audience. His gruesome anecdotes of beatings and torture carried out by his owner brought men to their feet with howls of rage. When Phelps finished, he received a standing ovation.
Virgilia fidgeted with a handkerchief while the chairman introduced her. He put extra emphasis on her last name. Murmurs in the hall showed that some had recognized the name of the well-known family of ironmasters. One of the women in the box turned to give George a quick reappraisal. He felt better, less of a nonentity.
Virgilia continued to display nervousness as she walked to the podium. The poor girl really was too buxom, George thought; unattractive, almost. But perhaps some man would be taken with her intelligence. For her sake, he hoped so.
At first Virgilia spoke hesitantly, offering the audience nothing more than a standard denunciation of slavery. But four or five minutes into her address, the direction of it changed. The audience's nervous foot shuffling stopped, and from the first row to the highest perch in the gallery, every eye was fixed on her.
"I am loath to speak of such things with members of the fair sex and small children present. But it has been said that truth is not and never can be impure. So we must not shrink from examining every facet of the South's peculiar institution, no matter how distasteful — no matter how immoral."
The hall was hushed. The audience sensed that Virgilia was skillfully blending wrath with titillation. The men and women in front of George strained forward to hear. He gazed out across the crowd, unsettled by the sight of so many sweaty faces bearing expressions of righteous zeal. What unsettled him most was his own sister. She gripped the sides of the podium and lost all her hesitancy, and even some of her coherence, as she went on:
"Whatever civility, whatever pretenses of refinement exist in the South — these are built upon a rotten foundation. A foundation which flouts the most fundamental laws of man and God. The South's hateful system of free labor depends upon the perpetuation of its free labor force. And where do new laborers come from when older ones drop by the wayside, exhausted by cruel toil or killed by repressive discipline? The new laborers come from those very same plantations. For their true crop is a human crop."
A shiver and a thrilled sigh swept through the hall as the audience realized what she meant. One woman rose in the gallery and dragged her small daughter toward the exit. Many around her scowled and hissed for silence.
"The plantations of the South are nothing less than black breeding farms. Gigantic bordellos, sanctioned, maintained, and perpetuated by a degenerate aristocracy which rides roughshod over the Christian beliefs of the few — the very few — Southern yeomen whose voices cry out in faint futile protest against these crazed satyrs — this godless immorality!"
Degenerate aristocrats? Crazed satyrs? Black breeding farms? George sat dry-mouthed, unable to believe what he was hearing. Virgilia tarred all Southerners with the same brush, but her accusations simply didn't apply to the Mains. Not unless he was an imbecile and had been deliberately hoodwinked at Mont Royal. There were a great many evils in the peculiar institution, but he had seen no evidence of the one Virgilia described.
What horrified him most was the crowd's reaction. They believed every word. They wanted to believe. Like a good actress, Virgilia sensed this eagerness flowing like a current across the footlight candles, and she responded to it. She glided out from behind the podium to let them see more of her. Let them see her righteous frenzy, her flaming glance and trembling hands, clenched white in wrath, which she brought to her breasts.
"The very stones cry out against such wickedness. Every upright human heart proclaims in moral outrage — no. No! No!" She flung her head back and struck her bosom each time she uttered the word. A man in the gallery picked up the chant. Soon the whole hall rang with it:
"No! No! NO! NO!"
Gradually the tumult subsided. Virgilia reached to the podium for support. Her breasts rose and fell. Patches of sweat showed on her clothing as she struggled to remember her place in the text. Short of breath, she rushed on to her conclusion, but George paid little attention to the words. He was appalled by her wild statements — and the crowd's instantaneous acceptance of them.
Clearly his sister had found an outlet for long-submerged emotions. There was something indecent about watching her display them before hundreds of observers. Her language was sexual, her style almost orgiastic, as she proclaimed that morality demanded action against black breeding farms:
"They must be burned. Destroyed. Obliterated! And their owners with them!"
He jumped up and left the box, overturning his chair in his haste. He ran down flights of stairs, desperately eager for a breath of cold, pure air. As he reached the main floor, he sensed the auditorium walls shaking from the clapping and foot pounding that greeted the end of the speech. From the rear he looked inside.
The entire audience was on its feet. Onstage, Virgilia stood with her head thrown back. Her exertions had loosened her hair and disarrayed her clothing, but she was unconcerned. Her face shone with a dreamy exaltation, with fulfillment. He turned away, sickened.
Once outside, he gulped air and relished the falling snow. He would have to tell her she had spoken effectively, of course. But he also intended to take issue with her unfounded generalizations.
Her performance deeply offended him, not only on intellectual grounds but on personal ones. It was true that Virgilia was a grown woman in charge of her own life. Nevertheless, to see his sister or any other female display herself so shamelessly made him cringe. No matter what its veneer of propriety, her speech had been an outpouring of sexual passion. It had permitted her to say things no woman — no man, for that matter — would have dared to say in public in another context.
What dismayed him most was his feeling that Virgilia had reveled in the experience — and not solely for the moralistic reasons she proclaimed.
But even if he put aside the personal considerations, the shouts and halloos within the hall continued to upset him. They showed him a dimension of the slavery quarrel whose existence he had never before suspected. No matter how worthy Virgilia's cause, she had somehow twisted it; an appeal for justice was transformed into a sordid, even frightening call for a savage holy war. There were warriors aplenty inside. He could still hear them howling for Southern blood.
On the train he had decided that all the sin lay on the Southern side, the side of the slave owners, and all the destructive pride as well. Tonight had taught him a fearful lesson. He was wrong.
In an hour he had changed his view of Northern abolitionists, for Virgilia had surely taken her cue from other members of the movement. How many of them were more interested in confrontation than in resolution of the problem? How many preached hate instead of common sense? He didn't condone slavery or excuse the Mains because of what he had witnessed tonight. But for the first time he believed there might be some cause for the Mains' resentment — just as they claimed.
Could the friendship of men from different regions, a camaraderie born in shared hardships, endure such terrible pressures? Was there enough good will in humankind and the nation to overcome the kind of mindless passions he had seen unleashed by his sister?
He shivered as wind-driven snow flew at him beneath the marquee of the auditorium. The storm was intensifying, hiding the nearby lights of the town. He began to perceive a future much grimmer than any he had heretofore imagined. He had a brief, dark vision of the country hammered by the slave question until it shattered like brittle cast iron.
Difficult times surely lay ahead. Constance would help sustain him during those times, and he hoped his love would do the same for her. But as for the nation surviving the hammering — finding the flexibility and compassion necessary to resolve the issue — he just didn't know about that.
Until this moment, he supposed, he had lived with illusion or ignorance. Now, huddled against the wall beneath the marquee and unable to light his cigar in the rising wind, he was staring at reality.
It terrified him.
A Lehigh Canal boat carried George on the last stage of his journey. The canal followed the course of the river through the valley, from Mauch Chunk down to Easton. The Grand Valley of the Lehigh had been home to four generations of Hazards. George's great-grandfather had left a job at a forge in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey, then the leading ironworking region of the colonies, to strike out on his own in Pennsylvania.
The valley had no huge natural deposits similar to the bog ore of Jersey. Nor was there as much flux as the Pine Barrens men took from nearby salt bays in the form of clay and oyster shells. But George's great-grandfather did find great stands of timber for conversion to charcoal. He found water power. Most important of all, he found opportunity.
For years his was the only furnace on the river. Ore had to be brought over the mountains in leather bags carried by pack horses, but that didn't deter him. The same transportation system had served furnaces in Jersey for a long time.
Competitors said he was crazy not to move to the Schuylkill River valley, but George's great-grandfather paid no attention and persevered. In the valley of the Lehigh he was his own master, succeeding or failing solely on the basis of his own decisions.
During the Revolution the Hazards threw everything into the war effort and almost went to the wall financially. Luckily the rebels won, and the continuity of the line was not abruptly ended by a hang rope. But unqualified success continued to prove elusive.
Year after year the Hazards were forced to ship their iron down the river to the Delaware in antiquated Durham boats that were forever incurring damage on the rocks of the Lehigh rapids. Then, in 1829, the canal opened. A local man, Josiah White, had developed it principally to ship anthracite coal that had been discovered in the region. But the canal boats brought prosperity to almost every business in the valley, and Hazard Iron was no exception. For a century, products of the ironwork had provided the family with a steady if unremarkable income. Suddenly, thanks to the canal, many more markets were within reach, and in one generation, that of George's father, the Hazards were rich.
George had grown up with the canal. The shouts of the boatmen and the occasional bray of a balky towpath mule were essential parts of his boyhood experience. Now men said the canal era was already passing. It had lasted scarcely thirty years, another dizzying proof of how fast the new, machine-driven world was changing. Evidently William Hazard had believed the predictions about canals. Otherwise he wouldn't have gone into the production of rails.
The boat stopped for half an hour at the expanding town of Bethlehem, which had been settled by members of the Moravian church from Bohemia. A few miles beyond Bethlehem, the skyline of the South Mountains began to take on a familiar aspect. It was a blustery, dark day. All the other passengers stayed below, but George stood on the roof promenade of the main cabin, reveling in the sights of home.
Under racing gray clouds, the low, rounded peaks looked almost black. The mountain laurel that covered them was dormant now. But in the spring, on all the hillsides, there would be pink and white flowers by the thousands. And the blooms would be found in every room of the Hazard house. George's mother had a special, almost religious regard for the mountain laurel. She said the shrub was like the Hazard family. It often took root in rocky, unpromising ground, but it survived and thrived where other plants could not. She had transmitted that special feeling to George, much as his father had passed along his beliefs about the power of iron.
The canal boat proceeded around a long bend, gradually bringing into view the small town of Lehigh Station and, adjacent to it on the upstream side, the sprawl of Hazard Iron.
Nearest the river in the town stood several crowded blocks of poor cottages. This was the section inhabited by the growing population of Irishmen, Welshmen, and Hungarians who migrated up the river to fill the new jobs created by Hazard's expanding product line. More and more cast iron was being used for construction in the large cities. There was a mania for cast-iron pillars and elaborate cast-iron cornices; even complete fronts of buildings were being manufactured. And of course Hazard's now produced rails.
On the hillsides above the workers' hovels rose the larger frame or brick residences of the town's mercantile community, as well as homes belonging to foremen and supervisors at the ironworks. And highest of all, on a huge parcel of ground terraced out of the mountain, there stood the house in which George had been born.
He loved the house because it was home, but he despised its actual appearance. The first part of it had been built a hundred years ago; that section had long ago vanished within various remodelings, each of a different architectural period or style. The house had thirty or forty rooms, but it had no unity, no name, and in his opinion no character.
The dominant features of the Hazard Iron complex were the three furnaces, truncated cones of stone forty feet high. From the top of each, a wooden bridge crossed to the side of the mountain. Two of the furnaces were in operation. George could see the cumbersome movement of the bellows pumping in hot blasts of air and hear the noisy steam engines that powered the bellows. The furnaces spewed smoke, blackening the already murky sky. Charcoal was a dirty fuel and an outdated one.
On the bridge of the third furnace, workmen pushing handcarts crossed from the mountainside. They dumped the contents of the carts down the charging hole, then returned to the other end of the bridge for the next load. Surely some better method of moving ore, fuel, and flux could be devised. A system of steam-driven conveyors, maybe. His brother Stanley would probably want every other furnace in the state to install such a system before he would consider making it a permanent improvement.
The wrought-iron finery looked busy too. George had forgotten how big Hazard's had become — especially with the addition of a good-sized building he hadn't seen before. It adjoined the plate-rolling mill. It was the rail mill, he assumed.
Hazard Iron was a noisy, bustling, unclean operation. Its great slag heaps and charcoal piles disfigured the landscape. The smoke was an abomination, and the heat and din could be infernal. But it became more apparent each day that America was running and growing because of iron and the men who knew how to produce it. The business had gotten into the marrow of George's bones, and it took this homecoming to make him realize it.
How would Constance take to it? Would she be happy here, married to an ironmaster and living in an unfamiliar place? He vowed to do everything possible to make her happy, but how she got along in Lehigh Station was not entirely up to him. That worried him.
He was glad that some business of the anti-slavery society had kept Virgilia in the city so that he could come home alone and slip gradually into his old life, with all its joys. And its sorrows. His father was gone. He felt guilty because, for a little while, overwhelmed by familiar sights, he had actually forgotten his father. He needed to make amends, and say good-bye.
A spectacular sunset lit the marble obelisk with the words WILLIAM HAZARD carved in its base. George uncovered his eyes, gave a last adjustment to the black wreath he had laid, and rose.
He dusted his knees as his mother approached. She had come with him to the graveyard in the hard, bright light of the winter afternoon. But she had remained several yards away while he silently said his farewell.
They walked down a precipitous path toward the waiting carriage. George had been home only a few hours, but Maude Hazard was already bubbling with plans for the wedding.
"It's a tragedy your father couldn't have lived long enough to meet Constance," she said.
"Do you think he would have approved of her?"
Maude sighed, her breath pluming. "Probably not. But we'll make her welcome. I promise."
"Will Stanley make her welcome?" His tone expressed skepticism.
"George" — she faced him — "you already know that some will hate you for the step you've taken. The Irish are a despised lot, though I don't quite understand why. You, however, are obviously very realistic, and I admire that. I admire you for your willingness to face up to the hate you may encounter."
"I hadn't thought of it in those terms, Mother. I love Constance."
"I know, but there is still a great deal of un-Christian hate in the world. Love will somehow defeat it. It will and, if we're all to survive, it must."
He thought of Elkanah Bent, Tillet Main, and his own sister. He could believe in must. But will? He had great doubts about that.