Human beings may be inconsistent, but human nature is true to herself. She has uttered her testimony against slavery with a shriek ever since the monster was begotten; and till it perishes amidst the execrations of the universe, she will traverse the world on its track, dealing her bolts upon its head, and dashing against it her condemning brand.
George was ceremoniously welcomed home with a Christmas party. It gave him a chance to observe all the changes that had taken place in the family in a relatively short time. Some he found quite surprising.
His brother Billy, for example, looked and acted grown-up at twelve. His face had filled out, taking on the broad, sturdy appearance common to adult males of the family — Stanley excepted. Billy's brown hair was darker than George's, his blue eyes less pale and forbidding. He had an appealing smile, but there was no sign of it while he asked sober, intelligent questions about the war. Who was the better general, Taylor or Scott? How did the American and Mexican armies compare? What did George think of Santa Anna?
Billy couldn't be as serious as he seemed, George thought. But then, he recalled being pretty serious about some of the scrapes he'd gotten into when he was Billy's age. Some of them had involved young women. Was Billy similarly entangled? If so, George disapproved.
Then he laughed at himself. He had changed along with the rest of the Hazards.
Virgilia chattered constantly about the anti-slavery movement, which she referred to as her work. She had become not only fanatical about it but self-important. Naturally George didn't say that aloud, but neither did he conceal his anger when he told everyone that Orry would be his best man and Virgilia replied by saying, "Oh, yes — your slave-owner friend. Well, George, be warned. I shan't smile and fawn over someone like that."
It threatened to be a wretched wedding. Virgilia was apparently determined to spoil Orry's visit; and Stanley's new wife made several cool and sarcastic references to Constance Flynn's religion, as well as to the site of the ceremony — the tiny and unprepossessing Catholic chapel down by the canal.
Stanley had married a little more than a year ago, while George was on his way to Mexico. Isabel Truscott Hazard was twenty-eight, two years older than her husband. She came of a family that claimed its founder had been a colleague and friend of William Penn's. Although she had been occupied with a pregnancy during most of her first year in Lehigh Station, her husband's last name and her own ambitious nature had established her as a social leader of the community.
George tried to like Isabel. The effort lasted about five minutes. She was homely as a horse, which wouldn't have mattered if she had been intelligent or gracious. Instead, she openly bragged about never reading anything except social columns.
George could have pitied her, but why bother? She thought of herself as perfect. She also had that opinion of her home, her wardrobe, her taste in furnishings, and her twin sons, born almost nine months to the day after her wedding. She had already informed Stanley that she would bear no more children, having found the entire procedure distasteful.
With great pride, George showed the family a little daguerreotype of Constance. A few minutes later, while a footman served rum punch, Isabel remarked to him, "Miss Flynn is quite lovely."
"Thank you. I agree."
"They say that down South men admire physical beauty without, shall we say, substance. I hope your fiancee isn't so naive as to think the same holds true in this part of the country."
George reddened. Evidently Isabel had decided to condemn Constance because she happened to be beautiful.
Maude Hazard didn't like her daughter-in-law's remark. Stanley noticed the instantaneous frown on his mother's face and scowled at Isabel. That silenced her for the evening, though George was sure it wouldn't shut her up for good.
For Christmas the broad white living-room mantel had been decorated with mountain laurel leaves. So had all the doors and windows. On the mantel stood the family's pride, a massive twenty-four-inch-tall goblet blown in the 1790s by the great John Amelung of Maryland. William's father had bought the goblet in a flush time. On the glass the artisan had engraved a shield and an American eagle with spread wings. A ribbon bearing the words E pluribus unum fluttered from the eagle's beak. It seemed fitting that, toward the end of the party, Maude should step to the mantel, near this splendid artifact, and there make a short speech to the gathering.
"Now that George is home for good, we must make a change in the management of Hazard's. From now on, Stanley, you and your brother will have equal responsibility for operation of the furnace and the mill. Your time will come eventually, Billy, don't worry."
Stanley struggled to smile, but he looked as if he were sucking a lemon. Maude went on, "With the family expanding, all of us can't possibly continue to live under one roof, so we must make some adjustments there, too. Henceforward, this house will belong to Stanley and Isabel. I'll stay here with you, and for the time being so will Billy and Virgilia."
Her eyes fixed on George. From the mantel she took a folded document he hadn't noticed before. "One of your father's last wishes was to provide you with a home of your own. So for you and your bride — this. It's a deed to a portion of the land on which we're standing. The plot is a large one, right next door. Your father signed this two days before he was stricken. Build a home for Constance and your children, my dear. With our love and best wishes."
Tears welled in George's eyes as he accepted the deed. Billy started the applause. Stanley and Isabel joined in without enthusiasm. George understood the reason for their behavior. Stanley wasn't the sort to share family leadership with a brother he considered inexperienced and reckless.
Constance and her father came north at the end of March, and the young people were married on a mild day in early April. By then George had already been discharging his new responsibilities for three months.
Growing up, he had done odd jobs throughout Hazard Iron. But now he looked at the operation with a manager's eye, not that of a bored boy who wanted to be elsewhere. He roved through the furnace, the finery, and the mill at all hours, getting to know the men and hoping to demonstrate that they could trust him. He asked questions, then listened with total concentration to the answers. If an answer identified a problem that he could solve, he did so.
Many a night he stayed up until dawn, reading. He dug through past correspondence of the company, struggled with turgid metallurgical manuals and technical pamphlets. His curiosity irked Stanley. George didn't care. What he read was informative — and sometimes infuriating. The material from the files showed that whenever their father had given Stanley responsibilities for a decision, Stanley had chosen the risk-free path. Fortunately William Hazard hadn't delegated too much to his eldest son. Had he done so, George was convinced the business would have stumbled back to the eighteenth century by now.
He did find time to hire a Philadelphia architect to survey his homesite and draw plans for a residence. Italianate villas were the rage. The architect designed one, an asymmetrical L-shape with an elaborate lookout tower rising in the angle. This tower, or belvedere, suggested the name for the showy stone mansion; the architect said belvedere meant "beautiful view," and the completed house would certainly offer that. The foundation had just been dug when the Flynns arrived.
Constance quickly grew aware of Isabel's scorn. She smiled and made the best of it. And if Orry felt insulted by Virgilia during the wedding festivities, he kept the reaction hidden. The newly weds departed for their honeymoon in New York. The family carriage took them past the old trading station that had given the town half its name, but George and Constance never saw the scenery. Inside the carriage they were wrapped in each other's arms. They had one night alone, in Easton — a blissful night — before a messenger summoned George back for what turned out to be the first of many quarrels with his brother.
One of the furnaces had burst from the stress generated by the tremendous forces penned up inside; it was not an unfamiliar kind of accident. Two Hazard workmen had been crushed to death by falling debris. After George completed his inspection, he confronted Stanley in the office.
"Why weren't the wrought-iron bands installed on the stacks? The files say money was appropriated for them."
Stanley looked pale and exhausted. Annoyance edged his voice as he replied, "That was Father's idea, not mine. After he died I canceled the installation. Shipments were off slightly. I felt we couldn't afford it."
"You think we can more easily afford two dead bodies and two families without fathers? I want those bands installed. I'll write the order.''
Stanley tried to assume a tone of indignation. "I don't believe you have the authority to write—''
"The hell! Your authority exceeds mine in just one area. You're the only one empowered to sign bank drafts. Those bands are going on. And we're paying a thousand dollars to each of the families."
"George, that is utterly stupid."
"Not if we want to keep good workers. Not if we want to sleep nights. You sign the drafts, Stanley, or I'll collect a hundred men and lay siege to your house until you do."
"Damned upstart," Stanley muttered, but when the two drafts for the families of the dead men were drawn, he signed them.
By the time he told Maude of the plan to go ahead with installation of the protective bands, he made it appear the idea was his.
Zachary Taylor won the presidential election in November 1848. That same month workmen finished Belvedere, and George and a very pregnant Constance moved in. Not long afterward, William Hazard III was born in their canopied bed.
Husband and wife loved the new house. Constance first furnished the nursery, then filled all the other rooms with expensive but comfortable pieces whose function was to be used, not admired. In contrast, Stanley and Isabel maintained their home as if it were a museum.
George discussed every major decision with Constance. She knew nothing of the iron trade — not at first, anyway — but she had a keen, practical mind and learned rapidly. He confessed that he was probably courting failure by acting too quickly, even rashly, on many questions on which he had little except instinct to guide him. But he believed progress could be achieved no other way. She agreed.
Soon the expanding grid of American railroads was consuming all the rails the mill could produce on a twenty-four-hour schedule — and this despite a poor economic climate. But George had to fight his brother at every step, on virtually every important issue.
"For God's sake, Stanley, here we are in the middle of a prime hard coal region, and you seem oblivious. It's been merely a hundred and fifty years since the Darbys started smelting iron with coke in Britain. Is that still too experimental for you?"
Stanley looked as if George were demented. ''Charcoal is traditional and eminently satisfactory. Why change?"
"Because the trees won't last forever. Not at the rate we use them."
"We'll use them till they're gone, then experiment."
"But charcoal's filthy. If it does this" — he swiped an index finger over Stanley's desk; the fingertip showed black — "what do you suppose it does when we inhale the smoke and dust? I would like your agreement to build an experimental coke-burning —"
"No, I won't pay for it."
"Stanley —"
"No. You've pushed me on everything else, but you will not push me on this."
George also wanted to invest some capital in an effort to duplicate the now-lost process by which the Garrard brothers had produced high-quality crucible steel in Cincinnati in the 1830s. Cyrus McCormick had thought enough of Garrard steel to use it for the blades of his first reapers. But a lowering of import duties during Jackson's administration had permitted an inrush of European steel to meet the small domestic demand, and the infant American steel industry had been wiped out.
Today America produced only about two thousand tons of high-carbon steel each year. As the country expanded, however, George foresaw a growing need and a growing market. The problem was not how to make steel — that had been known for centuries — but how to make it rapidly enough that production was profitable. The old cementation process took almost ten days to yield a minuscule quantity. The Garrards had reportedly found a better way. So George quietly surrendered on the coke issue, saving his resources for the fight that would surely ensue over his proposed investigation of steelmaking.
No doubt egged on by Isabel, Stanley said no to nearly all his younger brother's proposals. That was the case with the one concerning steel. George was in a rage for days, rescued from it only by Constance's announcement that she was carrying their second child.
In the summer of 1849, Stanley and his wife received a visitor from Middletown. The guest stayed overnight. George and Constance were not invited to dine, Virgilia was in Philadelphia, and Maude had taken Billy to New York on a holiday. The privacy seemed planned.
George was unconcerned from a social standpoint, but he was curious about the purpose of the visit. He immediately recognized the tall, dignified man of fifty who alighted from a carriage and disappeared into Stanley's house for the rest of the evening. Simon Cameron was widely known in Pennsylvania and over the years had profitably involved himself in printing, banking, railroad development, and even the operation of an ironworks.
George sensed it was a completely different interest that had brought the visitor to Lehigh Station. Politics, perhaps? Cameron had finished a partial term in the Senate but had subsequently been passed over by the state Democratic caucus when it considered the current full-term appointment made by the state legislature, where the party had a majority. That night as George lay in bed with his hand resting on his wife's stomach, he suddenly formed a connection between Cameron's situation and another fact:
"Good Lord. I wonder if he could be the recipient of those drafts.''
"I don't know what you're talking about, dear."
"I haven't had time to tell you. I've just discovered that during each of the past three months Stanley's written a draft for five hundred dollars. No name — the drafts are written to cash. Maybe he's trying to help Cameron get back on his feet."
"You mean return to the Senate?"
"Possibly."
"Under the Democratic banner?"
"No, he couldn't do that. He displeased too many people by straying from the party line. Old Jim Buchanan was one he displeased. On the other hand, you don't get rid of Cameron simply by saying no. That only spurs him on. I must find out whether Stanley's handing him money to help him build a new organization." Gently she kissed his cheek. "All these quarrels with Stanley are making you old too fast."
"What about you and Isabel?"
She turned away with a shrug too exaggerated to be genuine. "She doesn't bother me."
"I wouldn't expect you to say anything else. But I know she does."
"Yes, she does," Constance said, abruptly breaking down. "She's vicious. God forgive me, but I wish the earth would swallow them both."
She huddled against his neck, one hand flung across his chest, and cried.
"Yes, I'm donating to Cameron," Stanley admitted the next morning. He waved a hand in front of his face. "Must you smoke those rotten weeds in here?"
George continued puffing on the Cuban cigar. "Don't change the subject. You're giving away company funds. Money that should be retained in the business. What's worse, you're giving it to a political hack."
"Simon's no hack. He served with distinction."
"Oh, did he? Then why did the Democrats repudiate him for a second term? I must say the repudiation didn't surprise me. Cameron's voting record is a crazy quilt. No one can be certain of where he stands or what party he supports — unless, of course, it's the party of expediency. What's his current affiliation? Know-Nothing?"
Stanley coughed hard to register displeasure with the smoke and to play for a bit of time to find an answer. Outside the window of the little wooden office building, dirty, bedraggled men were filing down the hill — the night shift from the furnace. A train of six connected wagons carrying charcoal creaked in the other direction.
"Simon's building a state organization," Stanley said at last. "He won't forget those who help with the task."
"Stanley, the man's a trimmer! You know the joke they tell about him — his definition of an honest politician: 'Once bought, he stays bought.' You want to associate yourself with someone like that?"
Stanley was unperturbed. "Simon Cameron will be a power in Pennsylvania. In the nation, too. He just had a few temporary setbacks."
"Well, don't help him overcome them with our money. If you continue, I'll be forced to put the matter before Mother. Regrettably, that's the only way I can stop you short of mayhem."
His brother glowered, not finding the sarcasm funny. George intimidated him. Stanley chewed his lip, then muttered, "All right. I'll consider your objection."
"Thank you," George snapped, and walked out.
He knew he had won. He had used a weapon, a threat he had never employed before. He disliked using it; only a fool subjected other men to humiliation. A humiliated man often struck back — and in vicious ways. That risk was increased with someone like Stanley, who was inwardly aware of his own ineptitude.
Still, in this case, George had no other choice.
Constance was right, he thought as he trudged uphill toward the furnaces. The endless battles were wearing him out. This morning, standing in front of his shaving mirror, he had spied several white hairs above his forehead. And he was not yet twenty-five.
When Isabel heard about the latest argument, she erupted.
"Will you let him get away with it, Stanley? When the senator has reestablished himself, he'll certainly remember your generosity. Then you'll get that political appointment we both want. It's our chance to escape from this grubby little village for good."
Stanley sank down in one of the bedroom chairs. He unfastened his cravat with a listless hand. "If I don't agree to stop the donations, George will approach Mother.''
She sneered. "The little boy running for help?"
"I don't blame him. While I control the funds, he has no other recourse." Short of turning on me with bare fists, Stanley thought as a thrill of fear chased down his back. George had a temper. He had fought a war and was no stranger to brawling. It wasn't hard to imagine him attacking his own brother. Stanley would not run that risk.
Isabel stormed over to his chair. "Well, by heaven, you'd better not surrender control of the purse to that godless little wretch."
"No, I won't give in on that," Stanley promised. It's my last bit of authority.
"And you find some way to keep sending Cameron donations, do you understand?"
"Yes, my love. I will." Stanley let out a pained sigh. "I fear I'm learning to hate my own brother."
"Oh, I don't think you should go that far," she countered. Secretly, she was pleased.
He blushed and stepped behind a screen to remove his shirt. "I know. I don't always mean it. Just sometimes."
"The trouble between you and your brother is that idolater he married." She looked at her reflection in a decorative mirror but saw only the beautiful face of the red-haired chatelaine of Belvedere. "That Papist bitch. It's time to take her down a few pegs."
Stanley poked his head out from behind the screen. "How?"
Isabel's only response was a cold smile.
The Moravian Seminary for Young Ladies was situated on the bank of Monocacy Creek in nearby Bethlehem. Established in 1742, it had the distinction of being the first boarding school for young ladies in the colonies. Virgilia had attended the seminary for two terms but had then been sent home for refusing to obey the rules of the institution.
Late in September each year, ladies in the area conducted a bazaar to raise funds for the school. The affair was held on the lawn outside Colonial Hall. Planning began in the summer. To be asked to chair one of the numerous committees was a sign of social acceptance. Isabel had been a committee head the preceding year.
Constance believed in education for women — as much education as they were equipped to handle, even if it placed them in competition with men. George found the attitude a bit startling but didn't disagree with it. Constance told him she would like to help with the September bazaar; her pregnancy did not yet hamper activity or travel on the rough highland roads. George promised to mention her interest to Stanley but forgot.
Constance waited. She had plenty to occupy her. She tended little William several hours a day, believing that if babies didn't receive sufficient patting and handling when they were tiny, they grew up to be warped, disagreeable adults. More to the truth, she loved caring for the pink, plump little boy.
She had household duties as well. She was a good manager of the servants at Belvedere, mediating their quarrels in a firm, fair way and helping them to accomplish more in less time by showing them how to plan their chores and do them efficiently. They soon came to respect and admire her — and fear her a little, too. She had an Irish temper and displayed it when she saw sloppy work or heard it defended with flippancy or fibs.
Busy as she was, Constance still thought about the bazaar. She finally asked George about the message he had promised to pass along. He whacked his forehead and groaned in such a melodramatic way that she laughed. She said his forgetfulness didn't matter; she would speak to Isabel herself. That required a special arrangement, since the two women seldom saw each other except by accident. That was Isabel's design, Constance thought in occasional moments of pique.
She invited Maude and Isabel to tea. First they discussed her pregnancy. Constance said she felt sure she was carrying a girl this time; she and George had agreed to name her Patricia Flynn Hazard. Hearing that, Isabel pursed her lips and gazed at some distant point.
Constance mentioned her interest in the bazaar. Maude immediately said, "How good of you. I'm sure the ladies would be pleased to have you volunteer. I'll be glad to mention your interest, although I no longer have an active part. I served on my last committee two years ago. I felt it was time for younger women to take the helm."
''I shall mention it, dear,'' Isabel said to Constance, "at the meeting of the organizing group next Monday."
"Thank you," Constance said, trying to detect insincerity in Isabel's sweet smile. She couldn't.
Isabel brought up her sister-in-law's name at the Monday meeting. "I thought that perhaps she might chair the quilt committee —" she began.
"Perfect choice," one of the other ladies declared.
"But when I mentioned the idea, she refused."
That produced some frowns of displeasure among those seated in the circle. "On what grounds, Isabel?" one inquired.
Another asked, "Is she opposed to female education?"
"I can't say," Isabel answered. "She told me she couldn't participate because the, ah, religious orientation of the seminary violates many of the precepts of her own church, which of course she considers the only true church."
The woman chairing the group spoke up. "Well, that's the last time we need consider her. About anything."
Isabel shook her head. "It's a pity. Constance is a bright person. She has several fine qualities. I've been told Catholics are a queer, bigoted sort, but I never believed it until I became acquainted with her. I'm sure her attitudes are the result of the influence of priests and nuns. How can anyone who lives eternally in a dark cell be quite — well — right? And one does hear the most frightful stories about what goes on in nunneries."
Sage nods greeted that statement. It was popular cant in the country just then, and exciting to believe.
Isabel called on Constance the following afternoon. Her face reflected dismay as she said:
"There is no easy way to tell you this, my dear. I tendered your very generous offer, but the ladies of the organizing group declined to receive it. Not because of any personal flaws in yourself, please understand, but it is, after all, a bazaar to raise funds for a religious denomination different from your own."
Constance twisted a lace handkerchief. "You mean they don't want the help of a Catholic."
Isabel sighed. "I'm so sorry. Perhaps next year."
Ever afterward, she knew, she would savor the memory of her sister-in-law's face just then.
While Isabel was calling on Constance, George was running to the rail mill, summoned by a frightened foreman. A quarrel had led to an accident. Stanley always deferred to his brother when such things happened. With a straight face he had said it was because George possessed the common touch. If Isabel had made the remark, George would have been sure it was an insult.
The summer had been exceptionally hot, and the advent of autumn brought no relief. Tempers were frequently frayed in the Hazard family, and George could imagine the tensions that rose in the mill where the heat was infernal.
The rail mill was of the type the trade called Belgian. The long, fast-moving ribbon of red-hot metal was gradually reduced in thickness and shaped to the proper configuration by passing through a series of grooved rollers mounted on stands. Between the stands, burly men called catchers seized the metal with tongs and guided it into the next set of rollers. It was hard, dangerous work, and much of it would be eliminated if anyone could design a mill that passed the metal continuously through the rollers. A mill owner named Serrell in New York had almost done it several years ago, but his design was flawed. George had also attacked the problem, unsuccessfully so far.
George ran as fast as he could. All work had come to a halt in the mill. The iron being fed into the first set of rollers had already cooled, he saw as he neared the scene of the accident. One of the catchers lay on the dirt floor, moaning. George choked when he smelled scorched clothing and burned flesh.
The fallen man was a wiry Slav whose last name George couldn't pronounce. He was a fine worker, unlike his partner at this station, a wide-shouldered hulk named Brovnic.
"We sent for Dr. Hopple," said the foreman.
"Good." George knelt between the injured man and the twisted ribbon of dark, cold iron lying nearby. Evidently the iron had fallen diagonally across the right side of the man's body, burning away his shirt front and deeply searing his chest and bare forearm. The man's charred flesh resembled half-cooked meat. George fought down vomit that rose in his throat. God knew whether the man would ever use the arm again.
George rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, then asked, "How did it happen?"
"Accident," Brovnic blurted. His jutting jaw threatened anyone who denied it, but the intimidation failed. A sweaty, begrimed worker stepped forward.
"Accident, hell. Brovnic's been bothering Tony's wife. Tony told him to quit it, and —"
Brovnic cursed and lunged. Three men grabbed him and held him back as the speaker pointed to the ribbon of iron. "Brovnic knocked him down with it, then dropped it on him."
"Fucking liar," Brovnic screamed, writhing to get free of his captors. He would have if George hadn't stormed up to him and jabbed a finger into his filthy shirt.
"You've done nothing but cause trouble since the day I hired you, Brovnic. Collect your wages and get off this property. Now."
George's heart was beating fast. Brovnic squinted down at him. "You better not do this —"
George had to tilt his head back to return the other man's stare. "I said leave right now."
"I fix you for this," Brovnic promised as he stalked off.
A minute after Isabel left, Constance bowed her head and wept. She stood by a tall window in the parlor. Beyond it spread the panorama of the town, the sultry glitter of the river below. She didn't see any of it. She clutched a drapery as if she feared she'd fall.
The sobs went on and on. She despised herself for crying. She had done it very seldom while growing up in Texas, but here things were different. Sometimes, despite her love for George, she hated Lehigh Station and wanted to flee. Instead, she wept.
She was sure Isabel had engineered the snub. Stanley's wife hated her. There was no other word for it but hate. When George came home, she'd tell him what had happened. She tried never to put her troubles on her husband, but this was too much for her to bear by herself. Isabel had made an issue of her religion, but there were probably other reasons the haughty woman despised her. Isabel was a twisted, unhappy person — and she had the power to wound Constance deeply.
"Ma'am, is there something wrong? I thought I heard —"
The servant girl stopped. She tried to draw back out of the parlor door, which she had opened without Constance's being aware of it. Constance felt more embarrassed for the girl than for herself. She swept tears off her face with both palms.
"I'm sorry for disturbing you, Bridgit. I just wasn't myself for a moment or two. Please don't mention it to anyone. Would you bring little William down if he's awake?"
"Right away, ma'am." Relieved, Bridgit withdrew.
A short time later, with her plump, gurgling son in her arms, Constance felt much better. She was sorry she had allowed Isabel to break her down. Of course she would say nothing to her husband. She would fight her own battles, as she always did. She had chosen to come to this part of the world because she loved George, and she wouldn't let Isabel or a legion of the bigoted, for that matter, defeat her.
She was angry with herself for having let down in front of Isabel, even for an instant. She knew Stanley's wife had seen that her cruel little strategy had succeeded. But it's the last time that shrew will ever have the satisfaction, she thought as she snuggled William on her shoulder.
"We should give some thought to buying a summer residence," Maude said. "The weather the past few months has been perfectly dreadful."
"I agree," said Stanley. "Isabel complains of the heat day and night.'' Bent over a ledger, George shot him a look as if to say Isabel was always complaining about something.
"We can certainly afford a summer cottage," Stanley went on.
"Do you have any thoughts about where we might look for one, Mother?"
"The Atlantic shore would be pleasant."
The little office was stifling. Two hours had passed since Brovnic had stormed away from the mill; Maude had just arrived for her weekly visit. She had begun those visits immediately after her husband died. Prior to that, she had never set foot on the grounds of Hazard Iron.
Stanley had discouraged her interest at first, saying it was unseemly for a woman to involve herself in commerce. When George came home, he soon deduced the real reason for Stanley's disapproval. In just a few months Maude had learned more about masters of manufacturing, inventory, and the flow of cash than her oldest son would know in a lifetime. It was that instinctive expertise that embarrassed Stanley, prodding him to put up an argument about her visits.
The arguments did no good. In her unassuming way, Maude was as tough as the Hazard iron the canal boats carried downriver to market.
Prompted by Maude's remark about the shore, George said, "Orry once told me that a lot of South Carolina planters summer at Newport."
Maude clapped her hands. "Oh, yes. Aquidneck Island. I've heard it's lovely."
Stanley was about to object to the suggestion when the door crashed open. Brovnic loomed in the opening, blowing whiskey fumes ahead of him and brandishing an old horse pistol.
Maude gasped, then held rigidly still. Simultaneously, Stanley flung himself on the floor.
"I told you!" Brovnic shouted, his body swaying, his eyes squinting down the barrel pointed at George. Without hesitation, George whipped the ink pot from his desk and flung the contents in Brovnic's face.
Dripping black liquid, Brovnic bellowed and reeled against the door frame. The pistol discharged, but Brovnic's arm had jerked upward by the time he fired. The ball plowed into the ceiling. By then George had vaulted over the rail that divided the office. He tore the pistol from Brovnic's hand and bashed him on the bridge of the nose. The enraged man groped for him with inky hands. George retreated one pace, then slammed his hobnailed boot into Brovnic's crotch.
Brovnic screamed and windmilled his arms, falling backward out the door and down the steps. Only then did George feel the onset of panic. He clutched the door frame and waved to four passing workmen.
"Grab that drunken idiot. One of you run down to the village and find the constable."
Stanley clambered to his feet. Maude had never moved. She looked at Stanley and said in a mild voice, "You should have helped your brother. He could have been killed."
Stanley reddened, too stunned to speak. For the first time his mother had chosen between her sons. It didn't bode well for the future.
By the time George returned to Belvedere that evening, Constance showed no sign of her earlier unhappiness. George chatted all through supper, obviously still excited by the violence at the mill. He had visited the injured worker at his home near the canal; the man would recover. Dr. Hopple thought his arm could be saved, though whether he would be able to do hard physical labor remained in doubt. If he could not, George would find him an easier job at Hazard's. Brovnic was locked up in the constable's office.
In the house next door, the evening meal was already over. Maude had gone outside to stroll with Billy. Virgilia was in her room. Isabel had paid her ritualized five-minute visit to the twins, Laban and Levi, and had returned to the dining room. Now she and Stanley were alone there. She was just on the point of telling him about her triumphant moment with Constance when he again mentioned the trouble in the office. Since coming home, he had talked of it briefly, then lapsed into morose silence. Maude had conversed in a lively manner but avoided the subject of the shooting.
"Mother looked at me as if I were the worst sort of coward," he said with a forlorn expression. "I can't get over it."
"Stanley, I appreciate that the incident upset you, but I've heard about it. I do wish you'd give me a chance to say —"
He flung his balled napkin in her face. "Shut up, you harpy. Are you so stupid that you can't see what's happening? George is turning Mother against us! Next thing you know, she'll give him control of the money. Then where will you be with your wasteful ways and fancy airs?"
He yelled so loudly the pendants of the chandelier tinkled. Speechless, Isabel gazed at the napkin that had struck her chin and fallen into her empty sherbet dish.
Her first reaction was to turn on her husband, savage him for this absolutely unheard-of display of temper. She quickly had second thoughts. He was only kicking her, so to speak, because his mother had kicked him. And deservedly so. Stanley was a coward. It didn't matter so long as he maintained his authority in the family.
She soon convinced herself that the person who should get the blame for this trouble was George. Pushy, arrogant little George. Today she had triumphed over George's wife, but George had put Stanley in such a state he refused to listen to an account of her victory. Of course she took satisfaction merely from knowing that Constance was feeling miserable.
But even that certainty was called into question a moment later. From the side lawn of Belvedere came the sound of merry voices. Isabel walked to the window and saw George and Constance playing lawn bowls in the late-summer dusk. They were laughing and teasing each other like a pair of children.
Stanley spoke to Isabel. She ignored him. She was staring at Maude, who was seated on the side loggia of George's house, dandling little William on her knee. Young Billy lounged close by. Isabel seethed. Maude never paid that kind of attention to Laban and Levi.
Constance looked happy. Happy. Somehow, her strength had undone the day's victory. And it was now grimly clear to Isabel that Constance and her husband were working hard to turn Maude against Stanley.
From that moment, Isabel hated the two of them even more passionately than she had before.
"Another train derailed," Constance said. "Four people killed. That's the third wreck this month." She shook her head and closed the paper.
George continued studying the architectural plans spread on the library table. Without looking up, he said, "The more miles of track that are built, and the more trains that are scheduled, the greater the chances for accidents."
"Surely that's too simple an explanation. I've heard repeatedly that half the accidents — or more — are preventable."
"Well, perhaps. There are human errors in scheduling. Bad materials used on the roadbeds and rolling stock. It would help if all the railroads settled on a uniform gauge, too."
He rose, stretched, then reached down to adjust the position of the object he kept on display on the table, as if it were some priceless antique. It was nothing more than the fragment of iron meteorite that he had found near West Point during his cadet days. He treasured it because he said it summed up the scope and meaning of his work.
She noticed that he moved the meteorite no more than a quarter of an inch. She smiled to herself.
He walked to her chair and planted a kiss on her brow. "As Orry would say, I reckon progress always has its price." "You haven't had a letter from Orry in quite a while." "Six weeks." George strolled to the window. Outside, the lights of Lehigh Station blurred behind the first gentle snowfall. "I wrote to invite him to bring all the Mains to Newport next summer."
In October, George and Stanley had visited the island in Narragansett Bay and had purchased a large, rambling house and ten acres of ground on Bath Road, within easy walking distance of a beach. A Providence architect had just submitted plans for extensive modernization of the house; these were the plans George was examining. The architect promised that the remodeling would be complete before the opening of the 1850 summer season.
"And you haven't heard from him since then?" "No."
"Is anything wrong?" "If there is, I'm not aware of it."
"Newport is a Northern resort. Do you think he'll accept the invitation?"
"I see no reason why he shouldn't. People from South Carolina still flock to the place in the summertime."
He wasn't being completely honest with his wife. Orry's infrequent letters, superficially pleasant, had a peculiar, bitter undertone. George was sensitive to it because he had known an earlier, more lighthearted Orry Main.
In the letters Orry had several times referred to his "perennial bachelorhood." He only occasionally answered George's guarded inquiries about M., and he sometimes jumped unexpectedly from a bit of innocuous news to what could only be termed a diatribe against anti-slavery forces in the North. He was particularly antagonistic toward the so-called free-soil political groups, which were seeking to ensure that new states or territories would prohibit slavery. He also referred scathingly to the Wilmot Proviso. Apparently the South would hold a grudge over that for a long time.
So, although George very much wanted to see his friend again, a part of him fretted about the eventual reunion.
In mid-December he received word that such a reunion would in fact take place. The news came on a fiercely cold day. That night George crawled into bed next to his extremely pregnant wife and, as usual, began a drowsy discussion of the day's events.
"There was a letter from Orry."
"At last! Was it cheerful?" Her voice had a breathy quality whose significance he failed to understand immediately.
"Not very. But he said he'd visit us next summer and bring as many of the others as he can persuade."
"That's — splendid," Constance gasped. "But I think — right now — you'd better issue an invitation to Dr. Hopple."
"What? It's time? This minute? My Lord — that's why you sounded so out of breath."
He scrambled out of bed and in his haste stepped into the chamber pot. Fortunately it was empty. But it upset his balance and pitched him onto his back. "Ow!"
"Oh, good heavens," she said, struggling to get up. "If you suffer and carry on this way, we'll never be able to have any more children."
At dawn she brought Patricia Flynn Hazard into the world with no great difficulty. George received the news in the library, where he sat smiling sleepily and rubbing his bandaged foot.
Billy, fourteen and growing taller every day, came home from boarding school over the Christmas holidays. He was impressed with his new niece and spent most of his time at Belvedere, even though all his belongings remained at Stanley's.
Billy was feeling adult and independent. He frequently teased his mother with threats of an imminent departure to the California gold fields. Half the nation had succumbed to the fever. Why shouldn't he?
"Because you don't need the money, young man," Maude responded on one occasion at the dinner table.
"Yes, I do. I haven't any of my own." Then, weary of the game, he ran to her chair and hugged her. "I don't really want to pan for gold."
"What do you want?"
"I want to hear about the fight at Churubusco again."
Billy never tired of listening to the story. Telling it inevitably led George into a long, rambling account of his days at West Point. He enjoyed reminiscing by a roaring fire, and it was also a good way to keep his younger brother away from Stanley and Isabel for an extra hour. Stanley had grown sullen since the shooting incident, which had lately resulted in Brovnic's imprisonment in Harrisburg. Isabel was as shrewish as ever. George deemed them bad influences. He was thankful Billy was off at school most of the year.
"Orry sounds like a fine person," Billy said after one of George's monologues about the Academy.
"He is. He's also my best friend. You'll meet him next summer, I hope."
"Does he beat his niggers?"
"Why, I don't think so."
"He owns some, doesn't he?" Billy's disapproval was evident.
George frowned as he reached for the decanter of claret. It seemed there was no avoiding the issue.
"Yes, he owns quite a few."
"Then I've changed my mind. I don't think he's as fine as you say."
George suppressed annoyance. "That's because you're almost fifteen. No one your age ever agrees with adults."
"Oh, yes, we do," Billy shot back so quickly George burst out laughing.
Billy didn't understand the joke. He went ahead doggedly. "I agree with all you say about West Point. It sounds like a wonderful place."
George sipped wine and listened to the comfortable, familiar creaks and murmurs of the house. Families ought to have traditions, and he had just conceived of a splendid one. He didn't want to promote it too directly to a headstrong adolescent, though. That would make it too easy for Billy to say no. He tiptoed around the subject:
"Oh, there were hard times. But you felt much more of a man when you survived them. There were a lot of great times, too. I made some good friends. Tom Jackson — he's teaching at a military college in Virginia. George Pickett. Good friends," he murmured again, gazing back over a short span of years that already seemed much longer. "And there's no question that West Point provides the finest scientific education available in America."
Billy grinned. "I'm more interested in fighting battles."
George thought of the bloodshed at Churubusco and Orry's arm blown away. Then you don't understand what battle is really like. His smile fading, he kept the thought to himself. He let Billy make the suggestion, which he did, with some hesitancy, a moment later:
"You know, George, I've been meaning to ask what you thought of my chances —''
George concealed his elation. "Your chances for what?"
The boy's eyes showed his admiration for his older brother. "For going through the Academy the way you did."
"Do you think you'd like that?"
"Yes, very much."
"Capital!"
Soldiering was a rough, sometimes damned unattractive trade. In the thick of the war he had found it disgusting and inhuman. He still did. Even so, a man could do no better, in this age and this nation, than to begin his adult life with West Point training. George realized he hadn't always believed that, however. The fact that he now believed it without question was another change in his character that struck him as surprising.
"Of course there's always fierce competition for the appointments," he continued. "But you wouldn't be ready to enter until — let's see — three years from now. You'd be seventeen if you enrolled with the class of 'fifty-six. Ideal. I must see whether there'll be a vacancy from the district. I'll get to work on it immediately."
And he did.
By late 1849 people along the Ashley had a saying about Orry Main: every month his beard got a little longer and his conversations a little shorter.
Orry never meant to be curt, just brief. In his head he was constantly sorting and organizing hundreds of details pertaining to the family and the operation of Mont Royal. Most of these details required him to take some action, which in turn had to be planned. Further, every week or so some kind of crisis required his intervention. Hence his time was short. He conserved it when he talked to others.
If neighbors and acquaintances took this to be a sign of a sullen streak — merely one more of those changes wrought by his war injury — that was fine with him. The reaction had a practical benefit. People didn't expect him to chatter about his personal life, nor did they press him about a subject he found infuriating.
That is, no one pressed him except his father.
Tillet was nearly fifty-five now, gout-ridden and prickly-tempered. "Damn it, boy, you're eminently marriageable," he said one night in the library. "Why do you refuse to search for a wife?"
December rain pattered on the windows. Orry sighed and laid down his pen. He had been totting up figures from a ledger, one of several he had fetched from the office. Salem Jones was responsible for keeping the ledgers, something he'd been doing ever since Tiilet's health began to break down. In them were recorded the number of barrels in each shipment to Charleston.
After the harvest, Orry had chanced to glance into the ledger for the current year. The neatly inscribed figures somehow didn't jibe with his intuitive feel for the number of rice barrels leaving the plantation. Didn't jibe with a vivid picture of many more barrels piled up on the pier — which needed two pilings replaced, he recalled. He had been meaning to jot a reminder to himself for weeks. He did so now, before turning to his father.
"May I ask what brought up a question I thought we'd settled to everyone's satisfaction?"
"To your mother's, perhaps. Not mine."
From his chair Tillet flourished the pages of Cooper's latest letter. "Your brother is squiring eligible young ladies to all those Christmas parties and balls. Of course, if he ever grew serious about a girl, her father would probably send him packing because of his wild ideas. However, your brother's marital status is of no interest to me. I cite him only as an example of what you should be doing. You— "
Tillet moved slightly, winced, and gripped his outstretched leg. A moment later he finished, "You should be wed and starting a family.''
Orry shook his head. "Too busy."
"But surely you feel the need for companionship. A vigorous man of your age always —''
Orry smiled, which gave his father leave to stop. Tillet looked relieved. Orry said, "I take care of that, don't worry."
Tillet smirked. "So I've heard from several gentlemen in the neighborhood. But women of that sort — common women or those tinctured with a drop of nigger blood — they're good for one thing only. You can't marry someone like that."
"I don't intend to. As I've said many times before" — he touched his pinned-up sleeve with his pen — "I no longer consider myself fit to marry. Now I'd like to get back to work. I've found some damned odd discrepancies, going back as far as two and a half years."
Tillet harrumphed, his equivalent of permission. His son had grown a mite gruff when he said he wasn't fit to wed. Tillet had heard the excuse often, and much as he hated to admit it, he believed there was something to it. He knew what people along the Ashley thought of Orry. They thought the war had left him a little queer in the head.
There was ample evidence to support the contention: The way Orry went about his duties at Mont Royal, as though he were driven to prove himself the equal of any uninjured man. His clothes, always too heavy and somber for the climate and mood of the low country. His brusque manner. That damn beard, so long and thick chickadees could nest in it.
Once, out by the entrance to the lane, Tillet had been returning from Charleston in his carriage at the same time Orry was riding away on some errand. Three of the gardeners, scything weeds, had stared at Orry when he cantered by. The slaves had exchanged looks; one had shaken his head, and another had actually shivered. Tillet had seen it and been saddened. His son had become a strange, even frightening figure to others.
Of course the deficiencies had to be kept in perspective. Odd as Orry might be, he pleased Tillet far more than Cooper did. Cooper had jumped right into management of the little shipping line, and he was doing well at it. But he continued to express offensive, not to say downright traitorous, opinions.
Lately there had been a lot written about several resolutions old Henry Clay planned to introduce in the Senate early next year. Clay hoped to prevent a further widening of the rift between the North and she South. The Union, thirty states strong, was delicately balanced. Fifteen states practiced slavery; the other fifteen did not. Clay wanted to throw some bones to each side. He proposed to align the new state of California on the Northern side, with the stipulation that slavery not be permitted there. Southerners would receive a pledge of noninterference with interstate slave traffic, as well as a more effective fugitive slave law.
If Tillet had been required to isolate the foremost cause of his animosity toward the North, he would instantly have named the fugitive slave issue. The fourth article of the Constitution specifically stated that a man had the right to recover any slave who ran away. It also said that laws in force in a state that did not practice slavery had no effect on this right. The Fugitive Slave Act of 1793 had been written to implement the Constitution. And ever since, the high-minded hypocrites up North had sought ways to water down or completely circumvent the law of the land.
Tillet opposed Clay's compromises. So did a great many Southern leaders, including Senator Jeff Davis of Mississippi and Senator John Calhoun. Clay did have the famous and influential Senator Webster on his side. But he was opposed by various abolitionist hatchet men, Senator Seward of New York being perhaps the most extreme. For once Tillet was grateful to that crowd.
Cooper believed the much-debated compromises were reasonable and badly needed. In Tillet's opinion, what was badly needed was a horsewhipping for Cooper.
While those thoughts were passing through Tillet's mind, Orry was recalling his father's remark about people in the neighborhood knowing he carried on with women. He was delighted to hear that. It meant his plan had worked. Over the past year he had taken a succession of mistresses, the latest a mulatto seamstress he had met on a visit to Charleston. He took pains to keep this activity discreet, but not secret.
The women gave him the one thing that Madeline, by the terms of their agreement, could not. But he wouldn't have entered into the affairs just to fulfill that need, although Tillet obviously thought otherwise. Orry took up with various women so that people would notice and would therefore be less likely to connect each occasional unexplained absence from Mont Royal with Madeline's absences from Resolute on the same day. Protecting her from suspicion was almost as important as seeing her regularly.
Pleased that the deception was successful, Orry went back to the ledgers. He had stumbled onto something with a decidedly fishy odor, and he concentrated on it for the next half hour while Tillet dozed into a gleeful dream-fantasy in which a mob stoned Senator Seward.
A sound like a pistol shot jerked Tillet awake; Orry had closed a ledger with a snap. He stood with the book clutched in his hand.
Tillet rubbed his eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Plenty. We've been harboring a thief. He's repaid your trust and kindness with deceit. I never liked the bastard. I'm going to get rid of him right now."
"Who?" Tillet said, still sleepy and confused.
At the door Orry turned. "Jones."
"But — I hired him. You can't just throw him out."
"I beg to differ sir," Orry said in a voice so low and hard that the older man could barely hear it above the sound of the rain. "I'm in charge of this plantation now. You'll agree with my decision when I show you the proof. But even if you don't, Jones is through."
Orry stared at his father. Not angrily, just steadily. The beard, the eyes, the tall, gaunt frame, and the empty sleeve — they had a queer effect on Tillet all at once. He felt he was arguing with a stranger, and a frightening one at that.
"Whatever you say," he murmured. His son gave a crisp little nod and went out.
Orry walked to the overseer's house with the ledgers clutched under his arm and an old cloak belling behind him. Rain collected in his hair and beard. He took long, swift strides and was so intent on his errand that he didn't notice Cousin Charles lounging on the dark porch of one of the slave cabins.
Jones was asleep. Orry roused him with shouts, then confronted him in the kitchen of his immaculate house. The surprise visit had upset the overseer. Sweat shone on his bald head, and there were dark patches of it on his nightshirt. He had brought his quirt and hickory truncheon from the bedroom. Evidently he slept with them.
"It was a simple scheme, wasn't it?" Orry said. He hurled the ledgers onto the kitchen table. A look of panic spread on Jones's face. "In the permanent record of each shipment you put a short total. As many as a dozen barrels less than the number actually loaded on the boat. But our factors pay us for the number of barrels received. Since you kept the books on those transactions too, all you had to do was record a sum that matched the short total in the snipping ledger and pocket the excess. Last time I was in Charleston, I examined the factor's records. They prove that, over and over, the factors paid us more than you showed us receiving."
Jones gulped and pressed his truncheon against his pot belly, as if seized by pain. "You can't prove I'm responsible for the discrepancy."
"Maybe not in a court, though I think I could make a strong case. Until I came home from Mexico, no one handled those records except you and my father, who regrettably grew weak, and a little too trusting. I hardly suppose my father would cheat himself."
"No matter what you say, you still won't be able to prove —"
"Stop prattling about proof. I don't need the verdict of a jury in order to discharge you. It's my decision, and I've made it."
"It's unfair," Jones exclaimed. "I've given everything to this plantation."
Orry's face looked ugly in the lamplight. Points of fire showed in his eyes. "You've taken a lot as well."
"I'm not a young man, Mr. Main. I beg you to give me another chan —''
"No."
"It will take me" — Jones laid the quirt down — "at least a week to gather my belongings."
"You'll vacate this house by daylight. I'll order the drivers to burn anything that's still here in the morning."
"Goddamn you," Jones cried, the shadow of his upraised hickory truncheon flying across the wall and then the ceiling. As he started to hit Orry's forehead, Orry turned sideways, the better to use his right hand. He seized Jones's wrist and held the truncheon above them.
"I'm not one of the slaves, Mr. Jones. If you raise your voice or your hand to me once more, I'll see that you travel downriver on a stretcher."
Shaking, he tore the truncheon from Jones's hand and jammed it under his arm. With a swift, scooping motion he picked up the ledgers and strode toward the door. He barely saw Cousin Charles, who was leaning against one of the foundation's tabby pillars, an excited, almost worshipful expression on his face.
"What's going on?" Charles asked. "Did Jones do something wrong?"
The rain had turned to light mist. Orry walked down from the porch, the thud of his boots muffling his brusque answer. Cousin Charles thought Orry hadn't bothered to reply. The excited look on his face was replaced by one of resentment.
Cousin Charles lay naked beside Semiramis. Her smooth, warm skin radiated the faintly sweaty odor of their recent lovemaking.
In the darkness the girl heard an ominous sound begin. Thunk, thunk. Each blow was preceded by a violent movement of Cousin Charles's body. With his bowie knife he was repeatedly stabbing the plank wall to the right of the pallet.
He always fooled with that big knife when he was angry. Surely he wasn't angry with her. They had blended together just fine, as they always did — though, come to think of it, his thrusts had been unusually deep and rough.
Semiramis stretched her arms above her head but experienced no feeling of sleepiness. Charles continued to whack the wall with the knife. It was nearly an hour since he had crept in to tell her he had met Mr. Orry. Now the slave community was buzzing with news that Salem Jones had been ordered to leave. Lamps burned throughout the overseer's fancy house. He was packing right now. From out of the misty dark, Semiramis heard laughter and little snatches of happy conversation. Folks were awake and joyous. For weeks to come the whole place would have a feeling of jubilee.
The news about Jones had had that effect on Semiramis, too. She had been in a splendid, receptive mood by the time the strapping fourteen-year-old mounted her. Charles never failed to satisfy her, but tonight her pleasure had been heightened because of Jones, and because the boy had come back to her again. She had been the first to show him what men and women did together, and no matter how many white girls he fooled with, he always came back. Lately, so she had heard, he had been sniffing around one of the Smith girls. Sue Marie Smith, that was her name. A pretty little thing, but too polite for a cub as lusty as this one.
Thunk. The wall vibrated. She took his free hand and pulled it over on top of her bristly mound. He jerked it back.
"Lord," she said with a small, forced laugh. "Who you so mad at?"
"Orry. He looks through me like I was a window. He doesn't know I'm alive. Or care."
Thunk.
"Mmm. You must hate him 'bout as much as I hate his poppa for showing off my brother like a chicken thief. I guess I was wrong about Mr. Orry."
"What do you mean?"
"I kind of had the idea you liked him."
Cousin Charles snickered. "Would you like somebody who thought you were worthless? Just dirt?"
So many white faces shunted through her mind she couldn't keep track of all of them. "No, sweet boy, I surely wouldn't."
"Then don't expect me to, either."
Thunk. That time he struck so hard the blade hummed.
"I think you were glad to discharge Jones," Madeline said the next time she met Orry at the chapel.
"The devil! I didn't engineer it, you know."
"Don't bristle so, darling. Of course you didn't. But my point stands."
She laid a cool palm against his cheek. "I know you by now. You already have too much work, yet you keep taking on more. Jones could have been let go in a week, or a month. But you were eager to add his work to your own immediately." She kissed him gently. "You look worn out. You're not indestructible, you know."
He felt as if she had shone a great light down into a pit within him, a pit where he hid thoughts and feelings of which he was ashamed. Her perception angered him. But, as always, he could never be angry with her for long. Perhaps — the insight came suddenly — perhaps love existed in its truest, deepest form when one partner saw into the soul of the other and never shrank from what was discovered there.
He managed a weary laugh. "I reckon you've found my secret. Hard work and these visits are the only things that keep me sane."
She looked beyond the smile to the pain in his eyes. She heard the desperate truth of his statement. She held him close, saying nothing.
On January 29, 1850, Senator Clay introduced his eight resolutions in Congress.
They had already been hotly argued at Resolute. Two of Justin's uncles, both prosperous tradesmen in Columbia, had been ostracized by the low-country LaMottes because the two had sat at Justin's table and said the South should never be too hidebound to compromise. Especially since the national balance of power continued to swing away from the region; in the House only 90 of 234 members represented slave states.
For days Justin ranted about the heresy his uncles had propounded. Madeline's husband couldn't tolerate opinions that ran counter to traditional thinking, his thinking. It was one of the reasons she often dreamed about running away.
Several things deterred her. She continued to believe that such a course would be dishonorable. More practically, if she fled, she would have to go alone; she couldn't ask Orry to share her disgrace. But that meant she'd never see him again. This way at least she saw him every week or so.
Another reason, nearly as compelling, had emerged gradually over the past couple of years. When Madeline had first arrived at Resolute, she had been a city girl. The intricacies of plantation life were foreign to her. But she was determined to master them. And even though she quickly became disillusioned with her marriage, her determination was undiminished. If anything it increased, for she soon saw that Resolute needed a moderating influence. Someone to work quietly to protect the interests of the blacks wherever possible and to make their unconscionable bondage a bit less harsh.
She conspired with the kitchen help to funnel extra food to the slave community. She took small sums of money from her household accounts and saved them until she had enough to buy better clothing or additional medicines for the sick house. She learned to diagnose common ailments and to treat them with simple traditional remedies, all of which was part of her duty as Justin's wife, and tried to mitigate unusually severe punishments her husband meted out, which was not.
After his quarrels with his uncles, for example, he was itching to find someone to kick — and not just figuratively. He picked on Tom, a fourteen-year-old house boy. The boy had neglected to polish some of the hallway brasswork to Justin's satisfaction.
In response to Justin's questions, the terrified boy offered only mumbled answers. This led Justin to accuse Tom of being uppity. He issued orders that the boy be given twenty blows of the whip. Madeline protested; she always protested his cruelties. As usual, Justin ignored her. He walked away, passing off a snide remark about feminine sensibilities. A few minutes later, Madeline hurried to the slave community to locate the black driver responsible for carrying out the sentence.
It was a delicate business. If she countermanded Justin's order, she would place the driver in jeopardy. All she could do was ask the driver, a huge ebony man named Samuel, to lighten the strokes as much as he could without incurring punishment himself.
"I will, but they's worse I'm to do to the boy," Samuel said. "Mist' Justin told me to pour a bucket on his wounds."
"A bucket of what?"
The humiliated driver looked away.
"Did you hear me, Samuel? What is the bucket to contain?"
"Turp'tine."
"Oh, my God." She pressed her mouth. "That's liable to kill him."
A sorrowing shrug. "Mist' Justin, he was mighty mad. I got to do it."
She laced her hands together at her breast, thinking. "If someone hands you that bucket, Samuel, you're not responsible for what it contains."
He peered at her, starting to understand. "You right, Miz Madeline." He wanted to smile but didn't dare.
"I'll fetch the bucket of turpentine myself. I'll give it to you, and you can then do with it as you must. Just make certain we don't have a crowd of witnesses who might tell my husband what they did or did not smell in that bucket."
"No, ma'am, won't be nobody watchin'. Mist' Justin don't require that,"
So Tom was whipped, rather than being whipped and tortured. It wasn't much of a victory for Madeline or the boy. But she knew that if she ran away from Resolute, there would be no victories at all.
Much of what Madeline knew about plantation life and a responsible woman's place in it she learned from half a dozen neighbors, the most important being Clarissa Main. Although from different backgrounds, the two women were temperamentally similar. And perhaps Clarissa sensed something of her son's feeling for Justin's wife. At any rate, Clarissa spent hours with Madeline at Mont Royal, patiently teaching.
Among the things Madeline learned was midwifery. Early in February, around ten o'clock on a moonlit night, she was called to the slave community to attend a field wench named Jane. It was Jane's first baby and Madeline's tenth.
Several black women were gathered in Jane's cabin. Madeline knelt and let the pregnant girl clutch her hands as the spasms shook her. Another woman had knelt there first, but Jane had refused her help. Madeline was the trusted one, the mistress. Whatever healing power that conferred, she was glad to share it.
She helped tie Jane's ankles in position, then watched the ancient midwife. Aunt Belle Nin, manipulate her wood forceps. At less complicated deliveries, Madeline was in charge. This time, because of difficulties, she deferred to Aunt Belle, who had been specially summoned. The baby was badly positioned. But Aunt Belle turned it smartly with the forceps and soon brought it popping into the nippy air.
Aunt Belle Nin was a stringy octoroon of sixty-five, perhaps seventy. She lived far back in the marshes, alone, and rode out to help with difficult confinements when she was needed. She took her pay in food, bolts of cloth, and snuff for her cheek. Now she fondled the damp, cocoa-colored newborn as if it were her own.
"He'll do just fine," she said. "I should know. I've survived hell, hurricanes, and husbands. If I can do that, think of what this youngster can do."
Madeline glanced around the mean cabin. It had been years since a coat of whitewash was applied to the walls. She wondered why any woman would bring a child into the world if that child could only spend its life in enforced poverty and servitude. Of late she had begun to have a fuller understanding of what the abolitionists were after and why.
Jane wanted Madeline to hold the baby, which she did, thinking how much she would like Orry to see the child. Later, as she was about to leave, a bent, wrinkled woman with sorrowful eyes made an imploring gesture. Madeline stopped.
"I be the mother of little Tom. The one whipped for being uppity.''
"Oh, yes. I hope he's all right."
"He be better. He never be all right. He be marked on his back all his life. Samuel —" She pressed her lips together, briefly fearful. "Samuel tole me what you done. I thank you, Miz Madeline. You a good Christian woman."
Madeline was startled to hear murmurs of agreement. Among those who were behind her, listening, was Aunt Belle Nin. After firing up her clay pipe, Aunt Belle spoke.
"They all say that of you, mistress. I watched you tonight. I think they're right. If ever you have a problem I could help with, you can find me."
"Thank you, Aunt Belle."
Gratified, she hurried back to the great house, where she found Justin examining a book of lithographs of race horses. The slaves might respect her, but he didn't. That was again evident as soon as she told him where she'd been.
"Well," he said, "how charmingly domestic you're becoming. You can deliver nigger babies. What a pity you can't manage to deliver one of your own."
She turned away, appalled and hurt. He sensed that and went on to compound the hurt.
"Perhaps you need special assistance. Should I select one of the bucks and put him at stud? You seem to have an affinity for darkies. You certainly have none for me."
Fury replaced the pain. "Justin, I have made a conscientious effort to be a good wife to you in every respect. You mustn't keep blaming me because I don't get pregnant." Maybe you should blame yourself.
He flung one leg over the fragile arm of the Sheraton chair. "Why not? You're never very lively on those occasions when we try to perpetuate this branch of the family. The occasions are getting less and less frequent, although I suppose I bear some responsibility for that. You see, I avoid you by choice. Your fondness for niggers is beginning to bore me. Good night, my love."
He returned to his book.
It had been only a week since she was at Salvation Chapel, but the next morning, desperately unhappy, she paid a visit to Mont Royal so that Nancy could deliver a message to Orry.
"Do you think he knows about us?" Orry asked when they met at the chapel the following afternoon. It was a bright, balmy day, not unusual for February in the low country. Orry had discarded his coat and cravat.
Madeline shook her head. "If he did, we wouldn't be wondering. Justin isn't the kind to suffer in silence."
Orry absently tapped a finger against the book he had brought. "Then why is he going out of his way to make you miserable?"
"Because there are no children. That's the current reason, anyway. Justin's one of those poor, wretched people who are always unhappy. But instead of examining his own mind to learn why, he blames some person or cause outside himself — and lashes out. Sometimes I wish he did know about us. Then I could be honest about my feelings. For him and for you."
She had been pacing, but now she stopped. Orry was seated on the tabby foundation, his muddy boots dangling into the brown grass. Madeline crooked her arm around his neck and kissed him.
"I do thank you for coming today. I couldn't stand Resolute one moment longer."
The second kiss was more intense. Then she smoothed her skirt and walked toward the edge of the marsh. As she always did during their meetings, she began to describe incidents of the past few days. The birth of Jane's son. The whipping of Tom. That brought her feelings about slavery to the surface. She usually avoided the topic, knowing how he felt. Today she couldn't.
"I think Southerners would somehow view the system differently if they could see through the slaves' eyes, so to speak." She turned from the sunlit marsh and gazed at him with an earnest expression. "How would you feel watching a man put handcuffs and ankle chains on your mother and turn her over to someone who was going to tell her what to do until the day she died?"
Orry's frown hinted at irritation. "My mother is a white woman. The boy you helped is an African."
"Does that justify the crime? Does it even explain it satisfactorily? Tom may be an African, but can you deny he's also a human being?"
"And I am now a criminal in your eyes?"
For a moment he sounded like Justin, implying she had no right to discuss the subject. She controlled a flare of temper and hurried back to him, trying to answer calmly and without animosity:
"I'm not accusing you of anything, my darling. I only want you to see things clearly. You're more reasonable than —" She was about to say "your father" but hastily changed course. "— than most. There is such terrible illogic in the South's attitude about the whole system. You hand a man a new shirt every Christmas but deprive him of his liberty, and you expect him to be grateful. You expect the world to applaud!"
"Madeline, you're talking about a man who is —"
"Inferior." She held up both hands. "I've heard that excuse a thousand times. I simply don't believe it. There are black men on Resolute with better minds than Justin's —they're just not permitted or encouraged to use them. But let that go. Assume for a second that there is some truth in the excuse and whites are, in some inexplicable fashion, superior. How does that justify robbing a man of his freedom? Shouldn't it instead create an obligation to help him succeed because he's less fortunate? Wouldn't that be the Christian response?"
"Damned if I know." Orry rose and slapped the slender book against his thigh. "You get me mightily confused with all this talk."
"I'm sorry."
She wasn't, though. She was pleased. Orry wasn't attempting to deny or refute her arguments. That might mean he was thinking about them. Perhaps she'd never be able to convince him that slavery was wrong, but if she could plant a doubt or two, she would consider it an accomplishment.
He was silent for a time. Then he shrugged. "I'm not smart enough to thread my way through all those arguments. Besides, I thought we were going to read."
He showed her the gold-stamped spine of the book that had arrived on yesterday's boat from Charleston: The Raven and Other Poems.
Madeline arranged her skirts and sat beside him. "E. A. Poe. Francis LaMotte's wife mentioned him last week. She read a couple of his fantastic tales and absolutely hated them. She said he belonged in a lunatic asylum."
For the first time that day, Orry laughed. "Typical reaction to a Yankee author. I'm afraid there's no chance of locking him up. He died last year in Baltimore. He was only forty, but a notorious drunkard. There have been some articles about him in the Southern Literary Messenger. He was the editor for a while. What's interesting to me is his West Point background."
"Was he a cadet?"
"For one term. The fall of 1830, I think. Apparently he had a brilliant future. He was in the first section of every course. But something went wrong, and he was court-martialed for gross neglect of duty. Just prior to his dismissal, he was spending nearly all his time at Benny Haven's."
"Drinking?"
"I suppose — though the real attraction at Benny's has always been the food. You wouldn't understand how a plate of fried eggs could taste like heaven. You've never dined in the cadet mess hall."
A soft note of reminiscence had come into his voice. His gaze rested somewhere above the marsh. How much he misses it, she thought, and slipped her arm through his. She always sat on his right side so that she wouldn't accidentally call attention to his loss.
"Anyway" — he opened the book — "I'm no judge of poetry, but I do like some of these. They have a strange, marvelous music in them. Shall we start with this one?"
The title of the verse was "Annabel Lee." She began:
Her pause at the end of the line was his cue to read.
By now they were comfortable reading poetry aloud. They had started a couple of months ago, when Orry had surprised her by bringing a book. Some of the poetry wasn't very good, but they enjoyed the ritual, and once again today, responding to the verse, she felt a quiver of desire.
The physical reaction had startled her the first time it happened. Now she looked forward to it with delicious anticipation. The soft alternation of their voices took on a kind of sexual rhythm, as if they were possessing each other, making love to each other, in the only way that was possible. Each of them held the book; the back of her left hand brushed his knuckles. The contact seemed to generate heat all through her. She turned slightly so that she could look at him while they read on.
The anonymous lover in the poem lost his Annabel Lee. They experienced that loss as the stanzas swept on toward a climax. Her voice grew husky.
Orry's voice quickened the pace.
Her eyes flickered back and forth from the page to his face. Under her layers of clothing her breasts ached. Her loins felt molten.
She stumbled and had to glance down hastily in order to finish the line.
"My life, and my bride —"
" 'In the sepulcher there by the sea,' " he read. " 'In her tomb by the sounding sea.' "
He closed the book and gripped her hand. They sat in silence, gazing at each other. Then, no longer able to restrain herself, she flung her arms around his neck with a little cry and brought her open mouth to his.
Orry rode home in the early dusk of the February afternoon. He felt as he always did after meeting Madeline. Their time together was never long enough. And reading poetry was no substitute for loving her properly, as God had intended when he designed man and woman.
Today they had gone to the brink, almost surrendered to the hunger overwhelming them. Only extreme restraint, a herculean struggle to master their emotions, had kept them from tumbling into the brown grass beside the chapel foundation. Because they had come so close, Orry felt more lonely and frustrated than ever as he swung up the lane and turned his horse over to one of the house servants. The slave smiled and greeted him. Orry answered with a curt nod. What was the nigra really thinking? You hand me a shirt every Christmas and rob me of my liberty and expect me to kiss your hand. I'd sooner break it off. Damn Madeline for filling his head with doubts and questions about the system he had accepted as moral and proper for most of his life.
He stalked into the library and flung back the draperies to admit the faint rays of the sunset. It was torment to keep seeing her, and torment to think of giving her up. What was he to do?
He poured a heavy drink of whiskey. The last light was going. One by one highlights disappeared from the brasswork of his Army sword scabbard, which hung from a clothes stand he had placed in a corner. His dark blue uniform coat was draped over the stand. Not the coat he was wearing when his arm got blown off, needless to say; this one had both sleeves. The brass buttons, as well as the pommel of his sheathed sword, had a greenish cast, he noticed. Here and there patches of mold speckled the coat.
He sank into his favorite chair, brooding over the mementos. He ought to get rid of them. They were constant reminders of his thwarted ambition. They were slowly going to ruin, just like his own life. They had no purpose, and neither did he. They existed, that was all.
God, if only that day at Churubusco had been different. If only he had visited New Orleans when he was younger and chanced on Madeline there. If only! Somewhere there had to be an antidote for the poison of "if only." But what was it?
He stumbled to the cabinet to fill his glass a second time. Upstairs his sisters were quarreling. They always seemed to be these days. They had reached the right age. He shut the windows and sat drinking and listening to the sound of phantom drums. Finally the uniform faded away in the dark.
Clarissa opened the door around eleven and discovered him passed out on the floor. Two servants carried him to his bed.
Although Ashton and Brett had reached adolescence, they still shared a spacious bedroom on the second floor. Ashton, fourteen and already a fully developed, flamboyantly beautiful young woman, constantly complained about the arrangement. Why did she have to surrender her privacy? Why did she have to live with, as she put it, "a twelve-year-old baby who's still flat as a board?"
Tonight the room was exceptionally warm. Ashton, who slept in the bed nearest the window, kept muttering about her discomfort. Kept puffing her pillow noisily, and pressing the back of her wrist to her damp forehead, and sighing.
Finally, drowsy and irritated, her sister said: "Oh, for heaven's sake, hush up and let me sleep."
"I can't. I'm tight as a drum inside."
"Ashton, I don't understand you sometimes."
"Naturally not," her sister huffed. "You're just a baby. Baby white skin and baby white bloomers. You'll probably be like that till you're an old woman."
"Ooo," Brett said, and flung a pillow. Of all the insults Ashton heaped on her, none bothered her more than references to her failure thus far to show a single sign of what some called woman's curse of shame. Once a month Ashton pranced around the room to be sure her sister saw her stained pantalets. This never failed to humiliate Brett, as did her lack of physical development.
Of course she wasn't sure she wanted to grow up. Not if it meant she must roil her eyes and act sugary and coy around every man under thirty. She was positive she didn't want to grow up if it meant cozying up to someone like lawyer Huntoon.
The thought of him gave Brett one of her few opportunities for reprisal. In imitation of her sister's sweetest manner, she said, "I should think you would be blissfully happy tonight. James Huntoon is calling tomorrow — he and all those politicians Papa's been hobnobbing with lately. You fancy Mr. Huntoon, don't you?"
Ashton threw the pillow right back. "I think he's a toad, and you know it. He's an old man. Twenty, nearly. This is how I feel about him."
She stuck out her tongue and retched four times.
Brett hugged the pillow to her stomach, overcome with laughter. In the low country, parents still decided which young men were suitable companions for their daughters, Ashton was old enough to have several beaux, but so far Huntoon was the only one who had received Tillet Main's permission to call.
Brett wanted to continue the teasing, but a noise from outside drew both girls to the window. United by their curiosity, they watched a ghostly figure on horseback gallop up the lane, flash through a patch of moonlight, and disappear in the direction of the stable.
"That was Cousin Charles," Brett said in an awed voice.
" 'Course it was," Ashton said. "He must have been off sparking Sue Marie Smith. Either that or one of the nigger wenches." The idea made Brett blush.
Ashton giggled. "If Whitney Smith ever finds out that his cousin Sue Marie is fooling with Charles, there'll be the devil to pay. Sue Marie and Whitney are engaged."
"When are you and Huntoon announcing your engagement?"
Ashton yanked her sister's hair. "When hell freezes!"
Brett threw a grazing punch at Ashton's shoulder, then retreated lo her bed. Ashton faced the moonlit window, rubbing her palms back and forth across her stomach and wrinkling her nightgown in what Brett considered a perfectly shameless way.
"I guess Sue Marie can't help herself with Cousin Charles. Or any boy. They say her drawers are as hot as a basket of Fourth of July squibs. I know how she feels," Ashton concluded with a soulful sigh. "You wouldn't, though."
Brett punched her pillow and turned away, more hurt than angry. Ashton eclipsed her in wit, and beauty, and accomplishments. No doubt she always would.
Ashton had more courage, too. She took chances. In that way she was a lot like Cousin Charles. Maybe lawyer Huntoon would tame her down. Brett hoped so. She liked her sister, she supposed, but sometimes Ashton's antics just plain wore her out.
James Huntoon wore round spectacles and an invisible mantle of righteousness. Although he was only six years older than Ashton, he already displayed jowls and the beginning of a paunch. The facial fat spoiled a countenance that was otherwise handsome.
Huntoon's family had been in the state a long time, but it lacked about fifty years of being as old as that of the Mains. The first Huntoon in Carolina, an immigrant who could neither read nor write, had settled in the hills up country. A member of the next generation had discovered that being an ignorant dirt farmer in the midlands was not the path to prominence and had removed to the coast, where sharp dealing and some lucky land acquisitions had generated substantial wealth within two more generations. The Huntoons intermarried with several distinguished families and in this way gradually acquired a pedigree.
Most of the family acreage was gone now, a casualty of the same peril that had ruined the LaMottes — bad management coupled with a too-lavish style of living. James Huntoon's elderly parents subsisted on the charity of relatives. They occupied the family's run-down plantation house, attended by five Negroes too old to find other purchasers. It had been clear to James from very early in life that if he wanted to survive and prosper, he could not live on the land.
Fortunately the Huntoons still possessed an impressive set of friends and acquaintances; in South Carolina the fact that a family had lost its wealth did not necessarily destroy its social standing. Only unacceptable behavior was certain to do that. So James knew all the right people to call on when he set out to make his way in Charleston. He read law in one of the leading firms and had recently established his own practice in the city.
Tillet thought most of the Huntoon clan unworthy of notice; while members of other important families worried about the state's future, the Huntoons nattered about the past and behaved as if the crushing problems of the present didn't exist. But Tillet sensed potential in James, even if the young man did disdain the hard work sometimes demanded of a lawyer. Certainly Huntoon's contacts throughout the state gave him every chance for success.
Huntoon also liked politics and was an effective orator. Philosophically, he was aligned with those who were eager to see the state and the region assert independence in an increasingly hostile world. One such was Robert Barnwell Rhett, the influential editor of the Charleston Mercury. Huntoon's mother was related to Rhett by marriage.
Huntoon had first seen Ashton last winter at a theater in Charleston. Clarissa had brought her daughters to town for the social season, and the family had occupied a box for a performance by the noted actor Frederic Stanhope Hill. He routinely included Charleston on his tours, as did most theatrical luminaries.
The moment the young lawyer set eyes on Ashton Main, he was struck by a consuming lust. She was lovely and, though still young, already voluptuous. Huntoon sent a card to Clarissa requesting permission to call whenever the parents deemed their daughter was of suitable age.
Several months and one birthday went by before Clarissa responded with a short, polite letter. Other girls began receiving callers at fourteen, so she and Tillet would not gainsay Ashton. But she put the would-be suitor on notice. "My husband agrees with the low-country maxim which states that a woman's name should appear in the papers twice only — once when she marries and once when she dies. I mention this so as to completely inform you about his attitude toward improper behavior of any kind."
Duly warned, Huntoon initiated his courtship with traditional gifts — flowers first, then kid gloves and French chocolates. He had now progressed to visiting alone with Ashton indoors for short periods. To be alone with her elsewhere — to go riding without a chaperone, for example — was as yet out of the question. Huntoon did his best to bridle his lust. One day, if everything went just right, that splendid body would be his.
He had to admit Ashton frightened him a little. She wasn't outwardly unconventional, yet she possessed a saucy boldness not typical of girls of her age and station. He did admire her regal air, which some called arrogance. He admired Tillet Main's wealth, too.
As for the others in the family, he was unimpressed. Clarissa was a harmless old soul, and Ashton's little sister horridly drab. Huntoon shrank from any contact with Orry — a one-armed ghoul — and as for Cooper Main, who went strutting about Charleston as if he actually had some right to call himself a Southerner, Huntoon believed he should be run out of the state on a rail. The four gentlemen who had accompanied Huntoon to Mont Royal this morning shared that view. One was Rhett of the Mercury.
"The convention has been called for June," Huntoon said to their host. "In Nashville. Delegates from all the Southern states will attend for the purpose of appraising Senator Clay's resolutions and determining a common response."
"June, eh?" Tillet scratched his chin. "Won't they vote on the resolutions by then?"
Another of the visitors chuckled. "I wouldn't say it's likely given the present split in the Congress."
Huntoon's lips pursed, an unconscious reaction to the scrutiny he was receiving from Orry, whom Tillet had somehow persuaded to come to this meeting. Orry demonstrated his reluctance by sitting slouched in a comer with his legs crossed, a silent observer.
Why was the damned ghoul watching him? Orry had nothing to say about his sister's beaux. Huntoon concluded that the attention was a product of simple dislike. It was mutual.
"Should this Nashville meeting be held at all?" Tillet questioned. "You told me it isn't an official convention of the party —"
Rhett stood suddenly. The fifty-year-old editor dominated the gathering, as he usually dominated any he attended. "Tillet, my friend, you've been away from public affairs too long."
"Busy making a living, Robert."
The others laughed. Rhett continued, "You know as well as I that for twenty years and more our adversaries have preached a doctrine of animosity toward the South. They have injured our sensibilities with their lies and systematically robbed us with their peculiar tax on Southern agriculture, the tariff. What's more, many of our worst enemies can be found within the ranks of the Democratic party. Hence the party in South Carolina has slowly withdrawn, until it can be said that we are merely in sometime alliance with the national organization rather than active members of it. In no other way can we express our antipathy for the party's views and practices."
Orry spoke up at last. "But if we don't like the way the party's doing things, isn't it easier to change that from the inside than from the outside?"
Rhett looked askance. "Mr. Main, I consider the question unworthy of any man born and raised in this state. In the South, for that matter. One does not compromise with sworn enemies. We have been subjected to Northern aggressions for twenty-five years. To right that situation, wouldn't we be foolish to appeal to the very men who have caused it? We can redress grievances only by following one road: that leading to independence."
Calhoun was dying, and many said the legislators had already chosen Rhett to replace him in the Senate. Tillet could understand why. He was irked to note that his son looked unimpressed, dubious even.
"Personally," Rhett added, "I too see little need for this Nashville convention, since I find the whole idea of compromise poisonous. But I'll support the convention for the sake of Southern unity."
"With all due respect to my distinguished relative," Huntoon said with one of his waspish little smiles, "some of the rest of us, although in favor of a self-reliant South, are not quite ready to go along with what you and the Mercury are propounding these days."
With a bleak expression, Orry said, "Dissolution of the Union." "Precisely," said Rhett, who reminded Orry of a victorious gamecock just then.
Orry glanced away, unmistakably disapproving. Two of the visitors signaled Huntoon with their eyes, for Tillet was looking skeptical too. Huntoon suppressed lewd thoughts of Ashton, whom he had not yet seen, hastily crossed his legs, and seized control of the conversation. "We have come here not to discuss that subject, Tillet, but to ask your support for the Nashville convention. To ask for it in a very tangible fashion, in fact. You have recently expressed interest in once again involving yourself in state affairs." A guarded nod from the older man. Huntoon pressed on. "The South Carolina delegation will incur expenses traveling to Tennessee and for meals and lodging while the convention deliberates. We thought —"
That's why they're here, Orry said to himself. Money. He heard no more of the conversation. He had agreed to attend the meeting as a favor to his father. He now regretted the decision.
Tillet was soon won over. He promised to donate five hundred dollars to help underwrite the delegation. Disgusted, Orry continued to stare out the window. Someone knocked. He fairly leaped to answer and gladly excused himself and slipped outside in response to his sister's whispered summons.
"What's wrong, Ashton?"
Brett came rushing up behind her sister. Both girls were wide-eyed with fright.
"It's Cousin Charles," Ashton said. "He's in awful trouble. There's a man here demanding he give satisfaction in a duel."
We can't find Cousin Charles anywhere," Brett said as the three of them rushed outdoors. "That's why Ashton interrupted your meeting."
Orry stomped along the piazza toward the visitor waiting beside his horse. "Most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Cousin Charles has no business fighting duels. He's just a boy."
"I don't think that'll make a mite of difference to the gentleman," Ashton said breathlessly. Orry decided she was right. Icy pride and hostility showed in the exaggerated way the young dandy tipped his out-of-style beaver hat.
"Your servant, Mr. Main. My name is Smith Dawkins."
"I know who you are. State your business."
"Why, sir, I thought these young ladies might have communicated the nature of it. I am here as a representative and kinsman of Mr. Whitney Smith, who last evening came upon Mr. Charles Main of this plantation dallying with his fiancee Miss Sue Marie Smith. The gentlemen exchanged words and Mr. Main struck a blow, whereupon Mr. Smith demanded satisfaction. I am here to make the arrangements. I presume you are authorized to act as Mr. Main's second?"
"I'm authorized to do nothing of the kind. What you're proposing is against the law."
Dawkins fairly dripped contempt. "You know as well as I, sir — the code duello is widely practiced despite South Carolina law."
The young whelp was springing a trap, and a damnable one. Cousin Charles couldn't avoid the trap unless he wanted to appear cowardly. Of course, by saving his face and his honor, he might lose his life. That was what made the code so idiotic. If Mr. Smith Dawkins had seen Churubusco, he wouldn't court death so blithely.
The visitor jammed his hat onto his head. "If you could possibly direct me to Mr. Main's second or, barring that, to the gentleman himself —"
Orry sighed and gave up. "I don't know where to find Charles right now. I'll act as second."
"Very good, sir."
"I suppose we'll have to travel all the way to the other side of the Savannah River to avoid prosecution?"
"My party promises absolute discretion and no witnesses other than family members. If you can give a similar assurance, there is no need for the meeting to take place in another state."
Considering the size of the Smith clan, the witnesses could number in the hundreds. Orry let that pass, however. He gave a brusque nod of agreement. "Go on."
They talked for another five minutes, settling on conventional dueling pistols the following Tuesday morning, just after sunrise. The site was to be a clearing known as Six Oaks, two miles up the river.
Pleased, young Dawkins tipped his hat once more and rode away. Orry looked thunderous as he left the porch to find Charles and convey the bad news.
The two girls had watched the scene from behind one of the columns. Ashton started to call to Orry as he left. Brett jerked her sister's arm and put a warning finger to her lips. For once Ashton took someone's advice.
Orry decided to say nothing about the duel to Clarissa and Tillet. His mother would worry, and his father would probably want to watch. Orry hoped to keep the meeting low-key, if possible. More important, he wanted to conclude it without injury to Charles.
At this time of the morning the boy could usually be found loitering near the kitchen where he cadged grits or a slab of fresh cornbread. But none of the kitchen slaves had seen him today. Orry headed for the stable, deciding it would be easier to search on horseback. Distantly, a shot rang out.
He changed direction and walked rapidly down the road to the slave cabins. Behind him, several of the kitchen women speculated about the reason for his furious expression.
Orry flung one leg over the split-rail fence, then the other. On the far side of the field of stubble, Cousin Charles was practicing the measured step of a duelist pacing away from an opponent. From his right hand hung a huge, rusty pistol Orry had never seen before.
Orry stood motionless until Charles took his tenth step and pivoted. The boy swept the pistol up with a wild, jerky motion. As he turned, he saw Orry by the fence, his beard and his pinned-up shirt sleeve flapping in the breeze. Charles's eyes flew wide, but he completed his turn and fired.
The puff of powder smoke drifted away. Orry hurried forward.
'Smith Dawkins was just up at the house," he called. Charles looked wary as Orry came to a halt, glowering. "We made the arrangements for this splendid enterprise of yours. Pistols, next Tuesday. It seems I've become your second."
"I thought you didn't approve of dueling."
"I don't. You and the rest of these country cavaliers haven't the faintest notion of what real fighting's all about."
The boy tried one of those dazzling smiles. "Spoken like a true soldier."
The response was a glare. Charles stopped smiling. "I'm sorry you became involved, Orry. I lost track of the time last night. Didn't leave Sue Marie soon enough. Otherwise this wouldn't have happened."
"But it did. We proceed from there. What do you know about guns?"
"Not much. I reckon I can learn all I need to know, though."
"Not the way you're going about it." Orry aimed a scornful Finger at the rusty pistol. "Where'd you get that monstrosity?"
Charles's eyelids drooped. He shrugged. "Doesn't matter."
Stolen, Orry thought in disgust. "Well, the first thing we do is get rid of it." He snatched the weapon and threw it high and far.
"Here!" Charles shouted, reddening. "I have to practice."
"We'll use my Army pistol. Dueling pistols are generally flintlocks, but even with that difference my gun will give you a better approximation of the kind you'll probably use. Something between a sixty- and a seventy-caliber, I expect. One more thing. On a dueling pistol you'll usually find a hair trigger. The way you turned a minute ago —jerking your arm up like a vane on a broken windmill — a dueling pistol would have gone off much too soon. You'd have hit the sky or the trees and left your opponent with all the time he needed to kill you. Steady and smooth is the shooting style you want."
Orry began walking back toward the road. When Charles didn't follow, he turned and waved. "Come on. You're fighting next Tuesday, not next year."
"I thought I would do this on my own —"
The words trailed off, blurred by the breeze blowing through the sunlit field. Charles's expression had grown resentful, defiant almost.
"If you want to get yourself killed through ignorance," Orry shouted back, "you certainly may do it on your own."
White-lipped, Charles blurted, "Why should you want to help me? You don't like me."
"What I don't like, Charles, is your behavior for the last year or so. If that's the same as not liking you, so be it. But I still have a responsibility for your welfare. I can't stand by and let Whitney Smith commit murder. Come with me or not, as you like."
Orry continued on across the field. Charles remained motionless, hands clenched at his sides. Like ice melting, the hostility left his face, replaced by a slow, wondering smile. From the ground he retrieved a rammer, a cracked powder horn, and a bag of shot. Then he ran after Orry.
They practiced three hours a day. Orry swore his sisters to secrecy about the duel. Ashton let the cat out anyway. It happened at the dinner table, and Charles was surprised at how upset Clarissa became. Orry pointed out that he was giving Charles instruction and that the boy stood an excellent chance of coming through with a light wound or none.
Tillet agreed with that prediction, making demeaning comments about the character and nerve of Whitney Smith. He wished his nephew well. Altogether, it was an overwhelming experience for Charles. No one had ever taken such an interest in him before.
"No!" was the word Orry uttered most often on the practice field. "You're not taking long enough to aim. I know fear pushes you to haste. But haste will push you straight into a grave."
He grabbed Charles's right arm and shook it. "By God, you'd better remember that. You'll make a fool of me if you get yourself killed."
He spoke the last sentence thoughtlessly, not realizing how ridiculous it was until Charles grinned. "Well," Charles said, "if there's any reason I wouldn't want to be killed, that would be it."
The smile suddenly felt stiff on his lips. Orry was a stern man, a hard taskmaster. By attempting to joke with him, Charles had overstepped. He had been lulled by a change in their relationship these past few days, his resentment of Orry replaced by a kind of brotherly feeling and even an occasional flash of outright affection. Evidently Orry didn't think he was completely worthless, or he would never have devoted so much time to helping him. But now Charles had gone too far. Orry wasn't amused.
Suddenly, though, deep in Orry's matted beard, a glimmer of white appeared. A smile.
"Of course not," he said, finally realizing the foolishness of his remark. "The devil with saving your life. Save my honor. Save my pride. I am, after all, a Southerner."
They laughed together, loudly and long. Then Orry touched the gleaming barrel of the Johnson pistol, so well preserved that not a single speck of rust showed on it.
"We won't accomplish anything cackling like a couple of jays. I'll count ten. You walk, turn, and hit that limb. Try to do it right this time. We've only got two more days."
A cold snap came. Charles and Orry rose at half past four on the morning of the duel, ate a biscuit apiece and drank coffee, then struggled into overcoats. Since Orry had named the site and the hour, the Smith party would supply the weapons.
They went outside where grooms waited in the dark with their horses. Tillet was there, and Clarissa too; the girls hadn't been allowed to come down.
Ribbons of mist floated a foot above the ground. It was a dismal morning. Or perhaps the chill was only in his heart, Orry thought as he mounted and waited for good-byes to be said.
Tillet pumped Charles's hand. Clarissa hugged him. As they walked their mounts down the lane, Orry saw false dawn in the east. Long plumes of mist shot from the nostrils of the horses as they exhaled. Charles cleared his throat.
"Orry?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever happens, I want you to know I appreciate the way you've helped me. I never thought anybody cared a hoot about me."
"All of us care, Charles. You're a Main. Family."
He meant it. He was surprised at the way his attitude toward the boy had undergone a transformation in a remarkably short time. Charles had been an eager pupil, done none of that wisecracking that had caused Orry to look down on him before. Of course Charles's own life was at stake this time. But Orry thought the change in the young man resulted from more than that. Orry had held out his hand, and Charles had grasped it like a true kinsman. What a pity the change had come at this late hour.
The mist rolled around them. Hundreds of stars pierced the paling sky. Charles drew a deep breath.
"Orry?"
"What?"
"I'm scared as hell."
"So am I," Orry said as they turned their horses up the river road.
Daylight was burning off the mist by the time they reached Six Oaks. Orry was annoyed to discover more than twenty men in the Smith party, various male relatives of all ages. At least with that number of spectators there were young men to serve as lookouts along the road and riverbank. Those deputized for the duty protested about missing the action but were quickly overruled.
Orry tethered the horses at the side of the clearing reserved for them. Charles flung off his overcoat, surcoat, waistcoat, and cravat, then rolled up his sleeves. In the shade of a great live oak across the clearing, flawlessly dressed Whitney Smith and others of his clan watched Charles's preparations with obvious contempt.
Whitney's kinsman, Smith Dawkins, strutted toward the Mains with a beautiful rosewood gun case, which he opened for their inspection. The .70-caliber weapons were worthy of the box. Each octagonal barrel was half-stocked in polished walnut and had a little ramrod nestling underneath. The pistols were exquisitely tooled and bore the engraved name of a London gunsmith and a date, 1828.
"Satisfactory?" Dawkins inquired.
"I'll tell you after I inspect them." Orry pulled one of the guns from its bed of persimmon velvet.
There was a light sheen of sweat on Charles's forehead. He paced back and forth while the seconds took care of loading the pistols. They handed one to each duelist, then indicated the agreed-upon starting point. Five minutes would be allowed for final preparations.
Charles looked calm. He betrayed his tension only by repeatedly smoothing his palms across the hair at his temples. Orry badly needed to urinate — tension, he presumed — but he didn't want to leave Charles alone. Especially not with round-faced Whitney Smith and his friend Dawkins smirking and striking poses and whispering jokes about the opponent.
Orry turned his back on them. "I know you're scared, Charles. But remember this. You have a definite advantage. You'll see it if you take a good look at that peacock behind me. Appearances being more important to him than mobility, he's still wearing a heavy coat. Further, he's too stupid to be frightened, and frightened men are careful men. In battle, Whitney's kind tend to fall first."
Charles wanted to answer but could only summon a kind of nervous croak. Orry squeezed his arm. Charles put his hand on top of Orry's and held it a second.
"Thank you," he said.
"Gentlemen, are you ready?" Smith Dawkins called. He sounded impatient.
Orry turned smartly. "Ready."
He walked onto the field, Charles right behind him. The spectators fell silent. A white heron went skating away above the sunlit treetops. At the edge of the clearing, the river flowed golden and peaceful.
Whitney and Charles acknowledged each other with nods; Whitney's was a nod of dismissal, Orry thought. Up close, eruptions on Whitney's skin were quite noticeable. Charles, five years younger, looked far more mature and poised. Whitney's hand trembled as he brought his gun up vertically in front of his face. A good sign — unless Whitney was one of those rare duelists whose aim was actually improved by a bad case of nerves.
Dawkins cleared his throat and addressed the opponents standing back to back with pistols raised. "I shall first pronounce the word begin. This is your signal to start pacing off the distance in time to my count. When you have completed the tenth and final pace, you are at liberty to turn and fire at will. Ready? Begin."
Charles moved one way, Whitney the other. Orry's heart began to pound. He drew in a long breath and held it. He and Dawkins quickly retreated to the sidelines. Dawkins stood next to him, counting.
"Three. Four. Five."
Charles took long, confident strides. Sunlight falling through the trees lit his hair. He has such promise, Orry thought. If only there were a way to bring it to fruition. If only he lives long enough for someone to try.
"Seven. Eight."
Sweat greased Whitney's blotchy face. The trembling had worked its way into his shoulders. Would he shoot or collapse first?
"Nine."
Charles stared straight ahead. Orry saw the tip of his tongue flick up to lick sweat from his lip, the only outward sign of the anxiety that must be twisting his belly. Orry wanted to shout, "Remember — steady and smooth."
"Ten."
Whitney's knees buckled, but he stayed upright and managed to pivot. He flung his pistol hand out in front of him with all the violence
Orry had criticized in Charles that first time in the field. The roar startled Charles. He blinked so hard Orry thought he was hit. Then, from a tree about four feet behind Charles, a branch came tumbling down.
A damp stain appeared on the front of Whitney's trousers. He executed a clumsy half turn and started to take a step. There were gasps from the spectators and an angry, hissing whisper from Dawkins.
"You must stand, Whitney. Stand!"
He did, but not without a struggle. The humiliating stain widened. He shook so badly the pistol bobbed up and down. Charles slowly extended his arm, took aim, and, with a cool look down the octagonal barrel, fired.
Whitney shrieked like a girl. He twisted to the left and fell, clutching his sleeve. Red showed between his fingers, but Charles had only pinked him. What's more, he had hit the spot at which he had aimed. Orry ran forward, jubilant.
Whitney passed out with Dawkins kneeling at his side. The spectators broke into applause. Drained of tension, Charles was wandering toward the riverbank in an erratic way. Orry caught him.
"You've got to acknowledge that applause. It's for you."
The young man stared at Orry, thunderstruck. Then he looked at the Smith relatives. It was true. They were applauding his marksmanship, his courage, and his generosity in wounding Whitney when he could have killed him. All the characteristics of a true Carolina gentleman, Orry thought, almost dizzy with happiness.
Charles saluted the spectators with his pistol. But he couldn't yet believe what had happened.
"I have to thank you again," Charles said as they rode homeward. Mild sunshine between the trees put bars of light and shadow on the road. Both men found the late-winter day a glorious one on which to be alive.
"You did it yourself, Charles."
"No, sir. Without you, I'd be lying dead back there." He smiled and shook his head. "My Lord, you don't know how it felt to hear those men clapping for me instead of their own kinsman."
"Who unfortunately showed himself a coward. All bluster, no substance. They didn't like that."
"Well, I can't get over it. I never will. I do have one question about —"
He stopped. Orry waited, but Charles said nothing more. Orry pointed ahead to a roadside hovel with a weathered sign hanging crookedly on the front. "Do you know that place? It's a poor excuse for a tavern, but the man does keep a stock of passable whiskey. I think we both deserve a drink. Shall we stop?"
"By all means." Charles grinned and galloped ahead.
The landlord goggled when his visitors ordered ardent spirits at half past seven in the morning. Orry's money quickly curtailed any objections or questions. The hovel smelled, so the two drinkers sat on the front stoop in the sunshine.
Orry swallowed half his whiskey, shivered, and blinked pleasurably. Then he said, "Earlier you started to ask a question."
"Yes. Whenever I got into a fight before, people disapproved. You included. Why was it different this morning? We were doing a hell of a lot more than punching each other. Why didn't anyone object?"
Orry studied Charles, wanting to learn if the young man was having some kind of sarcastic sport. He saw no sign of it. Charles had asked a serious question. An important one, too.
Orry wanted his answer to be right. He thought about it, then tossed off the rest of his liquor and clapped Charles on the shoulder.
"I think I can answer you best back at Mont Royal."
"I don't understand."
But Orry was already swinging up into the saddle. "Come on."
Tillet, Clarissa, and the girls rushed outside the moment they spied the horses in the lane. An inevitable delay followed as the spellbound listeners heard Orry's tale. Tillet offered enthusiastic congratulations, Clarissa sobbed with relief, and the girls jumped up and down and begged to hear Orry describe Charles's cool bravery a second time. All in all it took about an hour. Only then did Orry draw his cousin into the dim library and point to the clothes stand bearing his uniform coat and sword.
"There's your answer."
Charles looked baffled. "I don't know what you mean."
"Consider men who go to war. What do they do?"
"Fight."
"Yes, but more than that, they do so in a manner understood and agreed upon beforehand. Fierce as it may be, there is a code of conduct among honorable men who fight. Those Smiths applauded you not simply because you won but because you observed the rules. Whitney didn't. He tried to step away from your bullet. You saw the reaction. Before this, you never fought by the rules. That's the difference."
Orry lifted the left sleeve of the coat. "The world doesn't necessarily condemn the man who loves a battle. It encourages and rewards some of them. Even a gallant loser may get a share of the glory when the history books are written. I'm not sure it's altogether right to encourage and reward fighting and killing, but that's the way things are. Have I answered you?"
Charles nodded slowly, gazing at the scabbard, the brass buttons, the dark blue coat as if they were imbued with a religious significance. What Orry had just said came as a revelation.
Orry began to rummage in a cabinet. "There's whiskey here. I don't know about you, but I'm still thirsty as sin." "So am I."
Charles walked around to the other side of the stand, never taking his eyes from the uniform. Orry too was swept up by a revelation. He saw Cousin Charles in a totally new light.
He may not be lost after all. Look at him staring at that uniform. He's fascinated.
Starting that very morning, he took Cousin Charles in hand. He began with small readjustments. Mild, almost diffident suggestions about appearance. Manners. Regular hours. Nothing too important or demanding at first because he expected rebellion. Instead, he got instantaneous and dramatic compliance. Charles began to show up for every meal, his face and hands scrubbed, his shirttail tucked in, and no bowie knife at his belt.
Three weeks after the duel, Orry offered Charles a couple of books, which he urged him to read. Orry had chosen easy works: light historical romances by William Gilmore Simms, a South Carolinian who was almost as popular as Fenimore Cooper had been in his day. The speed with which Charles finished the novels convinced Orry that the young man was exceptionally intelligent — something Clarissa had said for years. Orry had never believed her.
Next, Orry gave his cousin short lessons in some of the social conventions: courtesies to be accorded to ladies, what constituted proper attire for different kinds of public and family functions. Charles not only paid attention; he began to put some of the principles into action. He was soon treating Ashton and Brett with a new politeness that flabbergasted them. But they enjoyed it because Charles was handsome and carried off the courtly flourishes with hardly a trace of awkwardness.
"The boy's a born cavalier," Orry exclaimed to Madeline at their next meeting. "He puts me to shame. He's graceful, charming — and what's more, it comes naturally to him. Where has he been hiding that side of his character?''
"Under a layer of dirt and resentment, probably," she said with a gentle smile.
"I expect you're right. The transformation's incredible. All it took for him to come into his own was a little affection from his family."
"From you, principally. Even at Resolute they're gossiping about the change. Nancy told me Charles follows you everywhere."
"All day long. Like a puppy! It's embarrassing." But Orry's expression said he really didn't mind the hero worship. "Trouble is, you solve one problem and the solution creates another.''
"What now? You've been saying Charles is straightening out —"
"That's exactly what I mean. He is. Before, I was positive he'd wind up dead in some ditch after a brawl or a horse race. Now I'm wracking my brain to figure out what he should do with his life. I must suggest something, and soon."
"You sound like a father."
"Don't joke. It's no small responsibility."
"Of course it isn't. I wasn't joking. I was smiling because you're happy. I've never seen you in such good spirits. You like the responsibility."
He looked at her. "Yes. I do."
After supper every night, if Orry had no work in the office, he and Charles would take a whiskey together in the library. Sometimes Tillet joined them, but if so, he was a silent participant. Silent and amazed. He knew something positive and wholesome had happened in the relationship between his son and his nephew. He didn't want to interfere. He also realized that, in spirit and in fact, Orry was fast becoming the head of the family. Tillet resented that more than a little. Yet it pleased him, too. Cousin Charles was reserved when Tillet was present. When he wasn't, the young man couldn't hear enough about Orry's experiences as a cadet.
"You really liked it at West Point?"
"Well, not completely. But I made several good friends — and I met my best friend there."
"George." When Orry nodded, Charles asked, "Did you want to stay in the Army?''
"Very much. General Scott, however, has this unreasonable prejudice against any officer with just one arm. Maybe it's because he still has two."
Charles smiled. It wasn't much of a jest, but he realized that never before had Orry been able to make light of his injury. It was a remarkable change.
Charles returned his gaze to the uniform on the stand. "I just can't get over the idea that you can fight and get paid for it."
Orry held his breath. Was this the right moment? He seized on it.
"Charles — here's a thought. It's possible that we could secure an Academy appointment for you."
"But — I'm not smart enough."
"Yes, you are. You just don't know enough to pass the entrance examinations. In other words, you have the intelligence but not the facts. Herr Nagel could certainly give you those in the next year or so. You'd have to apply yourself, but I know you can do it if you have the desire."
Stunned by the new future he had glimpsed, Cousin Charles sat a moment before answering.
"Yes, sir, I do."
"First-rate! I'll corner Nagel in the morning."
"What?" the tutor cried when he heard Orry's plan. "Instruct him? I should say not, Herr Main. The first time I reprimand him for failing to complete an assignment, he will whip out that gigantic knife and pfut!" Nagel's thumb slashed across his throat. "Thus ends my brilliant academic service to this family."
"Charles has changed," Orry assured him. "Give him a chance. I'll pay you a bonus."
On that basis Herr Nagel was happy to gamble. At week's end he came back to his employer with a stunned look.
"You are absolutely right. The transformation is astonishing. He remains stubborn and irritable over some things — chiefly his own unfamiliarity with concepts he should have learned long before this. But he's quick. I believe I can bring him along rapidly, though naturally it will require some, ah, extra effort."
"For which you'll receive extra compensation every week."
"You are too kind," Herr Nagel murmured, bowing. "We shall make a scholar of that one yet."
There was exhilaration in Orry's voice and a sparkle in his eyes. "We just want to make him a West Point cadet. There's going to be a professional soldier in this family." To himself he added, "After all."
At the end of the first week of April, Orry went to his father. "In two or three years, Charles should be ready to enter the Academy. I've learned there'll be a vacancy at that time. It isn't too early to secure the appointment for him. We might start with a letter to the War Department. We could ask Senator Calhoun to transmit it. Shall I write it, or will you?"
Tillet showed him a copy of the Mercury. "Calhoun's dead."
"Good God. When?"
"The last day of March. In Washington."
It shouldn't have come as a great surprise, Orry realized. Calhoun had been failing for a long time, and politically the past month had been one of the stormiest in recent history. Henry Clay's compromise resolutions had come up for Senate debate. Because Calhoun was the South's senior spokesman, his reaction, although predictable, was widely awaited. But he'd been too ill to take the floor. Senator Mason had read his remarks for him. Of course Calhoun denounced the Clay program and warned again that Northern hostility was making secession attractive to Southerners. Over the years Calhoun had moved steadily away from a nationalistic position to one that put the welfare of his section first. Most Southerners agreed that he had been driven to this hardened and parochial stand by the activities of the abolitionists, both in and out of Congress.
Three days after Calhoun's speech was presented, Senator Daniel Webster had risen to plead the opposite view. He had spoken eloquently in favor of the resolutions and of the urgent need to put preservation of the Union above all else. The speech was too full of goodwill and the spirit of compromise for many of Webster's Northern colleagues, who promptly began vilifying him. Tillet, too, called Webster's seventh of March address an abomination — though not for the same reasons the abolitionist senators did.
But at the moment Orry was thinking of Calhoun from another perspective. "The senator was one of the Academy's staunchest friends."
"Once," Tillet snapped. "He was also a friend of the Union. So were we all. Then the Yankees turned on us."
Tillet seemed to suggest the attack had been causeless. Orry thought of Priam but said nothing. The unexpected pang of conscience surprised and troubled him. His father went on:
"It wasn't merely old age and sickness that killed John Calhoun. It was Jackson, Garrison, Seward — that whole damned crowd who opposed him, and us, in everything from nullification to the way we earn our bread. They harried Calhoun like a pack of mad dogs. They exhausted him." Tillet flung the newspaper on the floor. "It won't be forgotten."
Orry remained silent, upset by his father's unforgiving tone.
A few weeks later Tillet had further cause for outrage. A slave who had run away from a plantation near Mont Royal was recaptured in Columbus, Ohio, by a professional slave catcher. The slave catcher had been hired by the owner of the runaway.
Before the man and his prisoner could leave Columbus, abolitionists intervened. They threatened the slave catcher with lynching and took the escaped black into protective custody, saying it was necessary for a court to rule on the legality of the claim. That was a subterfuge; they knew the court had no jurisdiction. But the delay gave them time to spirit the runaway out of jail. A rear door was mysteriously left unlocked. The fugitive was over the border and safe in Canada before most people knew about it. The unsubtle intrigue in Ohio outraged the slave's owner and many of his neighbors. Tillet talked of little else.
Orry, meantime, shared his personal happiness with Madeline. Cousin Charles had settled down to studies with Herr Nagel, and Orry could hardly stop boasting about his protege's progress.
"We'll have to suspend the lessons for two months this summer, though." It was a clumsy way to introduce another subject that was on his mind, but it had to be done.
"Charles is leaving?"
"Along with the rest of us. I've leased a summer cottage in Newport, near George's place."
"You'll have your reunion at last!"
"Yes."
"Oh, Orry, how exciting." Her response seemed genuine. If she felt disappointment, she hid it well. "You won't miss me?" "Don't tease. I'll miss you terribly. Those two months will be the longest of my life."
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him so passionately that the little volume of Cullen Bryant's poems slipped off her lap unnoticed. After she caught her breath she said, "But I'll survive. That is, I will as long as I know you'll come back to me. I couldn't bear it if you took up with some Yankee girl."
"I'd never do that," Orry replied with that humorless sincerity Madeline found touching sometimes; on other occasions, for no reason she could explain, it infuriated her. He went on, "It's time Charles got a peek at the world beyond the borders of South Carolina. If he goes to the Academy, he'll meet all sorts of people with new and different ideas. That can be a shock. It was to me. He must be prepared."
She touched his face. "You sound more like a father every day."
"Nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"Nothing." She gave his cheek a wifely peck. "It's grand for Charles, but he's not the only one getting benefits from this new relationship — not by any means. You're so much happier. That makes me happy, too."
When she kissed him this time, it was to demonstrate the sincerity of what she had just said. A few moments later, as she was leaning down to retrieve the book, a question occurred to her.
"You say the entire family's going to Rhode Island?"
"Not Cooper, of course."
"That's what I meant. Was the choice to stay home his or your father's?"
Cooper had visited Mont Royal two nights ago. He and Tillet had been unable to stay in the same room without quarreling violently over the Clay resolutions. Orry's smile disappeared.
"Both," he said.
Cooper Main loved Charleston.
He loved its narrow, cobbled streets, which reminded many visitors of Europe; the expensive merchandise sold in its shops; the peal of bells from all the white church spires that had weathered salt air and sea gales for so many years. He loved the political rhetoric overheard in the saloon bar of the Charleston Hotel; the clatter of the drays whose drivers were constantly being fined for racing through the streets at dangerous speeds; the glow of the street lamps after one of the two municipal lamplighters, or one of their half-dozen slaves, had passed by. And he loved the house he had bought with some of the first year's profits of the Carolina Shipping Company.
The house was on Tradd Street, right around the corner from the famous old Heyward residence. It was a typical Charleston house, designed for coolness and privacy. Each of its three floors had a piazza, and each piazza ran the length of the building, or about sixty feet. The house was twenty feet deep, the width of a single room, and was situated on the lot so that one long side was flush with the public sidewalk.
Although the house was entered from this side, the opposite one facing the garden was considered the front. Cooper called the garden his second office. Behind a high brick wall he often worked for hours on company matters, surrounded by the seasonal beauties of azaleas and magnolias and the contrasting greens of the crape myrtle and the yucca. He thought it a shame that he lived in such a beautiful house all by himself.
But he didn't think of that often; he was too busy. He had turned his quasi-exile into a triumphant success along with the little cotton packet company. He was now in the process of doubling the company's warehouse space by means of an addition. He never consulted his father about such decisions. Tillet still thought of the Carolina Shipping Company as a burden, a financial risk. That left Cooper free to run it his way.
The company's headquarters, warehouse, and pier were located on Concord Street, above the U.S. Customs House. The company symbol, appearing on a signboard in front as well as on the ensigns of its two rickety packets, was an oval of ship's line surrounding three shorter pieces of line arranged to represent the letters C.S.C.
Cooper knew Charleston would never be the cotton port, as it had once been the rice port. Alabama and Mississippi dominated cotton production now. But Charleston still shipped a respectable tonnage, and Cooper wanted an ever bigger share for C.S.C. For that reason, a few months ago he had mortgaged everything and placed an order with the Black Diamond Boat Yard of Brooklyn, New York, for a new packet of modern, indeed advanced, design.
She would be driven by a screw propeller, not side wheels. Below decks, three transverse bulkheads would create four compartments that could be made watertight. In the event the hull was breached on coastal rocks, cargo in the undamaged compartments could be saved.
The bulkheads added substantially to the cost of the packet. But Cooper had already described the innovation to a couple of local cotton factors, and their reaction had been so positive he knew the extra expenditure would give his vessel an edge over its competition — and never mind that packets didn't run aground that often. It was the provision for what might happen that influenced a factor's choice of a ship.
A break in the hull was even less likely because of a second unusual feature — the use of iron instead of wood. Hazard Iron would supply a special run of plate for the hull.
Cooper was proud of the design of the new packet, which was to be christened Mont Royal. Before drawing up a list of features and performance specifications and taking them to Brooklyn, he had spent months reading up on naval architecture and filling sketch pads. Black Diamond's president said that if Cooper ever tired of Charleston, they would hire him — and it wasn't entirely a joke.
Cooper had little trouble arranging financing for his project. Although the Charleston bankers didn't care for his political views, they liked his business ideas, his confidence, and his record thus far. He had already increased the volume of C.S.C. by eighty percent and its profits by twenty. He had accomplished it by refurbishing the old packets so that they were more dependable and by offering discounts to factors who placed a large part of their business with him.
In addition to the Concord Street property, C.S.C. now owned another piece of real estate — a twenty-five-acre parcel of land on James Island, across from the peninsula on which the city stood. The parcel had water frontage of one-half mile and was located not far from abandoned Fort Johnson. Cooper had acquired this seemingly worthless land as part of a long-term scheme he had kept secret from everyone. He wasn't afraid of being laughed at; he simply felt that the prudent businessman kept good ideas private until it served his interest to make them public. Now, at twilight on the first Monday in May, he strolled the Battery and gazed at his real estate there beyond the open water. He continued to believe his decision to buy had been right. It might be years before he could put that land to use, but use it he would.
Tucked under his arm he carried the latest edition of the Mercury. The paper's extremism repelled him, but it covered city and state matters in adequate fashion. One front-page article told the harrowing story of an old woman suffocated in her bed by two house slaves she had reprimanded. The slaves had disappeared and were still at large; the paper editorialized about the rebellious tendencies of Negroes and how those tendencies were being inflamed by Northern propaganda. Cooper never had any trouble understanding the state's collective nervousness about its large Negro population.
Another article described several new fire laws. Charleston was always enacting fire laws in an effort to stave off another blaze like that which had threatened to raze the city in '38. In the margin beside this article Cooper had jotted a list of things he needed for his trip north tomorrow.
Charleston was approaching a population of twenty-eight thousand people, slightly more than half of them white. In addition to the old aristocracy, there were sizable groups of turbulent Irish, clannish Germans, tradition-minded Jews. The city's spires and rooftops, interspersed with great oaks and palmettos, looked lovely in the dusk. The pleasant prospect, coupled with the bracing salt air, reminded him of a vow he had made to himself months ago. This would be his home for as long as he lived. Or at least until his political views got him run out by a mob.
With a tart smile, he turned from the city to the vista he loved even more — the harbor and the great ocean beyond. Charleston harbor remained one of the Federal government's strongest coastal installations; virtually everywhere you looked there was a fort. Away on his left lay Fort Moultrie on Sullivan's Island. Closer, on a mud flat, he could see Castle Pinckney. Straight ahead rose the bulk of Fort Sumter, and over on James Island the forlorn old buildings of Fort Johnson.
The various forts didn't thrill Cooper at all. What thrilled him day in and day out was the steamship traffic in the harbor. In a relatively short time he had developed a profound love for ships and for the sea that carried them.
The land at his back seemed old, frozen in a pattern fixed centuries before. The land was yesterday, obsolete or nearly so, but the sea with all the restless steam vessels it bore was a modern realm of speed, endless discovery, endless possibility. The sea was tomorrow.
And in some unexpected, almost inexplicable way, Cooper had ceased to be a man of the land and had become a man of the sea. He loved that too.
Cooper rode the train to New York, there spending two weeks at a shabby hotel near the Black Diamond yard. His packet was already under construction; the transverse bulkheads would be finished before the month was out.
He made numerous drawings of the vessel and the construction site, and filled whole booklets of notes before hurrying away with feelings of relief. The twin cities of Brooklyn and New York made Charleston appear drowsy and backward. Their size and their bustling, aggressive citizens intimidated him.
He boarded a train for Pennsylvania. The number of railroads operating out of New York seemed to have increased tenfold since his last visit. By way of contrast, the famous "Best Friend" of Charleston, the first locomotive built for service in America, had made its historic run nearly twenty years ago — December 1830. Three years after that the entire Charleston and Hamburg line went into operation, 136 miles of track running all the way to the head of navigation on the Savannah River. Cooper thought it a sad irony that railroad building was now lagging in the state that had pioneered it. The Yankees were out to become the railroad kings, just as they wanted to be the kings of every other major industry.
When Cooper arrived in Lehigh Station, George took him into the mill and showed him some of the plate destined for the hull of Mont Royal. Above the roar George shouted, "A lot of naval architects still scoff at plate for ships. But it's the coming thing."
Cooper yelled a reply, but George didn't hear it. "That British engineer," he went on, "Brunei. He built Great Britain out of iron, and she had no trouble with Atlantic crossings. Brunei swears that one day he'll build an iron ship so big that Great Britain will look like a speck beside her. So you're in excellent company."
"I know," Cooper called back. "Mont Royal's actually a scaled-down version of Brunei's ship." The idea of an adaptation had come to him when he first read a description of Great Britain.
George showed his visitor the entire Hazard complex, greatly expanded since Cooper had seen it last. The huge blast furnaces, the finery and plate mill, the new rail-rolling installation — all were running at capacity, George said. The streams of molten iron, which gave off clouds of sparks, blinding light, and hellish heat, intimidated Cooper even more than the cities he had recently quit. In the fire and noise of Hazard's he again saw the growing industrial might of the North.
That power and the teeming crowds in the cities lent a ludicrous quality to the South's posturings about independence. Why didn't the Carolina hotspurs spend a week up here? They would soon see it was the North, and only the North, that provided most of what they used, from structural iron to farm tools; from hairpins for their wives and mistresses to the gunmetal of the very weapons with which some of them proposed to defend their preposterous declarations about a free and separate South.
On the other hand, Tillet Main would never change his ways because of such a visit, Cooper decided. His father didn't want his beliefs muddied by truth. Cooper knew a lot of men exactly like him. He expected the North had its share, too.
He was in poor spirits during supper that night. While spouts of fiery iron jetted across the dark field of his thoughts, he put on a smile he didn't feel. He struggled to keep track of the conversation carried on by George's charming Irish wife and her lively mother-in-law. The Hazard youngsters, William and Patricia, had been fed separately. "They're good children," Constance said, "but they can be bumptious. I thought we should dine without the threat of custard flying through the air."
George's table talk consisted largely of a monologue about the need for a better and cheaper method of producing steel. He explained some of the technical problems with such clarity that Cooper remembered them in detail long afterward. Constance understood her husband's concern and didn't interrupt while he was holding forth. When the meal and the monologue ended, the two men retired to the smoking room. George lit a cigar while Cooper sipped brandy.
"We'll rejoin the ladies in the music room in a little while," George said. He didn't sound enthusiastic. "My brother Billy will be coming over from next door. Stanley and his wife, too. Billy's going to the Military Academy. Did Orry tell you that?"
"No. What a splendid surprise. Perhaps there'll be a reunion in a year or two."
"A reunion? What do you mean?"
"Remember Cousin Charles? He's changed a lot since you saw him. He has ambitions to attend West Point too."
George sat forward. "You mean it's possible there could be another Main and another Hazard there together?'' They compared dates and found it to be entirely possible.
Smiling, George leaned back in his chair. "Well, that improves the evening." He quickly sobered. "I hope the remainder of it won't be unpleasant for you."
"Why should it be unpleasant?"
"My sister Virgilia is home for a few days. She seldom takes supper with us, but she's here."
"I recall her very well. Handsome girl." Cooper dropped the lie into the conversation gracefully.
"Opinionated, too. Especially on the subject of abolition," George said with a pointed glance at his guest. "In fact she's managed to antagonize most of the residents of Lehigh Station. She takes a nugget of truth and surrounds it with the most outrageous qualifications and conditions. For example, she claims Negro freedom is philosophically related to the principle of free love. Believe in one, and you must believe in the other. Of course that linkage leads to relationships between the races, which to her is perfectly all right."
Cooper swirled his cognac, withholding comment.
"Not even arguing that last question" — George chewed the smoldering stub of his cigar — "I can say this without fear of challenge: by the way she conducts herself, Virgilia stirs up a hell of a lot of animosity among people who would otherwise be sympathetic to some of her views. She upsets the household, too. My mother's patience is tried to its limit. And I can't begin to describe the way Virgilia affects Stanley's wife — oh, but you've not met Isabel, have you? You will this evening. And you'll get to know her this summer."
"Afraid not," Cooper murmured. "My duties will keep me in Charleston." Another lie, but for his benefit this time.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Where the devil was I?"
"Isabel and your sister."
"Oh, yes. Of the two, it's Virgilia I'm worried about. Since she came home, she's already received two vile anonymous letters. Down in the village the other day, someone threw mud at her. There's no telling what will happen to her if she continues to promote her wild ideas. I expect she'll also be joining us tonight. I felt I should warn you."
Cooper crossed his legs and smiled. "I appreciate the concern. She won't bother me."
"I hope not, but don't be too sure."
Cooper found Stanley Hazard as stuffy as ever. Stanley kept dropping names of Pennsylvania politicians into the conversation. He pronounced each one as if he expected Cooper to recognize it and be impressed.
Isabel struck Cooper as a shrew. She had brought her twin sons to the music room. They writhed on her lap and tried to out-howl one another. Constance offered to hold one of them, but Isabel refused — sharply, Cooper thought; the sisters-in-law clearly disliked each other. Stanley finally ordered his wife to take the noisy youngsters out of the room. Everyone was relieved.
Billy talked excitedly about the forthcoming holiday in Newport. He'd completed the program at boarding school and now, guided through occasional visits to Philadelphia for tutoring, continued his studies at home. The boy was unmistakably a Hazard, though he was by no means a twin of George. His hair was darker than George's, his eyes a deeper shade of blue. He had a cheerful face with a blunt chin that gave him an air of rugged dependability. His powerful chest made him look as strong as a tree.
Virgilia arrived. She seized Cooper's hand and shook it, much like a man. Her mother frowned. After a bit of small talk, Virgilia seated herself next to Cooper and bored in.
"Mr. Main, what is the reaction in your part of the South to Senator Clay's proposals?"
Careful, he thought, noting her fiery eye. She wants a rise out of you. Parlor politics seldom led to anything except bad feelings — certainly never to agreement — so he answered with a bland smile:
"About what you'd expect, Miss Hazard. Most people in South Carolina oppose any compromise with —''
"So do I," she broke in. Maude uttered a quiet word of reproof. Cooper was sure Virgilia heard, but she paid no attention. ''In matters of human freedom, there is no room for compromise or negotiation. Webster and Clay and that whole gang should be lynched."
Cooper's smile felt stiff. "I think John Calhoun had a similar, if less violent, reaction to those gentlemen and their proposals — though certainly not for the reason you mention."
''Then for once I would agree with the late, unlamented Mr. Calhoun. In other respects he was a traitor.''
Having just struck a match, George unthinkingly flung it onto the carpet. "Good God, Virgilia. Mind your manners."
Maude rushed forward to step on the match. "George, see what you've done."
Stanley sniffed and folded his arms. "It's Virgilia's tongue that did it."
"Traitor?'' Cooper repeated. "Surely you don't mean that, Miss Hazard."
"There is no other word for someone who advocates disunion in order to protect slavery." She leaned forward, hands fisted on her knees. "Just as there is no other word for a slave owner but whore-master."
The silence was instantaneous, so complete that the wailing of Isabel's twins carried all the way from the back of the house. Quietly. Cooper said, "If I didn't believe you spoke rashly, I would take that as an insult to my entire family. I won't deny the Mains own slaves, but they run a plantation, not a brothel."
He caught his breath and turned to Maude. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hazard. I didn't mean to employ vulgar language." It was unnecessary for him to add that anger had prompted it. That was evident.
"Virgilia, you owe our guest an apology," George said.
"I —" She began to twist her handkerchief. Her pitted face turned pink. She dabbed at perspiration on her upper lip. "I only meant to express a personal conviction, Mr. Main. If I offended you, it was unintentional.''
But it wasn't. She continued to dab her lip, in that way concealing part of her face. But her eyes gave her away. They fixed on Cooper with a fanatical rage.
"I reacted too strongly myself. I apologize."
He hated to say that, but courtesy demanded he do so. George stepped over the burn in the carpet and practically jerked him up from his chair. "Care to take a stroll?"
The moment they were outside, he exclaimed, "God, I'm sorry she said all those things. I don't know what pleasure she derives from being rude."
"Don't worry about it." Cooper walked across flagstones to the edge of the terraced lawn. To his right the three furnaces stained the night sky red.
"I will worry about it! I don't want Virgilia offending you, and I certainly don't want her offending your family this summer. I'll have a talk with her." His determination shaded into puzzlement. "She's my sister, but I'll be hanged if I understand her. Every time she rants about slavery and the South, she puts it in — well, physical terms. Somehow she's gotten the notion that the entire South is one heaving sea of fornication."
He shot a quick look to see whether Cooper was shocked. Cooper was thinking. People often condemned that which they secretly desired.
"She's gotten too involved in her cause," George grumbled. "Sometimes I fear it's affecting her mind."
I fear you may be right, Cooper thought, but kept it to himself.
That ended the incident. He left in the morning, without seeing Virgilia again. Soon the memory of her wrathful eyes faded a little as he examined his own rather surprising reactions during the exchange. He had been outraged by her statement; outraged as a member of the Main family and, yes, as a Southerner, too.
Cooper considered himself a temperate man. If he could be aroused by a Yankee fanatic, how much more angry would the Southern hotspurs become? And to what sort of violent response would that anger propel them? That was the aspect of last night's display that disturbed him most.
He first saw the girl on deck about an hour after the coastal steamer left New York for Charleston. She was in her twenties and evidently traveling alone. A tall girl with thin arms and legs, a flat bosom, and a long nose. A great deal of curly, dark blonde hair showed beneath her hat. She walked slowly along the rail, then stopped and gazed at the ocean. Her poise and self-assurance suggested familiarity with the world, experience in dealing with it by herself. He stood covertly watching her from a respectful distance.
Her gaze seemed kind and her mouth had a friendly look, as if she smiled a lot and did so naturally. Yet an objective observer would have to say that all the girl's features, taken together, yielded plainness at best, homeliness at worst. Why, then, did he find her so striking? He didn't know, nor did he care about an explanation.
Shortly he noticed another man watching the girl, and less discreetly. The man was fat, middle-aged, and wore a checked suit. Cooper was annoyed and then disappointed when the girl strolled off. If she was aware of the attention of the fat fellow, she gave no sign.
In a moment she was out of sight. Cooper knew he must meet her. But how? A gentleman simply didn't accost a young woman to whom he hadn't been introduced. He was still struggling with the problem when a black steward rang the dinner gong.
In the dining saloon, he was infuriated to see that chance had placed the girl at a table with the man in the checked suit. The man was no gentleman. He crowded his chair closer to hers, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the four other passengers sharing the table. He repeatedly bumped her forearm with his hand as they ate. And several times he leaned over too intimately, offering some witticism that she greeted with a polite smile. She ate rapidly and was the first to leave the table. Moments later, Cooper raced on deck to search for her.
He discovered her at the starboard rail watching the distant dunes on the Jersey shore. I'll do it, and damn the risk, he thought. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. Bees swarmed in his stomach. He walked toward her, fully intending to speak. She turned, taking note of him in a friendly way. He stopped, reached for the brim of his hat, then realized he had left the hat in his cabin. His opening remark died in his throat.
He uttered the only greeting he could muster — a kind of grunt — and rushed on by. Idiot. Idiot. Now she'd never speak to him, and he couldn't blame her. He had wanted to make a good first impression, somehow conveying to her that he was polite and even shy — qualities he felt she might like, if she were only given the opportunity to notice them. Inexperience had undone him. All she had seen was a fool who didn't say hello, just grunted.
He decided he wouldn't attend the evening entertainment, but at the last minute he changed his mind, joining a crowd of about thirty people in the main saloon. The purser, a cheerful Italian, announced that a special program had been substituted for that originally scheduled. It had been discovered that one of the passengers had musical talent, and she had been persuaded to perform. The purser would accompany her on the piano. He presented Miss Judith Stafford of Boston.
Miss Stafford rose. It was the girl. She had been seated in the first row where Cooper couldn't see her. She was still wearing the same plainly cut black dress he had first observed on deck. He felt sure it was her "good dress." Every woman had one, usually of silk.
He sat enthralled as she announced her first selection, an aria from Norma. She sang in a sweet soprano, with phrasing, gestures, and expressions that bespoke professional training. She performed three other selections, all operatic; the last one was a showy, stormy one from Verdi's Attila.
With each note, Cooper fell more deeply in love. He got a jolt when he noticed a spectator sidling along the wall toward the front. The chap in checks. Reeling slightly — and not because of rough water. The sea was calm tonight. The fellow's lascivious eyes showed what interested him. It was not Miss Stafford's talent.
The audience responded to her final aria with thunderous applause and demanded more. She conferred with the purser, then delighted the crowd with a lively rendition of "Oh! Susanna," the Negro ballad adopted by the California gold seekers. Again the audience wanted an encore. She sang the ten-year-old favorite, "Woodman, Spare That Tree." Her performance brought tears to the eyes of several in she audience.
But not to the eyes of Mr. Checks, as Cooper had taken to calling him. All that glittered in his repulsive little orbs was lust.
After giving the girl a final ovation, the audience dispersed. The purser thanked her and bustled off, leaving her alone and abruptly aware of Mr. Checks weaving in her direction, a smarmy smile on his face. Cooper found himself propelled toward the pair like a rocket. He's probably a professional bare-knuckle fighter. If you interfere, he'll pulverize you — and she'll still think you're a clod.
Despite this pessimistic appraisal, he didn't change course but sped straight to the front of the saloon. Mr. Checks had come to a halt six feet to Miss Stafford's left, blinking witlessly. Cooper seized the girl's elbow.
"That was utterly charming, Miss Stafford. I now claim the reward of that stroll you promised me earlier."
She'll scream for help, he thought. "Here, wait," said Mr. Checks, hurrying toward them and falling headfirst over a large leather chair he had failed to see.
Judith Stafford shone that bright smile on Cooper. "I remember, and I've been looking forward to it."
His heart nearly stopped as she linked her arm with his. She let him guide her outside. The moment they were on deck, she gave his forearm an impulsive squeeze.
"Oh, thank you. That lizard has been eyeing me ever since we left New York." She withdrew her hand. "I don't mean to be forward, but I'm very grateful to you, Mr. —"
She hesitated. Could he believe what he was hearing?
"Cooper Main of Charleston. Are you by chance from South Carolina?"
"I'm from the village of Cheraw, up country. I am going home for a visit. I thank you again for your assistance, Mr. Main. Good evening."
Lose her now and she's lost for good. He seized her hand and once more linked her arm with his.
"Miss Stafford, I demand my reward. That stroll we discussed — oh-oh, there he is. This way."
They sailed past a porthole from which a dejected Mr. Checks was peering. He didn't come on deck or bother them for the rest of the voyage. So much for fears of bare-knuckle prowess.
Judith Stafford laughed at Cooper's audacity. But she held fast to his arm, and they walked briskly toward the stern in the moonlight. He was so happy, if she had told him to jump overboard, he'd have done it. He'd have done it even though he couldn't swim six feet.
They spent most of the following day together. Cooper knew she probably did it because she thought him a safe companion, one whose presence would keep less trustworthy men at a distance. He only hoped companionship could ripen into friendship before they reached Charleston. After a day's shopping there, she planned to travel on to Cheraw by rail and public coach.
She had been born in the foothills of the South Carolina mountains, the only child of a farm couple. Her mother was dead, and her father now lived in Cheraw with a relative; an accident with a plow had crippled him two years ago.
"My father is Welsh and Scotch and a few other things besides," she said as they sat sipping bouillon late in the morning. "Born a Carolina yeoman, and he'll die as one. When he worked his land, he did it all by himself unless he happened to have the help of some neighbors he later repaid in kind. He detests the rice and cotton planters because they can succeed only by using armies of slaves.
He also detests them because there are so few of them, yet they have absolute control of the state. As a matter of fact, that control is one of the reasons I moved away five years ago, when I was twenty-one."
"There are a great many farmers up country who share your father's feeling, aren't there?"
"Thousands. If it were up to them, slavery would be abolished in a minute."
"To be followed by a black uprising the next minute?"
"Oh, that's just an excuse," she said with a toss of her head.
"Well, I hear it often." He swallowed and put the truth before her. "My family has planted rice and owned slaves for generations."
She uttered a little gasp of surprise. "You told me your name, but I never connected it with the Mains of Mont Royal."
"Because I said I live in Charleston, which I do. I left home myself, year before last. My father and I don't agree on any number of things. One is our peculiar institution."
"Do you mean to say you oppose it?"
"I do. On practical as well as moral grounds."
"Then we think alike."
"I'm glad, Miss Stafford." He felt himself blushing.
Her brown eyes lighted with a look he had thus far only dreamed of seeing there. Suddenly every memory of the fiery furnaces of Lehigh Station was gone, and the future looked altogether different.
"Please," she said. "Won't you call me Judith?"
Cooper could speak forcefully when he had to, but it always required effort. She had the same shy disposition. Perhaps that was the reason the bond between them was so immediate and so strong.
On the voyage to Charleston, he told her a great deal about himself. She reciprocated. Her father believed in the importance of education and had saved all his life to make hers possible. She had gone north to complete the last two years of her schooling at Miss Deardorf s Female Academy in Concord, Massachusetts, and after graduation had been invited to remain as a teacher of music and literature.
Strictly speaking, then, she wasn't from Boston, but she went into the city as often as possible. She belonged to the Federal Street Church and shared the moderate abolitionist views of its pastor, the Reverend William Ellery Channing.
"A Unitarian, eh?" Cooper grinned. ''We're taught to believe most of them have horns."
"Some are much more radical than others. Dr. Emerson, for example. He had the pulpit at Boston's Second Church until his conscience would no longer permit him to administer the Lord's Supper. He's a bit too esoteric for my tastes, although he's unquestionably a man of great moral conviction. He lives in Concord, you know. I see him several times a week. But of course I wouldn't dare speak to him."
She loved the little village where Yankee farmers had first fired at King George's men. Several famous people resided there. Besides Emerson, the writer Hawthorne was perhaps the best known. She also mentioned a radical named Thoreau, a sort of woodland anchorite of whom Cooper had never heard.
They talked of many things: Boston fish chowder and the Transcendental movement. The ubiquitous feminine parasol — Judith had hers, small and fringed — and New England poets. Longfellow. Whittier, the laureate of the abolitionist movement. Young Lowell, just beginning to achieve national prominence.
"I know Lowell's work," Cooper said. "During the Mexican War I read his doggerel purporting to expose the motive for the campaign in 'Californy.' " He quoted: " 'Chaps that make black slaves o' niggers want to make white slaves o' you.' "
For the first time, Judith's glance was disapproving. "You mean to say you don't believe the acquisition of slave territory was the reason for the war?"
"It was one reason, but not the only one. Things are seldom that clear-cut. This country's drifting into serious trouble because of the clamor for simple and immediate solutions to complex problems that will take years to solve — even with total effort on both sides. Gradual, compensated emancipation could free the Negro without wrecking the South's economy. Neither side will hear of it. It's too slow. Too tainted with compromise. Everyone wants quick, pure, destructive answers."
"It's rather hard for me to tell which side you're on."
"There's no handy label for me, I'm afraid. I'm opposed to the slave system, but I'll never condone violence to achieve its overthrow. I believe that trying to preserve the institution by setting up an independent South is ludicrous. We must get along with the Yankees. We don't dare risk a serious quarrel with them — they outnumber us, and we depend on their factories for survival. If we went our own way, that would be the end."
"From what I read, many Southern politicians think otherwise."
"They don't remember the lessons of their Bible," he replied with a faint, bitter smile. " 'The pride of thine heart hath deceived thee.' Jeremiah forty-nine."
"Well, I'm not such a — a gradualist as you," she said after a moment's consideration. "Slavery's an evil that must be rooted out by whatever means are necessary. Reverend Channing tries to appeal to the Christianity of the slave owners, but so far that hasn't worked.''
"Nor will it. Down here, money speaks a lot louder than God."
"Doesn't it everywhere? Still, how can we claim to practice liberty in this country if part of the population is in bondage?"
"My father says slavery is a positive good."
"Nothing personal against your father — but despots always proclaim their own benevolence."
He smiled. "I see you've read your Reverend Weld."
"And Garrison, and Douglas. I believe what they all say. The price for emancipation must be paid, no matter how high."
"I can't agree. But perhaps there'll come a time when I do. I find myself more and more out of step with the majority. One of these days I'll probably be run out of Charleston. Before that happens, I'd like to show you my house."
"What? Without a chaperone?" she teased. Her eyes met his. "I'd very much like to see your house, Cooper."
Emboldened by her earnest gaze, he kissed her at the door of her stateroom a few minutes later. She responded with ardor, immediately apologized for her lack of shame, then in a whisper asked him to kiss her again.
It was a magic journey, and by the end they were in love and freely admitting it. As the steamer approached Charleston harbor, they finished a discussion of how soon she might be able to relinquish her duties in Concord, and whether she could be happy back in South Carolina.
The harbor pilot came aboard just at sunset. Cooper and Judith stood at the rail, watching the spires of the city flame in the last light. Never had he met anyone he trusted so completely. Someone to whom he could speak without fear of misunderstanding or scorn.
"My people have always been landsmen, but I've fallen in love with the sea. Maybe because the land is inseparably tied to slavery and its miseries." He faced toward the stern and the Atlantic beyond. "To me that ocean represents a real chance to be free of the old ways. It represents the speed of steam-driven ships. A shrinking world. The future —''
He hesitated, pink for a moment. "Do you find that laughable?"
She shook her head. "Admirable. Realistic, too. But outmoded ideas die hard. That's why we're experiencing such turmoil these days. An outmoded idea's dying, but the people of this state won't accept the fact or the inevitability of it. If they did, it would be so much easier.''
Cooper sighed. "Yes, but the resistance is understandable. A man gives up a lot when he gives up his nigras. He surrenders something I've never heard a single slave owner mention, yet it's there, it's fundamental, and it's the one factor that causes and promotes the evil in the system." The harbor wind tossed his hair as he gazed seaward. "Total power. Slavery gives one man total power over another. No human being should have that kind of power. No king, no president — and certainly not my father. The power's destructive. I finally saw that clearly. My father was always a good and humane master, but one day he got angry and ordered one of our slaves cat-hauled. Do you know what that is?"
She shivered. "Yes. I've read of it."
"Well, my father had it done. And because he owned the man — owned him without question — there was nothing to prevent it. Nothing to prevent one human being from behaving like a beast and another from being treated like one. That's why I doubt Reverend Channing's approach will succeed. Total power has a dark appeal to the wicked side in all of us."
Seeing his stark expression, Judith grew bold enough to do something she'd only imagined herself doing heretofore — taking a man's hand in hers, in public.
Gently she closed her fingers on his. She was delighted by the audacious things she'd done on this voyage. When she began the trip in Boston, she'd had no thought of doing any of them. Surely this delicious new freedom was another sign that she had finally found a man she could love all her life.
Cooper, too, had found a partner. A decent, bright woman who was, to him, surpassingly beautiful. A woman who shared his own quirky, iconoclastic turn of mind, and many of his beliefs, and a few of his doubts. With her, if she'd have him, he could weather the stormy times that were surely coming. In the house on Tradd Street, this very night, he would propose.
The decision returned a look of calm to his face. Holding hands and heedless of the stares of some scandalized passengers, Cooper and Judith stood gazing into each other's eyes as Fort Sumter loomed off the bow and slowly fell behind.
Tension and quarreling plagued the Hazards that spring. The servants bet small sums on who would be speaking to whom by the time the family left for Newport. Some wagered they wouldn't go at all.
George discovered Stanley had made another donation to Cameron, this time in the amount of two thousand dollars. "You promised to stop that sort of thing!" He punctuated the accusation by pounding the desk so hard a window rattled. Stanley edged to the other side of the office before answering. George was small, but Stanley lived in fear of him. He lived in greater fear of Isabel, however.
"I never meant I'd stop permanently. If you thought that, you misunderstood. Besides, Simon urgently needed —"
"Oh, it's Simon now. Pals! What post are you buying? What's the price?" Stanley reddened. George prowled back and forth like a wild animal. "Our costs rise every day, and you piss our money away on political hacks and private rail cars."
On his own, Stanley had contracted for an eight-wheel passenger car, complete with sitting room, sleeping compartments, and a galley. The unusual car, one of only a handful in the nation, was being rushed to completion in Delaware. Stanley had been pushed into the purchase by his wife, who had repeatedly said she would not ride the public cars to Rhode Island.
"Surely we can discuss this without resorting to vulgarity, George."
"Discuss, hell. It's too late to do anything about the car, but I won't have you giving Cameron another penny."
"While I control the bank account, I'll do as I please. Speak to Mother if you don't like it."
He didn't have the nerve to look at his younger brother as he played mat trump. George angrily subsided, as Stanley expected he would. George might threaten to go to Maude, but Stanley had figured out that his pride would never permit him to do it. With a smug smile, Stanley strolled out. The door banged shut, a defiant coda to the conversation.
Swearing, George sat down. He tried to calm himself but failed.
Stanley had him, and they both knew it. He refused to run to Maude, yet the situation as it stood was intolerable. He didn't know what to do. He picked up an inkwell and hurled it against the wall.
"Childish," he grumbled a minute later. But it had made him feel a lot better, even though his problem remained unsolved and the flying ink had ruined his shirt.
Stanley described the argument to Isabel. Naturally George was the villain, Stanley the hero.
She took revenge with a new campaign against her in-laws. With a false smile of concern, she began "wondering" — aloud — about the nature of the religious upbringing little William and Patricia would receive. She dredged up the usual scare tales about sinister Roman priests who exerted an evil influence on parishoners and, by extension, their children. But her special target was George. For several weeks his apparent lack of any faith became a popular topic among the better-class women of Lehigh Station.
No, George didn't worship as a Catholic, Isabel said to them, but neither did he set foot in his own church, the Methodist. Weren't his poor children in danger of growing up godless? People who previously hadn't worried about that question, or George's character, found themselves talking of little else.
Some of the gossip reached Constance, then George. It saddened her and infuriated him. It was no comfort to receive a letter from Orry and learn that there was discord in the Main family, too. Cooper had announced his forthcoming marriage to a Unitarian girl with abolitionist leanings. Tillet could hardly contain his displeasure. Orry hoped the Newport trip would ease the tensions, at least for a little while.
Virgilia left for ten days in Philadelphia, where she was to address another rally. Maude had long ago stopped pleading with her about the need for a chaperone. Virgilia did as she pleased.
Five days later, as packing for the Newport trip commenced, one of Isabel's friends called on her. The woman, Grace Truitt, had just returned from Philadelphia. One evening she and her husband had gone to the Chestnut Street Theater to see a revival of The People's Lawyer, a perennially popular play featuring one of those Yankee rustics who outwitted supposedly smarter people; the shrewd rustic had been a standard character in American comedy for years.
"Your sister-in-law occupied a box with a handsome escort named Toby Johnson,"the visitor said.
"I don't know the gentleman."
"It would be surprising if you did, but everyone in Philadelphia has heard or read about him. Virgilia and Mr. Johnson appeared together at the abolitionist rally." Grace Truitt paused, relishing the next. "On that occasion Mr. Johnson recounted his experiences in North Carolina before his escape."
"Escape? Good heavens, you don't mean he's — African?"
"Brown as a nut," said the other, nodding. "They flaunted themselves at the theater. Kept touching each other and exchanging glances which — well — " The woman dabbed her glistening upper lip. "One could only term them amorous. I hate to bring you such tragic news, but I felt you should know."
Isabel looked sick. "Was there much reaction to their presence at the theater?"
"I should say there was. Several couples left in protest before the curtain rose. At the first interval someone flung a bag of trash into the box. A vulgar action, to be sure; still, Virgilia and her companion sat there bold as brass and ignored it."
Isabel clutched the woman's hand. "Please keep this to yourself, Grace. I'll inform the family at the proper moment, when Virgilia gets home."
"You can depend on my discretion."
But it was an idle promise.
Maude sent a cart and driver down to the village to meet Virgilia's boat. A block from the canal, two loungers saw her riding in the cart with her luggage. One of the men found a stone.
"Don't bring your nigger lover to Lehigh Station!"
He flung the stone with more emotion than accuracy. Virgilia saw it sail harmlessly by. The cart driver gave his passenger a stunned look. She ignored it and glared at the loungers. By evening, when George and his family trooped to Stanley's for supper, the incident had become the talk of both houses.
Before the first course was served, Maude said, "Virgilia, I heard about a nasty incident in the village today. What caused it?"
She shrugged. "My friendship with Toby Johnson, I suppose. I attended the theater with him in Philadelphia. Gossip travels fast. Perhaps some small-minded person from Lehigh Station actually saw me."
It angered Isabel that her revelation had been spoiled. At least she could emphasize the enormity of Virgilia's misdeed:
"In case someone is unaware, Johnson is a Negro."
That wasn't news to George; he and Constance had discussed the incident an hour ago. He chewed furiously on his cigar stub because Virgilia's expression said she was relishing the family's discomfort. He was no longer surprised by such behavior, but it still angered him.
Virgilia's chin lifted defiantly. "Toby Johnson is a fine man, and I shall see him as often as I like."
Billy looked titillated; everyone else was upset. Stanley sputtered, unable to speak coherently. Maude studied her daughter with an air of grieved resignation. George spoke for the group.
"We have no quarrel with your cause, Virgilia. But you carry it too far. I don't say that merely because the man's black —"
Her look withered him. "Of course you do, George. Don't be a hypocrite."
"All right — perhaps his color is part of it. But I expect I could get over that, or reconcile myself to it, if it weren't for your attitude. I don't think you really care for this man."
"How dare you presume to say what I really —?"
"Virgilia, shut up and let me finish. I think what you really want is to draw attention to yourself. Thumb your nose at the world because you believe — mistakenly — that it's harmed you. In the process, you're shaming your mother and dishonoring this family. Certain things just aren't done by decent women, whether the man is black, white, or purple."
Virgilia balled her napkin and tossed it away. "What a dreadful prig you've become." Maude uttered a soft cry and averted her face.
"We're not talking about me but about you and your behavior," George retorted. "We won't put up with it."
She rose and fixed him with cold eyes. "You'll have to, brother dear. I am an adult. Who I sleep with is my affair."
Embarrassed, Constance turned toward Billy. George and Stanley stared at each other, for once united by shock and anger. Isabel drew gulping breaths. Virgilia swept out of the room.
Maude put her hand in front of her face to hide sudden tears.
Next day William broke out in a rash. George and Constance feared measles. Dr. Hopple said it wasn't measles, but the boy nevertheless developed a fever. Constance stayed up all night to tend him. George stayed up worrying about her and about the mess caused by his sister. He was in a bad mood when the family left the next afternoon in two carriages; a third followed with a small mountain of luggage. At Philadelphia the Hazards would board the private rail car which would take them to a siding near the Newport ferry dock.
George felt nervous about leaving the business for eight weeks. He had prepared pages and pages of instructions for his supervisors and foremen, and he planned on at least one return trip to Lehigh Station during the summer. Still, the family needed him more than Hazard Iron did. Something had to be done to restore peace and keep Virgilia from disrupting it for the next month or so.
Isabel constantly sniped at Virgilia behind her back. The object of this attention acted as if nothing had happened. Virgilia chattered about the passing scenery, the weather — everything but the subject that had precipitated the argument. She was blithely, even arrogantly, cheerful.
During their one-night layover in Philadelphia, she disappeared all night with no explanation. That evening Maude took to her bed before the sun went down. But next morning she seemed better, as if she were determined to accept the situation, deplorable as it was. She went on a shopping trip with toddling William, who was feeling fine again.
They boarded the private car at four in the afternoon.
On each side of the car, five-inch-high gilt letters spelled out Pride of Hazard. Above the legend a gilt eagle spread its wings. The interior was equally opulent. Everyone exclaimed over the etched-glass window borders, the gleaming brass fixtures, the wainscoting of rosewood inlay with deep red damask covering the walls above.
Stanley had spared no expense. The upholstery was the finest plush, the washbasins the finest marble. George had to admit the car was beautiful, but he didn't dare ask the final cost. He wanted to be at home, seated and slightly drunk, when he saw the bill.
A Negro chef had been hired for the summer. He was already in the galley, preparing sole for supper. Virgilia conversed with the chef for a good ten minutes. "As if he's her equal," Isabel sneered to Constance behind her hand. "Something must be done."
Constance ignored her. Virgilia emerged from the galley and disappeared into her sleeping compartment with a copy of The Liberator.
The boys, William, Laban, and Levi, ran up and down the car, climbing over the furniture, rattling compartment door handles, and creating a cacophony on the pump organ tucked against the bulkhead at one end of the sleeping section. At a quarter to five the car was switched onto the New York fast express, which pulled out a few minutes later.
The family dined on filet of sole and drank expensive French wine while the express rushed north through the dreary New Jersey flatlands. Virgilia was not present; she had taken a tray into her compartment.
"She'll probably invite her dusky friend to Newport," Isabel said in a thickened voice. She had consumed a good deal of claret, disdaining the white wine served to all the others. "We should take action."
George noticed a flare in his wife's eyes. But Constance kept her temper, saying, "Perhaps we should just have patience. If she's involved herself with Johnson merely to assert her independence, it won't last.''
Unsatisfied, Isabel whined, "What do we do in the meantime? Suffer humiliation? Social ostracism? I tell you we must take action."
"You keep saying that," Maude snapped. "What do you suggest?"
Isabel opened her mouth, closed it, stood up with nervous movements.
"Excuse me, I believe I heard the children."
She rushed off to their compartment. George reached under the fine linen tablecloth, found his wife's hand, and, giving her a resigned look, squeezed it. Then he poured another glass of Chardonnay and drank it in several long gulps.
Around midnight in the New York rail yards, the Pride of Hazard was uncoupled from the Philadelphia train and put on another bound for Providence. The car was coupled immediately behind those containing freight and baggage, and just ahead of the public coaches. This placed it at the midpoint of the train.
About that same time, along the Connecticut shore near the hamlet of West Haven, a switchman who had earlier had a big fight with his lady friend resorted to a bottle to drown his anger. He drank so much so fast he forgot to reset a switch after a local headed for New York came off a siding parallel to the main line. The local had backed onto the siding and waited there until a Boston-bound express went by.
The switchman walked unsteadily in the direction of New Haven. Had he been a reliable man and sober, he would have worried about the switch's being out of position. Any train approaching from New York and traveling faster than five miles an hour would shunt onto the siding, which was short, and crash through a barricade at the end. Beyond the barricade lay a wide, dark gully.
Constance wriggled in her husband's arms. There really wasn't room for two, but she hated the discomfort and confinement of her own berth and had moved down to lie with him for a little while.
"Before I become a regular traveler on overnight trains, some genius will have to invent a better sleeping arrangement,'' she murmured against his neck.
"Cozy, though, isn't it?" The moment he said it there was an abrupt lurch. "Did you notice that? Felt like we switched onto another track."
The driver of the eight-wheel Winans locomotive was terrified. He had seen the position of the switch arm a few seconds too late. The engine had been unexpectedly slewed onto the siding, and even as he pulled the cord to signal for help, he knew the brakemen would be unable to turn their wheels and halt the train in time.
In the spill of light from the oil-fired headlamp, he saw the barricade looming. "Jump, Fred," he screamed at his foreman, who was already stepping off the foot plate into the dark.
So this was how it would end for him, the driver thought. A name in a newspaper account of another accident. So many of them were happening that preachers and politicians said no more railroads should be built.
He yanked the signal cord again. It broke in his hand. By the light of the firebox he saw the frayed end, and that was all he saw. The locomotive burst through the barricade at thirty miles an hour and shot up a slight incline and out over the gully like an immense projectile, dragging the rest of the train behind it.
"Constance, get the children. Something's —"
George never finished the unnecessary warning. She knew something was wrong because of the way the car jerked, then began a slow roll onto its left side.
There was a strange sensation of floating. She fought her way up the suddenly inclined floor toward the door separating the compartment from that of the children. The locomotive fell toward the far edge of the gully. Seconds before the shattering crash, she realized the private car and possibly the whole train had left the rails.
She tore the connecting door open. The first thing she saw was the sooty chimney of a lamp she had left burning. The car was all wood and lacquer. They would be roasted to death if they weren't crushed.
It seemed to last forever, that slow, lazy rollover through space. Iron howled as couplings tore apart. The freight car directly ahead landed in the gully, and the Hazard car came crashing down on top of it, roof first. On the rim of the gully the locomotive's boiler burst, the explosion creating a huge cloud of fiery steam and shredded metal. The cloud bloomed upward and outward like some flower from a madman's garden.
Human screams counterpointed the shriek of iron. The Hazard car collapsed onto its inverted roof. The second-class coach immediately behind glanced off the side and sagged into the gully next to the pile of cars on which the Hazards' was resting. Below her, Constance heard injured men cry out in the dark: employees of the line working in the baggage cars had been trapped down at the very bottom.
"William? Patricia? Stay with Mother. Hold onto me. We'll be all right."
The children were sobbing. So were dozens of other passengers, in every car — a whole choir of the terrified trying to be heard above the breaking of wood, the shattering of glass, the swift crackle of flames. Where was George? In her terror she had lost track of him. She thought he had left their compartment through the door leading to the corridor.
The lamps were out in the Hazard car, but there was light. Firelight. She saw it bathing George's face as he reentered their compartment, walking on the ceiling which had become the floor. He rushed to the connecting door.
"Give me one of the children." He held out his arms. Behind him she glimpsed Stanley struggling along the corridor. He was pushing Maude and dragging Isabel, who had a twin in each arm.
Constance passed William to George. Carrying Patricia, she stepped over the high sill created when the car inverted. She dared not listen to the cries or the sounds of the spreading fire. It ate into the wall behind her, its heat scorching.
"Go on, George. I'm all right." With her free hand she lifted the hem of her nightgown so that she wouldn't fall. She began coughing; the smoke was thickening rapidly.
She followed her husband out of the compartment. The corridor was blocked by wreckage in one direction and by Isabel in the other. Isabel had suddenly lost control. She dropped the twins at her feet and surrendered to hysterical screaming.
The smoke reddened as fire consumed the car. The three-year-old twins wept and tore at their mother's legs, hoping she'd notice them. She didn't.
"We've got to get her out of the way," Constance shouted, thrusting Patricia at her husband. He maneuvered William into one arm and with a grunt hefted the girl onto his shoulder. Constance slipped around him, seized Isabel by the shoulders, and shook her. When that did no good. Constance slapped her. Isabel staggered against Stanley, who seized her wrists and dragged her away into the ruddy smoke.
"Laban — Levi," Constance gasped, crouching by the twins as George squeezed past and struggled along the corridor. She had only seconds now; the compartment behind her was aflame. Tongues of fire shot from the doorway. The pudgy-faced twins huddled against her as she fought to keep her nerves from betraying her.
She gave them her hands. "Hold onto me, boys." She led them down the corridor the way George had gone. He had disappeared in the smoke. So had everyone else.
The wooden wall on her right felt blistering. Three feet ahead the wall abruptly split and buckled outward, dissolving in fire. No exit that way. There was a barrier of fire behind her, too.
The windows, then. She kicked one with her bare heel. It shivered but didn't break. She kicked it again. A crash; glass tore her heel and lacerated the sole of her foot.
The air rushing in fanned the flames. What was out there? How far was the ground? Was there only dangerous wreckage below? She couldn't see, but she had no other escape route. She tore a piece of wood from the buckling wall and enlarged the ragged opening by smashing out more glass. She had no recollection of cutting herself, but by the time she finished, her wrists bled from a dozen wounds. She dropped the wood and lifted Laban.
She flung him outward through the opening, and his brother after him. Then she jumped, a moment before the car disappeared in a Niagara of fire that ran toward the sky.
She hit a slope covered with sharp rocks just seven or eight feet below the car. She rolled a short distance, stunned. Above her, the burning wreckage lost its brilliance as her vision dimmed. She gasped for air, powerless to move, close to losing consciousness.
Everywhere, screaming. Drifting smoke. The roar of the fire and the shrill hiss of steam still escaping from some valve in the ruined locomotive.
Hurt and dazed as she was, Constance still managed to separate one sound from the others: the sound of Laban and his brother weeping in fright as they wandered the hillside. They needed someone.
She willed herself back from the darkness that had nearly taken her. She flung red hair off her forehead with red hands and tottered along the sloping side of the gully until finally she reached the twins. She made queer gurgling sounds as she picked them up; it was the closest she could come to laughter.
"Boys, we'll be fine now." She held one under each arm and climbed the slope. The rocks bruised and cut her already bleeding feet. "Just fine. We'll find your mother. We'll find her right away."
If she weren't dead.
Would the little boys remember the shrieks of those victims buried at the bottom of the pile of cars? Would they remember the strident, choking cry of someone trapped in a burning car and roasting alive? She would. God above, she would.
The death toll in the wreck, which the penny press later dubbed the West Haven Catastrophe, was twenty. Fourteen passengers and six employees of the line, including the engineer. None of the casualties turned out to be a Hazard, although the family's Negro chef had died with a broken timber driven like a spear through the bosom of his nightshirt. The center of the train proved to have been the safest spot; all the deaths had occurred at the forward end or in the last two passenger coaches.
One by one Constance found the others. Billy first. Then Maude; she sat on the ground, dazed and unable to rise. George and their children. And Stanley, trying to comfort and quiet Isabel, who alternately sobbed and ranted.
Last of all she spied Virgilia, over on the far side of the wreckage. George's sister had torn up her dress to make bandages. In her undergarments and filthy dirty, she ran up and down hills of teetering rubble like a mountain goat, hunting for survivors and helping to free them. As for the Pride of Hazard, it no longer existed.
Constance rubbed her eyes. She saw Stanley kneeling by his sons, examining their bloodied feet.
"How are they?" she asked.
"I don't know. How did their feet get cut so badly?"
Constance didn't answer. She was only able to shake her head. The fool was angry with her. Incredible.
"Who's cut? Are my children hurt? Let me see."
Shrill, but evidently herself again, Isabel rushed past Maude and dropped to her knees beside the twins, who were trying to hold back tears. "Laban — Levi — oh, my poor dears. Look at that blood. Those terrible gashes. What did she do to you?"
She gathered the boys into her arms and peered between them, her eyes brimming with hostility. "Constance, if either of them is permanently injured, I'll never forgive you."
'' Permanently —?''
Constance found it so ludicrous she couldn't go on. She threw her head back and laughed, raw, hysterical laughter that brought a scowl to Stanley's face, and George's too. "My God, Isabel," she gasped finally. "Do you have the slightest idea of what you're saying?"
Isabel released the boys and lurched to her feet. Strings of hair fell across her forehead as she stumbled toward her sister-in-law. "I certainly do. Look at them. Look at their feet."
"I'm sorry you don't approve of what I did, Isabel. But then you never do. I was trying to save the twins. No one else was helping them. Certainly not you. You were screaming, hysterical. You had abandoned your children to a horrible fate."
George spoke softly to her. "I don't think you need to say any more."
Constance knew he was asking her to end it there; not demanding that she do so, but asking, so that trouble wouldn't keep piling on trouble. She heard that clearly and understood. Yet it made no difference. Her brush with death had unleashed feelings long suppressed.
With her eyes on Isabel, she said, "Oh, yes, there's a lot that needs saying. You should be horsewhipped for being so ungrateful. I'd do it if you weren't such a pitiable creature —"
"See here — " Stanley began, but Isabel's cry drowned him out:
"You Irish bitch!"
She scooped a jagged rock from the ground and ran at Constance. George jumped in front of his wife, tore the rock away from Isabel, and hurled it toward the blazing pyre of the train.
Isabel whipped up her fist to strike him. George seized her forearm in his left hand and gradually but firmly forced her hand down. His voice shook.
"She's right, you're ungrateful. You've done nothing but heap unkindness on Constance ever since she came to Lehigh Station. She's looked the other way — tried to forgive you — and so have I. But this is the end. She saved the twins, and instead of thanking her —"
"George, you've overstepped," Stanley rumbled behind him.
George didn't look at his brother. "Keep out of this. Isabel, I will always insist that my family be civil to you, but that's all. Henceforward I don't want to see you at Belvedere. Don't ever set foot in my house.''
"You will not speak to my wife that way," Stanley exclaimed, grabbing George's shoulder. Stanley's impulsive act was a match touched to an emotional fuse. George spun, slammed Stanley's hand away by striking his forearm, then stepped back to set his stance just right.
Stanley was spluttering. Steady on his feet, George ignored the last faint plea of reason and did what he had long dreamed about. With all his might he hit Stanley in the stomach.
Isabel shrieked. Stanley gasped and so did George; he had struck so hard he thought his hand was broken.
"Papa," one of the twins howled, and burst out crying. Stanley attempted to stay on his feet, but the blow had knocked him off balance. His arms windmilling, he staggered backward, then collapsed on his rump. The light of the burning cars made his cheeks glisten red. As he gazed up at his younger brother, a forlorn comprehension crept into his eyes. He struggled for breath. He was paunchy, soft-looking, as he sat there. Old, suddenly. Impotent.
God, I wish I hadn't done that, George thought. But the blow could never be called back. It would exist in memory forever, an embarrassment to him and to all of them. It was odd that he could regret what he'd done and at the same time feel relief and a sense of pride.
He walked forward and held out his hand to his brother. "Let me help you up."
Stanley grasped George's forearm and pulled himself to his feet. He acknowledged the assistance with a flicker of his eyelids, but there was no gratitude in the glance — not that George expected any. There was, however, something else. An emotion George had seen, or at least suspected, before. Now it was unmistakable.
He's afraid of me. He's always been afraid of me.
If George had recognized that fear in the past, he had never recognized the power it gave him; not until now.
Stanley sidled past and reassured Isabel that he was all right. Then he turned to the twin who was crying. He picked the little boy up and comforted him. George and Constance held their children close. Billy went to Maude and stayed with her. No one said much during the next few minutes. A kind of shock had set in. George wasn't sure whether the cause was the wreck or the fight afterward.
Stanley and Isabel avoided looking at George and his family. George's guilt was fading rapidly. An accounting with Stanley was long overdue.
Some twenty minutes later, Virgilia arrived with five men from the hamlet of West Haven. Two of them bore Maude away on a pole-and-canvas litter. By then George had made up his mind to stop regretting his action.
When the sun rose, a couple of hundred railroad workers and volunteers were swarming over the site of the wreck. The Hazards were by then resting in a New Haven hotel. Virgilia decided to go on to Newport. Several servants were already there. The New Haven tradesmen, responding to the emergency and the chance for profit, brought stocks of clothing and fully outfitted the entire Hazard family.
By late morning rail service in both directions was restored. Virgilia's train left at three. Billy volunteered to watch the children while they napped, so George and Constance accompanied Virgilia to the station, then went off to shop for some additional items. When they returned to the hotel, they looked in on Maude, who was still in bed. Two of her ribs had been broken, but apart from some dizziness, she claimed she felt fine.
"That's good news, Mother," George said. "I believe I'll try to find Stanley."
Maude looked at her son without reproof. "Where has he been all morning?"
"I don't know."
"He and Isabel and the children disappeared into their rooms right after breakfast," Constance put in.
Maude sighed. "I'm happy you're going to talk with him."
George stroked his mustache with the tip of his index finger. "Not solely to apologize. Stanley and I have some things to straighten out."
Resigned to it, she murmured, "I understand. I have seen it coming for quite a while. Perhaps this is as good a time as any."
She closed her eyes and rested her hands, one on top of the other, on the clean counterpane. He was glad she understood. It made what he was about to do considerably easier.
He knocked softly at the door of his brother's suite. Isabel answered, informing him coldly that Stanley was downstairs, in the saloon bar. George found him hunched over a large glass of Kentucky whiskey. He ordered one for himself but left it untasted. He made an effort to maintain a temperate tone as he said:
''I am going to assume responsibility for the company bank accounts.''
"Oh? You've spoken to Mother?" Stanley asked with weary bitterness.
"I have not. This is solely between the two of us. When we reach Newport, we'll compose a letter to each of the banks we use." His heart was beating fast. "From now on, my signature will be the only one that can authorize expenditures above fifty dollars. There'll be no more private rail cars for a while."
Stanley stared into the mahogany-bordered mirror behind the bar. Above it an antlered stag looked over their heads with glassy disinterest. Abruptly, Stanley laughed.
"I thought something like this was coming. I don't give a damn. I've never liked the iron trade anyway, and you've pushed and pushed to take over the whole thing."
George suppressed anger and continued to speak calmly. "I can give it my full attention. You're developing other interests. I gather you wouldn't be averse to holding political office."
"Eventually," Stanley agreed. "For one thing, it would get me away from Lehigh Station." And you was the unspoken conclusion.
George avoided the bait. "Then I'm glad we've reached an understanding. I'm sorry for what I did last night."
He held out his hand. Stanley glanced at it, then curled his fingers around his glass and bent forward, as if to protect it. "If you don't mind, I'd rather drink by myself."
"Whatever you say."
George left the bar.
The others sensed that a change had taken place within the family. Isabel didn't hide her resentment, but Stanley showed occasional flashes of relief. He laughed and joked as he hadn't for years.
They remained in New Haven an extra day, completing and signing depositions about the accident for the railroad's management. The following morning they rather nervously boarded another train for Rhode Island. They had been traveling about an hour when an incident took place that signaled that the transition of leadership was complete, and final.
They were talking about christening their summer place; all such estates in Newport had names. Stanley mentioned that in front of the house there was a broad and beautiful expanse of grass. He suggested the name Fairlawn.
"Very pretty," Maude said. "But what do you think, George?"
George thought the name unimaginative. Then he remembered one of the lessons of West Point. It behooved an officer to show courtesy to a beaten opponent.
"I like it," he said, smiling at his brother.
Disdainful, Isabel said, "Then I suppose that settles it."
It did. Stanley looked boyishly grateful.
Fairlawn was a splendid, airy house, three stories high and gleaming with a new coat of white paint. The landscaping had been neglected, however. Weeds choked the flower beds; dead limbs disfigured the trees. And the low brick wall surrounding the property needed mortaring. At George's request, Stanley supervised the masons and gardeners. He appeared to enjoy himself.
The price of the house had included all the furnishings. The women liked very few of the pieces, however, and spent the first couple of days ordering replacements. Constance deferred to Isabel whenever possible. The effort did nothing to moderate Isabel's animosity.
Everyone in the family kept as busy as possible, sensing it would help them forget the wreck. Maude's injuries were the most obvious reminder. Her dizzy spells persisted, and she moved slowly because of the broken ribs. Constance suffered from nightmares, always a recapitulation of her struggle to escape from the burning car. William dreamed of the accident too; he awoke crying and thrashing every night for nearly two weeks.
The Mains arrived on the fifth of July, one day after President Taylor ate too many cucumbers and drank too much cold milk at a patriotic celebration and fell ill. On July 9 he died of cholera morbus. Some editorialists said he had really been killed by worry and the pressures of office, particularly those created by sectional antagonism. Millard Fillmore assumed the presidency on July 10.
By then the Mains had settled into their rented house, just a short distance away on Old Beach Road. Both families eased into the abundant pleasures of a Newport summertime. There were pony-cart rides and outings to the beach during the day, lawn games during long evenings sweet with the smell of freshly scythed grass. Newport Beach was close by but crowded; the family preferred a more private bathing area at the south end of the island, within sight of a jutting offshore formation local people called Spouting Rock.
At first Tillet seemed uncomfortable on Yankee soil. Soon, however, he renewed acquaintances with several other families from South Carolina, including the Izards, and after that he relaxed and enjoyed himself.
Except when he read the news from Washington. Fillmore intended to support Clay's compromise bills, which were now seen as certain to pass, probably before the end of the year. A group of younger congressmen led by Stephen Douglas of Illinois had pledged to break the voting stalemate created by the old guard.
The four young people spent a great deal of time together. Both Ashton and Brett got along well with the stocky, cheerfully pugnacious Billy Hazard, though he was chiefly interested in Ashton. He was fifteen, she one year younger; Brett was a mere child of twelve.
Charles, fourteen, gave the impression of being the most mature of the foursome. His height had something to do with it; he was already a full head taller than Billy. He was handsome and prone to laugh a lot. Charles and Billy were as cordial as could be expected of two boys getting to know each other. Orry and George watched the new friendship with great interest.
George bought a skiff, and one evening after supper, the boys took it down to the beach to experiment. George and Orry went along to keep an eye on the neophyte sailors. Billy had a little experience with small boats, but Charles had none.
George and Orry sat on opposite sides of a big rock. The Atlantic was calm, with just enough breeze for fine sailing close to shore. Orry lifted a handful of sand and let it trickle away. The vacation seemed to be relaxing him. Yet on occasion George still detected a bitter undertone in his friend's speech.
Not tonight, though. Orry smiled as he gazed toward the skiff. "Look at them. Re-chisel a few of the features and that could be the two of us. Stick and Stump the Second."
George nodded and puffed his cigar. "I hope they'll be as good friends at West Point as we were, even if they will be a year apart. Charles is a devilishly handsome fellow, isn't he? Almost the perfect picture of the dashing Southern gentleman."
Orry chuckled. "Who'd have believed our salt crow would turn into a hawk? He cleaned up right well, as the saying goes."
"Your father says you deserve the credit."
Orry shrugged. "Charles loves to scrap. When he found there were ways to do it without being tossed in jail or having everyone furious with him, it was a most impressive lesson. He's learned it well."
"And a lot of other things. I always thought I was pretty good with the ladies, but I can't bow and kiss a woman's hand as gracefully as he does. The first evening you came to Fairlawn, he fussed over my mother till she blushed like a girl."
Rowdy shouts rang across the water, then a gleeful whoop and a splash. Billy dumped Charles off the skiff.
Orry and George jumped up. Charles quickly clambered back onto the little boat. He pointed at something on the horizon — something nonexistent — and when Billy turned to look, grabbed Billy's belt and shirt and threw him in. Soaked, the two boys sat laughing in the skiff a few moments later.
"I'm proud of the way he's turning out," Orry admitted as he took his place on the rock again. "I had my share of regrets when I came home from Mexico. Charles has helped me banish some of them."
"The change showed in your letters. It was welcome."
"And this has been a welcome vacation. Well, in most respects. I still hate the stench of those weeds you smoke."
George laughed. Orry stretched his right arm high above his head and yawned. The sunset flung their long, attenuated shadows across the beach. The wind picked up. Snaky veils of sand blew past them.
George found it a melancholy sight. It reminded him of how quickly time was slipping away. Even time seemingly recaptured in the forms of those two laughing youngsters was an illusion, one that his own mind created as an antidote for the way things really were. A futile antidote; neither time nor change could ever be stopped. Of late, the realization lent life a bittersweet quality.
Still, this was a good moment, the kind of calm, complete moment he found rare these days.
Orry felt it too. His mood grew mellow. "I'll tell you how much I'm enjoying myself. So much, I'm even beginning to feel charitable toward my older brother."
"How is Cooper?"
"Happy, Married to that free-thinking Unitarian. A good marriage. Father can't quite accept it. Of course he's delighted to accept all the profits Cooper is generating from the packet line. Did I write you about our new vessel? She'll be off the ways in a month. Cooper's already talking about investing in more. He wants to get to Britain to study their methods of shipbuilding."
George cleared his throat and finally asked the question that had been on his mind since Orry's arrival.
"Is there any news of Madeline?"
Orry turned toward his friend, away from the sun. His eyes were sunken in patches of shadow. "No news, and no change."
"Do you still see her?"
"As often as I can. It's a bad bargain, but better than none."
The sand veils whispered past their feet. The beach was growing dark. George rose and signaled the boys. Billy and Charles beached the skiff, unstepped the mast, and raised it to their shoulders. "You'll make a sailor yet," Billy said as they followed their elders toward the dirt road leading home.
Charles grinned. "A sailor but never a Yankee, I hope."
"What's wrong with Yankees?"
"Mr. Hazard, sir, I'll be happy to tell you — if you have the rest of the night free."
"Not to listen to tall tales and made-up stories." The banter irked Billy somehow. "Let's discuss something we can agree on."
"Girls?"
"Girls," Billy said emphatically, his good humor restored. He was thinking about a particular girl named Ashton.
Ahead, slow-moving shadows in the purpling dusk, George smiled at the sound of the young voices. Orry smiled too. Stick and Stump the Second.
The mellow mood disintegrated as soon as they arrived at Fairlawn. The ladies had gathered on the side porch with pitchers of iced lemonade — and without Virgilia at first. Now she was present; she had joined them after drinking a quantity of claret. George and the others found her in the midst of a sermonette on revisions to the fugitive-slave law of 1793, revisions that the Congress was currently debating.
"The whole business is nothing but a scheme to appease the South," she declared, slurring more than a few words.
"Dear me,"Clarissa sighed. "I feel so lost in discussions of such issues."
"Then I would inform myself if I were you, Mrs. Main."
Virgilia's tone irked the other women in her family. Among the Mains it was Ashton who reacted most visibly. Seated in a cane rocker with an untasted glass of lemonade in her hand, she glared at Virgilia, who paid no attention.
"Very simply, the revisions will remove fugitive slave cases from state jurisdiction. From now on all such cases will be handled by the Federal government. That would lead you to believe that the decisions would probably benefit the runaways, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, that would be my assumption," Clarissa said.
"You would be wrong. The true purpose of the revisions is to circumvent strong liberty laws, such as the one in Vermont. The revisions favor the slave catchers and the slave owners. All it will take to establish proof of ownership is an affidavit, which can easily be forged. Further; a runaway slave won't be permitted to say a word on his own behalf. It's a put-up job and a shameful one. Why Washington keeps truckling to the South I'll never know."
Maude had remained silent as long as she could. Now, firmly, she said to her daughter:
"It's rather impolite of you to lecture when this is a social occasion. If you've finished, perhaps you'd like to excuse yourself. You sound tired."
Isabel laughed. "Oh, let's tell the truth. The poor child's had too much to drink."
"Isabel —" Maude, began, but before she could say more, Ashton jumped up, thrust out her chin, and rushed to Virgilia.
"If you don't like Southerners, why did you invite us here?"
Clarissa rose. "Ashton, that's enough." She turned to the men, who had been standing silently. "I'm glad you're back, Orry. Will you escort us home, please? So nice to have been with you," she finished, extending her hand to Maude. The visit ended hastily on a note of embarrassment.
After the Mains left, George cornered his sister on the lawn, where she had gone to avoid the family's wrath. "Will you kindly tell me why you continue to bait our guests?" — he demanded.
"Why shouldn't I say what I think?"
"If I truly believed you were doing that, you'd hear no complaints from me. But your candor goes far beyond mere discusssion or even conviction. You try to insult people. Wound them. And you do it to my very good friends."
"They are not my friends. They represent a way of life that's despicable and utterly wrong. I wouldn't care if the earth opened and swallowed the lot of them."
"By God, you're the rudest, most inconsiderate —"
He was talking to the lightning bugs; Virgilia had turned and rushed to the house.
It took three cigars and a long tramp along Newport's deserted roads for George to regain a measure of calm. What was the use of arguing with her? She was incorrigible. Lord, what will the rest of the summer be like?
Fortunately, two days later a letter from an abolitionist colleague summoned Virgilia to Boston. She packed and left for the ferry with scarcely a word to anyone. Maude acted relieved. Though George didn't show it, he was too.
Ultimately the strongest reaction his sister generated within him was pity. She struck out viciously at too many people. Someday one of them would strike back. It might even be a Yankee. Northerners were hardly as virtuous as Virgilia liked to pretend.
What of her future, then? What had she to look forward to? Unhappiness? Without a doubt. Tragedy? Yes, that was very possible, he admitted with a feeling of sadness.
"Tarnation. What's this we got?"
"Another one of the summer bunch, from the looks of him."
"I ain't speakin' of him, Oral. Look at that fancy pole and creel."
Unseen, Billy heard the low voices and held still. He was high in the tree he had climbed to reach the good apples. Down below, the four townies had appeared through a break in the hedge bordering the orchard. Three of the townies were white, one black.
Billy and Charles had hiked north of town, fished the bay unsuccessfully for two hours, and detoured into the orchard on their way home. Now they were in for trouble. Most townies hated the hordes of visitors who infested the island every summer. These four were no exception.
Billy was crouched in a fork created by two upper limbs of the tree. His left leg was bent, his heel jammed tight against the underside of his thigh. The muscles of that leg already hurt like the devil. The townies hadn't seen him. They were concentrating on the expensive fishing gear lying in the grass next to Charles, who sat with his back against the tree. His chin rested on his shirt. His eyes were closed. "If you like it, help yourself," said the boy addressed as Oral; he was the Negro. "He won't fuss. He's sleepin.' "
Charles's eyes flew open. One of the townies yelped. Charles used the distraction to draw his right leg up in an inverted V so that his boot was within reach. The boot in which he hid the bowie knife.
"Afraid you're wrong on both counts," he said with a broad smile. Billy gazed down at the top of Charles's head, at long hair ruffled by the wind. He didn't miss the casual way Charles laid his right hand on his knee, a few inches above his boot top.
"Damn if he don't sound like a Southron," a towheaded townie said. He nudged the black. "Bet he's one of them boys that whups your kinfolk down in Georgia."
"Yeah, I bet he is," Oral said. His eyes were ugly. "We're takin' them fishing things."
Still smiling, Charles clasped his right hand lightly around the upper part of his calf. "It would be a serious mistake to do that, boys."
"Oh, yes?" Oral sneered. "It's four on one." He bent at the waist, reaching for Charles's big wicker creel. Suddenly the towhead spotted the other rod leaning against the trunk.
"Lookit, Oral. They's two poles. Why would he have two?"
Oral was so eager to claim Charles's things he ignored the anxious note in his friend's voice. The other two townies began to look around the orchard in a puzzled way. Slowly and silently, Billy straightened his left leg, never taking his eyes from Charles's right hand. When Charles grabbed for the top of his boot and rolled, Billy jumped.
"Jesus Almighty," Towhead screamed, a second before Billy's heavy walking boots struck his shoulders.
Bone cracked. Towhead went tumbling backward into the hedge. Crouching, Charles moved his right hand slowly. Oral watched the point of Charles's knife trace a circle in the air. The black youth began to perspire.
"Now, sir," Charles said to Oral. "Is it all Southerners you dislike? Or just Southerners who can't abide thieves?"
By then Billy had gained his feet. For a few moments he had lost track of the other two townies. He found them suddenly, as shadows that leaped across the grass. The townies came racing at Charles from the rear, each swinging a piece of tree limb snatched from the ground.
"Behind you!" Billy yelled.
Charles started to pivot. The nearest townie bashed the side of his head. The limb was rotten and flew into half a dozen pieces. But the blow dazed Charles, knocking him against Oral, who plucked the bowie knife out of his hand with no effort. Oral's eyes slitted down. He smirked, sidestepped, grabbed the back of Charles's collar, and with his other hand stabbed the bowie toward Charles's face.
Terrified, Billy launched himself through the air. He hit Oral's legs. The knife missed Charles's cheek by half an inch.
Billy grappled Oral to the ground. Charles seized the nearest weapon, his fishing pole, and flicked the line at the other two townies who were charging again. Towhead brandished a sharp rock.
The flying fishhook struck a roll of flesh at the nape of Towhead's neck. Charles pulled back on the pole with a snap of his wrist while braking the line with his thumb. The hook buried itself. Towhead shrieked.
Billy, meantime, was rolling back and forth while Oral knelt on his chest. Oral was tough, strong, and determined to cut him. Billy slammed his head to the right an instant before the knife speared the ground close to his left ear.
"You white fucker," Oral breathed. He pushed his knee into Billy's groin.
Billy's lower body exploded with pain. The pain slowed his responses. He knew he'd never be able to dodge the next slash. Oral raised the knife slowly, almost like some pagan priest with a sacrificial offering.
Sunlight flared on the big blade. Then suddenly the knife disappeared from Oral's hand. His mouth flew open. He fell sideways into the grass, writhing. Charles gracefully plucked out the knife which he had driven into the back of Oral's right thigh.
Even breathing hard, Charles seemed calm, perfectly in control, as he gave the townies a big, cold grin. "Boys, you better run before we kill you. And if you should see my friend or me on the streets of Newport, turn and go the other way or this'll be just a sampler."
He put his right boot up on a stump and rested his elbows on his knee. The uninjured townie dragged Oral toward the hedge, leaving red swaths in the grass.
Billy used his own knife to cut the fishing line. The other two townies slunk away. The one with the hook still in him, Towhead, looked back once with awe from the break in the hedge.
Charles waved the bowie so that it flashed in the sun. "Get!"
Towhead vanished.
Only then did Billy exhale. Shoulders sagging, he sprawled in the grass. "Why in the hell did they pick a fight?"
" 'Cause I had a pole and creel they wanted. 'Cause they didn't like my speech or place of origin —" He shrugged. "There's just no accounting for human cussedness, I've found. Anyway, we got through it. I'd say we make a pretty good pair of fighters. Many thanks for your timely assistance, Mr. Hazard."
Billy's smile was less assured than that of his companion. "Think nothing of it, Mr. Main. I just wish I had your style. I was scared to death."
"Think I wasn't? My guts felt like a pan of water."
"You surely didn't show it."
"Good. If you don't show the other party how you feel, it gets 'em fidgety, so they make mistakes. Orry taught me that."
"Maybe I should take a few lessons," Billy said as they gathered their things.
"But you'd have to explain why you wanted them." Charles's grin was fading. "Personally, I'd like to keep quiet about this little mess. Orry and Aunt Clarissa and Uncle Tillet think I've gotten over this kind of scrapping. I'd just as soon preserve the illusion." He stuck out his hand. "Bargain?"
"Sure."
Billy clasped the offered hand to seal the bond of secrecy. For the first time, he felt Charles Main was his friend.
As it turned out, however, the fight didn't remain a secret.
A couple of days later, Ashton and her sister went to the beach to wade in the surf. Charles and Billy were offshore in the skiff. Presently the wind died. They beached the boat. Charles lay down to nap.
Ashton was some distance away, resting in a wicker chair under a large striped parasol. She wore a summer frock of light lilac material which the sea breeze pressed against her maturing breasts. The effect was so provocative that Billy had to look the other way.
He thought of Ashton almost constantly. In his fantasies she was always nude. The summer seemed to encourage such visions. Here they were, two young men and two young girls, unchaperoned, sharing the same bit of beach.
Billy didn't consider that circumstance accidental. Pesty Brett followed him everywhere. She had probably teased and wheedled her sister into accompanying her to the beach. Alas, Ashton had no interest in Billy. Most of the time she behaved as if he didn't exist.
He knelt and began building a castle. He dripped watery sand from his clenched fist to form spires. He had been at it ten minutes when a shadow fell across the intricate towers and ramparts. There stood Brett, twisting one of her pigtails back and forth.
"Hello, Billy."
"Oh, hello."
She was pretty enough, he supposed, though it was impossible to overlook her freckles which the summer sun had a way of darkening.
Because she was so young, she was flat as a board in front. But those weren't the only things about her that bothered him.
"I heard you were fighting," she said.
His hand jerked and toppled a spire. "Who told you that?"
"Yesterday I went to the store for some licorice. I heard a boy telling about two bullies who attacked him the other day."
"Did you know the boy?"
Brett shook her head.
"What did he look like?"
"He had yellow hair. Pale, almost white. There was a dirty bandage on the back of his neck." She touched the approximate position at which Charles had sunk the hook into Towhead.
"Go on."
"I stood looking at the candy jars till he finished his story. He said the bullies were summer people. When he described them, I decided he was talking about you and Charles."
Billy glanced past her. Ashton was still resting, paying no attention. Damn.
"You must be mistaken, Brett."
"For heaven's sake, don't bite my head off! It was you, all right." She stared at him in an earnest way. It annoyed him and made him uneasy. "You'll get hurt if you hang around Cousin Charles," she went on. "I know he's handsome and fun, but he's too fond of fighting. He's a bad influence."
Billy scowled. ''Are you always so damn free with your opinions?''
"You shouldn't swear, either."
He jumped up and kicked the castle apart. "If I want your advice, I'll ask. Meantime, don't say anything bad about Charles. He's my friend."
Bewildered, she watched him storm away, kicking more sand. "I was only trying to help you. I just wanted to tell you honestly —"
The sentence died unfinished. She twisted her pigtail so hard it hurt. Billy misunderstood her every word and action. He didn't realize her pursuit of him was adoration, her warnings expressions of concern. Just like all other boys, he was unable to deal with a girl who spoke her true mind.
Oh, she knew she was often too tart with him, but that was the result of being nervous. Of feeling a longing and lacking the experience to express it. Why couldn't he look beyond the words and into her eyes, her soul? Discover what it was that she thought about every moment of the day and wept over every night? Why couldn't he see!
She watched him slow down as he approached the big striped parasol. She knew the answer to all her desperate questions. Billy couldn't see her because of Ashton.
Ashton was expert at handling any boy. She dimpled and lowered her lashes in that coy way of hers, and the boy melted. She always agreed with the boy's opinion, and if she truly wanted something from him, she got it so sweetly and skillfully he never suspected he had been manipulated.
She had one other, immense advantage. She was older, already a woman.
Angry at Billy, but more angry at herself, Brett spun and marched up the beach in the other direction. She raised a palm and pressed it against her hatefully flat bosom. She pressed hard, until there was pain.
Oh, Billy, Billy, she thought. You'll never see what I really am. Or how much I love you.
Ashton had awakened while Billy was still talking to her sister. She knew Brett worshiped Billy, but she had never seen the younger girl speak to him so directly or with such obvious emotion. Even from a distance, the imploring look on Brett's face was evident.
Hopeless little ninny, Ashton thought. Brett had no idea of the meaning of the word love. Ashton did, three times over. But on none of those occasions had her lover been that slug Huntoon.
The first time had been terrifying, the second less so. Neither time had she derived any physical satisfaction from her partner, a young man from the Smith family who was about her own age and plainly inexperienced. Not that experience mattered; her fright coupled with her curiosity kept her tense and unresponsive.
She felt sure her failure to feel anything was the boy's fault. She had heard whispered remarks from girls in her set who were just a bit older, and every such remark hinted at the intense delight of lovemaking. The third time proved the other girls were right; the experience was a revelation.
It had happened one dark, wet day in Charleston. Just as twilight was settling and a thundershower ending, Ashton had slipped off by herself. The streets were virtually deserted.
The man she chanced to encounter was a sailor, rough-spoken and a good fifteen years older. They walked awhile. Then, with great anticipation, yet great trepidation too, she agreed to accompany him to a dingy riverfront inn. She was mindful that she could still be recognized — undone — at any moment. Yet she was so overcome with wicked excitement that turning back was out of the question.
A block from the inn, the rain began again, soaking her bonnet. She stopped to remove it and examine her reflection in the window of a seamy shop.
The merchandise displayed in the window was junk, even including the plated locket and chain on which her eye fell. The sailor was impatient, and in an instant she decided to test the level of that impatience. She indicated the locket and chain, and with sweet, circuitous language made clear that the trinkets were the price of her favors. The sailor shot into the shop with scarcely a hesitation. Thus Ashton discovered the power of the sexual appetite to motivate a man.
Having learned such a valuable lesson, it was then an added pleasure to disrobe for the sailor in his sordid rented room and to find herself hardly frightened at all but rather damp and trembling with expectancy as he undid his trousers and showed his machine. It was immense; a spasm shook her at the sight of it. Before long, alternately groaning and blaspheming, she was stunned by a succession of spasms, each more violent than the one before.
No one had adequately prepared her for such pleasure. Not only was this act of great practical use, it was something to be enjoyed — voraciously. The two lessons together were almost more than she could bear. She soon threw the locket and chain away, but she was happy for days.
Because of this background of experience, Ashton pitied her skinny, naive little sister. Yet now she suddenly found herself jealous of Brett, too. Ashton didn't care a fig for Billy Hazard. But she expected every young man who met her to worship her and no one else. Even though she didn't consider Brett a serious rival, rivalry of any kind had already become unacceptable to her; rivalry from her sister was unthinkable. So when Billy came tramping back up the shore, kicking sand every which way, Ashton was alert and smiling her sweetest smile.
She called his name and waved. In seconds he was on his knees beside her. "I thought you were resting," he said.
"Resting for very long is boring. We've had so little chance to become acquainted. Won't you sit and chat?"
"Yes. Surely. Of course!"
His pliability amused her. But he was rather good-looking, in a burly, bullish way. Perhaps she would do more than just keep him away from Brett.
A week later, on the skiff, Charles said to Billy, "Noticed you strolling with cousin Ashton again last night. Saw you heading down Beach Road. Can't imagine what you find so fascinating there — unless it's an absence of human habitation."
Billy laughed. "Habitation. That's a real five-dollar word."
Charles leaned over the transom and drifted a hand in the water. "Last year I'd never even heard of it. But you can't be an ignoramus and attend the Academy." He grinned. "You surely did a smooth job of changing the subject. Tell you one thing about Ashton. I never thought she'd take a fancy to a Yankee."
They came about as lightning forked in the belly of some thunderclouds far out at sea. The chance remark about Yankees led them into a conversation about the issues their elders discussed frequently. The start of the exchange was friendly enough, but both boys were soon speaking with the intensity typical of their age.
"The thing is," Charles said, "the rights of a state are supreme."
"Over those of the Union?"
"Absolutely. The Union was created by the consent of the separate states. Any state can withdraw that consent whenever it wishes."
"No, Charles, it's a legal contract. And unless there's a specific part of the contract —"
"Clause."
"All right, clause. Unless there's a clause that describes a method for voiding the contract —"
"Now who's using fancy words?"
"Let me finish," Billy said with a scowl. "A contract can't be broken legally unless the contract provides for it. In the case of the Union, it doesn't."
"You sound like a regular Philadelphia lawyer. We're not talking about an agreement between a couple of peddlers. It's a compact between government and the governed. It's altogether different. I maintain that any state has the right to withdraw at any time."
The sail began to flap. As Billy corrected their course, he growled, "That would lead to chaos."
"No, sir — just to an end of a Union grown tyrannical. There's another dandy word for your collection."
He fairly spat the remark into the wind; Billy couldn't recall seeing his friend so tense or humorless. He tried to lighten things by smiling and saying:
"George told me that you Southerners love argument. He's surely right."
"It's liberty Southerners love," Charles retorted. "And they love it too much to see it whittled away to nothing."
Offshore, thunder resounded like cannon fire. Billy's lips compressed and lost color. Charles's taunt had abruptly made him angry.
"You're speaking of the liberty of white men, of course."
Billy knew he had overstepped. Yet he was damned if he'd back off. Charles glared and started to reply. Then he noticed white combers beginning to break about a mile off their bow. While they argued, the dark clouds had blown in on a rising nor'east wind.
"Storm coming," Charles muttered. "We'd better head for shore."
"I agree."
They were curt with each other the rest of the day. Neither apologized, but neither continued the unresolved argument. They simply let it fade as it would. Gradually, good feelings returned. But in those moments when Billy's mind was free of visions of Ashton, he recalled the scene and was amazed at how close he and Charles had come to shouting at one another. A couple of years ago he had laughed whenever members of his family got into windy disputes about national issues. Now he found himself pondering the same issues and taking sides.
But he'd better not do it if he meant to keep Charles as a friend. From then on he carefully refrained from making any remark that might spark controversy. Charles showed a similar restraint.
Still, a definite change had taken place in their relationship. They had both become aware of a force that could destroy their new-found friendship, and although they pretended to forget it, they couldn't. It was always there, threatening, like that distant storm the afternoon they had quarreled.
Ashton led him behind a rock that perched on the shore like a seven-foot brown egg. She leaned back against the rock, safely sheltered from accidental observation. Billy squeezed his legs together and hoped she didn't notice the reason.
The sea rolled gray under a gray afternoon sky. Gulls shrilled and dove for fish. The day was tinged with the melancholy of summer's end.
"I hate the thought of leaving tomorrow," she said.
Billy braced his palms on the rock on either side of her head, as if to hold her there forever. Cool air raised bumps on his bare arms. "I'll write once a week," he promised.
"Oh, that's wonderful."
"Will you write me?"
Her red mouth glistened as she smiled. Her brows puckered slightly. "I'll surely try. But I'll be fearfully busy this fall."
How skillfully she did that. Gave something, yet withheld something too. She withheld just enough to keep him from feeling satisfied or comfortable. She did it with little things, and with her whole self as well. Sometimes he hated her for it. Then he gazed into her dark eyes and didn't care about anything except possessing her, on whatever terms she demanded.
"Will you be back here next summer?" he asked.
"I hope so. This has been so delightful."
His face fell. "Is that all — delightful?"
She gazed past his bare wrist to the ocean. "It would be forward of me to say more. Perhaps you wouldn't think me too unladylike if I showed you how I feel."
She rose on her toes and kissed him on the mouth. Then her tongue squirmed between his lips. Billy's mind reeled. He had only heard about girls who kissed that way.
He groped for her waist and dragged her against him so she'd feel him through her layers of clothing. She did, and uttered a soft little moan. A moan of pleasure, he thought.
How experienced was she? Partly to find out — but only partly — he slid his hand upward from her waist. The moment he touched her breast, she broke the embrace. She dashed down to the water, laughing and patting her hair.
He chased her, fearful that he had made her angry. But that wasn't the case.
"Billy," she gasped, her eyes on the sea, "we mustn't do that sort of thing. You have a power to make me forget what's proper."
He was flattered but confused. He didn't believe her. She knew exactly what she was doing; she always knew. It was part of the terrifying fascination she held for him. The disbelief didn't trouble him long, though. He was too caught up in the memory of their embrace.
So was Ashton; annoyingly so. She had manipulated Billy until the moment they embraced. Then he had crushed against her and utterly destroyed her control. For a moment or two she had actually felt she was falling in love. It must never happen. She, and not the man, always had to be the one in charge.
She seemed powerless to translate the warning into action. As they started home, she twined her fingers with his and pressed his hand against her skirt. She leaned her head to the side so that her temple touched his shoulder. Then she started murmuring like a lovesick fool:
"I'll insist that Orry bring us back next summer. I do so want to see you again, my dear. I don't think I've ever wanted anything more."
Cooper went to the pier to welcome the family home. He planned to extend Judith's invitation to a family reunion at the Tradd Street house as soon as they'd recovered from traveling. He was in a fine mood. The unexpected arrival of James Huntoon spoiled it.
With the young lawyer was a tall, princely black man of about thirty. Cooper recognized him as one of the few slaves still owned by the Huntoon family. His name was Grady. He was a second-generation Ibo whose father had been brought illegally from Benin around 1810, two years after Congress outlawed the importation of blacks. Very likely Grady's father had arrived via Havana and some deserted cove on the Florida coast. Even today Cooper heard occasional rumors of a secret slave trade operating along that route.
Ibos had never been popular as slaves because of a marked tendency to run away. The Huntoons had ensured that if Grady ever chose to run, he could be identified easily. Long ago, his four upper front teeth had been pulled. It was a common means of marking human property.
Grady gave Cooper a polite greeting, much more polite than Huntoon's. "I brought Grady to help with your sister's luggage," the lawyer explained. He gestured at some poorly dressed black men nearby. "Those nigger porters are worthless. I've seen them deliberately drop a valise because they know the owner is white but powerless to punish a freed man."
Cooper held his tongue. What in the world did Ashton see in this fool?
Some problem held the incoming steamer offshore an extra thirty minutes. Huntoon began damning the compromise bills. Cooper didn't want to debate, but the lawyer annoyed him so badly he was soon in the thick of it. They argued over a state's right to secede, an argument being heard all over the country these days.
Neither man won. The only result was bad feeling on both sides. Huntoon wished that he had the physical strength — and the courage — to give Cooper the thrashing he deserved. But the lawyer's only combative skills were verbal, and he knew it. He had to be content with getting in the last word.
"It's no wonder you don't have a friend left in the ruling class of this state."
The steamer warped to the pier. From the rail Clarissa and Brett called down and waved.
Cooper lifted an eyebrow and said to Huntoon, "Do we have a ruling class in South Carolina? I was under the impression that we did away with that sort of thing in the Revolution. What's the next idea that will experience a rebirth? The divine right of plantation owners?"
His cool sarcasm enraged the lawyer. But Cooper got an unexpected comeuppance, with his entire family watching.
As he walked toward the gangway that Negro stevedores were lifting into place, he spied a familiar figure approaching on the crowded pier: Huntoon's relative, Robert Rhett of the Mercury. With him was a visitor who had been pointed out to Cooper on the street yesterday, a Georgia politician named Bob Toombs — another strong defender of Southern rights.
Toombs and Rhett strolled arm in arm. When they saw Cooper, their smiles disappeared. Cooper said hello. Neither man replied. They swept by and went straight to Huntoon, shook his hand, and greeted him loudly so that Cooper would be sure to hear.
Ashton watched Rhett and the other man cut her brother. She had been dreading the return to Charleston because it meant Huntoon would be pestering her again. Sure enough, there he was, the poor slug. He had even brought his handsome nigger with the missing teeth.
How soft Huntoon looked in comparison to Billy Hazard. How weak, with the sunlight flashing on his spectacles. And yet, she couldn't fail to be impressed by the warm greeting Rhett gave the young lawyer.
Her father pointed to Rhett's companion. "That's Bob Toombs of Georgia." He sounded impressed. She must find out about the stranger. Lately she had begun to ponder the significance of being a Main from South Carolina. The significance of being wealthy, prominent — powerful, and a friend of the powerful. The distinction became clearer and more important when she saw what it was like to be devoid of power and dismissed because of it, as her own brother had been dismissed a moment ago.
Power had always been the key to Ashton's relationship with Brett. Ashton knew very well that she had a deep, only partially understood need to be the person in charge. Now, abruptly, she saw her need in relation to the wider world. There, too, she wanted to be the one who gave the orders, and she wanted to be recognized as such.
What came over her there at the rail was not merely a realization of this new goal but an awareness that her behavior had better be more calculated if she was to reach it. Huntoon had important connections. She must react to that fact, no matter how she felt about him personally. Billy was the summer, but Huntoon was the future.
So when the Mains left the steamer, she contrived to take her father's arm because she knew he'd go straight to Rhett and the others. He did. When she reached Huntoon, she greeted him with a bold kiss on the cheek.
"James! I've missed you so."
"You have? That's marvelous."
It's a lie, too. But she merely thought that.
She was pleased with herself for showing all of them where her interest and her loyalty lay. Let Brett run to Cooper and hug him, as she was doing now. Brett made no difference; she'd never amount to a row of beans anyway. Ashton waved casually at her brother from a distance.
At Belvedere one evening in early October, Constance said to George, "Dear, do you recall that shed at the back of the factory property?"
He pushed aside the sheet on which he had been writing. He was developing a plan for quick expansion of the rail mill. In September the Federal government had for the first time granted public lands to railroads, to stimulate construction of new routes. George paid a sizable monthly retainer to a Washington lawyer whose duties included alerting his client to decisions affecting the iron trade. When reporting on the grants, the lawyer had also predicted that many similar ones would eventually be made throughout the West and South. To George that signaled a boom market in rails for the next ten, possibly twenty years.
He realized Constance had been quiet a long time before she asked the question. Something important was on her mind.
The parlor and the house were still. A gilt clock ticked. After ten already. He rose and stretched. "The shed where we formerly stored tools," he said with a nod. "What about it?"
"Would you be willing to let me use it?"
"You? Whatever for?"
She didn't give a direct answer. "I wouldn't use it often. But I would want you to know what might happen there."
"Good Lord, I've never heard such mystery. What's going on?"
He was smiling, but she was frowning, as if worried about his reaction. She hurried to him.
"Let me show you. Come with me."
"Where ?"
"To the shed."
"Right now?"
"Yes. Please."
Curiosity and the seriousness of her expression led to quick consent. A few minutes later they were climbing a sloping road at the back of the factory property. The air was cold, the sky cloudless. The shed stood out clearly in the starlight.
George stopped suddenly, pointing. A gleam of yellow showed between pieces of siding that didn't quite meet.
"Someone's in there."
"Yes, I know." She took his hand. "It's perfectly safe. Come on."
"You know?" he queried, pulled along. "Will you kindly explain what this is all —"
"Mr. Belzer?" she whispered at the shed door. "It's Constance. You must move the lantern. It can be seen from outside."
The light in the gap faded. Belzer was a storekeeper from the village, a Quaker. What in God's name was he doing here? The door opened, and George saw the frail, nervous merchant. Beyond him, wrapped in old blankets, he spied a second figure, one whose appearance shocked him and explained everything.
The young man wrapped in the blanket was probably not yet twenty, but fright and emaciation made him look twice that. He had amber-brown skin.
"We didn't have any other place to conceal him," Belzer said to George. "He came to my house early this morning. But it's no longer safe for me to keep — travelers. Too many know of my involvement. This afternoon hiding the boy became imperative. An agent of the new district commissioner arrived in Lehigh Station."
Belzer referred to the Federal fugitive-slave commissioner. President Fillmore had signed the bill on September 18, and the machinery for enforcement was rapidly being put in place.
The runaway sniffled, then sneezed twice. George turned to his wife, still feeling stunned. "How long have you been involved in this work?"
"Mr. Belzer approached me in the spring. I've been helping ever since."
"Why didn't you say something?"
"Don't be angry, George. I wasn't sure how you'd react."
"You know my feelings about slavery. But evading or obstructing the new law is a serious offense. If you're caught, you could go to prison."
Constance indicated the shivering boy. "And where will he go if he's caught? Right back to North Carolina. Back to God knows what brutal punishment."
"Why did you decide to involve yourself?"
"Because the slave owners now have all the advantages. The Federal commissioners are supposed to judge cases impartially. Yet the new law pays them ten dollars for every slave they return, and five for each one they don't. Impartial? It's a farce."
"It was a compromise," George replied.
Belzer sounded almost antagonistic as he said, "You may call it whatever you like, Mr. Hazard, but the new law remains an offense to God and the conscience of this land. Constance, I'm sorry if I caused trouble between you and your husband. I believe we misjudged him. I will try to locate another place for Abner."
Stung, George blurted, "Wait." The others looked at him. "I didn't say no, did I?"
Hope replaced anger in his wife's eyes. She ran to him. "All we need are some staples and extra blankets, a padlock for the door, and one or two 'no trespassing' signs to warn people away. If I spend money for anything beyond that, I'll tell you. Otherwise, you needn't worry about what goes on here."
"Not worry about an underground railroad station on my own property? I disagree." He gnawed his lower lip. "Why on earth do you want to use this particular place?"
Belzer answered. "It's isolated, and it can be approached through the woods farther up the hill. The — ah — passengers can arrive and leave for Canada virtually undetected."
For perhaps fifteen seconds George stared at the sniffling, undernourished runaway. He knew he had no choice.
"All right, but I must impose some conditions for everyone's protection and —"
He didn't have a chance to finish. Constance flung her arms around him and began kissing him while Belzer murmured reassurances to Abner, who grinned and then doubled over in a fit of sneezing.
George was proud of what Constance had done. They took Maude into their confidence. All three agreed that no one else in the family should be told about the station. Stanley and Isabel would object because Stanley wanted no involvement with controversy. Lately he was spending only two or three days a week at home. The rest of the time he was courting new friends in Harrisburg or Philadelphia.
A power struggle had developed within the state Democratic party. It pitted Stanley's friend Cameron against the acknowledged head of the party, Buck Buchanan of Lancaster. After serving as Polk's secretary of state, Buchanan had wanted the 1848 presidential nomination. He blamed Cameron's machinations for his failure to get it. The men were now disavowing each other publicly. Stanley had cast his lot with Cameron, which George thought foolish.
But who could be sure in a period in which party loyalties, and the parties themselves, seemed to change overnight? Recently a new political entity had emerged, the Free Soil party. This militant group was a coalition of anti-cotton Whigs, former members of the Liberty party, and some Barn Burners, the name given to hard-line, anti-slavery Democrats. In George's opinion the Free Soilers seemed dedicated to throwing out the baby with the bath water. They said that if the price of national expansion was acceptance of slavery in new territories, they would stand foursquare against creation of those territories. Virgilia attended every Free Soil caucus within the state; every one, that is, at which women were permitted in the gallery. She wrote lengthy memorials demanding that women be allowed to sit on the main floor as participants.
She was another from whom the three conspirators wanted to conceal the existence of the underground railroad station. She would approve of it, of course, but she might also talk too freely. There were many men working at Hazard's who remained anti-Negro, and violently so. Freed blacks would threaten such men by competing for their jobs. George wished that kind of hatred didn't exist at the ironworks, but he also knew no government could legislate it out of existence because it was rooted in fear; illogical. Nor could it be quickly overcome with appeals to conscience. It would take a generation or so and plenty of education to do away with such attitudes permanently.
"I don't imagine it would be wise to tell your Southern friends, either," Constance said.
George frowned. "You say that as if there's something not quite decent about them. I assumed they were your friends, too."
"Oh, of course," she said hastily. "It's just that I'm not as close to the Mains as you are. If I had to choose between pleasing Orry and helping Joel Belzer, my choice might not be to your liking."
She wasn't trying to bait or annoy him, he realized; she was speaking honestly. Still, the words rankled within him. Maude noted the fact and examined her hands.
"Why say something like that?" George snapped. "You won't have to make that kind of choice, ever."
But he wasn't sure of the statement, and that uncertainty, with its grim implications, was the real cause of his concern, his irritability.
''Pettiauger,'' Charles said. He held up the object he had been carving. With the tip of his bowie he indicated a long groove he had been deepening in the wood. "It's a Carolina river dugout. Down in Louisiana I think it's called a pirogue."
Four-year-old Laban Hazard sat at Charles's feet on the front steps of Fairlawn. The boy worshiped Charles and had been waiting an entire year to see him. The Mains had arrived in Newport that morning.
Laban's twin brother appeared at the corner of the house, rolling a hoop. He pointed to the boat. "That for Laban?"
Charles nodded.
Levi looked sour. "I want one."
Charles chuckled. Levi seemed to have inherited his mother's disposition. "All right," Charles said. "As soon as I finish this one."
Levi stuck out his lower lip and shook his head. "Make mine first."
Charles pointed the knife at him. "You mind your manners, Mr. Yankee, or I'll stick you on a spit and cook you for supper."
He said it jokingly, but Levi screamed and fled. Laban laughed and leaned against his idol's knee. Billy emerged from the house.
"Froggy going a-courting so soon?" Charles asked. "The girls won't even be unpacked."
Billy ignored him and fussed with his cravat. Charles whistled.
"Me oh my, look at that jacket. I don't recall you dressing up so fancy last summer. It surely must be love —"
Billy grinned. "Go to hell. Laban, don't tell your father I cussed in front of you."
And away he went. Halfway down the lawn he broke into a run. He vaulted the brick wall, startling the masons who were once again repairing the mortar.
Young womanhood had touched Brett Main that spring. Will he notice? she wondered as she examined her mirrored image and tried to force her small breasts to greater prominence by tugging her dress and undergarments downward from the waist.
Behind her, Ashton exclaimed in delight:
"Oh, mercy. He's here already! I can hear him talking to Orry."
She went down the staircase with the speed and display of a Fourth of July rocket. Brett was only a few steps behind her. It made no difference. By the time Brett was halfway down the stairs, Orry had left the foyer, and Billy and Ashton were racing out of the house without so much as a glance in her direction.
She walked the rest of the way to the bottom. From behind, a hand touched her shoulder. She squealed and jumped.
"Papa!"
"I thought you'd be resting, missy."
Tillet noticed a tear on his daughter's cheek. With a little groan and a pop of knee joints, he sat on the lowest step and drew her down beside him. He put his arms around her.
"Why so unhappy?"
"It's that Billy Hazard. He's the most stuck-up person I've ever met. I wanted to say hello, but he wouldn't even look at me."
"Don't be too hard on the lad. He's got a case for your sister. I think it's mutual."
"She always gets anything she wants! She'll get him too, won't she?"
"Oh, I don't know. They're both mighty young for any discussions of matri — missy, come back. I didn't mean to upset you."
But she had already bolted upstairs, her wail of misery echoing behind her.
Billy and Ashton went straight to the rock where they had kissed last summer. The instant Ashton felt Billy's arms around her and the sweet, shy pressure of his lips, practical considerations melted away.
What a lot of time she'd wasted on all those deep plans made last year after she had looked down from the rail of the steamer and seen Mr. Bob Rhett snub her brother. The plans and the pathetic Huntoon were now completely forgotten. She'd marry Billy and no one else.
That could fit into her larger scheme, though. The Hazards might be Yankees, but they were rich and prominent. She must let Billy know about her ambitions. But not right this minute. All she wanted to do now was savor her surrender to love and to him.
She squeezed him hard, so he'd be sure to feel her breasts. "I never thought I could miss anyone so much. I just died waiting weeks for each of your letters."
"I'm a bad writer. For every one I sent, I tore up ten."
"You can make up for it now, sweet. Kiss me, and don't you dare stop till I'm ready to faint." He obliged with enthusiasm.
A mantle of false peace enfolded the two families and the nation in that summer of 1851. Most Americans were exhausted from the war and the wrangling over the slave issue. Even if the Compromise of 1850 had achieved no permanent solutions, people were prepared to act as if it had. Some loud voices on both sides continued to proclaim that little had been changed and nothing solved; a cancer hidden by-bandages remained a cancer. But the James Huntoons and Virgilia Hazards had trouble promoting their militant views during those warm, gentle months. The majority of Americans wanted a respite, at least for a season or two.
Cooper and Judith had been married on the first of June 1850, and nature had quickly interfered with Cooper's plan to visit Britain. Exactly nine months after the wedding, Judith delivered Judah Tillet Main — or J.T., as his proud grandfather called him from the moment he first heard of his arrival. In late July 1851, the parents, the baby, and a wet nurse traveled to Newport to spend ten days with the Mains.
A few hours after the group arrived, Tillet seated himself in a rocker on the porch of the rented house. Cooper sat down next to him. Tillet gazed proudly at his grandson, who was resting in a blanket in Cooper's arms. Judith was out on the lawn, playing ninepins with George, Billy, and Ashton. Their shadows were long in the twilight.
Tillet cleared his throat. "Your wife is a fine woman."
Cooper was overwhelmed. Never before had his father paid her a compliment. "Thank you, sir. I agree." He folded a corner of the blanket to protect the top of his son's head from the breeze.
Tillet leaned back and laced his fingers over his paunch. It grew larger every year. How old he looks, Cooper thought. What is he now? Fifty-five? No, fifty-six. It shows in the wrinkles in his skin. It shows in his eyes. He knows it's nearly over for him. For the first time in a long while, Cooper felt an outpouring of love for his father. Love without reservation or qualification.
But Tillet had a qualification, which he stated a moment later. "I can praise Judith without agreeing with everything she says. I don't, you know. Still — families shouldn't fight amongst themselves."
"I agree, sir." But it's damn hard to achieve that ideal in these times.
"You've done well with the company," his father continued. "In fact your record is outstanding. Mont Royal's a beautiful thing — yes, I know, a resounding commercial success as well."
"We could use three more like her, to handle all the business we're being offered. I'm looking into it. And something else. I've been asked to design and build ships for others. I'm looking into that, too."
Tillet scratched his chin. "Do you think it's wise to expand so rapidly?"
"Yes, sir, I do. I think we stand to make a larger and more dependable income from ship construction than from carrying cotton."
"Is all of this just conversation or is there substance to it?"
"If you're asking whether I have firm commitments, I do. One from a shipping line in Savannah, another from a Baltimore company. Some points are still being negotiated, but each firm definitely wants a vessel like Mont Royal — if I can provide them. I surely intend to try."
He leaned forward enthusiastically. "I envision a day, maybe as little as five years from now, when Main steamers will be shuttling up and down the East Coast and to Europe under the flags of a dozen companies. The cotton market may shrink eventually, but I'm convinced the demand for cargo space and fast delivery of all sorts of goods will only grow during our lifetimes."
"During mine, perhaps. Long-term, I wouldn't venture a guess. The Yankee politicians are unpredictable. Greedy and tricky as — ah, but let's not get onto that and spoil everything. I am frankly awed by the reputation you've established with just one vessel."
"Mont Royal incorporates a great many innovations. Two small ones are mine. I patented them."
"Why couldn't these other cargo lines get a ship by going directly to that yard in Brooklyn?"
"They could, but they want something more. They want me to supervise the planning and construction. Quite by accident, I've become a Southern expert on shipbuilding. There aren't many." Cooper smiled then. "You know the definition of an expert, don't you? Someone from out of town."
Tillet laughed. The noise roused his grandson, who started to cry.
Cooper caressed the delicate, warm cheek until the baby was quiet again.
"Don't be overly modest about your accomplishments," Tillet told his son. "You've worked hard in Charleston — I've heard that from any number of sources — and you're still at it. Just look at the reading you brought along on your vacation. Naval architecture, metallurgy — books I can barely lift, let alone understand."
Cooper shrugged, but he was basking in the sudden and unexpected praise. "As part of that learning process, we're finally going to Britain in November."
"My grandson too?"
"Yes, all of us. The doctor said Judah could travel with the wet nurse. Brunei's granted me an interview. Imagine spending an hour with that man. His talent — the breadth of his imagination — incredible. He and his father built the tunnel under the Thames River, did you know that?"
"No, but why does anyone need a tunnel under a river? What's wrong with ferryboats? Or bridges? For that matter, why does anyone need faster ships? I remember something the Duke of Wellington said about railroads in Europe. He said they would only promote social unrest by enabling the lower classes to move about. I feel that way about all the newfangled things coming along these days. Too revolutionary!"
"The precise word, Father. We are in the middle of a revolution — a peaceful revolution of industry and invention."
"We should stop it for a while."
"It can't be done. Nor can you go backward. The only possible direction is forward."
"Don't sound as if you enjoy it so much!" Then Tillet sighed. "Ah, well — let's not get into that, either. You're certainly entitled to a trip. But you've earned more than that, and I've been meaning to say something to you." Again he cleared his throat. "I've instructed the family lawyers to prepare documents changing the ownership structure of C.S.C. Henceforward you will control fifty-one percent of the company stock — and receive an equivalent percentage of the profits, free and clear. I have read every report you've sent me. At the rate you're generating income, under the new arrangement you'll soon be a very wealthy man. Self-made. That, too, is a distinction."
After a long moment, Cooper overcame his surprise enough to say,
"I don't know how to thank you. For your show of faith. Or for your generosity."
Tillet waved. "You're my son. You gave your firstborn my name. That's thanks enough. Families shouldn't fight."
He said it a little more poignantly this time. A plea? A warning? I hope that's not it, Cooper thought. I hope he isn't trying to ensure my silence or agreement with his views. I love him, but I can't be bought.
Then he wondered if he was being ungrateful. He wanted to ask Tillet exactly what he meant by the remark about families fighting, but he was unwilling to disturb the tranquillity of the evening. Like the tranquillity of the nation, it was fragile. It would not last.
Both families embraced the summer happily. A relaxed and mellow mood prevailed, a mood that everyone worked to maintain. Even Constance and Isabel had short conversations occasionally.
Talk of national issues was banned by mutual agreement — violated only once. Virgilia, her constraint overcome one evening by too much wine, denounced the latest public pronouncements of William Yancey, the Georgia-born lawyer and former congressman who had become the spiritual heir to Calhoun's most extreme views. The South still held a grudge against Senator Seward of New York. Seward had defended the Wilmot Proviso by saying it fulfilled a law higher than the Constitution, God's law, which would one day prevail against slavery. Yancey verbally lashed the senator from a lecture platform. When Virgilia read of it, she called Yancey a lot of names, including whoremonger. Before long she was substituting the South for Yancey. Orry exploded:
"What a marvelous storehouse of righteousness you've built here in the North, Virgilia. All the sin is below the Mason and Dixon Line — and never mind that I just read about Iowa's posting harsh penalties for any free Negro who dares set foot in the state. All the hypocrisy is down South, too — never mind that California, which your politicians worked so diligently to drag into the Union as a free state, is sending pro-slavery men to the Senate. You never admit to things like that. You ignore them and just keep spouting invective!"
He threw his napkin aside and left the table. Ten minutes later George cornered his sister and yelled at her until she promised to apologize. With great reluctance, she did.
Except for that one lapse, the warm, euphoric days remained peaceful. Brett delighted everyone with her piano rendition of Foster's new song, "Old Folks at Home." George proved to be an unbeatable ninepins champion. There was a lively front-porch discussion of the current effort by some preachers to ban Mr. Hawthorne's racy novel The Scarlet Letter. One cleric called its publication "the brokerage of lust."
Isabel and Tillet agreed that such trash should be proscribed by law. George replied that anyone who made such a statement didn't understand free speech. Clarissa said timidly that although the novel did sound salacious, she believed George might be right in principle. "Woman," Tillet roared, "you don't know what you're talking about." Fortunately, further argument was forestalled by the appearance of Ashton, Billy, and Cousin Charles on the lawn of the Mains' house.
The young people were bound for the beach. They went there almost every evening, with Charles the token chaperone. That amused Orry. Charles had reformed, but it was still a bit like hiring the devil to do missionary work.
George watched the young people stroll out of sight in the moonlight. Then he said to Orry, "I get the impression that your sister has set her cap for Billy."
"George, not so fast," Constance exclaimed, not entirely teasing. "Next summer Billy goes to the Academy. For four years."
"Nevertheless," Orry put in, "I think George is right."
He didn't bother to say that he doubted there would ever be a match. Ashton was too mercurial. Of course, like Charles, she could change. With that possibility in mind, he added, "You ought to bring Billy to South Carolina."
"Yes, we'd love to have you — all of you," Clarissa said. Seated apart from them at the end of the porch, Virgilia looked skeptical.
"I'd love to see Mont Royal," Constance said.
Orry leaned forward. "Why not this fall? October's one of our loveliest months. Cooper would be happy to show you Charleston, then you could come upriver for a long visit."
"All right, we'll do it," George said after Constance squeezed his hand to encourage him.
A moment later he had second thoughts. Virgilia was watching and listening with great interest. If they took her along, the Mains would probably come to regret their offer of hospitality.
Charles leaned back against the damp rock, moonlight splashing his closed eyelids as he imagined naked thighs in various pleasing shades of pink and brown. One pair of thighs belonged to a plump and cooperative girl named Cynthia Lackey. Charles had met her during the first week of the summer, when he had gone to buy some hard candy in her father's general store.
Away to his left he heard laughter. He opened his eyes and saw two figures emerging from the shadow of the bluff. Two figures that looked more like one. Arms around each other's waist, they crossed the brilliantly lit sand.
"Watch out, there's our chaperone," Billy said. Ashton giggled. The single inky shape divided. Charles blinked away the last of his erotic visions. That didn't relieve the tension in his groin. It was time to call on Cynthia again.
Ashton smoothed her hair. Billy tucked in the tail of his shirt. Charles felt sorry for his friend. He had no specific information about Ashton's experience, but he had suspicions. At minimum, she would be an expert tease, goading a suitor until he acquired a glassy-eyed look of frustration. Billy looked that way right now, Charles noticed.
On the way home, Ashton discussed plans for the following evening. Some clam digging first. Then a driftwood fire on the beach, and —
"I'm afraid we can't do that tomorrow night," Charles broke in. ''Billy and I have a long-standing engagement at the other end of the island."
Dumbfounded, Billy said, "We do? I don't remember —" Charles elbowed him to silence.
Ashton pouted, then grew almost nastily insistent. Charles smiled and held firm. After Billy had seen Ashton to the door of the house on Beach Road, he came charging around to the side porch, where Charles sat in the moonlight, one long leg resting on the porch rail.
"What the devil is this fictitious engagement at the other end of the island?"
"My boy, it isn't the least bit fictitious. I'm going to introduce you to Miss Cynthia Lackey and her sister Sophie. I have it on good authority that Sophie's just as eager as Cynthia to please the boys and be pleased in turn. Have you ever had a girl before?"
"Of course."
"How many?"
Under Charles's steady stare, Billy wilted. "All right. I haven't."
"That's what I thought. We'll make it a summer to remember."
He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Besides, I know cousin Ashton's reputation for coquetry. I've left the two of you alone so much, I expect you need the relief of an evening with Miss Sophie." The following night they drove a pony cart to the Lackey place, a small farm in the open countryside. They drove back to Newport at two in the morning, with Billy thanking his friend and saying it was now a memorable summer indeed.
"But I want to see the South," Virgilia said to George. "And they invited me."
"They invited you because politeness required it, that's all!" They had been back in Lehigh Station two days. This was their fourth argument about the trip. "They don't want you down there insulting them and sneering at their way of life every waking moment,'' George went on. "You'd probably parade this around Mont Royal." He snatched up the broad satin ribbon she had brought into the study. She would be wearing the ribbon on Saturday when she marched in a Free Soil parade in Harrisburg. The ribbon bore the slogan of the party: Free soil — free speech — free labor — and free men. "Inviting you to come with us would be like carrying a torch into a dry forest, Virgilia. I'd be a fool to say yes."
"What if I promise that I'll be on my very best behavior? I feel it's important for me to see the South firsthand. If you'll take me, I'll be good as gold. Not a word about free soil or anything else the Mains might find offensive."
He peered at her through smoke curling from his cigar. "You mean that? You'd be polite the entire time?"
"Yes. I promise. I'll swear it on a Bible, if you want."
He managed to smile. "That won't be necessary." He shaped his mouth into an O and blew out a thin rod of smoke while weighing the risks. Then:
"All right. But at the first slip, I'll send you home."
She flung her arms around him and squealed her thanks. It had been a long time since she'd behaved in such a girlish way. For a moment he felt he had a sister again.
When Virgilia went to bed that night, she was too excited to go to sleep. But at last she did. She dreamed of black men's bodies.
The Hazard party consisted of eight: Maude, George and Constance, the children, their nurse, and Billy and Virgilia. All but Billy were seasick on the stormy trip to Charleston. They rested a few days at Cooper's house and improved rapidly.
After supper the second evening, Judith entertained them by playing the piano. Then she gathered the guests around her and they had a grand time for almost an hour, singing hymns and popular songs in a rousing way. Everyone took part except Virgilia, who excused herself and went to her room.
Mont Royal happened to be in port, loading cotton for New York. Cooper took them through the vessel, pointing out every detail from the sleek clipper bow to the advanced-design propeller. The visitors didn't understand the engineering innovations as well as their host did, hence couldn't be quite as enthusiastic, but all of them could appreciate the vessel's exterior design. She was lean, graceful — unmistakably modern.
Next Cooper took them over to James Island, to the acreage he had bought earlier. "What I'm proposing to put here, using my profits from C.S.C. to do it, is a shipyard. A yard to build commercial vessels. A yard that will be the best on the East Coast."
"You're starting to sound like a Yankee," said George. They both laughed.
Cooper and Judith showed them the sights of Charleston, including the marble marker at Calhoun's grave in St. Philip's churchyard. Then Cooper proposed to take any interested adults to a rally being sponsored by an organization calling itself the Charleston Southern Rights Coalition.
"Is that a political party?" George asked.
"Nobody's sure," Cooper answered. "Not yet, anyway. The traditional parties are disappearing faster than I can keep track of. 'Whig' and 'Democrat' have become virtually meaningless labels down here."
"What has replaced the regular parties?" Virgilia wanted to know.
''Groups that fall into two camps. In one camp you have the Unionists, men such as Bob Toombs of Georgia who love the South but can't quite swallow the secession pill. In the other camp are the Southern rights crowd: Yancey, Rhett, Ashton's friend Huntoon — he's one of the speakers at the rally, incidentally. You probably won't like anything you hear" — the gently pointed statement brought a prim and humorless smile to Virgilia's mouth — "but it will give you a flavor of current thought in Charleston."
Only George and his sister accepted the invitation. George feared Virgilia might make a scene despite her promises — perhaps even disrupt one of the speeches by shouting insults from the box in which they were seated. But she seemed uninterested in the oratory, preoccupied. While Huntoon was at the rostrum, proclaiming the need for ''a great slaveholding republic from the Potomac to the tropic latitudes,'' she whispered that she needed fresh air and left.
She rushed down the dim staircase to the foyer. Sure enough, he was there, loitering with the other coachmen outside the main doors. He was a strikingly handsome black man wearing heavy velvet livery. She had noticed him earlier, as he was opening a carriage door for his master — Huntoon, she realized suddenly.
Virgilia's breasts felt tight and heavy as she walked to and fro, waving her lace handkerchief in front of her face to indicate why she had left the hall. Sweat glistened in the down on her upper lip. She could hardly keep her eyes off the Negro.
Huntoon's voice rolled through the open doors behind her. "Our institution must follow the American flag, wheresoever it goes. For our system to contract, or even fail to expand at a steady pace, would be tantamount to defeat. We shall not permit it to happen."
Wild applause and cheering interrupted him at that point. Boots stomped and shook the floor. The sound poured out of the hall and engulfed her, somehow heightening her feelings of desire. Over the shoulder of another coachman she tried to catch the tall Negro's eye.
He noticed her but didn't dare show cordiality toward a white woman, lest he be punished for his boldness. She understood. With one long glance she tried to convey that understanding, and something else. His eyes flickered with surprise. Then, looking past the other coachman's shoulder, he smiled. She caught her breath. Four of his front teeth were missing. He was one of those poor wretches whose owners identified them in that inhuman way.
His dark, shiny eyes dropped to her breasts for a second. She thought she might faint. He understood! Another coachman took note of his stare and turned to see its object. At the sight of Virgilia's white skin, the coachman looked at his tall companion with shock and disbelief.
"Here you are." George came hurrying out to her. "You left so quickly I was worried. Are you ill?"
"No, it was just too hot in there. I feel better now." She slipped her arm through his and led him inside.
She couldn't get the tall Negro out of her mind. On the way back to Tradd Street she asked whether there was any special significance if a slave had several teeth missing. "I saw a man like that outside the hall."
George tensed while Cooper explained the probable reason for extraction of the teeth. Virgilia reacted as if it were new information, but no outburst followed. Then Cooper said, "The chap you saw must be Huntoon's man, Grady. Tall fellow? Handsome?"
"I honestly didn't notice," Virgilia lied, pressing her legs together beneath her skirts. She had the information she wanted.
Grady. She savored the name as she drifted to sleep that night. A sultry breeze blew from the fragrant garden. The sweet odors and the dampness of the night heightened her hunger until she ached.
"Grady," she whispered in the dark. She knew she would never see him again, but she wished there were some way it could be otherwise.
Cooler weather arrived at Mont Royal just when the Hazards did. October's sharp, slanting light lent a melancholy beauty to the days, but it was beauty of which Billy was unaware. He hardly saw anything, or anyone, except Ashton.
He spent every free hour with her. On horseback she took him around the plantation, though he suspected she was improvising much of what she said about it. He sensed that she had little understanding of, or interest in, the way rice was planted or harvested.
The slave community fascinated Billy in a grim, almost morbid fashion. The Negroes returned his stare with sad, hopeless eyes. He heard laughter, but not much. For the first time he had some understanding of why Virgilia, Constance, and the rest of the family opposed the peculiar institution.
In the past his attitude had been largely a reflection of theirs: correct, but lacking any passion. The ride down the dirt street between the rows of mean cottages changed that. If slaves were carefree and happy, as Southerners claimed, he saw damned little evidence. He grew angry. Here was an obvious wrong. The conviction was like a splinter in his foot, not really severe enough to interfere with anything, yet a constant source of discomfort.
There was a similar splinter produced by his relationship with Ashton. At first he couldn't identify the reason he felt uneasy in her presence. She still excited him. This was true even though some of the mystery of sex was gone, thanks to tumbling with that Newport girl in her father's hayloft; after the initial embarrassment of removing his pants, Billy had enjoyed his hour with Sophie.
Physically, Ashton remained one of the most perfect creatures he had ever seen. And if not exactly intelligent, she was gifted with an innate cleverness and a glib tongue. What troubled him, he concluded toward the end of his first week at Mont Royal, was a certain quality in the way she kissed, or touched his face, or looked at him. It was adult; there was no other word. Yet she had only turned fifteen this year.
Orry arranged a Saturday-night picnic in honor of the visitors. As the breezy twilight was deepening, cousins and neighbors began to arrive. One guest was a handsome woman named Mrs. LaMotte, whom Orry seemed to treat with great politeness. She spent almost no time with her husband; he was off with some of the men and, to judge from their muted voices and raucous laughter, telling dirty stories.
When darkness fell, torches planted in holders in the ground lit the side lawn and kept the insects away. Billy and Ashton left the picnic site and slipped down to the river, hand in hand.
"It's so grand to have you here," she said as they walked to the end of the pier and stood gazing at the black water ruffled by the wind. "Will you stay long?"
"George says another week or so."
"That makes me very happy. But sad, too."
"Sad? Why?"
"When I'm close to you —"
She turned to face him. The distant torches put small, hard reflections in her eyes. Guests passed back and forth in front of the smoky lights, wraithlike.
"Go on," he said.
"When we're close, I must constantly fight my own feelings. I want to be even closer." She brought her bodice, her mouth, then her whole body against him. He felt her lips move as she murmured, Much closer than is altogether proper."
He started to kiss her but abruptly felt something below his waist. God above! She was reaching down to grasp him through his pants and underdrawers. He couldn't have been more astonished if the earth had opened under his feet.
She moaned his name, closed her hand tight, and kissed him ferociously. He quickly overcame his own surprise and reticence, and returned the kiss. Her left arm crooked around his neck while her right hand kept squeezing, squeezing. The play of mouths and hands rapidly reached an embarrassing conclusion. She felt him go rigid in her arms.
She jumped back, palms pressed to her lips. "My heavens, did I cause —?''
He was utterly humiliated, unable to speak. He turned away toward the river.
"Billy, I'm so sorry. I couldn't help myself, dear."
"It's all right," he mumbled.
Five minutes later, Brett and Charles came strolling across the lawn, searching for them. Billy had to face people whether he was ready or not. Fortunately his trousers were wool, in a busy checked pattern, so if anyone was so rude as to ask what had happened, he'd lie and say he'd spilled a cup of punch.
They rejoined the others. There were no questions. But Ashton's behavior had left a vivid impression. She was too accomplished. Those were the words that repeated in his thoughts half the night and for days afterward. For someone so young, she was too accomplished.
How had it happened? When he considered the possibilities, an overpowering jealousy gripped him. He wanted to know how she had learned all she knew. And yet he didn't. He knew the relationship had begun to wither. He was sad about it, yet a little relieved somehow.
A spell of gray, muggy weather settled in. Small annoyances began to spring up between Billy and Ashton. She didn't understand something he said, even though he repeated it twice. A pebble in his boot kept him from walking as fast as she would have liked. Small annoyances, angering them, spoiling things.
The end came on a hot, still Saturday. They were unable to find anything to do that didn't bore them. Finally they went strolling along the high bank separating the river from the fields. After ten minutes Ashton sat down, heedless of dirt on her skirt. He sat next to her, and she said bluntly:
"Are you anxious to go to the Academy next year?"
"Yes."
"I think a man can find better things to do."
He frowned. "Why should you worry about that? You're not a man."
She looked at him. Not with hostility, exactly, but neither did she show the warmth he'd seen in her eyes during the summer.
"No, but I'll marry one," she said.
"And you already know what you expect of him, is that it?"
"I know what I expect for myself. I know what I want, and he must give it to me."
The tenor of the conversation was growing steadily more unfriendly; did she sense his withdrawal? He didn't want to fight with her, though. He smiled in hopes of relieving the tension. He poised an invisible pencil over the tablet of his palm.
"Might we have the list for purposes of reference, Miss Main?"
"Don't joke, Billy. I'm fifteen. In another five years my life will be nearly half over. So will yours."
It sobered him. "True."
"If you go through life without a plan, you wind up with nothing. I intend to marry a man with money. At least enough so that I know he isn't after mine. But more important than that, he must be someone. A congressman. A governor. I wouldn't mind if he were President. It's time we had another Southern President."
"Old Zach Taylor came from Louisiana."
"Pooh. He was more Yankee than you are. Anyway — I want to be the wife of a man who's powerful and important."
The rest of it, unspoken, was still unpleasantly clear. The man she married would be driven to achieve her goals if he didn't possess those same goals himself. With a flash of her dark eyes, she finished:
"Of course a soldier can become famous and important. Look at General Scott. Or that New Hampshire Yankee they're mentioning for President — what's his name?"
"Pierce. General Franklin Pierce."
"Yes." Her smile was taunting. "Will you be that sort of soldier?"
It was all over. He knew it. "No," he said.
She wasn't prepared for such a positive, final answer. Her smile grew coy. She leaned to him, letting her bosom brush his arm as a reminder of what she could give a man.
"Bet you could be if you wanted."
"I don't have the ambition." He rose and slapped dirt off the seat of his pants. "Shall we go back? Looks like it might rain."
They returned to the great house in silence. Hers was bewildered and sullen, but his was invested with an unexpected new peace. She had offered herself and informed him of the price. She was too deep, and too dangerous, for him. He had stepped back from the brink and was relieved.
A rising wind stripped leaves from the water oaks near the house. The leaves whirled around the young people as they came upon Orry supervising half a dozen slaves who were nailing shutters closed.
"Cooper just sent one of his men on horseback from Charleston," Orry said. "Incoming ships are reporting gale winds a hundred miles offshore. I've got riders out warning the other plantations. We may be in for a hurricane."
Ashton picked up her skirt and dashed into the house. Orry watched her, then scratched his beard. "Looks like we've already got one closer to home."
Billy's smile was perfunctory. "Have you seen Charles?"
In the morning Ashton was all smiles again. She swept into the dining room and sat down next to Billy, who was finishing the last of several slabs of smoke-cured ham. She patted his hand.
"What shall we do today?"
He pushed his chair back. "Charles is taking me deer hunting with bows and arrows. I'll see you tonight."
After he walked out, a knot of pain formed in her stomach. She regretted what she'd said to him while they sat by the river. She had done it largely as a test, curious to discover what he was made of and how far she might bend him. Not that it really mattered; she was in love with Billy. He could remain a lieutenant all his life and she'd still love him. For him she'd gladly throw away her dreams, her ambition — everything.
But she had a feeling it no longer made any difference.
Squinting, Billy leaned forward over the neck of his horse. Visibility was cut to a few feet by the pouring rain. Trees creaked. Limbs snapped off and sailed away. Although it could hardly be later than mid-afternoon, the sky had turned an eerie dark gray.
"There's the house," Charles shouted from up ahead. Billy could see nothing but the tail of his friend's horse switching back and forth. Without Charles as a guide, he'd have been lost. He ached from riding in the buffeting wind. Charles yelled something else, but a deafening cracking obscured it. Billy looked up just as a huge live-oak limb sheared off and dropped toward him. He booted the horse forward. Small branches whipped his face, but the heaviest part of the limb missed horse and rider.
The horse pranced in panic. A hand reached out of the murk to stroke the animal and calm it. As the effects of the scare passed, Charles asked:
"You all right?"
Billy gulped and nodded.
Five more minutes and they were in the stable. The other horses fretted and kicked the sides of their stalls. Billy and Charles surrendered their mounts to the frightened grooms and laid their bows and quivers on a hay bale. They were two very wet, tired, and unlucky hunters. They had sighted only one buck all day. Charles had given Billy first chance at it. Billy's arrow flew wide, and the buck fled. Charles slashed the tail of Billy's shirt in half — the traditional sign of a novice who had missed his shot.
Billy was disgruntled by his failure but not exactly surprised. All day long he had been distracted by thoughts of Ashton. He saw her more realistically now, without the distortions his own emotions had created. She was still a beautiful girl, desirable in many ways, but she wasn't for him. He felt fortunate to have made the discovery before he became more deeply involved.
"Lucky the crop's harvested," Charles shouted as they ran for the house. "Sometimes the storm tide drives salt water this far up the river, and it poisons the fields."
"I thought the big storms arrived in August or September."
"Usually, but they can come later, too. The season lasts through November."
They reached the house. Gasping with relief, they ran inside and pulled up short at the sight of a tense family group in the downstairs hall. "Well, at least you two are safe," George said in a strained voice.
Billy pushed wet hair off his forehead. "What's wrong?"
Orry answered. ''Your sister insisted on going riding late this morning. I sent one of my people with her. They haven't come back."
Billy was aware of Brett by the staircase. She watched him with anxious eyes as he said to Orry, "Shall we saddle up again and look for them?"
"I asked the same question," George said. "Orry discourages it."
"For good reason." Orry sounded testy, as if hurt by George's implied criticism. "Virgilia could be riding on any of a dozen trails and back roads, I wouldn't know where to begin to search. And with the storm this bad already, we could pass within ten yards of her and never see her. But I'll go if you want, George."
"No, not if it's foolhardy. I didn't mean to be sharp about it."
"Cuffey's a reliable boy," Orry told the others. "He'll find shelter for them. I'm sure they'll be all right."
Somewhere overhead, the wind ripped a shutter off the house, then blew through one of the rooms, toppling furniture and shattering glass. With exclamations of alarm, Clarissa rushed upstairs. Maude followed, then three of the house girls. Brett rushed to Charles. Ashton wasn't present, Billy realized belatedly.
"I'm thankful both of you are back," Brett said. She touched her cousin's arm but looked at Billy.
He blinked, noticing her — really noticing — for the first time. He was surprised and pleased by her display of concern.
Tillet suggested the hunters come with him and warm themselves with a cup of whiskey. Charles agreed enthusiastically. Billy trailed after him. As he passed Brett, his eyes lingered on hers a moment. She was young but pretty. Her face had a gentleness that Ashton's lacked. He found her extremely appealing.
Maybe he'd been paying attention to the wrong girl.
"Miss, we better turn for home," Cuffey said about an hour after their departure from Mont Royal.
"No, this is exciting," Virgilia said above the moan of the wind.
Cuffey made a face. But he was ahead of her, straddling an old mule, and she couldn't see his reaction.
Virgilia rode sidesaddle. She had asked the young Negro to show her scenic places near the river, and he was leading her to one such area now, following a woodland trail that was little more than a narrow, muddy rut. The heavy growth of trees held back most of the failing light, but rain reached the two riders — an indication of how fiercely the wind blew.
Virgilia was more than a little frightened. She had never experienced a hurricane before. At the same time, the ferocity of the oncoming storm excited her in a way that was completely unexpected. Under her riding habit, she began to feel tense and damp. Her steel stays hurt.
"Cuffey, you haven't answered the question I asked you sometime ago."
"I be worried about the storm, miss. I don't 'member the question.''
Liar, she thought, more in pity than anger. Somewhere behind them, a tree uprooted with a great cracking and a thrashing of underbrush. When the tree fell, the ground shook.
"Can you wait here a minute, miss? I better go back an' see if the trail's still clear."
He kicked his mule with bare heels and rode past her, giving her a nervous glance. He was a handsome boy, just about the age of Cousin Charles. He was intelligent, too — but doing his best to hide it. He was frightened of the questions with which she had bombarded him the past half hour. The Mains had cowed him into denying and concealing the powers of his God-given mind. That was one more reason she hated the family and the whole accursed slavocracy.
To come to South Carolina and get a firsthand look at the system, she had been forced to feign friendliness and to suppress her convictions, emotions, and desires. She wasn't entirely successful. Today, when that damned high-handed Orry Main had tried to discourage her from taking this ride, she had politely defied him. She had done it on principle and also because she wanted to talk privately with a slave. On his own ground, so to speak. So far the conversation had been one-sided.
Cuffey came back, whacking his mule with a stick. He appeared apprehensive about returning to her company. No, she realized, something besides that was bothering him.
"Miss, that tree opened up a whole nest of copperheads when it fell. They swarmin' all over the trail. Big storm — it scares 'em. Makes 'em mean. Can't take a chance on goin' back that way. Got to ride the long way 'round. It be about an hour longer that way."
"I'm not worried. You're an excellent guide."
Smiling, she leaned over to pat his hand. He pulled away as if he had touched fire. Then he jogged the mule into motion. "Can't do nothin' but go ahead to the river road now," he mumbled.
"Since it will take a while to get home, you might as well answer my question. I want to know if you understand the meaning of the word freedom."
The sound of rain filled the silence. Seconds became half a minute. "Cuffey?" she prompted.
"Think so," he said without looking back.
"Do you have any comprehension of what your life would be like if you were free?"
"Compre-what, miss?"
"Do you have any idea of how it would feel to be free?"
"No, miss, I don' never think about that. I'm happy here."
"Look at me and say that."
He neither turned nor spoke.
"Cuffey, I could give you money if you wanted to run away."
Hearing that, he wheeled the mule while his eyes darted about wildly, trying to pierce the intensifying rain.
The poor creature feared that someone might be listening in the middle of the forest. Damn them for destroying his spirit. Damn every one of the Mains — every Southerner — and damn her brother George as well. He was turning into a regular doughface — a Yankee with sympathy for the South. She'd give anything to punish the lot of them.
Cuffey stared at her with big, pleading eyes. "Wouldn't ever run away, miss. Mist' Tillet and Mist' Orry treat me good. I'm a happy nigger."
How sadly desperate he sounded. She gave a curt little wave. "All right. Let's go on. It's raining hard."
The trail grew dark as it twisted through the deep woods. What had been merely a rain became a downpour that soaked her riding clothes. She saw two deer go bounding westward. The underbrush came alive with whisperings and slitherings as the animal population ran ahead of the advancing storm.
Virgilia's anger rose like the groaning wind. She had dissembled, given false promises, in order to persuade George to bring her south. Now she didn't know whether she could endure the rest of the trip without denouncing those who had crippled Cuffey's spirit and castrated his courage. She wanted to strike them, hurt them —
"What you doin' out here, nigger?"
Startled, Virgilia realized Cuffey had reached the edge of the forest. He was shouting at someone she couldn't see. Quickly she rode up beside him. As she did so, she caught sight of a fine carriage with its rear wheels mired to the hubs in a gumbo of mud.
The carriage driver was still perched on his high seat. Rain beating on his bare poll, he flaunted the handwritten card hanging around his neck on a piece of twine. "Don't yell at me, nigger. I got my travel pass."
Virgilia sat absolutely still. The driver's face was contorted, as if that would somehow keep the rain off. His grimace showed his teeth. Four upper ones were missing.
Less hostile, Cuffey said, "Didn't rec'nize you, Grady. What happened?"
"What the hell's it look like? Old Mrs. Huntoon, she wanted me to drive the carriage back to Charleston so Mr. Jim could use it. I told her the storm would muddy the roads too badly, but she wouldn't listen."
Virgilia heard resentment, even a suppressed fury, in that last statement. Grady's owners hadn't robbed him of his manhood.
Cuffey noticed the other slave staring at Virgilia with great interest. When Cuffey spoke, his voice held a note of warning. "This lady's a visitor at Mont Royal. We come up the trail yonder, but it's swarmin' with snakes. Got to take the long way home."
"Better not try it now," Grady advised. "Least, the lady better not. Storm's too fierce. Put her inside the carriage and I'll stand watch. You ride lickety-split to Mont Royal and tell them she's all right."
Cuffey gnawed his lip. "I think you should go."
"You know the way better'n I do. You go!"
Cuffey looked miserable. He was clearly afraid of being punished if something happened to the visitor. Grady was older and stronger, and Cuffey was intimidated. But he didn't yield until Virgilia spoke above the wail of wind and rush of rain.
"Yes, Cuffey, go. They'll be worried. I'll be safe with this man."
"All right," he said. "But you watch her good, Grady. I be back with some of the gen'emen quick as I can."
He rode out of sight. When the last muddy plop of the mule's hoofs died behind the storm noise, Grady climbed down from the driver's seat. His eyes never left Virgilia as he walked around to the carriage door.
"Don't know if you want to shelter in here, miss. Might be wet and muddy."
"Yes. Especially if the door won't close properly." With her face and her eyes, she tried to show him that he needn't be afraid.
He studied her a moment longer, then clamped both hands on the lower edge of the window in the upper part of the door. He gave the door a sharp pull. When he let go, the door fell into the mud, connected only by the leather hinge on the bottom. The two upper hinges had been ripped apart.
He pointed. "Sure won't close now. Water'll be over the sill soon."
"What" — she swallowed — "what if Cuffey remembers the door wasn't broken when he arrived?"
"He's too worried to remember. But if he does, he won't say anything. I'll make sure."
She was almost faint with excitement. "Where can we go?"
"About a half mile down the road there's an abandoned pounding mill. I should be standing guard when they show up, but I don't expect that will be for several hours." He gave her a last long look, then picked up the bridle of her horse and started walking along the road.
"My name's Grady."
"Yes. I know."
That made him glance back and smile.
Cobwebs and the smell of mold filled the old mill. But the roof was solid, and the place offered excellent protection from the weather.
Virgilia felt as nervous as a schoolgirl dancing her first quadrille. For her that was an unusual reaction. Grady caused it because he was so rough-looking, yet so kingly. She found him kingly despite his muddy hands and feet and ragged clothing.
With a cynical light in his eye, he asked, "Why do you want to do this?"
''Grady, Grady" — she ran her palm up along his thick, wet forearm — "don't look at me that way. I'm your friend."
"There isn't a white man or white woman who's the friend of a nigger. Not in South Carolina."
"Up North it's different."
"Do you come from there?"
"Yes. Northern people hate slavery. I hate it. I belong to organizations that help escaped slaves start new lives. As free men."
"I thought about going north once or twice. Wasn't sure the risk was worth it."
She seized his arm with both hands, her fingers kneading deep into his flesh. "Believe me, it is."
"You just want to help me, that's all?"
"No," she whispered. "You know that isn't all."
He grinned. "But I'm still asking why. Never been with a nigger before?''
"Don't flatter yourself."
That flare of temper produced a rumbling laugh in response. "Well, you're not the prettiest woman I ever laid eyes on.
She bit her lip and accepted the insult offered with a smile. He was showing who had the upper hand.
"— but your eyes are just about the warmest." He rubbed his knuckles lightly up and down her cheek. Up and down. "Sure would like to see the rest of you."
A moment later, drowning in her own heat, Virgilia stepped out of her pantalets. Using both hands, she raised the front of her skirt and petticoats. Grady's smile faded.
"My, my. Guess I didn't speak too kindly a minute ago. You're pretty enough."
"No, I'm not. It doesn't matter."
"But I got to tell you the truth, Miss Virgilia. I've never been with any white woman before."
"Then come here," she said, giving her skirt a little flounce.
She lost track of time then, taking him into her again, and again, and again, while the hurricane blew.
A dawn, pink and still, followed the night of wind and rain. Almost as soon as it was light, Orry came riding to the abandoned mill together with George, Billy, and Cuffey. They found Grady on guard outside.
"We've been searching for hours," Orry barked. "Why didn't you stay with the carriage?"
Scrambling to his feet, Grady answered respectfully. "Sir, I surely meant to do that. Just like I tole this here nigger of yours. But the carriage door was broke an' mud an' water come in. It weren't a fit, dry place for a white lady to shelter. I 'membered this old mill, and we reached it 'fore the blow got too bad. I knowed you'd have some trouble findin' us, but I knowed you'd come along this here road an' see me, or I'd see you. I stayed awake out here the whole night long. The lady is fine inside. Hungry, I 'spect, but otherwise jes' fine."
Inwardly, he was chuckling. He always slurred his words when addressing any white man. It made them think they were dealing with another dumb, guileless darky. The deception worked perfectly; it usually did.
Virgilia appeared, pretending great relief. She complimented Grady on his politeness and loyalty throughout the long night. George looked relieved as she went back inside to collect her wet shoes and stockings — the only articles she had removed for sleeping, she said.
The worst destruction had occurred along the coast. As the hurricane roared up the Ashley, its force was already diminishing. When it whipped over Mont Royal, it uprooted trees to render roads impassable. But the plantation, and those nearby, sustained nothing more serious than roof damage and some staining of furniture when rain blew in through shattered windows. The tidal surge had not been strong enough to drive salt water this far upriver. All in all, the Mains could give thanks that they had again been spared the full wrath of one of the great storms.
On Wednesday of the last week of the Hazards' visit, Virgilia announced that she was taking the river sloop down to Charleston in order to do some shopping. She wanted one of the house girls to accompany her, if Mrs. Main would permit it. Clarissa naturally said yes.
Maude questioned her daughter about the trip. Couldn't she shop when they went to Charleston to catch the steamer? No, Virgilia replied with a smile, that would be impossible. Maude would see the reason when she returned.
Virgilia's behavior was puzzling, her mother thought. But then Virgilia's behavior had been unusual during the entire visit. She had behaved herself. Ah, but perhaps she was going to Charleston to buy gifts for the Mains. Maude planned to send hers after she returned to Lehigh Station. If her daughter felt a need to express appreciation sooner than that, Maude had no intention of hindering her. The change in Virgilia was too welcome to be interfered with.
Slipping away from her slave chaperone wasn't as easy as her desire had led her to suppose. Virgilia had to wait until the girl dozed off on her pallet, and that took longer than she had anticipated. Finally she crept from the hotel room and down the stairs.
A lone white woman hurrying along Meeting Street drew stares from some late-hour idlers, but they were people she would never see again. She had her newfound passion to help banish fears of discovery. In an alley near the Dock Street Theater she came upon Grady crouching in the darkness of a doorway. During their time at the mill they had worked out the day for the meeting, the hour, and the place. The instant she arrived, he snapped at her.
"You're late."
"I couldn't help it. Did you have trouble sneaking out of the house?"
"No, I never have trouble with that, but the curfew for niggers rang a half hour ago. The pass I'm carrying is six weeks old. Should have figured out a way we could meet in the daylight."
"If we met in the daylight, we couldn't do this." She put her arms around him and kissed him fiercely. "We might have been forced to wait months till I could arrange stops on the underground railroad. We decided it should be now. We decided it together, remember?"
"Yes," he admitted.
She kissed him again, then opened her reticule. "Here. This is all the money I have. This slip of paper has an address in Philadelphia. A safe house run by Friends. Quakers," she amended when she realized he didn't understand the other term.
He fingered the paper, sheepish. "I can't read this. Can't read anything."
"Oh, my God. I never thought of that."
"But I can always find the North Star on a clear night."
"Of course! Anytime you're lost, ask at a church for directions. Churches aren't universally safe for runaways, but I can't think of any better place — or one that's easier to recognize. Now about food. Can you cipher?"
He shook his head.
"Then if you buy food, you may be cheated since you don't know about money. Worse than that, it could arouse suspicion. Stealing may be a lot less risky. You must decide."
He heard the anxiety in her voice, patted her gently. "I'll get there, don't you worry. I've got good reason to get there now."
Another long, intense embrace. She pressed her cheek against his clean work shirt. "Many more reasons than one, Grady. Up North I'll teach you to read and figure. We'll buy you a fine new set of teeth. You'll be the handsomest man in creation."
She drew back, gazing at him in the weak light filtering from the end of the alley. "Oh, I do care for you so."
It surprised her to realize that. Why had it happened? Because of her desire to spite the Mains and their kind? Because she wanted to prove total dedication to the cause? It was both of those things, but it was more.
After an uneasy chuckle, he whispered, "Sometimes I get the feeling we'll both burn in hell for this."
How bleak he sounded beneath the laughter. She tried to jolly him out of it. "White man's hell, or black?"
"Oh, white. I hear that's a lot nicer. But in either place you end up the same way."
"We won't. We'll have a happy, useful life together."
And just let George or any of them try to stop us.
A shadow leaped up at the end of the alley. A bull's-eye lantern flashed.
"Who is that?"
A fierce whisper: "Run, Grady!" He fled into the dark.
She counted ten, her heart beating frantically as the shadow enlarged. She flung the handbag to the far side of the alley, then called, "Watchman? Down here. A boy snatched my reticule, and I chased him."
She had given Grady all her money; the story would work. The portly watchman reached her, puffing as he shone the lantern in her eyes.
"A nigger?"
"No, he was white. About fifteen, I'd say. With a small gold ring in the lobe of his left ear. I'll wager he's a cabin boy off one of the steamers. Please shine your light over there — I believe I see something.''
A moment later she showed him the inside of the reticule.
"Every dollar gone. I was a fool to step out of the hotel for some air. I thought Charleston was safe for white women after the retreat drum cleared the slaves off the streets."
Her skillful performance completely fooled the watchman. There were no skeptical questions, and he personally escorted her back to the hotel.
Two days later, Grady's owner showed up at Mont Royal.
When the visitor was announced, Orry and the others were gathered around the dining-room table where Virgilia had piled the presents for the family. Thus far only Tillet had opened his gift — an expensive silk cravat.
Orry pushed his chair back. "Excuse me, I'll see what he wants."
"I can't imagine," Tillet said. "Do you suppose it has something to do with Grady's running off?"
"How could it?" Clarissa countered. Then she noticed her husband staring at Virgilia, who had taken the seat at the head of the table without invitation. Virgilia's lips were pursed in a curious way. A smug way, Clarissa called it in the privacy of her thoughts. George noticed, too, and frowned.
Orry strode to the foyer. "James — good morning."
He extended his hand to clasp Huntoon's, which as usual felt flabby. It was also unexpectedly damp. The weather was cool but the visitor was perspiring heavily; sweat streaked the lenses of his spectacles. As he wiped them on the lapel of his coat and jammed them back on his nose, Orry wondered how Ashton could tolerate such a slug.
"What brings you here?" Orry asked.
"Not a social matter, I assure you. Are you aware that one of my slaves has decamped?"
"Yes. Grady. The news reached us. I'm sorry about it."
"I find it more than somewhat coincidental that a nigger who has never before displayed the slightest sign of dissatisfaction suddenly elects to run away while you are entertaining visitors from the North.
Orry stiffened. "James, you're not suggesting —"
"I am suggesting nothing," the other broke in. "I am stating it autright."
Through the open doorway he had spied the Mains and their guests in the dining room. He had spoken loudly so that they would hear. In response, a chair scraped. Orry recognized the heavy thump of his father's boots.
Huntoon continued, "I'm convinced that someone encouraged Grady to run away. Further, I think the responsible party is staying in this house."
Tiliet's shadow fell across the pale wedge of sunshine cast by the fanlight. The others followed him out of the dining room. Huntoon glowered.
"Orry, it is widely apprehended that one of your Northern visitors is engaged in the work of encouraging rebellion among the nigras of the South. On the night of the storm Grady guarded, or purported to guard, this selfsame visitor." Huntoon strode past him. "I put it to you directly, Miss Hazard. Did you help my slave escape?"
Orry seized Huntoon's arm. "Just a minute, James. You can't come in here and speak to my guests like a prosecutor. I realize you've suffered a financial loss, but that's no excuse for —"
"Let her answer," Huntoon snapped.
The others were facing him in a rough semicircle. Ashton watched Virgilia with unconcealed hostility. Billy was equally upset, but with Huntoon. Tillet looked unhappy, Clarissa baffled, George dismayed. And George's sister —
A stone seemed to fall and strike the bottom of Orry's belly. Virgilia had her chin in the air and defiance on her face.
Orry collected his wits and said, "No, James. Not until you favor us with a reason."
Huntoon's pink cheeks indicated his rising temper. "Reason for what?"
"For your suspicion. It's hard to believe that a surmise — a mere guess — brought you here, of all possible places, to look for a culprit."
With the quickness of a cat pouncing, Huntoon said, "Ah, but I'm not guessing. First, as previously stated, Miss Hazard spent an entire night in the company of my nigger — something to which no Southern white woman would admit, of course, but that's beside the point. I expect she filled Grady's head with disloyal thoughts —"
"Virgilia, do you realize what this man's saying?" George broke in.
Her smile never wavered. "Perfectly."
"Tell him it isn't true, for God's sake."
"Why should I? Why should I dignify his rantings?"
Orry's stomach ached all the more. She hadn't said she was guiltless. George realized that too. He looked ill.
"Now," Huntoon went on, self-consciously fingering his lapels, "here is further evidence. On the night Grady fled from Charleston, carrying an old pass I inadvertently neglected to destroy, I am reliably informed that Miss Hazard was in the city." That was true. Orry had forgotten.
Huntoon's voice grew louder. "Her only companion was a nigger girl from this plantation. A girl with the limited intelligence typical of her race, a girl easily deceived. I am further informed that this girl awoke sometime after nine on the night in question and that she discovered Miss Hazard absent from their hotel room. What do you suppose she was doing abroad at that hour of the night if not abetting the escape of my slave?"
Huntoon stormed forward. "Why don't you answer that, Miss Hazard?"
"Yes, do," Ashton said. "It's time you repaid our hospitality with the truth."
Tillet reached for his daughter. "Step back here and keep out of this." But she had already slipped past his outstretched hand. She linked her arm with Huntoon's, clearly his partisan.
Orry stared at his sister, finally understanding how Huntoon had happened to come to Mont Royal. Ashton had summoned him, her suspicion fortified by a couple of scraps of information. He was shocked by that kind of behavior, but not surprised. Ashton's dislike of Virgilia had been evident for a long time.
Orry was experiencing some of the same dislike. Virgilia's expression remained smug, even arrogant. He cleared his throat. "It might be helpful if you'd respond to what James just said, Virgilia."
"Respond? How?"
It was George who erupted. "By denying it."
"Why should I do that?"
"Goddamn it, Virgilia, stop smiling." George paid no attention to his wife's sharp intake of breath. "Don't ruin everything. Deny it!"
"I will not." She stamped on the floor. "I refuse to be hectored and intimidated by this man when his own hands are unclean. How dare he prate about guilt when he keeps human beings as chattels?''
With a touch of desperation, Constance said, "No one wants to compromise your principles. But be reasonable. Don't repay the kindness of the Mains with hostility and bad manners."
"I'm sorry, Constance, but I am following the dictates of my conscience."
She's as crazy as Huntoon, Orry thought. The lawyer thrust his jowlly face close to Virgilia's.
"You did it, didn't you? That's why you won't deny it."
Her sweet smile returned. "You will never know, Mr. Huntoon."
"What else did you give my nigger? Your favors? Did you rut with him to demonstrate your egalitarian spirit? I'd expect that of an abolitionist whore."
Billy and his sister had never been close. But the last word, forbidden in polite conversation, was too much for him. With a yell, he lunged for Huntoon.
Ashton screamed and tried to push Billy away. He was too strong. But Huntoon jerked backward, so instead of catching him by the throat, Billy only managed to rip his glasses off. They clacked on the floor and glittered in the wedge of sunshine. George powdered both lenses when he jumped in to seize Billy's arm.
"Stop it. Get hold of yourself! Leave him alone!"
"He can't call Virgilia names," Billy panted.
George stepped in front of his brother and raised his left arm like a barrier. Tillet snatched Huntoon's ruined spectacles off the floor and held them out by one earpiece.
"Please leave, James," he said. "Now."
Huntoon waved the bent spectacles at Virgilia. "She conspired to rob me of my property. That young ruffian assaulted me. I demand satisfaction. My second will call."
"There'll be no dueling," Orry said. Cousin Charles, who had been standing silently at the back of the group, looked disappointed.
Billy pushed against his brother's arm. "Why not? I want to fight him. I'll kill the custard-faced son of a bitch."
Huntoon swallowed audibly. Ashton gave Billy a surprised, almost admiring look, then whirled and began urging her suitor toward the door. He blustered and fumed, but in a few moments he was inside his carriage. The wide-eyed driver whipped up the team.
Dust clouded through the open front door, the motes distinct in the sunbeams from the fanlight. Orry didn't let embarrassment stand in the way of what had to be said to the Hazards:
"When Huntoon's accusations get out, they'll arouse strong feelings in the neighborhood. It might be wise if you left for Charleston today.''
"We'll be ready in an hour," George said.
He shoved Billy toward the stairs. Virgilia glided after her brothers, still maintaining that queenly arrogance. What disturbed Orry most was his friend's reaction to the warning. George seemed angered by it, angry at him. Orry shook his head, swore under his breath, and went outside for some air.
Calmer, George went searching for his friend forty-five minutes later. He found Orry occupying a wicker chair at one end of the downstairs piazza. The family carriage stood in the drive. House men were lashing trunks and valises to the brass guardrails on top.
Orry sat with one boot resting on a second chair and his right hand shielding his eyes. Somehow the pose suggested defeat. George twisted the brim of his hat in his hands.
"Before we left Pennsylvania, Virgilia promised that she would do nothing to antagonize you and your family. Obviously she broke that promise. Perhaps she intended to from the beginning. The point is, I don't know what to do about it. I spoke to her just now, and she isn't the least contrite. Seems rather proud of the whole business, in fact. I consider that unforgivable."
"So do I."
The blunt statement produced a shamefaced look from George. Orry rose abruptly, the air of defeat vanishing. "See here, I know you had nothing to do with it. Grady will no doubt be caught before he gets very far. I'm sorry it happened, but it's over, and there's nothing more to be done."
"Except keep my sister out of South Carolina in the future."
"Yes, that would be a good idea."
Still uncomfortable, George and Orry stared at each other. Gradually, then, the past and the friendship it had created overcame mutual awkwardness.
George spoke for both when he said: "These are angry times. The anger deepens every day. We keep bumping into hard questions that seemingly have no answers. But I don't want those questions to drive a wedge between our families."
Orry sighed. "Nor do I. And I really don't hold you responsible for your sister's behavior." Yet a small, festering part of him did.
"Will you bring your family to Newport next summer? I'll arrange to send Virgilia somewhere else."
Orry hesitated before replying. "All things being equal — yes, I'll try."
"Good!"
The friends embraced. George clapped his hat onto his head. "We'd better go before Huntoon rides up the lane with a posse carrying lynch ropes."
"We don't do that sort of thing down here!"
"Orry, calm down. I was only joking."
Orry reddened. "I'm sorry. Guess I'm a little too sensitive. That seems to be the nature of the Southern temperament these days."
Maude and Constance emerged from the house, followed by the nurse with the children. "All ready?" George asked his wife.
"Not quite," she said. "We can't find Billy."
At that moment Billy was walking rapidly along the breezeway connecting the great house with the kitchen building. One of the housemaids had told him Brett was helping with the day's baking.
"Billy?" For an instant he thought the voice was the one he wanted to hear. Then he realized the speaker was Ashton. She came rushing from a corner of the great house. ' 'I've been searching for you everywhere."
She dropped the hooped skirt she had lifted in order to run. She scrutinized him. "All dressed for traveling. My, how handsome you look."
"I'm sorry we have to leave under these circumstances." He stumbled over the words, monumentally uncomfortable in her presence. "I know Virgilia betrayed your trust, but I still couldn't let your friend call her names."
He expected Ashton to challenge that, but she didn't. Instead, she surprised him by nodding. "I lost my temper, too. I shouldn't have — I really can't explain why I did. I don't care a snap for old James Huntoon."
Relaxing slightly, Billy managed a smile. "Then you're a good actress." But of course he'd figured that out long ago. "I wish your brother and George had let me meet Huntoon. I'm a pretty fair pistol shot."
"Oh, James is too yellow to go through with a duel. He's all brag and bluster — just like most of those politicians he runs with. You're different —''
She fingered his wrist below the velvet trim of his cuff. "Brave. I admire bravery in a gentleman. Bravery and strength —"
The tip of her index finger slid back and forth through the fine hairs on his wrist. She wanted him, and with her eyes, the tilt of her chin, the caressing movement of her finger, she tried to tell him so. Tried to draw him back to her. Tried and failed.
"I appreciate the sentiment, Ashton. But I must go now. There's something I must do in the kitchen."
"Oh, are you hungry?" she asked with a brittle smile. "They say growing boys are always hungry." She emphasized boys.
The insult made him redden. "Please excuse me." He turned and hurried off along the breezeway. He was through with her. If she had harbored the slightest doubt before, the quick good-bye had done away with it. Her eyes filled with tears she struggled to hold back and could not.
Billy felt something of a fool, dashing away from one sister in pursuit of another. But he was determined to find Brett. How would she react? Angrily? Or with scorn? He believed it would be one or the other. Yet he rushed straight ahead, into the heat and clamor of the kitchen, which was crowded with black servants and awash with the odors of biscuits baking and thick slabs of red ham frying on the immense claw-footed stove. Kettles of soup stock simmered on the hearth. Occasional puffs of wind down the chimney sent acrid wood smoke billowing across the room. Through one such cloud he saw Brett kneading dough.
"Yes, sir, what can I do for you?" asked a buxom cook with a cocked eye; she clearly resented a stranger's entering her domain.
"I'd like to speak with Miss Main."
Brett glanced up, saw him, and grew flustered. She used her apron to scrub at the flour on her cheeks. As she hurried around the big plank chopping table, the cooks and helpers exchanged cautious glances of amusement.
"I wanted a chance to say good-bye to you," Billy told her.
She lifted strands of loose hair from her forehead and smoothed them back. "I thought you'd be saying good-bye to Ashton."
"She's Mr. Huntoon's friend." The smoke made him cough. Brett took his hand impulsively.
"Let's go outdoors. It's hot as Hades in here." Her use of the word Hades suggested she was either bold or nervous. Billy guessed the latter.
Outside, the fall breeze was cooling. The redness slowly left Brett's face. "I must be a sight. I didn't expect anyone to come looking for me."
"I had to see you before I left. Virgilia ruined this visit, but I don't want that to spoil the friendship of our families. Not when we're just getting to know each other."
"Are we? That is —"
She wanted to die on the spot. Mortified by what she perceived as a total lack of feminine grace, she could barely speak two words coherently. How ugly she must look to him, all daubed with flour and flecked with yeast dough. But what she had told him was true; she was completely unprepared for this encounter. She had dreamed of his noticing her — but not, dear God, when she was sweating in the kitchen.
"I hope we are — will —" Billy too got lost in his own embarrassment. He gave up and just laughed, and that broke the tension for both of them.
"No one blames you for what your sister did," Brett said.
He studied her eyes. How pretty they were. How free of guile. She wasn't as flamboyantly attractive as Ashton, and she never would be. Yet she did possess beauty, he thought; beauty of a simpler, more substantial sort, compounded in part of the shy gentleness of her gaze and the kindness of her smile. It was a beauty that time could never erode, as it could her sister's. It ran like a rich, pure vein, all the way to the center of Brett's being.
Or so his romantic eye told him.
"It's kind of you to say that, Brett. Virgilia made an awful mess. But all the rest of us want your family to come back to Newport next summer. What I wondered —''
The rear door of the great house opened. Out poked the bonneted head of the nurse.
"Master Billy? We've been searching for you. We're ready to go."
"Coming."
The door closed. He abandoned caution. "If Orry does come to Newport, will you be with him?"
"I hope so."
"Meantime — though I'm not much with words — could I send you a short letter now and then?"
"I wish you would."
The smile on her face kindled joy in his soul. Dare he kiss her? Instead of yielding to impulse and giving her a regular kiss, he bent from the waist, seized her hand, and pressed his lips to it, like some lovelorn nobleman. Then he ran like the devil — chiefly to hide his beet-colored face. Brett clasped her hands at her bosom and gazed after him, her face shining with happiness. After a long moment she turned toward the house.
The angle of the sunlight at that moment created glittering reflections in every window. It was impossible to see whether anyone was watching. Ashton didn't know that, however. Fearing discovery by her sister, she quickly stepped back from the upper window from which she had observed the entire, sickening encounter between her sister and Billy Hazard.
Brett was soon gone from her line of vision, but Ashton continued to stand motionless with her gaze fixed on the window. Pale sunlight fell through the lace curtain, casting a pattern like a spider's web onto her face. Only the compressed line of her mouth and the slitted look of her eyes revealed her fury.
"Papa, what did the man with the whiskers want?"
Little William Hazard asked the question while leaning against his father's legs. Patricia sat on George's lap, her arms around his neck and her cheek pressed drowsily to his. Both youngsters wore flannel nightgowns.
Belvedere smelled sweet with the greens of the Christmas season. The scent here in the parlor was augmented by the tang of apple wood burning in the fireplace and by the not unpleasant scent of soap on the children.
"He wanted me to be a soldier again," George answered.
William grew excited. "Are you going to be a soldier?"
"No. Once is enough. Off to bed, both of you."
He kissed each child soundly and patted their bottoms to speed them along. Constance was waiting for them in the hall. She blew George a kiss, then raised her index fingers to her forehead and bleated like a billy goat. The children squealed and ran. They loved the nightly game of pursuit. Sometimes Constance was an elephant, sometimes a lion, sometimes a frog. Her invention delighted them. George wasn't surprised. She thoroughly pleased and delighted him, too.
This evening, despite his time with the children, George felt out of sorts. The visitor had come representing the adjutant general of the Pennsylvania militia. He had begun by saying the militia needed qualified officers in order to expand and prepare for the war that was a certainty within the next few years.
"What war?" George wanted to know.
"The war to silence the treasonous utterances being heard in the South. The war to guarantee personal liberty throughout the nation's new territories.'' Thus the caller revealed himself an advocate of free soil. He went on to explain that if George joined the state militia, he was virtually certain of being elected to a captaincy. "My contacts in Lehigh Station tell me you're a popular man. I'm sure that would overcome the handicap of a West Point background."
He said it so condescendingly that George nearly threw him out into the snow. Memories of the Mexican War were fading. The public was reverting to its old suspicion of the military — and its dislike of the institution that trained professional officers.
The visitor was stubborn. George had to decline to join the militia three times. The third time, growing annoyed, he said he would hate to see slavery ended by any means except a peaceful one.
George had disliked the discipline of soldiering and hoped he never again would have to put up with it. His dislike was even stronger for the visitor and his sneering intimation that George somehow lacked patriotism because he didn't care to kill other Americans. At that point George became rude. The man left in a huff.
The visit brought back the nagging questions George had thought about so often. How could the South's peculiar institution be dismantled if force were rejected as a means? He didn't know. No one knew. In most discussions that might lead to an answer, passion usually supplanted reason. The quarrel was too deep-rooted, too old. It was as old as the Missouri Compromise line of 1820. As old as the first boatload of black men brought to the continent.
He remembered the letter he had been meaning to write for several days. Perhaps he hadn't written it because he disliked withholding some of the truth. Yet he knew that was necessary. He passed the gaily decorated Christmas tree, nine feet high. The sight failed to cheer him. He sat with pen in hand for about ten minutes before he put down the first lines.
My dear Orry —
Perhaps it will help ease the memories of last autumn if I report that my sister has moved away, at my request. Virgilia's behavior in her various abolitionist groups became too outrageous to be borne.
He told no more than that. He said nothing about Grady's having reached Philadelphia safely; nothing about Virgilia's going everywhere with the escaped slave. She had ordered new artificial teeth for him, teeth to replace those removed by his former masters. The matter of the teeth had provoked her final quarrel with George.
She had asked him for a loan to pay for the new teeth. He had agreed — provided she accept one condition: she must stop flaunting herself on Grady's arm. The fight that followed was brief, loud, and bitter. It ended with his ordering her to leave Lehigh Station. For once Stanley endorsed his brother's decision.
Virgilia and her lover were now living in Philadelphia. In squalor, George presumed. A few landlords with decent quarters to rent might be willing to give them to a man and woman who weren't married, but that would never be the case if the woman was white and the man was black.
Grady had thus far been secretive about his past; as far as most people knew, he was Pennsylvania-born. But his background couldn't be kept completely quiet for long, especially when Virgilia was pulled by conflicting desires to protect her lover and to use him to forward her cause. So there had been one or two requests for public speeches, which Grady had declined. Speeches were reported in newspapers, and Northern newspapers might be read by Southern slave catchers in the employ of James Huntoon.
The runaway had, however, addressed a private meeting of Philadelphia abolitionists, one of whom was a business acquaintance of George's. Appalled, the man reported to George that Grady had called for the overthrow of slavery by "rebellion, arson, terror, or any other effective means." George suspected Virgilia had written most or all of the speech. God knew what insane plots against established order she and Grady were hatching.
Sometimes George wished he didn't care about his sister. But family loyalty never quite deserted him — nor did the memory of something his mother had once said: "Love will somehow defeat hate. It will, and if we're all to survive, it must."
That was why he said nothing about Grady in the letter. The news might reach Huntoon and cause him to send a slave catcher to Philadelphia.
What a hypocrite you are, George thought. He didn't give a damn about Virgilia's relationship with the former slave, yet he was protecting it, protecting a Negro fugitive right along with his own sister. Some compulsion drove him to it. At the same time, his behavior left him with a bad feeling, a feeling of betraying his friend.
God, how he hated this turmoil. Like the nation, he was slowly being torn apart.
That winter Brett acquired another beau, though not entirely by her own choice.
Some sportive strain in Francis LaMotte's family had produced a son much taller than his father and much better-looking than either parent. Forbes LaMotte had grown into a strapping six-footer with fair hair, a swaggering walk, and a disposition that inclined to indolence except when there were drinks to be downed, horses to be raced, or pretty girls to be pursued. Francis had hoped to see his son graduate from The Citadel, the state's own version of West Point that had been established in 1842. But after one term at the Charleston military school, Forbes had been dismissed for academic deficiency.
Weary of low-class sluts too easily bedded, and not interested in Ashton Main, who secretly frightened him, Forbes took notice of Brett. In 1852 Brett would reach her fourteenth birthday. She was continuing to mature rapidly, filling out and gaining the poise that frequently accompanied young womanhood. With that poise went an awareness of her own powers of attraction.
Forbes rode to Mont Royal to ask permission to call on her. Normally he would have made the request of Tillet, but the health of the patriarch of the Main family had lately begun to suffer. He had trouble breathing and was bedridden much of the time. Orry had taken over virtually all family responsibilities.
Neighborhood gossip had revealed to Forbes that Brett received an occasional letter from that Pennsylvania boy who had visited the plantation last fall. Forbes didn't consider Billy Hazard a threat. He was far away, and in the long run his temperament would never blend with that of a girl bred in the South. If Billy ever did turn into a serious rival, Forbes, who was bigger, would just bash him and scare him off.
Orry found Forbes less objectionable than some of the LaMottes but still didn't like him very much. Nevertheless, he said yes to Forbes's request. Permission to call was a far cry from permission to marry. Besides, he didn't expect his sister to pay a great deal of attention to the courtship gifts Forbes immediately began to send or to be cordial when Forbes visited in person.
Brett surprised her brother. She had her reasons.
Even if she hadn't known Billy, she would never have considered Forbes a serious suitor. Like most of the other LaMottes, he thought his own opinions were holy writ, and he angered easily when someone disagreed with any of them. When sober and in a good mood, however, he could be charming.
Brett couldn't judge the seriousness of Billy's intentions. There was always a long interval between his brief, awkwardly phrased letters, and she recognized the possibility that he might all at once take up with some Northern girl. By seeing Forbes now and then she hoped to cushion herself against possible disappointment; she liked Billy more than she cared to admit.
Forbes was five years older than Brett and three years younger than that pale toad Huntoon. There was no resemblance between the two suitors — Ashton's beau was a dog on a leash, but Forbes was his own man, which Brett rather enjoyed.
Fending off Forbes was a constant challenge. "Stop that" was what she said most often. Never harshly, but always firmly. She had said it again just now as he leaned over her shoulder while she played the pianoforte. Instead of turning the page of her sheet music, he reached down and gently grasped her breast.
"I said stop that, Forbes," she repeated when he didn't let go. She took her fan from the music rack and slapped his thumb. "Why do you insist on treating me like one of those Charleston trollops you fool with?"
He grinned. "Because you're ten times as pretty as any of them, and I want you ten times as bad."
"Want is a word for husbands and only for husbands," she said with a smile.
"My. Pretty racy talk for a girl of your tender years."
But he relished it. Apparently she did too, for she teased him right back:
"If you're so concerned about my tender years, why is your hand always groping every which way like I'm some old hen?"
"Can't help myself," he said, sidling to the end of the pianoforte, where he could rest on his elbow and gaze down at her. His unexpectedly serious expression made her squirm. "You know I'm crazy about you, Brett. You and I are going to be married one of these days."
"Don't count on it," she replied, jumping up. "Why, you won't even bring me the presents I ask for."
''Now listen, blast it — I don't know anybody who sells the National Era in Charleston. And if somebody did, I wouldn't be caught dead buying an abolitionist rag."
"But Forbes — all the papers and periodicals are discussing Mrs. Stowe's serial. I want to read part of it." Even Orry had expressed interest in the new novel.
"Read," Forbes parroted with a contemptuous wave. "Girls aren't supposed to read. Oh, I guess Godey's is safe enough, and some of Mr. Timrod's verse is harmless. But if God had wanted women educated, he'd have let them go to places like Harvard. They can't get in, so I guess that tells you."
"That's an idiotic statement. Idiotic and backward."
"The devil it is. Uncle Justin suffers something fierce because Aunt Maddie reads so much. You should see some of the trash she orders from New York. Sends him into a perfect rage."
"Your whole family's good at raging when you don't like something. Good night, Forbes," she said with finality, and swept out of the room.
Thunderstruck, he gaped at the empty doorway. "Brett? Wait. damn it. I didn't mean —"
No use. Her footsteps were already fading on the stairs.
He whacked his right fist into his left palm, then glanced up to see Ashton in the hall with Huntoon. The couple had been in the library for the last hour, occupied with a book of pencil mazes.
Ashton's beau had few chances to score a point against someone as physical as Forbes. This opportunity was too good to resist.
"Cussing, friend? Tsk, tsk. That's no way to court a young lady. Most especially, it's no way to court her family. What you should do —" Huntoon gulped and swallowed the rest of his advice as Forbes stormed toward him:
"You make any more comments, I'll punch that pig bladder you call your face." He grabbed Huntoon's shirt ruffle. "There'll be blood all over your nice clothes. I 'spect the sight of it would make you faint."
He jerked, tearing the ruffle. Then he picked up his hat, stick, and gloves and stomped out into the mild February night. "Nigger, fetch my horse!"
The bellow made Ashton shiver with disgust. "He's nothing but an animal."
"Absolutely," Huntoon agreed, fingering the torn ruffle. "I don't know how your sister tolerates him."
Ashton glanced at Huntoon's glistening cheeks and suppressed a shudder of loathing. Smiling sweetly, she took his arm.
"She has no ambition. She chases one worthless boy after another.''
Including the one I still want.
Forbes and Brett soon patched up their quarrel. It was largely Brett's doing. She decided that nothing Forbes said should be taken seriously.
Huntoon visited Mont Royal at least twice a week that winter. Somehow, the attention never made Ashton happy. Someone else was on her mind. One afternoon she raced her sister to the wicker basket that held the day's mail. She beat her and snatched up a wax-sealed letter. "Why, here's another one from Billy! That's two this month. He's getting ever so much better."
Brett reached for the letter. It was impossible to miss the jealousy in her sister's eyes. "Ashton, that's mine."
The older girl laughed and raised the letter over her head. ''What'll you give me for it?"
"If you keep teasing me, I'll give you a black eye."
"My. We're sounding more and more like Mr. LaMotte all the time." She flung the letter on the floor. "Does Billy know about him?"
Brett's voice trembled. "You go to the devil."
The older girl was stunned. Ashton had never heard her sister use any word that even approached profanity. Perhaps she'd gone too far. She couldn't help it. She was miserable, and Huntoon's visits only exacerbated the feeling. He always tried to draw her into some secluded corner and paw her. On those occasions when she chose to resist, he responded with a hurt whine:
"Why do you treat me this way, Ashton?"
"Because we aren't married yet. Just because you and Orry agreed on a dowry and I said I'd become your wife in due time, that doesn't give you any right to take liberties."
Her whimsical behavior was a continuing source of puzzlement to him. Frequently, she seemed to enjoy his advances, although she never permitted them to go too far. On other occasions she rejected them with an almost prudish fervor — which was mightily confusing when he thought of the old rumors linking her with a male member of the Smith family.
"Sometimes it gives me the right," he complained.
"Well, not just now. I don't feel like arguing about it, either."
Huntoon's face mottled. "Is that the way you intend to act after we're married?"
"You'll just have to wait and see."
Then she realized she had angered him. In her eagerness to keep him aware of who had the upper hand in the relationship, she had gone too far. She gave him a hasty kiss. "Calm down, James. You know I want to marry you. And after I do, you're going to have a most distinguished career."
"According to plans which you have already mapped out."
Now he went too far. White and rigid, she drew away. "My dear, you sound peevish. If you've changed your mind about the things we discussed —"
There she stopped. It was precisely the right strategy. He seized her hand, panicking.
"No, no. I haven't changed my mind about anything. I want you to have a role in mapping our future. I'm not like those bullheaded LaMottes. I believe a man's wife should be his partner. Especially if the man intends to enter public life."
"I'm happy you plan on doing that, James. You already have important friends. You'll make many more. The LaMottes will spend their lives rattling dice and racing horses, and they'll die forgotten. But not Mr. and Mrs. James Huntoon of South Carolina!"
He laughed, though somewhat nervously. "Ashton. you're just wonderful. I'll wager that if I wanted to do so — if I weren't the architect of my own destiny — I could place myself entirely in your hands, let you make every decision, and my success would still be assured."
Still? Did the fatuous creature believe he could rise in spectacular fashion by himself? He might achieve some minor fame, but without her he would never be truly eminent. He would learn that soon enough.
"You're right, my dear." She gave him a warm smile. Then she kissed him, opening her mouth after their lips touched.
He had come too near the truth for comfort. She'd marry him, but it would be a marriage conducted entirely on her terms. The poor fool suspected that and had already surrendered himself. But if he dwelled on the surrender too much, it could sour things.
Thank heaven she knew how to divert him. While they kissed, she laid her palm against the inside of his trouser leg, then began to move it in a small, languorous circle.
Spring approached. One March evening, Orry retired to the library with a letter from Billy which he read three times. Even after the third reading, he was not certain of his reaction.
He sat staring into space, the letter dangling from his hand. Shadows lengthened. The stand with his uniform and sword stood in the corner farthest from his chair, barely visible. Just before dark he heard a horse in the lane. Moments later Charles bounded in, his fawn breeches and fine linen shirt sweat-stained. He was grinning.
"Where have you been?" Orry asked, though he could guess.
"Riding Minx on the river road."
"Racing her, you mean. Did you win?"
Charles flopped in a deep chair and kicked a leg over the arm. "Yes, sir. I beat Forbes, and Clinch Smith, too. Minx left both their animals half a mile behind. I won twenty dollars."
He displayed a couple of gold pieces. Clinking them in his hand, he leaped up. "I'm starved. You ought to light a lamp. This room's dark as a cave."
The advice was probably useless, Charles thought. When Orry fell into one of his moods, he sometimes sat for hours in the pitch-black library. The house men usually discovered him in his chair at sunrise, snoring. There were always an empty glass and a whiskey jug somewhere close by.
Orry had never completely recovered from his war injury; Charles and everyone else at Mont Royal understood that. But perhaps memories of Mexico and its aftermath weren't to blame tonight. Perhaps there was another reason for Orry's melancholy state. It dangled in his long, thin fingers.
Charles pointed to the letter. "Is that bad news of some sort?"
"I don't think so. It's from Billy." Orry extended his hand, an invitation for Charles to take the sheet of paper.
Puzzled by Orry's words, Charles lit a lamp and read the brief, stilted letter from his friend. Before traveling to the Military Academy in June, Billy wanted to return to Mont Royal and, in accordance with custom, formally request permission to pay court to Brett.
"This is wonderful," Charles exclaimed at the end. He sobered abruptly. "Would there be any problem about Billy coming here — with the Huntoons, I mean?"
"No. I've long since paid them thirteen hundred and fifty dollars for Grady, just to forestall trouble."
Charles let out a low whistle and sank back into his chair. "I had no idea."
A shrug. "I felt somewhat responsible for their loss, and I wanted George to be able to pay other visits to Mont Royal without a fuss. No one knows about the payment except the Huntoons and my father. Keep it to yourself."
"Of course."
"The replacement cost of a prime buck goes up every year," Orry continued. "Francis LaMotte predicts it'll be two thousand dollars by the end of the decade. Last week the Mercury printed an editorial saying the African slave trade should be legalized again. I've seen several articles demanding the same thing — well, never mind. We were speaking of Billy."
Charles waved the letter. "Does Brett know about this?"
"Not yet."
"You'll tell Billy he may come, won't you? And you will give him permission to court her?"
''I'm not sure of the answer to either question. Billy's a fine young man, but he plans to be an Army officer."
"So do I. I'll be going to West Point a year from this summer, remember? Good Lord, Orry — you arranged it. You encouraged me!"
"I know, I know," Orry said quickly. "And I'm glad you're going. On the other hand, since we had our first discussions about the Academy, the situation in the country has changed. For the worse. In the event of trouble, I presume your first loyalty would be to your home state. Billy, however, is a Yankee."
Softly: "Do you believe there's trouble coming?"
"Sometimes, yes. I just don't know what kind. Or how far it might go."
"But why should it make any difference? The Hazards and the Mains are good friends in spite of what Virgilia did. In spite of everything. If you didn't believe that — want that — you wouldn't have paid off the Huntoons."
"I suppose you're right. At the same time, I wouldn't want to send Brett down a road that would lead to unhappiness."
Charles's manner grew frosty then. "I should think it was her choice."
"It's mine, too. Now that my father can barely manage to get out of bed, I'm the head of this family."
They argued for another ten minutes, with Charles citing all the reasons Orry had to grant Billy's request. In truth, they were Orry's reasons as well. He was playing the devil's advocate tonight. He thought he must.
On the other hand, perhaps he was being unduly pessimistic. Although there were indeed many reasons for anticipating sectional strife, there were others that argued for a different outcome. Southerners still played a vital role in the life of the nation. General Scott, a Virginian, remained the commanding general, and Orry had read recently that Robert Lee, already a good possibility to succeed Scott, would very likely be the next West Point superintendent. In the Army's officer corps, most of the outstanding men hailed from the South.
Cooper claimed he saw signs of a new interest in industrialization throughout the region. True enough, slave-grown cotton was still king; annual production was measured in the billions of pounds. But owners of Southern railways were busily expanding and improving their lines. Mont Royal had more offers of cargo than she could handle. Cooper had returned from Britain with new enthusiasm for the future of Southern commerce in general, and his packet line in particular. Perhaps the new ways would gradually replace the old, and men of good will would push the Rhetts and Huntoons aside, and resolve differences —
Somehow, though, Orry remained unpersuaded.
"Orry?"
He looked up from his reverie. "What?"
"You will say yes to both questions, won't you? You'll let Billy visit, and give him permission to court her?"
"I'll give Brett this letter and think about it. That's the best I can do for the time being."
Disappointed, Charles stalked out.
"He forbade me to read the novel," Madeline exclaimed. "He snatched it out of my hands and ordered it burned — as if I were a child!"
She walked toward the edge of the marsh. Orry remained seated on the tabby foundation, tapping the book he had brought to the rendezvous. The book contained a strange new kind of verse by a Northern newspaperman named Whitman. Cooper was lavish in his praise of the rambling poems, claiming they captured the rhythm of the machine age. Orry found them hard going, although the rhythm was certainly there. To him it was the hammer of a drum.
"I'll ask George to ship me a copy," Orry said. "Though why you want to read rabble-rousing trash is beyond me."
She whirled to him. "Don't start talking like Justin, for heaven's sake. Mrs. Stowe's novel is the success of the hour."
She was right about that. George had written that his entire family had read the sentimental story of slaves and slaveholders, first in serial form and again in its regular two-volume edition, just recently published. Despite all the attention the novel was receiving, however, Orry was frankly not interested in Life Among the Lowly, as Mrs. Stowe's book was subtitled. He witnessed life among the lowly every day and needed no enumeration of its severities. They nagged on his conscience a good deal of late.
So in reply to Madeline's remark, he growled, "It isn't the success of the hour in this part of the country. A more appropriate term would be scandal."
She could easily have taken offense. She didn't because she knew he'd been fretting over the content of Billy Hazard's letter, which he had discussed with her at great length. She put her arm around his waist and kissed him just above the tangle of his beard.
"All you South Carolina men are such hotspurs. I keep forgetting — to my everlasting regret."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that when Justin discovered my copy of Uncle Tom's Cabin last week, the consequences were extremely unpleasant."
"He flew into a rage —"
"He was nearly incoherent for half an hour. But that's not the worst. The discovery took place a little while before supper. Francis happened to be dining with us that night. The book prompted Justin and his brother to spend most of the meal shouting about the need for a free and independent South."
"I'm sorry you have to put up with that sort of thing."
She studied her hands. "I didn't. I said it was fine sentiment for a stump speech but as a practical idea it was ridiculous. I knew speaking out was a mistake, but with those two I just can't hold my tongue sometimes. Justin, however, is determined that I will come to understand my places — which does not include expressing an opinion about any subject more weighty than the latest —" A catch in her throat interrupted the sentence. The memory was placing her under an extraordinary strain, he realized. In a faint voice, she finished: "The latest decorative stitch."
He laid the Whitman aside and clasped her hand. "When you spoke up, how did Justin take it?"
"Very badly. He locked me in my room for a day and a night. He had Nancy take away all my books and deliver my meals. Nancy was the only person I saw during the entire time. I even had to pass the chamber pot out to her —"
Madeline bowed her head and covered her eyes. "My God, it was humiliating."
"That bastard. I ought to kill him."
Quickly she rubbed the tears from her cheeks. "I don't mean to cause trouble by telling you. It's just that there's no one else."
"I'd be more angry if you didn't tell me." He went striding through the weeds, scattering clinging raindrops that had fallen earlier in the day. "I'd like to kidnap you out of that damned place. Resolute isn't a home; it's a prison."
"That's true. It's becoming harder and harder to tolerate Justin or my position. Once I had fine notions about honor and the sanctity of the marriage vow." Her mouth wrenched, a ghastly attempt at a smile. "Justin's turned every one of them into a joke."
"Leave him. I'll go to him for you. I'll tell him —"
"No, Orry. It's too late. Too many people at Resolute depend on me now, I can't do a great deal to make things better, but I know they would be infinitely worse if I were gone. The only reason I'm able to bear the whole dismal business is you." She hurried to him, her skirts rustling in the wet weeds. "Just you."
She held his waist and looked at him, a film of tears in her eyes. Then, out of a desperate need for affection and simple comfort, she hugged him ferociously. Kissed him again, again.
He buried his face in her hair, savoring its black sweetness. As always, his body betrayed him. She felt him wanting her and hugged him harder to show she wanted him too. The tension created by their self denial was always excruciating. Today it approached the unbearable.
She unlaced her bodice. Pushed her undergarments down. Pulled his mouth tight against her while she threw her head back. She closed her eyes and reveled in the feel of him kissing her breasts.
They had never gone this far. They only refrained from the final act by desperate strength of will.
"Orry, we mustn't." Her voice was hoarse.
"No."
But he didn't know how much longer he could stand the strain of loving her, wanting her, and denying that want.
A couple of days later, after supper, Orry and Charles went to the piazza to sip whiskey. Haze hid the sinking sun, lending its light a pale rose cast. Orry sat watching pink reflections down on the river while Charles leafed through a Mercury. Lately he was spending a few minutes with the paper every day, another sign he was maturing, and in Orry's estimation a good one.
Ever since the meeting with Madeline, Orry had felt a renewed physical frustration. He was ready for another overnight visit with a homely but ardent widow with whom he had an understanding. He still hadn't decided how he would answer Billy. Nor could he decide now.
Charles closed the paper. "Have you read this yet?"
Orry shook his head.
"Huntoon gave another speech."
"Where this time?"
"Atlanta. What is popular sov —? Here, you pronounce it for me."
Orry leaned over to see the word Charles was indicating with his thumb. "Sovereignty. Senator Douglas coined the term. It means that once a new territory is organized, the people living there have the right to decide whether to allow or prohibit slavery."
"Huntoon says that's unacceptable, just like the free-soil doctrine. I don't know what that is, either."
"The free-soil doctrine states that Congress has a moral duty to prohibit slavery in new territories. The will of the people doesn't matter. I can imagine the speech James made.'' Orry spread his fingers and pressed the tips against his shirt, like an orator. He spoke pompously. "I stand with the great Calhoun. Slavery must follow the flag. It is the sacred responsibility of Congress to protect all property taken into a territory —"
At that point he stopped his mimicry. "Property means slaves. That's the only territorial doctrine most of our neighbors find acceptable."
"How do you feel?"
Orry pondered a moment. "I believe I side with Douglas. So does George, I think."
"Well, I've been trying to learn about some of these things. I reckon I'd better — I'll be meeting people from all over the country when I go to West Point."
"The question of the territories may come to a boil sooner than that. Some say as soon as we elect a new President this fall. The country out West is filling up fast. Loyalties are going to be severely tested. Family loyalties and others," he finished with a pointed look at Charles.
The younger man stretched his legs and studied the river, where only a few wavery touches of pink remained. "You keep worrying about that. It's the reason you haven't written Billy, isn't it?"
Orry frowned. "How do you know I haven't?"
"If you had, Brett wouldn't act so glum all the time. I reckon it isn't respectful of me to go into this, but I get the idea you mean to turn Billy down strictly for one reason: he's a Yankee. That's just like —" He swallowed. He had reached the hard part. "Just like Huntoon. Or Virgilia Hazard. They sweep every person on the other side into the same bin."
Orry was indeed irked by Charles's presuming to judge him, but the reaction lasted no more than a few seconds. Reason prevailed. Reason and strong emotion — for if Billy courted his sister, that might strengthen the bonds between the two families. Virgilia had come close to destroying those bonds.
A smile showed in the thicket of Orry's beard. "You're turning into a shrewd young man, Charles. I'm glad to see that." A deep breath. "I'll compose a letter to Billy tonight. A letter he'll be happy to receive. You might want to hunt up Brett and tell her."
Charles whooped, pumped Orry's hand, and ran into the house.
Orry did write the letter that night. He told Billy he'd be welcome at Mont Royal and invited him to bring all the Hazards with him. Except Virgilia, he thought, knowing he didn't need to put that down. He promised that if the family came, he'd arrange a party or ball to compensate for the unhappy ending of the previous visit.
He felt good about the letter. It was a small step but a positive one. If Northern and Southern friends didn't keep peace among themselves, how could the men they sent to Washington be expected to do it?
The Hazards accepted Orry's invitation. They arrived on Wednesday of the third week in May. Maude was not with them. She had sprained an ankle working in her garden and couldn't travel.
A ball was to be held at Mont Royal on Saturday. Invitations had gone to the entire neighborhood. "Although given the origins of your visitors, Justin would prefer to stay home," Madeline had told Orry at their meeting the preceding week. He kissed the curve of her throat. "Let him. You come, though." "Wouldn't that be a heavenly arrangement? I'm afraid we won't be so lucky. Justin will be present. He's afraid of unfavorable comment if he refuses an invitation from the Mains. But don't count on him being pleasant."
On the first night of the visit, the men and women gathered separately after supper. Over whiskey and cigars, George said, "Coming through Virginia and North Carolina on the train, I heard only two topics discussed: Mrs. Stowe's novel" — Tillet made a hacking noise to show his contempt — "and secession."
"The idea is blowing through this state like a storm wind," Orry said. "It happens every few years."
"But it seems more intense now," Cousin Charles put in.
Cooper swirled his whiskey in his glass. He and his wife and little Judah had arrived about five o'clock. "A storm wind indeed. It'll be our house, none other, that blows down. Some Southerners understand. Alexander Stephens, for one. But most of the fools are entranced by the sound of their own rhetoric. They don't realize that the Union can't be broken up as casually as you draw a breath of air. Too much is at stake, economically and emotionally, for the Federal government to allow it. In Charleston I hear people speaking of peaceful secession. I just laugh. It's a contradiction in terms."
"You are certainly the expert on the whole matter," Tillet said with thick sarcasm. Cooper chose to study the contents of his glass. His father went on, "Separation by peaceful means would be the ideal, but if it's impossible — as you claim — the alternative is separation won by force of arms. Some verities endure, Cooper. Death is preferable to tyranny."
Unblinking, Cooper again looked at his father and said in a mild voice, "Yes, sir. That's what the nigras are telling you every time they run away."
Tillet rose. "Excuse me. I thought this was a social occasion." He left the room with a slow, halting, step and slammed the door behind him.
George looked sheepish. "I'm sorry. I provoked that."
Billy protested. So did Orry: "Are we now at the point where we can't even disagree as reasonable men?"
Cooper laughed in a humorless way. "In this household we reached that point years ago. I keep deluding myself with the hope that things may change. They never do."
He held out his glass to Orry, who saw the pain lurking behind his brother's wry smile.
"Pour me another, please," Cooper said. "Fill it up."
Constance clapped her hands. "Judith, that's splendid news."
The others echoed the sentiment, except for Ashton, who sat eyeing the ceiling in a bored way. The ladies had gathered in the music room with sherry; Brett had been permitted only strong tea. As one of the house girls cleared away the empty glasses, Clarissa asked, "When do you expect your confinement, my dear?"
"As best we can calculate, in about six and a half months," Judith said. "The doctor's already banned extensive travel. Cooper sides with him. Your son's really very conservative in some ways," she added with a smile. "He'll be going to Britain by himself this summer, I regret to say."
"To Britain again?" Brett exclaimed. "The two of you just got back."
"Very nearly," Judith agreed. "But as you know, Cooper's quite taken with the ideas of Mr. Brunei, the famous engineer. They got along splendidly the first time, and Brunei has invited him to return for an extended visit. Cooper has this wonderful dream of building —"
They heard someone grumbling and cursing outside. Clarissa hurried to the door and looked out. Tillet's angry voice gradually faded away upstairs.
"Oh, my," she said as she took her seat again. "It's my husband. I'll wager there was another political discussion."
"Politics spoil everything these days," Judith said with a sigh.
Clarissa's mouth grew firm. "I do not intend for it to spoil your visit. And most particularly I don't intend for it to spoil the ball. It's going to be a happy occasion which all of us can remember as such. The men won't see to it; therefore we must."
The others agreed. Ashton was forced to join in to maintain appearances. But a ball in honor of Billy Hazard and his family, and, by extension, in honor of Brett — that kind of celebration filled her with rage. Out of the rage sprang a desire to strike back at all those who had done her injury.
"Oh, oh. Push it in."
"Ashton, I" — he was gasping as hard as she was — "don't want to hurt you."
"Damn you, Forbes, push it in. All the way. Oh. Yes."
The last word slurred into a groan. Faintly, above the roaring in her ears, Ashton heard carriages arriving and the orchestra tuning, Forbes and his family had been among the first guests. Lying in wait for him, Ashton had immediately whisked him to this dark and remote corner of the stable.
She had been wild with the urge to take a man. And not simply any man but the one Brett was intending to discard. Nor was that the only reason she had been ready to pounce the minute Forbes showed up. It had reached her ears that he was a magnificent male specimen. He didn't disappoint her in that regard. She felt as if she had a cannon inside her.
They stood facing each other, she with her back against the side of an empty stall. How she had gotten her skirts hoisted and everything else out of the way she couldn't remember. The frantic rhythm of the coupling repeatedly slammed her against the stall. Her left leg felt as if it would collapse at any moment. Her right one was crooked over Forbes's hip, her heel against his backside.
They reached a climax in which she had to bite her lower lip to muffle her own cries. She scratched the nape of his neck with both hands, drawing blood. Some moments later he displayed a redspeckled handkerchief. "How the devil am I going to explain this?"
His trousers still hung at his ankles, but Ashton was already busy putting her various garments back in place. "You'll think of something, dear. Could it be the skeeters? They're bad tonight. Two of them bit me a while ago."
"Sure, that's it, bad skeeter bites." He dabbed his neck again, then chuckled, half admiringly, half in awe. "I tell you, Ashton, you're something."
"You mean you're not sorry you came out here?"
"Not on your life. That was — well, I've got to be straight about it. Nearly the best ever."
She pouted. "Is that all? Nearly?"
He laughed. "You're a damn conceited wench, too." He fondled her bosom affectionately. "All right. The best."
"Thank you, Forbes. But keep your hands off my dress, please. You'll get me all mussed again."
Busily, she straightened petticoats and patted lace gone limp in the heat. She could have made the same statement he did. Never had she felt so aroused beforehand or so satisfied afterward. He was rough, he had hurt her, but she had relished every moment.
She didn't dare tell him, though. It would swell his head. Better to keep him dangling. She hummed.
Finally he blurted: "Will you let me see you again? Like this, I mean?"
"Not tonight. I must be sweet for all those Yankees."
"Of course not tonight. I meant from now on till you marry Jim Huntoon."
She glided to him, her hoops swaying to and fro. "Forbes, you must understand something. My relationship with Mr. James Huntoon is what you might call business. This is pleasure. As long as people are discreet, there's no reason pleasure can't go on and on, indefinitely."
"You mean even after you and Huntoon —?"
"Why not? 'Less, of course, you get to drinking like you do sometimes and blab and embarrass me. Let me hear of that happening just once, and you'll never see me again."
"I swear I'll never open my mouth. You can ask anything of me, Ashton — I'll do it. Oh, my God — aren't you something?"
She let him kiss her once more before they left the stable by separate routes. She was pleased with her accomplishments thus far this evening. Forbes had helped relieve some of the awful strain that had been building up within her lately. Just as important, he had put himself completely in her hands. She felt as if she had become the owner of a new slave.
A little smile sat on her rouged lips as she hurried up the lawn toward the great house aglow with lights. She had a hunch Mr. Forbes LaMotte was going to be a very valuable ally.
Candles in branched holders shone in every window that night; Chinese lanterns bedecked the lawns. The house couldn't contain all the guests who had arrived by carriage and horseback. They spilled outdoors, spread among the trees, strolled into the shadows in couples or small groups.
The entire downstairs had been cleared of all furniture except chairs. The dining room was reserved for dancing, the music provided by Von Grabow's Orchestra from Charleston. Orry had chartered Eutaw to bring all fourteen musicians and their instruments to the plantation. At midnight, given favorable breezes, the river sloop would take guests on a cruise, with supper served aboard.
On the piazza facing the river, trestle tables had been erected for the food and drink. Slave boys with whisks kept the insects off the platters of ham, lamb and beef barbecue, broiled chicken, oysters, shrimp, ocean crabs. Two hundred pounds of ham had been purchased for the affair and similar quantities of everything else. French champagne flowed as well as imported French and German wines — there were forty cases of each.
The guests had attired themselves to match the elegance of the occasion. The air was fragrant with the scents of powdered shoulders and perfumed decolletage. Macassar oil dressed the hair of many of the gentlemen, glistening brightly beneath the paper lanterns. Before an hour had passed, Orry could close his eyes, listen to the party, and know it was a huge success. The laughter and conversation were loud enough to be heard in Columbia, he fancied.
It was a warm evening. His coat, waistcoat, and cravat were making him uncomfortable. And the temperature seemed to be rising — or perhaps that was the effect of the champagne. He carried a glass as he circulated; when it was empty some black hand was always close by to fill it, whether he would or no.
Orry's discomfort was minor compared with his pleasure. To him the party represented everything that was fine and gracious about his home state. The dazzling lights, the food and wine and music, all generated an aura of good feeling. It was a magic occasion. He saw that demonstrated again and again.
Tillet and George told stories and laughed uproariously together — as if the argument about secession had never taken place. Orry saw them refill their glasses and stroll away arm in arm.
Constance came staggering off the dance floor, red-faced, out of breath, and giggling. One of the Smith boys had invited her to polka and overcame her initial hesitancy with an outpouring of charm. Many ladies and gentlemen named Smith had come to the ball, though none were close relatives of Mr. Whitney Smith, who was absent.
Constance had danced fast and hard, earning a compliment from her partner and an embrace from Clarissa, who said, "You dance just like a Southern girl. Sure you wouldn't like to move down here?"
"It's such a splendid party — so many nice people — I might be persuaded, Clarissa."
Orry drifted back outside. He leaned against a white pillar, sipping champagne and smiling at everyone. He felt slightly bleary but wonderful. Not everyone shared his euphoria. Cooper was still rankling over his father's behavior last night. It showed in the owlish look on his face as he stood drinking by himself.
Orry wandered up to him and amiably punched his shoulder, slopping some champagne on Cooper's sleeve in the process.
"Come on, enjoy yourself for once. You have to admit it's a damn fine party."
"Fine," Cooper agreed, without much sincerity. "It would be splendid if people always felt this charitable toward Yankees."
Orry blinked. "Well, if you like the party, why don't you smile?"
"Unfortunately, I keep thinking of what it costs to make it all possible. Not everyone here is having a fine time, you'll notice."
With a slow, stately motion of his glass, he led Orry's eye to a man struggling along the piazza with sweat drenching his face and two heavy cases of wine balanced on his shoulders. The man was a house slave, sixty-eight years old,
Furious, Orry turned and left.
From that moment, Orry's mood soured. Everything he saw and heard contributed to a mounting displeasure tinged with melancholy.
One of the Bull boys pulled down a rope holding half a dozen paper lanterns, one of which caught fire and almost ignited Aunt Betsy Bull's hoop skirt. She scolded her young relative, urging him to locate a horse trough and soak his head till he sobered up. His smile faded, as if the scolding had sunk in.
But it wasn't a contrite heart that altered his expression. It was too much liquor in an upset stomach. Standing right in front of Aunt Betsy, the boy vomited. Several spectators fled in dismay; one turned pale, swayed, almost swooned. Things were beginning to go wrong with a vengeance, Orry concluded.
A little while later, in the crowded house, he encountered Justin LaMotte. Justin had one gleaming boot planted on the cane seat of a chair that otherwise would have provided a resting place for someone. Every other chair was occupied.
"— frankly don't care who the parties nominate," Justin was saying. "Yancey was right, Traditional party loyalty has become a foul, feculent disease. Vote the Whig ticket and you're voting for a party which is an invalid, if not a corpse. Vote for the Democrats and you're siding with a political organization that no longer represents the interests of this region. I for one lean toward the American party. No immigrants. No popery. I'm sure they'll soon add 'no abolition' to that platform."
Orry stared at Justin's boot, his meaning unmistakable. Justin gave his host a faintly defiant look and kept his foot on the chair as he pontificated. Orry walked away in disgust.
Ten minutes later he was leaning against the dining-room wall, watching George waltz with Madeline. George had earlier announced his intention of doing that. He appeared to be enjoying it.
Orry spilled champagne on his shirt when he raised his glass. He realized he was drunk. He didn't care. It was a quarter after eleven, and the party was roaring along under its own power. If he fell down unconscious, it would make no difference.
He had no intention of falling down, however. Not while he could stand and behold Madeline. How beautiful she was, turning gracefully beneath the chandelier with his best friend. Her bosom was white as milk against the emerald silk of her gown. The color suited her dark hair and eyes.
George waltzed expertly and with dash. Not surprising, Orry thought, taking another drink; George had the proper number of limbs for it.
How he wished he were a whole man. Able to ask Madeline to dance with him to the beautiful music. Able to stop hiding the love that filled him so full of thoughts of her and longing for her that he hurt. His lips compressed to a slit. His dark eyes, reflecting the myriad lights, reflected his anger, too. He held out his glass without looking. A black hand holding a bottle was there to fill it, just as he expected.
"She's a charming partner," George said when he brought Madeline to Orry at the conclusion of the dance. "Utterly charming. But I see Constance hunting for me. You'll excuse me, Orry? Your servant, Mrs. LaMotte."
And away he went, leaving Madeline flushed and nervous at Orry's side.
"I see why you like him," she said. "He's kind and intelligent and amusing." She opened her lace fan and began to cool herself with it. "It's a glorious evening. What a pity it rushes by so fast."
He let his gaze sink deep into her eyes; drunk, he didn't care whether anyone noticed.
"Everything's rushing too fast, Madeline. The months. The time we have left —''
She snapped her fan shut so quickly one of the ribs broke. She closed her eyes and silently spoke one urgent word. Don't.
Then, startling him, she stepped backward, animated as a child's marionette. "Yes, time does pass swiftly, doesn't it? We all grow old before we know it." Why the hell was she speaking so loudly? "Do you know what Francis's boy Forbes calls me now? Aunt Maddie." She laughed, but he could tell she wanted to cry. "There you are, my dear."
They turned at the sound of the voice; it belonged to Justin. "Someone told me you were dancing with a Yankee," he continued as he came up behind Orry. "I trust none of it rubbed off."
Justin's expression was an unpleasant blend of boredom and smirking humor, and his remark had been a deliberate insult directed against Orry's guest. Though Orry was angry, he could do nothing. Justin's smile made the remark a joke, and any man who took it as something more would be considered boorish.
Justin crooked his left arm to form a V. "Shall we sample some of our host's fine food, my dear?"
"You go ahead, Justin. I've already had ample —"
"I insist." He seized her right hand and forced her to take hold of his arm. Humiliation brought a rush of color to her cheeks. As Justin led her away, Madeline managed to give Orry a quick, covert glance of longing. He felt the same longing, nearly unbearable. This can't go on without some kind of change. Without some break in the stalemate.
It might not happen at once or even soon, but a rush of intuition told him that it was inevitable. It would happen. Would the outcome favor them or destroy them?
The emotional pressure suddenly became too great. He wheeled around, stepped forward, and crushed his champagne glass into the wall. Dozens of tiny tinkling pieces struck the floor.
His frustration diminished a little. Why the devil had he done that? Drunkenness? Fortunately no one appeared to have been watching. He raised his hand. A small cut leaked blood down over his knuckles to his wrist.
Waltzing, Billy and Brett whirled past Orry. They didn't notice him or his cut hand or his bleak expression. Under the flashing pendants of the chandelier, surrounded by the wavering flames of lamps and candles, they were lost in emotion and each other. Billy wished the surging music would go on and on, and the night too.
"The camellias arrived just before I came downstairs," Brett said. He let out a relieved sigh. This was the first time she had mentioned the courtship gift. "There were so many of them," she added. "The arrangement must have cost a fortune."
"I guess the Hazards can afford it."
Instantly, he felt foolish. The remark was pompous. Lord, how she muddled him with the sparkle of her eyes, the tilt of her head, the wry but not unkind set of her lips. George had once told him that many West Point cadets claimed to be "anti-romance" because romance addled your mind, and that in turn interfered with academic work. Billy could understand that attitude, but it was far too late for him to develop it within himself. Besides, he didn't want to.
"In any case," she said, "the flowers are truly lovely — and so is the thought that sent them."
"Thank you. Some girls might not be kind enough to say so."
"I can't believe that."
"It's true. That's why you're different. You don't flirt or keep someone guessing. You speak your mind. It's one of the things I love" — he swallowed the word, turning red — "like about you."
"At one time I had the impression you didn't like it at all."
He grinned. ''We'd better not start a discussion of my past mistakes. There are so many, we'll have no time to discuss anything else."
"Oh, you don't make many mistakes. Not serious ones, anyway."
"Indeed I do." At the edge of his vision, Ashton's pale face blurred by. She was standing with Huntoon but watching him. "Occasionally, though, I do something right. Such as asking Orry for permission to call on you. I only wish I could do it more often than once a year."
"But I'm glad you asked, and I'm glad he said yes." She squeezed his hand. "I'll write you a lot of letters. And perhaps Orry will bring me to West Point for a visit. It's still a popular resort, isn't it?"
"So I'm told. Guess you won't be too lonesome here, though. That LaMotte fellow will be paying court to you — "
"Not anymore. Forbes is handsome, but he acts — well — too old. He won't be calling again," she finished emphatically.
"Does he know?"
"Yes, I told him a few minutes ago. I thought I should, since you sent the camellias and —" Her face grew as pink as his had been a few moments earlier. "Billy, don't look at me so hard. I just turn to water inside. I'm a ninny to be so forward and say this, but I can't help myself —" She pressed her cheek to his for an instant, whispering, "I've cared for you such a very long time. I thought you'd never notice me."
He drew back and gazed into her eyes again. This time he had no difficulty choosing his words or saying them.
"I'll never notice anyone else. Ever."
A half-empty glass dangling from one hand, Forbes LaMotte watched Billy and Brett dancing. The sight of their lovesick faces disgusted and infuriated him. He didn't notice Ashton slipping up to his side. When she linked her arm with his, he started.
"Forbes, my sweet, you look mad as an old bear."
"That's how I feel." He studied the crowd behind her. "Where's Huntoon?"
"I sent him away for a while. I wanted to speak with you"
"Fine. I'm sick of watching those two."
He turned his back on the dance floor and led her through the press. She was deliciously skillful at smiling and nodding to others in a gay, simple-minded way, all the while carrying on a whispered conversation:
"What's wrong? I thought you were enjoying yourself."
"I was. Then your dear sister informed me that she'd prefer it if I didn't call on her again."
"Did she, now? And how do you feel about that?"
"I'm damn insulted."
"Can't say I blame you."
"Don't get me wrong, Ashton. Brett doesn't have the only — I mean to say, she isn't the only female in creation."
Smiling, she gave his arm a squeeze. "I know what you meant to say, you wicked boy. You found another one tonight, didn't you?"
He gave her a quick, salacious grin. "Certainly did. Still, a man has to think about choosing a wife, too. I figured Brett would be a fine one. I don't take kindly to being dismissed."
"How do you suppose I feel about being dropped flat by Mr. Hazard?"
"Same way I do, I reckon. Is that what you wanted to talk about?"
"Exactly. Here's the punch bowl. Get me a cup, if you please."
He jumped to it. He emptied his own glass and refilled it before they strolled outside. He consumed the champagne in gulps, then stepped to the edge of the piazza and flung the glass into a clump of azaleas. Sometimes Ashton found him revolting. But he would suit her purposes, physical and otherwise.
They left the piazza and moved down the lawn. "Frankly, Forbes, I'm not surprised by what you told me. I had some inkling that Brett would speak to you this evening."
"How so?"
"She mentioned it while we were dressing. She was chattering like a magpie. All excited about seeing Billy —"
"Christ," he growled. "I surely can't understand why Orry would permit a Yankee to court his sister."
"Oh, he's infatuated with that whole clan."
"If Brett wants a soldier, what the hell's wrong with a fellow from The Citadel? And how in hell can Hazard court her from some Army post a thousand miles away?"
"Forbes, don't keep cursing. You'll attract attention. It will serve our purpose much better if people don't notice us together — now, or in the future."
"Our purpose," Forbes repeated. "What's that?"
"Why, getting even with Billy and Brett."
He halted, faced her, then threw his head back and laughed.
"God, you are priceless. A genuine, brass-bound bitch."
She struck his chin with her fan. The blow was light, yet it stung him — as she intended. Although she was still smiling, her eyes were venomous.
"I take that as a compliment. But if you curse again or raise your voice, you will never get so much as one more peek at what you crave."
"All right, all right — I'm sorry."
"That's better."
They resumed their walk in the direction of the river. Festooned with lanterns, Eutaw had just put out to midstream for the supper cruise. Two fiddlers on board sent gay music over the black water.
"Now," Ashton said in a cheerful tone, "let's continue our chat. I am correct in assuming that you'd like a taste of revenge?"
"You're godda — that is — yes. I would." He shivered. She was a scary creature.
"Splendid. I want to be certain. We shall be secret allies. I'll probably marry James one of these days, but a wife and an ally are two different things. And in my alliance with you, there's an extra dash of spice —''
Using her closed fan, she lightly caressed the back of his hand. "Or there can be if you behave yourself."
Another shudder ran down his back. "I understand. But you're not drunk, are you?"
She wrenched away. "What the devil do you mean by that?"
"You're talking about doing something to hurt your own sister."
"That's right." Her smile returned. "I hate her."
He turned pale. "Jesus." He couldn't help the utterance. "All right — I had to get it straight."
He felt he should run away from her. Then he thought of what had transpired in the stable. He again offered his arm. "Mind telling me how we're going to" — he swallowed — "to do what we're talking about?"
"I can't because I don't know yet. We'll have to shape our plan to the circumstances, but we'll know the right moment when it comes along. We mustn't rush into anything. We must smile and wait, and then one day when Billy Hazard and my sister least expect it, we'll repay them."
Despite his misgivings, Forbes smiled. It was a slightly bleary smile, which she nevertheless found charming.
"Indeed we will," he said. He pointed up the lawn to the glitter of the great house. "May I have a dance to seal that bargain?"
"You may, Mr. LaMotte. Lead on."
On the first of June, 1852, Billy stepped onto the North Dock at West Point. A hot gray haze lay on the river and the mountains. He strained for a glimpse of the Academy, but it was hidden by the steep bluff rising behind the dock. How had his brother felt on the day he arrived? As nervous as this? As excited?
Billy was determined to do well during the next four years. He wanted to go into the engineers, and that meant earning top marks. With application and a touch of luck, he knew he could get them. He had already started to prepare. He had been boning hard throughout the trip and before. What filled most of the space in his big carpetbag were books — secondhand copies of Bourdon's Algebra, Legendre's Geometry and Trigonometry, Descriptive Geometry — all adapted and expanded from original sources by Professor Davies of the Military Academy.
"Sir, don't stand there and gape. You are the only newcomer on the steamer? Very well, sir. Put your valise in that cart, sir."
The voice and the brogue belonged to a wrinkled and rather ferocious-looking little man in a soiled Army uniform. He swaggered away with one hand on the hilt of his cutlass. The man was far from the ideal picture of a soldier, yet he impressed Billy and gave him a sense of the tradition of this place. Billy felt proud to be standing where his brother had stood ten years ago. The Academy had acquired a bad reputation during Jackson's time, but George said that was fading, and West Point was taking its place among the world's leading military schools: Woolwich and Sandhurst in Britain, St. Cyr and L'Ecole Polytechnique in Paris. Old Thayer had used the French polytechnic school as his model when reshaping the West Point curriculum.
"Sir, I shall not ask you again to step lively. I am Sergeant Owens, provost of the post, and I remind you that you are now on a military reservation. Comport yourself accordingly!"
"Yes, sir," Billy said, and hurried after him.
Captain Elkanah Bent sat picking at his lower lip with the nail of his index finger. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the open file before him. Although every window in the old-fashioned brick house was wide open, the obese officer was roasting.
The house was one of two that stood at the west edge of President's Park. In another eight months a new man would be moving into the residence at the center of the wooded park. The Democrats had nominated Franklin Pierce of New Hampshire, on the forty-ninth ballot. When Pierce had been appointed a general in the Mexican War, he had promptly been dismissed as one more politician who craved military rank. But he had proved to be a surprisingly able commander, and many professional officers favored his election.
The Whigs, on the other hand, had chosen the Commanding General himself. Old Fuss and Feathers had wanted the nomination in 1848 but had been forced to wait another four years. This time he had gotten it on the fifty-third ballot, after President Fillmore had been denied the nomination by his own party — if it was possible to call the Whigs a viable party any longer. That was the obstacle facing General Scott. He was about to charge into the political lists on a dying horse.
Ah, well. However it came out, the country would have a President with military experience. Perhaps that kind of man would understand that the government's chief mission was to prepare for war against the traitors gaining control in the South.
Bent had been at the War Department slightly less than four weeks. He already hated the capital, as he had known he would when he accepted the transfer. Washington was a permanently unfinished city, Southern in style and viewpoint, and plagued by flies and open sewers and many other undesirable features. He loathed all the free Negroes who flaunted themselves in public, as if they were the equals of white men. He loathed the civilian bureaucrats — pismires who ran to and fro in a futile attempt to prove they had some purpose.
Despite all the drawbacks of the town, transfer to Washington was a good step and one long overdue. Staff duty was important professional experience. For the past thirty-four months Bent had been stuck in a line post at Carlisle Barracks. This new assignment might be a turning point in a career in which advancement had been far too slow, even for peacetime. He knew whom to blame for that.
The adjutant general's office handled all personnel records for the Army. Soon after arriving, Bent had reviewed the list of next year's confirmed appointments to the Military Academy. On the list he discovered the name of Charles Main of South Carolina. Some investigation disclosed that this Charles Main was the nephew of a certain former officer of Bent's acquaintance.
Then, just today, an official pouch had brought the revised final list of June entrants, already in camp, as well as a list of the Seps, who wouldn't arrive until the start of the fall term. A name leaped out from the June roster. William Hazard II, Lehigh Station, Pennsylvania.
It could only be someone from the same family.
Bent could barely contain his delight. He had lost track of Orry Main and George Hazard. The pressures of his own career had contributed to that. Also, both had left the Army and placed themselves beyond his reach, so to speak.
But he had never abandoned a desire to revenge himself on Main and Hazard. Thanks to them and the doubts they had planted about him, he hadn't advanced as far or as fast as he should have. For that and other reasons, he had an abiding hatred of both men. Now, through members of their families, he just might have another chance at them.
A small, fuzzy caterpillar appeared at the far edge of Bent's desk and worked its way toward the file he had just closed. Out of habit. Bent began to think of his old adversaries by their Academy nicknames. Had Stick and Stump forgotten the promise he made to them? If they had, so much the better. Secrecy and surprise were valuable for all campaigns, military or personal.
"Captain Bent?" The voice of the adjutant general sounded from the inner office. "Please come in here a moment."
"Right away, sir."
Elkanah Bent heaved himself out of his chair. He took a step, halted, reached to the center of his desk, and pressed his thumb down on the caterpillar. When the creature was dead and brushed away, Bent lumbered to answer the summons.