If they break up, in God's name let
the Union go ... I love the
Union as I love my wife. But if my
wife should ask and insist upon a
separation, she should have it,
though it broke my heart.
George Hazard claimed to have no special feeling for West Point. Yet he had talked about the place often and at length with his younger brother, so by the time Billy arrived at the Military Academy he knew a good deal about it.
George had warned him about "Thayer's men and Thayer's system." The heart of the system was the belief that personal accomplishment could be measured in absolute terms and expressed by a numerical ranking. The system, and the men who implemented it, still ruled West Point.
But there had been changes in the six years since George's graduation. The most visible ones were architectural. The old North and South Barracks had been razed, and a new cadet barracks with 176 rooms had been built at the staggering cost of $186,000. Corniced with red sandstone, the building reminded Billy of pictures of English castles. Its large hall above the central sally port provided the cadet debating society with a permanent home, and in the basement an Army pensioner had opened a refreshment shop that sold cookies, candy, and pickles. A central hot-water system heated the barracks. There were none of those grates of which George spoke so fondly. No grates meant no cooking after hours. A disappointment; Billy had been looking forward to his first hash.
East of the barracks and directly south of the Chapel, a new stone mess hall was under construction. The Observatory and Library were still there, however. The classroom building, too.
To provide practical demonstrations and perhaps a little inspiration, a company of engineers had been stationed on the post since the end of the Mexican War. They could be identified by their dark blue single-breasted tailcoats with black velvet collars and cuffs, and by the official insignia of their branch, the turreted castle. Billy hoped to wear the same insignia one day.
He knew he would have to study hard during the next four years. But he found his preparation for the June entrance tests to have been wasted effort. To pass the math section, he needed only to solve one easy blackboard problem and orally answer three equally simple questions. No wonder some civilians called the entrance requirements ludicrous.
Cadets now were summoned by the bugle instead of the drum. But the mess hall served the same old food, and he hadn't been in his assigned room ten minutes before a third classman swaggered in, identified himself as Cadet Caleb Slocum, and demanded that he assume the position of the soldier.
He did so as best he could. The third classman, an emaciated fellow with straight black hair and bad skin, criticized him, then said in a drawling voice:
"Tell me something about yourself, sir. Is your father a Democrat?"
Billy answered pleasantly. "I think that will depend on the person the party nominates this month."
"Sir, I asked you a question requiring a simple yes or no response. You have instead chosen to deliver a lecture on politics." The third classman lowered his voice from a shout to a purr. "May I infer from your answer that your father is a politician, sir?"
Billy gulped and fought his anger. "No. Sir. He's an ironmaster."
"Sir," roared the other, "I asked you straightforwardly whether your father was or was not a politician, and in reply you regale me with a discourse on manufacturing. Stand in that corner, facing it, for fifteen minutes. I shall be back to check on you. Meantime, ponder this. Continue to be garrulous and headstrong, and your career at this institution will be short and unpleasant. Now, sir. Into the corner!"
Red-faced, Billy obeyed. If he had been like his brother, he would have punched the arrogant cadet and worried about the consequences later. But he was a more deliberate sort, and for that reason George said he would probably make an outstanding engineer. Moreover, his trusting nature made him an easy victim. He stood for nearly an hour before a second classman looked in, took pity on him, and ordered him to stand at ease, because Slocum had no intention of coming back.
Slocum. Billy rubbed his aching leg and noted the name.
"Better get used to that kind of deviling, sir," said the second classman. "You're going to be a plebe for a good long time."
"Yes sir," Billy muttered as the other left. Some things at West Point didn't change, and never would.
Still wearing civilian clothes, Billy and the other plebes marched to the Plain for summer camp behind the uniformed battalion, just as George and Orry had. The plebes staggered through the dust carrying the gear of the upperclassmen, and bloodied their knuckles and lost their tempers trying to drive tent pegs into the hard ground.
That first day in camp, Billy was exposed to another change taking place at the Academy. It was a change less marked than many of the others, but no less important. Some said later that it was the most important change of all because it was so destructive.
Each tent held three men, their blankets, a rack for the muskets they would eventually be issued, and a battered, green-painted locker. The locker had three compartments, one for each cadet's linen. It also served as the tent's only seat. When Billy walked in, followed by a thin, pale plebe with a bewildered air, the third occupant of the tent was sitting on the locker, polishing his expensive Wellington boots with a kerchief.
He glanced up. ''Good evening to you. McAleer's the name. Dillard McAleer." He extended his hand.
Billy shook it, trying to identify the boy's accent. It was Southern, but a little harder and more nasal than the speech of South Carolina.
"I'm Billy Hazard. From Pennsylvania. This is Fred Pratt, from Milwaukee."
"Frank Pratt," said the tall boy. He sounded apologetic.
"Well, well. Two Yankees." Dillard McAleer grinned.
McAleer had pale blue eyes and blond curls that fell over his pink forehead. Billy had seen him before, when the newcomers had been sized and divided into four squads, one of which was attached to each cadet company. Billy and McAleer were of medium height, hence had been put in a squad attached to one of the interior companies. Frank Pratt, who remained meekly by the tent entrance, stood almost six feet. He had been assigned to a flank company squad.
"You boys plan to gang up on me?" McAleer asked. Something about him struck faint chords of memory. What was it? McAleer was still smiling, but there was a detectable seriousness in the question. Billy thought it a bad omen.
He heard noises outside — footfalls, and someone whispering. The skulkers were on the side of the tent away from the sun, so no shadows fell across the canvas. Billy countered McAleer's question with another:
"Why should we do that? We're all suffering through this together."
"I don't aim to suffer," McAleer declared. "First Yankee son of a bitch that fools with me, I'll push his nose out the back of his head."
Billy scratched his chin. "Where are you from, McAleer?"
"Little place in Kentucky, name of Pine Vale. My daddy farms there." He stared at Billy. "Him and the four niggers he owns."
The cadet clearly expected a reaction. He remained seated on the locker, his cheerfully truculent expression telling them he could and would deal with any criticisms they might offer. Billy hadn't expected to confront sectional hostility at West Point. He had been naive, and the realization gave him a jolt. But he certainly didn't intend to get into any arguments over slavery.
Still, as tent mates, the three of them were equals, and McAleer had to understand that. Billy gestured. "I'd like to stow my linen. Mind moving out of the way?"
"Why, yes, I do." McAleer stood up slowly, like a snake uncoiling. Though he was stocky, he had a natural grace that heightened his girlish look. But when he brushed the tips of his fingers over his palms, as if preparing for a fight, Billy saw that his hands were callused.
McAleer's grin widened again. "Reckon that if you want into this here locker, you'll have to displace me."
Frank Pratt uttered a small, pathetic groan. Now Billy knew why Dillard McAleer seemed familiar. He acted like some of the young men Billy had met at Mont Royal. Arrogant, almost desperately pugnacious. Maybe it was a standard defense against Yankees.
Billy gave the Kentuckian a level stare. "McAleer, I've no quarrel with you. We have to live in this canvas hell hole for sixty days, and we need to get along. As far as I'm concerned, getting along doesn't depend on who we are or where we hail from, but it surely does depend on how we treat each other. Now I didn't ask anything unusual, just to get into that locker, which is one-third mine. But if I have to displace you, as you call it, I guess I can."
The firmness of the statement impressed McAleer. He waved. "Hell, Hazard, I was only having a little fun." With a deep bow, he stood aside. "All yours. Yours too, Fred."
"Frank."
"Oh, sure. Frank."
Billy relaxed and turned toward the entrance where he had piled his belongings. Suddenly:
''All together, boys — pull!''
Billy recognized Slocum's voice an instant before the lurkers yanked all the tent pegs out of the ground. Down came the poles and the canvas.
McAleer cursed and thrashed. When the three plebes extricated themselves, Billy had to hold the Kentuckian to prevent him from going after the laughing upperclassmen.
George said that as plebes he and Orry had been plagued by one upperclassman who took a special dislike to them. It was the same with Billy. Caleb Slocum of Arkansas constantly sought him out in order to hive him for real and imaginary infractions. Billy's nights were soon haunted by dreams of Slocum's homely, blotchy face — and of triumphant moments in which he saw himself killing Slocum in a variety of ways.
He endured the harassment because he knew he must if he wanted to reach his goal. He liked to think about the future while he was standing guard; the routine consisted of two hours pacing your post, then four hours of rest, then another two hours on duty, for a total of twenty-four hours. To pass the time, Billy sent his imagination shooting ahead to a bright day when he had won his commission in the engineers and could support a wife. There was no longer any doubt in his mind as to who that wife would be. He only hoped Brett would want him as much as he wanted her.
A week before the end of summer camp, Dillard McAleer got into an argument with a couple of Northern plebes. They quarreled over the free-soil question. A fight developed. McAleer held his own until a foulmouthed first classman intervened, a New Yorker named Phil Sheridan who had a reputation as quite a brawler himself. This time he was serving as officer of the day and came down on the side of discipline.
Sheridan tried to stop the fight. His interference only infuriated McAleer all the more. The Kentuckian tore a limb from a nearby tree and ran at Sheridan, ready to club him. Fortunately other cadets leaped in and separated the two, but it took about five minutes to completely subdue McAleer.
Next day, Superintendent Henry Brewerton called McAleer to his office. No one knew what was said behind the superintendent's closed door, but by late afternoon McAleer was packing.
"Boys," he said with a cocky grin, "I hate to leave you both, but the supe made the choice pretty damn clear. Take the Canterberry road or face formal charges. Well, if I had to get thrown out of this abolitionist hog wallow, I'm glad I went out in style."
If McAleer had regrets, he hid them well. Billy thought it ironic that the Kentuckian accused the Academy of abolitionist leanings. Most of the country perceived it as tinged with pro-slavery sentiment.
Ever eager to please, Frank Pratt said, "Yes, you surely did that, Dillard." Billy concealed how he felt; the fury and the senselessness of the fight had disgusted him.
Frank went on in his high-pitched voice, "You tackled those two plebes and Sheridan like they were little boys."
McAleer shrugged. " 'Course. Gentlemen always fight better than rabble, and that's what Yankees are — rabble. Mongrels. Most Yankees," he amended hastily for the benefit of his tent mates. Billy had already heard the same opinion expressed by other cadets from the South. Maybe it was a pose to compensate for feelings of inferiority.
Whatever the reason for the attitude, the resulting fights were setting a bad precedent. He vividly recalled McAleer's savage expression as he ran at Sheridan with the tree limb.
McAleer shook hands. "Been a grand lark, boys."
"Yes," Billy said, not really meaning it. "Take care of yourself, Dillard."
"Sure will. Don't worry about me."
With a wave, he left. The memory of the tree limb and his hate-wracked face remained.
Billy continued to find evidence of the schism over slavery. Although cadets were assigned to companies according to height, he observed that a couple of the companies consisted mostly of Southerners or those who sympathized with them, and that in these companies some cadets were noticeably taller than others. Obviously some connivance on the part of the cadet adjutant was involved. What kind, he couldn't discover.
On the first of September a new superintendent arrived. Like Brewerton, Robert Lee was a member of the engineers, but his reputation was much superior to that of the superintendent he relieved. Lee was generally acknowledged to be America's finest soldier; it was said that Winfield Scott practically worshiped him. Lee did face one unique problem at the Academy: his oldest son, Custis, was a member of the class of '54. There were a great many snide jokes about favoritism.
Billy first saw the new superintendent up close at a Sunday chapel, which all cadets were required to attend — something else that hadn't changed since George's day. Lee was nearly six feet tall, with brown eyes, heavy brows, and a face that radiated strength of character.
Gray streaks showed in his black hair, but there were none in his mustache, whose tips trailed out half an inch on either side of his mouth. Billy guessed him to be in his middle forties.
The chaplain delivered one of his sleep-inducing sermons, this one on a very popular religious topic — the coming of the millennium. He offered a prayer for the new superintendent. Then, at the chaplain's invitation, Colonel Lee stepped from his pew and delivered a brief exhortation to the assembled cadets and faculty.
Although quarrels might rage outside the confines of the post, he said, those seated before him had a solemn duty to rise above such quarrels. Quoting the young king in Shakespeare's Henry V, he termed the cadets a band of brothers. He urged each listener to think of the corps in that fashion and to remember that West Point men owed allegiance to no section but only to the nation they had sworn to defend.
"What do you think of him?" Frank Pratt asked in that tentative way of his. Billy had drawn the Wisconsin boy as a roommate. They were hastily straightening their quarters before dinner call.
"He certainly fits the picture of the ideal soldier," Billy said. "I just hope he can keep peace around here."
"Band of brothers," Frank murmured. "I can't get that phrase out of my head. That's what we are, isn't it?"
"What we're supposed to be anyway." In Billy's mind an image flickered — McAleer's face as he attacked Sheridan.
A peremptory knock at the door was followed by the familiar inquiry, "All right?"
"All right," Billy replied. Frank repeated the same words, so that the inspecting cadet officer would know he was in the room too.
Rather than continuing on, the inspecting officer stepped in. James E. B. Stuart was a gregarious, immensely popular second classman from Virginia with a reputation for fighting that almost matched Sheridan's. Someone had nicknamed him Beauty precisely because he wasn't one.
Affecting sternness, Stuart said, "Sirs, you'd better watch your step now that Virginia has one of her own in charge of this institution.'' With a quick glance over his shoulder, he lowered his voice. "Came to warn you. One of the drummer boys smuggled a batch of thirty-rod onto the post. Slocum bought some. He's drunk and mentioning both of you by name" — Frank Pratt paled — "so avoid him if you can."
"We will, sir," Billy said. "Thank you."
"Don't want you thinking ill of every Southerner you meet," Stuart said, and disappeared.
Pensive, Billy stared at the autumn sunlight spilling through the room's leaded window. Don't want you thinking ill of every Southerner. Even in small turns of conversation, reminders of the widening chasm were inescapable.
Frank broke the silence. "What did we do to Slocum?"
"Nothing."
"Then why is he down on us?"
"We're plebes and he's a yearling. He's from a Southern state and we're Yankees. How should I know why he's down on us, Frank? I guess there's always someone in this world who hates you."
Frank gnawed his lip, speculating on some dour future. He wasn't a coward, Billy had discovered, just pessimistic and easily startled. Once he got over that skittishness, he might make a good officer.
"Well," Frank said finally, "I have a feeling that one of these days Slocum's really going to nail our hides to the doorpost."
"I agree. Best thing we can do is take Beauty's advice and avoid him."
But he felt that an encounter with Slocum was inevitable. So be it. When it happened, he would stand up to the Arkansas cadet, and to hell with the cost.
He wanted to reassure Frank that they could handle Slocum. Before he could, the bugle sounded. Doors crashed open; cadets rushed noisily to the stairs and down to the barracks street, there to fall in for the march to the mess hall. On the stairs Frank stumbled, fell, and tore the left knee of his trousers. Out in the sunshine, Slocum spied the rent and placed Frank on report.
Billy started to say something but checked himself. Slocum smirked and proceeded to place him on report for "insolent bearing and expression."
No doubt about it, there'd be a reckoning one day.
Beset by sleeplessness and thoughts of Madeline, Orry picked up George's letter again.
The writing was blurred. He moved the paper a few inches away and the date, December 16, grew legible. So did the rest. He had first noticed the problem with his vision earlier this fall. Like so many other things, it depressed him.
The letter was a mixture of cheer and cynicism. George had visited Billy at West Point earlier in December. Billy was doing well, albeit the same could not be said for the superintendent. Lee disliked the part of his job that required him to discipline the cadets. He wanted them all to behave well out of a desire to do so, without the threat of demerits or dismissal. "Unfortunately," George wrote, "the world is not peopled with Marble Models — although it would be a distinctly better place if it were."
Lee had greeted George warmly, as an old war comrade, although in truth they had met only a couple of times in Mexico, George said. The superintendent confided that his biggest problem was the sectionalism threatening to divide the cadet corps.
On a pleasanter note, he had observed that Billy was in the top section in every class and would no doubt pass his January examinations easily. A born engineer, Lee told the visitor. Mahan already had his eye on Billy.
The letter closed with some comments about the President-elect. Quite a few in the North were already accusing Franklin Pierce of being a doughface. Of the many names being mentioned in connection with the Cabinet, one of the most prominent was that of Senator Jefferson Davis.
Davis of the Mississippi Rifles, Orry recalled with a faint smile. Colonel Davis and his red-shirted volunteers had fought valiantly at Buena Vista. If he became secretary of war, the Military Academy would have a true friend in Wash —
The crash downstairs brought him leaping out of bed. Before he was halfway to the bedroom door, his stiff kneecaps were hurting.
God, he was falling apart. Age and the dampness of the low-country winter were accelerating the process.
"Orry? What was that noise?" his mother called from behind her door.
"I'm on my way to find out. I'm sure it's nothing serious. Go back to bed."
He meant to say it gently, but fear roughened his voice for some reason. At the bottom of the staircase he saw black faces floating in the halos of hand-held candles. He clutched the banister and hurried down. The effort intensified the pain in his joints.
"Let me pass."
The slaves fell back. Cousin Charles came racing down the stairs behind him. Orry opened the library door.
The first thing he saw, bright on the polished floor, was the river of spilled whiskey. Tillet's glass lay in pieces. The sound Orry had heard was his father's chair overturning.
Orry rushed forward, too stunned for grief. Tillet lay on his side in a stiff pose. His eyes and mouth were open, as if something had surprised him.
Seizure, Orry thought. "Papa? Can you hear me?"
He didn't know why he said that. Shock, he later decided. Even as he heard Clarissa's fretful voice from the second floor, he knew he had asked the question of a dead man.
They buried Tillet in the small plantation cemetery on the second of January. A big crowd of slaves watched from outside the black iron fence. During the prayer before the lowering of the coffin, it began to drizzle. On the other side of the grave, Ashton stood next to Huntoon, in defiance of the custom that required all members of the family to mourn together. The coffin was let down into the ground with great care.
Clarissa didn't cry, merely stared into space. She hadn't wept since the night of Tillet's death. After the burial Orry spoke to her. She acted as if she didn't hear. Again he asked if she was feeling all right. She replied with an incomprehensible murmur. Nor did her face give any clue. Altogether, he couldn't remember a sadder day at Mont Royal.
After the family left the enclosure, the slaves slipped in to surround the grave and pay respects with a few soft words of prayer, or a hummed phrase of a hymn, or merely a bowed head. Cooper fell in step beside his brother. He marveled that the Negroes could feel kindly toward their owner. But then, he thought, human beings of all colors had never been famous for logical or consistent behavior.
Judith and Brett were walking with Clarissa. Cooper fondly watched his wife for a moment. In mid-December she had presented him with a daughter, Marie-Louise. The infant was at the great house, in the care of the maids.
Cooper noticed his brother's slumping shoulders and dour face. He tried to think of something to take Orry's mind off their father's passing.
"Before I left Charleston, I heard some news about Davis." "What is it?"
"You know that last month he refused to confer with Pierce in Washington —''
"Yes."
"They say he's relented. He may go to the inaugural after all. It would be a fine thing for the South if he became a member of the Cabinet. He's an honest man. A sensible one, too, for the most part.''
Orry shrugged. "His presence wouldn't make a whit of difference, Cooper.''
"I refuse to believe that one man can't make a difference. If you take that position, what's the use of going on?"
His brother ignored the question. "Washington's one huge madhouse these days — and the worst lunatics are the ones the American people elect to represent them in Congress. I can't think of a less respectable deliberative body, unless it's our own state legislature."
"If you don't like the drift of things in South Carolina, change them. Stand for election and go to Columbia yourself."
Orry stopped, turned, gazed at his brother to see if he had heard correctly. "Are you saying I should enter politics?"
"Why not? Wade Hampton did." The wealthy and well-respected up-country planter had just been elected to a seat in the legislature. Cooper went on, "You have the necessary time and money. And your last name makes you eminently electable around here. You haven't alienated half the population the way I have. You and Hampton are a lot alike. You could be another voice of reason and moderation in the rhetorical storm up in the capital. There are precious few."
Orry was tempted, but only briefly. "I think I'd sooner be a pimp than a pol. It's more respectable." Cooper didn't smile. "Have you ever read Edmund Burke?"
"No. Why?"
"I've been studying all his speeches and papers that I can locate. Burke was a staunch friend of the colonies and a man of radiant good sense. He once wrote in a letter that just one thing is necessary for the triumph of wicked men, and that's for good men to do nothing."
Resentful of what that implied about him, Orry started to retort. A cry from Brett prevented it.
"It's Mother," Cooper exclaimed. Clarissa sagged into Judith's arms, sobbing loudly. Orry was thankful she was letting her misery pour out at last.
His relief changed to anxiety an hour later when he heard his mother still crying in her room. He summoned the doctor, who gave her laudanum to calm her, then said to the assembled family:
"Bereavement is never easy to bear, but it's particularly hard for a woman who has always been an inseparable part of her husband's life. Clarissa is a strong person, however. She'll soon be herself again."
In that, he was wrong.
Orry noticed the first change within a week. When Clarissa smiled and chatted, she seemed to look through him rather than at him. Servants would put a question to her about a household matter, she would promise to answer as soon as she took care of some other, unnamed task, and then she would walk away and not return.
She developed a new passion, one that was common enough in South Carolina but had never been pursued at Mont Royal. She began to research and draw a family tree.
A green line represented her mother's family, the Bretts. A red line stood for the paternal line, which culminated in her father, Ashton Gault. Other colors were used for the Mains, so that the entire tree, which filled a large piece of parchment, resembled a rainbow-hued spiderweb.
Clarissa spread the parchment on a table by the window in her room. She spent hours working on it, so that it quickly became smudged and virtually unreadable. Yet she kept working. Every plantation duty to which she had once attended so diligently she now ignored.
Orry said nothing. He understood that Tillet's death had pushed his mother into some far country of the mind. If sojourning there soothed her grief, well and good. He would take up the slack as best he could.
But there were areas in which he was unskilled or simply ignorant. The plantation began to run roughly, like a clock that was always twenty minutes slow no matter how often it was adjusted.
"Straight, damn it — straight! What's the matter with all of you?"
It was a bright blue February morning. Orry was supervising preparation of the fields for March sowing. He had yelled at the trackers, experienced Negroes, mostly older, who were stringing guide ropes in parallel lines eleven inches apart. At the moment the trackers were working on the far side of the square. They turned to stare at their owner in a bewildered way; their lines looked straight.
Equally puzzled by the outburst were the trenchers, younger men and women who followed the lines and dug the seed trenches with hoes. Orry had shouted so loudly even some male slaves shoveling out the irrigation ditches at the edge of the square looked up. All the stares told Orry he was in error.
He closed his eyes and rubbed the lids with his fingertips. He had been up most of the night, fretting about his mother and then composing a letter to George to tell him the Mains would no longer summer in Newport. The reason he cited was Clarissa's condition; the truth was never mentioned. Last summer Orry had felt an unmistakable hostility on the part of some citizens of the little resort town. Putting up with Yankee unfriendliness was not his idea of a vacation.
"Orry, the lines are perfectly straight."
Brett's voice brought his eyes open abruptly. He turned and saw her a short way down the embankment. Her cheeks shone. She was breathing hard. Evidently she had come running up behind him just as he reprimanded the slaves.
He squinted over his shoulder. What she said was true. Fatigue or some trick of his mind had caused a misjudgment. The slaves had all resumed working, knowing they were right and he was wrong.
Brett walked to him, touched his hand. "You stayed up too late again." He shrugged. She went on, "I just broke up a noisy muss in the kitchen. Dilly boxed Sue's ears because Sue forgot to order more curing salt. Sue swore she told you we needed it."
Memory rushed back. "Oh, God — that's right. I am the one who forgot. Last week I was just about to put curing salt on the factor's list when I was called to look at Semiramis's baby with the measles."
"The crisis has passed. The baby will be all right."
"No thanks to me. I didn't know what the devil to do with a six-month-old infant. Anyway, how do you know so much about it?"
She tried to say it kindly. "They sent for me right after you left. I couldn't do much for the child other than wrap him up to keep him warm. But Semiramis was wild with worry, so I held her hand and talked to her awhile. That quieted her, and the baby got some rest — which is exactly what was needed most."
"I had no idea what was needed. I felt like a helpless fool."
"Don't blame yourself, Orry. Mama carried a lot of the burden of this place. More than you men ever realized." That was as close as she came to teasing him, and it was just a brief, gentle sally accompanied by a smile. She touched his hand again. "Let me help you run the plantation. I can do it."
"But you're just —"
"A little girl? Why, you sound just like Ashton."
From a whole quiver of arrows she had chosen precisely the right one to pierce and destroy his resistance. He burst out laughing. Then he said, "You're right, I had no idea how much Mama took care of. I'll bet Father didn't either. I'll be glad to have your help. Thankful for it! Take over wherever you see a need. If anyone questions you, tell them you're acting on my authority. Tell them to speak to me — what's wrong?"
"If the slaves must check every important order with you, it's pointless for me to do the work. What's more, I won't. I must have equal authority, and everyone must know it."
"All right. You win." His admiration was tinged with awe. "You're a wonder. And only fifteen this year —"
"Age has nothing to do with it. Some girls learn to be women at twelve. I mean they leam everything, not just how to be pert and flirtatious." The jab at Ashton wasn't lost on Orry. "Some never learn at all. I'll be hanged if I'll be one of those."
With an affectionate smile, he said, "Don't worry, you couldn't be." He felt no less tired but a lot better. "Well, I guess we should arrange to get some curing salt."
"Cuffey's already on his way to Charleston with the cart. I wrote his pass myself."
Again he laughed, then slipped his arm around her. "I have a feeling things are going to be a lot better on this plantation."
"I know they are," she said. In the field a couple of the trackers exchanged looks, and then relieved smiles.
Ashton paced back and forth in front of the bedroom hearth. Brett was bent over the desk. Outside, ice-covered tree limbs clashed and tinkled. The wind howled along the river.
Another series of sneezes exploded from the guest bedroom. Ashton grimaced. Huntoon had brought her home from Charleston right before the storm hit and had promptly gone to bed with raging influenza.
"I do wish he'd stop that dreadful sneezing," she exclaimed. Brett glanced up from one of the plantation ledgers, struck by the venom in her sister's voice. How could anyone be so enraged by illness?
But Ashton wasn't infuriated by that so much as by some other things. She already missed the lights and gaiety of Charleston. Huntoon had squired her to the season's most prestigious social event, the great ball sponsored by the Saint Cecilia Society. Back here on the Ashley, she felt caged.
Her little sister, however, seemed perfectly content to spend her time with shopping lists and ledgers. In the past few weeks Brett had started acting as if she were mistress of the plantation. What was even more galling, the niggers treated her as if she were.
"When I'm finished here, I'll mix up a batch of Mama's hot lemon toddy," Brett said. "It might clear his head some."
"Quite the little physician, aren't we?"
Again Brett looked at her sister, but this time her expression was more stern. "There's no call to be snide. I just do what I can."
"Every chance you get, seems like. I heard you were down in the cabins again today."
"Hattie developed a bad boil. I lanced and dressed it. What of it?"
"I really don't know why you waste your time on such trashy business."
Brett snapped the ledger shut. She pushed her chair back, rose, and kicked her skirt to one side.
"Somebody ought to remind you that all that trashy business, as you call it, keeps Mont Royal running in the black. It pays for those bolts of brocade you bought for your Saint Cecilia gown."
Ashton's mocking laugh was a defense. She had chosen to reach her goals by manipulating others while pretending to play the traditional feminine role. Brett, by contrast, was asserting her independence.
Ashton envied that. At the same time, it made her hate her sister all the more.
She hid the hatred with a shrug and a pirouette toward the door. "Calm down. I don't give a hoot if you bury yourself in this place. But remember one thing. Those who mean to rise in the world don't waste time on the problems of niggers and white trash. They court the important people."
"I expect they do, but I'm not trying to rise, as you put it. I'm just trying to help Orry."
Smug little bitch, Ashton thought. She wanted to use nails on her sister's eyes. Injure her, make her weep for mercy. Instead, she smiled and said gaily, "Well, you go right to it, and I'll tend to James. Oh, but I am curious about one thing. You're so busy doctoring and ciphering, when will you have time to answer those letters from your cadet? He's liable to forget you."
"I'll always have time for Billy, don't you worry."
The quiet words pushed Ashton close to the point of explosion. She was diverted by the sound of another gargantuan sneeze from Huntoon. She rushed into the hall, nearly colliding with Cousin Charles, who was on his way downstairs. A moment after she stepped back, she too sneezed.
"Say, Ashton, where'd you get that cold?" Charles grinned and hooked a thumb toward the guest room. "Did he give you anything else in Charleston?"
"Go to the pits of hell, you foul-minded scum!"
"What's the matter? Getting too uppity for a joke?"
The slam of a door was his answer.
Inside the guest room, Huntoon stared at Ashton while listening to a storm of the vilest profanity he had ever heard.
In the spring following the inauguration, President Pierce toured the North with members of his Cabinet. Lavish banquets were held in several major cities. George and Stanley attended the one in Philadelphia.
Pierce was a handsome, affable man. Stanley was so overwhelmed to be in his presence he practically fawned. George was more interested in the new secretary of war, Jefferson Davis.
Davis carried himself like a soldier. He was in his mid-forties and still slim, although his fair hair showed a generous amount of gray. He had high cheekbones and deeply set blue-gray eyes. George had heard that one eye was blind but didn't know which. Nor was it apparent.
During the reception that preceded the dinner, George had a chance to hear some of the secretary's views. Davis began with a topic that seemed to be his chief reason for accompanying the President — promotion of a transcontinental railroad.
"I am a strict constructionist," the new secretary told George and half a dozen others gathered around him. "I believe the Constitution prohibits the Federal government from making internal improvements in the separate states. So you might logically ask —"
"How is it possible to justify government aid for a railroad?"
Davis smiled politely at the man who had interrupted. "I couldn't have said it better, sir." Everyone laughed. "I justify it as a matter of national defense," he went on. "If not linked to the rest of the country, the Pacific coast territories could all too easily be snatched away by some foreign aggressor. Further, a transcontinental line — running through the South, preferably" — a couple of his listeners bristled at that; the secretary appeared not to notice — "will help us defend our frontiers by making it easier to move men rapidly to threatened areas. At present, the Army numbers only about ten thousand officers and men. Between here and California there are an estimated four hundred thousand Indians, forty thousand of them considered hostile. That danger demands new responses."
"What might those be, Mr. Secretary?" George asked.
"For one, more men in the Army. At minimum, two new regiments. Mounted regiments that can travel a long distance in a short time. The Indians don't fear our foot troops. They have a name for them. Walk-a-heap.' It is a term of contempt."
George had heard that Davis was more soldier than politician; he was beginning to believe it. The man impressed him.
"Many things about our military establishment are badly out of date," the secretary continued. "Our tactics, for example. To remedy that, I plan to send an officer to study the tactics of the French army. If the Crimea explodes, as appears likely, we'll also have a rare opportunity to observe European armies in the field. Further, improvements need to be made at our Military Academy."
"That interests me, sir," George said. "My brother is currently a plebe, and I graduated in the class of 'forty-six."
"Yes, Mr. Hazard, I'm aware of both facts. In my opinion, the West Point curriculum must be expanded" — nothing new there; the idea of a five-year course of study had been afloat for several years — "with more emphasis given to mounted tactics. I want to build a new riding hall. Enlarge the stables —"
Another listener broke in, "They say you might also build a second military academy in the South, Mr. Secretary."
Davis whirled on the speaker, sharp for the first time. "Sir, that is a false and pernicious rumor. A second military academy may have been proposed by others, but never by me. Such an institution would only promote sectionalism, and sectionalism is the last thing we need in this country at present. When John Calhoun spoke against the Clay compromise, he said that the cords binding the states together were breaking one by one. He believed disunion was inevitable. I do not. One of the bulwarks of my faith stands in the Hudson Highlands. If any institution promotes a national point of view, it is West Point. I for one intend to keep it that way."
In spite of automatic suspicion of any politician from the deep South, George found himself joining the others in a round of applause. Still, Davis's attitude represented the ideal rather than the reality. Billy had recently written to say that strong Northern and Southern cliques existed at West Point and that sectional tensions were increasing. Charles Main would be enrolling at the Academy in June. Would the tensions interfere with the friendship he and Billy had formed? George hoped not.
When the applause subsided, George said, "Good for you, Mr. Secretary. There are too many extremists on both sides these days. We need more voices like yours."
He lifted his glass. "To the Academy."
Davis raised his own glass in response. "And the Union," he said.
Charles traveled north while Russia mobilized for war against Turkey and her allies on the other side of the world. The prospective cadet arrived at West Point wearing a wide-brimmed planter's hat and an old coat of rust-colored velvet. His hair hung to his shoulders, and his bowie knife was tucked in his boot.
Billy and his friend and classmate, a jolly Virginian named Fitzhugh Lee, leaned out a window in the second floor of the barracks and watched Charles come trudging along the street below. They had been expecting him all afternoon. Presumably Charles had already turned in his appointment papers and signed the adjutant's register and circumstances ledger. In the latter he had no doubt listed Orry's financial status as "affluent" rather than "moderate." Having deposited his cash with the treasurer, Charles was now coming to find his room.
"My Lord," Fitz Lee said in amazement. "Just look at all that hair."
Billy nodded. "I knew he had plenty, but I didn't expect that much." A gleeful look crept into his eye. Friendship hadn't prevented him from organizing a reception for Charles.
'He's shaggy as a bison." The moment Fitz spoke, something clicked in Billy's mind. Charles didn't know it, but he had just received his Academy nickname. Billy was still searching for his.
Charles sensed someone watching and started to glance up. Billy pulled back hastily, dragging Fitz with him.
"Don't let him see you. Is the room ready?"
"Far as I know," Fitz said with a grin of unabashed wickedness. The young Virginian was the superintendent's nephew, but Billy felt sure that wouldn't save him from eventual dismissal. Fitz Lee habitually broke the rules, and did so with relish. "Beauty went up awhile ago to lay out his tools and slip into one of those smocks we stitched together. I'll fetch mine. You keep the victim here till I come back."
"All right, but hurry. We don't have much time before parade." Billy leaned out the window, waved. "Hey, Charles. Hello!"
Charles blinked, then returned the wave with enthusiasm. "Damn, it's you! How are you, Billy?"
"Anxious to see you. Come on up."
Again he retreated from the window and discovered Fitz still lingering at the door. "What's wrong?"
"I forgot to tell you that Slocum invited himself to the party. You know Beauty — he's so blasted cordial, he tells everybody everything."
Billy scowled. "Well, Slocum had better not give the game away. Tell him I said he's to keep his mouth shut."
"Do you want me to say it that — ah — directly?"
"Yes. I'm not his plebe whipping boy any longer."
"Right you are." Fitz grinned and hurried out.
Moments later Charles bounded up the stairs, the swallowtails of his coat flapping. He and Billy whooped and embraced like long-lost brothers. Then Charles flung his hat and valise on one of the beds and pushed his long hair off his damp forehead.
"Godamighty, Billy, you look fine in that uniform. But I forgot that the North got so blasted hot."
"It'll get hotter for you before the summer's over — even if the temperature dips. You're going to be a plebe, remember? And I think I can make cadet corporal in camp."
Charles frowned. "Does that mean we can't be friends for a year?"
"We can be friends. We just can't show it too much, or —"
"Cadet Main?"
The bellow from the hall sent Charles into a crouch. Billy had to grip his friend's arm to keep him from pulling his knife.
Charles scowled at the stranger in the doorway. It was Fitz Lee, wearing a thigh-length smock of coarse gray cloth. "Who the hell are you?" Charles demanded.
Fitz matched his truculence. "Don't raise your voice to me, sir! I am Mr. Fitz, one of the post barbers. It is the duty of Mr. Jeb and myself to attend to the tonsure of all incoming cadets."
"The ton-what?"
"Your hair, sir. It is decidedly in need of attention. Should you refuse to cooperate, I shall be forced to report you to the superintendent.'' Hands raised, Charles said, "No, wait. Billy, do they always do this when you get here?"
"Absolutely," Billy answered with a straight face. "Mr. Fitz and Mr. Jeb gave me a trim the first hour I was on the post."
"Damn if they look old enough to be barbers."
"Oh, when they took care of me they were still apprentices."
"Well — all right."
Still suspicious, Charles nevertheless followed Fitz out the door and up the stairs to the trunk room, which had been cleaned and prepared for the occasion. Billy brought up the rear, barely able to suppress eruptions of giggling.
The trunk room felt like an inferno. Windowless, it was illuminated by a pair of oil lamps that added to the heat. On a cheap table lay a silver-framed mirror, combs, brushes, shears, and a razor. Next to a rickety chair stood Beauty Stuart. He wore a smock and radiated authority.
"Sit down, sir. Quickly, quickly! This cadet is waiting for a trim as soon as we finish with you."
He pointed to Caleb Slocum, who was lounging by the wall. Billy and the Arkansas cadet exchanged nods but neither smiled. As soon as the first classmen had donned Army uniforms and departed, Slocum would be going home on leave. None too soon to suit Billy.
Charles sat down. With great panache, Stuart motioned and snapped his fingers. "Mr. Fitz? The cloth, if you please."
Fitz Lee produced a filthy, tattered sheet which he proceeded to fasten around Charles's neck. "That's a damn dirty sheet," Charles complained. "Looks like a whole flock of people bled on it. What kind of tonsorial parlor is —?"
"Quiet, sir, I cannot concentrate when you babble," Stuart said, giving his customer a fierce look. He clicked the shears several times, then attacked Charles's hair above his left ear. Billy tried to judge the time by sounds from downstairs. They had only until four o'clock.
"The mirror, if you please, Mr. Fitz."
The assistant barber jumped forward, tilting the glass this way and that in response to Stuart's exaggerated gestures. How could Charles not see it was all a sham? Yet no newcomer ever did; fear and unfamiliar surroundings made it work perfectly, year after year.
Presently Stuart cocked his head to the side, folded his right hand under his chin, and rested his right elbow on his left palm, studying his artistic creation. The entire left side of Charles's head had been clipped to a length of half an inch, while to the right of a perfect dividing line across the top of his head the hair was as long and full as ever, untouched. Billy faced the wall and bit his lower lip while tears ran from his eyes.
"Half done," Stuart announced. "Now for the other —"
Out on the Plain the bugle pealed. Perfect timing. Mr. Jeb dropped the shears. Mr. Fitz threw the mirror on the table, and Billy and Slocum cut for the door. "Wait," Charles cried. "What's going on?"
Stuart ripped off the smock. "We must assemble. Come along, sir."
"We'll finish the trim another time," Fitz shouted from the landing below.
''Another time?'' Bellowing, Charles pursued his tormentors. From the door of the trunk room he gave Billy a withering look — the look of a man betrayed — which Billy could barely see through his mirthful tears. "What other time?" Charles screamed. "How in hell am I going to explain the way I look?"
"I don't know, sir," Fitz caroled as he ran away down the stairs. "But explain it you shall — for I'm sure all the officers will be curious about it."
"A damn trick!" Charles howled. He yanked his knife out of his boot and flung it.
Slocum had lagged behind. The bowie flashed past his ear and buried in a beam on the landing below. While the knife hummed, Charles launched into a profane tirade against West Point men and West Point perfidy.
When questioned, Charles would say only that he alone was responsible for his haircut. He stuck to the story despite threats from the tactical officers and some upperclassmen. His silence earned him the respect of most of the leaders of the cadet corps, including Beauty Stuart.
Charles soon came to idolize Stuart. This was true even though the two seemingly had little in common. Charles was handsome whereas Stuart was most decidedly the opposite; his stocky trunk contrasted oddly with his unusually long arms. What he lacked in appearance, however, he more than made up for with dash and charm. His blue eyes almost always brimmed with good humor. And he had an amazing record of success with young ladies who stayed at the hotel.
Stuart's romantic prowess was not the only reason for Charles's admiration. To him, the Virginian represented all the good qualities of Southerners. Courage. A high sense of personal honor. A zest for life. The ability to smile when trouble engulfed you; smile and endure.
Stuart was also passionately loyal to his friends. Early in Charles's plebe year, Fitz Lee got drunk and was unlucky enough to be caught. He faced court-martial. Stuart organized Fitz's classmates, who presented the superintendent with a pledge that, as a class, they would never be guilty of a similar offense.
By tradition, such a pledge from an entire class resulted in cancellation of charges against the offender. Colonel Lee could not otherwise have intervened in his nephew's case. On the day after his receipt of the pledge, the superintendent was seen smiling frequently. He was probably pleased that his nephew had escaped dismissal, but no doubt more pleased that a band of brothers had lived up to its name.
Charles had no trouble with the military aspect of Academy training. Scholastically it was a different story. The fourth-class course in English grammar and geography was relatively simple, if boring. But in spite of the excellent preparation from Herr Nagel, the algebra course was an absolute mystery. Charles immediately joined the immortals and remained in their ranks through the January examinations, which he barely passed. Things got no better when he began his study of French in the second term.
"Why the devil do soldiers have to know French?" he asked Billy on one of the rare occasions when they could talk without being hampered by class rank. It was a Saturday afternoon during a February thaw. They had gone hiking in the hills above Fort Putnam. To the north they could see chunks of ice floating in the gray river. The air had the dry, astringent smell of winter. Occasional whiffs of wood smoke rose from the chimneys of the brick faculty houses below. Billy broke a twig in his mittened hands and tossed both halves away.
"Because, Mr. Bison, a lot of important military and scientific treatises are written in French. You might need to translate one someday."
"Not me. I'm going into the dragoons and chase Indians." He squinted at his friend. "You sure that's the reason?"
"Why would I lie to you?"
"Because I'm a plebe, and you're very good with buncombe. You proved that when you set me up for the haircut."
"You'd better go back to your dictionary. Buncombe means lies and smooth talk from a politician."
"Don't tell me what it's supposed to be; I already know — and you're an expert at dispensing it." With obvious delight, he rolled the word out again. "Buncombe. Mr. Buncombe, that's you —" Sudden inspiration. Charles pointed like a prosecutor. "No. Bunk. Old Bunk. From now on."
Billy snorted and complained, but secretly he was pleased. He had been embarrassed by his lack of a nickname. It seemed fitting that his best friend had finally bestowed it.
Toward the end of May 1854, the Senate passed the Kansas-Nebraska Bill. Senator Douglas had introduced it in January, once again heating up the simmering slavery controversy.
The bill organized two new territories. Douglas called it an expression of popular sovereignty. Anti-slavery men called it a betrayal, a repeal of the old Missouri Compromise that prohibited slavery north of 36 degrees 30 minutes of latitude. Secretary Davis reportedly influenced President Pierce to sign the bill. The anti-slavery forces said a new political party was obviously needed to combat sinister combinations at work in Washington.
Orry wrote Charles to say that judging from the rhetoric on both sides, Clay's compromise of four years ago was in ruins. And Charles, without knowing or caring much about national issues, found himself on the defensive because of them. Upperclassmen occasionally put him on report for a glare or a swallowed retort, calling his behavior Southern insolence. Southerners such as Slocum reacted against that sort of thing by cruel hazing of Northern plebes. Lee continued to exhort the cadets to be a band of brothers, but Charles saw the corps quietly separating into two hostile camps.
Of course there were gradations of behavior within each camp. Slocum represented one end of the Southern spectrum, Beauty Stuart the other — when he was on his good behavior with his temper unruffled, that is. Stuart claimed he patterned himself after the Marble Model, the superintendent, but he was too fond of assignations on Flirtation Walk for the resemblance to be perfect. Charles took Stuart as one of his exemplars and Billy as another, because Billy kept himself aloof from political arguments and concentrated on good marks, which he seemed to achieve with little effort.
Still, given his upbringing and the nature of the times, Charies sometimes found it hard to keep his temper. While standing at attention during a reveille roll call in the spring, he was singled out for harassment by an obnoxious cadet sergeant from Vermont. The Yankee pulled three buttons off his uniform on the pretext of inspecting them.
"No wonder you never look trig, sir," the Yankee snarled. "You don't have your niggers to do for you."
Under his breath, Charles said, "I polish my own brass. And fight my own fights."
The Vermont cadet thrust his jaw forward. The sunrise flecked his eyes with points of light.
"What did you say, sir?"
"I said —" Suddenly Charles recalled his demerit total. It stood at 190 with two weeks of the plebe year still remaining. "Nothing, sir."
The cadet sergeant strutted on, looking smug. Perhaps he was relieved, too. Charles had established a reputation as an expert with knives and bare knuckles.
He hated to cave in under a Yankee's insults. He did it only because he owed Orry a decent showing at the Academy, and the debt meant more to him than real or fancied insults to his honor.
For the moment, anyway.
Curiously, it was one of his own who first prodded Charles to think seriously about slavery. The culprit was Caleb Slocum, who had now advanced to cadet sergeant.
The Arkansas cadet had an excellent academic record. He was in the first section in most of his subjects. Billy said he got to the top by stealing examination questions ahead of time, and by various other forms of cheating. Although cheating wasn't condoned by the officers and professors, it never received the attention given to other breaches of discipline such as drinking.
Thus Billy had one more reason to despise Slocum. He told Charles he intended to thrash the Arkansas cadet one of these days.
Slocum was a master at tormenting plebes. He hung out at Benny Haven's — the proprietor was still alive, immortal, it seemed — and there learned about certain kinds of hazing that had been tried in the past and abandoned as too nasty.
They were not too nasty for Slocum. His targets remained the plebes from Northern states. When Charles observed the absolute power Slocum had over them, it struck him that the same power relationship existed back home between white master and black slave. The relationship had been present all along, of course; he had just never appreciated its potential for abuse and outright cruelty.
He felt disloyal about questioning the South even slightly. But he couldn't help it. Ideas different from his own bombarded him every day. Like the nation, the Academy was in ferment. One proof could be seen in the Dialectic Society. Cadets organized fewer debates on so-called soft topics. "Ought females to receive a first-class education?" They reasoned — argued, sometimes shouted — over hard issues. "Has a state the right to secede from the Union?'" "Has Congress an obligation to protect the property of territorial settlers?"
Privately, Charles began to consider different aspects of the peculiar institution: the justice of it, the long-term practicality. He had trouble admitting the system was wholly wrong — he was a Southerner, after all — but with so many people opposed to it, there was surely something amiss. In terms of the animosity it produced, slavery seemed more of a burden to the South than a benefit. Sometimes Charles was almost ready to agree with that Illinois stump speaker and politician, Lincoln, who said gradual emancipation was the only answer.
Although his inner turmoil persisted, he was determined to avoid fights that were in any way related to the issue. On the night of June 1, that resolve was destroyed.
At half-past nine, Charles gathered up soap and towel and tramped downstairs to the barracks washroom. Since it was late, he hoped to have the place to himself. Cadets were required to bathe once a week but could not do so more often without special permission from Colonel Lee.
Oil lamps shed a dim light in the basement corridor; rumor said Secretary Davis hoped to install a gaslight system soon. Charles hurried past the entrance to the refreshment shop, not wanting to be noticed or hived. He was tired and sore from marching. He longed to lean back in the tub and drowse in warm water for ten or fifteen minutes before taps.
He started to whistle softly as he approached the double door of the washroom. Suddenly he stopped and listened. He frowned. On the other side of the doors he heard voices. Two were low-pitched, the other slightly louder —
Pleading.
He jerked the door open. Startled, Caleb Slocum and a skinny classmate from Louisiana spun toward him. Slocum had an open jar in one hand. From it, mingling with the smells of soap and dampness, rose the pungent odor of spirits of turpentine.
The Louisiana cadet was holding a third young man face down in an empty tub. The youth peered at Charles, his dark eyes big and moist and scared. Charles recognized him as a newcomer who had arrived only today.
"Get out, sir," Slocum said to Charles. "This disciplinary matter is none of your affair."
"Disciplinary matter? Come on, boys. That fellow just got here this afternoon. He's entitled to one or two mistakes."
"This Yankee insulted us," the Louisiana cadet snarled.
"I did not," the youth in the tub protested. "They grabbed hold of me and dragged me down here and —''
"You shut up," Louisiana said, seizing the newcomer's neck and squeezing until he winced.
Slocum stepped forward to block Charles's view. His blotchy face darkened as he said: "I'll tell you just once more, sir. Leave."
Slowly Charles shook his head. The water pipes running to the tubs radiated heat. He wiped his sweating palm on his shirt bosom and said, "Not till I see what you're fixing to do to him." He suspected he knew.
Quickly he stepped to one side, then darted forward before Slocum could react. The victim was naked. He looked scrawny and pathetic with his bare buttocks elevated slightly. Between his legs Charles saw the cord around his testicles. It was tied so tightly his balls were already swollen.
Charles licked the roof of his mouth, which was dry all at once. This was one of the little stunts tried a few times in the past and abandoned. Charles had walked in just before the conclusion — the pouring of turpentine into the victim's anus.
Bile and anger thickened his voice. "That isn't fit treatment for a dog. Let him up."
Slocum couldn't permit a plebe to bully him. "Main, I'm warning you —''
The door opened. Charles spun, saw Frank Pratt with a towel draped over his arm. Frank registered surprise as he took in the scene. He gulped and looked bilious. Charles spoke softly but with authority.
"Get Old Bunk. I want him to see what Slocum's up to this time."
Frank ran out and slammed the door. Slocum deposited the turpentine jar on the slippery floor, then began to massage his knuckles with the palm of his left hand. "Apparently there's just one kind of order you understand, sir. Very well, I shall provide it."
Charles almost snickered at the posturing. He didn't because these two were upperclassmen, and cornered to boot. That made them dangerous.
The Louisiana cadet released the youth in the tub, who flopped on his chest and uttered a feeble cry. Slocum continued the melodramatic massaging of his hand. His companion grabbed his arm.
"Don't fool with him, Slocum. You know his reputation. He's within ten skins of dismissal — if we put him on report, we can get rid of him."
The idea appealed to the Arkansas cadet, who really didn't want to fight anyone as big and as formidable as Charles. Slocum continued to rub his hand, saying to no one in particular, "Damn fool ought to be on our side anyway. We're all from the same part of the —"
The door opened. Frank and Billy walked in. Billy slammed the door. His opinion of what he saw was expressed in an explosive, "Jesus Christ! You" — he pointed to the cowering boy — "put your clothes on and get to your room."
"Y-yes, sir." The newcomer groped over the side of the tub but couldn't reach his clothes. Charles kicked them closer. Slocum was glaring at Billy.
"Don't come in here issuing orders, sir. Remember that I'm your superior —''
Billy cut him off. "The hell you are. You think West Point's your plantation and every plebe a nigger you can mistreat. You're nothing but Southern shit."
"Come on, Bunk," Charles exclaimed. "There's no call for that kind of talk."
But his friend was furious. "If you're on his side, say so."
"Goddamn you —"
Charles's shout reverberated in the damp room. His fist was raised and shooting forward before he realized it. He just managed to pull the punch.
Billy had already retreated a step and was raising his hands to block the blow. He looked almost as astonished as Charles felt.
What Charles had done, or almost done, was profoundly upsetting to him. He had been ready to brawl over a few words that he had interpreted not as an individual but as a Southerner. He had behaved exactly like Whitney Smith and his crowd. He was stunned to discover that the vein of pride existed within him and ran deep.
He wiped his palm across his mouth. "Bunk, I'm sorry."
"All right." Billy sounded none too friendly.
"Slocum is the one we should —"
"I said all right."
Billy's furious gaze locked with his friend's for a second. Then his anger cooled. He tilted his head toward the door.
"Everybody out — except you, Slocum. Your brand of discipline isn't popular around here. It's time someone demonstrated that."
Worried, Frank Pratt said, "Billy, you'll have half the corps down on you if you do this."
"I don't think so. But I'll take that chance. Out."
"I'll stand watch outside," Charles said. "Nobody will bother you."
Charles had made a gesture the corps would understand. A Northerner dealing with Slocum while a Southerner acted as lookout would establish that Slocum's behavior, and not his birthplace was the cause of the fight.
"Hurry," Charles said to the newcomer, who was struggling into his ruffled shirt. "Put your shoes on outside."
The youth left, followed by Frank Pratt. Charles looked at the Louisiana cadet. "Guess I'll have to drag you out."
"No — no!" Louisiana fled, moving sideways like a crab until he was in the hall. There, he turned and ran.
Charles gazed down the gloomy, lamp-lit corridor, empty save for Frank Pratt crouching by the stairs and staring upward apprehensively. The pensioner who operated the refreshment shop came out, locked the door, noticed Charles and Frank, then walked upstairs without a word.
Charles leaned back against the double door, still shaken by what had happened. Far away the bugler sounded the first notes of taps. He heard a weak cry of fright in the washroom just before the first sound of a fist striking.
Billy came out ten minutes later. Blood spattered his blouse, and bruises showed on the backs of his hands. Otherwise he was unmarked.
No, that wasn't entirely correct, Charles realized. A certain uneasiness showed in Billy's eyes. Charles asked, "Can he walk?"
"Yes, but he won't feel like it for a little while." Again his eyes met those of his friend and slid away. "I enjoyed that too much."
From the stairs Frank Pratt motioned for them to hurry. They would all be given demerits if the inspecting officer called "All right?" outside their doors and received no reply.
Well, Charles didn't care. He was thinking of Billy's remark a moment ago. Was Billy concerned that he had enjoyed mistreating Slocum because Slocum was a Southerner?
They reached Frank, who asked anxiously, "What's going to happen when Slocum talks about this?"
As they started climbing the stairway, Billy said, "I tried to impress on him that he'd better not. I think he understands that if our little session gets on the record in any official way, the one thing I'll do before I'm dismissed is visit him again — and his Louisiana chum, too."
"Of course," Frank went on, "you could take the offense and formally charge him with mistreating that new fellow —''
Billy shook his head. "If I did that, Slocum would be a hero, and I'd be just another vindictive Yankee. There's friction enough in this place already. I think we should let matters stand."
He sounded less than happy, though, and that finally prompted Charles to offer his friend the assurance that, by tone of voice, he had asked for some moments ago:
"You said you enjoyed it too much, but I don't believe you. Whatever you did, Slocum had it coming."
Billy gave Charles a grateful glance. Neither said anything more as they trudged up the shadowy staircase. Charles began to feel despondent about himself, and about Billy too. It couldn't be denied that both of them had caught the infection from which the whole country was suffering. Then and there, he made up his mind that it mustn't get any worse.
Slocum explained his injuries as the results of a fall down the stairs. The Louisiana cadet didn't dispute him. The vicious hazing stopped.
Despite this, the incident quickly became known and thought of as a sectional fight. Hearing only that one cadet had thrashed another, some Northerners and Westerners took Billy's side and cut Slocum. Some Southerners cut Billy. Charles drew the silent treatment from both camps, a response so insulting, yet at the same time so ludicrous, all he could do was laugh.
A week later Fitz Lee informed Charles that the Louisiana cadet was spreading his own version of the incident. He was telling friends that casual criticism of the Kansas-Nebraska bill by Slocum, and his statement that a code of Southern rights must be written in Congress to protect property in the new territories, had provoked Billy's brutal attack.
And why had the Louisiana cadet kept this from his friends until now? To prevent the officers from hearing of the incident, he said. He had been thinking solely of the welfare of the corps, and the truth of the matter had just slipped out.
"Oh, it just slipped out, did it?" Charles growled. "It just slipped out on two or three different occasions?"
"Or more," Fitz replied with a sour smile.
Charles lost his temper. He said he was going to pull Louisiana out of formation at evening parade and pound his lies down his throat. Billy and Fitz talked him out of it.
Gradually, interest in the fight waned. The cadets began speaking to Billy and Charles again, while generally ignoring Slocum — exactly the state of affairs that had existed before the trouble.
But the quarrel had left some bad memories, and they piled up with others like them.
Soon the first classmen left. The graduates included Stuart, the superintendent's son, and a Maine boy named Ollie O. Howard from whom Charles bought a good used blanket. Billy, meantime, was packing to go home on leave.
Everyone at the Academy was talking about the changes to be instituted in the fall. For almost a decade the Academic Board had been recommending a five-year curriculum, and Secretary Davis had finally secured its adoption. Half of the incoming plebes would be put into the new program, while the other half would follow the old four-year course — the last class to do so. The plebes were being divided in this fashion so that there would never be a year without a graduating class.
The five-year curriculum was designed to correct what many considered an overemphasis on mathematics, science, and engineering. New course work in English, history, elocution, and Spanish was to be introduced.
"Why the devil do I need another language?" Charles complained. "I have enough trouble with French."
"The war added a lot of new territory — in which there are a lot of people who speak Spanish. That's the excuse I heard, anyway." Billy shut his valise, stretched, and walked to the window.
"In the dragoons," Charles said, "they don't converse with greasers, they just shoot 'em."
Billy gave him a wry look. "I don't think Mexicans would find that very funny." Charles's shrug acknowledged that his friend was right, but Billy didn't see it; he had put both hands on the sill and was gazing at a familiar figure limping across the Plain. By chance the cadet noticed Billy in the window and looked away.
"Slocum," Billy said soberly.
Charles joined him. "He's walking better."
The Arkansas cadet limped out of sight. Charles turned from the window. For days he had been tormented by guilt. Until September this would be his last chance to say something about it.
"I feel rotten about that night. Not over Slocum. Over what I almost did to you."
Billy's deprecating wave gave Charles a feeling of immense relief. "I was just as much to blame," Billy said. "I think it was a fortunate lesson for both of us. Let the rest of the corps shout epithets and brawl if they want. We shouldn't, and we won't."
"Right you are." Charles was glad to have Billy's assurance, but he felt it was more hope than certainty.
Silence for a moment. Charles plucked a piece of stable straw off his trousers. The urge to confide was powerful.
"Let me tell you something else. Most of the time I hate being a Southerner around here. It means being second-rate in academic work — no, don't deny it. You Yankee boys always outshine us. We get by on toughness and nerve."
"Even if that were true, which I don't believe, those aren't bad qualities for a soldier."
Charles ignored the compliment. "Being a Southerner here means feeling inferior. Ashamed of where you come from. Mad because the rest of the corps acts so righteous" — his chin lifted — "which of course it damn well isn't."
"I guess smugness is a Yankee disease. Bison."
A smile softened the defiance in Charles's eyes. "I reckon no one except another Southerner could understand what I just said. Really understand it. But I thank you for listening." He held out his hand. "Friends?"
"Absolutely. Always." Their handclasp was firm, strong.
A whistle sounded from the North Dock. Billy grabbed his valise and bolted for the door. "When you write Brett, tell her I miss her."
"Tell her yourself." Charles's eyes sparkled. "I believe she'll be up here to visit soon after you get back."
Billy's mouth dropped open. "If you're joking —"
"I wouldn't joke with you. Not after the way you made hog slops out of Slocum." From the shelf Charles took his copy of Lévizac's French grammar. He opened it and removed a folded letter. "I got this from Brett only this morning. She said to surprise you at a" — he located the word in the letter — "propitious moment. Do you understand that?"
"You bet I do." Billy did a jig with his valise. Two cadets passing outside laughed. "Who's to chaperone her while she's here?"
"Orry. He's bringing Ashton, too. If he didn't, she'd throw a fit."
Even that news couldn't mar Billy's happiness. He sang and whooped all the way down the stairs, and Charles watched him race across the Plain in a most unsoldierly manner, throwing giddy salutes at a couple of professors.
Charles felt fine for all of half an hour. Then he heard four cadets in the next room arguing loudly about Kansas. An explanation, a handshake — such things might alleviate tensions between friends, but they'd never solve the problems plaguing the land. Not when some Southerners wouldn't even admit problems existed.
Hell, he thought. What an infernal mess.
Superintendent Lee and the younger officer strolled along the west edge of the Plain in leisurely fashion. A large crowd of hotel guests, including some children, had turned out to watch the exhibition of horsemanship, which the younger officer had ordered moved outdoors because of the intense heat in the riding hall. It was a Saturday afternoon in July; the surrounding hillsides shimmered in haze.
The heat didn't seem to inhibit the applause of the audience, or the enthusiasm with which the cadets performed. Some demonstrated the correct way to saddle and bridle a horse, and to mount and dismount. Others rode at different gaits or jumped their horses over a series of hay bales. A select group of first classmen charged straw dummies at the gallop. They thrust at the dummies with regulation dragoon sabers, curved swords over a yard long, as they rode by.
All this was watched critically by the younger officer, whose dress cap bore an orange pom-pom as well as an emblem — sheathed crossed sabers with the number 2 in the upper angle. Lieutenant Hawes of the Second Dragoons taught equitation. A year ago he had voluntarily begun a needed course of instruction in cavalry tactics — something the Academy had never before provided.
Because of the presence of spectators, Hawes had ordered his pupils to don their gray merino firemen's shirts, which were worn outside regulation gray kersey trousers but looked neat since the shirttails were trimmed square.
"Impressive," Lee said above the sound of thudding hoofs. "You have done a fine job, Lieutenant."
"Thank you, sir." Hawes pointed out a dark-haired, good-looking rider who handled his sorrel mare skillfully, almost appearing to float her over the hay bales. "There's the best horseman in the cadet corps. He shouldn't even be demonstrating with the others. He's only in the third class. But all this year he's been coming to the riding hall every free hour. When he starts equitation work in the fall, there isn't much I'll be able to teach him. I like to let him ride with the older boys because he keeps them on their mettle."
The cadet under discussion jumped another bale, coming down on his regulation Grimsley saddle with a natural grace. Lee watched the cadet's dark hair streaming behind him, studied his profile, thought a moment.
"South Carolina boy, isn't he?"
"That's right, sir. His name's Main."
"Ah, yes. Had a cousin here about ten years ago. The boy cuts a fine figure."
Lieutenant Hawes nodded enthusiastically. "He's the same sort as Stuart — only better-looking."
They both laughed. Then Hawes added, "I don't doubt he'll be posted to the dragoons or mounted rifles after graduation."
"Or perhaps to one of those new regiments of cavalry the secretary wants."
"Main's marks won't permit him a choice of branches," Hawes observed. "But in military studies he's exceptional. He seems delighted by the idea that a man can fight and be paid for it."
"That delight will pass when he sees his first battlefield."
"Yes, sir. In any case, I hope he manages to graduate. He's a scrapper. Again like Stuart."
"Then he'll be an asset wherever he goes."
Hawes didn't say anything. But he agreed, and he knew why he was able to endure the torture of instructing hundreds of inept boys who would never be able to ride anything more frisky than a camp chair. He endured it in the hope of finding one outstanding pupil. This year it had happened.
Both officers watched Charles jump the last bale with a huge smile on his face. For a moment, horse and rider seemed to hang in the sultry sky, centaurlike.
Orry and his sisters arrived at the hotel on a Friday in September. They were in time for the evening parade. When Brett saw Billy, she clapped her hands in delight. He wore new chevrons.
He had been appointed company first sergeant, she later found out. He had just missed being named to the highest rank in the second class, sergeant major. He had saved the news as a surprise.
Ashton noticed her sister's pleased expression. Animosity boiled up within her — as well as an unexpected reaction to the sight of Billy Hazard. The surge of longing disgusted her. She suppressed it by force of will. He had abandoned her, and he would pay.
But she didn't want him on guard against her, now or in the future. Her face, bathed in sunshine, remained composed and sweetly smiling. A moment later she realized that two gentlemen from the hotel were watching her. That made her feel much better. Her drab little sister didn't get so much as a smidgen of attention. Not that kind, anyway.
Billy Hazard wasn't the only man on earth. Right in front of her, inarching and counter-marching in precise formation, there were several hundred of them. Surely a few would be willing to help her enjoy this vacation — probably her last fling. James was pressing her for a wedding date.
She watched the trim, strong legs of the marching cadets. The tip of her tongue ran across her upper lip. Her loins felt warm and moist. She knew she was going to have a wonderful time at West Point.
For Orry, the parade was a highly emotional experience. It was good to hear the drumming again, mingled with the bugles and the fifes. The flags flying against the backdrop of hillsides splashed with the first yellow and crimson of autumn brought vivid memories and thoughts of loss. And when he spied Charles marching among the taller cadets in a flank company, he felt intense pride.
Next day, Billy invited Orry and the girls to observe his fencing class. Ashton said she had a headache and remained on the porch of the hotel. Brett and her brother spent an hour seated on a hard bench, watching Billy and a dozen other cadets working out with various pieces of fencing equipment: hickory broadswords for the beginners, foils, or, in the case of Billy and his opponent, practice sabers.
The sword master, de Jaman, hovered near the visitors. Billy confused his opponent with a composed attack of feints, beats, and binds. "That young chap, he has a natural talent for this sport," the Frenchman said with the enthusiasm of a doting parent. "But, then, cadets who excel at scholarship usually do. Swordplay is above all cerebral."
"True," Orry said, recalling that he hadn't been very good at it.
Billy's match ended with a simple lunge that drove the protective button of his saber straight into the target on his opponent's padded vest. After the hit, he saluted his opponent, jerked off his mask, and turned to grin at Brett. She was on her feet, applauding.
Orry smiled broadly. Then he noticed the face of the opponent. A pronounced purplish half-circle showed beneath the boy's right eye. "How did he get that bruise?" Orry asked when Billy joined them.
Billy forced a smile. "I understand he had a discussion with one of his roommates."
"What kind of discussion?" Brett wanted to know.
"Something to do with Senator Douglas, I believe. My opponent's from Alabama, you see —" He let the sentence trail off.
Disturbed, Orry said, "Does much of that sort of thing happen here?"
"Oh, no, very little," Billy answered too quickly. His eyes met Orry's. Each saw that the other recognized the lie.
That evening Orry hiked off to Buttermilk Falls for what he termed his first legal visit to Benny Haven's. With Orry's permission, Billy took Brett to Flirtation Walk.
Shadowy couples glided by on the darkening path. Through the leaves of the overhanging trees, the last sunlight illuminated clouds high in the eastern sky. Below, on the river, the firefly lights of the Albany night boat moved slowly by.
Brett had put on her prettiest lace canezou and lace mittens — not much in vogue up North, she had been noticing. Billy thought her the loveliest creature he had ever seen:
"Mademoiselle, vous ètes absolument ravissante."
She laughed and took hold of his arm. "That must be a compliment. It sounds too pretty to be anything else. What does it mean?"
They had paused beside one of the benches set into a nook along the path. Nervously, he took her mittened hands in his.
"It means I finally found a practical use for all those hours and hours of French."
She laughed again. Put at ease, he bent forward and planted a gentle kiss on her lips.
"It means I think you're beautiful."
The kiss flustered her, even though it was what she had been craving. She couldn't think of a thing to say. She feared that if she used the word love in any way, he might laugh. Out of desperation, she rose on tiptoe, slipped her arm around his neck and kissed him again, fiercely this time. They sank down on the bench, holding hands in the dark.
"Lord, I'm glad you're here, Brett. I thought this moment would never arrive. I thought my leave would never end."
"Surely you enjoyed going home."
"Oh, yes, in a way. I was glad to see Lehigh Station again, but not nearly as glad as I thought I'd be. Everyone was there but the one person who matters most. The days dragged, and by the end I couldn't wait to pack and go. George understood, but my mother didn't. I think my boredom hurt her feelings. I was sorry about that. I tried to conceal how I felt, but I — I couldn't stop missing you."
After a moment's silence, she murmured, "I've been missing you, too, Billy." He clasped her hands more tightly between his. "You can't imagine how lonesome I was all year. I lived for the days that brought a new letter from you. I don't see how you ever have time to be lonesome here. The schedule you keep is just ferocious. I've very much enjoyed meeting your friends, but I saw some of them give me queer looks the first time I said something."
"They were charmed by your accent."
"Charmed, or disgusted?" A couple of cadets — Yankees, she presumed — had cast decidedly unfriendly glances her way.
He didn't reply. He was aware of the rudeness, even outright hostility, some of the Northern boys directed at the occasional female visitor from the South. The difference in his background and Brett's presented some practical problems for the future, problems he didn't want to face but could not indefinitely ignore.
This wasn't the time to discuss them, though. He shifted his sword belt out of the way and reached into his pocket. From it he pulled the scrap of black velvet snipped from his furlough cap. He twisted it in his fingers as he explained the tradition connected with it, concluding:
"But I couldn't give it to my best girl when I went home this summer. She was in South Carolina."
He pressed the velvet band into her palm. She touched the wreath of gold embroidery, whispered, "Thank you."
"I hope" — he swallowed — "I hope you'll be my best girl always."
"I want to be, Billy. Forever."
A cadet and a companion passing in the dark overheard that. Being acquaintances and not lovers, they laughed in a cynical way. Billy and Brett didn't hear. They were sitting with their arms around each other, kissing.
Presently they strolled back to the top of the bluff. Billy had never experienced such a perfect night or such a certainty that the future would be equally perfect.
Figures loomed in the dark — a cadet lieutenant with a girl on his arm. The cadet, from Michigan, had never been particularly friendly. Now, as he and his companion went on toward Flirtation Walk, he spoke so that Brett would hear.
"That's the one. Do you suppose a Southern girl with a Yankee beau gives lessons in the mistreatment of niggers? You know, just in case he marries into the family?"
The girl tittered. Billy started after them. Brett pulled him back.
"Don't. It isn't worth it."
The couple passed out of sight. Billy fumed, then offered his own apology for the cadet lieutenant's behavior. Brett assured him she had seen worse. But the earlier mood was shattered. The insulting remark reminded him that if he married her, each of them would face the wrath of bigots in their own part of the country.
Of course his brother George had dealt with that kind of hatred when he brought Constance from Texas. He had dealt with it and overcome it. If one Hazard could do it, so could he.
"Law, what is this smelly old place?" Ashton whispered as the Yankee first classman again attempted to insert the key in the lock. The darkness made it difficult.
"Delafield's Pepperbox," the cadet said in a slurry voice. He had obviously drunk a lot before spiriting her out of the hotel, but she didn't mind. He would probably give her a better time because of it. He was a rather thick-witted sort, but very big through the shoulders. She presumed the bigness was duplicated elsewhere.
"It's the ordnance laboratory," he went on, finally getting the door open. Odors of pitch, paste, and brimstone assailed her. "First classmen get to work down here. We mix up powder, take Congreve rockets apart —''
"How did you get a key?"
"Bought it from a cadet who graduated last June. Aren't you coming in? I thought you said you wanted to —:''
He wasn't sufficiently drunk to be able to finish the sentence.
"I did say that, but I didn't know you'd bring me to some place that smelled this bad."
She hesitated in the doorway. Above her, one of the building's castellated turrets hid some of the autumn stars. The building was secluded below the northern rim of the Plain.
From the dark interior, the hard-breathing cadet tugged her hand. "Come in and I'll give you a souvenir. Every girl who stays at the hotel wants a West Point souvenir."
He lurched to her, leaned against the door frame, and fingered one of the gilt buttons on his coat. She had inspected them closely before. They said Cadet at the top, U.S.M.A. at the bottom, and had an eagle and shield in the center.
Still she hesitated. The stink of the laboratory was overpowering. But so was the need that had been rising in her for weeks.
"You mean that if I come in there with you, you'll give me a button?"
He flicked a nail against one of them. "Just take your pick."
"Well — all right." A slow smile. "But those weren't the buttons I had in mind," she added as she put her hand below his waist.
Later, in the dark, he whispered, "How do you feel?"
"Like I didn't get nearly enough, sweet."
An audible gulp. "I have a couple of friends. I could fetch them. They'd be mighty grateful. By the time I get back, I'll be ready to go to the well once more myself.
Ashton lay resting, her forearm across her eyes.
"Fetch them, dear. Fetch as many as you like, but don't keep me waiting too long. Just be sure every boy you bring is willing to present me with a souvenir."
"I tell you I saw it," said a New Jersey cadet whom Billy knew fairly well. It was three days after the Mains had left for New York. With his index finger, the cadet marked a two-inch width of space in the air. "A cardboard box about this big. Inside she had a button from everyone she entertained."
"How many buttons?"
"Seven."
Billy stared, obviously nonplussed. "In an hour and a half?"
"Or a little less."
"Were any of them from her part of the country?"
"Not a one. Appears that some Yankees can get over a prejudice against Southrons mighty fast."
"Seven. I can't believe it. When Bison hears, he'll start issuing challenges right and left."
"Defending fair womanhood — that sort of thing?"
"Sure," Billy said. "She's his cousin."
The other cadet blurted, "Look, no one forced her. Fact is, I'd say it was the other way 'round. Anyway — I don't think Bison will find out."
"Why not?"
"The lady claimed she'd be back for another visit inside of six months, but she said if any of the seven mentioned her name in the meantime — her name or anything else about the evening — she'd hear of it and there'd be hell to pay."
"What kind of hell? Did she get specific?"
"No. And maybe nobody believed her, but they're sure acting like I they did. Guess it's because they'd all like to see her again," he added with a smile that was smug, yet curiously nervous, too. "Or maybe 'cause they don't want a close view of Main's bowie knife."
Billy suspected Ashton had gulled the seven cadets. He knew of no plans for the sisters to return. Then he realized he had failed to see the obvious — which was right in front of him in the other cadet's smirk.
"Wait a minute. If everyone's keeping quiet, how do you know all this?"
The smile widened, lewd now, but the undercurrent of nervousness remained. "I was number seven in line. Here's the best part: she didn't want coat buttons from all of us who — ah — took advantage of her generosity."
Billy felt queasy. "What did she want?"
"Fly buttons."
He turned pale. All he could say was, "Why are you telling me?"
"Friendly gesture." That rang false, but Billy kept quiet. "Besides, I saw you sparking the other sister and figured you'd like to know. You drew the better of the pair — from an honorable gentleman's standpoint, anyway." He winked. Billy barely saw that and didn't respond in an amused fashion.
"Godamighty. Seven fly buttons. We've got to keep it from Bison."
The cadet's smile was gone. "That's the real reason I came to see you, Hazard. I meant what I said about Bison and that hideout knife of his. Not many men scare me, but he does. He scares all seven of us. There'll be no bragging, no talk at all. Count on that."
Later, after the initial shock passed and Billy was again alone, he realized the cadet was right about one thing: he'd been incredibly lucky to escape a liaison with Brett's sister. He didn't know what to call her, but there was certainly something wrong with her. He was thankful that she was no longer interested in him. During the entire visit she had barely spoken to him, and had acted as if he didn't exist. She had forgotten about him, thank the Lord.
Virgilia pulled the tattered shawl over her shoulders and pinned it. Then she resumed stirring the cornmeal gruel on the small iron stove. One of the stove's legs was gone, replaced by a stack of broken bricks.
A November storm was piling a cosmetic layer of white on the tin roofs of nearby hovels. Snow filled the ruts in the lane of frozen mud outside the door. Cutting wind rattled the oiled-paper windows and brought snowflakes through gaps in the wall near a tacked-up engraving of Frederick Douglass.
Grady sat at a rickety table. His faded blue flannel shirt was buttoned at the throat. He had lost about thirty pounds and no longer looked fit. When he smiled — not often these days — he showed perfect upper teeth, hand-cut and wired in place. Only a slight yellow cast betrayed their artificiality.
Opposite Grady was a visitor — a slim, fastidious Negro with light brown skin, curly gray hair, and an intense quality in his brown eyes. The man's name was Lemuel Tubbs. He had displayed a pronounced limp when he walked in.
The cup of thin coffee Virgilia had set before Tubbs was untasted. He didn't enjoy visiting the slums in the midst of a blizzard, but duty required it. He was speaking earnestly to Grady.
"An account of your experiences would lend authenticity to our next public meeting and increase its impact. Nothing is more powerful in persuading the public of the evils of slavery than the narratives of those who have endured it."
''A public meeting, you say." Grady thought aloud. ''I don't know, Mr. Tubbs. There's still the problem of South Carolina slave catchers reading about it."
"I appreciate the concern," Tubbs replied in a sympathetic way. "Only you can make the decision, of course."
He hesitated before raising a difficult final point. "If the decision should be affirmative, however, we would impose one restriction. We want the strongest possible condemnation of slavery, but there should be no appeals for violent uprisings in the South. That sort of talk alarms and alienates some whites whom we desperately need for the furtherance of our cause. To be blunt, it scares them out of donating money."
"So you water down the truth?" Virgilia asked. "You prostitute yourself and your organization for a few pieces of silver?"
A frown chased across the visitor's face; for the first time his eyes betrayed a hint of anger. "I would hardly put it in those terms, Miss Hazard.'' She still went by that name in anti-slavery circles, preferring it to Mrs. Grady.
The truth was, the leaders of the movement in Philadelphia were sharply divided on the question of accepting help from Virgilia and her lover, because their extreme opinions tended to create problems. As a matter of fact, so did their mere presence. Part of the leadership wanted nothing whatever to do with them; the other faction, of which Tubbs was the foremost representative, was willing to use Grady provided he would submit himself to a measure of control. Reluctantly, Tubbs decided he'd better emphasize that again.
"In dealing with power blocs, certain compromises are always necessary if you hope to achieve —''
"Mr. Tubbs," Grady interrupted, "I think you'd better leave. We aren't interested in making an appearance under your terms."
Tubbs labored to control his voice and his temper. "I wish you wouldn't be so hasty. Perhaps you'll reconsider if I add this. I believe you can be very useful to the cause of abolition — but not everyone in our society shares that view. It took a long time to persuade some of our members to agree to tender this invitation." A glance at Virgilia. "I doubt it will be repeated."
"Grady doesn't want to speak to milksops and whores," Virgilia said with a toss of her head. Her hair was uncombed, dull, dirty. "Our brand of abolitionism is Mr. Garrison's."
"Burning the Constitution? That's what you favor?" Tubbs shook his head. On Independence Day, Garrison had caused a national uproar by touching a match to a copy of the Constitution at a rally near Boston. Virgilia obviously thought he had done the right thing.
"Why not? The Constitution is precisely what Garrison called it: a covenant with death and an agreement with hell."
"Such statements only alienate the people we need most —" Tubbs began.
Virgilia sneered. "Oh, come, Mr. Tubbs. What kind of attitude is that — if you really believe in the cause?"
Again his eyes flashed. "Perhaps I demonstrate my belief in a different way than yours, Miss Hazard."
"By refusing to take risks? By dressing so splendidly and hobnobbing with bigoted white people? By refusing to sacrifice your own personal comfort and —"
He exploded then, striking the table. "Don't prate at me about risks or sacrifice. I grew up as a slave in Maryland, and when I was fourteen I ran away. I took my younger brother with me. We were caught. Sent to slavebreakers. They left me this" — he slapped his bad leg — "but they did worse to him. He's had a deranged mind ever since."
Grady was contemptuous. "And you don't care about paying them back?"
"Of course I care! Once, nothing else mattered. Then I escaped to Philadelphia, and in a year or two, when the furor and fear of pursuit abated, I began to think. I've become less interested in revenge for myself than in liberty for others. It's the system I hate most — the system I want to abolish."
"I say let it end by violence!" Virgilia exclaimed.
"No. Any movement in that direction will only guarantee the prolongation of slavery, and all the repressions that go with it —"
Tubbs faltered, noting their hostility. He rose, carefully placed his stovepipe hat on his gray head. "I'm afraid I'm wasting my breath."
She laughed at him. "Indeed you are."
Tubbs pressed his lips together but said nothing. He turned and limped toward the door. Virgilia called in a nasty voice, "Be sure to close it on your way out."
There was no reply; the door shut softly but firmly.
Grady had been sitting very straight in his chair. All at once his shoulders slumped. "Not that closing the door will do a blessed bit of good." He shuddered, partly from cold, partly from despair. "Throw some more wood in."
"There isn't any more wood — and only enough money to get me to Lehigh Station." She wasn't angry, just stating facts. She spooned gruel into a tin bowl and set it in front of him. "I'll have to go home again."
Grady peered into the bowl, grimaced, and pushed it away. "I don't like for you to do that. I hate to have you beg."
"I never beg. I tell them what I need, and I get it. Why shouldn't I? They have enough. They squander more in a single day than all the people here in niggertown spend in a year." She stood behind him, trying to warm him by kneading his neck with her fingers. "Soldiers at war don't expect to live in luxury."
"Tubbs doesn't think we're at war."
"Eunuchs like Tubbs have been too comfortable, too long. They've forgotten. We'll win the war without them. The jubilee will come, Grady. I know it."
Listless and unconvinced, he reached for her hand while she stared into space. Snow continued to blow in through cracks in the wall, settling on the blankets that served as their bed. In a corner, where there was an even larger crack, the snow had already formed a fluffy loaf on a big pile of rags. Grady picked rags to keep them alive. When there were no rags, he stole. When even that method failed, Virgilia went back to Lehigh Station for a few days.
"I can't feel any heat from the stove," she said. "We'd better crawl under the blankets for a while."
"Sometimes I feel so bad for getting you into this kind of life —"
"Hush, Grady." Her cold fingers pressed his mouth. "I chose it. We're soldiers, you and I. We're going to help Captain Weston bring the jubilee."
Grady's look reproved her. "You aren't supposed to say his name out loud, Virgilia."
She laughed, angering him with her white woman's superiority. "Surely you're not taken in by that nonsense? All those code names and cipher books? Dozens of people know the true identity of the man who calls himself Captain Weston. Hundreds know about his activities, and millions more will know in a few months. After we've helped him free your people down South, we'll deal with mine up here. We'll deal with every white man and woman who opposed us actively or by indifference. Starting, I think, with my brother Stanley and that bitch he married."
Her smile and her whispered words scared Grady so badly he forgot his anger.
"I don't mind going home for clothing or food," she assured him as they settled themselves under the cold blankets, which smelled of dirt and wood smoke. "But I wish you'd let me take you along someti —''
"No." It was the one point on which he never bent. "You know what people would do to us if we showed up together in that little town."
"Oh, yes, I know," she sighed, pushing herself against him. "I hate them for it. God, how I hate them, my darling. We'll repay them, too. We — oh."
What she felt startled her. Even in the cold he wanted her. Soon they were fighting off their mutual misery in the only way they knew.
The fringe of the winter storm passed over Lehigh Station, dusting the ground and the rooftops with white. It was still snowing intermittently when Virgilia arrived on the night boat. Next year she would be able to make these trips in a heated railway coach with no concern about whether the river had frozen. The Lehigh Road had announced plans to extend service to Bethlehem and on up the valley.
Much as she hated her family, she understood that it was only their tolerance that made it possible for her to survive in Philadelphia. Specifically, the tolerance of her brother George and his wife, who let her stay a night or so at Belvedere and permitted her to steal away with a burlap bag full of cast-off clothing or a valise loaded with tins and paper-wrapped packages of food. Despite her steady drift into the mental set of a revolutionary, a certain practicality remained in Virgilia's makeup. She really knew better than to bring Grady to Lehigh Station, and she tried to time her arrivals so that darkness concealed them. Certain bigoted citizens of the village might actually attempt to harm her if they saw her. She knew who they were and had marked them for elimination at the proper time.
Clad only in thin woolen gloves and a coat too light for the season, she struggled up the hill in blowing snow. By the time she reached Belvedere, the snow had turned her hair white. A buggy and blanketed horse stood at the hitching post. She let herself in — George allowed that — and heard voices from the parlor: Constance, George, and another she recognized as the local Roman Catholic priest.
"What is a Christian response to the Kansas issue?" the priest was asking. "That is the question which plagues me these days. I feel obliged to discuss the matter with each of my parishioners, so I will know their —"
He stopped, noticing Virgilia in the doorway. George looked at her with surprise, Constance with some dismay.
"Good evening, George. Constance. Father Donnelly."
"We weren't expecting you —" George began. They never knew when she would arrive; he made the same remark each time. Lately she had begun to find him tiresome.
An insincere smile acknowledged his statement. Then she said to the priest, "There is no Christian response to the situation in Kansas. It is so-called Christians who have enslaved the Negroes. Any man who dares to bring a slave over a territorial border invites — demands — the only response which is possible. A bullet. If I were out there, I'd be the first to pull a trigger."
She made the statement in such a reasonable way that the elderly priest was speechless.
George wasn't. Livid but controlled, he said, "You'd better go upstairs and get out of those wet clothes."
She stared at him for a moment. "Of course. Good evening, Father."
After the priest left, George paced up and down, fuming. "I don't know why we tolerate Virgilia. Sometimes I think we're fools."
Constance shook her head. "You don't want to treat her the way Stanley does. She's still your sister."
He stared down at the little puddle of melted snow left by Virgilia's shoes. "I find it increasingly hard to remember that."
"But we must," she said.
Later that night, George woke in bed to find Constance stirring in the dark.
"What's wrong? Are you sick again?"
The explanation came to mind because she had been weak for a month or so. She had lost a child spontaneously about sixty days after realizing she was once more pregnant. It was the third time it had happened in as many years, and each loss seemed to produce physical aftereffects that lasted longer than previous ones: dizziness, sweats, and nausea in the night. George was worried not only about his wife's health but about her state of mind, since the doctor hinted that she might never carry another child to full term.
"I'm fine," she said. "I must get dressed and leave for an hour. There's another shipment due."
"That's right. I forgot."
"You go back to sleep."
He was already putting his feet on the chilly floor. "I'll do no such thing. The weather's miserable. You can't walk all the way to the shed. Let me put on some clothes, and I'll bring the buggy to the front door.''
They sparred another minute or so, she telling him he needn't go out into the cold with her and he insisting. Both knew he would have his way. The truth was, Constance was happy he wanted to accompany her. She felt weak and on the verge of a severe chill. She hated the thought of venturing into the winter night alone, though she would have done it.
George was glad to go for another reason, too. He could see and perhaps speak with the new arrival. More than all the orators, editorialists, and divines put together, the passengers traveling the underground railroad helped to shape his thinking about the issue dividing the country. He snapped his galluses over his shoulders and patted her arm.
"I'm going. No more argument."
Twenty minutes later, he drove the creaking buggy up to the shed at the rear of the mill property. A lantern glimmered inside. He helped Constance climb down with the valise she had brought from the house. Impulsively, she kissed him. Her lips and his cheek were icy, stiff as parchment. Yet the kiss was warming.
She hurried to the door and gave the signal: two knocks, a pause, then two more. George crunched through the brilliantly lit snow and felt it spill over the tops of his shoes and soak his stockings. The storm had passed. The moon hung in the clear sky like a fine china plate.
Belzer, the merchant, opened the door cautiously. He started when he saw a second figure.
"It's only me," George said.
"Oh, yes. Come in, come in."
The passenger was seated at a table with a square of jerky beef in his hands. He was a muscular, reddish-brown man whose cheekbones suggested some Indian blood. He was about thirty-five but all his curly hair was white. George could imagine why.
"This is Kee," Belzer said, as proud as if he were introducing a member of his own family. "He comes to us all the way from Alabama. His name is short for Cherokee. His maternal grandmother belonged to the tribe."
"Well, Kee, I'm glad you're here," Constance said. She set the valise beside the table. "There are boots in here and two extra shirts. Do you have a winter coat?"
"Yes'm." The runaway had a resonant bass voice. He seemed nervous in their presence.
"They gave him one at the station near Wheeling," Belzer said.
"Good," Constance said. "Most times Canada is even colder than Pennsylvania. But once you're there, you'll have no more worries about slave catchers."
"I want to work," Kee told them. "I be good cook."
"I gather that's what he did most of his life," Belzer said.
George was only partly aware of the conversation, so fascinated was he with the former slave's posture and mannerisms. Kee's head seemed to sit low between his shoulders, as if held in a perpetual cringe. Even here, in free territory, his dark eyes showed fear and distrust. He kept darting glances at the door, as if he expected someone to crash through at any moment.
"— worked for a particularly strict, vicious master," Belzer was saying. "Kee, show them what you showed me, will you please?"
The runaway laid the untasted jerky aside. He stood up, unbuttoned his shirt, and slipped it to his waist. Constance choked softly and gripped her husband's arm. George was equally sickened by the sight of so much scar tissue. It ran from Kee's shoulder blades to the small of his back; some of it looked as if a nest of snakes had petrified just beneath the skin.
Belzer's mild eyes showed fury. "Some of it was done with a whip, some with heated irons. When did it happen the first time, Kee?"
"When I be nine. I took berries from master's garden." He cupped his fingers to illustrate a small handful. "This many berries."
George shook his head. He knew why his own beliefs had become rock-hard in recent months.
Later, back in bed in Belvedere, George held Constance in his arms to warm them both. "Every time I encounter a man like Kee, I wonder why we've tolerated slavery this long."
He couldn't see the admiration in her eyes as she replied, "George, do you realize how much you've changed? You wouldn't have said such a thing when I first met you."
"Maybe not. But I know how I feel now. We've got to put a stop to slavery. Preferably with the consent and cooperation of the people who perpetuate the system. But if they refuse to listen to reason, then without it."
"What if it came to a choice between abolition and your friendship with Orry? He is one of those perpetuating the system, after all."
"I know. I hope it never comes to a choice like that."
"But if it did, what would happen? I'm not trying to press you, but I've been anxious to know for a long time. I understand how much you like and respect Orry —''
Despite the pain of it, his conscience would permit but one answer. "I'd sacrifice friendship before I sacrificed what I believe."
She hugged him. Clinging to him, she soon fell asleep.
He lay awake a good while longer, seeing snaky scar tissue and dark eyes constantly darting toward a doorway. And after he drifted off, he dreamed of a black man screaming while someone seared him with an iron.
If members of the Southern planter class represented one extreme that George disliked, his own sister represented another. During her two-day visit at Belvedere they argued about popular sovereignty, the fugitive laws, indeed almost every facet of the slavery issue. Virgilia's position on all of them left no room for compromise.
"I would solve the whole problem with a single stroke," she said as she sat at the supper table with George and Constance. Fearing the conversation would drift into acrimony — it usually did — Constance had already sent the children off to play. "One day's work in the South, and it would all be over. That's my dream, anyway," Virgilia added with a smile that made George shiver.
She pressed her fork into her third wedge of pound cake, took a bite, then poured on more hot rum sauce from the silver server. She looked at her brother calmly. "You can shudder and grimace all you want, George. You can prate about scruples and mercy until you turn blue, but the day's coming."
"Virgilia, that's rot, A slave revolution can't possibly succeed."
"Of course it can — properly financed and organized. One glorious night of fire and justice. Iniquity washed away in a great river of blood."
He was so appalled he almost dropped his demitasse. He and Constance stared at each other, then at their visitor. She was gazing at the ceiling — or at some apocalyptic scene beyond.
George wanted to shout at her. Instead he tried to make light of her remarks.
"You should try writing stage melodramas."
She looked at him suddenly. "Joke all you want. It's coming."
Unintimidated by the chilling stare, Constance said, "You realize, of course, that it is fear of revolution by the black majority that prevents many Southerners from even discussing gradual, compensated emancipation?''
"Compensated emancipation is a pernicious idea. As Mr. Garrison says, it's the same as paying a thief to surrender stolen property."
"Nevertheless, what Southerners see in the wake of emancipation are freed slaves coming after them with rocks and pitchforks. Your inflammatory speculations don't help the situation."
Virgilia shoved her dessert plate away. "It's more than speculation, I promise you."
"So you've said. Repeatedly," George said in a brusque way. "While we're on the subject, let me be blunt about something. You ought to sever your connection with Captain Weston."
Her eyes flew wide. For once her voice was faint. "What do you know about Captain Weston?"
"I know he exists. I know Weston is merely a nom de guerre, and that he's as much of an extremist as the worst Southern hotspur."
She managed scorn. "Have you hired spies to watch me?"
"Don't be an idiot. I have business contacts all over the state, and I know many of the legislators in Harrisburg. All of them hear things. One thing they hear is that Captain Weston is actively fomenting black revolt down South. He's stirring up tremendous animosity, even among people who would otherwise oppose slavery. You'd better stay away from him, or you'll suffer the consequences."
"If there are consequences, as you call them, I shall be proud to bear them."
His mind floundered. What was he to do with her? He tried another tack. "I wouldn't be so quick to say that. There are also plenty of men in Pennsylvania who hate abolitionists. Violent men."
"Is that what success and money do to you, George? Rob you of principle and replace it with cowardice?" Like an affronted queen, she rose and left the room.
Constance pressed her palms against her eyes. "I can't stand her any longer. What an obsessed, wretched creature she is!"
He reached out to take her hand and calm her, but his gaze remained fixed on the door through which Virgilia had vanished.
"It goes beyond obsession," he said softly. "Sometimes I don't think she's sane."
Eyes open and bulging, discolored tongue jutting between clenched teeth, the man hung from a rafter. From the angle of his head, it was clear the noose had snapped his neck.
Below the slowly turning, rigor-stiffened form, half a dozen men spoke in low voices. Two held smoking torches. Behind them stood long crates bearing painted inscriptions: GEOR. AL. MISS. One of the crates had been torn open with a crowbar. It contained new carbines.
Mortally terrified, Grady saw all this through a crack in the barn door. He had been sent from Philadelphia to the outskirts of Lancaster with a coded dispatch, two pages long. The man to whom he was to deliver the dispatch was hanging in the barn. Thank the Lord he had heard the voices as he crept through the feedlot and stopped in time.
He started to sneak away again. A sow suckling piglets honked loudly as he passed her pen. The noise brought an armed man to the barn door.
"Stop, you!"
Grady broke into a run. A shot whined over his head.
"Catch that nigger. He saw us."
Grady ran as he had never run in all his life. Now and then he risked a look back. The men were pursuing on horseback. Behind them, the bright red barn was bathed in the sullen light of a December sundown. All at once flames licked from the hayloft, then began to swallow the huge, gaudy hex sign painted on the building. They had fired the place.
Their shots fell short but drove him on. He scrambled wildly over a stone stile, lost his balance, and smashed his mouth hard as he fell. Blood dripped, but he paid little attention, panting as he plunged into thick woods. He finally eluded the horsemen by lying in cold water under a creek bank for half an hour. Only then did he realize the price he had paid for his life. As he touched his upper lip, tears brimmed in his eyes.
Next morning he staggered into the hovel in Philadelphia. There he permitted himself to break down at last. His thoughts tumbled out.
"Captain Weston's dead. I saw him hanging. They burned him, too, right along with his barn. They almost got me. I ran and fell. The wires came loose. I lost my teeth. Goddamn it, I lost my teeth." Tears rolled down his cheeks as he slumped in Virgilia's arms.
"Now, now." She held him, stroking his head. "Don't cry. Captain Weston wasn't much of a leader. He talked too much. Too many people knew about him. Someday another man will come along, a better one. Then the revolution will succeed."
"Yes, but — I lost my new teeth, goddamn it."
She cradled his head on her breasts and didn't answer. She was gazing past him, smiling faintly as she imagined white blood flowing.
Ashton turned the key, then tested the door to be certain it was locked. She rushed across her bedroom, pulled the shutters in, and latched them. She tried to counsel herself against panic, but with little success.
She took off her clothes, layer after layer, flinging the garments every which way. Naked, she stepped in front of the pier glass and scrutinized her reflection.
Could anyone tell? No, not yet. Her stomach remained smooth and flat. But it wouldn't stay that way long. About ninety days had passed since the trip to West Point. Her recklessness had caught up with her.
It couldn't have happened at a worse time. About a month ago, sick of Huntoon's constant importuning, she had given in and agreed to marry him in the spring. At that time she had already missed one flow. She told herself it was because of some slight female problem that would clear up, and not the consequence of the enjoyable night in the powder laboratory.
But the problem didn't clear up. And Huntoon spoke with Orry; a date in March was chosen. Now she was trapped.
"Godamighty, what am I going to do?" she asked the dark-haired girl staring at her from the glass.
Orry. She'd go to Orry. He'd be kind and understanding. She managed to convince herself of that for all of five minutes, while she dressed and touched up her hair with comb and pins. Then she realized she was a ninny. When she thought about it seriously, she knew her brother would never agree to do what she wanted.
Brett, then? She ruled that out instantly. She was damned if she'd give her sister the satisfaction of knowing she was in a fix. Besides, Brett was much too cozy with Orry these days. Chasing him everywhere, conferring with him over this and that, as if she were the mistress of Mont Royal — presumptuous little bitch. If Ashton confessed to her, Brett would run straight to their brother and snitch.
A dreadful pinpoint headache began in the center of her forehead. She unlocked the bedroom door and walked slowly down the hall. At the bottom of the staircase she thought she felt a quiver in her middle. Frantically, she pressed her fingers against her skirt, searching for signs of growth.
She felt nothing. Must be gas. Lately every part of her had been upset.
Brett appeared from the back of the house, a letter in her hand. "Billy's studying chemistry. He says Professor Bailey is just wonderful. He shows them how chemistry applies to all sorts of things, like the manufacture of guncotton, and the heliograph —"
"Think I give a hang about Billy's affairs?" Ashton cried, dashing past her.
"Ashton, what in the world is the matter with you late —?"
The slammed front door chopped off the rest.
Terrified and half blinded by the low-slanting December sunlight, Ashton went running down to the Ashley. She nearly pitched off the end of the pier before she realized where she was. For a while she gazed at the light-flecked river and toyed with the idea of suicide.
But a gritty inner streak rebelled. James Huntoon might be a soft, silly slug, but he traveled in important political circles, and he was becoming more influential all the time. She didn't intend to throw away her marriage, or the opportunity it presented, by drowning herself like some simpering heroine in a Simms novel.
What to do, then? Where to turn? By behaving as she had, she had courted this kind of trouble, and although she had known she might be tripped up, she had never prepared for it in any practical way. Well, there was no help to be found at Mont Royal. All the nigger women hated and distrusted her. It was mutual. Nor did she consider her poor mother as a possible source of assistance. All Clarissa did was drift through the house with a fey smile, or sit for hours rubbing out lines she had inscribed the day before on the family tree.
"Damn," Ashton said to a great blue jay grouching at her from a wild palm. "There isn't a single person in the whole state of South Carolina who's smart enough or trustworthy enough to —"
Abruptly, a face floated into her thoughts. She could help, if anyone could. At least she might know to whom Ashton could turn. Everyone said her niggers just worshiped her. Moreover, they trusted her implicitly.
But how would she feel about the solution Ashton was determined to achieve? Some women thought that sort of thing a sin.
Only way to find out is to ask, she said to herself. What choice did she have unless she was willing to suffer utter ruin? Which she most definitely was not.
Surprisingly, the more she thought about her inspiration, the better she felt. She slept soundly and looked clear-eyed and rested when she came downstairs next morning, fancily dressed and carrying her gloves and parasol.
Immediately after she called for the carriage, Orry appeared from around the corner of the house. His right sleeve was rolled up, and there was a hammer in his hand.
"My, aren't you pretty today," he said, tucking the hammer in his belt.
"I declare, Orry — you must think I'm some old chore woman who never fixes herself up. That's Brett, not me."
He fingered his long beard and let the remark pass. "Going calling?"
"Yes, sir, over to Resolute. It's been way too long since I paid my respects to Madeline."
A wrinkled black footman opened the door. "Mistress Madeline? In the music room. If you'll please wait here, I'll announce you, Miss Ashton."
He marched away with a stately stride. Another door opened. Justin poked his head out.
"Who's that? Oh, Ashton. Good morning. Haven't seen you over this way in an age."
"Yes, indeed, it's been too long." Ashton smiled. "You look wrought up, Justin."
"Why not?" He strolled toward her, holding up a copy of the Mercury. "More of those infernal Republican groups are forming up North, and they all want the same damn thing — repeal of the fugitive-slave laws and the Kansas-Nebraska bill."
Ashton sighed. "Isn't that just terrible? Orry said there was one better piece of news, though. He told me that out in Kansas they elected a pro-slavery delegate to the Congress." She was never completely sure of such things: "Didn't they?"
" 'Deed they did. But a lot of good men had to ride over the border from Missouri to ensure that the election would come out the right way. I hope to heaven this new party withers on the vine. It's clearly nothing more than a combination of Yankee fanatics out to do us dirt."
Slapping the paper against his palm, he left. Ashton was grateful. She was nervous. She fished a bit of crisp lace from her reticule and dabbed her upper lip dry. The footman returned to conduct her to the music room.
Madeline rose to greet her, smoothing her skirts and smiling. It was a polite smile, but that was all; the two women had never been more than acquaintances. Ashton's eyes flicked to the little book Madeline had laid on the table: Walden, or Life in the Woods. She'd never heard of it. People said Madeline read a lot of trashy Northern books.
"This is an unexpected pleasure, Ashton. You're looking fit."
"So — so are you." After that hesitation, she gained control of herself, resolving to do the best job of acting she had ever done.
"May I ring for some refreshments?"
"No, thank you. I came here to talk very seriously to you. No one else can help me." With an exaggerated glance over her shoulder, she added, "Is it all right if I shut the door to keep our conversation private?"
Madeline's dark brows lifted. "Of course. Is someone in your family sick? Is it Orry?"
Ashton rushed to the door and closed it. She might have noticed the way Madeline mentioned her brother with a catch in her voice, but she was too preoccupied with her own performance.
"No, they're all fine. I'm the one in need of assistance. I won't mince words, Madeline. I don't know of another soul I can trust to advise me. I certainly can't go to my family. You see, a few months ago, I —" This time the pause was deliberate, designed for a poignant effect. "I committed an indiscretion. And now I'm, as they say, in trouble."
"I see."
Mercifully, Madeline's tone held no condemnation. She gestured to a chair with a pale hand. "Please, sit down."
"Thank you. It's such a strain bearing the secret all by myself. I'm just about out of my wits —" Tears sprang to her eyes almost the second she willed it. Why not? She was desperate. Everything had to work perfectly, or she was finished. There would be no second chance here.
"I can understand," Madeline murmured.
"You know so many people in the neighborhood — they all think so well of you — that's why I knew I could speak. Beg your help —"
"I gather you don't want to have the child?"
"I can't! I'm to marry James in the spring. The date's already set. I love him, Madeline —"
Did the lie sound believable? Under her skirts her knees were shaking. She pressed them together.
"But God forgive me —" She sighed a little too much on that, she thought. She cast her eyes down to her lap. "The child is not his."
"I won't ask whose it is. But I'd be less than honest if I didn't say this about the solution you're seeking: morally, I disapprove of it."
Now, Ashton thought in a panic. Now! Don't hold back. She leaned forward from the waist, her sobs so artful they almost felt real to her.
"Oh, I was afraid you might. So many women do. I appreciate that you have your convictions. I freely admit I've been sinful. But must I lose James and see my entire life destroyed because of one stupid mistake? Can't you at least give me a name? I know there are people in the low country who help girls in trouble. I'll never reveal the source of the information. Just tell me where to turn." She laced her hands together, as if in prayer. "Please, Madeline."
Madeline studied her guest. Gradually, the sight of Ashton's reddened eyes overcame her suspicions. She glided to the younger woman with a rustle of skirts, slipped her arm around Ashton's shoulder, and said as Ashton clasped her hand:
"Calm yourself. I'll help you. I can't pretend to believe it's right. But then, as you say, neither is it right for your life to be wrecked because of a few moments of uncontrollable emotion. We all have those," she added. Then, thoughtfully: "I know of a woman who lives back in the marshes. She said I could call on her if I ever needed help. It wouldn't be safe for you to go to her alone. You'd need a companion."
Ashton's upturned face had grown bright with hope. Madeline took a long breath, as if she were about to dive into a deep pool — which was almost the way she felt, not really wanting to involve herself in the problems of this shallow, prideful girl who turned to her only because she was desperate. Yet Ashton was a human being and in need of help. It was Madeline's misfortune always to be swayed by those considerations.
"I'll go with you," she said suddenly. "It will take me a few days to make arrangements and obtain directions. I've never visited Aunt Belle before."
"Oh, thank you. Oh, Madeline, you're the most wonderful, compassionate —''
"Not so loud, please," Madeline cut in, though not harshly. "I'll have to confide in my servant, Nancy, but beyond that only you and I must know. We don't want anything to hurt your reputation or cause trouble for you."
Nor do I want any trouble out of this, she said to herself in the wake of some nervous thoughts of Justin.
The preparations were intricate. First, contact had to be made with the midwife. Nancy handled that. Then a date had to be chosen, and Ashton informed by means of a sealed note smuggled to Mont Royal by the one man Nancy could trust, a big tea-colored slave named Pete with whom she had been living for over a year.
Several days before the appointed date, Madeline told Justin that she wanted to travel to Charleston to do some shopping. He muttered his consent, scarcely paying attention when she said she'd be gone overnight. He did insist that she take a male slave with her, and Nancy, too. She had expected that stipulation.
The night before the fictitious Charleston trip, she slept very little. Justin lurched into her room around eleven; he and Francis had been sitting downstairs for the last two hours, drinking and cursing the anti-slavery agitators in Kansas. He approached her bed without a word. He flung her nightdress above her waist, put his hands around her ankles and pulled her legs apart. Ten minutes later, still having said nothing, he left.
She hated his crude lovemaking. But at least when he visited her this way, he returned to his own room afterward and left her in peace the rest of the night. Now there was no chance of his detecting her nervousness.
In the morning — a sunny, pleasant day, exactly two weeks before Christmas — Nancy packed Madeline's valise. At noon Pete brought the chaise around, its hood in place to protect them from the elements. During the past hour the sun had disappeared, and the weather looked threatening. Madeline didn't want to travel the back roads in a storm, but it was too late to make other arrangements.
Once out of sight of Resolute, she took the reins from Nancy. Pete trotted along at the left side of the chaise. In this fashion they proceeded to a deserted crossroads where Ashton was waiting in her buggy. She looked pale and anxious.
Pete took Ashton's buggy and drove away into the pines. He had a friend nearby, a freedman, and would stay with the man's family overnight, meeting the women at the crossroads about the same time tomorrow. Ashton spent a few moments chattering about her excuse for being away from Mont Royal; it also involved staying with a friend, a nonexistent one. Madeline heard Ashton's voice, but few of the words registered.
The three women crowded into the chaise, Ashton in the middle. It was evident to Madeline that Orry's sister didn't like squeezing against a Negress, but she'd just have to put up with it.
Madeline tugged the reins and the chaise got under way. She glanced apprehensively at the swift-moving slate clouds. She was feeling more and more nervous about this expedition. One thing was in their favor, however — the remote location of Aunt Belle Nin's cabin. It lay far back in the marshes above Resolute, accessible only by dirt roads that seldom saw any traffic. Madeline believed they had an excellent chance of reaching Aunt Belle's without encountering another soul and certainly no one who would recognize them.
When they were about halfway to their destination, the sky grew black and the rain came, along with a high wind and pellets of hail. The road, here running beside a murky marsh, quickly turned to gumbo. Madeline stopped the chaise.
The hail and rain let up after ten minutes, and the wind moderated. Madeline flicked the reins over the back of the horse and they started on, only to founder within fifty yards when the left wheel sank into a muddy rut.
"Everyone out," Madeline ordered.
She and Nancy put their shoulders against the wheel. They freed it while Ashton stood by and watched. Just as the wheel pulled out of the mud, Madeline heard a sound that made her heart freeze. A horseman was approaching from up the road.
"Get down. Hide over there!" she said to Ashton, who was confused by the order. Surely Madeline wasn't telling her to ruin her fine dress by squatting in the wet, dirty weeds?
"Blast you, girl, hurry!" Madeline pushed her. None too soon, either. The rider galloped into sight, slowing when he spied the carriage.
There was something familiar about the man's sturdy form and wide-brimmed black hat. Madeline's stomach spasmed. She recognized him. Would he know her?
"Miz Madeline, what on earth are you doing this far from Resolute on such a bad day?" said Watt Smith, a middle-aged man who frequently raced his horses against those of her husband.
"Just an errand, Mr. Smith."
"Out here? Don't nobody live out here but a few ignorant niggers. Sure you ain't lost?"
Madeline shook her head. Smith looked unconvinced. He glanced at Nancy in an unfriendly way. "Ain't safe for white women to be on the roads, what with half the nigger population always mutterin' about revolt. Would you like me to ride along with you?"
"No, thank you, we'll be perfectly all right. Good day."
Rebuffed and mightily puzzled, Smith scowled, touched his hat brim, and cantered off.
Madeline waited about five minutes, then called Ashton from her hiding place. Her heart was racing. She feared the whole plot would now come to light somehow.
Well, the damage was done. They might as well go ahead.
Inside the ramshackle cabin, Ashton was moaning, though as yet nothing had happened. Madeline sat on the small porch in Aunt Belle's rocker, exhausted by the strain of the afternoon.
The stringy old octoroon woman listened to the outcries of her patient and puffed her clay pipe. "Soon as it's over and she's resting, we'll fix pallets for you and Nancy inside."
"That'll be fine. Aunt Belle. Thank you."
"I want you to know" — she pointed at Madeline with the stem of her pipe — "I'm helping her strictly because it was you who asked. That girl mistreats her people."
"I know she does. She and I have never been close, but I felt I had to help her. She didn't know where to turn."
"Don't make a habit of riskin' your skin over her kind. She's a mean, spoiled crybaby, not fit to kiss your hem."
Madeline smiled in a weary way. Aunt Belle went inside. The door closed.
The sight of the midwife sent Ashton into another fit of fearful moaning. The old woman exclaimed, "Nancy, grab that bottle of corn and pour some down her throat. And you, missy — you shut your mouth and lie still, or I'll send you back up the road to have your bastard whether you want it or not."
Ashton's complaints subsided. Madeline slumped in the chair, trying to relax. She couldn't. She kept remembering the suspicious eyes of Watt Smith.
As they drove back to the crossroads next day, Ashton swooned several times. Madeline felt the girl was putting on because she thought she should. Pete met them with the other buggy. They saw Ashton into it, then started home. Ashton had barely remembered to offer a feeble smile and a halfhearted word of thanks.
Yesterday's storm had strewn the roads with branches and palmetto fronds. Madeline found the grounds of Resolute equally littered. She must get a crew to work to clean up the debris. But not today. Tomorrow would be plenty of —
"Miz Madeline!" Nancy's urgent whisper jerked her out of her tired reverie. She looked up and saw Justin stride from the house. His face looked thunderous.
"I heard you were searching for Charleston upriver," he said. "Did you forget where it was?"
Panic and confusion churned in her. Watt Smith must have ridden by to say he had seen her on a remote road where no respectable white woman belonged. Any conscientious man would have done the same thing. She had almost expected it of Smith and yet had hidden the fact from herself.
"Justin —"
The word trailed off. She was too stunned and weary to think up a lie.
Nancy and Pete shot terrified glances at each other. Justin strode to the chaise, grabbed Madeline's arm, and dragged her out. She quailed, unable to believe he could smile at a time like this. He was enjoying her entrapment.
"Where have you been?" He jerked her wrist, hurting her. "Fitting me with a set of horns?''
"Justin, for God's sake, you mustn't say such things in front of — oh!"
Tears sprang to her eyes; he had pulled her arm again, hard. He thrust his face close to hers.
"Have you been whoring behind my back? We'll soon find out." He hauled her into the house.
"I'll ask you once again. Where were you?"
"Don't do this, Justin. I wasn't betraying you, as you call it. I'd never do such a thing. I gave you my pledge the day we married."
She retreated in front of him as she spoke. He followed her across the bedroom, his manure-flecked boots thumping softly, steadily. A small tripod stand bearing a vase stood in his path. He picked up the tripod and threw it over his shoulder. The stand clattered. The vase broke.
"Then where were you?"
"On a — a private errand. Woman's business." Desperately frightened, she didn't know what else to say.
"I must have a better answer than that." His hand shot out, clamping on her wrist again. "A truthful answer."
"Let go of me. Stop hurting me or I'll scream the house down."
Unexpectedly, he was amused. He released her and stepped back. "Go ahead. No one will pay any attention, except maybe that nigger slut you're so thick with. I'm going to take care of her, too, don't you worry."
A new, sharper fear drove through Madeline then. Though she was frightened, she knew she could hold out against his questions almost indefinitely. But if poor Nancy were dragged into it —
"You needn't look so alarmed, my dear." His tone was pleasant, conversational. "I won't injure you physically. I'd never leave so much as the smallest mark on you. It would be bad for appearances. Besides, you're a lady, or you're supposed to be. Whippings and similar methods of persuasion are for niggers. I'll try them on your wench tonight. On the buck, too. Meantime, I shall continue to ask you politely for an answer."
In spite of herself, she began to cry. She hated the weakness that brought on the tears. That weakness sprang from tension, exhaustion, and fear. Somehow she couldn't control it.
"I gave you an answer, Justin. I didn't betray you. I never would."
A long, aggrieved sigh. "My dear, that isn't acceptable. I shall have to leave you in this room until you come to your senses."
"Leave me —?"
Belatedly, understanding widened her eyes. Like an animal fleeing for its life, she ran past him toward the door. She almost reached it. Her fingers stretched to within inches of the polished brass knob. Then his hand swooped in. He seized her wrist and flung her back across the room. She cried out, struck the bed, and sprawled.
"You have deeply offended me with your lies and disobedience. This time I shall not limit your confinement to a day and a night. Good-bye, my dear."
"Justin!"
She wrenched the knob back and forth and managed to open the door half an inch. But he was stronger; he pulled it shut from the other side. She sank down in a heap at the sound of the lock shooting home.
Once outside, Justin stopped smiling and allowed his true emotion, rage, to show itself. What he had just decreed as punishment — imprisonment for at least a week — was a mere palliative. Madeline had defied him for years with her books and her unfeminine opinions. This latest escapade was merely the culmination of her revolt. A revolt fostered by his tolerance —
His weakness.
That situation would change, he vowed to himself as he stormed downstairs. He began screaming at the house men to fetch Nancy and Pete. They couldn't be found.
An hour later, he realized they had run off. His wild rage grew wilder. He dispatched a boy to Francis's house with instructions that a patrol be organized immediately. A patrol that would shoot the fugitives on sight.
They were glimpsed only once, two days later, crossing the Savannah River on a ferry. Somehow they had obtained forged passes. No one questioned their right to travel, and no one in the neighborhood of Resolute ever saw them again.
How long had she been locked up? Three days? No, four, she thought.
There was no way to find out what had happened to Nancy and Pete. She feared they had been tortured or killed. Light-headed, she was barely able to recall why she was worried about them. She slept during the day and roamed her room — her cage — at night. Outside the shuttered windows on the piazza, a man stood guard around the clock. Once a day, about sunrise, two house blacks came to the door. One kept watch while the other slid her day's allotment of food inside. It consisted of three half slices of coarse brown bread. With them was a shallow bowl of water. During the few seconds the door was open, the slaves gave her swift, sorrowing looks, but they dared not say anything aloud.
She was permitted no water for washing. Each day she used a little from the shallow bowl. Even so, she soon began to smell. On the third day, while she slept, someone slipped in and emptied her brimming slops jar. By then her quarters had acquired the odor of a barn.
What did it matter? As each hour went by, she was less aware of her surroundings. Strange ringings in her ears distracted her. Strange lights, purple or fiery white, danced in the corners of the room —
Or were they in her head?
"Orry. Orry, why didn't you come sooner?"
She saw him standing by the door, holding out his right hand while his eyes grieved. Thankfully, she rushed toward him. The instant she touched his hand, he vanished.
She started to cry. Some small, calm voice in the well of her soul said, How ashamed your father would be if he saw this.
She didn't care. She was sick, spent, terrified. Her sobs soon changed to screaming.
"A nourishing meal — that's what she needs."
"Yes, Doctor," Justin said in a solicitous tone, "but we've tried all week to persuade her to eat. She refuses."
Justin and the physician looked at each other, their expressions the picture of sympathy and concern. Only their eyes communicated their true feelings.
Madeline saw that but failed to grasp its significance. She was semiconscious, lying in bed with her dark hair tangled on her shoulders and her eyes huge, childlike. Her face was the color of flour.
"Oh, I'm not surprised," the doctor said with a sagacious nod. "That is a frequent symptom of nervous prostration." He was a rotund, elegantly dressed man whose cheeks had the glossy look of success. His name was Lonzo Sapp.
"Fortunately," he continued, "modern medicine can prescribe a treatment which is usually successful. Bed rest. Plenty of hot tea, then food when she feels better. I also want you to give her a generous dose of a special celery tonic once a day."
"Celery tonic," Justin repeated. "Is it your own formulation?"
Dr. Sapp nodded. "The base is wine vinegar, but the therapeutic ingredient is pulped celery."
The physician leaned over the bed and brushed a lock of hair from Madeline's brow. Her skin glistened in the light of the candles in a branched holder at the bedside. Smoothing and patting the hair above her brow, he resembled a kind father as he said, "If you can hear me, Mrs. LaMotte, I want you to know that you can soon be yourself again. Do you want that?"
Her thick, dry tongue inched over her cracked lower lip. She made no sound, staring at the doctor with tortured eyes that she closed briefly to signify assent.
"Then you must follow my regimen to the letter. It was your husband who summoned me from Charleston. He's deeply worried about you. I have reassured him, but recovery is in your hands alone. Will you do everything I ask?''
"Y-yes."
Justin bent and planted a gentle kiss on her cheek. He felt much better, having found a remedy for the rebelliousness that had plagued their marriage. The remedy was also a way of repaying her for cuckolding him. He was positive she had done so last week and might have been doing so for years. She certainly went off by herself often enough.
By locking her up and starving her, he had broken all her defenses except one. Had that fallen, she would have confessed freely, would have told him where she had gone and with whom.
At first his failure to gain that information had driven him wild with anger. Then, seeing that she would ultimately defeat him, he turned her silence around and transformed it into a benefit. If he learned the name of her lover, he would probably be humiliated. Suppose it was some white trash tradesman or mechanic. Some nigger. Ignorance was preferable. Or so he said to himself on one level of his mind. On another, he conceived a new and permanent hatred of his wife.
But no sign of it showed as he straightened up beside the bed. Before coming in he had doused himself liberally with a cinnamonny skin tonic; she and the room smelled abominable. That could end now. He strode to the shutters and flung them back.
Cool night air gusted in, stirring the candles. Her eyes shone with gratitude. "She'll be herself when she regains her strength," Sapp assured him as they left. "It's weakness which causes her disorientation."
The doctor closed the bedroom door, glanced up and down the hall, and continued in a low voice, "After a week, she should be accustomed to the tonic. Not suspicious of it. You can then substitute the formulation we discussed."
"The one containing the laudanum."
"A small dose only. Nothing harmful, you understand. Just enough to keep her calm and agreeable."
They strolled toward the head of the stairs. Dr. Sapp continued, "Should we wish to discontinue the tonic, there are other ways for her to receive the medication. Tinctured opium is a dark, sweetish liquid, but it can be baked into cookies, or employed to baste certain meats, or mixed with wine vinegar and poured over greens. What I'm saying is, the treatment is eminently flexible. Of course, if you've read de Quincey, you know there will be symptoms. Fatigue. Constipation. Possibly signs of premature aging. The symptoms are easily attributable to other causes, however. The stress and strain of daily living," he said with a shrug. "She need never know that she's receiving laudanum."
"That is good news," Justin declared with the fervency of a man who had stayed up all night and at last saw a prospect of rest. A sad smile settled on his face. "I've been so worried about her."
"Naturally."
"I want to do everything possible to soothe her nerves and restore her peace of mind."
"An admirable goal."
"So she won't embarrass herself — or the family."
"I quite understand," murmured Dr. Sapp, his smile as thin as that of his host.
"One more question, Doctor. How long can the treatment be continued?"
"Why, if you're happy with the results — a year. Two years. Indefinitely."
Again the two men looked at each other, their unblinking stares communicating a perfect understanding. Chatting like old friends, they continued downstairs.
Late in March 1855, Ashton's marriage to James Huntoon was celebrated at Mont Royal. Orry thought it a dismal affair. Clarissa smiled at the bride but didn't know who she was.
Ashton staged a nasty scene right after the ceremony. Up to that point, Huntoon had steadfastly refused to consider a wedding trip to New York, which was the only place Ashton wanted to go. She found no inconsistency in despising all Yankees while adoring their restaurants and theaters. To the very last minute, Huntoon insisted they were going to Charleston. Ashton threw a piece of cake at him, and pouted, and the sweating bridegroom quickly changed his mind, fearing that if he didn't it would be weeks before he enjoyed his wife's favors. By the time the carriage pulled away, Ashton was in a good mood again.
On top of all that, Cooper naturally outraged most of the male guests with his opinions. He repeatedly asked why neither abolitionists nor planters would give a moment's consideration to the proposal Emerson had made to the New York Anti-Slavery Society in February. Emerson's carefully worked-out scheme for gradual emancipation called for payments to slaveholders that would eventually total two hundred million dollars — small enough price for ending a national shame and preserving peace, he argued.
"Both sides jeered," Cooper said. "Well, I can think of one explanation. The instant you do away with the reason for protest, the protesters are out of business."
"Are you saying the fight for Southern rights is being made by cynical men?" a listener demanded.
"Some are sincere. But others want the abolitionists to continue to act in an extreme way. Only then can the South justify disruption of the Union, or a separate government — which of course is madness."
They thought Cooper the mad one and a menace. Once he had been considered little more than a harmless nuisance, but that had changed. It had changed as a result of his continuing interest in Edmund Burke and Burke's political wisdom. Cooper had taken that English statesman's warning about apathy to heart, and he began to involve himself in the affairs of the Democratic party in Charleston.
He gained entrée to the party by a simple expedient. He donated several large sums for its work, so large that the leaders couldn't afford to ignore him. Also, he was not the only man in the state expressing unpopular opinions about the way the South was going. Although there were not many who spoke out, there were enough for his presence at party meetings to be tolerated, if not welcomed.
He began to travel, to meet and confer with other moderate Democrats, in Virginia he was introduced to a man very much to his taste — a tall, blunt-jawed politician named Henry Wise who had ambitions to be governor. Wise was an outspoken defender of slavery, but he also believed that those who wanted to redress Southern grievances any way except within the framework of the Union were schemers — or idiots.
"Of course I understand why they do it," Wise said. "They want to regain the power that has passed from the South to the North and West. Maybe they don't even admit that to themselves. Hell, maybe they believe their own silly pronouncements. But they're dangerous men, Cooper. They're organized, active, vocal — and a threat to the entire South."
Cooper smiled that wry, sad smile of his. " 'When bad men combine, the good must associate, else they will fall one by one, an unpitied sacrifice.' "
"Sage advice."
"As it was when Burke first wrote it back in 1770. Trouble is, it's been forgotten."
"Not forgotten. The fire eaters would just prefer not to listen to it. The fire eaters on both sides." Wise paused and studied the visitor. "I've heard about you, Cooper. You've been a pariah down in your home state for a long time. I'm glad you hied yourself back into the Democratic camp. We can use more like you — assuming that it isn't already too late."
Evidence said that it might be. Each side continued to defy the other.
Massachusetts passed a tough personal liberty law to protect all people, including blacks. The law was a reaction to the Burns affair the previous year. A fugitive slave, one Anthony Burns, had been detained at the Boston courthouse, where an abolitionist mob had attempted to rescue him and failed. Federal and state authorities had then cooperated to return Burns to his owner in the South.
In Kansas, meanwhile, a pro-slavery legislature had been elected with the help of so-called border ruffians from Missouri. They had streamed into the territory with rifles and pistols and had swung the outcome by means of intimidation and fraud. The fraudulently elected legislators had then passed laws establishing stiff penalties for anti-slavery agitation.
Month after month, both sides pushed bigger chips, and more of them, into the violent game. Missouri sent hordes of night riders over the border. The Northeast sent crates of weapons to arm the free-soil men. The crates were labeled as containing Bibles. This prompted Cooper to remark to some Democrats at a caucus in Columbia, ''Even God has been recruited. In fact, each side is claiming He's with them. Do you suppose He runs back and forth on alternate days? He must get mighty frazzied."
No one was amused.
One afternoon at the C.S.C. dock, Cooper struck up a conversation with the dock foreman, a second-generation Charlestonian named Gerd Hochwalt. The foreman could be hard on malingerers, but personally he was a mild man with a generous disposition and strong religious beliefs. He had a wife, eleven children, and a house at the outskirts of town barely big enough to contain them.
Cooper and Hochwalt were soon discussing the recent anti-slavery convention at Big Springs, Kansas. Those in attendance had drawn up a plan for the territory to seek admission as a free state. They had also repudiated the laws enacted by the fraudulently chosen legislature sitting at Shawnee Mission. A particularly fiery Mercury editorial had condemned the action at Big Springs. Hochwalt praised the editorial.
"I read it," Cooper said. "I found it nothing but the same old rhetoric." As they talked, both men kept an eye on the lines of black stevedores filing aboard Mont Royal with bales marked for a Liverpool cotton factor. On this and every other trip the ship was loaded to capacity. And for each current customer, Cooper had three waiting. The packet line was showing a monthly profit of sixty to seventy percent. Even Orry had begun to take notice of the success.
Hochwalt yelled a reprimand to one of the stevedores who had stumbled and slowed up the loading. Then he wiped his perspiring neck with a blue kerchief and said, ''The sentiments expressed by Mr. Rhett may be getting a bit shopworn, Mr. Main, but I believe in them."
"How can you, Gerd? He was calling for a separate government again."
"And why not, sir? For as long as I can remember, Northern people have scorned and insulted us. They think we're dirt, every last one of us. A nation of brothel keepers! Isn't that the term? Yet I have never owned a slave, or favored the institution, at any time in my life. The Northern abuse outrages me. If they don't stop it, then by heaven we should go our own way."
Emotionally, Cooper could understand Hochwalt's feeling. Rationally, it was incomprehensible.
"You honestly don't think men like Bob Rhett and James Huntoon and Mr. Yancey from Alabama are marching us along a path to a cliff?"
Hochwalt pondered. "No, sir. But even if they are, I'm inclined to go with them."
"For God's sake, man — why?"
The foreman peered at Cooper as if he were callow, not very bright.
"South Carolina is my home. Those men speak up for it. No one else does, Mr. Main."
"I tell you, Orry, when Hochwalt said that, a chill came over me. My foreman is no wild-eyed revolutionary. He's a solid, respectable Dutchman. If he and decent men like him are listening to the fire eaters, we've drifted farther than I ever suspected."
Cooper made that statement a few nights later. Orry had ridden to Charleston to go over the books of the shipping company. He and Cooper had devoted most of the day to the work, and at the end Orry had declared himself pleased, even offering his brother a rare word of congratulations. Now the two of them were seated in comfortable chairs of white-painted wicker, looking out on the garden at Tradd Street. Little Judah, a chunky boy, was rolling a ball to the baby, Marie-Louise, who sat spraddle-legged on the thick Bermuda grass.
"Well," Orry replied, "I try to pay as little attention as possible to that kind of thing. I've enough to think about."
But you don't find it very satisfying, Cooper said to himself as he noted the melancholy look in his brother's eyes. Orry slouched in his chair, long legs stretched in front of him. He watched the children play in the gathering shadows. Was there envy in his expression?
In a moment Orry returned to the subject of the company. "I'm thankful the vessels are full every trip. The rice market in southern Europe is still depressed. Every month it falls a little more. You were wise to insist we diversify."
Saying that, he sounded no different from the way he always did. Yet Cooper knew something was wrong. But he couldn't identify the problem or the cause. He was about to ask Orry to do so when Judith came out of the house carrying a small parcel.
"A boy from the Colony Bookshop delivered this for you, Orry."
"Oh — the book I asked for this morning. The shopkeeper was out of stock but expected a dozen copies by mid-afternoon." He quickly unwrapped the parcel. When Judith saw the gold stamping, she clapped her hands in surprise.
"Leaves of Grass. That's the book of verse Reverend Entwhistle preached against last Sunday. I read all about his sermon in the paper. He said the book was the work of a man who had abandoned reason and order, and it was filthy to boot."
Cooper said, "The fellow's receiving just as much hellfire from clerics up North — what's his name?'' He turned the book in his brother's hand. "Whitman. Since when have you found time or a liking for modern poetry?"
Under his beard, Orry turned pink. "I bought it as a gift."
"For someone at Mont Royal?"
"No, an acquaintance."
Cooper didn't press, but if he had, he wondered whether he might have discovered the reason for Orry's bleak mood.
"Supper is nearly ready," Judith said. "Rachel's been picking blue crabs since early morning." Rachel was the buxom free black woman employed as a cook. "I invited Ashton and James to join us, but they had another obligation. We seldom see them. Close as they are, they've never been here for a meal, I regret to say. Each time I ask, they're busy."
The Huntoons had moved into a fine, airy house on East Battery, a few doors below Atlantic. From there it was a short walk along Water and Church to Tradd Street. Orry had ridden past Ashton's house on horseback, but he was curiously reluctant to call on his sister.
"They have a flock of new friends," Cooper explained. "Most of 'em are members of Bob Rhett's crowd. I can't pretend it feels good to be shunned by one's own blood relation, but I expect it's for the best that they don't visit or dine with us. James and I are so far apart politically, we'd probably be arranging a duel by the end of the soup course."
Looking more cheerful, he clapped his hands. "Children," he called, "it's almost time to eat. Come sit on your father's lap."
Unable to stop thinking of Madeline, Orry gazed at the book, rewrapped it, and carefully slid it into his pocket.
During supper, Cooper tried several times to introduce the subject of an expansion plan that was much on his mind lately. The plan was unconventional. It would require nerve and much more capital than the Mains could handily scrape together. He was thinking of George Hazard as a potential partner, but he never got to mention that. Orry repeatedly turned aside all discussion of business. In fact, he hardly said twenty words while at the table. That night, in bed with Judith, Cooper remarked that he hadn't seen his brother in such a strange, sad mood since the months right after his return from Mexico.
Huntoon's law practice was growing. So was his reputation. Ashton helped that growth. She gave parties, receptions, dinners; she cultivated local leaders and their ugly, overbearing wives, never letting any of them know how much she loathed them or how cynically she was using them.
Huntoon worked long hours to prepare a definitive speech on the developing national crisis. One evening in late summer, at the house on East Battery, he delivered a condensed version to an audience of about thirty guests. The guests included editor Rhett and the gentleman recognized as perhaps the foremost advocate of separation, William Yancey of Alabama. A mild, even innocuous-looking man, Yancey was a splendid platform orator. Some were calling him the Prince of Fire Eaters. Ashton dreamed of promoting him to king, so that her husband could assume the other title.
Holding his silver-rimmed spectacles in one hand as a prop, Huntoon did his best to demonstrate his worthiness. The guests listened attentively as he launched into his conclusion, which Ashton knew by heart.
"The Union is like a great fortress, ladies and gentlemen. Half of it has already passed into the hands of barbarian invaders. Loyalists still hold the other half, which they have defended without stint for generations. Now that part of the fortress is being threatened. And I for one will apply the torch to the magazine and blow the whole place to bits before I will surrender one more inch to the barbarians!"
Ashton led the applause, which was loud and enthusiastic. While house slaves offered punch from silver trays, Yancey approached Huntoon.
"That kind of extreme action may very well be necessary, James. And afterward a new fortress will have to be constructed on the rubble of the old. The task will require loyal workers — and able leaders."
His expression said he considered Huntoon one of the latter. Or at least a candidate. Huntoon preened.
Ashton had little understanding of the issues the men debated endlessly. She honestly didn't give a hang about Southern rights and wasn't even sure what they were once you got beyond the fundamental God-given right to hold property in the form of niggers. What excited her about all the talk was the way it stirred others. In that reaction she sensed an opportunity to create and hold power. Her husband had convinced her there would someday be a separate Southern government. She meant to be one of its great ladies.
"James, that was simply wonderful," she exclaimed as she took his arm. "I declare, I don't believe I've ever heard you speak so well." She was conniving for more applause, and it worked. There was another round from guests nearby. Yancey joined in, adding a "Hear, hear!"
"Thank you, my dear." Huntoon's look of gratitude bordered on the pathetic. Ashton seldom complimented him in private, and often told him that he was an inadequate lover.
Tonight, however, the presence of notables and the success of the performance generated an unexpected sexual excitement within her. She could hardly wait to see all the guests to the door, rush upstairs, throw off her clothes, and drag her husband down beside her.
Blinking and sweating, he labored hard. Afterward, he whispered, "Was that all right?"
"Just fine," she lied. He was doing so well in his role of fire eater, she didn't want to discourage him. But he never moved her with his clumsy caresses, and in fact frequently repelled her. She consoled herself by thinking that everything, including being a great lady, had its price.
She decided that she needed to make another trip home, however. Soon.
Ashton's lover had found a new spot for their assignations: the ruins of a country church called Salvation Chapel. What a deliciously wicked thrill to hoist her skirts and let Forbes have her right out in the sunshine, on top of the tabby foundation.
Nearby, his tethered horse whinnied and pawed the ground. In the distance she could hear the boom of muskets as the bird minders in some planter's field tried to scare the September rice birds away from the ripening grain. The sounds of the horse and the guns increased her excitement; she was limp with satisfaction afterward.
"I worry about plantin' a baby," Forbes said, his handsome and sweaty face only inches above hers.
Ashton licked the comer of her mouth. ''Seems to me the risk just adds a dash of spice."
She really didn't think there was much chance of a pregnancy. Huntoon was at her all the time, and she had thus far failed to conceive. She suspected some damage had been done by Aunt Belle Nin's solution to her earlier problem. That might turn out to be a convenience, although the thought of being barren saddened her sometimes.
"It will until a youngster pops out who looks like me instead of your husband," Forbes said.
"You let me fret about James. Your job's right here."
With that, she pulled him down into an embrace. The far-off explosions of the guns had excited her again.
She went home with her buttocks scraped red by the tabby, but it was worth it. Forbes was a fine lover, attentive and enthusiastic when he was with her but content to do without her until he was summoned again. Vanity prevented Ashton from asking where Forbes practiced his considerable skills when she was absent. If there were others, they obviously couldn't compare to her; Forbes came running at her every call.
On the return trip to Mont Royal — Forbes accompanied her to within a mile of the plantation — they had another of their obsessive discussions of various ways they might injure Billy Hazard. Forbes was always fascinated by Ashton's inventive imagination, not least because it was so centered on power, sexual adventure, and revenge.
"Saw that you entertained Mr. Yancey a few days ago," Orry remarked at supper that night.
Ashton had been quite proud of the half column that the Mercury had devoted to the gathering. " 'Deed we did," she answered. "He had some peppery things to say about the Yankees. So did James. 'Course" — she turned to Brett, who was seated opposite her — "we make exceptions for friends of the family."
"I was wondering about that," Brett said, not smiling.
"Surely we do. Billy's special." Ashton's smile was sweet and flawlessly sincere. Inside, her feelings were so intense, venomous, her stomach hurt. "Has he said anything about a wedding date?"
Orry answered the question. "No. He doesn't even graduate until next June. What's a second lieutenant earn these days? A thousand dollars a year? A family can't live on that. I'd say it's much too soon to discuss marriage."
Brett's eyes flashed as she looked at her brother. "We haven't."
But they would one of these days, Ashton felt. That might be the ideal moment to strike; just when they were happiest.
After supper, Ashton walked to the family burying ground. A strong, steady wind had come up. Her hair whipped around her head like a dark flag. She knelt at the foot of Tillet's grave, the only place she ever felt ashamed of her behavior with men. She spoke softly but with great emotion.
"Things are going splendidly for James, Papa. I wish you could be here to see. I know you wanted another son instead of a daughter, but I'll make you proud of me, just like I've promised before. I'll be a famous lady. They'll know my name all over the South. They'll beg me for favors. And James too. I swear that to you, Papa. I swear."
When Ashton left the house, Orry went up to his mother's room to visit for a little while. Clarissa was polite and cheerful, but she didn't recognize him. On her work table lay her third version of the family tree. The first two had been erased so hard, so often, that they had fallen to pieces.
Walking downstairs again, he thought about Billy and Brett. He was glad they weren't interested in marrying the moment Billy left West Point. He didn't know how he'd react if Billy asked for his sister's hand right now. All he could see in the future was turmoil.
He let himself into the library and blew out the one lamp already burning. He threw the shutters back and inhaled the cool evening air. It smelled of autumn and the river. His gaze drifted lazily about the room, settling on the shadowed corner. He stared at his uniform. He reminded himself that he had a crop to harvest. He had no interest in it.
What had happened to Madeline?
That was the question savaging him these days. She had become a recluse. She seldom left Resolute, and when she did, she was always in the company of her husband. Orry had passed the LaMotte carriage on the river road a few weeks ago. He had waved at the passengers — almost too enthusiastically, he feared. He needn't have worried. Madeline's response was exactly like her husband's: a fixed smile, a steady stare, a hand barely lifted in greeting as the carriage rattled on down the road and out of sight.
From a bookshelf he took Leaves of Grass, still in its brown paper wrapping. He'd had no opportunity to present it to Madeline. She no longer called on Clarissa or responded to his pleas for a meeting. Three times during the summer he had waited at Salvation Chapel, hoping she would appear in response to one of the notes he had sent covertly to Resolute. She never did.
The last time he waited, he found broken branches and trampled grass, suggesting that other lovers had discovered the ruined church. He didn't go back. In desperation he asked one of his house slaves to try to learn whether his notes might have been intercepted. Nancy had run away months ago, so the whole system of communication could have broken down. But apparently it hadn't, at least not the way he feared. Within a few days the slave reported, "I heard from Resolute, Mr. Orry. She gets the notes, all right. Girl name Cassiopeia takes 'em to her."
"Does Mrs. LaMotte read them?"
"Far as I can find out, she does. But then she tears 'em up or throws 'em in the fireplace."
Recalling that, Orry struck out with the book. He accidentally hit the unifonn stand and sent it toppling. The crash brought Brett and two house girls. Without opening the door, he shouted that he was all right.
A thought occurred to him, renewing his hope. On Saturday there was to be a tournament near the Six Oaks. It was possible that Madeline would attend with Justin. Orry usually avoided such affairs, but he would go to this one. He might have a chance to speak with her, discover what was wrong.
Saturday's weather was close, showery, with rumbles of thunder. A large and enthusiastic crowd gathered for the tourney, but Orry had no interest in watching the young men who had christened themselves Sir Gawain or Sir Kay. As they rode recklessly at the hanging rings and tried to capture them on their lances, he roamed the crowd searching for the LaMottes.
He finally spied Justin conversing boisterously with his brother and several other men. Encouraged, he kept moving, looking for Madeline. He caught sight of her from the spot where Cousin Charles had stood and waited for Whitney Smith to fire at him. She was seated on a log, watching light rain stipple the river.
He approached, noticing that the log had dirtied her skirt. She must have heard his footsteps, but she didn't turn. Feeling awkward, adolescent — fearful — he cleared his throat.
"Madeline?"
She rose slowly. He stepped back when he saw her face. It was white, the pallor of sickness. She had lost weight; ten or fifteen pounds at least. The loss gave her cheeks a sunken look. She seemed to struggle to focus her eyes on him.
"Orry. How pleasant to see you."
She smiled, but it was the same perfunctory smile he had glimpsed when he encountered the carriage. He could barely stand the sight of her eyes. They had always been so lively and warm. Now —
"Madeline, what's wrong? Why haven't you answered my messages?" Though there was no one else close, he was whispering.
A troubled look flickered across her face. She glanced past his shoulder. Then her eyes met his again. He thought he saw pain there, and an appeal for help. He strode toward her.
"I can see something's wrong. You've got to tell me —"
"Madeline?" Justin's voice jerked him up short. "Please come join us, my dear. We'll be leaving soon."
Orry turned, trying to keep his movement casual, belying the tension within him. Madeline's husband had called from the other side of the dueling field. To allay possible suspicion, Orry tipped his hat in formal greeting, which Justin acknowledged in the same way. Orry kept his smile broad and rigid, as if he were only exchanging pleasantries with a neighbor's wife.
In reality he was whispering: "I must talk to you alone at least once."
She looked at him again. Longingly, he thought. But she sighed and said, "No, I'm sorry, it's just too difficult."
With a slow, almost languorous step, she walked away to rejoin her husband. Orry was fuming; he wanted to seize Justin by the throat and shake him until the man told him what was wrong. Clearly Madeline wouldn't. She acted listless, dazed — as if she were in the grip of a fever.
But it was the memory of her eyes that tortured him as he rode homeward. They held a strange, submissive look, devoid of hope; lifeless, almost. They were the eyes of a beaten animal.
About to don the yellow facings and brass castle insignia of the Corps of Engineers, Billy Hazard could examine his world and declare it a fine place.
The fears of the New Jersey cadet whom Ashton had entertained had never been realized. The silence of the seven had evidently kept any rumor from reaching Charles. One of the group had grumbled to Billy that Ashton must have lied about a second visit — something he could have told them from the beginning. But after that, the incident was gradually forgotten under the continual pressure of military drill and academic work.
Billy's view of the world tended to be shaped by events in his daily life and not by what was happening elsewhere. Had he looked outward, beyond the Academy and his thoughts of Brett, he would have seen turmoil.
Bloody warfare continued in the Crimea. One of his brother's classmates, George McClellan, had been sent there to observe by Secretary Davis. Other kinds of violence boded ill for America. Men fought each other in Kansas — and in the halls of Congress. During a speech about Kansas, Senator Sumner of Massachusetts had mingled his political rhetoric with an unwarranted personal attack on Senator Andrew Butler of South Carolina. On the twenty-second of May, Congressman Preston Brooks of South Carolina strode into the Senate chamber with a gold-knobbed cane, which he proceeded to employ to demonstrate what he thought of the speech, and Sumner.
Sumner soon cried for mercy as blood dripped onto his desk. Brooks kept hitting him until the cane broke. Incredibly, other senators looked on without interfering. One of the bystanders was Douglas, whose legislation had created the very issue Sumner had addressed.
A few weeks later, Brett wrote Billy a letter saying Brooks was being feted all over South Carolina. Ashton and her husband had entertained him at their home and presented to him a cane inscribed with words of admiration. The cane was one of dozens Brooks received. The letter continued:
When James and Ashton were here last week, Orry remarked that Sumner might not recover for a year or more. James raised one eyebrow and said, ''So quickly? What a pity.'' I hate these times, Billy. They seem to call forth the very worst in men.
Not even those sentiments could discourage Billy just then. He was only days from leaving the Academy, and he had done well there, particularly in his first-class year. Mahan had publicly praised his work in the military and civil engineering course. Billy could differentiate between Pinus mitis and Pinus strobus, write an essay on argillaceous and calcareous stones as construction materials, or recite the formula for grubstone mortar in his sleep. He would graduate sixth in overall standings in the class of 1856.
George, Constance, Maude, even Stanley and Isabel were coming to West Point for the event; George and Isabel could manage to speak to each other when the occasion required it. The conversation was always cool and formal, however; the ban on visiting between the two houses was still in force. Billy had heard Constance say it was a shame to hold grudges considering life was so short, to which George replied that precisely because it was short, anything that prevented him from wasting part of it in Isabel's company was a godsend.
Charles congratulated Billy on his class ranking while relieving him of blankets and personal cadet effects. Charles had never competed academically with his friend; he remained steadfastly a member of the Immortals, bound for the mounted service, exactly what he wanted. Prospects for advancement in the cavalry — in all branches, in fact — had greatly improved since Davis had pushed through an expansion of the Army a year ago. Two new regiments of infantry had been authorized, and two of cavalry. Superintendent Lee had already been transferred to the new mounted regiment commanded by Albert Sidney Johnston, another Academy graduate. Charles hoped to join one of the new units next year.
Billy already knew his first posting as a brevet second lieutenant. After his graduation leave he would report to Fort Hamilton in New York harbor, there to work on coastal fortifications and harbor improvements.
Traveling home with the family, Billy got his first ride on the Lehigh line, which now served the upper reaches of the valley, including Lehigh Station. When the Hazards left the train, the baggage master complimented George on his brother's appearance.
"You're right, he does make a good soldier. He's dashing enough to make me miss the Army. Almost," George added with a smile.
"I wish Brett could have come up for June week," Billy said.
George studied the tip of his cigar. "Do the two of you have plans to discuss?"
"Not yet, but I expect we will. I need to talk to someone about that."
"Will an older brother do?"
"I was hoping you'd offer."
"Tonight, then," George said, taking note of Billy's serious expression.
After supper Billy went upstairs to put on mufti. George kissed the children and hurried to his desk, where he eagerly opened a letter that had arrived during his absence; it bore a mailing address in Eddyville, Kentucky.
Some months before, he had heard about a Pittsburgh man, William Kelly, who operated a furnace and finery in Eddyville. Kelly claimed to have found a fast, efficient way to burn silicon, phosphorus, and other elements out of pig iron, thereby sharply reducing its carbon content. What Kelly termed his pneumatic process produced a very acceptable soft steel, he said.
Beset by creditors and jeered at by competitors who called his process "air-boiling," Kelly continued to perfect the heart of the process, his converter, at a secret location in the Kentucky woods. George had written to propose that he travel to Eddyville and inspect the converter. He had also said that if he liked what he saw, he would finance Kelly's work in return for a partial interest.
George's face fell when he read the reply. True enough, Kelly could use the money to stave off his creditors. But he didn't want to show his converter to anyone until he was satisfied with the design and had applied for a patent. The man's suspicion was well founded. Some in the iron trade would say or do almost anything to learn the details of a successful process, then cheerfully pirate it if it was unprotected. Still, Kelly's answer left George disappointed, and it was in this frame of mind that he went to the front porch to meet his brother.
Billy was not there yet. George sank into a rocker. Down on the near shore of the river, a freight train was traveling up the valley, shooting puffs of smoke from its stack. The smoke turned scarlet in the sundown, then quickly dispersed.
Amazing, all the changes he had seen in thirty-one years. He had grown up with the canal boats, and now they were gone. Trains and the rails that carried them were the symbols of the new age.
Railroads were playing a role in affairs in Washington, too. Slavery, and the ultimate fate of Kansas and Nebraska, were inextricably bound up with a forthcoming decision on a route for a transcontinental line. Secretary Davis wanted a southern route, through slaveholding states. Senator Douglas favored a northern route, with one terminus in Chicago. It was no secret that Douglas had speculated in Western land. His enemies openly accused him of introducing the Kansas-Nebraska bill to stimulate settlement, which would in turn attract railroad development and increase the value of his holdings.
No motives were pure anymore, George thought as he watched the sinking sun burnish the low peaks beyond the river. No man seemed capable of dealing with all the problems and passions of a world grown complex and cynical. There were no statesmen, only politicians.
Or did he merely think that because he was getting old? At thirty-one, he had already lived three-fourths of an average lifetime. The knowledge weighed on his mind. He mused that a man's hopes, dreams, time upon the earth, disappeared almost as quickly as those puffs of smoke from the freight locomotive.
He heard Billy's tread on the stair and pulled himself together. His younger brother looked to him for advice — wisdom — never realizing that older people were almost as uncertain of everything as Billy was, if not more. George did his best to hide the fact. He was rocking and contentedly puffing a cigar when Billy appeared.
"Shall we take a walk up the hill?" George asked.
Billy nodded. They left the porch, strolled toward the rear of the house, and soon passed the stable and woodshed, reaching an open, level area where mountain laurel grew from crevices in the rock. Above, on the slope, more laurel had taken root and flourished. Hundreds of white blossoms moved in the evening wind, and there was a faint sound of pointed leaves clashing.
George started toward the summit, considerably higher than the loftiest point of Belvedere. The path was difficult to find, but he remembered its starting point and was soon laboring upward with the laurel blowing and tossing around his legs. The climb winded him, but not Billy.
On the rounded summit, a few stunted laurel bushes survived. They reminded George of his mother's mystical feeling for the hardy shrub and the way she equated it with family and with love.
Below, the panorama of the houses, the town, and the ironworks spread in perfect clarity. Billy admired the view for a moment, then reached into his pocket and handed his brother something in a cheap white-metal frame.
"I've been meaning to show you this."
George tilted the photograph to catch the last light. "Good Lord. That's you and Charles. Neither of you looks sober."
Billy grinned and returned the photograph to his pocket. "We posed for it right after a trip to Benny's," he said.
"When did photography reach West Point?"
"They started class pictures a year ago. Charles and I wanted one of the two of us."
George gave a kind of grudging laugh, then shook his head. "Cooper Main's right. We live in a miraculous age."
Billy lost his relaxed air. "I wish a few miracles would drift down to South Carolina. I don't think Qrry wants me to marry Brett."
"Is that what you wanted to talk about?" When Billy nodded, he went on, "Have you spoken to Orry or written him about your intentions?"
"No, and I won't for a year or so. Not until I'm positive I can support a wife."
What a careful, deliberate sort he is, George thought. He'd make a fine engineer.
Billy continued: "Brett's dropped a few hints to him, though. We both get the feeling he doesn't favor the match. I guess he doesn't like me."
"That's not it at all. You and Brett come from different backgrounds, from parts of the country growing more hostile to each other every hour. I'll bet Orry's worried about the sort of future you two would have. I admit I share that worry."
"Then what can I do?"
"Follow the same advice Mother gave me when people said I shouldn't marry a Catholic and bring her to Lehigh Station. She told me to heed my own feelings, not the bigotry or the misguided opinions of others. She said love would always win out over hatred. She said it had to, if human beings were to survive. Orry doesn't hate you, but he may be doubtful of your prospects." A flickering smile. "Stand fast, Lieutenant. Don't surrender your position, and in the end I expect Orry will give in."
"What if it takes a while?"
"What if it does? Do you want Brett or not?" Suddenly George leaned forward. He snapped off a sprig of laurel and held it up in the faint light. "You know Mother's feeling for this plant. She says it's one of the few things that outlasts its natural enemies and endures." He handed Billy the sprig of white and green. "Take a lesson from that. Let your feelings for Brett be stronger than all the doubts of others. You must outlast Orry. When you feel hope ebbing away, think of the laurel growing up here in the sun and storm. Hanging on. It's the best advice I can offer you."
Billy studied the leaves and the blossom for a moment. He wanted to smile but somehow could not. His voice was heavy with emotion.
"Thank you. I'll take it." He put the sprig in his pocket.
All the light had left the sky. Stars by the thousand spread overhead. Presently, laughing and chatting companionably, the brothers started down the path. They disappeared in the darkness on the slope, where the laurel still tossed with a sound like that of a murmuring sea.
Old political loyalties continued to crumble away that autumn. Buck Buchanan finally got the chance to run for President on the Democratic ticket. Cameron, although still at odds with his old colleague, felt it might damage his carefully built machine if he joined the Republicans, as so many in the North and West were doing. So during the fall of 1856, he politicked under the banner of something called the Union party, while listening privately to proposals for an alliance. Republicans such as David Wilmot said they would support Cameron for a Senate seat if he threw in with them. Stanley worked loyally for Boss Cameron without knowing what the man stood for, other than what Stanley perceived as Cameron's own self-interest.
In South Carolina, Huntoon continued to proclaim his views from public platforms. He feared the rising power of the Republicans but was nearly as disenchanted with Buchanan, who purported to champion noninterference with slavery in the states and yet endorsed the Douglas doctrine in the territories. How could the South survive under either party? Huntoon asked in his speeches. It could not; secession was the only answer. Huntoon closed every address by raising his arm dramatically and offering a toast.
"To the sword! The arbiter of national disputes. The sooner it is unsheathed to maintain Southern rights, the better!"
The toast always produced loud applause and was widely quoted in the South Carolina press. The Mercury christened him Young Hotspur. Ashton was thrilled and deemed it a significant advance in her husband's career. A man could tell that he had achieved fame when the public began referring to him as Old This or Young That.
Up North, Hazard's had recently been facing increased competition from the British iron industry. George placed the blame on the Democrats and their low-tariff politics and for this reason joined the Republican party. His decision had nothing to do with the party's harder line on slavery, although he endorsed that. He voted for the Republican candidate, Fremont, who lost to Buchanan by about five hundred thousand votes. That was a very strong showing for a new party in its first presidential race.
A few days after the election, Cooper showed up at Mont Royal with an engineering drawing tucked under his arm. When he unrolled it, Orry saw a plan and elevation for a cargo vessel. A decorative ribbon at the bottom enclosed the words Star of Carolina. "How big is that ship?" Orry asked in amazement. "Five hundred and fifty feet, stem to stern. That's only a' little smaller than the vessel my friend Brunei is building to carry coal and passengers out to Trincomalee in Ceylon. Her name's Leviathan. She's under construction on the Isle of Dogs in the Thames River right now. I'm leaving in two weeks with the family to take a look at her."
Orry tugged his beard in a reflective way. "You may be in need of another holiday in Britain, but I'm not sure the Mains need another ship." He tapped the drawing. "You don't really intend to build this monster —?"
"I surely do. I propose to establish the Main Shipyard in Charleston, expressly for the purpose of launching the Star of Carolina as an American flag carrier.''
Orry finished pouring two glasses of whiskey and handed one to his brother. "Is this why you've been holding the acreage on James Island?" Cooper smiled. "Precisely."
Orry tossed down half his whiskey, then said with some sarcasm, "I'm glad you have faith that this family can prosper while everyone else is going under. Unemployment's rising — George says he fears a depression, maybe even another panic — but you want to build a cargo ship."
'The biggest in America." Cooper nodded. His manner was cool and sure. He had learned how to deal with opposition from any source, including his family.
"She'll soon pay for herself, too," he went on. "Carrying cotton or anything else you can think of. I know there are hard times coming. But they don't last forever, and we must look beyond them. Consider the state of the domestic shipping industry for a minute. The clippers have no flexibility. They were built for one purpose — speed. Be the fastest to the gold fields and don't worry about cargo capacity, that was the prevailing attitude. Now there's no more gold, and no one's building clippers any longer. Those still in service are obsolete. They can't carry cargoes of the size our farmers and manufacturers are prepared to ship. I tell you, Orry, as a maritime nation we're far behind. America's oceangoing steam tonnage amounts to ninety thousand tons. Britain's is almost six times that. A vacuum exists, and the Star of Carolina can sail right into it. One more thing: the shipyard will benefit Charleston and the state too. We need industries that don't depend on slavery."
Laughing — how could he not in the face of such breathless enthusiasm? — Orry held up his hand. "All right, I'm convinced."
"You are?"
"Maybe not completely, but sufficiently to ask how much this beauty will cost."
That dulled the sparkle in Cooper's eyes. "I'll have more reliable figures when I come home from England. Right now I can only base my projections on those of Brunei. The Eastern Steam Navigation Company estimates Leviathan will cost — in dollars — four million."
While Orry recovered, Cooper took a breath. "Or more."
'' Are you out of your mind, Cooper? Even with everything mortgaged, we could barely raise half that."
Quietly. "I'm thinking of approaching George about the other half."
"With the iron trade sliding into a depression? You have lost your senses."
"George is a good businessman — like you. I think he'll see the long-term opportunity, not merely the short-term risks."
The challenge was clear. Orry would either go along with the project or put himself in the camp of reactionaries such as Stanley. In truth, Orry thought his brother's idea visionary, exciting, and not as foolish as his own initial reaction might have suggested. He wasn't ready to give instant approval, however.
"I need figures. Realistic projections of cargo capacity, cost, future income. I won't speak to a single banker until I have them."
That was good enough for Cooper. Glowing, he said, "They'll be ready two weeks after I return. Maybe even sooner. They built small ships in Charleston at one time. A reborn industry could be the salvation of this part of the state."
"Not to mention the ruination of the Mains," Orry said. But he smiled.
Cooper and his family landed at Bristol, there transferring to the Great Western Railway that I. K. Brunei had laid out and brought to completion in 1841. The train left from a platform beneath the vast hammer-beam roof of Temple Meads Station, a structure that Brunei had planned. It traveled 120 miles on broad-gauge track, passing over the brick arches of Brunei's Maidenhead Bridge, considered an engineering masterpiece, and arrived at the new Paddington Station, which had been officially opened by the Prince Consort two years earlier; Brunei had designed every detail of the station, as well as the Paddington Hotel that adjoined it. Since Brunei served on the hotel's board of directors, Cooper had decided to stay there. He discovered that his reservation had been changed from a small suite to a much larger one, at no increase in cost.
Isambard Kingdom Brunei was now in his fiftieth year, a restless, imaginative man who delighted in wearing a stovepipe hat and dangling a cigar from one corner of his mouth. Not all his ideas were good. His choice of broad-gauge track for the G.W.R. was much criticized; carriages from intersecting lines could not be switched onto it. But for sheer soaring size of visions, he had no peer. Cooper saw that again when the little engineer took him to the Thames shipyard of his partner, Scott Russell.
Because of Leviathan, the Millwall yard had become Europe's premier tourist attraction. All around the construction site, the marshy fields of the Isle of Dogs had blossomed with coffee stalls and souvenir shops constructed of canvas and cheap lumber. Every conceivable kind of trinket was offered for sale: Miniature models of the finished ship. Lithographic views. Leviathan ABCs for the children. Right now — a weekday with bad weather — the shops were not doing much business.
Fifty-four feet high, Leviathan's double hull reared against the rainy sky. The inner and outer hulls were three feet apart and heavily braced. The ship would have six masts, five funnels, and two sets of engines, one for her paddle wheels and one for her immense screw. She was positioned so that she could slide sideways into the Thames, her great length prohibiting launching in the regular manner.
"We hope to have her afloat within a year, provided I can finish my plan for the slipways and rekindle a spirit of cooperation with Mr. Russell. It has become evident that his original cost estimates for the hull and paddle engines were frivolous and irresponsible."
Brunei chewed his unlit cigar. Despite evident disenchantment with his partner, his pride was unmistakable when he swept his gaze along the huge keel plate. Using his cigar as a pointer, he indicated the section of the outer hull already finished with plates of inch-thick iron.
"My great babe will take thirty thousand of those plates before she's done. And three million rivets. At peak times we have two hundred basher gangs hammering in the rivets."
Cooper pulled off his old beaver hat, the better to see the iron monster above him. Rain splashed his face. "I want to build one like her, only smaller, in Charleston. I copied Great Britain once —"
"Handsomely. I saw drawings. But surely what you just said is facetious, Cooper. You've always struck me as an intelligent chap and one who likes his comforts. Surely you don't want to surrender your friends, your family, your health, and all your money to such a venture."
"I know there are risks, enormous ones. But I feel compelled to go ahead. I want to build her for more than selfish reasons. I think she can help the South, at a time when the South very much needs it."
"I am aware of the South's increasing isolation in commerce and politics," Brunei said with a bob of his head. "Anti-slavery societies are quite active in this country, you know. Well, if you are serious, I'll show you my drawings and specifications, share as much information as I can. I suppose I needn't tell you that many find my design suspect. My babe is the first ship in history to be built without ribs. They say she'll hog, arch up in the center, break apart —"
"I'll take your opinion rather than those of your critics."
The engineer smiled. He seemed to lose some of his own negative feelings as he described the great four-cylinder screw engines he had subcontracted to James Watt's company. "Then there's the paddle shaft. Forty tons. The single largest forging ever attempted by man —''
He talked with mounting enthusiasm as they walked on through the drizzle. Flocks of crows were perching on the deserted souvenir stalls. A section of canvas flapped. Shipyard workers on scaffolds hailed Brunei, but he missed most of the greetings; he was speaking too rapidly. So rapidly that Cooper could barely keep up with the writing of notes.
Cooper took his family out to a plain little churchyard in Beaconsfield. The children didn't understand why he stood silent, with his head bowed, at the grave of a man named Burke. But even four-year-old Marie-Louise dimly grasped that the place meant something special to her father.
The children were much more interested in the Thames River tunnel, the monumental nineteen-year project Brunei had finished after the death of his father, who had done the original engineering work. Brunei had already shown the Mains a model of his Great Shield, a huge, compartmentalized iron work-face in which thirty-six laborers had stood with pick and hammer removing the soil of the riverbed a little at a time.
The family entered the pedestrian tunnel from the Wapping side of the river. It was a cool, eerie place, and Judith was somewhat put off by the sight of so many derelicts sitting or sleeping against the walls. But Cooper, with Marie-Louise held in his left arm and Judah hanging onto his right hand, saw only the grandeur of the concept. His eyes shone.
"If free men can do this, why on earth does anyone keep slaves?"
The whisper brought a shiver to Judith's spine. Cooper looked as if he had glimpsed the face of God. She slipped her hand around his right arm and squeezed, loving him more than she ever had.
Next day, Cooper and Brunei planned to go over rough cost estimates for Leviathan. Without warning, Cooper postponed the appointment and went chasing off in a new direction, on behalf of George Hazard.
What started the chase was a four-word headline in the Mail.
The issue was weeks old. It had been picked up from a railway-station bench and used to wrap the cores of some apples the children had eaten on the return trip from Beaconsfield. Cooper found the remains of the apples and the paper on a table in the foyer of their hotel suite. He was about to toss everything away when a headline caught his eye:
Bessemer seeks American patent.
A student of inventors and inventions, Cooper recognized the name at once. Henry Bessemer was a successful inventor best known for developing a method to put the proper spin on projectiles fired from a smoothbore gun. He had done the work during the Crimean War, with the aid and encouragement of Emperor Napoleon III of France.
What was he attempting to patent in America? Two short paragraphs supplied the answer. "Good Lord, fancy that!" Cooper exclaimed. He was already beginning to sound somewhat British.
Judith appeared from the parlor. "Is anything wrong?"
"Quite the contrary. Have a look. Chap named Bessemer claims to have invented a fast way to convert pig iron to steel. He's going after an American patent. I wonder if George knows. I must look into this for him."
And so he did, canceling his appointment in order to do it. Most of his investigation consisted of searching through old newspapers. He also sent several notes to Bessemer requesting an interview. The inventor never answered.
"Not surprising," Brunei told him several days later. "Bessemer claims he was pressured into revealing the existence of his process too soon."
"How did he reveal it?"
"He read a long wheeze of a paper before the Association for the Advancement of Science. The Times reprinted it in toto."
"When?"
"Sometime in August, I recall."
"I didn't look back quite that far."
Cooper wrote another note to the inventor; Brunei wrote as well. That turned the trick, but Bessemer's reply said Cooper could have no more than ten minutes of his time.
Brunei's genius lay in conceptual thinking, ideas that could not be patented and that he was glad to share. Henry Bessemer's inventions were different, each a specific device or process and hence to be protected — or stolen. Cooper found Bessemer a suspicious, defensive man.
"The announcement was premature. It brought down a wild pack of wolves. They're fighting with me and among themselves for a share of my discovery. The steelmakers of Sheffield are deriding me, as of course they must. It currently takes them a fortnight to obtain a small crucible of cast steel from pig iron. If I can make five tons of steel in a half hour, they're finished."
"What can you tell me about your process, Mr. Bessemer?"
"Nothing. I have said all I am going to say to the public or to you. Good day, Mr. Main."
Cooper already knew one reason for Bessemer's hostility. There were problems with his process. Again digging through old newspapers, Cooper located the Times article and learned more about the nature of the controversy surrounding the inventor. He copied out everything that might interest his friend in Lehigh Station.
Bessemer had been led to his discovery while working with Napoleon III's armaments expert, Minié, on the problem of projectile spin. An intensely curious man, he had been drawn into other aspects of ordnance, including a study of possible substitutes for the fragile cast iron currently used to make cannon. What resulted from this line of inquiry was Bessemer's process to manufacture quality steel in quantity and the necessary machinery — an egg-shaped converter, a hydraulic apparatus for operating it from a safe distance, and what he called his blowing engine for sending an oxygen-rich blast of air over the pig iron.
In theory the process was astoundingly simple. But that was the case with many revolutionary inventions. One month after making his sensational revelations, Bessemer was licensing his process to various firms for thousands of pounds. A month later the press was branding him a charlatan. "A brilliant meteor which flitted across the metallurgical horizon, only to vanish in total darkness."
By the time Cooper arrived in England, the public furor had died down. Bessemer still had faith in his process and was pursuing his American patent, but English ironmasters were after his head. Those who had paid to use his process declared it a failure and a hoax. The steel was unsatisfactory. Frantic to find the reason, Bessemer was now committed to nonstop laboratory work. The reason for the failure seemed to lie in the high phosphorus content of all the ore mined in Britain. Unwittingly, the inventor had used Swedish ore in his experiments, an ore virtually free of phosphorus.
Brunei told Cooper that even this discovery did not solve Bessemer's problem. However, there were persistent reports that an anonymous steelmaker from Wales had found a way to make the process work and was planning to patent his own method. No wonder Bessemer felt threatened and angry. He had rocketed to prominence, then fallen, all within three months.
Still, Cooper was impressed with the man and believed that he was onto something. What persuaded Cooper were the frequent public statements of the Sheffield manufacturers — they continued to denounce Bessemer and the theoretical base of his process. Anytime an idea was opposed that vehemently, there was usually something to it.
He continued to clip old papers, building up a thick file and supplementing it with his own notes. He intended to take the file to George the moment he was back in America.
"After all," he said to Judith as they traveled to Southampton for the voyage home, "if I'm going to ask him for a couple of millions lo build my ship, I'd better do him a favor first."
"What's the name of this mysterious fellow who is Bessemer's savior?" Stanley Hazard asked.
The question carried not only skepticism but a sneer. To be sure, the sneer was faint — this was, presumably, an occasion governed by politeness — but it was there. Cooper despised Stanley's narrow mind almost as much as he despised his smug face, whose resemblance to an overflowing bowl of gruel grew more pronounced every year.
Recalling the larger purpose of his visit helped Cooper curb his anger. "I don't know, Stanley. His finery is in Wales, but beyond that, nothing is said." He pushed the thick file across the table. "All I could learn is in here."
Suddenly he pressed his hand to his lips and coughed. George was excited by Cooper's news. He showed it by smoking faster than usual, quick, nervous puffs of the cigar clenched in his teeth. When Cooper's fit of coughing continued, George waved his hand through the layers of blue smoke, stirring and dispersing them a little.
"Sorry, Cooper." He strode to the window and raised it. Cool night air flowed into the small private dining room of the hotel.
In New York, Cooper had put Judith and the children on a steamer to Charleston, then come straight on to Lehigh Station. He had arrived in the middle of the night and secured a room at the Station House. The hotel was located a block from the depot. It had been built soon after the railroad came through. It was small, but modern in every respect. Each guest room had a bathtub in a smaller room adjoining, and the entire place was lit by gas mantles.
After a good breakfast, Cooper had sent a note up the hill, informing George of his arrival and inviting him to bring his brother to supper that evening. Cooper really didn't want to present his ship design to Stanley, but felt he must. George was in charge of all direct spending by Hazard Iron, but the ship would be a different sort of expense, an investment, and one so large George probably wouldn't dare authorize it without consulting his brother. Better to have Stanley on their side than working against them.
George was still riffling through the notes and press clippings. "You know, this sounds remarkably like Kelly's process."
Cooper forked a last morsel of rabbit pie from the deep dish in front of him. "Who's Kelly?"
George told him about the Kentucky ironmaker. "But if Bessemer has already applied for an American patent —''
"Did I forget to tell you?" Cooper interrupted. "He got it before I left London."
"Then Kelly may be out of luck. In any case" — George's cigar had gone out; he struck a match and puffed — "I'm going to book passage at once. I can send Constance off to see the French cathedrals while I look into this."
Stanley began, "I think you're a fool to risk —"
"Risk what? My time? The price of a trip? Good Lord, Stanley, unless you want to stand still in business, risk is inevitable. Why can't you ever understand that? Suppose Hazard's could obtain an American license for Bessemer's process. Think of all we'd stand to gain by being first in the market."
"Gain — or lose," Stanley countered. "Is it not a fact that this process is still producing steel of unacceptable quality?"
Unexpectedly infuriated, George pounded the table. "What difference does it make to you, goddamn it? I'll pay for the whole trip out of personal funds."
Stanley leaned back and smiled. "Yes, I would be much happier if you did that."
George pressed his lips together, drew a long breath, then addressed the visitor. "I'd like to see Bessemer personally. Perhaps he'll be less suspicious of me since I'm in the iron trade."
A thin smile from Cooper. "Not likely. Practically the whole of the British metalworking industry is laughing at him."
"What do you suppose they know that we don't?" Stanley asked with a sigh. He stood up.
George drew the cigar from his mouth and peered at his brother through a squiggle of smoke. "Stanley, I know it's been years since you practiced good manners, but try to remember how you behaved before you took up with politicians. Cooper did us a great favor by coming here. We owe him the courtesy of listening to whatever he cares to say. There was something else, wasn't there?"
"Yes," Cooper said. Disgusted, Stanley sat down,
With a sinking feeling, Cooper reached for his valise. He hated to present his drawing of the Star of Carolina in this atmosphere of skepticism and hostility.
He moved dishes and silver, then unrolled the drawing, which by now had become smudged and dog-eared. Slowly, earnestly, he began to speak. He started with the specifics of his design. He enthusiastically described the great steamer's capacity and cargo flexibility. Finally he revealed his plan to build the vessel in Charleston. He concluded by saying:
"Our family has capital to put into the project, but not enough for a venture of this magnitude. If the Hazards came in as partners, we could proceed, and I think both families would stand an excellent chance of making a profit. Perhaps a very large one."
Stanley's quizzical eyes skimmed the drawing again. "What do the banks say about this?"
"I haven't approached any banks. I wanted to give you first chance." To George: "Of course there are risks —"
Stanley snickered and under his breath said something snide. George heard the word understatement. He shot his brother a dark look. Stanley sat back with folded arms and half-lidded eyes.
George said: "You've already explained those. More than adequately, in my opinion. But I'm not qualified to evaluate this sort of proposal. I know nothing about ship construction."
"All I know is what I've learned from personal study," Cooper responded. "I intend to bring the best New England shipwrights and naval architects to Charleston —''
He talked for another ten minutes. He might have saved his breath. Arms still folded, Stanley announced:
"I'm opposed, I wouldn't put a half-dime into it."
Cooper's face fell. George toyed with the corner of the drawing. Then he sat up, squared his shoulders, and said to the visitor:
"How much do you need?"
"To start? Something around two million."
The older brother snorted and got to his feet again. George glared. "For Christ's sake, shut up, Stanley. I'm sorry I invited you. This will be my money. I'll mortgage my assets or, if I can't, liquidate them. No one will trifle with your precious income."
Stanley was taken aback. "Where did you get assets worth two million?"
"I'm not sure they are, quite. I'll have to ask the bankers. But I have plenty of money you don't know about. I made it while you were busy ingratiating yourself with Boss Cameron. Each to his own,'' he finished with a shrug that sent Stanley back to his chair, speechless with humiliation.
George extended his hand to Cooper. "We're partners, then. At least we'll explore the feasibility of a partnership. It will take me a week or so to learn whether I can in fact raise the money."
"You're reckless," Stanley exploded. "You've always been reckless." He leaned toward Cooper. "Just how many years will it take to design and launch this great vessel of yours? Five? Ten?"
"Three. She can be in service by 1860."
"Fine," Stanley sneered. "Then you can make it the flagship of the navy of your new Southern nation. The one all those traitors in your state keep prophesying."
He reached for his hat, stick, and overcoat. George said, "His friend Cameron is flirting with Republicanism. Stanley's trying on the party rhetoric for size."
This drew another hateful look from Stanley. He pointed his stick at the drawing. "That thing is a joke. You'll all come to ruin, mark my word."
He marched out. George sighed. "He didn't even thank you for supper. If he weren't my brother, I'd wring his neck."
Cooper grinned, holding up the rolled-drawing.
"Never mind. We're launched without him."
Within two weeks, George pledged one million nine hundred thousand dollars of capital to build the Star of Carolina.
A draft for fifty thousand, matched by a similar amount from the Mains, would pay for the initial steps. These included a survey and plan of the James Island acreage, clearing of the land, and a deposit in an escrow account representing three years' salary for a man Cooper had traveled north to steal from the Black Diamond firm. The man's name was Levitt Van Roon; he was one of the country's top naval architects. Cooper soon had Van Roon moved to Charleston with his family. He then sent Van Roon to England to visit the Millwall Yard and confer with Brunei.
Articles incorporating the Carolina Marine Company had to be prepared, along with the partnership agreement between the Mains and George Hazard. For this work Cooper went to Ashton's husband; Huntoon was expensive but expert. Cooper approved the twenty-seven-page partnership document and gave it to Orry, who forwarded it to George.
Several weeks later Orry said to his brother: "George tore up the agreement."
"Oh, Lord. Is he pulling out?"
"No, nothing like that. He doesn't think a contract's necessary. He said the two of you shook hands."
"And on that basis he'll trust me with nearly two million dollars?"
Orry nodded, amused by his brother's reaction. For his part, Cooper understood more graphically than ever before why Orry had such great respect and affection for the stocky little man from Pennsylvania.
In the spring of 1857, Billy finished his short tour at Fort Hamilton. There he had assisted the senior officer in charge of repairs on the twenty-three-gun terreplein and, additionally, undertaken a project assigned to him alone.
It wasn't much of a project: the restoration of two floors and a ceiling in the magazines at Battery Morton, whose guns guarded the Narrows. But he had worked out all the calculations himself, done the drawings, and hired and supervised six civilian workers, all of whom were at least ten years older, and frequently quarrelsome. They didn't give a damn about his engineering training, but after he broke up a fight and held his own against the bully of the group in two minutes of brutal, clumsy punching, he had their respect.
Billy liked the color and bustle of New York. Being a Yankee, he was at home there. Yet he felt that his heart now lay in the South. He hoped his next posting would take him in that direction. To Cockspur Island in the Savannah River, for instance. Or — even better — to the fortifications in Charleston harbor. To his regret, the Army's mysterious bureaucracy chose to move him halfway across the country, to follow in the footsteps of a giant.
Not quite twenty years earlier, the man still considered the Army's foremost soldier and Scott's likely successor had been sent to St. Louis with one clerk and orders instructing him to do something about a problem on the Mississippi River. The river was silting up along the west bank and slowly ruining navigation near the St. Louis waterfront.
Robert Lee of the Corps of Engineers had decided the solution lay in long dikes. He built these at the upstream and downstream ends of Bloody Island, a long, cottonwood-covered shoal on the Illinois side. Two and a half years of his life were devoted to this and other river improvements in the vicinity. When he was finished, the well-planned dikes diverted the current so that it scoured out accumulated sand and satisfactorily deepened the steamboat channel on the city side.
Lee's work earned him the gratitude of the St. Louis business community, and then his heroism in the Mexican War turned him into something of a legend. Now Brevet Lieutenant Hazard, again with one clerk, was being posted to St. Louis to effect repairs on the dikes — a job considerably easier than Lee's had been, but no less lonely.
Billy wrote Brett that he felt he was being banished to the remote frontier. One good thing could be said: he was still banking part of his pay each month. The marriage fund, they called it in their frequent and highly sentimental correspondence. Brett promised to visit him in St. Louis, provided she could persuade Orry to chaperone her.
Despite the 1855 expansion program which had created four new regiments, the U.S. Army was still small. Hence it was not at all unlikely for a young officer to be posted to a place where the Marble Model had served — or even to be assigned to his command, which turned out to be the case with Charles.
Charles graduated third from the bottom of the class of 1857. He ordered uniforms with yellow facings, pinned on the insignia of the mounted service, and went home on furlough. He had been ordered to duty with the Second Cavalry in Texas. The Second was one of the new regiments. There were so many Southerners from West Point in it that the unit was called Jeff Davis's Own. The term was not always complimentary.
When Ashton heard of the assignment, her reaction was similar to Billy's: "Why, that's the end of the earth. Nothing there but dust, niggers, and red savages."
"Nonsense, Ashton. There are Texans, Spaniards — and the best mounted regiment in the Army. Bob Lee's in command now. He moved up when Albert Johnston was reassigned. Lee has written friends at the Academy, and he says Texas is beautiful. He keeps a garden and a pet rattlesnake. I think I'll do the same."
"I always knew you were crazy," she said with a shudder.
A steamer from New Orleans delivered Charles to Indianola on the Texas Gulf coast. From there he traveled by stagecoach up to San Antonio, the headquarters of the regiment and the Department of Texas, which Lee was also commanding temporarily.
Texas was a new experience for Charles, a new kind of landscape. Neither mountainous like the Hudson Highlands nor overgrown and dank like some sections of the low country, but flat or gently rolling, open to the burning sun and scouring winds, subject to brutal summer heat and miserable winter chill. Something in him responded instantly to the space and the freedom. The land produced a feeling that here a man could live to the full, unhampered by the traditions and trivial rules that forced behavior into a rigid pattern in more settled parts of the country.
Charles had been happy to leave the East and all the sectional hostility there. In March the Supreme Court had decided the case of Dred Scott, the slave who had sued for his liberty on the grounds that he had become a free man the moment his owner took him into free territory. Charles didn't understand all the complexities of the case, but the heart of the majority opinion written by Chief Justice Taney was a judgment that Scott had no right to sue because slaves were not citizens, not legal persons in the constitutional sense. Hence they could not seek justice in American courts. The decision had enraged people on both sides of the issue and provoked a score of nasty fights it West Point during the spring.
Charles doubted that he would completely escape such quarrels out here, but maybe they would be fewer. Frontier or not, Texas still belonged to the slaveholding South.
San Antonio spread beside the river of the same name. The city was an odd but delightful blend of three cultures that first became evident to Charles in the architecture. As the stagecoach bumped through the outskirts, he saw neat single-story homes of square-cut white limestone, each with its small painted sign identifying the owner.
German names, mostly. Later, on narrow Commerce Street, he sauntered past shops with signs in German as well as in English. The American colony lived nearby, in solid brick residences two or three stories high, with picket fences surrounding them.
And, of course, there were the adobe houses, distinctively square and flat-roofed. All in all, he liked the look of the town as much as he liked the look of the state. The people seemed friendly, acting as if they believed life had treated them well and given them reason to be confident about the future. Charles saw a good many raffish plainsmen, heavily armed, and he was particularly charmed by the dark-skinned Spanish girls.
Before reporting to Lee, he took pains to brush the dust from his pale blue trousers and tight-fitting dark blue jacket. He polished the brass eagle ornament and plumped up the two black ostrich plumes on his Hardee hat — the cavalry's version of a precedent-breaking full-brimmed hat of gray felt introduced in the Army in 1855. The left brim of the Hardee hat was turned up and held by the claws of the metal eagle.
After Charles handed his papers to Lee's aide, a cheerful Pole named Lieutenant Radziminski, he was received by the regimental commander. Lee ordered him to stand at ease, then invited him to sit. September sunlight flooded the white-painted room. The open windows admitted dry, bracing air.
Lee was punctilious, yet cordial. "It's good to see you again, Lieutenant. You look fit. The Academy agreed with you, then."
"Yes, sir. I liked it — though I confess I wasn't much good in the classroom."
"Out here, other qualities are just as important as scholarship. The ability to ride well and endure hardship. The ability to lead men of varying backgrounds." He turned toward a large lacquered map of Texas hanging behind him. All the posts in the department were identified by pins with small ribbons on them. "Where you are being sent, the troops are composed chiefly of Alabama and Ohio men. Of course we have our quota of recent immigrants throughout the regiment. By the way —"
Having failed to satisfy Charles's curiosity and name his destination, Lee faced forward again. "My nephew is serving with the Second."
"Yes, sir, I know."
"You and Fitz were friends —"
"Good friends. I'm looking forward to seeing him."
Lee nodded, thought a moment. "For your information, General Twiggs will soon be arriving to assume command of the department. Major George Thomas will take over the regiment and transfer its headquarters back to Fort Mason. I'm returning to Virginia."
Charles tried to hide his disappointment. "A new assignment, sir?"
Gravely, Lee shook his head. "My wife's father passed away. I must take a leave to attend to some family matters."
"My condolences, sir. I'm sorry to hear you're leaving."
"Thank you, Lieutenant. I plan to return as soon as practicable. Meanwhile, you'll find Major Thomas a very capable commandant. He graduated in the class of 1840."
It was said as if to stamp Thomas with a mark of approval. Charles was learning that the mark united those officers who had gone through the Academy and separated them from those who had not.
Lee relaxed, grew more conversational. "Our work here is confined to just a few tasks, but each is important. Guarding the mail coaches and emigrant trains. Scouting. And of course suppressing an occasional Indian outbreak. The threat of Indian trouble isn't as constant as our playwrights and novelists would have gullible Easterners believe. But neither is it imaginary. I think you'll find the duty both interesting and challenging."
"I know I will, Colonel. I already like Texas very much. There's a feeling of freedom here."
"We'll see how you like it after you've lived through a norther," Lee replied with a smile. "But I understand what you're saying. Last year I read a book by a chap named Thoreau. One line stuck in my mind. 'There are none happy in the world but beings who enjoy freely a vast horizon.' That certainly applies to the frontier. Perhaps it also explains why there is so much turmoil and disputation in our country. Ah, but I haven't mentioned your post, have I?"
He stood up, faced the map, and indicated one of the ribbons pinned almost due north of San Antonio at what looked to be a distance of about 250 miles.
"Camp Cooper. On the Clear Fork of the Brazos. It's two miles upstream of the Penateka Comanche agency and reservation. Your troop commander is also a West Point man recently transferred from Washington back to line duty here. His name is Captain Bent."
Charles drew equipment and a fine horse, a roan, for the trip to Camp Cooper. He would ride north with the departmental paymaster and his party. On the night before his departure, he was on his way to find supper when he encountered Colonel Lee and Major George Thomas on the street. Lee asked him where he was going, and when he answered, the colonel said that he and Thomas were on their way to dine at the Plaza Hotel, and why didn't he join them? Lee again made reference to the Academy background the three of them shared, and that overcame Charles's hesitation. He thanked the senior officers for the invitation and fell in step beside them.
Hot, humid weather had produced a new crop of flies and mosquitoes — overnight, it seemed. In the hotel dining room, little black boys with palm fans stood by the tables to shoo the insects away. A touch of home, Charles thought with a twinge of conscience. Though he remained a loyal Southerner, four years at West Point had exposed him to new ideas and changed some of his thinking. He had begun to feel that the South's economy was built on a rotten foundation, one that could not help but collapse eventually — if it were not swept away by outside forces first.
Lee and Thomas chatted in a convivial way about a variety of things. The Indian problem. Major Bill Hardee's new infantry tactics, which were replacing those authored by General Scott. A horse race won by another South Carolinian in the regiment, Captain Nathan Evans of Marion. He commanded Company H and still went by his West Point nickname, Shanks.
The talk turned to the weather. "Texas brings out the mettle of our military Shadrachs and Abednigos," Lee said. "Wait till you patrol in this kind of heat for twenty or thirty days at a stretch."
"While trying to find ten thieving Comanches in a thousand square miles," Thomas added. Heavier than Lee and more reticent, the major was forty or so. His quiet demeanor suggested a strong will, as did the occasional flash of his silvery blue eyes. Like the commandant, he was a Virginian.
"If most of the Comanches are cared for on reservations, why do they steal?" Charles asked.
Lee answered the question in a roundabout way. "We've tried to turn the southern Comanches into farmers, but I don't believe they're temperamentally suited for it — and beyond that, for the last year or so, the weather's been against us. Nothing but drought. So their crops have failed, which means they have no money. Yet, like all human beings, they have wants. Tobacco, knives, strouding. Certain unscrupulous traders are willing to deal with them and supply those things. The traders are Choctaws, mostly, down from Indian Territory. A few are Comancheros from New Mexico."
Still puzzled, Charles said, "But if the Comanches don't have cash crops, what do they trade?"
"Horses."
"Stolen horses," Thomas clarified. "Colonel Lee's predecessor believed in what he called rigorous hostility toward the Indians. Patrol, pursue, punish — that was the strategic concept. Lately, however, Washington has followed a somewhat more passive policy. We are under orders to stand pat until there's an outbreak, until the Comanches descend on some white settler unfortunate enough to have a few horses in a pole corral. Then we rush into action, praying to God we aren't too late to prevent the settler's murder."
Lee studied his plate of venison steak in a pensive way. "You can't entirely blame the Comanches. We took their lands for settlement. Then we drove off the game they depend on for survival. If they have nothing, and steal, we're partly responsible."
"Don't let Governor Houston hear you say that,'' Thomas declared with a humorless smile.
But Charles could only think of the excitement of it. A mounted chase, a charge with sabers swinging. Patrol, pursue, punish. He was glad he'd been posted to the Second instead of some stodgy regiment in a safe part of the country.
Three times a year the paymaster brought the departmental payroll from New Orleans in the form of coin. Six times annually he set out on a circuit of the Texas forts, carrying the payroll in a padlocked chest. He traveled in a mule-drawn ambulance accompanied by a provision wagon and six mounted men commanded by a sergeant.
The mounted men were dragoons in orange-faced uniforms. Riding with them, Charles felt himself the object of the veteran's unspoken contempt for the greenhorn. The dragoon uniforms and gear were weathered, whereas his were obviously brand-new.
The dragoons were America's original mounted service. Now they were being superseded by the cavalry; light cavalry, really. Like the other new mounted regiment, the Second had no heavily armored men, as European cavalry did. Further, the Second was supposed to fight on horseback, not merely ride to a battlefield and then dismount. The dragoons felt threatened by this new style of mounted warfare, of which Secretary Davis obviously approved. Their resentment showed. Except for military courtesies, they ignored Charles during the journey.
At Fort Mason he had a joyful and alcoholic reunion with Fitz Lee, who was as cheerful and carefree as ever and just as scornful of authority. He and Charles discussed most of the West Point men in the regiment: Shanks Evans of South Carolina; Earl Van Dorn from Mississippi; Kirby Smith of Florida; John Hood of Kentucky; Alabama's Bill Hardee, whose name had been given to the new-style hat while he was serving with the Second Dragoons. No wonder critics accused Davis of creating an elite regiment staffed with Southern gentlemen.
Just before the pay train moved out, Fitz said to his friend, "Watch out for that troop commander of yours. He hasn't been out here long, but his reputation's already bad."
"Incompetent?"
"Not that so much. Devious. Not to be trusted. Be careful."
Charles pondered the warning as he rode in the dust raised by the provision wagon, occasionally patting and murmuring to the roan he had named Palm in celebration of his home state.
A hot southwest wind flung grit against the back of his neck. Then, within a period of ten minutes, the wind shifted almost 180 degrees, the sky filled with boiling black clouds, the temperature plummeted, and a norther came tearing at him with torrential rain and hail so large that one piece gashed his cheek and drew blood.
In an hour the sun shone again. Ahead, the now-muddy road wound on across low hills toward a horizon rapidly clearing of clouds. As the caravan moved from a vale of glistening pecan trees to a stand of post oaks, a frightened cottontail rabbit bounded in front of the roan. Deep in the oaks, Charles heard larks singing.
His old, brash smile returned. His uniform was soaked, but he didn't mind. The violent, changeable weather appealed to his sense of adventure. He liked Texas better and better every minute.
From a bluff above the Clear Fork, the paymaster's party descended to a pleasant green valley that stretched northward until its floor became lost in the noon haze. Charles had seldom seen a lovelier place. Somehow, the twisted mesquite trees and stunted prickly pear contributed to its fierce beauty.
But the valley's verdant look was a trick of distance and perspective. Near the meandering river, heat-withered leaves on huge elm trees were barely stirring in the sultry breeze. The caravan passed melon and pea fields that had a parched look. Here and there an Indian stood in a dusty furrow watching the soldiers with sad eyes or sullen ones.
Beyond the drought-stricken fields, Charles saw his first Indian settlement — about two hundred animal-hide teepees decorated with yellow and red designs and symbols. The village generated an overwhelming impression of poverty.
Columns of smoke rose from cook fires. The odor of broiling meat mingled with the smell of human waste. Children laughed and played, emaciated dogs barked and ran every which way, and half a dozen young men added to the dust and din by riding bareback through the settlement. They were careful not to come close to the column, Charles noticed.
Two more miles and he'd be able to dismount. He was sweating and his thighs were sore despite the protection of the regulation saddle piece that reinforced the inside of his trousers. When he finally saw Camp Cooper, it looked like paradise, even though it was simply an assortment of fourteen primitive buildings made of stone, logs, clapboard, jacal, or combinations of two or more of them.
The post was laid out as a rambling reversed L. In front of the flagstaff on the parade ground, a platoon of foot soldiers was listlessly practicing the manual of arms. Charles recalled that two companies of the First Infantry were posted here, in addition to a squadron from the Second Cavalry.
The paymaster's detail passed a little bakehouse with a clapboard roof. Two sweaty, bare-chested bakers stood in the shadow of a wall, never moving except to raise and lower their pipes in greeting. As the smell of hot bread gave way to that of manure, the dragoon sergeant rode up to Charles.
"The stables are there, sir. Those two log buildings."
Charles returned the salute and trotted ahead. He turned into the nearest building, which was open at each end and empty except for the horses. A moment later, a long-striding, lanky man came through the far entrance.
The man wore bleached cord pants and a flannel shirt decorated with small wood pickets. A sheath knife hung on his left hip, and on the other a Holster Pistol — the cavalry nickname for Colt's 1848 Army Model revolver. Charles owned a similar gun, a six-shot .44 with beautiful walnut grips and a brass trigger guard. He had also paid for a couple of optional extras: a detachable shoulder stock with a sling ring and a cylinder with a decorative engraving of dragoons in combat with Indians. A cavalryman's revolver was a prized and highly personal possession.
The man scrutinized Charles. He was about forty and had a long, pleasant face partly hidden by a red beard the sun had bleached to copper. In the lobes of both ears he wore brass rings, pirate style. Some civilian attached to the Indian agency, Charles presumed. Or maybe the fellow was the post sutler. Charles dismounted and addressed him brusquely.
"Direct me to the adjutant's office, if you please."
The man pointed the way. For some unfathomable reason his eyes were simmering all at once.
"Where can I find Captain Bent?"
"In his quarters nursing a bad case of dysentery."
Tired and irritable, Charles slapped Palm's rein against his pants leg. "Then who's in charge of K Company?"
"I am, sir." The man's eyes froze him. "First Lieutenant Lafayette O'Dell."
"First —?"
"Stand at attention, sir!"
The shout, so reminiscent of thousands at West Point, automatically drove Charles into the correct braced position. He saluted, his face turning red.
O'Dell took his time returning the salute. He eyed Charles with what the latter took to be hostility. "My apologies to the lieutenant," Charles began. "I'm —"
"The new second," the other broke in. "Been expecting you. Academy man?"
"Yes, sir. I graduated in June."
"Well, the captain's also an Academy man. It's a regular damn club in this regiment. I'm afraid I'm not a member. I'm a plain Ohio farm boy who graduated from plow horses to cavalry nags. The captain isn't very keen on line duty, especially out here. But I like it just fine. If you want the respect of the men, you'd better like it too."
"I will, sir." Charles all but swallowed his words, the same way he was struggling to swallow his embarrassment and anger.
"Let me tell you one more thing about serving in Texas. You'd better learn to dress for it. That fancy coat isn't practical for long patrols, and neither is that sword you're wearing. The hostiles don't sit and wait for a saber charge. By the time you draw that pig sticker, they'll swarm all over you and lift your hair. The captain doesn't like those facts of life either, but he has to put up with them."
Charles lost the battle to keep his temper. His eyes were fiery as he whispered, "Thank you for the advice. Sir."
Suddenly, O'Dell's stern look disappeared. He chuckled and sauntered forward.
"That's better. For a minute I thought they'd sent us a second with no gumption. Let me help you unsaddle that horse. Then you can report and present your compliments to Captain Bent — provided he isn't squatting on his china pot. Don't laugh. The water does that to every newcomer."
Grinning, Lieutenant O'Dell held out his callused hand.
"Welcome to the north part of Texas or the south part of hell, I'm not sure which."
Charles was thankful the first lieutenant wasn't as truculent as he had seemed at first. Like all other troops, Company K had only three officers, and Charles could imagine the problems if they disliked one another. It was already clear that the troop commander was unpopular.
By the time Palm was stabled, rubbed down, and fed, Charles knew a good deal about O'Dell. He had been born and raised near Dayton, Ohio, and at fourteen had lied about his age in order to enlist. His current rank was a brevet; being a second lieutenant at forty was just about what an officer who lacked West Point training could expect.
O'Dell accompanied Charles to a spot near a drab building constructed of jacal — upright poles chinked with clay mortar. He pointed out the captain's quarters, a door at the end from which the paint was peeling. Just then another troop cantered in, its red and white swallow tail guidon snapping. Only three of the troopers wore regulation uniforms; the rest looked much like O'Dell. Charles remarked that no one had prepared him for Camp Cooper's relaxed style of dress.
"What you want," O'Dell said, "is anything that suits the weather and keeps you free to move fast. Find it, steal it — and don't let the captain talk you out of it."
"Thank you, sir. I'll take your advice." He almost expected there'd be more, and there was.
"I'd go see the captain right away if I were you. I sort of compare it to slopping pigs. The sooner you get it over with, the sooner you can go back to things that are more pleasant."
An hour later, having presented his orders and located his own tiny room, Charles knocked on the door O'Dell had indicated. A gruff voice bade him come in.
The troop commander's quarters consisted of a single large room.
Half of the far wall was nothing more than an open window with a canvas blind rolled up at the top.
If O'Dell didn't quite resemble the typical mental picture of a cavalryman, Captain Bent resembled it even less. He was a soft, whalelike man about Orry's age. He had restless little eyes and skin that had turned pink and blistered, rather than browning in the Texas sun. Charles's immediate reaction was negative.
Instead of a uniform, Bent wore a quilted dressing gown over a singlet that showed between the open lapels. The quilted material of the gown was sweated through under the arms and down the back.
"I have been here four months" Bent complained as soon as Charles presented his compliments. "I should be over this damnable malady. But it keeps recurring." The captain gestured at a footlocker piled with books. "You may sit down if you wish."
"Thank you sir, but I'd prefer to stand. I've been in the saddle a long time today."
"Suit yourself."
The sight of the books intimidated Charles — as did the odd look in Bent's black eyes. The captain took the only chair, uttering a long sigh. "I regret that you find me in such straits."
"The first lieutenant prepared me, sir. I'm sorry that you're —"
"Ah, you've met O'Dell," the other interrupted. "We're both from Ohio, but we have nothing else in common. Sets a fine example, doesn't he? Sloppiest officer I've ever seen. What's worse, all the men ape him. Major Thomas informed me that if I was too strict about dress regulations, I'd have a mutiny on my hands. Captain Van Dorn seconded the opinion. I was virtually ordered to condone an unmilitary appearance. Imagine!"
The outburst had a snarling quality. Bent's eyes were ringed with fatigue circles, like charcoal smears above the blistered pink of his cheeks. Charles cleared his throat.
"In any case, sir, I'm sorry you're ill."
"In this godforsaken place, even illness is a diversion."
Desperate to break the tension, Charles forced a pleasantry. "If dysentery's a diversion, I've been told that I'll probably be diverted."
Unsmiling, Bent said, "Pray you get nothing worse. Some newcomers contract stomach ulcers. Some never recover."
He lumbered to the open side of the room and gazed out, swabbing his sweaty throat with a kerchief. "We have all sorts of charming entertainments at Camp Cooper — named, incidentally, for the adjutant general with whom I served before I had the misfortune to come to this sinkhole." He pivoted to face Charles. "How do you find Texas?"
"So far, I like it."
"You must be mad. No, you're Southern, aren't you? Amounts to the same thing —'' Bent blinked. ''Here, don't bristle so. I was merely making a little jest."
"Yes, sir." The reply had a forced, strained sound, but Charles couldn't help it.
Bent returned to his chair and sank down with another exhausted sigh. "As you may have surmised, I didn't request this duty, and I loathe it. I am not by inclination a line officer. My forte is military theory." A gesture at the books. "Are you interested in that?"
A little color was slowly returning to Charles's face. "At the Academy I found the subject difficult, sir."
"Perhaps some private study would be useful and enjoyable for both of us."
Bent's darting eyes swept over Charles's face, making him nervous again. Courtesy demanded an answer, but he refused to say more than, "Yes, sir, perhaps."
"Heaven knows there's a need for intellectual stimulation on this post. Duty at Camp Cooper consists of nearly equal parts of bad food, wretched weather, occasional forays against ignorant Indians, and pursuit of deserters driven away by loneliness or the lure of gold. The choices for leisure activity are even less attractive. The main ones are drinking and wagering on cockfights. If your temperament inclines you to cohabit with squaws, the French pox is also available."
The captain licked his lips. Charles had the eerie feeling that, in a curious and convoluted way, Bent was asking whether he liked women. With care, he said:
"I doubt I'll have much time for that, sir."
"Good." Bent's gaze slid to the lower part of Charles's face. The younger officer found this visual inventory distinctly unsettling. "Gentlemen always have other means of relieving the tedium."
He sighed once more. "I suppose we are expected to endure the boredom and hardship without complaint. We're career officers and the frontier must be defended. I accepted this post only because turning it down might have been held against me later. I should imagine Colonel Lee felt the same way, given his background."
What a presumptuous peacock, Charles said to himself. Rather than funny, he found it vaguely frightening that Bent compared himself to the Army's foremost officer. The captain cleared his throat.
"I thank you for the courtesy of your call, Lieutenant. I believe I should rest now. Oh, by the way. Are you aware that K Company was recruited in and around Cincinnati? A majority of the men are Ohioans. We shall try not to hold it against you that you happen to come from a less enlightened region."
On the point of saying something foolhardy, Charles fought the impulse. Bent was deliberately baiting him, as a test of how well he held his temper — or failed. What word had Fitz Lee used? Devious. It was well chosen.
"Just another little jest, Lieutenant Main. You'll find I'm fond of them. There is but one kind of factionalism in this troop. It is the kind which occurs naturally in the Army. You may put the needs and wishes of your men first or, alternatively, those of your commander. I needn't tell you which choice will better serve your career and your future. Dismissed."
Charles saluted and left. The moment he stepped into the sunshine and closed the door, he shivered. Bent's warning had been unmistakable. If he became the captain's toady, he'd have an easy time of it, but if he allied himself with the men — and, by inference, with O'Dell — he'd suffer.
He recalled his favorable impression of O'Dell and asked himself whether Bent had issued his warning from strength or from weakness. The latter, Charles suspected. The captain probably feared his first lieutenant.
Well, if didn't matter. Charles already knew where he stood, and it was not with the fat misfit who lived behind the peeling door.
Handsome young man, that cousin of Orry Main's, Elkanah Bent thought after the door closed. Almost too attractive. His good looks could divert Bent from the objective. Still, there might be a way to blend pleasure and vengeance. One never knew.
With a groan he rushed behind a cheap paper screen that concealed one corner of the room. He emerged ten minutes later, thinking of how much he hated Texas. Since arriving at Camp Cooper he had lost over twenty pounds. His spine and thighs constantly hurt from all the damned horseback riding, although with the weight loss he was getting better at it. Now, once again, intestinal pain was added to his woes.
And yet — today had been auspicious. His plan was working. Being ordered to Texas had come as a shocking surprise. He could have called on his contacts to help him get the orders changed, but he didn't. He knew that if he appeared reluctant to accept the assignment, it might create an unfavorable impression in the minds of certain of his superiors. That, he definitely did not want at this stage in his lagging career.
Still, the orders upset him so badly that he left his desk in the War Department and went on a three-day binge. Twice during it he awakened to find sluts in his bed; one was colored. A third time he was surprised to discover a snoring Potomac bargeman — a boy, really — whom he dimly remembered paying. Bent had long ago discovered strong drives within himself. They almost matched the strength of his ambition. He preferred the companionship of women, but he could take pleasure from almost any flesh that offered itself.
Once he had forced himself to accept the idea of going to Texas, he had set to work to make the tour rewarding in another way. The West Point graduation roll revealed that Brevet Lieutenant Main was scheduled to join the mounted service. Since the adjutant general's office handled personnel matters for the entire Army, it was not difficult for Bent to arrange Charles Main's posting to the Second Cavalry.
Bent's hatred of Orry Main and George Hazard had never diminished. And if he couldn't strike directly at the two men who had hurt his career, he would be satisfied to take revenge on their relatives — starting with the young officer now under his command.
He would await the opportune moment.
As Bent had said, about three-quarters of the enlisted men of Company K hailed from Ohio. The rest were, recent immigrants. German, Hungarian, Irish — a typical mix for almost any unit in the Army.
The troopers treated O'Dell differently from Charles and the captain. All three officers were obeyed, but the first lieutenant had the respect and even the friendship of his men. Charles determined to win that same kind of respect, Friendship could take care of itself.
During his fourth week on the post he discovered one of his men missing from morning formation. He found the fellow, a recent immigrant named Halloran, drunk as a tick in the stables. He ordered Private Halloran to go to his bunk and sleep it off. Halloran swore and pulled a knife.
Charles dodged the clumsy slash, disarmed Halloran, and flung him into the watering trough outside. Halloran climbed right out and charged. Charles hit him four times — twice more than was probably necessary, but the trooper had a wild look in his eye. Charles then personally hauled the semiconscious man to the guardhouse.
An hour later he sought out the troop first sergeant, a stub-nosed eighteen-year veteran of the mounted Army, Zachariah Breedlove.
"How is Halloran?" Charles asked.
"Dr. Gaenslen said he has a broken rib — sir." The slight pause before the final word was typical of Breedlove's professional insolence. He was older and much more experienced than most of the officers, and he never wanted them to forget it.
Charles rubbed his chin. "Guess I shouldn't have hit him so hard. I thought he was out of control."
"Well, sir — with all due respect — you're dealing with soldiers here, not nigger slaves."
"Thank you for explaining that," Charles replied in an icy way. He walked off.
Later when he calmed down, he realized the significance of the incident. First Sergeant Breedlove, and no doubt most of the other men, distrusted him because he was a Southerner. He might never be able to win their trust.
The thought discouraged him, but he was not about to give up.
Every morning the bugler sounded reveille at five before six. For a change Charles didn't mind getting up early. The Texas autumn was beautiful and cool, the dawn skies the clearest and purest blue he had ever seen. It seemed to him that he had never tasted anything as delicious as the cook's standard morning fare — hot Dutch-oven biscuits, beefsteak, stewed apples and peaches, and the familiar Army coffee.
Mounted drill and practicing the manual of the saber and the carbine took up a good deal of the troop's time. So did grooming the horses. To promote the Second as a crack unit, Davis had decreed that each company should have mounts of one color. Company K had nothing but roans, Van Dora's company of Alabama men nothing but grays — hence the name Mobile Grays. The men in Company K soon noticed Charles's fine horsemanship, and it even drew some laconic words of approval from O'Dell. The first lieutenant offered his compliment in front of all the enlisted men — a small but important step forward, Charles thought.
Occasionally an alarm from some settler out in the countryside sent a detachment on a forced ride, but Indian marauders were seldom found. Horses owned by settlers continued to disappear, however. And the Delaware trackers employed by the Army regularly found signs indicating the presence of raiding Yamparikas — northern Comanches — who were continuing to slip down from Indian Territory.
Boredom remained the main enemy at the post. Charles dug and hoed a garden he intended to plant next spring. He bought a pair of scraggly hens and built a small house for them. And he finally, reluctantly, sat down to compose the letter he felt he owed Orry after all this time. He started by attempting some description of the Texas landscape, but he knew his words and his literary skills were inadequate. The first few paragraphs took so much thought and struggle that he brought the letter to a hasty close by promising to describe Camp Cooper and his odd company commander the next time he wrote.
Because he couldn't stand to live like a monk, he slept with Indian girls occasionally. He found them lively and affectionate, and he didn't catch the pox. And of course, because it was an expected part of military life, he participated in the chief sport of the officers — argument.
They argued about everything. One favorite topic, good for hours, was the flat Grimsley saddle adopted ten years earlier. Albert Sidney Johnston had liked it, but most of the officers sided with Van Dorn, who insisted the design was responsible for too many sore-backed horses.
They argued about weapons. Generally, Colt repeaters and Sharps carbines were considered best, although such views didn't make a particle of difference, since the government's theory of ordnance seemed to be that the Army should use whatever old weapons happened to be stockpiled in Federal warehouses. Hence most of Company K was equipped with 1833-model Hall smoothbore carbines, and never mind that European and American arms experts agreed on the superiority of a rifled barrel. There were even some musketoons in the troop. Old single-shot horse pistols were used for holster weapons. Charles felt fortunate to possess a ten-year-old Colt.
There were arguments about food, drink, women. About the motives of Indians and the character of Colonel Lee. About the purpose and execution of Colonel Johnston's campaign against the Mormons and their so-called State of Deseret. The hottest differences of opinion were always generated by political issues, such as the pro-Southern constitution adopted at Lecompton, Kansas.
The Lecompton constitution offered Kansas voters a choice between a limited form of slavery and the unrestricted practice of it. President Buchanan supported it. Senator Douglas damned it, and most of the Northerners on the post agreed with the Little Giant. Charles kept out of the disputes, but his restraint did not really work to his benefit. Everyone assumed he was on the pro-slavery side.
Arguments on any subject frequently ended with a pronouncement by Captain Bent which soured whatever friendly spirit had prevailed until then and left the other officers moodily staring at plate or coffee cup. Now and then Charles caught Bent watching him with more than routine interest. He couldn't account for the attention, and it bothered him.
In a chilly rain, the column returned from maneuvers in the northern reaches of the valley. It was the second of December 1857.
Taking O'Dell's suggestion, Charles had soon abandoned regulation uniforms for field duty. Today he wore a slouch hat pulled far down over his bearded face, trousers of buffalo calf leather, and a deerskin coat. Around the coat collar hung a bear-claw necklace.
Mud flew as Bent rode up next to him. The captain's glance usually registered disapproval of Charles's clothing. This time, however, he chose to smile.
"A fire will feel good, eh, Charles?"
The first-name familiarity was unusual and made him nervous. "Yes, sir, very good."
"After you tend to your mount and put on fresh clothes, why not drop into my quarters for a toddy? I'd like to show you my edition of Jomini's Summary of the Art of War. You're familiar with the baron's concepts, are you not?"
"Of course, sir. We heard a lot about them from Old Cobben Sense." In fact, some of Professor Mahan's critics had said he devoted too much of his course on the science of war to the ideas of the Swiss military theorist.
"I'll expect you, then. We'll have a splendid discussion."
Squinting against the rain, Charles got a clear look at Bent's wet face. Something in the captain's eyes put him off. He knew he must be polite, but he refused to go further.
"It's a very kind offer, sir, but I think I'm coming down with grippe." It was true; he felt feverish after riding for hours in this bad weather.
"Later, then. Next week —"
"Sir —" He knew he ought not to say the next, but he was damned if he'd encourage the captain's quest for friendship. "If it's all the same, I prefer to be excused. I'm not much for theory."
Bent lost his look of smarmy good cheer. "Very well, Lieutenant. You have made yourself clear."
He kicked his horse and rode to the head of the column. A bolt of lightning ripped downward to the horizon. Charles shivered as Lafayette O'Dell dropped back beside him.
"What did he want?"
Charles explained.
"Did you turn him down?"
"Flat. He didn't like it much."
O'Dell leaned on his saddle pommel, from which hung a pair of expensive closed holsters. Charles had a similar pair on his saddle, although he had paid extra for leopard-skin flaps. One holster held his Colt, the other an extra horseshoe, some nails, a small brush, and a currycomb.
"You're smart not to hang out with the captain," O'Dell said. "I guess I should tell you about him."
"Tell me what?"
"That he has what are politely referred to as appetites. Strong ones."
"Don't we all?"
"No, not the same kind — at least I don't think so. The captain pretends to hate the Indians, but that doesn't extend to squaws. From what I hear at the agency, he'll sleep with any woman who's available. If he can't get his hands on a woman, a boy will do — or even an Army private too dumb and scared to refuse him. We've got a couple of those on the post, in case you hadn't noticed."
"No, I hadn't." Charles spat out a swear word.
"The captain hates to be turned down by anyone. I expect you're in for a rough spell."
Suddenly O'Dell's head jerked up. A startled look fleeted over his face. Neither lieutenant had realized that Bent had pulled his horse to the side of the muddy trail and was sitting there, watching them, as rain dripped from the bill of his forage cap and soaked his knee-length talma. Seconds later, Bent stood in his stirrups and called, "Trot — march!"
The road was much too rough for it, but Charles understood the reason for the order. Because of his refusal, everyone would suffer.
A day later, riding on the road from Camp Cooper to the Comanche Reserve, as the agency and reservation were officially called, Charles came upon an ox-drawn carreta with one of its huge wooden wheels half buried in mud. An old Indian, his fine features worn by time and toil, was vainly trying to free the cart by pushing the wheel. Without a second thought, Charles dismounted.
"Here, let me help." Not certain how much English, if any, the Indian understood, Charles used broad gestures to illustrate his words. "Lay that whip on the ox a couple of times while I push."
Moments later, with a great lurch that spilled half a dozen melons from the pile in the cart, the wheel was free. Just as Charles started for his horse, he heard riders behind him. He saw the captain, Sergeant Breedlove, and six troopers. Bent and the others reined in.
"What the devil are you doing, Lieutenant?" Bent demanded.
"Helping this man push his cart out of the mud." Resentment edged his answer; it was quite evident what he had been doing.
Sergeant Breedlove glanced at Charles with something close to sympathy. Bent said, "Don't you recognize that fellow? Katumse is chief of the reservation Indians. We do not give aid and comfort to the enemy."
With that he rode on; the rest followed. Charles recalled O'Dell's prediction. Bent's reprimand and the look in his eyes were harbingers of things to come.
From then on the captain found fault with nearly everything Charles did. He criticized him in front of the entire troop and assigned him extra duties. Charles held his temper with great difficulty, assuming that if he obeyed each order and refused to show a trace of emotion, the harassment would eventually stop.
It didn't. It grew worse. In January, riding in from patrol, he found the captain waiting in the stable. Bent stepped up to Palm, slipped his index finger beneath the single band of blue woolen webbing, and tugged.
"This girth is entirely too tight."
Charles was tired, cold, and consequently not inclined to patience. "Sir, it's perfectly all right."
A small, pursed smile. "What's this? Insubordination? That can't be allowed. Before you go to your quarters, I want you to unsaddle your mount, then saddle him again. Do that — let's see — ten times."
"Damn it, sir, what's the purpose of —?"
Charles bit off the blurted question. He knew what the purpose was, but he didn't dare confront his superior with it.
The outburst pleased the captain. "More insolence? Do it fifteen times. I shall send one of the noncoms to observe and report when you're finished. Sergeant Breedlove, I think." Bent was not insensitive to relationships within Company K. Breedlove was known to think poorly of the troop's second lieutenant.
Shortly the first sergeant arrived in the freezing stable where Charles had just lit two lanterns. For the first time Breedlove looked at him with a flicker of compassion.
"Sure sorry to have to do this, Lieutenant."
"Keep your mouth shut and we'll both get out of here sooner," Charles retorted.
Breedlove found a nail keg, turned it on its end, and sat down. His face no longer showed sympathy. Charles worked with angry motions, his breath pluming every time he exhaled. When he finished over two hours later — he had been slowed by exhaustion toward the end — his arms and shoulders throbbed. Leaving the stable, he stumbled and fell. Sergeant Breedlove didn't offer to help him up.
"The Butterfield coach is four hours overdue," Bent said above the howl of the wind.
A fire of fragrant mesquite wood sizzled in the stone hearth of the small day room. O'Dell stood in front of the fire, warming his hands. Although he was indoors, he wore his fur coat, the kind of shaggy garment that caused the Comanches to call the cavalrymen buffalo soldiers.
The first lieutenant needed that coat. The fire produced almost no warmth. The room felt like an icehouse. How cold was it outside? Ten below? During this kind of late-winter storm, the temperature sometimes dipped even lower than that.
Bent was on his feet now. His small eyes, pricked by the light of several oil lamps, grew thoughtful as he studied the map tacked to the jacal wall. The recently opened stagecoach line connected Fort Smith with El Paso and California. Part of the route lay along the military road that ran southwest from Camp Cooper. The coach was lost somewhere out there.
"I expect they just stopped till the storm blows over," O'Dell said.
"That's the logical assumption, naturally. But we mustn't permit that to lull us into complacence. What if there was a wreck? What if passengers are hurt? In need of assistance? We must send a search party. I have already spoken with the commandant, and he's in agreement."
"Sir, that's a norther outside! The wind's going sixty miles an hour. Ice is already an inch thick on everything. We should at least wait until morning before —"
Bent interrupted: "The commandant left the timing entirely to my discretion. The detachment will leave within the hour." He avoided O'Dell's eyes as he went on, "Ten men, I think. With extra rations and whiskey. Put Lieutenant Main in command."
O'Dell was so stunned he couldn't bring himself to send a noncom to waken Charles. He went in person, taking ten minutes just to fight through the storm to the barracks. Shivering in his long underwear, Charles sat up, a bewildered expression on his face.
"Tonight? God above, Lafe, is he crazy?"
"I'd say so. But of course circumstances protect him. The coach is way late, and it's remotely possible that the passengers do need help."
"More likely they're holed up. Or dead. I think the son of a bitch means to kill me."
"Just because you turned him down that time?" O'Dell sounded skeptical.
"I know it's senseless, but what else could it be?"
Charles flung off the layers of blankets and hides under which he had been trying to keep warm. "I don't know why he wants me out of the way so badly, but I sure as hell won't give him the satisfaction. I won't let him squander the lives of good men, either. I'll come back and bring the whole detachment with me, don't you worry."
He sounded more confident than he felt. He put on every hickory shirt and pair of cord pants he owned, while the Texas norther screamed outside like someone gone mad.
The eleven mounted soldiers left Camp Cooper at one in the morning. The wind-driven sleet had coated everything. But it wasn't deep, as snow would have been, so they were able to keep to the wagon road. The footing was extremely treacherous, however. They traveled no more than a mile in four hours. By then Sergeant Breedlove was calling Bent every name he knew and, when he ran out of those, invented some.
Charles had wrapped a long wool scarf around his ears and the lower part of his face. He might as well have worn gauze. His face felt like a block of wood. He could barely move his lips to issue orders.
The men cursed and complained, but they kept on. They followed in single file behind him, recognizing that he was riding on the point, taking the brunt of the wind and risking himself by being first to cross the treacherous ground.
At daybreak the wind abruptly shifted to the southwest. Then it moderated. Rips appeared in the clouds, with the glow of sunrise showing through. Half an hour later, as they picked their way across a landscape that still resembled glass, Breedlove croaked, "Look, sir. Down the road."
A slender column of smoke rose to the clearing sky. "I'll wager it's the coach," Charles said in an equally hoarse voice. "They're probably tearing it apart and burning it to keep warm. Looks like it's about a mile away."
A mile and a half, as it turned out. It took them more than three hours to reach the source of the smoke. The coach lay on its side with its two near wheels and doors missing. Part of the door had not yet been consumed by the nearby fire. Just as the detachment came close enough to discern that, Breedlove's roan slipped and lamed the left forefoot.
The other troopers saw to the survivors of the accident — the coach driver, guard, and three male passengers who were nearly comatose. Charles heard the driver mumbling about the vehicle's overturning on glare ice. Nearby lay the frozen corpses of three of the horses; the other three had galloped into the storm to die.
Charles watched Breedlove finish his examination of the injured roan. Reluctantly, he offered the sergeant his revolver.
"Shoot him. I'll do it if you can't."
The sergeant couldn't stand to look at his fallen mount any longer. "How will I get back to camp?"
"The same way as the passengers. Riding behind someone else. I'll take you."
"Lieutenant, I know — I know you prize Palm as much as I prize Old Randy. Any horse that carries a double load very far in this kind of weather will be wore out long before we reach camp. As good as dead. You carry me and you'll have to shoot Palm, too. I'll ride with one of the men."
"Goddamn it, don't argue. A man's more important than a horse. You'll ride with me."
They sounded like shrill children. Two troopers helped the glassy-eyed coach guard toward one of the horses. Breedlove stared at the revolver, then at his fallen mount. He shook his head.
"I can't. If you'll do it for me, I'll be in your debt forever."
"Turn the other way."
Breedlove did, squinting into the flare of the morning sun on the fields of ice. Charles raised the gun and prayed the mechanism wasn't frozen; to prolong this would be torture for the sergeant. Slowly he squeezed the trigger. The revolver bucked. The echo boomed away into space, followed by Old Randy's startled bellow of pain. Chunks of flesh were blown from the other side of the roan's head. They landed on the ice, smoking.
Sergeant Breedlove covered his face with his hands and cried.
Half a mile this side of the post, Palm sank down, unable to go farther. Heartbroken, Charles put two bullets into the horse. Then he and Breedlove walked the rest of the way with blood oozing inside their boots. The post physician told Charles he had come close to losing three toes from frostbite.
He slept eighteen hours. Shortly after he woke, Breedlove paid a call and offered a nervous apology.
"I sure had you figured wrong, Lieutenant. I am one hundred percent sorry for that. You showed plenty of sand when it counted. I've never seen that in any of the Southrons in this regiment."
"Not in Colonel Lee or Van Dorn?"
"No."
"Well, believe me, it's there, in just about the same measure as in other men. Yankees, for example," Charles added with a wry smile. "Maybe you never looked for it, Sergeant."
"Yes," Breedlove mumbled, shamefaced. "Something to that, all right."
That night Charles wrote a letter to Orry, a letter long overdue. His accumulated anger could be heard in the harsh, rasping sound of his pen on the paper. After the salutation, he came directly to the point.
I am fortunate to be alive to send this to you, for reasons I shall shortly describe. I know you will find it startling, but know that I am being truthful when I say I am now almost certain that my company commander wishes to see me come to harm because of fancied slights and incidents of insubordination which exist more in his own mind than in fact. Orry, I have somehow become mixed up with a d-----d lunatic, and since he is about your age and an Academy man, I hasten to ask whether perchance you know him.
Charles paused to stab his quill into the ink pot again. The shimmering flame of his desk lamp shifted shadows back and forth on his bleak face. His eyes revealed his confusion and his wrath as he added the next:
His name is Elkanah Bent.
Bent's plan had failed. Disastrously. Not only had Charles Main survived the rescue trip in weather that could have left him dead or maimed for life, he and his detachment had been cited in General Orders from headquarters of the Department of Texas. The citation spoke of "performance of a humanitarian mission in the face of extreme natural hazards," and it became part of each man's permanent record. The commandant had hosted a banquet for the detachment and toasted Main's bravery.
Privately, the commandant called Bent's judgment and courage into question.
"When I put you in charge of the emergency, Captain, I never imagined for a moment that you would send men out before the storm showed signs of abating. I further note that you did not lead the detachment, choosing to remain here while permitting Lieutenant Main to absorb the brunt of the danger. I won't make an issue of those lapses for one reason only. Thanks to Main, all turned out well and no lives were lost. The angels were on your side. This time."
The criticism burned. Bent immediately ceased his harassment of Orry Main's cousin, and in fact went out of his way to praise him — always when others were listening. But it was hard to do. As a result of the ride in the storm, the first sergeant was now Charles's staunch partisan, as were most of the enlisted men. With O'Dell also supporting Charles, Bent was completely isolated. He held Charles responsible. No longer was Charles just a convenient representative of the Mains. Bent now hated him personally.
He had learned one lesson, however. Never again would he send his second lieutenant into jeopardy while remaining behind. He'd go along and find some way to dispatch Charles personally, perhaps in the thick of a skirmish. He had used that technique successfully in the past.
But the passing weeks denied him an opportunity. The Texas frontier remained quiet. Soon a new worry was gnawing at Bent. It began when he first noticed a subtle but unmistakable change in Charles's behavior. Charles continued to be courteous to his company commander — courteous almost to a fault — but he had abandoned even the slightest pretense of cordiality.
Bent realized Charles had identified him as an enemy. The question was, had Charles done anything about it? Had he, for example, mentioned Bent's name in a letter to Orry Main? And was it possible that Orry had already warned his cousin to be on guard? Delivery of mail to most of the Texas forts was slow, with service frequently interrupted for weeks or even months by bad weather in the Gulf, by the activities of hostile Indians, or simply by slipshod handling of mail sacks. Still, by now Orry could have informed Charles of the reason for Bent's animosity.
Bent knew he dare not dismiss that potential danger. But as for abandoning his plans — never. Nothing but the saving of his own skin, his own reputation, came before revenge against the Mains and the Hazards. He need only wait and, at the appropriate moment, strike. Warnings from Orry Main would hardly help the young lieutenant survive an attack carried out at an unexpected moment.
As the days dragged on and a clear chance still failed to present itself, Bent's frustration mounted. Occasional Indian raids were reported to Camp Cooper, but the Second fired no shots in anger because no detachment could ever catch the marauders. Closer at hand, Katumse was saying his people had been treated so dishonorably on the reservation that the tribe's only possible response was war, unremitting and without mercy. But the chief never did more than threaten.
In the East the war of words over slavery raged on. Senator Douglas thundered that the Lecompton constitution violated squatter sovereignty. Senator Hammond of South Carolina retorted that the Little Giant's opinion was of no consequence; Southerners no longer needed the approval of, or alliance with, the North. "Cotton is king!" Hammond declared.
In Illinois a lawyer and former congressman named Lincoln prepared to challenge Douglas for his Senate seat. Addressing the Republican state convention in Springfield, Lincoln attacked slavery, but not those who owned slaves, and sounded a warning with words from the twelfth chapter of Matthew: "A house divided against itself cannot stand."
In a month-old paper, Bent read the quotation over and over. He took it not as a cautionary remark but as a statement of the inevitable. Secession first, then war. Often he closed his eyes and envisioned himself as a triumphant general on a corpse-littered battlefield. The mangled bodies were merely so much stage decoration; he was the actor everyone watched and admired.
From the first of May until mid-June, Camp Cooper received no general mail delivery, only official dispatches delivered by courier. Finally two bulging sacks arrived with some supply wagons. One sack, months old, had mistakenly been sent to Fort Leavenworth and only then forwarded to Texas. In each sack there was a letter from Orry. Charles eagerly tore them open, only to discover the first had been written in January, the second around the first of March, two weeks before Bent had sent the rescue expedition into the storm. Hence, neither had anything to say in response to the question about the commander of Company K.
Bent's chance to strike at Charles came in August, in the midst of another drought. A frightened farmer rode into the post on a mule. The commandant summoned Bent, saying to him:
"It's the Lantzman farm. Two miles beyond Phantom Hill."
Phantom Hill was an abandoned fort whose smoke-scarred chimneys were landmarks. "I live close by the Lantzman place," the white-haired farmer explained. "They seen Penateka Comanches in the neighborhood, so they holed up and sent me for help."
"Penatekas, you say." Bent frowned. "Reservation Indians?"
"It's more likely they belong to Sanaco's band," said the commandant. Sanaco was another chief, Katumse's rival. He had refused to settle on the reserve and had scorned Katumse for doing so.
"Have the Indians harmed anyone?" Bent asked.
The farmer shook his head. "Lantzman reckoned they wanted to sport awhile — maybe a day or two — 'fore they drove off his horses.''
"I fail to understand why the whole family didn't get out."
"Lantzman's oldest son, he's crippled. Sickly. Can't ride too good. Lantzman's a stubborn coot, too. Figures he and his boys can hold off a half-dozen hostiles till help arrives. 'Sides, he knows that if the family lights out, the Injuns are liable to burn the place just for meanness."
The commandant put the matter in Bent's hands. After the stagecoach fiasco, Bent wanted to appear competent as well as prudent. He feigned deep thought for ten seconds, only then saying:
"Half a dozen. You're sure Lantzman saw no more than that?"
"I'm sure, Cap'n."
Bent had no reason to doubt the statement. Marauding bands of Comanches were seldom large; this one sounded typical. He pondered again, then said, "I'll take twenty men, including both lieutenants and our tracker, Doss."
The commandant looked dubious. "Are you positive you don't want the entire troop?"
Panic clogged Bent's throat momentarily. His judgment was once more suspect. He brazened ahead.
"Twenty-four against six should be a safe margin, sir. Especially when they're men like mine."
The touch of braggadocio pleased his superior. Bent left quickly, excited and not a little fearful at the thought of taking the field against hostiles. He was not eager to do it. But leading a detachment against a band of Comanches, albeit a small one, would look good on his record. It might even offset the blemish left by the coach incident.
He sent his orderly to find O'Dell and Main. He described the situation at Lantzman's and ordered them to have twenty men ready with field gear and two days' rations in one hour. A provision wagon would follow at a slower pace.
Both lieutenants saluted and hurried toward the door. Just as Charles left, he gave the captain a quick glance. God, how Bent loathed his swaggering manner, the beard that made him resemble a hairy animal, his relationship with the men — everything about him. But if he were lucky, Main would soon go to his grave. In his room Bent opened his footlocker and took out his spanking new Allen and Wheelock Army Model .44. He laid the blued octagonal barrel in his palm and caressed it as he thought of his second lieutenant's face. Unless the Comanches had melted away by the time the detachment reached Lantzman's, there would surely be a chance for a well-placed but seemingly stray shot.
Bent shivered with expectation.
The double column sped southwest along the wagon road. The countryside was parched. No rain had fallen for three weeks. Charles realized an electrical storm could ignite a dangerous fire and, if they were unlucky, force them to detour for miles.
Such pessimistic thoughts were unusual for him, but he had a bad feeling about this expedition. The weather contributed. So did the absence of First Sergeant Breedlove, who had left on furlough a week ago. Charles's new roan was unfamiliar and somewhat skittish. But the chief cause of his uneasiness rode at the head of the column.
Captain Bent was the only member of the detachment correctly uniformed in yellow-trimmed fatigue jacket, regulation light blue trousers, and flat kepi-style forage cap. The others wore clothing better suited to the climate and terrain. Charles's shirt of blue flannel was the lightest one he owned. His pants were white and, for the moment, still fairly clean. At his belt hung his Colt and his bowie. A saddle scabbard carried his two-year-old Harpers Ferry rifled musket. A slouch hat protected his eyes from the sun.
Charles doubted Bent had the ability to lead this kind of expedition. Indian fighting was new to the Army. During Professor Mahan's entire course he had devoted only one hour to a discussion of it. But it was more than Bent's inexperience that generated the feeling of distrust. Charles felt Bent had within him a streak of evil, perhaps madness, and for God knew what inexplicable reason, it was directed against him.
The terrain was monotonous. Low, seared hills. Ravines. Creeks dried to a trickle by the drought. Haze dulled the sun and turned it to a defined disk in the sky. A sultry wind blew.
Doss located Indian signs several times. Small parties, he said. The tracks were a day or two old. It made Charles uneasy to think that the emptiness of the countryside might be deceptive.
After a late-afternoon stop to rest the horses, they pushed on. Bent hoped to reach the vicinity of Lantzman's by sundown. Charles was already hot and saddle-weary, but he recognized that speed was necessary. So did most of the other men. This was not an exercise but a relief mission; there was little griping.
O'Dell rode alongside Charles for a while. At one point he said, "This is damn dull, isn't it? If I'd brought my book, I could read awhile."
"What are you reading?"
"That little work by Mr. Helper."
The first lieutenant was good-naturedly trying to get a rise out of him. Charles had heard of The Impending Crisis of the South — How to Meet It, but had not yet seen a copy. He did know that Hinton Helper's book was a jeremiad against the peculiar institution, which the author claimed had ruined the South by making it dependent on the North for all its manufactured goods. What was remarkable was that the author hailed from North Carolina.
"I swear, Charles, that man hates the black race damn near as much as he hates slavery. The book does raise some mighty interesting questions, though. Such as why you Southern boys refuse to give up your slaves."
"These days the answer's simple. The spinning mills in England and France are expanding like blazes. That means cotton planters can ship their crops to Europe and get rich overnight. Nobody's going to kill a golden goose."
"You think that's the reason? I wonder."
"What else could it be?"
"Oh, maybe keeping the niggers in their place. Slavery does that nice and comfortably. I'll bet deep down you Southerners are scared of the nigger. He's dark and different. People don't like anything too different. I don't. I'll bet it isn't only money that makes you hang onto the system but the sheer fact of black and white."
"But if you had your way, you'd free all the slaves?"
"Yes indeed."
"What would you do with them?"
"Why, just what a lot of those Republicans propose."
"Black Republicans, they call 'em down home."
"Whatever. I'd deport the niggers. Resettle them in Liberia or Central America. Lord knows they ought to be free, but we don't want 'em here."
Charles threw his head back and laughed. "You're right, Lafe. It's black and white, sure enough. With you, too."
Lieutenant O'Dell didn't exactly like hearing that. He scowled. Charles had grown accustomed to the unconscious hypocrisy of Yankees, which usually turned into anger when it was exposed.
O'Dell had touched a nerve, though. In the South as in other parts of the country no one really knew how to abolish slavery without creating an economic and social calamity. If he could judge by O'Dell's comments, it was a problem haunting a great many people on both sides of —
''Column — halt!''
Ahead, across the mesquite flat, Charles saw ruined adobe chimneys jutting into the red evening light. He and O'Dell trotted forward. Bent summoned the round-faced Delaware tracker. A few moments later O'Dell and the scout cantered to the ruins of Phantom Hill and over the crest of a rise beyond.
The men dismounted, broke out canteens, talked quietly. Charles had nothing to say to Bent, who abruptly rode off about fifty yards and heaved himself down from his saddle. Charles swallowed warm water from his iron-hooped barrel canteen and watched the captain. The lonely commander, he thought. Yet mockery couldn't banish his nagging fear of Bent — a dread made worse because its origin continued to escape understanding. Reasons that came to mind seemed too trivial or too unbelievable.
"There they come."
A corporal's exclamation turned Charles toward the hilltop. Doss and Lafe O'Dell slipped down from the crest, walking their horses so as not to raise dust. The scouts went straight to Bent. From their expressions Charles knew they were not bringing an encouraging report. Charles and the enlisted men drifted within earshot. All heard Doss say:
"Plenty more Panateka now. Sanaco's braves. Some of Chief Buffalo Hump's, too. Bad."
Bent's cheeks were sweat-speckled. "How many are there?"
O'Dell said, "I counted close to forty."
'' Forty!'' The captain almost staggered.'' Describe —'' He swallowed. "Describe the situation."
O'Dell plucked out his sheath knife, hunkered, and drew a large U in the dust. "That's the bend in the creek. The hostiles are here." The tip of his knife touched the ground outside the bowed bottom of the U. Within the U he traced a rectangle and an adjoining square. He touched the rectangle. "This is the Lantzman house." He touched the square. "Their corral."
He added two smaller squares near the side of the house facing the corral. "A couple of boys are laid up behind hay bales here and here. They have muskets. The farmer's sons, I would imagine. They're protecting about a dozen horses."
"What's behind the house?" Charles wanted to know.
O'Dell scratched three parallel lines within the open end of the U. "A flat. Rows of corn so sun-scorched it won't amount to anything this year. The corn is low enough and thin enough that a couple of guns can keep anyone from sneaking up on that side."
Bent breathed noisily. "What are the Indians doing now?"
Eyes lit with points of red from the sunset, O'Dell stood up slowly. "Eating supper. Drinking. Letting their victims stew a little longer."
"Forty," the captain said again. He shook his head. "Too many. We may have to turn back."
"Turn back?" Charles exploded. To show what he thought of the idea, O'Dell hawked and blew a big glob of spit between the toes of his dusty boots.
Hastily, Bent raised one hand. "Only until we can call up reinforcements."
Frowns and grumbling from the troopers told the captain he had said the wrong thing. In quick looks passing between the men he read their judgment:
Coward.
He held the other officers responsible for that reaction. Their expressions had encouraged it. Main had encouraged it, goddamn him. And he didn't let up:
"Summoning reinforcements would take another full day at least. By then the Lantzmans could be burned out and scalped."
Bent's chin jutted. "What would you propose, Lieutenant?"
"That we get the family out of there."
"That means going in."
"Yes, it does. Doss, is there a way?"
The breeze stirred the fringing of the Delaware's hide shirt. He pointed. "Two miles. Maybe three. A cut through the hills. Can circle, come in through the corn. Take most of the night, but by then Comanche should be drunk asleep. Some will be watching the corn. Maybe they asleep too."
Charles wiped damp palms on his dirty white pants. Distantly on the wind he heard chanting and the faint tub-tub of a hand drum.
Don't push the captain too hard, he said to himself. Bent might balk, order a retreat, and doom the farmer and his family to die as soon as the whims of the Comanches prompted a charge.
Keeping his voice free of emotion, Charles said: "I'll volunteer to lead some men to the farm, Captain. We should go tonight, in case the Comanches decide to attack at daylight."
Bent struggled to sound as calm as his subordinate. "You're right, of course. What I said was never meant to be my final word. I was merely examining the alternatives aloud."
He watched the others from the corner of his eye. They weren't convinced. But what could they do? Quavering inwardly, he finished, "We'll send two men for reinforcements. The rest will start in as soon as it's dark."
"All of us?" Charles countered.
For an instant Bent's eyes revealed his rage. I swear I'll see him dead before the night's over.
"All," he said.
"Good," said O'Dell, shoving his knife back into the sheath at last. The troopers looked tense but pleased. Doss, too. Over the sun-reddened hills drifted the wailing and yipping of the Comanches.
The stunted corn rustled from the passing of the horsemen. The corn was worthless for cover. The tallest stalks reached only haunch-high on Charles's roan. He had suggested that they dismount to advance, thus taking advantage of what little protection the field did afford. Bent had vetoed that.
"Need I remind you that the new cavalry is supposed to fight from horseback, Lieutenant?"
Charles didn't think consistency was worth the risk of casualties, but he kept his mouth shut. He reckoned it to be four or a little after. The moon had set. Directly above, the stars were visible, but around the horizon they were hidden by a haze. It lent an eerie quality to the cornfield and to the line of men riding through it at a walk.
The mounted men formed a big, slow-moving half-circle, each rider separated from the next by an interval of about four feet. Bent held the center, with his orderly bugler directly behind him. Charles was about halfway down the line on the right flank. O'Dell rode at the same position on the left.
Because they were walking their horses, each man was able to carry a revolver in one hand, a carbine or musketoon in the other. Only Bent varied the pattern. He held his Allen and Wheelock six-shot in his right hand, his saber in his left. The sword felt awkward there, but at least he was correctly equipped.
Bent had sipped only a little water during the long ride around the Comanche flank. Even so, his bladder was painfully full. No doubt that was fear working on him. Fear of the hostiles. Fear of death. Fear that he'd again tarnish his record by bad judgment. He was sure that every other member of the detachment wanted him to fail, and that Main wanted it most of all.
Slowly, so as not to attract attention, Bent looked to the right. He located his second lieutenant in the misty half-light. An owl hooted. Bent gripped his revolver tightly and prayed that at the right moment his bullet would find its target.
Charles squinted. How far to the log farmhouse? About a quarter of a mile or a little more. No lights showed, but Lantzman and his family were surely on guard in the darkness.
Would they start firing indiscriminately the moment they saw horsemen in the corn? Bent ought to be alert to that possibility and order a bugle call to signal the presence of soldiers. Did he have enough sense?
The feeling of dread continued to plague Charles. He shoved his Colt into the saddle holster and, with his carbine resting in the angle of his left elbow, reached up with his right hand to try to squash a mosquito. He slapped his ear twice. Each time the whining faded, only to resume. With a curse he again drew his revolver.
A horse whickered on the far side of the farmhouse. The roofline blotted the dim campfire on the slope on the other side of the creek. Not a sound came from the Comanche camp. If they meant to launch a dawn attack, they had not yet begun to prepare.
Suddenly a black scarecrow figure rose in the corn ten yards out from the house. Charles had a blurred impression of long hair and a long-barreled weapon flung up to firing position. One of the troopers shouted a warning. The Indian's musket squirted fire and roared.
Between Charles and the center, a trooper pitched from his saddle. Other Comanche sentinels, five or six of them, popped up suddenly and began firing. Charles braced his carbine against his hip and pulled the trigger. The angle was wrong, the shot too high. He scabbarded the carbine and laid his Colt across his left elbow, steadying the roan with his knees.
He aimed for the nearest Comanche as horses shied and yelling broke out along the line. He squeezed off his shot. The Comanche sank from sight.
Inside the farmhouse a man was bellowing an alarm. There were other outcries across the creek. Then more musket fire. A shot from a loophole in the house felled a soldier. Why in the name of God didn't the captain sound a call before Lantzman's family killed them all?
Bent was trying. For the third time he cried, "Orderly bugler — sound trot march!"
The orderly swayed in the saddle as if he had imbibed too heavily. Furious, Bent sheathed his sword, switched gun hands, and brought his prancing roan under control. He reached out to seize the bugler's hickory shirt. His hand closed on sticky cloth.
Without thinking, he pushed the enlisted man, who fell off the far side of his horse with his head tilting back. In the faint light, Bent saw that a musket ball had pierced the bugler's right eye.
Two or three Indians remained between the soldiers and the farmhouse. Bent heard balls whizzing and hissing to the right and left as he leaped to the ground. Confused and frightened, all he could think of was the necessity for a bugle call.
"Close up. Close up and advance!"
Whose voice was that? he wondered as he stumbled to the body of his orderly and seized the bugle. Main, that's who it was. Afterward they'd say he was the one who showed initiative. Damn him. Damn him.
The bloody bugle in hand, he regained his saddle and saw Charles speeding by from right to left. Bent flung the bugle away, snatched his revolver from the holster, and quickly surveyed his surroundings.
No one was close; no one was watching. The line was falling apart, each trooper firing, defending himself as best he could. Bent aimed the revolver at Charles's retreating back. Pressed his lips together. Slowly exerted pressure on the trigger —
An Indian ball nicked his roan on the left flank. The horse bellowed and bucked. Bent's revolver boomed, barely heard in the gunfire. Charles rode on, untouched.
Infuriated, Bent was ready to try another shot, caution abandoned now. A thrashing in the corn caught his attention. He whipped his head around. Not eight feet away there was a horseman.
"O'Dell! I didn't see you — " Terrified, Bent felt his bladder let go.
"What in hell are you doing, sir? Why did you shoot at one of your own men?"
The quiet accusation had an unexpected effect. It restored Bent's calm, made him realize the extent of the danger into which his hate had pushed him. No words could save him at this point. He answered O'Dell by raising the Allen and Wheelock to firing position.
O'Dell's mouth opened, but he had no time to cry out. Bent's shot destroyed most of O'Dell's face and flung him sideways. His left boot tore free of the stirrup, but not his right. The roan cantered away with O'Dell hanging head down. His skull was quickly beaten to pieces by the hard ground.
Fighting panic, Bent looked around hurriedly. No one had seen the shooting. It was still too dark, with powder smoke and mist further hampering visibility. Bent holstered his gun and again drew his saber. With the blade at tierce point, he screamed the order for his men to advance at a trot.
Charles had already taken care of issuing that order. Three troopers closed on the last Indian sentinel and dropped him with well-placed shots. One man sabered the Comanche's throat for good measure.
Charles rode to within twenty feet of the farmhouse, risking himself so that the Lantzmans would be sure to hear his shout:
"This is the Second Cavalry. Hold your fire."
Silence settled. Smoke drifted away in the mist. Bent trotted forward. "Dismount. Dismount!"
Gradually the troopers obeyed. Panting, Bent dropped to the ground in the midst of milling horses. He hoped the dark would help hide his damp trousers.
"Good work, men. We carried the day."
"We lost three men," Charles said, still in the saddle. Bent wished he could raise the revolver and blow Charles's head off. But reckless action had nearly undone him once; it must not happen again.
"No, wait," Charles exclaimed. "Where's O'Dell?"
He called the officer's name twice, loudly. Then Bent spoke. "No use, Lieutenant. One of the savages got him. I saw him fall. His horse dragged him off.''
Bent's heartbeat thundered in his ears. If anyone was to challenge his lie, it would happen now — now —
"God," Charles said softly, climbing down. No one else uttered a word.
Bent exhaled. He was safe. He squared his shoulders. "I regret the loss as much as you. but we must consolidate our gains and plan our next move. We'll want pickets along this side of the house, Lieutenant. Take care of it while I see to those inside."
He pivoted, one hand resting on his saber hilt. He felt exactly like a conquering general as he strode toward the log house, calling, "Lantzman?"
Charles detailed four troopers to bring in the dead; it hadn't occurred to Bent, apparently.
He watched one member of the detail spread tarpaulins close to the farmhouse wall. Dawn light filled the eastern sky now. The mist was dissipating. Inside, Bent could be heard making pronouncements to people who spoke much more softly than the captain; Charles detected at least one feminine voice. Bent's tone of authority angered him. The man might do passably well as a staff officer, but as a line commander he was an incompetent. He had botched the advance to the farm. In anticipation of sentinels, they should have approached in double file, to present a narrower target. Or, better still, on foot, as Charles had suggested.
The captain's refusal had cost them four dead. A fifth trooper was out of action with a ball in his foot. Add to that the two men dispatched to Camp Cooper, and their effective strength was reduced to seventeen. Against thirty or more Comanches still left.
Two of the detail appeared, dragging something in an indigo saddle blanket. "We found everyone but Lieutenant O'Dell, sir. There's no sign of him."
Charles nodded in an absent way. He looked to the hills beyond the pitiful fields. The man who had befriended him was lost out there with no one to mourn him. Charles's eyes filled with tears. Then shock settled in. His legs shook. He had to lean against the log wall to keep from falling. The men in the detail looked elsewhere until the worst of it passed.
Suddenly, there was an outburst of yelling from the creek side of the house. Charles hurried to the corner and peered around. Over in the Comanche camp, the braves were milling their horses, brandishing lances, whooping. Most of them were young men, their glossy hair parted in the center and braided in long queues. Some had accentuated the part by streaking it with white or yellow clay. Faces were painted red, with white or yellow eyelids. One warrior had drawn huge black fangs all around his mouth.
A wagon creaked down the hillside toward the noisy Indians. The sight of it hit Charles like a hammer. It was the provision wagon that had been following the soldiers, but now it was being driven by three braves. The left side of the wagon's canvas top was splotched by a huge bloodstain.
Troopers crowded up behind Charles, whispering and pointing at the wagon. "The red fuckers," one man growled. "What d'you suppose they did with our boys?"
Charles said, "I'd rather not know."
He headed for the back door of the farmhouse. The death of Lafayette O'Dell placed an unwanted responsibility on him. To make matters worse, the captain refused to admit that he was in over his head. If any of Bent's ideas were questioned, he would surely fly into a rage.
Charles would just have to accept that fact — that added problem — and deal with it as best he could.
Thank God no decisions were required immediately. All they had to do was dig in and await the reinforcements.
The last hour had changed Charles's ideas about the nature of war. War was not a gay martial parade on the Plain with the ranks perfectly aligned, every bit of brass polished, and the flags flying while the drums beat cadence. War was disorder, dirt, death. It was nerve-shredding fright.
His legs still felt shaky as he entered the farmhouse. The interior consisted of a long, flat-roofed room with alcoves for sleeping, plus another housing an iron stove. The place reeked of powder smoke and something far worse. He saw flies walking on two bodies covered to the neck by blankets. One, an older, gray-haired man, he presumed to be Lantzman. The other was the farmer's oldest son, Karl, the one whose leg injury had prevented the family from fleeing. He presumed both men had died outside.
Four members of the family remained. Mrs. Lantzman was a worn little woman with moles on her chin. Two blond sons in their late teens moved slowly, like sleepwalkers. Their eyes were glassy. The fourth survivor, a girl, seemed less affected by the siege, perhaps because she was younger.
She was about twelve, Charles guessed. Her sweet face reflected her youth, but she had already developed a woman's figure. As Charles stood silently, he saw Bent's eyes shift and linger on the full bosom within the tight, stained bodice of the girl's kersey dress.
The girl was unaware of the attention. She was busy pulling round shot from a leather pouch hung from her shoulder. Her long gun leaned against her other hip. An Augustin musket, Charles noticed; Austrian jaeger battalions carried them, and the quartermaster of the Army, Joe Johnston, imported a good many.
Close to tears, Mrs. Lantzman said, "How can we stay here, Captain? We have no more food. My husband died trying to reach the creek to bring back water."
"We have rations to share. Water, too." Bent sounded smooth and confident. "I'll have my men dig in around the house" — Charles had crossed the room and now put his eye to a loophole on the creek side. His right hand clenched — "while we await the reinforcements. With no bad weather to hamper them, they should arrive before the end of the day."
Without turning, Charles said, "I think not, Captain."
"What's that?"
"You'd better see this. A half-dozen braves just rode in. Look at the ones with lances."
Bent waddled to the loophole and squinted. His face drained of color. Four of the new arrivals held their lances high and shook them. On the points of two, trophies were impaled.
The heads of the two soldiers sent to Camp Cooper.
Charles thought the captain would go to pieces. Bent paced, muttered to himself, several times turned to blurt some thought but never did. There was a wild, vacant glint in his eye. The dazed Lantzman boys knew something was amiss. Even the girl stared at the captain fearfully.
Every second was precious now. Charles cleared his throat. "Sir —"
Bent whirled, shouting, "What is it?"
"I'd like permission to send scouts back through the cornfield. That's our only avenue of retreat."
The captain gave a limp wave and sank onto a stool. "Go ahead." He stared into space as Charles hurried out.
Charles was back in twenty minutes, looking grim. "They've already moved men into the gullies behind the field. At least fifteen, Corporal Ostrander said. We're cut off. Surrounded."
Why hadn't they left before this? Charles asked himself in a silent burst of fury. But of course he couldn't hold Bent responsible for their failure to do so; they had all anticipated the eventual arrival of a relief column. Evidently the two dead troopers had run into one of those small bands whose signs Doss had discovered. Charles had a feeling the entire expedition was cursed.
Bent swiped a hand across his perspiring face. "Surrounded? Then we must dig in and wait for help."
"From where?" Charles exclaimed.
"I don't know! Someone will come — " The sentence trailed off.
"But Captain," the girl said, "is there enough food?"
Mrs. Lantzman shook her head. "Hush, Martha. Don't question the soldiers. They know best."
"Yes. Exactly right," Bent said with another of those vague looks.
He was foundering again. Charles couldn't permit it to continue. "Just a minute," he said.
Bent's head jerked around, his moist eyes brimming with resentment. Charles spoke to the others rather than to his superior: "We have to recognize that we're in a bad situation. We're outnumbered, and no one from Camp Cooper will be coming to relieve us. The Comanches can build up their forces and attack at their pleasure. I don't believe any of us wants to sit here and wait to be killed. Or taken prisoner," he added with a glance at Martha. Mrs. Lantzman understood his meaning.
"What do you propose we do?" Bent snarled.
"Hold on till dark, then attempt to break out. I've thought of a way to distract —"
Bent jumped up, overturning the stool and screaming his answer.
"No."
As the cry died away, a strange feeling swept over Charles. He felt as though he had just decided to leap into a chasm — which, in a way, he had. But what other choice did he have? Bent was out of control, incapable of dealing with the situation.
"I'm sorry, sir, but escape is the only way."
The captain's face reddened again. He grabbed a small puncheon table, hurled it aside, and stormed toward Charles. "Are you disputing me? Questioning my authority?"
"If you mean to stay here, Captain, I guess I am."
"Lieutenant" — Bent took a deep breath in an effort to control himself, but his voice still shook — "you will say nothing more. That is a direct order. Go outside until I send for you."
Charles hated matters to come to this — a test of authority, of wills. The two of them should be pulling together to save the others. But how did you convince a lunatic of that? he asked himself wearily.
"I'll go, sir," he said, "but I can't obey the rest of the order. If we stay here, we're finished."
Bent looked at him a moment, then said quietly, "Lieutenant Main, you will obey my order or face court-martial."
"Captain, we're leaving."
Bent grabbed Charles's collar and twisted. "Goddamn it, I'll see that you're cashiered!"
Charles deliberately removed Bent's hand. He wanted to hit the fat officer; only with great effort did he restrain himself. His voice dropped low. "If we get back alive, you're welcome to try."
He glanced at Mrs. Lantzman, her two sons, and finally at the girl, who stood holding her Austrian musket in both hands. "We'll leave as soon as it's dark. I'll take anyone who wants to go. If you do, you'd better bury those bodies. We can't take them."
Mrs. Lantzman knelt beside her husband's corpse, shooed the flies off, and began to straighten the blanket. Suddenly she burst into tears. Charles looked away.
The resolute expession on Martha's face showed she had already made up her mind. Charles turned to the captain and said, "I'll make the same offer to the men. No one will be forced to go."
Bent whispered, "Get out of my sight."
Doubled over, Charles ran toward the edge of the cornfield a few minutes later. From the ravines on the far side, a shot boomed. The ball hissed through the tassels above him. Kneeling, he tore off a couple of leaves and rolled them between his palms.
Dry as powder. Now if he could persuade Mrs. Lantzman to turn her horses loose — the Comanches would get them anyway — they might have a chance, although not much of one.
Westward, only a thin rind of sun showed above the foothills. The light was rapidly fading from the land and sky. In his mind Charles had gone over the escape plan and the signals involved half a dozen times.
An hour ago, following his instructions, troopers had built a cook fire halfway between the house and the field, where the Indians would be sure to see it. Inside, Mrs. Lantzman and her daughter had wrapped rags around the ends of cottonwood branches and soaked the rags in lamp oil. The Lantzman boys had saddled horses for the family and were now in position behind the hay bales on the far side of the building, prepared to make the dangerous dash to the corral.
Corporal Ostrander slipped through the shadows to Charles's side. "Sir, everything's ready."
"All right, it's time. We —"
He stopped as Ostrander's startled eyes focused somewhere beyond him. Charles turned. From the farmhouse door Bent spoke.
"I'm going."
The captain had been the sole holdout. Charles tried to extend an olive branch by replying in a mild tone. "Fine, sir."
It did no good. "I'm going principally for the satisfaction of seeing you thrown out of the Army in disgrace."
Charles's gaze hardened. "Whatever you say, sir. But I must respectfully remind you that I have temporarily assumed command."
Did the captain's eyes twinkle then? Charles's spine crawled. Bent almost smiled as he drew on the fringed gauntlets he favored.
"You have made me quite aware of that. Lieutenant. All day I have watched you busily undermining my authority and turning the men against me. Enjoy the command. It's your last."
He stared at Charles without blinking. Across the creek the besiegers whooped and thumped their hide drum.
Martha Lantzman appeared with the unlit torches. Holding them down close to the ground so as not to draw the attention of the sentinels beyond the field, she passed them one by one to Ostrander. He in turn gave them to men pretending to lounge at the cook fire. In the darkness at either end of the house, horses whickered; the rest of the troopers were in the saddle and were holding the mounts of the men responsible for lighting the torches.
"Find your horses," he said to Mrs. Lantzman and her daughter. They hurried away. He looked pointedly at the captain, who incredibly seemed to laugh, then followed after them.
Charles turned and studied the cornfield, wondering whether he — all of them — might die out there. Unexpectedly, like a river current in spring flood, a powerful will to live surged in him. Reckoning that the situation was almost hopeless anyway, he realized he had precious little to lose. He therefore could, and should, act boldly. The dirty bearded mask of his face cracked open and his teeth shone as he forced a smile.
Some of the men saw, and they too began to smile. Charles realized he had discovered one of the secrets of being a good officer in a tight spot. Perhaps he'd live to put it to use again.
He looked at each of the others to show the moment had come. Then he thrust his revolver up over his head and fired.
At the sound of the shot, all activity stopped in the Comanche camp. Then Charles heard a commotion among the horses in the corral and quickly thereafter one of the Lantzman boys yelling, "Hah!"
The horses galloped out. Some of them splashed into the creek, just before the first Comanche shot rang out. The Indians had no clear targets, but they obviously knew something was afoot.
Charles fired twice more. In response to the signal, the troopers plunged the torches into the embers. The rags ignited with soft explosions. Each man dashed to a prearranged place on the right or left and there set fire to the corn, the plan being to leave a fifty-foot-wide lane in the center. Charles counted on the lack of wind to help keep that lane open long enough for them to escape.
He sprinted to his horse and mounted. Flames were already shooting up above the dry stalks; the field was burning faster than he'd anticipated. He rode to the entrance of the lane, reined to one side, and slashed downward with his revolver as he shouted:
"Column of twos, trot march, ho!"
A line of men rode from each corner of the house, quickly forming the double column. Charles had put the most experienced riders in front and the Lantzmans at the most protected position, in the center.
By twos the men and horses pounded into the lane. The spreading fire already threatened the entrance. The fainter sound of splashing water told Charles the Comanches were crossing the creek. "Hurry, damn it!" he yelled to the men who had handled the torches. They mounted and trotted into the lane. Charles felt the heat of the fire on his back. Bent's horse shied, but he forced it ahead, following the double column.
Flames leaped from both sides of the lane and interlaced across it. A painted Indian rode into sight at one corner of the house. Charles squeezed off a shot and dropped him. Then, applying spurs, he drove his roan through the fire. He bent low over his mount's neck. Ahead, fire had narrowed the lane to a width of ten feet. Bent was some twenty yards in front of him, and beyond the captain Charles could see little except the bobbing forms of his men, silhouettes against the brightness.
A lick of flame touched Bent's sleeve. Smoke curled from the fabric. The captain yelped and slapped the fire out. His horse carried him from the burning field into the dark, where Ostrander was supposed to hold the column together and lead it forward at a gallop. Charles hoped the corporal was still alive.
Smoke billowed around him now. The fire consumed the corn with a roar. The lane was nearly closed directly ahead, Charles bent so low he thought his ribs might crack. He whispered encouragement to the roan as the flame barrier loomed.
The roan leaped as fearlessly as the best Academy jumper. Light blinded Charles. Heat scorched his cheeks. Then they were through into cool air and darkness.
The roan came down surely, but hard. Charles was almost unseated. He held on and a second later a nightmare face — yellow-clayed cheeks, white eyes — came rushing at him from the right.
A Comanche sentinel, on foot. The Indian hacked downward with his trade hatchet, striking for Charles's thigh. Charles applied spurs and the roan sprang on. The hatchet missed Charles but buried in the animal's flank, cutting clear through the massive muscle and severing an artery. The roan bellowed and reared. Charles tumbled off.
As he fell he managed to shove his revolver against the Comanche's chest and pull the trigger. The explosion blew the Indian backward into the burning corn. In seconds he was afire from head to foot.
Charles lay pinned by the heaving, bellowing horse. He dragged his leg free, then put his last two shots into the dying roan's head.
The corn crackled as it burned. Charles looked around but saw no sign of his men. Panic set in. He began running after the others. Recalling that the last rider in the column was the captain, he shouted, "Bent! Bent, help me!"
He staggered on. Had the captain heard him? Had anyone?
He turned to observe the fire. It had spread, building into a high wall of light half a mile wide. As he watched, the flames swallowed one edge of Lantzman's field and swept to the prairie grass beyond, igniting it instantly.
A humorless smile jerked the corners of his grimy mouth. He had counted on the fire to block the charge of the Comanches who came across the creek. Beyond the flames he could hear them milling and shouting angrily. The sentinels on this side had represented the smaller, more acceptable risk. He had slain one of them, but there must be others —
''Lieutenant, look out!''
The voice belonged to a trooper who had heard his cry for help and doubled back. Turning toward the dim figure of the mounted man, Charles let out a gasp. Another Comanche came loping at him from the darkness with a lance.
Charles pivoted to present his right side, then raised and parried with his empty gun. The barrel diverted the thrust just enough to prevent a fatal injury. The iron lance head tore through his sleeve into his shoulder.
The Indian's run had carried him to within a foot of Charles, who now pulled his knife with his left hand. The painted mouth contorted; the Indian couldn't pull back quickly enough. Charles rammed the knife to the hilt into his stomach, then yanked it out.
The Comanche lurched sideways. Rage overcoming his agony, he tried a final thrust with the lance. Charles jumped away and waited for the Indian to fall. After an endless moment, he did.
Reaction set in then. Nausea, trembling, blurred vision. Charles couldn't identify the soldier who had heard his hail, ridden back, and shouted a warning. "Bent?" He shielded his eyes with his forearm but still couldn't see.
"No, sir, it's Private Tannen. Captain Bent rode on ahead." After he heard me call for help.
"Climb up, sir," said the private. "We're going to make it — all of us."
They followed the fleeing column. Charles held the private's waist and rode with his eyes closed, his silence blended of shock and relief.
The Comanches pursued them through the darkness for nearly an hour, but never came within musket range. Soon their fading cries signaled their weariness of the profitless sport. They melted away into the summer night — probably heading back to round up the Lantzman horses.
After another hour of hard riding, the column stopped to rest. Miraculously, the only injuries were a couple of flesh wounds similar to the one Charles had suffered. Despite their losses the Lantzmans were jubilant, and so were the troopers, who laughed and talked boisterously. Several congratulated Charles on the success of his daring plan.
After Charles ordered scouts out, a trooper offered him a swig of lightning whiskey. Charles didn't say a word about the impropriety of that or inquire about the source of the stuff. He drank gratefully, then poured some of the raw spirits on his gashed shoulder. With Mrs. Lantzman's help he bound the wound with a kerchief. Through all of this, Bent kept aloof.
Soon Charles felt considerably better. He was tired but in possession of his faculties again. He re-formed the column, and they covered the next two miles at a walk. This brought them to an ideal campsite in a ravine whose open end was easily guarded.
Bedrolls were broken out for the first time since they had left Camp Cooper. Mesquite wood gathered by foragers was lit to keep off insects and the night's chill. Charles squatted by one of several small fires, gnawing on a square of hardtack. He had seldom tasted anything as delicious.
A misshapen shadow stretched across the fire suddenly. He glanced up, drew in a sharp breath. Bent's expression was controlled, masklike. He had again assumed command, which Charles did not contest. He had no desire to embarrass the captain any further. He had said nothing to the men about Bent's near hysteria inside the farmhouse and in fact had taken pains to create the impression that it was the captain who had placed him in charge of the escape effort.
"I want to commend you on your behavior during the escape, Lieutenant. You displayed exceptional courage."
"Thank you, sir."
Charles wondered about the reason for the unexpected compliment. He could find none until he noticed five troopers relaxing at the next fire. A moment ago they had been discussing the action at Lantzman's.
Now they were quiet, listening. Bent had been speaking so that they would be sure to hear.
The captain glanced at the listeners and began walking in the other direction. He motioned Charles to his side. Reluctantly, Charles followed.
"At the farm," Bent resumed, "perhaps both of us were undone by anger. When danger threatens, no man can be expected to think clearly at all times."
I would say that you could expect that of a good leader, Charles thought, but remained silent. There was no point in provoking Bent just now; in his clumsy way, he seemed to be trying to establish a truce.
They left the perimeter of the firelight, walking in silence. For the first time Charles smelled whiskey. That Bent carried a secret supply didn't surprise him.
When they were safely away from the five listeners, Bent stopped and faced him.
"Of course, the success of the action doesn't expunge your guilt. You disobeyed a direct order."
Charles felt his bile rise. Now he understood the captain's scheme. Bent wanted some of the men to hear him compliment his subordinate, as a normal commander would. That dispensed with, he was now delivering his real message in private. Bent's voice hardened.
"Charges must and will be filed against you."
Charles sensed, then clearly grasped, what Bent had earlier realized. The angry exchange with the captain and his near breakdown had been witnessed only by the Lantzmans. They would not be called to testify at a court-martial unless Charles insisted on it; and if they were called, the prosecutor could easily demolish their qualifications as witnesses, noting first that they were civilians, with no comprehension of military matters. He could then point out that grief over the loss of two loved ones made their judgment and their statements even more suspect.
Charles saw the trap closing. He would have no support for what he had done, no one to state that temporarily relieving Bent had been imperative. Dismally, he realized he himself had helped set the trap. Trying to spare his superior, he had said nothing to any of the men about the captain's behavior. Bent could exaggerate and color his testimony any way he chose. Finally there was the matter of rank. A court would tend to believe the word of an experienced captain over that of a brevet second lieutenant.
Firelight brushed Bent's profile as he turned away. He allowed himself a little smile.
"I think you, not I, will be the chief casualty of this expedition. Good evening, Lieutenant."
Sleepless and tense, Charles lay with his head on his saddle. The fire had gone out. The cold of the night stiffened his bones. His bandaged shoulder throbbed.
How stupid of him to think even for a moment that Bent wanted to make peace. Charles was the target of an unfounded hate so deep and so venomous it defied explanation, except in one way. Bent was a madman. He had suspected it before, but the harrowing events involving the Lantzmans had placed the matter beyond all doubt.
He shuddered, then plopped his hat over his eyes to block out the starlight. It didn't help. He lay awake for hours, hearing the captain's voice, seeing the captain's face.
Bent planned to cover the distance to Camp Cooper in a single day's ride, but around three in the afternoon the younger Lantzman boy came down with acute stomach cramps. His mother pleaded with the captain to stop for a while so that the boy could rest. A few minutes became an hour. By then a thunderstorm was muttering in the north. Bent ordered a lean-to built for the civilians, deciding that, since no danger threatened, they would camp for the night and go the rest of the way tomorrow. The men grumbled about the decision. Bent paid no attention; he was sore from riding, and he welcomed the chance to reassert his authority.
Wind whipped the grass, and dust and debris blew through the air for half an hour. But no rain fell. The storm passed by, leaving the troopers more disgruntled than ever. They could have pushed on, been in their bunks before taps.
Camp had been pitched in a level area beside a dry creek bed. A few cottonwoods lined the bank, and among these Bent had put down his blanket and built his fire. Normally any other officers would have shared the fire, but Charles knew better than to approach.
The lean-to stood on open ground about twenty feet from the cottonwood grove where Bent sat drinking, hidden by shadows as the night deepened. After two long drinks from his flask, he felt more relaxed. He savored the smell of firewood, the sounds of insects and of the men conversing softly. He drank again. His mind drifted into colorful visions of Alexander, the Mongol Khans, Bonaparte.
He had already excused his own behavior at the farm, placing the blame on other factors: A shortage of men. The unfortunate killing of the troopers sent for reinforcements. The hostility of his lieutenants.
Well, he'd eliminated one of the traitorous officers, and he'd soon get rid of the other. He imagined the effect on Orry Main when he heard that his relative had been cashiered.
Chuckling, Bent again raised the flask. The sound of voices at the Lantzman lean-to attracted his attention. He remained motionless in the concealment of the trees, watching.
"Why do I have to lie there when I can't sleep, Mama? Let me walk a little while."
Carrying the long Augustin musket, Mrs. Lantzman followed her daughter out of the lean-to. "All right, but don't go far. And take this."
"I don't need it," Martha retorted. "There's no more danger. The Delaware scout said so."
Cross-legged beside the dying fire, her older brother laughed and flung his arms wide. "With all these soldiers around, Martha wants to be defenseless."
"Take it back!" She fisted her hand.
"Walk if you must, but let's have no more of that kind of talk," Mrs. Lantzman said, unsmiling. She planted the stock of the musket on the ground and watched her full-bosomed daughter walk through the rustling grass. She let Martha go three steps before she softly called:
"Not that way. You'll disturb the captain."
"Oh, that's right. I forgot."
The girl changed direction, moving toward the perimeter of the cottonwoods rather than straight into them. She was grateful for her mother's warning. She didn't like the captain, with his coarse, fat face and his small eyes that watched her so closely. She knew the reason he watched her. She was old enough to be vaguely titillated by it, yet still young enough to be frightened.
Her new course took her past another small fire. There, the lieutenant — dashing, good-looking — sat with his shirt off. He was struggling to tie a clean bandage around a nasty cut in his shoulder. Martha paused to help him with the knot. He thanked her in that courtly Southern way of his. Thrilled, she went on.
Charles reclined on his elbows and kept track of her, almost like a watchful parent, until she faded into the darkness.
Elkanah Bent lay with his hand between his thighs, surprised at his sudden strong reaction. The Lantzman girl, whom he had been watching from the concealment of the cottonwoods, was a mere child.
Ah, but not above the waist, he thought, licking his lips.
It had been a long while since he had slept with a woman or even touched one. Naturally no officer dared lay a hand on one so young. But he still had an urge to speak to her. With luck, maybe he could even contrive to touch her.
The mere existence of that impulse proved things were once again moving in his favor. He lifted the flask, shook it, then drank until it was empty. Still quite timid, he lurched to his feet and slipped through the grove, away from the light of the campfires.
Following her mother's instructions, Martha didn't walk far, only to the creek bank on the other side of the cottonwoods. She was surprised at how much she could see by the light of the rising moon. She folded her arms across her breasts, tilted her head back, and sighed with contentment.
The night breeze soothed her, stirred a pleasant rustling in the grass. Softly, she began to hum "Old Folks at Home." Then all at once she heard a noise in the grove. She whirled.
"Is someone there?"
"Only Captain Bent, my dear."
He came lumbering from the trees, hatless and not very steady on his feet. Martha's heart began to race. She called herself a ninny. Surely she had nothing to fear from an Army officer.
"I thought I heard movement out here," he continued as he approached. "I'm glad to know it's someone friendly."
The false cordiality alarmed her. He smelled of whiskey mixed with sweat. With his back to the moon, he resembled a grotesque two-legged elephant. He moved closer.
"Lovely night, isn't it?"
"I don't know. I mean, yes. I must go back —"
"So soon? Please don't. Not yet."
How kind and gentle he sounded. His voice, pitched low, was that of a trustworthy uncle. And yet she heard something else in it. Something that confused her, made her momentarily indecisive.
He took her inaction for consent. "There, that's better. I only want to demonstrate my high regard for you."
Drunk, she thought. That's what it is. She had seen her poor dead father drunk many times and knew the signs.
"You're a charming girl. Exceptionally lovely for one so young." His big round head hid the moon. He took another step toward her. "I'd like for us to be friends."
His hand stretched toward her hair, picked up the strands that lay gleaming on her left shoulder. All at once she was immobilized, terrified.
He petted her hair, rubbed it between thumb and fingers. Slowly he increased the tension until he was pulling it. Pulling her. His puffy breathing sounded like the noise of a steam engine.
"Let go of me. Please."
He stiffened, no longer friendly. "Keep your voice down. You mustn't attract attention."
To emphasize that, he seized her forearm. She cried out softly.
"Damn you, don't do that," Bent exclaimed, panicking. "Don't, I tell you." This time her outcry was louder, and so was his. "Stop it! Stop it, do you hear?"
Shaking her, expostulating, he didn't know anyone else was there until he saw the sudden look of relief in her moonlit eyes. He pivoted like a man turning to face a firing squad. He stepped back when he saw Charles Main —
And beyond him, bursting from the trees, the older Lantzman boy followed by the mother. The moon flashed on the long barrel of the jaeger musket in her hands.
Together, Bent's face and that of the girl told Charles all he needed to know. Mrs. Lantzman rushed to her daughter's side. Voices began to overlap.
"Martha, did he hurt you?" The brother.
"I knew it wasn't safe for you to go walking." The mother.
Bent, hoarse and upset: "I did nothing to her. Nothing!"
And the girl: "Yes, he did. He put his hands on me and started playing with my hair. He wouldn't stop —"
"Quiet," Charles said. "Everyone keep quiet."
They obeyed. He saw a sentry hurrying toward them, several troopers not far behind. He stepped around Mrs. Lantzman, wigwagged his arm.
"Go back to camp. Everything's all right."
The sentry and the others turned and moved away again. Charles waited until they were out of sight beyond the cotton woods, then gave Bent a fierce look. The captain was perspiring heavily, weaving on his feet. He avoided Charles's eye.
"Martha, are you hurt?" Charles asked.
"N-no."
"Take her back to your lean-to, Mrs. Lantzman. Keep her there the rest of the night."
Small fists clenched on the musket, the woman stood her ground. Her glance bayoneted the captain. "What kind of men do they send to serve in Texas? Men with no morals?"
"Mrs. Lantzman, this won't help," Charles interrupted. "Your daughter's all right. The incident is unfortunate, but we've all been under a lot of strain. I'm sure the captain regrets any accidental indiscretion —"
"Accidental?" The girl's brother snorted. "He's drunk. Smell him!"
Bent blurted, "Damn you for an impertinent —" Charles seized the captain's upraised arm and thrust it down. Bent gasped, opened his fist, let his arm fall to his side.
Charles grasped Martha's shoulder lightly and her brother's. He turned them both toward the trees. "Stay in the lean-to and try to forget about this. I'm sure Captain Bent will offer his apology to all of you."
"Apology? Under no circumstances will I —"
Again Bent stopped. He whispered, "Yes. Consider it tendered."
Mrs. Lantzman looked as if she wanted to shoot him. Charles spoke softly to her. "Go. Please."
The woman passed the musket to her son. She put her arm around Martha's waist and led her away. Bent pressed both palms against his face, kept them there for about ten seconds, then lowered them.
"Thank you," he said to Charles.
Charles didn't reply.
"I don't understand why you helped me, but I am — grateful."
"Nothing would be accomplished if she shot you. And she'd only regret it later. If there's to be any punishment for what just happened, it should come from the proper quarter."
"Punishment? What do you mean?"
Again Charles was silent. He turned and stalked away through the wind-tossed grass.
Five miles from Camp Cooper, Bent galloped to the head of the column where Charles was riding. They had been traveling in a drizzle since shortly after breakfast. Charles's spirits felt as bedraggled as his men looked.
Bent cleared his throat. Charles could predict what his superior was going to say.
"I appreciate your actions on my behalf last night. I attempted to convey my feelings then, but you were in no mood to listen. I thought I should try again."
Charles gazed at Bent from beneath the dripping brim of his hat.
He could barely contain his disgust. "Captain, believe me, I didn't do it to help you personally. I did it because of the uniform you're wearing. I did it for the sake of the regiment. Do you understand?"
"Yes, surely. I — I don't expect you to feel kindly toward me. What I want to ask — that is — since we'll soon be back in camp — what do you think Mrs. Lantzman will say?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
How sickeningly hopeful Bent looked then. Charles leaned over the other way and spat.
"She'll say nothing. I spoke to her at breakfast. She understands that an accusation would serve no purpose. Perhaps Martha even learned a valuable lesson. Mrs. Lantzman's point of view is simple and eminently decent. Since no real harm was done, why should she ruin you?"
Now came the insidious part. If his method was less than admirable, his purpose could hardly be faulted. He held Bent's eyes, continuing:
"But I know she'd be glad to come back to Camp Cooper or even travel to Fort Mason, if I asked. She would do it if I needed her at my court-martial. To testify to my character and the character of others."
Bent's brows flew up. He understood. He realized he had escaped one trap only to be forced into a more humiliating one. His face grew hostile again.
"Your tactics are worthy of a criminal."
"Bullshit, Captain. While I save my career, I'm handing you a chance to save yours. To do it is easy. Just keep your mouth shut. If you don't like that idea, however, we'll put the entire matter in front of Major Thomas. He's sat on plenty of courts-martial down here. I'm willing to trust his judgment."
"No, no —" Bent raised one of his fancy gauntlets; it was torn across the back. "I accept your terms. There will be no charges."
Charles couldn't help a sudden, cold smile.
"Thought that was what you'd decide."
He touched his hat brim, reined to the left, and went galloping back along the line, mud flying up behind him. A big gob struck the yellow cloth-and-gold embroidery of Bent's left shoulder strap.
The Lantzmans rested overnight at Camp Cooper, then left for their farm with an escort. Bent disappeared in his quarters, violently sick with dysentery again. Charles knew little about medicine, but he suspected the recent turmoil had precipitated the captain's illness.
In General Orders from Washington, Charles and the captain received commendations for the rescue of the Lantzman family. Lafayette O'Dell received his posthumously. His body was never found.
Bent requested and was granted medical leave in San Antonio. It fell to Charles to write letters to the families of O'Dell and the three other men lost in the action at the farm. He had no talent for the task, disliked it intensely, but got it out of the way in a single evening.
By the time he finished the last letter he was able silently to put words to a feeling that had been stirring in his mind for the past couple of days. He was not the same officer, not the same person, who had set out with the relief detachment.
Oh, things were just about the same on the surface. He was still flamboyant, and he smiled about as much as he had before. Yet all of that concealed a profound inner change, a change born of everything he had seen and been forced to do while on the rescue mission. The West Point cadet was a pleasant but not very real memory. The romantic amateur had become a hardened professional.
A boy had died and given rise, phoenixlike, to a man.
"I heard a mail sack arrived this morning," Charles said on the fourth day after his return.
"Yes, sir. These came for you." The noncom passed him a packet of three letters tied with string, adding, "The sack sat in a warehouse in San Antonio for a month and a half."
"Why?" Charles snapped, leafing through the packet. The letter on top was nearly a half inch thick. On all three he recognized Orry's handwriting.
"Can't say, sir. Reckon it's just the Army way."
"The Army way in Texas, at any rate."
Charles went outside and headed for his quarters, ripping the thick letter open as he walked. He noted the April date, then the first sentences:
Your inquiry about your commanding officer prompts my immediate and concerned reply. If he is the same Elkanah Bent I know from the Academy and Mexico, I warn you most urgently that you could be in great danger.
Abruptly Charles broke stride, stopping to stand motionless in the center of the dusty parade. Though the morning was scorching, he was all at once cold.
Let me attempt to explain — although, as you have doubtless grasped from direct encounters with the gentleman in question, neither a complete nor a logical explanation of his behavior is possible. That was also the case when George Hazard and I were unfortunate enough to meet him for the first time —
Hastily, Charles folded the letter and, with a sharp look around, strode on to his room. There he sat down to read the closely written pages that unfolded the bizarre tale of two West Point cadets who had incurred the undying enmity of a third. At the end he laid the pages in his lap and stared into the sunlit space created by the rectangle of the open window. Orry was right; it was impossible to comprehend a hatred so consuming or long-lasting that it would seek as victims other members of the Main and Hazard families. But the hatred was real; the past weeks had presented him with harrowing proof.
As the minutes stretched on, he read the letter twice more, paying special attention to Orry's account of some of the events in Mexico. Those rereadings did nothing to lessen his shock. If anything, they heightened it.
He was thankful his cousin had warned him. And yet, knowledge was, in some ways, worse than ignorance. Bent had nurtured his hatred for more than fifteen years, and that made Charles see the true enormity of the man's madness. The result was a feeling of mortal dread that was new to him, and shameful, and completely beyond his control.
In subsequent days, whenever he was forced to speak to Bent or appear with him in formations, he did so with extreme difficulty. Always he was conscious of the truth he knew to be hidden behind the captain's sly eyes.
For his part, Bent seemed considerably less antagonistic. Indeed, he seldom said a word to his second lieutenant except as duty required. That was a relief. Maybe the danger had lessened as a result of the threats of testimony from Mrs. Lantzman. In any case, as the weeks went by, Charles's apprehension began to diminish. He looked forward to the day when new orders for himself or Bent would separate them.
Until then, he had no choice but to be vigilant.
While the rescue expedition had been away at the Lantzmans', a known renegade had taken refuge on the Comanche reservation. Leeper, the agent, had subsequently allowed the Indian to leave. Believing Leeper was remiss in not locking up the renegade when he had the chance, farmers in the district were now petitioning Governor Houston to close the agency.
That was one of the subjects the men at Camp Cooper discussed and argued over during the autumn. There was also a good deal of joking about the experiment at Camp Verde, where Egyptian camels imported by Secretary Davis were being tested as beasts of burden. And the Second spoke proudly of Captain Van Dorn's successful foray against the Indians at Wichita Village.
The Ohioans in Company K talked a lot about events back East, too. Vying for reelection to the Senate, Stephen Douglas had debated the Black Republican, Lincoln, at various towns in Illinois. Experts seemed to feel that Douglas would be returned to Washington when the state legislature made its choice in January, but the victory might prove costly. During the meeting at Freeport, Lincoln had maneuvered his opponent into a damaging admission.
The admission had come during a complex debate about the Missouri Compromise of 1820 and the more recent Dred Scott case. In the Scott decision, the Supreme Court had upheld the inviolability of the property rights of slaveholders, had ruled that the Missouri Compromise banning slavery north of a demarcation line was unconstitutional, and had thus effectively negated the theory of popular sovereignty. Never mind, said Douglas in response to Lincoln's shrewd questioning; Supreme Court or no, there was still one simple, legal, and eminently practical way for any territory to bar slavery, and that was for the legislature to refuse to enact laws specifically protecting the slave owner's rights. No prudent man would risk valuable Negroes in territory where he might stand to lose them. "Slavery can't exist a day or an hour anywhere," the Little Giant said, "unless it is supported by local police regulations."
Douglas's view was christened the Freeport Doctrine. Commenting on it, a Southern officer from the First Infantry at Camp Cooper said to Charles:
"That man's done himself in. The Democrats down in our part of the country will never again support his candidacy for anything."
In October, Senator Seward gave an address in upstate New York that was widely reported. Seward said North and South were locked in what he termed an "irrepressible conflict'' over slavery. The statement inflamed the South all over again, and even ardent Republicans on the post agreed that Seward's angry rhetoric had pushed the region closer to secession.
Still, few could imagine Americans ever taking up arms against other Americans. The conflict remained a war of words.
Occasionally Elkanah Bent injected a comment into the discussions. He had returned from his long leave having lost ten pounds but none of his peculiar opinions. He said a shooting war was entirely conceivable and left no doubt that he'd be happy to see it.
"War would permit us to put theory into practice. After all, why were we trained? What's the whole purpose of our profession? Not to keep the peace but to win it once the blood starts to flow. We have no other calling. It's a holy calling, gentlemen."
Several officers, including Charles, took note of Bent's exalted expression. Some shook their heads, but Charles did not. Nothing the man said surprised him any longer.
Over the winter he never spoke to Bent except in the course of duty. So he was astonished one evening the following April when he answered a knock at the door of his quarters and found the captain standing outside in the balmy darkness.
Bent smiled. "Good evening, Lieutenant. Are you prepared to receive visitors?"
"Certainly, sir. Come in."
He stepped back, the presence of the captain heightening his tension to a peak. Bent strutted into the room, and Charles closed the door. He smelled whiskey.
Bent's appearance was startling. For the call the captain had donned his dress uniform, complete with sash, saber, and plumed hat, which he now removed. His hair was parted in the center and glistened with fragrant oil. He glanced at some large, brown-tinted daguerreotypes lying on a chair.
"Pictures from home?"
"Yes, sir. They were taken at a barbecue in honor of my cousin Ashton's wedding anniversary. Most of these people are from nearby plantations."
To test the visitor, he handed over one of the photographs. He pointed to a stern, bearded face and said carefully, "That's my cousin Orry Main. He encouraged me to go to the Academy. He went there himself. About the time you did, I think."
Bent pressed his lips together. He studied the bearded face, but Charles saw no flicker of response. The man was good at dissembling — something else that made him dangerous.
"I have a hazy recollection of a cadet named Orry,'' Bent remarked. "I hardly knew him. Even in those days, Yankees and Southern boys didn't mingle a great deal."
The captain started to return the picture, then gave it a second scrutiny. He tapped the image of a dark-haired woman standing at the edge of the group. She had a rigid look, a certain glazed quality in her wide eyes. Yet he found her breathtaking.
"What a beautiful creature. There's something exotic about her."
Why the devil was the captain interested in Madeline LaMotte? Charles asked himself. Why was he here at all?
"She's a Creole, from New Orleans."
"Ah, that explains it."
Bent wondered about the woman's connection with the Mains. Was she a relative by marriage or merely a neighbor? But he put a rein on his curiosity; if he questioned Charles further, he might somehow slip and reveal his true feelings about Orry. He stared at the lovely face a few seconds longer, then released the photograph.
Charles cleared the other daguerreotypes from the chair, and Bent sat down. His eyes fixed on the younger man. "I've wanted to call on you for some time, Lieutenant. To express my thanks for your discretion these past months."
Charles shrugged, as if to say the captain should have expected nothing else.
"But silence is essentially negative," Bent continued. "I've been anxious to put our relationship on a positive footing. In the future I would like to count on your friendship."
My silence, Charles thought. He's worried. He wants a promise that I'll continue to protect him. But Charles wondered if that was the whole explanation.
Bent peered at him in a curiously intense way. He licked his upper lip, then added: "Naturally, you can count on mine."
Charles didn't like the implications of the remark, the tone of which was far too friendly for comfort. Where beneath Bent's smarmy cordiality did the trap lie? He couldn't tell, and the uncertainty lent a slight nervousness to his reply:
"The past is gone, Captain. I have no intention of bringing it up again."
"Good. Good! Then we can truly be friends. I have influential contacts in the War Department. Throughout Washington, in fact. They've helped my career, and they could help yours."
Orry had explained fully how Bent succeeded in spite of a poor record. Influence. Charles resented the captain's thinking that he'd be willing to take the same route.
"Thank you, sir, but I really prefer to get ahead on my own."
Bent jumped up. Spots of color appeared in his cheeks. "A chap can always use help, Charles —" Quickly he checked himself. That had been too angry by half. But he couldn't help it. The tall, superbly built young officer repelled Bent because he was a Main and a Southerner. Yet at the same time Charles attracted him. So much so that, after weeks of indecision, he had finally drunk enough whiskey to generate the Dutch courage he needed to make this overture.
Had Charles caught a whiff of the spirits? Bent hoped not. He tried to smile.
"I will say you require less help than most. For one thing, you're the very picture of a soldier." Suddenly dizzy with excitement, he let his emotions carry him on; he touched Charles's forearm. "You are an exceptionally handsome young man."
Gently, but with firmness, Charles withdrew his arm.
"Sir, you'd better leave."
"Please don't take that tone. Brother officers should give one another aid and comfort, especially in a lonely, godforsaken place like thi —"
"Captain, get out before I pitch you through that window."
Livid, Bent jammed his hat on his head. He slammed the door behind him. His cheeks were burning.
A coyote barked as he hurried away through the spring dark, wanting to do murder. One day, by God, he would.
Charles had thought himself beyond shock where Bent was concerned. How wrong he had been.
What had just happened did more than confirm rumors about the captain's sexual predilections. It demonstrated that Bent's strange appetites lived side by side with his hatreds, and depending upon the mood of the moment — and how much he had imbibed — sometimes one aspect or the other dominated. The realization put a last daub of nastiness on the picture of madness that Charles carried in his imagination.
His lamp-lit room had suddenly grown confining. He flung on his best hickory shirt, stuffed it into his pants, and tramped to the stable to see to his horse. The camp's night sounds — sentries calling the hour and the "all's well," an owl hooting above the murmur of the spring wind — soothed his nerves and settled him down.
Outside the stable he halted and gazed at the stars. He inhaled the yeasty odors of hay, dung, and horseflesh, and immediately felt better, cleansed. He would forever associate those smells with the Army and with Texas — both of which he had come to love.
Thinking of Bent again, he was unexpectedly touched with pity. What must it be like to inhabit that lumbering body, with little worms forever gnawing at sanity from the corners of the mind? The pity intensified — but then his own stern and silent warning cut through:
Better not feel too sorry for a man who'd like to kill you when he's sober.
That threw it back into proper perspective. Charles knew he must continue to be wary until the day when the inevitable Army transfer separated him from the captain. That would happen — and it was something to look forward to, wasn't it? He drew another deep breath, savoring the sweet smells of the Texas night. He was whistling as he strode into the stable.
Orry watched secession fever spread like an epidemic that summer and fall. Huntoon traveled all over South Carolina and into neighboring states, addressing crowds at churches, barbecues, meeting halls. He solicited memberships for the African Labor Supply Association, dedicated to reestablishment of the slave trade. He continued to advocate a separate Southern government, citing all sorts of reasons, from Seward's "irrepressible conflict" to the arguments culled from Hinton Helper's little book, which of course he never mentioned by name.
Orry admired his brother-in-law's energy, if not his views. He admired Ashton's energy, too; she went everywhere with her husband.
During the autumn, Orry took note of an interesting and perhaps significant contrast. Up in Columbia, State Senator Wade Hampton addressed the legislature and pleaded for preservation of the Union. He also argued against the resumption of the slave trade. His remarks were widely reported and almost universally scorned by the state's plantation aristocracy. Whatever personal popularity he possessed among his peers vanished overnight, while Huntoon's continued to increase.
Cooper was dividing his time between the affairs of the Democratic party and the shipyard on James Island. He said construction of the huge Star of Carolina would begin by the first of the year. Orry decided to carry that news to George in person. He missed his best friend and was eager to see him again.
When Brett learned of the proposed trip, she begged Orry to take her along. She wanted to go on from Pennsylvania to St. Louis, where her brother could chaperone her visit with Billy. Orry didn't relish such a long journey, but he recognized that Brett was lonesome for her young man. He gave in with only a little argument.
They hadn't gone far before he was regretting his decision to travel. In North Carolina, where they changed trains for the first time, he asked the depot agent for a timetable.
"Ain't got any," the agent said, in the nasal twang Orry associated with the hill folk of the state.
"Then can you at least tell me when our train is scheduled to arrive in —?" He didn't bother to finish. The agent had turned away behind the wicket.
Orry walked to the bench where Brett was seated. "They don't seem to like questions here. Or maybe it's South Carolinians they don't like." There were many anti-slavery men in North Carolina; the agent had probably identified Orry's accent.
On the next leg of their journey, a Negro porter — a freedman — contrived to drop one of Brett's portmanteaus, the one she had asked him to handle with special care. It contained some fragile gifts they were taking to Lehigh Station. The mishap occurred while the Negro was lifting the portmanteau from an overhead rack. Close to tears, Brett unwrapped a blown-glass pelican she had bought for Constance. The ornament was in three pieces.
"Sure am sorry, ma'am," the porter said. Orry thought he detected a malicious gleam in the man's eye.
At Petersburg, Virginia, a new conductor came on board. Orry showed his tickets, which were stamped with the seal of the issuing railroad in Charleston. The conductor's manner grew officious. ''Change in Washington, then Baltimore," he said in a voice that suggested New England origins.
"Thank you," Orry said. "We have seven pieces of luggage. Will I be able to find a baggage man at the Washington depot?"
"Afraid I couldn't say. I have nothing to do with porters. Mebbe you should have brought one of your nigger slaves."
Orry uncoiled his long frame and stood. He had a good three inches on the conductor, whose attitude immediately became less truculent. "I resent your rudeness," Orry said. "I don't believe I've done anything to justify it" — he waved the ticket — "unless you consider coming from the South to be an offense."
"Please, Orry," Brett whispered. "Let's not have a scene."
The conductor took the opportunity to break away. "I'll send the car porter," he called as he disappeared through the door at the end of the first-class coach.
They never saw him again. Or the porter, either.
Rolling toward Richmond through the fall sunshine, the train lurched from side to side. Orry stared out the dirty window. "Why are we having so blasted much trouble? Am I doing something to invite it?"
Brett closed her copy of A Tale of Two Cities, the year's fastest-selling book. Giving her brother a melancholy look, she said, "No — unless it's speaking with a Carolina accent."
"You sure I haven't come down with some kind of persecution fixation?"
She shook her head. "I've noticed a definite change in the way we're treated. It's not at all like the treatment we used to get in Newport. Then, people were friendly. They aren't any longer."
"But Virginia and North Carolina are the South!"
"Not the deep South. The cotton South. There are a lot of men and women in both states who are more Yankee than Southern. That's the difference."
She resumed her reading. The antagonism was startling to him; he found himself resenting it strongly. His dark mood was still with him when they arrived in Baltimore.
From Camden Street they had to transfer to the depot of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore line. Brett enjoyed the ride by horse car, but Orry was too hungry to be interested. Before their next train left he needed a meal.
Railroad officials kept predicting that dining cars would soon be found on every train, but at present few had them. The alternatives were unappealing. You could buy something to eat from one of the hawkers who roved up and down the trains, or you could harden your nerves and settle for the bad fare served in grimy depot restaurants. In Baltimore, Orry was driven to the latter.
He held the dining-room door for Brett. She lifted her skirts, prepared to step over the threshold, and glanced at the counter and the tables adjoining. All the customers were men. One or two cast bold, almost insulting looks her way. Orry bristled. She shook her head.
"I'm really not hungry, Orry. I'll sit out here on this bench and wait for you. I'll be perfectly all right."
He helped her get settled, then entered the restaurant. Boisterous conversation filled the place. He scanned the room, saw an empty table, walked to it, and seated himself.
He ordered smoked pork with mashed turnips and johnnycake on the side. Then he drew out the small Bible he carried almost everywhere these days; he liked to read the Song of Solomon because so many verses reminded him of Madeline. He hadn't spoken to her since Ashton's anniversary barbecue. Their conversation had been short, formal, and inconsequential; she seemed disconnected from reality, not herself. He had asked Justin whether she had been ill. Justin merely smiled.
Orry bent over the open Bible. A few minutes later the waiter slammed a plate down. He also managed to spill some of the coffee he was serving. Orry held his temper.
He tried to read while he ate. He couldn't concentrate; the voices at the next table were too loud. Finally he leaned back in his chair, listening.
"That's all the damn Southrons can talk about, a separate government." The speaker was the oldest of a trio, a skinny fellow with white chin whiskers. "I say let 'em have it. Let 'em launch their leaky boat and sink with it."
"Hell, no!" That was a man with a crooked nose, a loutish sort with the look of a commercial traveler. "Anyone who goes along with that or even suggests it should be hung high enough for everyone to see what a traitor looks like."
"That's right," said the third man, a middle-aged nonentity.
Orry knew the three men were boors reinforcing each other's opinions. He knew he should sit quietly, avoiding trouble. But the continuing irritations of the day moved him beyond the border of prudence. He put his coffee mug on the table with just enough of a thump to draw their attention.
"Come now, gentlemen," he said with a faint, chilly smile. "You sound as if the establishment of a peaceful Southern government would threaten you personally. I'm not in favor of the idea either, but I don't call it treason. Just foolishness. I must say it's an understandable foolishness. The South has suffered insults and calumnies for a generation."
If any others in the room agreed with him, they kept quiet. The fellow with the chin whiskers asked, "What state are you from, sir?"
"South Carolina."
The man leaned on the big silver knob of his cane, smiling smugly. "Might have known."
The man with the crooked nose blurted. "Read the Constitution — then you'll know that secession is treason. You cotton-states boys have been threatening it for years, swinging it like a damn club! Well, go ahead — puil out. But if you do, Buck Buchanan has every right to clap you in irons. Or string you up."
A man nearby said, "Amen."
Then Orry noticed hostile faces at the counter. They belonged to a pair of burly types in soiled overalls. Switchmen, to judge from the thick hickory clubs lying in their laps.
"Hell" — one of the switchmen snickered — "Old Buck wouldn't do that. He's a doughface."
The fellow who had said amen agreed. "Then get the Army to hang 'em," someone else suggested. Outside, a station man began calling passengers for the Philadelphia express.
"Won't work," declared Crooked Nose. "The West Point crowd runs the Army. Most of them are Southrons. Comes to a choice between their oath to defend the country and setting up a government to protect their niggers, you know which way those boys would go."
Orry's temples pulsed visibly. Under his coat his shirt felt sodden with sweat. He laid his hand on his Bible.
"Watch what you're saying, sir."
"What's that?" Crooked Nose jumped up, overturning his chair. The pair of switchmen, clubs in hand, moved behind him. Two patrons flung down money and rushed out.
Without hurrying, Orry stood up. When Crooked Nose saw Orry's height and his blazing eyes, he retreated.
"I said you'd do well to watch your remarks about the Military Academy. I'm a graduate of that institution, and I fought in Mexico." He inclined his head toward his empty left sleeve. "I fought for the whole country, Yankees included."
"Is that right?" Crooked Nose snorted. "Well, sir, I still say you West Point princelings have a secessionist streak a mile wide."
Shouts. Some applause. One of the switchmen peered over Crooked Nose's shoulder. "Maybe this Southron gentleman is gonna miss his train. Maybe he's gonna get a new coat in Baltimore. A coat of tar and feathers."
Crooked Nose broke into a grin. Orry's eyes flickered over the faces ringing him. Hostile, every one. His stomach hurt. The switchmen began to sidle toward him.
A sudden, ratchetlike sound from behind the counter brought them to a halt. By the door to the kitchen stood a nondescript man with a cocked shotgun.
"Anybody supplies any new coats around here, they'll have to fit me with one, too." He addressed Orry. "I'm a Baltimore man born and bred. I regret you've received this kind of reception in our city."
"Orry?"
The sound of Brett's voice turned him toward the door. She rushed to him. Outside, the station official called for Philadelphia passengers to board.
"Orry, I don't want to miss the train. Come on."
Crooked Nose guffawed. "Gonna let little missy fight your battles? How come you're hanging around with her, anyway? I thought you cotton-states boys fancied dark meat."
Orry struck then. A single, driving, clumsy blow, straight to Crooked Nose's stomach. One switchman kept him from falling, the other raised his club, but the man with the shotgun called a warning.
Crooked Nose, making choking sounds, sagged, shuffled backward, then tripped on his overturned chair. Orry's fist was clenched so hard it looked as white as a boll of cotton. He whipped his eyes across the crowd.
"Orry, come away." Brett tugged his arm.
"Philadelphia express — final call!" The stentorian voice echoed through the depot.
That broke the tension, set up a scramble for the door. After a nod of thanks to the man with the shotgun, Orry turned and reluctantly followed his sister to the platform.
The express was rattling toward Wilmington. Sadness mingled with anger when Orry spoke.
"I didn't know that kind of hostility existed. Men ready to fight one another in public places. Incredible."
His erstwhile naiveté dismayed him. The situation in the country had deteriorated far beyond anything he had imagined. If some people envisioned a peaceful separation of the states, they were imbeciles.
"I'm glad we left when we did," Brett said. "You could have been badly hurt, and for no purpose."
His hand still throbbed from punching the man in the checked suit. He peered at his knuckles. "Guess you're right. But I don't like running from a fight."
She tried to make light of it. "You ran to catch a train."
Unsmiling, he muttered, "Damn Yankee trash."
"Orry, when you talk that way, you're no better than those oafs in the restaurant."
"I know. Funny thing is, I don't much care about that." He drew a deep breath. "I resent having to behave like a gentleman. I hate turning tail. I'll never do it again."
Their welcome at Belvedere was warm, although Maude was not part of it; she had gone to Philadelphia for a few days. The visitors presented their gifts — Brett promised to send Constance a duplicate of the broken pelican — marveled at how the children had grown, and after a fine meal of duckling went off gratefully to bed. Orry slept nine hours but didn't feel rested when he woke.
"I can't wait to show you the Bessemer converter," George said at breakfast. He was full of energy and enthusiasm, which had the curious effect of heightening Orry's sour feeling. George had done nothing to offend him. It was the whole North that offended him. He hoped the mood would pass; it threatened to spoil the reunion.
George put a match to his second cigar of the morning. "Soon as you're finished, we'll take a look. I'm paying a steep royalty, but in the long run I anticipate that it'll be worth it."
"You don't sound convinced," Orry said.
"Oh, I am — to a point, The time saving is enormous. But there's still a problem with the process. I'll show you."
Orry didn't want to ride all the way across the smoky, foul-smelling grounds of Hazard Iron, step into an iron-roofed shed, and there peer at an egg-shaped contraption that rotated on a pivot. But he did it to humor his friend.
The workmen had finished a blow and were tapping the converter into a floor trench. The steel flowed like a ribbon of light.
Proud as a parent watching a child, George said, "A chap in Wales solved Bessemer's worst problem. Did Cooper tell you about that?"
"Yes, but I didn't understand most of the explanation." His tone said he didn't care.
George's reaction veered from disappointment to annoyance, but only for an instant. "Bessemer was producing what the trade refers to as burnt iron. He purged out the carbon, which meant there was none to transform the iron to steel, and he had no idea of how to put some back in. The Welshman experimented with adding charcoal and manganese oxide. Next he tried a compound the Germans call spiegeleisen — iron, carbon, some manganese. That did the trick. While Bessemer and the Welshman wrangle over who owes what to whom, I'm experimenting with spiegeleisen and paying Bessemer his royalty at the same time — even though his American patents are still up in the air. I'm not yet convinced the process is practical, though."
"Why not?"
"It involves too much guesswork. The carbon content can be judged only by the color of the converter flame. That's no way to make steel reliably, batch after batch. Another fellow may have come up with a method better than Bessemer's, a German-born Englishman named Karl Siemens. I've written him — Orry, you aren't interested in a syllable of this, are you?"
"Of course I am."
George shook his head. "Let's go outside where it's cooler."
Once there, he looked with concern at his friend. "You haven't seemed yourself since you arrived. What's wrong?"
"I don't know."
He did know but could not say it aloud. He was angry with his friend simply for being a Yankee.
The Hazards dined at two that afternoon. Orry still felt tense and cross. While he dutifully brought George up to date on the status of his investment, he kept seeing him as a virtual stranger. Had they once called each other by ridiculous names like Stick and Stump? Inconceivable. The times had grown too grim for nicknames or laughter. Perhaps they were even too grim for friendship.
"That's excellent progress," George said when Orry concluded. "I'm happy to hear it." He lit a cigar.
Orry coughed and waved the smoke away. George frowned and muttered an apology. But he didn't extinguish the cigar, merely transferred it to his other hand.
After a moment of strained silence, Orry began, "You never told me your reaction to Elkanah Bent turning up in Texas."
"I was thunderstruck when you mentioned it in that letter. I'd completely forgotten him."
"The point is, George, he hasn't forgotten us. If Bent still hates me, and can transfer that hatred to my cousin, the same thing could happen to you."
His friend's laugh was curt, hard. "Let him come to Lehigh Station and try whatever he wants. I'll give him a reception he won't forget.''
"I was thinking more of your brother, Billy. He's still in the Army."
George waved his cigar. "Oh, I said something to him right after I heard from you. But I advised him not to waste time worrying about some lunatic — at least not until his path crosses that of the infamous Captain Bent. You shouldn't worry either. God, I can't believe the Army's never caught up with him," he finished with a shake of his head.
George's cavalier dismissal only heightened Orry's annoyance. Fortunately there was a diversion. William, a handsome boy who bore a strong resemblance to his father, had been squirming with excitement for the past few minutes. Now he burst out:
"Tell me how Charles is fighting the Indians!"
"That was last year," Orry snapped. "Now he's off to the Rio Grande, chasing some Mexican bandit named Cortinas. I wrote your father all about it—ask him."
Young William caught the crossness of Orry's reply and he in turn recognized the lad's bewilderment. To make up for it, Orry began to tell him about the Second Cavalry's pursuit of the border bandit. Patricia, a year younger than her brother, wasn't interested. She and her mother and Brett fell to discussing fashions, and especially the gown from Charles Worth of Paris, which Constance had ordered for a gala charity ball. The ball, first of its kind in Lehigh Station, would raise money for the schoolhouse.
"The dress is much too grand for such an affair." Constance laughed. "But I do love it, and George insisted I buy it. I'm afraid the local ladies will point fingers, though."
"Jealously," George said. Orry was envious of the affectionate glance that passed between husband and wife.
" 'Specially Aunt Isabel," Patricia said.
Orry asked, "How are Stanley and his wife?"
Patricia answered by sticking out her tongue and making a hideous face. Constance lightly tapped her daughter's wrist and shook her head. George said, "We don't see much of them. Stanley's thick with Boss Cameron, and Isabel has her own friends. Thank heaven. To contradict Scripture and that fellow Lincoln, our house is divided, but it manages to stand very nicely."
Constance smiled in a rueful way. "There is one difference, dear. Stanley and Isabel's separation from us isn't voluntary. You threw them out."
"True, but —" A noise at the dining-room door diverted George and the others. "Ah, Virgilia."
Hastily, Orry pushed his chair back and rose. "Good evening, Virgilia.''
"Good evening, Orry," she replied as she swept to an empty chair. She might have been saying hello to a carrier of cholera.
"I didn't know you were visiting," Orry said, sitting again. He was shocked by Virgilia's appearance. She looked ten years older than when he had last seen her. Her skin had a sickly yellow cast; her dress needed laundering, her hair combing. Her sunken eyes held a wild glint.
"I arrived this morning." As always, she managed to turn a trivial remark into a pronouncement. Orry wondered about her Negro paramour, the runaway, Grady. Rumors of their liaison, more and more sensationalized with repeated tellings, had reached and scandalized Charleston. Was she still living with him? Orry didn't intend to ask.
"Tomorrow I'll be traveling down to Chambersburg," she went on. Irritably, she motioned to one of the servant girls standing by the wall. The girl rushed to serve Virgilia's soup.
Virgilia's eyes locked with those of the visitor. Don't let her goad you, he said to himself. But it was hard to heed the warning. Frequently Virgilia touched off a red rage within him; in his present mood that could easily happen.
Brett watched the two of them closely as Virgilia added, "I'm helping with the work being done by an abolitionist named Brown. John Brown of Osawatomie."
Orry had heard of Brown, of course. Who hadn't? He had seen engravings of the man's gaunt face and long white beard in Harper's Weekly. Born in Connecticut, Brown had been active as an abolitionist for a long time. But he had really become notorious in Kansas where he and five of his sons had fought several bloody battles on behalf of free soil. In 1856 men under Brown's command had slain five pro-slavery settlers in the so-called Pottawatomie Massacre.
Recently he had been lecturing in the Northeast to raise money for some mad scheme of his — a provisional government he had proclaimed up in Canada. Presumably it was connected with the underground railroad. Brown's tarnished history and Virgilia's challenging stare prompted Orry to a blunt reply:
"I can't imagine anyone wanting to help'a murderer."
Anxious looks flew between Brett and Constance. Virgilia pursed her lips.
"It's to be expected that you would say something like that. Calling names is the chief means of discrediting anyone who speaks the truth about slavery or the South. Well, you and your kind should be warned. You won't be practicing your barbarities or running your secret breeding farms much longer."
"What the devil does that mean?"
"One day soon a messiah will lead your slaves in a great revolution. Every white man who doesn't support it will be destroyed."
Shocked silence. Even Brett was fuming. Orry's anger, smoldering for days, burst into flame. He thrust his chair away from the table. Stiffly, he said to George, "Please excuse me."
Constance gave her sister-in-law a stabbing look. Then she turned to Orry. "You shouldn't be the one to leave."
Virgilia smiled. "But of course he will. Southerners find the truth unbearable."
Orry closed his hand on the back of his chair. "What truth? I've heard none at this table. I'm bone-weary of being treated as if I'm personally responsible for every offense committed by the South — either those that are real or those you've conceived in your deranged mind."
Color rushed to George's face. "Orry, that's strong language."
Orry barely heard. "Breeding farms! How do you come by these fantasies? Do you find them in yellow-backed novels?'' George stiffened again at the reference to pornography. Orry's voice rose. "Do they thrill you, arouse you? Is that why you constantly dwell on them?"
He was marginally aware of Constance herding the children from the room. Virgilia's smile grew angelic. "I would anticipate a denial of evil from those who perpetuate it."
The room seemed to tilt and blur. Orry could no longer tolerate the sound of her voice, impregnable in its smugness. Restraint departed, rage poured out.
"Woman, you're mad!"
"And you are finished, you and your kind."
"Shut up!" he shouted. "Shut up and go back to your nigger lover where you belong!"
As soon as the last word was out of his mouth, shame overwhelmed him. He felt as if the floor were sinking beneath his boots. Moments ago his vision had blurred. Now he saw faces with perfect clarity. Angry faces. The angriest belonged to George, who had torn the cigar out of his mouth and was squeezing it so hard the dark green wrapper cracked.
Virgilia struggled to maintain her false smile while Brett glared. Once more Constance attempted to restore peace:
"I think it's you who spoke intemperately. Virgilia."
Cold eyes fixed on George's wife. "Do you?"
"Would an apology be so difficult?"
"Not difficult but unnecessary,"
Orry wanted to pick up his wineglass and hurl the contents in her face. Despite his shame, his wounded pride dominated. These people challenged, judged, and passed sentence on an entire social system and damned the good along with the bad. It was not to be borne.
He noticed George scowling at him and snapped, "I should think you, at least, would take issue with her conduct."
George flung his broken cigar on the table. "I take issue with her choice of words, but she's on the right side."
George's hostility went through Orry like a sword. The rift, long a fearsome possibility, had become inevitable. He collected himself, squared his shoulders, and spoke with stinging intensity.
"I don't believe, sir, we have anything further to discuss."
"That," George said, "has become evident."
Orry looked at him. It was impossible to deny the fury he saw on George's face — or felt within himself. Never before had he and George Hazard been enemies, but they were enemies now.
"I must find my hat," he said to his sister. "We're leaving."
Brett was unprepared for the announcement, speechless. He strode to her side, gripped her elbow, and steered her to the front hall. "Kindly deliver our luggage to the local hotel," he said without looking back. A few seconds later, the front door closed with a click.
In the dining room the only person smiling was Virgilia,
George didn't return to the mill that afternoon. He roamed the house, a cigar in one hand, a tumbler of whiskey in the other. He was mad at Orry, mad at himself, and didn't know what to do next.
Virgilia vanished upstairs. Constance came down after seeing to the children. William ran outside, and Patricia went to the music room. It was here George found his daughter half an hour later. She was laboring through a minuet on the pianoforte.
Patricia saw her father standing in the doorway, looking glum.
"Papa, are you and Orry not friends anymore?"
That simple question jolted him, wrenched everything back into proper perspective.
"Of course we are. Orry will be back here before supper. I'll see to it.''
In the library where he kept some writing materials he sat down, pushed the iron meteorite aside, and inked a pen. He wrote swiftly, commencing the note with the words: Stick — will you accept my apology?
"You want Mr. Main?" The clerk at the Station House consulted his ledger. "He took a room at the day rate for his sister, but I believe you can find him in the saloon bar."
The servant from Belvedere pushed through the slatted swinging doors and crossed the deserted barroom to a table by the window. There a gaunt, bearded man sat staring into an empty glass.
"Mr. Main? From Mr. Hazard, sir."
Orry read the note and briefly reconsidered his decision to leave on the evening train. Then he remembered the atmosphere at Belvedere and all the things that had been said. He couldn't accept George's apology or his invitation to return, as if nothing had happened. And if that scuttled the Star of Carolina, it was Cooper's problem.
The servant cleared his throat. "Is there a reply, sir?"
"Just this."
Orry tore the note and dropped the pieces into a brass spittoon.
"Goddamn him!" George exclaimed. "Can you believe what he did?"
"Yes," Constance said. "You've described it ten or twelve times already."
Teasing him did no good. Besides, she didn't feel amused, although under happier circumstances she might have said her husband was a comical sight as he paced barefoot up and down the bedroom with his dead cigar clamped in his teeth and his slight paunch showing at the waist of his linen underdrawers, the only garment he was wearing.
"Of course I have," George said. "I tender a perfectly sincere apology, and in return the son of a bitch insults me."
The windows of Belvedere stood open to catch the autumn breeze. In cool weather George loved to sleep curled around his wife, and she loved having him there. But she doubted either of them would sleep much tonight. He had been cursing and fulminating ever since the servant returned from the Station House.
"You were just as hard on Orry, darling." She sat against the headboard with her unbound hair spilling over the shoulders of her muslin gown. "There's guilt on both sides — and it was really Virgilia who caused the whole thing. I will not tolerate her disruptions of this household indefinitely."
He raked a hand through his hair. "Don't worry, she's already left for Chambersburg."
"Of her own choice?"
"No, I insisted she go."
"Well, that's something." Constance adjusted a bolster at the small of her back. The muslin gown stretched taut between her breasts. She began to brush her hair with slow, lazy strokes. She had reluctantly become convinced that Virgilia's abusive behavior was incorrigible, had passed the edge of toleration. She wanted to say that George hadn't solved the problem of his sister and wouldn't until he turned her out for good. But this was not the moment to raise that issue.
"And Orry — has he left Lehigh Station already?"
"I don't know, and I don't give a damn. I have a notion to write Cooper and call in my loan. I can find better things to do with two million dollars. Those bastards are probably building the flagship for a secessionist navy!"
"You'd accuse Cooper Main of that?" A gentle smile. "Now you're sounding as unreasonable as your sister."
George flung the dead cigar out the window. A whistle on the Lehigh line drifted up the hill, a mournful sound. "He didn't even have the decency to reply." Speaking to the dark outside, he sounded sad rather than angry.
"Darling, come here."
He turned, a helpless, almost boyish expression on his face. He walked to the bed and sat down with the small of his back against her hip. His legs dangled over the side, not quite touching the floor.
Hating to see him hurting, she began to stroke his temple. "All of us behaved wretchedly today. Let Orry calm down for a week or so. You calm down, too. Then you'll both feel like patching it up. You've been friends too long for it to go any other way."
"I know, but he —"
Her fingers on his lips silenced the protest. "This afternoon you let a political fight come between you and the best friend you have in all the world. Do you realize how foolish that is? How ominous? How can this country survive if friends can't rise above the quarrel? If men like you and Orry — decent, reasonable men — don't find a solution to the problems, can you imagine the alternative? The future will be in the hands of the Southern fire eaters and the John Browns."
The soft, soothing pressure of her fingers tamed his temper at last. "You're right. Up to a point. I'm not sure words like fight and quarrel are truly adequate to describe what's happening in this country."
"I'm not sure I understand."'
"To me, words like fight and quarrel have a — well, almost a trivial sound. They suggest that people are falling out over" — a hand in the air helped him grope for the rest — "over hairstyles or the cut of a lapel. This argument runs much, much deeper. It goes all the way down to bedrock. Are you entitled to hold someone in bondage just because that person has black skin? Can you sunder the Union at will? I know my own answers to both of those questions. But not to this one: In the face of such issues, how can you stand up for what you believe and keep from losing a friend at the same time?"
Constance regarded him with loving eyes. "With patience," she said. "Patience, and reason, and goodwill."
He sighed. "I hope you're right. I'm not sure."
But he was grateful for her counsel and her help. To demonstrate that, he leaned against her bosom and gave her a long, tender kiss.
Soon the pressure of her lips increased. He slipped his hand between her back and the bolster. Arms around his neck, she kissed him with passion. Autumn wind blew the curtains as they made love, finding comfort in each other and temporary release from their confusion.
Afterward, lying pleasantly warm with their arms entwined, each was visited by the same unspoken thought: Patience, reason, and goodwill were fine, but were they sufficient? Perhaps the nation's affairs were already past the point of rational control. Perhaps destiny was already in the hands of the fire eaters and the John Browns.
Yes, and the Virgilias, too.
Simon Cameron's barouche creaked along Pennsylvania Avenue. Out for a bit of sightseeing with his mentor, Stanley basked in the pleasant sunshine.
The sound of Scala's Marine Band playing "Listen to the Mocking Bird'' slowly faded behind them. The composer of that piece of music had dedicated it to Harriet Lane, President Buchanan's niece and hostess in the executive mansion. No doubt she and Old Buck — he was close to seventy now, an old-fashioned bachelor — were out on the lawn of President's Park this minute, shaking hands with the audience at the band concert. The President was highly visible around Washington. Only yesterday, following a lavish dinner of oysters, terrapin, and French wine, Stanley had gone for a walk on this same avenue and bumped into the President, who was out for his daily one-hour stroll.
Made bold by the wine, Stanley had stepped up and spoken to Old Buck. Of course the two had met before, in Pennsylvania. The President not only recognized Stanley, but if a slight frostiness was any indication, he was quite aware of Stanley's association with Boss Cameron. Thinking back to the encounter, Stanley remarked:
"I know the President's no friend of yours, Simon, but he does come from our state. And when I met him again yesterday, I was frankly impressed with him."
"Yes, but you have also told me you're impressed with Washington."
The sarcasm brought a flush to Stanley's cheeks. He had said the wrong thing.
"Surely you can't be impressed with that," Cameron continued with a contemptuous gesture at the Capitol; its unfinished dome was topped by a crane and ugly scaffolding. Cameron sighed, shook his head. "How can I possibly make you a trusted associate if you continue to commit these errors in judgment? When will you learn there is nothing in this town worth a penny except the power?"
Stanley's color deepened. He knew Cameron hadn't befriended him because of his brains but only because he possessed certain other assets. Still, he hated to have his limitations discussed so openly or in such a caustic way.
But he mustn't alienate his mentor. Momentous changes were in the wind, changes that could carry him and Isabel to this city and a position at the heart of the national government.
Cameron refused to let up. "Never let me hear you say you're impressed with Old Buck. We're Republicans now. The President is the enemy."
Stanley nodded and forced a toadying smile, then tried to steer the conversation to a different tack. "What about next year? Do you think the Democrats will run Steve Douglas?''
"Hard to say. The party is badly split. Douglas alienated the entire South with his Freeport Doctrine."
"Then we have a real chance to elect Seward."
That very evening Stanley and Cameron were to attend a private reception for the senator at Kirkwood's Hotel. The two men had traveled from Pennsylvania expressly to meet with Seward and with General Scott — gouty, opinionated, and, like the senator, smitten with presidential ambitions. Last night they had interviewed Scott for an hour; he had left his headquarters in New York just to see Cameron, another demonstration of the Pennsylvanian's importance in Republican affairs. All this mingling with notables had an intoxicating effect on Stanley. He wanted to get back to Washington at all costs — as an insider.
Cameron reacted negatively to the mention of Seward. "After that remark about an irrepressible conflict, he can't possibly win. Of course we mustn't tell him so tonight, but the fact is the party will have to pick a man much less bellicose. One who offends the fewest people.''
Stanley blinked. "Who is that?"
"I don't know yet. But I'll tell you one thing" — a smile — "I'll be the first to know his name. He won't be nominated until I say so."
Stanley knew the Boss wasn't joking. Few Republican politicians could offer what he did — virtually absolute control of a large machine in an important state.
Cameron went on, "I intend to come out of the party convention with a job at Cabinet level. Any candidate who promises less won't get my support. And when I move to this wretched town, my friends will move with me."
Sunlight flashed in his eyes as he looked at Stanley. "I'm speaking of those friends who have proved their loyalty beyond all doubt."
The message was clear, if familiar. Stanley asked, "How much do you need this time?"
"Ten thousand would help. Twenty would be ideal."
"You have it."
Beaming, Cameron leaned back on the plush cushions. "I knew I could count on you, Stanley. I'm sure there's a job waiting here for a man of your intelligence."
Billy rowed toward Bloody Island as the light faded. Brett sat at the bow facing him, a parasol canted over her shoulder. He could hardly keep his eyes away from her or control a physical reaction to her presence.
He kept reminding himself that her brother expected him to behave like a gentleman. Not an easy task, given his months of loneliness out here and the heart-stopping beauty he saw in the tilt of her head and the curve of her bosom.
After nearly a week of traveling, Brett and Orry had arrived in St. Louis the day before yesterday. Almost at once, Brett told him about the quarrel at Lehigh Station. She said Virgilia had caused it, which disgusted Billy but didn't surprise him. He and his sister had never been close. He often found it hard to believe she was a blood relation.
So far, Orry had chaperoned the young people in a very relaxed manner. On two previous occasions he had left them alone for over an hour, permitting them to wander where they would in the raw riverside town. Today, pleading a stomach upset caused by catfish he'd eaten at noon, he had remained at the hotel while Billy took Brett across the Mississippi on the ferry, then rented the rowboat. He wanted her to see what had kept him busy all these months.
Orry was certainly treating him politely and with consideration, Billy thought as the boat nosed through shallow water to the long shoal. Did that mean he had changed his mind about the match? Billy hoped so.
The boat crunched on the graveled bottom. Billy jumped out. Standing ankle-deep in the river, he extended his arms.
"Jump. You won't get wet." But he hadn't beached the rowboat as firmly as he thought. When she stood up, the motion drove the boat away from him. ''Wait, let me catch the bow line," he exclaimed.
Too late. She jumped. He tried to catch her, but he was off balance. Down they went, the huge splash scattering dozens of small silvery fish.
"Oh, Lord," she said in disgust. They sat on their rumps in five inches of water. Suddenly both of them started to laugh.
He helped her up. Her bodice clung to her body, revealing the tips of her breasts through layers of wet fabric. She shook a shower of droplets from her parasol and giggled.
"Your uniform's a sight. I suppose I don't look much better."
"Well," he replied in a grave way, "at least now you'll remember your visit to St. Louis."
"How could I forget St. Louis when you're here?"
Said lightly, it nevertheless carried an undertone of seriousness. Their eyes held. He pressed toward her through the shallows, circled her waist with both hands, and pulled her to him. Her wet, sweet mouth roused him all the more. Her lips parted. She pressed herself close.
Presently he whispered, "For a proper Southern girl, you don't worry much about appearances. Here we are kissing in broad daylight —"
"I don't care if the whole state of Illinois sees us. I love you, Billy. I'll never love anyone el —" Over his shoulder she noticed something that instantly banished romance. "The boat!"
He had to wade into deep water to retrieve it. He pulled it well up on shore and anchored the bow line under a heavy rock. He slapped his wet cap against his trousers as he rejoined her, glad for the distraction the boat had provided. It had helped him calm down a little.
He took her hand as they walked toward the cotton woods. Immediately, he felt a renewed pressure in his groin. The enforced celibacy was just too damn much. He glanced at Brett, and her eyes seemed to be saying the same thing.
He showed her the two rows of pilings at the upper end of the wooded shoal. The forty-foot space between the rows had been refilled with sand and stone, the outer faces of the dike built up again with ramparts of brush.
It had been a hard, dirty job. Billy had labored at it all summer, positioning the barges, sinking new pilings, dumping stone, swatting insects, and dealing with the quirks and quarrels of his hired civilian crew. Most of the time he had worked without his shirt. His back had repeatedly reddened and blistered, but now his skin was a dark nut color, the repairs were done, and he could show them off with pride.
"Ice damaged the dike at the south end of the shoal, too. We've been repairing that. We'll be finished in another two or three weeks."
"Then what will happen?"
"I'll be transferred."
"Where?"
"Wherever they need engineers. One of my workmen asked why I had to spend four years at West Point to learn how to load rocks on a barge. I was hanged if I knew the answer. But it's good, useful work, and I've enjoyed it. I'll be glad to do the same kind of job somewhere else."
She nodded. They were strolling arm in arm through the rustling cottonwoods. The sky had turned a brilliant deep blue; Billy always thought of it as the color of October. Some cumulus clouds drifted overhead. The sinking sun tinted them hot orange. The contrast with the sky was striking and, to his way of thinking, romantic.
"I don't care where I go," he resumed, "so long as I'm near you." He stopped, turned her toward him, held her forearms. "I want to marry you, Brett. Soon!"
"I feel the same way. It seems like we've been waiting a century. Do you know I'm twenty-one already?"
"I'd forgotten. Why, you're practically ancient."
Despite the joke, he too had been aware of his age lately. At twenty-four, a man was ready for responsibilities. "I can take care of you properly now. I've been saving half my pay every month, so —" He cleared his throat. "What would you think if I spoke to Orry while you're both here?"
She hugged him. "Oh, please do."
"I want to be sure I approach him at the right moment —"
She gave him a gentle smile. "You're always so cautious and careful. I don't think there will ever be a right moment anymore. The world's in such turmoil —"
'But I'm not certain Orry likes me. What if I speak to him and he's still angry with George?"
"He's all over that." Again she crushed against him, whispering, "I'll go out of my mind if we have to wait much longer."
"So will I."
"Talk to him tomorrow. Or tonight!"
"All right. I'll do it as soon as I can, I promise."
It had a firm, emphatic sound that concealed his inner doubt. He felt like a general who had finally committed his troops to battle.
They kissed again while the orange clouds floated above the Mississippi in a sky so lovely it seemed to deny even the possibility of trouble in the world.
Orry found St. Louis a lively and energetic place but ill-mannered, bumptious. Raw as the unpainted lumber of many of its buildings. He felt very much the elegant South Carolinian as he and Billy strolled along the riverfront on the morning following Billy's trip to Bloody Island.
Orry was carrying an expensive walnut cane he had just bought as a souvenir of his visit. He swung the cane forward in a little circle, then in a circle the other way. They passed a dozen noisy Negro stevedores loading crates on a barge. In mid-channel a huge stern wheeler churned northward toward Des Moines. Passengers lined the rails, waving. Orry watched the vessel with admiring eyes; he had fallen in love with steamboats, which seemed to him like elegant floating palaces.
Billy cleared his throat. His light blue trousers still bore signs of the soaking they had received. Orry knew what was coming and wished he could avoid it.
"Orry, I appreciate your willingness to talk to me."
The taller man twirled his cane and tried to joke. "Nothing novel in that. We've been talking to each other for years."
"Yes, sir, but this is important. It concerns Brett."
Grave again, Orry nodded. "So I assumed."
A wagon piled with cotton bales went by. The mule's shoes rang on the cobblestones. The men strolled another ten seconds without speaking. Sometimes Orry thought Billy too cautious — an ironic contrast to his older brother. He did regret that this interview was taking place just now, although anger with George had nothing to do with the feeling; in fact, he held himself responsible in large part for what had happened at Lehigh Station. At the proper moment he would dispatch a letter to George and try to patch things up.
From a cafe on the left drifted the delicious aroma of coffee; from a saloon came loud voices and the smell of sawdust. Out of the corner of his eye Orry noted Billy's apprehensive expression. To make it easier for him, Orry spoke first.
"You'd like permission to marry Brett."
Billy practically exploded with relief. "Yes! I can take care of her now. Not lavishly, but she'll never want, I promise you that. I think my prospects in the Army are excellent. I'll be leaving St. Louis soon —"
"Do you know where you'll be transferred?"
"I've asked to be assigned to one of the Federal forts in the South. Fort Pulaski in Savannah. Fortress Monroe. The ideal post would be Charleston. I've heard about some plans to repair the harbor fortifications there."
"Well, Brett would be happy to have you closer to Mont Royal."
"Sir, we don't want to just visit any longer. We want to marry."
The statements were more than a bit brusque. Pausing at the head of a busy passenger pier, Orry faced the younger man, frowning.
"I understand that, Billy, but I'm afraid I can't give my permission."
Billy's eyes flickered with resentment. "Why not? Do you think I'd be a poor husband for Brett?"
"I expect you'd be a fine one. It has nothing to do with your character."
"What, then? Have you changed your mind about the Army? Do you think It's a bad career?"
"No, and I'm sure you'll do well. Or you would in ordinary times. Alas, these times aren't ordinary. The country's riven with trouble. The future's uncertain, if not downright grim." He let out a breath and told the rest of the truth. "Especially for two young people who come from different sections."
"You mean because I'm from Pennsylvania and Brett's a Southerner, you think we can't get along?" With quiet strength, he added, "Don't judge us by what happened between you and George."
Orry held his temper; he was able to speak calmly. "Brett told you?"
"She did."
"Well, I can't say my decision is entirely unrelated to the quarrel, but not in the way you think. Your brother and I haven't fallen out permanently. He's still my best friend. At least I hope he is. However, there's no disputing one fact: George and I quarreled over issues that are all but unavoidable these days. The same issues could put immense pressure on you and my sister. Suppose this crazy secession talk led to some concrete act of hostility. How would it affect the Army? Specifically, how would it affect an officer with loyalties both to his government and to a Southern wife?"
"Seems to me you're searching pretty hard to find objections." Billy's voice had an edge on it now.
So did Orry's as he countered, "I am explaining my reason for saying no."
"Are you withholding your permission permanently or just temporarily?"
"Temporarily. Believe me, I'd be glad to have Brett marry a Hazard. But not until the future is a bit more clear."
Billy stared him down. "What if the two of us should decide to marry without your blessing?"
At that, Orry's expression chilled. "I don't think Brett would do such a thing. Of course you're free to ask her."
"Yes, sir," Billy said with a nod. "I believe I will. Excuse me? I have some business with my clerk."
His eyes unhappy, Orry watched the younger man's stiff back move away down the waterfront.
That night, in the parlor of their hotel suite, Brett said, "I was disappointed by the answer you gave Billy."
"When did you see him?"
"A little while ago, when I went downstairs. He's convinced you dislike him personally."
Orry slapped the arm of his chair. "That isn't true. Apparently I failed to make myself clear to him. I just want to think it over awhile longer. As you know so well, people are taking sides in this country. Your background and his would very likely force you onto opposite sides. I wouldn't want you involved in a marriage with that kind of pressure."
"Seems to me it will be my marriage." She stamped her foot. "Seems to me I should be the one to decide."
"Don't talk like Ashton," he snapped, striding to the window. There he turned. "If you're going to defy me, tell me straight out."
"I told Billy I couldn't do that. At least not while there's a chance you'll change your mind."
The threat was faint but unmistakable. Her decisiveness induced a sudden and unexpected melancholy — perhaps because he tended to forget that she was already an adult, in charge of her own destiny, and it took an incident like this one to remind him that his guidance was no longer needed or wanted. To remind him as well of how swiftly time went by, working its implacable changes.
Gazing from the window, he watched another paddle-wheeler churn south on the Mississippi. Sparks trailed upward from the smokestacks, vivid in the dark but quickly gone. Like a man's ambitions. A man's dreams.
He didn't want to be guilty of denying happiness to others because it had been denied to him. That was a wretched and selfish way to behave. The possibility tempered his resolve somewhat, filled him with a desire to make peace. With her and with Billy.
He walked to Brett and clasped her hand.
"I like Billy. I know he'd care for you. But marriage is a commitment for a lifetime'' — ah, wouldn't Madeline be proud of you, said an acid voice in the darkness of his thoughts — "so you ought to be very sure of your feelings."
"Orry, I am! I've known Billy for years. I've been waiting for him for years."
"Will it hurt to wait a little longer?"
All the light had left the parlor. They could no longer see each other clearly. She uttered a soft, weary sigh.
"Oh, I suppose not."
He'd won. Not a victory. Merely a reprieve.
The night was even more unhappy for Billy than for Brett. Sleep refused to come, and he was troubled by depressing thoughts about Orry's rejection; sectional animosities and the possibility of a war; even by memories of a nearly incomprehensible warning from George. A warning which he had just remembered. It involved some crazed Army officer who hated all the Hazards, God alone knew why. His brother had even suggested the officer might pose a threat to him, somehow.
Well, he had neither time nor inclination to take that kind of thing seriously — or even remember it on any occasion except a gloomy one like this. No, not when he had Brett to fret and dream about.
Three days later, on a Thursday, Billy saw the visitors aboard an eastbound train.
Orry had said little to the young officer after their near quarrel. Now, standing beside their coach, he realized this was his last opportunity to go beyond cool, empty pleasantries, to make Billy feel better.
He grabbed Billy's hand to shake it. That helped disarm him. Then Orry surprised him by smiling.
"I think you and Brett could weather almost any storm together. Just give me a month or so to convince myself, eh?"
"You mean we can —"
Orry raised his hand to interrupt. "No promises, Billy. I didn't close the door; I'm sorry if you thought I did. Like you, I've always been cautious. Ask your brother."
"Thank you, sir." Beaming, Billy took and pumped his hand. Then Brett hugged her brother.
Orry left the young people whispering, their foreheads close together. His conscience was salved, but he felt no better about the future as he climbed aboard the train.
Screaming wakened him, a woman's screaming, loud and shrill. Orry rubbed his eyes. The train was standing still. People were running along the aisle of the coach. One tall man bumped the dim coal-oil lantern hanging at the end of the car. The lantern swung wildly, throwing distorted shadows over the walls.
On the seat across the aisle, Brett was waking. Orry stood, trying to make sense out of the confusion. Outside, the woman continued to scream. A curt male voice silenced her. From the vestibule Orry heard the conductor:
"They want everyone off. I don't know what's wrong, but I'm sure no one will be harmed. Please hurry. Watch your step."
The conductor struggled against the tide of people pushing toward him. He called to Orry, Brett, and a few others who had been doing their best to sleep sitting up. ''Please hurry. Everyone must go outside.''
Still not fully awake, Orry wondered if all this commotion was necessary. Surely it was just some minor accident. He tugged his big silver watch from his waistcoat pocket. He thumbed it open while Brett crossed the aisle, stepped past him, and raised the window blind on a rectangle of darkness.
The watch showed half past one. That meant it was already Monday morning. Monday, October 17. Early Sunday, they had left Wheeling on this B&O express for Baltimore, where Orry was to purchase several thousand dollars' worth of shipyard equipment for Cooper. He had the long list of specifications in his luggage.
Brett leaned against the window and cupped her hands around her eyes. Suddenly she jerked back, her face white.
"I saw a man walk by outside. He had a musket."
"I don't believe it."
He leaned past her and looked out. Dim in the distance, a few lamps gleamed. He felt reassured by signs of civilization. Suddenly a hand closed on his shoulder from behind.
He whirled, ready to strike. It was only the conductor.
"Please, sir, get off the train." The man was in a panic, practically begging. "I am the representative of this railroad. My name's Phelps. All passengers are my responsibility. Please do what I ask until we get permission to proceed."
"Permission from whom?" Orry's voice was stronger now, his sleepiness gone.
"From the armed men outside. They have control of the station. They say they have also captured the Federal Arsenal and Hall's rifle works. They strike me as exceedingly determined."
Somewhere a gun exploded. Brett, startled, uttered a soft cry, then looked up and down the car. "Everyone else has gone. We'd better do as this gentleman asks."
Orry's mouth grew dry. He felt tense, instinctively alarmed as he often had in Mexico. He followed Phelps to the head of the car, only then thinking to ask the obvious question:
"Where are we?"
"Harpers Ferry. Last stop in Virginia before we cross the river to Maryland."
Preposterous. This was nickel-novel melodrama, being performed in the middle of the night for reasons that were as yet incomprehensible. Yet an undercurrent of fear persisted. Brett was behind him, clutching his hand as he followed Phelps into the cold, damp air.
He moved down the iron steps, his field of vision widening. Lamps hung from the roof beam of the platform. Their light revealed five armed men, four white, one black. Down to the right, other men with revolvers and carbines were herding passengers into a small, drab building next to the platform.
To the left Orry spied another figure. He was sprawled on his back near an empty cart. A baggage handler, Orry guessed. The front of his tunic was splotched with blood.
Orry helped his sister down the last step, then moved in front of her. Phelps confronted the armed men.
"I demand to know when you will permit this train to continue to its destination."
The conductor's words were stronger than his voice, which had a crack in it. The black man tucked his carbine under one arm, walked up to Phelps, and struck him in the face.
"You in no position to demand anything, mister."
The conductor rubbed his cheek. "Do you realize the penalty for interfering with the United States mail? When word of this atrocity is telegraphed to Baltimore —"
One of the white men interrupted. "The wires east and west of here are cut. You go put the lamps out in all the cars, then get inside with the rest. You have your choice of the depot or the hotel right next door." Evidently the hotel was the small, drab structure.
"What the devil's going on here?" Orry said. The man with the carbine gave him a sharp look.
"Southron, are you? Better keep your mouth shut, or I'll turn our nigra boys loose. I 'spect they'd like to settle some scores with you."
Orry put his arm around Brett and guided her down the platform to the hotel. A small sign identified it as the Wager House.
Brett's cheeks were drawn, her eyes huge. "What are they doing, Orry? Is this a robbery?''
"Must be." He could think of no other explanation.
A young man with a rifle stood guard at the hotel entrance. Inside, a woman sobbed while a man, his voice tense but controlled, urged her to loosen her corset and keep calm. Near the door, Brett stumbled. The startled guard pushed her, evidently fearing an attack.
Brett reeled against a window bay. Orry swore and started for the guard, who jumped back and leveled his rifle.
"One more step and you'll never see Baltimore."
Orry stopped, his fist tightly clenched.
"Put up your gun, Oliver. We have no quarrel with these people."
The deep, resonant voice belonged to a tall, middle-aged man who came striding from the dark at the end of the platform. He wore a farmer's shirt and old cord pants tucked into muddy boots. His white beard was trimmed to a length of about an inch. His craggy face had a familiar look, yet Orry couldn't place it.
The young man still had his rifle in firing position. "Oliver," said the bearded man.
"All right, Pa." He lowered the gun. The butt thumped the platform softly.
Orry glared at the bearded man. "Are you in charge of these ruffians?"
With exaggerated politeness, the man said, "Be careful with your language, sir. You are addressing the commander in chief of the Provisional Government of the United States. Captain Smith."
Not Smith. John Brown of Osawatomie: Orry recognized the face from engravings in illustrated weeklies, even though the beard had been much longer. Had he cropped it, hoping that would make identification more difficult?
Brown's blue eyes resembled bits of pond ice. "My son meant no harm to the young woman. He was merely protecting himself. Tempers run high in an enterprise of this importance."
"Enterprise?" Orry snorted. "Damn fancy term for train robbery."
"You insult me, sir. We are not thieves. I have come from Kansas to free all the Negroes in this state."
Despite Brown's calm tone, Orry sensed madness in the fierce glint in the man's eyes. He thought of Virgilia then. Was this her revolutionary messiah?
"You mean to lead a revolt?" he asked Brown.
"I do. I already have possession of the United States Armory. No more trains will be permitted through this station. You will go inside and keep silent until I decide on the disposition of this one. If I'm interfered with, I'll burn the town and have blood. Do I make myself clear?"
Grim-faced, Orry nodded. Then, supporting Brett with his arm under hers, he led her into the small lobby and to a horsehair settee.
A small boy began to cry; his mother drew him onto her lap. A husband chafed the hands of his sniffling wife. Orry counted eighteen passengers sitting or standing around the lobby.
Opposite the door they had entered was a second one, this leading to the street. Half open, it permitted a view of another of Brown's men, a Negro who paced slowly back and forth with a Navy Colt in his hand. Orry saw farmer's shoes and ragged pants several inches too short.
He sat down next to Brett, rubbed his palm back and forth over his knee. Obviously John Brown had recruited slaves or former slaves. Deep in Orry's gut old childhood fears were stirring.
At the station doorway, Phelps put his head in and said, "I am attempting to negotiate with Captain Smith for release of the train and its mail. Please be patient and remain calm." Then he was gone.
A clock with a brass pendulum tick-tocked behind the lobby counter. The boy's crying continued. Orry yawned. He thought of John Brown's eyes, and for the first time he believed in Senator Seward's irrepressible conflict.
He was jolted by Brett's whisper. "Orry, that man's been watching us."
"What man?"
"The guard outside."
"The captain's boy?"
"No, the other one. The nigra. There he is again."
Orry looked up and as if one nightmare were not enough, confronted another.
Just outside the door hovered a dark face, its good looks scoured away by care and hunger. Orry had seen that face at neighborhood gatherings along the Ashley, and would have recognized it anywhere.
"Grady," he whispered, and walked swiftly to the door.
Grady stepped back as Orry came outside and shut the door. A few misty lights glowed in homes on the mountainsides, but little could be seen of the town itself.
"Grady, don't you remember me?"
"'Course I do, Mr. Main." He cocked the Colt. "Better stand right there. Captain Smith says to shoot if anybody causes trouble." He sounded as if he hoped someone might.
"How many are you?" Orry's breath plumed in the night air as he spoke.
"Eighteen," Grady replied quickly. "Thirteen white men, the rest nigra."
"How on earth did you concoct a scheme like this?"
"Captain Smith, he's been planning it a long time. We been living across the river at a rented farmhouse quite a while now. We get supplies and guns shipped down from Chambersburg."
One more shock on top of the others; Virgilia had said she was bound for Chambersburg.
"Is your —" He couldn't bring himself to say wife. "Is George Hazard's sister with you?"
"Yes, she's at the farm with the other women."
"God," Orry whispered.
"Go back inside, Mr. Main. Sit quiet an' don't provoke us an' maybe the captain will let the train go on. With the guns and ammunition that's in the Armory, we're going to bring the jubilee. If anybody stands against us, blood will run."
"You can't win, Grady. The blood will be yours."
Grady's pride exploded in anger. He extended his right arm to full length. His hand trembled, but whether from excitement or uncertainty it was impossible to say.
The muzzle of the Navy Colt quivered an inch from Orry's nose. Orry stood motionless, rigid in fear. Five seconds passed.
Five more —
Suddenly the hotel door opened. "Orry?"
Grady jerked the Colt down, self-disgust evident on his face. "Get in there!" He pushed Orry toward his sister. Orry followed her inside. With his heavy plowman's shoe, Grady kicked the door shut behind them.
The lobby was still. The passengers dozed or simply stared at nothing. Hours had passed. All emotion had been spent. It had been a long time since anyone had cried or even spoken.
Brett slept with her head on her brother's shoulder. Orry watched the clock's brass pendulum sweep back and forth. Soon the pendulum slowed and seemed to float from side to side. Orry knuckled his eyes, tiredness and strain beginning to affect him.
Conductor Phelps entered, looking haggard. "Everyone please get aboard. They're going to let us go." He whispered that news, as if fearful that saying it any louder might cause Smith to change his mind.
Men and women gasped and rushed toward the door. Orry roused Brett, led her outside and down the platform past the guns of four guards. They climbed the steps to the darkened coach, and within minutes the train was chugging slowly through the covered bridge over the Potomac River.
Phelps walked ahead of the cowcatcher, searching for any signs that the structure had been deliberately weakened. One by one, the coaches rolled out from the shadows of the bridge. Dawn had reached the Blue Ridge. Orry sat with his forehead against the sunlit window, thinking that he should tell Brett who Captain Smith really was. The car passed Phelps, who jumped onto the rear steps.
In the aisle, a man waltzed his weeping wife around and around. Phelps came into the car. Another woman rushed to him, clutching a scrap of paper. "I'm going to throw this off. We must warn everyone of what's happened."
"But we'll be in Baltimore in just —"
The woman paid no attention. As she hurried away, Phelps took off his cap and scratched his head.
Orry felt drained — and convinced for the first time that only armed force could meet the threat of Yankees such as John Brown. Suppose you granted that slavery ought to be ended — and in his most private thoughts he sometimes granted exactly that — even so, violent revolution wasn't the way. Revolution had to be resisted.
That was his conviction as he watched scraps of paper blow past the window. Messages thrown from the cars by the passengers who had survived the night.
Messages carrying the news of Harpers Ferry to the world.
Three evenings later, Orry bought a paper at their Baltimore hotel. In the lobby, in restaurants, and in the streets, people were talking of nothing but the raid, which had ended with only two of the insurrectionists left uninjured. Brown's men had killed four townsfolk. One was the Negro baggage handler Orry had seen lying on the platform. For a time a great-grandnephew of President Washington had been held hostage.
The insurrectionists had finally been overcome by a detachment of Marines rushed from Washington. The commander of the detachment was Lee, and he had been accompanied by Charles's old friend Stuart. Brown himself had been wounded defending an engine house in which he had taken refuge. He was now in jail at Charles Town, Virginia.
Orry took the paper up to the suite. "They list Brown's men who were killed," he said when Brett entered the sitting room. "One is a Grady Garrison, Negro."
"Garrison?" she repeated.
Orry shrugged. "He must have adopted the last name of that Boston rabble rouser.''
Brett's face was nearly as melancholy as his. "Is there a mention of Virgilia?"
"No, not a word. It's presumed that any of the conspirators who didn't take part in the raid fled after the shooting started. The farm isn't so far from Harpers Ferry that they couldn't hear the gunfire."
"Well, much as I dislike Virgilia, I hope she got away."
"I do too. For George's sake."
Frightening as it had seemed when Orry was in the middle of it, the raid, it was now clear, had been a pathetic doomed affair. A conspiracy organized by madmen, executed by misfits. Even so, it was sending shock waves through the country and around the world. If the North and the South had not been irreparably split by the events of the last few years, they would be split now, he thought.
So it proved in the days that followed. Not even bleeding Kansas had divided the nation quite so completely. Late in October, Brown went on trial for conspiracy to incite a slave revolt and treason against the state of Virginia.
Influential Northerners praised him and spoke out in his defense.
Emerson called him a new saint. In the South, Huntoon's reaction was typical. He denounced Brown as a homicidal maniac and his scheme as "our homeland's deepest fears made manifest." With that Orry sadly agreed. Although Brown's raid didn't propel Orry into the camp of the fire eaters, he found himself a good deal closer to it.
Fear of further uprisings spread like a plague. Along the Ashley, planters and their wives spoke of little else. The LaMotte brothers formed a militia-style marching organization of like-minded men, the Ashley Guards. Huntoon was named an honorary captain.
George wrote Orry to apologize for his behavior at Lehigh Station. He made no reference to Virgilia or to her presence at the Maryland farm. George found it deplorable that some Southerners were blaming Brown's raid on the so-called Black Republicans. He said Brown was clearly in the wrong, except perhaps in the matter of his original motivation. The desire to see all slaves freed was, in George's opinion, laudable.
"Laudable!" Orry crushed the note and flung it into a corner.
On the night of December 1, church bells pealed across the North from Maine to Wisconsin. It was a night of mourning for John Brown. Next day he ascended a scaffold in Charles Town and gazed peacefully at the bleak and wintry sky as the hangman settled the noose around his neck.
That evening Cooper dined at Mont Royal. He expressed regret over the day's events. "They shouldn't have hung him. While he lived he was just a poor lunatic. Now they've turned him into a holy martyr."
A few days before Christmas, Orry had confirmation of that in another letter from George. The letter concluded:
People still speak passionately about the raid. Do you know Grady took part in it and died at Harpers Ferry? I have been told that Virgilia also spent some time at the farm, but this I cannot confirm. She has disappeared; I have neither seen nor heard from her since the night of our quarrel — for which I once more tender profound apologies. Will you not break your silence, old friend, and write and tell me that you accept them?
Orry did so — grudgingly. An hour later, he tore up the letter.
The events at Harpers Ferry stayed with him in an obsessive way. They were responsible for the decision he reached about Brett in late December.
Clarissa had earlier indicated her delight with the candle-bedecked Christmas tree, so Orry had moved her drawing board downstairs to a corner close to it. She sat at the board now, alternately gazing at the flame of a candle for five or ten minutes at a time and cheerily nattering as she worked on the latest version of the family tree.
Clarissa's hair was pure white and her smile as ingenuous as a baby's. Orry sometimes envied his mother's separation from reality. He seldom liked anything in the world these days. He especially disliked the responsibility he was about to discharge.
Brett entered, sliding the doors shut behind her.
"One of the girls said you wanted to see me."
He nodded, standing wide-legged before the bright hearth. Brett frowned; she sensed tension. She tried to relieve it with banter.
"Your beard is showing some very becoming touches of white. In another year or so you'll be able to play Saint Nicholas."
He didn't smile. "At the moment I have another role, that of your guardian. I thought we should discuss the matter of you and Billy."
"His letter was the grandest present I could have hoped for!" Billy had written to say there was an excellent chance he'd be assigned to a group of engineers who were soon to start repairs on Fort Moultrie, located on Sullivan's Island near the entrance to Charleston harbor.
She studied her brother. "I hope you can make Christmas perfect and give me the other gift I want."
"I can't give you permission to marry him. Not now, anyway."
He said it so bluntly she wanted to cry. But she considered that kind of behavior unworthy of a lady and quickly got herself under control. In the corner, Clarissa hummed "Silent Night."
"Pray be kind enough to state your reasons."
Brett's arch tone antagonized him, "They are the same as before. We are on a collision course with the Yankees. Reasonable men discuss the need for compromise, but nothing is done. And if anyone has been responsible for pushing the South toward an independent government —''
"Are you saying you want that?"
"No. I am saying it's coming. Please let me finish. If anyone helped to promote secession, it was John Brown. Men on the other side share the feeling. In the Mercury last Saturday, Professor Longfellow was quoted on the subject of the hanging — which he of course opposed. Do you know what he said, this great poet, this humanitarian? 'This is sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind, which will come soon.' " Orry shook his finger like an evangelist. "Soon. That was his word."
"Orry, why can't you understand? Billy and I know the sad state of affairs in this country. It doesn't matter. We love each other. We can survive the worst."
"You think so, but I continue to believe the pressures on your marriage could be ruinous."
Secretly, he had been influenced not only by Brown's raid and its aftermath but by contemplation of Madeline's unhappy marriage and the terrible toll it had taken on her. He honestly thought his sister might be equally unhappy, though for completely different reasons. He wanted to end the discussion.
"I'm sorry, Brett. I can't allow you to do it. Please convey my regrets to Billy."
She answered quietly. "I'll do no such thing."
He blinked. "Explain that remark, if you please."
"It's very simple. If I don't have your blessing to marry, I'll marry without it."
His voice hardened. ''The approval of your family no longer matters?"
"Of course it matters. I'd prefer to have it. I'd much rather keep peace between us. But if keeping peace means I can't have Billy, peace can go to the devil."
"Hold your tongue. You're not entitled to make pronouncements — to say what you will and won't do. You're just a girl. A foolish one at that!"
Orry's shout caused Clarissa to glance up with a slight frown. She stared at the bearded man and the young woman confronting each other, then shook her head, failing to recognize them.
Brett's voice shook as she whispered, "Better to be foolish than what you've become."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you aren't fit to tell anyone how to behave. You never smile. You're angry with everything. I'm sorry you have to live alone. I'm sorry it makes you so miserable. But I refuse to live that way."
Orry was stunned by his desire to strike her. He managed to restrain himself, pointed toward the front hall. "Go to your room." With one last, venomous look, she picked up her skirts and fled.
In his bedroom an hour later, Orry lurched to the old pier glass he used for dressing. The empty sour-mash bottle dropped from his hand, thumped on the carpet, and rolled.
He peered into the glass, searching for something to disprove his sister's accusation. He couldn't find it. He seized the mirror with his hand and tipped it over. It fell not on the carpet but on the polished pegged floor beyond, shattering with a huge crash. He staggered toward the door, his waistcoat hanging open and his collar and the buttons of his right sleeve undone. His speech was a slurry mumble.
"It was many — and many — a year ago, in a kingdom by — in a kingdom —"
He couldn't go on. His drink-dulled memory had failed him. He picked up a fragile chair and swung it against the wall, reducing it to kindling. In the hall he spied a small gilt mirror, jerked it from its peg, and trampled on it. Then he staggered to the staircase.
Alarmed black faces peeped at him from doorways below. He clutched the banister with his hand and somehow stumbled all the way to the bottom without breaking his neck. Another mirror loomed on his left, an ornate one Ashton had purchased in Charleston long ago. He had never realized there were so many mirrors in the house. Mirrors to show him what he was: a failure as a man, a failure in everything he had ever tried to do.
He ripped the mirror off the wall, carried it outside into the frosty dark, and hurled it against the nearest tree. Shards of glass fell like a silvery rain.
He ran back into the house, found another full bottle of sour mash, and dragged himself up the stairs again, shouting gibberish in an angry voice.
At her drawing board, Clarissa listened with a look of puzzlement. After a moment she sighed and returned to her work.
"To Charleston? In the middle of the night?" Downstairs next morning, Orry slitted his eyes against the harsh daylight. "Where was she going, a hotel?"
"No, sir," the nervous house man responded. "To Mr. Cooper's. She had four trunks with her. Said she planned to be there awhile."
"Christ," he muttered.
His intestines churned, his head hammered. Brett had run away while he lay passed out in the wreckage of his bedroom. He had never behaved like that before, never in his entire life. His shame was worse than his physical misery, and his pride was shattered. His own sister had beaten him. It might have been possible to drag her back from the Mills House or some other hotel, but she had cleverly chosen Tradd Street. She knew, and so did he, that Cooper would give her sanctuary as long as she needed it.
He kicked tinkling bits of mirror with the toe of his boot. "Clean this up." Feeling sickness and defeat in every bone, he slowly climbed the stairs again.
On New Year's Day, 1860, Orry wrote a letter to his sister. It was couched in vaguely threatening language, employing words such as defiance, duty, and authority. It asked for her immediate return to Mont Royal.
He sent the letter to Charleston with a slave. But even as he was writing the pass, he felt a sense of futility. It turned out to be justified. He received no answer.
A couple of days later Cooper paid a visit. Orry accused him:
"You're abetting a family quarrel by permitting her to stay with you."
"Don't be an ass," his brother retorted. "It's better that she live with Judith and me than in some public lodging house. Brett's perfectly all right — which is what I came to tell you. As to the rest, I am abetting nothing, unless it might be her long-overdue effort to assert her independence. It is her life, after all. She's not some nigra girl to be married to whomever you think will produce the best offspring."
"You son of a bitch."
Cooper reached for his hat. "I had heard you were acting like a drunken boor. I'm sorry to discover it's true. Good-bye."
"Cooper, wait. I apologize. I haven't been feeling mysel —"
His brother had already left the room.
With every month that passed, the storm winds blew harder. Late in the spring the Democratic party convened its national nominating convention in Charleston. From the start the Douglas candidacy — Cooper's cause — was in trouble.
In the aisles of Institute Hall on Meeting Street, in caucus rooms and on curbstones, Cooper and others argued that unless the party chose a man who could appeal to voters in other regions, the South would suffer. The Black Republicans could be worse medicine than Douglas, he insisted. Few listened. Douglas men were a rapidly shrinking minority.
Then came a critical test of principle. Douglas's floor operatives refused to support a black code protecting slavery in the territories. Infuriated, delegates from six Southern states walked out of the hall to plan a rump convention. Huntoon proudly left with the others from South Carolina. In the joyous crowd in the gallery, Cooper spied Ashton, flushed and applauding wildly.
It was all over. After fifty-seven ballots, the convention adjourned without naming a candidate. The party was hopelessly sundered.
In early summer the regulars, or National Democrats, assembled in Baltimore and nominated Douglas. The dissidents, calling themselves Constitutional Democrats, gathered at Richmond to endorse unrestricted slavery in the territories and to nominate Kentucky's John Breckinridge. A third splinter group tried to rally concerned citizens behind unswerving support of the Constitution, but the effort was considered a straw in a windstorm.
At the Wigwam in Chicago, Lincoln's managers defeated Seward and won the nomination for their candidate. One statement in the platform adopted by the convention was explosive. It said Congress had no authority to condone or promote slavery by permitting its expansion into the territories. Slavery could be allowed to exist wherever it had in the past, but the Republicans stood squarely against its spread.
"Their platform is an abomination," Huntoon declared to Cooper. "It virtually guarantees the South will fight if that ape is elected."
"Since a fight is what you want, I'm surprised you don't campaign for Lincoln."
"Why, Cooper, I surely don't know what you mean," Huntoon said with a bland expression.
But there was a merry light in his bespectacled eyes.
In steady rain the Wide-Awakes marched in Lehigh Station.
George stood in front of the apothecary's, watching them. The cigar clenched in his teeth had been extinguished by the rain, and the torches of the marchers fared only a little better. It was a foul night, too damp and raw for August.
The young men passed, twenty in all, wearing oilcloth capes and kepis. On their shoulders they carried brooms, ax handles, or dummy muskets. As the head of the column vanished into darkness, a small band appeared, the drums pounding, the horns blaring "Dixie's Land," a minstrel song that had been adopted as the anthem of all the new Republican marching clubs. An Ohioan had written the song; George had first heard it when Bryant's Minstrels played Bethlehem last year.
Bobbing torches cast sullen light and flung long, sinister shadows. The drums woke memories of Mexico. George saw his son's face pass in the band. Even though William's cheeks were puffing in and out — he played a cornet — he somehow managed to smile.
All the Wide-Awakes were smiling. Why, then, did they remind him of soldiers off to war? Why did this parade, with its jaunty marchers confident of a Republican victory, fill him with thoughts of gunfire, and blood, and formless feelings of dread?
Ashton called at Tradd Street in mid-August.
"Land sakes, Brett, I thought your intended would surely be in Charleston by now!"
"I though so too," Brett replied. "It's taken months for them to prepare his orders."
"The Army always did move like an elephant," Cooper remarked. He looked thinner than usual these days. Fatigue circles showed under his eyes. The Star of Carolina project was going badly, and Cooper was not encouraged by the calamitous accident which had befallen Brunei's great Trincomalee freighter the preceding year. It had left the mouth of the Thames in September, only to be ripped apart by a huge explosion. The ship had survived, but Brunei never knew it; the report of the disaster was the last news he heard before he died on the fifteenth of September.
Ashton, of course, never paid attention to such things. With her lower lip stuck out, she patted her sister's hand. "I surely do feel sorry for you. Is there any definite word about Billy's arrival?"
"Yes, fortunately," Judith put in. "It came the day before last."
Ashton's eyes flashed. "Tell me!"
Brett said, "Billy's to report to Captain Foster the first week in September. Foster is the engineer who just arrived in the city. The one sent to repair Fort Moultrie."
"Why, that's wonderful news. It'll be ever so convenient to have Billy here in Charleston."
Cooper puzzled over his sister's curious expression, her odd choice of words. Billy's presence might be enjoyable, but why should it be convenient for anyone except Brett? Ashton must have been speaking of Brett's situation.
Yet he wondered about that, recalling the strange glint in Ashton's eyes. What it meant he couldn't imagine. But then, he understood Ashton even less than he understood Orry these days.
From high in the gallery, Cooper listened to Huntoon speaking to an overflow crowd in Institute Hall. Ashton's husband was delivering the last of several addresses in support of Breckinridge for President. Actually, the half-hour oration was largely a harangue against Lincoln.
"A vulgar mobocrat!" Huntoon thumped the podium. The crowd roared. "An illiterate border ruffian pledged to promote hatred of the South and equality for the niggers!"
Groans. Cries of "No, no!" from every corner of the hall. Unable to take any more, Cooper rose, ignoring angry stares from those around him. As Cooper left, Huntoon once more invoked Lincoln's name, producing more booing and hissing, then a raw-throated yell:
"Kill the baboon!"
Tumultuous applause. They wanted a fight. They refused to heed what Lincoln said — that he would adhere to the platform of his party and not interfere with slavery where it already existed. They heard only their own voices prating of betrayal and the need for resistance. Cooper was more discouraged than he had been in years.
Billy got a shock when he arrived at Fort Moultrie. In fact, he got several.
He remembered Charleston as a friendly, hospitable place where the pace of life was leisurely. Now an air of suspicion and near hysteria prevailed. People talked warmly of secession, hatefully of Lincoln and the Little Giant. They eyed Billy's uniform in a distinctly unfriendly way.
The second shock came when he realized the nature of the work to be done at the fort on Sullivan's Island. Drifted sand was to be cleared away from the parapet because armed men could too easily climb those slopes and storm the ramparts. Some of the fort's fifty-five guns were to be repositioned to provide better protection for Castle Pinckney and Fort Sumter in the harbor. These were preparations for war.
Everyone, military or civilian, knew the Federal garrison probably could not withstand an organized military attack — or even that of a determined mob. Sullivan's Island was a long, sandy strip of land fronting the sea. Round about the old fort, which was actually the third structure to bear the name Fort Moultrie, stood any number of summer residences. The fort's interior was vulnerable to sniper fire from the nearby rooftops.
Furthermore, the Moultrie garrison was small: sixty-four men and eleven officers. The core of the fighting force consisted of two companies of the First Artillery — the total including eight regimental bandsmen — under the command of Colonel John Gardner, a relic of the War of 1812 who was ready for retirement. A brusque Yankee from Massachusetts, Gardner didn't hide his distrust of all Southerners — a poor practice for a commandant who had to deal with and employ local people.
The senior captain, Abner Doubleday, was a tough, capable officer who had graduated from West Point the summer George arrived. Doubleday was especially disliked in Charleston because he made no secret of being an abolitionist.
Four members of the engineers were stationed at Moultrie — Captain John Foster and Lieutenants Meade, Snyder, and Hazard. Also on the post during daylight hours were some civilian workmen Foster had hired in the city and a few artisans he had imported from the North.
During Billy's first week on duty, Captain Foster twice sent him into Charleston on business. There he again took note of the unconcealed hostility directed at any representative of the Federal government. He expressed his dismay to Doubleday as they stood in the evening wind near an eight-inch howitzer aimed at the Atlantic. Doubleday had just supervised the loading of the howitzer with double canister.
"What did you expect?" Doubleday snorted in response to Billy's comments. "The people of South Carolina are preparing for war. If you don't believe me, just wait till the election's decided."
Uneasily, he glanced along the parapet. All of Moultrie's artillery was mounted en barbette, in the open, unprotected by casemates. A hundred men on the roofs of the summer residences could make it impossible for the First Artillery to operate the guns.
"That's why we fire this lovely lady every day or so," Doubleday added. "So the local folk don't think we're defenseless — even though in some ways we certainly are."
He shouted the command to fire. The howitzer boomed and bucked, frightening summer guests strolling the beach and dappling the sea with deadly bits of iron.
One warm Saturday in late October, Captain Foster gave Billy permission to dine away from the post for the first time. Billy was thankful for the opportunity. He had already seen Brett on several occasions, and he knew about her quarrel with her brother. But whenever he pressed the subject of marriage, she immediately began to talk of something else. Was she changing her mind about him? He had to know.
That Saturday night they ate supper at the elegant Moultrie House. The hotel was located in Moultrieville, the village at the end of the island nearest the harbor. After the meal, Billy and Brett walked arm in arm along the beach. A trick of reflected light from low clouds gave the ocean a pure white sheen. Ten pelicans, one behind the other, flew past two feet above the water, which was breaking on the shore with an almost waveless murmur.
"Brett, why don't we get married?"
"Because you're so busy moving sand away from the walls of the fort, you don't have a spare minute."
"Be serious. You told Orry you didn't want his permission —"
"Not quite. I told him I didn't need it. But I'd like to have it. I was furious with Orry the night I left Mont Royal. I said some things I regret."
Gently she stroked the sleeve of his uniform. "Of course I love you. I'll marry you no matter what. But I hate to antagonize my family. I care for them as much as you care for yours. Don't you understand?"
"Yes, of course. But we've already waited so long —"
The sentence trailed off. Looking down the shore, he saw Captain Doubleday pacing the parapet with a woman. Even in conversation with his spouse, the captain had a stern air.
"I don't want us to lose this chance," he resumed. "Charleston is tense. Anything could happen."
"Billy, you sound angry with me."
"It's the delay I'm angry about. I appreciate that you don't want to alienate your brother, but will he ever see things our way? Maybe not."
She didn't answer. The line of his mouth hardened.
"I love you, Brett, but I can't wait forever."
"Neither can I, darling. Cooper promised to speak to Orry again. Just give them both a little more time."
He gazed out to sea where the howitzer shot had fallen night before last. "Time seems to be the one thing we're rapidly running out of. Come on, let's go back to the hotel and see if your boatman has drunk himself senseless.''
He sounded so cross, Brett didn't say another word as they hurried toward Moultrieville in the gathering dark.
On election day Colonel Gardner sent Billy into Charleston. Reacting to the temper of the city, the colonel had drafted a message to Humphreys, the officer in charge of the four-acre government arsenal. Humphreys was to be ready to load a large quantity of small arms and ammunition onto a Fort Moultrie lighter next day; stored in Charleston, the ordnance was too easily available to a mob.
Billy rowed himself over to the Battery, a hard, time-consuming trip. Gardner had given him permission to eat supper at Tradd Street, so he didn't want an enlisted man standing around waiting for him. On the Battery he saw workmen erecting a liberty pole. Many houses displayed dark blue bunting carrying the state's palmetto emblem. Some loiterers surrounded the head of the steps Billy had to climb after he tied his boat. One, a tough-looking little fellow with a greasy leather eye patch, jerked a thumb at the boat.
"What d'you figure to take back to the foil in that, sir?"
Billy reached the top step and put his hand on his holstered Colt. "Myself. Do you object, sir?"
"Leave him be, Cam," another roughneck said to the man with the patch. "Nigger Abe won't be elected for hours yet. After he is, I expect we can find this peacock again."
Billy's heart thudded. His gut tensed as he walked forward toward the roughnecks. At the last moment they stepped aside and let him through. He quickened his stride. He had been bluffing when he reached for the revolver. He couldn't use it even to defend himself; such an incident might precipitate an attack on the fort.
He delivered Colonel Gardner's message to the nervous commander of the arsenal. "I'll have everything ready," Humphreys promised. "But I'll wager we never get it off the dock. The hotheads won't permit it."
Billy passed the Mills House on his way to Cooper's. He was walking on the opposite side of the street, but he had no trouble recognizing Huntoon and Ashton as they emerged from the hotel. Huntoon touched the brim of his fancy hat, but Ashton's greeting was no more than a faintly disdainful nod.
At Tradd Street the mood seemed melancholy. Cooper was not home yet. Judith tried to entertain her guest by gathering the children around her at the piano and encouraging them to sing while she played, but they soon stopped; enthusiasm was lacking, somehow. Finally Cooper arrived, apologizing for his tardiness. He had come from James Island, where there were more problems with laying the keel of Star of Carolina.
For supper Judith had prepared a delicious oyster pie with a crackling crust — the oysters came right from the beds in the harbor — but Billy wasn't hungry. Brett seemed distracted, fussy. Conversation flagged. Judith was serving silver goblets of strawberry ice when bells began to peal.
Cooper frowned. "Saint Michael's. The telegraph must have brought the first returns from the North."
"Is it true that tomorrow is an unofficial holiday?" Judith asked.
"It's true. On the way home I bumped into Bob Rhett. He was jubilant. He said today marked the start of the American revolution of 1860." Cooper grimaced.
They heard band music. "I'd like to see what's going on," Billy said. "Army blue may not be popular or even healthy in a week or two. Would you feel uneasy to be outside, Brett?"
She shook her head. Soon she and Billy were strolling down Meeting toward the Battery. Cooper and Judith had stayed home.
The street was exceptionally busy for early evening, the crowds turbulent though generally good-natured. Billy did notice several scowls, provoked, he assumed, by his uniform. Brett caught her breath in surprise.
"They're playing the 'Marseillaise'!"
"They're crazy," was his curt reply. A thudding report and a glare of light from the Battery brought him up short. Cannon fire?
Then he relaxed. It was only a salute, not a signal of hostilities. Lord, he was getting as jumpy as a frog on a hot stove.
As they crossed Water Street, Brett pointed. "Do you know those men? They're watching us."
"No," Billy replied, "I don't think I — wait. I recognize one of them. A loafer I ran into when I tied up at the Battery this afternoon."
That man, the runty fellow with the eye patch, waved to the others to follow him across Meeting Street. His voice carried as he said, "Let's talk to that young lady. I'd like to know why she's hanging around with a damn Yankee."
"We better tell her it's unpatriotic," said another.
"Persuade her," said a third, scooping a stone out of the street.
Billy counted seven in the group. Four or five had picked up rocks. "Stand behind me," he said quietly to Brett.
"But surely we're in no danger on a public thoroughfare —"
The band of men reached the sidewalk. People hurrying toward the Battery flowed past Billy and Brett, paying no attention to them. The man with the eye patch snatched off his filthy cap, hunched his shoulders, and made a great show of pretending to plead.
''Begging your pardon, miss, but the patriotic citizens of Charleston respectfully request that you don't soil yourself by associatin' with vermin from the fort."
Thud, another cannon salute went off. Red light flickered over the buildings along the street.
"You can go to the devil," Brett said. "I'll associate with whomever I please."
"Oh, yes? We'll see about that."
Eye Patch sidled forward. Billy pulled his Colt and cocked it. Once again it was a bluff; with so many people passing in carriages and on foot, he didn't dare fire. Behind him a woman spied the gun and let out a soft shriek. Several pedestrians rushed into the street to avoid trouble.
Eye Patch feinted for Billy's gun hand. Billy dodged away. Another man flung a rock. It flew past Billy and struck Brett's shoulder; she cried out. Billy swore, jumped forward, and laid the Colt barrel across the rock thrower's cheek. The man howled and danced backward, bleeding.
Billy looked around warily. The men were forming a semicircle, closing in. He didn't want to risk a brawl in which Brett might be seriously hurt. With reluctance, he shouted a word that ran counter to everything in his training and character:
"Run!"
Brett hesitated. He grabbed her arm and practically dragged her away toward Tradd Street. Like wolves after prey, Eye Patch and his friends pursued. Rocks flew. One hit Billy's neck and broke the skin.
At the corner of Meeting and Tradd, Eye Patch shouted for his gang to halt; Billy was already guiding Brett through the gate at Cooper's. Panting, they shut the gate and leaned against the wall of the entrance passage. Thud and thud, a second cannon on the Battery joined the first.
"I've never run from anyone or anything before," Billy gasped.
"It was" — like him, she was struggling for breath — "the only thing to do. I can't imagine people from South Carolina behaving that way.''
He took her hand and led her to the stairs. He hadn't realized how far the hatred had spread or how deeply it ran. No wonder old Gardner disliked his post and Doubleday fired his howitzer as a warning. Charleston was out of control.
Next day, as Lincoln's victory in the popular voting became certain, the celebration intensified. When the lighter from Fort Moultrie arrived, an excited crowd refused to permit the small arms and ammunition to be loaded — exactly as the arsenal officer had predicted.
By evening there was jubilation throughout the city. Bands blared. Lamps and candles glowed in almost every house window. Groups of revelers, some sober, some not, roistered past Huntoon's home on East Battery.
He and Ashton were preparing to leave for the fireworks display on the Battery. Huntoon had found an old blue satin cockade, the symbol of resistance ever since Nullification days. He fastened it to his best beaver hat. Ashton stood before the glass and adjusted her bonnet with black and white feathers on it. Secession bonnets, the ladies called them. They were all the fashion.
"Are they really planning a special convention?" she asked.
"Absolutely. The legislature called it for the seventeenth of December, expressly to determine the state's future relationship with the North. It's coming, my darling." He took hold of her waist and whirled her around. "Independence. In Washington, Senator Chestnut resigned today. Senator Hammond, too."
Their impromptu celebration was interrupted by the appearance of a house boy.
"Gen'man to see you, Mist' Huntoon."
"Damn you, Rex, I can't see anyone now."
"He say it's important."
"What's his name?"
"Mist' Cam'ron Plummer."
"Oh." Huntoon's truculence faded immediately. "Send him to the side door."
The slave left. Huntoon and his wife exchanged sober looks. Then he slipped out of the room.
In the shadows at the side entrance, a man whispered, "I did the best I could, Mr. Huntoon. Did exactly what you asked. Kept watch till they showed up on the street, then went after 'em. But before we could roust 'em good, they turned tail and ran to the house on Tradd Street. I still got to pay my lads, though. We all done the best we could."
"I know, I know — keep your voice down."
Huntoon wasn't surprised that the scheme had come to nothing. The idea had been Ashton's, and he had opposed it. She had wept and raved until he relented. Her threat to sleep in a separate room for a month also had something to do with his decision.
But, after giving in, he had regretted it. A man with his ambitions couldn't afford foolish risks. In the future Ashton could indulge her vindictive nature if she wished, but he would refuse to become involved. To that he made up his mind as he began to count coins into the hand of the man with the eye patch.
Orry pushed his plate away. Cuffey stepped forward.
"Something wrong, Mist' Orry?"
"Tell the kitchen the beef is bad."
Cuffey brought the plate near his nose, sniffed, made a face. "Sure enough will. You want something else?"
He shook his head. "Is yours bad, Cooper?"
"Yes. I didn't want to say anything. I was just going to leave it."
Cuffey hurried out with the plates. Orry slouched in his chair. Autumn rain pelted the closed shutters of the dining room.
"Something's wrong in the smokehouse again," Orry said with a sigh. "Dampness getting in. I tell you, I never realized how much I depended on Brett until she left."
Cooper knew what his brother meant. The signs were small but they were unmistakable. Mont Royal's shutters were bleached pale as bone by the weather; they needed a fresh coat of oil and pigment. Expensive flocked wallpaper was peeling away in the guest bedroom. Clusters of dust gathered in corners. On his last visit he had been informed that Cuffey's Anne had delivered twin girls, but one of the infants had died because there were complications. No one had sent for Aunt Belle Nin.
Cooper tried to lighten the mood. "Well, you'll just have to marry one of those ladies of your acquaintance and give her a broom and a paintbrush for a wedding present."
"There isn't a one of them fit to set foot on this plantation."
The brusque reply startled Cooper and confirmed something Brett had told him. She said Orry no longer smiled, that his mind seemed to have taken a turn into somber regions familiar only to himself. Cooper believed it. He decided he had better get on to the purpose of his visit: "Well, I wish you were interested in someone. I don't believe Brett will be coming back."
"Because of Billy."
"That's right."
"Are you trying to tell me they're married?"
Cooper shook his head. "They're still delaying, although Billy is upset about that. Brett continues to wait out of consideration for you.''
Orry uttered a scornful grunt and reached for the cut-glass decanter of whiskey. It had become a fixture on the table. Cooper noticed.
"She needn't wait on my account." Orry poured whiskey into the long-stemmed glass from which he had already drunk a large quantity of white Bordeaux. "I don't plan to change my mind in the foreseeable future."
Cooper leaned forward. "Don't you think you should?"
"Did she send you up from Charleston to say that?"
"She did not. Damn it. Orry" — he thumped the table — "despite the behavior of the LaMottes and some of our other neighbors, we are not living in the Middle Ages. Women are entitled to run their own lives. Please permit Brett to run hers — regardless of the risks you see or imagine. She's trying to keep peace in the family — which is more than I would do in her position."
"The answer is still no."
His resolution was wavering, though. He had thought about Brett's situation a lot lately. He knew Cooper was right and that he should grant the permission. Yet he wasn't quite able to do it. The news from Washington, Charleston, everywhere, was too threatening.
Cooper folded his napkin. He pinched the fold between thumb and forefinger. "Very well. Cuffey, would you kindly tell my driver to bring my carriage up immediately?"
"I thought you were spending the night," Orry said.
"What's the use? My view of the future is as dim as yours, but at that point we part company. Life is chiefly trouble and always has been. Brett deserves to live to the full while she can. You're standing in the way and apparently plan to continue. I regret that, but there seems to be nothing I can do about it. I'll look in on Mother and then go. Excuse me."
Stiff and unsmiling, he left the room.
Orry sat listening to the rain. Now Cooper had turned against him too. A moment ago he'd been wavering on the matter of Brett's marriage. But this latest rebuff stoked his anger and hardened his will.
He noticed there was no more whiskey in his glass. When had he drunk it? He couldn't remember. He stretched out his arm and closed his hand around the neck of the decanter.
"Look at that fog," Judith murmured. "I hope Cooper doesn't stay away half the night. I think he's getting sick."
Brett glanced up from the knitting needles whose operation she had been demonstrating to eight-year-old Marie-Louise. "Why did he go back to the yard? Is anyone working?"
"No. He went because he's upset. The ship's far behind schedule. His chief architect quit and returned to Brooklyn because he couldn't get along with the local workmen. Now the banks are hesitant about extending more credit in case commercial ties with the North are cut. Oh, it's such a dreadful mess."
She could have added that Cooper had also taken on the burden of Brett's problem. She didn't because it would only have produced guilt feelings, and Brett felt bad enough already.
Judith was desperately concerned about her husband. Last week he had come back from Mont Royal at four-thirty in the morning. Since then he had spent each day at the yard on James Island, and returned there every evening after supper. He kept a boatman on call at all hours. The man was beginning to complain.
But at least the boatman had his health. Cooper had lost eleven pounds — a substantial drop for someone of his slender build. Lately his face had a waxy look. While Brett laughed and murmured with Marie-Louise, Judith watched the fog coiling slowly past the moisture-speckled window. On a night like this what could Cooper possibly do at the yard?
She knew. He could destroy himself with worry.
The great keelson of the Star of Carolina bulked in the fog like the backbone of some prehistoric beast that had perished and rotted, leaving only this. Cooper turned away from it. The ship was a dying dream. He had at last admitted that to himself. But the dream had left tangible wreckage. What should he do now?
He plucked out a handkerchief, blew his dripping nose, and wiped it several times. He was getting sick. He didn't care.
Distantly, in the main ship channel, a steamer horn sounded at short intervals. The fog hung thick over James Island. Cooper would have been lost in it had it not been for the light of two lanterns hanging under the eaves of the shedlike office building. The lantern light diffused in great fan-shaped rays.
I might have pulled it off if Van Roon hadn't quit, he thought as he trudged through deep mud that seeped over his shoe tops and soaked his stockings. Van Roon, the architect, was the linchpin of the project. He had gotten into a fistfight with a poor clod hired to carry buckets of rivets.
A man of education and restraint, Van Roon had punched and cursed like a dockhand. Over what? The question of who would own the Federal property in Charleston — the armory, the forts — if the state declared its independence. Half a dozen of the workers had been taking turns at Van Roon before Cooper rushed in to break up the brawl.
Hopeless.
He reached the water's edge and peered toward the ship channel, imagining the pentagonal fort standing on its shoal out there. Sumter had been started during the winter of eighteen-twenty-eight — twenty-nine and never finished. To this day it remained unoccupied. But its proximity to the channel and the harbor mouth made it strategically important — perhaps more important than any other Charleston fort. What if old Gardner moved to fortify it? The sparks would fly then.
Fools were in control of the state Cooper loved so much. Fools and opportunists like Ashton's husband. They shouted their slogans, spouted their gaseous oratory, and forgot or ignored the manufactories of the North, the great industrial installations such as Hazard's. In all the South there was but a single ironworks of size, the Tredegar in Richmond. If war came, how would the South fight it? With gallant pronouncements and a barrage of cotton bolls?
What would happen in the next few months? Staring into the fog, Cooper felt he knew the answer.
"Apocalypse," he said half aloud, and then sneezed so hard his hat fell off.
The hat plopped into the water and floated out of reach. He waded in after it, but it kept bobbing away from him. He gave up the chase when the water rose to his thighs.
How marvelous, he thought with a chuckle. The Almighty pricks your pretensions by blowing your hat away.
Or was it a kind of warning? A warning that in the almost certain apocalypse, survival would be first and foremost a matter of small things? Practical things: Food. Shelter. A hat for the storm.
He sloshed back to shore and hurried to the office, caught by an inspiration: since no respectable naval architect could be lured to Charleston in these times, he would become the architect.
He pulled down engineering drawings hanging in wall racks. Flung the drawings on the big worktable. Turned the hanging lamp up to full.
He studied the drawings, then pulled down more, until the table was heaped with them. He scribbled calculations and questions. But he was finally forced to admit the truth. He knew a little about many aspects of the project, but not enough. His decision to do the architect's job represented the only means of saving the Star of Carolina. But it was, at the same time, hopeless.
At dawn the yawning boatman found Cooper slumped over the table unconscious and afire with fever.
"Bring that barrow over here. You people will have to step aside."
Billy's first command was directed to a civilian workman, his second to sightseers wandering on the dune near Fort Moultrie. The repair work was always hampered by local residents or vacationers who came to gawk. Billy frequently lost his temper with them.
Today was no exception. He ordered a family to pick up its picnic hampers and move off the dune his men were reducing so that snipers couldn't occupy it. The weather had turned hot again, unusual for November. Sweat ran so freely that he'd tied a red bandanna around his head to keep it out of his eyes.
He saw Captain Foster coming from the fort, motioning. He left the workmen and walked quickly toward his superior. Foster noticed that Billy was once again working barefoot. He disapproved but said nothing this morning; he had something else on his mind.
"Gardner's been relieved. We're getting a new commander."
"Who is it?"
"Major Robert Anderson."
"My brother knew a Robert Anderson in Mexico. An artillerist. He graduated from the Academy a few years ahead of Lee."
"That's the man. He's a Kentuckian. He's owned slaves. I suppose the secretary picked him to appease the local folk."
The decision was understandable. Gardner's attempt to transfer arms and ammunition from the arsenal had produced a statewide storm of criticism.
But a slave owner in charge of the Charleston forts? Billy didn't think it a very good omen.
He changed his mind when the major arrived.
Robert Anderson was fifty-five, tall, white-haired, impeccably polite.
He peppered his speech with references to God and professed complete loyalty to his flag and his uniform. He had fought bravely in Mexico and been wounded at Molino del Rey, which tended to enhance his reputation with his men. Billy found him austere but clearly conscientious and, he decided, worthy of trust.
A few days after reporting for duty, Anderson ordered a boat for a trip over to Sumter. Billy and Foster manned the oars, with Doubleday at the bow. Anderson said he didn't want enlisted men along to gossip and speculate about the significance of the inspection.
They made a complete circuit of the five-sided fort. Then Anderson directed them to rest their oars. His eyes roved over the brick and masonry of the left flank wall. Five feet thick, it rose fifty feet above the low-water line and looked toward the northwest. The fort had been designed with two tiers of gun rooms, but only the embrasures on the lower tier had been finished. On the tier above, the openings were six or eight feet square.
"Row around to the esplanade, please," Anderson said when he had completed his inspection.
The stone esplanade was situated at the foot of the gorge, the rear wall of the fortification. More than three hundred feet long and about twenty-five feet deep, the gorge faced the southwest. The rowers tied the boat near the sally port and scrambled up onto the esplanade, which Anderson paced from end to end before speaking.
"I've been reading some of the original engineering memoranda on this fort, gentlemen. She's solidly built. Ten thousand tons of granite in the foundations, plus sixty or seventy thousand tons of rock and seashells. If provisioned well enough, she could be held indefinitely. Even by a force as small as ours."
"But, sir," Captain Doubleday said, "if we fortified Sumter, it would undoubtedly be interpreted as a hostile act."
The captain was testing his Kentucky-born superior, Billy thought. For the first time there was sharpness in Anderson's voice.
"Indeed so, Captain. I have no plans to fortify Sumter immediately. But make no mistake. These forts belong to the duly constituted government in Washington and to none other. With divine help I will do whatever is necessary, consistent with my orders, to protect them. I have seen enough for the moment. Shall we go?"
"He sounds tougher than old Gardner," Billy whispered to Foster as they returned to the boat. Foster replied with an approving nod.
The next afternoon Brett was walking down Meeting Street carrying several parcels. Someone hailed her. Startled, she recognized Forbes LaMotte.
"Afternoon, Miss Brett." He tipped his hat. "May I walk with you? Take some of those packages for you, perhaps?"
"No, Forbes, I can't stop."
It was a lame excuse, but she didn't want to encourage him. His cheeks looked red as apples, and he was squinting. No doubt he had been whiling his time away in the saloon bar of the Mills House. He did a lot of that, she had heard.
Rebuffed, Forbes stepped aside. In a moment, all he saw of Brett was her back.
"Bitch," he muttered, retreating to the shade of the hotel entrance.
He didn't mean the angry word. Well, not completely. He hated Brett Main for preferring that Pennsylvania soldier, but he was still in love with her. She was the sort of girl you married, whereas Ashton — well, Ashton was solely for amusement. They saw each other every week or so, whenever they could arrange a safe rendezvous.
He recalled their most recent hour together. Afterward, he had bled and ruined a fine linen shirt because she had clawed his back so hard.
Badges of conquest, those marks. But he couldn't brag about them, and he'd have readily exchanged them and all the illicit meetings for just one word of encouragement from Ashton's sister.
Late in November a dispatch in the Mercury caught Orry's eye. Cadet Henry Farley of South Carolina had resigned and left the Military Academy on the nineteenth of the month. The paper crowed that Farley's action was a protest against Lincoln's election and preparation for service to the state.
Orry found the news depressing. He was certain other resignations would follow. Perhaps they would even spread from the Academy to the regular service.
That same day a letter from Judith arrived. She said Cooper had finally begun to recover from his influenza. He had been perilously ill for over a week. The tidings from, his sister-in-law were welcome but did little to offset the gloom caused by the West Point story.
He blew out the library lamp and sat in the dark. Darkness seemed appropriate to the disintegration taking place all around him. Was there light in the land any longer?
He sat for hours, imagining the warlike sound of ghostly drums.
"Our boys are leaving the Academy right and left," Justin LaMotte exclaimed. "Capital!" He tossed the newspaper on a wicker table and ladled mint punch from a silver bowl. He passed the cup to Francis, then filled one for himself.
The brothers had just returned from a muster of the Ashley Guards. They resembled a pair of male birds in their cream-colored trousers and dark yellow coats with blue facings. Neither man was as yet equipped with a sword, but each had ordered one from a military armorer in New York City; fine Solingen blades were unobtainable in South Carolina.
"Do you think we'll be at war soon?" Francis asked, taking a chair. The veranda was pleasant in the December twilight.
Justin beamed. "Within a year, I'd guess. In the event of hostilities, I plan to raise a personal regiment and then offer it —"
He didn't finish the sentence. A frown creased his forehead as he watched the figure come gliding down the veranda.
"My dear, good evening. Would you care for punch?"
Madeline's gown was as black as her hair. Her skin was dead white. Her eyes showed extreme dilation. "No." She smiled in a tentative way. "Thank you." She passed into the house.
Francis clucked approvingly. "Handsome woman. She's looking a bit peaked, but she certainly has been calmer the past year or so. The change in her disposition never fails to astonish me. Remarkable."
"Yes, isn't it?" Justin sighed. "What a providential blessing. More punch?"
Madeline could no longer recall a time when her world had not had soft edges. She drifted through days that were little more than a series of blurs. She was unconcerned about people or events. Occasionally she remembered Orry with a vague sense of yearning, but she had long ago abandoned hope of encountering him again.
Once in a while, and with little or no warning, she enjoyed short periods of seeming normality. Her head was clearer, her senses sharper, her will stronger. At those times she was angry with herself because she no longer discussed public issues with her husband, nor did she dispute any of his statements, no matter how offensive or outrageous. She had surrendered. When she occasionally realized it, despair overwhelmed her.
She hadn't the energy to struggle against that despair or even wonder about its source. What good was struggle? What good was hope? The world was dominated by cruel madmen. Two of them sat chuckling over mint punch in her own house this very moment.
After she left the veranda, one of her periods of lucidity came on. She wandered to and fro in her dusky sitting room, reciting snatches of poetry that came to mind from heaven knew where and recalling Orry's gentle dark eyes, the sound of his voice reading to her.
She must see him again. The moment she decided that, she smiled for the first time in days.
She uncovered the dishes on the tray brought to her room as usual. How delicious the thick, syrupy dressing on the plate of greens tasted. She loved it, now ordered it every day. She ate with relish, finishing everything, and hummed as she began to imagine her forthcoming reunion at the chapel called —
Called —
She couldn't remember its name. Gradually exhaustion claimed her again. Sinking back into cloudy indifference, she groped her way to the bed. Tears brimmed in her eyes —why, she didn't know. She murmured Orry's name once as she lowered herself to the bed. Fully clothed, she slept through the night.
In the morning she discovered that the tray had been cleared away and her sitting room brightened with a bouquet of hothouse flowers. She mused and fussed over them like a child with a toy, never once thinking of Orry.
"A visitor?" Orry said as he followed the house man to the head of the stairs. "I'm not expecting — God above, is it really you, George?"
"I think so," said the bedraggled traveler with the equally bedraggled smile. "Knock the cinders out of my hair and wash the dirt off my face, and we'll know for sure."
Orry rushed down the stairs. "Cuffey, take those carpetbags right up to the guest bedroom. George, have you had dinner? We'll be eating in half an hour. Why didn't you let us know you were coming?"
"I didn't know it myself until a few days ago. That's when I made up my mind. Besides" — with nervous movements he fished for a cigar — "I thought that if I wrote saying I wanted to come, you might not reply. You haven't answered any of my other letters."
Orry reddened. "I've been extremely busy. The harvest — and things are in turmoil in the state, as you know —"
"I can testify to that, all right. When I climbed off the train in Charleston, I almost believed I was on foreign soil."
"Any day now you could be right," Orry said after a humorless laugh. "Tell me, is that feeling widespread in the North?"
"I'd say it's nearly universal."
Orry shook his head, though he wasn't surprised by what his friend had said; the special convention called by Governor Pickens had already convened at the Baptist Church in Columbia. Everyone expected the delegates to vote for secession.
George cleared his throat to break the silence. "Will you pour me a drink? Then let's talk."
Orry brightened a little. "Certainly. This way."
He took George to the library. He was overjoyed to see his friend again, but the recent tension between them created a kind of emotional dam that kept him from saying so. He did break out his best whiskey. As he filled a glass for each of them, George remarked that he had visited with Cooper for a couple of hours.
"But I didn't come primarily to see him," George continued, sprawling in a chair. He pulled off one shoe and rubbed his stockinged foot.
Drink in hand, Orry stood with his back to the shuttered window. Pale winter light touched his shoulders and the back of his head. "Why, then?" he asked.
Can't he go at least halfway? George thought in a silent burst of frustration. He overcame it by remembering the unhappiness that had finally pushed him into the long journey to this room. He looked at the tall, forbidding man by the window and replied:
"For two purposes. The first is to try to save our friendship."
A crashing silence then. Taken aback, Orry couldn't find, words. George leaned forward, the slope of his shoulders and the thrust of his chin reinforcing the intensity of his voice.
"That friendship is important to me, Orry. Next to Constance and my children, it's the thing I value most in this world. No, wait — hear me out. I offered my apology in writing, but I never felt it was adequate. I gather you didn't either. So I came here to speak to you face to face. Don't let the hotspurs down here, or radicals like my sister, wreck our good feelings for each other."
"Have you heard from Virgilia?"
George shook his head. "She's still in hiding. Frankly, I don't care. I shouldn't have taken her part that damnable day. I lost my temper."
Wanting to ease the moment, Orry murmured, "I would say there was bad temper on both sides."
"I didn't come to lay blame, just to ask your forgiveness. It's plain that South Carolina intends to leave the Union, though I'm afraid the act is a bad miscalculation. Some accommodation on slavery has always been possible, but if I read Washington's mood aright, none is possible when it comes to disunion. In any case, where this state leads, others are likely to follow, and that can only have dire consequences. The country's like a huge ship on a shoal, unable to free herself and slowly being ground to bits. The Hazards and the Mains have been close for years. I don't want that friendship ground to bits."
Once more Orry faced his visitor. The emotional dam crumbled. It was a relief to say what he felt:
"Nor I. I'm glad you came, George. It gives me a chance to apologize too. Let's wipe the slate clean."
George walked to his friend. "As clean as we can in these times."
Like brothers, they embraced in a great bear hug.
It wasn't long before they sat talking easily, as they had in earlier days. George grew reflective. "I really do fear a confrontation if South Carolina secedes. Not merely a political one, either."
Orry nodded. "Possession of the Federal forts has become a hot issue."
"I realized that when I came through Charleston. Someone's got to find a way out of this mess before the lunatics on both sides drag us into war."
"Is there a solution?"
"Lincoln and some others have proposed one. End slavery but compensate the South for the loss. Compensate the South if it takes every last ounce of gold in the treasury. It isn't ideal, perhaps, or morally clean, but at least it might avoid armed conflict."
Orry looked doubtful. "You haven't listened to Ashton's husband. He's typical of many leaders of this state. He doesn't want to avoid it."
''The son of a bitch would want to if he'd ever seen a battlefield.''
"Granted. But he hasn't." Orry sighed. "Sometimes I believe you're right about slavery." His mouth quirked in a wry way. "Do you realize what a radical admission that is for a South Carolina boy? My attitude aside — I am well acquainted with the families who raise crops along this river. There isn't enough money in the whole Federal Treasury to persuade them to give up slavery, and that goes for those on the other rice rivers and for the cotton planters up-country, too. No man except a saint would agree to dismantle the machine that creates his wealth. Why, my neighbors would let God strike them dead first."
"I rather expect He will," George said through a transparent blue cloud of cigar smoke. "The hotheads on both sides want blood. But there ought to be another way!"
Silence again. Neither man knew what that way might be.
Orry felt calmer and happier than he had in months. Tension that had built up for so long, the product of outside events as well as of the inner failings of each of them, had suddenly been relieved. He was in a receptive mood when George brought up the second purpose of his trip.
''I want to discuss my brother and your sister. They want to marry. Why won't you allow it?"
"Seems to me Brett is doing whatever she pleases these days."
''Blast it, Orry, don't go stubborn on me.''
Guiltily, Orry reddened and glanced away. George pressed on. "She hasn't defied you to the point of marrying without your permission. And I can't fathom why you're withholding it."
"You can't? We discussed the reason. Trouble's coming, possibly war."
"All the more reason for them to have some happiness while they can."
"But you know where Billy's loyalty lies. With the Army and the government in Washington. And rightfully so. Brett, on the other hand —''
"Goddamn it," George exclaimed, "you're letting the hatreds of a bunch of fanatics and political trimmers ruin their lives. It isn't fair. What's more, it isn't necessary. Billy and Brett are young. That gives them strength — resilience. Of course there'll be pressure on them. But I know this, Orry. Together, my brother and your sister will weather the future a lot better than the rest of us. They're in love — and they happen to come from two families that care deeply about one another."
The words reverberated in the book-lined room. George walked to the cabinet containing the whiskey. His spirits plummeted, his hope evaporated. Orry was frowning.
For the third time stillness lay heavy in the room. Then, at last:
"All right."
George pulled the cigar stub from his mouth. He was afraid his ears had tricked him.
"Did you say —?"
"All right," Orry repeated. "I always thought you were too reckless. But most of the time you were also right. I suppose Brett and Billy deserve a chance. Let's give it to them."
George whooped and did a little jig. Then he rushed to the door and tore it open. "Call one of your servants. Send him down to Charleston right away. Take the poor girl out of her misery."
Orry left. He wrote a pass for Cuffey. He was surprised at how good he felt: like a boy again, filled with an uncomplicated joy he hadn't experienced in years.
Back in the library, George adopted a mockingly serious attitude and congratulated his friend on his sagacity. They listened to the clop of Cuffey's horse departing, then fell to exchanging news. George talked of Constance and their children; Orry described Madeline's puzzling withdrawal, her apparent failing health. Then George raised the subject of the Star of Carolina.
"As I told you, I spoke to Cooper. I admit I'm having some difficulty adjusting to the possibility of a two-million-dollar loss."
"Cooper could repay every cent if everything was liquidated. I think he hates to do that because it's an admission of defeat."
"Even though he himself says the ship can't be finished? Well" — George shrugged — "I guess I admire that. Or I would if my investment was smaller. What a stinking mess we've all made of this world."
"That's always the complaint of old men," Orry murmured.
"Do you mean to say we're old men?"
"I don't know about you. I am."
"Guess I am too. Repulsive thought." George chewed on his cigar. "Stick, let's get drunk."
Orry glowed, hearing the nickname again. If things could never be just as they had been in those first, mint-bright years at the Academy, at least the two of them could pretend. Why shouldn't old men find comfort in games? The world was sinking into darkness.
"Stump, allow me," he said, first to reach the whiskey. "I have become an expert on drunkenness."
They both laughed, pretending it was a joke.
The afternoon George arrived at Mont Royal, the delegates to the secession convention traveled by train from Columbia to Charleston. The threat of smallpox in the capital had prompted the move. Thus Huntoon came home sooner than Ashton expected. But, like most other residents of the city, she was thrilled that the momentous deliberations would soon take place at Institute Hall. She was likewise overjoyed that her husband was personally involved in them. He would surely rise to power in the new nation, and she would rise with him.
Now she was hastily finishing her toilet so that she could go to the first session in the hall on Meeting Street. Suddenly, unannounced, Brett flew into her bedroom.
"Oh, Ashton — the most wonderful news. Cuffey rode down from home last night. George Hazard's there —"
"What does he want? A chance to snicker at our patriotic deliberations?"
"Don't be spiteful. He came to speak to Orry about Billy and me. And guess what."
Already a little worm of anger was gnawing away in Ashton, spoiling her excitement. "I can't imagine," she said, back at the mirror and patting a curl.
"Orry changed his mind. Billy and I can marry whenever we want."
Ashton had feared her sister was going to say that. It took all her will to keep from screaming in rage. Brett bubbled on.
"I sent Cuffey to the fort with the good news. I can't get over it! Things worked out right after all."
"I'm so happy for you."
Never in her life had Ashton found it this hard to smile. But smile she did. Then she embraced her sister, planted a kiss on her cheek. Brett was too flushed and breathless to catch the flash of fury in the eyes of the older girl. Otherwise Ashton's deception was perfect.
"We must talk about the wedding," Ashton said as she rushed to the door. "It'll be ever so nice to help you plan it. But we have to wait a day or so, until the convention concludes its business. I declare, I've never seen Charleston buzzing like this —"
And she was gone, overwhelmed with jealous hatred and a renewed conviction that she must strike against her sister and Billy Hazard at all costs.
Institute Hall was silent, the air electric. Spectators in the packed gallery strained forward to hear the report from the committee charged with the task of preparing an ordinance of secession.
Two days had gone by since the arrival of the delegates. Motions had been passed, amended, tabled. Special groups of observers sent by the states of Mississippi and Alabama had been received with great ceremony. But now, on the afternoon of the twentieth, the delegates had reached the revolutionary heart of the matter. The Honorable Mr. Inglis, committee chairman, took the floor to read the proposed draft.
Cooper sat in the first row of the gallery, his elbows on the rail in front of him. People pressed against him from either side. His eyes wandered over the floor below, moved from former Governor Gist to Senator Chestnut to Huntoon, who was sitting pink-faced and smiling like some cherubic assassin.
Women composed about half the gallery crowd. Most wore secession bonnets. Far to Cooper's right, Ashton watched the proceedings with a moist brow and parted lips. She looked as if she were experiencing something far earthier than the reading of a proclamation. Cooper found her expression not only surprising but also distasteful.
"We, the people of the State of South Carolina, in convention assembled —''
He listened, though he really didn't want to hear. The ramifications of this proceeding were enough to make a man's head burst. Would there be two national postal systems tomorrow? Two bank systems next week? People seemed blithely unconcerned. When he had posed such questions to a couple of local financial leaders, he had been treated to puzzled stares that quickly turned hostile. Poor old Main, said those looks. Mad as ever.
''— and it is hereby declared and ordained that the ordinance adopted by us in convention of the twenty-third day of May, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and eighty-eight, whereby the Constitution of the United States was ratified —"
Slowly and sadly, Cooper's gaze again swept over those below him. Almost without exception, the men who had taken up this cause were prominent. They were men of intelligence and accomplishment. He could understand their anger, a generation old. But he would never understand the means they had chosen to vent that anger.
''— and also all acts, and parts of acts of the General Assembly of this State, ratifying amendments of the said Constitution, are hereby repealed.''
The spectators pressing against him on either side cheered and applauded. He recognized one as an employee of the U.S. Customs House; the other was a clergyman's wife. It was hard to say who howled the louder. Cooper leaned on the rail with his hands folded, thereby earning glares.
''— and that the union now subsisting between South Carolina and other states, under the name of the United States of America, is hereby dissolved.
Pandemonium. The gallery surged up as if on signal. Cooper remained seated. The Customs House man grabbed his shoulder.
"Stand up, damn you."
Cooper placed his fingers on top of the man's wrist, his thumb beneath, and removed the hand with apparent gentleness. But the man winced. Cooper gazed at him a moment longer, then returned his attention to those on the floor of the hall.
They were slapping backs, exchanging handshakes, boisterously congratulating one another. He would never understand their mass delusion. How in God's name could the state or the South go it alone? How could there be one continent, one people, and two governments?
After a lengthy demonstration of approval for the work of Mr. Inglis and his committee, the delegates and spectators settled down. Without debate, the ordinance was passed 169 to nothing. It would be signed — sealed — that night.
The moment that announcement was made, Institute Hall went wild again. Cooper sighed, rose, and fought his way up the packed aisle, seeing only a very few glum faces. One belonged to J. L. Petigru, a distinguished Charlestonian and old-time Whig lawyer much respected for his accomplishments and his family connections. Their eyes met briefly, like the eyes of mourners at a funeral.
Cooper rushed on out of the hall, his anger almost beyond containment.
Supper at Tradd Street was grim. Orry had brought George down from Mont Royal that morning to witness the deliberations at Institute Hall. They had been unable to get in. Orry seemed almost as downcast about secession as Cooper. George saw no point in repeating his prediction that the Federal government would respond without toleration.
Brett was depressed over the possible effects of the ordinance on her future. Fort Moultrie had been placed on alert in case the inevitable demonstrations degenerated into violence. She wouldn't see Billy tonight, and when she would see him next was uncertain.
Shouts and band music had been heard in the streets since afternoon. After supper the noise grew much louder. Soon bells were tolling all over the city. The melancholy within the house was virtually unbearable. Cooper reached for his hat.
"Well, gentlemen, they've signed it. This is an historic moment — shall we go out and watch Charleston celebrate her own ruin?"
"We're going too," Judith announced, bringing her shawl and Brett's. There was no arguing with them.
As the five of them left the house and turned toward Meeting, the cannon fire began.
The celebration of Lincoln's victory had been a mere rehearsal for this one. The narrow streets seethed with people. It was almost impossible to move rapidly on the wooden walks. Not three feet from George and the Mains, a string of firecrackers went off. Judith screeched, pressed a hand to her breast, then tried to smile.
They pushed on, up one side of Meeting and back down the other. Lights and transparencies decorated many windows. Among the subjects depicted were the palmetto flag, the Gamecock and the Swamp Fox, John Calhoun, and the facade of Institute Hall. Burning barrels of rosin bathed the street in gaudy red light. A fiery line traced its way into the sky behind Saint Michael's steeple, then burst into a bloom of pale stars. Continued explosions hurled other rockets aloft. Soon the sky twinkled with the fireworks.
Cannon on the Battery roared. Bands played. The crowd pushed back, crushing the revelers to permit the Ashley Guards to march by — one of many volunteer companies parading tonight.
A stout German blundered along, waving a placard,
HURRAH!
The Union
Is
DISSOLVED
"Wonderful, ja?" the placard bearer cried, blowing the odor of schnapps into Cooper's face. "But too long in coming. Too long!"
Livid, Cooper ripped the placard out of the man's hand. He broke the wooden slat to which it was tacked, then tore the card into pieces. Judith was pale.
Nearby spectators cursed Cooper. One or two began shoving. Orry moved beside his brother and shoved back. So did George, who jammed his face up to that of a man much taller.
"I'm a visitor to this city, but you'll have cause to remember me if you don't move along."
Orry laughed. For an instant the years had sloughed away and he had been watching and listening to young Cadet Hazard of West Point. The shovers moved on, and so did the German.
The air stank of powder, perfume, tobacco, overheated bodies. The sky shone with blue- and lemon-colored lights. No tune could be heard above the cannon fire, just occasional drumbeats and raucous horn notes.
"I don't think I've ever seen you this angry," Orry said to his older brother.
Cooper abruptly blocked the walk, confronting these four he loved; if any human beings would understand his piercing pain, they would.
"It's because I hate the position they've forced me into with their damned proclamation. All at once I don't know how I'm supposed to react. Where I'm supposed to place my loyalty. I hate feeling like a traitor to the state I've loved all my life. I hate being a traitor to the nation even more. The Union dissolved. For Christ's sake —"
"Cooper, your language," his wife whispered, unheard. " — a Main bled to create the Union! If the rest of you don't feel like you're being torn apart — wait. These fucking madmen don't know what they've done. To themselves, their sons, all of us. They don't know!"
Ashen, he spun and pushed on, silhouetted against the firestreaked night. The others followed closely. Brett tried to console Judith, who didn't shock easily but was speechless now. Orry was already experiencing some of the confusion Cooper had described.
George's head hurt from the cannon fire. He seemed to hear only the thunderous reports, not the jubilant shouting and the laughter. He thought of Mexico. It was easy to half close his eyes, squint at the fire-washed buildings, and imagine that Charleston was a city already at war.
Faces floated past Orry, faces distorted by flame and by passion. The glaring eyes, the gaping mouths, grew less human every moment. Raw emotion distorted an ordinary countenance into that of a gargoyle, and the transformation was duplicated on almost every face he saw.
Brett pressed against Orry and clutched his arm, clearly afraid of the people buffeting them. Cooper and Judith walked close behind, followed by George, a wary rear guard. No one paid attention to them now.
Orry saw three young swaggerers of the town jabbing an old Negro with their canes. Then they doused him with the contents of big, bowllike beer glasses brought from the bar of a hotel behind them. He saw a respected member of the Methodist church with the neck of a bottle protruding from his side pocket; the man clung to a black iron hitching post, puking into the street. He saw the wife of a Meeting Street jeweler leaning back in a dark doorway while a stranger fondled her. Excess was everywhere.
So were the slogans, shouted in his ear or waved on placards or silk banners produced, seemingly, overnight. Three men with an unfurled banner swept down the sidewalk. Orry had to duck and urge the others to do the same as the banner's message loomed: Southern Rights Shalt Not Be Trampled!
The banner passed over them, and Orry straightened. Almost at once he saw Huntoon, who was hurrying in the wake of the banner carriers.
"Orry. Good evening." Ashton's husband tipped his hat, conspicuously adorned with a blue cockade, one of dozens Orry had seen tonight. Huntoon's cravat was undone, the tail of his shirt hung from beneath his waistcoat — unusual for a fastidious man.
But this was an unusual night, and that showed in Huntoon's uncharacteristically broad smile. "Is the celebration to your taste?"
The question was directed at all five of them and carried a malicious edge. Chiefly for Cooper's benefit, Orry imagined. "Not really," he answered. "I hate to see good South Carolinians making fools of themselves."
Huntoon wouldn't be baited. "I'd say revelry is quite in order and excess completely excusable. We've declared our freedom to the world." His glance touched Brett. "Of course our new independence focuses attention on the Federal property in Charleston. The Customs House, the arsenal, the forts. We're organizing a group of commissioners who will approach Buchanan on the matter. Surrender of the property to the sovereign state of South Carolina is now mandatory."
George moved to Brett's side. "What if Old Buck doesn't see it that way?"
Huntoon smiled. "Then, sir, we shall resolve the question by other means."
He tipped his hat a second time and moved on, blending into a crowd of a hundred or so that spilled through the street chanting, "Southern rights! Southern rights! Southern rights!"
Brett watched Huntoon until he disappeared. Orry felt her hand constrict on his arm. "He said that about the forts because of Billy, didn't he?"
Cooper overheard. "I wouldn't doubt it. The milk of human kindness flows sparingly, if at all, in Mr. Huntoon."
They glimpsed him again on the other side of Meeting, fighting his way up the steps of the Mills House, then turning to survey the turbulent street from the top step. The lenses of his spectacles reflected flames leaping from a barrel on the curb. The eyes of a smiling demon, Orry thought. It was one more disturbing image on top of many.
He thought of Major Anderson out at Fort Moultrie. In Mexico he had known Anderson by sight and by reputation. A fine officer, conscientious and able. What must he be feeling? Where would his loyalty lie in the coming months? With the slaveholders of his native Kentucky or with the Army?
So many Americans — so many West Pointers — would be tested now; forced to decide where they stood. Orry could almost believe some malevolent power had taken charge of the world.
"As you suggested, Cooper, an historic moment," he said. "Let's go home."
Demoralized and silent, they did.
On the Battery, surrounded and crushed by sweaty, screaming revelers, Ashton found herself unexpectedly stirred. It was as if the mob created currents of power that surged into the ground and then back up her legs, to the very center of her. The secret arousal left her light-headed and short of breath.
As always, it wasn't the outpouring of patriotism that excited her but the larger significance, the main chance. The oaths, the howled threats and slogans, were the birth cries of a new nation. James predicted that other cotton states would follow South Carolina's example, and that very soon a new government would be organized. He would play a preeminent role. In a matter of weeks, a long-held dream could become a reality. Power would be hers for the taking.
Another burst of fireworks splashed her face with scarlet light. Star shells whined skyward and exploded over Sullivan's Island, briefly illuminating the ramparts of the fort. Her face wrenched.
Then, superimposed on an imaginary picture of Billy Hazard, she saw someone equally familiar, standing a few yards away.
"Forbes." Clutching her secession bonnet, she fought toward him. "Forbes!"
"Mrs. Huntoon," he said with that exaggerated courtesy he displayed when they met in public. He bowed. She smelled the bourbon on him, mingled with his male odor. It increased her excitement, but tonight wasn't a suitable occasion for that kind of indulgence.
"Forbes, it's urgent that we speak," she whispered. "Tomorrow — as soon as possible. Orry has cleared the way for Billy and my sister to be married. I can't abide that. I won't permit it."
A moment earlier Forbes LaMotte had looked drunkenly genial. Now his mouth took on the appearance of a sword cut across his face. More skyrockets went off, bells and cannon created a din. He had to lean close to hear what she said next.
"South Carolina has taken action. I think it's time we did, too."
His relaxed, sleepy smile returned. "Indeed it is," he murmured. "I am at your disposal."
On the morning of January 25, 1861, Captain Elkanah Bent arrived in New Orleans. He was hastening to the only real home he knew, Washington. He had arranged a transfer just in time. The situation in the country was critical and deteriorating more each day. He was sure the War Department was preparing promotion lists and reorganizing for impending conflict. Or they would be as soon as that doughface Buchanan vacated the White House.
Today Bent wore a new and expensive civilian outfit. He had purchased the clothes in Texas right after making his decision to stop over in New Orleans for twenty-four hours. He felt it wouldn't be prudent to flaunt his Army uniform in such a pro-Southern city. By reliable report, Louisiana would soon secede, joining the five other cotton states that had already left the Union. People up North were referring to those states as the Gulf Squadron. It had a military sound, belligerent. That pleased him.
Strolling up Bienville, he savored the fragrance of bitter coffee from a cafe. Good coffee was just one of the city's worldly delights he intended to sample during this brief visit.
He counted himself lucky to get out of Texas when he did. There, too, secession was inevitable, and those in charge of the Department of Texas were clearly sympathetic to the South. Old Davey Twiggs, department commander, and Bob Lee, who had returned from Virginia last year to resume command of the Second Cavalry, were just two potential traitors in a command riddled with them.
He had been fortunate to get out of Texas for other reasons. He had admittedly botched the attempt to eliminate Charles Main, and he was lucky to have escaped a court-martial. With war likely, there could be new opportunities to strike at the Mains and the Hazards. He'd see what the records in Washington revealed. The prospect took some of the sting out of his failure.
Bent had never satisfied himself about one question: Did Charles know the real reason for his enmity? By now it seemed very unlikely that he did not; Charles and that damnable Orry Main must have exchanged letters on the subject. Letters in which Bent's relationship with Orry and George Hazard had been revealed. If by some remote chance there had been no such correspondence, the secret would certainly come out the moment Charles returned home on leave.
Once the Mains knew of Bent's continuing appetite for revenge, the Hazards would undoubtedly learn of it, too. But he still saw one advantage for himself. The members of both families would surely assume that his desire would fade or vanish in the turbulence of war. That mistaken assumption would be their undoing.
As Bent read the national situation, hostilities couldn't be avoided. Charleston was the flash point. The day after Christmas, Anderson's little garrison had made secret preparations and, when night fell, had transferred by boat to Fort Sumter, spiking the guns left behind at Moultrie and burning the carriages. As a result, the palmetto flag was now flying over all the Federal property in and around Charleston, except for the fort Anderson was occupying in the center of the harbor.
Anderson's garrison was still being permitted to buy fresh meat and vegetables from Charleston markets. But state militiamen were pouring into the city. They were being put to work realigning the guns at Moultrie, Castle Pinckney, and Fort Johnson.
In Washington during the past weeks Old Buck had purged his cabinet of Southern influence and adopted a harder line. He refused to meet with the South Carolina commissioners who came to the capital to argue for the surrender of Fort Sumter, and he sent their memoranda to the files unread.
On January 9 the opposing forces had reeled to the brink. Buchanan had dispatched a chartered side-wheeler, Star of the West, to Charleston. The relief vessel carried food, ammunition, and 250 soldiers. She had crossed the bar, and then the cadets from The Citadel who were manning the harbor guns had opened fire.
Anderson's batteries did not return fire to defend the incoming ship. Hulled once, Star of the West immediately put out to sea again, and the incident was over — except in Washington, where wrangling continued between the government and yet another South Carolina delegation.
Just a few days ago, Davis and other senators from the Gulf Squadron had left the Capitol after delivering farewell speeches whose contrived sentimentality was designed to mask their treason. This very morning on the city dock Bent had heard that Davis and others would soon convene in Montgomery, Alabama, to form a new government.
How could that government fail to come to blows with Washington? Old Buck wouldn't be President much longer, and the new man, that queer fellow Lincoln, though soft on slavery, was uncompromising about preservation of the Union. War was coming. The future looked splendid.
In this fine frame of mind, Bent ascended a beautiful black iron stair and knocked at the door of an establishment that had been recommended to him by a gentleman he had met while traveling. When the door opened, he used an assumed name to introduce himself.
Two hours later, half dressed, he was dragged to the rooms of the proprietress by a huge, ferocious-looking Negro who shoved him into a plush chair, then blocked the door, awaiting the settlement of the dispute.
"One hundred dollars is outrageous!" Bent declared as he tucked in his shirt and buttoned his sleeves. Here was one place where the authority of his uniform might have served him.
Seated behind her magnificent desk, Madam Conti appeared relaxed and comfortable in her indigo silk robe with its pattern of embroidered peacocks. She was a large, solid woman, about sixty. Her stunning white hair was exquisitely arranged. Near her beringed hand, incense smoldered inside a tiny brass temple; Oriental objects had been the rage ever since Perry's squadron had sailed into Yedo Bay, Japan.
"Nevertheless, Monsieur Benton, one hundred dollars is what you must pay. A girl as young as Otille commands a premium price." The woman consulted a scrap of paper. "You also requested several, ah, special services. I can enumerate them for you — if they have slipped your mind. Did she not inform you of the extra charge?"
"She most certainly did not."
Madame Conti shrugged. "An oversight. It has no effect upon the price."
"I refuse to pay, goddamn it. I absolutely refuse."
Madame Conti greeted the outburst not with anger but with a tolerant smile. Looking past Bent, she said, "Whatever shall we do with him, Pomp?"
"Keep on treating him like a gentleman," the black rumbled. ''See if he might change his mind."
Bent's upper lip popped with sweat. He had heard the note of threat in the nigger's remarks. He struggled to maintain a courageous front. Madame Conti's smile didn't waver.
''Pour our visitor a little champagne. That might help."
"It will not," Bent said. She laughed and called for a second glass for herself.
Bent withheld another retort, attempting to plan his next move. Obviously he couldn't fight his way out of the bordello, nor did he intend to try. He let the situation drift a moment, accepting a glass of excellent French champagne from Pomp. He gulped it, then held the glass out to be refilled. Madame Conti gave the black man a nod of assent.
The champagne had a calming effect. Bent began to take notice of the elegant office. On walls of red-flocked wallpaper hung more than a dozen large paintings, all lit effectively by mantled gas jets. One huge canvas was a rollicking study of fur trappers on a river raft.
"That is my pride," the woman declared. "A Westerner named Bingham painted it."
Her pride was misplaced, Bent thought, downing more champagne. He eyed a portrait of a young woman hanging behind Madame Conti's left shoulder. The features of the beautiful, dark-haired creature were familiar somehow. But he couldn't place her.
Madame Conti noticed his interest. "Ah, you admire her? She worked here for a time many years ago. She was even more beautiful than my little Otille. And far more expensive."
Bitch, he thought. Wouldn't let him forget the bill, would she?
Then, abruptly, he knew where he had seen the exotic face in the painting. It was in one of Charles Main's family daguerreotypes.
No, just a moment. This woman, smiling her seductive painted smile, wasn't the same Creole beauty whose picture he had seen in Texas. The resemblance was strong but not exact. Sisters, perhaps?
"Who is she, Madame?"
Jeweled bracelets twinkled and clinked as the white-haired woman drank champagne. "I don't suppose it hurts to tell you. She was a poor girl who rose very high before she died. She left my employ to become the eminently respectable and respected wife of a rich New Orleans factor."
"The dusky cast of her skin is enchanting. The painter was inspired."
"Only by what he saw."
"You mean her skin was that way naturally?"
"Yes, Monsieur Benton."
"I'm fascinated. She creates a lovely romantic image —" He leaned forward slightly; a master schemer, he could be subtle when necessary. "How did her story end — if you know and wish to confide, Madame?"
She turned her chair, regarding the painted face with affection. "My dear girl had a daughter by her adoring husband after they married, but, alas, the beautiful mother died. In time, before he too succumbed, the loving father had to send the child far away to make a match. She looked as white as you or I, but some in this town knew her mother's background."
So that was the relationship; mother and daughter. Bent couldn't take his eyes from the painting.
"And they knew the child was not French or Spanish but octoroon. Years ago, attractive young women of mixed blood were favored creatures. No longer. The furor over slavery has seen to that. Today" — an expressive shrug, a melancholy smile — "being one-eighth Negro, however light the skin, is exactly the same as being all Negro — Monsieur Benton, what is wrong?"
Bent's hand had jerked, spilling champagne on her fine carpet. "An accident, Madame. My profound apologies."
He whipped out his kerchief, bending down to mop the rug, a difficult task because of his huge paunch.
The daughter of a nigger whore connected with that arrogant Main crowd? Obviously they didn't suspect; no woman with nigger blood would be permitted in a group portrait of plantation aristocrats. What a splendid piece of information! He didn't know how he'd use it, or when, but that he would use it he didn't doubt for a moment.
"Madame, you're quite right. The champagne has a soothing effect." His moist face beamed. "The services of the young lady were extremely satisfying, and I was wrong to quibble over the price. I'll pay in full. I'd even like to give her a handsome tip, if you'll permit it."
Madame Conti exchanged a look with the huge black man who for several minutes had been cleaning his nails with a long knife. At her faint signal, he slipped the knife out of sight.
"But of course," she said with a courteous nod.
A cold rain fell from the Texas sky. A dispirited Charles Main watched the last trunk being lifted and placed with others in the Army ambulance. The trunks belonged to Colonel Lee.
Five days ago, on February 8, Charles and two enlisted men had left Camp Cooper with urgent dispatches for the regimental commander. They had ridden 165 miles in foul weather and had arrived to find that Lee had been relieved and called back to Washington by direct order of General Scott. No doubt Scott wanted him to declare his intentions — and his loyalty.
Lee's departure was more evidence of the chaos spreading through the land. Although important border states such as Tennessee and Lee's own Virginia had not yet joined the secession movement, Texas had been out of the Union since the first of the month — against the pessimistic advice of Governor Houston.
During the hours Charles had been riding with the dispatches, a new Confederate government had been born in Alabama. Jefferson Davis was its provisional president, and its provisional constitution was already drafted.
President-elect Lincoln was traveling eastward from Illinois by train. He was forced to stop frequently along the way to make exhausting speeches to constituents. In Washington, Senator Crittenden had put forward desperate compromise proposals on slavery, but the effort had failed. With all the cotton-state members gone, it had been easy for the Senate to pass a measure admitting Kansas to the Union as a free state.
Meantime, Major Anderson's command remained huddled in Fort Sumter, ringed by strengthened batteries and South Carolina gunners itching for a scrap. Charles often wondered if Billy was still on duty at the fort. Anderson had sent several of his men to Washington with dispatches or requests for instructions. Perhaps Billy had been one of them. Charles hoped and prayed his friend would get out of the fort alive.
In Texas the frontier posts seethed with suspicion and rumors of impending takeovers by state military levies or the Texas Rangers. Although known to be a Southern sympathizer, General Twiggs had four times appealed to Washington for orders. Four times he had received vague and meaningless replies.
One story, authenticated by a San Antonio paper, seemed to typify the Army's state of turmoil. In January one of the Military Academy's most respected graduates, Pierre Beauregard, had been appointed superintendent. He had held the post less than a week and been removed because Louisiana's secession made him suspect. Men who had bled in Mexico, broken bread together, and shared hardships for years now regarded each other as potential enemies, capable of almost any treachery. It depressed Charles, who was still uncertain about his own decision and his own future.
Now he waited for Lee in the rain. Nine other officers were waiting with him. Finally the colonel appeared, wearing his talma and forage cap. One by one the officers stepped up to offer a salute and a word of good luck. The last to arrive, and the most junior, Charles was the last to speak.
"It has been an honor to serve with you, sir."
"Thank you, Lieutenant."
"I wish you a safe journey."
"I don't relish the circumstances that require me to undertake it. I do want to say this to you, however. You're a good officer. No matter what else changes, that won't."
"Thank you, sir."
Lee started away. Charles's inner confusion prompted him to disregard protocol. "Colonel?"
By the side of the ambulance, Lee turned about. "Yes?"
"Which way will you go, sir? North or South?"
Lee shook his head. "I could never bear arms against the United States. But what if it became necessary for me to carry a musket to defend my native Virginia? I had frankly hoped to avoid that kind of question. I thought President Buchanan might restore harmony between the sections by playing on love of country, but he failed. I thought the melting influence of Christianity might resolve the slave issue, but it hasn't. I've owned slaves, and my conscience has tried me because of it. The institution will wither. It should. As for secession, in my view it's nothing but revolution. Yet at this moment, men who are in most respects eminently decent have established a new government on the pillars of secession and slavery, and so I am unsure of the future and of my own reactions as well."
Lee's face looked haggard in the rain. "I'm certain of one thing only. No matter how each man or woman answers the question you asked, I think there will be but one result from what we've allowed the extremists to do to us. Heartbreak. Good-bye, Lieutenant."
He trudged to the front of the ambulance and climbed up beside the driver. The vehicle lurched forward through the mud and rapidly faded into the dreary distance.
Charles walked back to the stockade. Pondering his own confused state of mind, he could only conclude that Lee was right. North and South, both would suffer before this terrible business was done.
Two days later, in San Antonio, old Davey Twiggs surrendered all the Federal posts in Texas to state forces. Men loyal to the Union were urged to depart for the Guif ports and given assurance of safe conduct, though for how long no one was prepared to say.
Charles completed his journey from Fort Mason and arrived at Camp Cooper just an hour before its Union contingent was to pull out. The men were under the command of Captain Carpenter, First Infantry. Some were on horseback, some on foot.
Dirty and exhausted from long hours in the saddle, Charles watched the Ohioans from Company K ride out in a column of twos. One was Corporal Tannen, who had been a private in the skirmish at Lantzman's farm; Charles had pushed for his promotion. Tannen took note of those remaining behind, leaned out to the left, and spat.
"Any man who stays is unfit to wear Army blue." He said it loud enough for all to hear.
"What's that, Corporal?" Charles called.
Tannen returned his stare. "I said if you stay, you're a yellow traitor."
"I seem to have been robbed of my rank," Charles said as he flung off his bear-claw necklace, then his filthy and sweat-blackened hide shirt. Before anyone could react, he cocked his revolver and passed it to an Alabama trooper standing next to him.
"So no one interferes."
The Alabama boy grinned, nodded, and got a better grip on the gun. Charles approached Tannen's horse.
"You helped me once. I was grateful. But your remark cancels that."
Tannen looked down at him. "Good. Fuck you."
Charles reached for him. Tannen tried to lash Charles's face with his rein. Charles caught the rein and whipped it round and round the corporal's left wrist. The horse began to buck.
Tannen drew his saber. Charles twisted it away and flung it out of reach. Then he dragged the Ohioan from his saddle and pounded him until his nose looked like pulped berries. Breathing hard, he spoke to the others who were leaving.
"Pick him up if you want him. I'll kill the next one who calls me a traitor."
He removed his foot from the middle of Tannen's back and stood with his hands at his sides until Tannen was thrown belly down over a horse. Soon the Union men were gone.
An hour later, Charles wrote his resignation. Then he packed. Since there was no regular Army officer left to accept the resignation and report it to Washington, he hammered a nail into the door of his room in the barracks and impaled the paper on the nail. Within minutes he was bound for the Gulf.
Lee might ponder the philosophical subtleties, but his own future had been decided in a far simpler way. Ah, well. He had never been a deep man. Just a hell raiser and a horse soldier. The South might need someone like him as much as it needed philosophers.
He hated leaving Texas, which he had come to love. He thought slavery a foolish system and likely a dying one. But his blood called him home. He pushed his horse hard all the way to the coast.