Love and War

by John Jakes

  “Get back down here an’ work, you.”

  The slave ignored the order. He gazed at Madeline with concern rather than servility. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “Fine. I—”

  “You hear me, nigger?” Cuffey shouted. He had climbed halfway up the embankment and pointed his truncheon at the other black, whose large, slightly slanted eyes registered emotion for the first time. Not hard to tell how he felt about the driver.

  “Be quiet while I thank this man properly,” Madeline said. “You caused the incident; he didn’t.”

  Cuffey looked stunned, then enraged. At the sound of snickering, he spun, but the black faces below him were blank. He stomped down the embankment, hollering louder than ever.

  The blacks resumed work while Madeline said to her rescuer: “I’ve seen you before, but I don’t know your name.”

  “Andy, ma’am. I was named for President Jackson.”

  “Were you born at Mont Royal?”

  “No. Mr. Tillet bought me the spring before he died.”

  “Well, Andy, I thank you for your quick action. There could have been a serious accident.”

  “Glad there wasn’t. Cuffey didn’t have any call to torment—” With a little intake of breath, he stopped. He had spoken his heart, but it wasn’t his place to do such a thing; the realization showed.

  She thanked him again. Giving a quick nod, he jumped to the bottom of the embankment; smiles and murmurs from some of the people showed they liked him as much as they disliked the driver. Fuming, Cuffey tapped his truncheon on his other palm. His eye fixed on Andy as he kept tapping.

  Andy returned the stare. Cuffey looked away but managed to avoid humiliation by screaming orders at the same time. A bad situation, Madeline thought as she rode on—and that was how she characterized it when she described the incident to Orry later. At dark, he sent a boy to the slave community. Shortly after, a knock sounded at the open office door.

  “Come in, Andy.”

  The barefoot slave crossed the threshold. He wore cloth pants washed so many times they had a white sheen, like his patched short-sleeved shirt. Orry had always thought him a good-looking young fellow, well proportioned and muscular. He knew how to be polite without fawning, and his posture now, straight but at ease, with his hands relaxed at his sides, showed his confidence in his standing with the owner.

  “Take a chair.” Orry indicated the old rocker beside the desk. “I want you to be comfortable while we talk.”

  This unexpected treatment disarmed and confused the younger man. He lowered himself with care, sitting tensely; the rocker didn’t move an inch one way or the other.

  “You saved Miss Madeline from what could have been a grave injury. I appreciate that. I want to ask you some questions about the cause of the mishap. I expect truthful answers. You needn’t fear anyone will try to get back at you.”

  “Driver, you mean?” Andy shook his head. “I’m not scared of him or any nigra who has to push and curse to get his way.” His tone and gaze implied he didn’t fear that kind of white man either. Orry’s favorable impression strengthened.

  “Who was Cuffey after? Miss Madeline said the man had gray hair.”

  “It was Cicero.”

  “Cicero! He’s nearly sixty.”

  “Yes, sir. He and Cuffey—they’ve had trouble before. Soon as the mistress left the square, Cuffey swore he’d make the old man pay.”

  “Is there anything else I should know?” Andy shook his head. “All right. I’d like to thank you in some tangible way for what you did.” Andy blinked; tangible was plainly incomprehensible to him, though he didn’t say so. “Do you have a garden? Do you raise anything for yourself?”

  “I do, sir. This year I have okra and some peas. And I keep three hens.”

  Opening a desk drawer, Orry drew out bills. “Three dollars will buy some good seed and a couple of new tools if you need them. Tell me what you want and I’ll order it from Charleston.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll think on it and speak to you again.”

  “Can you read or write, Andy?”

  “Nigras reading and writing is against the law. I could be whipped if I said yes.”

  “Not here. Answer the question.”

  “I can’t do either.”

  “Would you learn if you had the chance?”

  Andy estimated the danger before he replied. “Yes, sir, I would. Reading, ciphering—they help a man get ahead in the world.” A deep swallow, then he blurted, “I might be free one day. Then I’d need it more than ever.”

  Orry smiled to relieve the black man’s apprehension. “That’s a wise outlook. Glad we had this talk. I’ve never known much about you, but I think you can be of great service on this plantation. You will get ahead.”

  “Thank you,” Andy said, holding up the money. “For this, too.”

  Orry nodded, watching the strong young man turn toward the door. Some would have whipped Andy for his admission; Orry wished he had a dozen more with similar initiative.

  Night had fallen while they talked. In the distance, big frogs made a sound like drums with cracked heads; the cicada obbligato was pleasanter. Andy wasn’t tall, Orry observed as he watched the slave walk down the path, but his stride—and his nature—made it seem otherwise.

  In the morning, Orry rode to the day’s work site to look for Cicero. He didn’t see him. Cuffey curbed his ranting until Orry passed by, then doubled the volume. Orry proceeded to the slave cabins and dismounted before that belonging to Cicero and his wife. A naked, merry-faced boy of five was urinating against one of the tabby pillars. Cicero’s wife heard Orry shoo the boy away and rushed outside.

  “Where’s your husband, Missy?”

  “Inside, Mist’ Orry. He, uh, not working today. He just a little sickly.”

  “I’d like to see him.”

  Her response—a burst of nearly incoherent statements amounting to refusal—confirmed that something was wrong. He pushed her aside gently and entered the clean, bare cabin just as Cicero groaned.

  Orry swore under his breath. The aging slave lay on a pallet of ticking, arms folded over his stomach, face contorted. Dried blood and matter showed on his closed, discolored eyelids. His forehead bore similar marks. No doubt Cuffey had used his truncheon.

  “I’ll send for the doctor to look at him, Missy,” he said as he rejoined her on the porch. “I’ll also see this matter is put to rights before the day’s done.”

  She caught his hand and pressed it. She was crying too hard to speak.

  By afternoon, it was broiling. Orry nevertheless built a fire in the iron stove in his office before summoning Cuffey from the fields. When Cuffey walked in—he had his truncheon, as Orry had anticipated—there were no formalities.

  “I should have sold you instead of Anne. I’ll take this.”

  He yanked the truncheon from Cuffey’s hand, opened the stove door, and threw the stick into the fire.

  “You are no longer head driver. You’re a field hand again. I saw what you did to Cicero, for God knows what ridiculous reason. Get out of here.”

  Next morning, an hour after sunup, Orry again spoke to Andy in the office.

  “I want you to be the head driver.” Andy gave a small, quick nod of consent. “I’m putting a lot of trust in you, Andy. I don’t know you well, and these are difficult times. I know some of the people feel a strong pull to run away to Yankee territory. I won’t be forgiving if anyone tries that and I catch him or her—as I most likely will. I don’t engage in cruelty, but I won’t be forgiving. Clear?”

  Andy nodded again.

  “One more thing. You remember that our former overseer, Salem Jones, whom I caught stealing and discharged, carried a stick. Evidently the late Mr. Jones impressed Cuffey. He adopted the idea. I should have taken Cuffey’s truncheon away the first time I saw it.”

  Andy’s lids flickered as he stored the new word in memory. Orry finished by saying, “Carrying a stick shows a man is weak, not strong
. I don’t want to find you with one.”

  “I don’t need one,” Andy said, looking him straight in the eye.

  That was how the delicate card house had collapsed. Orry had started to build another when he put Andy in Cuffy’s place.

  He had soon learned that most of the people liked the change. Orry was well satisfied, too. Not only was Andy quick-witted and hardy enough to work long hours, but he also had a knack for leading rather than driving the others. He was neither craven nor truculent; he had somehow acquired an inner strength in which he had absolute confidence. He didn’t need to dramatize it to convince himself of his worth.

  The trust Orry had placed in him—on a hunch and an impulse, mostly—created an unspoken but real attachment between the two men. Once or twice Orry had heard his father speak of loving certain of his people as he would love a child of his own loins. For the first time Orry began to have some comprehension of why Tillet Main might have said that.

  Much of this flowed through Orry’s mind as he lay beside Madeline, but what came last was a disturbing image. Cuffey’s face. Wrathful—far more so since the end of his short tenure as driver. Cuffey had to be watched now; he would spread discontent. Orry could easily identify half a dozen of the people who might be receptive.

  On balance, the situation, while not ideal, was not as bad as it had been a week ago. Orry believed that if he accepted the post in Richmond, Andy would protect Madeline in the event of trouble. Feeling good about that, he fell asleep.

  A week later, he received an unexpected letter.

  Deir Sir,

  My cozin who resides in Charleston, S.C., shewed me your advertisement for job of overseer. I have the honr to prezent myself to your attention. Philemon Meek, age 64 yers but in the prim of helth and gretly experienced—

  “There’s a big one he got right.” Orry laughed as he and Madeline strolled through the formal garden to the river at twilight of the day the letter came. “He didn’t get many of the others.”

  “Could you take a chance on a man so poorly educated?”

  “I could if he’s had the right experience. The rest of this seems to suggest he has. He says I’m to get a letter of reference from his present employer, an elderly widower with a tobacco plantation up near Raleigh; no children and no will to keep the place going. Meek would like to buy it but can’t afford it. The place is to be broken into small farms.”

  They reached the pier jutting into the smooth-flowing Ashley. On the other side, in shallows beneath Spanish moss, three white egrets stood like statuary. Orry slapped a mite on his neck. The smack sent the birds swooping away into the river’s dark distances.

  “There’s only one difficulty with Mr. Meek,” Orry continued, sinking down on an old cask. “He won’t be at liberty until sometime in the fall. Says he won’t leave until his employer is properly settled with a sister who’s to take him in.”

  “That kind of attitude recommends him.”

  “Definitely,” Orry agreed. “I doubt I’ll find anyone better qualified. I think I should write him and begin salary negotiations.”

  “Yes, indeed. Does he have a wife or a family?”

  “Neither.”

  Quietly, her eyes on the smooth water specked occasionally by insects too small to be seen, she said, “I’ve been wanting to ask—how do you feel about the latter?”

  “I want children, Madeline.”

  “Considering what you know about my mother?”

  “What I know about you is far more important.” He kissed her mouth. “Yes, I do want children.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say it. Justin thought I was barren, though I always suspected the fault was his. We should find out soon enough—I can’t imagine two people working harder at the question than we’ve been doing, can you?” She squeezed his arm, and they laughed together.

  “I’m so glad you heard from that Mr. Meek,” she went on. “Even if you can’t leave till autumn, you can write Richmond and accept the commission.”

  “Yes, I suppose I could do that now.”

  “So you have decided!”

  “Well—” The very way he prolonged it was an admission.

  “The bugs are getting fierce down here,” she said. “Let’s go back to the house for a glass of claret. Perhaps we can even find a second way to celebrate your decision.”

  “In bed?”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean that—” Madeline blushed, then added, “Right now.”

  “What, then?”

  Impossible to hide her smile any longer. “I think it’s time to unwrap the sword you’ve kept carefully hidden upstairs.”

  19

  “OUR ROME,” OLD RESIDENTS called it. As a girl, Mrs. James Huntoon had preferred the study of young men to that of old cities, but a certain amount of enforced education in the classics enabled her to dismiss the comparison as merely another example of Virginia arrogance. That arrogance permeated Richmond and raised barriers for those from other states. At the first private party to which Ashton and her husband had been invited—to have their persons and pedigrees inspected, she felt sure—a white-haired woman, clearly Someone, overheard Ashton remark crossly that she simply couldn’t understand the Virginia temperament.

  Someone gave her a smile with steel in it. “That is because we are neither Yankees nor Southerners—the South being a term generally used here to signify states with a large population of parvenu cotton planters. We are Virginians. No other word will suffice—and none says so much.”

  Ignorance thus exposed, Someone sailed away. Ashton seethed, imagining she’d faced the worst the evening had to offer. She was wrong. James Chesnut’s wife, Mary, a South Carolinian with a bitchy tongue and a secure place in Mrs. Davis’s circle, had greeted her by name and refused to stop for conversation. Ashton feared that gossip about her involvement with Forbes LaMotte, and the attempt to kill Billy Hazard, had followed the Huntoons to Virginia.

  So she had failed two tests in one night. But there would be others, and she was determined to triumph over them. Although she had little except contempt for the well-born gentlemen who ran the government, and for their wives who ruled society, they held power. To Ashton there was no stronger aphrodisiac.

  Like the ancient city, Our Rome had hills, but, by comparison, the city was tiny. Even with all the office seekers, bureaucrats, and riffraff swarming in, the population was little more than forty thousand. Richmond had its Tiber, too—the James, looping and winding south and then east to the Atlantic—but surely the air on the Capitoline had smelled of something finer than tobacco. Richmond stank of it; the whole place had the odor of a warehouse.

  Montgomery had been the first capital, but only for a month and a half. Then the Congress voted in favor of the move to Virginia—though not without argument. Richmond lay too near the Yankee lines, the Yankee guns, opponents said. Numbers of votes overwhelmed them, as did logic: Richmond was the South’s transportation and armament center, and had to be defended whether the government was there or not.

  Those who had resided in Richmond a long time spoke with pride of the fine old homes and churches, but never mentioned the teeming saloon districts. They boasted of families of exalted ancestry, but never acknowledged the degraded creatures of both sexes who sauntered the shady walks of Capitol Square in the afternoons, silently offering themselves for sale. The women, a hard lot, and seldom young, were said to be rushing here from Baltimore, even New York, in search of the opportunity a wartime capital offered. God knew from what sewer their male counterparts had crawled.

  Old Rome—with Carolina Goths and Alabama Vandals already inside the walls. Even the provisional President—not yet formally confirmed for his single six-year term—was regarded as a Mississippi primitive. He had the further misfortune of birth in Kentucky, the same state that had given the world the supreme incarnation of vulgarity-on-earth, Abe Lincoln.

  Although Ashton was glad to be near the center of power, it couldn’t be said that she was happy. Her hus
band, though a competent lawyer and a staunch secessionist—“Young Hotspur,” they had called him back home—could find no better job than clerk to one of the first assistants in the Treasury Department. That was in keeping with the contempt shown South Carolinians by the new government. Very few from the Palmetto State had been named to high posts; most were considered too radical. The exception, Treasury Secretary Memminger, wasn’t a Carolina native. Fathered by some low-born German soldier, he had been brought to Charleston as an orphan. Never considered one of the so-called fire-eaters, he was the only kind of Carolinian Jeff Davis deemed safe. It was insulting.

  Ashton and James Huntoon were squeezed into a single large room at one of the boardinghouses proliferating near Main Street; that, too, displeased her. They would find a suitable house eventually, but the wait was galling—especially because she was required to sleep in the same bed as her husband. He always left her unsatisfied on those rare occasions—initiated by her when she wanted him to do or buy something for her—that she let him maul and heave and poke her with that pitiful flaccid instrument of his.

  Richmond might be a tarnished coin, but it was rare and valuable in a few respects. There were important people to be cultivated; power to be acquired; financial opportunities to be seized. There were also quite a few attractive men—in uniform and out. Somehow she would turn all of that to her advantage—perhaps starting tonight. She and James were to attend their first official reception. As she finished dressing, she felt faint from the excitement.

  Orry’s sister was a beautiful young woman with a lush figure and an innate sense of how to take advantage of those assets. She had insisted they hire a carriage, to create the proper impression from the moment they arrived. James whined that they couldn’t afford it; she allowed him marital privileges for three minutes, and he changed his mind. How glad she was when he handed her down from the carriage outside the Spotswood Hotel at Eighth and Main, and she heard approving murmurs from a crowd of loungers on the walk.