Love and War

by John Jakes

  “Convey my regards to Judith.”

  “And mine to Harriott.”

  “I trust you’ll have a restful Sabbath.”

  “I shall after I go to church.”

  “You have our donation?”

  “Yes.” Cooper tapped his tall hat. Looks and half-smiles during the exchange conveyed a second set of questions, responses, meanings. Two of the clerks in the office were new; one couldn’t be perfectly sure of loyalties.

  Going downstairs, he tipped his hat to Prioleau, the manager of Fraser, Trenholm, who was just returning to the building. Cooper crossed the shadowed cobbles of the court and hurried through the short tunnel beneath the offices fronting Rumford Place. He turned left as the bells of the Church of St. Nicholas rang the quarter hour. He would be able to make the 4:00 P.M. ferry easily.

  At the corner he checked to the left, to the right, then to the rear. He saw no one suspicious among those hurrying or idling in the spring sunshine. He turned right toward the Mersey. The sun was sinking over the Wirral, and the span of water between the city and Birkenhead dazzled him with thousands of moving splinters of light. A freighter passed, outbound. He heard the faint ring of the ship’s bell.

  Cooper missed South Carolina now and then. But with Judith and the children and his job all here, he had concluded he was better off and probably happier in Liverpool. Except for Prioleau and two others at Fraser, Trenholm, no one in the city knew his history, hence no one remarked on the inconsistency of working for a cause in which he did not entirely believe. He himself couldn’t adequately explain this dualism, in which one Cooper Main continued to loathe slavery, while another loved and served the South with a new, war-born fervency.

  He wasn’t even sure the Confederacy would survive. Recognition by the two most important European nations, Britain and France, was still a hope, nothing more, and little seemed to be happening militarily except for the stunning triumph at Hampton Roads. A prudent man, a man who wanted to retain his sanity, did as he was doing now: he concentrated on the task of the moment, not the dour issues beneath.

  “England off’ring neutral sauce to goose as well as gander”—he softly sang the Southern doggerel put to the old tune as he proceeded across the landing stage from the ticket booth to the ferry—“was what made Yankee Doodle cross and did inflame his dander.” Relaxed by the warm sunshine, he found a spot at the rail and leaned there, thinking of his wife and other pleasant subjects. The ferry, packed with families, shoppers, and workers whose offices closed early on Saturday, left the city stage at a minute past four, bound for the Woodside stage across the Mersey.

  Cooper had succumbed to Liverpool as he had long ago succumbed to the charms of Charleston, though the two cities could not have been more unlike. Charleston was a pale lady who napped away the hot afternoon, Liverpool a freckled girl who poured the beer at a public house. But he had come to love the second as much as the first.

  He loved the bustle of the port. Into the Mersey poured the commerce of the empire, and out of it went old ships freshly loaded and new ones freshly launched. He loved the banter of the seafaring men who came and went like the tides. Whether they were Liverpudlians or lascars from the East Indies or even would-be shipbuilders from the Carolinas, they spoke a common tongue and belonged to the same restless, frequently lonely brotherhood.

  Cooper loved Liverpool’s dark, square buildings, as solid as the good-humored people who inhabited them. He loved the comfortable town house he and Judith had found, directly across Abercromby Square from Prioleau’s. He had even learned to eat black pudding, a local specialty, though he would assuredly never love that.

  He did love the people, a fascinating, cross-grained lot, from the magnates who sent men sailing around the storm capes with a pen stroke to lesser mortals such as Mr. Lumm, his greengrocer, who had abruptly been made a childless widower at thirty-seven and never remarried because he had discovered the world’s enormous population of willing women, a population unknown to him when he wed at fifteen.

  Now seventy-four, Mr. Lumm continued to operate his shop a full six days each week and boasted to Cooper, man to man, of the enormous resources of his goolies. “Nuff ter popyoulate an ole country, assa fack.” While still in his fifties, he had discovered that the secret of keeping his nudger in trim was to exercise it often, with any quim but a House of Commons. Cooper loved the roguish old fellow as much as he loved the white-haired vicar of the parish, who bred bull terriors, led wildlife walks in the Wirral, and took pains to visit the Mains at least once a week because he knew strangers in a foreign land lacked friends. The vicar strongly opposed slavery and the South, but on a personal basis that made no difference.

  Of an evening, Cooper liked to stroll the Toxteth docks and gaze at the stars above the Mersey and the Wirral hills, and tell himself it was a good time, a good place, even if he was far from home. “Dirty old town,” Mr. Lumm often said in a tone of great affection. Cooper understood perfectly.

  His mind drifting and his eye on the panorama of docks and coaling floats on the Liverpool shore, he suddenly had a tight-drawn feeling. He turned, and saw the man for the first time.

  About fifty, Cooper judged. Bulbous nose. A mustache of heroic proportions. Cheap suit, too heavy for the weather. Paper sack in one hand. The man stubbornly occupied one end of a bench overloaded with a thin woman and her five children. From the sack the man drew a leek. He bit the white bulb with great relish.

  Chewing and chewing, the man gave Cooper a glance—not unfriendly, merely curious. But Cooper was by now experienced at spotting those who might be Dudley’s thugs. He checked the width of the man’s shoulders. Very possibly this was a new one.

  He felt jittery as Birkenhead’s yards and old, soot-black buildings rose ahead. The ferry bumped in, and Cooper was one of the first to get off, moving quickly but not at a pace to suggest panic. He wove through the rank of lounging hackmen and climbed the cobbled street to a lane tucked behind Hamilton Square. He darted in and, halfway down, turned around. He watched the mouth of the lane, but there was no sign of the man who ate leeks.

  Relieved, he entered the public house, the Pig and Whistle, where the lane dead-ended.

  As usual, only a few sailors and dockworkers were in the place at this hour. Cooper took a seat at a small, round table, and the landlord’s gray-haired wife soon brought him a pint of ale without receiving an order. “Afternoon, Mr. Main. Evensong is delayed two hours.”

  “That late?” He couldn’t suppress anxiety. “Why?”

  “I know nothing about the reason, sir.”

  “All right, Maggie, thank you.”

  Damn. Two hours to kill. The man on the ferry and now this-—was there trouble? Had Charles Francis Adams somehow convinced the crown to seize the 209? A flock of alarming fantasies flew around in his head and robbed the ale of its savor. He jumped when the bell over the door jangled. A bulky figure filled the rectangle of light.

  The man with the sack of leeks came straight to his table. “Mr. Cooper Main, I believe?” A smarmy smile; a pudgy hand extended. “Marcellus Dorking. Private inquiry agent.” He withdrew his hand. “Mind if I sit and have a word?”

  What the devil was the game? Matt Maguire, Broderick—none of Dudley’s other detectives operated this boldly. Heart hammering, Cooper said, “I don’t know you.”

  Dorking slid onto the long seat beneath the window of dirty bottle glass. He laid the much-handled sack on the table, called for a gin, took a leek from the sack, and began to toy with it, his huge smile unwavering.

  “But we know you, sir. Bulloch’s chap—right, eh? No problem there. We admire a man of conscience.”

  “Who is we?”

  “Why, the parties who requested me to approach you, sir.” He bit the leek in half, masticating noisily. From the bar, a small man with coal-dusted hand complained about the stink. Dorking glared, then shone his smile on Cooper again. He ate as he spoke. “Parties discomforted by Captain Bulloch’s interpretation of the For
eign Enlistment Act.”

  Cooper sensed he was in trouble, perhaps caught. Would he be searched? The message in his hat discovered? Unwise to put that sort of thing on paper, he realized belatedly, but no one in Bulloch’s office was a professional spy.

  Would he be arrested? Jailed? How would he notify Judith?

  Dorking reached for another leek. “You’re on the wrong side, sir. This nigger slavery stuff—m’ wife’s very strong against it. So ’m l.”

  “Does your conviction spring from your conscience or your pocketbook, Dorking?”

  The man scowled. “I wouldn’t joke, sir. You are a foreign national, involved in serious violations of the Enlistment Act. Oh, I know the dodge, sir—shipyards cannot arm and equip vessels of war for belligerents with whom Great Britain is at peace. But nothing in the act says it’s illegal to build a ship here”—he waved the green stem near Cooper’s nose—“and buy guns and powder and shells there”—the leek flew away as he extended his arm—“and bring ’em together three or more nautical miles from our coastline. Not illegal, but it is definitely a Jesuitical interpretation of our law, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

  Cooper stayed silent. Dorking leaned in again, intimidating. “Very Jesuitical indeed. In your case, however, it could be overlooked—even a small stipend paid—if my clients received one or two brief reports as to the purpose and status of a certain vessel sometimes identified as the 209 and sometimes as Enrica—Still sailing the same course, aren’t we, sir?”

  Pale with rage despite his fright, Cooper said, “You are offering me a bribe, is that it, Mr. Dorking?”

  “No, no! Merely a little more financial security, sir. Just for a few helpful facts—such as an explanation of the odd behavior of some sailor boys lately seen on Canning Street. They were marching along with fife and drum, playing a tune called ‘Dixie’s Land.’ The same sailor boys had been spotted at John Laird’s not long before. Spotted inside the gate. Do I make myself clear? Now what does that say to you, Mr. Main?”

  “It says they like the tune of ‘Dixie’s Land,’ Mr. Dorking. What does it say to you?”

  “That Laird’s might be hiring a crew, sir. For the proving run of a new Confederate States war vessel, could it be?” The inquiry agent flung his half-eaten leek on the table, roaring at Maggie. “Where’s my damn gin, woman?”’ He then gave Cooper time to observe his narrowed eyes and clenched teeth before he said, “I shall be candid with you, sir. There’s more than a fee if you help us. There’s assured safety for your wife and little ones.”

  Maggie had reached the table. Cooper snatched the glass from her hand and dashed the gin in Dorking’s face. The man cursed, dripping and wiping. Cooper grabbed his throat with his left hand.

  “If you touch my wife or my children, I’ll find you and personally kill you.”

  “I’ll fetch Percy,” Maggie said, starting away. “Me husband. He weighs seventeen stone.”

  Hearing that, Dorking bolted to the door, pausing long enough to shout back, “Slave-owning nigger-beating bastard. We’ll stop you.” He shook the paper sack. “Rely on it!” Jangle went the bell, vibrating long after the door slammed.

  “You all right, sir?” Maggie asked.

  “Yes.” Cooper swallowed; shock set in. He couldn’t believe he had seized Dudley’s man so violently. It was the threat against his family that had provoked him—without thought or hesitation. The Confederate banners could sink to oblivion, Jeff Davis and all the rest could die and go to glory—he wouldn’t care so long as nothing harmed the three human beings he held dear.

  The incident left him shaken, and not solely because of the personal aspect. It showed him the hour was growing later, the stakes larger, the mood more desperate on both sides of the table. He finished his ale and drank a second, and still felt church-sober; no relief there.

  Shadows heavied in the lane, and finally it was time to leave for the Church of St. Mary, Birkenhead. The church was situated near the Mersey, practically next door to Laird’s and the ship he had never seen. “Want Percy to tag after you for safety’s sake?” Maggie whispered before he went out. He did, desperately, but he shook his head.

  The walk to the church was tense. The narrow streets of the Birkenhead waterfront struck him as peculiarly empty for a fine early evening. He kept glancing behind but reached the church, a cruciform structure of Gothic design built early in the century, without incident.

  A nondescript man stepped away from the side of the building. He offered an apology and brief explanation for the delay. Then, after both checked the surrounding area for possible observers once more and saw none, Cooper removed his hat and passed the folded message to the man, who walked quickly away, and that was all.

  Cooper ran most of the way to the ferry stage but missed the boat by three minutes and had to wait an hour for the next. The terminal smelled of dust and sausages and the odors of a drunk snoring on the floor in a corner. The short trip in the gathering evening was far less sunny than the earlier one. Cooper again leaned on the rail, seeing not the water or the city but the eyes and mustache and chomping teeth of Marcellus Dorking.

  We’ll stop you.

  Into his mind there stole a question that, even a week ago, would have revolted him and brought derisive laughter. But now—

  “Sir?”

  “What’s that?” He started, then showed embarrassment; the person who had stolen up behind him was a crewman.

  “We’ve docked, sir. Everyone else has got off.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  And away he went, frowning in the spring dusk, silently repeating the question that was ludicrous no longer: Should I get a gun?

  53

  “TAKE THE REGIMENT, COLONEL Bent.”

  Over and over, he heard the command in his head. Heard it despite the crashing of artillery in the cool Sunday air. Heard it despite the clatter of guns and limbers wildly wheeling up to defend the line. Heard it despite the hurt or frightened cries of the untrained Ohioans he was to rally and hold in position. Heard it despite all the hell-noise of this April morning.

  “Take the regiment, Colonel Bent.”

  The division commander’s eye had fallen on him at staff headquarters near the little Shiloh Meeting House, an hour after the first faint firing and the return of the first patrols to confirm its dire meaning. Albert Sidney Johnston’s army was out there to the southwest and had caught them by surprise.

  Bent was in this spot because the division commander disliked him. The commander could have ordered a junior officer to lead the Ohio regiment when its colonel, lieutenant colonel, and adjutant were all reported killed. Instead, he sent a staff colonel—one to whom he had been curt and unpleasant since their first meeting.

  Had any officer ever served in worse circumstances? The general was a besotted incompetent, the division commander a little martinet, who last fall had been prostrated by an attack of nerves brought on by fear of Albert Sidney Johnston. Bent was convinced William Tecumseh Sherman was a madman. Vindictive, too. “Take the regiment, Colonel Bent.”

  After that, Sherman said something that made Bent hate him as he had never hated anyone except Orry Main and George Hazard: “And don’t let me hear of you standing behind a tree with your hand out, feeling for a furlough. I know about you and your Washington connections.”

  Those connections had rescued Elkanah Bent. Or so he thought till this Sabbath morning. The day he boarded the westbound train with Elmsdale, he wrote and posted a polite, apologetic letter—a last appeal—to lawyer Dills. When he arrived in Kentucky, he found new orders, reassigning him from line command to staff duty with Anderson.

  Then commands were shuffled, as they were endlessly shuffled. Anderson left, replaced by Sherman, whose brother was an influential Ohio senator. Had the little madman somehow gotten wind of wire-pulling? Bent didn’t know, but he knew the division commander had been waiting for an opportunity to punish him.

  Squinting into the smoke, Bent saw his fears made visible: a n
ew assault wave forming down there in the woods. Hardee’s men, a dirty rabble, many in shabby butternut-dyed uniforms. At the summit of the gentle slope the rebs would climb, Bent’s green Ohioans lay behind trees or clumps of weeds. The Federals had been caught over their breakfast fires, no entrenching done, because General Grant had neglected to order any. Brains Halleck had good reason for distrusting Grant.

  Trembling, Bent saw the rebel charge beginning. “Hold your positions, boys,” he called, forcing himself to step clear of a thick oak and raise his field glasses. He wanted to crouch behind the tree and cover his head.

  The first gray wave commenced firing. Bent winced and jumped back to the protection of the tree. The butternut rabble began to utter wild yells, the yells that had become a staple of Confederate charges, though no one quite knew when or why. To Bent they sounded like the howling of mad dogs.

  He heard balls buzzing all around. To his left, a kneeling soldier stood suddenly, as if lifted under the arms. A slice of his right cheek sailed away behind him, then he toppled backward as the ball entered his brain.

  On they came, up the hill in a wide line, the bank ranks firing when the men in front knelt to load and fire a second time from that position. Then the whole line swept forward again, bayonets fixed, officers screaming as loudly as enlisted men.

  The rebs were within fifty yards, butternut and gray; beards and tatters; huge fierce eyes and huge open mouths. Shell bursts speckled the blue sky; smoke bannered from the treetops; the earth shook, and Bent heard an even louder scream.

  “Oh, no, my God—no.”

  The first rebs reached the Ohioans, who had never fought a battle—seen the elephant—until this morning. Clumsily, they fended off the stabbing bayonets of the attackers. Bent saw one length of steel bury in a blue coat and pierce through the other side, red. The scream sounded again.

  “Oh, God, no!”

  With his saber he beat at the back of an Ohio soldier. He whacked and he flailed, lumbering through long grass, right on the heels of the fleeing private. The rebs were pouring along the hilltop, the Ohioans breaking and scattering, their position overrun. Bent beat at the private’s blue coat until the man stumbled and dropped. Bent sped past, fleet now despite his bulk.