Love and War

by John Jakes

  “Where will you get men for an army of that kind?”

  “My dear, there are thousands of them in the Confederacy at this moment—in military service and out of it. Disaffected officers and enlisted men. Some of our very best have deserted, disillusioned by all the bungling. We will rally them, adding Westerners who were born in the South or show sympathy for our cause. I have an estimate of at least seven thousand such in Colorado alone. Finally, if need be, we’ll hire mercenaries from Europe. We’ll have no trouble finding soldiers.”

  “But you still must pay them.”

  A cat’s grin spread again. “We have the resources. Have I ever mentioned my brother, Atticus?”

  “In passing. You’ve never said anything about him.”

  Powell sat beside her and began to rub her leg. She studied his profile, momentarily wondering about his sanity. He had never struck her as unbalanced, and he didn’t now. He spoke passionately but with the lucidity of one who had spent a long time plotting his course. Her doubt passed.

  Contempt crept in as Powell explained. “My brother had no loyalty to the South. He left Georgia in the spring of ’56, traveling west to the gold fields. A great many Georgians did the same thing. There was quite a colony in Colorado, where Atticus found and staked a claim. He worked it until the summer of 1860, and in all that time he cleared just two thousand dollars—respectable, but nothing more. About the time South Carolina seceded, boredom and wanderlust set in again. Atticus sold the claim for another thousand and started for California with the stake. He got as far as the Carson River diggings at the western border of the Nevada Territory.”

  “I’ve heard of the Carson River mines. James once talked of buying shares in one. The Ophir, I think. That was before he found out about Water Witch.”

  “My brother’s timing turned out to be propitious. The year before, some miners, including an obnoxious, half-mad Canadian called ‘Old Pancake,’ because he ate nothing else, discovered promising sites in two gulches on Mount Davidson. Comstock—that was Old Pancake’s real name—Comstock and the others started placer mining in Gold and Six-Mile canyons. They made a decent profit from the beginning. Five dollars a day in gold. That increased to twenty by the time they made the major discovery—two, really. The lode was richer than they dreamed. Ore pockets scattered all through the mountain. Furthermore, mixed in with the gold was something else. Silver.”

  “Did your brother stake a claim?”

  “Not exactly. Miners are a queer, complex breed—always dickering, selling, and trading claims. It amounts to gambling on how much ore remains in a given piece of ground. One of the original finders of metal, fellow named Penrod, owned a sixth interest in the Ophir, which he wanted to sell for fifty-five hundred dollars. My brother couldn’t afford that, but Penrod was making a second offering—half interest in a mine called the Mexican for three thousand dollars. Atticus bought it.”

  Striding across the bedroom again, Powell explained that the mining camp, christened Virginia City by another of the original claimants, Old Virginny Finney, had undergone rapid and dramatic change during the first two years of the war. By agreement among the miners, it became possible for a man to stake a lode claim, which was much larger than the regulation fifty-by-four-hundred-foot placer claim.

  “With a lode claim, you can dig down into the mountain for three hundred feet—and you have rights to all the ground on either side where there are offshoots of your lode. The Mexican started with an open pit, then sank shafts, and in spite of smelting and transportation costs—at first the ore had to be carried over the mountains to California—Atticus and his partner were soon clearing three thousand dollars in silver from every ton of ore and a third as much in gold. Last year saw a great influx of Californians, but of course the richest claims were already staked, so the newcomers called Virginia City a humbug. Atticus’s partner succumbed to the talk. My brother bought him out at a favorable price. Last summer, when the town had grown to fifteen thousand, poor Atticus met an untimely end.”

  “Oh, what a pity.”

  “I can tell you’re deeply touched,” he said, smiling.

  “How did your brother die?”

  “Shot,” Powell said with a shrug. “A man accosted him in the elevator of the International Hotel. Robbery was presumed to be the motive. The man was never caught or identified. By coincidence, just the week before, Atticus had written a document, which I keep locked up downstairs. It deeds my brother’s interest in the Mexican mine to me, his only surviving relative. He wrote the deed and posted it to a contact in Washington. The contact got it to Richmond via one of the regular mail smugglers.”

  Atticus Powell’s act of generosity had been described with a touch of amusement. Ashton suddenly realized the story was a recitation for the credulous. Powell saw the understanding dawn and confirmed it.

  “Consider what it means that Atticus and I were the only remaining members of our family. There is no one to come forward and assert that the handwriting on the deed bears only a superficial resemblance to my brother’s. I now have a fine foreman superintending work at the mine, and he doesn’t care who owns it so long as he’s paid well and on time. I’m happy to say the Mexican is producing at a record rate. There’s plenty of gold and silver for paying a private army.”

  He went searching for a cigar, vanishing into another room. Ashton knew Powell had hired the man who shot his brother, just as he had hired some forger to prepare the deed. Rather than being repelled, she felt renewed admiration. He had the kind of ambition and nerve Huntoon would lack through eternity.

  “So you see,” Powell said when he came back with matches and an unlit cheroot, “what I propose is not so fantastic. Not with the Mexican to finance it. Therefore I must ask you a question.”

  “What is it?”

  He made her wait with elaborate match-striking and puffing. “Would you like to be the First Lady of the new confederacy?”

  “Yes. Yes!”

  Powell touched her breast; the ball of his thumb circled slowly on the tip. “I thought so.” He was unable to keep smugness and a certain faint scorn out of his smile.

  In the early afternoon, Huntoon wandered the glass-strewn sidewalks of Main Street. He couldn’t go back to his prison at Treasury. Not after what had happened that morning.

  Like so many other government workers in the buildings around Capitol Square, he had rushed outside when he learned of the rioting. He watched the gaunt gray President climb onto a wagon and plead for respect for the law. Davis said every citizen must endure hardship for the sake of the cause. People booed him. As a last pathetic gesture, he turned out his own pockets and flung a few coins to the mob.

  It made no difference. It required the mayor reading the riot act and the sight of bayonets wielded by the provost’s guard to restore order. While the riot was still in progress, Huntoon turned the corner from Ninth to Main and saw a familiar carriage outside a fashionable food and wine emporium. He stopped and huddled by the building, morbidly curious.

  His wife was in the carriage. She had a hamper and struggled with several poorly dressed women before the carriage got away; swirling clots of rioters prevented him from seeing more.

  But a little was enough. The hamper and the store she had been visiting heightened his certainty, growing for months, that she was involved with someone. Ashton never bought Franzblau’s delicacies for their own table. He suspected her lover was Powell, the man who was enriching him, the man he both envied and feared. Huntoon turned and went back to his office but was unable to do any work. So here he was on the streets again.

  A lady’s shoe lay in his path. He kicked it into the gutter, the afternoon sunshine flashing from his spectacles. He moved like a sleepwalker, brushing aside two harlots who tried to solicit him. The litter of glass and ruined goods in looted windows seemed symbolic of his life and of the Confederacy.

  Davis was destroying the dream of a truly free government on the American continent. The man was contem
ptible. Impotent.

  He had no ability to inspire people and lacked the wisdom to stop his military meddling and give his best generals their head. His answer to runaway inflation, mounting shortages, universal discouragement was to proclaim special days of fasting and prayer—or throw a few coins to a mob. He deserved impeachment, if not something worse.

  Like the nation, Huntoon’s personal life was a shambles. In the sleepless hours of many an early morning, with Ashton snoring lightly in the separate bed she now insisted upon, he could no longer deny the truth of that.

  Yet he could find no object of blame except Davis. He couldn’t bring himself to leave his wife. She had made him wealthy, and, despite the way she treated him, he loved her. The dilemma made him physically and mentally impotent. Over the past months he had lost all appetite and a dozen pounds. In his confused state, the cancerous truth of Ashton’s infidelity was mingling and becoming one with the cancer of despair for the government.

  His frustration grew worse each day. His eyes hurt whenever he tried to work. He perspired or suffered cold chills for no apparent reason. The top of his head frequently felt as if an auger were being screwed into it. If only he had some way to relieve the bad feelings. Some target to strike—

  “What am I to do?” he muttered, wandering amid the glass. “What in God’s name am I to do? Murder her? Kill myself? Both?” Two Negro women overheard and stepped off the sidewalk to avoid him.

  74

  THE WIND WARMED. THE earth softened. The season changed. At the brigade encampment in Sussex County, which they had been roaming in search of replacement mounts, Ab looked down. He and Charles were walking their horses across a muddy meadow to the traveling forge. The boots of both men were covered halfway to the tops; the stuff clung to their spurs like some evil yellow plaster.

  Ab sighed. “Will you look at that?” He stamped one foot, then the other. None of the mud fell off. “If anybody asks me have I been through Virginia, I can sure to God tell them yes, sir, any number of places.”

  Charles laughed and put a match to the cob pipe he had taken up now that cigars were scarce. He felt good this morning. Maybe it was the springtime or the fact that Sport had survived the ordeal of winter. He still gave the gray meticulous care, but there wasn’t much he could do about shortages of fodder, bad weather, or the filthy conditions of the cavalry camps. Sport had suffered with body lice, then had been struck with a siege of founder that tormented him with two weeks of fever and sweats and nearly caused the loss of his left forefoot. But Charles had rested him—nursed him through—and the gelding was in fine shape again.

  Charles felt good for another reason. It was folded and tucked in the pocket of his butternut shirt.

  While the farrier finished with some trooper’s nag, the two scouts cleaned the feet of their horses with picks and uprooted weeds. The farrier searched for more shoes and nails, then pumped up the firebox mounted on a platform between the limber’s two big wooden wheels.

  Ab said, “Git your pass all right?” Charles patted his pocket. “You have a care, roamin’ up there in Spotsylvania County by your lonesome. You bump into any of that Union horse, go the other way. I have the same feelin’ you do about them damn ribbon clerks. They’re learnin’ to ride and shoot.”

  The uneasy conviction had been spreading since Sharpsburg. In March, farther north, Fitz Lee had sent one taunting note too many to Brigadier Bill Averell, a New Yorker whom Charles remembered from the class of ’55. Fitz dared Averell to bring his boys down across the Rappahannock and fetch along some coffee to be captured. Averell’s division of horse struck south like a thrown spear. The raiders killed Stuart’s famed artillery officer, gallant John Pelham.

  It appeared a small event, speaking relatively, but it wasn’t. The passing of any soldier with the legend of glory on him could scar a Southern mind as whole fields of the fallen could not. Pelham’s death and Averell’s lightning attack convinced Wade Hampton’s troopers of one thing: their Yankee counterparts no longer suffered from a fear of being outmatched.

  “Let me see that shoe.” Charles snatched the tongs from the farrier. “Heat it and put it back in the vise. It isn’t wide enough at the heel. His hoof spreads when he puts weight on it.”

  “I know my job.”

  Charles stared right back. “I know my horse.”

  “You plantation boys are all—”

  Charles stepped forward, handing Sport’s bridle to Ab. The farrier cleared his throat and began to pump the bellows. “All right, all right.”

  Later that day, Charles bid Ab good-bye and rode north. In Richmond he visited Orry and Madeline, who had found larger quarters—four rooms, the whole upper floor of a house in the Court End district. The owner’s mother had lived there, and the quarters became vacant when she died. Orry paid the outrageous rent without complaint, happy to be out of the rooming house.

  For Charles’s visit, Madeline fried up a dozen fresh farm eggs, never saying how she had gotten them. They all declined to discuss Ashton and her husband, and talked till four in the morning.

  Charles told them about Gus, whom he hadn’t mentioned before. Orry reacted predictably when he heard the location of Barclay’s Farm. Lee was crouched at Fredericksburg with Jackson, but Hooker was just across the river with twice as many men. Orry said it was folly for Gus to remain in Spotsylvania County.

  Charles agreed. They talked further. He slept badly, rolled up in a blanket on the floor, and left the city next morning.

  North again through the Virginia springtime. Under blue skies, he rode by lemony forsythia and burning pink azaleas growing wild. Cherry blossoms shone like snowfields. The air smelled of moist earth and, here and there, of something else he recognized: rotting horseflesh. It was getting so you could tell where the armies had been just by seeing or smelling the dead horses.

  Late that night, he crouched in a grove and watched a troop of southbound cavalry pass. Jackets and kepis looked black in the starlight. Black translated to blue. Union riders were behind Confederate lines again.

  Only one aspect of the incident gave him comfort. The Yankees still rode with what he jeeringly called their fortifications—burdensome extra blankets, tools, utensils—as much as seventy pounds of unnecessary gear. The weight was hard on a horse. Charles hoped the Yankees never learned the lesson.

  He reached Chancellorsville, a few buildings and a crossroads unworthy of being called a village. Turning right onto the Orange Turnpike, he continued toward Fredericksburg through the Wilderness, an all but impassable forest of second-growth oak and pine entangled with vines. Even in bright sunlight, the place looked sinister.

  Where the Wilderness straggled out, he cut to the northeast. The fragile good cheer generated by the weather left him. He was back in the war zone for fair.

  The countryside swarmed with Confederate engineer companies, trains of supply wagons, six-horse artillery batteries, slow-moving herds of scrawny cattle. An officer demanded his pass, then asked whether he had seen any Union cavalry between here and Richmond. Charles said he had. The officer told him it was probably Stoneman, reported to be striking at communication lines to the capital.

  Gray-clad stragglers wandered through the freshly turned fields, going where and doing what, God only knew. So many soldiers abroad didn’t bode well for a woman living alone, even if the soldiers wore the right uniform. It was proven again when he came within sight of Barclay’s Farm. A white-topped commissary wagon stood in the road, and two rough-looking teamsters were eying the house as Charles approached. He put his hand on his shotgun, and they decided to drive on.

  As he rode into the dooryard, Boz threw down his ax, leaped over some split logs, and ran toward him. “Hello, hello! Miss Augusta—Captain Charles is here.”

  Boz sounded more than happy. He sounded relieved.

  “Something’s troubling you,” she said. “What is it?”

  They lay side by side in the dark. They had supped and talked, hugged and kissed, bathed a
nd made love. Now, instead of feeling a pleasant drowsiness, he was struggling in the web of his own thoughts.

  “Where shall I start?” he asked.

  “Wherever you want.”

  “It’s going badly, Gus. The whole damn war. Vicksburg’s threatened—Grant’s in charge there. Orry knew him at the Academy and in Mexico. He says the man’s like a terrier with a bone. Won’t let go even if the pieces choke him to death. Orry wouldn’t say it to anyone else, but he thinks Grant will have Vicksburg by the autumn. Then there’s Davis. Still coddling second-rate generals like Bragg. And the cavalry can’t find enough horses, let alone the grain to feed them.”

  “The farms around here are stripped bare. The war doesn’t help anyone catch up, either. You plow an acre, ten minutes later a battery of artillery gallops across it, and you start over.”

  “The superstitious boys say our luck’s turned bad. Sharpsburg might have been a victory instead of a stand-off if the Yankees hadn’t found those cigars wrapped in a copy of Lee’s order. Courage doesn’t count for much against bad luck—or the numbers the other side can muster.”

  But Cooper had spoken of the numbers long ago, hadn’t he? Warned of them. Charles shivered in the dark. She stroked his bare shoulder, soothing. “I’d say those are all eminently respectable worries.”

  “There’s one more.”

  “What is it?”

  He rolled onto his side, able to see her only as a pale shape.

  “You.”

  “My darling, don’t squander a single minute fretting about me. I can take care of myself.” There was pride in the statement, and reassurance. But he heard anger, too.

  “Well, I do fret. Can’t sleep half the time, thinking of you stuck here by yourself.”